MATING: F.Reader x ot13
PACK MEETING: The House Rules are made to make the pack function - they're vital to a pack this size, and everyone loves the House Rules. Especially you, the single omega in the entire pack, who the House Rules are designed entirely around.
FRIDGE NOTES: This collection functions as an interactive piece between myself and readers. Every chapter posted of this universe will be a request from you - the reader. Readers who would like a chapter of this written will fill out the request form, and that will serve as the framework for me to write a chapter. This collection is not meant to have a plot or overarching theme - it's entire purpose is to write smut, fluff, angst - whatever you, as the requester, wants, so long as it makes general sense to the pre-established universe where all of seventeen and reader function as an established back that live together!
RATING: 18+ Minors are strictly prohibited from engaging in and reading this content. It may contain explicit content and any minors discovered reading or engaging with this work will be blocked immediately.
PACK WARNINGS: Some chapters may contain smut. All chapters will be warned appropriately.
PACK SCHDULE: This series has no schedule. I fill requests as I see fit! This series also has no scheduled end - requests will remain open until I no longer want to work on the fic.
REQUEST RULES:
🌣 In general, ensure your requests are reasonable.
🌣 Requests must be within this initial concept of the pack together in a shared omegaverse. Requests outside of this concept will be deleted.
🌣 I will fill requests at my own pace.
🌣 Not all requests may be filled, either because they are duplicates, may make me uncomfortable, may not make sense to the overall work, or because there is something about them that doesn't work.
🌣 You may not change the pre-assigned sub-gender of a member in your request
🌣 Your request shouldn't force me to ret-con or backtrack/negate something already posted
REQUEST FORM: Request here
THE HOUSE RULES:
1. The omega is never allowed to eat alone unless she asks to - SEUNGCHEOL
2. If she falls asleep on you, carry her to bed. No exceptions - MINGYU
3. Nobody leaves for long amounts of time without scenting her goodbye - JEONGHAN
4. Her nest is neutral territory. Arguments end at the door - JOSHUA
5. If the omega asks anything during heat, the answer is always yes - THE PACK
6. No one is allowed to make her cry and leave the room afterward - WONWOO
7. If she steals your clothes, they belong to her now - MINGYU
8. The omega is not permitted to carry heavy things while alphas are present - MINGHAO
9. Whoever wakes her up is responsible for dealing with the consequences - VERNON
10. Use the omega as you please, but respect is mandatory - THE PACK
11. The omega is not allowed to beg and then act surprised when someone gives in - SEUNGKWAN
12. If she wanders into an alpha’s room after midnight, she knows exactly what she’s doing - SEOKMIN
13. The omega is not allowed to start things in shared spaces and then complain about being watched - JUNHUI
14. If she’s whining, someone should probably handle it - CHAN
15. The omega is not allowed to say “I’m fine” without at least one person investigating immediately - JIHOON
16. Arguments about whose turn it is to use her next must be resolved by rock paper scissors - SOONYOUNG
MEET THE ALPHAS: Seungcheol, Jeonghan, Junhui, Soonyoung, Seokmin, Minghao
MEET THE BETAS: Joshua, Wonwoo, Jihoon, Mingyu, Seungkwan, Vernon, Chan
request: hi! i loved the babying mingyu fluff/smut - can i req one for wonwoo ~ but maybe cockwarming instead ? tyy
themes: vague relationship between ww and reader but they're roommates, p in v sex kinda, nerds in uni, lots of comfort (ww receiving)
word count: 1400
a/n: another scheduled post :3 also i don't have photoshop anymore so my headers suuuuuck </3 does anyone know any cracked ps links for mac? pretty please? anyway, please enjoy this sweet little wonu fic
asks are open here!
The muffled sound of keyboard keys clacking could be heard from Wonwoo’s room. He had come home from his last class this afternoon, clearly frustrated; he hasn’t left his room since then. You continued reading your book, telling yourself he probably just has to win a few games and he’ll be alright.
Until the clock ticked 8 PM and you realized your roommate hasn’t eaten anything; you didn’t see him bring food into his room, just a measly energy drink that’s surely eating away at his stomach’s lining by now. Sighing, you stood up, letting the blanket you’d put on your lap fall and your book abandoned on the couch. Your feet padded against the wooden floors, making your way to Wonwoo’s room. The door was left unlocked, but you still knocked before turning the doorknob and pushing the door open slightly anyway.
“Won?” you called out softly; he didn’t budge, bulky headphones and no doubt his friends’ yelling blocking you out. Stepping into the room, you noticed how clean it has become. Must’ve stress-cleaned, you shrugged.
He hasn't changed out of his clothes, you noted as you neared him, hands stretched out in preparation. They landed on his broad shoulders, making him jump slightly before turning his head to glimpse at you. He paused his game, turning his gaming chair to face you. Your hands finding his, you pulled him with you as you walked backwards to his bed.
“What’s wrong?” you asked as you made yourself comfortable. Wonwoo shrugged, unnecessarily adjusting his glasses. A nervous habit, you noted, which meant that something’s definitely wrong. You tugged at his hands; Wonwoo stood away from his gaming chair and completely flopped his body on top of yours. You laughed, trying to push him off you but to no avail, his large body pressing you down into his contrastingly soft mattress. You pushed him away enough for you to get a look on his face; his forearm rested on the space above your head as his free hand found your waist, going under your sweater to rub soothing circles into your skin. Using the leverage, Wonwoo flipped the two of you around. You straddled him this time, face nuzzled in the juncture of his neck.
“You know that paper I've been stressing about all week?” he tried to play it off-handedly, but his voice sounded strained, and you knew just how much it bothered him. “It’s- I know it sounds silly, I’m always telling you not to freak out so much over a bad grade but here I am and the only way I thought of coping with it is to play video games for five hours straight. I mean, how ridiculous is that, right? It wasn’t even a bad grade but I’m still losing it- sure, it wasn’t my best work but god-”
“Won?” you interrupted him; you had to, or else he’d spiral even more. “Won, baby, you’re rambling...” you lifted your head to look at him. Wonwoo let out a laugh, feeling the vibrations of his chest against yours. His hand comes up to caress your hair, lithe fingers combing through the soft locks.
“I know,” he sighed. “This is stressing me out more than it should.” you hummed in agreement while pulling yourself up slightly to attach your lips to his neck, absentmindedly pressing light kisses on the soft skin. Wonwoo sighed, his large hand coming up to smooth your hair down, lithe fingers treading through the soft locks. “It just sucks so much and I wish I don't feel like absolute shit about it.”
“Hey,” using your forearm, you propped yourself up and scooted to meet Wonwoo face to face. His eyes flitted to the pout on your lips, already knowing what you were about to say. “Of course you could feel shitty about it, Nonu. I wish you weren’t so harsh on yourself all the time.” Wonwoo giggled underneath you, the sound an always welcome one because of his usual stoic demeanour, the hand that was on your hair now caressing your cheek. “I know, baby. I wish I wasn't such a hard-ass too.”
Silence hung around you as you both processed his words, a finger or two occasionally drawing incoherent figures on skin, or lips tenderly kissing whatever it could reach. Wonwoo’s heartbeat played a mellow rhythm against his ribcage as you pressed your ear against his chest, a silly smile taking over your lips. Just then, you swivelled your hips atop Wonwoo’s crotch, making yourself comfortable only to be surprised by the groan he lets out. You abruptly pushed yourself up, worried the moment wasn’t right and Wonwoo didn’t want it. Sputtering, you apologized to your roommate vehemently as heat seared your cheeks and ears. Wonwoo watched in confusion; now, it was his turn to calm you down, large hands gripping your shoulders. His hold was tight but not alarming, turning into a soothing caress in no time. Then, he moved them lower to your waist, situating your core over his crotch. Your hands braced themselves on his firm chest.
“Won?” you had to ask, really. Wonwoo wasn’t the type to initiate anything over something like a bad grade, especially not something like intimacy with you. “Do- do you-? Are you-?”
“N-no!” Wonwoo was ever rarely flustered, rarely were his cheeks sporting the pink hue he currently was. “I mean, yes, I want to but, uh, not like that.”
You frowned at him, head tilted in questioning. A small laugh bubbled in the back of your throat, and you barely caught it as your lips stretched into a baffled smile. “Is there another way? I-”
“No, I mean,” Wonwoo was trying not to laugh now too. His large hands tightened and loosened on your waist rhythmically, thumbs absentmindedly rubbing on the material of your top. “I don’t necessarily want to have sex but I do want to be inside you.”
As peculiar of a desire it was, it certainly had you feeling giddy and absolutely molten. Wonwoo could tell, his own heart doing backflips at the sight of your previously confused smile slipping into a genuinely pleased one paired with your eyes hazing over in delight. With a small nod and a peck to his lips, you stood up and got rid of your pants and underwear, nearly shivering at the sudden contact of air on your heat.
Wonwoo grinned up at you as his right hand immediately flew to your core, forefinger and middle finger finding your clit and rubbing slow circles into it to coax some of the gloss out from your entrance. He replaced his own fingers with his thumb, the pad of it rubbing the bud instead as the two previous ones tentatively dipped into your hole, earning Wonwoo a shuddering exhale from you. You nodded once more at him; Wonwoo leant in to kiss your neck before pushing his fingers in, pumping shallowly a few times before scissoring them. He chuckles into your skin when you let out a low moan. You roll your hips to fuck his fingers deeper into you, throwing your head back as you whimpered.
“F-fuck, okay, baby-” a sharp inhale. Wonwoo looks up at you, voice gruff with anticipation. “You good, sweetheart?”
You muttered a ‘yeah’, prompting Wonwoo to pull his fingers out of you and put them on your lips. You took them in, cleaning his digits of your juices before pulling off with a soft pop. Lowering yourself, your hands moved to grip Wonwoo’s shoulders instead; one of his hands left your waist to hold the base of his cock, positioning the tip right at your entrance. With a deep kiss, Wonwoo lowers you onto him, a groan leaving his lips as he enters your tightness. You whimpered into the kiss, pulling away to rest your cheek on his shoulder, leaning in to give the side of his neck a quick peck. Wonwoo sighed above you, pulling you closer to him.
“Let’s just stay like this for a while, okay, baby?” he mumbled before leaning in to plant a kiss on the top of your head. You nod, sighing in bliss as you felt the satisfying familiarity of your wetness accommodating his size. It was butterfly inducing, instead of the tightening in your stomach, you felt lightheaded with bliss. You clung to Wonwoo, savouring the moment.
hate when im reading and theres a word i dont know so i search it in the dictionary and its like: beuperer. noun. a person who beupers. i'll fucking kill you
You deserve love now. Not once you lose weight. Not once you accomplish that thing. Not once you move. Not once you get on medication. Not once you start therapy. Not once you get that job. Not once you're more like them. Now. You don't have to earn the right to be loved. You deserve it right now, and always have.
IN WHICH The dreams you once had have died a long time ago. You realized you and music weren’t meant to be, and you learned to be okay with that. While it once ate you alive, you are better now. Knowing you can help aspiring artists pursue their dreams is better than trying for your own anyway. Seokmin doesn’t see it the same way, though. And while he loves your radio show with his whole heart, he loves you just a little bit more. Everyone knows love makes you do stupid things, and it’s no different for him.
pairing » singer!seokmin x radio host!fem!reader
genre » fluff, smut, tiniest bit of angst
featuring » BSS, dino, jennie
contains » strangers to lovers, radio show setting, BSS as an artist group, self doubt, lost of passion, green flag!Seokmin, nicknames (pretty, princess)
warnings » dry humping, voice kink, lots of eye contact, he wraps it up, fingering
word count » 13.5k
↪ izzy adds... oh Seokmin please tell me I didn't do you too dirty akdgakhdgakg I tried I promise. This is only lightly proof read, bear that in mind.
A huge shout out to my favorite banner maker @livmarauder, who did this beauty for me again <33 Also a shout out to @studiosvt for making this amazing collab happen! You all know how much I love our little (big) group.
seokmin masterlist | first time caller
If there is one thing you are unable to live without, it's music.
Humming as you walk the company halls, you allow yourself to only focus on the song playing in your headphones, everything around you becoming blurry. LNGSHOT has been playing on repeat lately, and you can't wait to have them on the show next week.
"Where have you been? I've been texting you all morning!" Chan's voice reaches you as soon as you take your headphones off, a heavy sigh leaving your lips as he disturbs the melody still playing in your head. You take your time getting your jacket off and hanging it on the wall right beside the entrance, turning around just to find your best friend looking at you like he is not happy with the shit you're pulling right now.
You met Chan back when you were twenty one, still struggling with being comfortable with music. It was weird back then but thanks to Chan's constant meddling and encouragement, you managed to love music again. You don't tell him enough, but you are extremely grateful to him for what he did for you all those years back, despite him not even knowing about it.
It's not like he did much in theory, but to you it felt like he did everything. He reminded you why you always loved music, and that was more than anyone else has done for you in a while. He became your best friend shortly after, your shared hobbies and opinions drawing you closer together.
"I'm sorry," you apologize as you cross the room and take your seat beside him. "I didn't notice you were texting me, and I thought I'd take my time this morning when we aren't going live today."
He sighs, unable to be mad at you for long. Taking his phone out, he lays it out in front of you, clicking though multiple tabs before finally landing on the YouTube one. You blink confusedly, your eyes flickering between him and his phone. Chan's weird, that's nothing new, but he is the loud, excited, and overly joyed weird, so seeing him just click through things without saying anything catches you off guard.
"It feels weird since it's my friend I'm talking about here, but he's got a band and they just released their first album and it's really fucking good. I wanted you to listen as soon as I heard it to see what you think," he explains as he clicks on a music video titled CBZ and you finally realize why he's so serious. This is work related.
Focusing instantly, you close your eyes in order for the music to do what it knows best—impress you. You categorize all the voices in your head, the melodies, rhythm, and lyrics. You nod your head in the rhythm, letting yourself enjoy it. Despite you liking a variety of genres, it's still hard for songs to be to your liking. This one though—you are not disappointed. You open your eyes to try and grasp the video as well, but with how short the song is, it switches to a different one at the exact same time.
It's another song by them, by BSS, titled Love Song. Right off the bat, it's different from the first song, but still as good. You like what they have going on, and by the look on Chan's face as he listens with you, he does as well.
"Who is this friend of yours?" You question as the second song comes to an end.
"Seungkwan. Boo Seungkwan. I've known him for a few years and he texted me a few weeks ago asking for my opinion on their CBZ demo. I told him then that it was perfect and it's even better now."
"They write their songs themselves?"
"Yes and no. They have a part, but most of it is by Woozi."
"They got Woozi on this?" Your eyes widen and he laughs at your reaction. "Man, you can't just casually tell me one of my favorite producers was on the team!" You nudge his shoulder. Woozi producing these songs explains a lot—like why you already love it so much.
Chan laughs, the serious tone in his voice disappearing again, like it tends to do around you. You can't blame him because you're the same. Every time you try to be serious at work, it leads to moments like these. It's not your fault. You promise it's not. It's just what happens when your coworker is your best friend. Especially when you get paid for talking together on a radio show about the things you love the most. "I was thinking about pitching them to Jennie. What do you think?"
"I think you should," you encourage him. "I'd love to have them on. I think they fit us. And I'm not saying that because Woozi produced the song," you roll your eyes when he gives you a knowing look. Having Woozi helped, but you seriously think they have a talent. "Talk to Jennie about it first and then send Seungkwan an official email so we can plan further."
"Yes, ma'am," he salutes, causing you to shake your head at him.
♡⸝⸝♡⸝⸝
Seokmin always dreamed big. From wishing he'd grow as tall as his father when he was a child, up to this day, hoping for his career to take off and showcase his voice to the whole world. He's one step closer to that goal now that their first album has been released, and he couldn't be happier. The first hundred views was already a blow, but nothing could prepare him for how it'd feel to wake up and their song to blow up.
He's been buzzing all morning, constantly texting all his closest friends and freaking out about it. It's a dream coming true, and with each new compliment he sees, his love for music only grows.
But what makes him jump up from his bed entire is the message sent into the BSS group chat just a week after CBZ was released. There are many things Seungkwan could say—they are trending, people hate their song, people love their song, Woozi wants them to get into the studio again, or maybe that Seungkwan's mom is inviting them for dinner again—but a forward of an invite for behind the mic, one of Seokmin's favorite shows, is on the very bottom of things he expects.
It only takes him a few clicks before he is on a call, waiting for both Seungkwan and Soonyoung to join. "You're serious, right? This isn't a joke of some sort? Because if it is, Kwan, I cannot promise you I won't slap the shit out of you."
"Whoa, violence," Seungkwan raises his free hand up in surrender, blinking at him. When he joined the video call, he was not prepared for Min to start with this without any greeting. "It's real. Remember the friend I mentioned before, Chan?"
"The first person who listened to our song? No, how could I remember him?" Seokmin fakes a confusion, causing Soonyoung to snicker as he hides his laugh with his hand.
"He is a host on the show. They want us on sometimes next week. We need to tell them what day we're free as soon as possible."
"How did I not figure out your Chan is Lee Chan?" Seokmin curses at himself quietly, plopping down on his bed again. "This has been a milestone ever since they first started broadcasting, you don't get it."
"Trust me," Soonyoung starts, smiling awkwardly as he passes a group of people at the store he's at, "we've heard plenty enough about them from you to get it."
"As if you didn't find a bunch of new artists you listen to through them," Seokmin scoffs.
"Never said otherwise."
Behind the mic started broadcasting three years ago, with you and Chan as the hosts. He was on his way to visit his family back then, the car radio on a random station. It was a coincidence, really, but Seokmin likes to call it fate. He remembers Sombr being on that day after his first EP was released. He debated changing the station to something more popular when he stopped at a red light, but your voice stopped him. He couldn't tell what it was you were talking about, but he certainly remembers the pull he felt.
He's been tuning in at two pm every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday like a clock, looking forward to the new artists you were going to introduce to him and finding out more about them. To now be offered the same opportunity, to sit in the studio with both of you and talk about the process behind writing CBZ and what he does in his every day life, truly feels like a dream come true. Not only will it bring new fans their way, but he will also finally get to talk to the two people that have been brightening his days for the past three years.
If he is honest, he might be looking forward to one of the hosts more than the other, but he wouldn't dare to say that out loud.
Friday is what they guys have decided on, Seungkwan sending Chan a message as soon as their video call ended and Seokmin stopped freaking out over being on his favorite show. His friends can't blame him though, they would have done the same had they been in his shoes. So they sat there patiently on the call with him, letting him talk their ears off.
Just like the week ago, and the week before that, and the one before that, Seokmin turns on his radio right on time, finding the right station. "That was amazing, 16," your voice rings in his ears. He's a little late today, so he didn't get to hear the first song, but it's okay, he's surprisingly always preferred the chatting segment more either way. "Can you tell us more about the process behind writing Not Anymore so the fans can get to know the song a little more before they get to know you?"
Seokmin listens to the radio as he paces around his room, taking the time he has on hand to clean his room. He stops in his track every once and then when you say something that catches his attention, taking the time to listen to what you have to say or ask before he resumes what he was doing.
One may call him biased, but he swears it's not like that. You just happen to ask the more interesting questions, while Chan is the one to make the chats more funny. You each have your own strengths, and he just sometimes prefers the interesting questions over funny moments.
He listens till the end, staying for the ending song Make no sense as well and adding it to his playlist before turning the radio off again as your broadcast comes to an end. Checking the time as if he didn't already know the show ending means it's three pm, he quickly collects all his things before rushing out of the apartment to get to the studio.
Soonyoung will complain he is late again, but it's not his fault. He needed to listen to today's behind the mic, otherwise the rest of the day would just go wrong.
♡⸝⸝♡⸝⸝
You've met many artists since you started behind the mic with Chan. Much more than you could count if anyone asked you. But you are certain none of them were ever as excited as the man standing in front of you right now. His eyes flicker all over the room, taking in the sight of the studio. It's not much, but it's enough to have your show running. Neither you or Chan ever troubled yourself too much with how the interior looks since the fans can't see it anyway.
The walls are all white, decorated with different kinds of paintings and awards you got. There is a large black desk with six chairs and a dark green couch in the corner that Chan likes to occupy during his break. Despite your show only being on for an hour a day, there is a lot more work the two of you do. Planning future broadcasts, scouting artists, budgeting their fees, helping your other coworkers when they need, and even making music together.
Chan is the only person you're comfortable around enough to show him your music and have him hear your voice, whether that's through singing or simple lyrics composing. You know you will never showcase it to the world, you've made your mind on that back when you were fifteen, but he likes taking his ideas to the finish line and consulting you along the way. He released his first song two years ago, and you couldn't be prouder of him. You still have the demo version of Wait somewhere on your laptop, thinking about the day he let you listen to it for the first time whenever you question if what you're doing is really the right move for you.
Being reminded of the smile on his face when he showed you his song, and then the one he wore as he talked about his single on the show always reassures you that you are right where you're meant to be. Making your own music and showcasing it to the world might not have been in your cards, but helping others reach their goal and support them on their way certainly is.
"Please, take a seat anywhere," you smile at the three guys known as BSS. "We are sorry if calling you here so early was an inconvenience for you. We just need to go through some things before the broadcast starts and there is no way of knowing how long that will take."
"We used to meet thirty minutes before the show would start and it always ended up being a mess, which is why we prefer it this way," Chan explains, motioning towards the couch with his hand for them to sit.
"No worries, we cleared our schedule for today in advance," Seungkwan brushes him off before shooting Seokmin a look, almost as if it was his fault. Well, it might have been. With how he wouldn't stop talking about it, it was the only way they could get him to shut up. "Thanks for having us," he smiles, pulling Chan into a hug.
It's the first time you've had someone he knows on the show, and the vibe is already entirely different. It tends to be awkward at times at first, but thanks to how comfortable the guys are together, you don't think you'll have to worry about that.
You watch them with a smile before turning on your heel and going to one of the drawers you have, pulling out three papers from it. "These are some of the questions we ask on the show. Please, look through them and let us know which ones you don't want us to ask, for whatever reason. On the other hand, feel free to mark, underline, or anything else, with the questions you want us to ask. It's nice when we can talk about something that excites you, whether that is your hobbies outside of music, your family, or how you grew up."
They all nod as you hand them the papers. They all tower over you, so you appreciate it when they all sit down on the couch and you don't feel so little anymore. Chan takes the opportunity and reminds you of their names as they study the questions, only Seokmin raising his eyes from the paper when his name falls off your friend's lips.
"Lee Seokmin," he grins, extending his hand towards you. You return his smile, holding his hand in yours as you name slips past your lips. "I know," he chuckles. "Kind of a fan."
"Kind of," Soonyoung laughs and Seokmin shoots him a glare. "Should have seen him when we got the invitation."
"Soonyoung is known for lying any chance he gets, please don't listen to him."
You laugh at their interaction, shaking your head before turning to your colleague. "Coffee time?" He immediately agrees, and so you ask the same question the other three.
Seokmin watches as you leave the room to make coffee for everyone, nudging Soonyoung's shoulder harshly when the door closes. "Can you not embarrass me? I know a lot about you, stuff that I could talk about when the show starts."
Soonyoung raises his hands in surrender, "I only spoke the truth. In fact, by the smile on her face I believe she liked it."
"I thought you guys were here to promote your music?" Chan raises an eyebrow as he watches them, a teasing tone lacing his voice.
"We are," Seungkwan assures him quickly, not catching the hint of amusement on Chan's face. "Seokmin is a fan, though, and by how much he talks about the show and how excited he was when he found out we would be on, one would think he is in love."
"I love the concept you two built," he jumps right in, ignoring the comment about him being in love. Because he isn't. It's normal to have a favorite broadcast and to tune in every time it's on. Many of your fans do it, so why would it be any different for him? He simply enjoys listening to you talk and learning more about great artists. "It's nice to look at music from a different perspective and learn not only about how the song was made, but also about who made it."
"A lot of the artists you guys introduce are either freshly on the scene or aren't as popular as others, so their fans don't have many sources where they could learn about their lives, but you provide that. You allow the fans to learn about the person they listen to while still promoting their music," he finishes his rant, his cheeks heating up when he realizes how much he said. He's glad you're out right now and he saved this embarrassement from at least one of the hosts.
But Chan's lips curve up into a smile much to Seokmin's surprise. "You should repeat that when she comes back if you want to make her even more excited about working with you. It was her idea, really. I just chased her around and complimented her until she allowed me to be a part of this project. I still don't get how it worked out."
His words ring in Seokmin's ears loud and clear. Chased her around and complimented her until she allowed me to be a part of this. It's definitely not an advice he should take, those are completely different situations and most importantly, how he feels about your radio show does not mean he also feels a certain way about you like his friends tend to believe.
He has always been good at chasing and complimenting, though.
You come back into the room with a trail full of coffee mugs and Seokmin stands up from the couch as soon as he notices you, crossing the room in a few long strides. "Here, allow me," he offers with a bright smile, taking the trail from your hands.
Blinking up at him, you let your hands drop down to your sides. "Thank you," you return his smile, your eyes flickering to the rest of guys in the room. They're all watching you for some reason, making your cheeks heat up. Clearing your throat, you quickly avert your eyes from them and fix your shirt, letting them each take a cup.
"Thank you for inviting us," Seokmin says as he approaches you again, leaving the trail with two cups—one for you and one for him—on the table. "Like I said, I'm kind of a fan," he rubs the back of his neck awkwardly, his eyes closed and an adorable smile on his lips. "And maybe Soonyoung wasn't so far from the truth. It does mean a lot to be here."
"We aren't anything you should freak out over," you shake your head, even though a smile creeps up on your lips as you listen to him. "Wait for when you get a Buzzfeed invite."
"As great as it would be to be on Buzzfeed, Behind the Mic means the same to me," he assures you. "I've been listen to you guys ever since you started, and I just want you to know how much I love what you and Chan built together. It's a great opportunity for artists to introduce themselves to fans and get out there."
Seokmin watches as your cheeks catch the color red, your eyes flickering all over your face, as if trying to find a proof of him not being real. He has to admit, you're cute. With your eyes focused on him, a soft smile playing on your lips, partly in disbelief and partly from how proud of yourself you are, and your hair framing your face, you exceed all expectations he's ever had of you.
He's seen you before, of course he has. Shortly after finding your broadcast, he started following both you and Chan on instagram. It helped him put a face to the voice he is always listening to, but if he's honest, you look so much prettier in person. He would never dare to say you wouldn't be beautiful in the pictures he saw you post on your feed, but the camera simply doesn't capture your beauty as well as his eyes do.
"You've—" you pause, trying to grasp the situation. You know people listen to your radio show, you know you have fans who have been here for a while and all that, but it's the first time you're standing in front of an actual artist who just expressed to you he is probably a bigger fan of you than you're of him. "How long have you been listening for?"
"Got here when Sombr did." You don't have to do the math in your head, knowing exactly when that was. You had him on at the very beginning, your room half the size it's now as you were just starting and your boss wasn't sure how well you'd do. Three years. This man has been listening to you and Chan talk for three years. Oh God. Is this the right time to freak out?
You snap out of it, trying to look as unbothered as possible as you reach for your cup of coffee and bring it to your lips. "Thank you for sticking around for so long," you mumble, looking at him briefly through your eyelashes. "We appreciate it a lot." The smile never leaves his lips, not as he takes his own cup with his eyes never leaving yours, not as he tells you about his favorite interviews so far, and definitely not as you admit you really loved their first album.
"We are on in ten," Chan interrupts your talk with Seokmin as he passes by you. Your eyes widen at the realization of how long you've been talking to him for, panic taking over you in worry of things not being ready.
"Fuck," you curse, standing on your tiptoes to look over his shoulder at his two band mates. "Are there any questions you guys have for us before we go live? Anything you want to know about? We need to talk about how it's going to go, what segments will be on and if you're okay with everything. We don't want to share anything you aren't comfortable with."
"Calm down," Seokmin's voice reaches you at the same time as his hands do. He's holding both of your shoulders, his eyes reminding you it's all okay and there is no need to panic.
"I already went over it with them," Chan smiles, but it's not as reassuring as Seokmin's smile is. No, his is much more teasing, as if he was trying to tell you something with it. You don't pay it any attention, shifting your attention back to Seokmin. You like looking at him more than looking at your coworker anyway. "Hope you don't mind we did it without you, Min. You just seemed so occupied."
You catch him rolling his eyes a bit as he shakes his head. "I'm sure whatever you guys decided on is great. As much as I hate they do, the two of them know me more than I know myself."
Soonyoung scoffs behind him. "Took you long enough to realize."
"Just about what? Three years to accept what we've been saying this entire time?" Seungkwan is smiling as well as he walks past you, patting his friend on the shoulder before sitting down at the table. Soonyoung follows suit, and it's only then that Seokmin let's go off your shoulders again. He shoots the guys a look you can't read, making your brows furrow as you look at them. You have a feeling there is more to what was just said than you can understand, and you hate that Chan's teasing grin makes it look like he is in on whatever is going on.
"Just so you know, you are still full of bullshit," he points at both of them. You take a step aside from the table and he smiles at you once more before taking a seat. "I'm just growing and realizing some things. Neither of you have anything to do with it, though."
"Sure we don't," they scoff at the same time and Seokmin rolls his eyes. You round the table to take your own seat, collecting the papers with questions from the guys and taking a look at them.
"We have two of your songs ready," you proclaim as you look up. "One is going to play at the beginning before we start talking, and the other is going to end our segment. Would you like for CBZ or Love Song to play first?"
"Let's play Love Song first," Seokmin decides. The guys don't question him in the slightest, nodding along. "Correct me if I'm wrong, but more people are listening at the end than right at the beginning."
"You're right," you blink, amazed by his knowledge. Your eyes stay on his and his smile grows, easily one of the prettiest ones you've seen in a long time. You shake your head out of it, glancing at your colleague. "Ready?"
"I always am," Chan grins, checking the time once more before changing the radio status to live.
♡⸝⸝♡⸝⸝
As the live light turns off again, you lean back in your chair, stretching your hands above your head. "Good work today, you all did awesome," you praise them, catching Seokmin's eyes. The two of you have been playing eye tag the entirety of the broadcast, checking each other out as sneakily as possible.
At least that's what you think you've been doing. You can't exactly see inside his head and read his thoughts—even though you'd love to be able to do that—but you can speak for yourself and the longer you look at him for, the more attractive you find him.
You'd like to blame it on the fact you love his music, and so it's only natural to be curious about him, but in the last three years, you never felt like this while on the show. Sure, you had a bunch of artists you admire and look up to, but that's all it is, admiration. When you look at Seokmin, and catch the smile on his face, it's attraction much more than anything else.
"It was great having you guys on," Chan adds, extending his hand forward over the table for them to shake it. Soonyoung is the first one to reach towards him, praising the work you two did as he shakes his hand. Seokmin follows right after, until finally, Seungkwan stands up from his place and instead of just shaking his hand wraps his friend in a hug.
Seokmin watches you as you get up to clean the papers with questions back to where you took them from, exchanging a glance with the other guys. "Go for it," Chan chuckles at him, shaking his head slightly before continuing his conversation with Seungkwan. They did perfectly until now, so who is he to stand in Seokmin's way when he saw how much you laughed with him before they went live?
"Hi," whispers as he joins your side. You glance at him over your shoulder, greeting him right back. "I still can't believe I just did that."
You roll your eyes playfully, "We aren't a huge show," you remind him, but you're sure he doesn't pay much attention to your words. It's nice to know someone thinks so highly of the show you created and supports it with his whole heart.
"You are huge to me, though."
You keep your eyes on the cabinet in front of you, reorganizing things as if there was anything that would need fixing. Truth is, you just don't want him to see how red your face gets when he talks to you. You enjoyed today's broadcast more than others, partly because of how friendly the atmosphere was, but mainly because you got to know him more.
Who would have thought this man was in a rock band when he was in middle school, that his role model is Yoon Dohyun, or that he likes anime? He walks around you, leaning on his side. You glance at him briefly before looking down at the cabinet again, ignoring how handsome he looks while watching you.
"I enjoyed today a lot, being able to sit here and be on the receiving end of your questions instead of just listening over the radio," he tells you. "Knowing how it actually works now, I think I'll like your show even more from now on."
"It's not just my show," you remind him, finally looking at him properly again.
He shrugs, his significant smile on. "That's true, but I learned I tend to care about you more than Chan, so I think I'll keep addressing it as such."
The last thing you expected today is to have the guy you were just interviewing to be so openly flirting with you. Is this how Hailey felt when her favorite artist started flirting back with her? You bet it is. Quickly shutting the cabinet close, you look at him in panic. His eyes soften as soon as he meets yours, offering you a gentle smile.
"Min, we should get going."
Seokmin doesn't look at his friends as he answers, keeping his eyes on you, "Just a second!" You swallow under his gaze, feeling more and more nervous. As much as you liked playing eye tag with him during the interview, this is a completely different situation. You didn't have enough media training. You have no idea what you're supposed to do when he looks at you like he's just as—if not more—interested as you are.
Have you lost your mind? You might have if you think it's okay to look at him like this—like you want him to cross the invisible line you're trying so hard to draw. Okay, trying might be a strong word.
"What are you doing on Saturday?" He tilts his head. You shake your head quickly but his smile only grows. "You're not doing anything or you're already rejecting me?"
"Is there anything to reject?"
"If you'd like for something to be there," he shrugs innocently. "Any plans for Saturday?" He repeats his question when you don't give him a clear answer.
You hesitate, your eyes flickering all across his face, trying to decide what the right answer is. It's not helping that you can feel Chan's eyes on you. As much as they're pretending to be busy in a conversation, you know all three of them are watching you and waiting for what you have to say.
You wonder what Chan would do if he was in your position. If someone from a girl band flirted with him and gave him the opportunity to take her out, would he go with her? Thinking back to all the times he talked your ears off about some female celebrities and how he swore he would shoot his shot with them if he ever met them because he only lives once, you think he would.
"Whatever you have in mind?"
"Perfect," Seokmin nods. He digs his phone from his pocket, unlocking it for you before extending his hand towards you. You blink at the screen for a second before taking it from him, typing in your number.
As much as it feels like a dream to have your number in an artist's phone, it's scary. What if your boss finds out and decides you're being unprofessional? What if it causes a scandal that will destroy everything you worked on until now? What if even the last one of your dreams gets buried because of the fact you decided to be selfish for once?
"I'll text you," Seokmin's voice brings you out of your thoughts again, his proud grin reassuring you that whatever happens, it's okay to see it though first before panicking. He joins his friends, wrapping his arm around Soonyoung's shoulder and showing him something on his phone—your number, no doubt. You shake your head at them, unable to hide your own smile as you watch them all say their last goodbyes before leaving the room.
♡⸝⸝♡⸝⸝
Just like he said he would, Seokmin texted you that night. At first, you simply exchanged a few words about the interview earlier, but those messages shortly turned into him trying to get to know you more.
Asking anything that came to mind as well as sharing random things about himself, he managed to completely forget about the show playing on his TV screen. He could not say what the last thing that happened there was, but he could confidently talk about what your favorite show is, or your favorite color, or the flowers you like, or literally anything you told him about yourself in the past hour.
You're not doing any better. The songs you put on as background noise while cleaning your kitchen after dinner have long been forgotten, and so has your kitchen, sitting still as messily as it did before you ate your food. Leaning against the kitchen counter, you keep a smile on your face while exchanging messages with Seokmin, your interest growing with each thing he tells you about himself.
He is adorable. His favorite movies are the Harry Potter movies—and as much as you don't share the same interest, you are convinced you could listen to him talk about it for hours—he loves sunflowers, all kinds of sports, and apparently used to act a little before forming BSS with his friends. You will never regret asking him more about it, because as soon as you did, you received not only pictures of him when he was playing in the theater, but also pictures of his other hobbies, including a photo of him in the swimming pool, which you know he sent on purpose.
You certainly don't mind, taking a good look at him before answering, teasing him about how hard he's trying. When he asks you back if it's working and you admit that it is, you create a smile on both your and his face.
Saturday comes around quickly, and you find yourself in front of a coffee shop, the first stop on today's plan as he informed you. Fixing your hair one last time, you walk inside and immediately search for him. It's not hard when your eyes find his instantly, the smile he offers you as you walk to the table he is occupying causing a warm feeling in your chest.
"Hi," he greets you softly.
"Hi."
He goes order for the both of you, using what he's learned about you last night to order your favorite. He's cute. You watch him as he does, admiring him from afar. He's dressed in a white button up, his sleeves rolled up slightly to show off his forearms, blue jeans, and there's a black jacket hanging over his chair. It's simple, and yet you still can't stop looking at him. He's handsome, radiating off this energy you feel drawn to.
He places a latte in front of you and you bring it closer, thanking him for buying it for you. He brushes you off, acting as if it wasn't anything as he takes his seat. Resting his hands on the table, he let's his coffee sit for a while, simply watching you. You feel your cheeks flush under his gaze, looking down at the table. "You didn't tell me what the rest of the plan is," you mumble, suddenly nervous as you sit in front of him.
"I want for it to be a surprise. And, truthfully, I'm scared if you're going to like it or not so I'm deciding not to think about it and stay in the moment instead."
"As long as you're not planning to feed me to the sharks or something, I think we're good," you glance up at him again, a reassuring smile on your lips. He returns it, his nerves slowly disappearing. He can do this. What's the worse that could happen? You tell him to go fuck himself and he won't be able to listen to your show anymore without feeling like shit? Oh yeah, there's nothing to worry about today.
The shift in the vibe as soon as he starts talking about what he did in the morning is obvious, both of you getting more relaxed. He tells you about another interview they did this morning, and how he completely memorized the story meaning behind their music video now, telling you all about that as well when you ask. You keep nodding along, unable to look away from him when he speaks so excitedly. You can tell he is genuinely proud of himself and the guys.
"That's incredible, Min," you praise in awe after he shows you how well their songs are doing right now. You knew they would right away when you first listened. "You deserve all the love— Fame. I meant fame," you quickly correct yourself but it's too late already, his easy going smile is now replaced with a teasing smirk, his chin resting in his palm and his head slightly tilted.
"I deserve the love?" He repeats, the grin on his face so annoying you just with to slap it away. Or kiss it away. Both options work for you at the moment. "I know of one person's love I want. And if you think I deserve it, then surely it's possible."
"Love? I didn't say love," you shake your head, acting as if nothing happened. "You must be hearing things. The fame probably got to you already and now you're imagining things."
"What does one have to do to have you admit you are also interested in me," he sighs, but nothing about it screams exhaustion like he probably wants. If anything, he sounds dreamy, holding back his smile as he bats his eyelashes at you. "At least a little bit."
"A little bit," you nod, keeping your eyes on him as you do. You see his back straighten immediately, his grin growing. It makes you laugh. He looks like a little puppy, excited because his owner just said he'll give him a treat. He truly is adorable. It'd be a lie if you claimed you aren't interested, or that you don't wonder what he'd be like in a relationship, how he'd act and if he'd treat you well. Something tells you he'd be a perfect boyfriend.
If you're lucky enough, maybe you'll be able to find out.
"Tell me what you did this morning," he prompts, doing nothing to hide the fact he is excited like a little kid. "I want to hear all about it."
You take a sip of your latte in an attempt to not dwell on his words and fall for him right then and there, but it doesn't do much to help. Clearing your throat, you glance at him briefly before letting him know you visited your sister earlier. When he asks further, you also tell him what you talked about together, and what you watched. When he says he'd love to watch a movie with you another day as well, all your hopes at staying sane vanish out the window.
You leave the café an hour later, walking side by side with him. Your hands keep brushing against each other, but he doesn't do anything to pull away, so you don't either. There is constantly a smile on your face when you're around Seokmin, and if the easy conversations you have with him didn't already convince you enough to want to pursue this further, this certainly does.
You still don't know where you're headed next, blindly following Seokmin as he guides you through the streets. At one point, when you are about to step on the crosswalk at the same time as the green light switches to red, he grasps your hand in his, pulling you back until you hit his chest. Gasping, you quickly raise your eyes to meet his, obviously panicked while he just carries his carefree smile. You push yourself off him again, but let him keep holding your hand. As not to get lost, you convince yourself.
When you see how happy he is from the simple act, from being able to hold your hand for a while, you stop convincing yourself of anything and admit to yourself you also want to hold his hand. You lace your fingers with his, tugging your free hand into your pocket and looking down at the ground beneath your feet as you keep walking, the conversation with him never dying.
Finally stopping again, you look up at the building you're standing in front of, trying to figure out where he took you. "Oh no," you quickly shake your head as you read the name, facing him. "Let's not do this. Let's go somewhere else. I'm sure there is something playing in the cinema, or maybe we could go get dinner? I could even go for a swim with those sharks right now."
He chuckles at your reaction, thinking you're just joking around. But honestly, karaoke is the last thing you want to do right now. When he notices your eyes full of distress, he raises your connected hands and draws small circles on the back of your hand with his thumb. "It'll be fun, c'mon. Please, the fact that I'm technically a singer doesn't mean I'm good at karaoke," he smiles, hopping to make you feel better about this. He managed to completely forget about his worries of you not liking this as he was talking with you, but it's all slowly coming back to him now. "We don't need to be serious about this at all. Let's just laugh together and order some good food to it, hm?"
Your eyes flicker all over his face, debating turning around and running away for a good second. As much as you don't want to do karaoke tonight and find out what he thinks about your singing, you don't want to leave, though. You want to stay with him, listen to him singing, laugh a lot with him, and eat that delicious food. So, after giving it a second though while gazing into his eyes, you sigh. "Let's go in."
"Yes! You won't regret this, I promise. And, who knows, maybe we'll find out you're a much better singer than I am."
Yeah, you're convinced that won't happen. If anything, you're expecting for him to run away the moment he hears you singing, realizing you're just embarrassing and whatever he saw in you before is now gone. People tend to do that. And as much as you don't want him to be like that, you're always expecting the worst when it comes to you and music.
The karaoke room is pretty, white walls lined with colored lightnings that change it to purple, a nice brown couch that could easily fit an entire party, and most importantly, a karaoke machine with a projector. Seokmin doesn't hesitate going to the machine, already looking through the song list while you take a seat on the couch, looking around the room.
It's been a while since you last visited a karaoke place. Almost ten years, if you remember correctly. Who are you trying to fool here? You know exactly when the last time you were here was. You were fourteen, going out with your old friend and a bunch of her older friends. You were the youngest of them all, and the one in love with music much more than they were.
Thinking back to it, it was just your fault, really. Hadn't you tried so hard, hadn't you hoped for one of the older guys to notice and praise you, you would be saved from the embarrassement that followed. But at fourteen, you couldn't possibly know guys don't like music like you did, that they go here just to laugh and joke around instead of actually trying.
You thought singing your heart out would give you the attention of the boy you liked, and it did, but in a completely different way than you wished for. You still remember the Britney Spears song you sang, and how everyone looked at you weirdly when they realized you weren't just playing around like they were. They claimed you tried to embarrass them by being better, that you did it on purpose to make yourself feel superior. You tried to argue, explain the situation and apologize, but before you could do any of it, you were interrupted by who you thought was your friend. "She does this all the time. She thinks she's going to be a singer or whatever. Her notes are all full of texts she wrote in class, look."
You felt proud at first when she pulled out your notes book from your bag, but as soon as everyone started laughing while flipping through the pages, your smile quickly fell off. You quickly dropped the mic, trying your hardest not to let their words get to you and snatch the book away. At fourteen, though, it's not easy to ignore what others say about you and how they feel about the things you love.
It was never easy to ignore how others perceived you, but at that moment, even the last bits of accomplishment left you. You stopped loving music for years, completely giving up on the dream you once had. There was no reason to continue trying if what you got in return was this.
It was only after Chan came into your life that you managed to stop hating music again and pick up your old notes, smiling as you red through the lyrics you wrote as an early teen.
Sitting here now, all the bad memories you have with music come rushing back, the image of Seokmin replaced with the image of your old upper classmates, the pretty smile on his face gone and a loud, mocking laugh facing you instead.
You quickly shake your head, but the image doesn't disappear until finally, finally, Seokmin's voice reaches you, the call of your name making you snap out of it. "You're in your head," he says, not in a way that would be meant to accuse you, but rather wondering what it is you're thinking so hard about. "Do you really hate this?" He tilts his head and you're about to burst from how pretty you find him. "We can leave. I should have asked properly first if you wouldn't mind going here, I was selfish deciding on what I wanted instead of thinking about you—"
"Let's stay," you interrupt him with a smile. "I want to hear you sing live. And, I was promised some delicious food." He smiles again at your words, nodding enthusiastically.
The first song starts—a Korean ballad you heard a few times when you were little—and Seokmin's voice echoes loudly in your head instantly, helping you stay grounded in the present. He pushes aside all the bad memories of this place, doing his hardest to replace them with happy once without even knowing it as he sings while looking at you. His eyes stay locked on you, and you happily nod your head along to the rhythm, only focusing on the music.
He's great. You knew he was, but getting to hear him sing in person, his raw voice the only thing you hear in this closed room, is so much better than you thought it'd be. He motions with his hand for you to stand up and join him, but you just shake your head, refusing. When he lowers his mic so you can see his face fully, his eyes gently commanding you to listen to him, you do as he says and get up. Your steps are hesitant as you cross the room to him, but he doesn't seem to pay it any attention.
Lowering the mic to your height, he encourages you to sing with him and turn the song into a duet. You don't. Keeping your lips shut, you let only the melody play in the background with no support of the vocals. Seokmin reaches for your hand with his free one, lacing his fingers with yours again. His voice is closer to a whisper now as he continues singing, keeping your mind wondering what the right move here is. Deep down, you want nothing more than to sing with him and give into your passion again, but you're also freaked out.
You're not sure how long you just stand there for, but eventually, once a different song is on, you join in. You keep your voice quiet, enough for the mic to pick it up but not loud enough like he did before. A smile spreads on his lips—wider than before—instantly, squeezing your hand gently. It takes a moment for you to get comfortable, but as soon as you do, it's a lot easier to have fun again.
He spins you under his arm, laughing into the mic while also trying his hardest to keep the song going, glancing on the wall where the projected screen falls to check on the lyrics every now and then. You laugh with him, dancing with him to the Korean ballad he sings that certainly doesn't suit this dance. Neither of you care though, and it helps you forget about the bad memories.
Eventually, you even take the mic from him, choosing your own song to sing. He takes a seat on the couch, watching you with such a proud smile you feel like you can do anything at the moment. It's definitely thanks to him and his continuous cheers that you get to let go of your worries and sing loudly again, completely forgetting about why you stopped loving singing in the first place.
You watch the lyrics on the wall, doing your best not to mess up while he whistles behind you, causing a laugh to bubble out of you. The food he ordered after the first few songs arrives in the meantime, but you don't look back to acknowledge it. Not until the song ends and you look at Seokmin to see what he thinks.
Clapping loudly, he is unable to take his eyes off you. "Encore! Encore! Encore!" He shouts, making you laugh. You shake your head at him, taking a seat beside him on the couch and leaving the mic to rest on the table for now. "You are so amazing. I don't get why you didn't want to sing right away."
"I'm not really good," you shake your head. He doesn't need to say what he thinks about the bullshit that just left your lips, his gaze giving it away clearly enough.
"I'm not even kidding, I wonder how on earth BSS is doing so good when there are singers like you out here. You're going to steal my job," he nudges your shoulder playfully. You roll your eyes at him, but it'd be a lie to say his words won't be on repeat tonight. Your name leaves his lips, a hopeful attempt to get you to look at him again. Once you do, he offers you one of his smiles. "You are an incredible singer."
Is this what it feels like to fall in love? Your head spins. You feel drunk, drunk on him and his words. It's the same thing you've wanted to hear for ages, words of encouragement you needed so desperately when your life was falling apart at the mere age of fourteen. You could cry. You're pretty sure if he says anything else, you actually will.
So, before he can do that, you lean forward and press your lips to his.
The shock he feels is evident, but it's also gone as fast as it appeared, his hands finding your waist with ease and pulling you closer. His lips mold perfectly with your own, his hands on your skin burning in just the right way, making you feel like that's exactly where they are supposed to be. Your body inches towards him on its own, melting into him.
"Thank you," you breathe out against his lips, your voice barely above a whisper.
He watches you, a little confused and blown, his eyes flickering from your lips to your eyes. "I didn't do anything," he shakes his head gently, but that's not true. He did everything you could possibly want him to do.
You had relationships before, casual hook ups but also things more serious. Not once were you told what he managed to assure you of on your first date together. Maybe it makes you easy, maybe it screams how broken you are, but you could not ask for more. It's the only thing you always ached for, to hear you shouldn't give up on your dreams and that you have potential. Your sister tried, but it never felt the same coming from her like it does hearing it from him.
"I should have asked first," you pipe nervously, still not moving away, staying with your face inches from his.
He shakes his head again, "You don't have to. In fact, please kiss me whenever you like." You chuckle at his response, his eyes desperate, never leaving yours. You nudge his shoulder with your palm, only for him to catch your wrist and lean forward, kissing you again. The smile is evident on both your and his lips as you kiss, moving closer and closer, until you're practically sitting in his lap.
You fight the urge to thank him again, for making you feel so comfortable, for making you forget about stuff, for reminding you how much you love singing, for being here with you. There is a lot you want to thank him for, but you decide not to for now. For now, you'll just settle on kissing him until you're sure he knows exactly what you're thinking.
It doesn't feel like the first date anymore as you eat, sharing giggles over the dinner. You can't explain it well, but being around him makes you feel like you've known him for years. It's easy with him, just like you always thought it was meant to be. "What's the plan after this?" You wonder, interrupting the song he is in the middle of right now. He finished eating just a few minutes back, picking up the mic right away.
He glances at you, forgetting all about the right lyrics and answering you instead. "Whatever you'd like to do. I'm open to anything. Unless you want to feed me to the sharks," he grins.
You think for a moment, your eyes flickering from his lips to his eyes, wondering where the line lies in his head. "We could watch a movie or something?" You suggest nervously.
He brings the mic to his lips, not hesitating in the slightest as he loudly sings, "Yes. Let's do that," into it.
You let him hold your hand again as you walk through the busy streets, following him to his apartment. When you suggested watching a movie, there was a lot more on your mind than just a piece of some filmography, wondering if he'd take you home with him. And now that that's exactly where you're headed, you're rethinking yourself more and more. Because while you want nothing more than to kiss him all night long, you have no idea what's going on in his head.
Seokmin's place is exactly like one might expect; clean, organized, filled with only necessities and his hobbies. There are traces of music everywhere you look, and you could not love it more. Taking off your shoes, you follow him into his living room, taking a seat on his couch while he disappears into the kitchen to fetch you something to drink. You take your time looking around, taking in the sight of his apartment.
You make yourself comfortable on the couch, waiting for him to join you. He comes back with not only a drink for the both of you but also a bag of chips, placing it all on his coffee table before taking a seat beside you. You look over at his, your expression a mix of nervousness and joy. He meets your gaze curiously, waiting for you to say what's on your mind. "What if I'd like to kiss you again?"
His smile grows. "Then I'd tell you to get here," he motions with his head for you to move and you do, allowing him to pull you into his lap. Wrapping your hands around his shoulders, you take your time looking at his face. He brushes your hair behind your ears, cupping your face gently as he leans forward and kisses you.
With one of his hands on your cheek, he grips your waist with the other, keeping you close. You ran your fingers through his hair, causing a groan to escape his lips. You feel the sound in every inch of your body, moaning into his lips yourself. You're quick to close your lips shut after, refusing to open your eyes and look at him. "Come on, pretty," he kisses the corner of your lips, and you're not sure if it was on purpose or if he missed. "Give me another one of those sounds."
You shake your head, keeping it in. Slowly opening your eyes, you find him already looking at you, his eyes full of the need and desperation you feel deep as well. "Please," he nudges your nose with his, his lips hovering over yours. "Let me hear more of you." A whine leaves past your lips as you feel him grow hard under you, the boner in his pants showing you had nothing to worry about when you thought he'd find you weird for wanting him so much already.
Sliding his hand under your shirt, he presses his palm against your hot skin, staying in place until you tell him otherwise. "Tell me what you want, hm? Where do we go from here?"
You think about it, unable to voice what you want out loud like he wants you to. Instead, you slide your hand under his shirt, feeling his abs tense under your fingertips. You trace his body, feeling his chest and then shoulders, keeping your eyes on the skin you're exposing. He let's you watch, let's you take his shirt off, and even let's you rock your hips forward on top of him. He doesn't do anything, though, waiting for you to answer like he asked.
"Min," you plead, itching for more.
"What do you need, princess?" The nicknames makes you bite your bottom lip as you glide your hips forward again, his clothed cock pressed against your core. "Do you want me to do something?" You nod, desperate. "Use your words. I want to hear you."
"Touch me, please," you beg, his smile showing that's exactly what he wanted to hear.
"Where?"
"Anywhere," you sigh.
It doesn't seem to satisfy him enough, but he he moves for now, sliding his hand up until he cups your breast. He works your shirt over your head, groaning at the sight of you in your bra. A lacy white fabric covers your breast, and as much as he knows you probably didn't wear it with the intend of him seeing it tonight, the possibility of it being true after all gets him so much more worked up. "Will the bottom match?" He trails his fingers down your skin until they land on the zipper of your pants, looking up at you.
You bite onto your bottom lip in an attempt to steady yourself, nodding. "I didn't— I didn't plan for us to end up like this—" you try to excuse, knowing exactly how it looks like. God, what will he think of you now?
"Fucking hell," he curses, a low sound that sends a shiver down your spine. "You're so beautiful. All for me, hm?" You nod again, unable to think much about it. You're certain you'd say yes to anything right now if it means he gets his hands on you again.
Gripping your waist, he helps you roll your hips over him. You don't hesitate, leaning down to kiss him again. Feeling his muscles as you kiss him, you keep riding him, chasing after the pleasure you so desperately need. "Tell me what you're thinking about," he prompts, another whine leaving your lips upon losing the feeling of his lips on yours. "Please, talk to me."
"About how much I want this off," you tug at the hem of his pants. "And this," you do the same with yours.
He nods, "I can take care of that."
"Please."
"I'm also going to change the setting, okay?"
You nod, not questioning him in the slightest. Standing up from the couch, he grips your ass, carrying you into a different room. You wrap your legs and arms around him as quickly as you can, resting your head on his shoulder. Seokmin takes you to his room with ease, only letting you go once he is standing in front of his bed.
"I'm sorry but I don't think we're going to watch a movie anymore."
"I never wanted to watch one anyway," you shake your head and his soft smile gets replaced by a teasing smirk.
"Oh? Is that so?"
You feel your cheeks redden under his gaze, moving back on the bed until you hit the headboard. He climbs in after you, catching your ankles to pull you back to him. You yelp, but don't do anything to get from him again, getting lost in his eyes as he hovers over you. Shirtless, horny, and looking like he is absolutely gone for you—do they even get any better?
"I'm pretty sure I've liked you for the past three years, so I'm good at waiting. We don't have to do anything tonight," he assures you, just in case you'd have any doubts. "Or we could only do some things," his eyes trail down your body, his fingers coming to circle your clothed core. "I could just take care of you."
"You're pretty sure you've liked me?" There is a smile on your face as you repeat his words, watching as he scoffs in embarrassement, his red ears giving him away.
"That's the thing you decide to focus on?" You nod and he shakes his head. "I need you to tell me how far you want to go today."
"All you want me to do is talk, talk, talk," you roll your eyes before wrapping your legs around his waist and pulling him flush against you. "I want to feel you inside me, Min. I want to come on your cock."
He groans as soon as you finish the sentence, thrusting his hips against you. Your lips part, which he immediately takes advantage of, stealing another kiss. You wrap yours hands behind his neck, playing with his hair as he works your pants down, not hesitating anymore. You don't stop kissing him until all your clothes are off—or at least as off as he can get them without pulling away.
Throwing them aside, he takes a moment to admire your naked body, eyes scanning every inch of your skin, memorizing it. You feel nervous, especially when he locks his eyes with your wet pussy, licking his lips at the sight. It's hot, he's hot.
Undoing his jeans as well, he gets rid of the last piece of clothing in the way, and you instantly let your eyes fall to his bare legs. You do the same as he just did, taking your time with memorizing every inch of him. Not only does he have a handsome face, his build is equally hot.
"Get here already," the command is laced with the need you feel, causing him to chuckle as he joins you again. You don't hesitate, wrapping your hand around the length of his cock as soon as he's in your reach. "I need you in."
"Keep talking and I'll come before even getting to it," he groans. "I love your voice."
"Yeah?" You tilt your head prettily, loving how desperate he looks between your legs with your hand on him. "Is that why you want me to talk so much?"
"Yes," he nods without giving it a second though. You slide your hand over his tip and he whimpers. This man fucking whimpers. Your eyes widen at the sound, your pussy clenching around nothing. There is no way you're coming back from this now, from knowing how he sounds when he is completely and utterly gone.
He pushes your legs up to your chest and you let go off him just to hold them up, watching him as he reaches for a condom and rolls it over his length. He doesn't give you what you want right away, though. Your eyes flicker over him confusedly as he doesn't move, begging him to do something. "Don't worry, pretty. I got you," he assures you, his eyes locked on your pussy.
You figure what he meant as he spreads your folds with his fingers, collecting your wetness before dipping two of his fingers in. A whine leaves past your lips as you watch him. It's crazy how good he makes you feel with just his fingers, spreading you open for him. "Min," you plead. "More."
"Don't you want to come once before?"
You shake your head quickly, not caring about that. "With you. I want to come with you."
He doesn't need to be told twice, pulling out his fingers and bringing them to his lips to taste you. You miss his fingers already, a disapproving whine escaping you. He moans at the taste of you, giving his cock a few pumps before aligning himself with your pussy.
Thrusting into you with ease, he leans down and wraps your legs around his waist instead, connecting his lips with yours again. You kiss him back, scratching his back gently as he starts to move. Digging your heels into his lower back, you keep him as close as possible, the way he makes you feel so full making your head spin.
His moves are slow and steady at first, but as soon as you moan into his ear, asking for more, he shifts his pace to suit your needs. You melt together completely, mixture of your and his moans filling the room. It's lewd, the sounds you let out, but you can't care less right now. All you care about is satisfying your urges.
He rubs your clit with his thumb, helping you get where you need. You feel every one of his veins inside, your walls clenching tightly around his length. For a second, you wonder if there is anything this man is not absolutely amazing at. Not only is a an awesome singer with a great face, full of kindness, he's also incredible at fucking you in the exact way you want him to.
"Almost there," you gasp, your mouth hanging open. Your breathes mix together due to how close you are to one another.
He nods, looking down at your connected bodies. "Me too. Just a bit more, yeah?" You nod frantically, rolling your hips forward in response. He curses under his breath, pinching your clit. Your legs shake around him as you reach your high, his name falling off your lips like a prayer.
He's right behind you, burying his head in your breast as he fills the condom, slowly thrusting into you even after to let you both ride it out. "Thank you," you breathe out, exhausted.
"Anytime," he chuckles, the easy smile you're learning to love spreading on his lips.
♡⸝⸝♡⸝⸝
The sound of your phone blowing up stirs you awake in the morning. You open your eyes with much more effort than you're used to, remembering where you are once you see the room. Prompting yourself up, you search for Seokmin with your eyes. He's nowhere to be found, but judging by how warm the side of the bed he slept in still is, you're assuming it's not long since he woke up as well.
After showing together last night, and getting one more orgasm out, you fell asleep in his shirt and boxers, cuddled up in his arms. It felt amazing to be held like that, dreams coming easier than ever before.
Remembering why your sleep was interrupted, you reach for your phone on his nightstand. Thankfully, you brought it over here before going to bed last night, otherwise it'd be going off in the living room where you originally left it.
There are messages from both Chan and your sister, but the one that catches your attention the most is from your boss. Jennie doesn't text you much unless it's important. Opening the chat with her, you find a link attached with a simple question: 'That's you, isn't it?'
Before you can think properly, realize what you're watching, you're rushing out of the bed, searching for Seokmin. "Good morning," he smiles at you warmly, a plate filled with scrambled eggs and bread in his hands, a matching one lying in front of him on the counter. He opens his mouth, probably to explain he made breakfast for the two of you, but closes it again when he sees your face—your eyes wide, clearly panicked and distressed. "Is everything okay?"
You shake your head, unable to look away from him as you grip your phone in your hands. "Why did you— Why did you post that?" Despite trying your hardest not to, your voice stutters, partly from the betrayal you feel and partly because what the fuck? Why would he do that to himself?
His brows furrow, confusion written all over him. Not because he wouldn't know what you're talking about, he knows exactly what post you're referring to, but no matter how hard he tries to, he can't seem to understand why you're so upset, why you're looking at him like he just pointed the gun at you.
"What— Let's sit down, pretty, okay? Let's talk about what's bothering you. Tell me what goes in that head of yours." He places the plate in his hands down, not hesitating to cross the room and get into your space.
"You need to delete it," you state quickly, not stepping away from him but also not inching forward. "You—" You frown when you see the look in his eyes. "How does none of this bother you? Have you even checked to see what people are saying? How your followers count changed? What this can do to BSS? The guys or—"
He doesn't let you go into a spiral like you'd like to, wrapping his arms around your shoulders and pulling you into him. "I didn't check because I don't care," he whispers into your hair. You hesitate about hugging him back, carefully wrapping your arms around his sides when he doesn't let go off you. "I wanted everyone to hear how great you sound, so I shared it."
"I care though," you complain. "You need to delete it." He shakes his head against you, but doesn't verbally argue again. "This is going to be bad for your image."
"I don't care," he repeats. "Let it be bad for me if it's good for you. Let the world hear your voice, it's beautiful." You take a step back, looking up at him and shaking your head. "I've known this ever since the day I first heard you, and they should all know it too. Who cares if some people don't like me because they're insecure I might have a girlfriend and they don't—which I'm not labeling you as, I swear. I'll need a date or two before I ask you for that title." His rush makes you chuckle, but it doesn't help how you feel about the situation.
You gave up on music when you were still a child because of this exact reason, because you let people hear you sing. You don't want to hate music again. You're desperate to not let it come to it, and the only way you see possible is to convince him to delete the video off his feet and pray no one saw it. You can only see the laughs, the faces of your childhood friends, or what you thought they were, as they laughed at you for having a passion, as they made sure you wouldn't dream about something so stupid again.
It's not only that, though. As much as you're scared for yourself, you're scared for him. For him losing his passion, his love for music, all because he decided to post a video of you singing on his account, thinking it would be good for you.
This can't be good for either of you. You're convinced.
"You need to delete it," you beg again.
He doesn't acknowledge your comment, simply smiling at you. "Let's have breakfast together, hm?"
Sitting on his couch, your knees pulled to your chest, and an almost empty plate in your hands, you bring it up again. "Seokmin, I'm serious. I need you to delete the video. Now."
He sets his empty plate on the table, turning to face you in his seat. "If that's what you really want me to do, then I will. But please, tell me you don't want me to just because you think it's going to hurt my image or anything like that. I'm also serious, and I think you deserve all the love in the world. I think you deserve for your voice to be heard and appreciated by not only me, but everyone else as well."
You swallow as you look at him, letting your gaze fall down to your legs. How do you explain to a man as perfect as him that, even though it's been ages, you're haunted by the memory of your peers making fun of you for the exact same reason he now wants them to appreciate you. How do you tell him that you fear other people's opinions more than anything else in the world, and have no idea how to move without letting it consume you?
"I could get fired," you whisper. "For being with you. Crossing the line." You're not sure if Jennie would actually fire you for this, but you can't cross the option out. It's not only you who depends on people's views, it's also the radio, Chan, and Seokmin's group too, no matter how much he says he doesn't care. "It's not professional."
He moves closer to you, cupping your face so you'd look at him. "We could figure that out together. I could help, if you'd let me," he tries to hard to find a solution for you, to show you how much he wants to keep the video out there, to have you out there. "You don't always have to do the right thing. The professional thing. The grown up thing."
You frown, because you're pretty sure you do. You need to be perfect to save yourself from those disgusted looks again. "It's okay to be selfish sometimes. It's okay to chase after things you want, even if it means being immature." Your eyes soften instantly, because you're sure you heard similar words before. From Chan. When he first found out you love music like he does, and that you can produce it even though you keep from it, he said something along the lines as well. He didn't know anything about why you were so keen on not being involved with music so much, still doesn't, but he probably had an idea unlike Seokmin, who is trying his hardest to assure you it's okay to want this without even knowing what it is that bothers you deep down.
"Do you know how many times I've been called a child?" You don't answer, letting him continue. "If you let me help, I promise I'll take care of everything that worries you. I'll make sure nothing happens to BSS or your radio show, that you can stay with Chan and do what you love. And if it's what you want, then I'll also love to help you purse this career, because I truly believe you should. I think you should sing, if that'd be something you'd enjoy."
"It would," you admit quietly and his smile grows wider. "It always has been."
"Okay," he nods, pressing his lips to yours in a gentle, tender, kiss. "Then let's do something about that, hm?"
♡⸝⸝♡⸝⸝
If someone told you weeks ago that you'd be in the recording studio with Woozi and your boyfriend on the other side of the glass, you would have laughed in their face.
You're not sure if the fact Woozi is helping you produce this song or the fact you get to call Seokmin your boyfriend that is more unbelievable right now.
You let him keep the video of you singing at karaoke up, deciding to face your fear and see what would happen if people heard you sing. To your surprise, except for the few people hating simply for the fact you were suddenly on their artists' feed, others were supportive of you getting into the music industry. Fans who already knew your from the broadcast were amazed when they heard you sing, and the rest were immediately asking for your social to see more of you.
You couldn't have been happier at the moment.
"Let's go from the top again," Woozi tells you and you nod, glancing briefly at Seokmin, who wears the proudest smile on his face as he watches you record your own song.
It's a dream come true, really.
You called Jennie as soon as you decided to trust Seokmin and believe it'd be possible to pursue this, asking her if she's mad at you and needs you to take the video down anyways. She laughed into your ear before assuring you that's not why she texted you. She explained how she looked at you at the studio as soon as the video reached her, wanting to question you for not telling her you have such talent way sooner, only to find a giddy Chan in the room. He took his time talking about all the times you spend writing lyrics with him and helping him produce his songs, praising you to her just like he always did.
Both Seokmin and her decided to call a few people that day, trying to make sure it doesn't cause any damage to him or BSS as you worried, and also to see if there's a way to get you into a studio.
Which eventually happened. It happened.
"Great work today," Jihoon praises you with a smile. Your cheeks flush, but before you can thank him, Seokmin steps into your vision, opening his arms for you. You gladly steps into them, offering him a kiss.
"The best," he praises. "My pretty girl who can just do about anything."
You shake your head at him, wondering what you did to deserve all this. "Thank you," you whisper so only he can hear, stepping away again to look at your favorite producer. "Thank you for helping me so much. I hope I don't leave you disappointed with the result."
Jihoon shakes his head. "You have a great voice, and we all know it. You won't disappoint me or anyone else for the matter. Just keep chasing."
radio host!wonwoo x reader (f, no use of yn) / romance, mystery?, demon/ghost au / wc: 2k / warnings: eerie town vibes, mentions of living alone, wonwoo is a heavy music snob, heavy making out / r: 18+
summary: Wonwoo's late radio show boasts of knowing the most underground bands and playing only the uncut gems. Every night, the final call is from her, and she's not impressed. Also, every night, after the show is supposed to end, the call keeps going.
isa´s note: this is my entry for @studiosvt First Time Caller collab! I wish I had expanded this by a lot but there´s a lot in my head/schedule right now and despite being short, I hope you enjoy it nonetheless. Please don´t forget to check out the another entires on this collab, and thanks to the admins for letting me be apart of it (:
ON AIR
The neon sign turned on inside the soundproof booth while Wonwoo selected the records he had planned to play that night. Out of habit, he adjusted his round-framed glasses back and spoke lowly into the microphone.
“You're now tuned to CARAT FM. I'm Jeon Wonwoo, your host for the next few hours. Join me again on this foggy night to relive some of the greatest sounds, most of them recorded in places you've never heard of.”
If you were to choose a word to describe Jeon Wonwoo’s late-night radio show, it would definitely be melancholic.
Despite being still very young, Wonwoo despised digital media. Ironically, it was precisely digital spaces that had made his small-town radio show into the cult phenomenon it was amongst college kids around the country.
