An unexpected visit changes things between you and Minghao.
ONE | TWO | THREE | FOUR
⋮ ⌗ art student!minghao x business student!reader, non-idol au, university au, bsf!vernon and bsf!joshua, slight academic rivals 2 lovers, business major slander (from an ex business student, unrealistically generous extra credit assignments, gender neutral reader, light angst, fluff, light drinking
⋮ ⌗ so….. i wrote this in one night powered by a single redbull so suffice it to say this may not be written the best… i just wanted it posted lowkey
⋮ ⌗ 2.7k words
“And then he had the audacity to call me cynical!”
Your hands gesture around wildly. Joshua, turning around to check his blind spot, exhales in disbelief.
You were so enthralled in your summary (well, rant is a more appropriate descriptor, Joshua thinks) of the nightmare meeting with Minghao you just had, that you didn’t even realise you already reached your dorm. Has Joshua even had a chance to say a word yet?
Nevertheless, you go on.
“Can you believe that? I mean, jeez, I don’t care what people think about my degree, but who talks to another person like that? Unbelievable… I’ve never met a person with such an insane superiority complex before.”
Joshua is finally offered an opportunity to speak as he pulls into the closest parking space to your door, “Sounds like it was a disaster, to say the least.”
“That’s definitely saying the least.”
“Are you planning to pull out of this project then? Or see it through?”
“I don’t know,” you groan, “I kind of need this.”
Joshua turns off the engine and turns to face you, “It’ll be okay. I’m sure of it. It’ll be over in a week and then you’ll be able to ignore Xu Minghao all you like.”
You hum, “I guess so… God, I don’t even wanna hear his name.”
Joshua chuckles, “Alright, well, I’ve gotta head off now. Good luck with he-who-will-not-be-named.”
You thank him, heading off to your room with a wave and a promise of owing him a favour. Vernon will be the next victim to your anti-Minghao propaganda train.
By the time a couple days pass, you’ve lightened up about the whole situation.
Kind of.
Everyone you know—besides your parents, God knows you’d never contact them willingly—has heard about your ‘enemy’ Minghao and how far up his ass he is. Okay, maybe you were being a bit dramatic, but who could blame you? You basically retold the events verbatim to everyone, and they all agreed that he was an asshole. You were almost one second away from going on Reddit with a post titled ‘AITA for providing my college project partner with honest feedback?’
Vernon had to wrangle your phone out of your hands to delete the draft himself. Killjoy.
Today was spent finishing up the final touches on the PowerPoint. Researching the use of art in business was a harrowing ordeal; you found it exceptionally difficult to present the benefits of integrating art into anything after the damned café meeting. It’s not like you disagree, anyone would prefer to work in an aesthetically pleasing environment—you just can’t deal with the concept of agreeing with Minghao.
Despite having to fight your petty biases, the PowerPoint came out pretty well. You changed the colours and layout to something more ‘professional’, and even found time to finish writing up speaker notes for both you and Minghao.
You wanted to be the bigger person. That’s all! He has to write his own description for whatever his painting will be anyway!
By 9 o’clock, you’re comfortably wrapped up in your bed; freshly showered, vitamin C face mask on, bowl of fruit salad in hand. It’s going to be a real good night, you think.
Keyword 'think'. Because what ‘enemy’ who lives up to their name would let you have a good night, right?
You’re scouring a free film site (because you’d never pay for a streaming service under a student’s budget) when your phone vibrates. Assuming it’s Vernon passive aggressively reminding you to wash your dishes, or maybe just an advert from the 10 random games you downloaded while bored out of your mind in lectures, you pick up the phone without second thought.
You’re met with the devil himself plaguing your lockscreen.
‘There’s a problem. Call me asap’
You freeze, only moving after 30 seconds or so to finish chewing the strawberry in your mouth. You had this whole thing planned out: at most, the two of you may exchange a couple texts to confirm you finished your part of the project, then you’ll do the stupid presentation and never talk again.
So what problem is dire enough for him to need you to help? Surely he’d be too proud to even admit he has one?
A sadistic part of you wants to ignore the message and let him fuck up the presentation. A slightly less sadistic part wants to ignore the message until the morning, letting panic eat him up for the rest of the night while you spend yours in self-care bliss.
But there’s a smaller part of you, a louder one, that wants to know. It takes over, and after a few minutes of inner turmoil, you betray your morals to commit a grand gesture of self-sabotage by opening up Minghao’s contact, and pressing ‘call’.
You shove your phone back into your pocket. You’re stood outside a small apartment complex, debating on whether or not to just turn tail and run while you can.
But you can’t. Because you’re an idiot.
An idiot who told Xu Minghao they’d help him finish his fucking painting.
He sounded frustrated, when you called him last night—not at you, believe it or not, but at his fourth discarded canvas. He described his ideas as lacking inspiration, no true portrayals of the artwork’s potential, as well as his own.
You said he’s just out of his element, that he jumped to criticising what he didn’t understand and that you were right all along. He said he’s just lacking a muse, and that your ‘particular perspective’ might help push things along.
You told him to just admit that he was wrong. He wouldn’t, but he had already lost enough dignity to ask you to come over. So, here you are, shifting around outside his apartment building like a dog tied to a fence, waiting for its owner to come out of the store.
An elderly woman appears around the corner, donning a pink puffer coat and a deep smile. Her smile brightens further upon meeting your eye, “Forgotten your key? Happens to me weekly!”
You giggle shyly, “Ah, no—I’m waiting for someone.”
“Oh!” she leans back, eyebrow raised in lighthearted confusion, “Mister Boo, I assume? A popular one, he is.”
“Oh, no, I’m waiting for Xu Minghao, if you know him...?”
She pauses, squinting her eyes before slowly nodding.
“Well! Is that so?” she exclaims, as she punches in the code to open the door, “How silly of him to leave you out here in the cold. Come on in love, you can bang on his door yourself.”
A bit naïve, you think, for her to just let a stranger in like that, but maybe you just have a friendly, do-gooder face.
“You do know him then?” you ask, holding open the door for her to walk in through first.
“Of course! He’s in the one across from me. Sweet boy, just quiet…” She heads towards the hallway stairs, motioning for you to follow. “Forgive me for assuming, but you two are lovers, yes?”
Huh?
“I—er…”
She lets out a slow, hearty laugh, “No, no, ignore me… I’m prying. I’m just happy to see him with friends.”
You don’t say anything for the rest of the hike up the staircase, rendered completely speechless from the woman’s comments. Lovers? Really? And why didn’t you deny it?!
The two of you eventually reach Minghao’s apartment after some short small talk, wishing each other well before she heads into her own. With a deep sight and sweaty palms, you knock on the door.
Nothing.
You knock again. This time, you hear movement from within. The grey door swings wide open, knocking something out of view over with a clank.
Minghao swears under his breath, “It’s like everything’s going wrong…”
He looks… interesting. His glasses have been discarded (they were just for decoration before, then), his hair is a tad messier, brushed away from his eyes. What you unconsciously fixate on first, though, is the specks and marks of paint scattered across his skin. The apron he’s donning seems have failed at keeping its wearer clean, but he doesn’t look… too terrible. Objectively speaking, he at least looks like the textbook definition of a romanticised tortured artist.
Not that you’re romanticising him or anything! You’re just giving him credit where credit’s due!
“Well,” you shrug, “I’m here in your apartment. It can’t really get worse from here.”
“Hm.”
You step in, taking off your shoes. You steal a couple glances as he leans down, picking up what looks to be a bottle of wine. He brings it up towards the window, its foil cap shimmering in the sunlight before sighing.
“Looks fancy.” You comment, unsure whether you meant it as a dig or a genuine observation. Regardless, he replies in earnest.
He doesn’t listen, grabbing two glasses off the counter, “I’ll need to use it up anyway, the bottle cracked. Unless you don’t drink?”
You rub your arm. “No, I do.”
“Perfect.” He hands you a glass while taking a sip of his own. You expect him to pretentiously ramble about the wine’s texture, aroma, aftertaste, flavour notes, then chastise you for not knowing wine-tasting terminology—but he doesn’t. He just sighs again, sounding more tired than the last, and turns around to face the back corner of the room.
You turn to match his gaze and finally take a moment to look around his home. You wonder if it looks like this on most days, with heavily frayed brushes and bottles of paint in every colour obstructing 70% of the floor, canvases of various sizes piled up around a large easel.
A silence passes over the room, calm and uncertain. Minghao rubs his temple.
“I’ve gone through four different drafts, and none of them work.”
You blink, thinking carefully about what to say, for once. Minghao pisses you off, it’s true, but you’re not evil. You have enough emotional intelligence to discern that he’s stressed, one more discarded draft away from being at the end of his tether. You don’t like him, but you don’t feel a need to treat him like he killed your family.
“Show me.” you say, softly but without condescension.
“They’re not good.”
“Anyone would think that after sweating over them for half a week.”
He bites the inside of his cheek. He seems also be struggling with his own internal dialogue, and the only assumption that comes to mind is that he may be unsure about whether you’d make fun of him or not. Nervous about it, even.
Yet you try to pull your mind away from this narrative, there’s no way he’d actually care about what you think anyway.
But if that were the case, why would he invite you over?
“Truthfully… I’ve never painted before, so I’m probably not the best person for you to ask.”
“Seriously? Never?” he turns to face you, eyes peering through his fringe.
“Well, of course I've tried to, but that was when I was a kid...”
“Why did you stop? You can always pick it back up again.”
“I don’t really have time,” you brush his advice off, “Plus, I’d hardly be good at it.”
“You have time,” he insists, shaking his head, “And art is subjective, I don’t agree with the idea that art can be graded based on technicalities. A talented artist is one who can make others feel something from their work, whatever it may be. You could find a hyperrealisic portrait and it might still have no soul.”
He’s rambling, sounding as ostentatious as usual again. You feel a small urge to roll your eyes but decide against it.
"Well, if art is so subjective, let me have my own subjective opinion on your drafts, then."
He sighs in defeat, kneeling in front of one of the haphazardly placed piles of canvases, and you do the same. They’re all set face-down, like he didn't ever want to look at them, and you watch as he reveals each canvas, one by one.
All the pieces are obviously unfinished, but the idea behind it is still evident. The first is of geometric shapes, in muted blues, greys, and whites, like something you’d see in Silicon Valley. The second is bolder, with brighter colours and more abstract, pure sensation for the sake of it. He seemed to have tried taking a different approach with the third, a realistic scene of an open field promoting freedom but coming off more like a carrot being dangled in front of a horse—out of reach.
They’re not anywhere near as bad as he made them out to be. You actually think they’re really good. You’re no expert on paintings—or art at all, on that matter—but you don’t have to be a chef to know if you like the food.
The fourth one is also very different, but enough to make your breath hitch. It’s the least finished looking out of all of them, but that’s not what makes you stop. Its primarily empty, the whole canvas swallowed in dark blue and black. There are outlines of what looks to be office furniture, messily sketched with no real sense of depth.
“Minghao…” his name slips from your tongue by accident, but you’re too stunned to care, “This one is beautiful…”
“What are you saying? This is easily the worst one, it’s not even finished. Look at the—"
For the next five minutes he rants frustratedly, calling it “meaningless” when to you... it’s anything but.
To you, it looks like a memory, or even your future. Looking at it, you feel a sense of familiarity; you have felt just as small and unfinished as this painting, when your parents would emphasise again and again that this is where you’re supposed to be, leaving you with nothing else left to show.
After Minghao's monologue of self-criticism, something dawns on you—you’ve both been thinking about this all wrong.
“This… This is what I meant back at the café.” you declare, pointing at the last painting.
His head tilts, mouth opening to say something, but the words don’t come out. You don’t know it yet, but he’s scared that the moment of authenticity being shared between you two means nothing. The quarrel at the café was stupid, and he was hoping to patch things up by inviting you over in a time of vulnerability, but if you’re still so intent on winning the argument then this was all for naught.
“I… didn’t mean to insinuate that art has no place in a business setting,” you begin, “I wasn’t asking you to make art that loses itself to what businesses want.”
His anxiety settles upon hearing your words. He doesn’t say anything, no snarky rebuttals, no attempts at cutting you off. Rather, he continues to fully face you, listening intently.
“You proved your own point, too,” you gesture towards the fourth painting, “At the café, you said if people didn’t get it, that wasn’t the work’s fault. And maybe that’s true. But what was it you said earlier? That artistic talent comes from the viewer feeling something?”
You shuffle towards the fourth painting, “The first thing I thought about this one was not the colour choices or the adaptability. The only thing I could think about was how it made me feel.”
He looks away from you, slowly averting his gaze towards the painting he hated so passionately but you loved. He doesn’t ask how you feel—not because he doesn’t want to know, he definitely does; he wants to climb into your mind and see the beauty he’s struggling to find.
“You got in my head a bit, at the café,” he murmurs, voice quiet and hesitant as he contemplates his words, “I tried to make something I’m used to, and when that didn’t feel right, I tried making something I thought would be more adaptable to you told me a business would want.”
“And…?” you grin, teasingly.
“You were right.”
He smiles back—a beautiful sight, you think, in this atmosphere. He doesn’t grace you with it for long, turning away from your proud eyes, embarrassed.
To your surprise, you don’t feel triumphant, or like you’ve finally won the argument. You just feel… relieved. Like a new leaf has been turned over between the two of you.
“I guess we were both being a little dramatic,” you purse your lips, “I thought petty fights like this would end in high school.”
He looks you up and down, slowly, then at the paintings lined up beside you two.
“I… think I have an idea for the final painting.”
do not copy / translate / repost without permission ! all works are written by a human ! dividers by @cursed-carmine
Minghao meets with you for coffee and a discussion. Things don’t go quite how you planned.
ONE | TWO | THREE | FOUR
⋮ ⌗ art student!minghao x business student!reader, non-idol au, university au, bsf!vernon and bsf!joshua, slight academic rivals 2 lovers, business major slander (from an ex business student, unrealistically generous extra credit assignments, gender neutral reader, light angst, fluff
⋮ ⌗ im kinda mean to fancy cafes here but if u have ever been to THAT type of strangely way TOO fancy cafes then yk the vibe… its on the other side of the same coin those expensive hipster burger places are on
⋮ ⌗ 2.4k words
You woke up an hour later than you were supposed to.
It’s a Saturday, 10AM. The sun was out, but it wasn’t blinding or overbearing. Clouds were still scattered, floating overhead, and the sweet spring smell of pollen and freshly cut grass wafted through your open window.
Minghao, like some sort of psychopath, asked to meet at 10:30 (this being his only period of free time, apparently) at a coffee shop twenty minutes away from campus. Upon reading that message two nights ago, you wondered if this was the reason he had no friends.
Well, who were you to judge? You only had two close friends here.
Upon realising your tardiness, you had to rush through your morning routine like it was an Olympic sport. Skincare, outfit, hair, finishing touches. Thankfully for you—and this possibly singlehandedly saved you from leaving a terrible impression on your cute project partner—you had decided on your outfit the night before.
You had a feeling Minghao cared about fashion.
You whipped out your phone, tempted to call Joshua and beg for a lift to this cafe you had never even heard the name of before. Once you discerned that it would probably take significantly longer waiting for him to pick up the phone than it would to just sprint there and hope for the best, you reached for your bag and bolted out the door.
Vernon chuckled watching you rush out of the apartment without so much as a goodbye. He had seen this sight many times before, believing now that it's impossible for you to arrive to anything on time. This 'habit' of yours has pissed off many dates before.
Fortunately, this isn't a date. It's a purely professional meeting between two partners. Project partners, that is.
You've never seen this place before, and you're sort of surprised you haven't. It's undeniably beautiful, nustled away within a larger, beige stone building, giving the cafe a feeling of both safety and secrecy. The door is lined with wood painted with a black polish, windows so clear it takes a moment to even realise they're there, allowing the warm lighting to shine through forcibly, even on the brightest of days. Every detail is curated for a autumn Pinterest board.
A Pinterest board you'd never make, because despite its beauty, it’s… intimidating. Unwelcoming. Tables are scattered inside and outside the cafe, but they're mostly empty, like this is some private club and the only people that enter are those who know they belong there. You can't even see a menu!
When you eventually muster up the courage to open the front door, it doesn't take you long to find Minghao. You believe he could stick out in any crowd; models, fashion designers, anyone. The stylish man in question is seated at a four-person table in the back, far away from every other person in the cafe. Wirebound sketchbooks and notebooks are scattered around the ornate table, with a grey ceramic mug in the centre. His slender hands ghost over the keyboard of his laptop, fingers decorated with silver rings, matching the thin-framed glasses adorning his face.
It's almost like the air around him is shimmering. He looks like he's posed for a photoshoot—but he's not, he’s effortless, acting like it's completely normal to look this good all the time.
When he sees you, the illusion breaks. It takes him a second to realise your presence with his laptop owning his attention, but when he does, your breath hitches. He looks up, and the emotion in his eyes (or rather, lack thereof) is unnerving.
You feel wrong. You want to walk back out. You want to magically brandish a pocket watch and hypnotise him into forgetting your existence.
You want to apologise.
"I'm sorry," you stagger, "I woke up—"
"Late?" he finishes, low voice scarily calm. Any sense of confidence you would've normally felt in this situation has worn thin.
"Sit," he gestures to the empty seat across from him, "I already ordered."
Confused, your gaze falls upon another mug, noticably empty, behind his pile of notebooks. The full mug is completely untouched, and the lack of steam reveals its cold state.
He ordered for you. And you came late.
Cleverly deciding not to irritate him further, you smile with a simple 'thank you' as you settle into your chair, setting down your bag in silence, taking out your phone and a notebook, making a conscious choice not to open it as to not expose the fact that you came here without a plan.
His gaze refuses to leave yours, and you feel like he sees right through the composed facade. Silence falls over the table, the only other noise in the vicinity being the whirrs of coffee machines and the whispered conversation of an old couple a few tables over.
You cautiously pull the mug to your lips, grimacing at the lukewarm taste.
He tilts his head, amused, "I didn't know what you liked, so I just ordered you a latte."
"Thank you, it's..."
"Cold?" he finishes your sentence again, to which you nod. "It's a special blend. For those who arrive to meetings fifteen minutes late."
His deadpan delivery renders you seconds away from getting on your hands and knees to beg forgiveness, but all goes quiet when you look up from the cup and a slight smile is tugging at the corners of his mouth. You smile back, allowing yourself to comfortably breathe for the first time since arriving.
Minghao tears his gaze away from yours, a flicker of disappointment surfacing in your head. He turns the laptop towards you, screen showing a set of slides. A title slide dominates the screen, accompanied by bullet points you skim over. It's arranged in an purple and blue colour palette, too adventurous for a business presentation but befitting an art student.
"You started? I thought we were supposed to plan together," you comment.
"I did," he replies, "With my previous partner. I had to change some things, obviously."
"So," you take a deep breath, grabbing a pen from your bag and opening the notebook sat in front of you, "You've got your part planned. Where do I fit into this?
Minghao briefs you on his current idea for the assignment: making paintings to enhance workplace environments.
He describes it more articulately than how you’d later summarise it to Vernon and Joshua, with a gentle confidence you've never really seen from someone before. He's not coming across like he's trying to influence you into agreeing with his ideas, instead voicing his thoughts without apprehension, without fear over whether anyone would care or not.
You don't care about this assignment, not really. You also suspect the sponsors who'll be in attendance to the exhibition don't really care either, just signing up to improve their company image and advertise how much they 'care' about local universities. They won't care what innovative ideas will emerge at this exhibition, even if it'd singlehandedly achieve world peace. They're just looking for future employees.
"Our goal will be to demonstrate how art is valuable for more purposes than just decoration," He describes, gesturing like he's giving a class speech, "Creativity, culture, morale. It's been proven that in mundane environments, people are more likely to suffer from mental health issues, namely stress and depression."
It's not crazy, what he's peddling, but it's... unrealistic. You know from your past internships that HR will never truly care about the mental health of their employees. Well, they do care—in the sense that poor mental health leads to less employees, leading to less people to do the monotonous everyday work that keeps businesses alive. And if the business loses profit? Less money funnelled into the CEO's pockets. That's what business owners care about.
Plus, employees won't care if there's an extra painting in the break room. The only motivation to them is a good wage and friendly co-workers.
"So, we're just making paintings to uplift people's... mood?" you question, dubiously.
"Yes? I'll make an abstract, more emotional piece, something to uplift people and encourage creativity." he continues, firmly, "Explaining the appeal to businesses will be your job."
...Right.
"Art has immeasurable effects on human behaviour and the attendees will see that," he concludes, "The work will speak for itself."
A small laugh escapes out your mouth before you can even attempt at suppressing it. Minghao looks up from his laptop, eyebrows furrowed in offense. "Is something wrong?"
"No," you defend, "It's just that... isn't the point of this project to convince people who don't care about art that art matters?"
He shrugs, indifferent, "If they don't care, that's not the fault of the artist. Nor the art."
"You're entitled to that viewpoint, but that won't sell to anyone."
He rolls his eyes, "I'm not trying to sell anything. I do what I do to express myself and make an impact on likeminded people."
"Good for you," you shoot back, more assertive than you truly mean to sound, "But we'll be advertising to businesses. I know how they think. They won't commission art to make an emotional impact. They do it to make the lobby look fancier and attract 'cultured' clients. If anything, that's what we should be marketing; a way to make brands look 'cultured'."
"That's... a shallow way of thinking," he says, and you're unsure whether he's commenting on your words or you yourself, "I understand that companies have graphic designers for branding, and they have their own talent—but that's not what I do. My art is not just branding. I want it to have a proper purpose."
"Branding is the only purpose art has to companies. There's no CEO that would stand in front of some abstract piece and think hmm, yes, let's cut 10% from staff wages to pay for this, they'll definitely be happier now—"
He cuts you off, "Small businesses care about art. What about—"
"There's a reason small businesses stay small, their owners don't realise they can't afford to care about everyone," you cut back in, "You really think some random person's Etsy jewellery page will be there?"
"You want me to paint for funding?" he leans forward, voice lowered, passing the invisible unspoken boundary between you two, "I'm not going to drag myself down to that perspective."
You pause, unsure how the conversation lead even led to here. Minghao stares, looking progressively more bored with every word you say, but quite not fed up. Something in the way he sits so still in his certainty, it tells you he isn't the type to compromise amicably.
You... are that type of person. The main example being the fact that you only took up studying business because your parents have been pushing you towards this future since you first came out the womb. It's been ingrained in you to bend around others' will so long as it keeps you in a position of financial stability. The only way to climb the corporate ladder is by being flexible. By being 'understanding'.
By never being the problem.
"Okay," you exhale, defeatedly, "Okay! But the sponsors will glance at our stall, not understand it, and keep moving. When we can't raise any substantial funds for your department, don't blame me."
He sighs, mouth open like he wants to say more but can't quite find the words.
