MY TiME 𓂃🖊 ──── party setting, alcohol consumption, underage drinking (where i come from, it's legal to drink at 18, putting it just in case anyways), discussions of situationships and emotional manipulation, heartbreak, crying, emotional vulnerability, kissing (+4k words) | dedicated to my coer15 babies after today's catch up !!!
Honestly, you couldn’t quite remember how your mom had given you permission to go to your birthday “party.” Every time you looked to either side, all you could see was a crowd of people entering the venue, ready to forget the horrible week they’d had or the victories they’d achieved along the way.
You weren’t surprised by the party’s appeal, especially since it was organized by that girl in your class who was known for her beauty and whom, for some reason, several guys thought they had a chance with—completely ignoring her boyfriend’s strong arm protectively wrapped around her waist. You could see your friends dancing with… You didn’t even know how to categorize the relationship between those people; you just knew they were “something.”
A hand on your shoulder stopped you from looking beyond. “The guy I’m dancing with says his friend told him he thinks you’re pretty—want to do a double?”
Your gaze shifted away from your glass of rum and soda toward the direction your friend was pointing: he was cute, even though he didn’t put any effort into his pirate costume, but how his eyes roamed over your body was a clear sign of his other intentions.
Sadly, your last-minute outfit was your mom’s friend Catwoman outfit; the leather did its work in molding itself to your body, and that costume won the approval of all your friends; their support was so contagious that it made you feel even more confident. However, the way your friends looked at you was nothing compared to the way some of the other partygoers looked at you—to the point that you started to feel overly self-conscious and, above all, smaller than you really were.
“I think I would rather double up my drink, thank you very much.”
Your friend’s expression was enough to make you laugh. “Come on, we’re at a party! How long has it been since you’ve kissed someone?”
“Too long to know that guy isn’t worth it. In fact, I bet he’s going to leave with the girl dressed as a devil once you tell him I don’t want anything.” The tall girl looked around for the girl and nodded.
“You’re right, that guy’s a loser. Sorry, babe.” You shrugged indifferently, taking another sip of your drink.
“I know you mean well, but honestly, I don’t want anything to do with anyone. Besides, they’re already playing the good songs, and you’d better be right by my side.” Your index finger pointed at her chest, making her laugh and give you a little hug.
“As soon as I hear our song, I’ll ditch his ass.” The beat of the song you were just talking about blasted through the speakers; both of you locked eyes. “And that’s right now.”
The two of you burst into laughter before her poor excuse for a dance partner even realized what had happened. She ran to the two boys, watching how the pirate’s eyes were still on you and turned exactly as predicted toward the girl dressed as a devil. You didn’t even have time to say I told you, son before she wrapped her arms around you.
“Not even three seconds.”
“I gave him more credit than he deserved,” your friend admitted.
The two of you disappeared into the growing crowd just as the chorus exploded through the four walls. Your other friends spotted you two almost immediately, screaming the lyrics as they walked in your direction.
The place felt cramped as some formed a circle, and others tried to imitate the choreography from the music video with complete confidence, several shots of vodka, and absolutely no rhythm. Within seconds, everyone was laughing too hard to care what they looked like, and no one truly cared about it; that was the beauty of a Halloween party.
The song vibrated beneath your boots; your friend’s curls bounced wildly as she spun beside you, nearly knocking into another couple; you climbed onto a chair with your other girlfriend before some collectively copied you two, and some were screamed to get down before he fell on his ass.
You laughed so hard your stomach hurt, though you attributed it to the alcohol that was taking over your system.
For the first time all week—maybe even all month—you weren’t thinking about assignments, college applications, your mother’s endless reminders to be careful, or the fact that half the room seemed determined to stare at you because of the fitted leather costume.
You were simply there, sweaty, breathless, and laughing until tears threatened to ruin your eyeliner.
By the eighth song, you held up your hands in surrender.
“I need water,” you announced dramatically.
“And another drink?” Your friend, who was dressed as Snow White, raised her eyebrows, teasing.
“Water,” you repeated. “Probably.”
The group booed playfully despite knowing you don’t even drink as you slipped away toward a quiet corner near the kitchen. A couple left right when you walked in, and the difference was immediate.
Instead of deafening music, all you heard were muffled bass notes and all the people screaming the lyrics. The water didn’t even last a second in the glass, quenching your thirst immediately, and once you were done, you headed to the bathroom for the second time to touch up your makeup. Your mascara had smudged under the mask, and you were really looking forward to that touch-up.
You dabbed away the faint black smudges beneath your eyes with a tissue, muttering an apology to whoever was practically trying to knock the door off its hinges.
“Five seconds!” you called, twisting your lipstick back into place.
“People are dying out here,” someone complained dramatically.
“You’ll survive.”
A few rushed adjustments later, you gave yourself one last glance in the mirror. Everything was in place, minus the eyeliner that was close enough. Besides, everyone else at the party was probably just as sweaty and disheveled by now.
The moment you opened the bathroom door, three girls squeezed past you with relieved sighs.
“Godspeed,” you wished them, earning a laugh before making your way outside, the cold air hitting you the second you stopped onto the back porch.
It was almost shocking after spending hours inside, surrounded by body heat, perfumes, smoke, and the smell of sugary alcohol. You leaned against the wooden railing, closing your eyes for a second as the October breeze cooled the back of your neck.
Your phone vibrated in your purse.
Mom
Baby
Everything okay?
You smiled before unlocking your phone.
You
Alive. No one’s set the house on fire yet.
Three dots appeared almost instantly.
Mom
Very funny
I’ve convinced your dad to pick you up in two hours.
Stay with your friends and be safe
You
Okeyyy
Ily
Without expecting an answer, you put it back where it was. The street was quieter than you’d expected. Cars lined both curbs, their windshields reflecting the orange glow of the streetlights, and even somewhere down the block, another party echoed faintly with laughter.
Then your eyes landed on someone across the street.
A boy your age stood beneath one of the streetlights, hands tucked into the pockets of his black pants despite the mild weather.
He wasn’t looking at his phone, his view up into the sky taking in the moon.
Black pants, dirty Converse, a white button-down shirt, slightly disheveled hair, glasses, and something that you couldn’t miss: the Superman shirt with the red and yellow “S” in it. What are the odds?
You saw him earlier at the party with a group of friends as well, a quick look, to be honest, and with the several lights casting on his face, you could tell he was cute.
Despite his looks, he looked completely out of place. And it wasn’t because of the costume, but when everyone else inside the house was trying so desperately to be loud, he was quiet.
He hadn’t noticed you watching him yet. His shoulders rose with a slow breath before falling again, and your heel started to tap on the ground in hesitation.
Don’t bother strangers.
Oh, your mother would be so pissed with what you were going to do, and very disappointed in your lack of survival instincts.
If you looked out the window, you wouldn’t see your friends, but you knew they were having fun, so no one would notice if you disappeared for a few minutes.
The sound of your boots against the asphalt finally pulled him from whatever universe he’d vanish into; his dark eyes landed on you and widened slightly.
“… Hi.”
His voice carried an accent you couldn’t immediately place, especially after being distracted by the depth of his voice.
“Hi.” Silence. God, why had you come over here? “You were inside, right?”
“Yeah… And you were too.”
“… Yeah.” Another silence, but it didn’t last long as you let out a chuckle. “This is going great.”
That earned the smallest smile. “It is.”
“So…” you leaned against the lamppost a respectful distance away. “Are you hiding from someone?”
He looked back toward the house. “…Kind of.”
“The music?”
A tiny huff escaped him. “Also, that.”
You nodded dramatically. “Valid. I just… You looked like someone who could use company.”
His eyebrows lifted ever so slightly. “You don’t even know me.”
“Thank you for the breaking news.”
“And you still came?”
“Well, you looked sad.” He looked away once again. “I will leave if I bothered you.”
“It’s okay.” A sigh left his chest. “I wasn’t trying to make it obvious.”
“Well, you failed.”
“Apparently.” You laughed softly.
“I’m sorry.”
“No, it’s okay.”
The breeze carried distant laughter between you two, finding peace with each other. Finally, he spoke again. “My name is Juhoon.”
You repeated it carefully. “Juhoon?”
His expression softened. “You pronounced it right.”
“What can I say, I’ve been practicing for this exact moment.”
Another laughed, this time showing his teeth. “I’m Y/N”
“It’s nice to meet you.”
“You too. You don’t sound like you’re from here.”
“I’m not.”
“I guessed.”
“I’m from Korea.”
“I knew it.”
“You did?”
“No, I guessed confidently.”
He smiled, shaking his head. “You have confidence?”
“Fake confidence.”
“It still counts.”
Naturally, the conversation drifted from college to how confusing Halloween had been the first time he’d experienced it.
“I thought everyone had collectively lost their minds.”
“They kind of do every year.”
“I noticed.” He looked back toward the party.
“They’re louder than people back home.”
“It’s the passion.”
“I noticed that too.” In the middle of the conversation, your hand reached into your purse for that pack of cherry-flavored gum you always carried, and you handed one to Juhoon.
“So…” you tilted your head, unfolding the piece of paper of the gum. “Why’d you come if you’re spending half the party outside?”
“A friend invited me.”
“Mhm”
“I thought…” his hand went to the back of his neck. “Maybe if I surrounded myself with people, I’d stop thinking.”
“And I guess that didn’t work?”
A dry laugh. “Not even a little.”
“You don’t have to tell me, but I’m a little tipsy right now and I really want to know.”
You weren’t sure how you were looking at him, but his eyes softened at the sight of you.
“First, let me help you sit down on the stairs.” Without warning, his hand rested on the small of your back. You were sober—that much was obvious—though the gesture made you blush and ignore the heat in your ears.
“Now that we are comfortable, I…” He laughed at himself. “This is going to sound stupid.”
“It probably won’t.”
“It definitely will.”
“It can be stupid, we are teenagers.” The party was still going and it was louder, yet the small bubble you two created was enough to solely focus on him.
“So, there was this girl.” You resisted every urge to smile knowingly.
“Of course there was.”
“We never dated, we were friends, but not really.” He locked his eyes on yours, catching your confused expression. “We acted like a couple, talked every day, and called until two or three in the morning. We’d dates, held hands.”
He laughed bitterly. “But every time someone asked what we were... she’d say we were just friends.”
You winced. “Ouch.”
“I kept thinking that maybe she just needed more time.”
“How long?”
“...Almost two years.”
Your eyebrows shot up. “Holy shit, Juhoon.”
“I know.”
“No, Juhoon.” You pointed at him.
“I know.”
“You waited two years?”
He covered his face for a second. “I know.”
“And what happened?”
“Well, she has a boyfriend now. And his boyfriend is… was… my best friend.”
“Fuck”
“I found out on Instagram.”
The words hung heavily between you, you played with your hands to hold the urge to put it on his shoulder. “I’m sorry.”
“And you know what? I think the worst part is that she never actually lied.”
You frowned. “What do you mean?”
“She never promised we’d date, loved me, or asked me to wait. I did all of that myself.”
You looked at him for a long moment. “No.”
He frowned. “What?”
“You didn’t do all of that yourself.” He looked confused, and that was your queue to get closer to him. “If someone accepts all the affection, all the emotional intimacy, all the late-night calls, all the hand-holding, all the things’ people in relationships usually do...” You shrugged. “...they’re participating, and you weren’t crazy for thinking it meant something.”
His jaw tightened. “You were just reading what anyone would’ve read.”
“...Really?”
“Really.”
He looked like he’d been waiting for someone to say that. “For months,” he admitted. “I keep wondering what I did wrong.”
“You loved someone who wasn’t capable—or willing—to give you clarity. And that’s not the same as doing something wrong.”
He blinked rapidly. “I keep thinking, if I had been better.” His voice cracked.
“Stop, you could’ve been perfect. If someone doesn’t choose you, then perfection wouldn’t suddenly make them.” You smiled sadly as you caught his lips tremble.
“They always told me that if someone likes you, you’ll know. And I never knew.”
“You know what I think?” He nodded. “I think you’ve been mourning a relationship you never actually got to have and you’re grieving all the maybes. The future you imagined, the dates you thought would happen, the confession you thought was coming, and even the version of her that loved your back.”
He quickly looked away; you saw his shoulders started shaking. “...Juhoon?”
A laugh that came out broken took you off guard. “I’m sorry. I think I’m also quite drunk.”
“Don’t apologize.”
“I don’t usually—” His sentence dissolved into a shaky inhale. Before you had time to think, your hand finally landed on his shoulder.
“I promise you, it’s okay.” He hesitated only a second before closing the distance himself, his forehead rested against your shoulder first. Then, almost as if he couldn’t stop himself anymore, he broke.
His tears showed how he spends weeks trying to suppress, his fingers gently gripped your forearm as silent tears soaked into the leather of your Catwoman costume.
“I’m so tired,” he whispered, your hand gently rested a hand between his shoulder blades. “And I feel stupid.”
“You’re not.”
“Yes, I am. I waited for someone who never wanted me.”
“You loved someone, and that’s never stupid.” For several minutes, neither of you moved, but life continued, with the difference that Juhoon was finally allowing himself to let go of two years’ worth of hope.
As soon as his head moved away from your shoulder, both of your hands instinctively came to rest on either side of his face—something you always did when your friends were crying. To out of it to worried, your thumbs wiped away the salty trails on his cheeks, and you made the biggest mistake of your life: looking him in the eyes.
How could anyone look so attractive while crying?
He looked at you as thought he had forgotten how, and you slowed your movements, brushing away the last traces of tears until there was nothing left to wipe except the redness beneath his eyes. His glasses sat crooked on the bridge of his nose, and before you could stop yourself, you straightened them with careful fingers.
“There,” you murmured, receiving a small laugh from him again.
“I probably look horrible.”
“To me, you look like someone who’s been carrying way too much.”
“That’s… actually very nice to say. Thank you.”
The words were so small they nearly disappeared into the wind.
You smiled.
“You know...” You tilted your head toward the house, where muffled music still rattled the windows. “It would be a shame if Superman spent the entire Halloween party brooding under a streetlight.”
He glanced down at his shirt, his arms supporting him as he leaned back. “I don’t think Superman broods.”
“Oh, he absolutely does.”
“I thought that was Batman.”
“That’s because you’ve never met Clark Kent after two vodka cranberries.” A reluctant smile tugged at his mouth.
“I don’t think that’s canon.”
“It is now. So, as Catwoman,” you continued, placing a dramatic hand over your chest, “I think it’s my civic duty to keep Superman from having an existential crisis.”
“I thought Catwoman flirted with Batman.”
“She does, she’s just helping Clark because of budget cuts.”
That earned you the brightest laugh yet, echoing down the quiet street, and for the first time since you’d walked over to him, it didn’t sound forced.
You held out your hand. “Let’s go.”
He looked down at it. “Where?”
“Back inside, obviously.”
“I don’t know...”
“You don’t have to think.” You wiggled your fingers. “You’ve done enough thinking for one night.”
His gaze lingered on your hand for another second before he slipped his into yours, locking your fingers as you pulled him back to the mess. Heat wrapped itself around you like another costume, and someone had switched to early-2000s pop, and judging by the screaming, everyone collectively believed they were the main character.
“There you are!” She shouted from across the room. “We thought Catwoman had stolen someone.”
You lifted your joined hands. “I did.”
Juhoon’s eyes widened at your sudden confidence. Your friends erupted into theatrical gasps.
“A hostage?”
“This Superman looks willing,” another friend laughed.
Juhoon looked at you uncertainly. “They’re always like this?”
“Worse.” You tugged gently on Juhoon’s hand until he followed you into the crowd.
At first, he barely moved, swaying awkwardly with the music. You bumped your shoulder against his while grabbing two red cups with awful drawn pumpkins.
“That’s not dancing.”
“It is where I’m from.”
“You are lying.”
“I am!” Almost imperceptibly, his shoulders loosened, gently taking your hand to spin you, pulling you closer to him.
Soon enough, he got more comfortable around you and your circle, he even started laughing whenever your friends dramatically butchered lyrics, and copied your ridiculous dance moves with surprising commitment.
At one point, you caught him smiling before he realized he was, and it made warm settle beneath your ribs.
The next song was louder and faster. Both of you stopped drinking and focused on enjoying everything as you two sobered a little bit until a guy stumbled backward with a bright blue cocktail in his hand.
You could even see how the glass tipped, and the cold liquid splashed across Juhoon’s white button-down.
“Shit,” the stranger groaned. “I’m so sorry, man.”
Juhoon blinked down at himself, the electric-blue stain spread across the cotton, dripping toward his belt.
“...It’s okay.”
“No, dude, it’s not.”
“It’ll wash.”
“I’ll pay for—"
“It’s really okay. I barely use this shirt.” The stranger apologized another five times before disappearing into the crowd looking mortified.
You winced. “So much for wearing white.”
“Come on, to the bathroom.”
He followed without protest, and you didn’t know why were you going with him in the first place. Compared to the rest of the house, the upstairs hallway felt strangely still, pushed open the bathroom.
“Sit.”
“I think I’ll survive standing.”
“I know, but you’ll drip dramatically all over the floor, and you already left a trail.”
“...Fair.” He perched on the edge of the bathtub while you searched beneath the sink.
“No stain remover.” You found a clean hand towel instead. “This will have to do.”
Running it beneath cold water, you wrung it out before stepping between his knees.
“May I?” He looked from the towel to you.
“...Yeah.” You pressed the damp cloth carefully against the blue stain; the fabric darkened beneath your fingers.
“Sorry, this might be cold.”
“I don’t how many times I’ve repeated this word, but it’s okay.”
“In the meantime, you can use the baby wipes behind you to clean your face as well.” After that, the room became very quiet, and suddenly, you were aware of everything.
The scent of laundry detergent lingering on his shirt beneath the alcohol, the faint citrus of your own perfume, the music vibrating faintly through the pipes that somehow matched your heartbeat, a huge contrast of his breathing.
You concentrated far harder on the stain than necessary.
“It’ll probably come out.”
“I hope so.”
“...White shirts are expensive.”
He smiled. “I got this one on sale.”
“Oh.”
“I lied.” You looked up, and he was already looking at you.
“...Why?”
“I wanted you to laugh.”
“What a try-hard.”
“Hey, I wanted to.” Your hands remained against his chest, his sentence full of teasing tones, and the room felt smaller each time you two locked eyes.
“I have to say something,” he said quietly.
“Hm?”
“I don’t think anyone’s ever looked after me like this.” Your movements stopped at how his voice carried no expectation, only quiet surprise.
“It isn’t a big deal.”
“It is to me.” Without fear, your eyes met again, and this time, neither of you looked away.
He wasn’t crying anymore; that was an hour, maybe more, ago. But his eyes were still soft from it, impossibly gentle behind slightly fogged glasses.
Without thinking, your hand drifted higher, your fingers brushed a loose strand of dark hair away from his forehead.
Oh, the alcohol was definitely acting up.
His breath caught. “So...” you whispered, suddenly unable to remember why you had spoken at all.
“So.”
“You should probably...”
“...Probably.” Neither of you moved; the towel slipped from your fingers into the sink with a quiet thud, ignoring how Juhoon’s gaze flickered—just once—to your lips before returning to your eyes, as though asking a question he was too afraid to voice.
You answered it by closing the last inch between you.
The kiss was hesitant enough that either of you could have pulled away, but when no one showed signs to back up, that was it.
His lips were warm despite the October air that still clung to him.
One of his hands found your waist with astonishing care, as though he was afraid pressing any harder might make you disappear. Yours settled against his jaw, your thumb brushing the place where tears had dried only minutes earlier.
It wasn’t desperate or fueled by the alcohol (at least an 80 percent) humming pleasantly through your veins.
It was slow, curious even. When you finally drew apart, your foreheads rested together, both of you smiling in the same disbelieving way.
Juhoon let out a breathless laugh before leaning in for a second kiss.
You had to rise onto your tiptoes, though not for long, since his hands found your waist and, with a questioning glance that gave you every opportunity to object, helped you sit on the edge of the sink without breaking the kiss.
You smiled against his lips. “Superman is supposed to be stronger than this.”
He frowned playfully before his cheeks flushed the slightest shade of pink. “I think Superman has a weakness.”
“Oh?”
“You.”
The answer came so earnestly that you couldn’t help laughing. “That was incredibly cheesy and bold to say to someone you just met 2 hours ago.”
“I know.” You shook your head, still smiling.
“I don’t think you’re over your situationship.”
His expression softened. “I don’t think I am either.”
The honesty settled comfortably between you. “I don’t want to confuse gratitude with…” He gestured vaguely between the two of you. “This. Matter of fact, I don’t want you to think you’re a rebound.”
“Oh, I’m not.”
“You don’t?”
You shook your head. “I think you were sad, and I met you while you were sad. And let’s be real, I think we kissed because, somewhere between talking under a streetlight and dancing terribly to an early LMFAO song, I just went with the flow.”
His eyes widened slightly. “Besides, it doesn’t have to mean more than that tonight. I don’t want anything right now, either.”
He looked at you for a long moment before a relieved smile crossed his face. “I like that answer.”
“So do I; I’m very smart.” You noticed a streak of bright blue still clinging stubbornly to the front of his shirt, tapping it with one finger. “Damn, I completely failed.”
“What?”
“The stain.”
“Oh.” He laughed. “I think it actually got worse.”
“It absolutely did.”
“Reminder that you distracted the person cleaning it.”
“You distracted yourself.”
Before you could think of anything to say, someone pounded on the bathroom door hard enough to make both of you jump.
“Y/N! Open up!”
You slid off the sink so quickly you nearly lost your balance. Juhoon instinctively steadied you with a hand at your elbow before immediately letting go again.
You cleared your throat. “One second!”
You caught sight of yourselves in the mirror.
Your lipstick was smudged, is hair looked even messier than before, both of you looked suspiciously happy.
“Oh my God, we look like a mess.” You hurriedly wiped at the corner of your mouth while Juhoon attempted—and failed—to flatten his hair.
“It’s not working,” he muttered.
Another impatient knock. “I will actually kick this door!”
You unlocked the door, and your friend stood there holding your purse in one hand and your phone in the other.
The moment she looked from you to Juhoon back and forth, her eyebrows disappeared into her hairline.
“I… was going to ask why you two disappeared.”
You buried your face in your hands. “Please don’t.”
“I will if you even are alive.”
“What do you mean?”
She held up your phone instead. “Your mom is outside.”
The smile vanished from your face. “...What?”
“You haven’t answered your phone for like...” She glanced at the screen. “Seven calls.”
Your stomach dropped.
Seven?
You snatched the phone from her hands.
Eight missed calls.
Three messages.
“Oh, no.”
“She looks really angry.”
You groaned, already imagining the lecture waiting for you. “I completely forgot what time it was.”
“You’ve been in here for...” She looked at Juhoon. “...actually, I don’t want to know.”
Juhoon rubbed the back of his neck, visibly trying not to smile. “Nothing happened, I promise.”
You adjusted your purse over your shoulder before looking back at him. “I should go.”
“Can I have your number? I don’t really want tonight to become another thing I only remember.”
Your eyes widened, and you swear you heard your friend squeal in excitement. “Sure”
Taking his phone, you quickly typed your name and number before handing it back.
“I’ll text you.”
“I’ll answer.”
“Your mother is aging by the second.”
“Right!” You looked back at Juhoon one last time. “Try not to let another girl keep you waiting for two years.”
“I don’t think I will.”
“Good. See you around, Kent.”
“Goodnight, Kyle.” You rolled your eyes affectionately, following your friend down the stairs, laughter and music swallowing you once more.
Across the crowded room, Juhoon was still standing at the end of the hallway.
When your eyes met, he gave you a small wave that you returned with a smile before stepping outside, where your mother’s crossed arms, your father’s patient sigh, and the flashing notification on Juhoon’s phone waiting to be sent all promised that, somehow, the story wasn’t ending there after all.
─── LMAO REMEMBERING THIS WAS CRAZYYY even made me nostalgic at the thought of my friends, i miss them DOWN. Any grammatical mistakes will be corrected later!
synopsis: your father absolutely refuses to give martin his blessing for him to marry you, but fails to consider that martin just might marry you anyway.
word count: 3.0k
info+warnings: inspired by Rude, delinquent!martin, fluff, mild angst?, young marriage, sneaking around, climbing through windows, strict father, defiance, kissing
Martin should have known better than to believe that the man who hated his entire existence would suddenly change his mind.
"You must be out of your damn mind if you think I'd let you marry my daughter."
The words still rang in his ears as he walked away from your porch, the door slamming shut between him and your father's scowling face.
He couldn't blame the man, really. Martin knew what kind of person he was: a teenage delinquent that only gets himself into trouble, and would likely drag you straight into it sooner or later.
He himself still couldn't quite understand what about him had actually managed to win you over initially. You were everything he was not: a rule follower, an academic, someone with a much more promising future than the one Martin possessed. So how you found him to be anything other than a walking red flag was a mystery that kept him up at night.
He remembered the first time you'd spoken to him behind the gym in your second year of high school, his knuckles were bloody and his temper was still running hot. You'd appeared out of nowhere, holding out a crumpled napkin from the cafeteria.
"You're bleeding," you'd said, like it was the most obvious thing in the world.
"Not your problem," he'd muttered, trying to brush past you.
But you'd grabbed his wrist before he could fully turn the corner and pressed the napkin into his palm. "Just clean it up," you'd said. "You'll get blood on your shirt."
You then walked away, leaving him standing there with a bloody napkin and a strange feeling in his chest that he'd never quite managed to shake.
Martin had tried to push you away at first. He knew what people said about him: the troublemaker, the burnout, the kid who'd end up in juvie before graduation. He'd heard your father's warnings from across the street, loud enough to carry, "Stay away from that boy, Y/N. He's nothing but trouble."
Despite all of that you kept appearing.
You showed up at the diner where he worked, sitting in his section and ordering coffee you barely touched, just so you could talk to him during his break. You showed up at the auto shop, claiming your car needed an oil change, even though it was perfectly fine. You showed up at his apartment after he got suspended the second time, bringing takeout and a stubborn expression that said you wouldn’t leave under any circumstance.
"Why?" He’d finally asked you, exhausted and confused. "Why do you keep doing this? You know what I am. You've heard what everyone says."
You'd looked at him then, really looked, and said, "I see something they don't."
"What?"
"Someone who's trying."
And that was it. That was the moment Martin knew he was a goner.
It hadn't taken long for your father to work out that you had ignored all his prior warnings, though truly he should have realised it sooner.
You had been staying out much later than before, coming home with an almost lovesick grin. Your father knew you were in love—that wasn't hard to tell. Just in his own mind, the thought of you falling in love with the one boy he had forbidden you from even talking to was a concept so foreign, so utterly incomprehensible, that he simply refused to entertain it.
But the signs were all there. You'd rush through dinner just to get to your room and stare at your phone, waiting for a message whilst also deflecting his questions about your day with vague answers and quick subject changes.
It was only when your father found the crumpled napkin in your laundry with Martin's name scrawled on it in your handwriting, surrounded by tiny hearts, that the truth finally crashed down on him.
He'd confronted you that night, voice shaking with barely contained fury.
"Are you seeing that Martin boy?"
You'd looked at him, and for a moment, he only saw defiance in your gaze. "Yes," you'd said quietly. "I am."
The argument that followed was the worst you'd ever had. Your father had shouted until his voice went hoarse, listing every reason why Martin was wrong for you: his record, his reputation, his lack of prospects. You'd shouted back, defending him with a passion that only made your father angrier.
"He's not who you think he is, Dad. He's trying so hard. He's working two jobs, he's studying for school as best he can, he's—"
"He's a delinquent, Y/N. He's always been a delinquent, and he always will be. I won't let you throw your life away for someone like him."
"He's not a delinquent. He's just... he's just someone who never had anyone believe in him. Until me."
Your father had gone silent at that. Not because he agreed, but because he realised something crucial: you were in too deep. No amount of arguing would change your mind.
So he'd done the only thing he could think of. He'd banned you from seeing Martin, forbade you from leaving the house except for school and work, and took your phone, your laptop, everything that connected you to the outside world.
For a few weeks, it seemed to work. You and Martin had never shared a class at school, so he didn’t need to worry about that. Additionally, with so much surveillance surrounding you, you had practically given up even thinking of trying to find a way around it.
That was until one night a few weeks later when you were laying under the covers of your bed, staring at the ceiling with not a thought on your mind when the sound of something knocking on your window echoed through the room.
You sat up, heart pounding, and stared at the window. The blinds were drawn, but through the slats, you could make out a familiar silhouette you knew all too well crouched on the fire escape.
You scrambled out of bed, nearly tripping over the blanket tangled around your ankles, and yanked the blinds open. There he was—grinning like an idiot, dirt smudged on his cheek, a small bag of takeout dangling from one hand. He was wearing that worn leather jacket you loved with the torn sleeve he refused to sew back together.
"Hey, princess," he whispered through the glass. "You miss me?"
You fumbled with the lock, pushing the window open as quietly as you could. Cold night air rushed in, carrying the scent of rain and city streets.
"What are you doing here?" You hissed. "My dad could hear you!"
"Your dad's probably knocked out asleep right now." He climbed through the window with practiced ease, landing silently on your bedroom floor.
You threw your arms around him, burying your face in his jacket. "I thought I'd never see you again," you whispered, your voice cracking.
"Hey." He pulled back, cupping your face in his hands. "I told you. Nothing's keeping me away from you. Not your dad, not the cops, not anyone."
"Martin—"
"Three weeks, Y/N. I spent three weeks without you and I was going insane." He pressed his forehead against yours, his voice dropping to something raw and vulnerable. "I thought about calling your house, but I knew your dad would just make it worse. I had to wait until I could figure out a way to see you."
"You figured out the fire escape."
"I figured out the fire escape." He grinned, but there was something softer underneath it. "Took me two days to find the right route. Nearly fell off the third-floor landing, but hey—" He shrugged. "Worth it."
You laughed, a wet, shaky sound. "You're insane."
"Only for you." He pressed a kiss to your forehead, then pulled back to hold up the takeout bag. "I brought food. Your favourite dumpling place with the spicy sauce you like. Figured you probably haven't been eating much."
You hadn't. The past three weeks had been a blur of forced dinners and silent meals, your father's disapproving gaze boring into you from across the table. You'd lost weight, and Martin had noticed it the moment he climbed through your window.
"You're too good to me," you said.
"Not possible." He set the bag on your desk and pulled you over to sit on the bed. "Now eat. I'll keep watch."
You sat together in the darkness, sharing dumplings and whispered conversations.
"One day," he said, "I'm going to have a real place with a good job and be something your dad can't complain about."
"I don't care about any of that."
"I know." He smiled, but there was something serious in his eyes. "That's why I want to give it to you anyway. You deserve the world, Y/N. I'm going to figure out how to give it to you."
"I just want you," you said softly.
"Good." He leaned in, his lips brushing yours. "Because you've got me. For as long as you want me."
It was reckless and dangerous and every time you heard a floorboard creak, your heart stopped. But as you sat there in the dark, wrapped in Martin's arms, you couldn't bring yourself to care.
Your father never caught the two of you, and gradually he granted you back your privileges, though that also stemmed from your absolute refusal to even look at him until he did so.
A part of you secretly knew that your father had probably worked out you were still seeing Martin. He wasn't stupid—he'd raised you, after all. He knew the stubborn set of your jaw, the defiant glint in your eyes when you were hiding something. He'd seen the way you'd started leaving your window unlocked again, the way you'd come downstairs with pillow creases on your cheek and a sleepy smile that had nothing to do with a good night's rest.
But he never said anything and you remained in this strange stalemate situation for the following couple of years.
It was an unspoken agreement, really. Your father pretended not to notice the faint smell of motor oil that sometimes clung to your clothes in the morning. He pretended not to hear the soft thud of footsteps on the fire escape at midnight. He pretended not to see the way your eyes lit up whenever your phone buzzed. And you, in turn, pretended not to notice the way your father started leaving the back door unlocked, or the way he'd conveniently be in the living room with the TV turned up too loud whenever Martin was climbing the fire escape.
It was a strange kind of peace. Fragile, particularly tenuous. But it was peace nonetheless.
Then, finally, graduation day arrived.
You walked across the stage in your cap and gown, your father watching from the front row with a carefully neutral expression. Martin was a few students behind you, wearing his best clothes underneath the gown that you had bought for his birthday, his grin so wide it looked like it might split his face.
After the ceremony, you found him in the parking lot, still in your gown, your diploma clutched in your hands.
"We did it," you said, laughing. "We actually did it."
"We did." He pulled you into his arms, spinning you around. "High school graduates. Can you believe it?"
"I can't believe you didn't drop out."
"Me neither." He set you down, his hands still on your waist. "But I had a good reason to stay."
"And what was that?"
He leaned in, his lips brushing your ear. "You."
You and Martin had separated before your father emerged between the cars with the promise of seeing each other tomorrow, however you failed to fully notice the strange glint in Martin’s eyes as he parted with you
The next morning, Martin showed up at your door, his hands shaking as he knocked.
You answered, still in your pajamas, your hair a mess. "Martin? What are you—"
"I'm here to ask your father for permission to marry you."
You stared at him for a few seconds. "Now? At eight in the morning?"
"Time's ticking." He tried to smile, but it came out nervous. "I've waited long enough. Three years. I'm not waiting anymore."
Your father appeared behind you, coffee mug in hand. He looked at Martin, then at the suit, then at the determined set of Martin's jaw.
"Y/N, go to your room," he said, his voice flat as you gave Martin a wary look before retreating, "you again."
"Yes, sir." Martin straightened his spine, watching you disappear into the background. "I'm here to ask for your daughter's hand in marriage."
Your father set down his coffee mug, and for a long moment he just looked at Martin. "You must be out of your damn mind," he said slowly, "if you think I'd let you marry my daughter."
"Sir, I know I'm not what you wanted for her. I know I've made mistakes. I know I don't have much—"
"You've barely got a diploma, an unsecure job at an auto shop, and a reputation that makes me want to lock my daughter in her room until she's thirty-five."
"I know, sir. But I love her. I've loved her since I was fifteen, and I'm going to spend the rest of my life taking care of her."
"You think that's enough?" Your father's voice was rising. "You think love is enough? You have no future, no prospects, no—"
"I'm going to marry her anyway."
Your father stopped mid-sentence. "What?"
"I said I'm going to marry her anyway." Martin lifted his chin, his voice steady. "With or without your blessing. With or without your approval. I love her, and she loves me, and we're getting married. I'm just sorry you won't be there to see it."
"Get out." Your father's voice was ice. "Get out of my house before I call the cops."
Martin nodded slowly. He'd expected this. He'd prepared for this. It still stung. He turned and walked down the steps, the door slamming behind him.
Five hours later, Martin stood in front of you at the courthouse, him having snuck you out of your room through the very window he had spent years crawling through.
You'd changed into a simple white dress that you had worn a few times in the summer. Martin was in his navy suit from the graduation, his eyes bright with unshed tears.
"Dearly beloved," the officiant droned, "we are gathered here today to join this man and this woman in holy matrimony..."
Martin barely heard the words. He was too busy memorising the way you were looking at him like he was the only person in the world.
"Martin," you whispered, "you're crying."
"Am not."
"You totally are."
"It's allergies."
"You're such a liar."
He laughed, wiping at his eyes with the back of his hand. "Fine, maybe I'm a little emotional. You're marrying me, Y/N. Me. The guy who couldn't even pass English without your help."
"I think you're pretty great," you said softly. "I always have."
The officiant cleared his throat. "The rings?"
Martin fumbled in his pocket, pulling out the simple silver bands he'd saved up for. He slid one onto your finger—it was a little too big, but you didn't seem to care, you just stared at it like it was the most expensive piece of jewelry in the world.
"I now pronounce you husband and wife. You may kiss the bride."
Martin’s lips were on yours before you could fully process the words.
He kissed you like he was drowning and you were air. He was savouring the reality of this, you in his arms finally calling yourself his. Gradually it deepened, the years of longing and wanting pouring into every second your mouth remained on his.
When he pulled back, you were both breathless and grinning like idiots.
"I love you," he whispered, his voice rough and cracking. "I know I don't say it enough, but I do. I love you more than anything. More than I ever thought I could love anyone."
You cupped his face in your hands, your thumbs tracing the sharp lines of his jaw. "I love you too. Even though you're insane."
A wet laugh escaped him, his shoulders shaking. "Especially because I'm insane?"
"Especially then." You smiled, soft and radiant.
He kissed you again, softer this time, because he felt he had all the time in the world, and, really, he did. Nothing else mattered to him except the way your lips moved against his, the way your fingers tangled in his hair, the way your heartbeat matched his own.
When he finally pulled back, he was grinning like an idiot, tears still tracking down his cheeks. "Mrs. Edwards," he said, testing the words. "That has a nice ring to it."
You laughed, bright and beautiful. "Mr. L/N. That would have an even nicer ring to it."
"Hey." He poked your side. "I proposed first, that means you take my name."
"Fine." You rolled your eyes, but you were smiling. "But only because I love you."
"That's the only reason I need."
The courthouse was small and dingy, the officiant was already shuffling papers, clearly eager to leave, the neon sign outside flickered and buzzed. It wasn't the wedding either of you had dreamed of. There were no flowers, no guests, no white dress with a long train.
But it was yours.
And as Martin pulled you into his arms, his lips pressed against your temple, he knew he'd never regret a single moment of it. "I'm going to give you everything," he whispered against your skin. "I don't have much now, but I will. A home, a future, a life you can be proud of. I promise."
"I already have everything I need," you whispered back. "I have you."
He pulled back, just enough to look at you. His eyes were red-rimmed, his smile shaky, his heart laid bare on his sleeve. "You really mean that?"
"Every word."
He kissed you one last time: deep, slow, full of all the promises he'd spend the rest of his life keeping.
Your father was going to be absolutely livid when he found out, though Martin didn't care.
synopsis: martin does nothing but pass notes in class to cure his boredom, soon one day he believes he has found his longtime pen pal. or the one where martin is down bad…
genre: fake texts, one shot au, non!idols, student au, fluff
𝜗ৎ 𐔌՞. .՞𐦯 ⋆.˚.ᐟ [classmate!sean x latina!reader] ...୨ᢉ𐭩୧... ss. 21 w. none! fluff 𑣲 getting into a figurine collecting war with sean! ᶻ 𝗓 𐰁 .ᐟ
𑣲 round of 32 | round of 16 | round of 8 | round of 4 | semifinals | finals
𝜗ৎ 𐔌՞ ܸ.ˬ.ܸ՞𐦯 ⋆.˚ .ᐟ hi guys !! now that we are nearing the ending of HTGAGI10SD i thought i'd officially start the next smau !! i love love love sean and am also a very dedicaded football fan, especially around this beautiful time called the world cup. this is a part of a series, which i will be explaining soon !! i hope you enjoy !!
𐙚⋆.˚ .ᐟ @xikskrrrs @dazzlingjaeyun @my-root-came-2006 @xionvlog @teacuplps @tiramisumin @lovhyeon @ilovegojosatoru13 @reinmyheart @chae-rries @lilbuzi @mitsubal0ver @nolongeryoungbutbeautiful @kienhawon @st4rry-l4vender-sk1es @snghyyn @ikigaijo @chanellerie @monniemoody @taelvvrzz @isthiscool @dzywshh + lmk if you want to be added !
𐙚 back to the masterlist
𐙚 please do not copy, adapt or steal any of the content !!!
𝜗ৎ 𐔌՞. .՞𐦯 ⋆.˚.ᐟ [classmate!juhoon x reader] ...୨ᢉ𐭩୧... ss. 22 w. none! fluff 𑣲 trying to get juhoon in ten days! ᶻ 𝗓 𐰁 .ᐟ
𑣲 step zero | step one | step two | step three | step four | step five | step six | step seven | step eight | step nine | step ten
𝜗ৎ 𐔌՞ ܸ.ˬ.ܸ՞𐦯 ⋆.˚ .ᐟ hi guysssss ! i bring you a lil juhoon smau hehehe. this is a recycled idea from my nct vlog just in case any of you have seen it ! i hope you love it and please let me know if you want to be tagged (or added to the permanent cortis tl).
𐙚⋆.˚ .ᐟ @xikskrrrs @dazzlingjaeyun @my-root-came-2006 @xionvlog @teacuplps @tiramisumin @lovhyeon @ilovegojosatoru13 @reinmyheart @chae-rries @lilbuzi
+ lmk if you want to be added !
𐙚 back to the masterlist
𐙚 please do not copy, adapt or steal any of the content !!!
synopsis seonghyeon is the son of cupid, a god known for little more than its ways of catalyzing love between two souls. a mission on a school field trip becomes catastrophe when seonghyeon accidentally pricks himself with a love arrow meant for someone else. the arrow makes the victim fall in love with the first face they see ── which, for seonghyeon, is you. his long-standing rival. the last person anyone would expect him to fall in love with.
genre fluff, crack, yearner sean, high school au
contains swearing, cringe love stuff, kissing
wc. 2.7k !
anya's note I'm crying 😭😭 ncity is in shambles rn i've lost BOTH of my mans, this is one hundred percent a coping fic
SEONGHYEON GETS CALLED ‘LOVER BOY’ AT LEAST FIVE TIMES A DAY.
It’s because he's the half-mortal son of Cupid. It's not because he's a hopeless romantic—he's never been that type anyway, despite his prevalent lineage.