Mingyu, Wonwoo's best friend who still lived in the city, often sent him pictures of college students wearing CARAT FM hoodies and laptops covered in the radio logo stickers. One time, while going through a blog Mingyu had sent, Wonwoo realized he was called “The Mountain Hermit” and that people curated the show's lives to preserve it.
“These b-sides shouldn't exist! Where does he find them?” one comment said. “If he hadn't played it, it didn't exist,” said another.
Wonwoo had left Seoul after finishing college. Like fate, though he wasn’t fond of people who believed in destiny, he got an offer to take care of the small local station at the jagged peak of Blackmountain, a sprawling structure of wood and copper rods far from the center of town and from everything else Wonwoo was familiar with.
Exactly what he was looking for.
It was both his studio and sanctuary. The top floor was filled with vintage records from his personal collection, and gems left behind by the people who ran the station before him, now more years than he’s been alive. It was both his studio and his sanctuary.
Wonwoo rarely left his forte, which added to the local lore, since he was rarely seen outside and there were no pictures of him online. The couple of pictures on Mingyu's social media were from the early days of school, so he was mostly a mystery to all his followers. And Wonwoo liked it that way. They admired him for the curated music he played for them, not for himself. That was all this was about.
However, there were days when he did venture into the local scene, mostly to restock groceries, in his rusted-out Volvo, also left at the station; perfectly functioning, Wonwoo just had to remove the dust and clean the leather; and whenever he did, the town reacted as if a foreign creature had landed in their town square.
He'd be standing in line to pay for something, or filling up the gas tank, and the conversations would stop. At first, he thought it was just a normal small-town quirk; he was pretty young, and most people in town were no less than fifty, with all the younger people leaving as soon as they were of college age. But when the eerie looks and dead silence persisted every time he showed up, Wonwoo knew something about him, specifically, was the cause.
To the people online, he was a vibe; for the people in Blackmountain, he was a ticking clock.
Wonwoo never noticed how people walked wide circles around him, or how the local police always pulled over to watch him pass. He didn't realize they weren't admiring his youth, or that he was a loner in a town where everyone knew each other's names. They were looking for his shadow, which was still attached, looking at his ears to see if they'd started bleeding yet.
“... And that was a B-side, recorded in 1973, in West Berlin,” He leaned back into his leather chair, boots over the switchboard, microphone really close to his mouth. “They only played 3 shows, and two of them were inside a laundromat. If you listen closely on the two-minute mark, there’s the faint sound of someone dropping coins just in the right moment of dead silence… that’s as raw as it gets. Anyway, I'll take some calls now. Please do not ask for any movie soundtrack.”
The line 1 blinked immediately.
This surprised him, usually the first caller was way past into the first hour of the show.
“That was very good, Wonwoo,” your soft voice said on the other side of the line. It was melodic and surprisingly clear, cutting through the usual hiss of the station. “But the pressing you’re playing is from that one show that wasn’t done at a laundromat. The mastering is far too bright, there’s none of the gray vibe we were starting with, don’t you think?”
Wonwoo blinked, sititng up straight. “I- well, the original pressing is nearly impossible to find, I suppose there could be a mixing in the recordings for this particular one… What’s your name?” He stuttered a little, feeling a bit taken aback.
“Before I tell you my name, let me tell you about pure raw remasters. Have you heard BSS? They were an experimental trio based in Seoul in the late fifties. Fun fact, they used tuned light bulbs as percussion.”
Wonwoo’s brows furrowed. He knew everything about the experimental scene of Seoul of the fifties like his own name… nothing in his brain clicked when it came to an experimental trio named BSS.
“Check the return slot in the mail bin; delivery should have arrived already,” you said. Wonwoo stood up hurriedly, and at the same time, he replied that the lobby was already locked. He had the station open for everyone in case someone decided to visit. That had never happened so far, but he was sure to lock it when he was inside the booth.
He sprinted out of the booth into the lobby, finding a 7-inch record encased in a sleeve of hand-pressed paper inside the mail slot. No name, no address. Just a small, hand-drawn map of the stars on the center ring.
He hurried back into the booth, heart thumping loudly inside. “I found the record. How did you send it here? Who are you?”
“A fan of deep cuts, Wonwoo. Play it, let’s see if you can really appreciate curated music as you claim.”
As he lowered the needle, a sound so fragile and crystalline played. Hauntingly beautiful. He sat there looking straight into the record spinning for a good minute, defining what he was hearing as a color he didn’t know existed yet. He was captivated, but more than that, flustered that he had been out-snobbed.
“This is incredible. Where did you find this?”
There was no answer, just the faint rhythmic hum of the dial tone.
Wonwoo stared at the record, unable to know what to play next for the rest of the night, except this. Mesmerized by the music, he had no way of knowing the entire town of Blackmountain had stopped on its tracks, and was now looking up towards the faint lights emerging from the radio tower. The red neon light ON AIR wasn’t red anymore; it was a pulsing violet.
Everyone except Jeon Wonwoo realized that the music meant the guest was coming.
The next few weeks were a slow-motion collapse of Wonwoo’s carefully structured world. He stopped preparing playlists or reading his vintage music magazines. He became possessed, sitting in the booth, staring at the console's flickering lights, waiting for the phone to ring.
Each night you called. And each night, you humbled him.
“Oh, you’re playing an unreleased bass solo from The8?” Your voice sounded close, as if you were sitting right beside him. “Anyhow, that record you can still find on any vintage curated music store in Haicheng, a little bit commercial, don’t you think?”
“Commercial?” Wonwoo replied. Adjusting his glasses and straightening up in the chair. “This is one of the only fifty copies ever made, not even The8 himself knew these were being recorded.”
You sighed. “Right. But have you heard about the five copies made of his record-breaking solo in the monastery in Shanghai, I believe from 1965, the one he got banned from the city for?”
“Of course.” He replied bitterly. “That’s impossible to find, only five tapes, all lost to the authorities who kicked him out.”
“Look under the turntable platter, the one that’s been wobbling for ages…”
Wonwoo lifted the heavy rubber mat of the Technics SL-1200, and tucked in the spindle was a strip of magnetic tape, and there it was.
“How..?” his hands were shaking as he placed the record into the reel-to-reel. When he hit play, what came out was the exact moment when The8, the most prominent bass player of China, made his fingers bleed with a bass solo of more than 10 minutes. Every sound was there. From the bass strings to the wind, and people amazed by this artist rebelling against the authorities that wanted to ban music all those years back. The sound of officials taking him down and telling him to leave the monastery. It was all there until it got cut off the recording, and it was something Wonwoo never imagined to be playing on his small town radio show.
“God. That was…” He leaned into the mic, forgetting thousands of people were listening, and only speaking to you. “You are ruining me. Now my collection seems so… thin.”
“Wonwoo,” you said softly. “We’ve been flirting with frequency for weeks, don’t you think it’s time we met?”
Wonwoo felt a jolt. He muttered something into the mic, remembering there were people listening.
“No one else is listening, it´s only you and me tonight,” you assured him.
“You want to come to the station? It´s like 2 in the morning…”
“I´m already at the gate.”.
Wonwoo didn’t hesitate. He ran to the front door, his heart hammering inside his chest as he rang the buzzer of the gate to open it. It was against all logic. How did you get here so fast? How did you manage to get him the records from places inside the station? None of it made sense… yet that was the last of his worries right now.
He adjusted his glasses, straightened his sweater, and pushed the hair over his face back. The signal strength meter on the wall was now blinking red, and it vibrated so hard that it cracked. The clock on the wall started clicking backward.
He then saw you getting closer. You were exactly like he expected, yet nothing like he imagined. You were covered by a coat that seemed to absorb the surrounding light. Your shiny hair brings light to your face.
“You are real.” He breathed. The snob persona vanishes completely at the sight of you.
You smiled, getting even closer until you could trace soft lines across his sharp jawline. Your fingers felt cold, yet they sent waves of heat across his skin.
“I don’t even know your name,” Wonwoo breathed again, placing both hands across your waist, cautiously but firmly.
You leaned in, lips brushing against his. “What am I to you?”
Wonwoo replied almost instantly. “My muse.”
You then kissed him, lips brushing at first, then embracing his mouth and tongue slowly, savoring every second you were connected. He kissed you back eagerly, as if he hadn’t kissed anyone else before you, but had all the experience in the world.
His hands roamed up and down from your back to your hips, and you threw your arms across his neck. Soon you were back at the booth. Lost in the heat, he reached for the master fader to lower the volume, but your hand caught his, pinning it to the desk.
“Hmm,” you hummed against his lips. “Leave it up. Let them hear what happens next.”
Outside the radio tower, the people of Blackmountain were engulfed by the flickering lights. Their shadows had left their bodies and were now dancing out on their porch, to the rhythmic pulse coming from the station. They knew what Wonwoo didn’t. That he was about to become one with the static, the sound, and the waves he loved to play for others.
Right now, CARAT FM is broadcasting the news that he had accepted her invitation.
SUMMARY: On air, you and Joshua sound perfectly in sync—easy banter, soft laughter, the kind of chemistry listeners love. Off air, however, you can barely stand him. Unfortunately, work has a funny way of pushing you two together… and lately, avoiding Joshua is becoming impossible.
A/N: written for First Time Caller collab by @studiosvt. i loveddd this collab theme, so i reaallyy hope i did justice to it. pleaseee tell me if you like it (also if you don't so i can improve next time :)) thankyouuu kay @orbitondgtl for beta reading this for me 🥹💗 do consider commenting and reblogging it means a lot to me.
"Good evening darlings! Welcome to The Love Line, this is your host Joshua. And I'm here with—"
You say your name into the mic, softly, cutting of Joshua. "The sun is setting, most of you might be just getting off work. A day with back-to-back meetings, deadlines, and managers sitting on your head—" you click your tongue sympathetically, "—you all did so great today."
Joshua lets out a soft, breathy chuckle beside you that melts straight through the headphones.
"They really did," he adds warmly, voice dipping into that smooth, honeyed tone he reserves for moments like this. "And if no one told you yet—hey, we're proud of you. Surviving the day is no small thing."
You glance at him through the glass reflection of the console, catching the small smile already waiting there.
"Look at you," you murmur, teasing lightly, "stealing my lines again."
"Occupational hazard of working with you," he shoots back easily. "You say all the good stuff first."
You hum, pretending to consider it. "Mm. I am very generous like that."
"Clearly," his lips twitch.
A soft instrumental hum swells beneath your voices—the signature opening of the show. The studio lights dim just slightly, casting everything in a warm, golden glow. You reach out absentmindedly, adjusting the angle of your mic, fingertips brushing against the metal before settling back.
You lean in closer.
"Joshua," you start, your voice slower, as if you're easing into something.
He turns his head just a little, resting his chin lightly against his knuckles, eyes flicking toward you.
"Mm?"
"You know that feeling…" you trail off, eyes dropping briefly to the console as your fingers tap lightly against it. "When you're not even doing anything special—just sitting next to someone, or maybe talking about nothing—and it still feels like the nicest part of your day?"
"Yeah," he murmurs. "Like… nothing's really happening, but you don't want it to end."
You nod faintly, a small smile forming as you continue.
"It's that kind of love that isn't loud," you exhale softly. "The kind you don't realize you're holding onto until it's not right in front of you anymore."
"Mm," Joshua hums. "Feels like a dream while you're in it."
"Now that you've said it…" you begin, a hint of a grin returning, "I'm going to play the first song of the evening—and I might be a little biased here—"
Joshua lets out a quiet, knowing huff of amusement beside you.
"—but this is one of my absolute favorites. I could listen to it on loop and never get tired of it," you continue, fingers finally pressing lightly against the button.
You lean just a fraction closer to the mic, voice dipping into something more intimate. "Here's 'Dream' by Baekhyun and Suzy."
As the opening notes of the song begins to drift through the studio, you slide back from the mic.
The rest of the show flows easily—songs playing one after another, a few sweet confessions from listeners, and light chatter between you and Joshua that keeps the night warm and relaxed. Before you know it, the final song fades out.
You lean toward the mic again with a small smile. "That's all for tonight, darlings. Thank you for spending your evening with us." Joshua follows with a gentle goodnight, and with a promise to be back tomorrow on The Love Line, the ON AIR light clicks off.
The softness that filled the studio just seconds ago disappears the moment the red light clicks off. Like a switch being flipped, your smile drops into a grim expression. Without another word, you pull your headphones off, pack up your things, and push your chair back. The wheels scrape lightly against the floor as you stand and walk out of the studio.
Joshua just watches you go for a second, lips pressed into a thin line. He lets out a small scoff under his breath and shakes his head, packing up his own things.
From the control room, Jeonghan clicks his tongue, leaning back in his chair. "Talk about being professional. The way they interact on the show, nobody would guess they're literally at each other's throats."
Vernon, who had been sitting behind the console, turns to him curiously. "I've always wondered why they're like this."
Jeonghan exhales slowly, running a hand through his hair. "Beats me," he mutters. "Anyway, good job today, intern. You can pack up for tonight." He pats Vernon's back before running out to catch you.
You pull your phone out of your pocket, glancing down at the screen to check your notifications as you walk down the corridor. A voice calls out from behind you. You stop and turn slightly. Jeonghan jogs toward you, a bright smile already spreading across his face. You slip your phone into your back pocket, returning his smile with a curious tilt of your head.
"As expected of my ace," he says, catching his breath. "That episode was so good. Especially when you addressed that last confession—"
"I won't do it." You state.
Jeonghan blinks. Your blunt interruption hangs in the air. His smile falters, eyes flickering away from you as he scratches the back of his head.
"I… don't know what you mean," he says weakly.
You sigh, already half turning away.
"You know how much I hate being on camera, and with this whole documentary thing. I can say goodbye to my privacy."
There's been all this talk about a crew coming in, filming everything—behind the scenes, personal lives, 'the struggle of radio in the age of podcasts and streaming'. Like putting a camera in the room is suddenly going to save it.
All you can picture is lenses pointed at you when you're not ready for it. Boom mics hovering just out of frame. So annoying.
"I don't want to sign up to have someone documenting how I work, how I talk, what I do in between segments—like it's something for people to pick apart later." Your voice dips lower. "I like that this job ends when I walk out of the studio. I like that there's still a line."
"Ah—just this once!" Jeonghan moves too quickly, stepping directly into your path before you can slip past him. You almost walk straight into his chest, forced to stop short as he throws his arms out slightly, like he can physically keep you from leaving if he just tries hard enough.
"You're the perfect one for this. " He says, words coming a little too fast, like he's afraid you'll disappear if he doesn't get them out in time. "Your show is literally the only one doing numbers right now."
Before you can respond, his tone softens, shifting gears as naturally as breathing. He reaches for your hand, clasping it between both of his, warm and insistent, his thumbs pressing lightly like he's trying to anchor you there.
"Do you you really want the company to look bad?" he adds, tilting his head just slightly, eyes searching your face. "Do you want me to be embarrassed?"
You give him a look, pulling your hands back.
"Jeonghan, I love you, but no." You say flatly, your voice carrying none of the softness he's trying to coax out of you. "And working extra hours with Joshua? Pass."
Speaking of the devil. Joshua struts towards the both of you and lazily puts an arm around Jeonghan. He notices the slight tension between the two of you and shakes his head in disapproval.
"Give this old man a break."
Your eyes narrow just a fraction before you roll them, turning your head away like you couldn't care less. "You're literally the same age."
Joshua ignores you entirely and instead looks at Jeonghan. "She bothering you, king?"
Jeonghan blinks. "No, actually I was asking if—"
"You know what?" Your eyes suddenly brighten as you cut him off. You clap your hands together once. "How about you have Joshua and Hana on this one?"
"What? No!" Joshua immediately shoots down the idea as if he knows what you guys are talking about.
"She's just an intern—" Jeonghan says at the exact same time.
Your lips curl into a faint, humorless smile as you fold your arms across your chest.
"Right," you murmur. "Because I'm the only one you can overwork."
You shift your weight, gaze flicking briefly toward Joshua before sliding away again.
"And Hana's not exactly helpless," you add, tone light but pointed. "She's practically glued to the studio anyway."
It’s true.
Hana is always around—hovering near the control room, lingering just a little too long after her shifts, volunteering for things no one asked her to. And more often than not, her eyes aren't on the equipment or the scripts.
They're on Joshua.
She laughs a little too quickly at his jokes, bright and eager. Finds reasons to stand close. To ask questions she already knows the answers to. And somehow, she always ends up near you—because wherever you are, Joshua isn't far behind.
"That's not the point," he says, tone more controlled now.
"Mm," you hum, unconvinced.
You don't push it further. Instead, you straighten slightly, your arms still crossed like a barrier between you and them. "Look I won't do extra hours for something that doesn't even benefit me in any way."
"It's not exactly nothing," Jeonghan starts weakly. "I mean, you will be getting a paid leave for a week."
"We are?" Joshua's head snaps towards him.
Jeonghan looks at you observing your reaction to the enticing information, hoping that this might be enough for you to change your mind.
A paid leave. A whole freaking week.
You could sleep without setting alarms. Stay in bed until the sun shifts across your room and disappears again. You could spend time with your cat—if she even still recognizes you. These days, she's always curled up somewhere by the time you get home, half-asleep, barely lifting her head when you walk in like you're just another passing presence instead of the person who feeds her.
You huff a quiet breath through your nose. A week of that sounds… dangerously tempting.
From the corner of your eye, you can feel Joshua watching you. Not saying anything, not interrupting—just waiting. And you know if you agree, he won't let you forget it. The teasing alone would be unbearable. But still… a week off.
God.
You exhale slowly, like you're forcing the decision out before you can rethink it.
"…Fine."
Jeonghan's face lights up instantly, relief breaking across his features so openly it almost makes you regret saying yes.
"But this is the first and the last time," you add firmly, already turning away and continuing down the hallway without waiting for a response.
"Of course!" Jeonghan calls after you, raising his arms above his head to make a giant heart that you don't see it. "Thank you so much! I love you!"
Joshua watches the empty space for a second longer than necessary, his gaze lingering where you vanished before he exhales quietly through his nose, shaking his head.
"Tch. All that drama just to say yes."
Jeonghan throws him a dirty look, elbowing him on the stomach. "Don't trouble her so much, you idiot."
Joshua doubles down holding his stomach. "Are you my friend or hers?"
"At work, I'm your producer."
When you agreed to the documentary, you hadn't realized it would start this soon.
You'd barely made it home the night before—shoes kicked off somewhere near the door, bag abandoned on the couch—when your phone buzzed with a new email. You remember staring at the screen, eyes still half-lidded with exhaustion, rereading the same line twice just to make sure you weren't hallucinating.
Filming begins tomorrow.
Now, barely twelve hours later, you're seated in a meeting room that feels just a little too bright, a little too cold, with cameras already set up in the corners like silent observers.
The documentary team mills about, adjusting equipment, whispering to one another. Across from you, Jeonghan sits with his usual composure, legs crossed neatly, hands resting on the table. He's smiling wide and bright.
You hadn't realized until this exact moment how deeply that smile could irritate you.
To your right, Joshua looks no different than he usually does—leaned back slightly in his chair, posture relaxed, one hand idly spinning the paperweight on the table like he has all the time in the world.
From the outside, the two of you probably look like the picture of professionalism—calm and composed. What they don't see is the way his shoe presses lightly against your ankle under the table. It is subtle at first, almost easy to dismiss as accidental, but when it happens again, and then again, the pattern becomes impossible to ignore.
You shift your leg back, drawing it closer to your chair in an attempt to create distance, but it barely lasts a second before his foot follows, closing the gap you just made. The repetition grates on your nerves, and you can feel your patience thinning as your fingers curl slightly against the edge of the table. You keep your gaze forward, fixed somewhere ahead, refusing to acknowledge him, refusing to give him the reaction he is clearly trying to provoke. Still, he does it again, pressing just enough this time to make it impossible to ignore without responding, and you feel the irritation rise sharp and immediate in your chest as you prepare to turn and finally snap at him.
Before you can, the door swings open.
"I am so sorry for the delay!" The sudden interruption cuts cleanly through the tension, breaking it apart before it can escalate any further.
A man steps inside, slightly out of breath, one hand pushing his hair back as he straightens himself and offers a quick, apologetic bow that is just a little too hurried to be polished. His tie sits slightly crooked, sleeves pushed up as if he has been rushing from one place to another, and there is a faint flush to his face that suggests he has been moving far faster than he probably should have.
Despite all of that, there is something immediately noticeable about him—an energy that feels bright and open, a little chaotic but undeniably genuine. It settles into the room almost instantly, softening the sharp edges of the moment you were just in and replacing it with something lighter, something easier, as he steps further inside with a breathless laugh and an apologetic smile that does not falter.
"There was so much traffic today," he continues, already moving further into the room. "I brought coffee for everyone—least I could do."
He carries a coffee carton as he goes around the table handing out cups one by one, offering soft apologies with each.
"Oh—" he pauses when he reaches you, the motion so slight it might have gone unnoticed if you weren't already hyper-aware of everything in the room. For a brief second, his hand hovers midair, the coffee cup still extended toward you as his eyes settle on your face.
A flicker of recognition passes his face and the soft smile on his face gets bigger as he places the coffee in your hand. A faint blush creeps up before you can stop it, and when you murmur a soft "thank you," it comes out quieter than you intended, almost betraying the sudden shift in your composure.
If no one else notices, Joshua does.
The movement under the table stops ,and a second later your chair shifts ever so slightly, nudged from the side, just enough to draw your attention without making it obvious. You turn your head, already knowing what you'll find.
He's looking at you.
One eyebrow raised, cup hovering halfway to his lips, his gaze sharp and assessing in a way that feels far more intentional than casual curiosity.
Do you know him?
Of course its his job to be nosy. And if you so much as give him anything to work with, you already know how it ends—with endless teasing, with him bringing it up at the worst possible moments, with that stupid, knowing look every time your name gets mentioned in the same breath as his.
You hold his gaze for a fraction of a second, long enough to acknowledge it but not long enough to answer. Then you look away.
When you turn back toward the front of the room, that small smile hasn't quite left your face, lingering faintly like something you haven't decided what to do with yet.
"Hello everyone," the man says, stepping forward to the head of the table. He straightens, shoulders squaring as his hands come together neatly in front of him. "I'm Lee Seokmin, the producer for this documentary."
Then he bows fully, a clean ninety degrees. A quiet laugh slips out of you before you can stop it, soft and brief, drawn more from familiarity than amusement.
Some things really don't change.
Jeonghan picks up from there without missing a beat, slipping seamlessly into his professional tone as he begins outlining schedules, expectations, and boundaries. His voice is steady, controlled, filling the room with the kind of structure everyone else seems to fall into easily. Around the table, the crew listens attentively, some jotting down notes, others glancing toward the cameras as if already piecing together how this will all look once it's edited.
You try to focus. You really do.
You follow the conversation, nod at the appropriate moments, keep your posture composed and your expression neutral—but your attention doesn't stay where it's supposed to.
Every now and then, your eyes drift.
Seokmin listens with a kind of attentiveness that feels almost deliberate, nodding along as Jeonghan speaks, occasionally adding a thought or asking a question that shows he's already thinking a few steps ahead. But once or twice his gaze shifts toward you.
Each time his gaze lingers just a second longer than it should, warm and familiar in a way that unsettles you, and each time you're the one who breaks first—looking away a little too quickly, a faint blush creeping up before you can stop it.
Across the table, Joshua grows quiet.
The paperweight in front of him sits untouched now, no longer spinning under his fingers. His foot stays still beneath the table, no longer seeking yours. And he doesn't speak unless he absolutely has to, offering nothing extra, nothing unnecessary.
—
You pack slower for someone who's always the first one out of the room the moment a meeting ends. But today, your movements drag just enough to notice. You stack your papers once, then again, aligning the edges more carefully than necessary. Your bag stays open as you pretend to look for something, fingers brushing over items you already know are exactly where they should be.
You don't know what you're waiting for. Maybe waiting to go talk to Seokmin or maybe he—
Oh fuck he's coming this way.
The realization lands all at once, sharp enough to make your stomach tighten, and you immediately drop your gaze, shoulders straightening as you shuffle your things with sudden, unnecessary urgency. You try to look occupied, focused, like you've been doing something important this entire time instead of sitting there waiting without admitting it.
A soft knock against the table pulls your attention up anyway.
He's closer than you expected.
Up close, Seokmin looks almost exactly the same, though there's something more put together about him now—his features a little sharper, his presence a little more grounded, but still carrying that same warmth you remember. His hair is slightly out of place like he's been running his hand through it, and a faint flush to his cheeks. Despite all of that, his smile is steady, easy, the kind that comes naturally without effort
"It's been so long since we met," he says, his expression brightening further as he looks at you properly, like he’s confirming what he already suspects. "How have you been?"
For a brief moment, your mind goes completely blank. You tuck a loose strand of hair behind your ear, fingers lingering there as you try to gather your thoughts, to form a response that doesn't sound as thrown off as you suddenly feel.
"I've been—"
"You guys know each other?" Joshua's voice cuts in smoothly, almost lazily, but there's an edge to it that makes you immediately regret not answering faster. When you glance at him, he's already watching the two of you, a wide smile stretched across his face—too interested, too entertained, like he's just found something new to pick apart.
Seokmin lets out a small laugh, glancing briefly in his direction before looking back at you.
“We do have some history,” he says.
"You…dated?" Joshua's brows lift slightly.
"No no," Seokmin laughs, shaking his head, "She's my junior from university. We were in the same club for a while."
You feel your shoulders stiffen slightly.
"She was always running around, making sure everything went smoothly," Seokmin continues, clearly unaware of your growing discomfort. "Super reliable, but also…" he pauses, glancing at you with a grin that feels a little too familiar, "…a little too energetic sometimes."
Why is he saying so much?
Joshua hums softly, clearly enjoying this more than he should.
"Our ace's history in the flesh," he says, voice laced with amusement. "I'd love to hear more about that someday."
The way he says it makes your stomach drop. You know exactly where this is going, and you have no intention of letting it get there. You push your chair back abruptly and stand, the legs scraping loudly against the floor as you cut in before Joshua can say anything else.
"Seokmin—!"
The name comes out sharper than you intend, loud enough to draw both their attention instantly. You force your expression to soften, stepping around the table as you try to recover from the abrupt interruption.
"It's so good to see you," you say, your voice quieter now, more controlled. "I didn't expect to run into you here."
Seokmin looks momentarily surprised before breaking into a warm laugh. He reaches out without thinking and ruffles your hair lightly, the gesture so casual and familiar that it catches you completely off guard.
"You haven't changed at all," he says, fondness clear in his tone.
You freeze for just a second, caught between reacting and not reacting.
Before you can decide, he turns slightly toward Joshua again, still smiling. "I have so much to tell you," he adds. "She was so bubbly. Always made things more lively."
"Bubbly…" Joshua drags, his gaze shifting back to you with a playful look. "I see."
"Seok—" you start, stepping in again, fully prepared to shut this down before it gets any worse
But you're interrupted by one of the crew members calling Seokmin from across the room, waving him over urgently. He turns, blinking, then looks back at you with an apologetic expression.
"I'm so sorry," he says quickly. "I think I have to go for a bit."
You nod, still trying to steady yourself.
"But I want to catch up," he continues, already pulling out his phone and holding it out toward you. "Give me your number?"
There's a brief hesitation before you take it, your fingers brushing lightly against his as you input your number. It's a simple action, but your heartbeat feels just a little too loud in your chest.
'See you soon, sunshine," he smiles as you hand the phone back.
The nickname lands unexpectedly, and you feel the warmth rush to your face again as you bite the inside of your lip, managing only a small nod in response.
Then he's gone. The door closes softly behind him, and the room feels quieter in his absence.
"Wasn't that fun?" Joshua says from behind you, making your shoulders tense. "I can't wait to see him again," he adds as he gathers his things, movements unhurried.
"Don't," you warn.
Joshua hums softly, like he didn't hear the warning at all. As he passes by you, his hand reaches out, ruffling your hair in the exact same way Seokmin did just moments ago. The familiarity of the gesture hits differently this time, like he knows exactly what he’s doing.
"Bye, sunshine," he says emulating Seokmin's voice.
He doesn't wait for a reaction. He just walks out, leaving you standing there.
You had gone to bed far too late that night, standing in front of your wardrobe longer than you'd like to admit, pulling out outfit after outfit only to reject each one for reasons that kept changing. Too plain. Too much. Too obvious. Not enough.
It had taken you nearly two hours to finally settle on something that felt right—something that didn't look like you were trying, even though you absolutely were.
And yet, despite the lack of sleep, you wake up ten minutes before your alarm.
Your morning moves with unusual precision. You take your time in the shower, letting the water run warmer than usual, going through every step like you're preparing for something far more important than just another workday.
Your cat greets you in the kitchen, already weaving around your legs before you've even poured your coffee. She's unusually affectionate today, tail brushing against you, lingering instead of darting away like she usually does. You crouch down, scratching lightly behind her ears as she leans into your hand.
"Wow," you murmur, narrowing your eyes at her. "You're being suspiciously nice today. Today must be a good day?"
She blinks up at you, entirely unbothered, before settling beside you as you eat.
By the time you leave, you feel put together.
The compliment comes from somewhere to your left as you walk down the hallway, followed quickly by another voice agreeing, then another.
Of course you look good. You didn't spend two hours the night before for nothing.
Still, there's a small, quiet satisfaction in the way heads turn just slightly as you pass, in the way people do double takes before catching themselves. Your hand tightens briefly around the strap of your bag as you approach the meeting room, your steps slowing just a fraction as your thoughts drift.
Seokmin.
You wonder if he'll notice. If he'll say something. If he'll smile the same way he did yesterday—
A burst of laughter from inside the room cuts the thought short. You pause for half a second, then push the door open. Both Joshua and Seokmin look up at the same time.
Seokmin's reaction is immediate. He straightens slightly in his seat, his expression lighting up in a way that feels almost automatic, like he didn't even have to think about it.
"Wow," he says, the word slipping out easily as his gaze lingers on you. "You look great."
The compliment lands softly but directly, and you feel your cheeks warm before you can stop it. You glance down briefly, biting your lip in a small, reflexive attempt to hide it, your fingers brushing lightly against the fabric of your dress as if suddenly aware of it.
"Thank—"
"Really?" Joshua cuts in, his voice calm, almost thoughtful. "I don't see any difference."
Your head snaps up, the warmth in your expression disappearing as quickly as it came, replaced by a sharp, unimpressed scowl. Your eyes lock onto his, narrowing slightly as you stare him down across the room.
Joshua meets your gaze without hesitation, completely unfazed. If anything, he looks mildly confused, his brows knitting just slightly as if he genuinely doesn't understand what he said wrong.
Seokmin lets out a small, awkward cough, the sound cutting through the moment as he glances between the two of you. You break eye contact first, exhaling quietly as you turn away and move toward your seat, setting your bag down with more force than necessary before sitting.
Seokmin clears his throat lightly, slipping back into a more professional tone as he gestures toward the crew behind him.
"So, like we discussed yesterday," he begins, his voice steadying as he shifts gears, "today we'll just be recording you guys working. We want everything to feel as natural as possible, so just… pretend we're not here. Think of it as a normal day in your lives."
You let out a quiet hum, leaning back slightly in your chair.
"If we do that," you mumble under your breath, "a war will break out any moment."
"Sorry, I didn't catch that." Seokmin says, blinking at you.
“We'll do our jobs ten times more efficiently today, bro.” Joshua cuts in smoothly, his tone bright and easy as he looks at Seokmin with a wide, almost charming smile—like he didn't just undermine you in the most deliberate way possible.
You turn your head slowly, fixing him with a flat look. "Bro?"
Joshua nods seriously, like this is a completely reasonable development.
"We're like real brothers now," he says, gesturing lightly between himself and Seokmin. "Right, bro?"
Seokmin laughs, a little surprised but clearly amused, nodding along. "Sure. If you say so."
You stare at Joshua for a second longer, your expression unimpressed, bordering on disbelief. Of course he's doing this. Of course he's inserting himself here too. It's not enough that he disrupts your rhythm, pokes at your patience, finds ways to get under your skin—now he has to compete in spaces that don't even belong to him.
You look away with a quiet scoff, crossing your arms as you settle back into your chair.
Joshua, meanwhile, looks entirely satisfied, leaning back like he's just won something no one else realized was a competition.
And somehow, that makes it worse.
The meeting dissolves into movement soon after, the crew quietly repositioning themselves around the room while you and Joshua settle into what is supposed to be a "normal work session." Laptops open, notes spread out, a half-finished outline of the next segment sitting between you like neutral ground that neither of you fully trusts.
You lean forward slightly, scanning the draft on your screen, fingers hovering over the keyboard before you begin typing. For a few minutes, it's almost peaceful. The faint hum of equipment, the soft clicks of keys, the occasional murmur from the crew trying to stay unobtrusive. If you ignore the cameras—and him—it almost feels like any other day.
"Don't you think that line's a bit too heavy?"
Joshua's voice cuts in, smooth and casual, like he's just making an observation and not deliberately interrupting your flow.
You don't look at him immediately. You finish typing the sentence, hit save, and only then turn your head slightly.
"It's supposed to be," you reply evenly. "That's the point."
He leans back in his chair, tilting his head as he looks at your screen from afar, like he doesn't even need to see it properly to disagree.
"Or," he says slowly, "it could just sound like you're trying too hard to be deep."
There it is. You feel it instantly—that small, sharp spark of irritation. Your fingers still against the keyboard as your eyes flick to him, narrowing just slightly.
"Or," you return, voice just as measured, "you could try understanding the tone before commenting on it."
"I understand it," he says. "I just don't think the listeners will."
Your jaw tightens. You're about to respond—already leaning forward slightly, words forming, ready to push back properly this time, when you catch his subtle gaze toward the camera—giving you a hint that everything is being recorded.
You sit back slowly instead, trying to ease out your expression into something softer.
"Well," you say, offering him a small, tight smile, "that's why we work together, right? Balance."
Joshua watches you for a second before smiling just as polite. "Exactly."
From the outside, it probably looks seamless. The kind of dynamic people would compliment. It makes your skin itch.
"Bitch." You grunt, deleting the words from the screen.
"Sorry what was that?" Joshua raises an eyebrow at you.
"Rich." You quickly correct yourself. "Your thought process is so…rich."
The rest of the session passes in that same rhythm—careful, controlled, every word filtered just enough to sound right without saying what you actually mean. By the time you're done, your patience feels thinner than it should be.
You close your laptop with a quiet exhale and stand, stretching slightly as you glance around the room.
Seokmin is across the space, speaking with one of the crew members, his back half-turned to you. You hesitate for only a second before making your way over.
"Seokmin," you call lightly.
He turns immediately, his expression brightening the moment he sees you. "Yeah?"
You slow to a stop in front of him, hands loosely clasped behind your back, the earlier tension easing just a fraction.
"Are you free for lunch?" you ask, tone casual, but just warm enough to feel intentional. "I was thinking we could—"
"Bro, we're still having lunch together, right?" Joshua’s voice slides in from behind you before you can finish.
Seokmin blinks, looking between the two of you. "Oh—uh—yeah, we did say—"
"Great," Joshua continues easily, stepping forward just enough to fall into your line of sight. "There's so much for us to catch up on."
Catch up on? They met two days ago. And suddenly it's catching up?
The thought flickers through your mind, sharp and immediate, irritation bubbling up before you can stop it. Because if anyone here has actual history (well not too much history) with him—if anyone should be the one catching up it's you.
You inhale slowly.
No. You're not doing this. That's exactly what he wants—to get a reaction, to pull you into something pointless, to make you slip in front of the cameras. You won't give him that.
You let the feeling pass as quickly as it came, your posture straightening slightly as you turn back to Seokmin with a small, easy smile.
"Eat well," you say, tone light, almost dismissive in its calm. "I've got some work to finish anyway. I would've joined you otherwise."
There's the faintest hint of hesitation in his expression, but he nods. "Ah… okay. Next time then?"
"Next time," you echo, still smiling.
Joshua raises an eyebrow at that, clearly amused, but you don't look at him. You just turn, already stepping away before the moment can stretch any further, before he can add anything else to it.
—
Lunch comes and goes without you noticing it at first.
The room empties gradually, chairs scraping back, quiet chatter filling the space as people start heading out in small groups. Someone asks if you're coming along, and you shake your head without looking up, mumbling something about finishing a draft. It's easy to make it sound believable when your eyes are already glued to your screen, fingers moving just enough to sell the act.
The truth settles in a little more quietly. You're not hungry.
Or maybe you were—before. But somewhere between that moment in the meeting room and now, the thought of food has dulled into something unappealing, something you don't feel like dealing with.
So you stay.
The office feels different when it's half-empty. Quieter. The distant hum of voices fades into the background, replaced by the steady tapping of your keyboard and the occasional rustle of papers. You lean into the silence, letting it fill the space instead of your thoughts.
At some point, one of the crew members lingers near your desk, glancing at you curiously.
"You're not going for lunch?" they ask.
You don't look up immediately, finishing the line you're typing before answering.
"I'll eat later," you say lightly. "Not really hungry right now."
You don't notice Joshua nearby. You keep your focus on the screen, on the words that blur together if you stare at them too long.
After a while, the stillness starts to feel heavy.
You push your chair back with a quiet sigh, rubbing your eyes briefly before standing. "Washroom," you murmur to no one in particular, more out of habit than necessity, and step out of the room.
The break is short. Just enough to clear your head, splash some water on your face. When you return, you expect the same quiet you left behind. Instead, you pause.
There's something on your desk.
A neatly wrapped sandwich. A tall milkshake beside it, condensation already forming along the sides of the cup. It looks fresh. Recently placed.
Your gaze shifts slightly to the small sticky note is tucked under the edge of the sandwich wrapper.Just a simple smiley face.
:)
Your lips part slightly in surprise, your steps slowing as you approach your desk. There's no name. No message. Just that. But you don't need one. A small, almost involuntary smile begins to form.
Seokmin.
It has to be.
You pick up the note, your thumb brushing lightly over the ink as if that might confirm it somehow. The thought settles in easily, naturally—him remembering, him noticing, him doing something like this without making a big deal out of it.
It fits.
You're still looking at it when the door opens again and Joshua walks in.
His steps slow almost immediately as his eyes land on your desk, taking in the sandwich, the milkshake, the note. There's a brief pause as he analyses your demeanor, before his expression shifts into something more casual.
"Whoa," he says, low and almost impressed as he walks closer. "Looks like you've got a secret admirer."
You glance up at him, your fingers still holding the edge of the note.
His gaze lingers on the food for a moment longer before he reaches over, picking up a few papers from the corner of your desk like that's the only reason he came back.
"Didn't think you were the type," he adds, tone light, almost teasing.
You narrow your eyes slightly at that, but don't bite. Instead, you just set the note down carefully and pull your chair out.
"Maybe I've got someone who really cares," you reply, your voice calm, a hint of something pointed beneath it.
Joshua lets out a soft hum at that, but doesn't respond. He gathers the rest of the papers he needs, tapping them lightly against the desk to straighten them.
"Clearly," he says, almost under his breath.
For a second, it feels like he might say something else. But he doesn't. He just turns and walks out, leaving as casually as he came.
The door clicks shut behind him.
You look back down at the sandwich, at the milkshake, at the small smiley face drawn on the note. The earlier heaviness in your chest feels lighter now, replaced with something softer, something easier to hold onto.
You reach for the sandwich.
Maybe you were a little hungry after all.
The next two weeks pass in a blur of cameras, scripts, and carefully manufactured normalcy.
At first, it feels unnatural—every movement slightly too deliberate, every word filtered through the quiet awareness that someone, somewhere, is watching. But slowly, the presence of the documentary crew fades into the background.
What doesn't fade is Joshua.
If anything, he becomes more present.
Every time you find a moment—any moment—with Seokmin, Joshua is there. It starts small. A passing comment when you're mid-conversation. A casual interruption masked as a joke. Then it becomes more frequent, more deliberate. He inserts himself into discussions, finishes your sentences, redirects conversations before they can settle into anything personal.
At first, you tell yourself it's coincidence. By the fourth day, it clearly isn't.
Seokmin, for his part, doesn't seem to notice, or if he does, he doesn't comment on it. He remains the same—warm, attentive, easy to talk to. He checks in on you during breaks, asks about things that have nothing to do with work, remembers details you don't recall mentioning twice. And every time you try to respond, to build on that familiarity, Joshua somehow finds his way into the space between you.
It's subtle enough that no one calls it out. But obvious enough that it drives you insane. By the end of the first week, you've stopped trying. By the end of the second, you're determined.
So when today comes—and Jeonghan, for reasons you don't question too deeply, drags Joshua away for some "special discussion"—you don't hesitate.
You don't ask what it means. You don't care.
All you know is that for the first time in two freaking weeks, you have a window. And you take it.
The restaurant is quieter than you expected, tucked just far enough away from the main street to feel removed from the usual rush. It's warm inside, soft lighting casting a comfortable glow over the tables, the low hum of conversation blending into something easy, something calm.
Seokmin pulls your chair out before you can reach for it, the gesture smooth and natural, like it's second nature to him.
"After you," he says lightly.
You smile murmuring a soft "thank you" as you sit. He moves around the table and takes the seat across from you, the distance just enough to feel proper, just enough to make the moment feel… intentional.
He reaches for the water jug without hesitation, pouring a glass for you first before filling his own.
"We finally get to eat together," he says with a small laugh, setting the jug aside.
You let out a quiet breath, something in your shoulders loosening for the first time all day.
"I was starting to think it would never happen," you admit, a faint smile tugging at your lips. "Every time I tried, something," or someone, you mutter under your breath. "Kept getting in the way."
Seokmin chuckles, resting his elbow lightly on the table. "Yeah, your co-host seems very… present."
"That's one way to put it," you mutter under your breath, earning another laugh from him.
For a while, it's easy. You talk about university—about things you barely remember until he brings them up. Late nights before events, the chaos of organizing, the way you used to run around like you had ten places to be at once. He fills in the gaps, adds details you’d forgotten, and you find yourself laughing more than you expected to.
"And you still haven't changed," he says at one point, smiling as he leans back slightly. "Still the same."
You raise a brow. "That's not always a good thing."
"It is in your case," he replies easily.
You don't respond to that but the warmth settles anyway.
Seokmin lifts his glass, taking a sip of water, and as he lowers it, his gaze shifts slightly past you. His expression brightens almost immediately, like he's just spotted something—someone—unexpected. He lifts his hand.
"Shua! Here!"
Your smile freezes.
For a split second, you don't turn around. You don't want to. Because there's no way—there's actually no way—
What the fuck.
But then you hear it.
"Hey, bro!"
Joshua's voice.
You close your eyes briefly before turning, already feeling the irritation rise as he approaches like he belongs here. He pulls out the chair beside you without hesitation and drops into it casually, like this is the most natural thing in the world.
You don't even try to hide the look you give him. Your side-eye could probably kill. Seokmin, completely oblivious to the shift in energy, smiles between the two of you.
"Let's order first, then we can all talk," he says, glancing around for the waiter.
The moment his attention shifts away, you act.
Your hand shoots out, pushing Joshua's arm—hard enough to get his attention, subtle enough to not cause a scene. When he turns to you, you're already glaring, your eyes sharp with a very clear message.
What are you doing here?
Joshua, on the other hand, looks like he's having the time of his life. His lips curl into a slow, amused smile, eyes glinting with something dangerously close to satisfaction. Instead of answering, he reaches out—completely unbothered—and ruffles your hair.
You swat his hand away immediately, your glare deepening. He doesn't even flinch. If anything, he looks more entertained.
Before you can escalate it further, the waiter arrives at the table, notepad in hand, politely asking for your orders.
The food arrives not long after, plates filling the table with just enough variety to keep the conversation flowing. For a brief moment, things almost settle. Almost.
You reach for a dumpling, lifting it carefully with your chopsticks, only to find it gone the second before it reaches your plate.
You pause. Then slowly you turn your head.
Joshua sits beside you, completely at ease, already chewing like nothing happened, his expression too neutral. You stare at him and he doesn't even look back.
You narrow your eyes slightly, then say nothing, simply reaching across the table toward his plate instead. Your chopsticks slide in smoothly, picking out a piece of meat without hesitation.
Joshua glances down this time, his gaze lingering for a moment before shifting back to yours. A beat passes in the quiet space between you, and then he reaches over again. With a practiced sort of ease, another dumpling disappears from your plate.
You don't even look surprised anymore. You just lean forward, this time taking a larger piece from his side, placing it onto your plate with deliberate calm.
Across from you, Seokmin watches the exchange unfold, his lips twitching before he lets out a soft chuckle. The sound makes both of you pause. Your chopsticks hover midair. Joshua's hand stills halfway back to his plate.
"You both are really close," Seokmin says, amusement clear in his voice as he glances between the two of you.
The words land heavier than they should. You freeze. Almost immediately, you shift your chair slightly away from Joshua, creating a visible gap between you, like distance alone can undo whatever that just looked like.
"Not really," you say quickly, your tone light but just a little too quick to be casual. You let out a small, awkward laugh, brushing it off as if it means nothing. "We just… work together."
Seokmin nods, but there's something knowing in his smile that makes you uneasy.
No. Absolutely not. The last thing you need is him getting the wrong idea.
"I'll just—" you start, already pushing your chair back slightly, "washroom."
You don't wait for a response. You stand, smoothing your outfit unnecessarily before turning and walking away, your pace just a little faster than it needs to be.
The moment you're out of sight, Seokmin's attention shifts. He leans forward slightly, resting his elbow on the table as he looks at Joshua, one brow lifting in quiet curiosity.
Joshua, meanwhile, has already picked up another dumpling, completely unbothered, popping it into his mouth as he glances back at him.
"What?" he asks around the bite, genuinely confused.
Seokmin smiles. "You have a crush on her."
It's not a question.
Joshua chokes. The dumpling goes down the wrong way, and he coughs immediately, reaching for the glass of water in front of him, grabbing it a little too quickly as he takes a hurried sip.
"Wha—what do you mean?" he manages between coughs, voice rougher than before.
"You've been following her around like a puppy for the past two weeks," he says, like he's just pointing out something obvious. "Interrupting conversations, sitting next to her, giving her food—"
"I—I don't—how did you," Joshua cuts in quickly, setting the glass down a little harder than necessary. "That's not—"
Seokmin just smiles wider. "Don't worry," he says lightly. "I'll help you."
"Help with what?" Your voice cuts in.
Seokmin doesn't even miss a beat. He leans back slightly, shaking his head with an easy smile, like nothing of importance was said at all.
˙⋆✮ 𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: radio host! vernon chwe x night nurse!f.reader
you two share a lot in common. you’re next door neighbors, you’re both night owls, you both have nonexistent romantic lives, and you both also have a crush on each other without the other knowing. you spend your nights in the emergency room, and he spends his nights hosting a radio show. you find comfort in the chaos of your job by listening to your neighbors radio show. things between you start to change after another long night at work.
˙⋆✮ 𝐠𝐞𝐧𝐫𝐞(𝐬): romance, neighbors to lover, smut
˙⋆✮ 𝐚𝐮(𝐬): non-idol
˙⋆✮ 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 5k
˙⋆✮ 𝐭𝐫𝐢𝐠𝐠𝐞𝐫 𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: cussing, smut, lover boy vernon, they’re both a little awkward
˙⋆✮ 𝐬𝐦𝐮𝐭 𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: protected p in v, big dick vernon, couch sex, riding, fingering, oral (fem rec), face riding, they’re both kinda desperate, lots of making out, nipple play, hair pulling (him rec) Nicknames: baby (hers)
˙⋆✮ 𝐫𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠: 18+ nsfw
˙⋆✮ 𝐚𝐧: this was written for First Time Caller ☎️ collab, hosted by @studiosvt. thank you @haologram for helping me with so many things from naming this, to figuring out the plot and giving me tips on working on my banner. Thank you @thestraybunny and @supi-wupi for beta reading.
🎧: 12:34 - the band camino | headlights - in color | DOA - armors | see you later - the band camino | fronting - seventeen
FROM AN EARLY BIRD TO A NIGHT OWL
There used to be a time when you weren't a night owl. You used to love waking up early and enjoying a cup of coffee while the morning air was still fresh. You probably would still be an early bird if the hospital didn't switch you to the night shift in the emergency room.
Your once peaceful nights have turned into chaos filled nights in the ER. There is one thing you've found that helps relax you. Anytime you’re in the nurses station, you listen quietly to 171.3 SVT fm. The middle of the night DJ is your fave. There is something about his voice you've grown fond of.
LATE NIGHT NEIGHBORS
Sitting in the nurse's station taking a break, there is finally a lull. It's four in the morning and you only have two hours left. You're munching on some chips. You have your headphones in one ear. You're listening to your favorite radio station.
Luckily it's a segment where the DJ is talking. You could listen to Vernon ramble on about anything. His voice is so smooth, anything he talks about sounds interesting.
"Tonight on 171.3 the after midnight hours were playing some of my favorite songs." Closing your eyes you listen to his voice. You're well aware your favorite dj lives next door to you. Many of your friends know about your unrequited crush on your neighbor. "This song is called Fronting."
Someone grabs your shoulder, startling you. Whipping your head to the side you see Minghao standing next to you, trying not to laugh.
"Are you that distracted by radio boy, that you didn't hear me?"
Putting your headphones away quickly, you stand up and smooth out your scrubs. "I was just zoning out. It's calm at the moment so I decided to take a break."
Minghao lets out a little laugh, leaning against the wall. "You can just admit you have a crush. I promise I won't tell your neighbor."
Minghao is one of your closest friends. You met back in nursing school, and immediately became friends. He knows all about your infatuation with your neighbor. Since becoming a nurse, your dating life has been basically nonexistent. Hell you don't ever really mention having interest in anyone. The second you showed signs of having a crush on the Vernon, the boy Minghao lovingly calls "Radio Boy", he immediately started teasing you.
"We have two hours left and we're home free." Minghao says before taking a sip of his coffee.
"You two are needed in room twenty two." The charge nurse says.
"Aye aye capitan." Minghao salutes.
-
As soon as your shift ends you're sitting at your locker. Minghao is searching through his bag. You've put in your headphone in one ear so you can listen to the last few minutes of Vernon's radio show.
Heading out of the hospital Minghao heads with you to the train station. You both live near the same station. You keep your air bud firmly in your ear listening to Vernon talk about the last artist he played for the final song.
Luckily the train arrives as soon as you get to the platform. Your train ride is maybe thirty minutes. The hospital is only a handful of stops from the station near you.
Vernon's show is over and you're now just listening to a playlist that you like. You and Minghao are sitting next to each other. He's busy scrolling through his phone. It looks like he's reading messages from a girl he's been casually seeing.
"Did you hear about Dr. Choi?" He asks.
You take your air bud out and put it back in the container. "Is this about him and the new front desk girl?" Dr. Choi is extremely good looking and lots of the nurses always talk about him.
"Yes. Mingyu was telling me that Dr. Choi asked her out." Minghao somehow always knows all the latest gossip going on in the. hospital.
"Of course Mingyu was gossiping with you."
The train is about to arrive at your stop. You both stand up, and move towards the door. Walking out of the station, you're greeted to the sun starting to rise. It's six in the morning and the sky is a shades of orange and pink.
"I can't wait to nap." Minghao stretches his arms above his head a little.
"I just want to eat something before I even think about sleeping."
"I'll see you at six." Minghao waves and then heads in the other direction.
The walk to your apartment is only a couple minutes. Walking into your building you head for the elevator. You press the button and wait.
You hear footsteps behind you. Glancing over you see your crush (and favorite radio host) walk up. Vernon is standing there looking good. He's wearing in a pair of jeans, and a baggy shirt. Glancing down you see his red converse.
"Morning neighbor." He says.
"Morning."
"I see you're a fellow night owl." The doors open, and you both set inside he elevator. Vernon quickly hits the thirteenth floor. Vernon leans against the railing. You notice he's holding a take out bag from breakfast spot that's below your apartment building.
"The night shift at the hospital is the reason I'm a night owl."
"Your job is more thrilling than mine." He tilts his head looking at you.
"I think being a radio host sounds fun."
"I don't know, being an er nurse is way cooler." You lean back against the wall next to him. "I think it's pretty funny that two next door neighbors both work the night shifts." Maybe it's because you haven't dated in forever, but you can't tell if he's flirting with you.
"It's nice that the man that shares a bedroom wall with me also sleeps the day away."
He bits his bottom lip, holding back a smile. "You won't find me complaining."
The bell rings and the elevator doors slide open. You follow Vernon as he heads down the hallway towards your apartments.
"So are you going straight to bed?" He asks.
"No, I'm going to eat something. After these shifts, I'm always hungry."
He raises up the take out bag. "Well I have an extra breakfast burrito, if you don't mind having breakfast with me." This is a first. You and Vernon haven't ever hung out. Your normal interactions are elevator rides you share a handful of times a week.
"That would be amazing."
"Did you want to come over to my place?" You've never hung out with Vernon before. You've just shared elevator rides with him.
"Yeah."
You follow him to his apartment that’s next to yours. He pulls his keys from his pocket. He pushes open the door, and you follow him inside.
His apartment feels very him. There is a tv sitting on top of a shelf that is clearly made to hold vinyls. There is a table in the corner with a record player.
Vernon slips off his shoes, and drops his bag by the door. You follow his lead and slip off your own shoes. You continue to look around the room. You notice his grey couch, that looks like something a lot of men have in their homes. In front of the couch is a glass top table. On top there is a book on famous bands, and another about the guitars. His rug has a nice pop of color, its subtle pattern with different shades of blue.
"The kitchen is this way." He says catching your attention.
Following him towards the side of the house that doesn't share a wall with your place. His kitchen looks exactly like yours, just with less decorations. He places the bag of food on the table. You take this as your sign to sit down. Taking a seat you watch as he looks around the fridge.
"What would you like to drink?" He asks.
"Water is fine."
Grabbing two bottles, he joins you at the table.
You both sit there silently eating for a few minutes. "How long have you been a nurse?" Vernon asks between bites.
"This is my third year."
He takes another bite of his burrito.
"How long have you been working at the radio station?" You found his station a year and half ago. You're curious if he's worked there for longer.
"A little under two years."
"Your radio show is something I listen to every night at work." The moment you say it, you instantly feel embarrassed.
"You listen to my show?" He raises his brow and gives you a smile.
"Yeah." Your cheeks flush bright red.
You take another bite of your burrito. Vernon can't help but watch you. He's always thought you were cute, and now as you sit across from him blushing he's reminded of just how strong his crush is.
"I like that you listen to my show ."
"Your voice is soothing." Now it's his turn to blush. Who knew the cute nurse that lived next door likes his late night radio show.
"Do you have any songs that you recommend I play?"
"I could give you a few."
You both finish your breakfast and you give Vernon a list of your favorite songs. He gives you his own list, suggesting that they make a good playlist.
Standing at Vernon's door he's standing in front of you. His hands are shoved in his pockets as he watches you carefully.
"This was really nice. Maybe we could hang out more and get to know each other." Suddenly butterflies are fluttering in your stomach. It sounds like Vernon is asking you out. That's maybe because he is, he's trying his hardest to be nonchalant, and not be awkward.
"I would like that." You're trying to play it coy.
"Maybe I'll see you again soon Ms. night owl."
"Maybe you will, Mr. radio host."
Walking out the door, you can't help but smile. The butterflies are still fluttering, and your cheeks feel as warm as the sun. Walking into your apartment, you lean against the door.
You let out a sigh and close your eyes. You feel like a giddy school girl, whose crush finally noticed them.
LATE NIGHTS THINKING ABOUT YOU.
Sitting in the break room your headphone is snuggly placed in one ear. You're scrolling through your phone while listening to Vernon's radio show. You're finally getting a proper lunch. Your last few patients have left you absolutely exhausted.
Vernon hasn't spoken in a few songs, he's been playing some songs he's mentioned being his favorite. You can't help but smile, realizing that almost all of them have been songs that you mentioned to him that you love. It feels as if he's dedicated his show tonight to you.
Minghao sits down across from you. Raising his eyebrow he slides you a cup of coffee. You take out headphone.
"Do you mind taking your break with me, or do you prefer listening to your radio boyfriend?" There isn't a single day Minghao doesn't tease you about your crush on Vernon.
"Feel free to join me." You take your other earphones out.
He opens a cup of fruit. He carefully takes a piece of pineapple before taking a bite. You silently watch him, knowing that he's definitely going to have something to say to you.
"Were you listening to your radio boy?" And there it is. He's not going to miss an opportunity to bring up Vernon.
"Yes. He was playing songs I told him about." You try not to blush thinking about this.
Minghao raises his brows. "Oh, radio boy took song recommendations from you?"
"Yea." You reach across the table and steal a slice of strawberry from his fruit cup.
"That's interesting." He knits his brows at you. He stabs another piece of pineapple.
"What do you mean?"
"It sounds like radio boy is flirting with you." Minghao says smoothly as he pushes the cup of fruit towards you.
"It kinda felt like he was when we hung out yesterday after work."
Minghao's eyes immediately go wide. "You hung out with him?"
"Yeah after our last shift. We bumped into each other in the elevator and he asked if I wanted to come over to his place for breakfast."
"My sweet beloved oblivious friend, Vernon is flirting with you."
You hope he's right and that Vernon is actually flirting with you. It felt like he was last night, but you weren't sure if you're reading too much into it.
-
Being at the radio station feels like home to Vernon. Since he’s started working here. He absolutely loves hosting his own radio show. Vernon had one idea for his show tonight, and that was he was going to play the bands you mentioned to him. This is his not so subtle way of dedicating his show to you. It's been so long since Vernon has been interested in someone. Most of his relationships in the last couple of years have just been sexual, but there is something about you that makes him want more. In his eyes you're the perfect girl.
You're sweet, beautiful and funny. He loves the fact that you’re a nurse, and you clearly care about people. He likes the fact that you seem to be a little awkward, he thinks it's charming.
He started playing a song he remembers you mentioning. He takes off his headphones and looks across the studio to see Seungkwan watching him.
"These aren't the usual bands you play." Seungkwan says walking closer to desk.
Vernon shrugs, and leans back. "I had a friend recommend these bands." He can't help but smile.
Seungkwan sits down at the guest host chair across from Vernon. "A friend?" He raises his brow.
"Yeah a friend."
"Is this supposed friend your neighbor, the one you have a crush on?" Seungkwan knows all about you. After hearing Vernon talk about his cute night nurse neighbor for months, he's well aware his coworker/best friend is down bad.
"Possibly." Vernon doesn't even bother denying he's got a crush. He has no problem with anyone knowing that he likes you. He's just oddly nervous you'll find out.
"Is she listening?"
Vernon takes a slow deep breath. He knows you listen while you're at work on your break, and when you get a few moments to yourself, but he doesn't know when you're actually able to listen.
"I hope so."
Seungkwan grabs a set of headphones and puts them on. He gives Vernon a cheesy smile. "Your song is ending, maybe mention when you talk that a special someone recommended this band."
Vernon puts his headphone back over his ear. The song wraps up and he turns his mic back on.
"That was 12:34 by The Band Camino. A special someone recommended this band, and it's safe to say they are officially on my playlist. Night owls were in the final half out of our late night hang out. To end the night, here are some other songs recommended by that special someone."
Seungkwan is trying his hardest not to smile. Vernon rolls his eyes and lifts his headphone off his ear again. He clicks his mic off quickly.
"You can tease me all you want. I'm aware I'm down bad for my neighbor."
EARLY MORNING CONVERSATIONS
Walking into the lobby you see the man you were hoping to see. Vernon is standing in front of the elevator. You immediately notice he pressed the button. You walk towards and nudge him the moment you stand next to him.
"Hi there, neighbor."
"Howdy, miss night nurse." He reaches out pressing the button on the elevator.
"Fancy meeting you here."
The doors open and Vernon holds out his hand. You walk in first and he follows right behind you. He quickly press your floor.
"How was your night?" He leans up against the railing.
"Long, how about yours?"
"It was pretty good. Did you listen to my show?"
You take a step towards him, leaning against the railing next to him. You want to play it cool. You don't need him to know that you were practically giddy at work, about the fact he basically only played songs and bands you mentioned.
You shrug your shoulders and smile. "I listened to it."
"Did you hear the songs played, were just for you?" He gives you a grin.
"I did. I heard you say a special someone recommended those bands."
He lets out a soft laugh. "You have good taste in music."
Looking down your cheeks burn. This once again feels like you're both flirting. It's time to be confident and just fully flirt back.
"That's a massive compliment coming from you." You look back up at him, and smile.
"Is that because I'm a radio host?"
"No, it's because you have good taste."
"I have good taste?"
"I think so. So you think I'm a special someone?"
The elevator doors slide open. You step away from him, as he follows right behind you.
"I like to think so."
Suddenly the hallway feels so small. Part of you wishes it was smaller so you could be closer to him.
Silently you both walk down the hallway together. Vernon is walking close by you. Every couple of steps, your hands brush against each other. You don't want to just go into your apartment and go to bed. You want to spend time with him.
You stop in front of both of your apartments. "You know I just worked a full shift, and I'm not tired."
He leans against his door. He gives you a crooked smile. "Me neither. I don't know, did you maybe want to hang out?"
"Sure."
Vernon pushes himself off the door. Reaching into his pocket he fishes out his key. Opening the door he steps inside, and holds it open. You both kick off your shoes.
Heading over to the couch you sit down, and he sits down right next to you. Your thighs are touching. Vernon turns on the tv, that's sitting on a stand under the window. He has the curtains open, so you can see the sun starting to rise. The sky is painted beautiful cotton candy shades of orange and pink.
Picking up the remote he turns on a random drama that's playing. "Do you mind if we watch this?" He's crazy if he thinks you can actually focus on anything playing.
"Sure."
You get about twenty minutes in before he rests his hand on your thigh. Trying to play it cool you glance down at his hand.
"I like spending time with you." He says glancing over at you.
"I like you." For some reason your brain decides not to use its filter and you just blurt out you like him.
He moves on the couch so he's facing you. Reaching out he pushes some stray hair away from your face. Everything moves in slow motion as he rests his hand on your cheek. Slowly he drags his thumb across your cheek.
"I like you too." He says softly. Slowly he starts moving in closer to you. The idea of kissing Vernon would make you weak in the knees if you weren't already sitting. "I think I have had a crush on you since the first time I saw you struggling to carry in your groceries." He drags his thumb across your bottom lip.
"I had a crush on your voice and then I realized you're my neighbor." You lean in closer. You rest your nose against his. "Vernon?"
"Yes?" His lips are so close to yours.
"Please kiss me." You don't care if you sound desperate, you need to kiss him.
The moment your lips touch for the first time you feel those sparks everyone has always mention in the romance novels. Your lips move together in perfect sync. He's like fresh air in your oxygen deprived lungs.
Pulling away slightly he grabs your hips, helping guide you on to his lap. Neither of you can seem to keep your hands to yourself. His hands are anywhere they can touch. He moved from kissing your lips, to leaving a wet trail of kisses across your jaw, and down your neck. Occasionally he nips at your skin, definitely leaving marks across your delicate skin. Minghao is going to have a heyday when he sees you sporting hickies from your neighbor.
Closing your eyes, you lean your head back. Biting your lip can't stop the moans passing your lips. Instinctually you roll your hips against his crotch. One of his hands focuses on squeezing your breast. The other is plastered to your side. You're dressed in a pair of leggings and with each roll of your hips, you feel his jean cover erection giving you the perfect amount of friction.
Tangling your finger in his hair, you tilt his head back slightly. "Vernon—" his name is nothing more than a broken moan.
"Yeah, baby?"
"Please—"
"Please what?"
"Please fuck me." You're desperate and you just want to feel him inside you.
"God, you're incredible."
Pulling away you scramble off of him. You make quick work of stumbling out of your clothes. The quicker you get naked the better. Vernon stands up and strips down to his boxers. You're standing in front of him completely naked, while he's standing there in just boxers, and erection straining against them.
"Are you going to get naked?"
"After I eat you out." He tilts his head at you. That's definitely not what you thought he was going to say. Most men you've been with have never openly offered to go down on you.
"Oh."
"Lay down on the couch, baby and spread your legs."
You don't need to be told twice. You make quick work of laying down and spreading your legs. Vernon sits on his knees between your spread legs. He starts kissing the top of your breast, taking his time toying with each nipple. He starts his descent down, leaving a trial of wet kisses from the valley of your breast, down to your mound. He leaves one last kiss there before looking at you with almost pleading eyes.
"Can I?" That might be the stupidest question he could ask right now. You push yourself up on your elbows so you can watch him.
"God, yes." He moves so he's laying on his stomach with his face pressed up against your needy core. You're already drenched and you know he's going to make you cum easily.
With two fingers he parts your folds. He starts off by licking your sensitive clit a few times. Pulling back, he runs his index finger through your folds. He looks at his finger that's already wet.
"Is this all, just from us making out and dry humping?"
"Yea." Your cheeks burn bright. God it's hard not to be embarrassed at how easily turned on he makes you.
"Baby don't be embarrassed, I think that's so hot." He slips his finger into his mouth, licking it clean. "God, you taste incredible."
He leans back in and starts sucking on your sensitive clit. He slides one finger into you, and starts thrusting it in and out of you testing the waters. He can tell by your whimpers and moans that you're enjoying this. He adds another finger, slowly stretching you out. He's a little bigger than average, and he knows that he needs to make you cum at least once.
Without thinking you tangle your fingers in his hair. You rut your hips against his face. He's focused on making you cum. He loves how desperate you are as you chase your high. He moves his fingers in a come hither motion, touching that spot inside you that has you seeing stars.
"Vernon—" you moan his name like a sinful prayer.
Your sweet sinful moans egg him on. He keeps up his good work, pushing you closer and closer to the edge. Without thinking he ruts his hips against the couch, for some sort of friction.
"Right there." You release his hair. Dropping back on the couch, you squeeze your eyes shut. Your orgasm hits you hard and fast. The air feels like it's been knocked out of your lungs. Your gummy walls flutter against his fingers. He slowly pumps them in and out of you, helping you ride out your high. He pulls his face away from your needy pussy. He lost in a haze of lust watching you unfold.
"That was the hottest thing I have ever seen."
Your eyes slowly flutter open. Staring up at the ceiling you're trying to calm down. "I need you to fuck me."
He pushes himself up on his knees. "You're so cute when you're needy."
"Do you need me to beg?" You push yourself back up on your elbows.
"Absolutely not. How do you feel about riding me?" He hops off the couch. He kicks off his boxers leaving him just as naked as you. He looks absolutely beautiful, and you normally don't think guys have pretty cocks, but that might be because you've never seen his. It's a little longer than average, but thick and a pretty rosey pink.
"Sounds perfect."
"Let me grab a condom." He sprints off naked to his bedroom to fetch a condom.
He gives you just enough time to stand up. Walking back into the living room he tears the foil package open with his teeth. He wastes no time rolling the rubber down his straining length.
Sitting back down on the couch he taps his thighs. Crawling onto his lap you waste no time grabbing his cock. You pump your hand up and down a few times.
"I need to be inside of you, so fucking bad."
Lifting your hips you guide his length to your needy entrance. Ever so slowly you sink down his thick cock, giving yourself time to adjust. It's been quite a long time since you last had sex.
The moment he's fully inside, you let out a sigh. Your butt is flush against his thighs. You don't bother trying to move. For a long moment you just want to enjoy the feeling of him stretching you out.
Leaning towards he starts kissing your collar bone. He starts kissing the side of your neck before he moans against your skin. "You feel so good."
"I just need a minute." You moan.
"I could stay like this forever."
"You're big, my body just needs a second."
He helps to distract you by playing with your breast. He suddenly has a fondness for playing with your tender nipples.
Slowly you lift yourself up, until everything but his mushroom tip is out. Dropping back down he brushes that special place inside of you.
"Fuck—" he moans.
You keep a steady pace, sliding up and down his length over and over. Your fingers tangle in his hair, holding him close to you. With each brush of his rosey tip against your g spot, he's pushing you closer to the edge.
His hand moves to your hips, helping to guide you up and down. Your pace changes when you stop bouncing and start grinding against him. This angle feels completely different for both of you. With each rut of your hips your clit brushes against the well trimmed pubic hair at the base of his cock.
Smashing your lips into his, you desperately try to muffle your whiney moans. Reaching between you he starts rubbing your clit.
"Fuck—" Your body feels like a live wire on the brink of exploding. "Please. Harder."