"You're so cynical."
You rub your temples, "Are we going to agree on something, or just start calling each other names?"
"I'm not calling you names. I'm stating what I see."
"I'm not cynical, I'm being realistic!" You start to feel heat rise within you, and not to your cheeks like earlier. Who is he to say such things to you? Does he think that just because he's pursuing a creative career, he's... what? More human than you are?
It's not like you even chose this career!
You start to feel eyes on you, and turning around, the four or so other people in this pretentious cafe have tuned in to your most passionate conversation. The barista is pretending not to listen, but they've been cleaning the same table for the past five minutes. You shrink into your seat, not eager to cause a scene, but Minghao doesn't seem that keen on de-escalating the situation.
He dares to scold you.
"You're making this more complicated than it should be. Forgive me, but I didn't get the impression that you cared about this project at all—I don't know why you're defending this so heavily."
Because somebody has to. Because careers aren't made or saved over of a pretty painting.
You don't say this. You just grip the side of your seat harder and swallow.
"You're right. I don't care about this."
Whatever image you had of Minghao before has been completely shattered. The rose-coloured glasses have been ripped off, tossed into an heavy-duty shredder and the fragments burned in an industrial waste incinerator. He's not cool or mysterious, he's judgemental. He's not passionately dedicated to his work, he's pretentious. He's not admirably confident in his way of thinking, he's ignorant.
There have been many silences between the two of you since you arrived, but none like this. None that feels this... final. Like tossing a book into the trash before finishing the first chapter. You're at a point now where you just want to give up and go.
Neither of you move.
You look away first, jaw clenched. It feels demeaning.
After awkwardly ending the discussion and saying tense goodbyes, Minghao leaves before you do. You don't watch him as he goes. Instead, you rush to the bathroom, ignoring the stares of the other cafe patrons. With eyes threatening to soak up with hot tears, you text Joshua.
are u free?
pls picj me up
Nearly instantly (to your surprise), he replies.
Okay. On my way
Is something wrong?
You don't reply. You'll explain it all in the car, if you can regain your composure in time.
You don't feel as confident as you did when you first walked through that cafe door (not that you were feeling that confident in the first place). Maybe it was shock from the suddenness of your first introduction, but his quiet confidence and curious allure has thinned into something uncomfortable. Whatever you thought he was, what you thought you could be around him, has folded inward, tangled with doubt. The version of Minghao you were faintly infatuated with feels distant, replaced with the image of a man who is so certain in himself, a man completely uninterested in meeting you where you stand.
Despite the quarrels between you and the person you initially believed you could fall for, your assignment is clear. Finish the powerpoint, fill it with random statistics, write your half-assed speech, done and dusted.
Then after that? Forget about Minghao.
You really should've just retaken this goddamn class.
do not copy / translate / repost without permission ! all works are written by a human ! dividers by @cursed-carmine
Oh my gosh, you made the anger kind of fuel my brain so well, while i was reading i was thinking about how wow this guy kind of sucks and i think now think wow,,,wait this is so peak
"You want me to paint for funding?" he leans forward, voice lowered, passing the invisible unspoken boundary between you two, "I'm not going to drag myself down to that perspective."
he’s so true to his own belief but i can’t help but feel sad at the thought at how most art is just not cared about by corporate
"I'm not cynical, I'm being realistic!" You start to feel heat rise within you, and not to your cheeks like earlier. Who is he to say such things to you? Does he think that just because he's pursuing a creative career, he's... what? More human than you are?
It's not like you even chose this career!
Need them to BITE back, man minghao is sooo annoying its actually kind of insane how you just did that...i love this series if you cant tell...
TYSM for ur reviews im genuinely giggling kicking my feet rn … 🤍🤍 ur love is so appreciated !!! i didnt have much inspiration to finish this but ill def get around to it now!!
ROOM 217.
part of the puttin' on the ritz collaboration with @studiosvt
pairing: lee jihoon x f!reader
genre: smut, hotel owner/speakeasy manager x server
summary: fresh starts are hard, but running away from your mafia husband is even harder. after escaping the protection of the lucky ace gang and fleeing to new york city, you find lee jihoon, a reserved yet enigmatic hotel owner. the hotel ruby conceals a popular speakeasy, the velvet ruby, within its walls. it takes some convincing, but jihoon eventually offers you a job, a chance at stability and anonymity. but every swanky hotel has its secrets. when you stumble upon the locked door to room 217, nothing could prepare you for what’s waiting on the other side.
warnings: dom!woozi, power imbalance, a lot of obsession, masturbation, oral (f!receiving), unprotected sex, slightly inexperienced reader, mentions of family death, reader's husband is in a gang, 1920s gang-related violence, use of pet names (angel), woozi is deeply infatuated with reader but it borders onto an insane level = light stalking, also insane rational on the readers part for woozi's obsession (aka these two are freaks). nsfw (minors / ageless blogs dni).
word count: 20.9k
note: this fic is a part of the puttin' on the ritz collab hosted by @studiosvt. the team at @studiosvt were so cool to let me participate again and I had a lot of fun writing freaky hotel owner jioon 😈 this is the second time now I've done a collab with them and I've made the member I got an obsessive freak, not sure if that says something about me but . anywho! make sure you check out the other stories in this collab 💘 (taglist posted at the bottom.)
in rotation: just me and you, the dreamliners / off to the races, lana del rey / love me or leave me, ruth etting / cherry, lana del rey / a little death, the neighbourhood / ruby, woozi
Inheriting the Hotel Ruby from his great grandfather had started out honest. A ritzy, well-known hotel that was in dire need of a upgrade was exactly what Jihoon wanted to get his life back on track. Being born into the Lucky Ace gang hadn’t been easy, but escaping it at the mere age of 21 was a feat in itself. Jihoon had experienced it all: violence, homelessness, grief, until finally coming into money. Why his great grandfather had deemed him worthy enough to include in his will – he had no idea. But he wasn’t about to look a gift horse in the mouth.
He was so sure he was going to make all the money back that was used for renovations, but when the hotel opened around the time of the stock market’s rapid expansion, no one was traveling. No one was wasting their money for flings in a swanky, New York City hotel. Instead, they were pouring their cash into the stock market and hoping for monetary gain. He had a full staff at the hotel, eager for pay, families to feed. He needed the money. In a time of failing businesses and social collapse, Jihoon had nowhere to turn.
This was where the Velvet Ruby came in.
Nestled in a hidden part of the hotel lobby, behind a password protected door, was a speakeasy. Jihoon pulled together the last of his savings, praying for a win, to decorate the old backroom of the hotel into the most swell joint he had ever seen. He had gotten lucky with the location: a speakeasy in an infamous hotel, right in Manhattan, where people were desperate for alcohol … It wasn’t long before the Velvet Ruby was the most popular juice joint for New York’s elite.
Jihoon didn’t want to reach out to old friends, but the only way to smuggle alcohol in was through bootleggers. He typically relied on smugglers from Canada to bring in his moonshine and other popular liquor from distilleries. Using people connected to the Lucky Aces and other gangs, Jihoon created a network of bootleggers so that he never, not once, ran out of alcohol to sell.
With his bartender and partner in crime, Kwon Soonyoung, they ran the Velvet Ruby like the military. Every employee at the hotel was paid fairly, and they even had enough to hire the finest entertainment and several servers that were looking to make a buck. Soonyoung was one of the best cocktail mixers around, and if you were lucky enough, sometimes he got up on the mic to belt out a tune.
The hotel business was steady, but the speakeasy earnings were pulling them through a harsh autumn. Even through the success, Jihoon still had bad days. Days when the music got too loud or the loneliness of leaving his family crept up on him. Sometimes the only warmth he could feel was when he stood outside in the cold rain, inhaling smoke from the cigarette in his gloved fingers, as he watched the light above his hotel flicker.
But if days like this didn’t come up, he probably wouldn’t have met you.
You were standing in the rain, soaked to the bone, when your eyes met his outside the Hotel Ruby. Hair wet and clutching what looked like a torn suitcase, Jihoon stubbed out his cigarette and opened the door for you without a word. You brushed past him, but he could feel you shivering. Water dripped from your coat and onto the plush red carpet, but Jihoon had never been the type to chastise a woman for anything. Not even for ruining his carpet.
He slipped behind the front desk at the lobby because Wonwoo had probably fallen asleep on break. Without looking up from the guest book, he asked, “Looking for a room?”
“Actually, a job.”
Jihoon’s head lifted. The night had shrouded most of your face outside, but now that he was looking at you under the warm lights of the lobby, his body froze. Despite your wet hair clinging to your face, there was a natural beauty about you. Something to be admired. The kind of face that didn’t belong in a seedy city, but somewhere gentle, warm. Your face stood out in a place like New York, where crime and gambling ran rampant.
You weren’t from here.
“We don’t have any positions open at the hotel,” he replied.
“I – I’m n-not –” You stuttered, teeth chattering. The handle of your suitcase shook in your lithe fingers. Voice lowering, you continued, “I’m not asking for a job at the hotel.”
It clicked then, and his brow raised. How did someone like you find out about the speakeasy? He couldn’t dwell on it, not when you had pertinent information. With a cock of his head, he led you into the manager’s office behind the front desk, locked with a golden key. Wonwoo was slumped in a cushioned chair by the door, waking up when the edge hit his foot. Jihoon side-eyed him, and he skedaddled before he could be reprimanded.
Moving the stack of bills to the floor, Jihoon sat down behind the desk and gestured for you to take the seat in front of him. You settled into the chair warily, still shivering, and just the sight of a pretty thing like you suffering made him pause. He stood and rounded the desk, reaching a hand out. You looked up at him with confusion. “Let me help,” he muttered. “Take your jacket off. It’s soaked.”
“O-Oh,” you nodded, sliding the wet material off and handing it over.
Jihoon averted his gaze when he realized your were wearing a white blouse underneath, the line of your undergarments clearly visible beneath the soggy fabric. Clearing his throat, he hung up your jacket before draping an old trench coat over your shoulders that he kept in the closet. You pursed your lips, and he was pretty sure he heard something that resembled, Thank you, sir.
Plopping back down in his chair, the first thing he said was, “You’re not from around here.”
Your mouth opened, but his words caught you off guard. After a beat, you replied, “No. I’m from up north. I took a bus to the city.”
“How did you find out about the Velvet Ruby?”
He was so blunt, his tone like a dagger. You almost didn’t expect it from someone like him. He was broad-shouldered, with dark eyes that spoke to what little sleep he got and slicked-back hair. Two inches shorter than you and smelling like a combination of cigars and expensive cologne, but his words cut sharper than a blade. You hugged the trench coat more on your shoulders.
“It’s because – I’m not –” You exhaled heavily. Your first instinct was to lie – always lie. It had become a habit after you married Han. Rubbing underneath your nose, you decided to be truthful: “I found out because I know the right people. I’m running away from my ex-husband.”
His brow shot up. “Divorced?”
“I don’t have the money to even get divorced. My family is flat. I married up, until I realized …” You smoothed a hand over your tired eyes.
He licked his lips, realizing how much your expression had soured. His back straightened in the chair and he laced his fingers together on the desk. “Listen, you don’t have to tell me, angel.”
The nickname made your gaze flicker to his, and you both let it hang in the air for a moment. The office was so quiet that you could probably hear a pin drop. So you cleared your throat. “No,” you muttered, “I probably should.”
He watched your chin fall into your palm, your eyes haunted and somewhere else. Whatever you had experienced left an imprint on you, a bruise that wouldn’t heal. A wave of protectiveness washed over him and he had no clue why. He didn’t know you, didn’t know what you’d been through, but for some reason, he felt the need to crush whoever made you this way.
“Everything okay?” He asked over a long beat of silence.
“I’m trying to fight the urge to lie to you.”
“Oh.”
You finally sat back up, pushing strands of wet hair behind your ear. Your lobe was pointed, something so characteristically you. “My husband’s friend is one of your bootleggers. He sources your gin and rum from Canada. Both him and Han are part of the Lucky Ace gang.”
It dawned on him then – he forgot some of the Lucky Aces reached as far as the north east. They were one of the most spread-out gangs on the eastern part of the U.S., but with the likes of the Chicago Outfit maintaining superiority amongst the crime syndicate, it was hard to believe they were still out there, past the boundary of New York State.
Suddenly, Jihoon felt his breath still. “Han,” he repeated, the name tasting burnt on his tongue. “As in Cheon Han?”
You swallowed, mouth refusing to open.
“Your husband is one of the leaders of Lucky Ace,” he said, though he was sure you knew that from the look on your face. “I grew up with him, until he moved … North.” It was all clicking in his head then: the day they met in elementary school; Jihoon’s 18th birthday when Han revealed he was moving in with his uncle; the night he got the news from his father that “his old friend” had went up in the ranks of Lucky Ace up North, surpassing folks older than him.
“Oh, my god.” He moved his chair back, surprised when it hit the wall. “I can’t hire you. I can’t house you. That’s asking for a death wish.”
“Only if he finds out,” you were quick to say. “I’m not asking for shelter. I got an apartment for myself outside Manhattan. I just need a job to pay for it.”
Jihoon shook his head. “He’ll kill me.”
“Let’s be honest, he never does the killing. One of his torpedos will do it for him.”
He paused, because he knew you were right, and it wasn’t exactly helping your case. You placed a hand on the desk, as if to reach out to him, but your fingers were trembling so much. The tips were red, so warm compared to the rest of your body. When he met your eyes again, they were pleading. “Please,” you said, “I wouldn’t ask for help if I wasn’t desperate. I’m good with customers. I can … I can be a server. I have good balance –”
“All my servers are male. I only hire female dancers.”
Your face fell. “I’m not a dancer. But I can … please. I know you don’t know me, but I’m asking you to take a chance.”
Jihoon stood, his mind swirling with possibilities. He paced in front of the door and ran a hand through his hair. She’s Han’s wife. They’re not even divorced. She’s running away from him. Fucking Christ, if he finds her here, he’s going to kill me –
A hand latched around his wrist. He turned, meeting your eyes.
“He won’t find me,” you promised. “He’s too busy with his deals to ever come home and I planted a seed within his friend group that I was going even further south to see distant relatives. He would never guess I’d be in New York. And if he does …” You looked down, realizing you were still gripping him. His skin was pale and cold, but not as icy as yours. Sucking in a breath, you pulled your hand away. “I’ll make sure I suffer the consequences. Not you. I swear."
It was a gamble. You were a gamble. And he quit betting a long time ago, after a risky night at a underground casino with Soonyoung on his 29th birthday. Jihoon had never been entirely sympathetic, had never let himself be swayed by anybody, and yet … The warmth in your eyes left him stunned. Frightened. Like he could feel the whole world turning on its axis, and there was nothing he could do about it.
He sighed, and then rubbed at his eyes. “The men who come into the joint aren’t kind.”
“I’ve survived my fair share of unkind men.”
“You’d be the only female server. I won’t go easy on you just because you’re a woman.”
“That’s okay. Nothing has ever been easy for me.” You adjusted the coat on your shoulders. “Are you offering me the job?”
He closed his eyes, wondering if he should back out now, but he was already nodding, holding out his hand for you to shake. “Name’s Lee Jihoon. I’ll be your boss.”
“Jihoon,” you repeated, lips pulling into a wide grin. You told him your name, but he decided then that the only name he wanted to call you was angel.
You supposed it didn’t exactly matter what you wore to your first shift, but you planned on being more put together than yesterday. A fresh shower in your new apartment and a couple rollers later, you looked more spiffy than the women having brunch at the Ritz. Your hair was perfectly curled, red smeared onto your lips in a perfect cupid’s bow, and you wore a simple, button-down plum dress. One that you made sure to iron before leaving the apartment.
Jihoon asked you to be on the premises an hour before the speakeasy opened, which was usually around 9 to 10 PM. Naturally, you arrived at 8:45, having just enough time for a cigarette with your hood up. You were on guard these days, never taking a chance to reveal more than half of your face, especially when indulging in your worst habit. After taking one last inhale, you crushed the death stick with the heel of your flat and walked inside the hotel.
You expected to see Jihoon there – behind the front desk, talking to a bellhop, anywhere – but the lobby was empty besides Wonwoo with the guest book. He waved awkwardly to you, looking like a beanstalk in his uniform that hardly fit his long legs. You cowered in on yourself, tucking your hands into your jacket, as you prepared for someone from your past to jump out. Wonwoo was probably looking at you like you lost your marbles.
“Hey, big shot!”
You turned at the loud voice, seeing the back door slam open behind Wonwoo, and the taller male almost jumped out of his skin. Another male with curled dark hair stepped out, just a few inches under Wonwoo, clapping his hands in your direction. He wore a black dress shirt and tie, accompanied by a pair of baggy slacks with the ends tucked into tall, tiger-print socks and leather shoes.
He looked insane, and yet … surprisingly on trend.
When you were within feet of him, he pulled you in by your hand, his grip stronger than you assumed. “Name’s Soonyoung. You’re the new one Jihoon let in, yes?” You nodded, and with your hand still in his, he pressed a kiss to your knuckles. His smile was mischievous, but weirdly contagious. “Look at you all dolled up for the first night. As lovely as …” He fingered the collar of your dress and attempted not to grimace. “… This is, you do have a uniform. Which I adapted from what the men wear.”
Wonwoo tossed him a pair of clothes from one of the desk compartments and Soonyoung caught it without missing a beat. He placed the uniform into your arms and spun you around, pointing to the public restrooms. “Change please,” he instructed, although it was more like a demand when he pushed you forward in that direction.
The uniform was tighter than you assumed, but that was a given when you didn’t get anyone your measurements. It still fit, the flared black skirt hugging your waist just right. Soonyoung paired it with a white, collared blouse and an apron that secured around your middle. You hadn’t realized he’d given you an old pair of kitten heels, the leather worn-out at the toe. After slipping on some sheer black tights, you stuck your feet in the shoes and prayed you’d get used to them. You’d never been a pro with heels.
Walking out, Soongyoung sent you smirk of approval before gesturing that you follow him. Wonwoo gave you one last nervous wave, all lanky and long-limbed, before you quickly trailed behind your new tiger-socked friend. He led you down the corridor to the left of the hotel’s entrance, and you noticed the lights getting dimmer the further you got from the lobby. You held your old clothes close to your chest, wary. When you reached the end of the hall, Soonyoung checked you were still behind him and presented the door in front of you both. It was tall and made of iron, with a window slot in the middle that was currently closed. Soonyoung knocked on the door in a specific pattern – two hard knocks, pause, one soft knock, three more hard knocks, slam your palm on the surface – and the window slot opened, revealing a pair of dark eyes.
A whiney voice emerged. “You wanna do that password again for me?”
“Oh, just open the door, Seungcheol!”
The bouncer chuckled, slamming the window shut before tearing the heavy door open. Seungcheol gave you a look as you strode past him, almost tripping in your heels when he winked. Soonyoung looked over his shoulder, glaring at the bouncer, before looping his arm through yours. “Don’t mind him. He’s an ass, but overly friendly. Has a wife at home,” your new friend explained.
Showing you the coat closet, he had you secure your clothes in your own locker before meeting him back out on the speakeasy floor. The joint was small, but clearly prestigious. The lights above where faint and colored in warm tones like yellow and red. Each circular table around the room fit at least four people, decorated with a red velvet tablecloth and a singular rose in the middle. A stage was set up at the front for live entertainment, and you saw a few dancers practicing their routine for tonight. The bar looked new, made out of dark maple and stocked full with every liquor imaginable. This place in fact was the real deal.
Soonyoung raised his arms. “Welcome to the Velvet Ruby.”
“It’s …” You crossed your arms over your chest, eyes scanning the room. “Very dark.”
“Yeah, tell me about it,” he gabbed, arm laced through yours again as you both flitted about the rooms. “Depending on the crowd, we won’t give you more than three tables. Just because it’s a small amount, doesn’t mean your attention shouldn’t constantly be on them. This is a business and we’re selling liquor. If someone isn’t being bum rushed out of here because their too canned to walk, I’m not doing my job right. You’ll typically find me mixing behind the bar with Seokmin, but don’t be mistaken. It is my bar.”
You nodded. “Noted.”
“Rules of the house,” Soonyoung continued, rounding the corner as they reached the seats at the bar. He held up three fingers. “No violence with patrons. No touching from patrons. And absolutely no questions about past lives.”
You began to nod in agreement when the sound of two bodies hitting each other emanated behind them. Your head spun out of instinct, seeing two of your fellow servers – one, a shorter man with reddish-brown hair and an otter-like smile; the other, a big six with hulking shoulders, strong muscles, and perfect features like wavy, black hair and honeyed skin. They greeted each other loudly, their raised voices making you flinch instantly.
Just a sound could take you back to Han. To the nights you heard him getting scrappy with one of his torpedos, right behind the door of your shared bedroom. To the days he yelled at his right-hand man as you prepared coffee in the kitchen, and then his hand gripping your apron as if to anchor himself to you before he clocked his friend in the kisser.
Han had never been violent with you. Never touched a hair on your head. But to be married to a gangster was to see a threat at every turn. How long would it be until one of his enemies got the upper hand?
“You got the heebie-jeebies or something?” Soonyoung asked, and you whipped your head back to him. But he noticed the look in your eyes, how scattered you were, and with a soft smile, he placed a reassuring hand on your shoulder. “It’s okay. You’re safe here. I’ll tell Chan and Mingyu to pipe down.”
You schooled your expression – one of the many skills Han had taught you once he revealed his true identity. Your shoulders squared and you cleared your throat. “I know. I’m just … getting used to being the only female server.”
He laughed. “Yeah, Jihoon kind of set you up for failure with that one. Especially in this city.”
You raised a brow.
“Not that I think you’re going to fail. I’m sure you’re swell. It’s just …” He closed his mouth, realizing that he was going on a tangent. “I should let Jeonghan take over.”
Soonyoung yanked over another tall male with dark hair that reached his shoulders, almost making him drop all the glasses on his tray onto the floor. Jeonghan shook his head at the bartender before introducing himself to you. His slender build was similar to Wonwoo’s, but he wasn’t as broad.
Jeonghan brought you over to one of the tables to explain the basics of serving: how to write out your orders, address customers, and when to exactly cut them off. “The hardest part of being a server isn’t even about interaction,” he explained, and then lifted his full tray of empty glasses on his shoulder. “It’s about learning how to balance. Never, ever, break a glass.”
You nodded, jotting down notes in your server book. Guests were beginning to pour in, but Mingyu and Chan took the lead while Jeonghan showed you the ropes. Businessmen strolled through with women that probably weren’t their wives. Even a few flappers made their presence known, requesting Mingyu as their server specifically for one of the ladies in the friend group. You tried to focus over the noise and be present with Jeonghan, but your eyes couldn’t help but drift around the room, until they finally landed at the corner of the bar.