This fun fact, however, is something only his closest friend, Keonho, knows. And all the times he teasingly gets called ‘Lover Boy’ feature Keonho as the culprit. Always.
Seonghyeon also has the ability to step into love lives, similar to his father. Cupid gifted him the same ability of sparking one's heart with the pierce of a special arrow. Except while his father is a renowned archer with a full size bow and celestial bronze arrows, Seonghyeon has been entrusted with a tiny bow and arrow kit that looks like a kid's.
See, the logistics of carrying around a lethal weapon in broad daylight seemed too…complicated.
So Cupid gave Seonghyeon—when he was old enough to start shooting people in the heart—the kiddie bow and arrow. A plastic, pink bow that looks like it costs no more than five bucks, and tiny purple arrows with clipart-looking hearts at the ends.
There's only one time Seonghyeon has ever used it.
Keonho paid him ten bucks once in sixth grade to shoot Stella with a love arrow. In hindsight, it was a shitty deal—Seonghyeon blew through those ten bucks within the hour.
The problem didn't arise with the haggled price, though. Seonghyeon, to his own dismay, found out that the love arrow doesn't last forever.
It turned out that only his father, being a god and all, had the power for the love arrows to last forever. Seonghyeon was a half-mortal, and therefore, the love arrows didn't last as long.
Which explained why Keonho demanded his ten bucks back when Stella lost interest after a week.
Seonghyeon always keeps his little bow and arrow in his bag. He’s barely used it, but it’s a small thing of comfort for him. It’s hard to explain why.
Luckily, the bow and arrow of love magic that he’s carrying in his school backpack doesn’t trip the alarm system to the museum—and disappears from the human eye of the guard who checks. It’s the special perks of the items being godly magic, gifts from Cupid himself.
Keonho quickly catches up to Seonghyeon after the security checks into the museum. Today’s a school field trip to an art museum in the city, with their whole English class in tow.
“Hey,” Keonho nudges Seonghyeon’s elbow as they join the crowd of the class in walking down the intricate, high-ceilinged hallways of the museum. “You have your little lovey dovey arrows, don’t you?”
Seonghyeon raises an eyebrow. “...Why?”
“Is that a yes?” Keonho asks quietly.
“Bro, I’m not shooting another one of your crushes again. Remember what happened last time?”
“Oh, do I remember you giving a one hundred percent guarantee Stella would fall for me, which ended up being—mind you—completely false?”
“Keonho,” Seonghyeon says, rolling his eyes. “How the hell was I supposed to know the love magic would wear off? It was my first time shooting anyone!”
Keonho sucks through his teeth when Seonghyeon says the last part a little too loudly. He’s more than aware of the trickle of heads that turn.
“Anyway,” Seonghyeon lowers his voice. “Whatever you’re planning, I’m refusing right now. Before you can ask.”
“But—”
“No.”
“Please,” Keonho pleads. “It doesn’t even need to be permanent this time. I just need it to get a certain someone jealous.”
Seonghyeon’s footsteps halt for the slightest moment before picking up again. He and Keonho are beginning to trail the class at the back of the line. They’re not even listening to the museum guide’s words.
“You…want me to shoot someone to make someone else jealous?”
“When you say it like that,” Keonho defends. “Of course it’s gonna sound shitty.”
“It sounds shitty no matter how you put it,” Seonghyeon shoots back.
Seonghyeon adjusts the bag on his shoulder and stuffs his hands in his pockets. The light chatter of students comes to a halt when the museum guide introduces the first exhibit.
“We’ll talk about this later,” Seonghyeon compromises. “Ok?”
Keonho makes a small hum of agreement and shrugs his shoulders. “Fine.”
The third painting the museum guide stops at is one of Prometheus, depicted with regality while bringing fire to humanity. Seonghyeon briefly remembers his father getting slightly irritated at the thought of Prometheus’ philanthropy.
“This one is a fairly popular piece from the Renaissance,” the guide states.
Seonghyeon’s mind wanders while the guide continues to talk. First about his and Keonho’s earlier conversation, and what scheme Keonho could possibly have in mind this time. Then about the painting, and how his teacher will find some way to tie the allegorical message back to whatever they’re learning in class. And then his small observation of the way the guide talks, emphasizing certain points with her hands, in a way that reminds him of…you.
Ah. You.
You’ve always been pretty different from him. You’ve always been energetic and stubborn and out-there. You’ve always challenged him or got on his nerves or schemed with his sister to somehow make his own life miserable.
It’s a well-known thing, too. A running joke in the class—how much you get on each others’ nerves, how you find him insufferable and he thinks the same.
Seonghyeon finds himself thinking about you. His eyes glance fleetingly towards you, standing next to Juun and Stella, invested in what the guide’s saying.
By the time his brain has actually caught up with what’s happening, the tour moves on to the next painting which—hilariously—is a depiction of Cupid.
Not the Cupid that Seonghyeon has known, not the father that always chastises him for his love shooting abilities, or the god that carries confidence uncomparable to any mortal. This Cupid is a cute, angelic, cherub. A little baby that’s almost fully naked and looks like the most innocent thing you’ve ever seen.
“This painting,” the woman begins. “Is titled ‘Cupid Complaining to Venus’. Elrach took inspiration from the poet Theocritus for this piece. If you use the context of who Cupid and Venus were, and what they symbolized, what could this piece be saying?”
Seonghyeon’s eyes scan the painting a little more intently. This question is right up his alley, anyway. He mentally smacks himself when he finds himself looking at you once more.
“It’s a metaphor for the pains of love,” he says. He waits for some indication that the guide heard him, which she gives, and continues. “Cupid is complaining of the pain of insect stings, which is symbolic to the stings of love.”
“Excellent answer, young man,” the tour guide compliments.
It’s nice validation. That is, until one very recognizable voice steps into the discussion. Yours.
“Well,” you say, voice much more audible than his. “I think it’s a little ironic. Cupid’s complaining of such things, but his own bittersweet shots of love have the same effect. That’s what Venus seems to be telling him in the painting.”
Seonghyeon fights the urge to sigh and roll his eyes. Must you always have something to say back to him?
“And that,” the guide waves her finger at you, clearly content. “That’s what Elrach was really trying to say with the painting. Yes, Cupid’s argument is part of it, but Venus’ truth gives the whole piece the message of accountability.”
Seonghyeon lets go of whatever restraint was holding him back from rolling his eyes at you, as soon as you look over at him with that cocky smile of yours.
“Ok,” Keonho shifts in his bus seat. He quickly claimed the window, leaving Seonghyeon with little space on the aisle seat. “Here’s the plan. You take your arrow, hit Juun with it. Juun falls in love with me, Stella gets jealous, and…” Keonho wiggles his eyebrows.
Seonghyeon dumbfoundedly stares at him and turns to take a quick look behind.
You’re sitting in the seat across from him. Stella and Juun are on the bus seat behind you—diagonal from him and Keonho. He runs the logistics in his head. For the love shot to work, he’d have to shoot Juun and make sure that the first person she sees is Keonho. The mechanics are a little tough since Keonho’s at the window and further from her sight…but it could probably work.
Seonghyeon turns back around and looks at Keonho with all the seriousness he can muster.
“You owe me for this shit. Got it?”
Keonho’s realization that Seonghyeon is saying yes takes a minute to register. When he realizes, his face breaks out into his signature grin, eagerly nodding.
“Yeah, yeah,” he gives a thumbs-up. “Whatever you want. Really.”
Seonghyeon sighs before swinging his bag around to the front.
The thing about his little bow and arrow is that only he and Keonho can see it. The logic there is that only he and Keonho know about it.
So when he pulls out the plastic bow and the tiny arrow that goes with it from his bag, nobody can see it. That’s the godly magic in the works.
Keonho watches in anticipation as Seonghyeon carefully takes the arrow and aligns it with the bow string. His fingers clasp the arrowhead, skillfully easing the arrow back and—
The bus begins moving. Everybody in the bus jostles around with a couple gasps at the lurch it takes.
Seonghyeon goes still, facing straight ahead at the seat across from him. You.
“Bro, what are you—” Keonho nudges his shoulder. “Take the shot, the bus is good now.”
Seonghyeon is still frozen. Still looking at you.
Keonho laughs, laced with the tiniest bit of nervousness. “Come on, don’t get cold feet now—”
His eyes catch Seonghyeon’s finger, the one next to the tip of the arrow. A small speck of blood is located on his index finger, tiny and barely noticeable.
Seonghyeon slowly turns around, bow and arrow still in his hands. He looks at Keonho with wide eyes and slight panic and the look of someone who’s only thought is ‘oh, fuck’.
“I—” Seonghyeon’s eyes don’t reduce in width. “Shit.”
“What happened? Why’s your finger bleeding?”
Seonghyeon doesn’t answer immediately. He wordlessly stuffs his things inside his schoolbag and zips it up. He then holds up his bleeding index finger to Keonho, waving it in front of his face.
“The arrow,” he mutters.
“What?”
“The arrow. I pricked my finger with it.”
Keonho joins Seonghyeon in a wide-eyed panic. Mainly because he knows who Seonghyeon was looking at. He knows the implications of Seonghyeon accidentally pricking himself with the arrow, and that the first person he looked at was…
You.
Seonghyeon can barely sleep that night. He’s too busy thinking about you.
You and your beautiful eyes. Your pretty features. The intellectual things you say and the confidence with which you say them.
He sits up in his bed with a groan, mainly because he can’t get you out of his head.
This feels like a curse and a blessing all at once.
He just has to wait a week for the love to go away.
For the feelings to wear off.
So the next day, Seonghyeon is extra excited for English class. It's one of his only classes with you.
He always sits next to Keonho, and you always sit with Juun and Stella. Normally, he'd sneer at how loud the three of you are together, or how you seem to be doing anything but the work assigned.
But right now he is the furthest thing from normal. Every glance he sneaks at you makes his heart race. Every word you say that would normally sound out of pocket and unhinged just sounds…angelic, coming from you.
Near the end of class, when you approach both of them and ask him about the homework since you weren't paying attention, he doesn't give you any attitude.
It throws you off completely.
Seonghyeon instead offers you a dimple-y smile, one that's kind and sweet, especially with his bangs down.
“Here,” He shows his notebook to you. “We have to read these pages and do questions 8 through 11.”
You're thrown off even more. The way he's looking up at you so lovingly makes your heart do things it really shouldn't be doing.
By the end of the week, the feeling still isn't gone.
It's Monday—a whole week has gone by. It was guaranteed by his father that any love arrows Seonghyeon shot had no chance of lasting more than a week.
Which can only mean one thing, really.
Seonghyeon is actually, truly, unimaginably in love with you.
It's quite ironic. He, nor anyone else, could possibly imagine that sort of result. He's always had some resent toward you—and he never thought one powerful feeling could morph into another. The epiphany that he loves you, even with the love magic wearing off, comes from the fact that he's learned to like you.
And he likes you quite a bit.
He likes the way you snort when you laugh, and the fact that you laugh at almost everything. He likes the way you make him think twice—bring ideas to discussions he hadn't even thought about. He likes the way you fidget with your hands in class, or the way you play with your pencil absentmindedly while reading.
He loves how you've begun to look at him the way he looks at you. He loves that you talk to him more, because you've both let go of the hate that seemed to divide you in the first place. He loves it whenever you smile at something he says or does, and loves it even more when you make him laugh.
That Friday, he waits for you outside the school building. He had slipped a note inside your book, asking you to meet him there.
Before he fell in love, he would've never done such a thing so hopelessly romantic.
Seonghyeon's heart stutters when he sees you come out from the corner. Your bag is slipping off your shoulder, and he can tell that you got here in a rush.
“Hey.”
“Hi,” you reply, catching your breath. It takes a moment for your breathing to even out—-and even then, you still feel light heart palpitations. “You…wanted to meet?”
“Yeah,” Seonghyeon nods. “Yeah, I wanted to tell you…something.”
You smile that beautiful smile of yours that makes Seonghyeon want to forget all about his assigned reading and just write poems about.
“Mhm. I'm listening,” you tell him, stepping closer. You can smell his cologne, that mix of florals and some other dusky scent. It used to annoy you, how he would spray cologne on himself after class every day.
It's become something uniquely him, though.
Seonghyeon is very aware of the distance, or rather lack thereof, there is between you and him. His eyes focus from your eyes to your whole face to your lips—lips he only last week discovered he had a curiosity to kiss.
“You,” He starts. “You make me feel…happy.”
Your lips curve into an even greater smile.
“I make you feel happy?” You whisper. “I make you feel happy, Seonghyeon?”
His name on your lips is nothing less than perfect.
“Yeah,” He breathes. “And I would love, like really love, to fake you out. Sometime. Whenever you'd like. Anywhere you'd like.”
Seonghyeon's mind does that wandering thing again, right after he asks you. His mind wanders once again to your lips, watching as they say yes, and how they smile so beautifully. His mind wanders to how he could've gotten so lucky—accidentally making himself fall in love with you.
It then wanders to his thoughts last Monday, when he realized he loved you. Really, really loved you.
Seonghyeon only reached the present again when he's kissing you. Hands on your waist, lips on yours and that beautiful, beautiful smile.
Cupid's arrow has always been a meddler, after all.
( syn. ) a boy (?) from the forest finds you again at midnight
( tags ) implied f!reader ⋆ vampire!james ⋆ twilight (ish) au ⋆ warnings: implications of harm, violence, and death to reader, A.K, E.S, && E.M; blood; kissing (suggestive) ⋆ two oneshots ⋆ darker setting, darker themes ⋆ songs linked above :D ⋆ word count: 5.1k
#🫖: dedicated to my beautiful @liliikkuma and the anon who was excited for a twilight-esque fic 🥹🥹 this one technically isn’t my twilight one LOL that will come out later this autumn (i also wanna write vampire hcs for them 😹 (you’ll know who im talking abt by the end of this)) for now have small one-shots of vampire james because the edits were making me go craaaazzyyyy does he know i’m insane?
“You shouldn’t be here.”
You spin around to the voice, supposedly behind you. You’d be lying if you said it didn’t startle you–you hadn’t even heard another pair of footsteps in the few minutes you’ve been walking through this silent, winding, forest.
You’ve braced yourself, but there’s no one there–only the lush, evergreen staring back at you. You scan the scene for a second longer, even though you can feel that you’re alone.
The lack of sleep recently must be making you hear things, and you set a mental reminder to ask for an increase in your melatonin dosage when you get back home from this town. From Forks. Washington’s Olympic Peninsula; a place you’d never voluntarily step foot in if it weren’t for the paper desperately needing something fresh to publish.
You press your lips into a thin line and shake your head, willing yourself to wake up and focus.
When you turn back, a figure is standing before you.
You can’t help but let out the gasp that escapes you this time, taking a step back, trying to calm yourself.
“Sorry.” He says, raising his eyebrows in an almost taunting-like way. “Did I scare you?”
“Maybe.” You offer a small chuckle, easing tension, and clear your throat. “I didn’t see you come up.”
He’s taller than you, though his rugged cap planted over his messy hair might have something to do with it. You do a quick intake; sharp bone structure, onyx dark eyes, and hollow, pale cheeks. So, so pale, he looks almost deathly.
“Not much sun around here.” He says, as if offering an answer for your thoughts.
Your breath hitches. “What?”
“It messes with the light. Why you didn’t see me.” His eyes are burning into yours, willing you to accept his explanation.
“Oh,” you force out, nodding. “Right.”
He simply watches as you swallow and force yourself to steady your thrumming pulse. A task that’s not as easy when he’s looking at you like he has intentions if you move even a muscle.
Your intuition–one that’s never been wrong before–is yelling at you to back away even more; to run until you see someone else; to flee this scene because you know all too well about strangers and solitude.
“Like I said, you shouldn’t be here.” He echoes.
Finally, something on script. Something you can work with.
Your investigative days have led you on strange pathways before; places you legally shouldn’t have been, but over the years of experience, you’ve learnt how to sweet-talk your way out of trouble. You straighten your back–Forks will not make you another statistic.
“Right! I’m so sorry. Is this private property? I had no idea…” Feigning innocence, eyebrows furrowing in distress. “I tried following the main river.”
The boy–if you can even call him that–is quiet for a moment. Something is gleaming in his eyes, as if he has you exactly where he wants.
“You’re alright. No, it’s not private property, but the woods aren’t safe for a girl like you.”
You let a humourless scoff. He’s playing into your act a bit too much.
Using the opportunity to eye him down properly, your gaze doesn’t miss a single detail. You’ve seen him before. You realise. Though you can’t recall where, or when, you know his face. You wouldn’t forget one like his.
The vague familiarity calms you down. You’re really grasping onto straws here, but it’s a slight relief knowing he’s a little less harmless.
The edge of his lips twitch.
“The woods wouldn’t be safe for a guy like you, either.” You finally respond. “You can’t be that much older than me.”
A slow, deliberate, smile spreads across his face. His features were almost too perfect, that the expression makes him look more real.
“I’ve been twenty.”
The way people talk here is so strange.
You wait for anything further, and he offers none.
“Not much older than me,” You confirm.
He only hums.
He turns his attention to a long, fallen log covered in fern, wildflowers sticking out messily. Bending down gracefully to pluck one out of the bunch, the boy gently dangles it in front of your fisted hand at the side of your hip.
If this was his way of pleading trust, you hate how it works.
Opening your palm, you let him drop the light pink wildflower into it, fingers curling around it to flex your body into moving again. You hadn’t realised how still you’ve been since he appeared.
The boy begins to walk in the opposite direction you were heading.
Without meaning to, you walk with him.
“I haven’t seen you before.” His voice is softer now. Curious. Itching to get you to keep talking.
You recognise the path he’s taking you down–you’re retracing your steps.
You didn’t want to leave the forest too early, given this morning was practically spent settling into your motel room, but the endless branches of hanging canopy weren’t giving you much to work with either.
“I only just arrived.” Your answer is plain. You’ve got to start asking questions too, the boy could be of use, after all.
“The tourists usually skip this part of Washington.”
“Not a tourist.”
“Then what are you here for, Miss…?”
You state your name, followed by “SBS,” with a fiddle of your lanyard. Your bright photo identification plastered across it.
“A reporter!” The boy marvels, “We don’t get many of those. I’m surprised our police haven’t reassured you away.”
“Oh, they tried.” Memories of Martin–the scrawny, blonde intern at the station–flash in your mind. He had to have been freshly graduated from high school with the way he stuttered in attempts of refusing an interview. “But my boss–she says there’s something sinister going on over here. So, I’m not leaving until I have a story.”
“Do you believe her?” But his tone is off, as if there’s a right or wrong answer to this question, and not one of opinion.
He faces you, and you feel the spotlight. “Two seventeen-year-old boys missing in the span of a month? I’d say that’s pretty sinister.”
He opens his mouth, as if to say something, but then closes it again. After a pause;
“The logic is there.”
“You…” The sentence can’t come out. He turns to look at you again, tilting his head to implore you to go on. “You don’t seem to agree?”
A clench of his jaw. “Live long enough, you tend to get used to how small towns work.”
He looks away now, taking in the vastness of green surrounding the two of you.
“You’re a Forks local, then?”
His head rocks side to side, as if weighing the answer. “Something like that.”
“Local enough for a statement, at least?”
“I’ll give you one, if you let me see you again before you leave town.”
For the second time since meeting this boy, you’re taken aback. The shock even makes you stop walking. “That is an extremely unprofessional deal.”
“You’re writing about a retired case.” He chuckles, commanding you with his hand to keep moving forwards. “I hate to break it to you, but the Ahns and Eoms don’t want to cry to the media about their boys anymore. I think I’m the best chance you’ve got.”
You simply shake your head, and in a trance-like state, you continue to follow him. “Families of victims are always looking to get the word out there. If I don’t get something from them, I’m sure there are others who will talk.”
“None as good-looking as me, though.” He grins, teeth flashing your way. His face snaps back frontwards though, hiding it as quickly as it came.
Though you feel the urge to scoff again, you technically can’t disagree.
He’s unbelievably gorgeous; an alluring way about him that you’ve never found in the city boys you’ve dated in the past. His cologne even, the way it’s breathing off his heavy coat, is enough to make you dizzy.
A satisfied expression forms on his face at your silence.
Before you know it, you’ve nearly stepped out of the alienating forest of Forks.
You can tell, because at the very first sight of a building, ‘HAVE YOU SEEN AHN KEONHO?’ posters are plastered across the walls.
The reminder of the disappearances settles down any attempts of flirtation and humour that were about to surface. The boy watches as you stare, and lets the weight of it all sink onto a moment of silence between the two of you.
“Off the record?”
You turn this time, ears piqued in interest, but he’s not next to you anymore. You’ve realised you’ve kept walking ahead a few steps, as if getting closer to the pictures of the lost boy will give you a clue on where he’s gone–where they’ve all gone.
“Yes?” You pry, especially as you watch him slightly chew on the inside of his cheeks.
“You were right to go into the woods to investigate. There’s a reason no one has published anything about Forks.” He says this in a rush, a slight octave above a whisper–like he shouldn’t reveal this to you. Like he shouldn’t be talking to you at all. “But if you’re smart, you really won’t come back here. You won’t stay for long, either.”
You slowly read between his lines, half comprehending what’s trying to say. Your chest steadily rises in increasing bursts at his warning.
You try to remind yourself that you’re safe now–you can hear the bustle of the streets much up ahead, indicating there are more people around on the other side, if need be. Such safety produces bravery, you’ve come to find out.
“You know something, don’t you?” The plant in your palm, almost crushed.
You seem to catch a dip in his head, but you’re not certain.
“What is it?” Your eyes frantically searching his now, “An animal? Some sort of voodoo ritual?”
You trace back to all you’ve read about the history of Forks.
It’d be impossible not to do research for the case of this town; generations of boys slipping from existence every few decades, no questions asked, no pleas answered.
You remember how many speculated beasts that roam in the night, or how other sources simply passed down folktales; history coming into fruition. Though you didn’t believe them entirely, the isolating experience of the forest makes you rewire your beliefs on what could rationally be happening in a town that’s left off the maps.
His eyes are narrowing down to look at you through them. He’s about to respond, until a branch nearby snaps. A noise–a warning–made by someone who knows how to stay quiet.
Then the crunching of leaves as heavy boots make their way closer.
“James, you’re frightening the poor girl.” A different voice says, and you whip your head to another boy stepping out from behind the trunks covered in moss. “I can hear her heartbeat from here.”
He’s slightly taller. His voice is slightly deeper too. A multitude of differences between him and the first boy, James, with the exception of his complexion also being ghost-like.
“Hello,” He dips his head low, like a bow. “I apologise on his behalf. James doesn’t know what he’s saying, really. He likes to play with his fo-”
“Friends!” James finishes. “We’re friends, aren’t we?”
His eyes haven’t separated from yours this whole time, and they brighten when you nod.
Pleased, he turns to the boy standing next to him now. “Juhoon,” James sighs. “You’re interrupting my time with my new friend.”
Juhoon’s face is stonecold. “Carlisle sent me. He could tell you were up to no good again.”
James rolls his eyes. “Not a single moment of peace or privacy with you around,” He mumbles to himself.
You can’t help but revel in this dynamic; you don’t even care where this Juhoon came from, you’re relieved to see James acting like a real person. For a second, he almost didn’t seem like one.
James blinks in your direction.
He keeps doing this, you note to yourself. As if you’re saying all of this out loud, and he’s reacting like second-nature. It’s odd to find yourself in proximity with someone as perceptive as you consider yourself to be.
“Hello, Juhoon.” You greet, finally taking your gaze off of James.
The seemingly younger boy doesn’t take your late attention to heart. “You’ll have to excuse us, friend of James, our father wants us home.”
You can’t help but smile at his childish antics, and send another nod his way, outlining understanding.
Then, to James, “I want my statement.”
It’s unspoken you’ve consented to what comes with it.
Juhoon watches at how James’ smirk is forced to the ground; as if he’s guilty, as if he’s caught.
He can only sigh at his older brother.
“Carlisle’s right. You are up to no good again.” Juhoon interrupts the moment, glancing between the two of you.
Your eyebrows rise at this. “You walk girls out of the woods often, James?”
Hearing him say your name isn’t helping him wipe the smug expression off of his face, even though he knows he has to. “Only the pretty-”
A slight breeze picks up from your direction, and you can feel your hair lift off your shoulders. You grumble at this cursed weather, even if the wind only lasts for just a moment.
It’s enough for Juhoon.
It’s enough for James.
It’s enough for something to shift.
In the split-second you took to pat down your hair-do, your instincts have spiked up, something suddenly stirring inside of you to run.
Looking back at James, his eyes have gone impossibly darker. His nose slightly flares from impulse, his dry lips part from want, his nails dig beds into his flesh from restraint.
You almost feel like prey, and when James hears this thought–because you can feel him react to it with the quirk of his mouth, you’re not sure if you want to agree to his deal.
“Hey!” Another voice calls from behind. The three of you, disrupted from the bubbling tension, look across the field to see a lanky boy, six foot three, waving both arms in the air with glee.
Do the boys in this town just not know how to approach social situations properly?
With the biggest grin on his face, Martin-from-the-station is huffing and puffing when he finally reaches you. “There you are!”
The shift in the air is gone–you feel like you can breathe again.
“Hi?” You grimace, but he puts up a finger, indicating he needs another minute to catch his breath.
“I was meant to tell you earlier, you’re not supposed to go into the woods.” He manages, through shortness of gasps. When he can stand up right, his eyes widen and he shakes his head. “Bad place.”
“I got the message,” You’re about to point at James and Juhoon, but when you look behind you, they’ve been replaced with the silence of Fork’s lush again.
Even their absence startles you, they were just there.
Were they ever with you at all?
Martin, ignorant to your internal turmoil, takes your arm and drags you closer to the town. His warm hand grounding you, as you make it back to the centre of the graveyard of a city.
You hate admitting James was right.
The Ahn girl had slammed the door in your face, and the parents of the second boy who disappeared, Eom Seonghyeon, only stared blankly in disbelief. The people around town had completely avoided you too; picking up their things when you sat at a table near them, crossing the street when you began to walk their way.
Small towns keep their secrets like no other.
Hours later after leaving, you’re drawn to take a wander in the forest again, to see if you could find something this time. Or to see if James would come find you again. The more you pondered on your interaction, the more you knew both options were really an individual one.
You never got his statement, and so you’re back to square one.
Martin, the young boy who had been eager to get you back into town according to the wishes of Chief Swan, was at least useful by directing you to the town’s (one, and only) library. You guessed a historical report was better than going home tomorrow empty-handed.
Which is how you got into this position: crouched on the floor in between bookshelves, one table-lamp dragged to your corner, it being your only source of light, as you flip through the volumes of social and political notes of Washington State.
Forks: A History, is keeping you company tonight.
It could really be considered an antique, how it had been collecting dust for what seems like a millennia the way it made you sneeze when you first pulled it out.
Most of the information is a bore; records of architectural developments taking up the majority of pages, but you continue to seamlessly turn the page regardless.
Your mind swirls back to James again.
His scent.
His voice.
The way he looked at you.
You kept his wildflower in the back pocket of your pants, tucked away for when you want to remember him after you leave Forks. You decide it’s such a shame a pretty boy like him is stuck here, in this peculiar, rainy place. Even if he was peculiar, himself.
You can feel yourself getting so distracted–you almost jump in fright when James’ face appears in front of you as you flip the page.
Delusional girl. Saw a nice face once and now he’s apparently everywhere. The sleep deprivation really is getting to you. You almost chuckle out loud to yourself.
You let yourself take a miniature break from reading–it’s not like you were comprehending any of the literature anyways–and rub your eyes. When you look back down at the page though, James’ face is still there.
You have to take several blinks, press the book up in front of you, and illuminate the lamp right onto the centre of the page because you truly cannot believe your eyes.
James.
It was really James.
A splitting image of him, standing behind a woman sitting down, and next to a man, both just as beautiful as him.
A family portrait, with ‘1908’ stamped in a faded, red, onto the paragraph right next to them.
This chapter is dedicated to Dr. Carlisle Cullen, his beloved wife, Dr. Esme Cullen, and their only son, Yufan Cullen. In establishing Forks’ first public hospital, we thank the medical developments that have been brought to our town from the family’s arrival. The Cullens, who volunteered their time preaching aid and wellness to our patients, have immortalised their well-wishes in their generous donations before their departure from Forks, ten years after Forks Hospital opened in 1908. The funding for the public healthcare of Forks’ citizens will be felt, centuries from today. Though the Cullen family may never read these words, the people of Forks dedicate their lives to their munificence.
1908?
You know this is mathematically impossible–that this boy printed in a historical volume is the same as the one you talked to in the forest only a mere hours ago–but you could draw his nose, his eyes, his cheekbones, the curve of his neck’s apple blindfolded, and you’d have a replica of the image before you.
And Carlisle. That had been the name Juhoon referred to as his father earlier today, too. That was too much of a coincidence to ignore either. This was him. This was James–of this, you’re absolutely sure.
You slam the volume closed. Specs of dust fly about, but you can hardly bring yourself to care. You knew something was off with him, with this town, with these people.
You had to go home. Now.
Though the library hall felt huge when you first stepped in, it’s suddenly claustrophobic. You can’t stand being here anymore, willing yourself to gain enough mobility to crawl up and push the cursed book back to where you found it.
“Hello, again,” a familiar voice says.
You go still. Leaning on the bookcase for support, as you linger your fingertips on the volume.
“How long have you been there?” Your voice is weak, hoarse from dehydration. You’re still facing the bookshelf, too anxious to turn around.
“I only just arrived.” James says simply. He whispers your name, a command for you to look his way. “Will you let me see you? That was our deal, was it not?”
“I don’t need your statement anymore.” You somehow breathe out.
You’ve memorised the escape route from when you walked in, a habit you’ve picked up since childhood.
“You’re leaving already?” He asks. If you could see him, you’d see the pout painting James’ lips too. “But we’re only starting to have fun.”
You close your eyes in defeat.
It’s impossible to resist. It’s intoxicating how his voice coaxes you to abandon all ideas of exiting, and instead, face him.
“There she is.” James almost sighs, as he steps closer. “You look pretty, in this light.”
He stops right in front of you, and you press your spine further into the bookshelf.
James looks divine, too. His features are even sharper against the shadows, with only his eyes changed–a stark difference you notice only because you were staring at them so intently earlier. They’re topaz now, and as he watches you take him in, you can feel your heart bursting in your ribcage.
You’re scared, oh, you’re so scared.
You’ve never given thought to how you would die, coming to Forks has changed this in the span of a day.
“Yep. I still look scary if I don’t smile.” James tells you. His grins will be earned though. He can’t seem to stop them from appearing every time he’s with you–his dimples coming out from hiding, the way he steps out from the dark.
“Yufan,” you say before you can stop yourself.
His head flickers back; in surprise, in disbelief, in awe–neither of you know. He’s quiet for a beat. Glancing between your eyes, dangerously close to you. And then, slowly;
“No one has called me that name in a long time.”
James is silent again, and you realise he’s listening. You force yourself to not think of the portrait, but of course, trying to not think of something, makes it flash in your head like a screen just for his eyes.
A small curl at the tip of his lips again, “I knew you were a smart girl.”
“That’s all you have to say?” You swallow.
“I didn’t know they printed that.” He says more to himself than in response to you. “I should probably get rid of it when I’m done with you. Would be a problem if others connected the dots, don't you think?”
You can only nod. You’re still fearing for your life–you don’t want to question what his middle phrase means, because something has fused within this feeling; pure want.
Having him so impossibly close, the tip of his nose nudges yours.
You pull your face back, head now hitting the volumes of books.
“James, you’re freezing.” You say astonished, reaching one hand to cautiously place it on his cheek. It stings you to touch.
Your palm isn’t as warm as he wishes it was.
“You too, it seems.” James mumbles.
“What?”
Before you can blink, his jacket is slipping off of his broad frame. James brings you forward by the waist, only by a step, to pull it over your shoulders.
His scent hits you even harder, and you feel your knees buckle slightly. The jacket doesn’t provide any warmth, given it was on him this whole time, but the way it envelopes you, and how his arms find their way on either side of you to push you back up against the bookshelf again is making your body heat up uncontrollably.
“James,” You start, shaking your head as if denying this as reality. “Or Yufan. Who are you? What are you?”
“We don’t need to say it out loud.”
These dismissals are only making you think more rationally, which you’re grateful for.
“Those boys,” You feel something forming in your throat. You will yourself not to struggle as you ask, “Were you the ones behind their disappearances?”
James only sighs. His newest younger brothers were the last thing he wanted to think about, but he’s swimming through your thoughts and the posters are magnified on all of them right now.
“They’re okay,” He attempts at reassuring.
The confirmation that he really did have something to them makes your blood cold. Your mind is going back and forth: run away from him, get closer, run away, get close. All you can make out now is his name, chanting in your mind like a mantra.
This he likes.
“Are you going to do to me, what you did to them?” You ask.
His eyes look away from yours for the first time since he arrived, looking up to think.
“Women don’t deserve to hurt like this,” He states plainly. He shakes his head. “Don’t worry, I’m just going to take care of you tonight. Alright?”
You can’t wrap your head around the things he’s saying. Something about hurt, or something about care. To you, the two were the same.
James’ eyes are back on you now–not your eyes though, only your lips. The sight, makes you look at his. If you tipped forward just slightly, they’d touch.
You’d be kissing him–this creature, this monster, this boy.
A chuckle at the nicknames, all of them heard endlessly before. He likes your suggestions though, in fact, he has to answer it directly;
“Do it.”
James?
“I’m here,” He coos.
Get out of my head.
“You first,” is the last thing you hear, before he closes the short distance and plants his mouth onto yours.
James immediately takes your bottom lip as his, claiming ownership, kissing it as if he has millions of times before.
One of his hands moves from gripping the bookshelf, his pointer finger tracing the outline of your ear, the other fingers following in suit. His hands drag all the way down across your jaw, until he places it on the base of your neck to tilt your head up.
The cold makes you shiver into his mouth, and the small opening allows him to deepen the kiss, all parts of him, aligning with every part of you.
Your hands are delicately scrunched on the edges of his shirt, pulling him closer, no doubt leaving crinkles into the fabric. Your head is spinning as you kiss him back, you can’t even focus on any specific detail, he’s all too consuming.
James demands attention by tilting his head the other way now, swapping positions with you, tasting you from the other side. It’s a state of bliss, the two of you have found, and in doing so, you’ve both lost track of time.
How long has passed?
Minutes?
Hours?
You don’t care. You don’t want it to end, even if your breathing is getting heavy as James doesn’t let you break for even a second.
You feel his teeth graze your bottom lip. You mirror, following his lead, doing the same to him. It tickles at first and you take pleasure in this new, unexplored sensation.
That is until, the tips of a sharp one pierces through your tender flesh.
You gasp in white, hot, pain.
You try to pull away, but James has one hand on your neck, the other moving to your waist, locking you in place.
His name comes out of your mouth as a beg, tears brimming your eyes at the sting of how the canine sinks in. His tongue is quick to go over the mark, soothing it, before his lips pucker at the familiar taste, on instinct swallowing what melts out.
James smells metal, and the gravity of what he’s done finally hits. His eyes fly open, stepping away from you immediately, moving impossibly quick, he hits the bookshelf you’re standing across.
The impact of his body is so hard, a few books come crashing down.
James’ expression is one of shock, and his hand reaches up to wipe his mouth–the drips of blood, mixed with saliva that shine on the back of his palm is enough to fill him with dread. What has he done?
“No,” he repeats in whispers, over and over. “That wasn’t meant to happen.”
James was only meant to kiss you. He was only meant to be close enough to get a dose of your scent. To touch you, if you’d let him. He was never meant to do this.
In a panic, James spills your name out, profusely apologising for his actions–his actions you haven’t even understood completely, too focused on how red is trickling down your bottom lip, almost reaching your chin.
“James?” You call out, as a way to calm both yourself, and him down, but it doesn’t work. You want to tell him it’s okay, to comfort him into explaining why he looks so distraught.
James can’t stay here, he can’t look at you knowing his poison is pulsing through your veins. You won’t feel it now, just the initial sting, but you’ll feel it soon enough, and he can’t be around to watch.
His head is shaking and your fear earlier is nothing compared to how he has you now. You’re confused, and you’re anxious, you just want him to hold you again.
You know he knows you’re thinking this.
It’s why him vanishing in the next passing heartbeat hurts even more.
The light from the lampshade stutters, and you have to train your eyes to stay on the fallen books, and wrap his jacket around you even tighter, to convince yourself he was real.
You leave the library in the state James left it in too; the workers tomorrow will be concerned at the drops of crimson staining the carpet.
You don’t remember the short walk back to the motel room, the hours you laid wide awake in the hard bed, or the girl who somehow manages to functionally wipe away last night’s mess and force food down her throat as the sun rises above Forks.
It’ll be the last time you see the sun. You don’t know it for certain, but you can feel it—your intuition, saying its farewell, as it leaves you now, too.
You only gain back a sliver of human consciousness when Chief Swan pins a new poster to the community board of the motel’s breakfast diner.
( 💌 ) juhoon wants to be the one who takes care of you this time
( tags ) wc: 3.3k ⋆ juhoon x implied f!reader ⋆ established relationship au ⋆ angst ⋆ fluff ⋆ college (?) oneshot ⋆ author’s note at the end ⋆ skinship (jju and reader share a bed but it’s strictly sfw ) ⋆ warnings❕16+ because reader is #going through it in this one lowkey — portrayals of ptsd, psychological distress, depression, disassociation, && implications of self harm
The bathroom floor is so cold.
Ceramic tiles stinging wherever your skin touches them, and the hum of the exhaust fan buzzing in your ears are all that reassure you you’re still here. It makes you remember that somewhere inside you, the physiological mechanisms are continuously churning away; your heart’s still beating, your blood’s still rushing, your lungs are still contracting and pushing life into you.
Juhoon had told you about all of these things once. 3am in his dorm months ago, it was another late study night with your favourite melodies playing softly in the back.
“All the little cells love you so bad, they don’t take a break for even a second.” He had noted, secretly more to you, than himself and his anatomy inscriptions. “They’re just happy to keep working and working so you stay alive. Isn’t that sweet?”
Unintentionally, hearing that had warmed something in you, then. That he had believed you were deserving of love, even as he did a task as miniscule as biology homework.
You had been eager to oblige in aiding Juhoon in his studies. Laid out on his soft sheets, as he traced your bone structure according to the diagrams of his textbook. Pointing out crevices of where your organs and bodily structures were, his hands tickling your skin everywhere he touched.
“Stop squirming,” Juhoon had told you with a knowing smile. The way he caressed you was intentional, of course. The guy simply adored having you there, all to himself, giggling as if the two of you shouldn’t have been focused on up-coming midterms instead.
“This is where your sternum would be.” He had said, tracing down your chest. “It connects to each of your ribs, basically like the cage around your heart, you know?”
You had only been half-listening to what Juhoon was saying, paying attention to how he looked with his glasses on more. It was a rare sight; saved for your study dates.
“That’s where you live too,” You responded, referring to his hand, which was then on the left side of your chest. It was a joke, but neither of you would’ve minded if he did stay there forever.
Right now, this memory seems faraway from you. Distant. You’re beginning to wonder if it even happened.
You need to get up. You know you do. You had tonight all planned: come home from class, freshen up, catch up on work, force yourself to eat, call Juhoon, sleep early.
Almost like on auto-pilot, it was the routine that prevents you from spiralling back—from relapsing into the habit of creeping into your past; into the carefully tucked away, locked up, and wanting-to-be-gone memories of that time of your life.
You were doing so well. Six months have passed since you even thought of that past version of you. Not a single tear shed for her. Not a single minute wasted longing to go back and fix things.
Until today. Life had given you a taste of what peace could look like—half a year’s trial, to be precise—, and then dangled the reminder of the opposite right in front of your eyes. You don’t even know what it was that set it off. Was it the weather? Does your body recognise it’s this time of the year? Or are people like you simply destined to not step into the realm of happy, loving, lives like Juhoon’s?
The reminder of him again almost shifts something in you.
You were meant to call him.
You want to.
You want to hear his voice. The most blunt vocabulary in the world to everyone else, but to your ears only, comes the sweetest whispers in the long nights you spend together.
Kim Juhoon—the boy with the softest eyes, and even softer smile—who came crashing into your life the day you decided you had to pick yourself up. Unintentionally, it was like life was giving you one last chance.
‘Here’s a beautiful boy,’ it said. ‘Love him, and don’t mess it up.’
But It’s a cruel game the world wants to play sometimes; you know now you weren’t ready for him. You don’t think you’ll ever be. Not when he’s on to do and achieve so much, and you’re… Well, you’re just here. Not even capable enough of getting yourself up from this unfriendly, numbing, floor.
To the outside eye, it looks like something awful had happened. Your body lying there, under the bright lights of the bathroom, with no intention of moving.
Which is why, Juhoon’s first thoughts when he finds you like that, jumped immediately to assuming the worst.
His breathing hitched, and fear spiked in him so hard he had to lean on the doorframe to hold himself up. With trembling limbs, shaking his head frantically in disbelief, Juhoon crouches down over you and reaches out a hand to cup your face, repeating your name with a quivering voice.
The relief he feels as he recognises the steady pulse at the base of your neck, washes over him like waves in the open sea. He was so scared. For a split-second, he thought he was too late.