He focuses on making quick hard circles against your clit. Breathless gasps pass your lips, and you rut your hips at a quick, desperate pace.
"Cum for me, baby."
The ice cold wave that hits your body is like nothing of this world. Your gummy walls flutter like a rapid beating heart. You still for a moment, your head tossed back and you moan. Vernon's hands grip your sides a little tighter, helping to guide you against him. His own release is so close.
With each thrust of his cock against your fluttering walls you moan. Your fingers tangle in his hair again, desperate for something to hold on to.
He lifts his hips up over and over again, helping you both. His own orgasm breaks hard and fast. He slams you down against his thighs, grinding himself against your slowly. He lets out a mix of low moans and groans.
The aftermath of both your orgasms, leave you both exhausted.
Slowly you crawl off of him. He takes a moment to dispose of the condom before dragging you off to the bathroom. You both step into his shower, tub combo for a quick shower to clean yourself up. He takes this time to gently clean you up, before dragging you off to his bed.
His bedroom looks just how you thought it would. He's got a bookshelf near the window with more vinyls and some fun figurines, and a few vintage looking video game consoles. His bed is one of those lower to ground bed frames, with led lights built into the headboard. His comforter is a light blue and grey plaid one. His room feels very like him.
Laying in the bed you stare at him, not sure what to say. He rolls over so he's facing you. Reaching out he laces his fingers with hours.
"What's on your mind?" He asks.
"What happens now?" You aren't sure you could handle this becoming an awkward one nightstand.
"Well I was thinking, I'm off today and if you're off maybe we could spend the day together."
You knit your brows together. "Like a date?"
He lets out a little laugh and smiles. "Yes, I'm asking you out on a proper date. I maybe should have asked you out before we had sex on my living room couch. I just couldn't help myself."
"I would really love to go on a date with you."
He leans in and presses his lips to your for another kiss. "Are you still going to listen to my radio show all the time, even though we're dating?"
"Absolutely."
"That's good. I can't wait to start dedicating all the love songs to you."
Turns out working the night shift and becoming a night owl is one of the best decisions you've ever made.
— synopsis: in a small town, you're bound to hit a few dead ends when you're not exactly the demographic being catered to. when jihoon finally gets a bite at a radio station nine miles out, he's astonished to see a woman in the booth - and the best in the game, at that.**
– genre: coworkers to lovers ; angst, fluff, eventually suggestive/smut.
— pairing: apprentice!lee jihoon x experienced radio host!fem!reader.
– word count: 11k out of ??
— rating: 18+. minors do not interact.
– warnings: swearing, mentions of underage drinking/smoking (weed), food/eating, mentions of impaling oneself to get out of radio duties and stitches.
— what to listen to: good girls go bad - cobra starship, leighton meester ; jumpin' jumpin' - destiny's child ; hanging by a moment - lifehouse ; my first love - avant, keke wyatt ; never let you go - third eye blind ; (you drive me) crazy - britney spears ; forever and ever, amen - randy travis ; so gone - monica ; sweet and low - agustana ; who's crying now - journey ; kids - mgmt ; crushcrushcrush - paramore.
– author's note: **the synopsis was developed before i rewrote this entire thing in two days.** welcome back to haologram & a special thank you to my beloved @studiosvt for yet another amazing collab. i know this is a part one, and this is genuinely just them growing up together but i promise the end result is worth it (even if it's not published for a bit as i get to other projects but it will be finished!) as usual, no beta, we die like men! enjoy! <3
part i. | part ii. | part iii.
"NOW PLAYING GOOD GIRLS GO BAD BY COBRA STARSHIP FEATURING LEIGHTON MEESTER, THIS IS 109.6 RUBY FM. HAPPY HOLIDAYS FROM Y/N HONG AND JIHOON LEE!"
Your voice is distinct through his car radio, and he feels his jaw tight as he tries his best to maneuver the snowy roads. It's the end of December in Minnesota, and you'd think Lake Ruby wouldn't be as snowed in as the Twin Cities — good thing we don't get paid for thinking.
You and Jihoon were relatively new to each other once more — you'd been surprisingly reunited halfway through 2009. He had just graduated college, you'd been out for two years and making a name for yourself in the radio world. Thus far, you've done just that; you made your mark, you had been all over any major radio show event in the last year, you had met countless stars and posed for dozens of cameras. Your latest conquest?
Taking on dying stations and bringing their spark back.
You'd been stationed in Lake Ruby, an hour and a half southeast of Minneapolis. You were becoming bigger than you realized, though, and eventually you needed someone that could help out when you weren't available. Someone reliable and someone who understood the ins and outs of getting the local people their news and Top 40 jams.
That's where Jihoon comes in.
The two of you, despite aforementioned reunion, hadn't exactly grown up together — he was born in St. Cloud to two kindergarten teachers and spent a majority of his elementary school years weaving in and out of the trailer park he called home. He salted tires early in the morning and walked dogs late at night for pocket money, he picked up beer cans tossed around the park and neighboring areas to get cash at Midway Iron. He was a good student and an even better clarinet player, often spending evenings sitting by the local high school's band hall to hear the crash of cymbals and deep baritone of the golden tuba. If he was lucky, he'd catch the choir girls warming up before their bus took off into Minneapolis for competitions.
He wouldn't meet you until his sixth grade year when luck struck both his parents and they got better paying jobs in Bemidji — two and a half hours north of his hometown, and the place you called home. His family packed up everything they could fit into the back of his father's 1995 Chevy G20 and they left — the trailer park disappearing in the rear view and giving Jihoon a stomach ache. He had to start all over, and meet all new people — but his family had moved just at the end of 1998, so he hadn't been too well acquainted with his teachers or his schedule anyhow. You were an eighth grader when he got to the local middle school, and he remembers exactly what you looked like, too, the day that he met you.
You were a bit taller than he was then, and you'd convinced your mother to let you dye your hair a honey blonde with caramel lowlights. You had a permanent zigzag part and wore it in a half-up do with two ponytails that swung when you walked, and you had a purple windbreaker on that he would soon learn to be your favorite piece of your wardrobe — along with several pairs of dark wash Jordache jeans that had no back pockets so you'd eventually clip your Motorola I1000 Plus (a gift from your parents on your fourteenth birthday) to your waistband. You were always all smiles, you wore Victoria's Secret Sweet Talk lipgloss and swapped your tubes with your friends every week — your favorite was the shimmery gold. You also wore metallic silver polish on your fingernails, and he remembers the distinct smell of ethyl acetate every time he walked past the girls' bathroom on the second floor — sometimes even catching a glimpse of you and your friends sitting on the sinks and painting your nails during lunch.
He met you fully when you slammed into him in your rush to get to Home Economics, somehow bursting his clarinet case open and catching the lower joint with your foot. You'd crouched quickly, picking it up (as well as his extra reeds) and grabbing his case before anything else could tumble out with a worried look, "sorry! Are you okay?"
He'd mumbled a yeah, taking his things back from you as your fingers carefully held the case open for him to put them back. You closed it, peering down at him through your lashes that had been smoothly swiped with brown mascara — and he remembers how hot his cheeks and ears felt at the fact that you were now in front of him. He'd seen you, he'd heard you laugh, but he'd mostly heard you speak — strongly and confidently — every morning over the school's PA system during homeroom. You ran the school's radio club, Aurora FM, and that was what you were most known for — even if to Jihoon, you were just a nice girl with a pretty smile for the time being.
He'd know better in due time.
That was your only interaction in middle school. You'd moved onto ninth grade the next year, and he joined the radio club that year. He stayed behind the scenes, quietly gathering information, distributing intel, writing scripts. He'd occasionally fill in if Soonyoung, the president that year, was running late and needed someone to fill his spot. He tried his best — he led the Pledge of Allegiance that he didn't really care for, he congratulated people for their birthdays, he read out the lunch menu and talked about what the school extracurricular teams were getting up to come the following weekend.
Everyone said he was a natural. Smooth, steady, but he wasn't all that sure. He liked hanging back. He liked keeping to himself, not having too many people know who he was or wanting to socialize with him. Nonetheless, he made friends and eventually was made the Vice President of the radio club by the end of the year because Soonyoung wanted him to be President but he didn't want to do the morning announcements unless he absolutely had to. So, VP it was.
His eighth grade year was uneventful. He was the band's first chair clarinet player, he was a straight-A student, he was always saved a seat at a lunch table in the corner closest to the staircase that led up to the library in case he and his friends wanted an escape. Sometimes he went outside with Mingyu and Seokmin, kicked the soccer ball around that Mingyu brought from home — that kept getting confiscated because it was against the rules — but he tended to keep to himself anyhow.
Middle school ended and he left his Vice President position to his good friend Hansol — feeding into the local high school and reuniting with Soonyoung, who was in his sophomore year…
And you, in your junior year. He vividly remembers arriving on his first day, too — he'd been lucky enough that Soonyoung kept in contact and told him that he was guaranteed a spot in the high school's radio club when he came in. He'd told him to meet up with him at the library before getting his schedule so he could get his passes for the year, only to walk into the radio room to see you and Soonyoung yelling at each other. You were both fully teasing, but there were two guys he did not recognize watching the entire ordeal with bitten back grins.
You were still dying your hair honey blonde with caramel lowlights, but it was much longer and even slightly curling in several places. You had sparkly clips everywhere, and your purple windbreaker was draped over the thigh of one of the guys that was sitting back in the desk chairs. You had soft taupe shadow light brushed over your eyelids with gold glitter on the center, your lashes now coated with black mascara and your waterline lined with dark brown. Your lips donned a frosty berry color…the same color stamped onto the cheeks and lips of the boy with your jacket over his thigh.
You had a boyfriend.
"Yah! Can't you see we have company!?" Soonyoung had yelled out when Jihoon's silver clarinet case caught his eye. He'd turned quickly, his hair now sporting frosted tips as he easily embraced Jihoon in a tight hug — and he was barely able to look over Soonyoung's shoulder to see you peering at him, almost like you knew him. Your zigzag part was gone, replaced with a straight one.
Soonyoung had let him go when Jihoon murmured that he couldn't breathe, only to grab his hand and pull him forward, "this is Y/N! You know Y/N, right? We went to middle school together!"
You tilted your head at him, "you're…I bumped into you once, right? You were the new kid back in '98."
Jihoon introduced himself quietly, watching the way his name shaped your lips as you repeated it to yourself. You then turned on your heel, introducing the men sitting in the desk chairs. The lankier guy with long hair was Jeonghan Yoon, treasurer of the radio club — and the boy sitting next to him with the thick brows and stamps of your lipstick was Seungcheol Choi, the secretary.
And the band's first chair clarinet player. And the junior varsity's soccer team captain.
"…and he's also my boyfriend! He's so good that Coach Lowe thinks he could go pro." You'd been all smiles saying that, the boy blushing all the way up to his ears as you slid into his lap. He buried his face into your shoulder, his eyes full of stars as he peeked at the hoop earrings swinging from your lobes, only paired with a small gold S earring snugly tucked into a tragus piercing you'd gotten at some point. He and Jeonghan both also coolly introduced themselves to Jihoon, and eventually the room was full of more people — including Mingyu and Seokmin, who he had managed to coax into joining the club with him. They all started at the bottom again, and Jihoon quickly took initiative — asking all the right questions and Seungcheol had been visibly impressed.
You had also been impressed. You were Vice President of the club, having joined a year before Seungcheol, Jeonghan and Soonyoung even arrived at the high school. Jihoon found it a little endearing how enamored Seungcheol was with you, but even more that the entire radio club liked you far more than they did the actual president — a senior that arrived late, that you gave a mildly annoyed glare at, that smelled like her boyfriend's AXE body spray and the faint ganja smoke. Her letterman jacket boasted the last name LOWE, and she introduced herself to the freshman with low, red eyes as Kathleen.
Freshman year was rather uneventful — he spent his time doing everything he did in middle school, but this time…he was also noticing more about you. You had a car, a 1991 GMC Syclone that often sat you and Seungcheol in the cab. You'd sneak him out for lunch with you, you'd drive around town with him — Jihoon saw the two of you on dates a few times, at the local ice cream parlor where Seungcheol would kiss your temple and wipe the corners of your lips of chocolate with his thumb. He was head over heels for you, Jihoon could see it entirely.
Another thing was that Jihoon often heard you humming Jumpin' Jumpin' by Destiny's Child in the mornings while you made last minute touches to the script while Seungcheol talked numbers and events with Jeonghan. He listened to the stations you'd put on the staticky radio, frowning inwardly as you fiddled with the antenna until Seungcheol eventually gave the radio a quick hit and the music would come out clearly. You liked anything, really — but listened mostly to rock, R&B and the occasional Top 40 station.
The songs that you sang along to the most that year were Hanging By A Moment by Lifehouse, My First Love by Avant & KeKe Wyatt, and Never Let You Go by Third Eye Blind. Sometimes you'd sing (You Drive Me) Crazy by Britney Spears at Seungcheol, making his cheeks tinge bright red as you slowly got louder to embarrass him — only for him to yank you close to him and kiss you all over and get you both told off by faculty.
The radio club was also often at any and every school event, including dances and sports competitions — which meant the eight of you (sometimes seven…if Kathleen was off getting stoned with her boyfriend and their friends instead of tagging along like she was supposed to) were often lumped together. It was on those nights that Jihoon got some one-on-one time with you — seeing as his father's '95 G20 could fit most of you. Kathleen's absence often made it easier, with someone having to sit in someone else's lap so she could have a seat to herself.
That was typically when you and he got conversations in. You'd drive fifteen minutes out to his two-story home (that his parents could now comfortably afford on their new salaries) right before events and greet them warmly. Sometimes you brought freshly baked goods from your own mother, who ran the best bakery in Bemidji; sometimes you'd bring flowers for his mother. You'd be invited in for a drink, or a quick bite — and Jihoon would often stay ducked behind the cracked door of his bedroom that felt too big for him. He'd hear his mother cover for him, saying he was finishing up homework or doing some sort of chore for her — when in reality, he'd confided in her that you made him a little nervous. She'd gotten that warm look in her eye, like she usually does when she knows something is a half-truth, but she went along with it anyway.
Then the two of you would sit in the front and tweak the radio here and there, with two cans of Crush grape soda that his mother had slid your way. You told him once that it was your favorite, the medicinal taste of the grape nowhere to be found in that twelve-ounce can and reminding you of summers with your cousins in Emerald Isle…and he asked his mother to keep a six-pack in stock.
It went untouched unless you were borrowing the van.
He also didn't do much of the talking on the drive back to the school. You talked, and you talked a lot — and quite fast. He'd seen Seungcheol stare at you attentively in order to catch all the little details you'd slip into your stories because you also loved to backtrack later in the week and beat the dead horse. But with Jihoon…the talking seemed to be to fill the silence. He responded carefully, and you seemingly enjoyed his company — but that didn't stop him from shying away from you at all and any opportunity.
"You don't like me much, do you?" You had asked him the night of the junior prom later that year, and you were wearing a beautiful butter yellow dress that made your skin glow, the skirt stopping just below your knees. He blinked at you, holding the camera he'd been given by one of the Yearbook girls to help out.
"I never said that?"
"It kind of feels like it. You never really talk to me."
Jihoon must've looked taken aback, but you didn't have much time to respond before Seungcheol carefully whisked you away. The last few radio club meets were canceled by Kathleen, and she signed off a week before school let out because she graduated. Mornings were silent, but there was an email thread going back and forth detailing summer events until several of the public library computers and even Soonyoung's personal home one got hit with the ILOVEYOU malware.
Eventually, school let out for summer and radio club meetings were held at your house — and the first was missing a certain Seungcheol Choi. Your eyes were teary as you carefully scribbled across the cool chalkboard wall your parents let you have, talking business until Soonyoung carefully asked where Seungcheol was.
"Moved to Maine to live with his grandmother because his parents thought he and Y/N were spending too much time together," Jeonghan had replied in a low whisper, but loud enough that your shoulders tensed. Mingyu and Seokmin offered soft apologies, but you just ignored them and kept talking about the summer events. At some point, your voice was far too thick to be intelligible and Jeonghan carefully led you out of your bedroom while Jihoon looked around the room. There was a box with Seungcheol's name and new home address printed on a shipping label, and he dared to peek in — and felt his heart sink at a two-year anniversary present that seemingly went unopened.
Happy two year anniversary, baby! I burned a CD for you, it's in the scrapbook. The tracklist is written on the back but our song is on there! I'll be a radio show host soon, just you wait, and I'll play our song on the radio all the time. For now, I love you. And I can't wait for many more years with you.
Your girl, Y/N <3
Your song with Seungcheol was one he heard over and over that summer. It was a country song from 1987 — Forever and Ever, Amen by Randy Travis. Your Syclone only fit two people, and it still smelled like Seungcheol's cologne according to Jeonghan — so he was in charge of wheels for the summer, driving the group around in a 1993 Audi S4 Avant his father had officially gifted him at the end of the school year. The trunk hauled a bulk of soundboards, amps, microphones and in the backseat — usually piled on top of Mingyu and Seokmin's laps — were coolers and snack bags. Jihoon's mother often piled a french baguette with all the fixings, slicing it into five and wrapping it up individually for each of the club members.
You weren't yourself for a while, either. Summer came and went, and payphones were your best friend. You'd ask around for quarters, often landing on Jihoon before scoring one and sauntering off to see if Seungcheol would be by the phone. He often was, and you only seemed more and more heartbroken as the calls got shorter and shorter. He knew Seungcheol was in tears on the other end if you were rapidly wiping at your eyes and tugging at the skin around them.
Your honey blonde highlights were replaced by chocolate brown box dye a week before school started. You held the last summer radio meeting at Jeonghan's house, because he had recently gotten a computer in his family room. The five of you huddled around for a while as you set up the projects you'd all done so the yearbook would have them for the upcoming school year. Eventually, Mingyu and Seokmin walked home — living only ten minutes from Jeonghan's house. Jeonghan's mother was gracious enough to keep you and Jihoon for dinner, and you saved the project on your thumb drive before hiking your bag over your shoulder.
"May I use your phone to call my parents?" He had asked Mrs. Yoon quietly, before you gave a quick whistle, your keys jingling as Jeonghan hugged you quickly. You gestured at the door, "I can take you home."
It was then, a week before his sophomore year of high school and your senior year, that he was really and truly alone with you in a space you dominated. Your Syclone smelled like expensive cologne, and had a sweatshirt draped over the passenger seat. Seungcheol's penmanship was scribbled all over your glove compartment in silver Sharpie, and a Polaroid of you both was resting over your speedometer. You were smiling the widest he'd ever seen, and it was backdated two years.
"It was hard," you suddenly spoke as you turned the engine over and pulled out of the Yoons' driveway, and he glanced up at you from where he'd been staring at the photo. "The break-up. His parents never really liked me, but apparently I was distracting him. As if he wasn't a straight-A student and in so many extracurriculars…but whatever."
Jihoon opened his mouth, intending an apology to tumble out…
"You changed your hair."
You blinked, glancing at yourself in the rear view mirror as you rolled up at a stop sign, your chipped silver fingernails carding through it.
"Yeah. I needed a change."
"You've had highlights as long as I've known you."
You raked your eyes over his face, tilting your head as you flicked on your turn signal, "so you think it's bad?"
"No," he shook his head, nibbling on his lip as you pulled out into the main street. Your hands were calm at ten and two, chunky rings adorning your fingers, "but it's not what you're used to, is it?"
"I think change is good," he admitted, "not seeing Seungcheol at the beginning of the summer was weird, but I know that ultimately…if he could've stayed, he would've. Moving to Bemidji was weird but I'm here now and my parents like it. Going to a new school, moving into a house for the first time…it was hard for me but it was good. It's the same with hair. I can assume highlights are expensive."
You snorted then, "I got them for free. My older sister is my hairdresser….she was mad when I went in with the box dye. Tossed it out and gave me…whatever this is."
"I'd say it's chocolate brown."
"Then it's chocolate brown."
"I never got to answer your question at the junior prom. About disliking you."
You hummed, braking lightly at a stoplight and turning to look at him, "yeah. What's the verdict?"
"It's not that I don't like you, I'm just…you make me a little nervous." He picked at a woven bracelet Seokmin had given him at the beginning of summer. "I appreciate you from a distance."
"Why?"
"Why what?"
"Why do I make you nervous?"
"Everyone likes you so much," he shrugs, seeing the corner store down the block from his house appear out of the corner of his eye. "You're very nice and approachable and that means you have constant eyes on you. I don't like to be perceived all that much."
"And yet, you went out for the radio club?" He could hear the smile in your voice, only giving you another shrug in response before sucking his teeth.
"I like the behind the scenes. Confidence is…a little lost on me."
"So you never want to be the President?"
"I'd sooner impale myself on a sword slathered in cyanide."
You'd laughed then — and a real laugh, one he hadn't heard since the end of the school year. Your eyes were hidden by the thickness of your lashes, your shimmery lips spread across your teeth as you shoved his shoulder lightly.
"You're gonna read the announcements on Monday morning."
"I will literally not show up if that's the case."
You sucked your teeth, pulling up to his house just as a familiar song came on the radio. You pursed your lips as the sound of the dobro came through your speakers, quickly turning the volume dial all the way down. Sighing, you turned in your seat slightly, "you can't let fear keep you from being great, Jihoon."
"It's not fear. It's…just common sense. You are built for greatness. Not me, I'm your Average Joe." He stated simply, unbuckling his seatbelt before giving you a quick once over. "I'll see you on Monday. Thank you for the ride."
"No problem."
"Drive safe."
He slipped out of the car, carefully shutting your door and following the cobblestone walkway to his front door. He stilled on the front step, turning on his heel and bounding back to your car. Your window was down as you rustled around for something, your eyes flickering up when he spoke again.
"Hey, Y/N?"
"Yes?"
"I like your hair."
Monday came fast — and his schedule was waiting in your hand when he arrived to the radio room in the library. You were comparing them with Mingyu's and Seokmin's, and Soonyoung was talking shop with Jeonghan at the computer in the back of the room. You were officially a senior and the President of the club, with Jeonghan as your Vice. Seungcheol was a presence that still lingered around you — your ear still donned the gold S earring, you fiddled with the radio before looking around, almost as if waiting for him to come hit it. You did it yourself, lingering at it as Forever and Ever, Amen bled through before you turned it off.
Soonyoung was upped to Secretary, and Jihoon, Seokmin and Mingyu shared any other major responsibilities. You'd closed the radio club to any new members, having told Jeonghan that you wanted your last year with it to be one for the books. Your schedule let you out early, half past one in the afternoon, and you made Jeonghan promise to take them all home after school instead of making them walk. He'd scrunched his nose, plucking a twenty from the money clip shoved in the silver treasury box.
"For gas money," he said as he cracked his gum and shoved it into the pocket of his letterman jacket.
Or…Seungcheol's, rather. His surname was in bold blue letters across the back, a soccer patch ironed onto the sleeve. It had another patch, one seemingly custom made — a set of cherries, with your initial on one and his own on the other.
You grimaced at it, turning away before giving Jihoon his schedule, "you're taking Calculus as a sophomore?"
"I like math." He mumbled, not bothering to mention how he'd been spending the hours before summer meetings studying so he could test out of math before his senior year. Your schedule reflected the same course at the same time as him, "you're taking it first period?"
"We should sit together. Dr. Wade is an ass," you shrugged, pulling your bag over your shoulder before giving him a soft smile. "You sure you won't give the morning announcements? C'mon, Ji. For your good buddy Y/N?"
"Yeah, Hoonie." Mingyu teased from his seat across the room, and Jihoon sighed, rolling his eyes as he moved to step in front of the PA system microphone. He cleared his throat, turning fobs and dials, reaching for the silver triangle that generations past had stolen from the band room downstairs.
"Where's the script?" He muttered, searching for the brass beater as you took the sheet off the printer, still warm. He flipped it, scanning it quickly before flicking the microphone on and playing a three-note count on the triangle, "good morning, Aurora Falls. Today is Monday, August 14th, 2000. Happy birthday to Coach Lowe and Principal Barnaby, and thank you to Principal Barnaby for sixteen years of service with Aurora Falls Independent District. These are your morning announcements, brought you to by Y/N Hong, Jeonghan Yoon, Soonyoung Kwon, Seokmin Lee, Mingyu Kim and Jihoon Lee. Please stand for the Pledge of Allegiance."
You smiled proudly next to him, your hip resting against the counter as he read off the pledge and a few other announcements — the weather forecast, updated lunch menu, when tickets for the Fall Ball would be going on sale and new positions for the sports teams…
And he skipped over Seungcheol's name on the new roster.
You nodded inwardly, listening to him try to keep a bored tone out of his voice as he spoke on and on; he noted the way your thumbnail, painted with a fresh coat of silver polish, ran over his name.
Seungcheol Choi — AF BEARS VARSITY SOCCER JUNIOR CAPTAIN.
The three others dispersed after you took over the rest of the announcements, thanking Jihoon with a squeeze of your fingers against his shoulder.
"Let's walk together," you nudged him with your elbow, your eyes twinkling under the fluorescent lights that gave him headaches. He silently agreed, falling into lockstep with you as you led the both of you out of the radio room. He kept his grip tight on his clarinet case as people talked to you while walking past, before one of the senior football players sidled up to you. A quarterback, he thinks, sporting a letterman jacket like the one Seungcheol used to — last name LOWE, first name Declan.
An offspring of Coach Lowe's, much like Kathleen.
And a disappointment of a leader, just like his sister.
Jihoon has seen the way he plays ball and it's dirty. He's a shit throw and a ball hog, but let the record show that it's not like he hasn' t been called on his bad habits several times — both on and off of the playing field.
"Hey, radio star," he had a smoother drawl than Kathleen, one that reminded him of his grandparents in Tennessee as he threw his arm over your shoulders. You scowled, shoving him off, "get away from me, ugh! As if!"
Jihoon bit back his snort at the Clueless reference, silently opting to skirt around to the other side where he looped his arm with yours. The senior's friends teased him, "oh come on, babe! I'm Captain this year, that's gotta count for something."
"Put it on a resume, I don't care."
"Seungcheol's gone, babe. Face the music."
Jihoon felt you tense then, your hand holding his arm tightening slightly as you looked over your shoulder, "Shelby dumped you, babe. Face the music that no one wants your sorry ass."
After that, Jihoon doesn't remember who hit first. All he really remembers is the way his chest felt suddenly hot when the word bitch reached his ears, and the way his clarinet case clattered across the hall. He also remembers the soft scent of your shampoo wafting up his nose when you pulled him off the floor, and the sudden realization that there was a bleeding quarterback clutching his nose in the middle of the hallway.
Jihoon doesn't even think he was tall enough then to hit Declan that easily.
Jihoon also remembers the three-day suspension he was given. Not because he felt bad for what he did, because he didn't — but because his mother would not let him rest. She scolded him the entire drive to the urgent care, in the waiting room to get his eyebrow stitched up, on the drive home, and even all throughout dinner. He couldn't count on all his fingers and toes how many times his mother told him that we don't hit other people, Jihoon Lee.
"He was harassing her and called her a bitch. I think one fight won't kill him." Jihoon had muttered over his bowl of soup that night, his father glancing up at his mother. Jihoon swirled his spoon through the hot broth, the steam wafting up into his face when there was a knock at the door. His father dismissed him to open it, and he hadn't bothered looking through the peephole before opening it — seeing you, Jeonghan, Soonyoung, Seokmin and Mingyu all standing on his front porch.
"Jihoon is not allowed friends over," his father had spoken up behind him, but you held up a stack of papers.
"Just bringing his schoolwork, Mr. Lee." You replied, but your eyes never left the three stitched points across his left brow. Your fingers were holding the paperwork tight, and he took it from you — watching you awkwardly shove your hands into your pockets as his mother skirted behind him.
"You fought that boy over her?"
"I didn't fight anyone over anybody. And if it was her, I wasn't going to tell you. Thanks, guys."
"Let them join us for dinner."
And for dinner, the five of you joined. They huddled around the dining table, filling all the chairs and Jihoon giving his up for you to sit. He ate alone in the kitchen, making quick work of soup and rice before hearing you offer to move plates to the kitchen. He wanted to step out, but you managed to make it back to the kitchen before he could.
"You didn't have to do that today, Jihoon." You started, running a shaky hand through your mussed hair. Your eyes were a bit swollen, the whites pink from what he assumed to be tears. "You could've been seriously hurt."
"He was being a jerk to you," he replied simply, his thumb fiddling with the tab on his can of soda. He flicked it, "he called you a bitch. And you got tense when he mentioned Seungcheol. I couldn't stand there and do nothing."
"For someone who doesn't talk much, you sure think a lot."
"For someone who talks a lot, you make a lot of excuses. He was a jerk. I hit him. It's over with and I'll be back at school in three days. I should be glad he didn't beat the tar out of me." Jihoon shrugged, but you trilled your lips, "and don't worry. I know you can fend for yourself, it was just..an instinct reaction. One I didn't know I had and one I likely won't ever tap into again, but I'm glad it was for you. If that's of any consolation."
Jihoon also remembers how tightly you hugged him then — how he lightly patted your back as he saw his parents peek into the kitchen with wide eyes. His own screamed that he was just as taken aback, and eventually, he saw you and the rest of the group out of his home. He waved as the five of you piled into Jeonghan's car, and his mother made a quiet comment about you that stuck with him for the rest of the year as she watched through the window.
"She's gonna go far, that girl."
Suspension came and went, and the school year rolled on without much more to be worried about. His clarinet practices ran late sometimes, he started learning how to drive with his father, he went to radio club in the mornings and spent his weekends studying and practicing. Winter break came around and you showed up at his house with a gift on Christmas Day, inviting his family to your mother's New Year's Eve party.
"My mom is always looking for more friends," you'd smiled lightly, the cold wind biting at your skin under your thin coat. It was only then that he learned your mother was raising you alone, and promised he'd get his parents to drive out to your house for the New Year. They did just that, and the radio club was huddled together in the basement of your house and eating while the adults got tipsy upstairs. You kept stealing rice cakes out of Jihoon's bowl, who couldn't stop himself from pinching at the almond cookies Seokmin had brought down in a napkin — until Jeonghan came downstairs with his puffer still on and slightly overstuffed.
"….What do you have, Jeonghan?" You'd asked slowly, blindly stealing a piece of fish cake out of Jihoon's bowl before he pulled it away, "get your own!"
"Only children never share," Mingyu turned his nose up at him, offering his own bowl as the two of you both stuck your tongues out at him — only for Jeonghan to clear his throat and open his puffer jacket to reveal a bottle of homemade makgeolli just as Soonyoung made his way down the stairs with the familiar clink of yet another bottle. They looked at each other, a soft snicker falling from their lips as they both wormed down the stairs and joined the group in the middle of the basement.
"Not only are you late," you smacked the back of Soonyoung's head as you took the clear bottle from his hand, "but you steal from my mother's stash? Have some shame…you could've brought cups."
"We can just share from the bottles!" Jeonghan argued, only for Mingyu to pipe up, "that's indirect kissing. And I'm not kissing any of you boneheads, that's reserved for Nina Jang."
"Nina Jang is never going to look your way," Soonyoung snorted, uncapping the glass bottle and taking a smooth sniff. "Plus, she's seventeen. You're not even sixteen until April."
"Nina Jang would kiss Mingyu," Jihoon piped up, shoving one of the cookies from Seokmin's napkin into his cheek and grabbing his soda off the coffee table in front of him. "But jokes on him, she's also kissing that senior boy, what's his name?"
"Jaehyun Kim," you spoke around a hot dumpling in your mouth, fanning at your face as Jeonghan scrunched his nose at you, "fuck off, it's hot!"
"She is not kissing Jaehyun Kim," Mingyu scoffed, only for Jihoon to shrug and tilt his can at him, "she is so. I saw them behind the bleachers last week."
"Where are you that you know all this stuff anyway, Jihoon?" Jeonghan asked casually, taking a sip of the bottle confidently. Seokmin's eyes were nervous as he offered it, Jeonghan's soft voice assuring he doesn't have to drink any if he doesn't want to as Soonyoung takes the bottle.
"Clarinet practice. And I like to listen to the choir practice sometimes, and you're lazy so I end up scripting the announcements in the mornings. You'd be surprised how early people get to school to make out," Jihoon grimaced, taking the last sip of his can before crushing it and tossing it into the recycling bin a few inches from the door. Mingyu had a pout on his lips, making Jihoon coo as you steal yet another dumpling off the tray in the middle, "it's not the end of the world. You can still kiss Nina Jang."
"Ugh, yeah, but I want my first kiss to be special," Mingyu groaned, sinking down in his spot on the couch. Jihoon glanced over at you, watching the way your shoulders shook with silent laughter as Jeonghan shoved you lightly.
"Quit that, just because you and Seungcheollie—"
"I told you that in confidence, Jeonghan Yoon!"
"Told him what in confidence?" Soonyoung hung his head over the arm rest of the brown leather recliner, eyes curious. Jihoon also eyed Jeonghan's blushy face as he fiddled with his bracelet, one he'd seen matching with Seungcheol during last year's club meetings. You rolled your eyes, "that Seungcheol and I had our first kiss and his mom caught us and yelled so loud we fell out of the tree we climbed."
"You can climb a tree?" Mingyu interrupted, and Soonyoung held the bottle of makgeolli out to Jihoon. You slightly turned to face Mingyu, your fingers wrapping around the neck of it and pulling it towards you, "I can do lots of things. Not that you can do half the stuff I can—"
"Can so."
"I've kissed Nina Jang, you haven't. So I've got you beat in your biggest goal, anyway."
"Let it be clear that she kissed Nina Jang as a dare," Jeonghan said as you took a sip of the rice wine in front of them all, their eyes wide at the idea of a girl kissing another girl. "It's not a big deal, you'll see worse things in college."
"You're don't even want to go to college, Han," you rolled your eyes, wiping your thumb across your lip of stray liquid. Jeonghan snorted, "probably not, but you'd invite me to all the parties anyway. You love me!"
The night goes on with everyone slowly beginning to overshare things about their lives — Seokmin's first kiss with a girl who moved back to Minneapolis over the summer, Jeonghan's first kiss with Seungcheol of all people (and how he introduced you and Seungcheol the very next day,) how you moved to and grew up in Bemidji after being born in Emerald Isle. Eventually, the bottles of makgeolli made their rounds to every hand in the room — and the taste was sweet and thick in the back of Jihoon's mouth. It was an hour to midnight as Jeonghan shoved you closer to Jihoon to fit on the couch, the television staticky around an old VHS tape of The Little Mermaid and Seokmin was singing along — both beautifully and slightly slurred from the alcohol.
"What about you?" Jeonghan leaned over your lap, his cheeks rosy from the heat of the basement and alcohol in his system. Jihoon raised a brow, his own face probably not faring any better as he gave him a questioning look. "Have you kissed anyone, Jihoon?"
"I'm sixteen?"
"Yeah, that's not my question. Have you kissed anyone?"
"No, I'm sixteen."
"I had just turned fifteen when I had my first kiss with Seungcheol," you piped up next to him, "and he was fifteen a few weeks later. I don't think it's that crazy to not have kissed anyone by this point. It's silly, anyway."
Jeonghan didn't seem all that convinced, but let the topic go as Seokmin switched out the tape with The Devil's Advocate, "no way are we watching a scary movie on New Year's Eve."
"It's not that scary," you argued, trying to steady your words as you carefully stacked plates up to take back up to the kitchen sink. "It's just…it's a movie. Don't pussy out, Jeonghan. Jihoon, help me go upstairs."
"Can you bring me back a soda? I'm all out, gorgeous," Soonyoung held up his empty orange Crush can, with Jihoon snorting as he took the plates out of your hands before pushing ahead of you up the stairs. Jeonghan was still heard arguing with Seokmin as you opened the door behind him, easily sliding back in front of him. The party with the adults was in full swing, and Jihoon felt suddenly uneasy at the smell of rice wine on his lips as he slipped past his parents — his mother's sharp eyes catching him. He held up the plates and she nodded, turning back to her conversation with who he was introduced to be the pastor at your church.
"You've really never kissed anyone?" You asked quietly as the two of you ducked into the quieter kitchen, with lots of food still left. You glanced out the kitchen doorway before shoving a handful of cookies into a napkin and then into your pocket, making Jihoon snort as he turned the water on lightly to rinse off the plates.
"Why is that so surprising?"
"I guess it's really not, it's just…interesting. You're not curious?"
"It's just a kiss. I'll get to it eventually. Maybe tonight, maybe in three months, maybe in two years. Who knows?" He shrugs, and you roll your long sleeves up to wash the plates. The two of you move in tandem, and eventually you're making him keep watch as you sneak another bottle of makgeolli under your shirt and into the waistband of your jeans. He has a thick slice of triple chocolate cake and a stupid can of orange Crush soda for Soonyoung, and he makes for distraction as you quickly worm your way back to the basement. His mother makes him also take a water bottle, but he makes it back to the basement with no issues…
Until he almost slammed into you at the top of the stairs after closing the door behind himself. The makgeolli bottle in your hand is open, the cold liquid spilling over your fingers as you hiss. You're watching the way Mingyu and Soonyoung are wrestling on the ground in front of the television and getting increasingly louder, shaking your wet hand as you wrinkle your nose at him over your shoulder.
"Shit, sorry—"
"Did you just say shit?"
"I'm not a baby, you know." Jihoon muttered, making you snicker inwardly as he crouched to see Jeonghan holding a twenty in his hand and yelling that whoever won got it, "Soonyoung's gonna win."
"Nah, Mingyu is."
"I'll bet you ten bucks Soonyoung wins."
"I don't have ten bucks, but I'll bet…here, I'll bet you a kiss."
Jihoon rolled his eyes, opting to take a seat on the step and pick off pieces of the cake with his fork. You slid a random fast food straw out of your sleeve, pulling the paper off with your teeth and slipping it into the bottle to sip from when Seokmin called that Soonyoung won. Mingyu was scowling as he shoved him off, and Soonyoung happily plucked the bill out of Jeonghan's hand.
"All Mingyu does is disappoint me," you mumbled, almost too close to Jihoon's neck because he jerked away from you. You winced in apology, but Jihoon pointed with his fork, "now you owe me a kiss."
"Ugh, yeah."
"Saying ugh when you bet that instead of money is kind of insane on your part."
"I'm not saying ugh like gross, I'm saying ugh like…I didn't think I'd lose."
Jihoon laughed aloud, catching the attention of the boys down the stairs. You waved at a beady eyed Jeonghan, turning to Jihoon, "I can kiss you at midnight."
Jihoon shook his head, steadily rising to his feet before turning his nose up, "I'll cash that kiss in when I feel like it."
The night went on, and the six of you rang in the New Year with a tight group hug.
Jihoon and his parents went home at two in the morning, and the promise of a kiss was not out of his mind as he managed to mask the tipsy sway of his body with the excuse of fatigue.
His sophomore year went on without much else to worry about. You became increasingly less available, opting to retake your standardized tests several times for better scores and spending hours at study sessions with Jeonghan. Mingyu and Seokmin ended up in relationships by the end of the year — Mingyu with the Nina Jang, and Seokmin with a sweet girl in the choir. Both girls were curious about radio club, and were easily coaxed in by your cheeky smile and bright personality.
Then, graduation season came for you. Your free time became shorter and shorter, your voice on the morning announcements was missed every so often. Jihoon couldn't remember the smell of your shampoo by the time prom rolled around, and even though he was at the event for the sake of the club, everything was too much of a blur for him to focus. He kept to himself in the corner, watching the way his friends canoodled in the corner with their new girlfriends — only for Jeonghan to tug him aside gently.
"I'm moving this summer," Jeonghan said as quietly as he could with the DJ blaring music, and Jihoon's eyes went wide with surprise. He spotted you across the room, holding a clear cup of punch as you sang along to So Gone by Monica with your friends — your dress was a soft purple, handmade by your mother with a halter neck and sequins shaped like butterflies all over the tulle overlay. You seemed to sense his eyes, because you glanced over just as Jeonghan murmured more, "Y/N doesn't know and I don't want you to tell her. She and I asked Soonyoung to give you the Vice President role for the radio club. You'll be President by your senior year if everything works out."
Instead of going to anyone's house after prom for after parties (read: to get stoned in someone's basement and sneak vodka from someone's parents' liquor cabinet,) you piled everyone into the bed of your truck and drove steadily down to an ice cream parlor that's old as dirt. The owners knew everyone in town, and easily scooped hefty portions of chocolate, vanilla, strawberry and homemade butter pecan ice cream into small waffle bowls for everyone.
They were at your graduation two days later, your gold cap marking you as the valedictorian of the Aurora Falls High School class of 2003. Your speech mentioned all of them, and your eyes scanned all over the entire stadium as you smiled brightly — stopping suddenly when they reached Jeonghan, widening so much that your lashes touched your eyebrows. Jihoon glanced over, seeing Seungcheol inching into the seat with a bouquet of flowers in his hand.
It wasn't about Jihoon, but something in his chest ached as the speech continued to flow out of your mouth — rehearsed, timed, perfect.
Jihoon didn't see you after, much less the rest of the summer if you weren't being driven around by Seungcheol in a pick-up truck he didn't recognize. It had a bench seat, it was bright red with white detailing, and even had balloons tied to the mirrors during the end of the summer to signal your birthday, and his shortly after.
And eventually, that red pick-up truck drove you out to California with all your things packed in boxes. Jihoon learned from sparse meetings with Jeonghan while he packed up his bedroom that Seungcheol had put in double the work to graduate early and follow you wherever you went. Jeonghan and his family were moving back to New York, following his mother's residency program — but Jeonghan left an address, asking for letters.
Jihoon sent them. He received them, and in his final letter to Jeonghan went a ticket to his graduation.
And when Jihoon graduated two years later, donning the same gold cap you had, Jeonghan was in the stands with Soonyoung. You weren't there, and Jihoon had done his best to forget about you — even if he swore he heard your voice on the radio a few times. He kept his achievements quiet, he made his parents proud and he left Minnesota in his rear view, having packed his father's '95 G20 and moving out east. Rutgers welcomed him, as did several beautiful girls — and his first kiss.
His first everything, actually. Her name was Britney, much like the Louisiana pop star, and even in 2005 — she sported honey blonde hair with caramel lowlights that had a zigzag part and was held back into two messy, spiky space buns at the nape of her neck. Her lips were plump and glossy, her eyes were bright, her voice smooth…
But she wasn't you.
Eventually, that relationship developed more. He fell in love with her, entirely; even when honey blonde and zigzag parts turned to jet black and pin straight, even when he took her to her sorority's semi-formals and held her hand during every weekend they managed to drive out to New York City from campus. They were fully dating by the end of his sophomore year of college — talking marriage, a potential kid or two, but a big, big house. Oceanside, per Britney's request; somewhere warm, per Jihoon's…
Until she went home to Florida for the summer and called him two weeks in and asked to break up. He had been back in Minnesota, working alongside his mother for a summer camp program when he got the call — hearing the loud music blaring in the back, and he simply agreed. She'd seemed peeved that he agreed so easily, but she wound up not returning to Rutgers in the fall — leaving Jihoon to cope with the heartbreak in some sort of twisted peace.
He stayed in touch with his friends — Soonyoung was across the country in Seattle, Mingyu ended up at Tufts in Massachusets, and Seokmin was just an hour drive into New York at The Julliard School. Jeonghan was taking community college courses while working in Manhattan, bussing tables and, unbeknownst to Jihoon, keeping the secret that you were graduating and he was going to fly across the country to see it happen.
Jeonghan was also home to the secret that halfway through college, you and Seungcheol had amicably split — him to pursue potentially going pro for soccer, you for the love of radio and how unsure you were at the idea of having a family and settling down before you could get a chance to achieve star potential. You had been eagerly interning at several radio stations, earning praise as a pupil and even networking to build connections in the sports world so you could still be close to Seungcheol — he was your best friend. He was your twin flame, just as hard working as you were…
And he was dating Jeonghan. Long-distance, behind closed doors and the phone bill was a bitch, but they were dating and you were the one who egged them on. You spent your time interning, studying, getting cups of coffee and not bothering to bite your tongue at misogynistic remarks. You stuck up for the underdog, you slowly made a name for yourself and Jihoon stuck to what he knew best — working behind the scenes. Scripts, catalogues, internships to keep his mind off the ache in his chest from his breakup and keep the whole operation afloat.
He heard your voice for the first time on ROCK 105.3 in San Diego — clean, clear, crisp and confident. He'd flown out for an internship opportunity, and was sat in the back of a car sent to pick him up at the airport. It was March 11th, 2009 and he even remembers the way his skin prickled at the smooth, soft tone of your voice that still had that
"That was Journey's Who's Crying Now on ROCK 105.3's 3PM hour of commercial free music. I'm your host, Y/N Hong and up next is Sweet and Low by Augustana. Enjoy your Friday, freaks. Keep on rockin'."
Jihoon attempted to nonchalantly dial up Jeonghan, who knew he would be in San Diego and was cat sitting for him, "I heard Y/N on the radio."
"No shit? What station?"
"San Diego's ROCK 105.3. I can't believe one of us actually made it to radio."
"You know Y/N. She stops at nothing."
He didn't get a chance to hear you again before he went back home, but not even a week later — he heard you speaking in the Communications Hall of his campus. He followed the sound — only to see your face projected on the wall of the Social Responsibility and Community Wellness course he took last semester. He peeked in, seeing the ROCK 105.3 sign in the background of your web camera. You were smiling brightly, and he saw a flash of honey blonde hair and caramel lowlights when Professor Calla asked if you have any upcoming projects.
"Yes! This is an offer extended only to senior broadcast journalism students, so if you hear something about it, it's confirmed by me. I recently partnered with a few radio stations across the country, going even back to my home, the North Star State of Minnesota, to bring life back to some radio stations that have seen better days. The program is called Caller Number Nine, and each station will get six weeks with me to see if I can successfully bring up ratings, re-engaging local audiences and even holding events to get the people to tune back in. That being said, the only requirements are that you are a senior broadcast journalism student that is eligible to graduate, willing to relocate, and that you are lucky enough to be Caller Number Nine. Professor Calla will give you a paper and send you an email with all the information necessary as well as all the stations that are up to be static shocked! Good luck, future radio stars."
Jihoon waited exactly fifteen minutes for class to let out before worming his way into the lecture hall. He'd been one of Professor Calla's favorite students the semester prior, and even had her personal email in case he ever needed anything — it didn't take more than a quick hello for her to begin rambling about the Caller Number Nine program and handed him a piece of paper.
There were stations all over the country on it — but his eyes zeroed in on Lake Ruby's long-dying radio station, 109.6 RUBY FM. He'd listened to it on trips down to Wisconsin to visit his cousins during the summer and get a Culver's scoop every day for a week — but he hadn't done that since he moved out of St. Cloud and he hadn't heard much about Lake Ruby since.
Lake Ruby was the fifth stop on the hit list, and the program offered all-inclusive housing and a permanent spot at the radio station once the goals were achieved — and you'd be hosting the first call from San Diego on June 15th, 2009. It would be a long distance call, and there was a chance he wouldn't even have a chance to get on his phone — the call slot was at noon in Pacific Standard Time.
Which meant it was at three o'clock his time.
And his graduation was the same day at one in the afternoon…
He could try.
Weeks passed, graduation came and his nerves were absolutely shot.
It wasn't about you.
It was about getting a job. Getting to help bring back something that meant something to him, about making his family proud and achieving his dream.
"You're gonna call the radio station, aren't you?" Jeonghan said the moment he spotted Jihoon fiddling with his phone in the car. Jeonghan, Seokmin and Mingyu had all come down and Soonyoung managed to get a last minute flight out — barely landing in Newark Liberty an hour before the event. Mingyu had picked him up and the older man got dressed in the car — even brushing his teeth a second time with the complimentary water bottle from the airport and swallowing his toothpaste.
It seemed Jihoon wasn't the only one with the idea to call the radio station — amongst his peers, everyone was buzzing with excitement. The ceremony seemed to go on forever, and lunches with family and friends were even longer. He rushedly collected his diploma, thanking a few of the professors up on the stage and even giving a quick salute to his guests in the stands — but by the time they sat down to lunch at a diner Jihoon loved to frequent during late night study sessions, his internal clock started ticking like a bomb.
He could feel sweat start to slowly bead at his hairline as he watched the clock hands move closer to three. The number was already sitting on the tiny screen of his Blackberry, and he could see several other people he'd been in those same broadcasting courses with nibbling their lips and bouncing their legs under their tables.
"You're gonna get it," Jeonghan soothed, patting Jihoon's knee under the table. His parents had been filled in by Mingyu, and they'd been skeptical — but upon hearing that it was you running this contest, they gave soft smiles and wished their son good luck; opting to zero in on thick sandwiches and pickles stacked high on their plates.
Jihoon, much like the time he punched Declan Lowe, cannot remember much of anything. He remembers hearing your voice, he remembers hearing caller number nine, and he remembers the surprise in your laughter when everyone at the table yelled at his name is Jihoon Lee.
Time seemed to move almost too fast for Jihoon after that.
You'd had the winners to your raffle fly out to San Diego for promotions in the last week of June, giving out assignments and letting everyone get better acquainted with each other. Your schedule was put out by that point, too — and Lake Ruby was the fifth stop on the list. You started in Ashland, Oregon in July, only to travel out to Washington, Colorado before your stop in Nebraska was set to end on Christmas Eve that year.
The reunion was also something that seemed to hit you just as hard as it hit him — but you were better at masking it than he was. You were all smiles — but the honey blonde hair was lost once more. It was a chocolate brown again, and he ignored the blush creeping up his neck as he let you pull him into a warm hug. You hugged him far longer than any of the other winners, eventually explaining that you and he were long time friends.
Jihoon wonders how far that friend title can go when you hadn't spoken in years, but he smiles and agrees for appearances.
He spent the summer in Lake Ruby — getting acquainted with the townspeople, easing into the internship at the station. He grew close with the older gentleman running it, his eyes clouded by cataracts and fumbling with the audio consoles and his microphone. His name is Gus, a Greek man who grew up in Lake Ruby after moving across the ocean from one of the Athenian sub-cities. He told Jihoon stories about his yia-yia, who raised him alone after their big move, and often brought big batches of spanakorizo or pastourmadopita made by his wife to share with him. Jihoon eventually met said wife — a small woman named Beryl with many things to say to him, particularly that she had a nice granddaughter around his age.
As for the locale that actually housed 109.6 RUBY FM, Jihoon made it his mission to clean the place up — fixing up overcrowded file cabinets, offering music suggestions more popular with the younger crowd of the town, even going as far as repainting the station inside and out. He bought a nice couch, new chairs, microphones, headsets; he even decorated the lobby area with signed posters and a huge lava lamp in the corner, changing the bright fluorescent ceiling bulbs to softer yellow ones.
And now, he's late. He's running late on your very first day with him, and Good Girls Go Bad is playing in the speakers of his car as he finally pulls into the station. Your car is covered in snow, a 2010 Audi A6 in sparkly cherry red. Your license plate still says California as he skirts past it, forgoing his scarf as he punches in the code to the front door. Warm air hits his face as he shuts it behind him, the sound of MGMT's Kids now bleeding into the end of Good Girls Go Bad.
He can see you through the window — you're in your element. You're easily making conversation with Gus, your coat the same deep purple as that beloved windbreaker he knew to be your favorite. Your hair is still chocolate brown, but there's a zigzag part and Gus is laughing at whatever you're saying while you smile inwardly, holding a half-eaten lokma in your fingers as he skirts into the room after swiping his badge.
"Nice of you to join us, boy." Gus's voice is deep as he acknowledges Jihoon. He winces, earning your eyes as he shucks his coat off, "I'm sorry I'm late."
"Don't be sorry, be better," Gus says gently, before offering the plate of lokma to him. "Help yourself. Beryl said you need to eat more."
"I eat so much with you guys," Jihoon mumbles, plucking a piece off anyway and shoving it into his cheek. "What else did I miss?"
"My arrival," you snort, licking your fingers of honey and cinnamon before clearing your throat. "It's Christmas, Jihoon. You could've been on time."
"Have you seen the roads? You're lucky I'm even alive."
"Hi, Y/N. How are you? I've missed you."
He tongues his cheek, and Gus snickers inwardly as he slips into the backroom, "you two get reacquainted. I've gotta call my Beryl and let her know I'll be on my way soon."
Your eyes are expectant, making him sigh, "hi, Y/N. How are you? I missed you."
You beam, "hi! I'm good and I missed you, too! Christmas Eve in Nebraska was a shitshow, but that's neither here nor there. Are you ready to work?"
"Hi, Jihoon. How are you?"
"I know you're late."
"We've been reunited for seven minutes and you're already pissing me off."
You roll your eyes, pressing the very same button that flashes the bright red ON AIR sign on, "Y/N Hong coming at you live, thank you for tuning in to our 6PM commercial free hour! The temperature outside is twenty-three degrees Fahrenheit, let's be sure to bundle up! Happy holidays from your folks here at 109.6 RUBY FM, and this is Crushcrushcrush by Paramore!"
He's unimpressed, "Y/N."
"Jihoon."
"Ask me how I am."
"You're late," you repeat, and Jihoon tries not to let his eyes zero in on the glossy plum color on your lips. "So prove to me that you deserve this opportunity, and get to work."
He pouts, "I've done so much already—"
"And I love what you've done with the place, baby," you interrupt, smoothly sliding your coat off your shoulders and the click of your heels catches his attention as you walk to the hook by the door to hang it up. Your shampoo is the same and he feels his chest tight at the soft tobacco and vanilla scent floating off you as you walk back to your seat. "Prove you've got what it takes. Announce the next segment in fifteen minutes."
"You want me to impale myself on a sword slathered in cyanide." He slumps in his chair next to yours, only to feel you grab the arm of it and yank him closer to you. Your perfume is stronger now, and he glances at your ear to see that same S earring snug in your tragus.
"I want you to be great." You murmur, your hand tight around his chair as he glances at you. "Not the Average Joe. That's not what you're made for and it's not what I'll let you be, either. Friends don't let friends be mediocre."
Friends don't let friends be mediocre.
But friends don't lean in almost too close in a radio station in Lake Ruby, and friends don't almost kiss on Christmas Day 2009.
SYNOPSIS. Years after fame pulled him apart, Seungkwan finds his way back to his first love: you. Now working as a radio producer, you’re trying to move forward with your life... until he decides to break a few rules to pull you out of a bad relationship and win back your heart.
PARING. Idol!Seungkwan x Radio Producer!reader
GENRE | TAGS. One-shot, childhood friends to lovers, second chance, mutual pining, slow burn-ish, fluff, comedy, smut.
WC. 30.1k+
RATING. Explicit adult content (MINORS DNI).
WARNINGS. Alcohol consumption, mentions of food, jealousy, small descriptions of a toxic/controlling relationship, explicit language, miscommunication, descriptions of ptsd, longing, miscommunication, angst, hurt/comfort, verbal conflict/argument, cheating undertones, smut, semi-public intimacy, dirty talk, dry humping, oral (f. receiving), fingering, mentions of blood and cuts.
AN. 1. First of all, I’m officially coming out of hiatus with this hehe. 2. Vocal unit are the only ones famous in this, and Seungkwan is retiring. I also changed some things in their debut timeline, etc., so if anything seems strange, that’s why. 3. Fun fact: Don Capri is a real restaurant in my town.
🎧SOUNDTRACK. spring into summer - lizzy mcalpine, too young - louis tomlinson, gimme - got7, crazy in love - seventeen, late night talking - harry styles, perhaps love - howl and j.ae, together - seventeen, this town - niall horan, fresh out the slammer - taylor swift, love is on the radio - mcfly.
— This fic is written for the First Time Caller collab hosted by @studiosvt! I had so much fun writing this, the theme is amazing and it really got me inspired. Please make sure to check out the other amazing fics too! 💗
JUNE 2012
The air in Jeju at five in the morning had a specific smell: a mixture of saltpeter and damp earth. For you, that smell would always mean home. But for Seungkwan, from that day on, that smell would be just a memory stored in a distant compartment of his mind.
You were both sitting on the stone parapet behind Jeju-si High School. It was your spot, a blind one for the security cameras where the school wall meet the precipice overlooking the ocean. Below, the waves crashed against the rocks with rhythmic violence.
A pair of wired headphones connected the two of you, and the music playing was an acoustic demo of Last Love he’d recorded on his phone. His voice, still hoarse from sleep — because he’d woken up in the middle of the night to record it so he wouldn’t forget and you could listen — filled the silence between you.
“You’re not going to need a stage name name,” you finally said, kicking your heels against the stone, the thought occurring to you all at once. “Seungkwan is great. It’s unique. Boo too.”
He let out a nasal laugh, the vapor of his breath condensing in the cold of the early morning, his heels mimicking the same movement as yours. Seungkwan studied your profile, not understating why you gaze was avoiding his.
“Why does it sound like you’re going to cry when you say that?”
You shrugged, sulking internally. “I’m not.”
You did felt like crying, way more than you liked to admit. You were incredibly happy and proud of him, but you couldn’t shake the fear in the pit of your stomach telling you everything was about to change. And as silly as it sounded, you were trying to hold on to that small part of who he was in that moment.
“Then are you already planning my marketing?” He bumped your elbow with his. “I haven’t even stepped through the company gate yet. I could be sent back in the first month if I can’t keep up with the pace of the other trainees.”
You scoffed, rolling your eyes. “Don’t talk nonsense.” Below you, the waves began to decrease in intensity as the day began to rise. “I saw you rehearse that choreography until your feet bled at the harvest festival. Pledis doesn’t know what’s coming for them.”
“You should come with me,” he says like if it were the easiest thing in the world, eyes locking with yours with a small sparkle.
You can’t help but laugh at his suggestion, turning to him. The bluish light of pre-dawn sculpted his profile, and you felt a tightness in your chest that you couldn’t name. It was pride, but it was also the anticipatory grief of a loss.
“And do what? I can’t sing or dance for the life of me, Kwanie.”
“You can be my manager.”
“I’m pretty sure they already have people for that,” you argued, like that was the only problem.
“Then you’ll be my producer,” he countered instantly, his voice dropping the playful edge. He shifted his weight, turning his body entirely toward you so that the wire of the headphones tugged slightly between your ears. “It’s only eight months, tokki.”
You want to tell him he’s not coming back in eight months. That there’s no way in hell they’ll let him go without turning him into something bigger than this island could ever hold. But instead, you take a deep breath and watch the waves below.
“Eight months is a long time. There’s time to have had a child in that time.”
He scoffed. “A child with whom?”
“I don’t know! Youngjae is cute.” You shrugged again, pouting just to annoy him before flicking his forehead lightly. “We’re sixteen, dummy.”
Cho Youngjae.
He’s a cool guy. Tall, looks like a baseball player or something equally appealing, even though he’s only a few years older than the two of you. He’s always announcing that he wants to be a surgeon. Seungkwan swears he thinks he’s a good guy. The problem is that everyone at school knows he has a big fat crush on you.
And so does he.
“Why are we suddenly talking about Cho Youngjae?”
“Well…” There you were, avoiding his gaze again. “He invited me to watch him practice and get banana milk after school the other day.”
Seungkwan’s entire posture stiffened, and even though he tried so obviously to hide it, you noticed. The rhythmic kicking of his heels against the stone parapet stopped abruptly, leaving only the sound of the crashing waves and the soft hum of his own voice through the shared earbuds.
“Practice,” he repeated, his voice flat, devoid of the melody it usually carried. “And banana milk. Wow. He really pulled out the big guns, didn’t he?”
He looked away, staring out the horizon where a thin, pale line of orange was beginning to bleed into the indigo sky. The jealousy he felt wasn’t a sharp pain; it was a dull, heavy ache, a realization that while he was moving toward a future with the possibility of bright lights and crowded stages, he was leaving a vacuum behind.
And people like Cho Youngjae—people who didn’t have to leave, people who could stay and buy you a snack after school—were already waiting to take his place beside you.
“He’s just being nice, Kwanie. Don’t be like that,” you mumbled, though you secretly relished the way his jaw tightened.
“I’m not being like anything,” he retorted, though he finally reached up and yanked the earbud out of his ear. The silence of the morning rushed in to fill the space. “It’s just… you don’t even like banana milk that much. You like the strawberry one.”
“It’s the thought that counts,” you countered, crossing your arms over your chest to shield yourself from the dawn chill.
You didn’t even know Seungkwan cared that much about strawberry milk or banana milk.
He turned back to you, and the playfulness was gone. He wanted to tell you not to go with Youngjae. He wanted to ask you to wait the eight months. Or ten. However long it took for him to get settled. He wanted to promise he would call you every night. That he’d send you the demos of every song he learned. That you shouldn’t let some high school baseball player wannabe make you forget about him.
But that wouldn’t be fair to you.
So instead, Seungkwan exhaled deeply and softened his expression as he sat back down beside you, slipping his side of the earbud back in.
“And you?” he asked, changing the subject, as he always did when the conversation was about to get too serious. “Are you going to keep hiding your talent for communication behind the inn counter?”
You sighed, glancing towards the horizon, where the orange line was growing bigger.
“My mother needs me here, you know.” You leaned your head against his shoulder, feeling the sturdy warmth of him through his jacket. “Since my father passed away, the inn is all we have.”
“But—”
“It’s fine, Kwan,” you breathed, watching the sun finally break over the water. “The women around here don’t retire, they just merge with their work.” You shrugged. “Plus, someone has to carry the sheets and check in the tourists who think the island is an amusement park.”
There was a melancholy in the way you spoke, even though you tried to be humorous about it, and Seungkwan noticed.
“It’s temporary, tokki,” he said, resting his head against yours. “Someday you’re going to be the voice everyone hears on their way to work. I’ll be in the back of a black van on the way to some show, and I’ll turn on the radio, and I’ll hear your voice.”
You smiled, but the smile didn’t reach your eyes. The idea seemed like a perfect fairy tale. A few years back, you would have believed it wholeheartedly. Now, you knew that the distance between Jeju Island and stardom in Seoul was greater than a few kilometers of ocean; it was an abyss of social classes, restrictive contracts, and a lot sleep deprivation.
“Just…” you said suddenly, voice lost its lightness. “Promise me.”
Seungkwan leaned closer, the headphone cord stretching between you. “Promise what?”
“Promise you won’t abandon me.” He looked rather confused, opening his mouth to argue that he wouldn’t, but you didn’t let him finish. “Not physically, I know you have to go. But don’t let whatever is waiting for you there… change you.”
“Tokki…”
“Don’t let them turn you into a product I can’t recognize. I want that, ten years from now, if we meet again, I can still see the boy who used to steal tangerines from the neighbor’s orchard with me.”
He held your hand. His skin was warm against yours, which was frozen by the wind. “I could never forget you, even if I tried. You are my anchor, tokki. Seoul can give me the world, but Jeju is where my heart is.”
Even if that were true, the two of you couldn’t help but laugh when Seungkwan fell silent.
“You’re so dramatic, Boo,” you breathed, watching the sun finally break over the water. “Pledis really is going to love you.”
Silence returned, but now it was different, the sun finally breaking through the sea’s edge and bathing the volcanic rock in gold. It was your signal: Seungkwan will be leaving for the airport in less than three hours.
“It’s time,” you murmured, though you wished you could freeze time. “Your mother must be finishing her coffee. She’ll be furious if you leave on an empty stomach.”
You stood, grabbing his wrist and pulling him along toward the low houses of the neighborhood, your hands brushing against each other but never truly intertwining due the silent fear that the contact would be too painful to break afterward.
“Are you really sure about this?” you asked, voice faltering slightly. You kicked a small stone, eyes fixed on your own feet. “Seoul is… far. Like, really far. It’s not like going to the airport. It’s another world.”
Seungkwan looked out at the sea in the distance. In Jeju, the horizon seemed like the end of everything. In Seoul, he heard the horizon was made of skyscrapers.
He takes a deep breath. “Yeah, I’m pretty sure.”
“Okay.”
As you reached his door, the smell of seaweed soup and grilled fish wafted through the cracks. It was his last breakfast as a nobody. Before entering, you paused under the stone portico. You held his shoulders, forcing him to look at you one last time without the distractions of the adult life that awaited you.
“Listen carefully,” you began, voice firm despite the urge to cry. “Don’t look back when you get on that plane, okay?”
“What—”
You covered his mouth with both hands. “Just… let me finish, please.” He nodded, looking between your hands over his mouth and your eyes. “Jeju will be here. I’ll be here. But these… these are your dreams now. They’re no longer our childhood plans, they’re your reality. Go and conquer everything you said you would.”
Seungkwan pulled you into a quick, tight hug. It was the kind of hug meant to hold on to the other person’s scent for long days.
“I’ll go,” he whispered against your hair. “I swear I will.”
You watched him go inside, his silhouette swallowed by the warm light of the kitchen where his family awaited him. You stood there for a minute, alone in the morning chill, knowing that from that moment on, your lives would never be the same.
Then you walked toward your mother’s inn, the battery-powered radio in your pocket weighing like lead. You had a shift to work, sheets to change, and an ordinary life to lead, while he was about to become a constellation.
PRESENT
Studio B at the Jeju City Broadcasting was roughly the size of a walk-in closet—practically a shoebox—and smelled distinctly of stale iced americano, sea salt drifting in from the open window down the hall, and Seungkwan’s ridiculously expensive cedarwood cologne, which had seeped into the walls over the months.
It was a chaotic, cramped little ecosystem, and for the last fifteen years, it had been you’re entire world.
“You’re tapping your pen again,” Seungkwan murmurs, not even looking up from his phone as he lounges in the squeaky host’s chair.
You immediately freeze your hand over the mixing console. “I am not tapping. I am keeping time.”
“You’re tapping,” he insists, casually reaching across the desk to steal the iced Americano you had bought for yourself and yourself only. “And it means you’re stressed about the timing of the transition for the second segment.”
You snatch the coffee back, glaring at him as condensation drips onto your meticulously highlighted run-of-show. You sigh. “I’m stressed because you went off-script yesterday and we had thirty seconds of dead air while you monologued about the emotional depth of a drama you watched in 2018. If you—”
“—miss the cue, Chief will throw a fit,” he finishes, waving a hand dismissively. “I know, I know.” He finally puts his phone down and shoots you a blinding, practiced smile that practically sparkles under the fluorescent studio lights. “Relax, tokki. You’re working with a professional.”
You roll your eyes so hard they actually ache. You hate that damn nickname he gave you when you were eight years old and your front teeth refused to grow no matter how long you waited and wished for them to, giving him endless fuel to tease you until you finally threatened to beat him to death.
After so many years apart, you would have expected Seungkwan to forget that damn nickname. Especially now that you were both already in your thirties. But no. Quite the opposite, actually.
Your phone buzzes against the console, vibrating so violently it nearly rattles off the edge. You don’t have to look at the screen to know who it is, and the familiar knot of dread tightens instantly in your stomach.
[Youngjae - 8:14 PM]: Are you seriously working late again? You told me you’d be done by 6.
You sigh, picking up the device. Your fingers hover over the keyboard, already drafting an apology you didn’t actually owe him.
You didn’t use to work late until six months ago, when Seungkwan arrived and the Chief reassigned you from the Non-stop Nostalgia show to the late-night slot. The workload had doubled now that his co-host had given birth three weeks earlier than expected and you were filling in for her because, of course, you didn’t find a replacement for her sooner.
[You - 8:15 PM]: I’m sorry, babe. The 9:00 PM live slot is still a mess. They still haven’t found anyone to replace Yoona and we’re scrambling. I might not be out until 11.
Three dots appear. Disappear. Appear again.
[Youngjae - 8:17 PM]: Whatever. You always put that stupid station first.
[Youngjae - 8:17 PM]: I don’t even know why I bother making plans with you. You need to figure out your priorities.
You lock the screen and set the phone face down. A heavy, exhausting silence settles over you, and you can feel Seungkwan’s eyes on you, studying you, even though he doesn’t ask anything.
You trace the edge of the promise ring Youngjae had given you six months ago; a silver band that felt more like a shackle than a symbol of affection. You are constantly walking on eggshells, constantly apologizing for having a career, constantly trying to shrink yourself to fit into the “normal, peaceful life” you thought you wanted.
Why were you with him? That was a question you didn’t like to ask yourself.
“Hey. Earth to PD-nim.”
You jolt, snapping your head up to see Chan, the junior writer, waving a hand in front of your face. “Sorry,” you blink, shaking off the lingering guilt. “What is it? Did we secure a backup for tonight?”