Jihoon leaned against the edge, a lit cigar between his teeth as he spoke to Soonyoung. And it seemed his eyes were drawn to you too, because only a few seconds later, you were the only thing he could focus on.
Sitting on the cold wooden floor of your apartment, back pressed against the side of the twin-sized bed, you dug out a small box from underneath the frame. One of the little things you made sure to pack before leaving, the gift box was old and torn, the vintage paper from when your mom was a child. You placed it in front of your crossed legs, your work heels discarded just a few feet away. The time was nearing 3 AM and you’d just gotten back from the Velvet Ruby, but your hands were itching for this, for the memories.
Lifting the cover off, you smiled at the pile of rectangular photos from years past. You picked up the first one off the top: an overexposed shot of you and your mother from when you were a child. It was the time you were sick, so she dressed you up in the prettiest clothes and had a photoshoot with you, as if you were her little doll. Your big grin, one tooth missing in the front, a red nose from sniffling. It was a good memory – a really, really good memory.
Your hands pilfered through the family photos: the one of you and your grandparents, your first day working for your parents’ laundromat, your 16th birthday party. Each a crucial part of your childhood. Setting the plethora of memories to the side, you picked up a photo that felt like a lifetime ago: you, leaning against a telephone pole outside, wearing your mother’s old wedding dress that came to your ankles because you were much taller than her. The smile on your face was different, and when you flipped to the next shot, you knew why. It was the day you and Han got married at the courthouse. His hands were in yours, his eyes on you, while you were looking at your father’s camera. The court clerk was in the middle of almost dropping his booklet when the image was captured. You couldn’t help but laugh to yourself. This was when things were good, when Han was just a customer you met at the laundromat.
You flicked through the photos, noticing the way your eyes changed in each one. As if your fear of the unknown and the weight of being your husband’s moll had made you lose your sparkle. Even in the shot from your first anniversary – which you had taken of both of you, sitting on the beach in some warmer state, albeit on a day where you were so happy – there was something in your smile. The first inklings of uncertainty. Because even on this day – one of your favorite days with him – he had gotten a letter with a threat sent to their hotel room near the beach. And it had become clear then that you might have fallen in love with one of the most dangerous men.
One of the last shots at the bottom was a picture he asked your father to take after the wedding. You both stood in the middle of the courthouse, him holding your wrist as you presented your hand out, the ring on your finger glinting in the lens. Standing on both sides of you were men that you deemed as his friends at the time, unaware that they were his associates in the Lucky Ace gang. Now that the dust had settled, you wondered if you had just been blind, because you most certainly remembered one of them having a shiv in his suit to defend Han at a moment’s notice.
But you didn’t think anything of it. You didn’t need to. Because he hadn’t been truthful with you in the first place.
With a heavy exhale, you buried all the photos of Han to the bottom of the box. You couldn’t dwell on the past or else you’d be filled with dread. Reaching into your apron, you pulled out a new addition for your collection: a photo Jihoon had requested to be taken of him all his staff at the Velvet Ruby. This photo spoke of new beginnings, one where you’d stop being afraid of what would happen next. Because you were protected here; everyone promised you that.
In the photo, Soonyoung was standing to Jihoon’s left, one arm around him while holding up his other hand, curled like a cat’s paw. Beside him was Chan and Mingyu, and then Jeonghan with Seungcheol on the corner. On the other side were a few servers you had been introduced to that day – Vernon and Minghao – both sporting the same unamused expression, with the other bartender, Seokmin. You were standing to the right of Jihoon, lips pulled into a soft smile while his arm slipped around your waist, yet hovering. Your heels made you feel like a tower next to him, but he was still the most important, confident man in the room.
When he had given you the photo a few days later, you assumed it was because this was one of the damaged copies. The brightness of the image, the way Mingyu was mid-talking to Chan. But still, you couldn’t help to ask, “Why are you giving me this?”
“I like having pictures. They’re a good memento.” He tapped his finger against the flimsy paper before meeting your gaze. “And I want you to have a good memory. To show you that there will always be a place where you will be safe.”
It took a couple weeks to get into the swing of things, but it felt like you had finally established yourself in a new place. And you did it on your own. You didn’t flinch anymore at sudden footsteps and raised voices, although you did have to tell Mingyu to shut it every once in a while. You slowly got the hang of serving and attending to wealthy patrons, even picked up a few regulars that came by at least once a week. Much to your excitement, they were mostly women – a group of flappers looking to gossip about their dates or dance to whatever live band Jihoon hired that night.
As it turned out, working in such an energetic place was great exposure therapy.
Jihoon checked in on you regularly: before close, when you hung out by yourself at the bar. He’d meet you outside when you had a cigarette on your break. He asked you questions no one else did: Where do you see yourself in 10 years? Is everyone treating you well? Are you happy? Sometimes, he’d walk with you to the bus station, wait beside you until it came, and when you asked him why, he’d be so nonchalant.
“This is on my way home anyway,” he’d say.
And you’d tilt your head. “The bus station?”
“Yes, I live … just over yonder,” he explained with an awkward wave of his hand. “I should get going.”
Your apartment could be scary at times, especially for a woman living on your own. Sometimes you’d wake up in the middle of the day – since you worked long into the early morning hours – hearing your neighbors argue over the price of milk. Insistent door knocking startled you before it became clear that no one was at your door at all; they were downstairs. Every loud noise outside your window sounded like a gunshot at first, until you realized that it wasn’t. It was just the kids on the sidewalk playing with wooden blocks.
But you found solace at the Velvet Ruby – in a routine, in seeing your coworkers. Your friends. They were kind and made you laugh, the happiness returning to your eyes again. With them, you were safe.
Jihoon made you feel safe.
And then, December 1st came.
Soonyoung was keeping you at the bar as he slowly made two Gin Rickeys for one of your tables. The drink was simple – club soda, lime juice, and of course, gin – but he had a better time holding you hostage there with a story from last night, which he told rather exuberantly. “And there I was, wearing my favorite socks – you know, the ones with the tiger pattern?” He asked, giving you no time to nod before he was continuing. “I was cleaning up the bar when Laurie – you know her? One of the hoofers Jihoon hired to come dance every week? Dark hair, big brown eyes. Anyway, she comes up to me –”
You watched him gradually poor the lime juice into both glasses before looking over your shoulder to see your patrons bored of their minds. Not even the pianist on stage could keep their attention.
“– And she wants to see me past work hours. Complimented my socks and everything. Didn’t realize someone had a crush. Isn’t that just the bee’s knees?” He slapped the top of your hand, making you swing back to him. “Are you even listening?”
You blinked. “Oh, um – Laurie’s stuck on you. Anything else?”
Soonyoung glared at you and poured a shot of gin into each glass. “Maybe I should ask her on a date next time I see her. What do you think?”
“Well, do you like her?” Your eyes slid to the right, where Jihoon stood in the corner of the joint. He put a cigar to his lips while Seungcheol whispered something in his ear, and then his gaze was on yours, making the hairs on your arm stand up. For what reason – you had no idea. Yet.
“She’s pretty.”
You flickered back to Soonyoung. “Then you should go on a date with her.” Your hands wrapped around the two Gin Rickeys. “If you’ll excuse me, my table is about to fall asleep if I don’t get these to them.”
You turned, foot coming out to step forward, when two people breezed past you and you almost forgot to breathe. It was a man with a woman on his arm, and his face … it was something out of a nightmare, out of one of the pictures you had looked at weeks ago. But it couldn’t be him. Minho never let his hair grow that long, and he swore he’d never leave Han’s side, not even for a vacation. It wasn’t possible. It couldn’t be possible.
Minho was one of your husband’s enforcers in Lucky Ace, his right-hand man for all problems. A shield, but also a brother to him if he needed it. Which meant he was a brother to you too – however, you never let him get close enough. You kept Minho at an arm’s length, a hard task given the fact that he was almost always with your husband. Except for right now. If that was him.
Most likely, it wasn’t. But what if it was?
This had to be your anxiety talking and you weren’t going to let it win today. Not after all the progress you made. You avoided the table he sat and thanked your lucky stars that you didn’t have to be their server. Pulling Mingyu away from one of his regulars – a blonde flapper named Kallie, who skirted around the rule of not touching the wait staff with lingering caresses and eyes that spoke trouble – you informed him to not let you near that table under any circumstances. Typically, Mingyu would crack at joke in this moment, but when he saw the serious look in your eyes, he knew this was important.
Keeping your face turned away from his table was harder than you assumed, but when it was finally nearing closing and you were getting back your last check of the night, you thought maybe you survived. Maybe you could sneak a peak now to see if it really was Minho. You just had to swing by the bar and drop off this money –
A warm palm latched around your arm.
Eyes wide, you turned, seeing Minho so plastered that his Old Fashioned was sloshing over the sides of the glass in his hand. You were petrified, body going ice cold. Because it was him – it was fucking Minho. In the flesh. Right before your eyes. His hand feeling like an iron brand on your bicep, as if he could burn through your blouse.
What was he doing here? How did he find you? Did Han set him up to this –
“H-Hey,” he slurred, drool trickling from the corner of his mouth. The woman beside him was tugging on his arm and begging to leave. “Don’t I know … know you from sssssomewhere?”
“I – I –” The words were clogging in your throat. You tried to tug your arm free, but he wouldn’t let go. Oh, my god – he wasn’t going to let go. He was going to take you back to Han and the woman with him was just a ploy and – fuckfuckfuck –
“No touching my servers.”
Your arm was yanked free by a strong arm suddenly appearing on your left. Stumbling back, you caught yourself on the edge of a table as you recognized the back of Jihoon’s head. He was smacking away Minho’s hand, roughly grabbing him by the collar before he could even look in your direction again. Soonyoung was at your side instantly, wrapping an arm around your shoulders and shielding you from the scene.
You heard the scuffle behind you, and you turned your head just enough to see Jihoon bum rushing Minho out of the speakeasy with Seungcheol on his right. They were both yanking on Minho’s flailing arms, ignoring his drunken shouting, while the woman on his arm sprinted after them.
The Velvet Ruby shut its doors for the night and instead of cleaning, Soonyoung insisted that you take a breather. You found his small pantry nestled behind the bar, the entry marked off by just a velvet curtain. This was where he stored all the extra liquor, where bootleggers met Jihoon with their latest shipments. You sat on the steel table by the wall, your legs dangling off the edge, and you took a few deep breaths. Realizing your pantyhose had a few tears in them, you sighed. Sleep was already creeping up on you, but there was still so much left to do. You should offer to mop the floors, clean up behind the stage, and yet …
The curtain swung open, and Jihoon closed it quickly behind him. “Are you doing okay?” He asked while striding up. His tone was detached, but it was his words that spoke to how much he cared.
You didn’t answer, only nodded your head.
“Are you fighting the urge to lie to me again?”
You blinked a few times, his words making a tremor run through you. “I guess I was. Unintentionally, at least.” You looked back down at your legs swinging and gripped the edge of the table. Anywhere but his eyes. Sometimes you wondered if he could see right through you.
A moment of silence passed. Jihoon clicked his tongue. “So did you … know those two people?”
He was trying to pry you open, read through you like the Sunday paper. But you couldn’t let him. The less people who got in your shit, the better. It was for his own good. He was the one who almost didn’t hire you because he was scared of Han in the first place.
“You have to let me in at some point,” he whispered, softer this time. Intimacy laced in his tone and invited you in. He then snickered under his breath. “You got me all balled up over this. I probably just threw out someone who gave me good business –”
“He knows Han,” you confessed. “I don’t know who the woman was.”
Jihoon stuck his hands in the front pockets of his pants. “I see.”
You chewed on your bottom lip. Was the tear in your tights getting bigger or were you finally seeing things? “I didn’t think it was him at first, but … he saw me. What if he goes back and tells Han? What if –”
“He was too tanked to see, and he won’t remember anything now either.”
Slowly, you lifted your head to meet his gaze. His eyes were so dark that you swore you could drown in them. “What does that mean?”
“Don’t worry about it, angel.” He loosened his tie and rolled up the sleeves of his black dress shirt. Your stare drifted to his forearms, admiring the veins that led up to his knuckles, which you realized were now … red, bruised. Both of his hands were. “Do you trust me?”
His words rang through you, causing your gaze to flicker up to his again. After a moment, you nodded. You wouldn’t be here if you didn’t.
He stepped closer, the fabric of his expensive pants rubbing against your ruined pantyhose. “I think its best if we establish a plan. If someone asks for you, how should I respond?”
Your hands started to shake, knuckles turning white as you clutched the edge of the table. Looking to your feet, you realized how little you thought this through. Your plan had cracks. You hoped it wouldn’t get to a point where you had to worry about this happening. “I … I don’t know. Say you don’t know me. Say …”
He placed a reassuring hand on top of yours. Your eyes slowly slid to the right, realizing that his hands were bigger than you assumed, prominent veins and scars etched into his skin. His palm was warm, and one of your fingers couldn’t help but twitch.
He squeezed your hand. You squeezed back.
“A cup of Joe or tea?”
Your head swung up. He was that much closer, his hand not leaving yours. Cocking your head to the side, you answered, “Tea. Why?”
A smile flashed on his plump lips. “I figured that was easier than the hard stuff. Morning person or night owl?”
“I used to be a morning person.” Your lips pursed as his gaze burned into yours. “But these days, I think I prefer the night.”
You noticed the way he swallowed, and for a moment, you thought he shivered. But he let go of your hand before you could feel it.
“Are you comfortable here?” His voice was so smooth, like dark chocolate melting in your mouth. After a beat, he added, “With me?”
Your teeth sunk into your bottom lip for a moment, and you notice Jihoon’s eyes move down, ogling you like a painting. Finally, you uttered, “Yes.”
“Good.”
He was in your space now, so close you could inhale his cologne that he probably bought from Lord & Taylor. Or maybe he had it custom. He smelled like firewood and something so inherently masculine, stabling you. A hint of cigar smoke lingered on his collar. He placed his palms on the steel table, thumbs just barely brushing against your hips, as he leaned into you, meeting you at your eye level.
“Tell me,” he continued, “is it worse to be trapped by someone who has feelings for you, or hunted by someone who doesn’t?”
You arched a brow. “We’re back to the hard ones now.”
“You don’t have to answer.”
“I think …” Pausing, you debated your answer, even though you knew it instantly. Maybe you wanted to make him sweat a little. “I would rather be trapped. Better to be trapped and unharmed than hunted.”
Jihoon’s tongue darted out from the corner of his mouth, slowly dragging over his bottom lip. Your answer obviously unfurled him, making his body tense as he stood there and questioned his next move. Your stares connected, but both of you were completely frozen. “You know you can leave at any time, yes?”
You nodded. “I know.”
Time stilled, the small pantry seemingly warmer than usual as Jihoon inched forward. You were white knuckling the table again, but you weren’t moving away. Because maybe … just maybe, you wanted Jihoon to kiss you. And would that be so bad? To have just a modicum of happiness, only for a moment, with his lips agains yours? Or maybe this was a bad idea. Maybe you should lean back and say, “Bank’s closed,” like your friends used to in your single days.
But that was like torture. Moving away from him felt like a curse.
Just as you leaned in, he cleared his throat, stepping back. Both realizing just what you were about to do, your bodies went rigid again. Your cheeks flushed bright red while he rubbed a finger over his top lip. He had never shied away from eye contact with you, but now … he was avoiding you like a disease.
“Let me go get your coat,” he said, already heading for the curtain. “You don’t have to stick around to clean tonight.”
You opened your mouth, wanting to say anything. Even if it was the first thought that came to your head. But Jihoon had already vanished, the curtain swinging in his wake.
December came and went. The winter months were slowing blurring into each other. You were looking forward to the warm comfort of your bed after a long night at the Velvet Ruby. Once the doors had closed, you had to clean up the huge puddle of a spilt beer pitcher by a clumsy patron and his wife. Your knees burned and there were blisters on your feet; you just wanted to be curled up under your blankets before drifting off to sleep. Dragging yourself up the stairs to your apartment, hearing your neighbors arguing at 2 o’clock in the morning, you groaned and stuck your key in the lock.
But your door wouldn’t budge. The lock had been changed.
You looked up, seeing a folded up paper with a coffee stain on the corner. Once you opened the note, you read the words, RENT LATE. PAY OR MOVE OUT, in your landlord’s messy handwriting. A heavy exhale filtered through your lips as you pressed your back against the door, sliding down to the carpet. The same carpet that probably had bugs in it, but you were so tired right now that you didn’t care. Your head fell into your hands as your lack of sleep took over. You didn’t want to doze off out here – absolutely not – but your landlord was surely asleep right now and you wouldn’t be able to pay him until morning.
There was only one option for you.
Using the only change in your pocket, you hauled a taxi and gave the driver instructions to the place you knew best. The taxi pulled up the double doors of the Hotel Ruby, the blinking red sign out front casting a glow on the cab’s interior. You handed the driver your change before stepping out, quickly rushing in to escape the falling snow and giving the doorman, Joshua, a kind smile. He looked confused to see you back, but didn’t question much these days.
You expected to see Wonwoo lounging behind the front desk as usual, but you froze when you realized Jihoon was organizing the mess his regular employee always left there. Jihoon didn’t work here often; he typically stayed in his office or slept in his bedroom connected to it. His mind must be running. What other reason would someone be organizing this late?
Sensing your presence by the door, he finally looked up. A smile curled at his lips, and then fell, realizing that there probably wasn’t a good reason for you to be here after your shift. He said your name, so soft, and then asked, “What’s eating you? I thought you left for the bus an hour ago.”
“I did,” you replied, shaking the snow off your hair. “But I …” You wrung your hands out in front of you. “I must’ve forgot to pay my rent this month, so my landlord changed the locks. Obviously, I can’t reach him until he wakes up, so I was hoping … I could stay in a room tonight.”
Jihoon blinked, studying the red blush on your cheeks. You didn’t know if it was from the cold or your own nerves.
“I could pay, if you need me to. Or you could take it out of my paycheck. That would be easier. Used my last clam for a taxi here.” You chewed on your bottom lip. “I realize that this might be unethical –”
“It is entirely unethical,” Jihoon finished with a straight face. And then, he smiled again, smoothing back a stray hair that had slipped from his slicked back strands. The bags under his eyes became more prominent. “I don’t usually let employees stay. If I let one, then everybody’s got a chance.”
This was mortifying. You felt like cowering in on yourself, sticking your hands in your pockets and pretending you were never here. “I understand.”
“You didn’t let me finish,” he chuckled low, stretching out his arms over the edge of the front desk. His sleeves were rolled up, despite the chill from the door, the veins that ran from his wrists protruding and making you even more flushed. “I can make an exception for you, angel. As long as you keep my secrets.”
You were glowing now, a huge grin on your face. “Your secrets are always safe with me.”
“I know they are,” he snickered, and then called over one of the bellhops bringing a cart to the lobby. “Jun, can you bring her to any of the available rooms for tonight? Any floor. I don’t care. Use the universal key.”
Jun nodded, leading you to the elevator just off from the lobby. You looked over your shoulder, giving Jihoon a soft smile and a wave, before catching up to Jun. Jihoon simply watched you go, but you managed to catch his front teeth bite into his lip as you rounded the corner, and a familiar warmth pooled in your stomach.
Opening the lattice metal door, Jun escorted you inside the intricate elevator and told the lift boy, Seungkwan, to take you both to the second floor. “Nobody typically stays on that floor,” Jun said to you, filling the awkward silence. “Maybe it’s because the rooms are a little more drab. Not sure. But they’ll definitely be one available.”
The elevator stopped on the second floor and Seungkwan pulled the door open, tipping his hat as you left. You couldn’t help but ogle him, because he had the kind of look in his eyes that said, I know things you don’t. You couldn’t imagine the type of things he saw on a daily basis, the type of people he caught switching floors.
Jun twirled the shiny golden key in his hand, which you guessed opened every door in this hotel. The power he felt like he held right now was immense. He whistled under his breath, swinging his finger left and then right, as he decided which room to choose. Finally, he stopped by room 214, at the far end of the hall.
“Good with you?” Jun asked, peering over his shoulder.
You nodded. “As long as the heat works.”
His laugh was so low you almost didn’t hear it. As he fumbled with the key, you looked to the right and squinted, wondering if you were seeing things correctly. There was a room at the end of a corridor. Marked as room 217. It looked almost out of place, like a mirage. Why would the second floor end on an odd number for rooms? It just didn’t seem right.
When he finally stuck the key in the lock, you asked, “Does this floor really end on an odd number?” You pointed to the right.
Jun followed your finger. “You mean 217? Yeah, only floor that does, I believe.”
You were still perplexed. Was he incapable of offering any more information, or was it just you who thought this was strange? “Must be the biggest room on this floor,” you continued as he turned the key, “because its in the corner. Right?”
Jun shrugged, unlocking the door and holding it open for you. A blast of warm air hit your cheeks as he turned to face you. “I wouldn’t know. No one is allowed in there.”
Your brow knitted together, but he was still holding open the door, looking at you as if you were the bird in this situation. Why was no one allowed in that room? Was it never available for people to stay in? You walked forward, into the room, and shed off your coat. When you spun back to view at Jun, you opened your mouth to ask him another question, but he interrupted you.
“Can you butt me, doll?” He held out his hand. “I ran out of cigarettes.”
Your face fell. With a glare, you shut the door in his face.
Your bag accidentally whacked a shoulder on your way inside the hotel, and you looked to your left to apologize. Recognizing the photographer that had taken the pictures of the speakeasy staff nearly a month ago, you waved and blurted a couple thousand sorry’s before heading to the secret entrance for the speakeasy. You had noticed that photographer lingering around the hotel for weeks, but no one seemed to question it so you wondered if maybe you were the odd one out. Eventually, you brought it up to Joshua, since he saw most of the comings and goings of the hotel.
“Oh, him?” Joshua rubbed the back of neck. “Think Jihoon told me that he’s here to take photos of the hotel for advertisements.”
There was a hint of a question in Joshua’s tone, telling you that even he didn’t understand the reason for the photographer. He was just always around. Sometimes when you looked a certain way, he was right there, loitering in the lobby with his camera glued to his hands.
Maybe you were seeing things. Maybe he wasn’t here as often as you thought. You were having trouble falling asleep these days.
When you closed your eyes, sometimes you thought about room 217. It still baffled you; its presence haunting your mind like a ghost. A couple times, you took the elevator up to the second floor just to go see it, the secret of your visits staying between you and Seungkwan. You tried the knob once, and when it wouldn’t budge, you jumped back as if it burned you. This was crazy – you were crazy. Sleep deprived even. You should not care so much about this, but nearly a week after the late rent incident – which you did make up for, thankfully – you found yourself thinking about this room over and over again.
Nobody typically stays on that floor. No one is allowed in there.