Your eyes slowly open, adjusting to the beams of light above you. A figure blurring in and out in front of them.
Juhoon relishes in seeing the flutter of your lashes. They’re another movement of proof you were still alive. Give me more, he begs silently, let me know you’re with me.
“Juhoon?” Your voice croaks out.
“Hey,” But it comes out of him like a choke. He tries again.
“It’s okay, you’re okay.” Juhoon’s voice, only a little more stable, is something you can finally recognise after hours being alone, and you clutch onto it with all you can. “Are you hurt?”
Yes.
You don’t want to admit it out loud, though. There’s no blood pouring out of you. No bruises nor any indication of physical harm, so what would be the point?
“I was just thinking about you,” You respond, deciding ignoring his question would be easier.
He only lets out a soft, defeated breath.
Juhoon’s face is all wrong today, you think to yourself. His lips, which are normally hydrated with your shared mint lip vaseline, are dry and turned downwards. His lovely smile, nowhere to be seen.
His eyes keep glancing between yours, almost searching for a hidden message he’s meant to unlock, to know what happened, to know how you got here.
Juhoon’s eyebrows are also furrowed, lines in between them that are only meant to be there when he takes a bite out of something delicious. If you could shake your head, you would. If you could do a lot of things, you would.
Instead, you slowly lift a hand, pressing your thumb onto his forehead, as if wanting to rub away all the wrinkles.
“I was thinking about you too,” Juhoon whispers back. He takes his free hand and connects it with yours, moving them away from his head, and letting them rest on your lower stomach. “You didn’t call, and James said you looked like a ghost in class today. I got worried.”
Guilt begins to eat at you. Curling yourself in, you look away. You never wanted anyone to see you like this, but especially not Juhoon.
Knowing now that you’re not physically injured, Juhoon gently shifts the hand on your neck to the back of your head, lifting it up. Then, he moves his arm down and across your back until he has a hold of your shoulder, as he lets go of his other hand to curl around the back of your knees.
Even with your attempts of protest, Juhoon picks you up swiftly, with all the ease in the world. His warm arms are such a stark difference to the tiles you spent so long on, your head automatically rests where his chest meets his shoulder.
The air is different when the two of you step out of the bathroom. It’s suddenly easier to breathe now, or maybe it’s just his presence. Either way, you let Juhoon carry you to your dark bedroom; too tired to move, too tired to leave.
Setting you down on the bed, Juhoon lets your hamburger lamp breathe to life, its setting low enough to not scare away midnight vulnerabilities. He had gifted it to you last Valentines day, wanting your room to be brighter when he’s not there.
Your head hits a pillow, and your immediate thought is that it’s not as warm as Juhoon. He’s sitting next to you now, watching quietly as your chest rises up and down. Evidence of you being okay, real, and here, in front of him.
Using the excuse of getting you something warm to drink, Juhoon steps out from your sight of vision.
He needs to take a moment. Bracing himself against the cool kitchen island, deep heave of breaths are coming out of him, mind racing at what he’s supposed to do, at what’s meant to help.
He’s only an eighteen year old boy. Still a kid, at most. All he has is his love.
Juhoon looks upwards. He’s faced with a blank ceiling, of course, but if in the chance there’s a window that’s connecting him to a God, or the universe, or anyone who’ll listen, Juhoon looks directly in their eyes and prays for his love to be enough.
He comes back with a steaming mug of earl grey tea. Placing it on the side table next to your bed to cool down, Juhoon braces himself to hear what comes next.
The sound of your name coming out of his mouth is hushed. So faint you would’ve missed it if you weren’t so equally focused on him. Juhoon grounds you, you’ve realised. Juhoon heals.
You tilt your head in response.
“What’s going on?” He asks, hesitantly. Juhoon has an idea of what occurred. You haven’t told him all of the details of your past, but he knows it still haunts you every now and then; when things go static between you two, he’s recognised it as you wanting some time alone.
But this. This was different. Seeing you like that? He never wants you to feel the way you’re feeling right now ever again.
You don’t know how to answer Juhoon for a few moments. There are things you just can’t speak about. Things you don’t want to say out loud, for if you do, they’ll surround you even more. Repressing them until you’ve been in a safe-haven has worked for so long, but it’s about time they’ve finally come into unrest.
You look away from Juhoon for the first time tonight, and he’s afraid he’s lost you again. He repeats your name once more as a question, trying to bring you back to him.
But your eyes seem to be somewhere else. Somewhere he can’t reach.
“Everything just hurts, so much, Juhoon.” Tears are brimming on your waterline. “And I don’t want to hurt anymore.” You haven’t let yourself feel this in so long, you’re overwhelmed at how much it takes out of you. Was there really a time you used to feel this way everyday?
Seeing you cry was always Juhoon’s weak spot. Something about you being so sad, it brings you to tears, pinches at his heart in a way nothing else can. He can only shake his head and swallow hard, willing himself to not let his own tears fall out too. The things you’re implying; he can’t bear to even imagine it.
“I didn’t know things were getting bad again. Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I guess, I didn’t either. I was doing really good.”
He nods. You were. He saw it in the way you woke up every morning with hope. In the way you showed your love, your gratefulness, and your gentleness to the world that wasn’t as kind to you.
“You still are.” Juhoon voices, but neither of you are sure if you believe, or even hear him.
“This feeling, Jju.” You start. “It’ll always come back to me, won’t it? I’m tired of how tied it all is to me.”
Juhoon almost doesn’t want to register the things you’re telling him. He just wants to cut away at everything you think you believe you’re bound to.
“I think…” He takes his time with his thoughts. “You’re right. What you went through, it’ll be a part of you for a long time, sure. But that doesn’t mean it’ll always hurt this much either.”
Juhoon leans back to take hold of the mug, handing it to you as he continues. “Everyday’s been easier than the day before. That’s something you’ve told me yourself. I think today, you just needed me to remind you of that.”
A small shake of your head as you sit up. “Yesterday was way easier than today,” You mumble between sips.
“Then… today doesn’t count. There gets to be days that don’t count,” Juhoon reassures you, nodding to himself too.
“Says who?”
“Me. Juhoon. And you trust me, right?”
“I do,” You nod solemnly.
“So, let me make the rules. Today doesn’t count in terms of yesterday. But it does for tomorrow. Tomorrow will be easier, and that’s something to keep going for, isn’t it?”
Rationally, you knew whatever Juhoon said wouldn’t instantly make you feel better. It’d be selfish of you to put it all onto him. But to hear him attempt to make sense of the feelings you don’t even understand yourself, was enough to make the ends of your mouth tip up, ever so slightly.
“Some flaws in that logic of yours, Jju.”
“I’m not too concerned with its coherence right now.” He says simply.
That gets a small smile out of you, even if it doesn’t reach your eyes.
“Guess we’ll have to wait ‘til tomorrow to see if you’re right.”
“Maybe the day after too, y’know… just for good measure.” He replies, with a hopeful, familiar smile of his own.
He looks more right now. More like your Juhoon again.
You’re so grateful he’s here.
Would you still have been on the floor if he wasn’t?
You used to spend hours there. No one had ever come like that before. Picked you up and tucked you into bed like this. You considered it a task you had to do on your own.
Eventually you would’ve had the strength to pull yourself up. So, in a way, you knew, without Juhoon, you would’ve in time been fine.
But the fact that he was here, changed things.
You do want to see a tomorrow. You want to see the days after tomorrow too, to a great extent, if they come with Juhoon.
His entire presence in your life, after all, was proof in itself that the days can get easier.
“Finished?” Juhoon asks, taking you out of your thoughts again, and referring to the now empty mug.
You nod, a quiet thanks escaping as he places it back on the side table for later.
You watch Juhoon for a moment, before shuffling over to make more space for him. Juhoon wouldn’t have minded staying in his previous position, it’s uncomfortability and all, if it meant he could keep talking to you. Nonetheless, he’s relieved at the permission to be closer.
Shrugging himself out of his typical Adidas jacket, and running a hand through his hair, he slips in under the sheets next to you, his knee nudging yours beneath the blankets.
It’s quiet again now, and you’re both unsure of if the silence is its good or bad kind.
You want to run away and hide. Juhoon promises himself to make sure he’s with you, always.
You want him to stay. Juhoon wonders if you’d prefer to be alone.
It’s a confusing circle the two of you are spinning yourselves in.
Before, finally;
“I’m not in the mood to do anything tonight. Maybe you should go back to your dorm, Juhoon.”
“No.” He says without a thought. His voice isn’t harsh, only stubbornly tender.
“No?”
“Nope.” Juhoon brushes strands of hair out of your eyes, his palm finding itself resting on your cheek again to let him take you in.
“For once, stop thinking about me. I’ll take care of you now, okay?” He finalises. “Maybe we should watch a movie or something...”
The conversation has moved on so suddenly, but you know what he’s trying to say. I’m not going anywhere. Let me be here with you.
Okay, Juhoon. You answer in your own head. Thank you. I love you.
Maybe he hears your words, maybe he doesn’t. It’s enough for Juhoon that you’ve silently allowed him to stay. He loves you so much more.
“No movie tonight,” You reply.
You’re about to apologise; for declining his attempts of helping, for being too much, for being picky, when he’s just trying his best. But Juhoon, who knows you like the lines on the insides of his palms, simply shakes his head. And so, you don’t say anything after that. Worries of saying ‘sorry’ getting swallowed back down your throat.
“That’s okay, too.”
Another beat of silence.
There’s so much you want to say to him, unknowing that there’s so much he wants to say to you back.
I don’t deserve you, Juhoon. You shouldn’t be wasting your time dealing with the mess that I am.
There’s nowhere else he’d rather be than here tonight.
I’m sorry I’m like this.
He loves you either way.
Can you be here when I wake up?
Juhoon’s secretly hoping you’ll let him sleep over. He doesn’t want to leave you to your devices again. Not when he can be here instead.
If only the two of you knew how perfectly aligned you are about it all. Though, perhaps these things could be left unsaid too; letting the intimacy of him simply being here with you, speak for itself.
“Why don’t you sleep, then?” Juhoon offers. It was the next best thing he could think of.
Surrendering yourself to slumber is something you normally don’t let yourself venture towards. You know it results in hours of tossing and turning, your conscious never pausing for a second to remind you of everything that’s gone wrong.
But with Juhoon here, being alone in the dark doesn’t seem as daunting anymore. Underneath the blanket, your hands have found the bottom of his white shirt, fingers mindlessly fiddling with the ends of the hems.
A small nod.
And then;
“Will you hold me?”
The way your voice sounds, it almost breaks him. Juhoon can’t respond to this; he knows his voice will crack if he does, and he wants to be strong for you tonight.
Juhoon shifts towards you, wrapping himself around your frame and pulling you close. There are heartbeats on either side of your chests now.
Your face is in the crook of his neck, and you feel his lips gently press themselves on your forehead.
Once.
Twice.
They keep coming and coming.
You count them like sheep, until you lose the tally.
Your mind is oceans away from schoolwork—tomorrow’s problem, you tell yourself—but similarly to Juhoon and his anatomy notes, you can't help the memory of physics from crawling into this moment between you and him.
Weber’s law denotes differences in sensations as just noticeable.
You can see the difference in the light between your bathroom and your lamp. One is warmer.
You can measure the difference in the temperature between when Juhoon first gave you your tea twenty minutes ago, and how it is now. One is easier to hold.
You can feel the difference in how heavy things are, between when Juhoon’s not there, and when he is. One comes with a steady heartbeat and soft kisses to drift you off to your dreams.
#🫖: if you made it this far thank you for reading ☹️💌
daughters of coer wya? now let me see ur damn face 😝🤞 bit too self indulgent w this one sorry chat 😓 i wrote it after a bathroom floor spiralling session where i was like hmmm wouldn’t it be nice if i had a beautiful kim juhoon to hold me rn 😭😭🙏🙏 THE VOICES 🗯️🗯️🗯️🗯️🗯️
…idk if she will ever see this bc i’m not tagging (# too nervous to / i don’t want to force someone to read a work of mine that’s a bit more heavy) but i do want to say this was written for seulbi 🫂 i can’t put into words what her works do to me 😵💫 it’s clear she uses writing as her outlet, which is what made me open to trying it out for myself 😭 if that makes sense 😭
anyways this is her profile ^•^ if you liked this , you would like her works too: miseulgaru 🤍
tags – idol au, strangers to ??? to lovers to ???, deep talks (my beloved), angst, emotional turmoil, reader canonically has curly hair & glasses if that bugs u, fluff at times, kissing
a meet-cute with a cute boy was not what you had planned at all. at least not anytime soon. but how much more emotional turmoil would you have if it unfurled into something more...?
word count – 35.8k ...
☁️ notes – heyyyyyy :3 #mydebut #firstfic #kindanervy !!!!! futile devices is literally my baby . i poured my heart and soul into her 🥹 hope u treat her with much love! ❤️ also warning....... this was heavily self indulgent LOL i fell in love with keonho one day and decided to write this HAHA!! i was heavily inspired by lovhyeon's "so american" and coconhovr's "matcha boy" for their meet cute!!! props to them for the inspo n for pushing my imagination LOL! and i unfortunately had to split her up into 2 parts i'm so tired of blr's formatting. n e wayz dis one's dedicated to my maddy yk who u are i luh u! 💞
masterlist – prev – next
The walk to Blend was infuriatingly cold. It was only 12 minutes way from your bus stop, but in -3-degree weather, that was way too long walking in what was essentially a freezer. It was the peak of winter season in Downtown, so you couldn’t blame anyone or anything. The morning dew looked nice on the tree’s leaves beside you, but you couldn’t appreciate it as much right now, considering that you were literally freezing. You scrunched your nose in pain as the breeze nipped at your exposed skin. A small, reserved sigh left your throat. I should really invest in a bigger scarf you thought. It was enough to cover most of your nape and some of your chest, but it could only hold so much warmth. You had a toque on to cover your ears and forehead and even had earmuffs on top for good measure. It wasn’t enough to stay in the cold for too long, but you just had to suck it up and walk as fast as you could to the warm refuge that was the café you were walking to. Pockets are stuffed full of gloved hands, each step crunching frozen salt on the concrete, determined to warm up as soon as you could.
The jingle of the store bell rings in your ear as the lens of your silver-framed glasses suddenly fog up. You shook off the salt from your shoes at the entrance and made your way to the thermostat to adjust the heater’s temperature. Your heavy layers and bag land on the employee table with a loud thunk. A sigh escaped you, louder and longer now that you knew there was no one to look at you weird, as you made your way to the main area of Blend café.
It was your first opening shift alone at your first “big girl job” today. Anything could go right. Or wrong. It depends, you thought. You wanted to prove to your manager that you were trustworthy and a great employee. You wanted this shift to go well. You needed this shift to go well. She saw through your anxious tendencies—always ensuring the customer’s needs come first before yours, lining up the to-go cups in a certain way, and coming at least 15 minutes earlier than your shift to make sure everything is prepared properly. But she seemed to have noticed that and let you begin opening shifts alone, apparently much sooner than usual from what your co-workers say.
You needed to prove to her that you were trustworthy and reliable. Every day leading up to this shift, you double checked exactly what tasks she’d want done and whatever else she might need to do. But she only looked at you with soft eyes, saying to do it “just like you usually do it”. That totally helps! you thought anxiously. Anything could go wrong. You could forget how to make a certain milkshake. The payment machine could malfunction while waiting for the next employee to clock in. Electricity could go out for all you knew. The weather could actually give in and make the power go out—
You slapped your cheek softly, snapping yourself out of your spiral.
You let muscle memory guide you, feet already moving to the first task of your opening shift.
First, the café sign goes out because that’s the only task that required you to go out into the freezing cold again. Then, you do as you would usually do in every other opening shift: switch on the coffee machine, get out its supplies, restock the to-go cups, prepare the oven for pastries, and turn on the iPad and machine. Your eyes glanced at the clock on the iPad. Finished at 5:00 AM exactly. Finally, your fingers flipped the sing to “open”.
A silent lull filled the space of Blend café as Downtown slowly woke up outside. Cars gradually filled the street outside, the occasional person zoomed past the café towards their unique destination, and building windows began lighting up one by one. But nobody had entered the café yet. Typical for the crack of dawn. But the silence felt too suffocating. Your fingers, on autopilot, grabbed your phone and connected to the café’s speakers. Maybe a happy song to start the day off right. None of that depressing shit. “This Side of Paradise” by The Coyote Theory was first to play.
You let your eyes relax shut, mind consumed by the first few notes of the electric guitar. Every few seconds, a new instrument was added, making the song louder and louder—
The store bell’s jingle jolts you out of the trance you were in.
“Hi there! What can I get for you today?” you asked automatically, costumer service voice and customer service smile activated.
Your hands froze above the iPad when your eyes finally landed on the boy that just walked in. You mentally cursed. He was a bit good looking. Maybe a bit was an understatement. You hadn’t mentally prepared for an interaction with a cute boy at the crack ass of dawn. Typically, your customers this early are older people, office or construction workers, grumpy and depressed, probably 30 to 40 years old. The younger ones don’t come out until at least 7 AM.
“Hi. Uh, could you give me a few minutes?” the boy responded with a small sheepish grin.
“No worries,” you replied, slightly breathless. “It’s pretty early, so not a lot of people have their brain working properly,” you say with a small laugh. You mentally smack yourself. Smooth. Real fucking smooth. Small talk had always been difficult for you, but this? You can’t be that miserable.
“Oh, it’s a, uh, bit of the opposite for me,” he stutters with a small chuckle as your eyes meet. His voice wasn’t as deep as other kids your age. And the boy had a strange accent you couldn’t quite put your finger on. It was on the tip of your tongue. “Me and my, um, team, are actually still working. We’ve been working since around 3 PM yesterday.” His eyes nervously flicker onto other things but frequently landed back onto yours.
“Oh, I see. Working ‘til early morning is a… choice. Must be a very important project then.”
“Yeah, my job can get brutal at times. But we just needed a pick-me-up, and, um, well, this was the closest café that I could survive walking to in this weather,” he noted as he turned to the windows behind him. Snow had begun to fall.
“Right!” you exclaimed, a little louder than you’d liked. His head whipped back to yours. When your eyes met, you glanced down as blood rushed to your cheeks. God. What a way to leave an impression on a cute guy. When will you ever function like a normal human being? You clear your throat in attempt to ease the awkward air around you. As you returned to meet his gaze once more, his lips turned up into an adorable smile. Charming. “The walk here was exhausting with the wind. Only 12 minutes, but it felt like walking for 30 minutes in Antarctica.”
He only chuckled in response, eyes now focused on the menu above you two, chewing on his lip in decision.
Quiet filled the atmosphere between you as the boy went over the menu silently. You tried your best to avoid looking at him by looking at anything but him, but your curiosity couldn’t be helped. Every few seconds, your eyes stole their little peeks. He was really attractive. At least visually. Small attractions to customers like these were inevitable. You knew that. But you vowed to never think too much of them. You’d made mistakes like these when you were younger, letting yourself slowly eat itself away over a fantasy of some person you’d probably only encounter once.
Inevitably, your eyes land back onto his face, longer this time. He looked kinda young, probably a teenager your age. You could tell by the innocent sparkle in his eyes and pout of his lips as he scanned the menu. His eyebrows, thicker but tamed—unusual for a boy, you thought—and defined jaw made him look manly, yet quite pretty with his long eyelashes and crimson flushed cheeks from the cold. You mentally sigh. A pretty man. What a sight. I could stare at him all day… if it wasn’t generally frowned upon. He wore dark washed blue jeans with a long silver chain attached to the belt loops, a thick grey hoodie decorated with white lines, and a dark blue bomber jacket. The boy even had a single diamond-shaped earring on his left ear. Yeah, the bar is low with how bad my guy friends’ style is… But he isn’t poorly dressed. I’m impressed.
“Hey, um, I’m ready to order,” he said, interrupting your admiring.
“Sure! What can I get for you,” you smiled.
“Could I, uh, please have three matcha’s and two Oreo milkshakes to go?”
You distracted yourself from his handsome face by typing it into the iPad, repeating his order in quiet murmurs as your fingers pressed the respective buttons on the screen. “Sure! Your total will be $29.14. It’ll be ready in a few minutes.” You placed the machine in front of him as he tapped his phone to pay.
As you went to the back to prepare his milkshakes, you felt his gaze linger on you for a beat longer. Sweat began to form in your hands. Cut it out. It’s just a boy. He just wants his 5 drinks.
When you arrived at the back, you’re greeted with empty ingredient tubs. Shit. The new closers must have forgotten to refill them before clocking out. You knew where the bigger tubs were, but they’re huge. Sure, you could definitely do it on your own, but it’d take a while.
You pop out of the back and run to the front. “Hey, uh, sorry, but your order might take a bit longer. I have to get the ingredients from the back, but I’ll get it out as soon as I can!”
“Oh, you’re good! Need help? Is it just you there?” he asked.
Your eyebrows furrowed slightly as you looked at him weird. “Sorry, that was creepy,” he said as his hand fidgeted with his earrings, eyes darting at anything but you.
“You’re good. And I should be fine! Hopefully,” you chuckled nervously. His head nodded in response as his lips pressed together in an understanding smile.
You ran to the back. Just get this over with so that he doesn’t think that this café has a long wait-time. Not a good look for you if he leaves a review. Your hands and legs moved as fast as they could to get the ingredients refilled. The Oreos were easier to refill as it was just boxed cookies that needed to be put in a jar, but the vanilla and matcha powder on the other hand… 35kg tubs, full from their recent restock the other day. You could either use a scooper, unfortunately really fucking small because it was all this café had, but that would take way too long. Should you take the boy’s offer up? You turned on your phone. 5:09 AM. Other customers might not come until 5:45. Hopefully. You prayed that was the case for today. You pray that it was just a normal day. Well, except for this, obviously. But you needed it for your sanity. And there’s not much harm to asking him for help. You just needed help for, like, 2 minutes. It should be quick and easy.
Why the hell not.
You ran back to the front. His eyes shot up from scrolling on his phone as he shut it off and shoved it into his pocket. “Hey, um, so, about that offer… Would you mind helping me out for like 2 minutes? The tubs are a bit too heavy for me, and it’d be nice to have your drinks ready sooner than later, you know?” you stammered in rushed words.
“No worries! I’m always down for a side quest,” he remarked with a smile as his hands clapped together.
“Amazing! Thank you so much, you’re genuinely a life saver right now,” you exclaimed as you gestured for him to follow you.
As you two get to the back, you stopped where the re-fill tubs are. “Here they are. And here are the smaller tubs for up front. I just need your help pouring them into the smaller tubs,” you said, hands on the back of your hips, as your eyes scanned his face for any sign of discomfort.
“Okay! I’ll, um, take this side. You wanna hold onto the top and I’ll lift the bottom?” he asked. His eyes examined the size of the tubs, probably figuring out how to share the weight.
“Yes, that’d be amazing,” you chuckled. His eyes lingered on yours a beat too long for a stranger.
Your hands grip onto the top of the matcha tub as he placed his on the bottom. “Ready?” He nodded. “One, two, three!”
Small grunts came from both of you as the big matcha tub is tilted, powder flowing smoothly into the smaller tub. Once full, you two slowly brought the big tub down with a big thunk! “Nice!”
The vanilla one looked more intimidating. Powder full to the brim. “No one usually orders anything with this powder?” he grunted as you both lifted it.
“I know. Milkshakes aren’t as popular with the cold weather. But we also got these refilled the other day, so it’s essentially been untouched.” Your muscles tensed, trying to be careful not to spill any of the insanely expensive powder. One of your hands slid for a split second, probably from all the sweat on them.
Shit.
You returned your hand right away, but his hand had moved to recover for you and landed right where yours were.
Your fingers twitched at the contact.
Electricity jolted through your hands as your eyes met.
“Sorry,” he muttered. Flush rushed to your cheeks. You noticed that his had a matching flush.
You both placed the tub back onto the ground slowly, landing with a loud thud! You sighed in relief. “Seriously, thank you so much. I’ll have your drinks ready soon.”
“No worries. No other big tubs that need lifting?” he queried as he looked around, fingers pointed at another re-fill tub. His head tilted adorably, questioning.
“No, it should be fine,” you giggled. He was so cute. “I can do those later, but I’m sure you and your team want your drinks as soon as possible.”
“True,” he states, head nodding in agreement, his eyes crinkled as he smiled. “Well, um, I’ll be, uh, out front,” he stuttered.
“Yep!”
Your gaze followed his figure as he walked back to the front. But you quickly snapped out of your trance, focusing your attention on making the cute boy’s drinks. Three matcha’s and two Oreo milkshakes. The milkshakes come out speedily, blender blasting loudly as it blends the ice cream, Oreos, and powder.
You walked back to the front as the matcha cookware was placed out next to the coffee supplies.
“You’re not from here, are you?” you suddenly questioned, stepping next to the coffee machine.
His hand goes from fidgeting with his pocket’s zipper to rub the back of his neck. “Was it really that obvious?” he asked with a small chuckle.
“A bit,” you said with an apologetic smile. His fingers go back to fidgeting with his pocket. This whole small talk thing was much easier with a cute, interesting guy. “You have this innocent spark in your eyes that no real Canadian this deep into downtown would have unless they’d recently moved here or are visiting,” you said as your hands vigorously whisked the matcha powder and hot water.
“My bad, I’ll try to be really depressed from now on. I thought Canadians were supposed to be nicer,” he retorted with a grin, hand going to pat his chest quietly.
That made you laugh, his eyes sparkling in return. “Oh, they are. Much better than Americans in my personal opinion. But with the gloom and rain here, people tend to be a bit sadder than other provinces. Still much better than Seattle, though. I find they’re also sad, but grumpy. Grumpier than your typical American.”
“Seattle?”
“Yeah, the closest American state to us. I’ve crossed the border many times to visit there. But that was before whatever’s happening right now with the government,” you said, glancing at him often. Though, your attention always returned to the matcha’s you were making.
“Ah, I see. I’ve, uh, never been.”
“It’s okay. You haven’t missed out on much. It’s better by the coast, though.”
“You like the coast?” he asked as his eyes brightened, head tilted slightly.
“Yeah. Mountains and evergreen trees are beautiful and all here in on this side, but I find more beauty in the water. I feel more at peace near the water.”
“Nice. I’m the same. The coast back where I live is nice too. I go there alone most of the time to, uh, think. It gets gloomy like this back there, but there’s peace in it.”
A tranquil hum filled the space between you both. His ears had now gone pink. It was definitely not from the cold at this point. His eyes frequently glanced at your lips, and when you noticed, you quickly looked down, distracting yourself by pouring the matcha’s into their cups, and pressed your lips together and chewed them in nervousness. Focus on the matcha, you reminded yourself. When you looked at him again, he was still shyly staring at your face, eyes enamored by something on you. But when he noticed your gaze, his eyes flickered away as flush tinged his cheeks once again.
“Well,” you say, sliding his finished drinks in a drink carrier across the counter. “Three matcha’s and two Oreo milkshakes to-go.” Both your fingers brush together on the side of the carrier.
Electricity flowed through your veins from the contact.
“Do you, um, make good coffee?” he murmured, almost quiet enough to miss.
“I’d think so,” you chuckled. “Not the worst. My parents are coffee fanatics, and they say it’s not bad.”
His eyes surveyed the café, then landed on yours. “Then I should probably come back?” he questioned with a cute smile, each word chosen and said with care.
“Perhaps,” you countered as your body leaned against the edge, faces now a smidge closer than before. His skin was so clear. So clear that you wanted to reach out your hand and run it over his cheek to make sure that he was real. Clear skin felt weird for a teenage boy. Or he’s just been blessed by God. And he’s Asian. He must have really good skincare or something. The space between you felt electric. Intense. But you didn’t want to push him to do the same. You only wanted to test the waters.
Your eyes met for a few beats too long. His eyebrow twitched every few moments as if he was physically jolted by the tension between you two. You kept your gaze locked on him, curious about who this handsome boy might be and why you felt so compelled to keep talking to him. By now, you’d have let go of whatever attraction you felt towards a customer. But with the way he stared at you with a familiar curiosity in his eyes, you felt like it was okay to hold onto it—to him—a bit longer.
A ping sounded from his pocket, a foreign sound interrupting the conversation you two had between your eyes. A pout formed on your lips.
“That must be your team. Antsy for their caffeine, huh?” you retorted as you tilted your head.
He tilted his in response, a small pout forming on his lips as well. “Probably. I’ll, uh, try to come back. Depends on how good these matcha’s and milkshakes are.”
“Well, just know they were made to the best of my abilities.”
“With a bit of my help, no?” he chuckled.
“Oh, right. Thank you again. Seriously. And tell them that I’m sorry for the hold-up.”
“Of course,” he smiled, eyes crinkling again. “I didn’t mind a little side quest.”
The jingle of the store bell abruptly halts your conversation. Cold air slipped into the café. Both your heads whipped towards the entrance.
Your eyes meet once more. “Well, I’ll see you,” he said with a sheepish grin.
“See you,” you said with your own smile.
Your gaze followed his figure as he walked towards the entrance. Time wasn’t in your favour anymore as the customer looked at you, smiling a bit impatiently, waiting for you to take their order. The universe didn’t even let you have a moment to let whatever just happened sink in.
An interaction with a cute boy that didn’t end in you fumbling over your words. Not bad for an awkward anxious girl.
Your feet reluctantly take you back to the front to help the customer that just walked in. Even as you took and made their order, your head still buzzed as it replayed every little interaction between you and the cute boy.
You couldn’t lie and say that you hadn’t thought of him at all since your last interaction.
You’d been referring to him as the boy, since you technically didn’t catch his name. It sucks, because you totally could have found his entire background in one night. A simple name could potentially have narrowed down your research results and given you his family, baby photos, and probably his friends. Sometimes, you were ashamed of abusing the Internet and its freedom of information. Sometimes you’d find information you really didn’t want to know. But finding this out was important because you wanted to know if he was dating anybody. You were curious about this boy. Not that it mattered if he was dating anybody or not. Your heart wanted to know if this was safe to explore. But even if you wanted to figure that out, you knew nothing about him, except that he was probably your age, wasn’t from here, liked the sea, and was infuriatingly handsome.
You thought about it hard the night he came to the café. To stalk or not to stalk. But when you opened up Google, Instagram, and even Facebook, you didn’t even know what to type into the search bar. Handsome guy? Boy working on a project for 17 hours straight? Kid visiting the sea when he wants to think? They felt like shit prompts.
You sighed, loud, long, and drawn out, falling deaf upon nobody’s ears in your warm and dimly lit room, accepting your fate. The probability of seeing him again was very low. You did your finishing touches to your makeup, stood up, and grabbed your phone from its charger. The typical snow-proof layers went on with ease—still wishing that you had a bigger scarf—then you quickly double checked you had everything in your bag. As your fingers confirmed that you had everything you needed, you stepped out into the cold. It was still dark, typical in the cold and depressing winter. The snow from yesterday didn’t stick, but morning frost glimmered on the grass and cement around you.
You were on your way to your second opening shift alone. It was a nice job with alright pay. It wasn’t horrendous, but it was manageable. Your co-workers were considerate and funny. And the workload wasn’t overbearing because your manager was so nice. You thought that you’d hit the jackpot for your first job. Every shift, you do your best to prove that you’re a worthy employee. It felt nice working at the cute and cozy little corner café.
Your walk to the bus stop was faster than yesterday. Knowing that yesterday went pretty smoothly—except for when you had to ask that boy for help refilling—your nerves calmed significantly from yesterday. Your fingers flicked open your AirPods case from your pocket and placed one in your left ear as the other hand pressed play on a random playlist. “Good Days” by SZA played into your ear.
The electric guitar riff consumed your thoughts. Every time a chord changed to a different one, the instruments got louder and louder, as if they were echoing in an empty parking lot. New sounds were slowly added to the background of every measure that created layers and depth to the song. But the electric guitar riff stayed constant, as if a stone thrown into water and each instrument rippled it.
All the while, I'll await my armoured fate with a smile.
Your mind is flooded with memories of the boy. When he charmed you with his adorable smile. When your fingers brushed when you were pouring the vanilla powder. When your fingers briefly touched again on the drink carrier. When your eyes met for a moment too long for strangers. You suddenly remembered when he said that he’d visit the beach often back where he lived. When he needed to think. You do that too. You did that whenever you needed to escape. When it got too difficult. When your mind got too loud.
No one really understood why you found comfort in the sea. Your family preferred mountains. Your friends didn’t find as much meaning in it as you did. They liked camping and lakes and forests and streams. But you always found that the ocean water shimmered more than lakes. The sea danced and embraced your body better than lakes ever could.
The boy would probably get me, right? He’d understand my love for the beach. We’d probably hang out there often. We’d have deep talks by the pier. Talks about the meaning of life, importance of human connection, the impacts of literature, our favourite colours, the perfect albums, aliens’ existence you know, the important stuff. We could be lonely together. We might even fall in love with each other. If we started dating, we’d have dates at the beach. We’d probably visit there no matter the weather—sunny and warm or snowy and frozen. That reminded me of that Taylor Swift song. “Snow on the Beach”, I think. That song’s a love story. How two people falling in love is as inevitable as snow falling on the beach. It’s strange, weird, but it’s happening, and you can’t do anything to stop it—
The bus’s lights had blinded your eyes temporarily, enough to snap you out of your thoughts.
Shit. The boy’s got me associating him with songs. Oh, I’m soooooooo fucked.
You placed your focus back onto your transit to work, stepping onto the bus and tapping your bus payment onto the machine. You headed to the middle of the bus, sitting at the available window seat.
Window seats were always good for pondering. And your mind did just that, only, about the boy. Would you see him again today? He never really promised that he’d visit again. He only said he’d try to come back. You hoped to see him again, though. It’d be nice.
But realistically, he wouldn’t come again. He didn’t have a real reason to, especially if they didn’t like your drinks. It was probably only a one-time interaction. It made the most sense logistically.
It was an unfortunate situation to be in with a cute boy, but it was most probable.
You couldn’t risk getting a crush for nothing.
So, you just brushed off your thoughts and feelings and desires.
Your bus had arrived at your stop, and you stepped off the bus. The walk to the café felt faster today, your feet fast as if there was something waiting for you at the café. But you knew there wasn’t anything there for you, except for all your future customers. Setting up the café was much easier today, too. You even double checked that all the ingredients were refilled before you opened.
But, as you expected, he didn’t show up today.
The first hour of your shift was a bit more hopeful. Your head always jolted up whenever the store bell rang. But as customers poured in, all who didn’t have the same adorably handsome face or stammering boyish voice as he did, you began to accept that he wouldn’t show up.
As you went to the back to grab your stuff, already heading home because your shift had finished, you sighed softly.
The boy didn’t come.
But it was okay. You knew it would be okay. Because your shift had gone well. There were no significant bumps like yesterday. You took orders with a smile and served coffee made with care.
Maybe, one day, fate will bring you two back together. But also, maybe fate decided that you would only ever interact once.
You knew that in the end, you were not in control of fate’s hands, so you patiently let what was next come to you in its own time.
Good or bad, you’d greet it with a smile.
Days passed without seeing the boy.
A day.
Two days.
Three days.
You were on day five. But who was counting?
You didn’t think much of it anymore when day three came around. Sometimes, brief memories of what he looked like interrupted your thinking. Sometimes, it had you yearning that it could have turned into something. You were bored. But it was okay. For all you knew, he could have totally forgotten you and passed by you on the street, completely unbeknownst to you. Maybe he got so caught up in whatever work he had going on that he forgot to visit you again. Maybe he had already left. But you had survived without him before, surely you could do it again. Realistically, you could live without him.
And you did.
Life went on as it always did. Days got brighter. Shifts got easier. Paychecks came in, helping with your travel fund. Dinners with your family were entertaining as always. You even visited a few friends yesterday and had car conversations that lasted until 2 AM.
It was as mundane as it was before, but it was fulfilling enough for you. Simple, but full of joy.
Today would be a good day, you thought. You woke up much later than you usually do, but it was okay because you were off work today. There was apparently a market happening in Downtown that was open since 10 AM. You thought it would be good day to window shop. Not actual shopping because you knew your money was best spent in other places—concerts, plane tickets, and books.
It felt strange for there to be a market in such cold weather. It was 4-degrees outside, but maybe some people thought it was nice enough to browse around. There were many big clouds, but not enough to be cloudy or not grey enough to the point of gloom. The sun had occasionally peaked through the buildings on your left.
You had been browsing around for around 20 minutes already. Curiosity took you to a stained-glass trinket stall, a jerky stall (you don’t even like jerky), a cap stall (you don’t even wear caps), a waterproof sticker stall, a leather bag stall (you already have one), a candle stall, and finally, a jewelry stall. But nothing really felt worth your money. The trinkets were cute, but not worth $15. Waterproof stickers were interesting, but you already had an overflow of them at home. The candles smelled good, but you had enough at home. You spotted a few pieces at the jewelry stall, however, not for yourself. But none of them felt needed, so you didn’t end up buying anything.
You left empty-handed. Which wasn’t a bad thing. That was probably an extra $150 into your travel fund. But you didn’t get any of that sweet instant gratification from shopping. You don’t shop much, so you sometimes miss those few hours of pleasure.
You walked with no destination in mind. It wasn’t as cold now, the sky clearing slightly and the sun peeking out every few minutes. Every time you stopped, you took a breath and closed your eyes, letting the sun kiss your face.
Your mind brings you back to the last time you visited the beach. It was September, so it wasn’t the sunniest, but it also could not compare to the cold back in home. The clouds were a bit grey and sad, which felt foreign in Hawai’i, but still peaceful. You were in paradise. On your first day back, it was warm enough to swim, so you went in for a dip. The cooling water enveloped your body. It embraced you as if you hadn’t for years. And, really, you didn’t. It had been 7 years since you were last in there. You missed it badly. You’d visit lakes and streams and waterfalls back home and took dips in the so-called beaches, but they never matched up to the beaches in Hawai’i. The vividly remembered the way your skin welcomed the humid air. The way your hair curled up like Moana’s. The way the sand exfoliated your feet so lovingly—
You were interrupted by your face crashing into another person’s shoulder.
“Sorry!” you exclaimed, apologizing to the person who seemed to not be looking where they were going, only slightly wincing in pain.
“Oh—” the person—the boy said. “It’s oka—”
Time, despite its typically unfair hands of fate, seemed to have graciously let this moment pause. The universe and all its magic let you have this moment, feeling the gradual slow of time as your heart sped up.
Your eyes locked with him. His faced looked familiar with his long eyelashes and thick eyebrows. Skin clear of any blemishes, except for one adorable mole on his right cheek. Cheeks so flushed from the cold that he was pink to his jawline. Lips moisturized and looking quite kissable right now. And the sunshine made his dark brown hair look like he was sent from the Heavens themselves. Eyes deeply dark, yet light enough that you could see his irises. They scanned your face as well, eyebrows twitching and pinching together as if he, too, was trying to solve the mystery that was you.
The boy wore a slightly distressed pair of light washed jeans, a white “Joy Division” graphic tee, wired headphones that draped around his neck, and an oddly familiar dark blue bomber jacket. You may be going crazy, but this could be the boy from the other day. He looked familiar enough to be him. His clothes, his height, his hair, his face—they all looked like him. But what stumped you was the boy’s silver-framed wire glasses. They were small and simple, but they made his face look slightly different from the boy you remembered. He could be anyone, really. A mere stranger who was also lost in the moment with you. But the way he stood there, breathless with his mouth slightly agape, made you think that he could be somebody you knew. Maybe he’s a friend of a friend?
“Hi,” the boy said breathlessly.
“Hi,” you replied with a tilt in your head. You were still trying to figure out who this boy was. “Do I know you?”
“Are you the, uh, girl who works at Blend café?” he asked in return.
“Uh, yes. But I asked you first. Who are you?”
“Oh! Right,” he said. He moved his glasses to push back his hair. Oh. “I’m the one who helped you refill that matcha and vanilla powder the other day.”
Yes. The infuriatingly handsome boy from a few days ago. The one who you were suspecting was him. He looked so good today. Maybe it was the way the sun shone on him. Maybe it was his hair pushed out of his face. His perfectly proportioned face made him look incredibly handsome, almost perfect, as if he was carefully crafted by God. He looked so good up close. His skin, his face, his hair, his eyes. You could probably stare at him all day…
But it was strange to find him out on the streets of Downtown out of all places. You really thought that you’d never see him again. Or maybe see him at a shift at Blend instead. The glasses had really thrown you off. This boy could have been a weird rando. Is this how people feel when they find out Clark Kent is Superman? “Oh! Yes! I remember you,” you exclaimed. “Thank you so much for your help, by the way. Sorry that I had to keep you longer than you needed to.”
“Oh, it was okay, really! I didn’t mind a side quest with a, uh pretty girl,” he stuttered. If this was his attempt at flirting, it was working, but not in the way he probably intended. His smile grew wider and his cheeks flushed redder as each second passed.
You giggled at his remark. He looked so much better up close… “I never caught your name.”
“Oh, um, it might be hard for you to say,” he chuckled nervously.
“Oh, come on, it can’t be that hard! You can teach me.”
“You can just call me Hogan.”
“Hogan, huh? Not a very common name.”
“Yeah. But my real name is Keonho,” he said sheepishly, further emphasizing the different “oh” sounds in his name.