Chan’s eyes were wide, a mix of sheer panic and starry-eyed excitement. “Chief Kang is calling for an emergency meeting in the briefing room. Right now. And yes, we secured a backup. Apparently, he pulled off an absolute miracle.”
You push yourself out of your old squeaky chair, grabbing your clipboard and glancing in Seungkwan’s direction, who, for some reason, avoids your gaze.
“A miracle? Who did they get with three hours’ notice?”
“Just get in there,” Chan urges, practically shoving you toward the door and following right behind you.
The small briefing room was buzzing with frantic energy when you walked in. Chief Choi Seungcheol—a notoriously stressed, soft man who practically lives on black coffee —is pacing in the front of the room like he was trying to outrun whatever news he was about to deliver.
The small radio station belonged to his grandparents, and since you were hired after returning from university, you’d seen the ups and downs he’d faced trying to keep this little corner of Jeju running over the years as radio slowly faded for the younger generation. It had basically been on life support, kept alive mostly by the island’s elderly listeners… well, until Seungkwan arrived and the audience grew exponentially.
As soon as you take your seat, Seungcheol slams his hands down on the table.
“Alright, listen up,” he barks, though there’s a triumphant gleam in his eye. “We’re not going to hire someone to replace Yoona.”
Your eyebrows arch in shock as you set your clipboard down on the table. “What? But Seungkwan needs a co-host now!”
He’s smiling almost maniacally at you now. “Yes! And we’re giving him one.”
The sound of the door opening and closing catches your attention, and when you look back, Seungkwan is standing there, his lips wrapped around the straw of your coffee as he stares at you with a mischievous glint in his deliberately wide eyes.
You look between Seungkwan and Seungcheol, taking exactly the amount of time it takes for a breath to pass before realizing what’s going on.
“Okay, no!” you say, immediately getting up from your chair to walk out of the room, but Seungkwan quickly steps toward you and places his hands on your shoulders.
“The listeners want this,” he argues. You grimace, pulling away from him as the condensation from his iced coffee brushes against your skin before sitting back down. “Yesterday Gyeonghee halmoni stopped me on the street just to tell me you should be the permanent co-host.”
Gyeonghee halmoni was the oldest woman in your neighborhood, and you knew she listened to the radio religiously, always insisting she was never too old to take love advice. You knew she was a particular fan of the Time Capsule of Love segment, where you only played very old love songs, mostly because she called almost every night to make a request.
It was at her eighty-ninth birthday party that you and Seungkwan reconnected six months ago.
“Gyeonghee halmoni is biased,” you say, shaking your head. “She watched us grow up.”
Seungkwan doesn’t just sit; he sprawls into the chair next to you, leaning in until the scent of that expensive cedarwood is all you can process.
“My mother said the same thing too,” Chan says from the corner of the room where he’s squeezed in, raising his hand slightly as if he were in a classroom.
“The ratings for the ‘PD-nim interjections’ are higher than the guest segments, and you know it,” Seungkwan adds, his voice dropping into that smooth, persuasive register he usually saves for the microphone. You liked to think you were immune to it.
“I am a producer,” you hiss, ignoring the way Seungcheol is nodding along like Seungkwan is delivering a sermon. “I stay behind the glass. I don’t talk into microphones. I manage the chaos you create, Boo Seungkwan. I don’t join it!”
Especially considering the program’s content: relationship advice and dating reality shows. What did you know about relationships? Nothing. Your own relationship was proof of that. Seungkwan, on the other hand, apparently knew a lot, which was exactly why he was perfect for the job.
You blamed only yourself for being in this situation, for not looking for a replacement for Yoona sooner, for leaving everything to the last minute. Now you were stuck in this position.
“But that’s exactly why it works!” Seungcheol interjects, pacing across the small rug in the center of the room. “Your chemistry, the bickering. It’s nostalgic.” Seungkwan is now the one nodding alone to the nonsense. “It’s Jeju’s childhood friends story, only now you’re both working together. It’s a goldmine. The sponsors are already asking about the girl who rage baites Seungkwan.”
“The girl has a name,” you mutter, rubbing your temples. “And she has a boyfriend who is currently one text away from a total meltdown if she gets home any later.”
At the indirect mention of Youngjae, Seungkwan’s expression shifts. The mischievous glint doesn’t disappear, but now he also looks noticeably annoyed. You know his opinion of Youngjae inside and out. It isn’t news to you now, just like it wasn’t news when you were teenagers.
He glances at your phone, still gripped in your hand, and then back at your face. He sees the fatigue you try to hide behind your professional mask and the way your shoulders are slumped not from work, but from the weight of the apology you’re still drafting in your head for later.
“Think about it, Y/N,” Seungcheol insists, looking at you expectantly. “This could double our listeners.”
The room goes quiet as you close your eyes and bury your face in your hands to avoid the three pairs of eyes fixed on you, waiting for you to change your mind. Even Chan looks like he’s about to faint from the drama of it all.
Your phone buzzes again.
[Youngjae - 8:27 PM]: Don’t expect me to wait up. You’re being selfish.
The ring around your finger feels particularly heavy now. You look at Seungkwan. He’s annoying, he’s loud, and he’s currently trying to change your career for God knows what reason. But he’s also the only person in this city who looks at you like you’re the lead character in your own life rather than a supporting role in someone else’s.
You narrow your eyes. “This was your idea.” It’s not a question, it’s an affirmation. It’s clear on his face, because unlike what he tries to convey, Boo Seungkwan is an open book.
He raises his hands to shoulder height in a guilty gesture, but he doesn’t look guilty at all. “You’re perfect for the job, tokki.”
You let out a grunt, throwing your head back. Fucking Boo Seungkwan. Fucking soft spot you still have for him despite everything, especially when he gives you that Boo-Poor-Little-Seungkwan look.
“One week,” you say, after a long sigh, pointing a finger at his chest. “A trial run. If the listeners hate it or if you go off-script about a drama for more than ten seconds, I’m going back behind the glass and you’re finding a new co-host yourself.”
You’re staring at each other, but out of the corner of your eye you can see Seungcheol and Chan celebrating while exchanging a high-five. Seungkwan’s grin is blinding, wide, triumphant, and fucking annoying. He reaches out, not to shake your hand, but to give your ponytail a playful tug, just like he used to when you were ten.
“One week is all I need,” he says, and for a split second, the way he looks at you makes the small, cramped briefing room feel like it’s spinning at a different frequency. “Trust me, PD-nim. We’re going to give them a show they’ll never forget.”
6 MONTHS AGO
The neighborhood recreation center was loud, sweltering, and smelled intensely of freshly fried pajeon. Gyeonghee halmoni’s 89th birthday had essentially become a town festival, and you were already thirty minutes late.
Dodging wandering toddlers and plates of tteokbokki, you immediately spotted the one thing you were dreading: your mother. She was standing by the gift table, deep in conversation with Mrs. Boo.
They were huddled close together, holding paper cups of sweet rice punch, radiating the kind of synchronized, terrifying energy only two mothers who have known each other for over twenty years can possess. You tried to stealthily make you way toward the food buffet first, but your mother’s radar was unparalleled.
“Look who finally decided to show up,” your mother announced loudly, abandoning her hushed conversation to fix you with a pointed glare.
“Hi, mom,” you pratically dragged the word out of you. “Hello, Mrs. Boo,” you greeted, bowing respectfully to Seungkwan’s mother. “I’m sorry I’m late, the afternoon broadcast ran long and traffic was terrible near the—”
“Aigoo, look at you!” Mrs. Boo interrupted, entirely ignoring your excuse as she reached out to pat your arm affectionately. Her eyes crinkled in a warm smile. “You get prettier every time I see you. Are you eating well, sweetheart? You look a little thin.”
“Prettier?” you mother scoffed, though she was secretly pleased. She waved a hand dismissively. “She looks like she hasn’t in a week. All she does is work at that radio station. I tell her she needs to get out, make new friends, but does she listen to me?”
“Mom, please,” you hissed under your breath, feeling your cheeks heat up. “Not here.”
You knew this conversation by heart, but that didn’t mean Mrs. Boo needed to hear it too.
“Ah, let her be, she’s building a career!” Mrs. Boo laughed, though there was a sudden, distinct twinkle in her eye. She leaned in a fraction closer, lowering her voice as if sharing a state secret. “You know... our Seungkwanie is here.”
Your stomach did a strange flip at the mention of his name. “Oh. Really? I thought he was still in Seoul.”
You knew he was back; he’d been the talk of the neighborhood all week. You’d just chosen to ignore the fact, and forget that you could run into him anywhere now, that it was only a matter of time until you did.
“He came back last week. Taking a break,” Mrs. Boo beamed, her pride evident. But then she share a very deliberate, conspiratorial look with your mother. “He was just asking about you the other day, actually. Wondering how his favorite childhood friend was doing.”
Funny, considering he never even bothered to call in the last twelve years, you thought, still holding a polite smile on your face.
Your mother’s eyes lit up with a terrifying gleam. She immediately reached out, grabbing your shoulders and physically turning you away from the buffet table and toward the back of the hall.
“Go say hi,” your mother ordered, giving you a firm push.
“Mom, I literally just walked in. Let me get a plate of food first, I haven’t eaten since—”
“The japchae isn’t going anywhere,” she interrupted, adjusting the collar of your shirt with quick, fussy movements. “He just got here too. He’s standing right over there by the punch bowl looking lonely. Go talk to him.”
“Yes, go catch up!” Mrs. Boo chimed in, shooing you with her hand. “Tell him his mother said to get you a drink.”
Seeing them together like that felt like a childhood flashback; like being forced to stay close to Seungkwan or made to do things with him all over again just because they wanted too. Like being forced to dance together at school events, or serving as ring bearers for the newlywed couple who lived three houses down.
Realizing you had absolutely no way out of this trap, you sighed, offering them both a tight, resigned smile. “Fine. I’m going.”
“Stand up straight!” your mother called out after you in a loud whisper.
You rolled your eyes, smoothing down your outfit as you navigated through the sea of relatives and neighbors until you finally spotted him.
He was standing by the punch bowl, looking both ridiculously handsome and slightly out of place in a crisp, white button-down. Even without the stage makeup and the flash of cameras, Boo Seungkwan had an undeniable glowing aura.
You took a deep breath, trying to push down the sudden spike of nerves caused by the realization that the moment you’d pictured in your head thousands of times was actually happening. Then, quietly, you sidled up beside him.
“Excuse me, sunbaenim,” you said, leaning in just enough to mock a polite bow. “Can I get your autograph?”
Seungkwan turned, a polite, probably practiced smile already forming on his lips, until his eyes met yours for the first time in nearly fifteen years. Then he completely froze.
The plastic cup in his hand halted halfway to his mouth. His eyes went wide, sweeping over your face, your hair, the way you stood there looking at him. You immediately started talking, rattling off a quick string of teasing remarks. He could see your mouth moving, but he wasn’t hearing a single word, almost like he was underwater.
Seungkwan was entirely captivated, his brain short-circuiting as the intoxicating, familiar scent of your perfume hit him. It was scent that instantly bypassed the last twelve years of his life, striking a match directly to the teenage hormones and memories he’d buried long ago.
You stopped talking, waving a hand in front of his face. “Hello? Earth to Sungkwan?”
He blinked rapidly, practically shaking himself out of the stupor. “You… wow. Hi. You look… you look really good.”
You gasped dramatically, clutching your chest. “Oh my God, Boo Seungkwan said I look good. I’m going to write a fanfic about it.”
You could see the moment the shock wore off, instantly replaced by the familiar, comfortable irritation he always fell into when you teased him all those years ago.
A smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth. “Please. I bet you’ve already written several where we end up in love.”
You clicked your tongue as your shoulders lifted in a nonchalant shrug. “Actually, I think your friend Jeonghan is cuter.” You smiled broadly, watching his jaw drop and his eyes widen again. “He’s so handsome. Is he single?”
You emphasize the word deliberately, watching his face contort as he processes it. But all he says is:
“You think what?” Seungkwan choked out, his competitive streak flaring up in a millisecond. Or at least that was what you thought. Inside, Seungkwan felt a possessive pull toward you that he hadn’t felt in a very long time.
You tried to bite your lip to hold back your laughter, but you simply couldn’t, bursting out laughing as you stepped just a fraction closer to him to let two little boys run past you toward the playground.
“You’re still so easy to mess with, Boo.”
His face morphed into an outraged expression, though you could see a smile forming at the corner of his mouth. “And you’re still crazy, I see.”
“He is, indeed, handsome, they all are.” You paused, clearly enjoying his reaction. Your voice dipped playfully as you tapped your chest in a steady rhythm. “...but my heart still beats for Boo Seungkwan. Boo Seungkwan.” You laughed, eyes crinkling. “Old flame, you know. Right?”
If only you knew.
Seungkwan stared at you, his ears turning a violent shade of red. He tried to scowl, to muster up some kind of witty retort, but the sheer relief and joy of realizing you hadn’t changed at all completely overwhelmed him. He let out a breathless, defeated chuckle, running a hand through his hair before dragging the tips of his fingers down his neck.
“You’re terrible,” he muttered, though his eyes were painfully fond. “A decade without seeing you, and within two minutes you’re already giving me a headache.”
“It’s a gift, really,” you replied, finally grabbing a cup of punch for yourself.
The silence was slightly awkward — but only because it’s been twelve years of radio silence —, not uncomfortable, though. In fact, you had a million questions that could fill it, but since starting with Why haven’t you contacted me in twelve years, you stuck-up idiot? was probably a terrible opener, you settled for something lighter.
“So. You’re really back, huh?” You raised an eyebrow, lifting the glass to your lips mostly to keep yourself from saying anything out of spike. “The neighborhood aunties have been gossiping all week. They said you’re officially retired from the idol life.”
“Taking a very long, very permanent hiatus,” he corrected with a dismissive hand, leaning against the table so he could fully face you. “I needed a break from Seoul. Plus I heard my favorite childhood friend was running the local radio station now.”
You quickly built your defenses back up, raising a skeptical eyebrow. Favorite feels ironic, again. You’re almost certain it doesn’t fit what happened between you two over the past years; if anything, it feels like the opposite.
“Not running it. Producing.” It was your turn to correct him. “The afternoon slot. It’s chaotic, and I practically live in the editing booth. But I love it.”
Seungkwan watched your face light up as you talked about the station. The way your eyes sparked—the genuine passion in your voice—was entirely real. It was the same look you used to get when you figured out a particularly difficult math problem in high school, or when you finally beat him in a volleyball match.
“Producing,” Seungkwan repeated softly, testing the word on his tongue. A small, genuine smile broke through his initial shock. “I’ll be honest. I’ve tuned in a few times since I got back.”
You nearly choked on your rice punch. You lowered the paper cup, staring at him suspiciously. “You did? You listened to my show?”
“Of course I did,” he said, shifting his weight. He looked down at his shoes for a split second before meeting your eyes again, his gaze suddenly much heavier. “I wanted to hear your voice.”
The casual confession hit you right in the chest, entirely unbalancing you. This was the danger of Boo Seungkwan. He could flip the switch from annoying childhood best friend who hadn’t spoken to you in twelve years to a devastatingly sincere, loving man without even trying.
Holding a grudge against someone like that isn’t easy.
“I always knew you’d end up bossing people around for a living,” Seungkwan laughed, the sound warm and effortlessly familiar. One smile, and suddenly the years between you don’t feel so large anymore. You hate that most of all.
“Someone has to keep things in line,” you countered, taking the last sip of your punch. You looked up at him, letting the teasing persona slip away for just a moment, offering him a sincere smile. “But really... it’s good to see you, Boo. I’m glad you’re back.”
And you meant it with all your heart, far more than you’d ever imagined.
Seungkwan’s eyes softened, a profound sense of relief washing over his features. He had been so nervous about how you would react to seeing him after so much time had passed, but standing here, falling right back into your easy, comfortable rhythm, he felt an anchor drop.
“It really has,” he agreed, his voice dropping into a more earnest tone. He glanced around the chaotic recreation center, at the aunties dancing and the kids running around, before his gaze settled back on you. “I missed this. And,” he paused, a fond smile pulling at his lips, “I missed you.”
The words sat on the tip of your tongue, but you weren’t going to ruin this moment by saying them.
You bumped your shoulder playfully against his arm. “Don’t get soft on me now, sunbaenim. You have a reputation to uphold.”
“I’d prefer it if you just called me oppa,” he said playfully, bumping his shoulder against yours in return.
You scoffed, rolling your eyes. Back then, it had always been a running joke between the two of you. “Apparently not all your dreams came true.”
Before he could formulate a comeback, a loud voice shattered your comfortable bubble.
“Look at them! Didn’t I tell you?” your mother crowed, suddenly appearing at Seungkwan’s elbow with Mrs. Boo right behind her. Both women looked like cats who had just cornered a very plump canary.“Like no time has passed at all!”
You immediately stood up straighter, shooting a panicked look at Seungkwan. “Mom, please. We’re just catching up.”
“Well, keep catching up!” Mrs. Boo cheered, clapping her hands together. “Seungkwanie, why don’t you get Y/N a plate of food? The poor girl is starving, her mother said she practically lives at that radio station.”
Seungkwan cleared his throat, stepping back into his polite and respectful persona with practiced ease, though he threw a quick amused glance your way. “Of course, Eomma. I’ll take good care of her.”
As the two mothers linked arms and walked away, practically vibrating with matchmaking glee, Seungkwan turned back to you, the smirk firmly back in place.
You let him lead you toward the food, shaking your head even as a smile spread so wide across your face that your cheeks began to ache. In just a few minutes, you realized how effortlessly he could slip back into your life. Boo Seungkwan was home, and suddenly, everything felt a whole lot brighter.
PRESENT
They were right. The number of listeners had increased exponentially in less than a week, and although you hated to admit it, Seungkwan was right. You were happy with what your presence as co-host was doing for the station, more than happy, actually. Even on the street, people stopped you to say how much they loved the show, how they tuned in every night.
Everyone at the station was celebrating the results, and it felt as though everything had come back to life. Besides, you couldn’t deny it: the show really was that good.
Pulled out of your daydream by the sound of someone lazily tapping on the glass, you see the only other person you trust in your control booth: Hansol. He point his indicator at both of you and flashes up three fingers. Thirty seconds to air.
You nod, keeping your eyes locked on the console. The ON AIR sign bleeds neon red across the studio glass, emitting a low, sixty-cycle hum. You push the faders up, and the bright, tropical synth-pop intro of your show, Love Is on the Radio, fills the booth. You slide Seungkwan’s mic fader up first, then bring yours up a second later.
Instantly, the annoying best friend vanishes out of him. His posture straightens, his chin tilts to the perfect angle for a camera that isn’t even there, and he leans into the microphone.
Seungkwan is usually a very confident man, but watching him in his element always feels like seeing a whole new side of the boy you once knew, or the man you found six months ago in his childhood bedroom at his mother’s house, quietly moping and counting the petals on her hydrangeas because he was bored out of his mind.
“I was meditating, not moping,” he defended himself when you brought the subject up two weeks ago, a hand placed over his heart, looking personally wounded.
You were the one who suggested to Seungcheol that he could offer Seungkwan the position after you ran into him at the party. So now, because of your brilliant idea, if the people of Jeju don’t buy into Seungkwan’s “revolutionary ideas” about love and romance, your reputation is going down the drain right along with his.
“Good evening, Jeju! You’re back with your favorite duo,” you say, leaning into your mic with a practiced, bright energy, settling into your radio voice. “I’m your temporary host, Kang Y/N, and sitting across from me is the man who spent forty-five minutes this morning debating whether or not he’s a Taejoon or a Jungwoo: it’s Boo Seungkwan.”
Seungkwan let out a soulful chuckle that rumbles smoothly through your headphones. “Listen, the new season of Single’s Inferno is a sociological study! It’s about the raw human condition! Hello everyone, I’m Seungkwan. And for the record? I’m definitely a Taejoon. I’m loyal, I’m funny, and I look great in a vest.”
When Seungkwan speaks, his voice drops an octave, dripping with the velvety, honeyed charisma that had made him the nation’s beloved vocalist for more than a decade. By now, you’re trained to ignore the things it does to you.
“You’re a Eunseo at best, dramatic and prone to crying in the back of a van,” you retort, checking the monitor. “But we aren’t here to talk about your identity crisis, my friend. We’re here to talk about the Paradise dates. Kwan, as our resident romance expert, what did you think of the bonfire confession?”
You already knew what Seungkwan thought about them, considering the two of you had watched the episodes together on your couch the night before. Your mom and grandmother had spent the entire evening pampering him so much that, at one point, you found yourself wondering whether he was the real member of the family and not you.
“It was amateur hour, Y/N. If you’re going to confess your feelings, you need atmosphere. You need a build-up. You can’t just blurt it out between bites of grilled sea bream!”
You both move like a well-oiled machine. For the first fifteen minutes, it’s a masterclass in broadcasting. The two of you debate the new episodes of the latest season of Single’s Inferno, practically disagreeing with everything the other says for no reason at all, just for the fun of arguing and rage-baiting each other.
“Spoken like a man who has watched exactly three hundred dramas and participated in zero actual dates,” you tease after he describes how perfect one of the dates in Paradise was.
Not that you knew anything about Seungkwan’s love life, considering the two of you hadn’t reached that topic of conversation yet, even if you had already spilled your heart out to him during one drunken night.
Honestly, the less you knew, the better.
“I am a scholar of the heart!” he defends, a hand over his heart, even if you’re the only one who can see him. “Anyway, before we get to our first caller of the night, it’s time for my favorite part of the show. Let’s open our Time Capsule of Love.”
You hit the transition, a nostalgic, grainy vinyl crackle. “Tonight’s request comes from a listener in Aewol who wants to remember their first summer love,” you announce. “Here’s Perhaps Love by HowL & J.ae.”
As the classic track starts playing, you slide the faders down.
“We’re clear for, like, three minutes,” you mutter, stretching your arms as you stand to refill your water bottle and grab a cookie from the box Chan had left earlier, sometime before the show started.
Seungkwan also stretches back in his creaky old chair. You can feel his eyes following you around the room, tracking your movements, and it doesn’t take much to realize he has something sitting right on the tip of his tongue to comment on or ask you.
It was funny how inseparable the two of you had become since reuniting, how effortlessly you’d slipped back into your old rhythm. How well you still knew him and all his mannerisms, like the back of your hand. But there was still one massive elephant in the room: neither of you had said a word about those twelve years of silence.
You wouldn’t say you were exactly okay with it, but at the same time, you were terrified of bringing it up and ruining everything the two of you had rebuilt over the past six months. You could only hope it wouldn’t all come crashing down around you somewhere in the future.
You raise an eyebrow and cross your arms, the water sloshing softly inside the bottle as the music continues to play. “What?”
“Are you going to Youngjae’s place after this?” Seungkwan asks, trying to sound nonchalant as he pretended to examine his fingernails.
“Don’t know yet. Why?”
Seungkwan spins his squeaky chair a half-inch to the left, leaning his elbows on his knees. The playful, broadcast-ready smile he wore just a minute ago completely dissolves, replaced by a tight, familiar, almost sulky frown.
“Just wondering if you’re parking in his driveway tonight,” Seungkwan says, his tone dangerously passive, “or if you’re still relegated to the visitor’s spot three blocks down so his neighbors don’t start asking questions about the mystery woman sneaking in after dark.”
You almost choke on your piece of cookie. You swallow hard, shooting a panicked glare through the glass to make sure Hansol isn’t paying attention to the booth or your conversation, only to find him lost in his own world as always.
“Keep your voice down, tattletale,” you hiss, tossing the rest of the cookie onto a napkin and sitting back down in your chair. “And for your information, he has a very strict building policy. It’s not about me or our relationship. It’s about his privacy.”
That’s a lie, but you won’t give Seungkwan the satisfaction of being right. And he seems to know it, a scoff slipping past his lips.
“Right.” He drags the word out. “The notorious anti-girlfriend bylaws of Jeju real estate,”
“Kwan, don’t start—”
Seungkwan reaches out, tapping the edge of your console. “Are you listening to yourself, Y/N?Privacy is keeping your relationship off Instagram. What he’s doing is hiding you.”
You were past that stage. Past thinking too much about it. Past pretending you didn’t know that Youngjae was hiding your relationship from his friends, family, and even his neighbors. You knew he was. And it was complicated. Or at least, that’s what he’d been telling you ever since you rekindled your relationship a year ago.
Seungkwan, unlike you, had called it what it was the moment you told him you were back with Youngjae, but that only a small number of people knew. At the time, you thought it was just because Seungkwan hadn’t liked him back in your school days. Now, you were starting to have doubts about… well, everything.
But you wouldn’t discuss that here, much less in the middle of a broadcast with Perhaps Love playing as the soundtrack to this conversation.
“We have an arrangement that works for us. He’s a private person, Seungkwan. Not everyone wants their life broadcasted to the masses like you do.”
It’s a low blow, and you know it the second the words leave your mouth. Seungkwan flinches, just barely, but his dark eyes stay locked onto yours. The air in the tiny studio suddenly feels impossibly thick.
You close your eyes, dragging a hand down your face.
It comes and goes. The resentment you feel toward him for never calling or reaching out, for never answering your letters or your calls. It comes and goes.
“I didn’t meant to.”
You see Seungkwan swallow, his lips pouting slightly like he’s choosing his next words.
“I spent ten years hiding every single aspect of my life to survive in the industry, tokki.” His voice drops into a quiet, raw register that makes your chest ache. It’s worse because he calls you that. “So I know exactly what it looks like when someone treats you like a liability instead of a partner.”
“Why do you even care?” you snap, crossing your arms defensively to hide the way your hands are shaking. You really, really want to know why. “You’re my friend, Boo. Not my life coach.”
“I care because it’s pathetic watching you settle for him!” he fires back, leaning closer until his face is just inches from the mic stand. “You sit here every night, teasing me about my expertise on romance, but at least I know how to treat a girl.”
You open your mouth to argue, but the words die in your throat. He’s looking at you with that same fierce, frustrated intensity he had behind the school, in your spot, all those years ago, when Youngjae invited you out for banana milk. And it makes something strange shift inside your chest.
It has been happening a lot ever since Seungkwan came back into your life.
When you look away to avoid meeting his eyes, the digital clock on the monitor catches your attention. 0:15 seconds until the song ends.
“I’m not having this conversation with you right now,” you whisper, your voice trembling as you reach for the faders.
Seungkwan lets out a quiet, nasal laugh that makes it clear he expected you to avoid the subject. You hate that he still knows you so well—just as well as you know him—and you hate even more how easily the two of you slip back into old habits.
“You’re going to have to eventually,” he grumbles, leaning back into his chair as he adjusts his headphones. The hard edge in his eyes softens into something that looks dangerously like pity, and you hate that even more. “Because if he doesn’t figure out how to treat you right, someone else will.”
You want to ask him what he means by that, but there isn’t enough time.
0:03 seconds.
Hansol pops up behind the glass again, pointing a finger again. You take a shaky breath, give him a thumbs-up, and force the lump in your throat down as you slide the faders up and put your headphones back on.
4 MONTHS AGO
It had barely been a month since Seungkwan had reentered your life like a localized hurricane, and the boundaries of your resurrected friendship were still painfully blurry. You had survived the initial shock of his return, the awkwardness of not speaking for so long, and the surreal reality of seeing a former national idol casually drinking cheap instant coffee in the station’s break room.
That night, however, was the first time the two of you had gotten drunk together.
You were both sitting in a small, slightly dingy pojangmacha tucked away in a narrow alley behind the station. Inside, the air smelled of fried pork belly and spicy rice cakes, cut through by the almost clinical smell of spilled soju. Rain lashed relentlessly against the thick orange plastic tarps surrounding the tent, the sound creating a surprisingly cozy bubble that shut out the rest of the city.
“Watch and learn,” Seungkwan slurred slightly, holding up a fresh, condensation slicked green bottle of soju. He grabbed a stainless steel chopstick from the tin cup on the table.
“One of your many new talents?”
He nodded, a smirk tugging at his lips. “They didn’t teach me this in idol training. I had to learn this in the trenches of company dinners.”
With a flick of his wrist that was entirely too aggressive, he brought the chopstick up against the cap of the bottle. Instead of cleanly popping off, the cap flew violently into the air, ricocheting off the plastic tent wall and landing squarely in your bowl of complimentary radish soup.
You stared down at the floating metal cap, and then slowly raised your eyes to look at him.
Seungkwan froze, his hand still suspended in the air, a sheepish, incredibly boyish grin spreading across his flushed face. “Ta-da?”
“You’re paying for my next bowl of soup, Kwan,” you deadpanned, though you couldn’t fight the laugh that bubbled up in your chest. You fished the cap out with your spoon and flicked it at him. “And you’re a menace to society. It’s a miracle you survived Seoul.”
“Seoul was easy,” Seungkwan retorted, pouring the soju into two tiny glass cups, his coordination slightly compromised by the three bottles already sitting empty at the edge of the plastic table. “Jeju is the real battlefield.”
You laughed, arching an eyebrow. “And why is that?”
“Yesterday, an auntie at the market smacked me with a leek because I couldn’t remember her dog’s name,” he said with a laugh.
“To be fair, Dooboo is a local legend. You disrespected an icon,” you pointed out, picking up your glass. “Cheers to Dooboo.”
“Cheers to Dooboo,” Seungkwan echoed, clinking his glass against yours.
You both threw back the clear liquid. The burn was sharp but grounding, loosening the tight, perpetual knot of anxiety that lived at the base of your spine. You set the small glass back down on the table with a soft thud and exhaled sharply.
The alcohol was doing its job. The twelve-year gap between you was dissolving with every shot, the comfortable, relentless bickering of your childhood sliding right back into place.
For the last two hours, you’d been trading war stories. He filled you in on the absurd reality of dorm life, grueling tour schedules, and the bizarre diets the agency forced on him. In return, you regaled him with the unglamorous chaos of university life and local radio with callers determined to debate the existence of sea monsters, power outages during live broadcasts, and the time you accidentally played a funeral dirge instead of the morning weather jingle.
It felt incredibly and dangerously good. You hadn’t felt this seen, this entirely yourself, in a very long time.
And that was exactly why his guard didn’t just come down, it plummeted.
Your phone, sitting face up next to your chopsticks, vibrated violently, the screen lighting up the sticky table. The name Youngjae flashed across the glass.
The comfortable warmth in your chest vanished instantly, replaced by a cold wave of dread. You were supposed to meet Youngjae for dinner tonight. He had canceled an hour before you got off work — a vague text about “overtime” and “not wanting to push it at the hospital” — leaving you stranded.
That was when Seungkwan had popped his head into the editing booth and dragged you out into the rain.
You quickly reached out, flipping he phone face down with a dismissive motion. Then you reached for the soju bottle, carefully avoiding Seungkwan’s eyes.
“Who was that?” Seungkwan asked, his tone casual, though his inquisitive eyes tracked the defensive stiffness in your shoulders.
“No one,” you lied smoothly, pouring yourself another shot. “Just spam.”
“At one in the morning?” Seungkwan arched an eyebrow, skeptic. He reached across the table, his fingers gently tapping the back of your phone case. “You looked like you just saw a ghost. Is it work? Did Chief Choi find out you’re the one who broke the coffee machine?”
“I didn’t break the coffee machine, it was a structural failure,” you protested automatically, knocking the shot back. The alcohol hit your stomach, loosening your tongue just a fraction too much. “And it’s not work. It’s just Youngjae.”
Seungkwan’s hand stilled. He swallowed a laugh, and you noticed it immediately in the silence that followed.
“Youngjae?” Seungkwan repeated, the playful lilt completely draining from his voice. No, he thought, not again. “Cho Youngjae?”
You just nodded, and he simply couldn’t string together a complete sentence anymore. You took a long sip of soju straight from the bottle, and Seungkwan exhaled slowly through his mouth, trying not to let it show anymore that the mention of Youngjae’s name had bothered him. With any luck, you’d be too drunk tomorrow to remember it.
“Why is he texting you at 1 AM?”
You sighed, dragging a hand down your face. The soju was making it incredibly difficult to maintain the unbothered facade you usually wore.
“I didn’t know you two were still together,” Seungkwan said before you could answer, in what he hoped was a casual tone, though he couldn’t quite tell if his expression helped sell it.
Shortly after Seungkwan left, you and Youngjae started dating. At the time, you were still in contact with Seungkwan, trying to keep up with him as much as you could. During your phone calls, he kept insisting that Youngjae wasn’t the right guy for you. But when you finally decided to listen to him and broke up with Youngjae, Seungkwan disappeared from your life not long after.
“We dated, broke up, got back together, broke up again, and then got back together and—”
“Are you together now?” he interrupted.
You nodded. “We’ve been dating for eight months.”
Seungkwan blinked, the information processing slowly through the alcohol haze. “Why didn’t you tell me before?”
“That’s the thing,” you muttered, staring down at your empty shot glass. “It’s… a secret. He doesn’t want the hospital to find out. He says it could ruin his chances of getting a spot at this big hospital in Seoul next year. So we don’t tell anyone. We just… sneak around.”
The silence that fell over the table was sudden and deafening, save for the rain hitting the tarp.
When you finally looked up, you physically flinched at the expression on Seungkwan’s face. The boyish, flushed, drunken demeanor was entirely gone. His jaw was clenched so tight a muscle ticked near his ear, and his dark eyes were blazing with a sudden, terrifying intensity.
“He hides you,” Seungkwan stated. It wasn’t a question. It was a condemnation.
“It’s not like that,” you backpedaled, suddenly overcome by the desperate need to defend a relationship you weren’t even sure you wanted to be in anymore. “It’s just practical.”
A frown creased the middle of his forehead. “Why are you doing this? Why are you letting him treat you like you’re something to be ashamed of?”
Because you were terrified of being left behind again. Because Youngjae, with his cold, distant, and conditional affection, felt safer than risking your heart on someone who could truly break it by leaving.
But you couldn’t say that to him. Not yet. Not ever.
“Drop it, Seungkwan,” you warned, your voice trembling slightly. You grabbed the green bottle and practically slammed it onto the table between you. “I mean it. If we are going to be friends again, you drop it. We are not talking about my pathetic love life. We are getting drunk.”
Seungkwan stared at you for a long, almost agonizing moment. The tension between you crackled, charged and unresolved. He looked at the bottle, then at your fiercely guarded expression. Slowly, he reached out and took the bottle from your hand.
“Fine,” he muttered, his eyes dark. He poured you both a brimming shot. “We’ll drop it. For tonight. Drink up, PD-nim. We’re going to a noraebang.”
By 2:30 AM, the combative emotional atmosphere of the pojangmacha had been thoroughly obliterated by a lethal combination of cheap beer, more soju, and the aggressive, blinding neon lights of the noraebang.
You were currently standing on top of a sticky faux leather sofa, clutching a plastic tambourine. The disco ball above you cast spinning, dizzying patterns of purple and green across the tiny, enclosed room. Below you, standing in the center of the room with the microphone cord wrapped twice around his wrist, Seungkwan was giving you an exclusive performance.
“TEARS!” Seungkwan screamed into the microphone, his head thrown back as he unleashed the impossibly high notes of the song.
His vocal control, even while completely blackout drunk, was infuriatingly perfect. He hit the high note, dropped to his knees on the sticky linoleum floor, and pointed dramatically at you.
“Hit it!” he yelled over the instrumental break.
You aggressively smashed the tambourine against your hip, totally off-beat, screaming the background vocals with zero regard for pitch or human decency.
“You’re pitchy!” Seungkwan shouted, scrambling up from the floor. He grabbed a second microphone off the table, and tossed it to you. “Get down here and sing, you coward!”
“Your stage presence is lacking, Boo!” you yelled back, refusing to step down from the sofa. “Give me some emotion!!”
Seungkwan gasped in mock offense. He tossed his jacket onto the floor, jumped onto the small glass coffee table in the center of the room — the table groaning ominously under his weight — and struck a pose better suited to a sold-out stadium than a fifteen-dollar-an-hour karaoke room.
The track switched. The dramatic synth intro of a classic early 2000s heartbreak ballad filled the room.
Seungkwan closed his eyes, clutching the mic with both hands, and began to sing with such exaggerated and theatrical grief that you immediately doubled over laughing. He sank to his knees on the table, reaching a hand out toward you as if you were a lover drifting away on a life raft.
“Why did you leave me?!” he wailed, completely off-script, making the lyrics up as he went. “I gave you my heart, and you gave me a broken tambourine!”
“It was a metaphor for our friendship!” you shrieked back into your mic, tears of laughter streaming down your face. Suddenly, you couldn’t remember the last time you’d laughed that hard. Probably not in years.
You stepped off the sofa, stumbling slightly as the alcohol hit your equilibrium, and marched right up to the table. You pointed your microphone directly at his chest, looking up at him with a defiant, breathless grin.
“You just don’t appreciate my genius!”
Seungkwan dropped the theatrical act, though he didn’t drop his gaze. He reached down and grabbed your microphone hand, pulling you close
For a second, the ridiculous facade completely shattered. You were suddenly entirely too close. Because he was kneeling on the table, you were perfectly at eye level. His chest was heaving, his hair messy and damp with sweat, flushed cheeks, his eyes completely blown out and dark in the spinning neon lights.
“You’re staring, tokki,” he murmured, his voice dropping an octave, the smooth tone vibrating right through the microphone and out into the small room.
“You’re in my space, Boo,” you shot back. You tried to sound authoritative, but your voice came out a little breathless, and you made absolutely no move to pull your hand out of his grip.
He tilted his head, a slow, devastating smirk spreading across his lips. His thumb absently stroked the back of your knuckles. “I think you like it.”
“You’re so arrogant, Boo Seungkwan,” you mumbled, stepping a fraction of an inch closer until your knees were practically brushing the edge of the glass table. “You’ve always been arrogant. When we were younger, it drove me absolutely crazy.”
Seungkwan let out a smug, nasal laugh. “Is that why you were always trying to beat me at stuff?” he teased, leaning in a little closer, the scent of soju and expensive cologne suddenly intoxicating. “Because you couldn’t handle the charm?”
“No,” you said, shaking your head, your eyes tracing the elegant line of his jaw. The spinning purple lights caught the flush on his cheeks. “I was trying to beat you because I was overcompensating. I had the biggest, most pathetic crush on you, and you were completely oblivious.”
The words slipped out with the terrifying ease of a drunken confession, made possible only by the fact that you were, in fact, very, very drunk. And maybe a little carried away by the thought that so many years had passed that none of it mattered anymore.
Or maybe still did… a little.
Seungkwan froze. The playful smirk vanished instantly. His fingers tightened around yours, his entire body going completely still on the table. The karaoke track blared on in the background, a saxophone solo filling the silence, but the air between you had turned to a vacuum.
“You... what?” he breathed, his voice barely audible over the music.
“Oh, don’t look so shocked,” you scoffed, waving your free hand dismissively, though a sudden, hot flush of embarrassment was rising up your neck. “We were fifteen. We spent a lot of time together. It was a statistical inevitability.”
You thought you’d read a article about it somewhere. Or maybe that was just your brain trying to convince itself.
He stared at you, his chest rising and falling rapidly, as if the oxygen had just been sucked out of the room. “You had a crush on me. Back then. Before I left.”
“Massive,” you confirmed, leaning back against the edge of the sofa behind you for balance. You let out a self-deprecating laugh, looking down at your boots. “And then you got on a plane and ruined my entire life. Tragic, really.”
You expected him to laugh. You expected him to tease you, to use it as ammunition for his ego, to make a joke about how he had always known he was irresistible.
But Seungkwan didn’t laugh.
When you looked back up, the expression on his face made your breath catch in your throat. He looked absolutely shattered. The boyish amusement was gone, replaced by a profound, agonizing realization that seemed to physically pain him. He slowly scrambled off the table, standing right in front of you, entirely ignoring the microphone he dropped onto the couch.
“Are you seriously telling me you never realized I had a crush on you back then?” you laughed, throwing your head back. “Jesus Christ. And I actually thought all that fame would’ve made you a little less clueless by now.”
Seungkwan stepped into your space, his hands coming up to gently, almost reverently, cup your face. His thumbs brushed over your cheekbones.
“Y/N,” he whispered, his voice thick with an emotion you couldn’t quite decipher, staring down at you with desperate intensity. “If I had known... I swear to God, if I had known...”
Right then, Seungkwan wanted to kiss you. Desperately.
The urge hit him so suddenly, so overwhelmingly, that it stole the oxygen from his lungs. It wasn’t just a passing thought; it was a physical ache. He wanted to close the distance, press his mouth to yours, and prove to you with absolute certainty that if he’d known, everything would have been different.
For years, Seungkwan had learned how to deal with girls. He had lived his life in a boy group, surrounded by beautiful actresses, stunning idols, and thousands of screaming fans. He knew how to flirt. He knew how to charm. But there was something about you that completely paralyzed him.
Maybe he would never be able to do it. The fear of ruining this—of crossing a line he could never uncross—was paralyzing. And maybe, he thought frantically, that was a good thing.
You were friends, weren’t you?
You had just barely managed to salvage this friendship from the wreckage of the last twelve years. He shouldn’t want to ruin that. He shouldn’t risk terrifying you away when you had just finally let him back in. He should just be profoundly grateful that you were willing to let him be a part of your life again.
But his gaze dropped to your lips, the air practically crackling with the electric, terrifying pull between you. He leaned in, the gap between you closing, his breath warm against your skin.
BEEP.
The song ended with an abrupt, jarring electronic shriek. The machine loudly announced your score in a cheerful, computerized voice: 42.
The spell shattered like a broken mirror.
You both jumped, practically flying apart. The sudden silence in the room was deafening. You immediately spun around, grabbing your coat off the back of the sofa, your heart hammering against your ribs so violently you thought you might actually faint.
Seungkwan cleared his throat loudly, busying himself with untangling the microphone cords, though his hands were visibly shaking.
“The machine is rigged,” he declared, his voice rough and uneven. He refused to look at you, staring intently at the plastic tambourine on the floor. “Forty-two? This machine is completely broken.”
“You were flat,” you lied, your own voice breathless as you practically sprinted for the door, desperate for oxygen. “Completely flat."
By the time you stumbled out onto the streets at 4 AM, the rain had stopped, leaving the asphalt slick and reflecting the streetlights. The freezing sea air hit your flushed face, sobering you up just enough to realize the massive, catastrophic mistake you had just made: you had just confessed your teenage feelings to the man who had just came back to your life.
You stood on the curb, waiting for the taxi Seungkwan had hailed, wrapping your arms tightly around yourself. He stood right beside you, a heavy, suffocating silence settling over the sidewalk. He shrugged off his jacket, stepping close enough to drape it over your shoulders without asking. The fabric was warm, heavy, and smelled devastatingly like him.
“Thanks,” you murmured, pulling it together, refusing to meet his eyes.
“I meant what I said,” Seungkwan said quietly into the night air, staring straight ahead at the empty road. “At the tent. Even if you’re mad at me. You deserve better, tokki. You always have.”
You looked up at him, at the profile of the boy who had once broken your heart, who had only just realized he could have had it all those years ago, and who was now systematically trying to win it back, even if you didn’t seem to realize it yet.
“I know,” you whispered, the lie tasting like ash in your mouth.
PRESENT
“I just don’t know,” Chan mutters, running a hand through his hair, turning on his heel to pace back the other way. “Her profile says she likes hiking and eye contact. What does that even mean?”
The lights in the break room hum with that same high-pitched whine that usually drives you crazy. Tonight, though, you barely notice it, drowned out by the sound of Chan pacing a hole into the cheap linoleum floor.
He glances between your faces, not breaking his pacing for a second. “Is she going to stare into my soul while we eat? What if she’s a serial killer who uses dating apps to harvest organs?”
You lean back in the rickety plastic chair, nursing a lukewarm can of vending machine coffee. Across the small table covered with crumbs, Seungkwan is meticulously trying to free a bag of Honey Butter Chips from the machine’s coils, stubbornly jammed.
“I have great kidneys,” Chan continues. “They’re pristine. I drink so much water.”
Your phone, sitting face up next to your coffee can, buzzes violently against the table. The screen lights up, illuminating the dim space with a harsh white glare, and you don’t even have to look to know who it is. You don’t pick it up, but you see them glowing on the screen.
[Youngjae - 9:14 PM]: Where are you?
[Youngjae - 9:15 PM]: You ignored my call.
[Youngjae - 9:15 PM]: I left my spare keys at my hospital and I’m locked out. Bring me your set ASAP.
Your heart rate skips, a familiar, ugly knot of anxiety tightening in your stomach. You massage your temples, quickly turning your phone off and pointedly ignoring the messages. He knows you’re at work, for crying out loud. He knows your schedule. He knows you can’t leave right now.
“Are we really having this conversation?” you ask.
“If she harvests your kidneys, I get your green leather jacket,” Hansol chimes in from the corner sofa. He doesn’t even look up from his phone, his thumb lazily scrolling. “Put it in your will.”
“I don’t have a will, hyung!” Chan practically shrikes, stopping his pacing to glare at Hansol. He turns his desperate gaze toward the table. “Look, I’m begging you guys. I haven’t been on a blind date since… well, ever. I don’t know the protocol. I need security.”
Seungkwan finally gives the vending machine a solid hip-check. The coil shudders, and the bag of chips drops with a satisfying crinkle. He scoops it up, tossing a triumphant look your way before turning to Chan.
“Security?” Seungkwan echoes, popping the bag open and immediately offering it to you first, a habit you try not to think too hard about. You take a chip. “What are we supposed to do? Tackle her if she reaches for a steak knife?”
“No! Just… be there,” Chan pleads, pulling up a chair and straddling it backward. “Saturday night. That Italian place near the marina. Don Capri.”
“Wow, that sounds expensive,” you say, entirely off-topic, but not wrong. The restaurant is one of the most expensive in the city. You’ve never been there. Not on a date, anyway. “How much is Seungcheol paying you as a junior writer?”
“It’s dimly lit. Romantic.” Chan throws his hands up in the air. “The point is, if you guys are sitting at the table next to us, I’ll feel safe. If she turns out to be crazy, you swoop in and pretend there’s a work emergency.”
“What if the things go well?” you ask, resting your chin on your fist.
“Then, you just eat your free pasta and leave me alone.”
“Free pasta?” Hansol suddenly looks up, his interest momentarily piqued, before his eyes drops back to his screen. “Actually, never mind. I have plans tomorrow.”
Chan lets out a frustrated groan, dropping his head onto his arms on the back of the chair. He looks up at you through his bangs, deploying a pathetic, puppy-dog pout he knows works on you, because it always does.
“Noona? Please? You’re practically my boss. It’s a liability issue if I get murdered.”
You sigh, taking another sip of the terrible coffee. “Chan, I don’t think—”
“We’ll do it,” Seungkwan interrupts smoothly.
You snap your head to look at him. “Excuse me?”
Seungkwan pops a chip into his mouth, leaning back in his chair and crossing his arms. He looks ridiculously unfairly handsome in his oversized vintage knit sweater. “We will absolutely do it. It’s perfect. It’s fieldwork.”
“Fieldwork?” you repeat, narrowing your eyes.
“We host a romance advice show, Y/N,” he points out, a mischievous glint in his eye. Hansol suddenly looks very interested in the conversation, and you’re dying to know why.
“And that should justify us going on a date with Chan because…?”
Seungkwan looks at you like the answer is obvious. It’s not. And deep down, you know he’s not saying everything.
“How are we supposed to advise the lonely hearts of Jeju if we aren’t out in the trenches, observing modern dating in its natural habitat?” He chews a chip theatrically and far too loud for your liking. “Besides, you’ve been working too hard. You need a good meal. My treat.”
“I don’t need fieldwork, and I don’t need you to buy me dinner,” you shot back, though your stomach traitorously rumbles at the mention of good meal. “And what if Youngjae—”
You stop yourself, but the name hangs in the air like a bad smell.
Seungkwan’s playful demeanor instantly evaporates. The warmth in his eyes hardens into something piercing and unreadable. He slowly sets the bag of chips down on the table.
“What if Youngjae what?” he asks, an eyebrow raising. “Doesn’t want you going out in public with your friends now?”
Here we go again.
“Shut up, Boo,” you mutter, looking away.
“It’s a favor for Chan, tokki” Seungkwan continues, leaning closer across the table, his voice low enough that Chan and Hansol can’t hear. “A free meal. And you get to spend two hours pretending to be my date. I know you’ve been dreaming of the opportunity.”
If only he knew.
In moments like this you wonder whether he really doesn’t remember the night the two of you got drunk and confessed having crushes on each other when you were younger. That maybe he’s just pretending not to remember, exactly like you are.
You scoff, your cheeks heating up despite your best efforts. You won’t giving him the satisfaction. “In your dreams, and maybe in my nightmares.”
If only you knew.
Contrary to what you believed, Seungkwan remembers that night perfectly. He remembers wanting to kiss you in that moment, and every day that followed. He remembers catching himself wishing, with everything he had, that you still felt the same way, even if he doesn’t believe you do.
And if he had to take you on a fake date under the excuse of keeping an eye on Chan, then hell, he’d do it. He’d do anything to make you feel that way about him again.
“So it’s a yes?” Chan asks, completely oblivious to the sudden tension vibrating between the two of you.
Seungkwan don’t even let you open your mouth. “It’s a yes,” he confirms, his eyes never leaving yours. “We’ll be your security.”
Chan lets out a massive sigh of relief, jumping up to grab Hansol by the shoulders. “You hear that, hyung? I’m going to survive! Now, let me show you her profile.”
As Chan drags a deeply reluctant Hansol toward the corner to inspect the photos on the girl’s profile, you let out a long breath and reach across the table to steal another chip. Seungkwan watches you chew, a small, knowing smile tugging at the corners of his lips.
“Shut up.”
“I didn’t say anything,” he defends himself, throwing his hands up in surrender.
The break room door swings open, and Seungcheol pokes his head in, looking frazzled. “Five minutes to air, you two. Let’s go, the board is already lit up with callers.”
You grab your notes and your phone, practically sprinting out of the break room to escape the look in Seungkwan’s eyes. You make it down the hallway and push through the heavy double doors into the station’s main lobby, heading for Studio B.
But you stop dead in your tracks.
Standing by the reception desk, drenched from the rain and looking absolutely furious, is no one other than Youngjae.
He is wearing an expensive trench coat, his jaw clenched so tightly that a muscle ticks in his cheek. The poor nighttime receptionist looks terrified, shrinking back behind her monitor as Youngjae taps his fingers aggressively on the glass partition.
“Youngjae?” you gasp, your voice echoing slightly in the empty lobby.
He turns, his eyes locking onto you with laser precision. The relief you would normally feel at seeing him is entirely absent, replaced by a cold, sinking dread. He marches across the lobby, closing the distance in seconds, rainwater dripping from his clothes onto your shoes.
“I told you to bring me the keys,” he hisses, keeping his voice low but laced with venom.
“I go on air in five minutes,” you stutter, taking a subconscious half-step back. “I can’t leave the building, Youngjae. Why didn’t you just wait for me to bring them to you after the show?”
“Because I don’t want to sit here for three hours while you play radio host!” he snaps, stepping closer, his imposing frame crowding your space. “This is ridiculous, Y/N. I have a major surgery tomorrow morning. You think your little late night advice segment is more important than my career?”
“It’s not a little segment, it’s my job,” you defend, your voice trembling slightly. “I have responsibilities here.”
“Responsibilities,” Youngjae scoffs loudly, a harsh, dismissive sound. “You play music and talk to lonely housewives.” He holds out his hand, palm up, expectant and demanding. “Give me the keys.”
You reach into your pocket, your fingers brushing against the cold metal of the spare keys, feeling a sudden and overwhelming wave of humiliation. You are the lead producer of the most popular late night show on the island, yet here you are, being scolded like a disobedient child in the middle of your workplace.
Before you can pull the keys out, a solid figure steps up right beside you.
“Is there a problem here?”
Seungkwan’s voice is completely devoid of its usual warmth, the one he usually reserves for you. It’s cold, flat, and carries a quiet authority you’ve rarely heard him use. That’s a side of him you don’t often see. Seungkwan has always been gentle and soft-spoken with everyone, especially you, despite your usual bickering. So for him to speak like that, you know he’s really not having it.
Youngjae blinks, momentarily taken aback, before his expression curls into a sneer. He looks Seungkwan up and down, taking in the knit sweater and the casual stance. “This doesn’t concern you, Boo. Stick to your silly script.”
“It concerns me when you show up at my workplace screaming at my producer five minutes before a live broadcast,” Seungkwan replies, not moving an inch. He shifts his weight, subtly positioning himself so that his shoulder overlaps yours, creating a physical barrier between you and Youngjae. “You’re disrupting the station.”
“I’m talking to my girlfriend,” Youngjae snaps, his voice rising in volume. He tries to step around Seungkwan to get to you, but Seungkwan mirrors the movement, blocking him flawlessly.
“She’s working,” Seungkwan states simply.
“I don’t care if she’s working! She’s my—”
“If you don’t lower your voice,” Seungkwan interrupts, his tone dropping to a whisper, his eyes locked onto Youngjae’s, “I will have security escort you out. And trust me, I know exactly how to get someone thrown out of a building.”
The silence in the lobby is deafening. The receptionist is staring openly now. You can hear the rhythmic ticking of the wall clock.
Youngjae scoffs, trying to mask his intimidation with bravado, but he takes a step back. “You think you’re still a big shot, don’t you? You’re just a retired idol playing host at a local station.”
Seungkwan don’t rise to the bait. He don’t even blink. He just stares Youngjae down with an intensity that makes the air feel thin.
“Youngjae, enough!” You finally find your voice, and it surprises you how steady it sounds. The humiliation burns away, leaving behind a sharp, clean anger at the way he’s speaking to Seungkwan.
You step around Seungkwan, pulling the keys from your pocket. You don’t place them in Youngjae’s waiting hand; instead, you drop them onto the small glass coffee table next to him. They land with a loud, metallic clatter.
“I am at work,” you say, your voice ringing clear and authoritative in the quiet lobby. “You don’t come here and disrespect me. You don’t disrespect my colleagues. And you certainly don’t belittle what I do.”
Youngjae looks at the keys, then back at you, his eyes narrowing. “Are you serious right now? You’re making a scene over this?”
“No,” you correct him. “You made the scene. I am ending it. Take the keys and leave, Youngjae. Now.”
He stares at you, genuinely shocked. You’ve never spoken to him like this before. You’ve never pushed back. But standing here, with Seungkwan’s unyielding presence at your back, you feel a sudden, powerful surge of clarity. You are tired of shrinking.
Youngjae snatches the keys off the table, his face flush with a mix of embarrassment and fury.
He shoots one last, venomous glare at Seungkwan before turning on his heel. “We are talking about this later,” he throws over his shoulder, pushing through the front doors and disappearing into the rain.
The heavy doors swing shut, leaving a ringing silence in their wake.
Your adrenaline spikes, then immediately crashes. Your knees feel a little weak. You let out a shaky exhale, pressing the heels of your hands against your eyes. “Oh my god. I’m so sorry. I am so sorry you had to see that.”
Seungkwan turns to you, and the intimidating aura is gone. What replaces it is soft, immediate concern. He reaches out, his hands hovering around you as if he wants to pull you into his chest, but instead he settles for gripping your shoulders, his thumbs pressing reassuringly against your collarbones.
“Don’t apologize,” he says fiercely, his voice rough. “Don’t you ever apologize for him, Y/N.”
“He was so loud,” you whisper, humiliated tears pricking the corners of your eyes. “Everyone heard.”
“Good,” Seungkwan says stepping closer. His thumb brushes a stray tear from your cheek, the touch shockingly gentle. “Let them see that you don’t let anyone walk all over you. You were incredible just now.”
You look up at him. The lobby lights catch the deep brown of his eyes, turning them into something almost golden with protective pride that makes your chest ache. He isn’t looking at you with pity. He’s looking at you like you hung the moon.
You want him to kiss you.
And normally, you would say it’s because you were feeling vulnerable, but you know that isn’t it. Being with Seungkwan just inches away from you like this makes you feel like the teenage girl who was hopelessly in love with him. Honestly, you’ve been feeling this way ever since he came back into your life.
“Two minutes!” Seungcheol’s voice booms from down the hallway, echoing through the corridor.
Seungkwan lets his hands slide down your arms, giving your hands a quick, firm squeeze before letting go. You just nod to yourself, taking a deep breath, but as you turn toward the studio doors, he caught your elbow.
“Tokki, wait,” he starts, his voice dropping to a serious register. He steps closer, his shadow falling over you. “We need to talk about what just happened. About the way he treated you.”
You pull your arm back, shaking your head so hard your hair whips around your face. “I can’t, Seungkwan. Not now. I have a broadcast to get through.”
“You’re just going to pretend he didn’t try to dictate your entire life in front of your colleagues?”
“Please,” you cut him off, voice cracking. You look at the studio doors, desperate for the sanctuary of the booth. “Just… leave it alone. For tonight. If you care about me, just leave it alone.”
Seungkwan watches you, jaw tight, clearly wanting to push it further. Frustration and aching sympathy flicker across his face. He finally gives a short, stiff nod. “Fine. But we’re talking about this later.”
You don’t answer, just turn and walk toward Studio B, the weight of the night pressing down on you.
FIVE MONTHS AGO
Seungkwan’s house was entirely too quiet when you arrived. Usually, his home was a chaos of neighborhood gossip, the television blaring something, his sisters’ friends coming and going, and the smell of something delicious simmering on the stove. But today, the air felt subdued.
His mother met you at the front door with a deep, exhausted sigh. “He hasn’t left that room in three days. Ever since the official press release about his retirement hit the news cycle on Tuesday, he’s just been lying there. He won’t eat. He barely talks. It’s like all the light just drained right out of him.”
“I’ll handle it,” you promised, offering her reassuring smile. You gripped the manila folder in your hand a little tighter. “He just needs a push.”
You marched up the familiar wooden stairs, your socks padding softly against the floorboards. You knew exactly the kind of existential dread Seungkwan was currently drowning in. For eleven years, his entire identity had been tied to a grueling, relentless schedule. He was an idol, for crying out loud. He was a performer.
Now, standing on the other side of that massive, terrifying decision to walk away, the silence was probably deafening. He had jumped off the cliff, and he was currently waiting to see if the parachute was going to open.
You were here to be the parachute.
You pushed the door to his childhood bedroom open without knocking. The curtains were drawn tight, casting the room a gloomy and artificial twilight despite it being two in the afternoon.
Seungkwan was lying flat on his back in the center of his bed. He was wearing a faded gray sweatshirt and soft sweatpants, his arms resting limply over his stomach. He was staring blankly up at the ceiling, looking so profoundly lost and exhausted that it made your chest physically ache.
“Is this a wake?” you asked, your voice cutting through the stale air. “Because I’m not wearing black.”
Seungkwan jolted slightly, his head snapping toward the door. His eyes were dark, rimmed with the red, puffy evidence of a sleepless night. “Y/N? What are you doing here?”
“Intervention,” you announced simply.
You walked straight past his desk, didn’t bother to take off you oversized cardigan, and threw yourself unceremoniously onto the mattress right next to him.
The bedsprings groaned in protest as you landed flat on your back, your shoulder practically brushing against his. You crossed your ankles, folding your hands over your stomach, and mirrored his exact posture, staring up at the ceiling.
For a long moment, Seungkwan was too stunned to speak. He just turned his head, staring at your profile in absolute bewilderment.
“You’re invading my misery,” he finally muttered, his voice raspy and completely devoid of its usual bright energy.
“Well, misery loves company,” you countered easily, keeping your eyes on the faded, peeling glow-in-the-dark stars stuck to his ceiling. “Besides, we used to do this all the time. Remember? We spent half of our freshman year lying on this exact bed, staring at those stupid plastic stars.”
Seungkwan let out a hollow, humorless breath, turning his gaze back up to the ceiling. “Yeah. Usually because you were having a meltdown about a chemistry exam.”
“We used to lie here for hours,,” you continued softly, the memory bringing a bittersweet tightness to your throat. “Just talking. Planning out how we were going to conquer the world. We had it all figured out.”
“Now I’m almost thirty, unemployed, hiding from the paparazzi in my childhood bedroom, and you’re running a local radio station on an island we swore we’d escape.”
“Hey,” you admonished gently, shifting your weight so you could bump your shoulder against his. “My local radio station happens to be the second highest rated afternoon program in the district. And that is exactly why I’m here."
You reached over, slapping the manila folder onto his chest. He grabbed it instinctively before it slid off.
“What is this?” he asked, his brow furrowing as he looked at the logo on the cover.
“That is a job offer,” you declared, turning your head to look at him. “Yoona’s co-host is transferring to the morning news division next month. We need someone who can talk endlessly, who understands the entertainment industry, and who is incredibly desperate for a distraction.”
He frowned, his nose scrunching slightly in protest. “I wouldn’t call myself desperate.”
“Maybe not,” you shrugged. “But you do need a reason to get out of this bed, Kwan. And I need someone who won’t trip over the microphone cables. Help out your oldest friend, will you?”
Seungkwan stared at the folder, his thumb tracing the edge of the paper. You could see the gears turning in his head, the terrifying prospect of a new routine warring with the safety of his depression.
Before he could overthink it and hand the folder back, you let the tough-love producer persona drop entirely. The anger and the resentment from the past eleven years had been quietly eroding ever since he showed up at the recreation center, and seeing him like this—so broken and unsure—wiped out whatever was left of your pride.
“I missed you so much,” you whispered, the confession tumbling out of you before you could stop it.
You closed the remaining distance between you, turning on your side and resting your head gently against his shoulder. The fabric of his sweatshirt was soft, smelling faintly of fabric softener and the familiar scent that was just him.
Seungkwan froze for a fraction of a second, his breath hitching audibly in his chest, though his voice still sounded playful when he spoke. “Well, don’t go soft on me now.”
“Okay, forget it,” you said, struggling to stand as you pulled the folder off his chest.
But then, Seungkwan’s arm came up. He wrapped it securely around your shoulders, pulling you a fraction closer until you were tucked perfectly against his side. His other hand reached over, his long fingers finding yours in the space between you and grabbing your hand, intertwining your fingers with a desperate, crushing grip.
He leaned his head down, pressing his lips to the top of your head in a long, lingering kiss.
“I missed you every day,” he murmured into your hair. “Every single day, Y/N.”
You squeezed his hand, a sad smile touching your lips. “Liar. You forgot me.”
“And how could I forget you, tokki?” he asked softly, using the childhood nickname that instantly made your heart skip a beat.
You tilted your head up just enough to look at his face. “Are you still calling me that?”
“Always,” Seungkwan replied without a second of hesitation. He finally looked down, his eyes meeting yours in the dim light of the bedroom. The exhaustion was still there, but the absolute, unwavering certainty in his gaze took your breath away.
You stared at him, the weight of the last decade hanging in the six inches of air between your faces. You had spent so long building walls to keep him out, but lying here, tangled up with him in the quiet sanctuary of his room, it felt like no time had passed at all.
“Promise you won’t disappear this time,” you asked, your voice barely a whisper, entirely stripped of its usual sarcasm. It was a plea. A genuine, terrifying surrender.
Seungkwan looked into your eyes, tracking the slight tremble of your lower lip, the fearful hope shining in your gaze, and his heart physically violently hammered against his ribs. Swallowing down the desperate, burning need to kiss your lips, Seungkwan tightened his grip on your hand and forced a soft, reassuring smile.
“You’re going to get tired of me,” he said, his voice incredibly gentle. “I promise.”
He leaned down, carefully, deliberately, and kissed you on the forehead again. It was sweet. It was safe. It was the absolute maximum amount of restraint he was capable of mustering.
“I’ll take the job, PD-nim,” he whispered against your skin, closing his eyes as he breathed in the scent of your perfume. “I’m not going anywhere.”
PRESENT
The reservation at Don Capri was for 8:00 p.m. By 8:05, you’re huddled in a corner velvet booth with a perfect line of sight to Chan’s table, holding a leather-bound menu high enough to hide your face but low enough to keep table four in view.
“He’s sweating,” you whisper, adjusting the menu slightly. “I can see a bead of sweat on his temple from here. He’s going to dehydrate before the appetizers arrive.”
Across from you, Seungkwan let out a soft, amused hum. He didn’t bother hiding behind his menu. Instead, he sits perfectly relaxed against the velvet, looking entirely in his element.
“He’s fine, tokki. She just laughed at whatever he said,” Seungkwan observes, taking a slow sip of his water.
The second he shuts his mouth, something metallic crashes to the floor.
Seungkwan’s eyes widen. “Though he just knocked over the salt shaker. Give him ten minutes, if he drops his fork, we trigger the station emergency text.”
“Well, at least she doesn’t look like a serial killer,” you note, peering critically at Chan’s date again. She’s pretty, with an easy smile and, to her credit, she seems genuinely charmed by Chan’s nervousness.
“See? Fieldwork. I told you it would be fine.” Seungkwan reaches across the table, his fingers catching the top edge of your menu and pushing it down, forcing you to look at him. “Now stop spying. We are supposed to be blending in. If you keep staring at them, people are going to think we’re private investigators.”
You scoff, though your voice comes out a little breathless. “Blending in? We are sitting in a romantic Italian restaurant, hiding behind potted ferns. We look ridiculous.”
“We only look ridiculous because you’re acting like a spy,” Seungkwan corrects. “If we want to be convincing, we need to act like we belong here. Like we’re on a actual date. So stop slouching.”
And you don’t know it yet, but Seungkwan is fully intent on turning this into a actual date. Or at the very least, showing you how you deserve to be treated on one.
You straighten up, reflexively pulling your jacket tighter. “I am not slouching. I’m trying to be inconspicuous. Which is hard to do when you’re dressed like that.”
Seungkwan looks impeccable, actually. He’s wearing a navy lightweight sweater layered over a striped button-down, the collar and cuffs peeking out; a look so effortlessly devastating it made at least three women trip over their own feet on his way to the table. Your heart had done much the same when he showed up at your door dressed like that.
Not that you would say that out loud, anyway.
“Like what?” he asks, a playful glint in his eye as he leans back, looking entirely too relaxed for a stakeout.
“Like you’re going to a premiere, not babysitting a blind date,” you counter.
“If we’re going to be security, we have to look the part. If I look like a scrub, they’ll think we’re just two random people loitering. If I look like this,” he gestures to his outfit, “we’re a couple enjoying a nice, expensive dinner.”
You do your best to ignore him referring to the two of you as a couple.
He caught your eye and held it, the playfulness fading into something more deliberate. “Besides, you look beautiful tonight. Even if you are trying to hide behind the menu.”
You roll your eyes, ignoring the way your pulse skips. “Stop flirting with me, Boo Seungkwan.”
“Trust me, tokki,” Seungkwan says, a smirk tugging at his lips. You’ve never seen this side of him. “You’ll know when I’m flirting with you.”
A waiter approaches the table before you can say a word. He glances between the two of you, his gaze lingering on Seungkwan’s polished attire before softening when it lands on you.
“Good evening,” the waiter greets in a hushed tone. “Can I start you two off with a bottle of wine? We have a beautiful Sangiovese that pairs perfectly with the chill in the air tonight. Are we celebrating a special occasion?”
You open your mouth to stammer out a polite refusal, to explain that you were just friends having a quick bite, but Seungkwan beats you to it.
“We aren’t celebrating an anniversary, if that's what you mean,” Seungkwan smiles, the warmth in his expression entirely genuine as he looks at the waiter, and then at you. “But it is a special occasion. I finally convinced her to let me take her to dinner.”
The waiter chuckles. “Well, then, congratulations are in order for the gentleman. And for the lady, I promise the food will make the wait worthwhile. Shall I bring the wine?”
“Please,” Seungkwans nods. He don’t look at the menu; he keeps looking at you, eyes searching. “And we’ll put out food orders in now, too. We’ll start with the burrata, please. And for the main… Tokki, you still love the mushroom risotto, don’t you? With the truffle oil?”
You blink, startled. It’s been years since you mentioned that preference, during a crowded high school lunch, of all things. “I... yes. I do.”
“Two orders of the mushroom risotto,” Seungkwan says, turning back to the waiter. “And please, hold the olives for the lady. She hates them.”
The waiter beams. “Coming right up. A wonderful choice for such a lovely couple. I’ll be right back with your wine.”