Jun was going to be as helpful as a chocolate teapot, and you assumed that most people didn’t know or care much about a locked room anyway. You could ask Jihoon, but … something told you that you might not get the answers you wanted. And maybe what you actually needed to know was more about the elusive hotel owner first. Perhaps that could crack the secrets of 217, and truthfully … you were still a little embarrassed after your almost kiss to be alone with him again.
So you went to Soonyoung.
As the staff was preparing for the Saturday night rush, you dropped off your coat at your locker before stalking up to your favorite bartender. He was drying off glasses, fresh from a wash, and you noticed that he had smudged some black eyeliner on his waterline. Conveniently, Laurie was dancing tonight. It didn’t take an idiot to put two and two together.
“Level with me,” you said to him, lacing your hands on the edge of the bar.
Soonyoung glanced up with a wide grin. “Okay, big shot. What do you need from me?”
You had him right where you wanted him. Soonyoung was always willing to gossip.
“I have some questions about Jihoon,” you proposed, “but I’m just too scared to ask him. I know he’s busy and I don’t want him to have to recall any bad memories. I’m just … curious.”
“Well, now you got me curious. Shoot.”
You started off easy, asking him how the Hotel Ruby came to be. Soonyoung explained that Jihoon had inherited it by his great grandfather on his mom’s side that he almost never spoke to. Nobody ever understood why he had been written down in the will. Jihoon once thought that maybe his grandfather’s handwriting had been so bad that they just assumed the name was his. But he had been grateful, because inheriting this hotel had pulled him out of a series of bad events.
“After he modernized the hotel, he realized no one was coming to stay because of all that stock market bull, which was when he approached me about running the Velvet Ruby together,” he went on. “I was his first friend in the city, so it only made sense for us to become business partners. It’s proven to be his most successful venture, but I supposed anything is better than what he ran away from years ago.”
You raised a brow. “And what was that exactly?”
Soonyoung scratched the side of his head. “I probably shouldn’t be telling you everything …”
“Who am I going to tell? I only talk to you.”
He set down one of the dry glasses. “You make a great point.” He exhaled heavily, wrinkling his small nose, before continuing, “He was born into the Lucky Ace gang. His father was some big leader in it. I’m sure he’s mentioned this in passing, right?”
It all made sense now. Upon your first meeting, Jihoon had known your husband, even mentioned growing up with him. But you didn’t expect this: that he had once been part of the gang that you had somehow married yourself into. Just like his mother.
You schooled your expression and played along, hoping to get more out of Soonyoung. “I believe I heard it once. So he ran away from the Lucky Aces?”
Nodding, Soonyoung replied, “He only told me about it once, so I could be misremembering. He had some huge brawl with his father after his mother’s funeral, and then he stole his father’s car, drove it to the bus station, and got a one way ticket for the city. His father had sent for him, tried to get him to come back, but eventually stopped trying because he wanted his son to suffer on his own. Jihoon had been determined to never set foot near the Lucky Aces again, even put himself through poverty and lived on the street. Until he came into his great grandfather’s wealth. Guess he kept the luck from the Lucky Aces after all.”
“Has he ever talked to you about Cheon Han?”
He set a couple clean glasses on the racks behind him, thinking, and then shook his head. “Not really. Heard the name pop up once or twice. Said he was a good friend from home, but obviously not anymore. In fact, he actually mentioned that name again recently. I overheard Jihoon say it to Seungcheol and gave his description, told him to never let him in the bar under any circumstances.” His eyes slid to yours. “How do you know that name?”
You blinked, trying to keep your composure. “I thought we agreed on absolutely no questions about past lives.”
Soonyoung’s lips slowly curled into a cat-like smile. “Oh, horsefeathers! Look at you. Making me remember my own rules.”
You shrugged nonchalantly at his compliment, even though your brain was screaming at the new information you just received. Jihoon had known Han. Jihoon had been involved with the Lucky Ace gang. He probably still had low-risk friends in the gang, which was why one of Han’s friends was one of his bootlegger’s. This was almost unbelievable. You were more connected to him than you ever imagined.
“Do you …” Using the tip of your finger, you traced senseless circles onto the dark wood of the bar. “Do you know anything about room 217?”
He didn’t answer. Your eyes flickered back up and you realized his body was frozen, his gaze locked on the glass he’d been drying for longer than usual. After what felt like several minutes, his stare met yours. “You know about room 217?”
“Well … not exactly.” You were playing with your hands now, the nerves slowly creeping in. It was important that you stayed impassive during this conversation, but your true colors were starting to show. “I just … I just saw it when I had to stay the night here last week. That’s all.”
“You’ve never been inside it?”
You shook your head.
“Oh.” His shoulders immediately relaxed, and he turned his back to you while putting away more glasses. He made sure he wasn’t looking at you as he said, “I don’t know anything about it.”
Your brow raised. “Really?”
“I know what everyone else does: Jihoon doesn’t let anyone stay in that room.” He spun back again, his shrug the picture of disinterest. “Maybe it’s haunted.”
After that unproductive conversation with Soonyoung, you decided that it was probably best to give up on finding out the secrets of the mysterious room. Clearly, no one had an inkling of knowledge about it, and the ones that did weren’t going to budge so easily. You knew it wasn’t the truth, but maybe it was just haunted. Every old hotel had one.
If you looked into it more, you would find out things that might hurt you. Things that might ruin the picture perfect image you had of everyone in this hotel. The place that had become your safe space.
So you gave up. For now.
February was treating you nicely. Jihoon had added an extra nickel to your weekly paycheck and put more tables in the speakeasy to accommodate the growing crowd on weekends. This Saturday was no less busy than the last, especially with Laurie’s growing fame. She was even looking into managers now to try to further her career, past the small stage of the Velvet Ruby, but she never forgot about Soonyoung. He still met her behind the curtain during her intermissions, doing who knows what. You were grateful to not know.
The joint was filled with male patrons tonight and the usual flapper group in the corner. Dollar bills were thrown on stage, and there was a particular table near the back that was especially rowdy, engaging in a loud bull session with each other over the music. This was your worst nightmare, so when you asked Mingyu to cover for you while you went on a smoke break, he agreed without question. If anyone could handle a table like that, it was him.
Some would say it was idiotic to make your way outside for a cigarette, especially in this weather, but it was a habit that you weren’t keen on breaking just yet. Slipping past Seungcheol and heading for the main lobby of the hotel, you pulled your cigarettes out of your apron, stuck one between your lips, and adjusted the tie in the back. Shouting emerged the closer you got to the lobby, making your brow crease. It was only when you reached the threshold that it all became clear.
The unlit cigarette dropped from your mouth.
Cheon Han was being held back by two of his friends – not Minho; you didn’t recognize these ones – while trying to swipe a knife in Jihoon’s face. Must’ve been a shiv he borrowed from one of his associates. Jihoon’s arm was out to shield his face, while Wonwoo was at his side to bite the bullet, if it came to that. Jun was on Jihoon’s right, looking utterly clueless and downright terrified, with his bellhop hat crooked and his fists in the air. As if that was going to do anything.
“Han.” The name slipped out of your mouth before you could stop it.
Your husband’s face whipped to yours immediately. His eyes were bloodshot and his body froze. Even his associates recognized you, but they looked like strangers in your wide-eyed gaze. A few long strands of hair escape from his signature slicked hairstyle, falling onto his distressed forehead. His nose scrunched as he took in your appearance. A uniform. A server. You worked here.
The knife dropped from his hand and clattered onto the floor.
But he was furious. His eyes blazed with a fiery intensity as he shouted, “Did you think I wouldn’t know where to look?! I have friends everywhere. You really thought you could run away from our marriage and I wouldn’t find you? You slay me. Really, that’s funny, doll.”
Your hands balled into fists. Han was seething with rage, while Jihoon was staring at you, not sure what to do. “Our marriage was built on a lie!” You exclaimed. “You know it was. You never told me – not once – until after we were married about what you were. What I would be putting at risk by being married to you – my life, my family. I didn’t want to be some moll, Han!”
“Oh, this is such bull.” He let out a laugh, but there was no humor behind it. His associates slowly let go of him and pocketed the shiv. Han looked back at you, and before you could blink, he was advancing. “Come on now, doll. Let’s stop playing around and go home.”
He was within a foot of you when Jihoon blocked his path, using himself as a human shield. Wonwoo and Jun watched with hesitation, ready to move at a moment’s notice. Jihoon stood tall, even if he was shorter than you than usual when you were in these heels. He was broad and his muscles bulged from the rolled up sleeves of his black dress shirt. His brows were narrowed as he said, voice low and menacing, “She’s not going anywhere with you. Beat it, Cheon.”
Han’s teeth gritted, his whole body shaking from the rage flooding through him. The same rage he showed his soldiers when they fell out of line. And he was leveling it towards Jihoon. “She’s mine,” he growled.
Your husband had never been violent with you. But that didn’t mean he wasn’t possessive.
“Not anymore,” Jihoon replied. His tone was surprisingly calm despite the situation.
“Han,” you called, letting your voice take on the velvety tone you used to have with him. His eyes went yours instantly, softening slightly with recollection, before he remembered how pissed off he was that you ran away and some pill was standing between him and his girl. You licked your lips and said, “You should leave. I’m not going home with you. This marriage is over.”
Jihoon snickered. “You heard her.”
His brow knitted together in frustration. “We’ll see about that.” Nodding to his associates, he turned on the heel of his boot and muttered. “Let’s go. We’ll be back around.” Han’s glare met yours. “I’m not leaving without my wife.”
Once the lobby was clear, Jun ran to tell Joshua to not let those men anywhere near the doors of the hotel again. They locked it from the inside, making sure to only allow in current guests and speakeasy customers leaving the building. Wonwoo headed to the front desk, phoning for the police immediately. (Specifically, the only officer they trusted who didn’t rat Jihoon out over the speakeasy.) Lucky for him, he hired good people who took care of the hard stuff without him asking.
He turned to you behind him, seeing your body start to crumble with the awareness of what just transpired. Hooking his arms through yours, he cooed, “Angel, no. It’s going to be okay. I promise. Let’s get you somewhere quiet.”
As the sobs began to rack through you, Jihoon used his strength to help guide you out of the lobby. He motioned for Wonwoo to take care of talking to the investigator, hoping that with a thorough description, they would be able to do something. Anything. But he stopped trusting those bulls a long time ago.
He led you to the laundry room just off from the lobby. He gestured for the two maids occupying the space to leave, and they followed his orders with a bow of their heads. Letting go of you, he allowed your back to slide against the wall until you were sitting on the cold stone floor. He sighed before taking the spot next to you.
You rubbed at your eyes and sniffled. “I knew this would happen.”
“It couldn’t have been that drunk fool that told him.”
You shook your head. “It doesn’t matter. All that matters is that he’s here. He found me. Right when I started to feel safe.”
“Angel,” his voice was so gentle when your nickname rolled off his tongue. His fingers were on your chin, turning your tear-streaked face to his. “You are safe here. I’m not going to let him take you.”
“I know I said before that I would make sure I suffer the consequences if you got found with me,” you said, tears welling up in your eyes again, “but now I don’t want to think about it. I don’t want to leave. And what if he kills you?”
Jihoon smirked. “One of his torpedos will do it for him, remember?”
A chuckle emerged under your breath, recalling the words you said to him months ago. You shook your head looked down to his lap, where his free hand was twitching, as if he was fighting himself not to touch you.
Lifting your eyes to his again, you felt his thumb swipe under them, catching the tears. “Jihoon, why do you care so much about protecting me?”
“Because,” he whispered, and then stopped himself. He bit his lip, unable to come up with anything that didn’t sound like a lie. “Because I …” His hand fell from your face.
So you grabbed it, placing your palm on top of his. His hand was warm and soft, despite the callouses that were constantly on his knuckles. “You don’t need to explain yourself,” you murmured. “I overstepped.”
“No, no, you didn’t. I …” He exhaled, annoyed more with himself than anything. Running a nervous hand through his dark hair, his gaze lifted to yours. You were sure that he had galaxies in his eyes. “Your marriage with Han … it was always a lie?”
You paused, chewing on your lip. Your hand on his was like an anchor, wondering how much you wanted to reveal. But if you had gotten this far, trusted him this much … maybe it was worth finally divulging.
“It started in a place like this.” Your fingers slipped from his, gesturing to the electric washers and washboards littered throughout the small room. “I worked at my family’s laundromat since I was 8. My whole life had always been school, then work. And when school was finally over, my life had become just … work. Washing and drying. Tending to the wealthy’s clothes and praying I didn’t ruin them. My fingers permanently pruned. But I digress.” You huffed longingly. “Han had come in one day to get a mark out of his suit. He was the berries, looking like he worked on Wall Street or something. I remember making sure I really got that stain out, and he was so kind when I gave it back. He proceeded to come back everyday, sometimes asking to wash a garment regardless if it was dirty or not.”
You shrugged and added, “I didn’t even realize he was carrying a torch for me until he asked me to dinner. I said, ‘Yes,’ because, well … who wouldn’t? He was the most handsome man I’d ever seen.” Your eyes casted down, fingers picking at the widening hole in your pantyhose. “We went on a solid five dates before he asked for my hand. It was all very fast, and I told him I had to think about it because I didn’t know him. I wanted to say no, see if he wanted to continue to date, but … my family. They encouraged me to agree. We needed the money and Han would provide whatever we wanted. It just made sense.
“So, I said, ‘Yes,’ again to Han. After the wedding was when I found out.” You thought back to those photos at the courthouse, how you’d been standing so close to all his right-hand men. “All those boys that I thought were his friends … days later, I learned they were his associates and soldiers. He didn’t tell me anything until after the ring was on my finger, said he was scared I would judge him or say, ‘No.’ Said he loved me and didn’t want us to change. And I believed it wouldn’t … for a while. But when your life starts to get threaten, you begin to realize just what you got yourself into.”
You turned your head, your haunted stare meeting his, and you realized just how close Jihoon was. “Sometimes love isn’t enough.”
“And do you still?” He asked, his voice just loud enough for you to hear. “Love him, I mean.”
You curled your legs to your chest, smoothing your skirt over your knees and playing with the hem. Eventually, you replied, “I love the memories.”
A beat passed, and then his palm slid on top of yours on your knee. His hands were partly cold, but you didn’t have it in you to move away. Not now. Not ever. You watched as his fingers squeezed yours, thumb running over your knuckles.
“I’m going to secure the perimeter of the hotel,” he promised, “and you can stay here until you feel safe.”
“I don’t want you to feel like you have to give me charity –”
“Angel,” he chastised with a shake of his head, “it’s not charity. I’ve never been that altruistic.”
He gave your hand one last squeeze, leaning in just enough for you to think something might happen, but he was getting to his feet. His shiny Oxfords were such a contrast against the speckled stone floor. When you lifted your head, you found him lingering by the doorway. With a lazy smile, he muttered, “Sometimes love is enough.”
You blinked at him, wondering if you heard him correctly. Maybe you were overthinking, because Lee Jihoon couldn’t have meant what you thought he just did. He barely knew you. He barely touched you.
But he had always stayed. He had always listened. And that could be enough.
He stepped forward to leave the laundry room, but then looked back, pointing a finger at you. “When you’re ready, let me know when you need me to contact my lawyer. I can help pay for your divorce.”
Ignoring Han’s phone calls to the front desk got easier with time. Especially when Jihoon sent a group of his old friends to drive him out of the city for the time being. Wonwoo had told you about the first few calls when you started staying at the hotel, and only stopped after Jihoon requested he only tell upper management about Han’s persistence. Your husband couldn’t even step near the property without the new body guards knowing. You wouldn’t have even found out about the party Jihoon sent after Han if you hadn’t overheard his private conversation with Wonwoo, when he described the money it took to haggle a group of hard boilers to chase down a well-known gangster.
His methods should scare you. His connections to the Lucky Aces should have you fleeing. But he was the only person, in such a long time, to make you feel secure. He was going to protect you, even if it cost him his life.
You didn’t understand him. And maybe it was better that you didn’t.
Jihoon helped obtain a private divorce lawyer through means you didn’t bother questioning. The kind of lawyer you would never be able to afford if he wasn’t paying, far from society’s prying eyes. It wasn’t like you were much of a big deal, but a divorce between any gangster and his wife was front page news. Society would rip you to shreds, demanding you provide proof of desertion or adultery. You wanted to avoid that at any cost. His lawyer was able to start the process of separation almost immediately, involving you at every step.
After cutting your lease at the apartment, which Jihoon happily stepped in to help, you moved all of your belongings into a room at the hotel. You wondered if you’d be put in another room on the second floor, but much to your surprise, Jihoon put you in a free room on the first floor. Close to his quarters and the manager’s office.
“I want to be close in case you need me,” he said, opening the door to room 101. “Please, don’t hesitate to call for me.”
You had looked back at him in that moment, setting your only two bags near the bed. The words that came out of his mouth were nonchalant, but you could see in his eyes what he really wanted to say: Please, need me.
Oh, how you wished he understood how much you did.
Using the phone in your room, you finally called your family again to tell them the news. Your mother had sounded relieved that you were even alive: “I had been holding out hope. I was so scared. I thought you might’ve run off with some drugstore cowboy!” But when you revealed that you were separating from Han, you had to pull the phone away from your ear just to drown out the sound of your mother’s screaming: “Excuse me?! How much have you had to drink right now? I bet everyone at this speakeasy you work at is just handing you hooch all the time. That’s the only reason why you would be spouting such nonsense. Han is a good man. Why would you even think about doing this?!”
You knew she didn’t mean it. Han had fooled everyone; you almost didn’t believe it when he told you his real profession after the wedding. And truthfully, your parents relied on him when times got tough. Han was constantly sending them money if they needed it; that was one of the many reasons they convinced you to marry him in the first place. Your family wasn’t well off. They needed him.
So you had to make her understand.
After finally coming clean to her about your husband’s crime-related activities, she had finally calmed down, started speaking in a tone where you didn’thave to have the phone so far from your actual ear. She became more concerned about the social implications of separating from such a well-known man, but you convinced your mother that you knew what you were doing. Even if you didn’t believe it yourself. Even if this process was scaring you half to death. And she trusted you.
For the first time ever, your mother trusted you.
The dust was finally starting to settle. You had been living at the Hotel Ruby for two weeks and honestly, your body had never been more relaxed. The phone calls to the front desk had stopped. Your lawyer was handling everything behind the scenes. And you were safe.
You found yourself spending more time with Jihoon than you expected. Long nights after the juice joint closed, the staff cleaning around you, and the two of you found yourself sitting at one of the tables and sharing stories from years past. You both preferred to share a cigarette because it felt less detrimental than smoking two individually. It felt intimate, almost like a kiss. A not-kiss, that maybe you desperately wanted to have. Maybe he did too.
Going in for your shifts became so much easier now that you didn’t have to rely on the bus or a taxi to get you there. You simply had to get dressed and head down the hallway that led to speakeasy. Seungcheol was especially chipper today, already having the door open for you as your new kitten heels clicked down the corridor. Jihoon had bought them for you in his favorite color: a deep burgundy.
Slipping into the backroom, you said hello to Minghao before opening your locker to grab your apron you left there overnight. Pulling out the discarded heap of fabric, you paused when you heard a thunk, noticing a folded up piece of paper fall onto the bottom of your locker. Your brow furrowed and you looked around, but you were still alone. When you picked up the note, you realized it had weight to it.
You bit into your lip, hesitating, and then opened up the paper. The first thing you saw was a small, gold key with the numbers 217 slightly embossed on the top. Your eyes widened. This looked like a copied key, and it wasn’t the first time you saw one of these. Han used to have a special person he went to for copied keys. The molding of the numbers was a crucial giveaway. When your gaze finally shifted to the note, you froze, reading over the words as you felt your throat close up.
Only visit when the clock strikes 1 PM, it read. Good luck.
You threw the note back into your locker as if it burned you. Someone was trying to set you up. You couldn’t have this in your possession. Maybe you could throw it in the fireplace tonight, watch the metal of the key slowly melt into charred wood and ash.
The possibilities ran through your head all night, but it was all cheap talk. Because that key stayed in your locker for another week before your curiosity got the better of you.
It was 1 PM on a Thursday and Seungkwan was giving you a look as he pressed the button for the second floor that made your whole body shake. Like he knew what you were doing. Like he’d been waiting. But neither of you said a word, just simply rode the elevator in silence. As you left the metal cage, he tipped his hat towards you and left you alone in the barren hallway of floor 2. You swallowed hard, and then turned on your heel to see room 217 at the end.
You didn’t know how much time had passed. You wondered if you blacked out. Because you were suddenly standing in front of the door in question, the copied key trembling in your hand. Why were you so nervous? You had no idea what was behind this door. Maybe it was excitement, the knowledge of finally seeing what had plagued you for weeks. To be in the know. Once you saw this, you could be on your way and never have to think about why everyone acted so strange about this abandoned room in the first place.
Twisting the key in the lock, you let the door slowly open and reveal the room. It looked like every other room, almost identical to the one you stayed in, so you stepped further inside. Your tread was silent, and you walked forward like you were waiting for someone to scare you. But the room was … the same. Nothing too out of the ordinary, besides the paintings hung up on the walls. These ones looked old and expensive. Worth a lot more than what this room costed. Your hands finally unclenched, feeling like a weight had been lifted off your shoulders. All that curiosity amounted to … nothing. But it did make you wonder why everyone spoke so oddly about this room in the first place.
And then you turned.
On the wall, directly facing the bed, was a gallery of photos. Each taken from different angles, days, situations. Some featured a smile, some had a cigarette dangling from lips. Eyes met the lens in a few. Some even included other employees of the hotel and speakeasy staff. But there was one similarity between all of them, and that was that they were all taken without any knowledge.
Oh, and they were all of you.
You stumbled, not sure what to make of this. Every photo was of you. This was a collage of your face. You took another step back, landing on the edge of the bed. Your hand came up to your mouth as you ogled the assortment of photos, until you almost couldn’t look anymore and peered at the room around you.
There were stains of self pleasure on the sheets.
Cigarette ashes piled in the litter of trays on every surface.
You gasped, standing up immediately as you took in the horror. But amongst the perverse, the deviancy, there was a sort of … softness here. There were fresh red roses on the bedside table. You recognized the paintings from the renaissance era, suggesting a fondness. And when you approached the desk by the window … there was a note, ink stains embedded into the thin paper. A box with a pearl necklace sat on the edge, and the note was addressed to you from Jihoon, explaining why he wanted to gift the necklace to you. He wrote as if he were devoted, as if he were in love, and simply didn’t understand how to express it.
This was Jihoon’s room. This was all his doing. That’s why no one was allowed in here, because they’d see … who he really was.
Turning to face the photo wall again, you suddenly realized that you didn’t know how to feel. Your emotions were torn in two different directions. For so long, you’d been devalued, treated as an accessory. Nothing but the doting wife to a notorious gangster, just shy on the totem pole to be important enough to receive threats to your life. Han loved you, but not like this. You walked forward, scanning the multitude of pictures, noticing the little moments he captured of you, and your heart … clenched. Like someone with an iron grip was holding it and wouldn’t let go.