“Nice to meet you, Hogan! You can teach me how to say your real name next time. I don’t want to butcher it today,” you said, leaning in as you extended your hand and offering your name.
His hand slid into yours with a firm grip. His hand was warm and smooth. Dang. Did he moisturize his hands too? This was…not necessarily concerning… but unusual for a boy. He whispered your name once more with his charming smile, each syllable rolling off his tongue like honey. God. Since when was saying my name attractive?
“You never came back to try our coffee,” you commented, jutting your lips out in a pout. You noticed that his eyes darted to your lips then quickly recovered to your eyes.
“Sorry about that. I’m sure your coffee is great. But I couldn’t see you again because my schedule has been so fucking packed,” he sighed. “We had a, um, performance yesterday, a long day of practice the day before, these—uh—lessons the day before that, and we recorded something the day before that.”
See me again, huh? Dang. “Oh, I see. Busy guy, huh?”
“Yeah it gets like that. But then there are some moments that I can spend alone which is nice.”
You jutted your lips out in a pout again, slowly nodding as you thought of what he just said. Only some moments of break are quite brutal. What project was he working on? It sounded too professional for a school project or simple work project. “How’s that 17-hour long project going, by the way?”
“Oh, yes. I’m surprised you remembered that.”
“Well,” you laughed. “I didn’t have much to remember you by in our short ass interaction,” you countered.
He laughed in response. “Well, um, it was pretty good! We got a few good drafts that were sent to, uh, the higher ups for review. I actually got very inspired after visiting your cafe,” he stuttered.
“Inspired by me, huh? As long As I get some sort of credit,” you said with a wink. His cheeks flushed even more, if that was possible. “What project are you even working on?”
Your eyes glanced around to see if you were blocking the way. You two had been in the middle of the sidewalk for a few minutes already and you didn’t want to be that annoying citizen that took up the entire space. Before he could answer, you grabbed his wrist and pulled him towards the side as a large group of people walked by. “Sorry. That huge group was about to walk by, and we were lowkey in the middle of the walkway.”
When you looked back at him, his eyes were wide, almost sparkling, and staring at your hand that was still clutching his wrist tightly. You quickly retracted your hand, blood rushing to where you came in contact and to your own cheeks. “Sorry,” you murmured. “I hope that didn’t make you uncomfortable.”
He had an incredibly sheepish expression on his face. He looked so red, the cold not aiding his case, his cheeks and lips twitching, almost smiling. “It’s okay,” he breathed, his other hand moving to touch the wrist you held. “Anyway,” he said, shaking his head and slightly widening his eyes, refocusing onto you. “Um, what did you ask again?”
You smiled at his reaction. He’s so cute. “What project are you working on?”
“Oh! Well, it’s a bit of a long explanation. Are you, um, heading anywhere right now?”
“No, actually. Today’s my day off.”
“Great!” he exclaimed loudly. He cleared his throat, probably out of embarrassment. “Do you want to, maybe, um, walk with me? I do have somewhere to be in, like, 45 minutes, and it’s a pretty long walk. And I’d like your—er—the, uh, company.”
You pretended to think about it, finger on your chin as you looked up. When you returned your eyes to him, you noticed his incredibly cute and nervous expression. “Yeah, I’m down,” you smiled with a small nod.
“It’s this way,” he stammered as he began to walk. “So, um, my team actually makes songs.”
His head turned to yours, seeming to be waiting, almost hoping for something, reading your expression. “Yo, really?! That’s so cool, what the heck? Wait, that’s perfect! I’m such a music lover, you don’t even know,” you exclaimed. He must be a singer. Or a performer. He has the perfect face for one. It would suck if he was just an underground singer—or even a mere songwriter—with such a perfect face. You briefly surveyed his body. Perfect proportions too, lowkey…
His smile grew. “Perfect?”
“Well, yes. It’s nice to have more in common with a stranger turned…” your eyes met as your words trailed off. “Acquaintance? Friend?” you questioned. “I will say, I don’t know much about you, Hogan.”
“Um, well, we can start with the basics.”
“I’m down.”
“Well,” he started, hopping around a puddle. “My name is Hogan or Keonho. I’m 16, but I’m turning 17 on Valentine’s day!” he said.
“Sick,” you replied.
“I’m from South Korea.” Ah. Korean. You knew you recognized that accent. “And, uh, I’m visiting here for the first time. Well, more like this part of the world in general.”
“Well, I hope you’ve enjoyed your stay here, Hogan,” you declared.
He replied with a charming smile. After a beat, “And, you?”
You restated your name and offered your age.
“Wow. Okay, Unc,” he teased.
“Okay, not too much on me.”
“Sorry,” he giggled with that Canadian twang.
“You’ve got the Canadian accent now.”
“Huh?”
“You say ‘sowry’ instead of ‘sorry’ now.”
“I probably picked it up from you. You, uh, say it a lot,” he commented
“Yeah. Canadians are known for that,” you said as you laughed together. “Anyway. I was born here but my parents are both Filipino. So, I’m Filipina-Canadian.”
“Cool. I’ve never met a Filipino, er—Filipina? Which one do I say?”
“Filipino usually refers to all Filipinos and guys. But Filipina’s only refer to the girls,” you informed him.
“Ah, okay.”
“Yeah.”
After a few beats, you asked, “Have you ever been to the Philippines?”
“Yeah! But it was, like, 8 years ago. So, a lot has probably changed.”
“Oh. I know it’s close to Korea, but I’ve never visited.”
“Yeah. Well, there’s not much to see except for beaches on the other smaller islands.”
“True. I’ve heard, um, Boracay is nice.”
“Yeah! It was so nice last time I was there. The sand was so soft on your toes, it felt like a blanket.”
“Soft as a blanket? I’ll have to remember that.”
You giggled at your own stupid remark. “Do you plan to go there anytime soon?”
“No. But it’s on my, uh, list for ‘to-see-countries’.” You nodded as you both came to a stop at a crosswalk. His accent was so adorable. He was fluent, but there were some moments when he hesitated, second guessing what he was about to say.
“Okay, one more random trivia that we should know about each other. But, not something boring like your favourite colour.”
“What’s wrong with knowing each other’s favourite colour?”
“Nothing. It’s just boring. And I think it makes more sense when you get to know somebody though.”
There was a moment of silence before he responded. He probably took a second to think about that. “That’s true, actually.”
“Yeah, right?” you affirmed. The walking sign switched to light up the white walking person.
“What’s your favourite time of day?” he asked after a moment as you both step onto the street to cross.
“Wow. I’ve never thought of that.”
“I know, right? A hard one.”
“For sure,” you said as you took a long breath. “Maybe 13:00 in military time? But then 3:00 PM for regular time, if that makes sense.”
“That’s cool. I’ve never considered military time,” he said as you both arrive at the other end, only to wait for the next crosswalk. “But, for me, I like 4:00 PM and 19:00 for military time.”
“Nice. Okay, Hogan, we’re officially friends,” you said, lifting your hand up for a high-five. High-five? What are you, seven years old? Awkward. You mentally slapped yourself. Whatever. Just keep your hand up. He chuckled and high-fived you back. “Friends,” he said with a wide grin.
As the crosswalk sign lit up, you both stepped onto the street. “So, what music do you make? Hip-hop? Rock? Country? Some other very indie genre that I don’t know of?”
“Oh, um, it’s pretty known. Not that indie, unfortunately. Do you like indie artists?”
“Yeah! I love some indie artists, but I do mostly listen to pop,” you explained. “Should I guess what genre?” you queried with a smirk.
“You know what, why not?” he teased with his own grin.
“Hm… you look like an alternative-indie person.”
“Do I?”
“You got the style and the face.”
He hummed in response as you two returned onto the sidewalk. “I’ve, uh, never gotten that before.”
“I don’t mean that in a rude way, by the way. I love alternative indie.”
“Well, then. I’m flattered,” he smiled, then quickly returned to his resting face, “but, no.”
“Dang. RnB?”
“No,” he deadpanned.
“Aw, shucks. Okay… this is harder than I thought.”
“You’re overthinking it too much. It’s very, uh, popular.”
“Okay…” you trailed off, deep in thought. “Give me a hint.”
“It’ll give it away.”
“Okay, so you just want to be mysterious. There’s no fun in that,” you said, bumping your shoulder with his.
“It’s entertaining watching you guess,” he said, grinning as you locked eyes.
“Fine. If it’s not any ‘chill’ genres, then, it must be more upbeat,” you said, glancing down at your shoes.
“You’re on the right track.”
“Amazing. Okay. You don’t look very rock-y or metal-y. Can’t be folk or country either. Hip-hop or pop?” You gasped. “K-Pop?”
“You got it.”
You exclaimed with triumph. “I won’t be weird about it. But, I will say, I was a big K-Pop fan back in 2020-2021.”
“Honestly, who wasn’t?” he chuckled.
You laughed. “True.” You thought of the groups you used to listen to back then. So many big-name groups—ones with boys, girls, both, and a variety of members and albums released. You wonder how they are now. “How’s the K-Pop industry now?”
“It’s…” he paused, weighing his words. “Alright.”
“So, bad.”
“Well… yeah. But when has it ever really gotten better.”
“True,” you laughed. You glanced at him. “So, are you in a K-Pop group where they dance and stuff? Or are you in a K-Pop band where you actually play instruments?”
“Hey, I know how to play instruments,” he informed.
“Oh, really?” you chuckled. “What instruments?”
“Guitar—acoustic and electric—”
“Okay, bro. They’re literally the same,” you interrupted, scoffing slightly.
“Whatever,” he said, rolling his eyes as he fought a smile. “I can also play a little piano. My, uh, friend is teaching me. And I can play the cajon. I got that rhythm.”
“Aye, okay. Not bad,” you said, raising your eyebrows, impressed.
“But, we are the dancing group.” Called it. He looked way too toned to be just a guitar player or whatever.
You only nodded. “You any famous back home?”
“Yeah. Pretty famous. We’re actually here for some special training and recording.”
”Special training and recording, huh? Your company must be rich-rich.” YG? SM? JYP? BigHit? Maybe some other company that got famous when I left K-Pop fandoms?
“Probably the richest out there.”
“HYBE?”
He reluctantly nodded. “Yeah. BigHit.” Called it. Again. I’m on a roll.
“That’s not bad. From what I remember, YG barely promoted their artists, JYP focused on one group at a time, SM had those slave contracts. BigHit isn’t the worst. Lesser of two evils.”
“Yeah, it’s not bad. Our managers are pretty nice to us. They let us do what we want most of the time.”
“That’s good! At least you have a little freedom.” He just nods in response. It now made sense to you why his face looked so good. The tamed eyebrows and brown-dyed hair were for his idol-image. After a moment of silence, you ask “So, uh, is Hogan your stage name or something?”
“No, actually. It’s Keonho. Hogan is just my name backwards.”
“Aye! What!” you exclaim. Your mind was quick to find how clever that was. “Wait, that’s actually so sick.”
“Thanks. The creative juices were flowing when I made that up.” You nodded as you think about the two names. Keonho and Hogan. Keon-ho and Ho-gan. That’s so tough. After a few beats of silence, “Anyway. If you search up my name, you’ll probably find my group there.”
“Don’t wanna name drop now?” you chuckled.
“Well, hopefully it makes you think of me later,” he slightly stuttered out with an edge that made it sound like he was testing the waters. Dang. Already leaving room for a possible second hang out? Was this even considered a hang out? You were literally just walking with a guy—your friend. But even with how mundane walking was, it was still fun. With him.
“True. Helps add mystery or whatever to your character, I guess.”
He slowly comes to a stop in front of some sort of studio. One for dancing probably, considering the girl in the ballet position at the front door. “Well, this is me.”
“You dance well?” you retorted
“Uh, yeah? I’d think so. Not the worst, but there are people better than me.”
“I’ll look you up later and be the judge of that,” you teased with a smile.
“Do you dance?”
“Oh, hell no. I just have a few dancer friends.”
“I see.”
You looked down at your guys’ shoes. They were almost matching. White Sambas for you and black Sambas for him. You were still curious about this guy. But you knew you needed to leave a clear enough signal that you still were. So, you took a very brave step forward as you stood quite close to him. “Well,” you trailed off, “when can I see you again?”
“You miss me already?” he asked, confidence seeping into his words.
“Bold of you to say for our second interaction ever.”
He laughed with you. He took out his phone from his pants’ pocket and handed it to you. “You can put in your contact there,” he nodded towards his phone. You typed out your phone number and saved your contact as “matcha girl” with a slight tremble in your fingers. As he read your contact, he asked, “Do you like matcha?”
“No. I actually don’t even like caffeine.”
“Interesting,” he mused. “I like matcha when it’s made right.”
“Well, was Blend café’s matcha good, matcha boy?”
“Not bad. A solid 7.5/10.”
“Nice.”
A long pause held you both captive. It was a comfortable silence between you, the only sound being the occasional honk of cars and murmurs of conversations from passersby. Your conversation continued through your eyes. He continued to stare into your eyes without breaking contact. It made your heart stutter and knees tremble slightly with how intimidating it felt being under his gaze.
“Well,” you said, finally breaking the silence. “Message me if you ever need 5 drinks at the crack ass of dawn. Or if you need company while you walk,” you said as you took a step back, ready to turn around and leave, but lingering. Just in case. You weren’t sure for what. But just in case.
“I just might take you up on that offer. Maybe both,” he challenged with a grin, eyes boring into yours, looking impossibly lost in them. He took another step forward, closing the distance you had created. Your breath stuttered.
Careful, girl. This is a dangerous game.
You tilted your head, curious as to what he meant by it. But you didn’t ask that out loud with words. You wanted to know what he meant through his actions. He only tilted his in response. Was that enough of a response for you? A ping disrupted you two, snapping you out of your eye contact. “I gotta go,” he murmured.
“I’ll see you around, Keonho,” you said as you took a few steps backwards. He hadn’t moved forward to close the gap anymore. He had something holding him down to stay where he was.
“See you,” he breathed your name, gaze locked onto your figure as you walked away.
You began walking with no destination in mind yet again.
But this time, when you looked up, there were no clouds in the sky.
Pure sunshine.
Keonho couldn’t sleep that night.
I’ll see you around, Keonho.
She said my name perfectly. I didn’t even have to correct her pronunciation.
It wasn’t the most surprising thing—that your pronunciation wasn’t bad—but he had to confess that he was impressed. Maybe even a little dumbfounded with how his mind had sighed in attraction when you said his name. He stood there in front of the dance studio for a little longer than he should have, head foggy as he remembered the way that electricity flowed through him whenever your shoulders brushed every few steps. It was so hard for him to concentrate on the song he was adjusting right now when he easily recalled the hush and sweet sound of your voice. Memories of the way your face looked—pretty and tender whenever you met his gaze—consumed his mind.
Over and over again, his mind rushed with memories of you. His mind roared and buzzed with memories, feelings, and emotions.
He didn’t feel this strongly when he first met you that early frozen morning in the café.
The week before that, his team was trying to get something out of this song camp. Everyone was so frustrated because there wasn’t anything on anybody’s mind, not even a simple lick or hook that could be made into a song. Both Martin, his group leader and ultimate producer, and Seonghyeon, his best friend and his group’s creative mind, couldn’t create anything that was worth further producing. How the fuck could this place give no inspiration to any of us? the other songwriters furiously exclaimed one time.
But when Keonho met you, his mind was suddenly full of so many lines and melodies. You two only had a simple interaction, but it inspired him. He was curious about who you were and why his heart stuttered whenever you focused on him. He was sure it wasn’t anxiety or nerves—he’d know—and he was scared that it was attraction. He didn’t know why. But you made him feel… human. You just had… regular conversations with him. You didn’t ask him anything weird or any of that unhinged parasocial fan shit.
It was just a normal interaction, and honestly, he’d missed them. He did his best to steer away from interactions with girls—one, because some of them got weird, and two, if he does end up dating, his idol life made it overly complicated. He amped up his flirty side when it came to fanservice, but outside of that, he was honestly a loser. Every night after work, he debated visiting you again (because he may have missed your voice, but he’d never admit that out loud), but a quiet voice in the back of his head said to think logically about this. He couldn’t let the rules and problems of idol life get in the way of a potential relationship with you.
But you had made him feel normal. You made him feel comfortable.
The whole thing inspired him to make a song. It was simple, short, and sounded like a Midwest emo song. But it was bare, mostly instruments. And he only had a small poem for lyrics but no proper melody. No matter how much he added or removed or adjusted, he couldn’t quite recreate what he had in mind. It always either felt like too much or too little.
He tried coming back to your café again a few days after you first met, waking up early to visit you at 5 AM. But he was only met with a dark and empty café, eyes reached a “closed” sign when he stepped in front of the entrance. He sighed, breath visible as it exited his nose, running a hand through his hair. Martin had encouraged him to finish up this draft, but he knew he had to see you again to get the sound right. He had tried and you weren’t there.
Later on in the afternoon, he tried again. After hours of clicking, moving, and changing tracks, he wasn’t progressing at all. But again, he had no luck. Some guy with bleached hair was at the cashier today—definitely not you. He didn’t even order anything. He just stared at the menu as if he wasn’t here the other day and left. The cashier probably thought he was weird, but Keonho could care less. He just needed to see you.
And somehow, he did, accidentally bumping into you—literally—on the street.
Now, all his feelings were heightened. His mind rushed and buzzed with you, you, you.
That night, after a long day of dance lessons and draining practices, he sat alone in the studio. Martin wanted Keonho to do it himself since he knew the sound he had in his mind. Keonho wanted help, but realistically, Martin couldn’t help him. As soon as he opened his laptop, he felt like he literally blacked out. His voice decided the melody instead of his head. Fingers moved on their own, creating and adjusting instruments that chose and aligned themselves. Finally, his mind knew which key, what electric guitar motif, and what drum rhythm sounded like the song that played in his head.
It was simple. It was good. It was beautiful. Like you.
He sighed, finally leaning back after hours of perfecting this track inspired by you. He interlaced his fingers and let his palms cover his eyes as he leaned his head back, chair creaking in the empty studio. If his team liked this draft, and the higher ups accepted the song, then that would mean it might be out in the open for you to hear. Would you like it? Would you even know it was about you? Would you look at the credits and see that he helped produce and compose it? Or would you not care because you forgot that he ever mentioned that?
He couldn’t tell.
Yet.
You still hadn’t messaged him. Technically, since you had put your number in his phone, he totally could have messaged you first. But he didn’t know how to strike up a conversation with you. Not only did he not have any non-Korean teenage friends, but he didn’t have much female friends. He didn’t know how to go about it. And he couldn’t bring it up with his group members. Seonghyeon would tease him to death. Martin probably had an idea, but he couldn’t admit his feelings out loud.
He didn’t even know you.
Yet.
You said you two were friends. But he was still curious about you. He couldn’t quite figure out why he felt so… comfortable in his own skin around you when he felt like he was living a lie. You had this strangely natural ability to make him feel… alright. Being around you made him feel like he didn’t need to exist outside of himself.
He thought that you were a good friend. A great listener.
He could see himself… potentially… falling in love with you.
But he didn’t know yet.
He couldn’t quite tell.
That night, he never ended up messaging you. He thought it would be weird for you to wake up to a message from a boy sent from a really late hour.
He’d probably send a message tomorrow during break.
That night, he fell asleep to the memory of your voice and the thought of your pretty face.
Keonho woke up to the thought of you.
Again.
He couldn’t get you out of his mind. And he couldn’t understand why.
You two had two short and sweet conversations. But they were the ones that stuck to him the most. Not the ones with his manager about remembering what shampoo to use. Not with Seonghyeon when he rambled about which wash of jeans was superior. Not with Martin talking about the instrumental dynamics in his song draft—the one about you.
He loved bands like Radiohead, The Smashing Pumpkins, Joy Division, Nirvana, The Cranberries—you know, your typical Midwest emo bands. There was something about the distortion in the instruments—the rhythm electric guitar, the driving beat of the drums, the simple vocals—that made him feel so mundane yet so alive. It made him feel mature. It was as if listening to older (as in released before he was alive) made him mentally older. It was the closest thing he could get to feel like he actually knew where he was going.
They were in the studio that afternoon, discussing all the song drafts they had accumulated during their song camp. They went through song drafts from each of the members—James with his pop-sounding drafts, Juhoon with a calm, ballad-like song, Martin with his punk grunge ideas, and Seonghyeon with his strangely catchy songs. Lastly, it was Keonho’s turn.
He was nervous watching the other members’ and producers’ reactions. He’d done these many times before already. They had song camp in 2024, again in 2025, and now in 2026. But it still felt nerve-racking to show something that he had made entirely by himself to a bunch of professionals who actually knew what they were doing. With every expression he couldn’t quite read, he wondered if they thought his arrangement was weird or his harmony choices were odd. His chest felt like it was stuck, waiting for the song to finish and for this whole thing to get over with.
When it finished, silence covered the studio. It felt suffocating. Consuming. His skin itched, mouth aching to open and say something, anything, to get rid of this quiet.
Seonghyeon probably saw how nervous he was beside him, finally breaking the silence. Thank you. “I like it. It sounds like something CORTIS would make.”
“Yeah,” Martin added. “It sounds like ‘What You Want’.”
“Exactly,” one of the other producers responded. “But it has a totally different vibe.”
“More romantic,” his manager mused. “It’s nice.”
“Simple. But it feels like… going through life,” Martin commented.
“I was trying to go for that,” Keonho replied to Martin. “Simple and mundane, ‘cause that’s how life feels like sometimes. The lyrics aren’t my best work, but it’s that sound that I was just trying to create anything.”
“Nice,” another producer noted. “I like the guitar motif.”
“Thank you,” Keonho smiled. He added that in as something up for interpretation. But for him, he added it because it reminded him of the idea of love. It was cringey, but he couldn’t find another way to describe it. It was soft and flowing, a bit of a contrast from the electric guitar and synths. The motif was barely noticeable in the beginning, but after the first chorus, it became more obvious. That’s what you felt like to him.
He had always known that someone who truly understood him would come with time. He just didn’t know when. He knew he was young, only in the middle of his teenage years. Days were spent working as an idol, sagging his pants, smelling his armpits, finding his personal style, and experimenting with everything in his life. But in the two times you were together, he had this fuzzy feeling in his chest that made him think that maybe you were that person for him. Vivid memories of the way your eyes softened when you held eye contact with him and the way your voice was hushed and passionate like wind and waves in the ocean. He wasn’t so sure yet, but he had a feeling that you could be something to him.
Every time he thought of you (which was almost too often for his liking), he remembered the soft silence that overcame your conversations with him most of the time. Not that you had nothing to talk about, but simply the comfortable stillness that came with two people who understood each other. Which was weird to consider, because you guys had only ever talked twice. But whenever the conversation died down, you made casual eye contact with each other as if you two had been married for years already. His chest fluttered and bloomed with something warm every time you met his eyes. His thoughts, usually screaming at him for every little thing and itching for him to make any noise, got strangely quiet, only focused on the fact that you were looking at him.
It had only been a day since you last saw each other, but he couldn’t help but miss you. You hadn’t messaged him yet. He hadn’t messaged you yet. But he wanted to know more about you. Who was this stranger who made silence feel good when most of the time his mind couldn’t handle a moment of quiet? Who was this person who made his heart dance by simply looking at him with those hopelessly tender eyes?
A buzz snaps him back to reality. The room was still buzzing with comments about his draft. He had forgotten to silence his phone before this meeting started. But everyone else was going back and forth with their own notes and ideas about his draft, so he figured that a quick peek at his notifications would be okay.
matcha girl [3:45 PM PST]
hi! is this hogan?
Oh my God oh my God oh my God oh my God oh my God oh my God oh my God oh my God oh my God oh my God oh my God oh my God
It was you. He immediately shut off his phone and turned it screen-side down. The blood was warm as it rushed to his cheeks. He suddenly felt a nudge in the knee from the person—Seonghyeon—beside him. He raised his eyebrows, almost asking what it was about. But he probably noticed the flush on his cheeks and a small smirk grew on his face.
“I think we should use this, Keonho,” his manager suddenly said.
“I’m good with that!” he exclaimed, a little to quick and a little too loud for his liking.
“Great!” his manager clapped. “Well,” he said as he glanced at his watch, “I think that’s enough discussion for today. We’ll send up that good draft Martin and Seonghyeon had, maybe Juhoon’s ballad—we’ll see how it fits the vibe. If ever it might be for a future album. And definitely James’ first song and Keonho’s song. You guys did well today,” he smiled. Suddenly, he tapped the armrests as he stood up, “Welp! The rest of your guys’ day is off so feel free to do whatever you want. Just don’t do anything stupid and try not to spend too much money.”
“Thank you, everyone,” each person said, every voice overlapping with each other.
As soon as he saw Juhoon glance at his phone, Keonho knew it was okay to finally message you back. He could feel his fingers get sweatier and sweatier as each second passed by of leaving you on read.
You [3:47 PM PST]
hi!! yes
is this y/n?
matcha girl [3:47 PM PST]
yes!!
You [3:47 PM PST]
hiiiii :)
matcha girl [3:47 PM PST]
heyyyyyy hahahaha
sry for msging u so late LOL i lost track of time
was thinkin’ abt uuu
Keonho’s heart stuttered in his chest. He felt like he could literally pass away at this exact moment.
matcha girl [3:47 PM PST]
how was dance practice?
You [3:48 PM PST]
it was okay haha
learned some new techniques :3
and sorry for not msging soon either lol
i was actually abt to msg u too
matcha girl [3:48 PM PST]
ayeeee
tuff tuff
and ur good cutie 😉
soooo ur from cortis? bighits new boy grp
You [3:49 PM PST]
yeahhh
u js searched me up? lol
matcha girl [3:49 PM PST]
don’t blame me :( i had a shift this morning n i went out with my friends yesterday
You [3:50 PM PST]
it’s okay LMAO i’m js joking wit u
u free later? i wna explore metrotown but the other members r busy
Which was obviously a lie. He just wanted some time alone with you. Seonghyeon had actually invited him to the aquarium nearby. But he hadn’t given him a proper answer yet.
matcha girl [3:51 PM PST]
no :(( i got dinner w da fam later
tmrw?
i js got smtg in the morning, but im free in the afternoon :3
You [3:51 PM PST]
aw shucks ok
i’ll check my schedule
i rly wna see u again 🤞
matcha girl [3:52 PM PST]
aw ur so cute
Heat rushed to Keonho’s cheeks. Keonho locked his phone and walked towards his manager. Unsurprisingly, talking to the other staff about future plans, rambling, mumbling, blabbering about any and everything in Korean. “Hey, are we doing anything tomorrow?”
“Uh, not much. You guys have vocal lessons until 11 AM and then vlog your lunch at 12 PM, but after that, you’re free. Y’all should enjoy your Sunday. I know you all worked so hard this week, so you deserve it. Especially with that demo. It has great potential, Keonho.”
Keonho felt his cheeks get impossibly redder. I’ll never escape her, will I? “Okay, hyung. Thanks!”
“Who’s got you blushing?” Keonho’s manager noted with a teasing tone in his voice. He couldn’t move fast enough, subject to his manager’s nagging. He didn’t even know his blush was that noticeable.
Keonho audibly swallowed. “Oh, um, nothing.”
“Is it about whoever you wrote your demo about?”
“Haha! You’re funny, hyung,” he said sarcastically.
“Did I stutter?” his manager deadpanned.
Keonho sighed loudly. “Yes. But it’s nothing right now.” And as if the world absolutely hated him, his phone buzzed. Multiple times.
“Doesn’t sound like nothing,” he said, wiggling his eyebrows. “It’s okay, Keonho. Just don’t get wrapped up in drama. You know how big-boss-HYBE is about these things. Keep it on the low.”
“Yes, hyung.”
“But also have your fun. You’re only 16.”
“You got it, hyung,” Keonho responded, cheeks ever so pink with his smile getting more sheepish by the second.
“Now go respond to your girl.”
“She’s not my girl!” Were you?
“Who’s your girl?” Seonghyeon chimed in at the worst time ever.
“Nobody!” Keonho exclaimed, a little too loud for comfort.
“Doesn’t sound like nobody to me, am I right, Seonghyeon,” Keonho’s manager remarked, bumping his shoulder with Seonghyeon as he nodded in agreement.
“Y’all are so mean,” Keonho replied, already stepping into the other room.
“Ugh! Our maknae’s experiencing teenage love!” his manager exclaimed, overly exaggerating each word. He could hear him fake sob into Seonghyeon’s shoulder as he sat on the empty couch in the empty room next door.
matcha girl [3:54 PM PST]
JUST KIDDING
I’M FREE TN!
my parents r watching a show tn & my brothers went out w their friends
bruh jk they told me tht was tmrw . i’m gna jump them actually
tldr; i’m free tmrw
where in metro did u wna explore!!
the mall? the town?? i can help show u around 😉
You [4:01 PM PST]
LMAOOOO
we can go somewhere u’d like if u want?
matcha girl [4:02 PM PST]
well there’s honestly not much to see if u’ve alrdy been around downtown LOL
metro is no different
esp if u’ve alrdy been to the mall
You [4:02 PM PST]
oh
okay
yeah i went with seonghyeon the other day
matcha girl [4:02 PM PST]
maybe we could go to white rock!! it’s nice there but it’ll be cold
You [4:03 PM PST]
okay!! is that closer to u?
n we can js walk around town then!!
matcha girl [4:03 PM PST]
no, actually LOLL white rock is pretty far
it’s veeerrryyy expensive there
like u gotta be rich rich to live there
but where i’m from is generally further from everything so it’s fine
i got my license :3 if ur comfortable w me driving
You [4:04 PM PST]
oh why not lol
n i can treat u :P
matcha girl [4:04 PM PST]
aye awesome!!
n plz don’t pay for me.
like i’m threatening u.
i’m not making the tourist pay
You [4:04 PM PST]
ok but
lowk
not to bash ur job
but i think i get paid more than u…
matcha girl [4:05 PM PST]
ok bro . i get it ur the rich kpop idol from some rich company
but it’s okay! we can js visit their pier :) maybe get smtg to eat to-go by the shore
You [4:05 PM PST]
LOL i’m still paying idc
matcha girl [4:05 PM PST]
whatever bro
anyways! i’ll pick u up at 6 tmrw? we’ll have dinner?
You said we. What the fuck. It lingered like some sort of promise in the air, refreshing and cool like the smell of cold sea water late at night.
You [4:06 PM PST]
i’m down
see u soon :)
“Who’s got you giggling?” Seonghyeon suddenly said in fluent Korean as he sat in the spot next to Keonho on the couch. He quickly put his phone face-down beside him, just in case you messaged again. Keonho hadn’t even noticed that he was making any noise.
Keonho sighed loudly, closing his eyes out of annoyance. Reluctantly, he said, “This girl I met at the café where we got the matcha’s and milkshakes.”
“Ooh,” he remarked, eyebrows going up. “The one that held you up for much longer than you were supposed to?”
“Okay, hyung, how many times do I have to say that I was helping her refill the matcha and vanilla powder! It was just her there! And she took my offer to help her! If I didn’t, we probably wouldn’t have gotten through whatever that draft drought was,” he insisted.
“If you didn’t, we wouldn’t have that demo.”
“Okay! Fine. I think I like her. Happy?” Seonghyeon’s eyebrows jolted up, his fist moving to cover a shocked mouth.
“Dang, bro. Already?”
“I know! That’s why I didn’t say anything. We talked like twice. For like 30 minutes.”
“Damn. What was so interesting that it made you fall head over your fucking heels, Keonho?” Seonghyeon giggled at Keonho.
“Shut up.”
“Did I stutter?” he deadpanned.
Keonho throws his hands up in defeat. He ran a nervous hand through his hair. “I don’t know! We talked a bit about ourselves. We talked about the beach—”
“The beach?”
“Yeah!”
“Wow. You don’t even like talking about that with me.”
“I know! But I don’t think it’s that.”
“Okay… what is it then?”
“I don’t know! When there’s a silence after a conversation, everything just feels… right? Like it’s a comfortable stillness. Like we’d had so many conversations before that, and everything just falls into silence like it’s clockwork. And I feel like I can… I don’t know—be okay in that quietness? And, hyung, you know me,” Keonho breathlessly rambled.
“Yeah, you hate silence.”
“Yeah!”
“Holy shit.”
“Holy fucking shit, hyung. Whenever she leans in when it gets quiet, I get nervous, but, like, I don’t feel like I need to move away. Like I’m not uncomfortable! I actually want to lean in and… I don’t know… memorize her face? She’s so pretty, hyung. Whenever she tilts her head, I want to tilt mine to copy her. And her eyes are so beautiful, hyung. And the way she looks at me is also what gets me. She holds eye contact with me like she knows I’m not her saviour or something. Like I’m not an object, but a human. Like I’m worth getting to know. Not just shallow things, like my favourite food or whatever. She even said something about knowing a person’s favourite colour—"
“What’s wrong with knowing somebody’s favourite colour?”
“Oh my God, hyung. She said that it only makes sense when you know somebody,” he breathed. “And that fucking made sense to me. Like it all clicked! Martin-hyung likes orange, electric and neon enough to stand out, but mellow enough to be calm, just like him. Juhoon-hyung likes black and white, as neutral as him, the same way he can adjust himself and match with anything. James-hyung likes pink, cool enough like his cold exterior, but warm enough like his personality. And you like grey, a neutral, found everywhere, but unique enough to differentiate from black or white. Hyung, doesn’t it make sense?” he rambled.
Seonghyeon’s eyes zoned out, mouth slightly agape, pondering what that meant. “Shit.”
“Yeah! Shit!”
“Who is this intellectual human being and can I lowkey get her number.”
“Shut the actual fuck up.” Keonho felt his fists curl up unknowingly. He could punch Seonghyeon’s handsome fox face right now.
“No, but, seriously. Why is that lowkey so interesting—”
“Hyung.”
“Okay. My bad, bro. Lay off me. I’d just want to at least have a conversation with her. I think it’d be interesting. Unless you’re gatekeeping.”
“Well…” Keonho muttered. Keonho looked down and thought. It’s not that she’s only his. She’s not even his yet. Would she fall for Seonghyeon? Would she think Seonghyeon’s better than him? He was funny and attractive in his own way—
“I’m joking, twin. She’s yours. I got my girl back in New York,” he said as he wrapped a hand around Keonho’s shoulder and rubbing it. “I don’t know this girl, but I hope you at least treat her well.”
“I’ll try, hyung. I think I like her.”
“You seem like you do, Keonho. But, uh, I don’t mean to rush you or anything, but, what do you plan to do?”
He sighed, long but not loud. His head hurt as he thought about it. “I don’t even know, hyung. I know I should probably get to know her first before I figure out if I even wanna do anything. I’m… curious about who she is…” he trailed off.
“I think you should take it slow. If your connection is strong enough, then do something about it. I’m sure you’ll know what to do when you need to,” Seonghyeon replied. But would he? He already had a hard time choosing between a croissant and a muffin this morning. A pit in his stomach ached whenever someone says he did something wrong, mind spiraling, even when they assured him that it was okay to make mistakes. He faked everything he did in his job and eventually made it. But how long could he do that before it crashes and burns?
“Yeah,” Keonho only mumbled, vision slightly blurred as he zoned out.
“When are you seeing each other next?”
“Tomorrow, actually. We’re apparently going to someplace called White Rock.”
“Oh, nice. I heard it’s cool there,” he said. “I’ll leave you to it, bro. Message me when you’re on your way back to the house.”
“’Kay, hyung. Thanks.”
Seonghyeon just hummed as he walked away.
Keonho sighed, head running with so many emotions at once. Anxiety, dread, confusion, but also something warm that bloomed in his chest. He brought his palms to his face to cover his closed eye sockets. Do I really like her that much? Or am I just going insane? He couldn’t figure out his feelings yet. A voice in his head said he needed to know more of you first. There was too much that was left unknown between you two. His chest heaved up and down slowly in a long exhale. I’ll let fate decide it all.
He moved his gaze to the phone beside him and just stared at it. It was face-down so that Seonghyeon couldn’t peek at your messages. He flicked his phone as it flipped over. One new notification from a certain contact.
matcha girl liked your message.
That was it. Everything else was just reminders from Martin and his manager. The time was 4:15 PM. He had exactly 1 day, 1 hour, and 45 minutes until you see each other again. That’s just enough time to shower, distract himself with work, and probably go insane. But he also knew that the wait would go by faster than he’d like.
But who was he to dictate time?
He just had to accept that it was inevitable, like waves crashing onto the shore.
The sun had fully set by the time Keonho left his AirBnB. The chill nipped his nose, air visible as he exhaled. He walked further from the front door of the house and stood there like a loser, eyes scanning the area around him for you in a vehicle. But not that much of a loser—you had said you would be there in 5 minutes exactly 4 minutes ago.
As he stood there, he let his mind wander a bit. Does White Rock even have a white rock? Stupid but also genuine curiosity took over him as he whipped out his phone and did a quick google search. A scoff left him as he read the results. No, there’s no white rock in White Rock. That’s so dumb. It better be pretty at least. To make up for whatever stupidity this was.
As soon as he turned off his phone, a silver Honda Civic turned into the street in front of him.
He saw your smile through the front windshield first. Bright, warm, and welcoming. You had your hair down this time, only a few stray curls pinned away from your face. It was curlier than the last time he saw you. And your silver glasses had framed your eyes and face so well. Oh, how he’d kill to just stare at your face for a while. Your makeup looked much less than yesterday—probably because it was later on in the day, making your make up look lived in. Your lips had curved into a smile that captivated him. Not plump, not thin, but perfect and shiny. He wanted to bring his thumb to touch it—just briefly—maybe even let his lips touch them—
“Hey!” He was snapped out of the trance you put him in as you yelled through your open window. “Are you gonna stand there and stare at me all night long?”
I fucking wish. “Sorry! Sorry. My mind wasn’t, uh, working properly for a second,” he stammered, mind still flustered as he fumbled to open your door.
“You’re so cute,” you giggled as he strapped himself into your passenger seat. A sweet sigh left your lips. “Hi.”
“Hi,” he stuttered with a shy smile as the car began to drive. A quiet filled the space of your car.
You wore a white long sleeve under a hot pink shirt with butterflies and hearts outlined in black—so cute—and cargo jeans. Only one necklace decorated your chest, just a dainty chain with a small cross on it. He could tell there was something on it, but he would have to take a closer look next time to see what it was. Your wrists were stacked with different coloured bracelets, and your fingers were covered with a few rings—all silver if not colourful. He noticed that your nails were painted—not entirely, just decorated with a small heart on each finger. Some were different colours, but all were imperfect as if done by hand. Pretty. And your hair—
“Did you, uh, curl your hair?” he started, breaking that silence between greeting and conversation.
“No, actually!” you flushed, cheeks a soft pink. “It’s all natural. It comes from my dad, even though he’s bald.” A light laughter filled your car. “It gets curlier the more often I wash it or if I’m in a more humid area. I know my hair’s not in its best state right now because it’s dry as hell here.”
His focus lingered on your hair for a beat too long. “Isn’t it hard to, uh, maintain?”
“Well, yeah,” you began. “If you want each curl to be perfect or more defined, you need to do a lot more work. But I usually just scrunch in curl cream and hair oil to maintain the frizz. It gets tiring and really inconvenient if you curl each strand every time you shower.”
His lips were jutted out in pout as he nodded in agreement. “Before I, uh, debuted, my hair was curly. I never liked it, but everyone said it looked nice.”
“Aw, dude, really?”
“Yeah.”
Your eyes drifted to his eyes, then his hair, his eyes again, and back to the road. “You’d probably look more charming with curlier hair,” you mused with a cute pout. “It’s a shame. But it is easier to style straight hair.”
“Yeah,” he sighed. “It felt weird with straight hair for a bit. But there are some days when it acts like it’s still curly. It’d go up in all different directions. And it’s still, uh, thick. I think my eyebrows and eyelashes give that away,” he chuckled.
“That’s crazy,” she laughed. A silence fell into your conversation. But it didn’t feel awkward. It just felt… still. And he felt weirdly okay with it. He didn’t feel the urge to talk about anything. The soothing low hum of the engine was enough noise for him. It comforted him, if ever. Your fingers moved to the volume knob to turn the music up a bit. The beginning synth of “lowkey” by NIKI began to consume the speakers. The low hum and vibrations of the bass felt amplified in his chest.
“You have good speakers here?” he asked as the bass boomed and resonated in his bones louder than usual.
“Yeah!” you exclaimed. “I’m glad you noticed. Not a lot of people do.”
He hummed. “Yeah. I never really felt it until I became an idol.”
“Yeah, not a lot of people feel it. I only realized that it was important, like 2 years ago. But you can really tell the difference.”
“Yeah.”
Another stillness covers the car. You both let the song fill the silence. There’s no tension in the car. No one dared the other to talk. It was just a comfortable quiet. As the song progressed, a synth motif consumed his ears. It reminded him of the motif he had in his demo inspired by you. Simple, repetitive, yet distinct enough to notice even with other instruments layered on top.
Put your phone on vibrate. Let’s catch a vibe, babe, while the sun’s down.
“You play any instruments?” he asked, softly breaking the silence.
“Yeah,” you replied after a beat. “Like you! I play acoustic and electric guitar—”
“The same thing,” he teased.