As the waiter glides away, you stare at Seungkwan, your mouth slightly parts. Your fingers nervously curls into the heavy linen napkin on your lap. You could probably dwell on the fact that the waiter keeps referring to you as a couple, but only one thing is on your mind right now.
“You remembered that?” you whisper, almost disbelieving. “The mushroom risotto?”
Seungkwan leans his elbows on the table, resting his chin on his fingers. “I remember everything about you,” he says simply, shrugging slightly. “Besides, you always look at the past section first, but you invariably order rice dishes when you’re stressed. And right now, you’re tapping your foot against the table leg.”
You immediately still your foot, a flush of heat rising to your cheeks. He is paying attention. He is always paying an agonizing amount of attention to you.
“You didn’t have to put on the whole performance for the waiter,” you murmur, looking down at the flickering candle to avoid the heat of his gaze. “He probably thinks we’re together now.”
“That’s the point of blending in,” Seungkwan says softly. “But it wasn’t a performance. If I am taking you out to dinner, I’m going to do it right. You deserve to be taken out to a place with real tablecloths and good lighting.”
He doesn’t elaborate more. He simply picks up his water glass, clinks it against yours, and smiles. It’s the closest he has come to referencing your love life all evening, but he doesn’t cross the line. He keeps the focus entirely on the present, on the two of you in this dimly lit booth, slowly forgetting why you came in the first place.
The waiter returns, pouring two glasses of the dark red wine. Seungkwan picks his up, holding it out toward you.
“To fieldwork,” he toasts, a teasing smile playing on his lips.
You pick up your glass, the crystal clinking softly against his. “To Chan keeping both his kidneys.”
You take a sip. The wine is incredible, rich, complex, and warming you from the inside out. For the first time all week, the perpetual knot of anxiety in your chest begins to loosen. You lean back into the velvet booth, allowing yourself to actually look at the man sitting across from you.
“So,” you start, feeling a sudden urge of liquid courage. “If this were a real date, what would the great Boo Seungkwan talk about?”
Seungkwan laughs, a sound that rumbles over the ambient noise of the restaurant. “If you really want the full experience, you have to know the fine print.”
You arch an eyebrow, fighting a smile. “The fine print?”
“Yes. I’m incredibly demanding.”
“Oh, I’m sure.”
Seungkwan roll his eyes and leans forward, resting his forearms on the table. The candlelight dances across his features, highlighting the playful glint in his eyes.
“I require a lot of attention, tokki. You should know.” He winks at you. “I’m the guy who wants to know exactly what made you laugh on your dive to work, and why you always steal my pens during per-production eve though you have five of your own.”
“Yours are better and more expensive.” You lift a shoulder in your best you-got-me shrug.
Seungkwan doesn’t care. He’d buy a million pens just for you to steal if it made you happy.
He reaches across the table, his index finger lightly tracing the base of his wine glass. “And if this were a real date, I wouldn’t be looking at Chan right now. I’d probably tell you that the candlelight makes your eyes look absolutely incredible.”
Your breath hitches. The banter had shifted gears so smoothly you almost got whiplash. God, you’re supposed to be here to babysit Chan and his date, but right now the only thing you can think about is Seungkwan. You’ve practically forgotten table four exists.
“And then,” he continues, his voice sending a shiver straight down your spine, “I’d spend the rest of the appetizer course trying to figure out if you’re actually as unaffected by me as you’re pretending to be, or if I’m allowed to hold you hand across the table.”
Heat rushes to your cheeks, completely betraying your cool facade. “And what’s your conclusion, Boo?” you challenged, though there’s far less bite in your voice than usual. You can’t believe you’re actually flirting with your best friend right now.
“My conclusion,” he murmurs, his gaze dropping briefly to your lips before snapping back up to hold you stare, “is that you’re definitely not unaffected. You’ve been shredding your napkin for five minutes.”
You are affected. More than you want to admit, and definitely more than you want him to notice. You’ve been like this ever since Seungkwan came back, maybe even before that, when he existed only through blurry livestreams and phone screens.
You look down. The linen napkin in your lap is indeed thoroughly twisted between your tense fingers. You drop it immediately, clearing your throat, but you refuse to let him win that easily.
“You’re very confident in your methods,” you note, leaning forward so that you are mirroring his posture. You tilt your head, letting a slow smile cross your lips. “But I’m curious. You’ve laid out your entire strategy. What makes you think you’d survive my moves?”
Seungkwan pauses, the confident smirk faltering just a fraction as his eyes widen slightly. “Is that a challenge, tokki? What exactly are your moves?”
“Well,” you start, dropping your voice to match his intimate volume. “If this were a real date, I wouldn’t need to put on a performance. I’d just use what I already know."
You reach across the table, your fingers lightly grazing the cuff of his striped button-down, ostensibly to brush away a piece of invisible lint. You feel him tense under your touch.
“I’d tell you that you don’t need the expensive sweater to impress me, even though navy looks undeniably good on you,” you murmur, looking up through your lashes. “I’d point out that you always rub your thumb against your index finger when you’re trying to play it cool. just like you’re doing right now.”
Seungkwan’s hand stills against the table, his breath catching audibly. You bite your lip without thinking, and immediately watch his eyes drop to the movement.
“And then,” you continue, imitating him and thoroughly enjoying the sudden, flustered darkening of his eyes, “I’d remind you that I know exactly what you sound like when you’re genuinely caught off guard. And I’d make it my mission for the rest of the night to hear it.”
Seungkwan visibly swallows, his Adam's apple bobbing. The playful banter vanishes completely, replaced by a heavy, magnetic tension that completely short-circuits his brain. You can practically see the gears jamming as he stares at you, completely charmed and entirely at your mercy.
“You know, I’m just... invested in the mission,” you whisper, pulling your hand back and offering him an innocent, victorious smile.
“Right. The mission,” Seungkwan breathes out, his voice slightly rougher than it was a moment ago. He looks thoroughly wrecked by your counter-attack, and thoroughly entertained by it, too.
He reaches out, his fingers grazing your wrist as you reach for your water glass. The fleeting contact sends a jolt of electricity straight to your heart.
“Well, for the sake of the mission, I think we should keep up at the act. In fact, if the waiter comes back, I might just to lean in a little closer.”
“Don’t push your luck, Boo,” you warn, though a traitorous smile brakes across your face.
The burrata arrives, but neither of you pays any attention to it. The air inside the booth feels electric, every glance and teasing smile tightening the tension between you. The complicated reality of your life outside the restaurant fades into the background, replaced entirely by the thrill of Seungkwan’s undivided attention.
He’s flawlessly attentive, anticipating your needs before you voice them, teasing you gently, looking at you with such unwavering focus that the rest of the restaurant seems to disappear.
Once again, you’re laughing more than you have in months—maybe even years. You feel beautiful, interesting, completely captivating under Seungkwan’s gaze. It feels like you’re on an actual date. A hell of a good one, if you’re being honest.
By the time the waiter brings the check—which Seungkwan immediately snatches up before you can even think about reaching for your purse, shooting you a look that brooks absolutely no argument—you feel like you’re floating.
“Chan survived,” Seungkwan notes as he signs the receipt, subtly gesturing toward table four, where Chan and his date are bundled into their coats, flushed and smiling. “No organs harvested tonight.”
“Mission accomplished,” you agree, sliding out of the velvet booth.
As you stand, Seungkwan is already there, holding your coat open for you. You blink, faintly stunned, but slip your arms into the sleeves anyway. His hands linger lightly on your shoulders for a second longer than necessary, and the weight of his touch steals your breath all over again.
“Thank you,” you whisper, turning to look up at him.
“Anytime, tokki,” he smiles, stepping back to let you lead the way out of the restaurant.
TWO MONTHS AGO
Your mother’s inn was perched on a precipice, a jagged, flat-topped plateau of rock where the wind always smelled of salt. You could hear the waves crashing against the cliffs all night long, a rhythmic, slightly violent lullaby that had soundtracked your entire life.
The inn felt like a stubborn relic by now, while most of the city had sprouted sleek, glass-fronted luxury hotels and neon-lit resorts. It was weathered by the sea spray, its white paint peeling in places to reveal the sturdy, dark stone beneath, but there it stood: strong, and holding on.
You family quarters were tucked away at the back on the ground floor. That night, Seungkwan had insisted on walking you home after the show ended.
It started raining all of a sudden, and your mother was outside taking care of her plants when the two of you reached the door, soaking wet. She immediately insisted Seungkwan stay the night instead of walking home in the rain, even though he lived just down the street.
“Aigoo! Look at you both!” she shrieked, dropping a small trowel. “Y/N! Why didn’t you use an umbrella? And Seungkwanie! You’ll catch a cold and lose that voice of yours!”
“It’s just a little water, Auntie,” Seungkwan panted, trying to wipe his eyes, though he looked like he’d just climbed out of the ocean.
“Absolutely not,” she commanded, grabbing both of your elbows and hauling you inside the kitchen. “You are not walking home in this, Seungkwan. It’s pitch black and the wind is high enough to knock you off the cliff.”
“Mom, he lives five minutes down the street,” you reminded her, shivering as the air conditioning hit your wet skin.
“Five minutes too long! The road is slick, and your mother would kill me if her only son got pneumonia on my doorstep.” She was already rummaging through the linen closet, tossing a thick, oversized towel at Seungkwan’s head. “You’re staying. We have the guest room made up, and I’ll find some of your brother’s old clothes. Go, shower! Both of you!”
Seungkwan caught the towel, peeking out from under the white terry cloth. He looked at you, a hesitant, slightly mischievous glint in his eyes. He knew, as well as you did, that staying the night meant more than just avoiding the rain, it meant being back in the intimate, domestic bubble of your childhood, with sleepovers and everything that came with them.
You just shrugged. “You heard her.”
“I don’t want to be a burden...” he started, though his feet were already moving toward the hallway.
“The only burden is your chattering teeth,” your mother countered, already heading toward the stove to put on a pot of ginger tea.
You stood in the center of the kitchen, watching him. Seungkwan looked so out of place in your home, yet he smiled at your mother and thanked her with an ease that didn’t belong to the image you had of him. You didn’t know it, but he felt more at home there than he ever did in his apartment back in Seoul.
“Well,” you sighed, wringing out the hem of your shirt. “I guess we’re watching something here tonight.”
Seungkwan grinned, the water dripping from the tip of his nose. “Then hurry up, tokki. I’m not starting our study without you.”
Thirty minutes later, you left your room with a towel wrapped around your head, already dressed in your pajamas as walked down the hallway toward the living room, listening to your mother and grandmother’s voices as they talked to Seungkwan.
“Honestly, Seungkwanie, you look so thin. Does Pledis not feed their retirees?” your grandmother clucked, setting down a platter of golden-brown pajeon and a bottle of strawberry milk for him at the coffee table.
“Halmoni, you’re the only one who truly understands my nutritional needs,” Seungkwan chirped, his eyes crinkling into that sweet smile that had weaponized fans for more than a decade. He was already very comfortably settled on the sofa.
“Halmoni, stop,” you protested, placing a hand against her back in an attempt to guide her away. “He’s going to get an ego, and I’m the one who has to work with him tomorrow.”
“Oh, hush,” your mother dismissed you with a wave. She wiped her hands on her apron and sat on the edge of the armchair, fixing Seungkwan hair with a look that was equal parts maternal and deeply intrusive. “Leave the poor boy alone, Y/N.”
You could see it in her eyes as the gears in her head turned at terrifying speed, preparing whatever invasive question she was about to ask next. Your mother rarely believed in delicacy, privacy, or minding her own business. Especially when Boo Seungkwan was involved.
“Now, Seungkwanie, answer your Auntie honestly.” You squeezed your eyes shut the second a smile tugged at the corner of his mouth, already bracing yourself. “A handsome, successful man like you, finally back home in Jeju... you must have girls throwing themselves at you. Do you have a girlfriend tucked away somewhere in Seoul?”
Your grandmother nodded enthusiastically, not missing a beat as she sat down next to your mother. “Yes! We were just talking about this in the kitchen while you were showering. You know, when you two were teenagers, constantly attached at the hip, we always used to say it was only a matter of time. We always thought you and Y/N would end up together.”
God, that was worse than you could’ve imagined. Even if you actually agreed with her.
Your jaw practically unhinged. You froze right behind the sofa, your hands tightening their grip on the towel wrapped around your wet hair. “Halmoni! Mom! What is wrong with you?”
Seungkwan, to his credit, didn’t choke on his bite of pajeon. But a slow, blooming red flush crept up the back of his neck, visible even under the collar of the borrowed sweatshirt. He looked up at you over his shoulder, his eyes sparkling with a dangerous amount of amusement, before turning his polite smile back to the two women.
“No girlfriend, Auntie,” Seungkwan said politely, though his voice had dropped into that smooth tone that always made your pulse jump. “The group kept me pretty busy. I never really found anyone who could put up with me.”
He paused, taking a slow sip of his strawberry milk. His gaze drifted back up to catch yours, a thoroughly devastating smirk playing on his lips.
“But...” he continued, his eyes locking onto yours, “I have to admit, Halmoni has excellent intuition. I always thought we made a pretty perfect pair, too.”
You let out a strangled gasp, your face immediately burning hot. You grabbed a small embroidered throw pillow off the back of the sofa and chucked it directly at his head.
“Aigoo!” your mother scolded, though she was trying and failing to hide a massive grin as Seungkwan easily dodged the pillow with a laugh. “Y/N! Where are your manners? You don’t throw things at our guest.”
“He’s not a guest, it’s Seungkwan!” you shot back, completely flustered as you marched around the sofa to grab a piece of pajeon, avoiding Seungkwan’s entirely entirely too-smug expression. “And both of you need to stop encouraging him.”
“We’re just stating the facts,” your grandmother stated placidly, patting Seungkwan’s knee. “It’s nice to have you back, Seungkwanie. It feels like things are finally exactly where they’re supposed to be.”
“You know, Seungkwan,” your mother turned back to Seungkwan, her eyes sparkling with a sudden, mischievous memory. “Y/N was always your biggest supporter. Even when you weren’t here to see it.”
A cold spike of dread shot through your chest. “Mom. No.”
“In fact,” she continued, ignoring your frantic eye signals, “she kept a little... archive. In the back of her closet. It’s still there. All those albums and the rare photocards—”
This had to be a nightmare.
“Mom, I swear to God—”
“Photocards?” Seungkwan’s head whipped toward you again, his eyebrows arching toward his hairline. A slow, smug grin began to spread across his face. “Rare ones?”
“I don’t know what she’s talking about,” you muttered, your face heating to a shade of red that could rival the ON AIR sign back at the station.
“I’ll go get the binder!” you mother chirped, already scurrying toward the hallway.
“Mom! Don’t you dare!”
You scrambled after her, but it was too late. Within seconds, your mother returned, triumphantly hoisting a thick, plastic-sleeved binder and a dusty box. She dropped them onto the coffee table with a heavy thud.
Seungkwan leaned forward, his eyes wide with delight. He flipped the binder open. It was a chronological history of his career: rare photo cards you’d traded for, newspaper clippings from his first win on Music Bank, and even a crumpled receipt from his first fan meeting in Seoul.
“Is this…” Seungkwan traces the edge of a photocard where he's sporting a questionable bowl from his first studio album. “Y/N, even I don’t have this one.”
He looked at the box, pulling out a lightstick that had been carefully preserved, its battery long dead but the diamond inside still gleaming. He looked from the collection to you, his expression shifting from teasing to something much softer, much more complex.
“You kept everything,” he whispered.
You stood by the TV, arms crossed tightly over your chest, feeling exposed in a way that had nothing to do with radio broadcast. You felt like the teenage girl again, sitting on the parapet, watching the boy you loved walk away toward a life you couldn’t follow.
“It’s just... memorabilia,,” you lied, your voice tight in your throat. “For the history of Jeju’s most famous export.”
Another lie. That entire collection had been your way of staying close to Seungkwan after he cut you out of his life without a single explanation. You didn’t just want to support his career, you wanted to feel close to him somehow, no matter how ridiculous it made you feel.
And honestly, you’d owned far more than what was left in that box. At one point, you even bought a life-size cardboard cutout of Seungkwan. But after one particularly angry night, you threw half of it away. The remaining pieces were only there because your mother had saved them.
Seungkwan stood up, the binder still open to a page of his handwritten lyrics you’d printed out years ago. “Y/N. Why didn’t you ever tell me about this?”
The frustration that had been building for months — of the twelve-year silence, of Seungkwan sliding back into your life as if he hadn’t left a gaping hole behind — suddenly boiled over.
You looked him dead in the eye, your chin trembling just slightly. “Well, you left, didn’t you?”
The silence that followed was terrible. Heavy. Your mother and grandmother, realizing they’d accidentally stepped into a minefield, quietly retread to the kitchen.
Seungkwan flinched as if you’d slapped him. The smugness was gone. His glow was gone. He looked down at the binder, at the version of himself that had been a start while you stayed behind.
He opened his mouth to speak, but you cut him off before a word could leave his lips. “Let’s just watch, okay?”
PRESENT
The drive back to your house is suspended in silence. It isn’t the uncomfortable, suffocating quiet you’re used to sharing with Youngjae after an argument; it’s a warm stillness. The ambient glow of the dashboard illuminates Seungkwan’s profile as he navigates the winding coastal roads, the faint sound of a lo-fi track humming through the car speakers.
As the tires crunch onto the familiar gravel of the inn’s precipice, the sound of the ocean immediately rushes in to fill the space. Waves crash violently against the rocks below, creating a wild soundtrack for the storm brewing in your chest.
Seungkwan shifts the car into park but leaves the engine idling. The heater blows softly, maintaining the comfortable, intimate bubble you’ve been trapped inside all night. He doesn’t immediately reach to unlock the doors. Instead, he unbuckles his seatbelt and shifts in his seat, turning fully toward you.
You stare out the windshield at the peeling white paint of your mother’s inn, suddenly completely unwilling to open the door. Opening it means the “fieldwork” night is over. It means stepping back into the cold reality where you are the secret girlfriend of a man who doesn’t respect you.
“So…” you start, voice sounding a little smaller than you intended. You turn you head, sinking slightly into the leather set to look at him. “We’re successfully completed the dinner portion of our research.”
Seungkwan rests his arm along the back of your seat, eyes tracing the line of your face in the dim light. “We did. I’d say the data we collected was highly successful.”
And the more e you tried to piece everything together, the more confused you became. Was Seungkwan actively flirting with you? Was he serious about what he confessed that night when you were both drunk? Or was this all just concern disguised as something else, his way of trying to save you from Youngjae?
You couldn’t tell anymore, and that uncertainty was driving your thoughts into complete chaos.
You let out a soft, nervous breath, your eyes dropping to Seungkwan’s mouth for a fraction of a second before snapping back up to his eyes. “What happens now, then? In the spirit of a comprehensive study... what are your moves at the end of a date?”
“My moves?” he echoes, his voice dropping into a low, gravelly tone that sends a shiver straight down your spine.
“Yeah,” you whisper, suddenly hyperaware of the small space between you inside the car. “Do you just... say goodnight and drive away?”
“No,” Seungkwan murmurs, leaning a little closer. The faint scent of expensive wine and cedarwood wraps around you. “If it were a real date, I’d walk her all the way to her door. I’d wait until she got inside safely. And I’d still ask her to text me after, just so I could be absolutely sure.”
“And then?” you press, your heart hammering against your ribs like a trapped bird desperate to be set free.
Boo Seungkwan’s gaze drops to your lips. This time, he doesn’t even try to hide it, his tongue darting out to wet his own. “And then, if she were looking at me the way you’re looking at me right now...” His voice lowers even more, rough around the edges. “I’d kiss her goodnight.”
The air in the car vanishes at the same time it does in your lungs.
Every rational thought—the fact that you are still technically dating Youngjae, the fact that you work together, the fact that this could shatter the fragile equilibrium of your friendship—is completely eclipsed by the magnetic pull of the man sitting beside you. Your best friend.
You had spent a year starving in the dark, and Seungkwan was suddenly offering you a feast in the light.
Your gaze drops to his lips, slightly parted, before lifting back to his eyes, darkened and blown wide with anticipation.
“Then kiss me,” you breathe, barely believing the words have left your mouth.
Seungkwan freezes. For a single, agonizing millisecond, he just stares at you, his eyes searching yours frantically, as if trying to confirm he heard you correctly, making sure it isn’t a joke or a mistake.
Whatever he finds in your expression broke the last remaining thread of his restraint.
He closes the distance between you in a heartbeat. His hand rises, long fingers tangling in the hair at the nape of your neck, and he pulls you forward just as his lips crash against yours.
There isn’t a hint of hesitation in the way his lips move against yours—only certainty. It’s fifteen years of waiting, of quiet longing, yearning in high school hallways, on parapets, and in agonizingly small radio booths, finally shattering wide open.
His lips are warm and soft against yours, tasting faintly of wine and the chapstick he’d applied before driving you home. The hand on the back of your seat rises to grip your jaw, tilting your head to deepen the kiss, and you gasp against his mouth, a soft, involuntary sound. Seungkwan takes it as permission for his tongue to swipe between your lips.
You melt against him completely, your hands flying up to grip his navy-blue sweater, afraid that if you don’t, you might dissolve into a puddle in his passenger seat. Seungkwan’s kiss is mind-blowing, addictive, and so much more than you ever dreamed it would be when you were a teenager.
The center console digs uncomfortably into your side, but you don’t care. You pull yourself closer, your fingers sliding from his chest up into his soft hair, tugging gently at the strands. Seungkwan groans, a low, incredibly attractive sound that vibrates against your lips as he grows bolder, pulling you over his legs to straddle his lap in the driver’s seat, your skirt riding up considerably.
You don’t hesitate, practically throwing yourself into Seungkwan’s lap, his arm flying to your hips as you giggle when your head lightly hits the car ceiling. Seungkwan likes the sound of your laughter, but he thinks he might have just fallen in love with the little gasp and moan that slip out when he kisses you again.
It’s dizzying, entirely consuming; you feel like your head is spinning. For the first time in months, you don’t feel like you’re shrinking; you feel like you’re the absolute center of the fucking universe.
When you finally pull apart to catch your breath, neither of you moves very far. Seungkwan keeps his forehead resting against yours, your chests rising and falling unevenly in the quiet interior of the car. But when you open your eyes again, his expression isn’t blissful. It’s troubled, worried.
Your stomach drops instantly. Scared of what he might say next, you whisper: “What’s wrong?”
“Y/N,” Seungkwan says softly, his breathing uneven. “I’m not strong enough to pull away from you right now. So if this was just a kiss for research... I need you to be the one to stop this before I—”
You silence him with another kiss, your arms winding around his neck to pull him impossibly closer. Seungkwan make a soft sound against your mouth when you catch his lower lip between yours, your hips rolling against him involuntarily.
Both of you let out shaky groans at the same time when you feel the hard press of him where your bodies meet. Seungkwan’s head tips back instinctively, exposing the long line of his throat, and you immediately take the invitation, kissing your way along his neck while his hands slide down to your exposed thigh.
His fingers give light, lingering squeezes as they slowly travel higher, dangerously close to where you want him the most. The anticipation alone is enough to make you shiver, unsure if you’ll survive the moment his hands finally reach the place you’ve bee aching for him to touch.
You can feel the heat radiating off his body, his scent enveloping you in a dizzying cloud of desire.
Seungkwan’s fingers dance along the sensitive skin of your inner thigh, the light touches leaving a trail of goosebumps in their wake. His touch is electrifying, igniting a fire within you that threatens to consume you entirely. Your hips rock forward involuntarily, seeking more friction, more contact with the hard length pressing insistently against your core.
“Please,” you whimper against his neck, your voice ragged with need. “Touch me, Seungkwan.”
He groans at your words, his fingers inching higher until they brush against the damp fabric of your panties. You gasp at the contact, your head falling back against the steering wheel as he begins to rub slow circles over your clothed sex. The thin barrier of your underwear does little to dull the sensation, and you can feel your arousal soaking through the material, coating Seungkwan’s fingers.
“Fuck, Y/N,” he breathes, his eyes dark with desire as he watches you fall apart beneath his touch. “You’re so wet for me already. I can feel you throbbing against my fingers.”
Emboldened by your moans, Seungkwan hooks his fingers into the waistband of your panties and pulls them aside, exposing your dripping core to the cool air of the car. He wastes no time before running a finger along your slick folds, gathering your arousal before bringing it to his lips. His tongue darts out to taste you, his eyes fluttering shut as he savors your flavor.
“God, you taste divine,” he murmurs, his voice rough. “I could eat you out all night long.”
His words send a shiver down your spine, and you find yourself rocking your hips forward, desperate for more of his touch.
Seungkwan takes the hint and slips a finger inside your heat, his thumb finding your clit and rubbing in slow circles. You cry out at the intrusion, your walls clenching around his digit as he begins to pump it in and out of you slowly.
“Look at you,” Seungkwan growls, his eyes locked on where his finger disappears inside you. “So tight and perfect. I can’t wait to feel you wrapped around my cock.”
The thought of him inside you sends a wave of heat through your body, and you find yourself fisting his hair, tugging him closer as you grind down on his hand. Seungkwan responds by adding a second finger, scissoring them inside you as he continues to stroke your clit with his thumb.
“Seungkwan,” you gasp, your hips bucking wildly as you chase your impending orgasm. “Don’t stop, please.”
He leans forward, capturing your lips in another kiss as his fingers continue to work you over. His tongue delves into your mouth, tangling with yours as he swallows your moans and whimpers. You can feel your release building, your walls fluttering around his fingers as he brings you closer and closer to the edge.
With one final thrust of his fingers and a particularly hard press of his thumb against your clit, you come undone. Your orgasm crashes over you like a tidal wave, your body convulsing as you scream your pleasure into Seungkwan’s mouth. He holds you through it, his fingers continuing to stroke your sensitive flesh as you ride out the aftershocks of your climax.
As you come down from your high, Seungkwan slowly withdraws his fingers from your still-throbbing core. He brings them to his mouth once more, licking them clean of your juice before pulling you into one more kiss. You can taste yourself on his tongue, the flavor a heady mix of sweet and tangy that has your core clenching with renewed desire.
But as you lose yourself in the kiss, the reality of the situation begins to sink in. You’re still in Seungkwan’s car, parked outside of your mother’s inn. At any moment, someone could come looking for you, catching you in a compromising position with your best friend.
The realization hits you not as a gradual dawning, but as a visceral, physical blow. It starts in your stomach, a sudden, plummeting sensation of nausea. You aren’t just exploring a connection. You are cheating. You are cheating on the man you are still technically tethered to, and in doing so, you are dragging Seungkwan into a mess he doesn’t deserve.
You look at Seungkwan’s face—open, hopeful, glowing with the anticipation of what comes next—and the guilt that floods you is suffocating.
You can’t do this to him. You can offer him a fragment of yourself while you are still tied to someone else. You see the way he shifts, his hand moving down to find yours, his fingers interlacing with your own, a silent offer to take this further, to stay, to bridge the final gap between you.
No.
The word echos in your mind, sharp and final.
You pull your hand away as if you’d been burned.
Panic begins to set in, and you pull away from Seungkwan, your chest heaving as you try to catch your breath. “We can’t... We shouldn’t have done this,” you pant, your eyes wide with fear.
Seungkwan frowns, his brows drawing together in confusion. The warmth in his eyes flickers, replaced by a jagged, sudden uncertainty. “Y/N? What is it?”
“I...” Your voice fails you. You try to speak, but the words stick in your throat. The air in the car suddenly feels too thick to breathe. It feels like the walls are closing in, the tinted windows transforming from a shield into a prison.
“Did I... did I cross a line?” Seungkwan asks, his voice dropping, stripped of its earlier confidence. Hurt is already beginning to cloud his features. “I’m sorry, I just—you asked me to—”
“It’s not you,” you gasp, fumbling for the door handle. Your hands are shaking so violently you can barely get a grip on the lever. “It’s not you, Seungkwan. It’s me. It’s everything.”
“Y/N, wait,” he says, reaching out to grab your arm, his touch gentle but firm, trying to ground you. “Talk to me. You’re scaring me. We don’t have to do anything else. We can just sit here. Just talk.”
You can’t look at him. If you do, you know you’ll shatter. You know you’ll stay. You know you would trade your sanity for the feeling of his lips on yours, for the way his hands roam over your body, touching you in ways you’d only ever dreamed about, and that is the most dangerous part of all.
You jerk your arm back, your breath coming in short, ragged gasps. The engine is still idling, the low hum vibrating through the floorboards, matching the frantic, uneven thudding of your heart.
“I can’t,” you whisper, the words barely audible. “I can’t do this. I can’t be this person.”
Seungkwan’s expression falls, his brow furrowing in concern and hurt. “Y/N, wait—”
But you don’t give him a chance to finish his sentence. In a moment of sheer panic, you scramble out of the car, not even bothering to fix your skirt as you flee up the path to the inn’s front door. You can hear Seungkwan calling after you, but you don’t dare look back.
Your hands are shaking as you fumble with your keys, finally managing to unlock the door and slip inside. You lean against it, your heart pounding in your chest as you try to process what just happened.
And for hours, you just stand there, trapped in the hallway of your childhood home, the silence pressing in on you from all sides.
A MONTH AGO
It was Seungkwan’s birthday that night. And despite his repeated protests that he wanted a quiet night in with you and his parents, his group members had blatantly ignored him, flying in from Seoul that afternoon and bringing with them a overwhelming wave of noise, expensive gifts, and a decade’s worth of inside jokes you knew nothing about.
You had been invited—or rather, Seungkwan had threatened to drag you out of the radio station by your ankles if you didn’t show up.
“Here, Y/N, you need to try this cut,” Seokmin announced loudly over the sizzling of the grill, leaning across the table to drop a perfectly cooked piece of pork belly onto your plate. “Seungkwan used to burn the meat all the time when the for of us lived together, so I had to learn how to cook to survive.”
“My cooking skills are great!” Seungkwan defended himself immediately, grabbing his tongs and glaring at Seokmin.
You laughed, covering your mouth as you chewed. Sitting there with them felt surreal, you spent years watching these men on television or through a tiny phone screen, but in person, they were just loud, fiercely loyal brothers who clearly adored Seungkwan just as much as you.
“Don’t listen to them, Y/Nie,” a soft voice chimed in from the end of the table.
You looked over to see Jeonghan resting his chin on his hand, offering you a smile that was practically lethal. He was wearing a simple black shirt, but he somehow still look like he belonged on a billboard in Times Square.
“Seungkwan has many talents. Though, he is notoriously bad at sharing.”
You opened your mouth to reply, fully intending to agree with Jeonghan, but before you could even form a syllable, Seungkwan shifted his chair. He moved a full six inches to the left, strategically placing his broad shoulders directly in your line of sight, entirely blocking Jeonghan from your view.
“Okay, hyung, that’s enough,” Seungkwan said, his ears turning a faint shade of pink. He furiously flipped a piece of meat on the grill. “Eat your pork.”
You leaned back, trying to peer around Seungkwan’s arm. “I was just going to say—”
“No, you weren’t,” Seungkwan interrupted, tossing a piece of lettuce onto your plate with entirely too much force. “You don’t need to talk to him.”
You bit your lip to suppress a massive grin.
Ever since they arrived, Seungkwan has been doing everything he can to keep you far away from Jeonghan. All of it because of the comment you made months ago about thinking he was handsome, inflamed by you bring it up a few more times just to annoy him, insisting that Jeonghan’s face belonged in a painting.
An as soon as you were introduced, you didn’t miss the opportunity to announce that Jeonghan was your bias when asked, something the oldest member of the group took full advantage of, delighting in the sight of Seungkwan’s ears burning with jealousy every time he spoke to you.
It was a very, very fun night.
“Funny that it’s not a collection of his you have shoved in the back of your closet,” Seungkwan whispered, just loud enough for you to hear as he squeezed your waist.
You rolled your eyes, slapping his hand away. “Shut up.”
That was another one of those things you hadn’t talked about yet, and you had no intention of discussing it there with his members watching.
“Are you hiding her from me, Kwan-ah?” Jeonghan teased, his voice dancing with amusement as he leaned sideways to catch your eye again. “Y/N, did he tell you I was dangerous?”
“He’s blocking my view of the painting,” you agreed playfully, thoroughly enjoying the way Seungkwan’s jaw clenched, his tongue pressed against the inside of his cheek.
“I am going to throw you both into the ocean,” Seungkwan threatened, pouring himself a shot of soju. He pointed his stainless steel chopstick at you. “And you. Stop encouraging him. You’re supposed to be on my side. It’s my birthday.”
“I’m on the side of objective beauty,” you teased, bumping your shoulder against his.
Seungkwan rolled his eyes, but a reluctant, fond smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. He was more than happy to see you getting along well with his friends, even if he was quietly sulking for your attention.
He leaned in closer to you, dropping his voice so the others couldn’t hear over the sizzling meat. “You’re terrible. I fly my friends down here to meet you, and you immediately try to run off with the visual.”
“You’re a visual too, Boo,” you whispered back, patting his chin, the playful banter suddenly dipping into something much warmer. “Don’t be so jealous.”
Seungkwan’s eyes darkened, a flash of genuine emotion breaking through the easygoing atmosphere. “I’m not jealous,” he murmured, his gaze dropping to your lips for a fraction of a second. “I just know what’s mine.”
Your breath hitched, the ambient noise of the restaurant suddenly fading into the background.
After the night you got drunk together and traded teenage confessions, Seungkwan had started being flirty with you more and more. Your mother and grandmother certainly weren’t helping, constantly fueling the idea that the two of you belonged together.
But before you could unpack that, Joshua clapped his hands together from across the table, catching both of yours attention.
“So, Seungkwan,” Joshua said, raising his glass in a toast. “Now that the escrow officially closed on the Gangnam apartment last week, what’s the plan? Are you buying a place here in Jeju?”
You froze, your chopsticks hovering halfway to your mouth. You turned your head slowly, staring at the side of Seungkwan’s face.
He had sold his apartment? The massive, luxury penthouse in Seoul that he had spent the last five years decorating? The apartment that anchored him to the capital, to the industry, to the life he had built away from you?
Seungkwan’s entire body tensed as he slowly lowered his tongs. He didn’t look at Joshua or his members. He only looked at you, reading the absolute shock radiating across your features.
“You... sold your apartment?” you asked, your voice barely above a whisper, entirely oblivious to the other four men at the table.
“Ah,” Jihoon winced softly from across the table, realizing the sudden, drastic shift in the atmosphere. “He didn’t tell you.”
“I was going to,” Seungkwan said quickly, turning fully toward you. A flash of panic crossed his eyes, clearly bracing himself for you to be angry. “Y/N, I swear I was going to tell you. The paperwork just finalized.”
“You sold it,” you repeated, the reality of the situation settling heavy and absolute in your chest. Selling that apartment wasn’t just a financial decision. It meant his retirement wasn’t a temporary hiatus to clear his head. It meant he was not going back.
It meant he was staying for good. That the boy you loved all those years ago—the one who broke your heart by leaving and not speaking to you for the twelve years that followed—was actually back, and he wasn’t going anywhere, just like he promised while lying beside you in his childhood bedroom.
It was too much to process in a room full of people and five pair of eyes on you.
“Excuse me,” you managed to say, your voice breathless as you pushed your chair back from the table. “I just need to use the restroom.”
You didn’t wait for his response. You slipped out of the private room, the noise of the restaurant hitting you like a physical wall as you navigated the crowded hallway toward the back exit. You didn’t go to the restroom; you pushed through the heavy metal door that led to the quiet, dimly lit alley behind the building.
The cold night air hit your flushed face, but it did nothing to slow the frantic beating of your heart.
He was staying. He was actually, permanently staying.
The heavy metal door creaked open behind you. You didn’t need to turn around to know it was him. You could feel his presence, the familiar, grounding gravity that had always pulled you in.
Seungkwan stepped into the alley, letting the door click shut, cutting off the noise of the restaurant. He shoved his hands deep into the pockets of his slacks, stopping a few feet away from you.
“I’m sorry,” he said quietly, his voice apprehensive. “I shouldn’t have let you find out like that. I wanted to tell you properly.”
You turned to face him, leaning back against the brick wall of the restaurant. You let out a long, shaky breath, shaking your head. “I’m not mad, Kwan. I’m just... stunned. That’s a massive deal. Your whole life was in Seoul.”
Seungkwan visibly relaxed, the tension bleeding out of his shoulders when he realized you weren’t upset, just overwhelmed. He took a slow step closer, the faint light from a nearby streetlamp catching the sharp angles of his face.
“My career was in Seoul,” Seungkwan corrected softly. “My life... my life hasn’t been there for a very long time.”
“But why?” you asked, your voice filled with genuine wonder. “You loved that penthouse. You worked so hard for it. Why would you give it all up?”
Seungkwan stopped right in front of you. He didn’t hesitate. He looked down at you with a raw, terrifying honesty that made your knees weak.
“Because I found a reason to stay here,” he said, his voice a vibrating hum that went straight to your bones. “Because everything I have ever actually wanted is right here. On this island.”
He reached out, his warm fingers gently wrapping around your wrist, his thumb brushing over your racing pulse.
“I’m staying for good, tokki,” he promised, his eyes entirely focused on yours. “I told you that you’d get tired of me.”
You shook your head, not understanding why your eyes were suddenly burning, threatening to fill with tears. “I could never.”
A smile spread across Seungkwan’s face. “Well, then, great. Because I plan on keeping you as close as I can.”
A lump formed in your throat, thick and suffocating. You wanted to throw your arms around his neck. You wanted to tell him that you were terrified, but that you wanted him to stay close to you more than you wanted to breathe. That you wanted to close the distance between you right at that moment.
But then, your phone buzzed violently in your pocket, and you flinched as if you’d been burned, the spell cast over you shattering.
Once again, you knew exactly who it was without even looking. Youngjae had texted you ten minutes ago to say he was waiting two blocks down, parked near the pharmacy to reduce the possibility of someone known see his car.
The ugly reality of your secret life came crashing down, entirely ruining the beautiful thing Seungkwan was offering you. You were still trapped in the dark, and you couldn’t drag him down into it with you.
You gently, painfully pulled your wrist out of his grip. “I have to go,” you whispered, the words tasting like ash in your mouth. “My ride is here.”
Seungkwan’s jaw tightened again. He looked down the street, toward the dark corner where he knew, and you knew, Youngjae was hiding. The disappointment flickered in his eyes, but he didn’t argue. He just took a slow step back, giving you space.
“Right,” Seungkwan grumbled, his voice entirely devoid of the warmth it held seconds ago. “Have a good night, Y/N.”
You couldn’t leave him like this. Not on his birthday. Not after he had just implicitly confessed to altering the entire trajectory of his life for you.
You stepped forward, closing the distance he had just created. You placed your hands flat against his chest, feeling the steady, strong beat of his heart beneath the fine fabric of his shirt. He froze, his breath catching as you tipped your chin up.
“Happy Birthday, Kwan,” you whispered.
Before he could react, you leaned up and pressed a soft, lingering kiss directly to the tip of his nose. It was an old habit, a childhood gesture of pure, unfiltered affection that you hadn’t used in more than a decade.
He sharply inhaled, his eyes fluttering shut as his hands twitched at his sides, desperate to reach for you.
But you didn’t give him the chance. You pulled away, abandoning the warmth of his orbit, and turned on your heel. You walked back into the restaurant to say goodbye to his members, leaving him standing alone beneath the flickering streetlamp. Then you slipped into the passenger seat of Youngjae’s waiting car and disappeared into the night.
PRESENT
You didn’t show up to work for the two days that followed the events in Seungkwan’s car.
Yesterday, you called Seungcheol, claiming a sudden, violent stomach bug. Today, it was a vague text about a “family emergency,” and Seungkwan knows exactly what the emergency is: you’re hiding from him.
He had sat in his idling car for five minutes that night, gripping the steering wheel so tightly his knuckles turned white, fighting the overwhelming urge to get out, walk to your door, pound on it, and demand answers to why you ran, what you were thinking, and how he could make you stop worrying.
But he didn’t. Seungkwan had promised himself he would never be the reason you felt cornered, so he stayed in the car a moment longer, than turned the wheel and drove away instead.
Now Seungkwan sits at the desk in Studio B, his hands resting flat against the cool surface as he stares at your empty chair, the digital clock on the monitor blinks relentlessly: 8:45 PM.
Normally, this was the time the tiny broadcast room would be vibrating with frantic, pre-show energy. You would be shuffling through your printed notes, chewing absently on the end of a blue ballpoint pen, and shooting him exasperated looks as he deliberately tried to distract you. The air would be filled with a comfortable banter.
Tonight, the silence is deafening.
He reaches across the console, his fingers brushing lightly over the tape marker that designates your microphone levels.
He misses you. He misses your laugh; he misses the way your eyes crinkle when he finally manages to catch you off guard. He spent twelve years running from his feelings, and now that he has finally stopped running, the object of his affection is sprinting in the opposite direction.
The soundproof door clicks open, breaking him out of his spiraling thoughts.
Hansol and Chan step into the studio, bringing a sudden wave of chaotic energy with them. Hansol looks entirely unfazed, a pair of oversized headphones resting around his neck and a half-empty iced matcha latte in his hand. Chan, on the other hand, looks like he’s walking to his own execution, clutching your production clipboard to his chest like a bulletproof vest.
“Hyung,” Chan starts immediately, his eyes wide with panic as he stares at the massive audio console. “I’m telling you right now, I don’t know what half of these buttons do. If I hit the wrong slider, are we going to accidentally broadcast submarine sonar across the entire island?”
“You’re not going to broadcast sonar, Chan,” Seungkwan sighs, rubbing his temples. “Just touch the faders Hansol marked with the green tape. Don’t touch the red ones. The red ones drop the delay.”
Chan shifts his weight, still staring nervously at Seungkwan. “What if I need to drop the delay?” he presses. “What if a caller starts swearing? What if someone confesses to a crime? Do I hit the red button then?”
Hansol claps a hand down on Chan’s shoulder, unfazed. “If someone confesses to a crime on a local romantic advice show, you let it ride, man. That’s just good ratings.” He shrugs. “Just breathe. You survived a blind date where you thought your organs were going to be harvested. You can survive pressing a plastic button.”
Chan visibly grimaces at the mention of the date, the very date that had been the catalyst for Seungkwan’s entire world tilting off its axis.
The solution Seungcheol had found for your absence was to put Chan in your place, with Hansol supervising him. Yesterday, Seungkwan had tried to manage on his own, but it was clear he didn’t really know what he was doing without you there, aside from talking nonstop, trying to hide that he was lost.
“You guys don’t have to do this,” Seungkwan says, finally looking up at them. His voice lacks its usual bright edge. “I can try run the boards myself again. Cheol hyung said it was fine if we just played an acoustic set for the second hour.”
Hansol takes a slow sip of his matcha, his observant eyes scanning Seungkwan’s face. Hansol is famously quiet, but he misses absolutely nothing. He’s seen the way Seungkwan has been pacing the halls like a caged animal for the past two days without you there, and Seungkwan knows he understands—without needing to ask—that something happened between the two of you, even if he chooses not to intrude.
“We’re doing it,” Hansol says smoothly, pulling out your chair and nudging Chan into it before taking a seat on the tiny sofa against the back wall.
“Hansol, we—”
Buy he shakes his head, raising a hand to make Seungkwan stop talking. “You look like you haven’t slept since Saturday,” Hansol says calmly. “If you try to run the boards and talk at the same time tonight, there’s a high chance of a catastrophe. Just focus on the mic. We’ve got the tech.”
Seungkwan offers a tight, grateful smile. He pulls his headphones over his ears just as the clock hits 09:00 PM.
Seungcheol taps at the glass, giving a thumbs-up, while Chan—holding his breath and looking absolutely terrified—slides the green-taped fader up. The familiar intro of Love on the Airwaves floods Seungkwan’s ears.
He closes his eyes for a fraction of a second, channeling every ounce of his professional training to push the heartbreak down into his chest. He opens them again, leans into the microphone, and forces his smooth, charismatic radio voice to the surface.
“Good evening, Jeju,” Seungkwan purrs into the mic, though the usual playful lilt is tempered by a softer, more melancholic undertone. “Welcome to Love on Airwaves. It’s just me again tonight. Our lovely, brilliant producer and co-host, Y/N, is taking a well-deserved couple of days off. So you’re stuck with just my voice, and a very nervous Lee Chan running the boards behind me. Be gentle with him, folks.”
He pauses, letting the instrumental track swell for a few seconds. “It’s chilly tonight. The kind of night that makes you want to stay inside and think about the people you miss. The lines are open. Talk to me, Jeju.”
The first thirty minutes of the show are a blur of standard calls. A college student stressed about finals, a husband looking for anniversary gift ideas, a girl who can’t decide if she should text her ex. Seungkwan navigates them all with his usual empathy and wit, but it feels hollow.
He keeps instinctively turning his head to his right, waiting for you to chime in with a sarcastic remark or a grounded piece of advice, only to find Chan staring back at him in sheer terror.
“Alright, our next caller is on line four,” Seungkwan prompts, motioning to Chan.
He frantically presses the glowing yellow button. “Let’s welcome Yujin from Seogwipo,” Chan says clicking the mouse to patch the caller through. “Yujin, you’re on the air with Seungkwan.”
“Hi! Oh my gosh, I can’t believe I got through,” a youthful, slightly breathless voice crackles over the studio monitors. “Hi Seungkwan-ssi. I’m a huge fan.”
“Thanks for tuning in, Yujin-ssi,” Seungkwan replies, his tone dripping with honeyed warmth. “What’s on your mind tonight? Is there a boy giving you headache?”
“Actually, I have more of a personal question to you Seungkwan-ssi,” Yujin says, her voice stabilizing.
“Oh? Ask away.”
“Well,” she begins, and there’s a slight pause. “You’re always giving us such amazing advice about love. But you’re so private about your own life! So my friends and I were debating, and we wanted to call in and ask the expert himself.”
Seungkwan feels a slight prickle of apprehension, and he sees Chan freeze, his hand hovering over the equalizer dials, waiting for Seungkwan to give him a signal to cut the call.
But Seungkwan just keeps his voice light. “Yeah?”
“What is your ideal type, Seungkwan-ssi? And don’t give me the standard PR answer about someone with a good heart. We want the details!”
The jazz music in the background suddenly feels very loud, and the timing is almost ironic. It feels like the universe is playing a trick on him. In the corner of the room, Hansol lets out a low chuckle, clearly entertained. Chan looks between Seungkwan and the control board as if wondering which button he could press to save his ass.
It was a softball question. An easy and harmless prompt. The standard protocol was to describe a vague, generalized concept: someone who likes the same music, someone who enjoys long walks, someone kind. It was the answer he had given in a hundred different magazines and a thousand different interviews.
But as Seungkwan looks at your empty chair, at the blue pen abandoned on the desk, his media training completely vanishes. The exhaustion, the longing, and the absolute certainty of his feelings override his filter entirely.
“My ideal type,” Seungkwan repeats softly. The radio-host persona drops away, leaving his voice raw, deep, and devastatingly sincere.
He leans closer to the microphone.
“She’s… stubborn,” Seungkwan starts, his eyes fixed on the tape marker on the desk. “Incredibly stubborn. The kind of stubborn that makes you want to pull your hair out, but also makes you respect her more than anyone else in the world.”
Through the glass, Seungcheol sits up a little straighter. Hansol stops drinking his matcha, his eyes narrowing slightly as he realizes exactly what Seungkwan is doing.
He knew about Seungkwan’s feelings for you. He was the only person, besides Seungkwan himself, who knew. Now you’ll finally know too, or at least now you’d be sure, in case Seungkwan hadn’t made it so painfully obvious on Saturday night.
“She works too hard,” Seungkwan continues, his voice wrapping around the words with a tender reverence. “She’s super tough to the others, but really, she has the softest, most fiercely loyal heart I’ve ever encountered. When she’s stressed, she taps her foot against the table leg and clicks her pens.”
Over the line, Yujin and the room go completely silent.
“She smells like lavender,” Seungkwan murmurs, his eyes glazing over slightly as the memory of the car engulfs him, the heat of your skin, the frantic beat of your pulse beneath his thumb. “She has this laugh she tries to hide behind her hand, but when it slips out, it’s the greatest sound I’ve ever heard. She’s brilliant. She’s so much brighter and more capable than she gives herself credit for. But sometimes… sometimes she forgets her own worth. Sometimes she lets people treat her like she’s ordinary, and it breaks my heart, because there is absolutely nothing ordinary about her.”
The studio is dead silent. Chan’s jaw has practically on the ground, his hand hovering frozen over the faders, his brain still trying to process that Seungkwan is, in fact, talking about you.
“Wow,” Yujin finally breathes over the line, her voice trembling slightly. The playful, gossipy tone is completely gone, replaced by something closer to awe. “Seungkwan-ssi… that doesn’t sound like a type. That sounds like a very specific person. You… you sound like you’re already in love.”
Seungkwan doesn’t even flinch. He doesn’t try to backtrack, or laugh it off, or play it as a joke. He stares directly into the microphone, his heart completely exposed to the airwaves. “I am,” he confesses, the two words falling from his lips with staggering, undeniable weight.
Seungcheol stands on the other side of the glass, a smile tugging at his lips, his eyes wide as his hands hover near his head in disbelief. Chan lets out a shocked grunt Seungkwan is certain has just gone out over the broadcast, and Hansol chuckles softly in his corner. Seungkwan already knows he’ll never hear the end of it once the dust settles.
“I’ve been in love with her since we were kids,” Seungkwan says, the emotion finally cracking in his voice, turning it thick and rough. “Since before I even knew what the word meant. I spent twelve years away, and I never—not for a single second—found anyone who could replace her. I came back here for her.”
He swallows hard, his fingers curling into tight fists on the desk.
“I think I pushed too hard recently,” he admits softly, not just to Yujin, but to the thousands of cars, kitchens, and lonely bedrooms tuned in across the island. “I think I scared her. I wanted so badly to pull her into the light that I didn’t realize how blinding it might be. But I just want her to know…”
Seungkwan leans in until his lips are nearly brushing the foam of the mic.
“I just want her to know that I’m not going anywhere. I don’t care how long it takes. I don’t care how messy it gets. She is the only person I want. And I am just… I am really hoping she’s listening right now.”
He pulls back, his chest heaving slightly. Then he nods at Chan.
Chan, looking as though he had just witnessed a religious awakening, frantically pushes the fader up, cutting the call and flooding the airwaves with the slow, melancholic intro of a piano ballad.
Seungkwan rips his headphones off and buries his face in his hands, the adrenaline crashing out of his system, leaving him completely drained.
From the sofa, Hansol lets out a low, slow whistle. “Well,” he mutters, setting his matcha down. “If she wasn’t listening, half the island is definitely going to text her about it in the next five minutes. You don’t do anything halfway, do you?”
Seungkwan doesn’t answer. He just stares at the glowing dials of the soundboard, the echo of his own confession still ringing in his ears, praying to whatever universe is out there that somewhere, in the safety of your bedroom, you had heard him.
TWENTY YEARS AGO
It was early October, the magical pocket of time on Jeju Island when the humid heat finally broke, replaced by a cool, salty breeze that carried the sweet, earthy smell of impending autumn. The orange groves that defined Seungkwan’s neighborhood were heavy, the green fruit just beginning to tip into shades of sunset, preparing to blaze a golden-orange trail across the island.
But Seungkwan, at ten years old, was currently less interested in the cooperative biology of citrus and more interested in beating you to the stone parapet behind Jeju-si High School.
“Slowpoke!” he yelled over his shoulder, his small legs pumping hard through the deep, black volcanic sand. His feet, caked in wet earth and salt, left flying arcs as he ran. “I’m going to get the best spot!”
You were ten paces behind him, gasping and laughing in equal measure. He always did this. He’d start the race before you even agreed to it. “Seungkwan, stop! We said we were just going to gather shells!”
“Winner decides the game!” he shouted back, and that was when disaster struck.
It happened in slow motion. The sand shifted beneath his feet, right where a small cluster of driftwood lay buried. He tripped. Hard. His center of gravity vanished, his body pitching forward, landing with a heavy thud right where the wet shore began.
The laughter died in your throat. “Seungkwan!” You scrambled toward him, your heart pounding.
When you reached him, he was sitting up, staring down at his knee with an expression of pure, unadulterated shock. The fall had split the skin. It wasn’t deep, but it was ugly, the bright red of blood oozing through a coat of dark sand.
Then, the floodgates opened. It wasn’t just a cry; it was a full-blown dramatic event. He gasped for air, his face crumpling, a sound that started as a moan ascending into a loud, wet sob. He wailed. He howled.
“Shh, shh!” You panicked, throwing a glance back toward the street, convinced the entire village would think you were trying to kidnap him. “You’re okay! It just stings. You’re fine!”
He pointed at the knee, his finger shaking, but the only sound he could make was a high-pitched, stuttering breath. The tears were running down his cheeks, mixing with the sand, and he was getting so loud he couldn’t even hear you trying to comfort him.
You tried the logical approach. “Seungkwan, look! I’ll run to your aunt’s cafe. I’ll get a bandage. I’ll get a frozen yogurt! I’ll get two!”
He shook his head violently. He wouldn’t let you leave, and he wouldn’t stop screaming. The sound was slicing right through your nerves.
“Seungkwan, listen to me,” you said, getting closer. “Stop crying. Please.”
His mouth was still wide open, and he was inhaling for another monumental wail when you made an impulsive decision. A split-second, desperate choice to save both of your eardrums and your reputation as his responsible friend.
You grabbed his shoulders, leaned forward, and slammed your mouth over his.
The impact was clumsy. It was sandy, salt-stained, and a little wet. His nose was in the way, and your teeth clicked. But it worked.
His crying stopped instantly. The air rushed out of him in a stunned huff.
You pulled back quickly, your cheeks burning with an intensity that rivaled the mid-summer sun. You didn’t look at his knee. You stared straight at him.
His eyes were wide, round saucers. The tear tracks were still wet on his face, but his wailing was gone, replaced by a stunned, blinking silence. He was staring at you like you’d just manifested wings and turned into a seagull.
For what felt like a lifetime, the only sound was the rhythmic crash of the waves and the faint buzz of a passing Vespa on the road far behind you. The sand felt cold beneath your hands.
“You...” he started, his voice a whisper, the wail having vanished without a trace. “You just...”
You were blushing so hard it felt like your face would catch fire. You grabbed your shorts, jumped up, and immediately started dusting the sand off your knees, incapable of meeting his eyes.
“You were too loud,” you said quickly, your voice unusually high. “I didn’t know how to make you stop.” You pointed toward the main road. “I’m going to get that bandage. Stay here.”
And then you ran. You ran without looking back, away from the beach, away from the confused boy with the scraped knee and the silent stare.
That was the only time you ever spoke about it. When you returned with the bandage, he didn’t mention it. When you walked home, holding two frozen yogurts and not talking, you didn’t mention it. The moment became a shared secret, sweet memory tucked so deep into the closet of your friendship that you eventually convinced yourselves it never really happened.
PRESENT
The static from the radio filled the silence of your bedroom, a low, buzzing hum that mirrored the frantic noise in your own mind. You sat perfectly still on the edge of your bed for several minutes, phone clutched in your hands, its screen glowing with the digital dial of the radio station you had worked at for the last seven years of your life.
He had done it. He had actually done it.
Boo Seungkwan had just broadcasted his heart to the entire island of Jeju, stripping away every ounce of his private life to lay his soul bare on the airwaves. Every word he spoke had been a precise strike against the walls you had spent the last decade building.
A tear slipped free, hot and fast, tracing a path down your cheek before falling onto the screen of your phone. You had spent the last forty-eight hours drowning in guilt and confusion, suffocated by the reality of your secret, toxic relationship with Youngjae, and the terrifying, blinding light Seungkwan was offering.
But hearing his voice crack over the radio, hearing him publicly, fearlessly claim you in a way Youngjae never would, snapped something inside you. It was like waking up from a decade long fever dream. The paralyzing fear evaporated, replaced by a sudden, desperate clarity.
You didn’t even bother changing out of your sweatpants. You grabbed your thickest coat, shoved your feet into your boots, and ran out the door.
The walk to his house was a blur of cobblestones and the erratic rhythm of your own heartbeat. When you reached the door, his mother told you he hadn’t come home yet, that he had called to say he’d be late.
Your chest tightened with a brief spike of panic before instinct took over. You knew exactly where he went when his mind grew too loud. It was the same place you went, too.
You park the car near the edge of the cliffside path and begin the steep descent toward the hidden cove behind the school.
The wind whips your hair across your face, carrying the biting scent of sea salt and freezing rain. As you reach the bottom of the path, moonlight breaks through the clouds, illuminating the jagged volcanic rocks that bordered the crashing ocean.
And there he is.
Seungkwan is sitting near the edge of the water, a solitary silhouette against the dark expanse of the sea. His knees are pulled up to his chest, his coat collar turned up against the wind. Seeing him sitting on those exact rocks sends a violent jolt of memory straight through your system of the morning you said goodbye all those years ago.
You take a deep breath, the freezing air burning your lungs, and pick your way carefully across the uneven terrain. He doesn’t hear you approach over the roar of the waves until you are right beside him. You don’t even hesitate, sitting down on the cold stone next to him, close enough that your shoulders are nearly brushing.
Seungkwan jolts, his head snapping toward you. His eyes are wide and red-rimmed, catching the fractured moonlight. For a moment, he only stares at you, as though afraid you’re a mirage conjured by his own desperate mind.
You don’t let him say anything before you do. “You left.” Your voice isn’t loud, but it cuts through the sound of the ocean with absolute precision.
Seungkwan flinches as if he’s been physically struck. He opens his mouth, a panicked apology already forming on his lips, but you hold up a hand to stop him.
“Let me finish,” you plead, your voice trembling but resolute as you pull your legs close to your body and rest your chin on your knees. “Please.”
You look out at the churning black water, unable to meet his eyes yet. Out of the corner of your eye, you can see him nodding for you to continue.
“You left. You got on a plane, and you became a star. And I need you to know… I understand that. I know you had a dream, and I know the industry is a meat grinder. I watched you on television, and I was so incredibly proud of you. I am proud because you listened to me, and you didn’t look back. You did everything you said you were going to do.”
You pause, swallowing hard against the tight knot forming in your throat. Right now. This is the moment when everything comes crashing down around you both. You just hope you can put it all back together afterward.
“But understanding it doesn’t change the fact that you didn’t speak to me for twelve years,” you continue, your voice cracking slightly. You finally turn to look at him, letting him see the raw edges of your wound. “You didn’t just move away, Seungkwan. You completely erased me. You made me feel like the years of friendship meant absolutely nothing to you.”
Seungkwan closes his eyes, a tear escaping the corner of his lashes and tracking down his cold cheek. He bites his lip hard, forcing himself to listen, to take the hit he knows he deserves.
“I had whiplash from it,” you confess, wrapping your arms around yourself against the chill. “I developed this horrible… this complex. I spent the rest of high school feeling completely disposable. If the person who knew me best, the person I loved most in the world, could just drop me without a second thought, then I must not be worth keeping.”
You let out a watery, self-deprecating laugh. “I was a ghost. I was so incredibly sad, Seungkwan. I didn’t start breathing again until I went to university in Busan and forced myself to become someone else, someone who didn’t care, someone who didn’t get attached.”
Someone who would settle for a man like Youngjae just because he promised he wouldn’t leave. The unspoken words hang heavily in the air between you, but you don’t need to say them. Seungkwan understands.
“And now you’re back,” you say, seeing that he wants to interrupt, but you can’t stop now. “And it’s like those twelve years never happened. Telling everyone I’m your favorite childhood friend, confessing and kissing me as if you never broke my heart. How am I supposed to react, Seungkwan?”
You shake your head, your lips pressing into a thin line as you fight to hold back more tears. You know he promised you he wasn’t going anywhere, that he’s was back for good. But that doesn’t lessen the fear you felt that night he kissed, much less erase the twelve years of radio silence.
“You can’t blame me for being afraid that one day you’ll wake up and decide that being here isn’t enough again. Because this time, I’m not sure I’ll be able to survive being without you.”
“Y/N,” Seungkwan whispers, his voice shattering on your name.
He shifts, turning his entire body toward you. He reaches out, his hands trembling violently as they hover over yours, terrified to touch you, terrified you’ll run away again. Everything makes sense to him now. He understands it all with painful clarity, he sees that you weren’t running from him, or rejecting his feelings for you; you were just scared.
“I am so sorry,” he chokes out, the devastation in his eyes making your breath hitch. “I am so, so desperately sorry for what I put you through. You were never disposable. You were the only thing that kept me sane.”
“Then why did you stop calling?” you ask, the question that has haunted you for a decade finally tumbling free. “Why did you cut me off?”
Seungkwan lets out a shaky breath, scrubbing a hand over his face. “When I first debuted, the attention was… completely unmanageable. The sasaengs were relentless. They hacked our phones within the first three months. The company did a sweep of all our personal belongings, our contacts, everything, to see where our vulnerabilities were.”
He reaches into the inner pocket of his coat and pulls out a worn, dark leather wallet. His fingers are stiff from the cold as he flips it open.
“They found this,” he says quietly, holding the wallet out toward you.
Tucked into the clear plastic window, its edges frayed and its colors slightly faded, is a photo strip. It’s the two of you in a cheap photo booth at the Jeju summer festival. You’re laughing, your head thrown back, while a fifteen-year-old Seungkwan looks at you with an expression of such pure, unguarded adoration that it makes your heart stop.
“I carried it with me everywhere,” Seungkwan murmurs, his eyes fixed on the photograph. “It was my anchor. But when the management team found it, they panicked. They thought you were my secret girlfriend. They told me that if the fans found out who you were, they’d destroy your life.”
You stare at the photo, your vision blurring with a fresh wave of tears. He hadn’t forgotten you. He had been carrying you in his pocket across every continent, for twelve years.
“They gave me an ultimatum,” Seungkwan went on, his voice hardening with residual anger. “Cut all contact, change my number, and pretend you didn’t exist, or they would pull me from the debut lineup. They told me it was the only way to protect you.”
He looks up from the wallet, his dark eyes locking onto yours.
“I was a terrified kid,” he confesses, the guilt heavy and absolute in his voice. “I believed them. I thought breaking my own heart was the price I had to pay to keep you safe. But I was wrong.”
He reaches out then, his warm hands finally closing over your freezing ones and drawing them into his lap.
“I should have fought for you,” he says, his thumb tracing your knuckles. “I should have fought the company. I should have found a way. I spent a decade completely miserable because I was too much of a coward to demand the one thing I actually wanted. I let you think you didn’t matter to me, and that is the greatest failure of my life.”
The silence returns, but this time it isn’t a chasm. The resentment and anger you’ve carried for so long simply dissolve, washed away by the crushing weight of his confession. He hadn’t abandoned you. He had martyred himself.
You look down at his hands holding yours, the warmth seeping through your skin and thawing the ice that has encased your heart for years.
“I called Youngjae,” you say suddenly.
The words are abrupt, instantly shifting the atmosphere. Seungkwan stops his movements for a second, his breath catching in his throat. His eyes drop to your mouth before darting back up to your face, terrified of what’s coming next.
“I called him from the car on the way here,” you explain, your voice steady now, carrying an absolute, undeniable certainty. “I broke up with him.”
Seungkwan’s grip on your hands tightens slightly, his chest rising and falling in rapid, shallow breaths. “Y/N…”
“I told him I couldn’t do it anymore.” A profound weight lifting from your chest with every word. Your breath turns to white mist in the cold air. “I told him I was done hiding in his shadow. I told him I deserved better.”
You pull your hands from Seungkwan’s grip, but only so you can reach up. You frame his face with your palms, thumbs gently wiping away the dampness on his cheeks. His skin is freezing, but his eyes burn with a desperate, wild hope.
“And I told him,” you whisper, leaning in until your foreheads rest together, “that it has always been you. Even when I was furious with you. Even when I hated you. It was always you, Seungkwan.”
A ragged, beautiful sound escapes Seungkwan’s throat, a cross between a sob and a laugh. The tension that has been holding him together for weeks finally snaps.
His hands fly up to grip your waist, entirely abandoning restraint as he pulls you off the cold stone and practically onto his lap. “Y/N,” he breathes against your lips, your name completely saturated with devotion.
When he kisses you this time, it isn’t the frantic, hot and overwhelming collision of the car. It’s a homecoming. A deliberate, agonizingly slow sealing of a promise.
His lips are soft, warm, tasting of salt and absolute relief. He kisses you like he’s trying to pour eleven years of unspoken love directly into your veins, his fingers tangled in your hair as he holds you against him, as though you are the only thing tethering him to the earth.
You wrap your arms around his neck, pulling him flush against you, melting entirely into the embrace. The cold wind, the crashing ocean, the messy reality of the radio station, and the fallout that will inevitably come tomorrow, all of it fades into insignificance.
When you finally break apart, you’re both breathless, your faces flushed despite the freezing temperature. Seungkwan keeps his arms locked securely around your waist, resting his chin in the crook of your neck. He lets out a long, heavy exhale, burying his face in your coat.
“I’m never letting you go again,” he murmurs against your skin. “I don’t care who finds out. We’re doing this. We’re doing it in the light.”
You close your eyes, resting your cheek against the top of his head, feeling the steady, strong beat of his heart against your chest. For the first time in a decade, the phantom ache of abandonment is entirely gone.
“I know,” you whisper, pressing a kiss to his hair. “I know we are.”
# NAVIGATION | MASTERLIST | PERMANENT TAGLIST
Every ask & comment gives me life 💗 If you’re enjoying it, don’t forget to reblog, helps so much and gets the fic out there!!
Pairing: dancer!Kwon Soonyoung x lawintern f!Reader.
Genre: Romance, attempt little comedy. Strangers to friends to lovers, fluff, little angst.
WC. Pt.1: 8k Pt.2: TBA
Warnings: little angsty, self doubt, slightly toxic family, expectations, work stress, suggestive eventually, nicknames, peach, bunny(hers) and I might be missing something...
Summary: You are living a life with expectations of a future that does not feel yours. Your only escape is dancing and the midnight radio station that brings you a little peace and a place to feel heard. When a new dance crew audition is announced, you meet the most energetic, full of life and clumsy ray of sunshine. Kwon Soonyoung. You didn’t know he would be the one to show you there’s much more wonderful things life has to offer.
A/n: Here it is, little late but here it is. This is part of the First Time Caller collaboration by @studiosvt , thank you so much for letting me in and sorry for the delay. I’d like to thank real life and writer block for making me stress and not deliver this when I should’ve. Most importantly, I’d like to thank Rae @nerdycheol for helping me at the beginning of this, even though I might’ve changed some things, but next part does have already some of what we talked about.
I profusely apologize for the mistakes, grammar, no proof read no beta read, thank you real life for being a bish. If I die I do dis raw.
Please go check the works featured in this collaboration!
Reblogs, comments, likes and asks are highly truly appreciated. Thank you all.
The bright lights of Wong & Associates always seemed to give you a headache.
You sat at your desk, the surface nearly buried under manila folders and a cold latte that had already lost its charm to you. Your fingers moved mechanically, stapling documents for a case you weren’t allowed to actually read.
You were a licensed lawyer, you’ve been here for almost 2 years, yet your most significant contribution to the firm today has been ensuring Mr. Wong’s files were organized alphabetically.
A shadow fell over your desk. You didn’t even have to look up to know who it was.
“Whatcha doing, Bunny.” Minseo’s voice was a whisper, but carried that familiar, bright spark that usually cured your boredom at work when she showed up to check on you since she worked one floor down in marketing.
“I’m just finishing the filing, Min.” you replied, giving her a small, practiced smile. “Mr. Wong said if I get these done by five, I might be able to leave on time. Today is family dinner.”
“Ah, family dinner.” Minseo gave you a sympathetic smile, she knew you didn’t look forward to it. “Mr. Wong needs to learn to do that himself and you need to breathe a little. Look at this.” she leaned against the cubicle wall sliding with a smile, a bright orange piece of paper to you.
You glanced down. It was a flyer for Light a Flame Studios. Announcement of auditions. The bold big letters staring at you, it was tempting definitely.
“Min, we’ve talked about this,” you sighed, your voice dropping as a senior partner walked past, giving you their usual glare. “I don’t think it’s a good idea. I’m way too old. My mom is already asking when I’m going to make junior associate, she’s like ‘Jiyeon was already managing her own team at your age’”
“And Jiyeon is Jiyeon,” Minseo said, her expression softening but her tone was serious “Bunny, you stay up watching choreography videos until two in the morning. You tap your feet under the tabl every time a song that you know the choreo comes on the radio. Look, is just one hour, Y/n. You can have fun and just being my duo, if you don’t want to be part of the team fine. Also, Mingyu is there, he’s a good emotional support golden retriever.”