He noticed you. You didn’t ask for it, but he chose you anyway.
You should be terrified. You should be running away screaming. This shouldn’t make your eyes soften or make you wonder if it was possible to stay here forever, with him. But you couldn’t help yourself when you reached out, fingers brushing the corner of a zoomed-in photo of yourself, your eyes fixed on the lens without even knowing it. You were smiling, the corners of your lips almost reaching your ears, as snow fell around your head like a crown. Your mouth trembled and your heart sped up because … you mattered to him.
But you shouldn’t be here. You knew you shouldn’t. Everything about this was wrong – from the collage wall to intruding on his private domain. This wasn’t meant for you to know, for anyone to know. And when you were sure you heard the elevator ding outside the room, you bolted, unaware that you knocked down a small frame of Jihoon and his mother on a small table near the door.
There was a maid’s closet right near room 214. You sprinted out of 217, whipping your entire body into the closet as you heard the metal doors of the elevator open at the end of the hall. Pushing yourself deeper into the small room, crowding against the mops and brooms and various cleaning products, you stilled your breath. Footsteps echoed, highlighted underneath the crack in the door, and you gripped a hand over your mouth. They stopped at the other corner of the corridor – near 217 – and it was only when you knew the door had opened and closed did you finally allow yourself to breathe.
The Velvet Ruby had never been more lively on a Thursday night, and you found yourself struggling to keep up. Everywhere you looked, it seemed that each of your customers wanted another drink, as if they were guzzling them. Sweat beaded your hairline each time you bumped into one of your coworkers, your mind somewhere else, thinking of the photos and pearl necklaces and ashtrays –
You collided into Mingyu’s shoulder, breaking you out of your thoughts. He apologized and brushed past you, allowing you a moment to still yourself amongst the chaos. You breathed out, closed your eyes, and gripped the edge of your tray. Everything was going to be okay. The day would end and you could go to bed soon enough. You would survive, because you had to. Because you were still safe. Maybe you’d even forget about the photos, the note.
Or maybe you wouldn’t. Maybe you’d let it consume you whole.
You finally opened your eyes, head turned slightly when you felt a gaze burning into your cheek. Even in the darkness, even amongst the crowd of drunken patrons and servers who jostled around you … you could find him. And he was watching you from the corner of the room, bringing a cigar to his lips, exhaling the smoke that filtered around his dark eyes. He didn’t approach. He didn’t nod. Jihoon simply watched, his stare never leaving yours.
Everything stopped. Your heart paused.
And it was then, that you wondered if he knew what you’d done.
Of course, he knew.
Infatuation was like a disease, spreading to every sap like it was going out of style. Jihoon had known infatuation, but he had never known it like this. He needed to restrain himself. He was a well-heeled man. Being a well-heeled man meant that he was a put-together, sharply dressed, impressive. The kind of man who knew how to act in public and paid attention to his employees, who smoked cigars but helped his patrons at a moment’s notice. The kind of man who secretly enjoyed cheap alcohol and taking a date home to bend her over before having his way with her. But it didn’t matter. It never got out, because he was a well-heeled man. Handsome and level-headed. He never got angry, never punched his employee’s husband so hard that his knuckles scarred, never thought about each way he could claim a married woman in just about every corner of his hotel. He was, as always, a well-heeled man.
But that was all a lie, wasn’t it? A character he fought with in his head. Because well-heeled men didn’t really exist. A well-heeled man didn’t take in women like you, someone married to a gangster he ran away from. A well-heeled man didn’t have the thoughts he had about you. A well-heeled man didn’t pour every ounce of his dough into getting his lawyer to take your divorce case. A well-heeled man didn’t have a secret room where he masturbated to a collage of your pictures on the wall.
The room didn’t start this way. It was just supposed to be a place for him to unwind. That’s why he hung up his favorite paintings – Sandro Botticelli’s Primavera, Jan van Eyck’s Arnolfini Portrait – and always had fresh flowers by the bed. It was a room away from the hustle and bustle of the hotel, the speakeasy. Everyone. Where he could decompress and smoke his cigars in peace.
And then, he hung up one picture of you. It was the staff photo, but he folded it up until it was just you, overexposed and smiling at the camera. You looked so beautiful, tall, nothing like the woman who walked through the doors of the hotel. You blossomed under him like a flower in spring-time.
He had more pictures taken of you. He couldn’t help himself, and he simply loved photography. You were his muse when he wasn’t even behind the camera. He hung up another photo. And another. And another. Until the whole wall was covered in you. And he was still calm – calmer than ever before. He had to be. Jihoon let himself fall back onto the bed, looking up at the wall of you, his gaze reveling in your smile, your eyes, you.
You were an imprint on his mind. An itch he couldn’t scratch. His angel. And it was then that he realized he simply couldn’t be calm anymore. Especially not when his hand started to drift towards his waistband, cigarette hanging from his lips as he unbuckled his belt. He was reaching into his pants and finding himself hard and – god, you created a monster out of him.
He wasn’t a fool. Of course, he felt perverse, shameful. But you had made him weak and he simply couldn’t stop. The pictures were beautiful – you were beautiful. And if he couldn’t have you the way he wanted, then maybe he could gaze upon you and find a little sense of peace while he fisted his cock until he came all over his thigh.
There was something off when he came back to 217 on Thursday. The air seemed different, a new perfume that hadn’t been there before, but he chocked it up to his imagination. His eyes were sharp though, and within seconds, he saw it: the small, wooden frame laying facedown near the door. His stare narrowed, lifting the frame back up so he could see the photo of him and his mother, taken just a few months shy of her death. He set it in place before walking around the room.
There was a shift in the bedsheets. One of the photos amongst the cluster – the close-up of your face, eyes fixed at the camera without you knowing it – had been tilted slightly. And that scent … it only got stronger the more he was in the room.
The only people that knew about this room were him and Soonyoung, who never came in here anyway because he didn’t approve of it. Soonyoung had always been the most open person, willing to understand just about everything, and it wasn’t that he was cruel to Jihoon about it. Cruelty wasn’t in his nature. When Jihoon finally finished the photo wall and decided to let someone in on the secret, he allowed Soonyoung to walk into 217 on his own.
His friend’s face was nothing short of shock.
He had stood there, staring at all the photos for a long time, before noticing the cigars on the desk, the indent of a body on the sheets. Soonyoung knew what this room was about, what kind of depravity his friend was up to as means of relaxing. It smelled of smoke and fresh roses, ink and arousal. He was momentarily disgusted, but didn’t have it in him to be shocked. This was Jihoon after all. His closest confidant, and if he was letting him in to this secret, it must be for a reason.
“Pal,” he finally said, “you can’t keep doing this.”
Jihoon waved his hand. “I’m not adding any more photos.”
“Not that. I mean this –” Soonyoung gestured around the room. “– in general. I know that you have no … ill intent behind this. I know you’re carrying a torch for her –”
“I think it’s more than just that now.”
“– But,” he continued, and then sighed, his eyes growing heavy. “What if someone finds this room?”
Jihoon shook his head. “No one will. The door doesn’t even open with the universal key.” He pulled out two distinct looking gold keys with his pocket. “217 was used for storage by my great grandfather back in the day. The lock will only open for these two keys.” He placed one of them in Soonyoung’s palm and then closed his fingers. “I want you to have the second one. Keep it safe.”
Soonyoung’s eyes flickered to his friend’s. “Absolutely not. I don’t want to be involved in this.”
“You don’t have to be involved in anything,” he chided. “Just don’t let this key out of your sight. Be my friend. Please.”
Soonyoung had always been weak to begging, and after a long moment, he nodded. That had been months ago, and he hadn’t been in 217 since. He didn’t tell a soul and tried his best to forget about his friend’s personal time. He kept the key safe, or so Jihoon thought.
Because someone was in here. Any normal person who found this room would come to him immediately about it, call him out on his behavior or threaten to call the police, take him down for a good price. But no one did. Even hours later, as Jihoon sat in 217 and contemplated who could’ve been in here, he realized that the answer had been in front of him.
The only person that would stay quiet, the only person that would refuse to look at him after stepping inside … was you.
He heard the lock click open, and he tilted his head to see Soonyoung opening the door. He looked relieved to find him here, as if he’d been looking for him for hours. Or maybe he was simply thankful he hadn’t walked in on his friend touching himself. Nevertheless, Soonyoung was panting, out of breath, and he didn’t even give Jihoon a second to ask what was wrong before he was exclaiming, “I think someone copied my key.”
You were going back to the room.
For an entire week, you wondered if it had all been a dream. The memory kept you up most nights, making your eyes tip up to the ceiling, where room 217 was locked just above your head. What if this was your cue to run again? What if these photos got back to Han? What if Jihoon had been secretly working on turning you into him this whole time? Rational was out the window now. Not when you were in the midst of divorce and he could use any piece of leverage against you.
The key shook in your hands as you stomped towards the room. You dared to not meet Seungkwan’s eyes this time, half-knowing that it must’ve been him who gave you this key in the first place. But why? Just to cause a stir, or was he curious himself? Maybe it wasn’t meant for you to know, and truthfully, you didn’t need the answer either. You just wanted to make sure that it was real, and then make a decision from there. What transpired this afternoon would change the trajectory of your future, if you fled this hotel or not.
You unlocked the door, key trembling in your grasp, and shut the door behind you before looking up. A gasp left your lips.
“So I didn’t scare you away?”
Back pressed against the door, you found Jihoon lounging in the desk chair, back slumped and legs spread comfortably. Instead of his typical cigar, he inhaled a drag from a cigarette before flicking some ash into a tray beside him. You swallowed hard and flattened your palms against the door, as if you could push it back. But you didn’t want to get away from him. Quite the opposite. Because you had questions and Jihoon, without a doubt, had answers.
“I don’t scare very easily anymore.” Your chin lifted to feign confidence.
Both sets of eyes shifted to the photo wall, still hanging in place, and when yours flickered back, his was already pointed on you. Transfixed. As if his gaze was always meant to find yours in a room.
“You had all these photos taken of me,” you muttered, leveling a glare at him, “and you’re using them for – what? Self pleasure, or are you actually working with Han?”
Jihoon’s brow furrowed. His stare was blank. “You think I would put my own life on the line like that by reaching out to Han about you, angel?”
You shrugged. “He must have a bounty on me though. It’s probably steep. Any hotel owner with a secret room is probably using it for …” You glanced at the sheets, which were now clean. “Nefarious activities.”
“That’s not what this room is for,” he answered. His voice was so calm, like you weren’t accusing him of anything. “And I am not, nor will I ever, be in contact with Han. I wouldn’t do that to you.”
Your stare flicked to his and you bit your lip. His eyes moved down to see your teeth sink into your plump bottom lip, but you couldn’t let him distract you as you assessed his tone. And somehow … you knew he was telling the truth.
He stubbed out his cigarette in the ashtray. “This room didn’t start out the way that you think. It was just a place to unwind, and then … I realized you face made me feel better than any rare cigar.”
You paused, lips pursed. “You knew I’d come back.”
“I was hoping you wouldn’t feel like you had to, but yes.”
“How long?” You didn’t even bother to gesture to the wall. He knew what you meant.
Jihoon’s gaze didn’t leave yours as he replied, “You’re not a fool. You know how long.”
Since the photographer came to the hotel. Even if you refused to admit it to yourself, to face the reality before you – you did know it. You watched him lean forward in the chair, elbows resting on his knees, as he took in your schooled expression.
Finally, you moved from the door and approached the wall. You reached out, fingers brushing over one photo in particular, before plucking it off. The corner ripped, and Jihoon fought the urge to get to his feet. It was a photo of you and Jeonghan, sharing a cigarette outside the Velvet Ruby. You could practically hear the laughter embedded in the ink. This had been a good day; you remembered it fondly.
When Jihoon eventually stood from his chair, he was careful not to crowd you, keeping his hands to himself. But you were slowly walking to the bed anyway, staring at the photo like it contained a hidden meaning you couldn’t quite figure out. You turned it over in your palm, then another time, before you let your eyes glaze over the surface again. “All these photos …” You murmured. “You don’t have a version of me that’s afraid.”
Jihoon’s spine was pressed against the old drawer in front of the photo wall. His hands gripped the edge, knuckles turning white from restraint. Well-heeled men control themselves. His voice was but a mere whisper when he said, “I wanted to remember you like this: safe, happy, beautiful. That’s the version of you this place created.”
You viewed up, crossing your legs over the edge of the bed. The confession struck you like lightning, making every hair on your body stand up and your skin prickle. You licked your lips and muttered, “If I told you this crossed the line …”
His answer was immediate: “I’ll remove every single trace of you from this room and I’ll …” He grimaced, but only for a second. “I’ll let you leave the hotel. I’ll wipe your name clean from the Velvet Ruby. I’ll let you move on.”
“And if I didn’t tell you that?” You bit your lip again.
His fingers flexed. Well-heeled men didn’t stare at married women like that. Well-heeled men didn’t imagine tugging on that lip before devouring her mouth. He did a sharp intake of breath.
“I would wait for you.” He took a beat. “Until you were ready. Until after your divorce finalized."
“The divorce will be finalized. The when part is simply up in the air. No need to be a worrywart.”
He tried to even his breathing, but the tension in the room was so thick that it could be cut with the dullest knife in his kitchen. His dark eyes never left yours, serious and unyielding. “Tell me what you want me to do and I’ll do it.”
“I don’t want anything from you, Jihoon,” you confessed. You knew it was wrong – it was diabolical – to want him in a moment like this. To acknowledge the desire you kept inside for so long, to hear him admit to it too. But you needed to, or else you might just explode. “I guess I just want … you. No one has made me feel safe like you do. No one has given me agency like you have. I’m not the person I used to be – I’m not afraid anymore – because of you.”
“Angel, you have to know …” His voice trailed off as he ultimately let himself step forward, slowly, in your direction. “You are the most enticing creature I’ve ever laid my eyes upon. Before you, before this – everything felt cold and lonely. But your presence has invigorated something in me, something protective and primal that I know is wrong. I simply couldn’t help myself. Everything about you invites me in. You’re the predator and I’m just your weak prey.”
Your breathing stilled as you watched Jihoon sink to his knees in front of you. His hands, still scarred from ramming his fist into Han, carefully went to your hips, hardly even touching you. “So if you really want me,” he continued, “I need you to say it again, and I’ll do whatever your heart desires. As long as it means I get to touch you.”
You swallowed down the bile rising in your throat, hesitated, and then let your nimble fingers trace his mouth. “I want you, Jihoon,” you whispered.
He surged upward, standing between your long legs, and crushed his lips onto yours. You didn’t know what to do. You hadn’t been kissed like this in years. And he knew that, so with his mouth still on yours, he took your palms off the bed and placed them on his chest. Instantly, your fingers curled, fisting into the silk shirt, bringing him that much closer. He laughed into the kiss, surprised by your eagerness, as he carefully slipped his tongue into your mouth. You couldn’t remember the last time Han kissed you, especially like this. With passion, with the kind of intensity that almost scared you, but you needed him more than you let on. You pulled Jihoon closer as he licked into your mouth, and you tasted nicotine on his tongue.
He leaned back, just slightly, noticing how swollen your lips looked from just one kiss. His mouth curved a little on one side, his fingers sliding down from your jaw down your collarbone, skimming your sides, before they rested at the buttons of your blouse. Your mouth sealed and you looked at him with wide eyes. “When was the last time anyone touched you?” He asked under his breath.
“I …” You shook your head. “I can’t remember.”
He raised one hand again, the tip of his finger trailing around your rounded lips. “Don’t sweat it, angel,” he whispered, leaning in to inhale your perfume yet again. He damn near groaned at the scent. “I wanted to go slow anyway. We have all the time in the world.”
“You have to go downstairs to watch the front desk though.”
Jihoon leveled a look at you. “Trust me. We have all the time in the world.”
You nodded, and your body froze when he tugged on your bottom lip finally, sucking it in between his teeth. He couldn’t stop the sound that reverberated from his mouth anymore, and when he released your lip, he saw the ident he left behind. The mark only he could give you.
No second guessing. No regretting. You slowly leaned back onto the plush mattress, your hair fanning out and making you look like an actual angel. Jihoon almost forgot to breathe at the sight of you. In this moment, you were all his and more. Everything he ever wanted was at his fingertips as he slowly unbuttoned your blouse and pulled your skirt down. He made sure to fold both pieces in a pile on the floor, topped off with the heels he bought you, before eyeing you yet again.
You were wearing a cotton chemise, trimmed with white lace, and stockings underneath. Under his gaze, you were already squirming, unsure how to handle someone looking at you with so much heat. Han had never, not even when you had first met, during the initial moments of attraction. Not even when he took your innocence. Never. Now Jihoon was, and even though it made goosebumps rise on your skin, you liked it. You needed it.
“You’re a real-life angel,” he whispered, hardly loud enough for you to hear, and helped lift the chemise over your head.
Jihoon almost fell back. He wasn’t that old, and yet, the sight of you half-dressed had him gripping the wall for support. Your breasts were the perfect size, rosy nipples that perked up from his attention. A garter belt was secure to your waist, holding up your sheer black stockings, and a pair of drawers underneath it all. The wet spot soaking into the fabric was so apparent, but even if he was blind, he could smell it. Smell you. He had never smelled this kind of arousal before, the kind that begged to be touched.
He wanted to taste you right now, like this. Push your drawers to the side and suck your clit into his mouth like a proper gentleman. Tights still on as one leg curled on his shoulder. But truthfully, he was too selfish. If he didn’t see you naked in the next thirty seconds, he might just come undone.
Taking off the garter belt, he carefully unhooked your stockings, slowly rolling them down your thighs, maintaining eye contact with you. He noticed your breathing pick up a little when his fingers hooked around the waistband of your drawers, and he paused, kneeling slightly and letting his breath ghost between your legs. His gaze didn’t leave yours.
“Jihoon –” You breathed.
“You’re wet,” he smirked, and your nipples hardened more. He hadn’t even touched them yet. “You’re so wet and I’ve hardly done anything.”
Your eyes closed for a moment, cheeks heating from embarrassment. “I just …” Words died on your tongue.
“You don’t have to explain yourself,” he whispered, peeling your drawers down and setting them aside in the pile he laid out for you. Placing your hand in his, he brought your palm to his groin, letting you feel the hardness beneath. Your eyes widened, connecting with his, and he added, “I need you too.”
You swallowed, fingers pressing down to squeeze his bulge, but he took your hand off before you could feel anymore. Lord knew that if you touch him any longer … his release would be completely wasted.
He set your hand back down on the bed and lowered his gaze. You had to be the most beautiful thing he ever saw. Completely bare, hair unfurled out like a halo, pebbled nipples and slick gathering between your thighs. To think he had you, like this, in the room where all his perverse fantasies lied … this had to be a dream. And yet, when his fingers grazed your thigh, felt your hairs quill, it was real. You were real.
“Wait,” he murmured, jogging over to the desk and grabbing a compact camera from the cabinet. He didn’t even close the drawer, too excited, and wound the knob on the camera’s frame. Your head tilted to the side, but he didn’t give you a moment to ask as he waved the camera. “Can I, angel?”
In most circumstances, you would say no. But this wasn’t most circumstances. This was Jihoon, the only man that had ever made you feel unharmed. You were his angel, his muse. God forbid, you liked the way you were seen in his eyes, under his lens.
Your chin nodded, a soft smile gracing your lips.
His cock throbbed in his pants.
Lining the viewfinder up to his eye, he adjusted the aperture to the dimly lit room the best he could. He was hardly a professional; he just enjoyed photos that much. You didn’t smile. You just laid there before him, one arm slightly behind your head so your breasts lifted. He made sure to capture the whole scene, even the wrinkles within the sheets, the slight shine of arousal from your folds. With steady hands, Jihoon held his breath as he pressed the shutter lever and took the photo. Then another, and another. He wanted to be absolutely sure when he developed this film that he captured you perfectly.
And then, he threw the camera onto the ground, not giving you a moment before he was burying his face between your legs. The immediate moan you let out was heavenly. Jihoon was sure that was what the choir sounded like when he was forced to attend church as a kid. You leaned up on your elbows, watching the way his eyes rolled back as he licked into your weeping hole. Your jaw unhinged; you’d never felt anything like this. Never once thought you would feel anything this good. His nose was hitting that part of your core that you had only touched a few times, the place that made your insides turn to mush and cause honey to drip down your thighs, as his tongue did ungodly things to you. Your moans, you realized, only spurred him on more, and he curled his tongue inside you faster.
He looked up, eyes meeting yours from between your thighs, and noticed you were sitting up to watch him. But he wanted you to enjoy this, so he slid one hand up your body and pushed down your stomach. You complied, fully lying back against the mattress, as his other bicep looped around your leg. He need to pry you open more, spread you like a feast.
Rolling up his sleeves, the last thing you expected was him sliding two fingers inside of you while taking your swollen bud in his mouth. You exhaled, hardly a moan, because you weren’t sure what sounds you could make at the moment. Your hips lifted, grinding against his face unintentionally. Jihoon groaned into your pussy and it vibrated through you, causing your nipples to perk so much that they practically hurt. Suckling your clit, he tasted your tangy flavor, and he knew then that no one, not one person, came close to you. You were meant to be his and he was meant to be yours and he would be doing this over and over again.
You weren’t sure how he did it, but he managed to shove his face impossibly deeper. He tugged at your clit, curled those fingers inside you in a come forward motion, making you reel. Your thighs began to shake. How was he able to reach places no one ever could? Your whole body was on fire, and he was still lapping at your core. “That’s it, angel,” he muttered, and you shivered at his hot breath on your swollen clit. “Soak my face. I know you can.”
“Says … says you,” you huffed out, unsure if you even could reach that peak. Had you ever with Han? Now you were questioning everything and this was certainly not the time to think back to your previous marriage.
Jihoon chuckled, and your back almost arched. “Don’t worry. I’ll get you there.”
Then he was going back in, swirling his tongue around that bud that made your knees twitch, pushing another finger inside of you. He was preparing you for his cock, stretching you to see if you would be able to take him, although you were unaware at the time. And when you finally came after just one curl of his three fingers, he knew you’d fit him so well. He almost whimpered at the taste of your release, the way you clamped down on his three thick fingers and rode out the rest of your orgasm on his face.
As he lifted his head from between your legs, you realized he made due on his promise. You didn’t just soak his face; he was covered in you. His chin mostly, but you watched him wiped down his entire face with his sleeve and you instantly blushed with embarrassment. It was impossible to hide.
Jihoon only smiled at your flushed face, getting to his feet and leaning over you. His lips grazed your cheek, feeling how hot your skin was, as he fought with the buckle on his belt. “No need to be embarrassed. Your flavor is … out of this world,” he whispered, and then leaned back slightly to study you. After a long moment, he asked, “Has no one got you off before?”