“Yes,” you laughed. God, how Keonho wanted to make you laugh all the time. The sound made him feel so… drunk. Like he’d bottle it up and get dizzy on it whenever he missed you. “And piano. But I, um, don’t sing. It’s ironic because my mom sings so well, but I don’t have much faith in my voice to do melody, so I just harmonize most of the time.”
“That’s so cool. I only know how to, um, harmonize when someone points it out and teaches me each note.”
You hummed in response. “It’s hard to stop once you start, actually. It’s usually 3 to 4 notes higher or lower than the melody. There’s some music theory on it—for exactly which note to sing—but I just do whatever sounds nice.”
“That’s so cool,” he said as your eyes briefly met. “Have you ever performed before? Or done gigs or something like that?”
“Yeah, I’ve played guitar and piano for my, um, youth group, but I’ve never really sung to other people.”
“Well, I got to get you to do karaoke someday then,” he countered.
“Someday,” you smiled as you shook your head slightly.
You left silence in the space between you two. He took the opportunity to breathe in, let the scent of your car take over his senses.
“Wanna play any music?” you asked, voice ever so soft and hushed. “You can play whatever you want. Unless it’s trash. Then I’ll change it.”
“Wow, okay. Strict much?” he smirked.
“It depends. This is my car, no?” you teased. He laughed. “You can add anything to queue. I promise to be open minded for your first song.”
“Yeah. No pressure at all.” You giggled this time. The sound made something warm and fuzzy bloom in his chest. He wasn’t sure what it was, or if he was ready for what it would be, but he didn’t focus on that. He focused on the warmth that you exuded from the driver’s seat and the tender hush of your voice. His mind was also focused on choosing a good song to play next. He landed on “The Boy” by The Smashing Pumpkins, the electric guitar sounded smoothly throughout the car.
I can’t stop, I can’t breathe, I can’t think—I’m in love again.
The air in your car felt warm, not that sticky feeling that came with talking in a car for too long, but welcoming and homey. The stillness in your car felt oddly domestic. Comfortable. Familiar. Like you two had done this many times before and conversation naturally flowed with silence between each topic. It felt like the quiet was there so you could appreciate each other’s presence.
But it wasn’t. You two had met just five days ago. For all Keonho knew, you were a stranger. But what stranger looks at him like she already knows him?
Why did it feel so… right?
“So, uh, what are your plans for after you graduate?” he asked, breaking the silence.
“Oh, uh,” you hesitated. “Maybe a librarian or archivist? I like books and stuff, so hopefully that’s a good choice,” you said with an optimistic tone.
He nodded in response. “What’s the passion behind it?”
“Uh, well,” you chuckled nervously, “it’s a long story.”
He glanced at your GPS. “We have 45 more minutes.”
“Right,” you sighed. “I’ll be vulnerable here, Keonho. Hopefully I didn’t absolutely butcher that pronunciation, by the way. How was it when I first said it?”
It was fucking perfect, he wanted to say. “You said it right! I was actually surprised at how well you pronounced my name.” It sounded like Heaven when you said it. Tender, unrushed, and soft. It melted his heart.
The boy, the boy is in love.
“Anyways,” you took a deep breath. “Well, for the longest time, I didn’t know what to do. When I was 9, I wanted to be an engineer like my dad, to prove that women are just as capable men. It was this weird feminist thing, but that was the past. I have this whole perspective on it all, but that’s probably a conversation for another time,” you said, shoulders tensed as they hunched up. Your eyes locked onto him. He only offered a warm, understanding smile. Your eyes had softened and your shoulders had relaxed a fraction.
You took another deep breath. He watched your chest go up and down, slowly, slightly shuddering at the vulnerability of it all. “After that, I didn’t know what to do. People say that you should do something you were passionate about, but I didn’t really know what I was passionate about. I liked movies, reading, clothes, logic, animals, and plants but I thought that I wasn’t passionate enough about just one thing,” you breathed.
“Movies were interesting, but when I compared my thoughts to other people’s reviews and commentary, I thought that thinking critically about everything took too much from me. Sometimes, it’s nice to just watch it and ponder on the overall theme.
“When I was 11, I wanted to learn how to sew. I was watching these fashion YouTubers make clothes, and everything looked logically easy to do. I could wrap my head around every step and I understood it all. But it never ended up being real passion. I could sew and hem, but I couldn’t see myself designing outfits or whatever. I was just copying what I found on Pinterest. It was nothing that was… I don’t know… mine? If you get what I mean.”
“Yeah,” he breathed, “I do.”
“Yeah. And then for a time, I thought I wanted to be a marine biologist. I liked the water and animals. But then, I lowkey found out I had a fear for deep waters… so that wasn’t for me,” you chuckled.
“When I was 15, my dad and I started this home garden where we grew our own vegetables. It was so cool! Cucumbers, lettuce, tomatoes, and watermelon all grew in these elevated wooden boxes in our backyard. It was nice researching what they needed to survive. Logistically planning their sunshine, water, fertilizer, and when to repot them. But also, tenderly loving a plant because they need to grow. You need to feed them, care for them, and talk to them. It felt fulfilling. But I ended up getting, um, really depressed after that, so I went into this whole slump. Not my best year,” you said with a nervous laugh. He hummed, offering a tender smile for you to continue.
“And reading. Well, I still read,” you said with a familiar sparkle in your eyes. “I love it. I have books all over my room. On my vanity, on my walls, on my bookshelf, on my bedside table, probably in my closet too. But the literary beauty of it all is what keeps me there. Rhymes, metaphors, similes, contradictions, morally grey characters—I love reading it all. It’s so beautiful reading how so many people can write their own story with their own twist,” you said with a bittersweet smile. “And, um, I’ll be really vulnerable here. But, I love escaping into little stories. Even the sad ones. Because then at least it’s not… well… reality. It gets hard, you know?”
“Yeah. Escapism,” he responded.
“Exactly. I don’t really like imagining myself in whatever story I’m reading forever, because eventually I do have to get back into the real world, but it’s nice not having to think your own thoughts sometimes.”
“Yeah, I get that.” A silence followed his words. How could you have explained how he felt so well? He took a deep breath, all the way to his stomach. He felt deep in his soul that he wanted to share a part of it with you. It’d be scary. But it was you. Maybe it’d be okay. He closed his eyes for a moment before continuing. “I don’t even know if I should tell you this,” he paused. “But I’m telling you anyway,” he breathed.
“As a K-pop idol, they want you to put on a personality that’s likeable. Our group is technically supposed to be ‘real’ because we ‘colour outside the lines’ or whatever, but the higher-ups still want money, so they make us say things and do things that are likeable. Our music and content are made more for the younger male generation, but for fan-signs and interview in Korea, they want us to be sweet, flirty, or bubbly for the girls. To make us ‘marketable’ and ‘profitable’ or whatever. But then, that means having to think thoughts that are technically not mine,” he sighed.
“There are times when I think something ‘idol-like’ when I’m technically on a break. I remember saying something weird to my older sister when she visited me for lunch one day. It was so weird. She looked at me like I just said something worthy of arrest,” he said, mind now slowly zoning out, but the beep of your turn signal snapped him out of it. “But it gives me a break from, I don’t know, being myself? Like, thinking your own unique thoughts is good and all… but it gets,” he paused for a beat, “tiring. It’s nice to have a break from my own head sometimes.”
“Yeah. I expected that. They want all the money they can get, so it won’t all be real and authentic,” you replied.
“Yeah.”
“That’s depressing to think about, though.” He only nodded in response.
Was it really like that, though? Was he using this whole ‘idol mentality to escape his own mind? It did make sense, though. It got loud, too often, too quick. There were too many thoughts in his head about everything. Past, present, future. Him, his family, other people. His home, his work, the world. And all the memories that haunt him. Thoughts of what to do now and next consume his mind more often than he’d like.
Everyone expected so much from him. His family wants him to do well. They say they put him in the real world too fast. And maybe that’s true, having to compete with bigger kids at 7 in the swimming pool, noticing other people’s anger and indifference. His friends expected him to be cool, entertaining, and funny. They’d always message him after a particularly funny interview or vlog. And his managers, well, expect him to be an idol. To be socially intellectual and loved by everyone—young and old. To be swag like teenagers his age—posting niche songs, sagging his jeans, and taking “acceptable” selfies. And they have to be at a good angle at all times.
It was controlling, honestly. His managers nagged him on and on about being himself but also never failed to remind him to send over whatever pictures he’s about to post to the staff so that they can review it.
But nobody said anything about it.
They expect a kid who barely had any socialization growing up to read a room. Seonghyeon could do that well, being the eldest child in his own family, but could Keonho? Could he catch on quickly to somebody’s emotions? He was only 16. A kid. A teenager. That’s too young to let somebody be “idolized”. They think he’s perfect, that he’s cool. But he doesn’t know how to do that. He’s just trying. He’s just pretending that he knows what to do.
He was just masking the fact that he does not know what the fuck to do.
“But, to me, Keonho,” she suddenly said, “you’re… real.” The silence that followed your words was deafening. “I know we haven’t really talked that much, but from what you tell me, I think you’re real.”
He looked at you. Your eyes were hopeful, tender, understanding. “It can get hard sometimes. I know that. You feel the need to hide away—to put on something foreign so you can bury the part of you that… doesn’t know what they’re doing. But… don’t lose yourself in shoving the scared part of you down. I’m sure there are parts of you that are good. Funny. Interesting. Or maybe, show that part of you to people you think are worthy of it.”
The words hung suspended in the air. He didn’t know what to say in return. Had he really hidden himself so much? Have his friends noticed that a part of him was hidden? Do his members notice it? Or do they just brush it off, because they do it, too? He didn’t know. He didn’t know a lot of things. He just let out a breath he didn’t know he was holding, letting those thoughts dissipate into the air.
You eventually came to a stop as you parked near the pier. He hopped out of the car and went straight to the parking meter to pay for parking.
“Dude!” he heard you exclaim from the car as you scrambled to get out. “Wait, please. Let me pay.”
“You drove a whole hour and 45 minutes. At least let me pay for this. Gas here is so fucking expensive.”
“No, dude. I’ll do it,” you said as you grabbed your wallet from your pocket.
“Too late,” he said as a beep came from the machine. Your jaw dropped in disbelief. A silly smile dawned on his face.
“Oh, fuck you, bro.”
“Oh, come on. You like me,” he said, tilting his head with a smile, confidence building slowly.
“Whatever,” you said as you rolled your eyes, fighting a smile, already walking.
The cold was nipping at his nose. He greatly underestimated how cold it would be near the pier. It was only 10-degrees downtown, how the fuck could it be almost 1-degree down here? He shoved his hands deep into his pockets, rubbing his fingers to generate some heat. When he looked at you, he noticed that you were zipping closed your windbreaker and pulling up the collar.
“Cold?”
“Yeah. Underestimated how cold it’d be. You’d think I’d know by now, living here literally all my life.”
“It’s okay, me too,” he chuckled.
He followed your steps on the path near the pier. It was cold, but it was also dark. Not pitch black because of light pollution, but dark enough. Lamp posts shone in the dark canvas like stars in the sky. His eyes wandered towards the White Rock pier. The tide was high. Waves were rushing onto the shore, slamming the wooden poles. The sound of waves made his head rush with a flood of memories.
He had been a swimmer throughout his childhood. It began as a sport that his mom put him into. But, as usual, he was good at it. So, his coaches put him into competitions. He’d win most of them. His room was decorated with medals. Mostly gold and silver, but medals, nonetheless. But when the water glided over his body, his mind went quiet. It was peaceful in the water. The water welcomed him, danced with him. Every time he thinks too much, he always goes back to the pool. The beach was too far from where he lived now. But here, near the coast, it felt good. The salty air and wind mixed to make the perfect atmosphere for pondering.
“Do you know why it’s called White Rock?” he asked, breaking the silence. “I googled it and there’s no white rock here. That sounds really fucking stupid unless there’s some sort of grand meaning behind it,” he said with a laugh.
“I know right? I don’t even know how they came up with it. I honestly don’t know why it’s even called that,” you said with a chuckle. “But it’s nice by the coast sometimes.”
The wind had picked up your hair, flowing with no true intention. He stared at your face while you stared at your shoes. You unintentionally (or maybe intentionally?) matched his every stride. He thought about what you said earlier. And honestly, everything that you’ve ever said to him. It didn’t feel so scary—being vulnerable. At least with you. Your tender smile, soft eyes, and hushed voice created a safe haven. You made it easy to talk, to be vulnerable, to be quiet.
He knew that if he let whatever connection you two had go, another person would find that out about you, and this… would all go to waste. He had to do something to… keep you… but he didn’t know how to do it. He didn’t want to be manipulative, or hurt you, or scare you into staying with him. He just didn’t know what to do. As he exhaled, he saw the whisps of white ribbon escaping his mouth.
As you both turned to cross the street, more and more people appeared. Couples, families, friend groups of all sizes. It wasn’t packed, but it was comfortable. You’d passed by fish n’ chip stalls, overpriced jewelry stores, and expensive clothing stores. Warm air seeped out every time someone opened a door. The town had its own gloomy coast-side charm. You two had passed by the occasional dead tree, homey but coastal houses, and flickering lamp posts. No big neon signs that made it feel fake. Just laughter and conversation from passersby and the occasional crash of the waves nearby.
“You like hot dogs?” you asked.
“Yeah. You can never go wrong with ‘em.”
“You get it,” you giggled. “Well, that’s good. Because that’s what we’re eating tonight,” you said, stopping in front of the now apparent hot dog stand.
You opened the door of the hot dog stand, letting him go in first. Warm air blew on his face as he stepped in. It had that typical unappetizing environment—warm-toned light coming from above, dirty floors that looked mopped but were still dirty, and empty tables, save for the one in the corner covered in boxes near the washroom. The menu was simple. 5 different hot dogs, all mouth-watering at the thought.
“What are you having?” he whispered near your ear, shoulders touching.
“Probably the jalapeno-cheese smokie. You?” you muttered to no one but him.
“I’ll try that,” he said with a smile.
You went up to the cashier, and he followed you, hovering around you like a hopeless golden retriever. “Hi! Can I please order 2 Jalapeno-Cheese smokies and 2 waters—wait—” you said as you turned to him. “Do you want water? Or Coke? Sprite?”
“Water’s good.”
“—sorry—yes, and 2 waters.”
“Sure,” the old lady said with a rumble in her throat. “Anything else for you and your boyfriend?”
Both your eyes went wide with shock, gazes flickering to meet. His words die on tongue as you stammer, mouth closing and opening like you don’t know what to say. Your eyes went back to the cashier, but his lingered on you for a beat too long. “Oh, we’re not together!”
The lady looked at you both weird. She stared him down, eyes narrowing, then she just shrugged slightly.
She dragged out the machine. “That’ll be $14.”
Keonho had tapped his phone onto the machine before your hands could reach for your wallet.
“Dude,” you said, serious and cute as ever.
“Please. Let me.”
“I swear, I hate you,” you said as he smiled, wide and bright.
“It’ll be out in 5 minutes,” the lady said as she walked to the back. He grabbed the waters from the counter as you walked to the side of the store.
The wait was quiet. An awkward tension evident between you both. The lady’s words hung in the air, holding you both captive. He stared at your face while you typed something into your phone. You were blushing. So was he. He just stood beside you, shoulders almost touching, almost kissing—
“Two Jalapeno-cheese smokies!” the lady shouted from the counter.
“I’ll get it,” he’d said, already walking to the front.
“You know, kid,” the lady mumbled in a quiet voice. “I see how you look at her. My piece of advice for you, kid: don’t let the opportunity go to waste. I had many loves lost to the ‘maybes’ because nobody wanted to do anything. Kiss her. Tell her how beautiful she is.” He stood there taking the lady’s words in, mouth slightly open in shock. “And I can tell from how she looks at you that she likes you too, kid. Don’t ruin it.” The lady just stomped away to the back with a hand on her hip.
His mind went fuzzy as he walked back to you. Your eyes met his face. “What did she say?”
“Oh, uh,” he said as he shook his head. “Nothing. Something about paying for you.”
“Oh. Okay. Seriously, dude I could have covered our meal.”
“It was 14 bucks,” he shrugged. “You can pay me back some other way.”
“Whatever,” you said, smiling at him. He mentally sighed, lost in the way you look at him. Shit. “Wanna eat these by the pier?”
“Sure,” he nodded.
The walk was shorter. Water bottles in his pockets and warm hot dogs in his hands.
“I can hold something, you know?”
“You are the lady,” he said, bowing his head, a water bottle falling out of his pocket before you picked it up right before it touched the ground. His eyes nervously glanced at you, then anything but you.
“’Kay, bro,” you said with a laugh.
The pier wasn’t empty. A family of 5, a few wave listeners, and an elderly couple were all the people on it, so it was easy to find an empty bench. You chose one closer to the end of the pier, away from most of the people.
You both sat down and Keonho passed you one hot dog and one water. “I’m just gonna bless the food before we eat. Did you wanna pray with me?” you asked right before he opened his hot dog.
“Sure.”
“Nice! You don’t have to say anything, but I’ll be saying a prayer out loud,” you said with a wide smile on your face. You blessed your food as you would usually do on your own, stating the same words as you had done since you were little.
“Thanks for praying with me, Keonho,” you said, flush evident all over her cheeks and nose.
“Yeah! I, uh, I’ve never done that before,” he stammered.
“Blessed your food?”
“Yeah. My family didn’t grow up religious, and I didn’t have much religious friends, so I guess I just wasn’t really exposed to it.”
“Understandable,” you nodded. “But thank you for being open to it anyway.”
He watched you unwrap your hot dog and take a bite. “Nice,” you said, eyes locked onto the waves ahead, chewing your hot dog. He also took a bite of his own hot dog. He nodded in agreement.
After a few bites, Keonho immediately stopped chewing. A hot, spicy burn was felt on the back of his throat. His hot dog was spicy. His eyes went wide. “Shit.”
“What?” you said, concern written all over your face.
“It’s spicy…”
“You didn’t notice that when we first ordered?”
“No! Well, not really. I just wanted to try what you liked.”
“What, do you not like spicy?”
“No! It’s just… I just can’t,” he breathed, mouth now left open between words, “handle spice.”
You had laughed so hard, some people from the end of the pier turned their heads in your direction. Your head had fallen backwards, eyes fully closed, foot stomping on the deck. “Bro... why would you order a jalapeno cheese smokie without even considering your tolerance?! Please… I’m actually crying,” she replied, as her empty hand went to wipe tears from her eyes.
“My bad,” he replied, chuckling now. “…so stupid…” he muttered as he laughed at himself.
“You’re so cute, Keonho,” you said casually, as if it wouldn’t keep him up at night. How could you say things so casually? Oh, I’m definitely freaking out over this later.
As you both finished your hot dogs, you scrunched both your wrappers up together, paper crumpled but together in one ball and shoved it deep into your pocket. He watched you through the corner of his eye as he drank the last of his water. His throat was still in hell, but the hot dog, and the company, was good.
“You good?” you asked.
“Yeah. Maybe. My throat is still dying.”
You laughed. “You can have the rest of my water,” you said, handing him your water bottle, still halfway full.
“Thanks,” he said as he took a slow and long swig. His eyes locked onto yours as you stared at him. Your cheeks got redder, if that was even possible. You looked down, rubbing the end of your shoe into the planks below.
“Oh, um, what made you switch careers?” you inquired. “I read somewhere that you were a swimmer before you got scouted. What was with the sudden change?”
“Well, I wasn’t really the one who decided to do swimming in the beginning. My mom just put me in it for the sake of doing a sport. But I liked the way the water glided on my body. It felt safe. Peaceful. So, I stayed. But my coaches noticed my skill and put me in a competition. I won 2nd place for my first comp. It was thrilling,” he said, remembering all the emotions and cheers from his family. “I liked the competition of it all. Seeing whose body the water favoured that day. Not to brag or anything,” he said, bumping his shoulder with yours casually.
“You’re so humble.”
“Thanks. I try,” he chuckled. “Anyways. I, uh, eventually got scouted by HYBE’s casting directors. Said I had a face that wasn’t worth not going up to. I was 12, mind you,” he said, taking a bite, chewing, then swallowing. “I didn’t really want to do it at first. It meant saying goodbye to my school, my friends, my life that I had and loved. But, my mom said to go for it. She said I could always quit if I didn’t like it.”
“And, I guess, you liked it?”
“Yeah. I liked dancing. I liked moving my body. It reminded me of swimming. It also felt nice being complimented, I guess. They don’t really say that stuff in the swimming pool. It’s hard to find someone attractive when they’re soaked in chlorine.”
“I might say otherwise if it was you” you had muttered, almost quiet enough to miss, as if you didn’t realize you were saying it out loud. His ears registered it, quietly tucking it away into a secret corner of his mind..
He hummed. “But yeah. It was a lot of training. Vocal training, dance training, media training, every fucking type of training there was out there. But, I eventually got here.” He let his words hang in the air. But his mind rushed with all sorts of emotions. “I’m really glad our debut went well. I know it’s not saying much considering we’re from BigHit, but at least for the other members. I know how much it means to them.” Quiet filled the space between you, but it’s nothing like that in his mind. “Not that I don’t like being an idol. Dancing with others is fun. Making songs with friends is so cool. Having a little more freedom in what we do is a bonus. But I don’t think I have as much passion in it as everyone else. Have you watched the documentary yet?”
“Uh, no. I found out what CORTIS was like 30 hours ago.”
“True,” he said, eyebrows furrowed slightly. “Well, you can kinda see what I’m talking about there. Martin-hyung has loved music since he was a kid. Playing guitar and making music at like 7 years old. I was playing on the fucking playground when I was 7. And everyone likes Seonghyeon for his unique style. His ideas are always prioritized when we’re making drafts,” he breathed, anger and frustration slowly brewing in his throat. “James has been in this thing for 7 years already. Since Trainee A. Making dances for other famous groups and shit. And Juhoon-hyung? Wel he’s just good at every fucking thing he wants. Jack of all fucking trades, master of fucking all,” he rambled with a little more edge than he wanted. He sighed as he closed his eyes. “Sorry,” he muttered.
“It’s okay. I get it.”
“Like, I feel like just the jack of all trades, but master of none. I can swim, dance well, sing mediocrely, and people say I’m handsome. But what am I truly good at? What am I even passionate about?”
“Yeah, I really get what you mean.” You let the words hang in the air, giving space for your words to sink in. “I felt like—no, feel like that until now. Like, I’m okay at things, but what am I great at?”
A quietness consumes your conversation. The only sound being waves slamming against the poles beneath you.
“But,” you said after a beat or two, “I think that there are just some people like that. They’re just meant to be good at many things, but not great at it. It doesn’t really make sense to make everyone passionate about only one thing. It doesn’t make life much interesting, no?”
Keonho thought about that in silence. He let your words sink into his skin, into the folds of his brain. “Yeah,” he said as he nodded in agreement. “That makes sense. You can experience so many things because you can do so many things.”
“Exactly,” you replied.
His eyes stared into the water. He’d never thought of it that way. He’d never thought of anything the way you did. It felt so… relaxing. He thought you had such an interesting understanding view of life. That even though you were literally going through bad things, you could understand why and what good could come from it. You were like the ocean. Crashing onto the shore, like life crashing into you. Blue, like the melancholy in your eyes. Deep, like your understanding of life. Undeniably constant, like your consistent hopefulness.
Your shoulders shook, shivering. “Cold?” he asked.
“A bit. But it’s okay.” He began to unzip his jacket. “Please, it’s okay. We both have thin jackets on.”
“I don’t want you to get sick.”
“I don’t want you to get sick either. You’re the idol here, though. I think you have more priority, unfortunately,” you said, rubbing your hands together before shoving them into your pockets.
Even though his mind wanted to focus on the waves in front of him, he couldn’t help but return his gaze to yours. He couldn’t explore the endless sea that was your eyes anymore because of how dark it was, but he could still bore into them. They held so much joy, crinkles near your eyes as evidence of that. Yet they were also sad. You finally take your eyes off the waves and land on him, your gaze softening as each second passed by as you both stared into each other’s eyes.
He didn’t know how much time had passed, but it felt like a long time. You each blinked when the other blinked and breathed what was essentially each other’s air mixed with a bit of salt from the nearby water. When you tilted your head, he had playfully copied you. Your hair flowed with the calm but frozen wind. A strand had got in the way of your face. His hand itched to move it away, not allowing it to get in the way of what he was looking at. And he let it, touch as tender as he could, tucking it gently behind your ear, fingers lingering more than it should.
It felt like time had slowed to a pause.
You shivered. He couldn’t tell if it was from his touch or the cold. Immediately, he retracted his hand.
“Wanna head back to the car?” he mumbled, eyes now on the wooden planks beneath him. He didn’t want this moment to end, but he also didn’t want you to get cold. As he returned his eyes to yours, he saw the way your eyes twitched slightly in regret.
“Yeah, sure.”
“It’d probably be better to talk in your car then out here when we could get sick.”
“True,” you said as your shoulders shuddered.
“Let’s go,” he said, already standing up, offering a hand.
You stared at his hand for an extra moment, then grabbed it and sat up. Your hand was cold, yet soft, in his. You stretched your back, bending backwards and rubbing your lower back. “I really need to fix my posture.”
“That’s so real,” he replied, stretching his shoulder blades.
He quickly threw away your garbage and caught up to your side.
He noticed that your mouth was shivering from the cold. Keonho wanted to warm you up in some way. But he didn’t know what to do. Not really.
But he could be bold right now. Maybe. There’s a 50/50 chance that this could go badly, or it could be the start of everything he’s ever wanted. If he knew what he wanted.
Why the fuck not?
Suddenly, he intertwined his arm with yours, shoulders flush against each other, hopefully generating heat for you both.
“Oh,” you said, mouth slightly agape in shock as you stared at both your arms.
“Is this… okay?” he whispered.
You blinked. “I mean, yeah.”
“Okay,” he breathed. “Good.” He slightly relaxed, sighing as quietly as he could.
The walk back to your car was silent. He didn’t blame you. What would you even talk about if you just intertwined arms with a stranger—turned friend—who you met not even a week ago? But the air between you felt tense. Something warm bubbled deep in his chest. He didn’t know what it was. But he saw the way your cheeks flushed, and the whisps of air coming from your slightly open mouth.
He didn’t mind this feeling. Even simply holding each other’s arms felt… nice.
He felt nice with you.
A few steps from your car, you untangled your arms, fishing for your key in your pocket. His mind yearned to touch you again, to hold you again, but he knew better than to push any hidden boundaries anymore. He just let you unlock your car as you both head into the back seat. You sat across each other. A strange tension held in the air. And Keonho had a feeling he knew why.
It was quiet for a moment.
“You’re so…,” he said, breaking the silence. The words died on his tongue.
Your eyebrows shot up, eyes written in mild concern.
“So… raw.” He sighed, glancing at the waves through your window, then returning to the comfort of your eyes. “You feel so true. Authentic. Like you’re the only one who can… I don’t know… get me in all this. I’m a mess,” he said, whispering your name, almost pleading for you to hear him earnestly. “I’m so young but I’ve made so many mistakes already. I don’t even know what I’m supposed to do next. But you have…” he breathed.
You tilted your head, eyes softening as you waited for him to continue.
“You have such an understanding of everything that I’m jealous of. You have this acceptance of both the good and bad. You don’t love everything, but you don’t hate anything.” He paused, long and tense. He let his words hover in the air.
After a beat, he continued. “And you make me feel so… comfortable? There’s definitely a better word for it. You make silence feel okay. If there was even a split second of silence with my other friends, I’d probably go insane. I always have to be talking. Or singing. Or screaming. Or whatever. Just not quiet,” he rambled. “But… I don’t know. You let things go… quiet… still. And… I think I like that.”
“Oh, Keonho…” you muttered his name with a soft sigh. “I don’t know what to say,” you said as you met his eyes. “We’ve had a total of, like, 3 interactions.”
“I know,” he said, reaching out to grab your hand tight, as if he slightly let go, you would disappear. “But I… I think I want to… get to know you.”
You hummed, vibrations flowing through his bones, your eyes softening as you glanced down as you intertwined your hands with his. “I think I want to get to know you, too,” you replied as your gaze returned to his.
There’s a long, stretched out silence.
“But,” you sighed. He felt his heart drop to his stomach. “I don’t know about this, Keonho.”
He hesitated. “What do you mean?”
“I mean, I’ve never done this before. I mean I’ve talked to guys, but they always had a massive fucking ego or were too shy to save their life. You can’t blame me for guarding my heart.”
His eyes looked down. His hand itched to move to give you space, yet he clutched onto your hand tightly, pleading to stay holding onto yours. “I read about love in books. I watch it in movies and TV shows. I write about it more often than I’d like to admit out loud. It’s nice to think about in my head. But it feels,” you sighed, “scary… to have. It feels strange to love someone romantically and have it… reciprocated. Because, I don’t know, it means it’s real,” you uttered, soft enough for him to hear.
Your eyes met. He scanned them, mind wandering into all the possibilities that could be in your mind. “Why is it scary?”
“Because it means that I’ve let them into my heart, but it also means they can choose to hurt me and ruin me and leave me to pick up the pieces by myself.”
“I…” Your eyes looked impossibly scared, but hopeful. Eyebrows furrowed in fear, but he could feel your fingers still holding his. “I can’t promise that it will never happen. But I will do my fucking best to be there for you. To… listen to you, to hold you…” he said, words taking space between you two, “if you’ll let me. I’ll prove that we’re worthy of your time. Worthy of your poems.”
“You think I’m poetic?” you asked, sitting up and turning your body towards his.
“Yeah. It’s been infuriating me recently.”
You simply gaped at him. “You’re so…” you uttered. He could feel the sigh you let out, air now warm between you two. He sighed in return, head fuzzy and mouth watering. His eyes caught yours, staring, holding, silent. Something hungry, something longing, was hidden deep in them. His breath stuttered in anticipation.
He leaned in just a fraction, testing the waters. He stayed there, waiting, leaving space for you to move away.
But you hadn’t.
“You’re…” you sighed. “You’re messing with me,” you uttered to nobody but him.
“You don’t know how much you’ve already ruined me,” he confessed, words airy, breathless and trembling.
The car felt silent, save for the low hum of your heater. He couldn’t tell if there was even anybody walking by, witnessing this intimate moment. But it felt quiet between you two, like the world let you have this moment all to yourself.
His free hand moved to your waist, holding you there, tight enough to show he wanted you to stay but loose enough to let you leave. Not that he wanted you to.
A strand fell from your ear, and his hand moved from your waist to your face, tucking it gently behind your ear. His hands lingered on your cheek.
He could feel your breath on his mouth, warm and real. He moved in closer, faces now mere inches apart. His eyes glanced from your eyes to your lips and back to your eyes again, searching for any hesitation, any fear.
An unspoken tension held the air. It felt suffocating, but he also wanted to see where this all lead to, so he let it simmer. His eyebrows furrowed in anxiety, uncertainty, and hope. He wanted you to lean in, too—to want him, too.
A part of him knows he should be reconsidering things too. He had a life back home. He had a career that consumed his entire being. He knew that he would be bringing you into something that was difficult to navigate. But he didn’t want to think about that at all right now. All he wanted to think about was the feeling of his lips on yours.
He moved ever so closer, lips now hovering yours. He gave you all the time to move away, to run away—but he also dared you to stay, to be with him in this moment. He could taste your lips already. The lips he’s oh, so wanted to touch. Ones he wanted to know, to memorize like the back of his hand.
He whispered your name, breathless, almost sigh-like. You breathed his in reply.
He suddenly let your lips finally touch. His eyes squeezed shut, not wanting to know what your expression was like. But he could feel your lips on his, soft, tender, and loving. A careful press. Tentative. Waiting for your reaction. Blood rushed to his cheeks, pumping with more warmth than usual.
Then, he felt you press back—and something unleashed between you two. All that tension came to a pique. It felt electric. Raw. Real. But he couldn’t believe it. He wanted to move his fingers to pinch his thigh where it rested on your cheek to see if this was a dream.
But it wasn’t.
He knew it wasn’t.
From the way he could taste your lip balm on his own lips—gummy bear flavour. The way he can feel your fingers squeezing his in your lap. The way your pulse hammered under his palm where it rested by your neck.
You kissed him without any hesitancy.
He could finally relax his eyes, releasing any tension because he knew you were feeling exactly what he was.
With each press of your lips, Keonho found himself losing his grip on reality. He felt like he was falling into a dark, deep hole with no one to catch him. But with each move, touch, and slide of your lips, the more he felt himself safe in your arms. He was falling, but at least he had you with him right there with him.
You had shifted forward, hands untangled, climbing onto his lap, your knees finding their places on either side of his hips. Your hands found their way to his shoulders as his stayed on your cheek and hip. Your grip on the collar of his windbreaker tightened as he pulled you closer by your hip. He wanted to be close—closer—to you, feeling grounded in the way your weight pressed onto him.
One of your hands went to the back of his neck, fingers intertwining with the hair on the back of his head. His mind went dizzy at the feel of your hot touch, a great contrast to the window that his head leaned on. Your kiss grew deeper than ever, your saliva on his own tongue. Every time your bodies touched—your thighs brushing against each other, his hand grazing your hair, the tips of your noses bumping—sparks ignited within his chest, warm, fuzzy, but shared. He could tell you were feeling it all too with how your lips trembled against his and how your fingers shook on his shoulder.
He feels your hand at the nape of his neck, interlacing with his hair. A strangled noise sounds from his mouth, something between a gasp and a moan. Your hand moved deeper into his hair, lightly tugging him ever so closer to you. His lungs hurt, aching for a breath of fresh air. But he wanted to stay in that moment and never let it end. This moment was delicate, fragile, and he didn’t want to let it shatter into a million pieces. You broke away first, gasping for air, foreheads touching. “Holy shit,” you cursed.
“You’re insane,” he gasped. “I—”
You pressed your lips onto his, a quick peck, before he could even begin. It was chaste, careful, and yours. You sighed, still catching your own breath, then climbed off his lap, back to the spot next to him.
Even though you weren’t touching him anymore, he could still feel his skin burning from where you two had met.
Then, you suddenly started giggling. It looked like you were in the clouds, high off something. He joined you, his chuckling more nervous than happy. “Why are we laughing?” he suddenly asked, eyes still boring into your lips.
“You kissed me,” you said, smile wide and shy.
“Yeah,” he said looking up into your eyes, grin growing as wide as it could be. “I did. You kissed me too.”
“I know!” you exclaimed with a laugh. You suddenly grabbed his cheeks and pecked him once more. “You’re so cute, Keonho,” you giggled, suddenly intertwining your fingers as you sighed.
“Happy?” he giggled.
“Oh, I don’t know, Keonho! Well, one, you’re really fucking handsome. Imagine your first kiss being someone who is lowkey the man of your dreams,” you muttered. First kiss? “Oh, I never mentioned that. Well! You’re also my first kiss,” you declared.
His mind paused, then buzzed with all emotions possible. Confusion, shock, adoration, joy, pity, all of the above.
“Say you’re joking,” he said.
“Nuh-uh!”
“That’s… insane,” he said, eyes still staring at you with his mouth wide open in disbelief.
You only shrugged and smirked. “Take responsibility for it.”
He knew this shit meant a lot. At least, with how you were acting.
And it meant a lot to him. More than he wanted. But you were right. All of this came with a lot of responsibility.
But he didn’t want to think about that right now.
He wanted to focus on the fact that you… no matter how much he didn’t know how he was feeling… had kissed him.
His heart leapt and vibrated in his chest, buzzing at the memory of your lips on his and the idea of being your first kiss.
At some point in the night, you two got out of the car and wave watched. You two leaned against the hood of your car as your bodies were flush beside each other. Your gazes matched, focused on the waves crashing onto the shore. A low hum filled the space between you two.
Your mind raced.
You had just had your first kiss with a boy you met not even a week ago. Deep down, you knew you either fucked up—heavily—or this would be something… somewhat beautiful.
But you also knew that either way, you were in the good part of it all.
But what did this mean now? Were you people who just kissed? Or were you officially dating? Wouldn’t that be weird? He had said that he wanted to get to know you, but to what extent do acquaintances kiss but also get to know each other?
A part of you loved this. It was your first kiss, after all. You had dreamed of this moment since you were a kid. And it couldn’t have gone any better. You were near the water. You weren’t under any pressure of friends or family nearby. You two were just each other, caught up in whatever feelings lingered in the air between you. And it was with a guy you think you liked. You could see a future with him.
But a part of you feared this. If he thought that this was some casual shit, you knew this wouldn’t be worth your time. You hated hearing the situations your friends had been in with men who didn’t want something committed. You hated that. You needed security. You needed assurance that it wasn’t all made up in your head. You needed it to be real for both of you.
And you couldn’t have things crash in burn in the end. You hated letting go of beautiful things.
The thought devastated you.
But the electric feeling of you two overpowered any hesitancy that might have lingered.
“What’s on your mind?” he suddenly asked, probably noticing that you were deep in thought.
“Well…” you began. A tentative tension held in your mind. You knew that no matter what you said or how you worded it, you didn’t know what he would say. He could be the man of your dreams or ones from your nightmares.
“Well?” he murmured.
“What are we?” He took a long pause. It made you anxious. You knew that this could simultaneously be the easiest thing to respond to, but also the most difficult. Your situation was too… complex. It made sense why he would hesitate. But it ate away at your mind. Your thoughts were now loud—too loud.
“I guess… we’re just people who’ve kissed.”
“Oh,” you said before you could stop it.
Oh.
“I know it sounds so fucking bad,” he began. “But, you said it too. We only met like a week ago. We barely know each other,” he said with a slight tremble in his voice that you couldn’t quite read. “But we want to get to know each other, right?”
After a beat, you hummed, “Yeah.”
“So,” he drew out his word, looking towards you now. But you couldn’t bring yourself to look back at him just yet. “Let’s get to know each other.” Your mind was too distracted to even think of a response.
Oh. So, we’re not dating. And you were living your worst nightmare. What about being in a relationship was he even so scared of? What made men so scared of relationships?
“…Is that okay?” he asked, eyes boring into yours, searching for truth, pleading for you.
His eyes held a promise of sorts. That it might be okay in the end. And in your mind, you knew that there wasn’t anything wrong with getting to know someone. But, you promised yourself, if he doesn’t ask me to date him after 5 “hang outs”, then I’m done. You didn’t want to wait for somebody who wouldn’t give any effort in the end. “Yeah,” you finally replied.
You saw the breath he let out, puffs of sheer white coming from his mouth. “Good,” he chuckled. “I got scared there for a sec.”
“Yeah,” you mused, feet already heading into the driver’s seat.
It had been a few days since that day on the pier.
He would send you good morning texts, the frequent how are you, and more often than not, a random but funny meme. And he begged to call every night, no matter how tired you or he was.
maybe boyfriend?? (hogan/keonhoo) [11:43 PM PST]
plzplzplz can we call
You [11:43 PM PST]
son i’m so tired…
i had a long ahh shift today
maybe boyfriend?? (hogan/keonhoo) [11:43 PM PST]
pleaseeeeuuuhhh
i wna hear ur voice before i sleep 🙏
You [11:44 PM PST]
i’ll js send u a vm bro
maybe boyfriend?? (hogan/keonhoo) [11:44 PM PST]
noooooo
its not the sameeeeee
i promise u don’t have to talk for long
You [11:44 PM PST]
bro 😭
maybe boyfriend?? (hogan/keonhoo) [11:44 PM PST]
js get ur charger n fall asleep on call
i miss u baaaad y/n
You [11:45 PM PST]
k clingy boy
maybe boyfriend?? (hogan/keonhoo) [11:45 PM PST]
THANK YOU THANK YOU HTANK YOU THANFYOU THAN YODU
And you thought you would be the clingy one.
But it all left a strange feeling in your stomach.
Back by the pier when you two kissed, you were absolutely convinced that you finally had the relationship you had yearned for your whole life. That boyfriend who truly saw you, understood you, and took care of you. And Keonho did do that. He listened to you, had meaningful conversations with you, and cared for you.
But it all felt… off.
You couldn’t bring yourself to put any hearts in his contact’s name—even though your soul yearned to do it already—because you knew you two weren’t even in a relationship. And you couldn’t quite call him your boyfriend yet to the few friends who have asked about him.
It felt like something was missing in it all.
Like there was a heavy weight on your stomach that wouldn’t go away no matter what you or he did.
But the conversation never lacked. You had always ended calls with your cheeks hurting from smiling from whatever compliment he gave you or laughing from whatever stupid joke he made. And sometimes, the conversation drifted to something more psychological, which you thrived in, and he seemed to love, which felt great.
But it still felt wrong.
No matter how much you learned about him, the pit in your stomach grew more and more.
Today, you were at Metrotown together. He asked you which mall you wanted to go to. You decided on Metrotown because it was a good middle spot for you two, and because you had some errands to run.
You had gone around to a few stores already, items filling your bag to the brim.
“Wait, Keonho,” you said.
He hummed in reply.
“Where do you think I could buy scarves…” you asked.
“Shit, I don’t know?” he chuckled. “Maybe that store?” he asked, pointing at the Aritzia that had some winter clothes in the front.
You pouted as you nodded. “Good catch.”
You went in first, heading straight to the scarf section. “Which one is better on me?” you asked, pointing at the different colours.
He hummed in thought. “First, what’s your least favourite colour?”