You looked at the flyer, then at the stack of files. The comparison your mother had made this morning over the phone still on your mind. “your sister had her own office by her second year working in the firm, Y/n.” You knew it was meant to be motivation, but it felt like expectation to do, and emphasis on something you must be doing wrong.
“One hour?” you asked softly. Knowing it will be more like going to help Minseo, softened the guilt and doubt of you doing something you’re not supposed to do.
Minseo grinned, the one she used when she won. “Sure, one hour. I’ll pick you up Saturday.” With an eager little jump, she winked at you before leaving.
It was exciting, yes. But frightening too, you did love to dance with all your heart.
Music was part of you.
But you studied Law, mostly or mainly because that was what they expected from you, what your mother wanted from you. To follow your sister’s steps, to have a career that gave you the status to live “fully” to have a life without worries, with a good income and something to be proud of.
You did what it was expected from you. That meant leaving behind what you wanted, what you dreamed and who you truly are.
But someday it’ll be worth it. You hope so.
As you walked toward the bus stop, you let your mind drift to the dinner waiting for you at home. You caught a window seat, leaned your head against the glass and you found yourself stifling a laugh at the situation happening by the sidewalk.
A guy in a bright black and orange hoodie had collided full and hard with another guy. The sidewalk was a total disaster. You watched the papers fall all over the place. No, they flew into the air in slow motion, scattering everywhere like neon yellow confetti. It looked like a scene from a movie and you almost expected to see visible sparks between them as you held back your laughter. You watched the orange-hoodie guy frantically gathering his papers while profusely bowing and apologizing to the man in the black jacket, who luckily, had opted to be a good one and help the poor clumsy soul to pick up the mess.
At one point he lifted his gaze and it went directly to you, it send shivers and heat up from your neck to your cheeks, why? You had no idea. So, you tried to smile, you don’t know if you even did. You found the guy endearingly cute.
Those few seconds were enough to remember those eyes, the clumsy orange guy and the way he looked trying to pick up all his flyers from the sidewalk.
Home sweet home.
The silence of your apartment was the sanctuary you craved. Your mother had spent months pushing you to find a roommate or move back home, but you stood your ground for once. You loved her—mostly— but you didn’t need a roommate treating your kitchen like a dumping ground or gaslighting you with payments. You had learned to value your independence, even if it meant cut small privileges from your paycheck.
Hunger eventually drove you to the kitchen. But as you pulled your leftovers from the fridge, your hands suddenly turned to butter and the container you had been salivating over since 6:00 PM slipped, landing with a wet thud on the floor.
“Are you fucking kidding me?” you hissed. With a heavy sigh, you dropped to your knees. “That’s what I get for laughing at the guy on the sidewalk.”
To drown out your own annoyed muttering, you clicked on the radio. The energetic voice of the radio host, Seokmin, filled the room. He was reading a letter from “Messy Caller” who had wrote to him that he was so distracted by his crush that he was walking into walls and losing his notes.
You felt a little less dumb.
“Oh, don’t worry, Messy Caller!” the host laughed making you smile, his laughter always so contagious. That’s why his segment has been the best one the radio station had. “Our tech over here had a similar situation today. You are not the only menace in this city. Isn’t that right, Tech-nim?” A muffled sound followed— unmistakable sound of someone kicking a desk in protest, you chuckled at that. Seokmin had been recently giving his colleagues a hard time finding ways to tease them. “Anyway, my friend here wanted me to announce that his studio, ‘Light a Flame,’ is holding open auditions for a new performance crew next Saturday at 11:00 AM. If you want to stop being distracted and start moving, you know where to go.”
Light a Flame.
You had already said yes to Minseo, but still brought you a tiny bit of doubt. You were excited a little, but doubting.
It felt like a lifetime ago that you were that girl who moved to every beat— the girl praised by Miss Jung for having a heart meant for the arts.
“Mrs. Park, your daughter has so much talent,” Miss Jung had once told your mother.
“Oh, yeah she is, but most importantly, she’s getting good grades, right?” was the only response your mother had offered. Always focused on what was important to her, success.
Miss Jung realized that as time went on, she knew this would have an effect on you and she’d hate herself if she didn’t say anything to you. If she could at least have some positive influence in your life, she’d try. That’s why her final words at graduation still lived in your heart.
“Don’t forget how colorful life can be. I know you’ll shine like a diamond, but I hope you’d shine doing what you love, and doing it for you. You are truly talented, don’t forget that peach.”
The contrast from the gray atmosphere of the law firm to the vibrant, echoing halls of Light a Flame Studios felt like you were stepping into a different dimension, oddly comfortable. The air here was warm, the prominent smell of wood floors and the fresh cleaner made everything a little less intimidating.
As you walked through the doors behind Minseo, the sound of the music pounding through the walls made your heart skip a beat. It was a physical sensation you hadn’t felt in months. It was nice.
“See? Better than the sound of a copy machine, right?” Minseo nudged you, leading you toward the registration table right outside the main practice room.
Groups of dancers were waiting around, either stretching in corners and marking out sequences with sharp, fluid movements, or resting since they had already danced their hearts out.
Mixed feelings filled your body. The feeling of being out of place, but also feeling like this is you. Everything starting to overwhelm you little by little.
There was also the sudden sharp feeling of self-consciousness. You were wearing your most carefree outfit on your closet, a pair of black oversized cargo pants, a white sweatshirt and cropped tank top underneath, your hair pulled back in a loose bun. You looked like yourself but more relaxed, yet you felt weirdly out of place but only a little.
“Minseo!”
A tall, very tall and wide, broad shoulder guy waved at both of you from across the room, it was Mingyu, Minseo’s brother. He had always felt like a brother you wished you had. Supportive, protective, loud, and a big puppy vibe
“Ah, you actually got her to come.” Mingyu grinned, he gave you a quick, one-armed hug. “I told Yeeun, Min would bring a ‘lawyer’ with talent. She’s excited.”
“Stop teasing her, Gyu.” Minseo hissed, though she was smiling after giving him a playful smack on his arm before he messed with her ponytail.
“I’m not teasing! I’ve seen you dance at family parties and with Min, Y/n. You’re better than half the people that came today.” Mingyu’s voice turning into a more encouraging tone. He looked at your outfit and grinned “This totally looks like you.”
“Right! See, I told you this looked good!” Minseo did a little jump. You were still doubting it a little, but if a professional dancer says it’s good, it might be.
“Mingyu look at everyone. They’re so young. I feel like I’m crashing a high school party.”
“We’re the same age Bunny, I don’t think that matters and honestly no one cares here, age is just a number. You either have the talent or not, we don’t really ask for specific age right now. What I don’t understand is how you put up with this kid.” Mingyu rolled her eyes a little after tugging on Minseo’s hair
“Stop it!” Minseo swat his hand away, “you act like you’re five and expect her to hang out with you instead.” She scoffed as both of you walked inside following Mingyu.
“Whatever, look Yeeun is in a mood today. She needs someone who actually knows how to move, so go and do whatever you have to do and be prepared. You guys start in fifteen minutes.”
Your heart was hammering against your ribs already. You caught your reflection in the floor-to-ceiling mirrors of the studio and you looked like you were seconds away from passing out.
It's just an hour, you told yourself, reaching up to tighten your ponytail. Just an hour to remember what it feels like to be myself.
“Come on, are you ready?” Minseo gave your shoulder a soft squeeze, already bouncing with exciment. She looked like a firework ready to go off.
“As ready as I’ll ever be to humiliate myself in front of professionals,” you muttered, though a small, stubborn spark of excitement was starting to take over instead of the fear and nervousness.
“that’s not going to happen.”
The two of you walked slowly into the practice room. The mirrors were covering the wall around the room, already making you feel exposed in every damn angle.
You spotted Mingyu at the end of the room, he was laughing as he was leaning down to talk to a woman who radiated a terrifying cool authority.
That had to be Yeeun. She looked like she owned the room, lean and sharp-eyed, with her dark hair pulled into a ponytail, it made her features even more prominent, even more intimidating. Yet the minute Mingyu said something to her, a smile appeared and her eyes softened. Oh, you could see something else in those sharp eyes. Fondness and just something sweet that only appeared when she looked back at Mingyu.
She was holding a clipboard like a weapon, yet her expression towards Mingyu was the sweetest, and you couldn’t help but wonder if there’s something going on, something you’re going to ask, or tease him about it probably.
“Alright, next duo!” Yeeun’s voice cut through your thoughts, “Look, I already know you have some rhythm in your veins Minseo, though I hope you’re better at memorizing than your brother.” She chuckled at Minseo’s grin and Mingyu’s pout holding a witty remark. “You however, I don’t know you but I don’t care if you’re a professional or just started yesterday. I’m looking for people who can actually feel the beat. You’re the lawyer gal, right?”
“I-I am, yes.”
“Right, Mingyu told me.” She hummed and sat down at the table where the rest of the judges, who you vaguely remember their names, Minghao and Jiah, were waiting for both of you. “I hope I do get what he promised.”
You swallowed hard, so you are about to find out if you actually fulfill the expectations Mingyu had sold Yeeun.
Damn.
With a long breath, you could only nod. This wasn’t you, and that was something that bothered you.
You’re confident, you’re very social person. God you’re in a law firm, despite of only being the coffee/copy intern, you had to deal with people, with CEO’s with lawyers that had god complex and you needed to charm them to work with the firm, or even to simply be polite and bring them their favorite drink from the coffee place around the corner.
Now, here you are, at a dancing studio, shitting yourself because a beautiful dancer has expectations of your dancing all sponsored by Kim Mingyu the guy who tripped over his feet back in middle school trying to get back at his sister because she wouldn’t let him play with you.
The door at the side of the studio swung open.
A guy walked in, and for a second, the air in the room seemed to get a little lighter. He had a presence that felt like a burst of energy. He was wearing a bright yellow beanie and a smile that reached all the way to his eyes.
“Sorry I’m late! Seokmin had a radio crisis—” He tripped over the edge of a floor mat before he managed to stabilize himself with an awkward grin.
“Fabulous arrival, Soonyoung,” Yeeun said, though her tone was surprisingly fond. She turned to the room. “So, this is Kwon Soonyoung. He’s the leader of SVT dance crew, try not to let his occasional clumsiness fool you.”
Soonyoung’s eyes were bright and curious. Mingyu had told him about Minseo giving dancing a go proudly, and insistin there was someone else worth watching.
His gaze landed on you, feeling a strange, warm jolt— and a sudden recognition that made your breath catch the moment you saw him and that orange hoodie.
The guy from the sidewalk.
Soonyoung stood still, he had recognized you too, but from a whole other reason than the one you remember. His smile faltering into a look of genuine surprise, as if he’d just seen something he wasn’t expecting but was extremely happy about it.
He opened his mouth to say something, but Yeeun clapped her hands. “Okay, let’s do this. Music!”
Minseo squeezed your hand once before moving to her spot.
The music started and for the first few seconds, you were stiff. You could feel the weight of your mother’s voice on the back of your head. A dismissive tone she had used, “dancing, at your age? I mean, it’s good for a hobby I guess. It’s nothing serious of course.”
But then, the beat droppe and a familiar heat began to rise in your chest. You stopped thinking about the steps, the voice, even the faces that were about to judge your every move. You started feeling the music, the vibe and you moved.
Your body remembered what it was to feel alive again. And it showed, the way your shoulders moved with the beat, your arms doing everything they should, the sharp flick of your wrists, effortless flow that came from years of dancing on your own but feeling it all over your body.
At one point your hair tie gave up due to your energy and moves, your hair was now fully down, and you did not care. It moved with you, flowing freely, and that’s what it was, you being free. All of you.
Minseo had been watching you in the corner of her eye, and her own grin was growning. Both of you were in sync, moving together, same steps but each with their own flow. Still connected, still in perfect sync. She loved it.
The music stopped and both of you landed a step perfectly.
You didn’t notice the room going quiet, yet. You didn’t notice Mingyu leaning against the wall with a proud, “I knew it.” grin and then turning to Yeeun, kneeling next to her to whisper something. You didn’t notice the way she already had her own grin while looking at you both. And you certainly didn’t notice Soonyoung, who had his jaw slightly open, watching you with an expression of pure, undeniable curiosity.
You were breathless, when you and Minseo stood facing the table. Hair stuck to your forehead that you tried to fix as you realized your hair was messily down now. You leaned over, hands on your knees, trying to catch your breath as the silence of the room settled in.
“Well,” Yeeun’s voice broke the quiet, her usual sarcasm replaced by curiosity and surprise. She looked at her clipboard and then back at you with her smile still on her face. “Surprising, in the best way possible. It looks like we found the girl version of Hoshi.”
“Hoshi—?” You blinked, still breathless.
“Me,” Soonyoung said, stepping forward. He looked like he wanted to say something else to both of you. He tried to look cool, but then he took a step forward and tripped slightly over a discarded water bottle, swinging his arms before catching himself. “I—uh— I’m Hoshi, that’s my name... well stage name, but that my. Anyways, that was... you were... well the two of you were great, I mean amazing, like wow.”
He looked at you like you were the first person to discover dancing. He offered you and Minseo a towel but ended up dropping them twice and his face turning a bright, endearing shade of pink.
“Thank you,” a genuine small laugh bubbling up in your chest. “I’m Y/n—”
“I know,” he blurted out, then immediately looked like he wanted to swallow his tongue. “I mean—the sign-in sheet the one Yeeun had, I saw your name. It’s a good name. Very... name-like.”
Yeeun, Minseo and Mingyu, exchanged a look. With a few scoffs from Minghao and Jiah who were yet to introduce themselves.
“What the heck is wrong with him?” Mingyu whispered to Yeeun, who was already shaking her head but still smiling proudly.
“Both of you are in,” Yeeun announced, her voice leaving no room for argument and her face revealing the proud look of finally finding what she was looking for. “Welcome to the crew, girls.”
The following days at the law firm felt different. The office lights and the endless stacks of depositions and files didn’t seem quite boring now and didn’t bring headaches. Not when you knew that later, you’ll pull out of the bottom of your bag your worn-out sneakers and your now favorite pair of oversized sweatpants.
You found yourself checking the clock every twenty minutes, you wanted to leave already. Counting down the seconds until you could burst through the heavy glass doors of the firm and catch the bus to the studio. Your now favorite place.
You were becoming a master of quick outfit change. It was funny, you’d leave home in a suit. Skirt ringht at your knees, fitting your form beautifully and very professional like. Looking exactly like an intern. But the minute you arrive at the studio, you’d change into your most comfortable, spirit lifter clothes. A pair of oversized sweatpants, a tank top and a sweatshirt that you’d wrap around your waist to complement the vibe.
You’d look at yourself in the mirror and think, now this is what I like, this is wat freedom feels like for me.
Arriving at the studio became the highlight of your existence.
Leaving outside the professional version of you and entering with more energy and soul.
“The legal bunny has arrived!” Mingyu’s voice echoed across the room the second he saw you. He’d usually be in the middle of a stretching routine that looked more like a wrestling match with his own limbs than anything close to warm up, but he’d always stop to give you a high-five that would leave, unintentionally, a momentary sting on the palm of your hand.
Practice was intense, but it was the most alive you had ever felt. Yeeun was a demanding leader, her sharp eyes catching every step that should not be there.
You thought she must have a superpower because she somehow always managed to see everyone.
“Bunny! more sass on that shoulder roll, you know this!” she’d call out, leaning against the mirror with an encouraging smirk. “Remember you’re not in an office right now, I’m asking for vibes! I’m not interested in files about a shitty divorce couple!”
Then there was Soonyoung.
He was always there. Sometimes hovering near the sound system or marking out choreography with Yeeun. The transformation he went through the moment the music started never ceased to amaze you. One second he was a lovable, bright guy who couldn’t walk past a chair without nearly knocking it over, and the next, he was the most coordinated person with a fierce gaze and sharp movements, a professional. He moved with an intensity that felt like he was breathing the music.
“That’s how you look like when you dance.” Yeeun startled you one day, you had chosen to stay a little more, SVT dance crew had a presentation soon, so they had been rehearsing right after your crew did. “Not kidding bunny, you both look like damn fireballs the second the beat drops.”
“I’m flattered, but Soonyoung is on another level.” You chuckled, t was true though. He had been dancing for longer than 10 years, professionally. You’d been dancing occasionally “I’ve never danced professionally, not like him.”
“And that’s why everyone is impressed, darling.” Yeeun smiled and nudged your shoulder “that’s why Soonyoung is so damn smitten by you. You’re a natural. Pure talent”
“Smitten? What?” you laughed at her choice of words, “the smitten one is Mingyu, honestly please tell me, when are you going to let him off the hook and just let him take you out?”
“Who’s going to take out who?” Minseo walked to where you two were standing, she had heard half of it and already had a pout on her face. She knew about Mingyu of course she did, and she was their number one fan.
“Mingyu—”
“Shush, both of you.” Yeeun’s cheeks had already turned a soft shade of pink making you giggle.
“Oh! alright, just think about it. That guy is losing his mind, my mom is worried.” Minseo pouted giving her the puppy eyes “pwease!”
“Oh god, I thought that was a Mingyu thing,” Yeeun groaned
“Oh no, that’s a sibling thing. I’ve had to deal with that for years.” With a laugh at Yeeun’s wide eyes, neither of you noticed the moment the practice ended, you were having a good time.
Before, you were only laughing on weekends with Minseo back at your apartment. Now you were laughing in a room full of music and people who are actually happy to be there and because they wanted to, not just to cover their working hours.
Soonyoung noticed, and he couldn’t help but feel frustrated because he wanted to listen to that laugh from up close, but the practice needed his attention. And while he could do that, his mind would often drift to you, the way you dance and the way he had the blessing of seeing you again, and even better, dancing in his studio.
Soonyoung started staying late with you, every day. He’s been postponing this for over a week now, and he’ll run out of time if he does not grow a pair and ask.
“Hi there.” You tried your best not to startle him, but it didn’t work. Soonyoung had been in his own world to notice you were standing next to him already. With a small jump of your own you stifled a laugh “sorry.”
“Hi! Oh, I—it’s fine.” He smiled and waved his hand “Hi there.”
“Whatcha thinking,” you tilted your head and offered him gum. “You zooned out. I made a mistake and you didn’t say anything.”
“Oh, no I mean I’m sorry. I did see it, I just I’ve been thinking about something that well…”
“Is something I can help you with?” you giggled because the moment you asked that his eyes lit up instantly, like what you said had been something he had been waiting to hear.
“Actually, yes.” You could see the way his ears started to turn red. “So, basically, there’s another event in two months. And you know, it’s like a contest, a duo to be specific and well the studio is part of it and—”
“Yes?” you smiled at him, finding him more adorable like this.
“Well, you’re a dancer. A really good one, fantastic really.”
“Do you... want me to be your duo for this?” you saw the way his eyes lit up in the most precious way and you felt how your heart skip a beat, because his expression was the most adorable thing ever.
“Yes, yeah! I mean only if you want of course, I think we’d be great but—”
“Sure, let’s do this.” You answered not even thinking it twice, because why would you think twice? You wanted to dance, and he was the cutest by asking you.
The way his eyes now turned into those little half moons because of the huge smile he was now wearing, is doing things to you. Things you knew your heart was going to complain later, when you end up fall... yeah.
So, it was decided, you’d be his partner. That was thrilling, you were excited of course. dancing with him is going to be fun.
So, for now, you didn’t pay attention to the voice in your head in the shape of your mother telling you it wasn’t a good idea. That you had other things, important things like adult life.
To be honest, you didn’t care now. Not when you’ve had a taste of what being excited for tomorrow felt like and Light a Flame studios made you feel that way. Soonyoung made you feel that way.
“You’re overthinking it again,” he said one evening, walking toward you after a particularly messy turn. He was breathless, sweat making his forehead glisten under the studio lights matching yours.
“I don’t want to mess it up,” you admitted, sighing loudly as you wiped your face with the back of your hand. “I’m trying too much aren’t I? I just need to do it perfectly.”
Soonyoung stepped closer, his bright eyes softening. He reached out to tuck a strand of your hair behind your ear, his touch gentle. “That’s the thing about dance, bunny. There are no procedures to follow and be 100% perfect. You should know this. You need to feel each step, the beat, the music and then follow how your body wants to move.”
“We’re doing a choreography Soon, we need to follow that procedure.”
“Either we follow it and look like robots, or feel the music, the steps and be human like we’re supposed to. I’d like to be human and actually perform something worth seeing you know.” He shrugged and winked at you as he took a long sip of his water “come on, let’s dance something else.”
He smiled, as he took a step back, he stumbled tripping over his own feet. It was about time. He had spent all day without any sort of clumsy incident. You caught him before he could fall, both laughed as he regained his balance with a sheepish grin.
“See?” he joked, his face turning a cute shade of pink. “This is the universe saying we should take a small break.”
He pulled you—carefully—towards the center of the practice room. And without music, he just started singing, pulling out mixed dance moves. Steps from the duo and weird ones that involved a really awkward body roll.
You found yourself looking forward to moments like this more than anything else.
Not only the duo practice, you loved the way Minseo would whisper gossip about Mingyu’s not so secret crush on Yeeun while you stretched. You loved the way Seokmin would drop by with snacks, jokes and complains about Soonyoung not following the itinerary back at the radio station. Which you have made pretty clear to him that you were a fan of, making Seokmin blush and grin proudly, which also made Soonyoung a little jealous but he would do his best to hide it. You could notice, and that made your heart warm a little.
But mostly, you loved how Soonyoung looked at you, his eyes would soften each time you talked. And he would shush anyone who dared to speak over you, not letting him pay attention. You loved mostly the way he would smile like you were a firework he was lucky enough to see in daylight.
Every night, as you walked back to your apartment, your muscles would ache and your feet would be sore, but your heart would be light and full of something you didn’t know how to call it. Warmth? Whatever it was, it helped because you no longer felt like you were just living in automatic and just surviving the day. Now, you were excitedly living and waiting for the next day. For the first time in your life, you were doing something for you and only you. And it felt amazing.
Soonyoung was teaching you so much more than choreography. He taught you how to hit those beats better, he started teaching you how to exist in both worlds, the professional law intern and the girl who loves to dance with him and is ready to give it all.
That made you aware of how it all started. The almost invisible acts of service/love that only few noticed, including you.
One day, you arrived at the studio in the evening, your head already pulsating threatening to turn into a migraine thanks to a particularly awkward lecture by Mr. Wong about “attention to detail.” All because you mixed one single file, one simple mistake that could be fixed in two seconds.
Your first mistake in almost two years and he turned into some kind of crime.
You had dropped onto the wooden floor after ending a song. With a loud annoyed sigh, you reached for your water bottle and you found a small and crinkled paper bag sitting next your gym bag. Inside was a single, warm pastry and a post-it note with a doodle of a tiger that made you smile fondly already knowing who did it.
‘For the best dancer in the crew (don’t tell Yeeun I said that). – Hoshi.’
You felt warmth spread through your chest, and you knew it that had nothing to do with the dancing. It was a thoughtful present, a pastry, something sweet just like him and you couldn’t help but feel something growing in your heart.
As the weeks went by, Soonyoung became the color your life had been lacking, and it showed. You’d smile more, laugh more, even be more charming at work regardless of what task you were asked to do.
He’d take you on what he called “Adventure Breaks” between rehearsals for the duo event. One night, he dragged you to a 24-hour convenience store, standing in front of the candy aisle, looking at them with the intensity you’ve seen men have when deciding a court case.
“Okay, blueberry, mint or watermelon...? he asked, looking at you with focused eyes, but still sweet with eagerness.
“Ah, well, I usually just get the plain peppermint, it’s good.” you murmured, reaching for the familiar white box. It was safe. It was what you always did, play safe when choosing something. To eat, to buy, to read, to wear. To, basically everything.
Soonyoung gently caught your wrist, his fingers warm against your skin taking softly the box you had already picked. “The plain peppermint is for the office, bunny. Right now, you’re allowed to pick something else. You won’t know if you don’t try other flavors, look the blueberry one is amazing.”
You hesitated, then nodded taking it yourself. When you popped it into your mouth and made a surprised but satisfied face at the sweet flavor, Soonyoung grinned. Wearing one bright, triumphant smile. “See? Now you know it’s good! You can try the watermelon next and then choose the one you like more.”
It was a small thing—a flavor of candy.
But the meaning you gave it back in your apartment that night made you feel warm. It was cady flavor for him, something so simple, yet it made you feel free to choose the safe option or the mystery sweet new one. In that moment, you felt a strange sense of approval you’d been chasing your whole life.
The “it’s okay whatever you chose, but do it if you really like it.”
He was supporting you, giving you options for you to choose, he could tell you what he thinks about it, but at the end it is your choice.
This simple metaphor, this simple representation made you realize so many things. One of them being that Soonyoung has a big heart ready to cheer you on whatever you do.
For Soonyoung, falling for you was like a slow-motion slip. He had seen lot of dancers before, he had entered several contests and met so many other teams.
But the moment you stepped onto that studio, something in his chest had shifted. He saw the way you held yourself, the way you moved, the tension in your shoulders that only dissolved when the music hit and he oddly can’t explain how he could see the music flow in your veins.
He saw the professional you in the way you apologized too much for every minor mistake, and it made him want to protect the dance soul underneath that mask of perfect woman even more.
He fell hard for the way you bit your bottom lip when you were concentrating on a new footwork sequence. He fell for the way you treated Minseo like a sister to team up with against Mingyu and still be kind to him. He fell for the way you would kindly help Yeeun with paperwork when you saw she was struggling too much.
He fell for the way you moved, the way you felt every beat of every song, he fell for the way you smiled and the way you shine with music.
But mostly, he fell for the way you looked at him. Because he could be his clumsiest self, and you’d still smile at him with so much care. He knew he was a mess sometimes—dropping his phone, walking into chairs that had no business on being on his path, losing his keys almost every day— but you never looked at him with embarrassment he feared you’d have by being next to him.
No, you looked at him with a soft, genuine amusement followed by a giggle that made him feel like this sudden flaw was actually something good.
The nights at the radio station with Seokmin, where he is supposed to be helping with the tech, he’d get distracted by staring at a video he’d taken of you marking the duet song. He’d claim he was simply taking notes to be perfect.
“Yah, you’ve got it bad, hyung.” Seokmin would say, leaning his shoulder against the doorframe. Soonyoung had a grin on his face, he had given up long ago trying to deny it. He realized it was stupid to try to convince others that you were simply his duet partner.
Soonyoung was an open book, mostly. And when it came to you, it was like he had announced his thoughts and feelings where available to read immediately.
“She’s so, intense and good. She’s so good, Seok.” Soonyoung would whisper, his voice thick with a sweetness that surprised him even more. “She’s everything.”
Seokmin smiled fondly at Soonyoung, he’s been there the times Soonyoung had met prospects that tried something serious with him, but not once Seokmin saw him blush by mentioning their name like he had with you.
That makes him happy for Soonyoung, but also a little frustrated because it seems like you had made the leader of synchronization the most awkward human being he’s ever met. And it only confirmed it, he was too far gone for you, he’d sign it, he’s in love with you.
He was doing things just for you. Like bringing an extra hoodie because he noticed you got chilly during the cool-down, or getting an extra bottle of water, buying extra food because you’d arrive at the studio after 8 working hours with hardly anything in your stomach.
With these tiny gestures, he made you feel seen. You appreciated it so much. He didn’t need a thank you from you every time. He just wanted to see that spark in your eyes when he’d show up with your favorite drink or food, or just simply walking you home to get you there safe.
He was becoming your person, and you were more than happy about that.
Thanks to him you were learning that life didn't have to be a series of files and documents with boring meetings. That you needed to attend just to please your mother.
With Soonyoung, life was a messy, loud, colorful duet.
Things were about to get more complicated, and real life was starting to catch up with you now.
The exciment for the duet showcase made you believe it could be a good opportunity to invite your family to see you, the real Y/n dance.
You prepared a diner. Deciding on inviting Soonyoung since he was your partner, in more ways than the duet. You thought it could be a great idea. He had become part of you now.
He didn’t know just yet though.
You had set the dining table was set with the good porcelain, the one your mother gifted and claimed it should be only for special occasions.
The air was thick with the scent of the pasta you had chosen to make tonight. All mixed with a damn stiff, polite tension that always seemed to follow you and your family into a room with someone new. Like right now, Soonyoung.
Soonyoung sat across from your father, he looked uncharacteristically neat in a button-down shirt that he’d clearly spent a long time trying to iron but gave up long ago and to feel more comfortable, he had rolled up the sleeves to feel more fresh. The tension here was making him feel hot. Despite the nervousness, he was being charming in his own clumsy way, leaning in with wide, sincere eyes as your father told a story about his old job.
“That’s incredible, sir,” Soonyoung said, letting out a bright laugh that made your father offer a rare, awkward chuckle. That surprised you, your father has always been a tough nut to crack and here it is Kwon Soonyoung getting a chuckle from him almost just by existing.
Even Jiyeon was watching him with a cautious, curious politeness, her professional mask slipping just enough to show she was intrigued by the energy he brought to the room, you could even dare to say she wanted to give a laugh of her own at his awkward, polite chat.
But your mother didn’t seem too amazed by him. She remained polite, the one holding the conversation. “It’s a lovely dinner, Y/n,” she said, her voice smooth. “Though, I do worry about your schedule. Stability is important. A steady job, a reliable income— you kniw, these are the things that allow a person to truly breathe and live comfortably. Don’t you agree, Mr. Kwon?”
Soonyoung paused, his fork halfway to his mouth. “Oh, yes. I think stability is important, even better if it comes from doing what you love, ma’am.”
You cleared your throat, trying to lift a little the weight of the conversation. Even if you knew the next thing you were about to say would do nothing to help. But it was now or never, and this was entirely the reason they were here.
“Actually, that’s why I invited you all. Soonyoung and I are performing a duet at a showcase next week. It’s a contest, and it’s more than that. This would be like a big achievement for the crew, for Soonyoung as a professional dancer and the owner of the studio. And for me because, well I love this.” You spoke almost all in one breath, with a bit of shyness and turning into a little girl, you turned to your right and gave the most hopeful eyes “Dad, I’d really appreciate it, I’d love it for you to be there.”
Your father nodded, his eyes softening. “That sounds interesting, a duet. Sure.” simple, not entirely excited but definitely curious. That’s a win.
“I’ll try my best to clear my afternoon,” Jiyeon added, glancing at her phone but giving you a small nod. “I have a meeting with Jinyoung’s firm, but I guess I can make it work.” An effort or attempting at one. Well, that’s big.
You turned to your mother, your heart beating a hopeful rhythm. “Mom?”
She just took a slow sip of water. “It’s a nice plan, you have to be careful not to waste too much time on this, is just a hobby after all.”
The sting was quiet, but it was there— like a sharp, cold needle. No, a sharp big knife in your chest.
Soonyoung set his fork down. He looked genuinely puzzled, as if he couldn’t understand how they did not see the shine you give. “Have you all seen her dance?” he asked, his voice steady and polite. “I mean, really seen her?”
Your mother raised an eyebrow. “We saw her recitals when she was young, Mr. Kwon.”
“Right. Then you haven’t seen her,” Soonyoung said, his usual fidgeting stopping completely. “She’s really talented, she feels the music. I personally believe, this is not just a ‘hobby’ for her. In all my years at the studio, I’ve never seen someone as coordinated as her, and I’m the leader. Honestly, with all due respect, it’s not a waste of time to watch someone be that brilliant.”
Your mother’s expression tightened. The polite mask didn’t break, oh but you could tell it cracked a little “Well, I’ll try to think about it. Thank you Mr. Kwon. I think we have you know, priorities.”
The silence that followed felt too suffocating.
The dinner ended shortly after. Your father gave your shoulder a supportive squeeze as he left, but your mother’s goodbye felt like a silent dismissal of what you wished.
As the door clicked shut, you felt the weight of being tossed aside once again. You turned to Soonyoung, who was standing by the sofa, looking at his shoes, he was ready to apologize. He truly thought his comment was the reason why she didn’t confirm if she was going.
“Soonie?” you whispered. “Stay? Please. I just... I don’t want to be alone with my head right now.”
Soonyoung looked up, his face instantly softening into that familiar, worried sweetness, not before he had blushed at the nickname you used for the second time. One he found he loved too much coming from you.
He nodded shyly, his hands diving into his pockets. “Yeah. Yeah, of course. I’ll stay as long as you want. Whatever you need. I can wash the dishes, or just sit here, or... whatever you need.”
With a chuckle you nodded walking to him, both sat down on the floor, back against the couch, sitting a careful distance buty you wanted him a little closer. You had pulled your legs up till you were able to rest your chin on your knees.
“She’s never going to see me truly, is she?” you wondered, “it’s like, I’m here but I don’t have a say.”
Soonyoung moved then, sliding closer until his shoulder was pressed against yours. He didn’t say anything. He just let his presence be the answer. Then, in a voice so quiet and hurried that you almost missed it, he spoke.
“I do see you. I have been since that day at the bus stop, when you were holding your bag and... and you looked so sad. I thought then... I thought I’d never seen anyone so pretty, even when you clearly looked stressed and about ot murder someone. And then when I saw you at the studio? It was like... it was watching a part of you that you missed. Wrong, a part of you that you needed back.”
He let out a shaky breath, his thumb tracing a pattern on the denim of his jeans, he was fighting for his life trying not to hold your hand in fear of you pulling away.
“You truly think I needed this?”
“To breath, to let go. To live? Yes.” He smiled at you, that sweet one that brought calm to your chaos. “I, kind of, well not kind of, I like... you. I think I fell, hard. Not only physically like I always seem to do when you’re near. Which I want to clarify, I was not this clumsy, yu just… anyway. What I want to say is that, I just feel something way too strong. I just want you to be happy. If that’s dancing with me, or just sitting here in the quiet... I’m here. I’m always going to be here. Like Seokmin said, I’m down bad for you.”
You looked at him, and for the first time that night, the gray cloud above you started to fade. He was a mess of nerves and sincerity, a bright, colorful light in your quiet apartment after being told your dream your love was a waste of time.
Soonyoung just told you he cared, he liked you. No, he loved you. he might’ve not used those exact words, but the way he’s fidgeting right now, the way his cheeks and ears are at the most red you’ve seen, wasenough proof.
God, the way he was looking at you was doing too much to your heart.
“I might, you know—” you chuckled looking at your hands, shifting closer to him “I think I feel something too.”
“Oh, well that’s good. Yeah definitely good.” He stuttered, with a small laugh adnd a shaky hand, he took yours playing with your fingers before he dared to intertwine them with his. “I really, really like you.”
“I really, really like you too.” You smiled as you leaned your shoulder against his. “Are you going to kiss me or?”
“I-I am, of course I mean—” he could feel his own heart almost beat out of his chest, feel the heat creep up to his face and just his brain short circuit right then and there.
“Oh my god, Soonyoung. Come here.”
Alright, this is not over, I have yet to fix the rest because this goes longer. But thanks to real life and the wonders of depression, I have just finished fixing this one. Next part promise will be up in two days tops. I have it here already, just neeed to really fix it.
ᯓ★ pairing: radio host! xu minghao x author! f.reader
ᯓ★ summary: Four novels in and you've developed the perfect system: rent a house, get a part time job, eat where the residents eat, drink where they drink, read the town paper, and listen to the local radio. Then, you lock yourself away for the night and write like someone who could call this place home. So this sleepy beach town is the ideal place to write your fifth novel– set in 1974, small town girl meets big city boy, who promises to visit every summer.
It'd be perfect... if it weren't for the evening DJ at Wave FM, who only ever seems to play music that kills your vibe.
ᯓ★ for: the first time caller collab, hosted by @studiosvt
ᯓ★ genre: comedy, fluff, smut
ᯓ★ rating: explicit MDNI!!!
ᯓ★ chapter warnings: written in diary style. reader is an idiot but i still love her. she's quitting smoking, please support. set in 90s, ambiguous beach town setting but author uses britishisms, do with that what you will. reader and minghao judge each others taste in music and are not always nice to each other. frogs (ceramic etc).
ᯓ★ chapter wc: 4.6k, total TBD
ᯓ★ a/n: hello loves, only breaking my silence because it's the deadline for this fic (uhoh) and i needed to post SOMETHING. good news: i survived shingles. bad news: i got shingles– do not recommend. please expect slow updates as i have other things to update first.
ᯓ★ thank yous: to @haologram my beloved. thank u for your 90s dance music recs! (playlist to be added to masterlist)
· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·
20 June 1998
Cigarettes smoked: 0
Times wanted cigarette: 21
Cups of coffee: 4
Alcohol units: 3.5
Words written: 2043
Times considered breaking a window: 892310
9.26 p.m. A very disappointing day, all in all. You would have bought cigarettes by now (if you had any inclination of going outside again) and ruined your four day streak, so it’s just as well you cannot be arsed.
Disappointing Things of the Day
Overpriced coffee on the train. Also very bitter
Raining (all day)
Damon Albarn and Justine Frischmann broke up (ages ago but only JUST found out when reading old Heat magazine someone left on the train)
Same Heat magazine said suede boots are “OUT” and you spent £460 on yours two months ago. You were wearing them as you read it.
Ice cream shop on beach closed
Cottage owner didn’t answer the phone again. Have spent small fortune in various payphones wasted on his answerphone machine
Still really fucking want a fucking cigarette
The cottage– just in general
Comparison is the thief of joy, so the saying goes, but when you arrived at the cottage at a little after four p.m, you had the clipping of the advert from the brochure in your handbag, and you were fairly sure you’d been lite-scammed. Sure, it’s on the seafront, and sure, it’s got both the garden and the office with the view– but gone are the blue window boxes filled with flowers, the rose and jasmine covered facade, and the quaint bistro garden set you’d hoped to write from with a glass of wine in the evenings. Instead you were faced with a sad remnant of what you suppose it used to be, a singular white plastic lawn chair, and a distinct lack of flowers.
You reminded yourself that you’d been lucky to get anywhere at the last minute, as you stood at the end of the narrow gravel path, suitcase handle biting into your palm, the late afternoon sun in your eyes. The cottage– your cottage, for the next three months– will simply have to do.
The photos of the cottage had been lovely. There was a whimsical charm to it. The window frames had been a soft, pale blue in the picture, but the paint is all peeling away now. Maybe it just looked worse because of the rain, but you can’t help but feel hard done by.
Four books in, you’d thought you’d have learned better than to romanticise the setting, but every place just exceeded your expectations. First, the little flat in Glasgow– very strange, probably haunted, and the lock stuck so often you started leaving the kitchen window unlatched whenever you left, but it did wonders for your creativity. The lakehouse in Bavaria in September, filled with natural light and surrounded by nature. The chalet in northern Italy over Christmas and New Years, a skiers paradise. All of them were wonderful, in their own (sometimes imperfect) ways.
And now here, in this sleepy beach town in the arse end of nowhere, that took nine hours on three trains and another forty-five minutes via a bus that runs twice a week to get to, you’re really really trying not to feel defeated before you’ve even started. What it’s really about, you try in a pathetic attempt to convince yourself, is the system. The system can work anywhere, right?
The System
Find short term rental
Get part time job
Eat, drink, and shop independent
Get involved in community
Listen to radio/read local paper
Write
You’d dragged the suitcase up the path and the wheels kept catching on uneven stones. You realised, rather quickly, that hidden amongst the overgrown grass and weeds were many decorative frogs, even more of them greeted you at the door. Loads and loads of frogs staring at you with their massive eyes. Ceramic, metal, plastic, stone, some on toadstools, some with umbrellas– one particularly odd one wearing wellington boots that surely wouldn’t fit his wide, webbed feet– just fuckloads of frogs. Some of them weren’t even green. These certainly weren’t in the photographs, but okay, you supposed it’s nice your landlord has a hobby. God, what if he’s some kind of sick frog pervert?
Somewhere nearby, wind chimes made a soft, tinkling sound and you looked around for it, and oh yes– it’s another one, swinging around in the wind on a lilypad. It’s somewhat disconcerting that there’s so many, frankly, and you hoped the cottage was not quite so full of amphibians inside. There was, however, a note taped to the door, its ink bleeding down the paper.
Key under frog.
- Vernon
Oh for fucks sake– which bastard one?! You huffed, rain running down your temple, before you squatted on the floor and began turning them over. A few minutes went by, and then you were in the grass, fairly positive you were being bitten by ants. You were so close to sacking the whole thing off and going to buy some cigarettes before killing yourself in front of all the fucking frogs, but your fantasies were interrupted by someone saying– “Excuse me… hi down there… hello?”
You looked up to find an amused, slightly alarmed man peering over the fence separating your garden and what is, presumably, his. You had your hand clasped around a frog wearing a top-hat and a monocle, and your suede Prada boots had mud all over the heel. He was wearing a purple and turquoise shellsuit with the hood up, headphones looped around his neck, connected to a Discman that only half fit in the pocket of his jacket.
“Is everything alright?” he said. “I heard a concerning amount of swear words.”
“Uhhh,” you replied stiffly, pushing the rain off your forehead with the back of your hand. “Do I look alright?”
There’s a pause where he took in the scene– your suitcase abandoned at the door, your trench coat dipping into the mud, the growing cluster of overturned frogs around you.
“I’d say… committed.” His lips twitched. Wanker. “I’m Jeonghan.”
You offer your name too, before he said, “you must be the author?”
You blinked at him in surprise.
“How do you know that?”
Jeonghan smiled like an angel. “Vernon told someone who told someone who told someone else. I heard it from Minghao at HMV. News travels fast here.”
You suppress an eyeroll. “Of course it does.”
“I’m guessing we'll be neighbours for a week or two?”
“Three months, actually. If I ever get inside.” You let out a bitter laugh.
“Right, yeah,” he said. “Did you try the one with the sombrero?”
Your spine straightened as your eyes darted around, and there you found it, sitting at the base of a sad-looking hydrangea bush. “That one?” you ask, pointing toward it.
He nodded. You walked over and pushed the bloody thing over with your toe to find the key gleaming at you from the floor. You plucked it from the mud and held it up for Jeonghan to see.
“There we are,” he said happily, as if the whole thing had been the making of a charming anecdote rather than an early warning sign.
“Thank you. Seriously. I was five minutes away from throwing a frog through the window.”
“Don’t mention it.”
“Do you know the owner?” you called over your shoulder as you made for the door. “Vernon?”
“Oh he’s not the owner. He’s just running the place,” said Jeonghan airily. There’s a long pause while you jiggle the key in the lock. “Between you and I he’s a little new to this.”
“You don’t say,” you grumbled under your breath before finally the lock clicked, and you let out a heavy sigh.
“Well, I’ll see you around. Feel free to knock if you need anything.”
“Yeah, you too,” you said quickly, dragging your suitcase over the threshold, even though you have nothing of note he could use. That is, unless he has a sudden, dire need for nicotine patches or peach schnapps. The door closed with a thump, and you were alone again at last. You turned to see what horrors awaited you, wet clothes sticking unpleasantly to your skin. Outside, it stopped raining.
21 June 1998
Cigarettes smoked: 0
Times wanted cigarette: 13 (better)
Cups of coffee: 7 (shaking)
Alcohol units: 10.5
Words written: 401 (mostly shit)
Local people met: alarming amount
Local people who somehow already know who you are: as before
Times called into Wave FM: 1
Times considered throwing radio into ocean: 4
8.58 a.m. Horrid start to the day. A seagull decided your bedroom window was the perfect place for serenading his lovely seagull wife, at five fucking a.m. and that clearly set the tone for the rest of the morning. The seagulls here are not your regular seagulls. No… these are enormous prehistoric bastards that screech like how (one could imagine) medieval children would upon seeing a Tamagotchi for the first time.
The inside of your temporary home is, thankfully, frogless, and impeccably clean. It could do with updating, as the decor clearly hadn’t been touched since the seventies, but it’s nothing to complain about. You figured this would help get you in the mood for writing. You could see your main characters, Michael and Carrie, so clearly. Perhaps they’d have a little home like this somewhere in their future, too.
Turned on the radio and quickly figured out that the only station you get a decent signal from is Wave FM, and this morning’s segment was clearly set aside for some kind of goofy, call-in improv show. You clicked it off.
Anyway, you’d tried to save your sour mood by making a cup of coffee and sitting at the desk in the office, overlooking the gorgeous view of the open ocean, but could you write? Not even a sentence! Pathetic. You are a bad writer. A cretin. An uncreative sham.
At a little before nine, you decided to call your agent, Jihoon, who would surely have nothing but praise and admiration to shower upon you in your time of emotional distress.
“It’s the crack of dawn,” he said, when he picked up on your second try.
“It’s eight-thirty se–” you managed to get out before Jihoon hung up.
11.46 a.m. Jihoon picked up again on the fifth try at nine-fifty two and promptly told you to pull your head out of your arsehole and get a grip, because it hasn’t even been one full day.
“I don’t want to hear from you for at least two weeks,” he said blithely. You heard the loud clack of his keyboard in the background. “You’re insufferable until you get some words on a page.”
“But Jihoon–”
“Leave. Me. Alone.”
Jihoon is often like this, and you suspect he’s taking on too much work again. He is the best literary agent you’ve ever known. Everyone wants him and his off-putting personality. He’s who got you your five-book deal with Penguin. He’s the one who negotiated your six-figure advance. He’s the one who’s in castings this week with the BBC– finding the perfect Harry for the adaptation of your second novel, Giving Up Ghosts.
“What if–”
“What if nothing!” he snapped. “Leave me out of it until you’re four chapters in. Go fuck someone and cry about your dwindling talent to them instead of harping on at me.”
“You’re a sack of shit, Jihoon. You’re an emotionless spoon. Did you know th– Jihoon? Jihoon? Fuck!”
He’d hung up again.
This is how you found yourself in a cafe on the seafront, sipping at your fourth cup of coffee of the day. It was fairly busy for a Monday morning, though most people were popping in for a to-go drink– only you and a few elderly women occupying the tables. The hustle and bustle of it was nice enough, though the radio was somewhat distracting. Instead of what you’d hoped would be relaxing music played low over the speakers, you’ve instead got a constant too-loud slew of Nirvana, Pearl Jam, and Alice in Chains. Your ex boyfriend would consider this heaven. You, however, hope for background music more conducive to writing your 1970’s summer romance this evening.
You made scribbles in your notebook while you watched a little sailboat bobbing around in the waves in the distance. Summer, 1974. Michael (extroverted, bright, exciting, selfish, emotional coward) the up and coming actor, and Carrie (kind, brave, impatient, brash, judgemental) who runs the family-owned record store.
That’s as far as you got by the time you heard your name being called from beside the counter. You twisted your neck to be greeted by Jeonghan, and a man whose eyes were slightly bugging out of his head.
“Oh my God, it’s her,” the bug eyed man said.
“Hel-lo neighbour!” said a gleeful Jeonghan, as he pulled up a chair. The other one hovered behind and waited until you raised your eyebrows expectantly at the chair in front of him. In for a penny and all that. “You didn’t tell me you were famous.”
Are you famous? Sure, Giving Up Ghosts was by all accounts a bestseller, but that doesn’t exactly make you a household name as of yet. Certainly not with the typical male demographic.
“Oh, I’m not fam–” you started, before you were interrupted by a disbelieving laugh.
“You so are!” said the other one. He had the aura of a hamster on speed.
“This is Soonyoung,” said Jeonghan, leaning back in his chair.
“I’ve read everything you’ve written!” exclaimed Soonyoung, which you suppose would be more impressive if you had more than four books on the shelves. “Last month we found your short stories from your uni newspaper. Incredible, by the way.”
Good Lord.
“We?”
“My book club!” said Soonyoung, patting his hands on the table like he was playing the bongos really, really fast. The vibration of it sent your latte sloshing over the rim of your mug. “I can’t wait to tell everyone, they’re going to lose their fucking m–”
This is the last thing you need actually. Thankfully Jeonghan, who might not be a wanker after all, seemed to be gifted in the mind-reading department (i.e. your bewildered, frankly terrified expression and an inability to speak) and came to your rescue.
“I think she might want to fly under the radar, Soonyoung,” he said, winking at you conspiratorially. “Why else would she come here, of all places?”
“Right, of course, durr!” said Soonyoung, wiggling his head in a sort of ditsy ‘oh silly me!’ way. And then he leaned in, voice dropping to a whisper. “But can you tell me one thing? Is it true Colin Firth will be playing Harry?”
Your insides might’ve actually flipped over. Who is this guy who knows where to find your old short stories, and who’s in talks to play the main characters?
Jihoon would tell you under threat of murder not to say a word. Your editor and most favourite person in the world, Jihyo, would waggle her eyebrows and tell you that avoidance creates intrigue.
“I couldn’t possibly say,” you told him with a half smile, and tapped your nose. Soonyoung actually squealed.
Jihoon could suck it.
2.03 p.m. You went to HMV mostly in the name of research, but got somewhat distracted by the tall, hot one with painted nails and long hair in a half-pony, restocking the M through P of the rock section. He looked somewhat grumpy every time someone talked to him, but it kind of made him more attractive. At one point, he caught you looking while you were fake-browsing the Oasis posters (Liam Gallagher sneering at you in black and white) and you thought you saw his lips twitch into an almost smile when he looked back down.
The romantic in you thought moonily about your characters and that maybe this could be how they meet. Michael, in preparation for a role, seeks out Carrie in the record store, and their summer is taken over by kissing and light petting in the storeroom. Mmm.
“Can I help you?” said tall, hot one when you drifted a little closer.
“Mmm,” you said, as eloquently as one can when they’re daydreaming about fictional people fucking.
Tall, hot one stared at you. “Sorry?”
“Oh,” you said, eyes flicking to the name badge pinned to the pocket of his baggy shirt. Minghao. Oh bloody hell, it’s Jeonghan’s… friend? Acquaintance? Colleague? “Sorry. Just– uh… thinking about… uh. Stuff.”
“Riiight,” said Minghao, turning back to his stack of CDs, clearly thinking you were some kind of imbecile.
“I’m writing a book!” you blurted out, and he turned back toward you, looking at you in some kind of bemused way. You cleared your throat. “Sorry. I mean– I’m doing research.”
“You’re the author?” he asked, head tilted. He was very soft spoken, and paired with that mullet ponytail thing he’s got going on, and his rolled shirt sleeves, and his full lips, it was all rather unnervingly attractive.
“Hah, yeah, that’s me!” you said much too cheerily, immediately being slapped in the face with a wave of self-loathing. “Why does everyone already know that?”
Minghao just shrugged. “Everyone knows everyone around here. The book club haven’t stopped talking about you.”
“Yeah, I met Soonyoung earlier.”
“Surprised you got out alive,” he murmured.
You laughed. “That bad?”
“He’s enthusiastic,” Minghao said diplomatically. When you raised an eyebrow, he added, “when he heard you were coming he cornered me in the supermarket to explain your narrative voice.”
“Oh no.”
“He used the phrase raw and sexual character study while I was trying to buy bananas.”
“Jesus Christ.”
Minghao huffed out a laugh through his nose, still focused on slotting CDs into the racks. His hands were nice. Which feels like a deeply strange thing to notice about someone, but there you were. Long fingers. Silver rings. Black nail polish, chipped.
“Is that what you write about?” he asked, raising an eyebrow. “Sex?”
You drifted away from the section he was organising, pretending to browse the Ls while very aware of his eyes following you. Was this flirting in practice? You haven’t been flirted with in approximately a billion years, unless you count the slimy man from the number 51 bus back home, which no one with any sense would.
“I write about people and their chemistry,” you said pointedly, then tacking on– “sometimes they have sex.”
There was a moment of quiet while he resumed organising the CDs. You briefly wondered if you were imagining a spark.
“What are you looking for?”
“Inspiration, mostly.”
“What kind?”
“Hmm,” you mused, flicking from Led Zeppelin to Leonard Cohen. “Polar opposites that start out hating each other end up falling in love, somehow.”
“Ah,” he said. “Can’t help you there.”
You glanced at him, the flat line of his mouth. “No music in this whole shop for that?”
His hands dropped to his sides. “Not in a way where it’d work out.”
“Ah,” you said, amused. “You’re a sceptic.”
The corner of Minghao’s mouth curled into a smile. “I’m a realist.”
You laughed, and asked if there’s anywhere else in this little town you could find inspiration, a small fire of hope in your chest that he’d say his bedroom or something equally suggestive. No such luck.
“There’s a party next week,” he said, casually. “You should come.”
You grimaced internally. You don’t really do parties, instead preferring to spend your social time with your friends at brunch, or in wine bars with low music and warm lighting, reserving your late nights for yourself and writing until the small hours. Still, there was Minghao, looking at you like he might be a little attracted to you too.
“With you?”
A flicker of amusement played on his face. “Well, it’s at my place,” he explained, before digging in his back pocket and pulling out a mobile telephone. “I’ll text you the address. What’s your number?”
“Oh. I don’t have–” You stopped to open your bag to find your notepad and a pen. “Here,” you said, thrusting them at him. “Write it down.”
7.23 p.m. After meeting Minghao you were accosted by four other townspeople in the bookshop– two of whom belonged to the infamous book club, one who ran the aforementioned bookshop, and another one, who clearly had no idea who you were but wanted to be part of the drama. You only went in to see if they sold your books (they did) but you ended up being dragged into a thirty minute debate about whether publishing is a dying industry, with the new wave of technology taking over the world. (Dear God, you hope not.)
You almost bought cigarettes on your way back home, but instead settled for a to-go coffee with two sugars to take the edge off. You weren’t sure it helped but the buzzing in your veins was quite nice. This is probably what a small percentage of what crack might feel like.
At five-fifteen you emailed Jihoon from your desk.
Should I buy a mobile telephone? Do you have one? Can I have the number? x
Best, your favourite client
He emailed back only a forty minutes later with this:
No you shouldn’t and no you can’t. There is no universe in which you should be able to contact me at all hours of the day.
Lee Jihoon
PS: how many words did you write today?
6000 ish. x
PS: please can I have your number? What if I have an urgent question about the BBC meetings?
Attagirl.
Lee Jihoon
PS: no. Call my assistant.
Prick x
PS: I lied. I only wrote 42 words and they’re all crap.
9.34 p.m. Thoroughly exhausted with day. Peach schnapps is very good and delicious, on a second glass already. The radio, however, is shit. No CDs in the house at all– you must buy some from Minghao and at same time arrange rendezvous in which you are fucked in the storage cupboard.
Okay. Okay! Must write now.
11.31 p.m. Have written next to nothing. Schnapps almost gone. Very sad. Radio is blasting unce unce unce and lyrics have nothing of substance. ‘Exploration of space!’ repeatedly announced over a distracting beat and it makes no sense, even metaphorically. The DJ of the late night show called himself The 8, and said really pretentious shit like “that really spoke to me, man.”
How does ‘Shouting lager, lager, lager, lager. Mega, mega white thing. Mega, mega white thing’ speak to anyone, exactly?
You tried switching it off, but being completely alone with your (negative) thoughts ended up being worse than actually listening to a hundred variations of the same song, so at some point, when The 8 was taking song requests, you carried the radio downstairs, and called in from the telephone attached to the kitchen wall.
The conversation did not go well.
“Caller number four, you’re on air on Wave FM,” came the host's voice, echoing with a slight delay on your radio, abandoned on the stairs. “What’s your name and what song would you like tonight?”
“Ca–” you started, interrupted by a loud hiccup. “Can you play Dreams by Fleetwood Mac?”
“Ah–” he said, the sound of tinkling laughter from the team in the background. “It’s not that kind of show. Can I tempt you with something from this decade?”
There was a teasing lilt to his tone that you did not, after four glasses of schnapps, appreciate.
“Y–” Hiccup. “Certainly cannot. What’s wrong with Fleetwood Mac?”
There was a long pause. “Nothing,” said The 8. “It’s just not exactly dance hour material.”
“Well maybe dance hour shouldn’t last four consecutive hours,” you snapped, leaning against the kitchen counter with the phone cord stretched taut across your stomach. “Have you considered that?”
A laugh crackled somewhere in the background.
“Wow,” said The 8. “Coming in hostile.”
“I’m just saying, this town deserves more variety.”
“What, because you don’t like it?”
“Because the average age of the population here is at least fifty-three,” you informed him. “Who exactly is this for?”
“The people craving fun, people with taste, people who want to da–”
“At eleven-thirty on a weekday?” you interrupted. “People want to relax with a glass of wine or two while they read or… or sew, or paint, or–”
“Have you thought about just going to bed? You sound like my grandmother.”
“Y–” You scoffed and hiccuped at the same time. “You sound incredibly judgemental.”
“Yep.”
You knocked back the last dregs of your drink and blurted– “I’m just saying perhaps four straight hours of men aggressively shouting over what sounds like a microwave exploding is excessive.”
More laughter in the background.
The 8 sighed dramatically into the microphone. “Why are you even listening if you hate the whole genre?”
“I like background music and this is the only station that gets a signal here.”
“So put on a CD, what’s the issue?”
You pause for a moment. “I don’t have any.”
“Well,” said The 8, voice dripping with sarcasm. “Might I recommend a shop in town, you’ll know it as HMV.”
Heat climbed up your neck as you were unable to find a witty response in your alcohol-fogged head. Three seconds went by, then four, then five– then The 8 cheerfully said– “Thanks for the chat, caller number four. Make sure to drink a lot of water before you go to sleep, it’ll help with that hangover in the morning.”
When the line went dead, you heard a round of laughter from the radio. The 8 took another caller, Mingyu, who asked for The Prodigy’s Firestarter, for which The 8 gleefully obliged. For the next thirty minutes, he played songs with aggressive male vocalists and wondered aloud if you were filing a complaint yet.
What a twat.
22 June 1998
Cigarettes smoked: 0
Times wanted cigarette: 103
Cups of coffee: 8 (have developed addiction, maybe?)
Alcohol units: -4 (estimate, based on amount of vomit)
Words written: 19
Local people met: 0 (thank God)
Minutes spent listening to radio in search of good hosts: 173
Good hosts found: 1, but it was her last day. Very disappointed but pleased she has clearly got a better job.
07.04 a.m. Ugh.
08.17 a.m. UGHHHHHHH.
12.01 p.m. Head has not stopped pounding. This is why they say not to drink on an empty stomach.
01.29 p.m. After another thirty minutes of trying to write with grunge music playing in the background, you briefly considered going to buy out all of HMV, but one look in the bathroom mirror put a stop to that plan. You cannot see anyone while you look like that. Instead, you slunk back to your desk, tuned the radio to static, and wrote half a sentence before promptly deleting it.
10.25 p.m. You tried every other station again tonight out of spite, but after a few seconds they all dissolved into static, religious broadcasts, or what sounded alarmingly like maritime emergency frequencies. Wave FM remains the only station that comes through clearly in the cottage. You expect this is Vernon’s fault somehow, and resolve to write it in a feedback letter at the end of your stay.
Tonight’s theme for The 8’s show appears to be Men Having An Emotionally Difficult Time In Warehouses.
You tried writing through it. Honestly. You sat at your desk with a cup of decaffeinated tea (in effort to stop the terrifying slide into addiction) and your notebook open to a fresh page while somebody sang poorly and incomprehensibly over what you suspect to be the baseline from the Holby City intro. Every now and then The 8 would come back on air to say something like “what a vibe.”
In the end, you wrote two sentences and only deleted one. A success story, if there ever was one. Tomorrow you will wake up well-rested, transform into a sex goddess, and go into town to buy one mobile telephone and ten CDs, at least. Hopefully, you’ll also get Minghao’s phone number.
SYNOPSIS. When the world falls asleep, a certain radio broadcast goes live—one hosted by none other than you and your best friend Wen Junhui. The two of you host an anonymous love confession segment, where listeners submit their deepest feelings, secrets, and late-night loves they can’t say aloud for you to unravel live on air. However, when a recurring submission starts to feel too familiar, a certain someone finds themselves wondering how long they can stay anonymous… before they are finally heard.
PAIRING. radio host!wen junhui x radio host!fem!reader (ft. soonyoung as a comedic device)
GENRE. fluff, best friends to lovers, crack/humour, comfort, slight angst, smut (minors dni 🔞)
WARNINGS. cursing, mentions of toxic situations in relationships (situationships, cheating, love bombing), yn and jun are dumb asffff no wonder they're besties, jun feeling a lil insecure :(, lots of playful bickering and bullying, terms of endearment, kissing, grinding, fingering, oral (f. receiving), unprotected sex, they bully each other even while doing the deed 😭
WORD COUNT. 11.3k
notes: hellooo everyoneee, this is my fic for the @studiosvt First Time Caller collab! please don't forget to support all the amazing authors in the collab!! unfort this was so rushed and lowkey not proud of it SDFDS i completely forgot how to write while writing this since it was all during the stress of finals szn and other matters LMAO, but i love writing abt two stupid oblivious idiot besties who are secretly in love with each other 😔 not rlly proofread so i'm sorry for any mistakes !! there is also a skye @etherealyoungk cameo in here hehe
“No, no, no𑁋Wen Junhui, you’re being way too nice about this!” You exclaim mid-laugh, shaking your head as you lean in towards the mic. “If someone’s been stringing you along for six months with nothing but ‘I’m not ready for a relationship yet’ texts, then that’s just straight up terrorism. Not even a situationship, at this point.”
Jun lets out a laugh of his own and throws his head back, almost making his headphones nearly fall off his head. He readjusts quickly, dark hair messily falling over his forehead. The neon red of the bright ON LIVE sign on the wall behind his head casts an almost villain-like glow across his features, sharpening the curve of his already amused smile.
“Terrorism? Wow, tell us how you really feel, Y/N,” Jun retorts playfully. “But fine. Anon, if they’ve been feeding you breadcrumbs for half a year, that’s basically emotional warfare. Please save yourself and block them on everything𑁋and yes, that includes on Spotify.”
You snort at that, tapping your pen against your script notes that you’ve been barely following anyway. The show had practically devolved from advice to whatever banter you and Jun had cooked up on the spot. “Exactly. Listeners, if your situationship has an expiration date longer than expired milk, it’s time to toss it. Jun is too sweet to say it, so I’ll do it. Run.”
“I𑁋’too sweet’?!” A dramatic gasp tumbles out of Jun as he spins his chair toward you. “I was the one who told last week’s caller to roast her boyfriend’s dick like a marshmallow because he kept forgetting her birthday!”
“But you said it with, like, the sweetest voice ever!”
“That man deserved to get emotionally blue-balled! How can you forget your girlfriend’s own birthday for a second year in a row?”
You roll your eyes so hard it’s basically audible over the mic. “God, Junhui, you have the emotional range of a raccoon.”
“I’ll take it.” Jun grins at that, thrusting his shoulders back as if he’s trying to appear bigger and more intimidating. “At least raccoons are cute, right?”
On your laptop, the chat is going crazy.
user: here we go again with their flirty banter 🙄
user: JUST GET MARRIED ALREADY YOU TWO!!!!!!!!!
user: i swear this radio show is hosted by 2 delusional idiots
user: i think they should kiss idk
“No, we shouldn’t!” You exclaim at the chat like you’re scolding a bunch of twelve-year olds.
Jun nearly hops out of his seat. “Wait, I agree!”
“Wen Junhui!”
“What? I was agreeing with you!”
“That was not you agreeing with me,” You groan. “You agreed to kissing me.”
“Well, the chat started it, so don’t put all the blame on me,” Jun says with a pout, folding his arms together. “Plus, it would be good for research purposes, wouldn’t it?”
Your eyes bulge out of your skull, your mind and face flaming up. “You’re such a𑁋we host a radio show, not a damn lab!”
“Chemistry is still relevant! And chemistry is needed for relationships!”
“We are not in a relationship, oh my, God.”
“Hypothetically, Y/N. Think hypotheticals.” Jun clicks his tongue, letting out playful tsk-tsk-tsk. “I’m telling you our ratings would absolutely skyrocket.”
You fight back the smile threatening to split your face in half, but there’s no point in trying to battle it. After being best friends with Jun for most of your life and witnessing pretty much all the stupid shit he has ever said or done, you’ve long accepted that his brand of chaos is the only thing in this world that can make your chest too tight and too warm at the same time. Especially if it involves the playful flirting you’ve been bouncing on for years.
“Whatever, to answer your question𑁋raccoons are cute, but they’re also known for making stupid life decisions,” You point out with a victorious smirk. “So, maybe not the best comparison to make. It’s accurate, regardless.”
“Harsh,” he whines, but his eyes𑁋those stupid, unfairly expressive eyes of his𑁋sparkle with teasing delight. “Alright, onto the final submission of the night. Anonymous says…”
Dear Y/N and Jun of Love On Air,
I’ve been supporting the show since the very beginning, and now, I think I’m in trouble enough to make a submission.
I’m in love with my best friend. I have been for years and it struck me pretty hard this morning. Is it weird to say when I first met them it felt like love at first sight? We talk every day to the point that everyone assumes we’re together, but we’re not. They’re kind, funny, and sometimes I think they deserve someone better than me. But is it selfish of me to say that I want to keep them in my life forever? Even if that line isn’t crossed?
What should I do???
🐱
The studio falls silent for a few moments after Jun finishes reading. The shift in the air is immediately noticeable, as if all the oxygen had been sucked out of the room. When Jun picks his head back up to look at you after reading the confession, his usual smirk is still in place, but fades just a tad when he catches the contemplative expression on your face.
“Hello? Earth to Y/N?”
“Huh?” You blink back up at him. “Oh, shit. Right, uh…”
You can’t tell if it’s the late night hour getting to you or something else entirely. You’ve received so many similar confessions before𑁋a best friend falling in love with their other half, the slow and torturous ache of unspoken feelings, the fear of messing up something that’s already so beautiful itself. And ultimately, your advice has always stayed the same.
But when you meet eyes with Jun, it’s as if the words have completely cut your tongue off. You finally clear your throat.
“First of all, welcome cat anon to the club of people who are all vicariously and collectively screwed together,” You say, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. “And I wish we hadn’t read yours at the very last minute since we’re about in end in five𑁋”
Jun lifts a brow. “Wait, we have about fifteen𑁋”
“𑁋but I’ll just say that you aren’t selfish for wanting to keep them in your life. But you are doing a disservice keeping it locked away forever. This kind of love doesn’t come around twice. So tell them, even if it scares you. What’s the worst that could happen, you know?”
You can feel Jun’s heavy gaze linger on the side of your face.
“Exactly, anon,” he jumps in like the professional he is. “Ripping the band-aid off would only hurt temporarily, right? And if it doesn’t work out, we’ll be here next week with some ice cream recommendations to help you cope.”
“Keep in mind what Jun said, guys,” You say, forcing a small laugh. “Thank you all for turning into Love On Air. Stay honest, stay unhinged, and send that one person a risky text. If you want to submit a confession, please send one to our email. We are live every Saturday on FM 98.7! Goodnight, everyone!”
You kill your microphone first as the ON LIVE sign on the wall blinks out with a soft click. Jun switches off his microphone right after, and the silence that washes over the studio is louder than anything else.
For a moment, neither of you moves.
You still feel the ghost of Jun’s gaze warm on your cheek from when you were giving advice just a minute ago. It’s silly, really𑁋how one singular anonymous confession is enough to make you think and contemplate so hard. You’ve given advice to more people than you can count on your hands and toes, but this specific one feels as if it grew limbs, crawled out of the screen, and sat itself between you and him.
“You rushed that ending,” Jun interrupts your thoughts as he swings his coat over his shoulders.
You scoff lightly. “I did not.”
“Did too.”
“I literally answered the question,” You shoot back, narrowing your eyes at him. “That’s our job.”
“Exactly,” he hums in response, leaning his elbow on the desk and resting his chin lazily in his palm. “You answered it like it was your first time ever hearing it.”
A pause.
“When it’s not.”
It’s not. But why𑁋out of all goddamn times you’ve read the same exact fear𑁋did this one feel like someone jabbed a finger at your chest and said: here, this is yours?
You force a laugh at that, letting out a deprecating shrug. “Maybe I’m just getting sentimental at my big age.”
“You’re literally younger than me.”
“Only by a few months. Your argument is irrelevant, grandpa.”