You closed your eyes and pinched the bridge of your nose. “I’m … not sure. Was it obvious to you?”
He flashed a smile. “Just a smidge.”
A sigh escaped you, and then your lashes fluttered open. “Of course, I … Han and I undoubtedly have had …” The words turned to ash on your tongue. Growing up as a woman during this time taught you to hold your tongue on all things sexual, but he understood what you were trying to say. Your hand smacked down on the bed. “I think he tried and I simply never realized that I was supposed to feel something like that after intercourse.”
“It shouldn’t just be after intercourse, angel,” he explained, licking the corner of his lips. “He should’ve been getting you off in other ways. You were his wife. Someone to worship.”
“Again, Han tried –”
He cupped your cheek, his thumb swiping down the slope of your nose, and your lips immediately sealed. Jihoon had a way of looking at you that just completely silenced you. He was so calm, so soft, when he said, “Can we not talk about your former husband anymore so I can make love to you?”
You nodded immediately, your own hand coming up to squeeze his wrist lightly. He tried to hold himself together at your submission; the last thing he wanted was to frighten you with just how much he needed you. But it was hard. He was fucking hard. Jihoon couldn’t remember another time that he was this aroused, just like how you were minutes ago. Precum was practically seeping through his slacks and there was a pretty significant tent. Your gaze drifted to it every so often. You knew how badly he desired you, and still … you were just as excited. It made him want to push into you deep, fast, so you could feel him stretching you and reach that one spot that made you crumble.
He was a well-heeled man though. He promised to take this slow, and once you were ready … then he would really take you.
Jihoon didn’t just want to make you see stars. He wanted you to see galaxies.
He unbuttoned his shirt in front of you, wanting to make you watch. It was obvious the way your fingers twitched and your toes curled that you liked what you saw: a toned torso with long arms and bulging biceps to match. Jihoon always felt the need to tell the women he slept with that his height was the only short part of him, but your dilated stare told him that you already suspected this. You felt it. And when he finally slipped off his belt, peeled down his slacks, you weren’t completely surprised. But your teeth still dug into your lip, almost hard enough to draw blood, because the size of him was unfair to most men.
Jihoon’s fingers were thick, but his cock was even thicker. His girth should be enough to scare you, and you tried to remain impassive. However … you weren’t sure how he was supposed to fit inside anyone – let alone you – who had only ever slept with your ex husband. He was probably still long when he was soft, but when he was hard like this … Jihoon might as well have been hiding a third appendage in his pants. Veins traveled up the shaft towards a head that was flushed ruby red, precum beading at the tip. You noticed the way his cock quivered, begging for an ounce of attention, flopping against his chiseled abdomen.
He moved forward, and suddenly, the dynamic shifted for him. He was now the predator, and you were the prey. Propping his knee on the edge of the bed, he knocked your thighs open, giving him enough room to take you. Slick oozed from between your legs, and just the sight made more precum trickle down his length. He leaned forward, his breath mingling with yours as he aligned his cock to your entrance with one hand. Using the other, he leisurely took your wrists in his grip and pinned them above your head.
“I’m going to take you slow, angel,” he murmured, trailing his mouth down your jaw, and then your neck, before licking down the valley between your breasts. You began to squirm again, but you didn’t budge. He kept eye contact with you as he swirled his tongue so lightly around one of your nipples, then added, “If you want me to go faster, or harder, tell me. I’ll do whatever you need.”
You nodded quickly. He grinned, as if he wasn’t just about to completely ravish you with his thick cock. He pecked your lips, and then adjusted his position slightly, before you finally felt his bulbous head start to push into your tight channel. Your breath caught, your walls pressing down when he wasn’t even halfway inside. “Relax, angel,” he whispered, lowering his head again to take your hard nipple into his mouth. Just the feeling of him suckling on you like this was the best distraction, and he felt your body give way to him.
Once he was fully sheathed, he paused and savored the tight connection between the two of you. You were almost afraid to move, praying he wouldn’t slip out just yet, no matter how uncomfortable the stretch was. Your eyes shifted over his shoulder, scanning the wall of photos. Every single picture of your face. He was devoted to you – god, was he devoted – and you knew it from the way he heaved against your nipple just from the realization of being inside you finally. In room 217. On the bed he pleasured himself on so many times to your image.
Because it was you. It was always going to be you.
His mouth moved, pressing against the curve of your breast, as he pulled all the way out before slamming back in. You gasped, still not used to the absolute fullness inside of you, but you relaxed again as he rolled your other nipple between two fingers. He began a steady pace, looking down at you so your eyes would never leave his. He wanted to make sure he caught every expression as he fucked into you deep. “God, you feel …” He lost the will to speak, only able to huff and sigh. “Like … like heaven.”
“Really?” You breathed.
“Really,” he muttered. “Terribly so.”
Your pussy was squeezing him so tight, but he wouldn’t yield. Not unless you said so. He molded you just for him. He would ruin you for anyone else. Jihoon had to, because he couldn’t bear the thought of any other man being inside of you, not when he finally tasted heaven. And it was when you said the words, “I want more,” that he might’ve lost all restraint.
“More?” His brow furrowed down at you.
You confirmed with a nod. “Harder. Faster. Please, Jihoon.”
“Angel, you don’t –”
“I do.” Your response was so calm, stern. You knew what you were asking for, and when he was still stalling, you pushed your hips up to meet his, rubbing against his groin. “Take me how you’ve always wanted to.”
His grip on your wrists tightened, and all you heard was him mutter, “Fuck,” before every ounce of control left his body. Pulling out again, he practically pounded back into you, relentless. His new pace knocked the wind out of you, his hips fucking into you so hard that you were sure there would be bruises the next day. And you didn’t care. Because he felt so good, and you felt good, and you finally understood why your old friends used to say that sex was only good with the right person. That was Jihoon. His cock curved into you just right, hitting that one spot, and you keened, whimpering his name like it was the only thing you knew.
“Squeeze me so good,” he grunted, meeting your completely fucked-out stare, “you know that?”
All you could do was nod, mouth falling open as your body vibrated with pleasure.
His free hand left your nipple to hitch your leg up onto his hip, and his groan sounded otherworldly as he fucked into you even deeper than before. He had to be dreaming. No one could ever feel this good, but you did. And of course, it would be you. Wrists fidgeting in his hold, you felt your arousal gush around him just from the pleasure of being absolutely filled like this. You managed to hold your leg up, even when it felt like jelly, and his hand crept between your legs. “I’m gonna make you see stars again,” he promised, fingers finding your puffy clit, “and then I’m going to let go inside you. Sound good, angel? Because I can’t hold on much longer.”
Before you could utter a strangled word, he pinched your clit, and then pressed down on it at the same time he pushed into you hard. All you saw was white. Just as you started to let out the kind of moan that would echo through the entire hotel, he sealed his mouth over yours. He kissed you with purpose, swallowing every sound as you came for what felt like forever. Your walls contracted, clenching around his cock, until he was groaning against your lips and spiraling down the same path. He fucked his release into you, not stopping for one moment, but his hips faltered slightly. Emptying himself inside of you, you felt the stickiness begin to drip from between your thighs and the deafening squelch when he thrust into you one last time. Finally, he exhaled, collapsing on top of you as the last of his release trickled inside.
You were both silent for a while. The sound of heavy breathing filtered throughout room 217. Jihoon finally slipped his hand off your wrists, muted red marks now blooming on your skin, and cupped your cheek so you could look at him. He admired you: hardly able to keep your eyes open, your dilated pupils, the flush on your cheeks and the sweat dotting your hairline, making your perfectly-kept hair now frizzy. You were even more beautiful like this – not put together, claimed. You were all his now. And no one – not even Han – could take you away from this hotel.
“I’ll keep you safe,” he whispered against your kiss-bitten lips, “forever.”
Synopsis: Joshua Hong is nice. Too nice. He’s the kind of nice that makes people think twice about their relationship to him, wondering if they might be special. The answer is, no. Problem is, he's your coworker and your neighbor.
Content: Fluff | Coworkers to Lovers, Neighbors to Lovers | Office AU
Tags: slightly insecure reader, totally inspired by the youngji chocolate milk grandchildren interview, lots of elevators, lots of tension, a bit of drinking, mutual pining, "sweetheart" as a petname, gentleman agenda indeed, except he goes a bit mad at the end, seungkwan is a comedic genius, woozi is the wingman of the year, konglish w/ context clues, reader is scared of loud noises, no "y/n," loosely connected to python (seungcheol)
Word Count: 10K
────୨ৎ──── Monday
Joshua Hong is nice. Really nice. He opens the door for you every morning walking into work. He insists that he carries heavy file boxes from your boss’ office to your desk. He buys you coffee from the cafe down the street, knowing that the instant machine is almost always broken. Whenever he passes you in the hallway, he always smiles and mouths “fighting!” He notices when your enthusiastic mask slips and your tiredness peaks through. He tells you not to work so hard, and asks if you’ve been sleeping well.
He’s the kind of nice that makes people think twice about their relationship to him, wondering if they might be special.
But the answer is, no.
“He’s just like that. He’s nice to everyone. Get a grip.”
You sigh, staring at your reflection in the mirror hanging above your vanity. You’ve been absentmindedly rubbing moisturizer on your cheeks for the last three minutes, at least, thinking about your coworker. How have you gotten to the point of talking to yourself in attempts to rationalize the thoughts of him clouding your mind?
All of a sudden, your alarm rings. You jolt upright, reminded that you have to leave your tiny apartment and head over to your equally small office cubicle.
You quickly stand up from your vanity chair, then walk over to your closet to grab a jacket. Relying on muscle memory, your hand moves toward the hook it always lies on, only to swipe at air.
The one and only winter coat you own isn’t there.
You groan, remembering that you’d put it in the laundry bin after staining it with beer over the weekend, at that disastrous company “bonding” event. You look down at the taupe sweater you’re wearing, pinching the material to guess if it’d be warm enough. It’s barely a centimeter of fabric.
Glancing at the time on your phone, you decide that the thin sweater would just have to do.
You turn back to the mirror to do one last check of your appearance, when something catches your eye. Sitting on your bedside table is the plushie Joshua had won for you at the arcade. The bunny stares back at you innocently. You’d placed it there last night before crashing out on your bed, fatigued from the chaos of the company outing—or, more specifically, the secondhand embarrassment recalling your attempts at trying to be normal around Joshua.
You shake your head roughly. You could cringe at yourself on the way to work. Grabbing your work bag and shoving your shoes on, you rush over to the door.
Squaring your shoulders, you open it and walk out. And for a moment, as you’re turning your key to lock the door, you think that you’ll be alone for the commute to work for once.
But then you hear a familiar voice.
“Good morning!”
You tense, heart beginning to race, then turn around with a weak smile.
“Hi, Joshua.”
Somehow, you’re not only coworkers with your crush, but also next door neighbors.
“Hey,” he says, then takes a sharp breath. “It’s pretty cold today. Is that sweater going to be warm enough?”
“I’ll be fine,” you say, avoiding eye contact as you drop your keys into your bag. “It can’t be that cold.”
You adjust the bag strap on your shoulder and walk toward the elevator on your floor, pressing the down button. It immediately opens.
“You sure?”
You nod as the two of you walk inside the elevator.
Hoping he’ll stop pushing you on your lack of a coat, you ask, “Did you look into the McKinley and Lee file yet?”
“Come on, it’s not even 9am and you’re already attacking me with work!” Joshua dramatically clutches his chest, then lightly punches your arm. “What’d we say about 워라밸, huh?”
You feel your face getting hot, your right hand reflexively going up to where he’d touched your left arm. Was it always this toasty in the elevator?
Meeting his eyes for the first time today, you say, “Yeah, yeah, work-life balance. You’re right.”
His lips turn up and his eyes crinkle into bright crescent moons. You find yourself smiling back at him, despite having tried so hard to avoid his stupidly sweet gaze.
“I’m just teasin’, you know?” he says, leaning casually against the steel walls of the small elevator.
“Yeah, yeah,” you mumble again, rubbing the handle of your bag and tapping your foot to give yourself something else to focus on, suddenly aware that the two of you were alone.
God, could the elevator move any slower? Fidgeting with the loose threads of your sweater, you were on the verge of melting from being near his vicinity for so long.
Ever since Joshua Hong had arrived two months ago as a transfer from the Seoul branch, you haven’t gone a day without running into him. It was HR’s fault, really. The Human Resources department had placed him in yours, and also gave him the company-funded apartment next door to you.
He’d spent so much time around you that, if you didn’t see the people who regularly flocked to him, you’d think you were his only friend in the States. It was, and still is, ridiculous. His constant presence has meant that you are constantly aware of yourself. Of how you’re breathing too loud, and how your heart is beating too fast, and how you were in too much of a rush to do your full routine this morning. He makes you care more than usual about how well you perform at work, and, worse, he makes you think about how happy and funny you appear to be.
The way he teases you for being nervous (although that’s only because he’s around practically all the time) and the way he always notices when you aren’t feeling well—it’s as if he sees right through you. Yes, he sees right through you, and it’s incredibly scary knowing he could confront you at any time—maybe even in this elevator—and say that he’s known all along that you’ve had feelings for him. And what’s worse is that you know he’d be polite with his rejection. He’d be a gentleman, carefully letting you down with—
“Hello? Hellooo?” Joshua says, waving his hand in front of your face.
You jump, blinking rapidly. “Huh? Sorry, what?”
“We’re here, sweetheart,” he says gently.
“Oh,” you reply lamely.
He gestures with his hand for you to walk out of the elevator first. Inside the lobby, he walks by your side. As the two of you approach the door, he reaches it first, and opens it for you to head outside.
You’re immediately hit with a blast of winter and harsh winds. Your arms instinctively tighten around your stomach, trying to prevent the cold air from rushing up your sweater.
Joshua turns to you, brows furrowed. His eyes glance over your sweater again, and you can tell he’s about to say something. Certain it’s an I told you so, you quickly say, “Before you start, I’m fine. It’s really not that cold, and the bus is coming soon anyway.”
You march forward toward the crosswalk before the bus stop, knowing he’s following behind you. Once you reach the start of the white lines, you slow down to a stop, waiting for the signal to change.
Still behind you, Joshua says, “거기 있어봐.”
“왜?” Though confused, you listen to his request to stay where you are. You shift your weight from one foot to the other, feeling somewhat awkward just standing with your back turned to him.
He doesn’t answer your question why, but you hear a shuffle and the sound of fabric rustling. Then you feel a warm coat draped over your shoulders.
You turn back to face Joshua with a start, opening your mouth to protest.
But before you can get a word out, he takes his pointer finger and lightly presses it against your lips.
“Shh,” he says with a smile. “Tomorrow, wear a jacket, okay?” He pats the top of your head.
Speechless, you barely bring yourself to nod, then remember to shut your jaw. Let’s just survive this bus ride, you tell yourself. God, it was unfair how nice he was. It only made it harder for you to believe he was like this with everyone—or to stop hoping that, somehow, you might be the exception.
────୨ৎ──── Tuesday
Ever since you showed up to work on Monday wearing Joshua’s coat, your coworkers have been speculating nonstop about your nonexistent relationship with the man. More specifically, your two closest friends in the department, Boo Seungkwan and Lee Jihoon, have had a lot to say.
Today would be no different. Huddled around the coffee table in the break room with Seungkwan and Jihoon, you’ve been roped into listening to their comments.
Eyes darting between the two of them, you silently sip on your coffee.
“I’m a hundred percent sure now. I swear it’s real, he’s so into you,” Seungkwan says while staring at you, waving his hands in the air like a madman.
Jihoon raises his eyebrows. “Are you sure? Remember when you said that the delivery guy had a crush on this one,” he replies while pointing at you, “only for it to be me? Your 촉 is trash.”
Seungkwan scrunches his nose, and huffs in your direction, as if you’re going to defend his skill of guessing office relationships. (You’re not.)
“Your hunch is horrible, I said,” Jihoon says, goading him.
“No,” Seungkwan frantically shakes his head. “That was a one off. Remember when I said the nepo baby in Finance liked Director Chun’s secretary? He kept staring at her and nobody believed me but I was right!”
Jihoon rolls his eyes. “Lucky guess.”
“No, no, no, my 촉 is excellent, thank you very much.” Seungkwan turns to you, all pouty. “You trust my 촉, right?”
Finding the entire conversation ridiculous, you can’t help but shake your head and laugh. Though Seungkwan prides himself on his supposedly superior hunches, he is really only accurate half the time.
You raise your coffee cup to your lips and sip on the liquid inside, a perfect state in between steaming hot and lukewarm.
“Kkah, this coffee is great,” you say to Seungkwan, ignoring his question.
His eyes suddenly widen, and he frantically waves his pointer finger at you. “Oh, oh! Another thing! He always gets you coffee from that expensive place next door, Cafe whatever. He never gets us coffee, but he always gets you coffee.”
Taken aback, you put the cup down, saying, “No way, he does that for a lot of people. He bought coffee for the receptionist like, last week.”
“That’s because it was her birthday,” Seungkwan says.
“And how’d you know that?” you ask.
“Because there were happy birthday balloons next to her desk?” Seungkwan says matter-of-factly.
“Well—” you retort, before getting cut off.
“You know,” Jihoon suddenly interjects. “I hate to agree, but it’s true. Joshua doesn’t do that for anyone else.”
“Right?” Seungkwan exclaims, nudging your arm with his elbow. “Come on, I’m so right. Woozi said I’m right. Trust the 촉.”
You rub your temples, feeling ambushed by your loud friends.
“Yeah, yeah, sure.” You wave them off as you stand up from the little coffee table chair you’d been sitting on for the last few minutes. “I’m going to head out.”
“Where are you going?” Seungkwan asks.
“Away from you,” you joke.
“I know you’re going to the vending machine,” Jihoon accuses. "You always get a snack after coffee."
You raise your hands in mock surrender.
“Can you get me a granola bar, then? You know the one I like, the blueberry one.” Seungkwan asks.
“Oh, and a Coke Zero for me?” Jihoon adds. “Y’know, not everyone has a coffee fairy named Joshua, like you do.”
You laugh, shaking your head. “You know it’s not like that. Besides, you guys just love using my money, don’t you?”
“Guilty,” Jihoon grins.
“Come on, I paid for karaoke last Friday,” Seungkwan complains. “That was way more expensive than a granola bar and a Coke.”
“Coke Zero,” Jihoon says, emphasizing the “Zero.”
“Tomato, tomato.” Seungkwan wrinkles his nose, enunciating the “ay” and “ah” in the two pronunciations of the word.
“Apples, oranges,” Jihoon insists.
“Okay, okay, let’s not fight, children. A blueberry granola bar and a Coke Zero, on your way.” You give a pretentious salute.
Grasping your coffee, you down the rest of it and get up from the table. You crumple the cup and toss it into the trash can before leaving.
Walking through the main hallway, you pass the vending machines on your department’s floor, which are known to swallow dollar bills without offering products in return. Between the youngest employees in the department—people like you, Seungkwan, and Jihoon—you’ve discovered a secret spot that has better machines.
Once you reach the elevator, you tap on the down button. When the doors open, you walk inside and press on the “G” and “Door Close” buttons.
The elevator doors close smoothly, and you tap your foot as you watch the numbers at the top right corner go down from 8. It reminds you of the awkward elevator ride from Monday morning, but you quickly shake those thoughts out of your head.
It’s best not to think of Joshua when you don’t have to.
The garage is a relatively far trek from floor 8, but it’s a worthwhile time sacrifice. The other floors (and by extension, their vending machines) are locked by key cards for employees of their respective departments, so it’s either you take a chance with the floor 8 machines or head to the basement. You, Seungkwan, and Jihoon have all found that you’d rather not take that chance.
The elevator announces your arrival to the ground floor with a ding, and as the doors open, you make a beeline toward the machines.
Seeing that someone is already using the vending machine closest to the elevator, you walk past it toward the machine closest to the doors leading out of the hall and into the garage.
“Blueberry granola bar, Coke Zero. Blueberry granola bar, Coke Zero,” you repeat to yourself under your breath.
Coming to a stop by the vending machine, you scan the snacks inside. Grabbing your wallet, you fish some dollars out and double check the numbers of the items before lifting your right hand up to the combination pad.
Jihoon first, because he was slightly less annoying than Seungkwan this morning: Coke Zero, number 405. You punch the numbers into the machine. When it flashes $2.00, your eyes widen.
“Two dollars for a soda is robbery,” you groan.
Still, you count two dollars out from the wad of cash in your left hand, then feed it into the machine. The machine begins whirring, the spiral in 405 moving forward. But just as you think the drink is going to come out, the spiral stops.
“Oh, come on,” you mutter.
You press on the small button next to the number pad that you guess is made for delivering change, but it doesn’t return your money.
Maybe putting in two more dollars would make the machine move and spit out two drinks? Immediately acting on the thought, you punch 405 in the number pad again and feed two more dollars into the machine, only for it to whir without delivering the Cokes again. Another two dollars later, and the same happens.
Taking matters into your own hands, you begin banging on the front of the vending machine. After around five seconds of failing to make the machine respond to physical force, your arms fall from the screen back down to your sides.
Clenching your fists, you sigh and count out two more dollars from your left hand. Then, your right hand stalls.
On second thought, you really don’t want to lose more money to the machine. Maybe you should try to force it out one more time? You shove the remaining cash into your back pocket.
You raise your clenched fists again, but before your hands meet the vending machine glass, a voice suddenly comes from right behind you.
“Whoa, whoa.”
Unfortunately, you’d recognize that honey-coated voice anywhere.
You spin around wide-eyed, coming shockingly close to Joshua Hong. His face is dangerously near yours, and his arms have wrapped around your body to clasp your hands in his.
“Shua? Wha—” Your voice is breathless, trailing off like you’ve forgotten how to speak.
“Hey, don’t fight the machine. You’ll only end up hurting your hands.”
His words are soft, but the way his thumb grazes your knuckles leaves a faint hint of warmth, like he’s lit a match against your skin. You should pull back—really, you should. But the closeness, the weight of his presence, keeps you frozen in place.
Your heart stutters in protest. This is nothing. He’s always like this. Always caring, always thoughtful. Always too close.
And yet, remembering what Seungkwan and Jihoon said, some part of you also wonders: Why does it feel different when it’s me?
Scowling, you drop his hands and take a step back, like distance will save you. "It's fine. I'm handling it."
His brow arches at your defiance, and for a moment, his gaze searches yours, like he’s looking for something you’re not ready to admit.
"Are you?" he asks, the words laced with amusement.
Your hands ball into fists at your sides, both in frustration and to keep them from reaching out for him again and betraying you.
“I am,” you insist, though the heat rising in your cheeks threatens to undermine your confidence.