“What does that have to do with what looks good on me?” you asked as you scrunched your nose.
“Well, you wouldn’t feel good wearing a colour that you don’t like,” he countered.
“That’s true, actually. Good on you for thinking of that,” you said, impressed. “But I don’t really like yellow or orange on me. Or green, maybe. I don’t know. I don’t really care. As long as it looks good,” you laughed.
He hummed, eyes darting between you and the different coloured scarves. “The red one,” he said finally, grabbing it and wrapping it around you. “Looks good on you!” he said.
You walked to a nearby mirror with it on, impressed at what you saw in front of you. The shade did match you quite well. “Thanks, Keonho. This is actually really good.”
“Of course. Never doubt my fashion sense,” he winked. “I’m in CORTIS, too. That automatically means I’m stylish.”
“Not a lot of people would agree with you on that one, buddy.”
“What do you mean?” he asked.
“I don’t know, bro. Some people just take style too seriously and hate on people who are different,” you chuckled.
“True,” he mused as you paid and began walking out.
“Wait!” you exclaimed as you began walking into the busy walkways of Metrotown. He raised his eyebrows in response.
“Let’s go to the photobooth!”
“Sure,” he smiled.
“I love photo strips,” you grinned. “I have at least one with all of my friends,” you rambled.
“Have you ever taken one of those K-pop ones?” he asked.
“No,” you laughed. “I wasn’t really a fan of K-pop by the time those got out. I think CORTIS has one downtown I think.”
“Let’s do that next.”
“You wanna take a photo with yourself?” you chuckled.
“Well, no. You take one with me.”
“The point of getting one here is because I have the real thing, stupid.”
“Oh,” he flushed. “I guess.”
You simply giggled at him.
As you arrived at the photo booth, you two picked out your props. Two bungeoppang head props and heart headbands because it was February.
You two did a mix of the silliest, cutest, and most awkward poses imaginable.
“You are way too tall for me to do that on your head, Keonho,” you laughed, trying to pose for the next photo.
“Use the stool!” he exclaimed.
But it was too late. The timer had gone from 3, to 2, to 1, and flashed.
“You could’ve used the stool! That’s what it’s there for, no?” he laughed. You laughed with him.
“Whatever. Let’s just do a nice one.”
“Smiling?” he asked, wrapping his arm around your waist like it was the most casual thing in the world.
“Sure,” you said, already grinning at the camera.
After the camera flashed, he looked at you. There was one more photo to take. You noticed his gaze on you on the screen in front of you and you turned to meet his eyes. You couldn’t read what the sparkle in his eyes meant. A shiver ran down your spine as he pulled you in closer to him. You could see the countdown of the timer go down in your peripheral vision, but your gaze remained locked on the boy in front of you.
His eyes flickered to your lips. Your breath hitched. You knew what that meant. But you couldn’t stop him—whatever you two had inevitably pulled you in together, lips finally meeting.
You could feel his smile on your lips, your mouth matching with a grin as you kissed him back. The camera flashed in the background.
You released from him first, gazing into his eyes. They had something hungry in them. It enticed you but simultaneously scared you.
The trance was broken as the machine spoke loudly. “Thank you! Come again!” it exclaimed robotically as your photo strip was printed out.
Your heart warmed at each picture captured as you picked both copies up.
“We’re cute, no?” he commented, hovering close beside you.
“Very,” you simply smiled in response.
You went out to Coquitlam with him today. You two were in a random café that your parents always talked about. It was quaint and simple with very modern furniture and décor.
This time, he asked you again where you had wanted to go. It rubbed you the wrong way at first. You never really liked making decisions for others when you had been doing that since you were a child. His own workload could not have been that bad for him.
But you’d never admit that out loud.
Plus, your heart felt inclined to give in to him.
To give him his chances.
“What’d you do today?” you chirped as you took a sip of your drink.
“We had this interview with some host. I don’t really remember his name.”
“Damn, bro. You really just zone out during work, huh?”
“Sometimes. I had my mind in other places,” he smirked at you.
“Oh, really?”
He hummed. “Have I told you that you look pretty today?”
You simply blushed in reply. “You look quite handsome yourself.”
He sat right across from you, looking as attractive as ever. A pout decorated his adorable face. He wore a monochrome outfit today—black tee, black jeans, even a dark beanie that was on his head just 10 minutes ago. But now, his fluffy hair was down, landing right where his eyebrows were. His lashes long and fluttering as he blinked, the side of his eyes crinkling into his infamous charming smile.
“Oh, I never asked, but, how’s your family? Tell me about them,” he said, taking a sip from his drink while gazing into your eyes like an adorable puppy.
“They’re good! I have 2 other younger brothers and a dog,” you said with a small smile.
“How old are your brothers?”
“15 and 12.”
“Aw, they’re young.”
“You’re only a year older than the eldest one,” you teased.
“True,” he smiled.
“They’re great, though. I think my parents raised us well. They always wanted us to be polite to everyone because we never knew what was going on at home,” you continued. “They really instilled that in me. And now I work in customer service. But they’re all amazing, though. I don’t think I would be the person I am today if it wasn’t for them.”
“That’s good,” he replied. “You guys close?”
“Yeah, I’d think so. More than you’d think. We talk about basically everything. They’re good at keeping things under wraps, though. We just go to each other for advice and whatnot. I know a lot of people don’t feel comfortable telling their siblings, let alone their parents, about something bugging them. I feel bad for them. But it just makes me all the more grateful for them. We love to joke around,” you laughed fondly.
“I’m happy that you have that type of family,” he said with a tender smile.
“What about you? How is it at home?”
“Well, I don’t talk to them much anymore. I’m probably closest with my sister, but nothing with what you have with your siblings. I’ve heard how you talk to your mom and brothers on the phone,” he said sheepishly. “My noo—I mean, older sister, is good, too. She’s much older so she has her job and stuff. I don’t talk to my dad much. But he’s nice. They’ve always been supportive of me, so I’m grateful for that.”
“Yeah, that makes sense,” you said. After a beat, “I didn’t know you were the youngest.”
“Yeah. People say I act like one.”
“Yeah,” you mused. “I guess you do.”
You took another sip of your drink, a hot chocolate, curtesy of the boy sitting across from you. The heat burnt the tip of your tongue. You winced in pain, choosing to take off the lid to cool it down a bit. “Have you ever had a girlfriend before?” you asked.
“Uh, no,” he said, slightly flustered. “I mean I’ve liked girls and sometimes thought they liked me back, but I was also, like, 10, so I don’t think it counts,” he said with a chuckle. “Being trained young didn’t really help.”
You nodded. “Makes sense.” You wanted to get more out of him here, but you should have known that he was pretty young and had less experience than you.
“What about you?”
“I mean, no, I haven’t really dated women before.”
His eyebrows furrow, mouth open as the words die on his tongue. “I mean… Not really what I meant, but sure!” he laughed.
“I’m only teasing you.”
“I know,” he said, eyes crinkling.
“I haven’t really properly dated before. I think I came close a couple times,” you mused.
“Tell me about them.”
“Dang, okay,” you chuckled nervously. When you glanced back at him, he had a look in his eyes that meant he was being serious. You braced yourself by taking a deep breath. Suddenly, he grasped your hand, intertwining your fingers. You stared at his gesture then back to his face. He had a tender expression on his face and a sparkling promise in his eyes. It looked like he would promise to be present for you. Now. And maybe forever. You’re really fucked. But you didn’t let whatever fear that lingered consume you, choosing to be vulnerable in whatever… relationship you two have.
“Well, the first guy was okay. He’d genuinely ask me if I was okay. Check up on me whenever we saw each other. Smile at me when he saw me walking by. I thought I was being really obvious that I liked him, but I guess not because he had been talking to our mutual friend at the same time,” you said, making a noise between a laugh and a scoff. “When I found out they were dating, I really, um,” he squeezed your hand in comfort.
You sighed shakily. “I guess, distanced myself? I didn’t want to give off the wrong impression on the girl, so I just… stopped talking to him entirely. But I miss him sometimes.” At least before you met Keonho. “He was the only boy that actually talked to me like I was a real friend. But I was also really fucking petty for not talking to him. But,” you shrugged, “the past has passed.”
“I’ve never heard of that phrase before.”
You hummed. “Yeah. I like it.”
“Who was the second guy?”
“Oof,” you breathed. “This one is a bit harder to talk about.”
You hadn’t really thought of this particular guy that much. You were over him, that was for sure. But it still hurt thinking about him. It was a relationship that didn’t break off due to a big argument, but rather one that lingered in the silence, in the sudden late-night messages, in the stolen moments of stillness.
It made the air heavy around you two. It almost felt suffocating. Your eyes glanced at the exit and genuinely pondered the circumstances if you left right now.
“If it’s too hard to talk about, that’s okay,” he said, your name gentle off his tongue. “But know that I’m here for you.”
You only bore into his eyes, heart sighing with how sweet he was being but stomach fearing what this might imply.
But you continued, sighing out any doubts that lingered in your mind. At the same time, you unleashed all the memories that you kept locked down into the deepest darkest part of you. You let it come back to you.
“This guy was, um, much older. I think all the guys I’ve ever liked were older than me,” you noted. The light in his eyes shifted, but only by a fraction.
You sighed. “16 was a vulnerable year for me. There was a lot of pressure to do better in school and to figure out what to do after graduation. And I had to face that I wasn’t a little kid anymore. I had to take shit seriously. But I didn’t really want to.
“And this guy was in the middle of all the big changes in my friends. He was in my youth group, and he was,” you chuckled, “way too old to be considered youth. The other leaders were literally pushing him to transition out already. But he was also a part of a group of people I considered my safe place. A place I called home. And a lot of other older people had to leave. They were moving on to better things. But I didn’t really want time to move on. I was happy for them and happy that I could call that place my second home.
“He was just,” you sighed, “there. He happened to be very available to talk about any and everything. We’d talk about the community we had and the growth of our friends. I thought that at some point he’d stop replying because he thought I was weird or whatever, but no, he kept texting back. It made me feel very… seen, I think.
“I had feelings for him because he was, well, at that point in time, my type. He was tall, had good hair, was nice to my family—even going as far as dropping me off at the front door after events—that my mom approved of him, was the eldest child so he did acts of service that he really didn’t need to do but did anyway, and he even taught me guitar. I think that was my mistake, though. Letting him teach me guitar made him linger a little longer than he should have,” you breathed.
“I don’t see him as often anymore. I knew a time like this would come, but it still hurt for a while. It hurt that I liked him so hard. It hurt that he had to leave. It hurt that I wasted so much time on a guy that I knew would eventually leave. I spent a whole year on him, by the way.”
“Woah,” he breathed.
“Yeah. I see him every once in a while on Sundays.. But I avoid going out that day just in case I see him. And he’s talking to one of my friends right now. Or not really talking. I heard she doesn’t really romantically like him, but he likes her. I think it hurt at first. It was a whole thing of jealousy and comparison. What did she have that I didn’t have. She was older too, so it really fucking sucked the life out of me. But I got over it eventually. I remember him sometimes when I play a certain chord. The E one specifically. It was the first chord of a song that I loved that he hated. But again, I’m okay now. I’m over him. I don’t think I yearned for him that much anymore.”
He hummed in response. “You really held on to him. For the other guy, you created distance on purpose.”
“Yeah. They were different years, though. I was 15 and then 16.” After a beat: “I think it also depends on my connection with the guy. If there wasn’t anything to begin with, then I’m okay with letting go easily. If there was a little too much of the real thing, then I’d probably cling onto them more than I should.”
He hummed. “I think for me, to be in a relationship, it really depends on how good the connection is. Like, I mean I don’t have much female friends—because they always get so fucking weird—but for like the 3 that I do have, I don’t think our connection is that strong. I’ll entertain girls’ friendly approaches, but when it’s romantic shit that I just can’t see with them, something in my stomach physically stops me. Maybe that’s why I’ve been single for so long,” he laughed.
You chuckled softly. “Maybe.”
“But also,” he sighed. “I just don’t really know what to do when it comes to that stuff. So, I feel like they deserve a better person who actually knows what they’re doing. And also, all this idol stuff. That makes things overly complicated on top of the complexity of relationships. And I don’t wanna put effort into something that might end up hurting somebody or not work.”
“True,” you hummed. “I’ve always wanted love, though. Since I was a kid,” you mused. “I’d see my parents’ romance, hear of other people’s love stories, and read of different romances in books, and I’d always wished that I had one of my own. There wasn’t a lot of guys that really liked me, I think. Or at least told me that they did. My dad always said, ‘no dating until after college’. I think that really got to me. It made me think that no one could like me until then.”
“Well, I’m here,” he smirked. “Before you got into college.”
“I guess that’s right,” you chuckled.
The conversation had died down to a soft him. All you heard were soft murmurs of people nearby and the occasional clink of a glass from the kitchen. You two were now people watching others in the café. Some were focused on whatever work they had on their laptop, some were attempting to enjoy their drinks while their kids fussed around, and some were having heart-to-heart conversations, just as you and Keonho did just now. His gaze went outside the window. “Wanna go for a walk?” he asked. It was clearer today, the sun still shining even at a later hour than usual.
“Yeah, sure.”
He held the door open for you on your way out and jogged to walk beside you. He suddenly interlaced your fingers together. Your breath hitched with the proximity, sparks igniting and heartbeat hammering in your chest.
“Do you prefer the sun or the moon?” he suddenly asked.
You hummed in thought. “Probably the sun. I don’t know, it makes me feel alive most of the time. But I also like staring at the moon at night. As long as it isn’t gloom, I guess.”
He nodded beside you. “Mm, yeah, I get what you mean. If there are too many clouds, it tends to get too sad,” he mused.
“Yeah.”
A quiet covered the atmosphere around you. The air was crisp, still much chillier, but it felt nice with the sun on your skin. The late afternoon sun was still in the sky, now colouring it orange, purple, and pink. It was golden hour.
Beams of sunshine shone warmly between the gaps of the buildings by your side. Your eyes brought you to the boy holding your hand.
Time felt like it stopped. The sun shone through a gap, light streaming downwards at an angle. It hit Keonho so well. His hair looked beautifully brown, not as dark as it usually was, but there were certain parts of it that glowed golden. It shone like a halo around him. Like an angel.
It hurt seeing him this beautiful.
Because he wasn’t truly yours to keep.
You could tell he still wanted you with how he kept coming back every time. You were sure of that. He’d kiss you, usually on the cheek but mostly on your lips, every time he dropped you off at your front door. He’d hold your hands as you were right now as if it was the most casual thing ever. He’d leave his hoodies with you whenever you got cold, always insisting for you to keep it. He did what every girl dreamt of—what you dreamed of.
And it was happening to you in real time.
But it still felt wrong. Your parents were starting to ask about him, but you knew you couldn’t introduce him to them because you weren’t really dating, and that wasn’t something you wanted to have to explain to them. It was a finnicky situation. It could ruin you, him, your relationship, and maybe everything if you weren’t careful.
And you weren’t being careful right now, fingers relaxed in his grip, shoulders brushing as you walked as if you were dating.
But you weren’t.
The silent thoughts echoed in your mind as time moved forward without your permission. The voices in your head consumed your every being, your mind stuck in itself.
— deep down, I believe you know you’re a monster too📲
≽^•⩊•^≼.— growing tired of your boyfriend’s bs? why not just do your own thing:3!
.CONTAINS──── soon to be ex seonghyeon x fem reader smau yall toxic ngl😅 non idol au drama profanity ghosting two parts no happy ending (srry❤️) ft. martin & keonho kya (kiiikiii) sasha (ifeye)
LYNN TALKING🐼 : when the day ones don’t agree with ur dumbass decision :😔😒😣😢 LMAO I js know he was heated asf, n e ways I hope u guys enjoyed 😽(ignore the obvious edit on one of the slides cus I didn’t feel like remaking it to fix it😅🙁)
in which it's the summertime, the beach is bustling and love is in the air when lifeguard, eom seonghyeon, finds himself crushing on the pretty employee at high tide acai. only problem? he can't really talk to girls so it's up to his best friend keonho and a five star google review to help him shoot his shot
📍 HIGH TIDE ACAI est. 2022
FIRST TIME CUSTOMERS RECEIVE 10% OFF FOR WRITING REVIEW!
WELCOME TO HIGH TIDE ACAI BOWLS, ACAI YOU LATER?
HIGH TIDE REVIEW HALL OF FAME, ENTRY 02:
EMPLOYEE: KIM WOONHAK
CHAPTER 02 — OH NO HE'S HOT
PREV. ✸ M.LIST ✸ NEXT
A/N taglist is open!
you try to cover up your feelings for your older brothers best friend— yet he still bleeds through.
brothers bsf james! x reader! slight! angst, confession, mentions of alcohol, making out | wc: 2.4k
hii! i put all the songs i listened to while writing this right here for you to enjoy while you read :) playlist here!
the lights don’t stay still long enough for you to exist in just one version of yourself.
blue, then pink, then red— flashing over your skin like the first layer of paint on an old wall. it’s just enough to change the color, yet it falls short at covering its imperfections; it’s true nature. laughter spills into the air like it means something, bodies moving in perfect, chaotic unison.
the room pulses as you lean against the counter, drink sweating in your hand. he’s talking to you— this guy. close enough that you can feel his breath engulfing your space as he laughs, hands grabbing at your sides— as if he had to steady himself with every word.
“you’re not even listening to me, are you?” he says, smiling as if you were some helpless little lamb, aloof and in need of a shepherd.
“i am.” you lie, softer than the low hum of the fridge amidst the booming speakers. “you’re cute.” he smirks this, his obliviousness of much comfort to you. then again, the only person aware of the walls imperfection is the painter, and the owner of the home.
across the room, somewhere between the flashing lights and the drunken, ever changing silhouettes, is the person you are listening for. the one presence that settles somewhere deep in your chest whether you want it to or not.
james.
your older brothers best friend.
you don’t look. you can’t look. instead, you focus on the boy in front of you, fingers already three inches up your black top. you let yourself lean in a little, let your fingers linger like you’re trying to convince your own body of something.
he gave you an easy smile, an easy distraction— an almost connection. and somewhere between a beer and a cheesy pick up line, you found yourself thinking; this could be enough.
history doesn’t plague this interaction, this simple fun that doesn’t have to be hidden— that can exist in the real without consequences.
this could make you forget the way your heart flutters every time he walks into your home. the way he points out the bumps and cracks in the paint, without the urge to take the bristles and cover them up again. it’s better this way— better not to notice him, or not to linger, not to want.
his hands are warmer now, or maybe it’s his desires bleeding through his skin. his lips travel down your neck, your arms finding their way into his tangled mane. but even as the lights flicker, changing your paint layers as the music swells—
you can’t seem to get rid of that plain white wall, and its owner. james can see it too, the way the purple lights color your skin, the way your hands get stuck in the guys hair— the way your eyes stayed wide and devoid of life as they flicker up, meeting his.
your breath hitches, a faint “relax” travels through the air, wet kisses moving up, a light bite adorning your earlobe— you wince.
the lights turn gold, and you feel as though you’ve been secured in a bubble. the music halts, although it truly booms as bright as ever, just not enough to reach you inside your soundproof chamber.
you look for something to pull you out of the darkness that surrounds you. a window, a door, a rabbit hole. but james is just… there. unmoving in a room that won’t stop moving.
his gaze drops— just briefly— to the hand that’s rushing to wrap gently around your neck. the boy next to you, unlatched from your side, leans down to kiss you, and you almost miss it. his lashes and bangs cover your view, but your right eye, just inches away, catches the light enough to put together the last image of the boy across the room.
something in his expression changed. not loud or dramatic, but different nonetheless.
it sends an arrow through your chest, and you wonder; did cupids bows always sting?
the guy in front of you keeps existing in a version of the night that suddenly feels far away from you. because you’re not here anymore.
you’re there. in that look.
he murmurs a response to your sudden freeze up, thinking you’re just another girl lost in the moment. but you’re not lost. in fact, you’ve never felt more found.
“i”— you start, hands coming up to keep the boy at bay. “i have to get some air.” you say, messily making your way out. he’s disappointed, you think, though you don’t stay long enough to see it take form.
you stumble through the crowd, bodies pressing against you like the enemy closing in on its prey. you cross straight out the back door, and you swear you can feel the heat of his stare against the fabric on your back.
your steps carry you to the edge of the pool, feelings being reflected back at you through blue waves and beach floats. the tears don’t spill out, and you think they’re being evaporated alongside the water at your feet, although the sun had long hidden behind the trees. the moon cut through the sky, pulling your gaze upwards into it— something the sun never allowed.
for the first time tonight, you let yourself close your eyes. the wind picks up your hair, dragging and looping it along in gentle patterns. at some point, maybe two minutes later, or two hours— it was hard to tell; the patterns started speaking in the form of footsteps.
their pattern was irregular, some fast, others slow and hesitant— as if they were keeping the distance enough to turn around if you commanded them. you wouldn’t turn him away, and he knew, yet here he was being polite. he was giving you the choice of letting him in, or waiting until you’ve finished another layer of paint.
you look towards the empty beer cans to the side, crushed and bent out of shape. you wonder what led them there, and who had broken them. would someone pick them up once more?
“you always let people that close, or was i just lucky enough to witness it?”
he seats himself next to you, an empty spot among many empty spots, one that felt like it was being saved just for him. he’s close enough for you to feel his presence, yet far enough that you can’t feel him.
you fix your gaze down to the water, and for a split second you think about taking all your clothes off and jumping into the deep end. “you always watch people that closely?” you ask, body stiff against the wind, not from cold, but from the heat radiating off him. you can’t physically feel it, but it’s plagued your mind, somehow.
silence. not comfortable, or dangerous, but intimate— vulnerable even. “just you.” it’s almost a whisper, but the sound travels through the silence like the music behind you, spilling though the windows.
this sudden confession wasn’t asking for an answer, no explanation; there was no need for acknowledgement. still, you turned towards him. you gave him something he was searching for, something he hadn’t lost or been oblivious to— just something to confirm his own observation.
“i wasn’t looking for anything, i just— it was just a small moment. didn’t mean anything.” your voice trailed off at the end. you didn’t confess to him, although at this point in your life there’s no need to. but your words held weight, you just hoped he was willing to carry it.
he smiles, not a loud gesture, not a paint roller— but a small, detailed brush. bristles built for reassuring, for getting in the small crevices behind a bed, or dresser. “i know.” he states, and you really believe him. and you feel calm, and understood, until you realize this is all too much. this push and pull of little to no words laced with meaning. stares reaching inside the soul, slowly but surely pecking away from the inside out.
you could feel his energy on you now, and you wondered if he got closer somehow? your hands rested next to each other, fingertips sending shockwaves through the ground, into your arms, until reaching your hearts and jumpstarting them.
“you looked off, like you were there physically but mentally just, checked out.”
“yeah.” you said, mirroring his description as you got lost in your thoughts, sinking deeper and deeper into this feeling.
“you’re not the type to get pulled though, you know? maybe he was just a bad kisser, right?” he chuckles. “poor guy.”— “james.”
he pauses as your name rolls off the tongue like honey, like a bee carrying pollen across the field. natural and powerful, though his thoughts are cut short by your expression— your tone.
you sighed your emotions out, because for the first time in your life, you’re going to question him. “what are you doing here?” you ask, eyes searching for an answer years in the making. of course, it’s not that easy with him.
“well, you walked out of there pretty fast so i came—“
“no, what are you doing here? with me.”
he shifts in his spot, and you imagine a beads of sweat dripping down his face, the moonlight reflecting his inner thoughts through them.
he shrugs, giving you a half-smile, light and teasing. “since when do you interrogate me?” he asks, quirking an eyebrow. he tries to flip it on you, avoiding the real question.
but this time— you don’t let him.
“don’t do that. not right now. not like before.”
he gets quieter, his posture straightens, and the teasing drops like a cannonball. “i just didn’t like seeing you like that.” he states; but it’s still not the truth. so you push, until your words give out, until he walks away— which he never does. and that’s the kicker; he never walks away, but he never gets closer.
“i don’t know what you want from me. i know i’ve been pulling away for years now, but it’s safe, you know? because the truth is—“
“y/n wait, i don’t think you should be saying this right now—“
“no let me just say this, please.”
he pauses, weighing the consequences, and then nods, accepting his fate. this was bound to happen, he know so.
“you’ve always— you’re always there, james. just.. not enough. not close enough. and now this, all of this, the one time i let myself move on from you— you don’t get to act like it matters now.”
something clicks for him in that moment, something hard and heaving hanging from his heart. you hadn’t noticed his gaze had shifted towards the same water you found comfort in until he snapped his head towards you.
“you think it doesn’t matter? you and that guy-“ he cuts himself off, afraid of what might come out. he’s restrained, tense, but for a brief moment you saw some release. still, it’s not enough.
you call it out, feeling the energy in his outburst fueling yours. “this isn’t about him, it’s never about him or anyone. never.”
something snaps, not loud, not noticeable— but you notice. you always do. he leans closer, voice low, eyes dark. his arm brushes yours, and it sends heat waves through your body, the sensation crawling up and through your veins. it’s addicting, and you yearn for more.
“i keep trying to stay where i’m supposed to… but you keep ending up where i can’t ignore you.”
every word brings him closer, until you’re merely inches apart. you’re like opposite magnets, poles pushing each other away in a sort of dance. you don’t clash, but you don’t touch— and it’s excruciating just as much as it is exciting.
his eyes grow darker by the second, glowing just enough for you to notice. you take this as an invitation, leaning in just enough to feel his now irregular breathing mesh with yours. the night is cold, and you’ve never felt hotter.
your hand comes up almost instinctively, cupping his cheek. his flesh is warm against your naturally cool skin, and you imagine a light rosy color painting his cheeks and the tip of his ears.
“then don’t ignore me.”
he scans your face as best as he could at this distance. his eyes travel from yours, to your nose, then lips— he pauses. then, he asks for your permission, not with words, but you heard him.
his arms rest beside you, palms firmly gripping the ground beneath you. he leans in, your lips centimeters apart, in that in between space he left just in case he lost control.
then, you filled the space with something fragile yet inevitable.
he doesn’t rush, fingers brushing against you once— twice— as if asking for permission to let himself sink into the moment. he only touches one spot, but you feel it everywhere.
it’s controlled, a touch of lips that lingers just enough to make you ache for something deeper. he pulls back, forehead against yours, breath uneven and heavy.
“tell me to stop.” he whispers, but his voice betrays him. he doesn’t want you to.
and you don’t.
this time, when he kisses you again, it’s slow— if not slower than before, but it’s surer. the kiss deepens, not urgently, but intentionally. he takes his time exploring you, the way you melt into him, the sound you make as he presses just a little closer.
your fingers find his hair, not to control, but to confirm the reality of it all. you kiss him back with equal care, equal hunger, equal tenderness. the way his thumb brushes against your cheek, how his breath synced with yours— the slight smile you both wore.
it’s almost unbearable how gentle it all is.
when you finally pull apart, it’s not abrupt. its reluctant, afraid to end the moment— afraid of how much you enjoyed it.
but this time, you knew it would happen again, and again. and that was liberating.
his eyes stayed close for a moment, his forehead still resting against yours like it was used to it. he’s memorizing the feeling before it can slip away.
when he finally looks at you, there’s something new. something deeper than wanting, or longing to be with you. instead, he was choosing to be with you. you were choosing each other.
because no matter how many layers you chose to cover yourself with;
synopsis: despite you not knowing of keonho’s existence up until now, he’ll do anything to get with you
pairing: loser!keonho x populargirl!reader
an - i’ve been rewatching the oc lately so yes this is inspired by sethmer 😛😛 i’m thinking of making this a series but I suck at committing to literally anything..however if y’all want more of this then i’m down to clown 😳🤣
ˋ°•*⁀➷ i will never understand you, when will i stop trying?
.⋆❦ tags: popular skaterboy! martin x weird girl! reader | SCENARIOS | highschool setting | reader has morbid curiosity (into dark stuff) | mentions of bullying | kissing (say less from me) | martin’s down horrendous | skinship !! | the sneaking-out-and-climbing-up-your-window agenda persists (w.c. 10k)
.⋆❦ Martin Edwards has a plan. He's had a plan ever since that day his skateboard almost rendered you unconscious. To charm and maybe even ensnare one wonderfully and hauntingly pretty girl. Now, he can only hope that you see him through whatever sorcery or keen intuition you wield.
᭝ ᨳଓ ՟ mari here! this idea came to me after third wheeling with an irl and her normie skater bf and watching a grown man become so mesmerized while she talked ab the lizards she kept preserved in jars <33 ROMANCE IS ALIVE AND WELL I PROMISE YALL !! anywho to the ppl in my inbox asking for part 4 of coalg i swear its gonna come hahahaaa been busy so a hiatus is not impossible for me now...
🎶 ”Nice to meet you”. Is it really, though? ᯓ★
People put a lot of faith in first impressions, don’t they? Apparently, one quick look is enough for you to think you’ve got them figured out. It’s not always accurate, of course. In fact, it rarely is. But these impressions make up most of our social perceptions.
Which makes Martin wonder what your first impression of him was.
After all, the first time you two met, he almost killed you.
Okay, backtrack, that sounds terrible.
But unfortunately for Martin, it’s also kind of true.
That day crawled by like molasses. Most of the teachers were stuck in some endless faculty meeting, which meant no classes, and no real reason to be anywhere in school. So naturally, while everyone was trying to kill time, Martin and his friends had taken over the bleachers by the field.
Their boards were strewn across the concrete, Keonho had somehow smuggled in a couple pizza boxes, and the group had settled into that easy groove of accomplishing absolutely nothing.
“Man, this place is dead. You think we can leave?” Seonghyeon groans, sprawled across the bench under the relentless afternoon sun.
James glances up from his console and shakes his head. “Can’t. Gotta wait till 3.”
Martin clicked his tongue as his board rattled along the same ledge, over and over, five minutes of nothing but perfect repetition. He was so bored out of his mind, he could feel it crawling under his skin.
Security had started pacing near the entrance as well, which meant he’d have to be a little more strategic.
“I’m hitting the back stairs.”
He skates past the guard's line of sight and cuts around the back of the gym. The pavement’s uneven back there. Curbs to clear, small bumps perfect for all sorts of tricks. The wind hits him square in the chest as adrenaline sparks a million veins, and he feels like pure electricity.
There’s a slim alley tucked behind the building, with a side entrance that leads to a stairwell plunging downward. The rails ran smooth, and the ledge solid. He could make this drop sound twice as impressive.
So Martin commits and pushes off, grinds the ledge like he’d been born to do, smooth and–
And then there are candles.
In a split second of panic, he leaps forward, loses control, and lands all wrong. His body hits the concrete with a harsh thud, and his board slides across the floor, clattering to an abrupt stop.
“Hah–shit.” He pants, muscles trembling in protest as every nerve vibrates in alarm.
“Are you alright?”
He lets out another groan, rolls to one side, and finally turns toward the source of the voice.
Your hair curled and stuck out in wild angles from the way you’d ducked, a notebook splayed open before you, looking like some darkly painted muse plucked straight from one of those moody Gothic portraits he’d seen in museums.
Martin had never put much thought into the idea of destiny. Sure, he was a bit of a hopeless romantic, but he was also a pretty straightforward guy at heart, so his loyalties were simple: pizza, Nirvana, and the privilege of an occasional nap.
But that day, he had decided to thank it, because when you looked at him how you did then, he thought, without complication or any pretense at all, that you were beautiful.
And he also thought you were a witch.
In his defense, you did look like you were trying to summon something.
“I–yeah, yeah I’m alright.” He scrambles upright, brushing off dust from his pants and trying (failing) not to stare at the intricate symbol in the center of your little candle circle.
There really are normal ways to meet someone. This was not one of them.
“What is all of this?”
“Nothing.” You barely looked at him, tapping the pen one last time against the notebook before snapping it closed and tucking it into your bag. With a shrug, you hoisted the strap over your shoulder and tilted your head in his direction, a small nod of acknowledgement.
“I should get going.”
“Woah, hey, wait–” He stumbled forward like a complete fool, grabbing the railing as he dragged his skateboard by foot.
You look back, eyebrows arched in confusion. “What?”
“Aren’t you gonna clean all this up?”
“The candles will burn themselves out. And the chalk, well, it’s not like it's permanent.”
You flicked a hand so casually, as if the whole setup were no more consequential than the ordinary. Martin, for his part, didn’t know much about the paranormal other than that it usually meant no good. But there stands a contradiction in front of him. Here you were, as startlingly breathtaking as you were strange.
“Were you trying to perform a ritual? What if something crawls out of the ground or–”
You clicked your tongue sharply to interrupt him. He must have pissed you off, that much he was certain of now.
“Relax. Thanks to your little stunt, the energy’s all disrupted. Crisis averted.”
“Ah… right.” He picked up his board, peeking around the dim space before looking back at you, a spark of something like hope and desperation in his expression.
“Can I get your name at least?”
“No.” Not a second thought.
“Why not?”
“I don’t feel like getting reported today.”
“I wouldn’t do that, I swear, I just–”
Think, Martin. Any excuse. It could be stupid. Literally anything that'll keep her from leaving.
“Can you read palms?”
“I can read your face just fine.” You say dryly. “And I’ve predicted that you’re going to experience quite an embarrassing moment later today, so don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
All Martin managed to process from that was the part where you’d been looking at his face.
“Okay, psychic.”
“Not psychic.”
“Then tell me your name?”
“You don’t really need it.”
And just like that, you turned and left.
Never has Martin felt so boyishly alive, a dizzy sort of teenage rush as he wanders towards where the guys are waiting. He comes back with a dreamy shine catching in his eyes and a lopsided grin he hasn't been keen on shaking off, making Juhoon ask what on earth had happened while he was gone.
“Pretty girl,” was all he could say, and all he could think, really. Pretty, weirdly mysterious, hopefully a student here and not some ominous trespasser, because he very much wanted to see you again.
Hours later, he’s riding his board home, mind still circling around one obvious subject. Then, in front of his friends, and unfortunately a handful of other onlookers, he attempts a trick and promptly eats pavement.
As his friends gather around to ask if he’s okay, he stays sprawled on the ground as he traces back to what you said to him earlier, then stares up at the sky in pure burning embarrassment, and a little disbelief.
“... You’ve got to be kidding me.”
🎶 And there’s a dazzling haze, a mysterious way about you, dear. Have I known you 20 seconds, or 20 years? ᯓ★
The next time Martin bumps into you, you were burying something.
It’s in the stretch of trees across the field. He had PE before that, and he’d been cutting around the back to head to the cafeteria when something strange caught his eye near the hedges lining the path. The shrubs rustled faintly as if something, or someone, was crouched behind them.
Curiosity had a way of making him do it’s bidding. Like now, creeping forward, tilting his head, and peering through the leaves at whatever was causing the movement.
He’d just been thinking about you, and now here you were. Maybe you really were a witch.
“Hello again.”
You froze mid-motion. Slowly, you looked up at him from where you were crouched, and he could see something tiny cradled in your gloved hands.
“Are you following me?”
“No,” he said quickly, lifting both hands in defense. “But you’re pretty hard not to notice when you’re–”
His eyes had finally discerned what you were holding.
“...Is that a dead frog?”
“Robert.” You said calmly. “He died of unknown causes.”
Martin’s unsure what the correct response to that was supposed to be.
Not knowing what else to do, he shuffled closer and crouched beside you while you carefully lowered Robert into the small hole you had dug.
“So was that your… pet?”
“Mmh.”
The image of a dead frog resting in someone's hands should have been enough to make him look away.
And it was, so he settled on looking at you instead.
Meanwhile, you’d been busy wondering when this 6 foot something prying lurker might finally take the hint and leave. Or better yet, when one of your friends might show up and rescue you. He’d run into you twice now, which meant he was clearly onto you.
And he seemed eager. You couldn’t quite figure out why.
But anyway, the main event: Robert's burial. If this guy wanted a front-row seat, you weren't going to stop him. Might as well put him to some use.
“Could you hand me the shovel?”
“Oh, yeah sure.”
Martin scanned the ground for a tool, and when he spotted it, picked it up and handed it to you. You began scooping dirt to cover the small hole where Robert had been laid to rest. Once the earth was level, you pressed it flat with the shovel, then carefully placed a flower and shoved a tiny wooden cross in the dirt.
Now that he thought about it, he’d seen similar tiny crosses around school before, some tucked at the edges of the soccer field, others hidden between shrubs in the gardens. Had they all been your doing?
“So listen, about–”
“A moment of silence for the dearly departed.”
Martin quickly shut up. When he looked over, you’ve pressed your hands together, eyes closed, head in a faint bow. Albeit a little awkwardly, he follows suit. Goodspeed, Robert.
After what looked like a solemn farewell to some unseen spirit, you brushed off your jeans and rose to your feet.
“I’m leaving.”
“Wha–again?” He stumbled over his words, unable to hide the mix of surprise and frustration. “You did this last time too.”
“I did it last time… because I was leaving then too.” You picked up the bag you always carried, wiping at the faint layer of dirt clinging to it.
“You don’t just leave people hanging, y'know."
“What were you hanging around for, Sherlock?”
“I don’t know? Thought you were interesting.”
You stay quiet for a few seconds, weighing whether to respond, before muttering, “Whatever you say.”
You hear him sigh, shifting his weight from one foot to the other.
“So how many of these pets of yours have you buried around school?”
You wonder briefly how on earth he managed to figure that out.
“12, at most.” You admit.
He whistles low, then lets out a laugh, shaking his head. “You can’t bury them in your backyard?”
You shrug, tugging the strap of your bag even tighter over your shoulder.
“My mother thinks it's weird. I've tried preserving them in jars, but I can’t seem to figure out how to get rid of the smell.”
Martin grimaced, nose wrinkling at the thought of dead reptiles and rodents sitting preserved in glass jars, suspended in some strange liquid. He’d always assumed that stuff was just weird propaganda the movies fed him about these kinds of people. Clearly, he’d been wrong.
But you had actually told him something that had nothing to do with escaping the scene this time, so he figured you were really into this sort of stuff. Not that he could judge. Everyone’s passionate about something, after all. If he’s into rock bands and vintage vinyl collections, you’re into… well, whatever this was. It’s not so different in the end.
He actually thought it was kind of cute. Strange girl with even stranger hobbies.
“That does sound like a problem, huh?” He tries to sound casual, though the edge of unease still leaks into his voice.
“It is.” You reply curtly, looking anywhere but at him as you tap your fingers against the strap of your bag.
A few seconds of awkward silence stretched between you, filled only by the rustle of leaves and the distant sound of the football team on the field. You huff out a breath, shoulders stiff, and turn sharply on your heel.
“Goodbye.”
“Wait!” He lunges a step forward, heart hammering faster than he’d like to admit.
You pause mid-stride, one foot hovering as if to turn and leave anyway, eyes darting back to him.
“What is it?” you ask, skeptical.
“Are you heading to the cafeteria?”
“Uh… yeah? It’s lunch.”
“Perfect. I’m going there too. Let’s go together.” He says it smoothly this time, mentally patting himself on the back.
You glance at him, noting that he hasn't really left you any room to argue. With a small, resigned sigh, you reply,
“Sure.” A touch too reluctant.
Martin finally finds out your name and that you’re both in the same grade. It strikes him as off that he’s never seen you around before. You explain, in your usual understated way, that you’re good at staying unseen. Because of that, you then hint at why circumstance keeps bringing him across your path.
He walks you through the crowded halls leading to the cafeteria, receiving a bunch of greetings and some very pointed stares. He doesn’t quite understand the looks, but they register for barely a second anyway. His thoughts are entirely on something else, because for once, he’s got you talking, and that, more than anything, has to count for a win.
When you both step inside, he immediately notices the space you put between the two of you. Just a step or two, but enough that he feels the intention in it. Your eyes dart left and right, scanning the room with a kind of awareness he hasn’t seen from you before.
That’s odd.
Martin glances around the crowded cafeteria. “So where were you—”
“Y/N!”
A girl breaks through the noise of students and strides straight toward you. She’s dressed almost exactly like you, and something about her demeanor feels eerily similar too. Actually, the table she came from looked like an entire gathering of that similar variety.
So you’ve got a whole group to be weird with. Good to know.
The girl glances between the two of you, clearly confused. You shake your head, waving it off, and turn your back to Martin just long enough to give him a small, acknowledging nod before walking away.
“Thanks.”
He smiles, lifting his hand in a quiet wave.
“See you around.”
He meant it and wished it would be true. He isn’t sure if you even like him much, and the uncertainty gnaws at him. He tried being as welcoming as his demeanor could get, if snooping around your business was anything to go by.
You, on the other hand, have already started to figure things out as you walk next to Martin. He’s very well-known, charming, and people respond to him instantly. And you can’t help but notice how those same critical glances aimed at you turn warm and admiring when they fall on him. So artificial.
For whatever reason he was here, you just wished he’d leave you alone.
🎶 I can’t do the little things I hold so dear, ‘cause it’s all those little things that you fear, ‘cause I’m just a girl I’d rather not be. Oh, I’m just a girl, guess I’m some kind of freak. ᯓ★
After much persistence and scheming on his part, lingering glances, and the occasional shove through the cafeteria line just to exchange a word or two, you finally agreed to teach him of this “new interest” of his. Really, it wasn’t the witchcraft he was thinking about. What he really meant by ‘interest’ was you.