Jun tilts his head at your words, pushing himself off the table and invading your personal space as always. He stands only a step away from you, observing the way you’re speedily packing your belongings like some kind of punishment. When you face back up at him, he gives a light flick to your forehead. His touch lingers for a few seconds, before he brushes a stray strand of hair behind your ear. It’s playful and casual, but the way your skin tingles after isn’t.
Your heart does a stupid little flip in your chest.
“Come on, youngling, I’ll drive you home,” he says with a cheesy smile, dangling his car keys off his finger.
A groan leaves you as you allow him to drag you by the wrist and out of the studio.
To be honest, the radio show started off as one big fat joke.
It started in sophomore year of college, where you and Jun were nothing but a pair of dumb, broke college kids. Then you both decided to sign a quick gig for the campus radio station because you thought it would look good on your resumes. The two of you were supposed to do the boring music hour𑁋basically play whatever indie crap the station manager liked and read weather updates every morning.
But that didn’t exactly go as planned, as the majority of those sessions were spent with you both roasting each other’s music tastes live on air, and for some reason, the listeners seemed to eat that dynamic up.
In one particular session, Jun opened up the radio station email box live on air. You both expected for another complaint, which wasn’t uncommon knowing how immature the two of you act sometimes. However, it wasn’t a complaint this time.
It was a confession.
A girl had written about how she’d been in love with her roommate for the past two years and didn’t know how to voice it without ruining their lease together. Jun read it when his microphone was supposed to be switched off, and something in the studio shifted that night.
“Do… we answer it?” Jun had asked you warily.
You had hesitated for once, before a sudden surge of determination filled you. Perhaps it’s the delirium of two idiots who believed they could wing it, or the thought that a random person decided to reach out to both of you𑁋out of anyone else𑁋was the reason for the determination. Either way, you looked across at Jun that night and said, “Yeah. Let’s answer it.”
And that was that.
The rest of the semester became an absolute rollercoaster of love confessions, messy breakups, love bombers, situationships that made you want to pull your hair out, and the two of you slowly carving a name for yourselves as the unfiltered chaotic duo who gave sarcastic advice that came straight from the heart. The campus station extended their time slot, then the local radio station in the city picked the two of you up.
Somewhere along the way, and four years later, Love On Air stopped being a joke and became a real thing you and Jun committed together every Saturday at midnight𑁋your own little pocket of chaos in an otherwise normal adult life. For the most part, at least, because pining for your best friend is totally counted as normal.
Wen Junhui came into your life like a stray cat who decided that your doorstep looked comfortable enough to stay forever. Uninvited and unpredictable, way too pretty for his own good, yet somehow always exactly where you needed him to be. He randomly plopped down right next to you during freshman orientation, snatched the last macaron on your plate, and gave you a look that said you’d be fun to annoy for the next four years before introducing his name.
You’d never admit how absolutely starstruck you were the first time he smiled at you. Or laughed. You told yourself you were just sleep deprived and lonely being in the city all by yourself, but deep down, the voice in your head at that moment said that you wanted to keep him.
You should have been annoyed. But instead you laughed and nearly choked on your water, and that was it. Game over. And you became each other’s favourite person without either of you having to put a label on it. Best friend felt too small, and soulmate felt too big and scary for two broke college kids who couldn’t dedicate themselves to a single major.
So you just… existed together. Thrived together. Grew together through the most stupidest decisions known to mankind.
And at some point down the road, that stray cat curled up into your chest and refused to leave.
“Listeners, let’s give a full round of applause to user derangedcarat for cutting off their cheating ex-partner,” You announce into the microphone, clapping your hands like a proud mom at a recital. The chat explodes immediately.
user: 👏👏👏👏
user: FINALLY i’m so proud of u user derangedcarat queen
user: anyone who cheats on their partner needs to be put on death row
user: ^^^ preach!!!
“And you did the hard part, user derangedcarat,” Jun adds in. “We love growth in this household. Maybe email us a screenshot of the block so we can frame it in the studio here.”
“Exactly, and please don’t forget to take care of yourself,” You reassure into the microphone. “Block, delete, go touch some grass if you need to. You deserve someone who actually respects you.”
The next confessions run by in a blur over the next hour. Someone sends in a confession asking if it’s weird to still be hung on their high school ex, another person confesses that they’ve been naming their house plants after people who ghosted them, which the two of you undoubtedly praise for creativity.
To top off the chaos, there’s one submission an anonymous user submits with screenshots of cringe-worthy flirty text messages from a man they’re talking to, with the sender begging for the two of you to rate the messages on a scale of “smooth operator” to “immediate block”.
Jun narrows his eyes toward the screen. “Y/N, listen to this: ‘hey babygirl, how’s your night been? mine was spent thinking about u 😏’. Sent at 2:19 in the morning, left on read for three days.”
You burst out laughing, cheeks puffing out to the point it hurts. “Oh, my God. Solid negative five. That’s a biohazard right there.”
“That’s way too generous,” Jun snorts while spinning in his chair. “Anon, this man is serving nothing but expired milk. Please save yourself a headache and block his number.”
Heartbreak, confessions, and ridiculous stories𑁋you and Jun tag-team them over the next hour like strong duo you are, with the chatting eating up every particularly brutal line that leaves either of your mouths. This is what seems to happen when you give two nocturnal people a cup of bitter tar coffee and the free will to say whatever they please.
By the time the final minutes of the session comes, you and Jun decide to read out one last confession.
“...Cat anon is back with a follow-up confession.”
You perk up curiously at that. “Really? What does it say?”
Jun hesitates briefly, before clearing his throat.
Dear Y/N and Jun of Love On Air,
Hi, it’s me again. The one who wrote the other week. Thank you both so much for responding to me. I listened to every word you guys said, and I think you’re right. I was almost brave the other night𑁋had this whole stupid mental speech planned to tell them when we were hanging out together. But I… chickened out. Again. Really dumb of me, I know.
And I know that I look like a coward who needs a weekly pep talk, but this show feels like the only safe space I’m able to confess this. I do have a question for the two of you to answer and discuss.
Do you think there’s such a thing as ‘perfect love’?
I think that’s my dilemma right now. I want to be perfect for them. I want to give them that perfect love that they deserve. But how can I do that, knowing who I am?
🐱
The studio falls into a gentle kind of quiet after Jun finishes reading. The words are still processing deeply through your mind when he warily lifts his eyes back up at you, lingering on your concentrated expression. Then his heart stutters in his chest when you meet his eyes as if he got caught doing something wrong.
“Jun, why don’t you answer it first?”
Jun blinks, before shaking his head like he’s trying to clear away fog. He leans back in his chair and stretches his long arms up with a thoughtful sigh, enough for his hoodie to ride up just slightly for you to catch a sliver of skin. You try (and fail) not to notice, muting your microphone briefly to let out a cough into your hand.
“I mean, ‘perfect’ love is that type of stuff you read about in books or watch in movies, right?” He shrugs, letting his arms fall back down as his chair creaks softly beneath him. “Like no miscommunication, no timing issues, no one being stupid… which already disqualifies most of humanity, honestly.”
You lean back in to unmute your microphone. “Are you saying you’re part of that disqualification?”
“Absolutely, I’m the poster child for it,” he claims with that mischievous glint in his eyes. “I constantly forget shit, I’m nocturnal as hell, and sometimes I make objectively terrible decisions. Who would want to date me?”
The question lands a little too easily, maybe even familiar, sending an uncomfortable ripple you feel all the way down to your toes. Something about the way it left his mouth without any hesitation sends a painful grip to your heartstrings. Jun has always had this kind of self-deprecating humour, tossing it out like it was nothing at times. It makes you want to one: shake reality into him, or two: kiss him to prove him wrong.
You force out an awkward laugh, higher than it needs to be.
“Someone with terrible taste, clearly,” You answer, keeping your voice teasing despite the heaviness in your chest. “But luckily for you, the world is full of people with terrible taste.”
Jun chuckles, spinning his chair so he could study you properly.
“Yeah?” He tilts his head. “You think so?”
The chat is moving so fast now it’s basically a complete blur.
user: bro really asked who would date him while staring at his wife
user: why is he so boyfriend coded still tho
user: y/n should answer the question too!!!
user: PERFECT LOVE IS WHEN YOU LOOK AT EACH OTHER STOPPP RNN
“Chat is right,” Jun quips. “What’s your answer to the question too, Y/N?”
The second the question leaves him, you can feel every pair of invisible eyes staring at you through the screen and your pulse kicking up loudly in your ears. Jun is still leaning back in his chair, relaxed as ever, his curious gaze fixed solely on you.
Finally, you clear your throat.
“Well, I’ve seen couples break up because their relationship isn’t ‘perfect’,” You begin. “But the ones that last? They’re the ones where both sides are a little flawed, a little messy, and a little scared, but they choose each other anyway. That’s what you would call an imperfect love, and… I think that’s the most beautiful kind of love that can exist.”
Suddenly, the tiny studio feels almost suffocating to sit in. Your eyes flick up to Jun. He isn’t laughing anymore, or even smiling. He’s just staring at you with an expression so open𑁋almost surprised, like he didn’t expect you to be so serious𑁋it steals the rest of your answer out of your throat.
You refuse to look at the chat; you already know what they’re saying.
“You really thought about it a lot, huh?” Jun asks, scratching at the back of his neck.
You could only manage a small, somewhat self-conscious nod, bringing your eyes down to the ground. “Yeah. Guess I have.”
A wave of silence washes over the studio for a minute.
“...it’s a really good answer,” he murmurs.
A pleased smile crosses over your face. “Well, I am kinda a professional at this.”
“Mm,” he hums absentmindedly in response.
You pretend to busy yourself with your laptop, trying to read over the chat that has now morphed into just meaningless spams of screaming text and heart emojis. Your cursor lingers over nothing, while your heartbeat is running a full blown marathon of panic.
But when you glance back at Jun, the panic seems to strengthen even more.
“Cat anon, we really appreciate your trust in us,” You finish softly. “And I really hope that our advice tonight resonates with you. At the end of day, we’re all just a bunch of flawed humans looking for love, right? Don’t drive yourself to be perfect, because you’re already perfectly imperfect just as you are. And if your best friend reciprocates these feelings…”
Your eyes flit back up to Jun.
“...then take the leap, because they’re probably already waiting for you.”
After a pause, you lightly kick Jun’s foot underneath the table. He jolts in his seat like you shocked him, before recovering with a nervous, boyish chuckle, sounding not even close to his usual, bright and effortless laugh. For once, he appears almost rattled, with his pupils wide and his ears pink that even the dim studio lights can hardly hide.
On the wall, the ON LIVE sign flickers in and out of its glow.
“She’s, um… Y/N is right, cat anon,” Jun agrees quietly. “You don’t have to become someone else to prove yourself worthy for someone. If they’re your person, then… who you are already is why they stayed this long.”
From that, the chat practically combusts.
user: WEN JUNHUI???? IS THERE SOMETHING U WANNA SHARE W THE CLASS???
user: why did this suddenly get so intense lmao is it hot in here or is it just me?
user: i’ve been on this ship since the beginning of the show!!!!
“Alright, that’s all the time we have for tonight,” You interrupt quickly, instinctively switching back to host mode. “Thank you to everyone who sent in your confessions tonight. Stay safe, stay honest, and please don’t respond to someone who sends you a babygirl text at ungodly hours.”
Jun reaches for the switch. “Goodnight, everyone!”
Click. The ON LIVE sign dies.
Jun slides the headphones off his head and shuts down his laptop. You do the same. The two of you pack up belongings in that familiar and companionable silence that always spills into the room after a session. When you swing your bag over your shoulder, Jun glances up in your direction worriedly.
“You okay?” he asks.
You nod, offering him a small, sleepy smile. “Take me home?”
Jun swallows down the lump in his throat.
“Yeah.” He’s already opening the door for you. “Always.”
Jun remembers one of the first discussions the two of you had on the show together.
Love at first sight.
Back then, the studio was smaller, scrappier, and the chairs squeaked each time either of you moved even a centimetre. The world had fallen asleep long enough that honesty slipped through the cracks of your voices so easily. You both were running on nothing but instant noodles and caffeine, way different than the semi-functional adult routine you have established now.
He remembers the beautiful laugh that left you when the question came in halfway through a song neither of you remembered choosing.
He laughed with you too. Rolled his eyes and called it nonsense, all while pretending to not notice how your smile had gone a little soft when you answered it with that amused lilt to your voice.
“I think it exists,” You had said. “Not like movie magic, though. But… you just meet someone and your brain clicks into place, you know? Like it says, ‘Oh. It’s you.’”
“That sounds like you’re trying to make shit up to justify bad decisions,” Jun argued back with a smirk.
You gasped at that and slapped his wrist, causing him to laugh. “Excuse me? That was uncalled for.”
And the segment moved on after that.
But Jun continues to carry that sentence with him like a permanent scar.
Oh. It’s you.
“What are the chances that a confession we’ve read out is from someone we know?” Jun asks while plopping a chip in his mouth, adjusting his body from where he had been sprawled across your couch for the past few hours.
You don’t bother to spare a glance up from your laptop, but a grin crosses your features. “Pretty high, to be honest. Soonyoung once told me he submitted something to the show one time.”
Jun nearly chokes on the chip scratching at his throat. “Soonyoung? As in Kwon Soonyoung? Never shuts up, Soonyoung?” He sits up so fast he accidentally knicks his socked foot under the coffee table. “Ow! I𑁋What the hell did he confess? Was it about that girl in his dance class that was drooling over him?”
You finally look over at him, chuckling at the way his eyes have grown comically wide. “He didn’t say. Just that he sent it under a funny username and almost died when we read it out. Apparently, we just straight up told him to stop being a coward and talk to her. They went on one date together. He found out she was allergic to cats and broke her heart by saying they were incompatible. End of story.”
Jun stares at you for a full blown three seconds, before he throws his head back into the couch with a laugh so genuine you would think his soul left his body completely.
“That’s insane,” he says breathlessly. “Literally the most Soonyoung thing to do.”
“Actually, he’s not,” You chime back in. “I think he’s dating this new girl named… Skye, I think?”
“Sky?”
“Skye, but with an e at the end.”
“Wow,” Jun mutters, crunching down on another chip and sarcastically adds, “Character development. We love to see it.”
You roll your eyes, shutting down your laptop with a click and leaning back into the couch with Jun right next to you. You curl your knees up to your chest. “People change, Jun. Miracles happen.”
Jun offers you the bag of chips. You take one, crunching absentmindedly as your gaze travels somewhere past the TV, past the wall, past everything. He notices. Of course he does. A nudge to your leg awakens you quickly.
“Where’d you go just now?” he asks.
“Nowhere.”
Jun huffs. “Liar.”
You flick a crumb at him. “Shut up.”
“Make me,” he retorts with a lazy grin, sticking his tongue out.
You shoot a glare at him and snatch the bag of chips from his hand before he can react. A scandalised look splits his face as he lunges to grab it back from your grasp, but you manage to twist your body away and dodge his reach.
“Hey!” he exclaims, attempting to grab the back once more but you clutch it tightly to your chest. “Give that back to me!”
You yelp and scramble further into the arm of the couch, shoulders shaking with laughter as you hug the back tight enough to crush some of the chips inside. “You stole this from my pantry!”
When his fingers brush the corner of the bag, you only yank it away again. Jun narrows his eyes at you, lips twitching upwards like he’s trying not to laugh.
“Y/N.”
“No.”
“Y/N.”
“Junhui.”
“You’re being annoying on purpose.”
“And you love me for it,” You remark, sticking your tongue at him back mockingly.
That does it.
As he makes a dive for it again, you twist a little too far. The next thing you know, you’re collapsing back against the couch cushions with a soft oof, and Jun is falling down with you. Very much ungracefully.
Because one second he’s reaching, the next he finds himself tumbling down over you in a tangle of limbs and laughter, somehow managing to catch himself just beside your head before he can actually crush you into the couch. And he’s way too close.
His knee presses into the cushion in between your legs, while his hand is planted by the side of your head. His dark hair has fallen slightly into his eyes, and his breath comes out unevenly from the laughing.
Your own breathing isn’t exactly steady either.
Jun looks down at you. You look back up at him. Your apartment suddenly feels fifty times smaller, and the laughter dies instantly, replaced by a familiar heaviness in the air whenever the two of you are alone together. His eyes drop down to your lips for a singular second before flicking back up to your face, and you catch the way his ears redden in slight guilt.
You swallow down a lump in your throat. “Jun…”
And from that split second of vulnerability, he uses that opportunity to snatch the bag of chips right off your hands, catching you completely off-guard. The warmth in the air still lingers even as he pulls away from you and flops back down on the couch.
“Aha!” he exclaims triumphantly. “Victory is mine!”
You stare at him in disbelief before letting out the loudest, most offended noise imaginable as you smack his shoulder.
“Wen Junhui!”
“Hm? Sorry, I can’t hear you over the savoury taste of victory,” he quips with a grin, face beaming with pride.
“You’re such a little thief𑁋”
“You hesitated!” he argues smugly. “So that’s on you!”
“Because you were staring at me all weird!”
That makes him shut up, the smugness fading off his face so abruptly as if you accidentally powered something in his system off. The apartment goes quiet enough for you to only hear the soft buzz of the refrigerator and the honk of a car outside. You didn’t mean to say it out loud. Or maybe you did, you don’t know.
“I…” You utter weakly, trying to brush it away with a nervous chuckle. “Can we just pretend I spontaneously combusted instead?”
A soft, disbelieving laugh leaves him. “I’m sorry.”
“What?”
“For… looking at you all weird.”
“Jun𑁋”
“I think I’ll get going. It’s getting late,” he mutters, immediately standing up a little too fast. He grabs the bag of chips instinctively, realises it’s still in his hands, and sets it back down on your coffee table awkwardly.
He doesn’t look at you as he grabs his hoodie and keys, moving with a surprising speed that even your own brain can barely process what to say. When he’s scrambling to the door, you move before you think, and you grab him by the wrist before he can unlock your door.
Jun feels his pulse jump harder under your fingertips. Twisting himself back around, he’s met with your soft yet worried gaze, before flicking down to where your hand is still wrapped around his wrist. You release him immediately like you accidentally touched fire.
“Sorry,” You murmur, taking a small step back. “Just… text me when you get home, okay?”
He nods solemnly. “Yeah. Of course.” A sheepish smile graces his lips for a moment. “Goodnight, Y/N.”
“Goodnight, Jun.”
You close the door with a quiet click that somehow is louder than it should be. Now, you’re all alone in your apartment, yet the warmth of his presence still lingers through every part of your place. He’s been in here a thousand times𑁋hell, you both have slept in the same bed together a plentiful amount during all the times he’s trespassed in your space𑁋but tonight it feels like there’s a literal dent in the air itself.
The two of you have shared many awkward moments together. He’s accidentally walked in on you changing a few times; you’ve seen him stress-eat an entire family-sized bag of shrimp chips at four in the morning. You both have seen each other at some of your lowest points, but why, out of all nights, does it hit harder than anything else?
You sink back into the couch with a groan. Your phone burns a hole in your pocket. Ten minutes pass. Then fifteen. Then𑁋
Buzz.
[12:55am | menace (affectionate)]
i just got home
you okay?
You stare at his message for a long moment.
[12:57am | y/n]
good
and yeah, i’m fine. you?
[12:58am | menace (affectionate)]
splendid! and … tired
[12:58am | y/n]
go sleep then dumbass
[12:59am | menace (affectionate)]
alright mother calm down i’m brushing my teeth
A low giggle leaves you at his response. A few minutes pass before a new text from him lights up your phone.
[01:05am | menace (affectionate)]
can i ask you something really random?
[01:05am | y/n]
of course
The typing bubble appears, disappears, then reappears again.
[01:07am | menace (affectionate)]
do you think cat anon is okay?
A sinking feeling opens a pit in your stomach, thumb frozen over your keyboard. You stare at the screen until the words begin to blur. God, of all the questions he had to ask tonight…
[01:10am | y/n]
i don’t know
i hope so
and that they learn it’s okay to be brave
[01:12am | menace (affectionate)]
yeah. me too
You’re hardly able to think when his next text comes in quicker than you expected.
[01:12am | menace (affectionate)]
goodnight y/n
don’t overthink in your sleep
You smile faintly.
[01:13am | y/n]
no promises
goodnight jun
You lock your phone after that with a tired sigh, tossing it onto the couch cushion besides you like it might bite you back if you hold it for too long. And somewhere on the other side of the city, another phone is tossed away like a shameful piece of evidence.
As you stare blankly at your dark television and feel the exhaustion of the day weighing between your bones, you know that sleep won’t come easy tonight. It becomes even more challenging even after you brush your teeth, wash your face, doomscroll on your phone for a while, and face plant onto the bed like you just came home from a wounded battle.
“Pathetic,” You mumble into your pillow to absolutely nobody. “I’m so pathetic.”
On the other hand, Jun is… doing the exact same thing.
His ceiling fan spins lazily overhead while his phone screen dims beside him. The last text message you sent to him spirals through the air around him. He doesn’t even know what to do but let out a muffled incredulous laugh into his pillow, sighs, before abruptly sitting up in bed and realising how much of a loser he’s acting right now.
“I should’ve…” Jun groans, running a hand over his face. “I should’ve just told her… I’m such a coward.”
Because the thing about running a late-night show where love is the main topic and advice is given, is that it’s painfully easy to tell strangers to be brave when your own heart isn’t on the line, when you’re not the aforementioned person in the story who is being pined over. It’s easy to take the leap when you aren’t standing at the edge yourself. Yet for some reason, it’s only harder to take the leap when you don’t even follow the advice you give to others.
The irony is quite laughable, to be honest.
Jun grabs his laptop and forces it open, the bright screen nearly blinding him in the darkness of his bedroom, but he doesn’t care. He finds himself navigating to his email, switching to his second account, and gets greeted by a particular message that had already been forwarded to the radio show. A message that had already been read, answered, and sent under a certain pseudonym.
Dear Y/N and Jun of Love On Air…
Biting down on his bottom lip, he opens up a fresh draft and begins typing.
“Take the leap, cat anon,” he repeats to himself over and over again. “Take the leap, Wen Junhui.”
Jun texted you two hours before the show that he was sick along with a selfie of him buried in a hoodie he threw on, somehow contracting a stomach bug which he blamed on some expired convenience store gimbap. He insisted that he could still come in, yet you reassured him with a string of sobbing emojis that it’s probably in his best interest to stay home to rest, and that you could handle hosting the show on your own, even if… you’ve never really done it before.
The show must go on, after all.
So when you find yourself sitting alone within the quiet studio just mere minutes from going live, you definitely sense both the physical and mental emptiness of his presence in the room a little too sharply. His headphones are still left the way he always leaves them, and his chair is facing the wrong wrong because he spins in it so much that he never bothers to put it back properly.
A small, fond chuckle leaves you at the thought of him, and you have to chase those thoughts away the second the clock strikes midnight. From there, you roll your shoulders back to shake away any residual nerves, clear your throat, and reach over to the switch.
Taking one last deep breath, you flip it on. The ON LIVE sign sparks to life on the wall.
“Good evening to all our fellow lonely and emotionally volatile listeners,” You greet warmly into the microphone. “Welcome back to everyone’s favourite unhinged radio show, Love On Air, live at midnight every Saturday on FM 98.7.”
Your eyes can barely keep track of the live chat box being spammed with incoming messages. You read a couple of messages out of people describing their day, but it isn’t long until the elephant in the room is acknowledged.
You snort lightly. “I regret to inform you all that Jun has passed away due to… alleged food poisoning.” Some comments following your words make you laugh. “Yes, yes, you’re all invited to the funeral, don’t worry.”
user: i commence a ritual to bring him back or we riot 🙏🙏
user: bro probably slept through his alarm honestly
user: WAIT BUT THIS FEELS SO WRONG W/O HIM 😭😭
user: rip… guess no husband and wife arguments for now… 😔
“He offered to join while sick, by the way,” You add in quickly. “But I personally vetoed it. I’m not letting a man who ate expired gimbap shit his way into a session. He’s probably listening in right now, so hi, Jun. Hope you’re still intact, buddy.”
After a few minutes of more interactions, you finally pull up the radio show’s inbox and begin to organise through the confessions that were received recently. That weird feeling creeps back up your spine once again as you scroll𑁋not about the confessions specifically, just the thought about doing this alone. Your eyes flick to the empty chair right next to you once more.
You read a few confessions and answer two callers𑁋there’s one from someone who felt bad for ghosting someone they actually liked, another person confesses they’re having a hard time with their partner wanting to open up their relationship, and one with expressing their fears of having their first time with the wrong person. You offer your own thoughtful answers and advice as best as you can, yet it feels so lackluster and flat without Jun’s playful interjections whenever you get too sappy on air.
“Your first time should be with someone who makes you feel safe, not just wanted,” You say gently into the microphone. “You deserve that. Don’t settle for anything less. It’s okay to wait until that safety feels undeniable.”
The chat floods with hearts and supportive messages. A few people send their thank yous for the advice. Some latecomers ask questions about Jun’s whereabouts.You smile gratefully, but it feels a little fragile tonight, not quite reaching up to your eyes.
As the final music break of the session ends, you unmute your microphone to speak.
“Alright, listeners, we’ve reached the final thirty minutes of tonight’s session. I want to thank you as always for staying up and listening into the show,” You announce confidently. “We’ve got time for… maybe a few more confessions and a possible lucky caller, so let’s see what we have left.”
Scrolling silently through the inbox, it isn’t long until your cursor hovers a familiar username once again. Your heart spikes at the sight, hesitating for a slow second.”
“Everyone, let’s welcome cat anon back to the stage with another follow-up confession.” You click the confession, take in a deep breath you’re sure the viewers can hear, and start to read it aloud.
Dear Y/N of Love On Air…
Hi, it’s me again. To be honest, I don’t really know why I keep sending these, but somehow I always end up back here again. You truly have a way of words, and I really want to thank you for that.
I thought about what you said about imperfect love. I used to think that if I fix every flaw about myself, then maybe I’ll be worthy of them, but now I know that love is someone seeing every fractured version of you, and staying anyway.
There’s something else I want to confess too. I think I’ve been waiting so long for the “perfect” moment that I accidentally passed a thousand “imperfect” ones. It makes me terrified that they’ll meet someone more braver than me, so I’ll use this chance now to be brave for once.
I’ll be ready on the line for this session and use this chance to finally face whatever happens next. I hope you’re able to answer my call whenever that may be. I have an important message to send.
🐱
Your voice comes out almost too quiet by the end you finish reading. You flit a quick glance to the ever-exploding live chat box.
user: HOLY SHITTT CAT ANON VOICE REVEAL???
user: answer the call! answer the call!
user: IM GONNA THROW UP WHY AM I SO NERVOUS
user: we’re witnessing a cinematic moment in history wtff
Suddenly, the blink of the call line makes your throat tighten. Your fingers hover over the console as if it might suddenly jump out and bite you. God, you don’t understand why you’re unexpectedly so nervous𑁋you’ve talked to many callers, and yet, speaking with cat anon has you on complete edge.
“Okay,” You stammer shakily into the microphone, covering up your nerves with a faint smile. “Let’s… let’s take this final call of the night, everyone.”
When you answer the line, it’s as if the world goes entirely mute, except for the intense pounding your chest. Nothing but static fills your headphones as the line struggles to connect for a few torturous moments.
Then, a quiet breath reverberates into your ears. The kind of breath that sounded like it had to claw its way out of someone’s chest.
“...hello?”
The voice is slightly distorted through the line, unmistakably low𑁋clearly a male voice𑁋and trembling slightly around the edges. It’s more of a whisper, if anything. Perhaps he’s just as nervous as you.
“Hi,” You greet warmly, slipping back into your professional radio voice. “You’re live on air with Love On Air. Is this… the one and only cat anon?”
A small, embarrassed huff of air crosses the line. He sounds a bit closer this time as he replies, “...yeah, it’s me.”
“Well, I’m giving you the floor now,” You assure firmly. “Whatever you need to say… we’re listening.”
Another shaky breath crackles through the line. You can practically touch the contemplation that’s buzzing through the call with your fingertips if that’s even possible, and even within the studio itself.
When the seconds of silence turn into a full-blown minute of consideration, the line crackles once more.
“I’m in love with you, Y/N.”
Your heart stops. Your mind draws a complete and utter blank. The abrupt clarity of his voice cuts through any lingering distortion and static and hits you like a wave. The world itself feels as if it’s tilted on its axis.
“Jun𑁋?”
“I love you,” he repeats more firmly this time, voice raw and full of everything he’s been holding back. “and I told you I was sick tonight because I couldn’t sit right next to you while you gave advice I was too scared to take. I just𑁋holy shit, I love you…”
Your mouth parts open in shock, then closes. The chat is going absolutely feral right now and you can barely read through all the comments without having this unusual urge to just slam your hand onto the console and pretend that you’re suffering from pure delirium.
On the wall, the ON AIR still glows stubbornly.
user: I FREAKING KNEW THAT CAT ANON WAS JUN
user: may i find this kind of love one day what the helly 🙏
user: Y/N ARE YOU BREATHING RIGHT NOW ????
user: our stupid oblivious hosts are in love. I CALLED it
You feel as if you almost have to squeeze your voice just to get it out. “Jun…”
On the other hand, he inhales sharply.
“...yeah?”
“You’re such an idiot,” You sputter out. “Do you have any idea how… how insane this is? Confessing on our show… using a pseudonym I gave advice to𑁋”
“I know.”
“𑁋after lying about being sick𑁋”
“I know.”
“𑁋and letting me sit here and talk about love like you weren’t the one I was talking to the whole time?” You ramble on out of a sheer mix of pure disbelief and relief, tightening your grip on the microphone. “Like all the advice I said wasn’t about… us?”
You hear some rapid shuffling on the other side, and you could almost imagine Jun sitting up in bed as if he’s received the most shocking news of his entire life. Then you hear his dazed laugh flowing into your ears.
“Yeah,” he admits quietly. “It was.”
Your breath catches embarrassingly hard and your face is completely on fire. The chat combusts once again, and you have to keep mentally reminding yourself that this entire interaction is live and half the city is probably listening in at this very second.
“From the first moment I saw you back in college,” Jun continues softly. “My heart and brain did the thing, you know? That you said before𑁋where you meet someone and all you can think is: Oh, it’s you. The second I saw you, I just… I knew I wanted to keep seeing you.”
You feel your eyes start to burn.
“I should’ve said it years ago, but I’m… I’m a coward. I know I am,” he mutters helplessly. “I know it’s stupid pretending to be cat anon because it was safer than telling my best friend I’m in love with her. Stupid that I… used to remind myself that I never deserved someone as bright as you. But anytime you told someone to suck it up and take the leap, I had to do it now or else I’d lose the chance and probably explode.”
He lets out a soft, breathless, disbelieving laugh of relief at the very end. Tears are streaming down your face at this point, but you don’t care.
user: IM PASSING TISSUES DOES ANYONE ELSE NEED ONE???
user: jun confessing his undying devoted love to y/n life is worth living again!!!!
user: i feel like a successful marriage counselor WTF
user: the solomon paradox is REAL
“Gosh, you’re…” You wipe a tear from your eye, murmuring weakly, “Your timing really needs to be studied, Jun.”
“Wait, wait, are you crying?” Jun asks worriedly in a fit of panic. “I didn’t mean to make you cry on air𑁋oh, my God, I can take it back, I can𑁋”
“You cannot ‘take this back’, you idiot!” You cut in immediately. “I’m crying because I’m in love with your stupid ass too! And if you don’t get here and finish the show with me, I’m absolutely going to lose the rest of my dignity.”
There’s a very long, suspicious beat of silence that passes. It’s enough to have you feel like you’re going through all the stages of grief in just a matter of seconds. And you swear on Jun’s life that if he doesn’t say something in the next minute, you might actually crash out and let the world witness your breakdown.
But reality snaps back in when you hear the sound of him nearly tripping on the other end of the line.
“I’m coming,” he reassures you. “I’m sprinting as fast as I can. Stay there for me, okay? Don’t finish the show without me.”
The line goes dead.
The night is quietly young as you and Jun step back into your apartment, the door clicking shut behind to finally cut out the rest of the world.
You still can barely process what just happened. First, Jun had texted you that he was quite literally shitting bricks for the entire day (which was a lie, thank goodness), then you somehow managed to host an entire segment all on your own without losing your sanity, and now the man you’ve been secretly in love for years had confessed to you𑁋live on air, alongside an entire audience of fellow love drunk listeners𑁋and is currently standing directly in front of you, wearing a hoodie he probably put on right before sprinting to the studio and a pair of pyjama sweatpants.
Jun doesn’t waste a single second. He steps up close to you and carefully wraps his long arms around you, the comforting scent of him quickly filling all your senses. He lets his forehead rest against yours, the two of you shutting your eyes together as you simply bask in each other’s presence.
“You’re real,” he murmurs, his hands trembling where they rest on your back. “I swear I thought I hallucinated the entire night. I need someone to pinch me if𑁋hey!”
You giggle at the way his face dramatically contorts with a pout, soothing his side with a gentle squeeze. You tilt your head enough to brush your nose against his.
“Then kiss me like I’m real, you idiot.”
For a moment, he just blinks like you spoke complete gibberish. Then he cups your face and presses his lips to yours, sending immediate shivers that make your knees weak. You let out a soft sigh into his mouth as the kiss deepens ever so slightly, your hands slowly sliding up his chest. You feel him chuckle against your lips.
As you kiss, you find yourself backing up in the direction of the couch. Jun follows without breaking contact with your mouth. When the backs of his knees hit the cushions, you both tumble down together in a clumsy, giggly heap with you on top of him, straddling him.
You brace your hands on his shoulders, and Jun’s arms lock around your waist instantly, holding you flush against him. And for a second, you both just… stare at each other.
Jun is the first to break, his eyes flitting back and forth between your eyes and lips as he doesn’t know where to look. “What?”
You bite your lip to keep from smiling too wide at how ridiculously cute and disheveled he looks right now, tilting your head at him like you’re pretending to study him. You lean in a little just to tease, and instinctively, he puckers his lips together, chasing after yours when you pull back away.
“I can’t believe how stupid we are,” You whisper, brushing his lips briefly in a feather-light peck. “Giving advice to everyone but ourselves. We wasted literal years.”
Jun chases after your mouth again, capturing it properly this time and pulling away with a satisfied hum. “Mhm. Absolute morons.” His hands find their way under your shirt, tenderly mapping the bare skin of your waist. “But I’m done wasting time now.”
You chuckle into the next kiss, the sound bubbling up uncontrollably as he tries to deepen it. God, his lips are so eagerly soft, but he’s smiling so hard you momentarily knock your teeth against his.
“Mm, wait,” You mumble against his mouth as you draw back to readjust your position, causing him to suck in a breath. “Are you trying to eat my face? Where’s the technique?”
He blinks up at you dazedly, mouth parted in playful offense. His hands tighten around your waist. “I𑁋excuse me?”
“Zero finesse. One star. I expected more from cat anon.”
Jun sits up suddenly so that you’re basically pressed chest-to-chest with each other.
“You’re too cute, that’s the problem,” he says, voice deep yet still a little rough around the edges. “How am I supposed to kiss you if I short-circuit and all I could think, holy shit, she’s mine?”
Your heart does a stupid little flip from his words. “Flattery won’t save your shitty technique.”
“Oh, yeah?” He cups your face with both hands, thumbs caressing your cheeks. “Watch this.”
The next kiss is messier𑁋heated, giggly, and clumsy because you both can’t stop smiling. You feel your toes curl as he nips lightly at your bottom lip. You sigh into it, threading your hands through his hair, the heat of it enough to make you rock your hips against his growing hardness.
You feel the heat dancing up your skin and pooling into your belly as you continue your lazy grinding against him, swallowing down the broken sigh and groans that fall out of his mouth. When his mouth begins its descent down your jaw and to a particular sensitive spot behind your ear, he smirks against your warm skin.
“Fuck𑁋you like that?” he breathes out, his fingertips brushing the underside of your breast underneath your shirt.
A shaky laugh leaves you, but it melts quickly into a soft moan when his thumb brushes your already-hardened nipple. “Don’t get cocky. Still𑁋mmh𑁋mediocre at best.”
Jun lifts his brow, mouth curved into a stupidly fond grin. “Mediocrity, huh?” He pinches your nipple gently, causing you to jerk your hips into his. “Your body is saying something different, baby.”
“Ignore her. She’s… a traitor,” You croak out, grinding against the hard line of his cock through his sweatpants.
Jun merely chuckles, tugging your shirt up enough to expose your chest. He unclips your bra without any hesitation, pushing the straps off your shoulders then letting it fall uselessly to the floor. His eyes widen as he takes a few seconds to drink you in completely.
“God, you’re so beautiful…”
Then his mouth is back on you. He sucks one nipple between his lips while his hand affectionately palms the other. A crude moan slips out of you this time; it heightens his confidence even more.
As his mouth lavishes attention to your other breast, he drags his hand down your side, teasingly sliding under the waistband of your pants to cup you over your pants. He can feel how warm you are already.
“Rating?” he requests with a firm suck.
“Like a solid𑁋shit𑁋two-point-five out of five…”
Jun pulls off your breast with a wet pop, grin turning wicked. “But you’re soaked, and you’re still calling me below average? I think your pussy disagrees.”
You open your mouth to retort, but then he slides his hand into your panties, fingers circling over your slick folds, and nothing but a breathy gasp escapes you. Your hips roll down to meet his hand as he inserts a finger inside of you, curling into that spot that makes your back arch and he has to use his other hand to hold you in place.
“What’s the rating now?” he asks, watching the way your face is beautifully twisting with pleasure as a second finger slides inside.
You shoot him a death glare as you clench around his hand. “Three𑁋fuck, right there𑁋three-point-eight𑁋”
“Getting better already,” he hums in approval, leaning back down to worship your breasts once more. The dual sensation has your head falling down into the crook of his neck, your moans caressing his skin.
“Four𑁋Jun, you asshole𑁋four-point-five𑁋”
He pulls his fingers out of you unexpectedly, making you whine at the loss. Before you can complain, you find yourself being flipped on the couch as he settles in between your thighs, looking up at you with that mischievous, hungry, adoring look. He gives another tug to the waistband of your pants.
“Final rating before I eat you out?”
Your chest heaves, though you try to keep your tone light and teasing. “Four-point-seven. Don’t get lazy down there or I’m docking points, smartass.”
Jun’s eyes sparkle with challenge as he helps you out of the rest of your clothes. When you’re fully bare in front of him, he spreads your thighs even further, letting his mouth hover tantalisingly where you need him most.
“Four-point-seven,” he repeats to himself, pressing a trail of kisses to your inner thigh. “I can work with that. Watch me get that perfect five.”
Then he leans in and drags his tongue up your soaked pussy in one long stripe, a groan leaving him as he tastes you for the first time. Your hips jolt against his face, a sharp moan tumbling out of you and bouncing off the walls of your quiet apartment.
“Oh𑁋Jun𑁋”
“Hmm?” He circles your clit with the tip of his tongue before sucking it gently into his mouth, eyes flicking up to watch your face. Two fingers slide back inside of you, curling into that spot that makes your vision glassy. “God, you taste even better than I imagined…”
You slap a hand over your mouth as the pleasure starts to bloom its way out of you, but he reaches up and pulls it away, lacing your fingers together.
“Don’t do that, please,” he murmurs against your pussy. “Let me hear you, baby…”
The way he eats you out has your head spinning. It’s dizzying, a little messy, and entirely devoted to you. The wet sounds of his mouth and fingers echo and your moans and gasps travel throughout the room, only making him double down even harder to bring you over the edge.
“Five𑁋five stars𑁋ah, please𑁋”
You cum with a cry of his name, the pleasure crashing into you in waves. He continues to lazily lap at you before you start trying to push his head away, the two of you giggling breathlessly in the aftermath.
When he pulls away, his lips are shiny and he looks foolishly pleased with himself. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and crawls his way back up your body, meeting you for a deep kiss. You taste yourself on his tongue, and the thought that this absolute klutz of a man just gave you the best orgasm of your life sends another shaky giggle rolling out of you.
“You okay?” he breathes against your mouth, chuckling softly of you barely controlling your laughter. “I… what the hell just happened?”
“That was me letting go after holding back for years,” he answers without diffidence, tracing soothing circles over your bare thigh. “Do I get a final rating now?”
“Hmm, solid five-point-five. An extra half point for your enthusiasm and those cute noises you made down there.” You run your fingers through his messy hair, making him lean into your touch like a baby kitten. “But I’ll let you try for a six if you fuck me right now.”
Jun’s eyes darken instantly. “Say less.”
The two of you battle over taking off the rest of his clothes. Jun attempts to smoothly yank his hoodie off in one go, but it gets snug on something, causing him to laugh when it gets caught on his shoulders.
“Oh, my God𑁋stay still so I can take it off, you dummy!” You exclaim in frustration.
“Help me then, smartass!” His laughter is muffled into the fabric.
When you finally unsnag the hoodie and toss it somewhere on the floor, you both immediately reach for his pants at the same time, elbows bumping into each other. Rolling your eyes, you lightly smack his hand away so you can push it down his hips with borderline desperation. He kicks it off the rest of the way, his boxers following quickly.
The second he’s fully bare in front of you for the first time, he cages you into the couch right above you, littering soft kisses over your flushed cheeks. His cock rests heavily against your stomach as he stares down at you, chest rising and falling heavily.
“Hi,” he whispers stupidly, like he’s just remembered how to speak.
“Hi,” You reply with a bashful smile, reaching up to cradle his face, pinching his cheeks together. “Still waiting for my six-star performance.”
“Give me a break, I’m nervous!” he gasps defensively, grinding the underside of his dick along your slickness unconsciously. “I’ve only pictured this every single night for, like, the past four years!”
“Poor baby,” You coo impishly, reaching down to stroke him softly. “You’ve been jerking off to the thought of me for four years?”
Jun whines needily, burying his face into the crook of your neck, inhaling deeply. “Stop bullying me when I’m trying hard not to embarrass myself right now.”
“Then embarrass yourself. I’ve waited just as long, you idiot,” You urge, bringing him closer until there’s physically no more space between your bodies.
With a sly smirk, he reaches down, lines himself up with you, and slowly pushes inside. He groans lowly as he sinks inside you until his hips are pressed against yours. For a second, he doesn’t move at all, only trembling with his forehead leaning onto yours.
“Oh fuck𑁋I think I died a little,” he grunts pitifully into your neck. “You’re so warm. And tight. Think I-I short-circuited again.”
You give his shoulder a tight squeeze. “Move, Jun. Please.”
He obeys right away, thrusting into you experimentally and drawing a collective moan out from both of you. When he snaps himself into you again, again, and again, he sets a slow, deep rhythm that has the couch creaking softly beneath you.
“Shit, Jun𑁋” Your nails rake down his back as he hits that spot perfectly inside you again and again, wrapping your legs around his waist. “You… You feel so good.”
“Yeah? You look so pretty falling apart on my cock, baby,” he praises heavily, voice sounding absolutely wrecked. “Still rating me? Am I passing?”
Your laugh dissolves into a moan when a particular thrust punches the air out of your lungs.
“You’re at…” You bite down harshly on your bottom lip, glancing down to where you’re joined together. “Five-point… seven𑁋shit, keep going like that, I’m so close…”
“I’m so close too, not gonna last,” he pants, his breath molten on your neck. “God, I love you, I love you, I love you…”
You grab him by the nape of his neck to collapse his mouth back onto yours, swallowing all his desperate little grunts and sighs as the kiss turns heated fast. His rhythm stutters for the briefest second before he regains himself swiftly, the wet slap of your bodies meeting over and over again flooding the room, with your own hips rolling to meet with each of his thrusts.
The heat of it all invades through all your nerves, that familiar coil tightening in your belly. The rating game is completely out of the window now. There’s only nothing but the drag of his cock kissing your walls and this thumb dipping in between your legs to caress your clit, encouraging you to let go.
When your orgasm finally crashes, it’s much more intense than the last. Your nails imprint sharp crescents down his back as one final broken cry rips out from your throat, stars bursting behind your ears. Your walls squeeze around him so tightly he curses, the drive of his hips faltering sloppily.
“Baby, I can’t𑁋I’m gonna𑁋where𑁋?”
“Inside,” You beg gravelly, wrapping your arms around him even tighter. “Lose yourself in me, Jun, please.”
That’s all it takes for his own orgasm to hit him. With one final thrust, he spills inside of you with a deep, guttural groan. His face drops into the crook of your sweaty neck as shaky little whimpers continue to leave him𑁋your name, I love you, fuck I love you𑁋repeatedly until he’s completely spent and melted into your arms.
For a few moments of stillness, the only sounds travelling throughout the room is your ragged breathing and the sudden hum of your refrigerator. Eventually, Jun lifts his head from where it’s been resting comfortably on your chest. His dark hair is sticking out in all sorts of places, a few strands even matted to his forehead. And his eyes are half-lidded, yet so soft and full of love that you almost want to sob.
“So…” he starts hoarsely, kissing the tip of your nose. “Final rating?”
You let out a tired, contented laugh, brushing damp strands of his hair off his face.
“Mmmh… six-point-five,” You decide sleepily, pressing a chaste kiss to the corner of his mouth.
A bright, boyish grin unleashes across his face. “I’ll take it. Room for improvement for the next round.”
“I𑁋next round?!”
“I aim to achieve ten stars. Or maybe more than that.”
“God, you’re so insatiable,” You groan, shaking your head despite the smile breaking through your expression. “Later on, maybe… for now, I just want to hold you.”
Jun swears he feels himself literally melt into a puddle at that, because how could he ever deny a request like that from you? Despite the little space on your creaky couch, he pulls out of you with a wince, grabs the throw blanket that has unknowingly dropped to the floor before shifting himself more deeper into your arms. The soft fabric wraps around your bare bodies together in a warm, messy nest, one of his legs slotting in between your legs.
“Better?” he mumbles hopefully, letting his eyes fall to a close so he could listen to your heartbeat.
“Mhm. Much,” You hum in response, nosing through his hair. “I love you, you menace.”
You feel his lips meet the soft skin above your breast, right over your heartbeat.
“I love you too, dummy.”
Remember that stray cat that landed on your doorstep at the very beginning and refused to leave?
radio host!Choi Seungcheol x radio host!fem!Reader
Word Count: 7.7k
Content Warnings: food and alcohol mentions. adult language and themes. men (and women, but mostly men) being cringey and off-putting. a toxic ex-boyfriend.
[First Time Caller Collab] When the middle-aged mothers calling his show start getting a little too comfortable on the line, Seungcheol finds himself in need of a quick solution to throw them off. He needs a girlfriend. And who better to ask than his one and only public rival working at the same station?
♡ I'M BACKK!! And this fic is part of @studiosvt's First Time Caller collab! Don’t forget to check out the other writers’ works!! ♡
The urge to slap Seungcheol's hand off your waist was overwhelming. If there ever was an award for most self-control exhibited, you should have been shortlisted for it, possibly one of the top three contenders.
Your cheeks hurt from faking smiles all day, your feet were sore, and you were pretty sure your make-up resembled that of a raccoon. Or maybe a clown with heat stroke. As if that wasn't enough, your eyes were actually starting to ache from all the times you had rolled them in the past two hours alone.
Whoever had decided to pair you up with Seungcheol to host the station's annual charity fair needed to get demoted back to desk work (and you weren't only thinking it because it had, in fact, been your dear partner of the day that had suggested this). Why a radio station needed to organise so many social events every year was beyond your comprehension and yet you had drawn the short end of the stick once again.
Seungcheol's fingers pinched your side a little too hard to be a sign of affection. When you turned to glare at him, he offered you a mocking smile that someone further away might have mistaken for an affectionate one. "Why the long face, honey?"
A shiver of disgust ran up your spine and almost made you nauseous. If there wasn't a group of grandmas watching the two of you with the eyes of gossip-hungry eagles, you might have fake gagged just to get your point across. Instead, you were stuck forcing a sugary sweet smile of your own and threatening him under your breath: "Remove your hands or I will break them the next time you try to hold mine."
Perhaps you had lost your edge because Seungcheol only responded with a noise infuriatingly similar to the one he made when someone introduced him to their Pomeranian puppy two hours ago. And then, as if to annoy you even further and test the reliability of your threats, he let his thumb trail up and down across your skin. You racked your brain but couldn't remember agreeing to skin-to-skin contact, so you glared at him some more for good measure.
"I'm serious, Choi," you told him, hand reaching for his to twist one of his fingers backwards just enough for him to get the message.
He hissed in pain and withdrew his hand. Now it was his turn to glare and you only replied with a victorious smile before turning back to the task at hand. Another teenager had strolled to the booth, eager to sign up for the big giveaway (rumour had it that this year's grand prize was a car; you knew better than to trust the rumour mills), and you helped him while Seungcheol tried his hardest to not look like his ego or finger was in pain.
"Be sure to tune in three hours from now to see if you won," you called out after the kid when he handed you the now filled ticket. "May the odds ever be in your favour." (Quoting the Hunger Games was, unfortunately, one of the few joys you still had today).
The teen offered you a wide smile at that — perhaps he had picked up on the reference? Maybe the youth isn't doomed after all? Then, as if the universe had a grudge against you, you watched him reach over to fist pump Seungcheol. There was a certain sparkle in his eyes, his smirk just a little too wolfish. You threw your head back and sighed.
"Here's a tip, oh darling boyfriend of mine," the B-word still felt foreign to your tongue but you supposed it was high time you got used to it; you side-eyed him, "when a random man comes up and treats me like a prize you've somehow won, you should be pissed, not proud."
Seungcheol blinked, not a single coherent thought bouncing around in his peanut shell of a brain. "What do you mean?"
You felt your eyebrows rise and gestured widely. "That kid! He was eyeing me like I'm a piece of meat. And he congratulated you while staring at my tits!"
He shrugged. "I'm sure he didn't mean anything by it."
"Neither did the last twelve guys who did the same, no doubt," you mumbled under your breath and adjusted the stack of blank giveaway tickets with newfound fury.
"Besides," he drawled, leaning his hip against the table, all suave until the flimsy thing nearly toppled over and nulled all of your previous efforts, "why am I not allowed to be proud? You're hot."
There was something in the way he said it that almost made it sound like an insult to your ears. Then again, perhaps you were too filled with hatred to interpret any of his words as anything but deliberate jabs at your person. That's what your friends said anyway when you discussed this scheme with them.
Hastily, Seungcheol fixed and adjusted the table. Further down the lot, someone was laughing — hopefully at him. He made a half-hearted attempt at fixing the stack of tickets; it looked like a proper mess. You sighed and reached to fix it again.
Maybe this whole arrangement was a colossal mistake. Maybe you were in over your head. Maybe your shared hatred was too far down in the dark side to ever be mistaken for adoration even by someone legally blind.
"Because this isn't real," you reminded him now. "Even if I was a prize — which I am not —, you haven't won me. You have nothing to be proud of."
Nothing about this was real, after all. It was all just a big scheme he had come up with in desperation to keep his afternoon show and fat paycheck. And you were the sorry fool who had agreed to it because — as much as it hurt to admit — you, too, were desperate.
In a way, you were different sides of the same dingy copper coin. One needed to get meddling grandmothers and flirty (and definitely not PG-13) mothers off his back. The other needed her ex to take a hint and leave her alone.
And so when Seungcheol came to you one evening after your daily request show — eyes downcast and brows furrowed in dismay after one of the executives threatened to halve his pay if he didn't make his show family friendly again — suggesting an unthinkable scheme, you agreed a little too readily. (Even if you did take a whole week to consider the pros and cons and spent one whole evening getting drunk while ranting to your friends.)
"I know you hate me," he told you back then, two weeks ago, his hair in disarray from tugging on it in frustration, his brown eyes for once full of something other than disgust at the sight of you, "but please pretend to date me."
The whole thing was supposed to be simple and effective. Fake some smiles, talk about each other on your shows, maybe dedicate a song to one another every once in a while, go on a walk during lunch break — easy enough that a toddler could do it. It should have been just the bare minimum to fake a relationship.
At first, you hadn't even thought anyone would actually buy it.
Your rivalry was well-known — two star hosts of the biggest radio station in the country, in a fierce battle for the prime time slots and special events. There were TikTok and Youtube compilations of you trading insults during your respective shows. More than a few gossip magazines had increased their sales by reporting on the "new developments" of your disagreements. The station executives couldn't decide whether they wanted you to tone down or go all in on the rivalry; avoiding questions about a hostile work environment hardly seemed the better option over rapidly increasing ratings.
But apparently the people's longing for a tale of enemies turning lovers was not limited to romantasy novels.
It had taken exactly one walk through a public parking lot on the evening of your first negotiations and suddenly the rumour mills were working overtime. It was utterly ridiculous, and it was also more effective than anything you could have come up with. There were blurry, poorly lit photos in the gossip magazines. There were pop culture specialists spewing video essay after video essay about the thin line between hatred, and body language experts analysing the way your fingers seemed to be reaching for his in one of the fifteen photos "if you just looked closely enough".
Even if your negotiations that night had ended on a negative note, there was no way you could have talked your way out of this supposed relationship. And now here you were, at the annual spring charity fair, hosting the giveaway and the special radio show from a little booth under an ancient oak tree with your biggest foe, putting on the best act of your life.
"You know, no one's going to believe we're actually dating if you look like you'd rather let the ground swallow you whole than be seen beside me," he pointed out with an infuriating smile, leaning closer as if to provoke you some more.
Under different circumstances you might have had to sigh and admit that he was right. But unfortunately for him…
"I think I'd have to slap you for anyone to believe we're not together at this point," you reminded him and nodded towards the gaggle of teenagers taking photos of the two of you, no doubt sharing them on social media with #OTP. You dreaded to think what your mentions would look like by the end of the day. Your phone had already overheated twice from all of the notifications.
Seungcheol's lips stretched into a smirk, his eyebrows waggling. "Didn't take you for the kinky type."
You could think of a kink or two to make him suffer the way he deserved. But alas.
A little girl ran up to the booth, flowers in her dark curly hair. Her lack of height did not deter her from grinning you from over the edge of the table. "Hi."
"Hi," you greeted her and felt your anger melt away just a little. "Did you want to sign up for the giveaway too?"
"No." She shook her head resolutely. "I'm too little for a car."
(You could practically hear the crack in his neck as Seungcheol's head tilted in confusion, his breath coming out in a sigh. He mumbled something vaguely like "why does everyone think it's a car?".)
The little girl didn't respond to questions, only staring up at you earnestly as if you were a Disney princess and she couldn't believe she had actually run into you at this event. You offered a little wave and this one she returned with one of her own. About to give up on making conversation with the tiny fan, you turned to look at what your "boyfriend" was doing, and — like a sleeper agent who had heard the code word — she lit up.
"You guys are so cute together," she declared and it was the loudest she had been all minute. You felt your eyes widen and desperately avoided eye contact, heat crawling up your neck all of a sudden. "My mommy says you used to hate each other."
"Still do," you mumbled under your breath but faked a smile once you were sure you no longer looked like a startled owl.
"I used to think she was insufferable," Seungcheol was happy to tell her and the look in his eyes told you he meant it in the present tense. "Drove me absolutely nuts. Stole my show, you know."
He'd been sure to bring that little tid-bit up every single day. If you weren't deep under cover as his girlfriend, you might have stomped on his foot and reminded him that he only lost the show because he kept flirting with the horny single mothers and grandmothers that called his show. All you had done was possess a bit of talent for hosting radio shows. But your lack of responsibility for his problems did not seem to deter him from blaming you for everything anyway.
The little girl gasped and looked at you like you had just admitted to arson. It was impossible to ignore the urge to defend yourself. "I didn't do it on purpose."
"That's what she likes to tell everyone," Seungcheol didn't let up and you felt his hand reach for your waist again, the familiar irritating warmth back on your skin. Clearly your earlier threats of violence had been of no use. Pulling you closer, he feigned a smile that almost looked smitten. "But I don't mind because now she's mine."
Not that you wanted to be. Not that you had any choice now.
You slapped his hand away as soon as the little girl was out of sight.
The weekly meetings were held every Monday at 10 am sharp. They were the closest thing this establishment had to proper order, complete with a whiteboard on wheels and dried-up markers, charts and slideshows. The manager of the station even put in the effort of replacing his usual colourful sweaters and mismatching bright coloured pants with a proper suit. He even wore a tie.
Most weeks, the topic of conversation was the ratings and the planning of new events. Reminders of radio etiquette. Tips and introductions for new bright-eyed interns. Sometimes the manager just rolled around the open office space on a desk chair and encouraged everyone to reveal their most recent work-related frustrations as if it was a big group therapy session. You used to think those were annoying.
Now you suddenly wished this was one of those sessions instead of whatever the hell it had become today.
The manager had pulled up a slideshow of the recent ratings by the minute. He was analysing the spikes in audiences tuning into the station, his eyes twinkling as possibilities upon possibilities appeared in his mind. Your colleagues were offering knowing smiles and not-so-subtly cranking their necks to look back at you.
You tried to make yourself smaller in your chair, pulling your jacket closer to your body as you side-eyed Seungcheol's form standing proud and happy right next to you (he had insisted staying in close proximity was vital to your scheme's success; you begged to differ). His thigh was close enough to gently sway your chair every time he adjusted his posture, his arms crossed over his chest in a way that had you hoping it was his arms the others were staring at and not your flustered face.
"—and if you look here, it's another spike!" The man in front of the whiteboard was practically vibrating with excitement. You wished radio ratings got you going as much as they did this guy; it would have made your life a lot more tolerable. "And if we play back the broadcast, this is when Seungcheol said he was turning the studio over to his girlfriend. Every time he mentioned her, the ratings went up!"
The social media manager of the station raised her hand, looking back at you with a smirk while she waited for the manager to finish his thought. And when he did and called upon her, she was more than happy to declare: "Our social media mentions spike during Seungcheol's segment as well, especially around those same minutes you pointed out. I think the people really want more Seungcheol and (Y/n)."
You grabbed your pen and scribbled another name into the list of traitors you had started five minutes into the meeting. It held the names of every colleague who was a little too enthusiastic about your new "relationship". Nayeon's name was the newest addition, underlined, with three exclamation points.
"The spring fair broadcast was a complete success as well," the manager continued with even more enthusiasm. At any minute now, he might burst. "The people loved our two star hosts, judging by the ratings. Look at those things!" He was staring at his own slideshow in absolute awe. Somewhere out there a data analysis company was mourning their loss of an enthusiast they didn't know existed. "This is the highest any of our special events have rated in a decade. It's a renaissance of the radio!"
"I'm not sure I'd go that far," Seungcheol mumbled, apparently finally cracking. Were his ears more red than usual?
When the manager looked like he might start crying from hope and excitement, Nayeon stood up to take over the presentation. She clicked a button and a new slide appeared, stuffed from edge to edge to edge with mentions of your name and… Your eyes had to be deceiving you.
You leaned closer just to make sure you weren't hallucinating. "Is that… a ship name?"
Nayeon smiled so bright she could have outshone the sun. "Yes, it is! You guys officially have a ship name! The listeners love you; the whole enemies to lovers thing is really in right now and you are the new face of it."
The chair whined under the weight of you slumping back. Had it been sentient, it might have whimpered at the way your nails sank into the plastic of the arm rests. Seungcheol reached down to pat the back of your hand, unable to hide his victorious smile as he did so. You countered by sinking your nails into the space between his fingers. His hand was promptly removed but the smile remained.
One of the older hosts squinted at the screen and raised her hand. "What does OTP mean?"
"Ah! Great question, Seunghwa." Turns out Nayeon had prepared a whole slide explaining all of the slang related to your newfound suffering. What great joy.
You added another two exclamation marks behind her name and underlined her name once more.
"You know," Seungkwan, one of the three hosts of the morning show, made sure to make eye contact with you as he suggested, "Seungcheol and (Y/n) should host together more often. I bet the ratings would spike to the heavens."
Another name for your traitors' list. You held his gaze as you wrote his name down letter by letter, raising your eyebrow in challenge. He didn't seem very bothered, more engaged in nodding along with Soonyoung who had very enthusiastically joined the conversation to make, more or less, the same point. Finally, he offered you a knowing smirk — one that said he knew your secret — and turned back to the slideshow.
The torture went on for another fifteen minutes. By the time it was done, you were far more exhausted than anyone who had been up for only two hours ever should feel.
As the people dispersed, eager to get back to their daily duties around the office or running errands somewhere else, Seungcheol remained at your side. He acted as a reminder of the mess of a soup the two of you had found yourself in. You couldn't even find the energy to shoo him away or glare at him. And so he stayed, arms still crossed over his chest as he looked over the office space like a guard dog on watch.
Soonyoung seemed to find it an invitation for more commentary, sidling up to the two of you with a warm smile. "You guys are seriously cute together. I always did think you'd make a great couple, but, wow! I mean, wow!" It seemed that even if Seungkwan had spotted a flaw in your begrudging scheme, Soonyoung was none the wiser to any of it. He turned to Seungcheol and patted his shoulder. "The way you talk about her during your shows is just so… I mean, you must be really in love."
"Must be," was all that Seungcheol said but he made no effort to hide his proud grin. Even his chest seemed to puff up a little with every word the morning show host spoke.
You wanted to make fun of him for it when Soonyoung finally walked away. You wanted to tease and bully him for being so full of himself and eager for compliments. Hell, a few brain cells of yours were halfway done coming up with a joke about how he must have only stayed in this spot to gain some more praise, like a puppy showing off his newest trick for some treats. But a jarring thought of another kind startled the jokes right out of your mind.
"You talk about me on your show?"
He startled at the sound of your voice. Then, as fast as he had lost his composure, he got it back and raised a brow. "Of course. That's the whole point. What else am I supposed to talk about when someone calls to request my phone number or asks if I'm planning on starting an OnlyFans?"
There were few things you hated more than admitting that a man was right. Your lips parted in preparation to spew some insults and arguments. Unfortunately, you had no choice but to admit defeat this time and closed your mouth with a huff.
"Exactly," he teased and reached to pat your head. You slapped it away and rolled your chair further away from him with a pointed glare. It only seemed to make him happier. "If you were a good girlfriend, you would listen to my show sometimes."
All of the gold in the world wouldn't have been enough to pay you to do that. That's what you told yourself as you put on your headphones and tuned him out to the sound of your music.
(But when the clock struck 2 pm and the studio door closed behind Seungcheol, your finger lingered over the station's app on your phone. Listening in just once couldn't hurt, right? He would never have to know. It was just for research. Right.)
[You are listening to Words of Wisdom on Station SVT, 171.7 MHz]
"Hello and thank you for calling the Words of Wisdom show. My name's Seungcheol and what can I help you with today?"
"Oh my god, are you Choi Seungcheol?!"
"That's me, ma'am."
"You sound even hotter on the phone."
"… Thank you. I'm sure my girlfriend would agree. So, what can I and your fellow listeners offer you advice on today?"
"…"
"Ma'am?"
The jokes practically wrote themselves. You were but a vehicle by which they presented themselves in this reality. You were a humble servant of jokes at Seungcheol's pride.
Smiling, you leaned against the studio's desk while he packed up his things. "Talked about your girlfriend on your show, did you?"
He barely hummed in response. "Glad you've caught up with the news, sweetheart."
"I just find it funny, you know," you continued regardless, giddy from the opportunity to tease him for once. He always seemed to have the upper hand. It was a glorious moment. Maybe you needed to listen to his shows more often just for more material. "You're just so bad at lying."
Glaring, he looked up from his bag. "At least I'm trying. You've barely mentioned me on your show. Really, you're making me look desperate."
"Are you not?" You blinked at him, full of both innocence and mischief. "I'm just saying."
Lowering your voice to match his, you mocked the way he spoke on the broadcast, perfect down to the deadpan and entirely awkward tone: "I'm sure my girlfriend would agree." You pretended to throw up under the desk. "I hope you’re not applying for an acting job any time soon.”
That seemed to touch a nerve. Seungcheol's arms crossed over his chest again, a defensive stance rather than an arrogant one this time. "Yeah? I'd like to see you do better. Oh wait!" He pursed his lips into a sorry pout. "You don't even mention me on your show."
"You want me to talk about you?" You laughed. "What's there to talk about? Give me a reason to."
"Wow," he deadpanned. "You must be really in love."
"Absolutely smitten, really."
The clock above the door told you the next show was supposed to start in mere seconds. An idea formed in your head as you took your place at the desk, adjusting the large headphones and setting the microphone to your height. The screen displayed a countdown of seconds — somewhere in another room, a poor sound engineering intern had been set in charge of bringing you on air in time.
Seungcheol still remained in the room, fumbling to pack his bag and the notes it contained. There was a red hue to the skin on the back of his neck and ears, his hands shook imperceptibly. It only got worse when you tapped the ON AIR button and started your show.
"Good afternoon, dear listeners. It's time for your favourite show — it's time for Well Wishes. I'm your host for the next hour and a half, so be sure to call in or drop your song requests and well wishes in an email," you went through your introductions with practised grace, not a single syllable stuttered or strained, your eyes on Seungcheol. While speaking, you queued up the first song of your session.
When his gaze, fiery and annoyed and challenging, met yours, you let your smile widen and declared, "To start us off while we wait for your requests, I'm going to play a special song dedicated to my boyfriend. Honey, if you're listening right now, I hope you're driving home safe, love you. Enjoy your favourite song."
If the B-word had felt uncomfortably wrong at the spring fair, it sure didn't sound like it this time. Not to you, not to him, and certainly not to the listeners. It was definitely miles more natural than Seungcheol's strained efforts of referring to you on his own broadcast and he seemed to realise it just the same, his eyes rolling as he flipped you off and trudged out of the studio.
He was almost at the door when Apink's "Mr Chu" started playing. His entire body shuddered, cringing wholeheartedly. The door shut behind him seconds later (but not before he could show you his middle finger one last time).
As peace and Apink filled the studio, you leaned back in your chair, basking in the afternoon sun. Finally victorious. It was the little victories that mattered the most.
It felt like you had achieved your greatest goal, or were at least one large step closer to it, at least. The sun felt warmer and brighter than it had all spring. There was not a single cloud in the bright blue sky, only white birds passing by. Even the cushioning of the chair seemed nicer than usual. It's a miracle what changes a small victory and a happy mood can bring.
You greeted the first caller of the day with a bright smile and all the joy in the world. "What song can I play for you today?"
The universe was on your side. Great music all around, happy people calling your show, lovely greetings in the emails. A part of you started wondering if this was the right day to buy a lottery ticket.
But all good things must come to an end, some sooner than others.
"Hello, thank you for calling Well Wishes," you greeted yet another caller, still high off your win. "Who are we greeting and what are we listening to?"
There was silence for a while. And then you heard a familiar voice. "…(Y/n)?"
It felt as if rain clouds had appeared out of thin air and covered the sun. Dark, stormy clouds full of nothing but heart ache and hail.
You swallowed hard, your throat suddenly seeming to swell up. Your body was taken over by an emotion you knew far too well and had hoped to forget.
It shouldn't have been a surprise by this point; Youngjae seemed to call the show every day like clockwork — at least he had until the photos from the parking lot came out. And yet your heart threatened to seize up every time you heard his voice on the broadcast. Once, his voice had brought you warmth and happiness and made you feel so, so in love. Now it only served to remind you of all the things you could have had. If only he hadn't revealed himself to be such an ass hole.
"Hello," you forced yourself to speak. "What can I play for you today?"
"I've missed you," he spoke.
And the cycle repeated again, chewing through the process you had made like it was nothing.
There were few things you hated more than admitting that a man was right. It seemed that you might have won a battle but Seungcheol had the strategy to win the war. You steeled your aching heart. If mentioning your "boyfriend" at every possibility was the solution, you were going to use the hell out of it.
The next time someone requested a love song, you made sure to say it reminded you of Seungcheol and his pretty brown eyes. Whatever it took to fight for the space to let your heart heal. Whatever it took to end the cycle.
But the heart is a fickle thing and it rarely does what you tell it to. You could pretend it was made of steel and cold ice all you wanted, but deep inside it still ached. And the cycle repeated again.
"You talked about me on your show," was the first thing Seungcheol said when you walked into the studio the next day. Clad in an oversized white hoodie that made him look almost huggable, he was spinning around in the chair — your chair — and practically giggling with glee. "And here I thought you were too cool to talk about your boyfriend."
You rolled your eyes and glanced at the clock. "Figured I might as well make use of you."
"Was it because your ex called?" His smile said he knew the answer all too well. "Be honest: if you had to choose between your ex and me…?"