But then, just as quickly, he tilts his head, and his lips curve into a smirk—soft, upturned at the corners, with those faint dimples that could bring a fortress down.
And for a moment, just a moment, you wonder if you’re the only one feeling this way.
But before you can think of a sharp retort, his voice cuts through the haze in your head.
“You should’ve just asked me for help—like always.”
The softness in his tone, the familiarity, pulls you up short. It’s almost unbearable how easy it is for him to say things like this. Like it’s normal. Like it’s not turning your brain into static.
It’s too much. He can’t keep getting away with this, with being so nice to you all the time. It’s not fair.
“Stop being so nice to me,” you blurt out, clenching your fists tighter. You’ve got to hold your ground.
Joshua cocks his head slightly. “I thought you like it when I help you?”
Your face gets, if possible, even hotter.
Honestly, what can you even say to that?
Desperately avoiding his face, you stare at the much safer collar of his shirt. It’s an off white color, like the fur of the stuffed bunny he’d gotten you at the arcade. It remains on your nightstand because you still have no idea what to do with it.
Realizing that you didn’t answer him, you finally deflect. “Where’d you even come from? I didn’t see you.”
“Over there,” he says softly, pointing at the vending machine by the elevator.
“Oh.” You press your lips together, belatedly realizing that the person you’d passed on your way to this vending machine had been Joshua all along.
“So, what’d you need? I’ll fix it for you.”
You feel your face getting hot again. “Coke Zero,” you mumble.
“I thought you didn’t like Coke?” Joshua asks.
He remembers?
“It’s not for me,” you explain. “For Woozi.”
“Woozi?”
“Oh, I mean Jihoon.”
Strangely feeling like you have to explain yourself to him, to let him know that you’re only friends, you say, “We went to college together. Me, Jihoon, and Seungkwan. We just happened to get into the same department here.”
Joshua hums in acknowledgment. “No wonder, I always saw the three of you together. Made me feel left out.”
Your heart drops. Eyes wide, you cross your arms repeatedly, saying, “I never—we never meant to exclude you at all!”
“That’s okay, I have you to talk to, right?” he says with what you can only describe as an upside down smile.
You swallow and nod.
“Y’know I was just teasing,” he says casually. “I wasn’t offended.”
Before you can confront him about the mental whiplash he’s putting you through, he grasps your shoulders and maneuvers you to the right, so that he can stand in front of the machine. His touch was fleeting, but your heart skips a beat anyway.
You watch as he grabs two dollars out of his wallet, then punches 405 into the keypad. As the spiral whirs, he sends two precise kicks to the bottom left of the machine.
Doubting his method, you raise your eyebrows in uncertainty. But just as you do, the whirring is accompanied by the sound of the soft drinks falling.
Thump! Thump! Thump! Thump!
That actually works?
Joshua bends down and sticks a hand into the bottom flap of the machine, pulling out the drinks that had just dropped from slot 405.
“Four Coke Zeros, at your service. Anything else?”
“Oh, a blueberry granola bar for Seungkwan. And those chips for me,” you say with mild surprise, pointing at slots 201 and 302.
“Sure thing.” He taps the corresponding numbers and slips some bills into the machine.
Thankfully, 201 and 302 are very cooperative, unlike 405.
“Thank you, you didn’t have to pay for those,” you say, your fingers brushing against his as you accept Seungkwan’s granola bar and your bag of chips. The faint contact sends an unexpected jolt through your chest, one you force yourself to ignore.
“Oh, it’s not for free,” Joshua replies, his lips curling into a smile that’s soft yet pointed. “You owe me a coffee from next door.”
You blink at him, caught off guard. “Tomorrow morning, then?”
He nods his head slightly, a gesture so casual it almost feels calculated. “How about today, after work?”
Your heart stutters. The way he’s looking at you—his eyes shining, eyebrows raised a little, with a faint crease between his brows—feels strange. It’s somewhat vulnerable, like he’s waiting for something.
No, surely not. Surely, he’s not—
The thought dies before it can fully form, drowned out by the thundering sound of your heartbeat.
“Sure,” you manage to squeak out, your voice embarrassingly small in the space between you.
His smile widens, but there’s a flicker of something else in his expression. Relief? Satisfaction?
You swallow hard and grip the snacks in your hands like they’re a lifeline. You need to get a hold of yourself. Joshua Hong is not asking you out. He’s just nice. That’s all.
────୨ৎ──── Wednesday
“You’re joking. You’re actually joking.” Seungkwan’s voice rings throughout his waterlogged apartment.
“Most unfortunately, I’m not.” You blink, feeling a droplet of sweat getting dangerously close to your eyes.
You carefully wipe the sweat that’s gathered at your forehead using your forearm, since your hands are gloved up. You definitely don’t want the nasty residue from the rubber gloves getting on your face.
Seungkwan glares. “You didn’t tell me that you were on a date with You Know Who! Otherwise, I wouldn’t have called you.”
“Well, you did,” you say exasperatedly, grabbing an antique-looking lamp and lightly placing it in the box of items to throw away.
“Tell me what happened, exactly. Don’t leave a single thing out!” Seungkwan barks, waving at you from across the room, where he’s dismantling a chair to put in the box.
In the middle of clearing out Seungkwan's damp furniture, your mind drifts back to yesterday afternoon, to the cafe where…
────୨ৎ────
…The soft hum of coffee grinders and the steady chatter of customers make you feel warm inside, easing the tension from earlier that morning. You sit across from Joshua at a tiny table near the main window, taking in how the late afternoon sun casts a golden glow over his face. He looks like royalty, and you think you could watch him for forever.
He’s nursing a cappuccino, his slender fingers tracing absent patterns on the side of the mug, while you sip on a mocha latte, its foam already starting to lose its shape. Staring at the latte, you think it’s about time you moved on from small talk.
“You really didn’t have to pay for my drink,” you say, though your voice lacks conviction. It’s hard to argue with him when he wields his secret weapon every time.
He smiles, that same boyish, disarming grin he always gives you. “It’s just coffee. I get you one almost every day, y’know?”
“Yeah, but I was supposed to—”
“Exactly,” he interrupts, eyes sparkling. “Think of it as payback. For all the mornings you made brighter just by showing up.”
Your cheeks warm at his words, heat spreading down your neck as you lower your gaze to the coffee table, suddenly fascinated by the faint scratch marks on its surface. “You’re too nice,” you manage, the words feeling as flimsy as tissue paper.
“Only to you,” he says, and though his tone is light, the words feel impossibly heavy. Like they’re carrying something you’re both too afraid to name.
Your heart twists violently as your eyes snap up to meet his. The way he’s looking at you—steady, unyielding—makes your breath hitch. This is Joshua, you remind yourself, the nicest guy you’ve ever met. And yet, you can’t ignore the way it feels like he’s waiting for something. For you.
“You don’t mean that. I don’t believe that.” The words spill out before you can stop them, shaky and uneven. But even as you say them, a part of you aches with the knowledge that it’s not entirely true.
Because deep down, you want to believe him. You want to hold onto the idea that he’s different with you, that the warmth in his voice and the way he looks at you isn’t just another facet of his kindness but something more.
But that hope is dangerous.
If you believe him and you’re wrong—if this is just Joshua being Joshua, warm and selfless to everyone he meets—it’ll break you. So instead, you tell yourself that it’s impossible. That he can’t mean it.
You clutch onto every reason why: the way he always holds the door open for others, how he buys coffee for the entire team sometimes, the way he seems to know exactly what to say to make anyone smile. It’s who he is, you think, not just with you.
The idea of reading too much into his words—of exposing your heart only to realize you’ve misunderstood everything—is unbearable. So you push it away, burying the small flicker of hope before it has a chance to grow.
But even as you deny him, there’s a quiver in your voice, a hesitation that gives you away.
He leans forward slightly, his arms resting on the table, shrinking the distance between you. “You should. Don’t you ever wonder why?”
Your breath catches. His words hang in the air, heavy and charged, and for a second, you think he’s about to say something that will upend everything you’ve convinced yourself to believe about him.
“Joshua, I—”
Before you can finish, your phone buzzes loudly on the table, shattering the moment.
You scramble to grab it, breaking eye contact as you glance at the screen.
It reads: “Kwannie Kwannie Kwannie.”
You sigh deeply but answer the call, putting the phone to your ear. “What?”
“Help!” Seungkwan’s voice comes through in a panicked shriek. You take the phone a few inches away from your ear, wincing at the sound, then stiffen. His tone did not sound like one of his regular, made-up crises. Bringing your phone closer to your ear, you hear him shout. “My apartment’s flooding! There’s water up to my knees, my coach is floating! I don’t know what to do! Jihoon’s useless with this kind of stuff, and you’re the only person who knows where my emergency shutoff is—”
“Okay, okay, breathe. 4-7-8 method. I’ll be right there,” you say, shooting up from your chair.
Joshua watches you, his brows knitting together in concern. “Everything okay?”
“Seungkwan’s apartment is flooding. I have to go help him,” you explain, grabbing your bag.
“I’ll come with you,” he immediately offers, already standing.
“No, it’s fine. I’ve got it.” You force a smile, though you’re still buzzing with the tension of whatever had just happened. “Thanks for the coffee.”
Before he can respond, you rush out the door, heart racing—not just from Seungkwan’s crisis, but from the words Joshua almost said. You hear him calling your name, but you’re unable to bring yourself to look back, afraid you’d cave.
If you had, you would’ve seen a crestfallen Joshua still standing by the table, frozen in place...
────୨ৎ────
...Seungkwan drops a chair leg.
If the water hadn’t already been drained (by you, yesterday, when you figured out how to use Seungkwan’s emergency shutoff valve), the metal leg would have made a small splash and floated in knee-deep waters. Instead, it fell obnoxiously loudly onto Seungkwan’s hardwood floor, ringing throughout the half-empty apartment with full force.
“Ah! Seungkwan!” You jump, nearly dropping your drill, which you had been using to unscrew the legs of the coffee table while retelling what had happened Tuesday afternoon.
“He was about to confess,” Seungkwan says slowly and robotically, as if caught in a trance.
You can’t bring yourself to deny it.
“He was about to confess,” he repeats.
Letting out a major sigh, you hop up onto the dining table, tapping it. “You know, we have to dismantle this too.”
“He was about to confess!” His sudden shout startles you again. “And where the hell is Woozi when we need him?”
“Probably on his way, as he was when you checked 20 minutes ago?” you say dryly.
“He needs to get a load of this. I was right!” Seungkwan waves the chair leg in the air triumphantly, far too close to the ceiling for comfort.
“Dude,” you laugh, “you’re going to scratch the ceiling, put it down!”
Seungkwan pouts. “But this is my victory leg.”
“Tell that to Woozi,” you grin. “I think you should show him the leg, first thing.”
He lights up. “Excellent idea.”
All of a sudden, you hear someone knocking on Seungkwan’s door. Jumping off of the table, you skip across the living room down to the narrow main hallway. Once you reach the door, you crack it open a few inches—as far as the chain link will let you.
“Woozi, you’re so late!” Your face breaks out into a smile upon seeing your friend.
“My bad,” Jihoon says with a chuckle.
“`Y’know, Kwannie has a big surprise for you?”
“I can’t wait,” he says with a sigh. “How bad is the damage?”
“See for yourself.” You take down the chain lock and swing the door fully open with a smile, only to falter at the sight of the one person you thought you’d successfully avoided all day.
Joshua.
For there he was.
“Here to help,” he says shyly, hands folded behind his back.
You give Jihoon a panicked look.
Jihoon explains, “I was heading out of the office when I caught him in the hallway. He said he was down to help Seungkwan, and I figured the more, the merrier.”
The sight of Joshua standing in Seungkwan’s doorway makes your stomach drop. It’s like all the tension from earlier has come rushing back in, this time amplified by the unexpectedness of his arrival.
You plaster on a polite smile, though you’re sure it looks more like a grimace. “Great,” you manage to choke out, turning on autopilot to lead him and Jihoon down the hallway.
But inside, your thoughts are spiraling. What is he doing here? Does he know you’ve been avoiding him all day? Did Jihoon tell him anything on the way over?
Your chest tightens as you think about Seungkwan waiting in the living room, blissfully unaware of Joshua’s presence. You can already imagine the chaos—Seungkwan, ever the open book, accidentally blurting out something incriminating.
What if he says something about the coffee shop? What if he mentions the way you couldn’t stop talking about Joshua just now?
You’re half a step ahead of them, your mind racing through ways to keep the situation from unraveling, but drawing nothing but blanks.
But then, out of the corner of your eye, you catch a glimpse of Joshua. He’s walking casually beside Jihoon, his hands tucked into his pockets, a beanie snug on his head. He looks different, less polished than usual, but still effortlessly himself. And for a moment, you falter.
Because despite your panic, there’s a part of you that’s almost glad he’s here. A part of you that can’t help but wonder what it means that he came at all.
When you reach the living room, you come to a hard stop, frantically making a small X with your arms.
But Seungkwan has his attention focused on that blasted chair leg, and of course, he immediately opens with: “Guess who has the biggest news of all time! The biggest action since the Great Orange Plaza Incident—”
Cue the obnoxiously loud laughter from you. “Joshua’s here! Say hi!”
Seungkwan turns to the hallway, where, indeed, Joshua is standing. Shocked, he drops the metal leg, and it announces its contact with the ground through a loud clang.
Wincing at the sound like earlier, you accidentally shift your body backward into someone behind you.
“Sorry,” you say, hoping it was Jihoon.
His arms come up to grasp your waist, holding you steady.
“No worries,” comes Joshua’s voice.
You shut your eyes, somehow both drowning in embarrassment and burning up at the spot where he’s touched you.
You quickly step out of his hold, trying not to let your flustered state show. “Right,” you say, clearing your throat. “Let’s go now.”
Joshua chuckles softly, his voice like velvet. “그래, 바로 가자.” Right, let’s go straight away.
Seungkwan, thankfully, is too caught up in his shock to notice the moment, though Jihoon raises a single eyebrow in quiet observation.
As you guide Joshua and Jihoon into the living room, you internally rehearse all the ways you can deflect or redirect the inevitable awkwardness. But before you can settle on anything, Joshua is already rolling up his sleeves. You avert your eyes from his biceps.
“What needs moving?” he asks.
You glance around the room, desperate for something to hand off to him. Your eyes land on the dining table—big, heavy, and far too ambitious for one person to handle. Perfect. “The dining table,” you say, trying to sound casual. “We need to get it downstairs to the lobby for pickup.”
Seungkwan perks up. “Oh, that thing’s a beast. Good luck.”
“I’ll help,” Joshua says immediately, a soft smile playing on his lips as he looks at you.
You blink, caught off guard. “Uh, okay. You and Woozi can move it.”
But Jihoon smirks, catching on. “Actually, I just remembered I promised to help Seungkwan with,” his voice trails. “Something else. You’ve got this, right?”
Before you can protest, Jihoon grabs the metal chair leg and joins Seungkwan in the corner, leaving you and Joshua alone with the daunting table.
“Looks like it’s just us,” Joshua says, his teasing smile widening.
You swallow thickly, resigned. “Okay. Let’s get this over with.”
Together, you begin maneuvering the table toward the hallway. It’s heavy and awkward, and you struggle to find a good grip on the edges.
“Here,” Joshua says, dropping his side of the table and moving closer. His hands brush over yours as he adjusts your grip, lingering for a moment longer than necessary. “That should help.”
The contact sends a jolt through you, but you force yourself to focus. “Thanks,” you mumble, your voice barely above a whisper.
By some miracle, the table fits in the elevator, though the tight space forces you and Joshua closer together. You’re much too aware of how little distance there is between you, the faint scent of his cologne making your heart race even faster.
“This reminds me of Monday morning,” Joshua says suddenly, his voice soft.
Your head snaps up to meet his gaze. What is he talking about? The elevator? The coat? Both?
He nods, his expression unreadable. “Yeah. I’ve been meaning to talk to you about that.”
Your stomach twists. “What about it?” you ask cautiously.
His eyes searching yours. “I just,” he hesitates for a moment, before continuing. “I feel like we keep dancing around something. Don’t you?”
Your breath catches, and suddenly the space feels even smaller. “What do you mean?”
Joshua steps just a fraction closer, his voice dropping to a near whisper. “I mean,” he pauses for a second or two before picking up again. “This. Us. I feel like there’s something you’re not saying. And I’m not sure if I should say it first.”
The elevator dings, announcing your arrival at the lobby, but neither of you moves.
You swallow hard, your heart pounding in your chest. “Shua, I—”
Before you can finish, the doors slide open, and an older woman waiting outside peers in, her curious gaze snapping you both out of the moment.
“Uh, sorry,” you stammer, quickly stepping out with your end of the table.
Joshua follows, but you can feel his eyes on you, his earlier words hanging heavy in the air.
As the two of you set the table down near the designated pickup area, he leans in slightly, his voice low. “This isn’t over.”
Your heart threatens to jump out of your chest, but you force yourself to nod, avoiding his gaze. “Yeah. Okay.”
Even as you head back to Seungkwan’s apartment, your mind is racing with the possibilities of what he might say—and whether you’re ready to hear it.
As you reenter Seungkwan’s apartment, the weight of Joshua’s words hangs like a thick fog in the air. It’s almost suffocating, the way your heart beats erratically at the thought of what he might say next.
You glance over your shoulder, half-expecting Joshua to be right behind you, but he's still out by the lobby. The sound of Seungkwan and Jihoon’s voices floats down the hallway as they continue their discussion, oblivious to the tension that’s spiraling in your chest.
You step inside, but you can’t shake the feeling that everything is about to change. Joshua’s words—“This isn’t over”—echo in your mind, repeating with every beat of your heart. What did he mean? What does he expect?
“Everything okay?” Seungkwan calls from the living room, looking up with a raised brow as you walk in.
“Yeah,” you chirp, trying to act normal, but your voice comes out too high.
He narrows his eyes. “You sure? You look a little off. Everything go well?” It’s unsaid, but you know there’s a “with Joshua” attached to the end of his sentence.
You force a smile, but it’s shaky at best. “Yeah, the table's gone now.” You can’t tell him. Not yet. Not with the weight of Joshua’s unspoken words still pressing against your chest.
Seungkwan studies you for a moment, his gaze flickering toward the hallway. “I’ll take your word for it. So, you two, huh?”
Your eyes widen involuntarily, and you try to laugh it off. “아니, 아니! 그런거 아니야, it’s really not like that.”
Seungkwan raises an eyebrow, clearly not buying it. “Uh-huh. Sure. Anyway, me and Jihoon are going to go to the bar. Want to come?”
The offer hangs in the air, and you realize, suddenly, that it’s the perfect distraction. You need space from your own thoughts. You need to calm your racing heart. Maybe getting out of here will help.
“I’ll go,” you blurt, before you can second-guess yourself. “Haven’t gone weekday drinking in a while. Let me just grab my bag.”
Seungkwan gives you a knowing look but says nothing more. As you step into the hallway to grab your bag off a high-hanging hook, your mind is still whirling with the unanswered questions about Joshua.
Walking further down the hallway, you find Seungkwan and Joshua standing near Jihoon.
Jihoon’s already at the door, his hand on the handle. “Come on, let’s go. I need some drinks in my system after today.”
You nod, attempting to shove your thoughts away for the night. The cool air outside greets you, and the cacophony of the city feels like a welcome distraction. As you make your way to the bar, Seungkwan and Jihoon immediately dive into their usual banter, but your mind is elsewhere. You keep glancing over at Joshua, who seems uncharacteristically quiet tonight, his usually playful energy subdued.
By the time you reach the bar and order drinks, you’re beginning to relax. Maybe it’s the alcohol, or maybe it’s the fact that you don’t have to think about what’s going on between you and Joshua, but you can’t help but feel like you’re walking a thin line between tension and relief.
But as the night goes on, Seungkwan and Jihoon quickly fall into drunken antics, leaving you and Joshua alone on the quieter side of the bar. The air between you both is thick, like an invisible thread is pulling you closer, yet neither of you dares to speak.
You fiddle with your glass, wondering if you should speak up first. You only have so much courage, though.
Thankfully, Joshua clears his throat, his voice low. “넌 좀,” he hesitates for a bit, before deciding to call you out, “조용한데?”
Well, it’s no secret that you’re being quiet. He was, too, at least until now.
You glance up, meeting his gaze for the first time since earlier. His eyes are intense, his lips pulled into that soft, half-smile you know and adore.
“I’ve been thinking about what you said earlier,” you murmur, your voice barely above a whisper. The words hang between you like a dare.
Joshua leans in just slightly, his breath warm against your cheek. “What part?”
Your heart races, but you hold his gaze. “About how this isn’t over?”
He’s quiet for a beat, then smiles—just a little. “I meant what I said.”
And in that moment, you realize you’re in way deeper than you thought.
You swallow hard, feeling the weight of his words settle in your chest, like a stone sinking deep into water. You want to ask him more, to press him, to demand answers, but the words feel trapped in your throat. Instead, you look away, fidgeting with the rim of your glass, your fingers tracing the condensation. The alcohol has started to mellow your nerves, but the tension still hovers in the air between you two, thick and almost palpable.
“You’ve been quiet too,” you manage to say, keeping your voice steady despite the jittery feeling in your stomach. “What’s on your mind?”
Joshua doesn’t answer right away, his gaze flickering toward the noisy group in the corner where Seungkwan and Jihoon are laughing too loudly, practically leaning on each other for support. The laughter echoes in the background, a sharp contrast to the quiet bubble that has formed around you and Joshua.
It’s the kind of moment that feels too intimate, too close to the edge of something that could change everything.
“I don’t know,” he says finally, and his voice is soft, thoughtful. “I guess I’m trying to figure out if you’re really as clueless as you act, or if you’re just pretending.” His eyes meet yours, and there's something almost vulnerable in his gaze, a flicker of hesitation that’s rare for him.
You feel your heart skip a beat, caught off guard by the question. “Clueless?” You repeat, the word tasting strange on your tongue. “I’m not clueless.”
“그래? Are you sure about that?” he asks, his smile barely there, his tone teasing but with an edge of something else—something deeper.
You narrow your eyes, a little irritated by how easily he toys with you. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you say, and then immediately regret it. It sounds too defensive, too much like you’re trying to cover something up.
Joshua leans in slightly, his expression serious now, no longer playful. “I think you do. I think you’re scared.” His voice drops, barely above a whisper, but it lands like a truth you can’t deny. “You’re scared of what might happen if you admit what you feel.”
Your breath catches in your throat. The world feels like it slows down, the noise of the bar fading into the background as his words settle in your mind. The truth in them stings, and you don’t know how to respond.
He’s right, but you don’t want to admit it.
Not yet.
Not to him.
Before you can say anything, Seungkwan stumbles over, dragging Jihoon along with him. “You two are too quiet,” Seungkwan says with a grin, clearly tipsy. “What’s going on here? Trying to plot against us?”