Martin just hadn’t thought he’d be sitting across from you in an empty classroom with a Ouija board when he told you that.
What’s in front of him is, so to speak, absolutely terrifying. The board is covered in neat little letters, numbers, and the words YES, NO, and GOODBYE, all circling a tiny wooden planchette that suddenly looks far too imperative for something that probably came from a novelty shop. It’s roughly on par with the weirdest things he’s ever seen on Gravity Falls.
“You’ll be alright.”
“Famous last words, Y/n.”
You finish arranging the candles and the other little things you insisted were necessary: salt in a small dish, a matchbox, and the board set perfectly between you. Martin watches the whole process with a mix of dread and fascination.
Yes, this was kind of creeping him out. But he’s also at that age where a pretty girl sitting across from him is reason enough to ignore most of his better judgment.
Then you reach for his hands.
You place them lightly over the planchette before settling your own fingers there, too. When you’re done, you look up at him and give a small, confirming nod.
“Ok. Ask it something.”
Martin glances down at the board like it might suddenly bite him.
“Anything?”
“Yes, Martin.”
“And you’re sure it’ll come true?”
You raise an eyebrow. “You think the spirits are gonna lie to you?”
“Let’s hope not.”
The two of you lower your heads slightly, concentrating, while Martin keeps his question tucked quietly inside his mind. He shifts in his seat, trying to think of something worthy of consulting the dead for, and for a moment, nothing happens. Then the planchette stirs beneath your fingers and begins to glide slowly across the board, straight toward YES.
You gently lift your fingers from it and look up at him.
“Well?” you ask. “What’d you ask for?”
“I asked the spirits if you’d agree to going on a date with me.”
You blink.
“What?”
He shrugs, trying and failing to keep his grin from reappearing.
“You said spirits never lie, Y/n. Your word against mine.”
Suspicion settles over your face. “You moved the piece yourself, didn’t you?”
Martin gasps and places a hand dramatically over his chest. “Accusing me now? It’s as real as it can get. These are omniscient beings we’re talking about Y/n. Have some respect.”
“You’re just giving me shit, Martin.”
He pushes his chair back, standing up like the matter has already been settled.
“I’ll text you. Wear something cute.” He says witha“Never.”
Martin flashes you an easy grin as he grabs his bag.
“Then have fun getting possessed.”
He leaves the classroom before you can throw something at him. It seems you’ve been cornered into this.
You pack the things away slowly, sliding the planchette back to the center like you’re resetting something that had no business moving in the first place. On the way down the hallway, your footsteps echo louder than usual.
“Stupid spirits,” you murmur to yourself. As if they had anything to even do with it.
Still, hours later, when your phone lights up from your desk with a message, your hand reaches before you can think better of it.
🎶 Why do you act crazy? Not an act, maybe. So close a lady, shifty eyes shady. ᯓ★
He shows up in full skater fit, two iced coffees in hand, like meeting up at a cemetery is the most normal Saturday activity imaginable. It probably was for you, though.
Of course, you had come prepared. A small blanket to sit on, sandwiches wrapped neatly in wax paper, strawberries, and, tucked in between the picnic items, your growing collection of obituaries.
Well, at least you actually did wear something cute today.
Martin blinks at it once, then twice, trying to reconcile the fact that he likes this about you but also doesn’t understand a single thing about it.
You fan them out beside the food the same way someone might deal a deck of cards. Martin leans forward, fingers hovering uncertainly above one, as if touching it might wake something besides the photograph of the dead woman printed on the brittle paper.
“This woman was a nurse.” You begin, voice calm. “No kids, but there is a husband.”
Martin feels a little queasy. “Mmh. May she rest in peace.”
The combination of your calmness and the macabre intrigue makes him feel lightheaded.
“So,” he says after a pause. “D’you bring all your dates here?”
You lift a brow at him as you take a bite of your strawberry. “Besides my friends, you’re the first.”
You add: “This isn’t a date, though.”
Martin tilts his head as a grin spreads. “It’s not? I could’ve sworn you agreed to it yesterday.”
“You threatened me.” You fire back.
He laughs and holds his hands in mock surrender. “The ouija board wasn’t my idea, now was it?”
You can’t help but notice how out of place he looks here. Between the tombstones and the long shadows, his bright hair seems to almost glow. His clothes, patterned and lively, and that skateboard of his splattered with graffiti stand out sharply against the pale grey earth. You wonder if this is how the rest of the world sees you when you leave your own little corners behind.
“Why do you persist with this…” You lower your voice and stare dwn at your lap, fingers absentmindedly picking at a loose thread on the blanket.
Martin turns to you from where he's leaning against the rough bark of a tree. “With what?”
“I don’t know.” You shrug lightly. He notices a strand of hair fall over your eye, and itches to draw it back.
“Don’t you have those friends of yours? The real rowdy ones?”
He laughs at that. “What about them?”
You search for the right way to say it.
“I don’t exactly… fit that criteria.”
He tilts his head, as if to say it was obvious. “I know. I like it that way.”
The wind rustles the leaves overhead, carrying a faint scent of dirt and grass, and you shift your weight on the blanket, unsure of how to follow that.
“So what's your deal with me?”
Martin exhales slowly, scratching the back of his neck like he’s been caught doing something embarrassing,
“Oh y’know,” A question he’s too shy to answer, but his attempt at restraint is useless.
“Just really like you.”
You look down flatly. “Alright.”
Martin thinks, Great. Fantastic. Kill me now.
“That’s your reply?” He asks.
“Is something the matter?” You sound genuinely confused, which only makes it worse.
“No… nevermind..” He mutters quickly, glancing away as he nudges a stray pebble with the tip of his shoe.
Martin tries not to dwell on how thoroughly he’d been shot down by the most neutral response imaginable. He quickly learns that it’s not hard to get you talking. Ask the right questions, and you'll ramble endlessly, laugh at yourself, share stories, debate infinite nonsense.
You both hadn’t noticed the day passing, and by the time you’d realize, night had arrived without so much as a warning.
So here Martin was, walking you up the steps to your front door, the picnic basket balanced in one hand, his skateboard tucked under the other. He’d draped his jacket over your shoulders to fend off the chill and insisted on carrying your things as well. His father had taught him once about how a proper date worked. The only things she should carry are herself and maybe a bit of lipstick. The rest would have to be on him. Of course, Martin intended to follow that rule to the letter.
“You didn’t have to walk me all the way here.” You say, pulling the jacket tighter over your frame.
Martin shakes his head. “Yeah? It’s alright. I live kinda close by.”
You squint at him immediately.
“Liar. You said you lived twenty minutes the other way.” You point vaguely down the street.
Martin flashes a grin as he sets the basket down on the porch. “I know my shortcuts well.”
A small laugh slips out of you. “Then maybe use them more often. You were late earlier.”
“I know.”
He shifts his weight and takes a small step higher onto the porch, just enough that he becomes eye level with you. The contact makes you shiver, though it’s not hard to tell whether the reason could be the night air creeping from under the sleeves of his jacket, or him.
“So,” You clear your throat and glance toward the door behind you. “I guess you can leave now?”
“I probably should.” But he doesn’t move, and rocks back slightly on his heels “Unless you want me to hang around until your parents come find us.”
You snort softly and shake your head. “Don’t get any ideas, Edwards.”
“I never do.” He says through his helpless smile.
You bend to pick up the basket from the porch. Before stepping inside, you glance back at him one last time, giving a small wave and mouthing a quiet bye before turning to open the door.
“Aren’t you forgetting something?”
Slowly, you turn back around with a look of confusion. You try to retrace the night in your head, but nothing seems to stand out. Still, Martin’s watching you expectantly, and now you’re beginning to wonder.
Was I forgetting something?
You think of those movies your mother used to watch, the ones where the boy walked the girl to her door, and something sweet would happen that'd make her hide behind a pillow in her room. Maybe that’s what Martin was hinting at.
Before you can overthink it, you take a few quick strides back toward him. You pause for half a second before leaning down and pressing a small kiss to his cheek. Before Martin’s brain can catch up with what you’d done, you’ve already slipped inside your house.
A crooked grin spreads across his face, as slow and disbelieving as the time he took to comprehend all that. He lets out a quiet laugh, shaking his head to himself as he picks up his skateboard from where it rested against the railing.
Martin meant the jacket, really. You’d forgotten to give it back. But as he makes his way home, he realizes he can’t complain much. The jacket looked good on you anyway. The traces of lipstick on his cheek, even more so.
🎶 “Heard a lot about you” from a couple of friends. What I hope I’ll never hear again. ᯓ★
You were terrible at skateboarding.
This realization comes to you as you lie sprawled on the cement, your bum throbbing from the impact and every ounce of hope draining out of you like water through a sieve.
Martin walks over from the bleachers, hands stuffed in his pockets as he tries not to laugh.
“You’ll get the hang of it.” Martin says, crouching down to pick up his skateboard, the sunlight of the first hours of noon glinting off the edges of its wheels.
“I won’t. Better to give up early.” You mutter, brushing a streak of dirt off your bottoms.
“No, seriously? It’s only been a couple of days.”
“Yeah,” you snap back, crossing your arms. “You’d think I could at least stand without falling by now.”
Your voice is stubborn, but your cheeks betray you, pink in your frustration and something else. Right now, neither your balance nor your pride feel particularly steady.
Martin steps closer and holds out a hand. “C’mon. Up.”
You let out a reluctant sigh and take it, letting him help you back to your feet. He steadies you, and together you shuffle toward the bleachers where your things are waiting. Slinging your bag over one shoulder, you look to him and throw a look. Stop laughing at me. His barely contained smile does little to save him.
“Going to lunch with some friends for a bit.”
“Ok. I gotta go someplace too. Text me if you need help carrying some stuff home, alright?”
Your eyes roll as you tug your bag a little higher on your shoulder. “I don’t need you to carry my stuff home, Martin. I did it everyday before I met you.”
He shrugs, as if conceding the point. “Then text me just because.”
You pretend to consider it as you brush a stray lock of hair behind your ear.
“Yeah sure. See you.”
See you.
You’re not entirely sure why he still seeks you out. You hardly share any classes, and your circle of friends don’t exactly overlap. On paper, you barely seem alike. How he’s managed to stay this consistent with you is still something of a mystery.
The thought nags at you as you drift toward the cafeteria.
“Hi!”
A quick tap on your shoulder snaps you out of your thoughts. You turn around to find a girl standing there, and she’s pretty, unmistakably so. She looks familiar, though you can’t quite place where from. For a moment, you’re almost in awe of her.
And then something about her felt… off.
“Um, hello.” You say as you force a polite smile.
The girl in front of you looks you up and down for a split second before speaking.
“Y/n, right?”
“Yeah?”
“I’m Ji-Ah. Martin’s friend.”
It clicks then. You’ve definitely seen her before. She’s usually on the sidelines during games, bright cheer uniform, high ponytail. More often than not, she’d be on that same field you were at earlier, pom poms flashing with the rest of the squad.
“Ah, I recognize you now. You’re in cheer, right?”
“How’ve you been?”
Well, she completely swerved my question.
“Been good. You?”
“Great.”
You try to step around her, thinking the conversation may be over. But Ji-Ah is still looking at you like she’s waiting for something. So you stop.
“Did you need something?” you ask, gesturing vaguely.
Ji-Ah smiles like she’d been hoping you’d ask.
“You and Martin seem close, huh?”
You blink. “Oh. Right, he’s very persistent.”
Ji-Ah hums softly.
“Speaking of, I saw you both at the bleachers earlier.”
“Did you?”
“Yeah, he was teaching you how to use that skateboard of his, right?”
She pauses, eyes flicking over your expression.
“And you were laughing like you’ve known him forever.”
You shift your weight. There’s something strange about the way she’s saying it.
She cuts you off before you can respond.
“But don’t you think it’s kind of weird?”
You didn’t. Not anymore.
“What do you mean?”
Ji-Ah shrugs lightly, like she’s simply stating the obvious. You hate how naive it makes you feel.
“I’d hate for you to get caught up in something silly. He’s… well, Martin is… he’s not really the type to stick around, you know?”
He’d stuck around for a few months already, and you weren't exactly the type of person his friends would gravitate towards. You figured that had to count for some kind of exception.
“I don’t think that's fair.” You reply, oddly defensive. “He’s been nothing but kind.”
“Kind? Sure. But maybe you’re just reading too much into it. He’s him, and you’re… you. You have your friends too, right?”
What did she mean by that?
“I just wouldn’t get too comfortable if I were you.”
“Comfortable.” You repeat flatly.
“Yeah.”
She flashes a bright smile, suddenly cheerful again. The shift is so abrupt it unsettles you.
“Well, I’ll see you around!”
You did think it was kind of weird before. There was no point in lying to yourself. But once you got into hanging out with Martin, it hardly seemed to matter. He didn’t seem to notice, and eventually, neither did you. At the heart of it, you were just two people hanging out.
Maybe there's more to it. Martin wasn’t exactly the subtle type. You could feel the intent behind him, but it was never cruel or selfish. In your mind, he could never be anything less than good.
But these ugly doubts had been planted in your mind, and the thought wouldn’t leave you alone.
🎶 Hung down with the freaks and ghouls. No apologies ever need be made. I know you better than you fake it, to see that we don’t even care. ᯓ★
You had dragged Martin out into the woods today. The voicemail he received said nothing but ‘I want to listen to the birds’, and naturally, he obliged. Birds were clearly a serious matter.
“Be honest,” Martin says, glancing around the trees. “You didn’t bring me out here to murder me, right?”
“Martin, what?”
“Sorry. This place is freaking me out.”
“Technically speaking, if you were to drag someone out here, how would anyone even notice? Most people vanish in the woods before you hear a thing.”
“Comforting,” he mutters. Martin’s never quite sure why you know things like that.
You cross a small stream and wander past a few more trees before the woods open into a quiet clearing. A patch of grass sits in the middle as sunlight pours through a break in the canopy above. Martin tries to show off by doing a trick on a fallen log. He slips and nearly eats dirt, and you laugh, because laughing around Martin had always been far too easy.
Eventually, you settle into the grass and begin idly plucking at the wild trilliums, pulling their petals apart little by little while the birds chatter somewhere above.
Martin drops down onto the grass beside you, brushing dirt from his hands after his failed skating attempts
“Oh yeah. There’s a party at James’ this weekend. He told me to invite you.”
You look up from the flower you’d been slowly dismantling between your fingers.
“You sure you didn’t just invite me yourself?”
Martin scoffs, leaning back on his elbows. “I’m serious! The guys seem to find you really interesting.”
“They’ve never even met me.”
“That’s because,” He points accusingly at you, “everytime they try, you, like, vanish.”
You roll your eyes and place the bare flower stem on the ground.
“Don’t you wanna go with Ji-Ah? She seems to really like you.” You say, nudging him lightly.
Martin shakes his head and brushes a hand through his hair. “Well I don’t like Ji-Ah. Not like that.”
“But she cares a lot. Always smiling at you.” She hates me too.
“Not my style.” It couldn’t be any clearer.
After a few minutes of quiet, Martin asks the question.
“Come with me?”
“Absolutely not.”
He tilts his head. “Why not?”
You throw up your hands in exasperation. “Why not? Because! Martin–me being there is staining. I’ll stick out like a sore thumb. I don’t even know what I’d do there.”
“So? Just stick with me.”
“And that'll help how? Now I’ll just look even more out of place.”
Martin scoffs. “Why does it matter?”
“It matters because I already heard your friend call me a weirdo. I don’t want everyone to think you’re with a–”
He leans forward, sudden and quick, until he appears to you in small details. He’s so close now that you want to twist your stomach into knots.
“A what?”
You look into whatever flicker of understanding Martin’s eyes hold. It was obvious. It had already been so obvious what.
“A what, Y/n?”
Martin’s eyebrows pull together like you've lost your mind. But you haven't. You know you haven’t. Otherwise, the stares wouldn’t stand out to you the way they do, or that you wouldn’t have to remember the things your friends said they’d heard people joking about.
“When will you understand–Christ, I don’t care who thinks what.”
You forgot how careless Martin can be. It’s something oddly refreshing to you, and maybe that’s why you liked him so much. You’ve always been the complete opposite.
“Not of you, not of me.”
Not of either of you. You’d always been a little envious of that.
“I’m so sick of coming up to you in school, and sometimes all you’d tell me is ‘people are watching’ before you leave. That’s not even something I think about.”
Martin drags his hands over his face and lets out an exasperated breath before looking at you again. If he was going to say it, it had to be now. He thought you’d already understood, from the way he was always the one starting things with you, even if it made him look a little pathetic. Especially then.
“Or,” He exhales again, this time a little helplessly. “Or when you let me hold your hand sometimes, and when someone passes by you act like my fingers are on fire.”
He doesn’t know how long it'll take for you to believe him, but he needs you to know that these things mean little to him. Compared to wanting you, nothing does.
“What's the matter? Why does it have to be a big deal–”
You cut him off. “What do you think?”
“I don’t think anything!” His voice comes out louder than he means it to, and he hopes you know it doesn’t come from a place of frustration. His hands twitch restlessly, his whole body lit up with nerves.
“I think of…you? That’s all.” He breaths out.
“That’s all.”
Just so you’re sure.
When you tilt your head down, he follows suit, searching for a hint. It’s just some stupid party, you tell yourself. A couple of hours tops. You can survive that.
“Okay.”
Martin’s caught off guard. “What?”
“I’ll go.” You finally look up.
“With me?” He leans closer. You hope he doesn’t hear it, the wild drum in between your ribs.
“Unless you want me to go with the other guy that asked me–”
“Who?”
You huff out a small laugh.
“Martin, I’ll go with you. Happy?”
A slow grin spreads across his face.
“Very.”
That weekend, you really tried your best to dress the part. Your friend who's been helping you get ready said you were practically unrecognizable, so much so she doubted Martin would even be able to find you. You told her he still would.
And Martin did recognize you, albeit a little surprised.
“Oh. Is that you?”
“Yeah, and I know you’re already thinking it. I look ridiculous but my friend told me I’d blend in fine looking like this.”
“No, I think you look great. Not that you already didn’t look great before. I mean it's you, but–yeah don’t worry about it.”
He’d caught the faint stutter in his own voice and prayed you hadn’t noticed.
Watching you now, though, he finds that you actually do get along quite well with others. Every time he looked for you, you were always mid-conversation, no frown in sight, whatever their intentions were.
And when he found you again, you were chatting with a guy he recognized from senior year. Martin knew the type: flashy, narrowly opinionated, a little self-important, and it struck him as strange. You, so kind, talking so easily with someone like that. You weren't someone to waste on him.
Or maybe he’s just jealous. Oh well, the cat’s long since been out of the bag anyway.
You, meanwhile, are managing alright. You’re not exactly sure what you’re supposed to do here. Martin warned you not to accept drinks from anyone and avoid sitting on chairs, or you might stain your jeans with… something. Beyond that, all you can do is talk to people, which hasn't been too difficult tonight now that they’re actually giving you a chance.
In hindsight, the ease of it all should have set off alarms. It was always only a matter of time before things would go downhill. You knew that better than anyone.
You were in deep conversation with a girl by the drinks aisle, bonding over shared interests. She was fun, easy to talk to, and you’d gone through the usual friendship ritual: swapping socials, trading gossip, joking over recent happenings.
And then you’re soaked.
You freeze, and everyone from your near vicinity seemed to have paused too. Mostly though, you freeze because your body won’t stop shivering. The water from your soaked clothes seeps into your skin, and the air conditioning was only making it worse.
Out of the corner of your eye, you catch the girl you’d been talking to rushing for a towel, but before she could even reach you somebody was already yanking you away by the arm.
“What the hell, Ji-Ah?”
Through the still-blaring music, you recognize Martin’s voice cutting through the noise. Then comes a laugh, Ji-Ah’s most likely, right as the bucket once full of ice water hits the floor.
“Ice bucket challenge!” someone from the crowd yelled, the drunken cheer in their voice betraying how staged the moment was.
“Who the fuck even does that anymore?” Martin called back.
“We thought she was someone else!” Ji-Ah says, her grin stiff as she flicks a glance at you, then back at Martin.
“I didn’t see her, Mars. No one can, really.”
Martin’s stare is sharp. “Then take my advice and get some prescriptions the next time you show up here.”
“Mars, c’mon. You’re missing out on the fun–”
The rest of what she said barely caught on to you as you get pulled away again. You had no idea if anyone was watching, and you really hoped they weren’t.
You’re pulled into a quiet room, not sure whose, probably whoever owned this house. Martin makes you sit on a chair and couches in front of you as he tries to make you look at him. He notices the faint traces of tears in the corners of your eyes and gently brushes them away with his thumb. He knows you hate looking like you’ve just cried in public.
“Hey, you’re okay.” Martin brushes your hair away from your face. You shake your head, and it falls back down.
“I’m not.” You pull your arms over your body in an effort to fight the cold.
“People are so mean sometimes, I never know why.”
Martin knows he wouldn't be able to handle the sight of you crying. He could barely handle the disappointed look on your face earlier. All he wants now is to get you out of here, god, you were smiling not that long ago.
“Let’s leave, yeah? We’ll leave. Here, put this on.”
Martin shrugs off his hoodie and gently pulls it over your head. Now, he’s left standing in a thin tank, and you’re pretty sure it’d been freezing cold outside before you came in.
“I can hitch a ride you don’t have to—“
“But I want to.” The words come out steady and certain.
He nods towards the door. “Let’s go.”
Martin leads you out the back door and around the house to the street up front where his dad's truck is parked, the same one he used to drive him and the others here earlier.
“Your friends got a ride back?”
“Told me they'll figure it out. Hop in.” He nudges the passenger door open.
The ride was quiet, broken only by the occasional glance Martin threw your way. You could feel it every few minutes. It’s the quietest you’ve ever been around him, save for the day he first met you.
You thought, dimly, that maybe trying to fit a certain mold never really worked. Parts of you will always stick out. You turn toward the window to let the wind rush over you, and wish it would swallow you whole.
The truck rolls to a stop outside a small burrito place, and Martin steps out without a word. He figured you hadn’t really eaten much at the party. Truthfully, he wishes he’d never mentioned that party at all.
When he comes back, he drops a wrapped burrito into your lap. Eat, he said, and as you peel the foil open to take a bite, he turns the ignition once more and moves the truck into a proper spot in the empty parking lot.
“It’s good?” Martin asks as he unwraps his food as well.
“Yeah. A little soggy.”
“I mean,” He says through a mouthful, “It’s pretty late.”
You nod, take another bite of your food, and the truck falls quiet again.
When you turn to Martin, you find he’s already looking at you. You want to ask him why he’s doing all this, or why he even persists at all.
But I want to.
The words loop in your head over and over, but no matter how many times you hear them, you’re still not sure what they’re meant to mean.
“You got curfew?” He considerately asks.
“Not really. Why?”
“I don’t know.” He looks out the window when he says it.
“Just wondering how long I can keep you here for.”
Here where? The parking lot? The truck? With him?
“Pretty long.” You say.
You want to tell him to stop saying things like that, or at least stop saying them in that way. There’s too much room to overthink them.
Instead, you ask if he can put on some music. If there's one thing Martin knows how to do well, it’s that. He leans over and rummages through the middle compartment and pulls out a few CD cases, muttering something about the radio not being able to pick up signals. He chooses one after a second and pushes it into the player, hitting play.
In the summertime driving up the West Coast. Me and my Valentine, we ain't got no place to go. Nothing ahead but the open road, oh.
Martin starts the truck again and drives you both up to an open field where a few other cars are also parked. Beyond the grass and the dark outlines of trees, a bright full moon hangs high in the sky.
You finally turn to him. “So what's the deal with Ji-Ah?”
Martin exhales through his nose, leaning back slightly against the seat.
“Sorry about that.”
“It’s not your fault though.”
His voice breaks through the music. “It kind of is. She’s tryna get with me, y’know?”
“Oh.”
“Yeah.” He rubs the back of his neck. “She’s getting a bit… persistent.”
“You’re saying that like you’re not.”
He glances at you, a sheepish smile tugging at his face. “D’you think I’m being persistent?”
“Absolutely.” There isn’t a hint of hesitation in your voice.
She’s determined, you'll give her that. Awful at showing it, sure. But she must like him enough to pull other people into the fallout. You’re not sure if that's something to admire, considering you were one of the unfortunate casualties.
Martin hops out to take a leak, mentioning offhand that there are more CDs in the front compartment if you ever wanted to change the song. When the door shuts and you’re alone again, you lean over, pull open the small compartment to your front, and start flipping through the cases inside.
Among the scattered CDs, you find a small notebook with a familiar pattern on the cover. It’s the same one you’ve seen Martin carrying around from time to time. He’d always kept it a little secret from you, had always been a little guarded about it.
Secrets, you believe, aren’t meant to sit around waiting to be found like this. So you glance through the windshield to make sure he’s nowhere near, then flip it open.
You’d half expected it to be a diary. Which, granted, makes it sound pretty bad that you were so willing to snoop. Maybe it was just a notebook full of lyrics. That would've made much more sense. Martin loved scribbling random song lines into your notebooks whenever he got the chance.
What you weren't expecting was to flip through the pages, trying to find one that didn’t have your face on it.
You found one, and then another, and another.
There are several. Some quick, some careful. In each one, you look different from the other. A certain angle, a slight change in expression. But they’re all captured in the same soft, striking strokes. The lines are messy in places, but the resemblance is unmistakable.
You don’t recall ever posing for any of them, which meant he must’ve drawn them when you weren't looking, or from memory alone. The thought makes you want to tear your chest open from the pounding. You’re still a girl at the end of the day, and some guy had been paying attention. You wished you knew what to do with the feeling.
Caught up in your own mind, you barely hear the door open. Martin steps back in, settles into his chair, and his eyes fall on the little secret you’ve uncovered.
He’d forgotten that was there, and now he wished he hadn’t. Seeing you so quiet and avoiding his gaze, he knew this was going to be painfully awkward to explain.
“So about tha–”
“They look really nice.” You cut him off steadily, finally putting the notebook down to look at him.
He wants to say they do. He’d made sure you looked exactly how he’s always seen you, or the way you looked when you weren't there and all he could do was imagine. Pretty, so very pretty.
“Yeah?” He breathes out.
“Yeah.” .
He looks at you then with the same persistence you’d called him out on before, one he’s determined to make real. Before he realizes it, and because he can never resist when it comes to you, he grabs you by the arm, pulls you into the driver's seat with him, and kisses you in a fit of unconstraint.
Martin goes back to the day he almost gave you a concussion with his skateboard to now, thanking whatever cosmic force made him stumble through some improbable timeline that's got you kissing him back. As he pulls you closer, he thinks with a kind of awe, that the Ouija board must have worked, because what he actually asked that day was if you’d want him back.
Between his heavy breaths you breathe in and the warmth that has already dried the dampness of your clothes, you think of a few things:
That you want him to think of you. You want to strike yourself into the crooks of his mind so subtly he’ll forget it was even you. To bite at the rims of his voice until it shivers. To set his shadow on fire, press your hands against his chest until his thoughts spill out. You want to drag his pulse into you, stitch them into your own, so that they may never go anywhere else.
I, I know what to do,
Now that I’ve got a man like you
In the summertime, it can be so cruel
Baby, don’t be cruel
You lean onto him in the driver's seat, your ribs against his, and whisper it: that you want to eat him alive. Martin doesn’t know whether to be terrified or thrilled, but he’s counting you on that now.
🎶 Hold on to love, that is what I do now that I’ve found you. And from above, everything’s stinking. They’re not around you. ᯓ★
It’s late into the night when Martin scales the fence to your back gate. He’d made it a small mission to get to you before eight, knowing you’d already be asleep by then after the long day you’d had. The cold air nips at his hands as he lands on the other side, but something warm sparks in his chest when he looks up and notices your window is still faintly lit from the inside.
What else can a boy in love do, after all, but sink? Martin is learning this the slow way, and it’s the first time he’s ever had the chance. It comes to him in different forms: some in waves, sometimes in pain, but most of the time it’s a tender feeling.
So, driven by the sort of desperate determination he seems capable of only when it involves you, he tucks his skateboard behind the shrubs by your house, pulls his backpack snug against hi`back, and begins climbing, making a sincere effort not to fall to his death halfway up.
Meanwhile, you lie awake long past a reasonable hour, reading through a book your friend had lent you. Astrology, of all things, It was only half familiar territory, something you were trying to dabble in more seriously. You figured it was worth learning if only to justify the astrolabe you’d impulsively bought at a vintage shop. Something that expensive ought to be useful for something.
There’s a faint rustling outside your window that catches you off guard, followed by a soft knock, knock, knock. You freeze. If kidnappers are capable of climbing, then this is most definitely how you die.
Grabbing the nearest weapon available, a broom, you creep slowly toward the window, and another knock follows. It’s strangely polite, almost patient. The quietness of the night makes the whole thing feel suspiciously calm.
With a sudden motion, you yank the curtains aside and raise your broom–
It’s just Martin.
You let out a sigh, half in relief, half in irritation, and let the broom clatter to the floor. Carefully, you slide the windows open, wincing at the chilly evening air rushing in.
“What the hell was that?”
You raise an eyebrow, arms crossed. “You really need to tell me before doing these things, Martin. I was ready to smite a serial killer.”
He smiles an easy one. “You’d like that, huh?”
You can only roll your eyes. “Just get in.”
Martin makes quick work of the ledge and somehow compresses his towering frame into your very modestly sized window. You swing it shut behind him, ready to launch into a scolding, but he’s quick to lean in and press your lips together, and you forget about it altogether.
Before he can coax you into another form of distraction, you pull away and give him a steady look.
“What are you doing here?”
Martin blinks at you. He thought the answer should’ve been obvious.
He shrugs. “I came to see you.”
You cross your arms together. “I can see that, but why? It’s not exactly the weekend.”
“I don’t know. Just wanted to.”
Then, as if remembering something important, he lifts his backpack and gives it a little shake.
“I also burned some CDs for you.”
You tilt your head at him. “How romantic.”
A crooked grin spreads across his face. “Only for you.”
Despite the fact that it was a school night, you kept your room locked and let the hours drift later and later. Martin was in one of those oddly bright moods, restless in the way he usually was, so he busied himself however he could. Eventually, you had him lie with his head on your lap while the two of you rested on your bed. As you talked him through the things unfolding in your little book, he idly traced small shapes against your stomach, half listening, mostly content.
Martin glances around your room, noticing it looked much the same as the first time you’d let him inside. The walls are still crowded with symbols and odd bits of ephemera: old newspaper clippings, obscure pictures, and strange signs that probably mean something he’ll end up asking you about later. Above it all hangs your display board of carefully pinned dead and dried insects. The sight of it had unsettled him the first time, though he realized it hardly ranked among the strangest things you keep.
He’s been making an effort to learn about what fascinated you. He isn’t entirely knowledgeable as you are, and the same abstruse books you read might as well be written in another language to him. Still, he likes seeing you like this. So absorbed in some never-seen-before world. There are only so many things that could frighten him when it came to you. He thinks there might not be any at all.
Finally, he turns to look at you. In a room filled with oddities and peculiar little relics, you are as captivating as they come. It was hard not to watch, even harder not to wonder, and impossible not to imagine. So he pushes himself up from the bed, reaches for your CD player, and begins shuffling through the stack of CDs in the box by your desk, all from him. He picks one at random and slides it into the player.
He’d never had the chance to go to a school dance with you. Last year he went with a girl whose face he can hardly recall now. This year, you’d been away on a family trip, so he ended up going alone. Because of that, he’s never gotten to pull you into a slow dance the way he’s imagined plenty of times.
Tonight, though, your parents are asleep, and the floorboards don’t creak as much. There’s only one thing he wants from you now.
“Get up.”
“Huh?”
“It’s the Beatles.”
“So?”
“I wanna dance.”
You don’t bother asking why anymore. Martin does things like this sometimes, things that don’t always follow a clear line of reasoning. But they’ve never come from a bad place. You’re fairly certain he isn’t built for that. So you indulge him. Besides, now that you think about it, you wouldn’t mind dancing either.
He stretches out a hand for you, and you take it. When he pulls you in, your arms slip around his neck, until the space between you is almost nothing.
You wonder if this is why he wanted to dance with you. Maybe he loves you. He’s said it before, so you don’t know why it’s still a question of ‘maybe’ in your head. A while ago, the idea would have twisted your stomach into knots. But now that he’s here, the thought doesn’t seem so terrifying anymore. You want to be closer, and maybe admitting it would finally take you there.
“Martin.”
“Hmm?” He hums softly, distracted by the sway of your body in his arms.
“I love you.”
A lump rises in your throat. Now you understand why saying them felt like stepping off a cliff like how people described it to be.
“Just wanted to say it before I step on your foot, or something, and you hate me afterwards.” You add, and your voice shakes.
He swallows, and the tip of a nervous grin tugs at the corner of his lips. But his eyes, bright and endless as you saw them, are on you.
“I couldn’t even if I tried.”
When the song comes to an end, Martin’s impatience breaks loose. He presses himself against you with all the clumsy, stupid urgency of someone entirely done for, and kisses you stupid. In no time at all, you’re both collapsing onto the bed, limbs to breaths, hearts tangled and racing.
Tiny, the little gecko he’d given you a while back, watches silently from its terrarium. You’d told him once that you named it Tiny because Martin was anything but. And it’s true. He’s large in presence, in thought, in feeling. Since meeting you, the world seems only big enough for extremes, so he can’t do anything in halves. He feels in torrents, in leaps, in the kind of degree that has no middle ground.
So it might have looked odd, even to those who knew you both best. Martin Edwards, tall, dreamy, a little wild, threading through the crowded halls with his arm around you, or catching a crooked smile tugging at his lips whenever he passed you by. Your friends may have questioned it, and he understood. His friends had done the same.
But what no one could ever know was the sweet weight in his chest when he looked at you then, and the pull of something bright he longed to keep forever. You made him want to ask questions he feared answers to, and perhaps this was love’s truest cost: the audacity to be completely unafraid.
When you drift off in his arms later that night, Martin glances up at the plastic glow-in-the-dark stars scattered across your ceiling, looking for a sign that he’d done it right. They can only glow back the same in turn, but some things, he realizes, he’s already certain of. You were the first.
synopsis ahn keonho is a prodigy associate at the firm Park, Lee & Jeong. When's he's assigned a daunting malpractice case that could make or break the firm's reputation, he's told you work with you; the paralegal who seems to have made him out to be enemy number one. genre law au, fluff, sprinkle of angst, crack contains descriptions of medical procedure gone wrong(mentions of blood, passing out, dying), kissing, swearing
wc. 11.4k !
anya's note lowkenuinely actually finished ts, based off of the show suits, I know lit nothing abt law don't come after me 😭
“THERE ARE TWO TYPES OF LAWYERS IN THIS WORLD. DO YOU KNOW WHAT THEY ARE?”
Currently, Keonho doesn't know what to think, because Jay is staring daggers into his soul.
“Uh…good ones and great ones?”
“Nope,” Jay makes a noise indicating Keonho's totally off the mark. “There are either winners or losers. No in between. If you're in between, you're a loser.”
It's a known fact that Jay, co-partner of the firm Park, Lee, & Jeong, takes one associate out to lunch every week. He's the manager of the firm's associates—a role he takes very seriously.
Keonho dips his head down and takes another bite of a potato.
He's a rookie, a first-year. Keonho joined the firm around April-ish, as an early acceptance to the firm's available associate position. After all, he had a fancy honors degree, stellar grades, a 175 on the LSATS, sparkling letters of recommendation, and practically checked all the boxes for what any firm was looking for.
“How's your time been at the firm so far?” Jay asks. His suit has a clean cut, lapels ironed out just right, his tie perfectly centered atop his dress shirt. “I understand you were hired as an associate just a couple months ago.”
“Yes sir, I, uh—”
“No need to call me sir, Keonho. Call me Jay.”
“Sorry, sir,” Keonho internally winces. This is probably the last guy he wants to make a bad impression on.
“So tell me,” Jay cuts a piece of meat in half with his knife and fork, reiterating his previous question. “How's the firm been treating you?”
“It's been great here, honestly.”
Jay smiles. “I'm glad to hear that. Some of our associates find it hard to adjust, at least the first couple weeks.”
“Well the people here are super great,” Keonho confides. “Everyone's really nice.”
Which is true. He isn't just buttering up his experience because he's in front of one of the three managing partners, he really believes everyone is kind there.
“That’s good to know, Keonho,” Jay remarks. “What cases have you worked on so far?”
Next to none. Keonho has been assigned complete busy work—filing this and that, updating client contact lists, organizing files straight from the copy room. The only case he's actually directly helped is a pro bono for some charity fund embezzlement issue—and that ended up going to trial.
“Well, to be honest, not too many. But I'm fine with doing the busy work others don't want to do.” He lies through his teeth at that last part.
“That's a good attitude, young man. You'll get a breakthrough case soon enough.”
Keonho knows better than to put his hopes into Jay’s statement. It's like Santa promising he'll give a gift, but Christmas has already passed.
So he just laughs lightly instead. “I'll have to take you up on that,” he jokes.
It's not hard, he finds, to interact like a lawyer or with a lawyer. He's learned from multiple watches of Ocean's 11, “Don't say seven words when four will do,” or in the words of Shakespeare himself, “Conversation should be witty without affectation”. Which is what Keonho does well, at least in his personal opinion.
There are a bunch of other unspoken rules too, which Martin—a second year associate—is always lecturing Keonho about.
“Don't look down, it says that you're unconfident.”
“Don't touch your hair, or your face—or anything above your shoulders, really. Shows you're nervous.”
“Don't wear a suit costing less than a hundred. Money equals winning. And clients want to win.”
“Always have the last word, except when it's your boss. You never want to win against your boss.”
Martin is best friends with Juhoon, another second-year associate. They’re the literal definition of opposites, but they’re the firm’s dynamic duo among the fresh batch of lawyers. Martin’s the talker, Juhoon’s the thinker. Anytime there’s a deposition which requires both of them, Juhoon drafts up the questions and Martin’s the one who asks them. They’re an odd pair, and that’s exactly what makes them work.
When Keonho gets back to the office—a thirty floor building in the center of the city—after having lunch with Jay, he’s greeted by the knowing faces of Juhoon and Martin at their cubicles.
“Lunch with one of the managing partners, huh?” Martin asks, leaning back on his chair and swiveling the wheels slightly.
Keonho leans his elbows over Martin's cubicle partition. “Everyone knows that Jay takes an associate to lunch at least once every week.”
“Yeah, so he can assign them to a case,” Juhoon says. His speech comes out slightly warbled as he bites his sandwich. “He takes you out to lunch to gauge whether he should assign it to you or not.”
“What?” Keonho did not know that. He knew the implications of a lunch, that whoever’s taking you has taken a keen interest. What was unknown to him was that those implications extended as far as potential candidates for a case.
“Juhoon’s right, rookie,” Martin agrees. “He took us both out to a steak lunch five months ago. Next day, he came to our desk and said we were assigned to a class-action lawsuit with one of the senior partners.”
“Wait, seriously?”
Which meant Jay's promise wasn't entirely empty.
“Man, that must be exciting! Your first case from a managing partner!” Martin exclaims.
“Yeah…I guess,” Keonho responds, not entirely in the moment. He's still trying to process the fact that tomorrow, he might get assigned his first real deal case.
Keonho has an extra pop in his gait when he walks into the building the next day, scanning his ID into the system. He greets the security guard, presses the floor button for every single person in the elevator, and compliments the secretary on his floor. He even sits down happily at his usually dead-feeling cubicle.
“Someone’s chipper,” Martin notices.
“Hm, I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Keonho smiles back.
Jay usually walks through the associate cubicles around noon. By the time Keonho begins working, it’s 8:30. His knee bounces up and down in anticipation, eyes flitting from his computer and looking at the clock every five minutes. At 9, he gets up to go fill a cup of coffee for himself.
The office kitchen is located at the end of the hallway—the safe haven for all overwhelmed employees. Keonho feels his shoulders relax just by walking into the minimally decorated space and the waft of coffee. He takes the pot from out of the machine and fills the white paper cup, steam rising and coffee aroma emanating. He can feel himself zoning out as he mixes in milk and sugar, stirring and staring into space.
What snaps him out of his reverie is the small clacks of heels echoing from the hall, likely coming towards the kitchen. Soon, the echo dissipates, and he hears the person enter the small kitchen. He turns around.
It’s you.
It hits Keonho that he's never actually talked to you before. Except one time when he was in the copy room and needed help with the printer, which you had helped him with wordlessly. Which he’s not even sure counts. He knows who you are, though. Y/n, star paralegal of Park, Lee, & Jeong. You’re the same age as him, though you’ve been working here longer than he has. You’re well known for helping with big cases like mergers, MDLs, and acquisitions, and even having worked on some with the managing partners.
You offer him a polite smile as you make your way to the counter. Your eyes have a tiredness to them, like anyone in the building would have at nine am in the morning.
“Hi,” you say quietly.
“Hi,” Keonho responds.
A small yawn escapes your mouth while Keonho continues…watching you. Watching as you reach up to the cupboard to grab a coffee cup. Watching as you grab four—yes, four—sugar packets from the little box in the corner. Watching you grab a stirrer and a lid and the carton of milk. There’s something enchanting about you, that makes him unable to look away. Maybe it’s the ease with how you move, the dual professionalism and breeziness you seem to carry at the same time.
“Tired?” He asks. What kind of question is that?
“Nah, just grabbing some coffee because I’m super awake.”
You’re funny too, he thinks.
“How’s the Hybe merger coming along? You’re on that, right?” Keonho redirects the conversation. The Hybe merger has been talk of the town recently, of course he’d know that you were working on it.
You let out a tired exhale. “It’s a lot,” you laugh, without any real laughter behind it. “Stayed here ‘til eleven last night. 10:30 the night before.”
Keonho notices that you’re standing closer now—and though he’d like to think that it’s because you find him interesting, he has the realization that you need coffee to pour into your cup. And he’s standing right in front of the coffee cup. And you’re too polite to ask him to move.
“Well, it’s impressive that—”
“There you are!”
You and Keonho turn your heads toward the doorway at the same time. Martin’s booming voice reverberates through the tiny room, effectively catching both of your attention.
And interrupting, Keonho thinks.
“Keonho, Jay’s looking for you,” Martin peeks his head in even more and sees you. “Sorry to interrupt,” he says more sheepishly.
Keonho turns toward you. You have an unreadable expression—something like curiosity in your eyes.
“I’ll—uh, see you around,” he says, pushing himself off the counter with his palms. He ends his sentence with a small lilt, like he’s asking a question.
“See you,” you nod back.
He walks out of the kitchen and meets Martin at the doorway, who looks at him with a knowing smirk. That's another thing Keonho's picked up as a lawyer. There are a million things said in the unspoken.
“Whatever you're going to say, don't,” Keonho warns.
Martin doesn't respond, retaining his smirk and casually shrugging his shoulders. His laidback nature shows in the way he wears his suit at work. His tie is never fully tightened, and his suit jacket always seems a little too big for his already broad frame.
“So, uh,” Keonho has to redirect from whatever Martin was trying to imply. “You said Jay was looking for me?”
Martin stuffs his hands into his pockets. “What'd I tell you, man? Managing partners always assign you something after they have lunch with you. It's a prophetic thing.”
“Prophetic thing?”
“One thing always follows the other, is what I'm saying.”
“Uh-huh,” Keonho directs his gaze forward. “Gotcha.”
They both turn into the associates’ hallway, an assemblage of grays that make the office a typical corporate place—and spot Jay right away. He's standing with his hands in his pockets, slowly walking up and down the associate cubicles, pacing like he's got nowhere to be.
“Uh—Jay!” Martin calls from the corner.
Jay slowly turns around in his perfectly tailored three piece suit.
“Ah, you retrieved the man of the hour for me. Thank you, Martin,” Jay closes the gap between Keonho and Martin, giving the former a firm handshake and the latter a pat on the back. Martin takes that as his cue to go back to his desk.
There’s a small pause before Jay speaks to Keonho, hands still comfortable in his pockets.
“Walk with me,” he states, prompting Keonho to follow him at his side while walking down the hallway.
There are a million thoughts racing through Keonho’s head. His inner voice drifts from excitement about a new case to nervousness of being addressed by a managing partner to complete dread about what this is at all.
“Keonho,” Jay starts, still looking ahead. “After our lunch yesterday, I wanted to talk to you about something. A case, specifically.”
Keonho nods. Martin was right, after all.
“It’s with a landlord, and a longtime client of ours. Yoonchae and I were discussing, and we both decided it would be beneficial to give it to you.”
Jay looks to Keonho while turning the corner.
“Wow—uh—thank you, Jay,” he bows slightly and almost missteps. “It means a lot.”
“This landlord, Mr. Choi, owns an apartment on 48th. His tenant is suing him for wrongful eviction claiming there’s inhabitable conditions. Mr. Choi came to us because he thinks his tenant is lying to him to get out of the fact that they’re withholding rent. I need you to meet with Mr. Choi in the next week, and please,” Jay stops walking. Faces Keonho fully. “Do not bring this to trial. Housing court is just another nuisance, and the firm doesn’t have time to be spending on it. Understand?”
Keonho can’t stop the small grin that spreads across his face. He holds his hand out in front and takes Jay’s into a handshake, providing that as his answer.
A million things said in the unspoken, he thinks.
“Hey.”
Keonho’s earbuds are plugged in, shuffled on a Radiohead and Justin Bieber playlist. He doesn’t hear the small ‘hey’ initially. He feels a light yet impatient tap on his shoulder, and looks up from where he’s seated, gazing overtop the cubicle partition. It’s you. Again.
“Oh, hey,” He slips an earbud out. “What’s up?”
You don’t answer immediately. You lean one elbow on the partition and look at him intently.
“I just wanted to talk to you about something.”
Holy shit. Was this…what Keonho thought it was? Were you about to make a move? Ask him out? Not that he would mind, no he definitely wouldn’t mind. He couldn’t believe—
You hold up your other arm, which is holding a…coffee pot?
“Something you should know,” your voice gets softer as you lean in closer. “Refill the coffee pot when you finish it.”
You don’t give him time to respond, instead retreating away with the coffee pot in your hand, the sound of your heels echoing as you walk further down the hall. He looks over at Martin in his cubicle, who’s snickering into his hand, clearly having seen the whole thing play out. Keonho purses his lips.
Well, shit. He didn’t even realize he’d finished the coffee pot. And of course you’d know it was him, since he was the last person you talked to before getting your coffee. Keonho gets the sense that you have mixed feelings about him. Why would you, after all, go so out of your way to remind him about the coffee? He didn't peg you as the petty type, yet he couldn't help but feel…something. When you leaned in close and quietly remarked he refill the coffee pot next time, was it strange that he found that…intriguing?
Whatever.
He shakes his head, physically redirecting his attention back to the case at hand. It's 2 pm, a couple hours since Jay assigned him the landlord case—and he spent half of that time trying to find Mr. Choi in the client directory.
From what Keonho can tell so far, the case is pretty convoluted almost entirely by the tenant's outlandish claims. Usually this would be an open-and-shut type of thing, but the tenant has gone and complained to the D.A, and is unfortunately now aware that the apartment can’t be searched without a warrant. A fact Keonho was counting on the tenant not knowing.
And that’s the complicated part. Keonho now has to file an affidavit with the police in order to search the apartment, to check if there are any underlying reasons why the tenant may be withholding his rent. Keonho spends the next hour researching the whole situation. The last date the tenant gave his rent, the tenant’s job and salary, Mr. Choi’s history of renting out the apartment, background information on the attorney the tenant hired.
Keonho pushes his chair away from the table, stretching his arms as the wheels roll a couple inches. He makes a mental checklist while letting out a small yawn.
Call and meet Mr. Choi. Fill out the affidavit and send it in to the courthouse. Search the apartment after aforementioned affidavit is signed. And—
One small problem, Keonho realizes. He doesn't know how to fill out and submit an affidavit to search the apartment. Law school always insinuated that he'd learn that on the job.
Whatever. He can't really worry about that anyway until he meets Mr. Choi formally, otherwise it's hearsay.
Which prompts Keonho to call him from the number in the client directory. He puts on his best corporate voice, intentionally lowering his range. Without stuttering, he manages to request Mr. Choi meet him at the office third floor small conference room to discuss the case and hopefully acquire the facts needed to draft up the affidavit. Mr. Choi speaks sharply, and carries the voice of someone who would be a long-term client of the firm.
The other line cuts off with a brief click. Keonho places the phone down from his own end and lets out another small yawn, stretching his arms once again.
“Hey–” he whisper-shouts across the cubicle to Juhoon. “Juhoon!”
Juhoon acknowledges him with a short hm, without looking in his direction. His smooth and perfectly manicured hands continue typing on his computer.
“I need your help with something.”
“What?”
“Drafting an affidavit,” Keonho says, quieter. There’s no need to make his inexperience known to the whole room.
Juhoon’s pause on the keyboard. He gives Keonho a look akin to a skeptical boss.
“Just go to one of the paralegals.”
“I don’t know any of them!”
“Good opportunity to get to know them, then.”
His nonchalance irks Keonho the slightest bit. The only paralegal Keonho’s learned the name of and talked to is you. And considering the latest coffee pot escapade…that was not the top option he wanted to consider.
“Please, just give me a couple pointers.”
Juhoon’s typing pace doesn’t slow. “Have you even met with your client yet?”
“No…but I—”
“Sorry, man, can’t help.”
Keonho’s eyes narrow, half in annoyance. His lips purse together as he leans back in his chair. He runs a hand through his hair, rubs at one of his eyes. This is really happening, then.
He keeps whispering to himself, it’s for the case. It becomes a mantra as he gets up from his desk, as he walks down the hall, as he politely smiles at people as he walks, as he tries to inconspicuously find you in the paralegal cubicles near the end of the hallway wing. She’s not actually upset with me…right? Was she kidding or actually serious about the coffee thing? His thoughts distract him, and he almost misses your desk. Almost. He recognizes your half pinned-up hair, your blouse from this morning.
Keonho doesn’t realize he’s just standing there, just looking. He doesn’t realize multiple paralegals around you are looking at him, probably in confusion as to why an associate is…standing there.
He snaps out of it when you turn in your chair slightly—and catch his suit and slightly askew tie out of the corner of your eye.
“Uh, y/n,” He addresses, your name sounding foreign yet native with his voice at the same time.
Your eyes narrow with the same curiosity they’ve held before. The others’ heads turn back toward their work as Keonho approaches your desk closer. His eyes scan the various items decorating the desk. A picture of you and another girl in long dresses—presumably your friend or sister. A tiny framed photo of you as a kid, with two pigtails and dressed in the most insane outfit ever. There’s another framed polaroid of you at a beach, with a freeness that makes you look…stunning.
“Ahem,” you clear your throat, interrupting Keonho’s self-guided tour of your desk. “Did you need something?”
He takes a slight inhale. “I have to write a testimony, for one of our clients, and—”
“Let me guess,” a small smile curves on your lips. “You don’t know how to do it.”
“I do, but, you know, perjury is a serious offense…and I don’t want to accidentally perjure our client,” he defends.
You raise an eyebrow in skepticism. “Uh-huh. You’re terrible at lying for a lawyer, you know.”
“Is that a yes?”
“Well, I’m not quite sure what you’re asking. Are you saying…you need my help?”
Keonho fights the urge to roll his eyes. You’re having fun messing with him. He knows that you know he needs your help. You just want him to admit it.
“You know what I’m asking.”
“I really don’t.” your slight smirk is a full on smile now. Your head rests in your palm as you look up at him.
“Just,” he pinches his nose bridge. “Can you help me with drafting an affidavit? I meet with the client tomorrow, and it would be helpful if you…were there.”
“Magic word?”
“...Please?”
You roll your tongue in your cheek and smirk at him once more.
“Of course, Keonho,” you drawl, slightly sarcastic. “Email me the time you’re meeting the client and the details of the case. Okay?”
God, you were going to be the end of him. In a bad way or a good way, he wasn’t sure yet.
“Mr. Choi, it’s understood that you have rented out this apartment for over ten years, correct?”
“Yes.”
Keonho leans his elbows on the conference room chair, letting you take the lead. Out of the both of you, you’re the one who knows what you’re doing.
“How many months has your tenant been withholding his rent?” you ask, ready to type on your laptop.
“Since December. Rent’s due at the beginning of the month, so around two months.”
You nod as your fingers furiously type in the information.
“Have you contacted your tenant since the eviction?”
“I’ve tried, but he hasn’t picked up. The only form of contact I’ve gotten was a lawsuit in the mail for wrongful eviction. Claims that the mold of the apartment made it inhabitable, and that I wasn’t performing my role as landlord as suitably as I should’ve.”
“Do you agree with the tenant’s statement, Mr. Choi?”
“Of course not! I got the ventilation fixed in November, so mold shouldn’t have been a problem.”
Keonho looks at you and back at Mr. Choi. Back to you again. His eyes trace your side profile—the curve of your nose, the slight partition of your lips, the concentration in your eyes.
God, fucking focus, he mentally tells himself.
By 4:30, half an hour after Mr. Choi sat down and began telling his part of the story, you’re done drafting up the details for the affidavit.
“I’m going to email this to both of you,” you say. “Please sign it electronically so we can send it to the courthouse. Got it?”
Mr. Choi nods his head, with a solemnity and gratitude, while Keonho is still staring into space.
“Got it?” you reiterate yourself for Keonho, to snap him out of whatever he’s thinking about. You’re unaware that he’s thinking about you.
“Uh, yeah, got it,” he scrambles a couple papers together for something to do with his hands. You just shake your head and let out a scoff that doesn’t have any real malice behind it.
A quiet settles over the room, as you close your computer and let out a small exhale, while Keonho puts all his files in order.
“Do you two work together often?” Mr. Choi asks, somewhat innocently.
You and Keonho both snap your heads toward him, taking that as a not-so-innocent comment.
“No—” you both say at the same time.
“I just started working with her yesterday.”
Mr. Choi nods his head thoughtfully. “You seem to work very nicely together. Both of you.”
You can feel a slight heat rise to your cheeks. Keonho’s equally as bewildered, but he doesn’t let it show quite as much as you do. There shouldn’t even be that much of a reaction to such a comment, but you and Keonho seems to have gotten the gist of what Mr. Choi really meant.
“We’ll be in touch,” you redirect. You and Keonho stand up and each shake hands with him.
Mr. Choi offers a small smile before heading out of the conference room and down the hall in the direction of the elevator, clearly unaware of the awkward situation he just crafted. You sit back down in your chair with an exhale and place your closed laptop in your lap.
“That was…”
“Interesting?” you offer.
“Something like that,” Keonho agrees.
“Whatever. We got the affidavit, all we need to do is get it signed and then approved by the courthouse so we can search the apartment.”
We. That choice of wording doesn’t go unnoticed by him. You’ve gone from calling it his case to both of yours. It elicits a small feeling of happiness, and he isn’t quite sure why.
“Thank you, again. For, you know, helping.” Keonho rolls his chair a little closer, but keeps his gaze fixed on the clock above the door, to make it seem unintentional.
“You’re welcome, Keonho,” you tell him.
God, his name sounds so perfect on your lips, he thinks.
The conference room stillness goes from an awkward silence to a charged feeling. It’s a late realization that you two are the only ones in this room, and—since it’s on the third floor which is mainly for meeting clients—probably the only people in this wing of the hallway.
“I should,” you whisper in the silence. “I should go. I’ve got the Hybe merger that I’m working on as well.”
He catches the small glint in your eye, a look that says you don’t really want to leave.
Keonho breathes. Every sound feels accentuated in this room. “Right,” he clears his throat. “Right, of course.”
You give him a light smile before walking out of the room. His ears fill with the sound of your heels clicking away through the echo-y halls.
And then he’s left alone with his thoughts—the last thing he wants to be left alone with. What just happened? Is he seriously coming down with a crush on a colleague at work? Normally, he would brush something like this aside. In law school, he always shut down people looking for a relationship. It was in his nature. The unaccounted thing, though, was that none of them ever made him feel…like this.
You make him want to spend more time with you. To disregard the case and zone out daydreaming about you. To never learn how to write an affidavit so he can sit next to you and watch you type.
His thoughts make him clutch his hair and let out a groan.
He feels his phone buzz in his pocket.
Email!
Sent from: y/n l/n
<subject> Full affidavit testimony
standard encryption
4:32 PM
Two days after the meeting in the conference room, Keonho gets a scanned copy of the signed affidavit from the courthouse, which gets processed faster than he thought it would. He’s been unintentionally avoiding you those two days after the meeting. When you were both alone in the conference room.
Which is why he chooses to go to the apartment alone.
He already got the keys to the apartment from the District attorney’s office, and has arranged for Mr. Choi to meet him at the complex. He’s already running fifteen minutes late because he forgot to fill gas the evening before, dropped his card under his banged-up Prius while fumbling with his wallet, and missed the turn to the intersection.
By the time he reaches the apartment building, he’s running full speed ahead with his tie flying behind him as he reaches the sliding doors.
“Mr. Choi,” he greets, breathing heavily. “Apologies for the late delay. Should we get started?”
Mr. Choi eyes him up and down, likely looking at his disheveled hair and half-open briefcase.
“Yes…let’s.”
The elevator rattles its way up the way to the fourth floor of the building—Apartment 402 is what he’s looking for. The thing is, the elevator is awfully slow, and Mr. Choi isn’t exactly known to create the most non-awkward situations.
“You and that girl—the paralegal,” Mr. Choi starts.
Uh oh, Keonho thinks. What’s he gonna say this time?
“You two remind me a lot of me and my wife,” Mr. Choi lets out a chuckle. “Well, when we were younger, of course.”
God, could this elevator go any slower?
“Uh…”
“Ah, what am I saying?” He thankfully saves Keonho from dignifying that statement with a response. The elevator dings and cuts the conversation off entirely. Thank god.
The apartment has the smell of mold. That’s for sure. Mr. Choi scrunches his nose, partially because he cannot believe the apartment would actually result in such a thing. Keonho pulls out his phone to take photos. Of the carpet, where the infestation seems to have started, mainly. He reassures Mr. Choi that they’ll be out of the apartment as soon as he collects enough evidence of the scene itself.
There’s a small feeling in his gut that tells him that the firm’s client, his client might actually be in trouble. All the evidence in the apartment did point to the fact that the conditions made it just to withhold the rent. How in the hell was he supposed to fight off this lawsuit?
Keonho suddenly feels bad about not bringing you to search the apartment with him. You had helped him draft the affidavit after all, and that was at least a basic indication that you should’ve been part of the case.
When he gets back to the office, he hesitates before approaching your desk timidly. You’re not there, probably grabbing a coffee or something. He places the files of the photos from the apartment and the records down on your desk. You’ll know they were from him.
Which you do. When you get back from your impromptu coffee run, you see a stack of papers on your desk. They’re in a blue folder—a sign that they’re probably from Keonho. Everyone knows that the associates get blue folders.
You know you’re not supposed to be looking through the items, simply putting a record summary in with the rest of the files, but you can’t help it.
There’s something off about the files he gave you. The photographs, specifically. If mold had begun in December, as the tenant had claimed, there would be stains. Not smells. The water marks in the photos display a rather new-ish looking mark—as if…someone had recently tainted the carpet.
You quickly dig through the folder, finding info on the tenant’s job. There are things written about the position(an assistant stock trader) and the salary(around 60k a year). But nothing about the state of employment. Which is why you find yourself looking at the tenant’s profile on Linkedin, where the status is set to…Open to Work?
It suddenly all clicks.
Of course the tenant would be withholding rent. Not because of the ‘inhabitable conditions’ as he had previously claimed, but because he was out of work. Keonho had checked if his job paid enough to pay rent, but hadn’t bothered to check if the guy was actually unemployed. Which would explain why the pictures of the mold in the apartment seemed relatively new—it was intentionally planted there as a reason for withholding rent.
You write up a rough demand letter, to avoid lawsuit all together and provide a response as the defendant. You know Keonho’s planning to take this folder back, so you place the letter in the folder. You know he’ll find it. You know he’ll know it was you who wrote it. You know that he’ll know you’re the one who solved it.
You get up from your desk with a small sigh—one of satisfaction from being able to find the cracks in this case. It’s with that same satisfaction that you walk towards the associate cubicles down the hall, files in one hand, sugared-up coffee in the other.
It’s been a few hours since you found the files delivered at your desk, which means Keonho is probably still at the office. He’s not at his desk, though, so you drop them off on the wooden table and wordlessly acknowledge the others as you walk back to your own desk.
Keonho gets back from the bathroom, pleasantly surprised by the blue folder on his desk.
You work quickly, he thinks.
He sits down on the chair and goes through the folder to find the record summary he hopes you’ve drafted up. Instead, he’s surprised by two papers which bear no resemblance to a record summary and look more like…demand letters? He leans in, eyes quickly scanning over the words written on the page.
Holy shit.
“The plaintiff’s suit of wrongful eviction by the defendant Mr. Choi with claims of ‘Inhabitable conditions’ on the terms of withholding rent are found baseless with the conclusion that the mold found in the apartment are evidently new and not found to be from December—the initial date of withholdment. The plaintiff’s status of unemployment demonstrates an inability to pay the rent due to a lacking source of income, rendering the claim of wrongful eviction useless.”
Keonho resists the urge to jump up from his chair, wave his arms around, and squeal in delight.
You solved it. You had actually solved it.
His resolve crumbles slightly when he can’t help but laugh into his palm, which attracts the attention of a couple associates near him. He couldn’t care less.
Keonho gathers the folder in his arms and walks—albeit quickly—-towards Jay’s office, a sprawling room that always intimidates Keonho whenever he walks in there.
The elation slightly dissipates when he realizes he has to approach the managing partner, but nonetheless doesn’t quell the immense happiness he feels. Keonho knocks on the glass door, and waits a few seconds before he hears a clear ‘come in’.
“Jay, uh—”
“Ah, Keonho!” Jay proclaims, as soon as he sees who it is. He stands up from his desk and looks at the files in Keonho’s hands. “Got something for me?”
“Yes, uh, the landlord case,” he takes a couple steps forward. “As promised.”
Jay takes the blue folder from Keonho’s hand. There’s a silence as he reads the front page—the demand letter to avoid the lawsuit.
“We can either send in the demand letter in the folder, or convince the plaintiff to settle.”
“Hm,” Jay acknowledges. He flips through all the files. “What do you think?”
“What?”
“What do you think? Do you suggest we avoid the lawsuit or convince the tenant to settle?” The way Jay asks it, he’s framing it as a test—not an actual question. It was his indirect way of seeing if Keonho could actually close out this case.
“Uh,” Keonho straightens his shoulders. “I suggest we send in the demand letter. If we settle, it will bring the case into the system and could result in housing court. And…you made it very clear you did not want to bring it to trial.”
Jay nods, with the reverence of a master for his student, putting one hand in his pocket and leaning the other on his desk. “Nice job, Keonho. This is…beyond impressive. The fact that you even thought to look for unemployment with the tenant. Good idea. That’s thinking outside the box.”
It’s with that statement that Keonho realizes he should probably have you here too. You were the one who did the thinking outside the box. You were the one who drafted the affidavit that even made it possible to search the apartment. You were the one who discovered the crucial piece of information about the mold. You were the one who made the connection that the mold was recent, and you were the one who tied it all together to avoid a lawsuit altogether.
“Keonho?” Jay snaps him out of his thought process and closes the folder with satisfaction.
“Oh! Uh—thank you sir,” he bows. And mentally slaps himself.
Because he just took the credit for a case that you technically won.
Which is why, when Jay dismisses him from his office, Keonho finds himself looking for you. It's guilt, he tells himself. Nothing else. So when he finds you in the kitchen on what he can guess is at least your third cup of coffee, it makes it that much harder to tell you the truth.
“Oh, Keonho! Did you look at the folder I put back on your desk?”
“Yeah,” He gulps. “About that, I—”
“I'm so glad I went through and looked at the photographs. I knew something wasn't adding up,” you shake your head with a smile. “Anyway, should we go see Jay now? Show off our incredible win?”
“Y/n.”
That catches you off guard. The way he looks serious, solemn almost. How he's saying your name not as a congratulation but as if he's…regretful?
“...yeah?”
“Listen, I,” He runs a hand through his hair. “I went to see Jay already.”
Your smile curves a little less. “Oh, ok. No worries. You told him that I wrote that demand letter, though, right?”
Keonho's eyebrows, always so expressive, curve upward in pity. His eyes tell you all you need to know.
“You…you told him that it was me who figured it out, right? That the plaintiff was lying?" Your smile is completely gone now, lips parted and slightly desperate.
“I—y/n, you have to understand—”
You scoff. “I can't believe you.”
“Y/n, please, I didn't get the chance to—”
“To what?” You cut him off curtly. Sharply. “To admit that it was me who won your case? You couldn't have taken two seconds to tell him that I did all of that?”
“Hey, I didn't ask you to solve it.”
You flinch slightly at how his voice raises. Keonho wishes he can take back everything he just said. Everything he just did.
“I'm sorry, weren't you the one asking me to help you write the testimony? Weren't you the one who wordlessly dropped those files on my desk for the record summ—”
“Because that's your goddamn job!”
And there it is. He can't stop the words from tumbling out of his mouth. He can't stop the way that hurt paints your face. He can't stop the wave of emotion he feels when you shakily exhale and your eyes turn glossy.
“Well,” your voice trembles. “Maybe you should learn how to do yours.”
You don't give him the chance to respond.
A week goes by. Keonho feels terrible and he hasn’t talked to you in days. He’s seen you around, getting coffee or grabbing something from the printer. Even Martin’s noticed, and he’s usually too caught up in his own problems—which means something is definitely wrong.
Jay’s happy with him, though. He gives Keonho a smile whenever he walks past him in the hall. It feels wrong. He’s getting recognition for something he didn’t do.
The morning Keonho arrives at work, a rainy and cold Thursday, the atmosphere feels different. Tired. He sits down at his desk with a large sigh, and opens his inbox to a hell ton of emails. An hour goes by of him doing just that—busy work.
“Keonho,” he hears. He looks up.
It’s Mark. Aka, Mark Lee, another managing partner of Park, Lee, & Jeong. Keonho has never actually spoken with the guy before.
“Oh—hi,” Keonho scrambles up from his desk and immediately bows, taking Mark’s hand in a firm shake.
“Can I see you in my office?” Mark asks. He doesn’t wait for Keonho to respond, walking away before he can say anything.
Mark is probably the most intimidating out of the three managing partners. He’s got chiseled features and makes eye contact like it’s second nature, plus he’s got an extraordinary track record with over 96% of cases won at trial. Keonho can see why.
When he reaches Mark’s office, he has that same dreadful feeling wash over him. Is he in trouble?
“Keonho, please,” Mark gestures to the couch. “Take a seat.”
He does.
“Jay told me about your recent case with Mr. Choi, a client of ours. I was looking over the case,” he nods thoughtfully. “Impressive job.”
Keonho purses his lips into a smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Thank you.”
“Which then prompted me to look at you, specifically,” Mark says. He grabs a packet from the coffee table in the center and flips a page over. “You have even more impressive stats. A 175 on the LSATS, not one but three letters of recommendation from highly esteemed law professors, you were a national speech and debate comp winner at sixteen. Keonho, this is truly remarkable.”
“Thank you again, Mark.”
“Which is why I’d like to put you on a special case—one that I’ll be supervising but you’ll be working on. It’s a malpractice suit for Mr. Hendery Wong, another previous client of ours. He's suing because a hip replacement surgery went wrong and his left leg is now paralyzed.”
Keonho nods, folding his hands in his lap.
“Do you think you can handle the responsibility?”
“Yes, sir,” Keonho replies. “I can.”
“Good. I’m going to have you work with Ms. L/n, she’s been on a malpractice case before as assistant paralegal—it’ll be good to have someone with experience.”
Keonho freezes. He’s been avoiding you for days—only to be working closely with you again? He’s not even sure you’ll want to see his face, much less talk to him everyday on a high-stakes lawsuit.
“Sounds good,” he croaks.
He’s already counting down the minutes before he’ll see you again. You’ve probably already gotten an email from Mark, and it’s only a matter of time before he’s sitting across from you in a conference room, being briefed on a case he knows you won’t want to work on with him.
“So…we’re working together.”
“Mhm,” you reply, barely acknowledging him, fidgeting with your hands instead.
“Y/n, I know you’re probably angry with me, but—”
You snort. “You’re right about something. For once.”
Keonho’s about to retort when he hears the clearing of Mark’s throat in the door of the conference room. His arm is carrying a thick binder.
“Glad both of you could make it. Should we get started?”
You and Keonho both nod as Mark sits down at the head of the table, opening the binder with a large thud. The meeting takes about an hour and half. Mainly because malpractice cases like these are complicated and multi-layered. Especially this one in particular.
Hendery Wong is a 32 year-old getting a hip-replacement surgery at Central Hospital. After the surgery, performed by Doctor Lee Jeno, he’s left paralyzed in his left leg for an unresolved amount of time. He’s suing for malpractice and personal negligence against the doctor.
At the end of the meeting, Mark tells you both that he’s already called Hendery along with a nurse who was present during the surgery. After he leaves the room, you leave promptly, not even giving Keonho any sort of acknowledgement of working together.
THE NEXT DAY
Hendery and Nurse Kim sit right next to each other. Keonho and you sit across from them. You can feel the slight brush of Keonho’s knee against yours, expensive fabric brushing against your skirt. You try to pay it no mind.
“So,” you clear your throat. “I understand, Mr. Wong, that you’re suing for malpractice, correct?”
“Correct.” Hendery looks a little younger than his age, facial features giving off mid-20s as opposed to his actual age of 32. He’s an engineer, and you can certainly tell by the worn-down look on his face.
“Can you walk me through the procedures before the surgery?”
You can see a little hesitation in his eyes, while Nurse Kim looks over at him. She puts a hand over his and rubs her thumb gently over his knuckles.
“It’s ok, Hendery. Go ahead,” she tells him.
You look at Keonho. He looks at you. You both must be thinking the same thing because your eyes flit to Hendery and Nurse Kim’s conjoined hands and then back at Keonho. You send him a look that says something along the lines of, Are you seeing what I’m seeing?
“Uh—please, go ahead, Mr. Wong. Keonho and I are listening,” you reassure. You try to keep your attention off of the fact that Nurse Kim and Hendery are…awfully close.
“Dr. Lee and I agreed to a hip replacement surgery about two weeks before the actual surgical date. Nurse Kim here was my attending nurse a couple…hours before the surgery. Before I went under, my legs were fine. I could walk properly and everything. When I came out, my left leg was paralyzed, and I was never warned about that risk.”
You nod, tapping your foot on the ground beneath the table.
“So,” Keonho begins. “Are you and Nurse Kim—Ow!”
You stomp his foot under the table. Not the time, idiot. Hendery gives Keonho a worried look but doesn’t act on it.
“Uh, sorry. Did you have a previous condition that could have affected the results of the surgery?” Keonho asks.
Nurse Kim looks down. Odd.
“Yes, nerve palsy. It was on my chart.”
Keonho furrows his brow and pulls Hendery’s medical chart from the files given by Mark. He initially holds them with both his hands before glancing toward you and sliding the paper so you can see it as well. The action doesn’t go unnoticed by you.
“Y/n,” he whispers, bringing his lips close to your ear. You shiver slightly at the warmth and proximity. “Is there nerve palsy on the chart?”
Your eyes scan the paper. There isn’t. You look at him and shake your head no. Something’s up, you both can tell.
You and Keonho talk to Hendery and Nurse Kim for a little longer, the meeting extending about fifteen minutes. When it’s ended, Nurse Kim walks with Hendery out of the room, who takes some time because of his crutches.
Keonho has a barrage of thoughts as he lifts up his hand to ring the doorbell to your apartment. You had given him the address at the end of the meeting with Hendery, albeit hesitantly. But you had also told him you did not want to discuss the case at ‘whatever hellhole of an apartment he lived in’.
He can hear the murmur of footsteps on the other side of the door when he rings the bell. When you open it, he swears he feels his breath catch.
You’re in a hoodie and sweatpants, and your hair is in a bun with multiple strands flying loose—clearly you’ve been working since you got home. And somehow, you look the prettiest Keonho’s ever seen you.
“By all means, stand out here all day,” you roll your eyes at him awkwardly standing outside your door. You open the door a little more before walking back into the living room and letting Keonho shut it when he enters.
Your apartment is very…you. It’s a little messy, there are papers scattered across almost all the tabletops of the living room and kitchen, along with tons of pictures pinned on the walls. He cracks a small smile.
“Sit,” you say from your living room couch. God, you look beautiful in the dim lighting and your messy bun and your hoodie and—
“Right. Yeah,” he slides off his shoes and makes his way over to the couch, dropping his bag down on the floor.
“You saw it too, right?” you ask him as he sits on the couch.
“Saw what?”
“Nurse Kim and Hendery. Do you think they’re…seeing each other?”
“You think they were holding hands for fun?” Keonho pokes fun. The joke clearly doesn’t reach. “Are you…still mad at me?”
You breathe through your nose and focus your attention on one of the files. Keonho takes that as a yes on your part.
“If you are—”
“You know what your problem is?” Your voice is loud and definitive. “You feel this—this need to prove what a good lawyer you are.”
“Excuse me?”
“Yeah, I know about all your previous cases—which, by the way, I can count on one hand. You, for some reason, want to prove that you can be a good lawyer.”
Keonho scoffs. “You’re being ridiculous.”
“I’m right and you know it. Why else would you take the credit for the case that I won?”
“Hey, that’s not fair,” Keonho can feel his own voice making a crescendo. “Jay assigned that case to me. I had to show him I could handle it.”
“Exactly.”
“No! It’s different, it’s completely different,” he defends.
“It’s not,” you get softer. “Keonho, I don’t know why you think you do, but you don’t have to prove anything to anyone. I get it, believe me. I’ve worked with lawyers who constantly underestimate my abilities. The only person you have to prove something to is yourself.”
He notices that through this argument, you’ve moved closer. Your knees are spaces away from touching his. Keonho desperately wants to pull you close, and tell you he’s sorry. Sorry for everything. He wants to laugh with you and admire you and talk to you.
“I’m sorry,” he whispers. His hand reaches out and puts itself atop yours. He can feel you physically stiffen and thinks to pull away, but he doesn’t.
“It’s ok,” you whisper.
Keonho scoots closer on the couch, close enough that now, your knees are touching—faces inches apart. If he wanted to kiss you right now, he really could. He could just lean in and you’d be…there.
“Can I…”
Your eyes bear into his as he trails off. Your faintly aware of his hand still on yours, and you tighten your grip. As if reading his mind, which you’ve probably gotten good at from working at a law firm, you lean in—
—and share the faintest brush of a kiss.
TRIAL DAY
“Please rise for the Honorable Judge Yang.”
The three people at your bench stand up—you, Keonho, and Hendery. You’ve been in court before, you’ve sat through hundreds of court proceedings. So why does this feel so much more nerve-racking?
“You may be seated.”
Keonho stands up first, as the general rules dictate for the plaintiff.
“Your honor, my client was a victim of the negligence of Dr. Lee Jeno when undergoing a hip replacement surgery. The risk of paralysis was never relayed to my client, and therefore warrants the lawsuit of ten million dollars for malpractice.”
You can’t help but admire Keonho in what seems to be his natural state—the courtroom, and all the responsibilities that come with it.
The defendant’s attorney, Soyeon, stands up with the same confidence, adjusting the buttons of her suit jacket.
“Your honor, the risk of paralysis was never relayed because the plaintiff’s condition of nerve palsy was never on the chart. I’d like to call Nurse Kim to the witness stand to testify.”
Keonho and you exchange a glance. It’s okay. You prepared for this possibility.
Nurse Kim is visibly nervous when she takes to the stand and says her oath as a witness. She sits down as Soyeon begins asking questions. Things like, how long have you been working and other details about the case.
“Were you in a secret relationship with Mr. Wong?”
Nurse Kim’s eyes go wide. She immediately looks to Hendery, who shares the same shock—to a lesser extent.
“I…”
“I’d like to remind you that you are under oath. Perjury is a serious criminal offense, Ms. Kim.”
Nurse Kim looks down at her hands on her lap. “I—we—were.”
You can hear the small waves of gasps throughout the room, including the jury.
“Had Mr. Wong ever told you about his nerve palsy before the surgery? Has there ever been a time you two were alone together and he might’ve told you? And if he did tell you, did you purposely withhold information so that your relationship with your own patient would not be exposed?”
“Objection, your Honor! Speculative,” Keonho proclaims.
“Overruled. Please continue, counselor.”
Soyeon sends an arrogant look in Keonho’s direction before proceeding.
“Nurse Kim?” She prompts.
The nurse keeps her gaze fixated on Hendery, who is beginning to piece together the fact that his love might have not told the full truth. That when the moment mattered most, his love chose not to say anything about the existing condition that would have caused his paralysis.
“Yes!” she cries. “I loved him and there was only a one percent chance he would have suffered a paralysis like that!”
Keonho groans into his hand. He can come up with a defense for it. He has to.
“Your Honor,” he says standing up. “Nurse Kim is indicating that Mr. Wong did in fact tell her about the nerve palsy. She is a licensed professional, meaning that if was given medical information and did nothing to act upon it, she’s due for personal negligence. And since she is an associated nurse to Dr. Lee…” he looks at you. You give him a smile and encourage him to keep going. “...Then the doctor is, by law, guilty of malpractice.”
You’re proud of him. Hendery, who’s beside you, is distraught of course—he’s on the verge of winning the lawsuit, but Nurse Kim will likely serve time along with Dr. Lee. There’s no doubt that he’d be upset.
“Thank you, counselor,” Judge Yang concludes with a bang of his gavel. “We will take a twenty minute break, where the jury will discuss the case. We’ll reconvene at noon.”
Keonho sits back down, and finds your hand under the table.
“Nice job, counselor,” you say under your breath.
When you, Keonho, and Hendery leave the building, you can’t help but jump and hug Keonho tightly.
“We won! I can’t believe we won, Keonho!”
He drops his briefcase to the ground, and wraps both arms around your waist, hugging you back just as tightly. He hears a laugh spill as he spins you around—and swears that it’s the most beautiful sound he’s ever heard.
“Um—” Hendery’s voice interrupts the moment. “—I’d like to thank you both. I can’t even begin to tell you how grateful I am.” He winces as he shifts his weight onto one crutch.
“Sir, there’s nothing to say. We’re just doing our job,” Keonho replies.
We. He said we, you think. Our job. That one word alone makes your heart do little jumps. The idea that Keonho thought of this case as more than a paralegal and a lawyer. He said we.
“Anyway,” Hendery lets out a sigh. “I better go call a cab.”
“Of course, of course,” you usher him towards the edge of the sidewalk.
Keonho watches with an almost lovesick expression as you say goodbye to Hendery, your kind nature on full display.
“Y/n,” he catches your attention as you turn back around, walking toward him, Hendery now waving his hand in his crutches for a taxi. Keonho’s slightly distracted by the way the wind breezes through your hair. “About that night…in your apartment…”
You're silently thankful Keonho’s the one who brings that up instead of you. “Yeah?”
“I liked it,” he confesses. “I really, really liked it. And I really, really like you.”
“Keonho—”
“And I know I fucked things up and I was a complete idiot. I know I probably don’t deserve you, because you’re—well—you, but—”
You cut off his absolutely incessant rambling with a kiss to his lips, pulling him by his black and blue tie. Keonho’s eyes widen slightly, taken aback by your bold action. He quickly adapts, though, and doesn’t miss a beat. His arm tightens around your waist while your hands curl into his suit jacket and tie.
So this is what it feels like to win a case, he thinks.
ONE MONTH LATER
You are absolutely drop-dead gorgeous. That’s the first and only thing that goes through Keonho’s mind when he sees you at the company dinner. You’re wearing a long, black dress with a shimmering gold necklace and hoop earrings, and your hair is half pinned up with a couple strands falling down. Like he said, drop-dead gorgeous.
“Hi,” you say, almost shyly, as you approach him in his suit—probably the most expensive thing he’s ever worn. “You look nice.”
Keonho slides an arm around your velvet-clad waist and brings you closer, almost causing you to misstep in your heels. “You look…absolutely stunning, y/n.”
You tilt your head down and smile, holding back a laugh. There are tons of people around, co-workers scattered throughout the hall. Otherwise, he would pull you into his arms and kiss you. He has half the mind to do that, actually.
“I would offer you some champagne, but,” he leans closer, so his lips are brushing your ear. “It’s kind of awful.”
You snicker and turn your head. Your lips are centimeters away from his. “How gentleman-ly of you,” you tease.
He guides you by the small of your back towards a small corner tucked on the outskirts of the hall, hidden by the turn you have to make to get there. Keonho catches the glances he gets from such close proximity with you—a lawyer and a paralegal both definitely too close to be acquaintances. He gets a wink from Martin, and rolls his eyes. He pays no attention as he brings you to around the corner, a little hideout of privacy beyond the tons of lawyers in the hall.
“Couldn’t wait, huh?”
He wraps both arms around your waist, pulling you even closer. “Nope,” he says, pressing a swift kiss to your cheek. “You look beautiful tonight.”
“You mentioned that,” you reply as a sarcastic remark, wrapping both hands around his neck.
Keonho slowly but surely leans in, and you close the distance to meet him halfway. Your eyes flutter shut as you indulge in this kiss, of which you can taste the sweet remnants of champagne on his lips. He tilts his head and pulls you even closer by your waist while your hand slides from the nape of his neck to his cheek.
You can hear the 2000s music playing from the hall, some spotify playlist definitely made by some bored associate—full of Madonna, Sade, and Gwen Stefani. A remix of “Luxurious” as Keonho continues to hold you close and tight in his arms.
In champagne kisses, hold me in your lap of luxury
How fitting, as the taste of sweet champagne continues to fill your senses.
Working so hard every night and day
And now we get the pay back
“Surprised you’re not talking my ear off about litigation,” Keonho whispers against your lips.
“Oh, should I?” you smile. “I can tell you all about capital offenses. Or indictments by grand jury. Would you like that?”
“Very much.”
It’s then that Keonho realizes this is his very own binding contract—fiduciary duty that meant sharing every burden of yours. The case he won with you by his side, the trial where he stood next to you,
dailybridgerton
ellievsbear
turnnoffyourmind
blakekathryn
areudirty
yousharknotpass
romaincrisis