Joshua straightens up quickly, his smile returning to its usual playful, disarming self. “Nothing like that, we were just talking,” he replies, his voice smooth and easy.
You take a deep breath, trying to push the moment away, but the tension still lingers in your chest. You force a smile, though it feels weak. “Yeah, just talking.”
Jihoon gives you both a sideways look, too drunk to notice the underlying current between you and Joshua. “You two really are something, huh?”
Seungkwan laughs, waving a hand as if dismissing Jihoon’s comment. “Yeah, yeah, don’t mind them. They’re just having a little ‘moment,’” he says, emphasizing the last word with air quotes.
You don’t know whether to laugh or to cry. Contrary to Seungkwan’s comment, the moment’s long gone now, robbed by the chaos of their antics. But you can’t shake the feeling that something has shifted, that you and Joshua are standing on the edge of something—something both terrifying and irresistible.
And for the first time, you decide that you’re ready to see where it leads.
────୨ৎ──── Thursday
You wake up on Thursday with a start, the events from last night already feeling faraway. Joshua had dropped you off, and you had spent most of the night restlessly thinking of him, going over how to confess.
The bright morning light filters through the blinds, causing you to squint at the time on your alarm clock. It’s much earlier than you’d usually get up. You fight the urge to go back to sleep.
With resolve, you push yourself up off your bed and run through your morning routine with extra care. And by the time your last alarm rings, you’re ready to tell him.
You walk over to the front door, waiting for the telltale signs of movement coming from the apartment next door. Only, you hear nothing. Not even footsteps shuffling around.
Your elevator ride is silent. Your bus ride is silent.
Joshua had left before you’d even woken up—and you’d woken up pretty damn early—and his absence only made you more aware of the pressing silence between the two of you.
When you reach your cubicle, your eyes graze over the desk repeatedly, finding something is wrong.
“Hey, what’s gotten into you?” Jihoon asks from the cubicle next to you.
“Nothing.” Everything.
You stare at the spot where Joshua puts a cup of coffee from the cafe next door every day. It’s empty.
“설마,” you whisper. No way. Did he decide to drop you because you didn’t answer him? But what else could explain his radio silence? You haven’t gone to work alone in over a month.
“설마 what?” Seungkwan asks, dropping into his office chair to the left of you at 9 on the dot.
When you don’t answer, he asks Jihoon, “What’s going on over here?”
Jihoon shrugs. “Probably drama with You Know Who.”
“Oh,” he says, and the two of them drop it.
Before you know it, the clock has hit 5pm, and you’ve spent the entire workday soullessly typing on your keyboard, lifting your head up every time you’ve seen movement in the room. Only, the man you were looking for was nowhere to be seen.
You miss the stolen glances and bright smiles you used to exchange. The silence had been stifling. You really did want to talk to him, to clear the air today, but he just never showed. Heart sinking, you pack up your bag and put on your coat. You stall for a moment remembering how he’d given you his coat just a few days prior. Did he really decide to give up because you weren’t responding well?
The bus ride back to your apartment is silent, but your head is full of speculative thoughts. When the driver announces your stop, your heart settles into a newfound determination.
Maybe he could let go, but you can’t. You won’t let him go.
“I’ll just barge in! Say my piece, then let him talk,” you mumble under your breath, pushing the lobby doors open.
Is it a good plan? You aren’t sure, but hopefully he’d forgive you for being hesitant for so long. You honestly don’t know how he did it—how he was able to stand your wishy-washiness?
Eyes tracing the ground, you make a beeline for the elevator, continuing your whispers. “And what am I going to say? God, I need a good opening line. Something like, please please take me back? Actually, we were never dating, so I guess that doesn’t make sense. Please please like me back? Is that too desperate? Well, I am desperate, so—”
Out of the corner, you see the elevator beginning to close.
“Hold the doors, please!” you shout, running as fast as you can. Speed is of the essence, so you can confront him as soon as possible.
You make it across half the lobby in record time, panting as you enter the elevator.
“Thank,” you say in between breaths, hands on your knees, “you—”
When you look up, your heart stops.
Joshua Hong. Dressed dapper in an all black suit and carrying, of all things, a briefcase?
“Shua?” you say breathlessly, immediately straightening.
Joshua looks down, his usual calm expression faltering for just a second when he sees you out of breath. For a moment, the two of you simply stand there in silence, the elevator’s gentle hum filling the space between you.
“Where were you?” you ask, your voice quieter than you'd intended, a hint of nervousness creeping in despite your earlier determination.
Joshua clears his throat, a slight blush creeping onto his cheeks. “Director Chun had me accompany him to the Lee meeting. You?” he asks, his gaze softening as he watches you catch your breath.
Your mouth suddenly feels dry. The reality of the situation hits you hard.
This was it.
This was the moment.
But now that you’re face to face with him, you’re unsure of what to say. You should’ve prepared a real speech, practiced your words properly. Instead, the dreaded silence lingers.
“I,” your voice trails off. “I just—” You let out a shaky breath, then shake your head as if to clear the mess of thoughts swirling inside. “I’ve been thinking a lot. About things. About us.”
Joshua tilts his head slightly, a glimmer of curiosity in his eyes. “About us?”
You nod, trying to steady your breath. The elevator seems to be going slower than usual, as if the universe itself is giving you more time to process, to speak. You feel a strange mix of nerves and determination pushing you forward.
“I didn’t handle things right. I was,” you pause for a moment, carefully choosing your next words. “Unsure. Confused. And I thought maybe if I stayed quiet, I’d be able to ignore everything. But I can’t,” you say, the words finally coming out in a rush. “I can’t ignore you. I don’t want to.”
Joshua’s eyes soften, his posture shifting, his briefcase clutched tightly in his hands. “You’re not the only one who’s been confused,” he admits, his voice low, almost vulnerable. “I didn’t know what to do either, but I couldn’t let you slip away without at least trying. I care about you. A lot.”
The elevator jerks suddenly, and you both look up in surprise as the lights flicker. A loud noise rings through the space, and with a groan, the elevator comes to an abrupt halt. You both freeze, and your heart jumps into your throat.
“Shit,” you gasp, instinctively taking a step back from the elevator doors, but your foot catches in a brief moment of panic, and before you know it, you’re pulled toward Joshua.
He catches you effortlessly, his hand impossibly warm at your back, steadying you as you stumble. “괜찮아?” His voice is gentle but concerned.
You can’t help but laugh nervously, shaking your head. “Yeah, I’m okay.”
For a moment, the two of you simply stand there, him holding you in his arms, your heart still racing from the shock. Then you both realize the situation. No Wi-Fi. No way to call for help. Just the two of you, stuck in this tiny box, the tension thick in the air. The sound of your heavy breathing fills the silence as the elevator remains motionless.
Joshua clears his throat, his voice teasing again. “Well, if you think about it, this isn’t that new.”
In response, you lightly laugh, thinking back to all the times throughout the week where he's kept you steady. The you of Monday morning never would have thought you’d be in this position now, not to mention the you of two months ago.
You glance up at him, mind still racing. The unexpected turn of events had thrust you into a corner. And yet, in some strange way, you felt it was just the kind of moment the two of you needed.
Alone.
No distractions.
No running away.
“Well, at least we have some time to talk now, huh?” you say with a small, tentative smile.
Joshua meets your gaze, his eyes full of understanding. “Yeah. Looks like we do.”
And for the first time in days, the silence doesn’t feel suffocating. Instead, it feels like an opportunity, a moment to finally clear the air.
────୨ৎ──── Friday
You’ve been in the elevator for hours, but it doesn’t feel like it. Somehow, conversation just flows.
“I liked you first,” you find yourself saying, voice barely above a whisper as you rest your head on his shoulder.
“그래?” comes Joshua’s soft reply, so close that you can feel the vibrations in his chest. Really?
You can’t believe he even has to ask. Yes, really. You were so obvious about it. So affected by him that you couldn’t even look at the stuffed bunny he’d gotten you on Sunday, reminded of his soft, kind eyes.
So you nod, “Mm-hm.”
Your eyes flutter shut for a moment, your body still adjusting to the peaceful rhythm of being near him. You’d been thinking about this for the longest time, but now it feels so natural, so certain, and you can’t help but regret all the time you’d spent secretly pining over him. God, you’d even asked him to stop being so nice to you out of pure desperation. Who does that?
“Since when?” His voice is smooth, warm, like a soft melody, and you can’t help but feel drowsy with the way it lulls you into comfort.
You pause, eyes drifting to the floor of the elevator as you try to gather your thoughts. “Since when?” you repeat, the memory taking you back.
It was a chaotic day, the kind of day where everything felt so loud and full of people. You were at that welcome party for the new transfer—Joshua—but it had been too overwhelming. So, you’d slipped away, finding solace in the quiet of the cafe next door. You’d gotten a coffee to-go, and you sat outside on a bench, letting the world pass you by as you listened to your audiobook. That was your kind of perfect Saturday.
You never saw him that day.
But you did see him a week later, in the hallway of your apartment building. You’d just locked your door, ready to head out when you noticed the man next door fumbling with his own keys. His moving process had seemed slow, but that day, you finally got to exchange quick introductions before stepping into the elevator together. And somehow, in that brief exchange, you found yourself already falling, the way his laugh filled the space between you, the way you both laughed at the coincidences stacking up—the apartment, the floor, the building, the department. It was electric, the start of something special.
You glance up at him now, still leaning against his shoulder. “When we first met, in the hallway,” you finally say, voice soft.
Joshua smiles, a glint of fondness in his eyes. “That was when we first met?”
You furrow your brows, confused. “Wasn’t it?”
Joshua laughs quietly, the sound like a comforting hum in the otherwise still elevator. “I remember differently,” he says, poking your cheek gently.
You tilt your head. “If not the hallway, what was it?”
“The first day I came here, sweets,” he says, his fingers brushing a lock of your hair from your face.
Your mind races, wondering if you’ve forgotten an important memory. “But we didn’t meet, did we?”
Joshua hums, the kind of hum that carries a story behind it. “I guess you didn’t see me, but I saw you.”
You blink, unsure if you heard him right. “When?”
He leans back slightly, eyes distant as if replaying the scene in his head. “I remember being bombarded by all the office workers. God, it was so chaotic. I couldn’t breathe. I had to get out, so I said some BS excuse about needing a drink.” He chuckles softly, then his expression shifts, softer now. “I went to the drink station by the window, grabbed whatever they had, and just stared out. I was wondering how long I could hide before it was socially acceptable to go home, when I saw you.”
You shift, intrigued by his words.
“You sat outside on the bench. You weren’t even aware of the crowd inside, just focused on,” he pauses, thinking of the right word, before continuing, “Existing? Listening to something, I guess. I watched you for a while. You were so still, so peaceful in the middle of all that noise. It made me stop and think. I’ve never really done that before. I’ve always been in ‘go, go, go’ mode. But there you were, just being, and I don’t know. I think that’s when I started thinking about you.”
His words settle over you like a blanket, warm and unexpected.
“I decided then to keep giving you coffee after that,” Joshua adds with a shrug. “You’re my elevator to my small enlightenment, if you will. You made me slow down, sweets.”
At that, your heart flutters in your chest. “I never knew,” you murmur. “I thought you were just nice to everyone. All this time, you’ve been looking at me like I’ve been looking at you.”
Joshua smiles softly, his fingers brushing against yours. “I’ve been thinking about you for a lot longer than you’ve been thinking of me.”
“Only a week!” you protest.
Joshua’s eyes shine as he looks at you, crinkling into crescents. His hands steadily clasp yours, thumb rubbing against the back of your left hand. “Still think I’m too nice?”
“No,” you say, burying your face in his chest. “Keep being nice to me.”
When the elevator finally dings, and you can hear firefighters shouting things past the doors, it’s a few minutes past 12am. But neither of you moves, content in making up for lost time late into the night.
Masterlist
Author's Note: yes they were stuck in an elevator for like 7 hours from thurs after work to midnight, 내 마음이야
Disclaimer: nothing i write is representative of how svt acts off camera, take their names as stand-ins for oc's!!
fun fact my bf used to be so jealous of me liking seventeen but after watching a single ep of going seventeen he immediately went to listen to their whole discography and #understands it now
u seem so nice and ur fics are very cute! would love to get to know u 🫶🏼 (also feels nice to meet another shua bias hehe)
hiii lovely!!!!! ( ⸍ɞ̴̶̷ ·̫ ɞ̴̶̷⸌ 🫶) ty for the kind words, u seem like the sweetest ever!! i would luv to get to know u too us joshushushsushushsushhs have to stick together 🤞🤞🤞
context: the gloden globes with bf!joshua <3
pairing: joshua x actress!reader
genre: idk even know why i have this and the warning section section anymore... all i ever write is fluff
waring: swearing + really down bad joshua
author's notes: so you know taylor swift's 'end game'... cue the 'big reputation, big reputation, oh you and me we got big reputations' part cause THIS IS THERM
m. list | join the taglist | requests: open ♡
"absolutely not!" your stylist slams the door to your hotel room immediately.
"huh?" you turn back quickly. "maya, what was that all about?"
your stylist quickly locks the door to your room, then returns to her post beside you. "tell your boyfriend to stop being so clingy, y/n!" there was another knock at the door. "no, mr. hong! this is a ladies room right now!"
you couldn't help but giggle at the expense of your stylist. it wasn't everyday where you were able to attend an event with your boyfriend, who's based overseas, but when you heard that joshua got an invite to attend the golden globes, you were so happy to finally have an official event with him, especially in your hometowns.
while you listen to your stylist complain and grumble miserably as she fixes your hair and makeup, you got a text from your boyfriend not long later.
baby <3: can u tell maya that i can do whatever i want and i dont have to listen to her... and can she unlock the door
y/n: shes got a point though. im still getting ready
baby <3: and when did that ever stop me??
y/n: you can see me soon !!
baby <3: this is not fair
you laugh at the messages. picturing an image of your boyfriend leaning against the door to your hotel room just outside like a forbidden lover.
"ridiculous..." maya was mumbling to herself as she applies the finishing touches to your face. "look, i'm not one to put myself between my clients, but i've known and worked with you for so long, y/n. i was there when you two got together in the first place, and i will be here for when you two settle down, but i will not have someone come in here and keep you distracted while i work on your appearances."
"i know, i know," you raise your phone up to take a selfie. once you took it, you sent it to joshua.
y/n: what do u think? >-<
baby <3: beautiful
baby <3: can i see in person
y/n: nah not yet
baby <3: y/nnn
baby <3: im literally dying out here
baby <3: i look like a LOSER just waiting here
y/n: i mean you kinda are
baby <3: how dare you
you continue to text your boyfriend for the next ten minutes while maya continues to work. you were pretty sure she was taking extra long today just to piss off joshua, but you were also pretty certain it was because you were going to walk that golden globe red carpet with your boyfriend for the very first time since revealing your relationship.
maya took a step back after she was done, taking in the work that she's done for the day. "okay. i think that should be good."
you look at yourself in the mirror and smile. "perfect as always, maya. thanks."
"don't mess up the makeup," she reminds you, resting her hands on your shoulders. "so, that means no kissing, no smooching, no pda that has to do anything with the face or the hair. and i'm not going to repeat myself."
"yes, ma'am," you stand up while maya takes care of her makeup bag.
finally, you unlock the door to your hotel room.
"oh, finally," joshua put his phone back in his pocket and was immediately by your side. he began to lean in, to kiss you, to hold you, to simply... be around you, but you stop him quickly.
"hey, no kissing," you hold your hand up in front of his face, before he could give you a kiss. "makeup. red carpet event is in an hour. there is literally no time to redo this if you mess it up."
"if i mess it up?" he laughs, resting his hand on your hip. "right... you're going to mess it up yourself."
"oh, shut up," you slap his arm. "this is our first public appearance together. i am not about to have you mess up my makeup just because you can't keep your hands to yourself."
"uh-huh..." joshua hums, nuzzling in the crook of your neck. "hands to myself. got it."
your gaze shifts to the hand that's still on your body. yeah, he wasn't letting go.
"don't you have to do makeup, too?" you raise your eyebrow. "unless you want to go bare faced out there on your first ever golden globes, be my guest. that'll be a great way to reach the top of the trending searches."
joshua scoffs, pulling you closer to his side. "you really think i, someone who takes 40 minutes to get ready in the morning, would go out to a gala-like event without any makeup?"
"you should. the fans would love it," you tease.
"management and my members will kill me before they do," he argues back. "and you might, too."
"me?" you give him a fake gasp, putting your hand over your chest. "i would never."
"you literally bashed me about that entire seventeen of joshua thing from a few months ago."
"i did no such thing!"
having a film nominated for the golden globes was no small feet - and you were entirely aware of it. this wasn't your first red carpet event, and it certainly wasn't going to be your last... but at the same time, it was still exhausting.
you haven't seen joshua since the two of you separated to enter your different cars. you were there for your movie, while shua was there as a brand ambassador. your schedules wouldn't line up until you were seated at the tables, but that wasn't for another hour and a half.
while you were busy promoting your movie and talking with your co-stars, joshua was able to stay around some familiar faces and have people approach him for interviews.
"hey, stop looking at her," his friend laughs, nudging him in the rib.
joshua glares over at her, "what the heck, jihyo?"
"you're making it kind of obvious, you know," jihyo (twice) shakes her head, crossing her arms as her gaze follows his. "remember to stay professional."
"i am professional," he argues, quickly looking away when you turn your head back at him. "professional."
"right..." jihyo scoffs, not believing a single word that comes out of his mouth.
as the two of them continue to talk, jihyo was quickly brought away for her own schedules, and joshua was quickly approached by reporters.
the reporter introduces themselves and hands him a microphone. they ask a few starter questions, and shua was able to recount answers that he had memorized with ease.
"you're not an actor yourself, or at least, not yet, but is there someone you would like to work with in the near future? because we heard that you'll be, crossing our fingers, making an acting debut soon," the reporter asks.
joshua's gaze shifts a bit, eyes landing on your back with a soft smile on his face. "well, there is someone who i hope to work with, but i'm not on her level yet."
the reporter tilts his head, but quickly puts two and two together. "i see...! does this have something to do with a certain actress who is currently up in running for best female actress...?"
"oh, certainly not," joshua jokes, but it was clear in his voice that he meant the total opposite. "i didn't even make my acting debut yet, but she's already out here on the nominee list for best female actress."
"it must be a surreal feeling to see your girlfriend out there, huh?"
"her being nominated? no surprise there. but me being here, walking this carpet with her? that's the unreal part," he answers. "i thought for the longest time that she's completely out of reach for me..." joshua looks over at you again, eyes softening and voice becoming quiet. "turns out, i'm pretty lucky."
"come on, don't sell yourself short there," the reporter insists. "you and the rest of seventeen are currently on tour, going worldwide, the units are doing well... and of course, you're here at the golden globes."
"you've got a point there," joshua agrees.
on the other hand, you knew from the moment you saw joshua on the carpet that he was staring, catching a glimpse of you at whatever chance he gets.
"it seems that your boyfriend can't keep your eyes off you," your co-star jokes, a smirk on her face as she pinches your arm. "of course, that's understandable."
"hey!" you glare at her, face slightly red. "if you say that, my face is going to be red for the rest of the night." you quickly slap your cheeks.
"seriously, it's cute," she comments again, swirling her drink in her hand.
you scoff, shaking your head as your co-star gives you a certain look. you turn to look at joshua again, only to catch the reporter that he was talking to waving at you. you tilt your head, looking around before pointing at you. the reporter nods, which made you understand exactly what he wants.
"sorry, hailey, i gotta go," you gave your friend a hug, then left without hearing what she had to say.
your boyfriend immediately steps aside, making room for you in front of the camera.
"it was about time i get called over because you were staring too much," you remark, fixing your hair as you adjust to the camera. "well?"
"nothing," joshua wraps his arm around your waist, leaning over to kiss your cheek. "they were asking me how it's like to be back in la after a while, and i mentioned you."
"me?" you raise your eyebrow. "i think i should be worried if i was part of the conversation..."
"don't be," joshua promises. "i grew up here, but i haven't been back in a really long time. now, though, i'm standing on the red carpet at the golden globes with my girlfriend, who i didn't believe would ever be my girlfriend in the first place."
to be honest, whenever you hear him talk professionally during an interview, you can't help but hear the la accent that he has. it's so obvious - even though he doesn't even live in the city anymore.
"was it difficult for the two of you to get together?" the reporter asks. "i mean, ever since it was announced that you two would be at the same event, everybody has been excited to see you two together, but nobody knows anything about your relationship."
"we don't like showing off because we're always in our own spotlights," you answer, leaning your weight against him a bit. "but just for the sake of the fans, he approached me first."
"last time i checked, you were the one that kept on sending messages to your friends and colleagues about me, and fighting ticket wars to attend my concerts."
"hey, that's private information!" you complain, smiling as you hit his arm. "i don't want to hear it from someone who was at my door like a loser while i was getting my makeup done."
"now who's being the reckless one?" shua hums, pulling you in closer.
the reporter laughs, watching as you two bicker. "now, here's a question for both of you. you were both born and raised in la, right?"
"yup, but two completely different areas," you respond. "i'm from the westside, and shua was entirely a ktown downtown boy."
"i don't know the city anymore, though," joshua adds. "everything's all different. like, all my old spots where i used to hang out with my friends are almost gone at this point.
"don't let him fool you, he's still from la. you can take the boy out of la, but never the la out of the boy. i mean, do you hear his accent?"
the reporter bursts out laughing, nodding his head. "yeah! i wasn't going to comment on it, but you have a certain la accent to your voice."
"really?" joshua tilts his head with a bright smile on his face. "one of the first things that she told me when we met was my la accent that i honestly thought i lost. like, i still don't hear it whenever i speak?"
"that's because you get use to your own voice, josh~"
the rest of the night as a mix of people taking pictures, journalists coming up to you, friends and co-stars catching up, and eventually being separated from your boyfriend once again. it was to be expected - you were there for your movie, and he was there as a brand ambassador, it doesn't always clash... just like your careers.
when it was time to get seated and enter the actual venue for the event to begin, you were able to find your boyfriend once more.
"you talked about me a bit too much," you say, a teasing look in your eyes as the two of you made your way to the table after the red carpet event was over.
"i mean... when you have a girlfriend with titles and awards and is basically hollywood royalty, it's kind of hard not to brag about it," he argues, sliding the chair out for you to sit.
"not hollywood royalty," you try to correct him, but he kisses you before you could argue even more.
"hollywood royalty to me and to everyone you've ever worked with," he whispers, brushing your hair from your face. "i can't wait to see you give your speech when you win."
"oh, shut up!"
"i'll take a video of it and even proudly brag about it to the members," he continues with the teasing.
"if you do that, i might just kill you in front of everyone here."
"or, maybe at my next interview, i'll just talk all about you."