Now he was just fishing for compliments. But you hadn't slept all that well last night and falling into his silly traps felt like the least of your worries. "I'm dating you, aren't I?"
The words came out almost on autopilot while you stared at the chair he had occupied. That nice, comfy chair, practically moulded to fit your bottom from a year of wear. But Seungcheol didn't look like he had any plans of leaving it any time soon. You offered the chair one last contemplative look.
"Don't make me leave," he whined but there was little sincerity in his voice, only teasing, "I'm so comfy."
On another day, you might have grabbed the chair by the arm rests and swung it out the door, relishing in the hollering and cheers of your co-workers. But something had broken within you on the broadcast yesterday.
With a sigh, you walked to the other side of the room and grabbed one of the spare chairs meant for the guests. One of its wheels squeaked every once in a while and another one was clearly slanted from years of abuse. It would have to do.
Seungcheol stared at you, eyes wide and jaw hanging open. There was something like concern in his gaze. He didn't make a sound, didn't even move while you set up for the show, watching you like you were a wild animal he had stumbled upon on a hiking trail.
Finally, you couldn't take it anymore. "What?"
"You're not going to make me leave?" He looked like he was just about ready to banish himself if you just so much as nodded. You shrugged and he slumped in his seat. "Are you okay?"
"I will be," you told him with a sigh and pulled on your headphones, "one day."
He didn't say anything else but he stayed for the entire show. His presence was quiet. You half-expected to get annoyed with anything about him — his breathing, his little chuckles, the tapping of his fingers when a particularly good song came on. But to your surprise, he seemed to have the opposite effect for once.
It was odd. You had grown so used to constantly being irritated by him but now that you were stuck in a small room with him — just the two of you in creaky office chairs and nothing but short phone calls to keep you company —, his presence was comforting instead. A calming paperweight on top of the troubles that were threatening to fly around the room and suffocate you. A familiar character by your side no matter what went on in your life.
"I love that song!" he made sure to shout when a teen called in to request an older R'n'B track. Instead of glaring at him, you found yourself leaning away from the mic so he could lean closer and converse with the youngster. "Kid, you've got great taste. You need to call in more often."
Before you knew it, he was co-hosting, his chair pressed against yours, his hand on the mouse to guide the cursor through the playlists and emails. Between requests, he offered you smiles and glances that looked almost… kind. Warm. Gentle. Like he was trying to comfort you in his own way. And for some god-forsaken reason it actually worked.
You found yourself laughing and smiling and dancing along to songs in your chairs, your hand in his as he twirled you around like a record player. Just for this moment of time, he was not your work rival, not your enemy; he was just an old friend who had showed up when you needed him. And you let yourself get lost in that feeling. A break in the cycle.
It reminded you of the old days — your first months at the station under his guidance. It felt like a different lifetime now, your friendship had turned into a rivalry. This was a glimpse of what might have been if things had been different: if you hadn't been favoured by the executives, if you hadn't earned those high ratings and been awarded your first prime time slot show at his expense.
When a commercial break rolled in, he sighed and tilted his head as he studied you. "I didn't realise that man had that much of a hold on you still."
"Neither did I." And he didn't. He hadn't. But something about his call, about him requesting one of your favourite songs, about his voice sounding so full of love when he said your name — it had messed with your mind. It was a whole day later and you were only just starting to feel like yourself again.
"I think it's just because he hadn't called in a while. When we started, you know," you cleared your throat, "dating… He stopped calling. I thought it was done. Guess he was just taking a break."
He hummed in thought. "Yeah, that explains it. He's an ass hole for that, by the way."
"I don't disagree."
"Good," he smiled, "at least you have standards."
A familiar spark returned to you. Normalcy was returning, bit by bit. You offered him a playful pout. "Not very high ones if I'm dating you."
"Oh!" He gasped and clutched his chest. "My poor, poor heart. How ever will I survive this insult?"
"You can always leave," you reminded him with a helpful motion towards the door.
Seungcheol spun around in his chair. "No chance. I haven't filled my daily 'annoying (Y/n)' quota yet."
"Well, if you won't leave," you nodded towards the computer screens, "at least make yourself useful. Pick our next caller."
He smiled a little to bright when the commercial break ended. A few sentences later, he had the next call ready to go; one click and the familiar static filled your headphones.
"You're live on Well Wishes," you spoke, beating him to the mic with a short laugh. "What are you thinking and what can we play for you today?"
"Oh! (Y/n), I almost thought I called the wrong show," the familiar voice spoke.
Two days in a row. The universe had given you one small victory and decided to match it with an array of bad luck. You glared at the screen displaying the calls — tens of people currently on the line, waiting to get picked, and somehow the stars had aligned to remind you what suffering felt like.
Your one-sided staring contest with the computer screen was broken by the sound of fake gagging from your right side. Seungcheol was cringing and shaking his head and crossing his arms in an X motion as if to ward off an evil spirit. There seemed to be at least one thing the two of you could agree on.
"Sir, state your song choice," he interrupted your ex's soulful monologue. "The line is very, very busy today. I don't think we have the time to listen to your story right now."
Silence in the static. The sweet sound of a victory you hadn't expected. He was speechless and your heart was not aching this time.
Seungcheol smirked.
"Would you look at that," he silently mouthed at you, proud of himself like he had never been before. Out loud, he spoke again, "What song can we play for you?"
The only thing that sounded was the end-of-call tone. Tears of relief welled up in your eyes. You could have cheered and danced in joy.
"Oh, well, that's a shame," Seungcheol continued the broadcast as if he hadn't just intimidated your ex-boyfriend into hanging up on live radio. "Let's pick our next caller. Hopefully they have a good song ready to request."
Perhaps fake dating your enemy wasn't the worst decision you had ever made. Perhaps, you dared to think, it was turning out to be one of the better ones. Even if he was hogging your broadcast.
[You are listening to Words of Wisdom on Station SVT, 171.7 MHz]
"And that was the freshest hit of IU. What a great song. Hm. I see we don't have a lot of callers today, so how about we switch things up just for this one show? This time I am the one in need of advice.
"Say, there's this woman — you know this already; I haven't shut up about her all week, I think—, and we're doing fine— I just saw that concerned email you sent, KnittingRocks69; I promise we haven't broken up— Anyways. Everything's great but I just… feel like I should do better. I don't think I'm all that great at this entire boyfriend-thing. And I'm sure there are many listeners who are in a similar situation. So what can we do to be better boyfriends?
"Feel free to call in with your advice or send it via email. And, oh, we already have our first caller! Hello, what advice do you have for me today?"
Your desk was pink and yellow. It fluttered in the draft blowing in from the window. You were fairly certain it wasn't supposed to do that and you already knew who to blame for this.
"Choi Seungcheol!" you yelled out without even thinking about it for a second. He was the obvious culprit. And the bright grin he wore while pretending to enjoy the late morning view with his cold water was all the proof you needed.
Your glare only served to make him light up more. "Yes, darling?"
Infuriated, you gestured widely while he leisurely approached. "Why is my desk covered in sticky notes?"
Lips pursing into a pout, he contemplated and blinked as if he hadn't even noticed before. The corner of his mouth was twitching. "I figured you decorated it last night."
"Yeah? You thought I got bored after my broadcast and decided to cover the entire surface of my work space with neon sticky notes? That's what happened here?"
"It must have," he told you and this time he didn't even bother to pretend he wasn't smirking. "I only placed, what? Three hundred of these? Four, maybe? The rest of them were already here."
You felt your heart rate rocket as annoyance slowly started to give way to burning rage. A desk covered in paper cuts waiting to happen was never something you wanted to deal with. "Remove them."
"Why?"
"Because I would like to use my desk?" You knew you were playing right into his hand, fulfilling that sick prank-loving streak of his with your reactions. But getting irritated was so much easier than meditating and taking everything in stride. Besides, someone needed to yell at this man every once in a while lest his ego grew too big.
Seungcheol gave your desk another thoughtful look. Then he reached forward. He reached forward and made eye contact with you as he plucked a singular pink note off the desk and held it out for you to take like it was a gift. You snapped it from his fingers and threw it at his face in a crumpled ball. A perfect forehead shot.
"I'm going to go get some water," you told him slowly, eyes on him like a predator ready to pounce on a hare for being in the wrong spot, fingers pointing at the desk stiffly as you brushed past him, "and when I come back, this desk better be empty."
Immediately regret caught up with you and you turned on your heel to glare at him. "Scratch that. I want those sticky notes gone."
"Aw," he pouted and tapped your keyboard like it was a toy, "I already had the perfect place to hide your plant."
Your fingers were itching to grab the collar of his t-shirt and choke him with it. You found yourself stepping closer to him as you reiterated your point: "I didn't mean empty my desk—"
"If you're planning on kissing, could you do it someplace else?" a voice interrupted.
As if someone had poured a bucket of ice cold water over you, you sobered from your anger. Even Seungcheol looked a bit more flustered than usual. As you breathed, your chest just about brushed against his — a clear sign that you had gotten too close.
Your startled eyes met his and— Had there always been so many shades of brown in his eyes? Was that a speck of gold near the edge of his left iris? Had his lips always been so full and tempting? You had never seen him this up close before; that had to be the reason for the sudden thundering of your heart.
The silence stretched, seconds feeling like entire minutes until finally you jerked out his magnetic field, your gaze hardening as you stepped back and crossed your arms over your chest.
"And you did say you wanted the desk empty," Seokmin helpfully provided from his spot right next to your desk just then. He barely looked up from his magazine to offer a smile before turning back to it like he hadn't just provoked you. It seemed the list of traitors had a new member for a multitude of reasons.
"Fine," Seungcheol finally relented under your hardening glare.
Slowly, like a kid trying to get out of chores by doing them poorly, he began removing the notes. One from here, one from there, a third one from a completely different spot. There was no rhyme or reason to his work and it only served to annoy you further. His movements were stiff and almost unnatural as he gathered the notes in his left hand.
Now that he was further away, you could think properly again and the annoyance was back at full force. You rubbed the bridge of your nose, resisting the urge to throw something at him again. "It's going to take you hours at that rate."
The reply you earned started with a dramatic (theatrical, really) sigh. "I know. I'm really such a good boyfriend for sacrificing my time to help you, aren't I?"
"How noble of you."
"I know."
"Truly, I cannot thank you enough for your charitable nature," you deadpanned and walked towards the break room.
You needed space between yourself and this infuriating man. Because he irritated you. Drove you nuts. Made you unable to figure out whether you wanted to punch him or kiss his lips. Because he irritated you. Right. That was it.
There was not a single bone in your body that felt anything like attraction towards this man. When you looked at him just then, it was just pure objective observation. Choi Seungcheol was an attractive man by most standards; you clearly weren't entirely unsusceptible to his charms. None of it was romantic. None of it meant anything.
You gulped a glass of cold water and the world shifted back into place.
There was nothing romantic about the way he had kept you company at your show and scared your ex. Nor about the way he spoke of you on his show. Nor the way he kept you near in public, his arm always casually resting on your waist or hip, his presence a shield against the disbelieving stares of everyone that knew you.
No, you had not almost kissed Seungcheol. You did not want to kiss Seungcheol. The whole fake dating scheme had simply clouded your judgement and blended the boundaries of your hatred.
Satisfied with your conclusion, you smoothed your clothes and fixed your hair before walked back into the office space, fully expecting to find the devil himself still painfully plucking sticky notes off your desk.
Thankfully, he was not there. He was nowhere to be found, in fact. And neither were the three to four hundred sticky notes. Your desk was as clean as it had been when you left it last night.
Not entirely clean, actually, now that you looked at it closer. There was a singular obnoxiously pink note still on the desk. And next to it: a take-away cup from the coffee shop across the street and a paper bag lumpy with pastries, still warm from the oven.
"What's this?" you found yourself asking as you picked up the cup. It smelled like your favourite drink. A cautiously taken short sip confirmed that hypothesis.
You grabbed the note, scoffed in disbelief at the writing on it and stuffed the paper into your drawer.
'Don't let this fool you — I still don't like you much'
No, there was absolutely nothing romantic about any of this.
I’m making FLY for all the Black Boys who got their wings too soon and for all the boys who need to see themselves reaching higher. If you want to help this story take flight, follow our Kickstarter ! 🪽💫💖
A coming of age story about Black kids who finally have power to fight back against systems designed against them.
SUMMARY: Your nephew won’t stop complaining about his strict superior at work. What you weren’t expecting was that said superior happens to be your hottest hookup, the one you had a one-night stand with. Did you like it? Obviously, yes. But morally? You should’ve buried yourself in dearth at this point.
PAIRING: jeon wonwoo x f!reader
GENRE: drama, comedy, fluff, smut, oneshot
WARNINGS: suggestive content (MDNI), dirty talk, strong language, mildly toxic family (mentioned), one-night stand, attempted quickie, sexual tension, heated kissing, homoerotic cuz i can, dick jokes (im sorry), bantering, arguing (in a fun way), little angst hinted about parents' separation.
WC: 12.5k
ADD TAGS❦︎: cafe owner! reader, pr specialist! wonwoo, kim sunoo as your nephew, wonwoo is a jerk but a hot one, barista! boochan, reader is kind of a fujoshi (this was supposed to be a joke), domestic fluff if you squint, invisible string theory hinted, co-enemies to lovers, they're both idiots, teacher! jeonghan mentioned, i do think i am hilarious, roommate! mingyu, hot n cold dynamic, strangers to lovers, secret relationships, this was probably a bad idea.
a/n: hi. we are sooo back in this diamond crack.
The fact that you’re legally an adult is hysterical. If people asked whether you’re an adult, you’d say “yeah”, but not with confidence or anything.
People always say, “there’s plenty of fish in the sea.” You’ve heard that a ton, but your eyes are fixed on that one specific, emotionally distant salmon commitment issues, mommy issues, and absolutely no idea how to function like a normal human being.
There’s plenty of fish in the sea, but you know what else is there? Trash. There is a lot of trash in the sea. You even switched out your plastic straws for one-hundred per cent plant-based, edible rice straws made from rice, tapioca, and cornstarch. They’re designed to be sustainable, turtle-friendly, and technically safe to eat. It was often described as having a neutral, pasta-like texture. They were a popular eco-friendly alternative to plastic, even though some people complained that they got soggy in drinks.
You like to think that you have saved the turtles. Maybe even the ocean.
Unfortunately, that still doesn’t stop people especially at family gatherings from bringing up marriage every chance they get. You were perfectly fine living like this. You run your own cafe. You’ve got a side hustle as a web novel writer and webcomic creator though of course they don’t know that.
Your single life has been nothing but peaceful. In this century, it’s a choice. But that doesn’t matter when your relatives keep asking when it’ll be your turn, especially at someone else’s wedding. God forbid a woman enjoys her life without a partner.
They love to hint, no—insist that you’ll end up lonely, growing old like some miserable hag.
Puh-lease. You’ll never be intimidated by people with no class. What are they going to do? Gossip about you with their equally insecure, trashy little circle?
You don’t care. You’d rather die than get married. At least you won’t end up as some miserable wife stuck with a douchebag husband and his broken ass.
The only thing that kept you alive and sane was none other than your beloved nephew, your very first one. Oh, the things you would do for him. You still remember the first time you held him, just a newborn, tiny in your arms. That was the moment you became an aunt at the age of seventeen.
Now, he’s all grown up, living like a proper young adult. Still, you can’t help but see him as a kid. Not that you mind, considering you once gaslit eight-year-old Sunoo into believing he was six just so he could get freebies at a diner when you first babysat him.
“You look like you’re about to cry,” you said, wiping a glass as you watched your twenty three-years-old nephew clutch his head, face buried against the counter.
“Give my regards to the devil,” he sighed, rolling his eyes in exhaustion.
“I will.”
Sunoo groaned again, downing another shot of espresso you had made earlier. That was probably his third cup. You gently took it away from him, earning a frown.
“Oh, come on. I didn’t raise you to be a quitter,” you said, sliding a glass of water toward him instead. “I raised a burnt-out perfectionist who occasionally gets bludgeoned into settling for mediocrity.”
Your nephew stared at you incredulously. Sometimes he wondered if he was even related to you. But in the end, he’d take you over his nosy, borderline-stranger aunties who wanted a full autobiography of his achievements. He still didn’t understand why his mom, your sister had trusted you to raise him all these years, well into adulthood.
“Okay, I’ve experienced academic validation, and I’ve experienced academic downfall, and I highly recommend being born into generational wealth—”
“It’s not about that,” he cut you off. “It’s my superior. He’s… I don’t know. Everything about him is just so cranky.”
“What?” You raised an eyebrow, unimpressed as you continued stacking cups. “Is he a bully or something?”
“Not exactly. He’s just… kind of mean. Well—he’s just that good at his job.”
“Then what’s the problem?”
“That is the problem,” he confirmed.
He continued, “He’s so good at what he does that it stresses everyone out on the planning team. If something goes wrong, he gets intensely serious about it—like, terrifyingly committed.”
There was a brief silence as you listened to your nephew ramble. This was probably just a moment of weakness. He likely just needed to vent.
“No one likes him,” he scoffed, taking a sip of water. “In fact, I don’t think he likes people at all. He probably hates himself too.”
He sighed again. “I made it through the day without throwing a chair at anyone, but this coffee tastes more bitter than usual.” He clicked his tongue. “Probably because I carried his bitterness all the way here.”
After a moment, you looked up at him.
“Feeling better now?
“Yeah,” he finally exhaled.
You’d think his toxic trait was believing another cup of coffee could solve literally anything. Honestly, you couldn’t tell if he was just being dramatic, but considering this was his second week complaining about his “toxic” workdays, you hoped it was only one insufferable person making him miserable, and not HR tearing him apart. Senior colleagues could be worse. You just hoped he wasn’t being bullied.
You, on the other hand, could drink three cups of coffee and go straight to sleep, one of many things fundamentally wrong with you as a person. In your defense, you buried those bad habits back in university. You’re a changed woman now. At your age, you just wish people would stop asking about your likes and dislikes. It gets old—those endless, generic questions on dates.
You like money and food. You dislike not having money and being hungry.
Please. Don’t add more stress to your life.
Adulting is hard, but it’s okay. At least you don’t need to prove and explain why a triangle is a triangle anymore.
Nobody is busier than someone who isn’t interested in you. And when you say, “I’ll figure it out,” it usually just means you’ll adapt to whatever new level of hell is coming next. You either juggle five tasks at once or stare at a wall, wondering what scene to write for your next update, there is no in-between.
You know you’re hot, but you’re also aware you’re not a full-time hot person. You’re hot when you want to be, depending on the mood. You choose your own hours, make your own schedule. Honestly, it’s freelance hotness.
Just because you live like this doesn’t mean your life is boring. Sure, you’ve had your fair share of hookups—but they’re rare.
Today, however, is different. You went to your usual bar—Velvet Ruby. Mostly because the owner, Jihoon (as you’ve come to learn), is annoyingly attractive. You’re not even utterly shameless at that, the first time you met him (that time you haven’t yet to know he was the owner), throwing flirts here and there, you were tipsy, okay? Still, he finds it amusing despite himself. You usually prefer someone taller than you, but somehow, he still caught your attention.
Tonight, though, you were determined. You wanted a distraction. A release.
The only problem? You’d been sitting there for almost an hour. You were practically waiting for a main character’s entrance, but it seemed the owner had better things to do. Swirling your glass, you watched the wine move lazily inside it, your fingers brushing through your hair as you leaned your cheek against your palm, and then you noticed him.
Sitting right beside you.
You didn’t even try to hide the way your gaze lingered on his side profile. The sharp nose, the way his lips brushed against the rim of his glass as he took a sip of whiskey. His sweater was pushed just enough to reveal his forearms, the fabric stretching slightly. You could tell he was well-built underneath. His veiny hands, steady as he held the glass with ease, a watch sitting perfectly on his wrist.
God.
You really wanted him so bad.
As a matter of fact, you even dressed up for tonight—something chic, something that worked both at your cafe and for this. Chan, one of your employees, kept staring earlier. You didn’t say anything out loud, but you did threaten to cut his pay if he kept slacking off.
You feel sexy today, feel good and confident. There was no way you were wasting this night.
As if sensing your stare, the man suddenly turned toward you. His eyes narrowed slightly, not threatening, just… observant. His gaze lingered, taking you in without shame.
Jackpot.
Honestly, you don’t care. You were convinced you could hold your liquor pretty well, but you only lived once. You didn’t look away. Instead, you offered a soft smile, teasing as you leaned your chin on your palm, crossing your legs.
“Do you know what bees make?” you asked casually.
He raised an eyebrow, clearly making sure you were talking to him. There was a pause before he answered, humoring you.
“Honey?”
You smiled wider. “Yes, dear?”
A soft chuckle left your lips, you were definitely tipsy now. He looked amused, the corner of his mouth lifting as he took another sip, his gaze still on you appreciatively, unhidden.
“Can I buy you a drink?” He asked.
Your lips curved in quiet victory.
Got him.
...
It didn’t take long for the two of you to fall into easy conversation. The small talk here and there, laughter slipping in between. One thing led to another. You have learned that his name is Wonwoo. He mentioned something about work, some company but you barely processed it, too distracted by his deep voice and the way his cologne lingered in the air.
By the time you reached the hotel, neither of you had the patience to pretend otherwise. The door barely closed before he pulled you close again, lips finding yours in a kiss that was far from hesitant. His coat was gone in seconds, yours not long after as you were guided back with your breath catching and thoughts slipping.
His touch was warm, firm, leaving a trail that made it harder to think straight. Your head tilted instinctively, giving him more space, more access, your fingers gripping onto him as the moment blurred into something hazy and overwhelming.
A quiet sound escaped you, your mind already spinning, senses dulled except for him.
You stumbled toward the bed, everything felt so messy and impatient. Both of your clothes were scattered somewhere on the floor. It was clear that you’re both extremely attracted to each other, and you never felt so turned on right now. Maybe it’s been a while since you have felt this good.
Straddling him, you leaned down, kissing him again with intense neediness. Wonwoo grunts into the kiss, chuckling softly against your lips at how impatient you are, clumsily pressing on him. He kisses you back fiercely, his tongue delving into your mouth to stroke along yours, gripping your hips tightly. He grinds up against your core, large hands sliding up your bare back, fingers digging into your soft skin as he pulls you flush against his muscular chest. He didn’t forget to lavish your neck with hot, open-mouthed kisses, teeth grazing your pulse point as he bucks his hips up sharply.
You let out a soft sigh and moan at how intense it feels, catching your breath as your hands come up to grip his soft locks. Your hips instinctively grind on him, rolling your hips down as you feel the thick length of his cock rubbing against your slick folds through the thin fabric of your panties.
A low groan tore from his throat at the feeling, his grip on your hips tightening. He slides his hands down to grip your ass, squeezing the plush globes roughly as he grinds up against you—meeting your slow, sensual movements. “You’re so fucking hot like this, baby.” He murmurs, leaning up to capture your lips in a deep sensual kiss. Drowning in his own needs, he tore your panties away and didn’t hesitate to put the tip of his cock inside your bare cunt.
The sensation itself had left your mouth hanging open, trying to catch yourself at how amazing it feels like. Your grip on him tightened as you slowly sinked yourself down on his dick, mewling at the way he’s stretching you out. “F-fuck—Wonwoo…” you whimper out softly as you started to move your hips.
Wonwoo let out a low guttural moan as your tight walls clenched down around him like vice, gripping his throbbing shaft so deliciously. He literally needed to pause for a moment, savouring the incredible feeling of being fully sheathed inside you before he started to move. “Fuck, baby… so fucking tight.” He murmurs, looking up at you with dark, lust-filled eyes. You start to roll your hips, working yourself on his thick length. “That’s it—just like that… nice and slow.” Hands slide up your sides to cup your breasts, squeezing the soft mounds and kneading the flesh as he watches your face intently. Taking in every little flicker of emotion and pleasure that crosses your features.
He growls, feeling your pussy clench and squeeze around his pistoning length. God, even his voice is so damn hot, your mind was too drowned by how sexy he was until you felt a sharp slap on your ass, making you squeal. “Ride me harder, baby. Fuck yourself on my cock until you can’t take it anymore.” Wonwoo leans up to bite at your neck, sucking a dark hickey into your skin as he feels your movements turning more desperate and needy.
You started to bounce on his cock with increasing fervour, your ass smacking against his balls with each downward grind. The sound of skin slapping against skin echoes obscenely in the room, spurring him on to fuck into you even harder and deeper.
Your knees tremble on either side of him, digging the sheet for support. Nails digging further into his shoulders to keep yourself upright. You knew he wouldn’t last much longer, not with the way you’re writhing and mewling so sweetly above him. Your cunt milking his cock for all it’s worth.
And it’s so fucking hot.
Wonwoo slams up into you one last time, burying himself to the hilt as his cock pulses and throbs inside your spasming cunt, throwing his head back with a loud groan rumbling from his chest at his release. You moaned out loud too, mouth hanging as you held him tight. The feeling of his release seems to trigger your own, and you feel your body stiffening beneath him as your climax crashes over you.
With one last shuddering breath, he finally pulled back, taking in your blissed-out expression with a satisfied smirk. He peppered soft kisses across your face, his touch unexpectedly tender after everything that had just happened. You could feel your heartbeat racing, matching his.
“More?” you murmured against his lips, a playful smile tugging at yours.
“Thought so.”
Without warning, he flipped you onto your back against the mattress, earning a small yelp from you followed by breathy laughter as he settled himself between your legs. Your little escapade with him continued into the night. After all, the night was still young.
How to say “I hate you" in a nice way? It’s simple. “You are the Monday of my life.” Seungkwan always bristled whenever you said that, usually while you were asking him to clean the grease. It wasn’t even his turn, which would inevitably lead to him bickering with Chan about whose turn it actually was. At this point, you might as well be your own employee at your own cafe.
But hey, you like to think you’re a good boss.
The older you get, the more you understand why roosters just scream to start the day. Back in college, you used to wake up and sit there, contemplating whether to skip class. Maybe cry a little. Your greatest joy was waking up without the crushing sense of responsibility.
Now? You’ve never felt so good. You were actually… happy.
Even your nephew had asked Chan and Seungkwan why you were in such a good mood today. You were practically glowing.
There was no denying it, that one-night stand with that ridiculously attractive man had put you in an excellent mood. It was a shame you didn’t get his contact, though. When you woke up, tangled in the soft comforter, he was already getting ready to leave. He seemed in a rush. You were far too sore and far too comfortable to chase after him. Too much hassle, you thought.
Like some kind of Cinderella, he disappeared just like that. And honestly? You didn’t think you’d ever experience sex the same way again. Not that you were mad or anything. You hate being mad. It takes you almost two and a half years to calm down.
So for now, it was just you and your coffee beans, trying to figure out whether today was even necessary. According to the weather, though—it was bright and sunny. You greeted your customers with a warm smile (which you rarely did), and for once, everything felt… light.
Sunoo stared at you with concern as he blended the coffee beans beside you. “Did she win the lottery or something?” he whispered, leaning toward Seungkwan.
“I don’t know, kid,” Seungkwan shrugged, not even looking up as he handled the pre-orders. “She’s having one of her episodes. I’m not getting involved.” He paused, then added dryly, “It’s either her inner peace is sponsored by caffeine… or sarcasm.”
Your nephew just shrugged it off, continuing to help with the brewing. “By the way, remember when I told you I’d be having a meeting at your cafe? It’s going to be tomorrow.”
You hummed in response, packing cookies as you glanced up slightly. “Yeah, I remember. The place is spacious enough—you can come by around noon.”
“Great. Then I’ll get going… with my daily intake of coffee, as usual.” He smiled, picking up the book he had tucked under his arm.
You paused briefly. Because that cover looked painfully familiar. That was your work, your webcomic. The one that went viral back when you were in college.
“Where did you get that?” you asked, eyeing the cover before looking up at him, suspicion clear in your expression.
You were pretty sure it was old. There shouldn’t even be active copies of it anymore. You had buried that part of your life a long time ago.
“Oh, this?” he gestured casually. “My team’s working on a big project right now. It’s for a campaign we’re handling.” He took a sip from his drink, completely oblivious to your reaction.
It wasn’t like you were sweating, or panicking.
Or internally screaming.
It was just your own damn book—the one your nephew had no idea existed. You wrote it back in college. It was stupid, honestly, and you weren’t proud of it. You literally wrote about two dudes who were roommates and… well, got very close.
Unfortunately, it went viral back then. You had no idea how it resurfaced now, and frankly, you wanted nothing to do with it.
Sunoo glanced at his phone as he headed for the door. “I’ve gotta go now. Don’t forget about tomorrow! My team and that mean senior will be there too.”
And just like that, he left. Leaving you standing there, wondering what kind of disaster was about to unfold.
...
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Subject: Collaboration Inquiry with Carrot Publication.
Hi Belububbles,
I hope this message finds you well. On behalf of my team, our company has previously reached out to your agency regarding a potential collaboration. We were advised to contact you directly; however, we have yet to receive a response to our emails or direct messages.
As this matter is time-sensitive, I would like to request a face-to-face meeting tomorrow at our office, should you be available. Please let us know your availability by today. If we do not hear back from you we will proceed with further steps to move this discussion forward.
Looking forward to hearing from you.
Best regards,
Going Company PR team
+ 82 013-xxx-xxx
You bristled the moment you read the email in your inbox. Just when you were having a perfectly good day, which is ruined. That tone alone was enough to irritate you. Sure, you did ignore unknown callers and random emails. Most of them were spam or obvious scams, and you never bothered checking unless they came through your publication agency.
Still… the audacity.
Come to think of it, Sunoo did mention that his team was dealing with a particulary demanding client. Which probably meant his “superior” had grown a second set of horns by now. You could already imagine someone breathing down his neck, especially with how much he’d been fumbling lately. Not that you could blame him, the expectations sounded ridiculous and apparently, his superior had decided to take it on anyway.
Good thing none of that had anything to do with you.
Honestly, you wouldn’t even be surprised if one day Sunoo quit his job and showed up at your cafe asking for a position. You were short-staffed anyway, it might actually work out.
And now here you are. Standing in front of the Going Company. You had replied to their email yesterday, and they wasted no time contacting you again today. Still, you didn’t appreciate the tone—less of a request, more of a thinly veiled demand.
You rarely made any public appearances for your work. That’s what aliases were for. Working behind the scenes, under your publication agency was exactly how you liked it. You just hoped, really hoped that you wouldn’t run into Sunoo here.
It was a big building after all. Surely, you wouldn’t. Now seated in a waiting room, you crossed your legs
Now seated in a waiting room, you crossed your legs, fingers tapping lightly against your arm. One of the staff had already ushered you in, leaving you alone as you waited for the so-called “representative.” Something about this felt off. And you had a feeling that this meeting was about to get a lot more complicated.
Did you burn your toast today? Nah. That couldn’t be it. But you did burn the cookies. Which meant Seungkwan ended up cleaning the mess after you told him you had an appointment to get to. This is exactly why you have employees. Even if you treat them more like your nieces and nephews despite being around the same age.
The door then opened. Someone had arrived, but of all people you didn’t expect him. You lifted your head lazily, bored and later froze at the sight.
Jeon Wonwoo.
He also stopped mid-step too, one hand still on the chair he was about to pull out, eyes locked on you. Then, slowly he sat down with his hands clasped and composed. Professional. Like nothing had happened. For a second, neither of you moved.
He was dressed in a black turtleneck, lanyard hanging neatly around his neck and glasses. You almost didn’t recognise him at first. He hadn’t worn them the night you met. The two of you just stared for a moment.
Silence filled the air. Awkward and heavy.
Later, you both looked away at the same time, and he cleared his throat. God, you hoped this was just someone who looked like him.
“Belububbles, right?” he began, voice painfully familiar. “It’s a pleasure to meet you. As you’ve probably realized, I’m the one who emailed you.”
Your brows furrowed. So he was the one behind that email.
“I’m Jeon Wonwoo, part of the PR team. I look forward to working with you. Let’s get started.”
Well. Fuck me.
Just your luck. Your one-night stand, your very recent one-night stand was now sitting across from you, acting like a corporate robot.
You offered him a polite smile. Too polite. It didn’t reach your eyes. “Of course. Now, what is it that you’d like to discuss?”
Wonwoo clasped his hands again, diving straight into the explanation, laying out the project, the campaign, the planning. Every detail, every step. Thirty minutes later, he finally finished. He slid a contract across the table toward you. You raised a brow at that. It was all the NDA, policies and terms whatever it was. You hadn’t even agreed yet and they already prepared all this?
Persistent. Just like his email. What kind of passive-aggressive person was this?
“I’m not going to agree to this,” you said with a sigh, placing the document back on the table. “I don’t do public appearances. I thought you already knew that. My agency always consults me first.”
“I’m aware,” he replied smoothly. “That’s why we’re only proposing pre-recorded interviews. No face reveal—just voice, with filters if necessary.”
You were listening. It is intriguing but you need a lot more convincing to do.
“We just want you to participate in our campaign event,” he continued, confidence steady. “We’re gathering artists and writers involved in the project. You’d have your own merchandise, a chance to expand your audience—”
“I don’t really care about that,” you cut in lightly. “But I do like money.”
He blinked. Clearly not expecting that.
“…Right.” He adjusted his glasses. “Then would you reconsider? I’ve read your current work—the one you’re still updating. Wouldn’t you want more people to see it?”
You leaned back slightly, thinking. “I’ve considered it. But I don’t want the kind of exposure that comes with it. People dig. I value my privacy. And I have a real-life job too. A big one.”
He exhaled slooowly, clearly trying to stay patient. “What about physical sales?” he pressed. “Printed copies. You mentioned profit—this is an opportunity to maximize that.”
You wave your hand dismissively. “I’ve had enough of that. My agency handles most of it anyway.”
Honestly, you didn’t need them. You had your own ways, holding out your own event, your own marketing. You knew what you were doing.
Wonwoo momentarily paused. Finally, he tried again. “What do you want?”
You met his gaze. He was stubborn as hell. You hadn’t even planned to negotiate. You just came here to make one thing clear. You weren’t interested at all. With a quiet exhale, you stood up. “Mr. Jeon,” you said, already reaching for your bag, “I came all the way here to inform you that I’m not interested. Also, your email? That sounded more like a threat than a request.” You turned toward the door. “Have a great day.”
“I’m trying to be nice here,” his voice cut in, sharper now, “but you’re making my job difficult.” His voice made you pause as he stood up. “You don’t want fame, money—whatever it is. People like you are always so demanding, and yet here you are—”
You turned your back slowly. His gaze locked onto yours.
“…Though I didn’t expect it to be you,” he added, voice dropping slightly. “Not only are you a brat in bed, but apparently in general too.”
Ah.
There it was.
You smiled sweetly, stepping dangerously closer. “Why?” you tilted your head. “Was audacity on sale this year?” He scoffed quietly at that.
“Listen,” you added, voice light, “acting like a dick doesn’t make yours bigger.” you paused. “…Though, unfortunately, in your case—”
Except that he is.
His eyes narrowed, a low, sardonic chuckle slipping out. “You already know what I’m like,” he said. “Don’t act like you didn’t enjoy it.”
You glared at him. He didn’t back down either. The silence stretched, until you broke it with a frustrated groan.
“Yeah. I’m leaving,” you muttered, turning back to the door. Then you stopped mid-step, glancing over your shoulder. “For the record?” you added flatly, “It was good dick.” A beat. “But it was a one-time thing. I wouldn’t survive with a dickhead personality like yours.”
You pulled the door open. “It was terrible to meet you, by the way.”
And then you left. Leaving him standing there, rendered speechless, and completely thrown off. You refused to let anyone ruin your day. So, you naturally decided that you did it yourself.
…
Your mood stayed soured the entire day after that meeting with your stupidly, insufferable, annoying, dickhead one-night stand. Chan and Seungkwan exchanged a look the moment you walked in. They were very aware of your mood swing, and very determined not to become your next victims. It was fine, though. They were used to it.
Chan tried first. “You look extra pretty today.”
“I’m not raising your pay. Go to work.” you said flatly, not even looking up as you handled the cashier.
“Alright,” he nodded, but lingered for a second. “I mean it, though. You’re really pretty today.”
You hummed, then lifted your head slightly. “…You know what? Hell yeah. I am pretty. Being frowny doesn’t make me ugly—it makes me extra hot pretty.”
Seungkwan and Chan exchanged another look again. Seungkwan shook his head and went back to restocking the pastries.
Ah.
Very normal.
A little while later, Sunoo walked in with his planning team. Just like he mentioned yesterday. You flashed them a bright smile as they approached the counter.
“These are my colleagues,” Sunoo introduced casually. “And this is my aunt. No weird comments.”
“Hello, it’s lovely to meet you all.” you greeted warmly, slipping into your customer-service persona. “Thank you for taking care of my nephew.”
They greeted you back, placing their orders before heading off to their reserved table. Then, two guys lingered. Both are a couple inches taller than Sunoo, one with a sharp jawline, the other with pale skin and mischievous grin.
The pale one smiled a little too confidently. “Hi. You’re really beautiful. Are you single?”
You blinked, then let out a soft chuckle. “Oh—I mean… depends on the day, and fortunately today is a yes.”
Sunghoon and Jongseong snickered, nudging each other, while Sunoo rolled his eyes so hard it was practically audible. He hated when people did this, especially his own friends.
“Yeaahhh, we’re done here,” Sunoo cut in quickly. “Three iced americanos.” He dragged them away before they could say anything else.
You just watched them go, already ringing up the order. Just as you were about to take the next customer, a deep voice spoke.
“I’d like to pay for their order, and one iced cafe latte.” You didn’t even look up at the person.
“Okay, that would be—” as your eyes finally met with the face, and about to take his card. You immediately screamed. Like you had just seen a cockroach. Hands flew to your mouth, eyes wide in pure horror.
The entire cafe went silent. Heads turned at the scene. Seungkwan and Chan snapped their attention toward you. Wonwoo, just stood there—card still in hand, eyes slightly widened in confusion.
Meanwhile, from across the cafe, Jongseong leaned toward Sunoo and whispered. “Man, I knew Mr. Jeon could be intimidating, but I didn’t think he was that scary. Your aunt looks traumatised.”
You still didn’t move. Didn’t even blink or breathe. Seungkwan slowly walked over, glanced between you and Wonwoo. He immediately took over, seeing that you remained unmoved. “Thank you,” he said smoothly, taking the card and finishing the transaction.
Wonwoo didn’t say anything. He just kept staring at you oddly, and suspiciously. He finally turned and walked straight towards Sunoo. Your eyes followed him. And landed right on your nephew’s table. On his team. He was sitting at the centre like he owned the place.
Oh no.
What the hell.
That was the “mean” superior he’d been talking about?
Sunoo cannot know. He absolutely cannot know about your side hustle. And definitely not about that night. Your nephew had no idea that you and his senior had met not just this morning, but very, very personally before that. He had no idea you and his senior had jumped each other like a trampoline in a hotel room.
You only stood there, frozen. Completely mortified at how insanely small the world was. You could’ve slept with anyone, but certainly not this. Not only did you sleep with him, you also argued with him like cats and dogs this morning.
Great. How amazing.
You wanted nothing more than to dig yourself a grave and lie in it. You could scream or maybe cry a little. You know that feeling when you meet someone and your heart skips a beat? Yeah. That’s arrhythmia. You could literally die from that. From the very first moment you laid your eyes upon him, you knew that you wanted to spend the rest of your life AVOIDING him.
Seungkwan calmly stacked cups while you crouched behind the counter like a fugitive. “You know,” he started casually, “when I used to work at a corporation, I learned a very professional way to say things.” You didn’t even look up. “I’m assuming something bad happened between you and that mean-looking guy over there,” he added, jerking his chin toward Wonwoo’s table.
“I wasn’t.” you sneered.
“It is,” he corrected immediately, like he already knew, and annoyingly, he did. “This was identified early on as a likely outcome.”
“What does that even mean?” Chan popped his head out from the back.
Seungkwan didn’t miss a beat. “It means ‘I told you’ but professionally.”
You abruptly stood up, pretending to busy yourself while sneaking a glance at their table. Wonwoo was speaking behind his laptop, the rest of the team listening intently. Right on fucking cue, his eyes met yours and stayed there. Your gaze hardened, sending him a very clear message, close to a warning or threat. What the fuck are you doing here? Wonwoo merely tilted his head slightly toward his team and mouthed a simple, “Work.”
Oh, he was hilarious. Strangely calm too. Like he was used to handling crises like this. Before your silent rentless fuck you exchanged could continue, you saw Sunoo heading toward you. Instantly, you plastered on a smile. A little too wide.
Your nephew grabbed your arm. “What was that?” he hissed, glancing between you and his table. “Did you really have to scream in his face? I already feel like my soul leaves my body every time he looks at me—if he asks why my aunt is acting like a lunatic, I’m done for.”
You frowned, whisper-yelling back like you were negotiating something illegal. “That was a reflex. He looked too much like my ex.” You blatantly lied, as if you never do that with your nephew through the years of babysitting him.
Sunoo scoffed, grabbing a couple of water bottles. “Yeah, right. You’ve been saying that since I was six. Please don’t embarrass me. For the love of God.” And just like that, he walked back to his meeting.
You exhaled sharply. So much for easy-peasy lemon squeezy. This was more like stressy, depressy, lemon fucking zesty. Life didn’t hand you lemons. It handed you a caffeine addiction, trust issues and zero patience for dickheads like Wonwoo.
So when you noticed him heading toward the restroom, you followed after him. A moment later, he was at the sink, rinsing his hands. He turned around until he was immediately met with you slamming your hand against the tiled wall beside him. He paused, slightly caught off guard. Despite being taller than you, it seems like your anger towards him was taller.
“Did it hurt,” you said sweetly, a sharp smile on your lips, “when you fell out of someone’s asshole and into toilet water, you piece of shit?”
Wonwoo didn’t even flinch. By now, he seemed immune to it. “Not really,” he replied calmly, crossing his arms, “but I know shit when I see one.”
You groaned under your breath, pacing slightly. God, he was insufferable. “Did it have to be my cafe?” you snapped. “Seeing you this morning was already bad enough, and now you just show up here too?”
“I didn’t choose the location,” he said simply. Then, after a beat, “Though now that I think about it… I didn’t know that ray of sunshine was your nephew.” He let out a dry chuckle, stepping a little closer. “It’s ironic, really.”
You shot him a glare sharp enough to cut glass. “Well, it’s nice to finally meet the devil everyone’s been talking about,” you shot back. “Didn’t realise it was someone that I used to suck his dick—”
You stopped yourself. Barely.
Wonwoo stiffened slightly, adjusting his glasses. Yeah, that landed. You were not sure if he was taken aback by being a worse senior colleague, or that part when you mentioned of sucking his stupid dick.
He clicked his tongue, gaze steady. “Do I look like someone who goes around flaunting his sex life? Exactly. No way in hell.” You didn’t answer. He stepped closer again, voice lowering. “If you agree to the proposal from this morning, I’ll agree to keep things… civil between us.” Then he stepped back, giving you space.
Silence fell. You studied him for a moment. However, he didn’t look like he was hiding anything. Just a straightforward goal. He gives off that impression of a guy that has no time for relationships, probably terrible at it. A stubborn, workaholic guy with a nasty temper. Possibly hates himself a little.
Not that you were one to judge. You weren’t exactly easy either. Honestly, you didn’t care about him but your nephew? That was a different story. If Sunoo found out—if he ever found out there was no doubt he’d snitch to your sister. You’ll be dead for sure.
You exhaled slowly, reluctantly even. “...Fine,” you muttered.
Life is like a helicopter sometimes. To begin with, you don’t even know how to operate one. One could argue that you're one step closer to death than to having a stable relationship. Some people belong to the streets, but you’d like to think that you belong to the ponds because you’re just a silly goose.
At this point, you don’t think coffee even wakes you up anymore. You just like the idea of having coffee. That is, until someone had abused your apartment doorbell. At this rate, they might as well have broken it and got arrested for it. This place isn’t cheap, you paid a ridiculous amount of money to live here.
Grudgingly, you swing the door open and there he is. Wonwoo, looking completely unimpressed as he casually steps inside like he owns the place. Meanwhile, you’re standing there in your tousled hair and beluga-pattern pajamas.
“I called you multiple times. You didn’t answer,” he said, crossing his arms, eyeing your outfit. “Did you get my text and throw your phone into the Pacific Ocean?”
You let out a scoff, already walking back to your bedroom, which of course he followed. “I was busy. Why are you even here?” you muttered, flopping back onto your bed.
“Busy doing what?” he shot back dryly. “Sleeping at noon?”
“I can be in bed and still be busy,” you mumbled into your blanket. “Busy gathering my strength.”
Wonwoo stared at you incredulously. For a second, it genuinely looked like he was trying not to slam his head into the nearest wall.
“How’s the progress?” he asked instead.
You didn’t answer immediately. Just hummed in against the comforter.
He rolled his eyes, exhaling sharply then pulled— no, he freaking suddenly yanked the blanket off you. The cold air hit instantly.
“Okay—what is wrong with you, you psycho?” you snapped, sitting up and glaring at him. “First of all, get out of my room. Second, get out of my house.”
Before he could lunge forward at you, ready to claw his paw at you. Your phone buzzed, signing as you answered without even checking the caller ID.
“I’m heading to your place now,” Sunoo’s voice came through. “I don’t feel like eating cafeteria food—”
Your eyes snapped wide open. “Right now?” you blurted, panic immediately setting in. Wonwoo watched you as you scrambled out of bed, suddenly moving like a hurricane.
Oh, hell no.
Sunoo cannot see him here. Not in your apartment, your room. Just anywhere to be honest. You tried to grab clothes, then froze because this jerk was still here. “Shit—okay, you can’t be here,” you grabbed his arm, pulling him toward the door. “My nephew is on his way.”
“What—” Before he could finish, you shoved him out of your room, but the front door unlocked.
Without thinking, you pushed Wonwoo right back into your room and slammed the door shut. Perfect timing. You turned around just as Sunoo walked in and flawlessly smiled.
“Why are you still wearing that at your age?” he said immediately, eyeing your pyjamas.
You ignored that. He walked straight to the kitchen, already opening the fridge, while you trailed behind him. Your eyes dart back toward your bedroom door every two seconds.
“You could’ve asked Seungkwan or Chan to bring you food,” you said, leaning against the counter. “Didn’t your mom give you side dishes?”
“She did,” he replied, rummaging through your fridge. “But my roommate ate everything.”
You scoffed. “Just take what you need and go.”
“Why? Do you have a special somebody over?”
Rolling your eyes, you agreed anyway, “Yes, me. I’m amazing and I enjoy my own company.”
Sunoo stared at you for a second. “...Then explain why there are men’s leather shoes at the entrance.”
You momentarily froze at that. How did you fucking forget about it?
Before he could say anything else, you snatched the container from his hands, shoved food into a bag, and pushed it into his chest.
“Okay—out,” you said, dragging him to the door.
“What about—" The door shut in his face. You exhaled in relief, leaning your forehead against the door and turned to see Wonwoo was already out of your room.
“Is he gone?” he asked, peeking out.
“Yeah. Thank God he didn’t ask more questions,” you muttered, rubbing your face. “How did you even get my address?”
“Your agency.”
You groaned, pacing around again.
“Look, I don’t hate you,” he said after a pause, “I’m just not particularly excited about your existence in my life.”
Turning to shoot another nasty glare, you start. “Put yourself in my shoes, idiot. I wouldn’t care if you got hit with—”
“I wouldn’t wear those shoes if I were you.”
You were utterly speechless at the sheer amount of cockiness this guy had. Whenever he was around, you had the overwhelming urge to claw at him like a cat whose tail had just been stepped on.
“I know, why not ask yourself,” you snapped. “Is my dick big enough to match your attitude?" His brows furrowed at that. “Exactly!” You clapped once.
Aaaand just like that, you were arguing again with him. Neither of you noticed the door opening. Sunoo stepped inside and froze. His gaze moved from you then to Wonwoo.
Back to you, then to Wonwoo again.
Wonwoo was the first to notice. You followed his gaze and stopped. There was a thick, almost heavy silence that filled the atmosphere.
“…Hate that you had to find out like this,” you said slowly.
Sunoo blinked, stepping back slowly. “…Okay,” he said carefully, already putting his shoes back on. “I didn’t know you two were… dating.”
Dating.
Dating???
He gave a small, polite bow. Probably directed to Wonwoo. “Goodbye, Mr. Jeon. I’ll see you after lunch.”
The door closed later. And you just stood there, still processing everything that happened. Your nephew now thinks you’re dating the biggest man of shit in your life. You might actually need to fake your death this time.
...
“I think I’m forgetting something.”
“Morals, probably?” Wonwoo said without even looking up from his tablet.
“No, it’s something important,” you insisted, about to rise from your seat. “I think I need to go back to the cafe before Chan sets the place on fire.”
Wonwoo’s head snapped up. “Wait—no. Sit down. We just got here… oh my God.” He dragged a hand down his face beneath his glasses. “For the love of God, can you sit still for one moment? It took almost two hours to get you here, and I already helped drop your twins off at school.”
You sat back down reluctantly. “How long is this interview going to take?”
“Depends,” he replied dryly. “If you decide to be difficult, probably more than thirty minutes, and I’ll have to work overtime.”
“I can’t do that,” you shot back. “I have to attend the twin’s family day. Their dad bailed at the last minute.”
He sighed again, looking seconds away from tearing his hair out. Mostly because you had completely missed the sarcasm.
“Nevermind. Let’s just start.”
He set the voice recorder on his phone and straightened in his chair. “First of all, thank you very much for agreeing to work with us. We’re very delighted.”
“Thank you. It’s my pleasure too,” you answered flawlessly.
“How did you decide to create such interesting characters in most of your stories?”
You thought for a moment. “I honestly didn’t think too deeply about it. I started writing back in college. I met a lot of different people, so I borrowed certain traits here and there.”
“What made you shift from writing novels to illustrating them?”
“I had a lot of free time back then, and writing gave me plenty of ideas. I knew readers enjoyed the stories too. I didn’t want to stop writing, so instead I adapted them into manhwa so readers could visualize them.”
Wonwoo typed something down before continuing. “On a different note—do you wish to publish another novel one day?”
You crossed your arms, considering it. “I don’t think so. I already have too much on my plate, and illustrating takes time. Maybe after I finish my current project, I’ll think about writing again.”
“How did you feel when you learned your first work, And They Were Roommates, rose in sales again?”
You stiffened slightly. “Uh… well, I didn’t expect it to go viral again this year. I guess I was delighted? It was unexpected, but I received a lot of positive feedback too.”
Wonwoo nodded and flipped to the next page. “This is a special question from your readers. How did you come up with so many hilarious dialogues? They found the comedy really engaging.”
“Ah.” You visibly relaxed. “At first, I never meant for it to become a comedy. I just like writing characters who are witty, so I guess readers found that funny.”
“I can see that,” he said, then continued. “Another fan question: did you base your character’s personalities on real people?”
You made a face. “Well… they’re not wrong. I’ve met my fair share of terrible people and let too many assholes into my life. Real-life suffering became entertainment.”
His eyes narrowed. “Language.”
“What? I speak nothing but the truth.”
He only shook his head. “We’re getting nowhere if you keep doing this. I’ve done some self-reflection—if you cooperate, this can end faster.”
“Oh, so you did have a talk with your dick last night?”
Wonwoo immediately paused the recording and stared at you with a long, exhausted sigh. “Can we put that aside? And no, I did not talk to my dick.”
You crossed your arms. “Fine. Next question.”
He resumed recording. “Another fan question: how did you come up with such funny dialogue and plots?”
“Actually,” you said, “I’m not that funny. I think I’m just an asshole, and people assume I’m joking. That’s how I ended up making rude characters everyone somehow loves.”
He paused the recording again. “Would it kill you to give me one normal answer?”
“What? That is my honest answer.”
“It’s not appropriate for the media.”
“Then make it appropriate. That’s literally your job.”
Yeah. The two of you were getting absolutely nowhere.
After the interview, Wonwoo somehow found himself babysitting your niece and nephew, the twins, who were now sprinting around his office. He needed a bucket of caffeine, a fever patch, and divine intervention. Not because of the kids, because you had very clearly dumped them on him like he was a free daycare service.
“What’chu doin’?” Wonhee asked, propping her chin on his forearm while he typed.
“Work,” he answered flatly.
“Oooo. About what?”
“Work.”
“What kind of work?” Wonjun asked this time.
“Work,” he repeated.
“I want Auntie’s cheesecake after this!” Wonhee cheered, bouncing excitedly before both twins ran circles around his desk.
God, just kill me. He was screaming internally.
A knock came at the door. It opened to reveal Sunoo, holding finalized planning documents. Wonwoo nearly saw heaven.
“Sunoo!” the twins yelled in unison, rushing him immediately.
“Sorry, guys, I’m at work right now, so I can’t play,” he said, patting their head before looking back at his superior. “Yeahhhh… I actually have plans with the team after this,” Sunoo added awkwardly, already stepping backward.
Even Sunoo knew better than to get involved. He quickly shut the door. Wonwoo turned back to his computer and resumed typing aggressively.
“Uncle Won. Uncle Won. Uncle Won,” Wonjun repeated, tugging at his sleeve.
“What?” he replied flatly, eyes still on the screen.
“I need to go potty.”
Wonwoo finally looked down.
“Now?” The boy nodded desperately.
“If you don’t take him now, he’ll tinkle in his pants,” Wonhee informed him with complete sincerity.
Wonwoo muttered something under his breath, then immediately scooped the boy up and marched out of the office.
The entire team watched in stunned silence. From across the room, Jongseong leaned toward Sunoo. “I think you’re getting another playmate soon, dude.”
Sunoo scoffed, scowling as he scrolled through his laptop. “Stop that. It’s not funny. I don’t care. Even if they break up, I still lose.” He pointed dramatically in each direction. “They break up—I still have to see his face at work. They stay together—I still have to see his face at work.” He slumped in defeat, “My life has no winning route.”
...
“Baby.”
Wonwoo looked at you as the twins zoomed around your cafe, clearly bothering your two staff members.
“What?” you shrugged. “You want me to call you fellow associate instead?”
He was one step away from crashing out. First, you made his work life hell. Second, you had dropped the twins off at his office not once, not twice, but three times. Wonwoo was good at his job. Great, even. Then when you walked into his life. The tragedy followed.
“Aunty! Aunty!” Wonhee bounced on her feet, reaching up. You picked her up easily. “Tomorrow I have a soccer match! Teacher Yoon said we can bring our parents!”
“But Papa said he can’t come,” Wonjun huffed, stomping lightly. “Something about work.”
Your heart softened instantly. Your brother was busy running his law firm, and even though he and his ex-wife were divorced, they were still co-parenting well. With their busy lives, complicated timing—that was all.
“Oh, alright then. I’ll go,” you said, giving in easily.
“That’s unfair—I wanna see them play!” Seungkwan popped up from behind the counter.
“Wait—count me in!” Chan added.
You rolled your eyes, setting Wonhee down and placing your hands on your hips.
“No. I need both of you to take care of the café while I’m gone. And Chan, I know you’re just using that as an excuse to slack off.”
Chan dropped the cloth dramatically onto the counter. “Aw, man.”
“Will Uncle Won come too?” Wonjun asked, clinging to Wonwoo’s leg and staring up at him with wide, hopeful eyes.
Wonwoo stiffened, his gaze flicked to you. You smiled in return, a little crooked and suspiciously sweet.
“Umm… he’s kinda busy,” you said, brushing imaginary dust off your shoulder. “He has a big adult job. He might not make it.”
Both twins immediately started whining loudly. For a second, you remembered just how insufferable they could be. The last time you babysat them, they threw a full-blown tantrum over Haribo marshmallow chocolate.
“Okay, stop,” you deadpanned, staring at Wonjun, who had dramatically sprawled onto the floor. “You don’t demand things from someone you barely know. Show some respect to your elders. And get off the floor—it’s dirty.”
“I just mopped that,” Chan added.
You ignored him.
“You and Papa always say the same thing!” Wonjun protested, sitting up. “He says, ‘respect your elders,’ but he never comes to my singing or storytelling!”
…Ouch.
“Yeah!” Wonhee chimed in. “Papa says stuff like that because he’s old and forgetful. Aunty, you’re becoming like Grandpa too.”
“Hey now,” you crossed your arms. “If anything, I’m better.”
Wonwoo nearly rolled his eyes. Wonhee suddenly turned to him, already halfway climbing into his arms. “Uncle Won, please come! I want to show you my super cool kick!”
He froze completely. He looked at her, then at you and then back at her. He said nothing. Mostly because he knew what would happen if he refused. Flashback from his office with all the screaming, he was sure people from the outside could heard that loud and clear.
You caught his eye and subtly shook your head.
Don’t. Encourage. Them.
“Aunty,” Wonjun said suddenly, frowning, “why don’t you want Uncle Won around? It’s like Mama and Papa.”
Your expression faltered. “…Hey. I’m nothing like them,” you said, quieter this time.
That one hit a little too close. You sighed, then reached out and ruffled his hair.
“Fine. We’ll see tomorrow. If we can make it.”
That was enough to make the twins lit up instantly.
From across the cafe, three figures watched the entire scene unfold like a live drama. Seungkwan leaned on the counter. Chan mirrored him. Sunoo stood between them, looking deeply troubled.
“I don’t like where this is going,” Sunoo muttered.
Seungkwan shook his head. “No, no—let them keep going. This is good.”
Sunoo turned to him slowly. “…Good?”
“Would you rather they take their frustration out on us?” Seungkwan pointed out.
Chan nodded immediately. “Fair. Also, there’s a chance our boss might raise our pay if she’s in a good mood.”
He clasped his hands together dramatically. “I will pray for that. I refuse to suffer in a cafe with emotional damage and no bonus.”
Sunoo stared at both of them. “…Yeah. That checks out.”
The exhibition was going well so far. Wonwoo liked to think all his hard work had finally paid off. Unfortunately, he had forgotten one thing.
You.
Your mere presence alone was enough to test the last thread of his patience. He just needed to keep his shit together for one day. Just this once.
“You didn’t wear your glasses today,” you remarked, openly scanning him from head to toe, and annoyingly enough, he looked devastatingly handsome. If only he kept his mouth shut. “You’ve stared enough, perhaps?”
His head snapped toward you, brows knitting together. “It’s nine in the morning,” he hissed. “Stop fucking testing me.”
“Ah, ah,” you interrupted, waving your VIP lanyard around obnoxiously. “I’m the important guest here.”
“I should’ve thrown fertilizer at you so you could grow the hell up,” he muttered, trying very hard to remain professional.
“Oh yeah?” You scoffed. “Sometimes I wish I were an octopus so I could slap you with all eight tentacles at once.”
He already looked tired. You continued anyway.
“Actually, maybe I’d use them to peg you down so you’d finally learn how to bow your head.”
Wonwoo blinked, once then twice. He genuinely didn’t know how to respond to that. So he just stared at you in silence, expression unreadable, wondering how you always managed to hit new levels of insanity before ten in the morning.
Right on cue, another familiar figure approached.
“Hey, Wonwoo—oh.”
The man halted when his eyes landed on you. “I didn’t know you were here,” he grinned brightly. “It’s been forever.”
It was Mingyu.
You froze.
Oh, for the love of God.
“O-oh… yeah. Haha.” Your laugh sounded faker than the fake Chanel bag you once bought online. “What an… unexpected reunion.”
Mingyu had been your junior back in college. And unfortunately, very unfortunately—your old BL series was heavily inspired by him. Mostly because he never shut up about his roommate constantly invading his personal space. At the time, you were just a broke college student trying to survive. You never expected And They Were Roommates to blow up the way it did.
People would read shit anything.
Mingyu casually slung an arm around Wonwoo’s shoulder. Wonwoo, meanwhile, looked between the two of you suspiciously. He did not like where this was going.
“I work here,” Mingyu explained cheerfully. “Different department though. Remember that roommate I used to complain about all the time?”
He pointed directly at Wonwoo. “Yeah. It’s this guy.”
Your smile twitched violently.
Oh.
Oh, this was bad.
Out of all people, the world really was disgustingly small.
“Real question is,” Mingyu continued, narrowing his eyes playfully at you, “why are you here?”
You absolutely could not tell him you were the main guest of the entire event. So instead, you smoothly covered your VIP pass with your hand and flashed a dazzling smile.
“Oh, you know…”
Before your brain could stop you, you looped your arm through Wonwoo’s.
“Unfortunately,” you sighed dramatically, “for someone who treats life like a joke, I’m being serious this time.”
Mingyu looked unconvinced, very unconvinced. He glanced between the two of you like he was trying to solve a math equation with missing numbers. To him, this pairing made absolutely no sense. You, whose personality is like a hurricane, and Wonwoo—who somehow managed to be equally unbearable in a completely different flavor.
Birds of a feather really did flock together.
“…Good for you guys?” Mingyu finally said slowly. “I mean… wow. Match made in heaven.”
The way he said it sounded less like support and more like disbelief.
Before he could ask more questions, you immediately cut in.
“I’d love to continue this questionnaire, Gyu, but Wonwoo and I have somewhere to be.”
You tugged Wonwoo’s arm tighter. “Right, baby?”
“No? What are you—”
“Oh yes, you do, baby,” you cut him off sweetly, already dragging him away. “I know you can’t wait to see the twins.”
With that, you escaped while Mingyu simply stood there, watching the two of you disappear into the crowd. Hands shoved into his pockets, head tilted slightly, he frowned to himself.
How the hell did that happen? Because as far as he knew, both of you were disasters individually.
...
Here you were, sitting beside Wonwoo while watching the twins’ soccer match. Honestly, he didn’t know how he ended up tangled in all of this. Not once or twice, but somehow—every single time he crossed paths with you, his life became increasingly complicated.
At first, he told himself it was only because of the contract, mainly because of work.That staying close to you made things easier professionally. But somewhere along the way, the lines blurred.
Your routines somehow became his problems too, and the worst part? He could’ve said no at any point. So why the hell was he still here?
You nudged his arm excitedly while cheering for the twins. “Take pictures,” you whispered. “They’re gonna ask for them later.”
Wonwoo blinked before adjusting the camera lens in his hands and taking several shots without complaint.
At this point, he was more involved than the twins’ actual parents.
“You could at least smile or look excited,” you sighed, finally turning to face him.
The lively noise of families and cheering echoed around the field.
“You look like a robot. What if the twins notice?”
He lowered the camera slowly and looked at you instead. He stared at you with silence, and blank-faced as always.
You narrowed your eyes. “Do you need smiling lessons?”
You turned toward him properly, using your fingers to demonstrate. “Okay, look. Make your eyes curve like little shrimp—then lift your cheeks up like this—and…”
Grinning brightly, you continued, “S.M.I.L.E.”
For a moment, Wonwoo just stared at you, quietly. The noise around him faded into the background. The wind brushed past gently, making strands of your hair sway under the sunlight in a way that almost looked unreal.
His chest flutters at the sight. It felt oddly similar to the tiny happiness of a stray cat approaching him first, or when his favorite buldak noodles were finally restocked after disappearing for weeks.
It was small and unexpected, but enough to steal his breath away. Wonwoo immediately buried the feeling before it could settle deeper. He cleared his throat, looking away quickly and lifting the camera back toward the field.
You, completely oblivious, muttered under your breath.
“Jerk.”
Then immediately went back to loudly cheering for the twins.
...
By the time all of you arrived back at your place, Wonwoo was carrying your niece while you carried your nephew, both twins completely passed out after dinner with your parents.
At this point, he was involved way too deeply in your family functions.
What made it worse was the fact that your parents didn’t even seem surprised by his presence anymore. It was almost like they had already accepted him and had simply been waiting for the day you finally brought a man home.
Honestly, they probably saw him more often than some actual relatives. He still remembered how your mother kept asking when you were going to get married. And knowing you, of course you only gave half-assed answers.
It reminded him of Mingyu’s grandfather, whose dementia was apparently so bad that he kept asking whether his cousins had jobs.
Ten times.
And ten times, they had to admit they were still unemployed. Honestly, Wonwoo didn’t even think it was dementia anymore. The old man was probably just in disbelief that they were still jobless.
The twins were quickly settled into their room, exhausted after burning through all their energy earlier. You let out a long sigh, stretching your limbs—only to find Wonwoo sprawled across your sofa like a man who had already given up on life.
“Go sleep at your own place, dude.”
“I’m too tired to drive anymore.”
“Not on my sofa.”
His eyes cracked open immediately.
“Let a man rest, would you?” he groaned dramatically, sinking deeper into the cushions.
“Ooookay,” you dragged out teasingly, already walking toward your room. “I was just wondering if you wanted to join me.”
You paused by the doorway and peeked back at him.
“…In my bed.”
Wonwoo sat up instantly. His interest was fully restored.
“You’re messing with me.”
“Yeah,” you answered easily. “I’m fucking with you.”
You casually started unbuttoning your blouse, shrugging it off your shoulders and letting it fall carelessly onto the floor.
Wonwoo’s gaze lingered on your bare shoulders. The loose strap of your camisole slipping against your skin. The atmosphere shifted almost immediately. You disappeared into your attached bathroom, beginning to remove your makeup.
“Don’t joke around like that,” he muttered from behind you.
Before you could react, his arms wrapped around your waist as he buried his face against your neck, breathing you in.
“I survived your family all day. I deserve proper compensation.”
A soft laugh escaped you as you tossed the makeup wipe into the bin.
“Sleep outside. I’m keeping the bed to myself.”
Wonwoo groaned against your skin, lips brushing along your neck before trailing to your shoulder.
“Seducing me like this isn’t going to work,” you teased, nudging him lightly with your hip while watching him through the mirror.
“Then I’ll make it work,” he murmured.
He nipped lightly at your ear while kicking the bathroom door shut behind him.
You found yourself kissing him again. The kiss was warm and messy, arms slid around his neck, pulling him closer as both of you melted into each other like you had been waiting all day for this exact moment.
The bathroom filled with nothing but mingled breaths and quiet laughter between kisses. His hands slipped beneath the fabric of your skirt, rough palms gliding over your thighs as he pulled you impossibly closer. Like he wanted to press himself into every part of your life.
Then, a sudden knock came.
“Aunty…”
Both of you froze instantly.
Wonjun’s sleepy voice came muffled through the door.
“I need to potty.”
You blinked, slowly turning toward Wonwoo. He stared back with the exact same exhausted disbelief.
“Just…” you struggled, trying not to laugh as his hands remained stubbornly on your waist. “Just use the guest bathroom, baby.”
“But I don’t know how.”
You nearly rolled your eyes.
Of course this was happening.
“Wonjun,” you sighed, “you’re five. You absolutely know how.”
Then came soft sniffles. Apparently being woken up from sleep was enough to trigger a minor emotional crisis.
You groaned quietly, resting your forehead against Wonwoo’s shoulder.
“Wonwoo,” you hissed under your breath, “remove your dick from the situation for one second.”
He actually laughed at that before finally stepping away.
The moment you opened the bathroom door, a sleepy-looking Wonjun stood there with watery eyes and messy hair.
You sighed immediately. There went the mood.
After helping him and reminding him to wash his hands properly, you finally walked back into your room—only to find Wonwoo was already under the duvet. He was shirtless, with his eyes closed. Looking entirely too comfortable in your bed.
“Aunty,” Wonjun asked innocently, “why was Uncle Won in the bathroom with you?”
You swore you heard Wonwoo choke back a laugh.
Keeping a perfectly straight face, you gently patted Wonjun’s head.
“Uncle Won has potty problems too,” you replied smoothly. “I was helping him. Just like you.”
A muffled snort came from the bed.
“Now go back to sleep,” you added. “Aunty needs beauty sleep before she turns into a beast.”
Wonjun nodded seriously and shuffled away.
The moment the door shut, Wonwoo opened one eye.
“Potty problems?”
“Shut up.”
You changed into your pajama pants before climbing onto the bed.
Wonwoo’s hands immediately found your waist as you settled onto his lap, his thumbs tracing slowly against your sides while he looked at you like he wanted to devour you whole.
He kissed you again, slower this time. Somehow even worse for your sanity. His palms are kneading your ass, almost tender with his touch. You melted into him instantly, fingers tangling into his hair while he pulled you closer—
right before the bedroom door burst open again.
“AUNTY!”
You yelped in shock, shoving Wonwoo away so hard he smacked against the headboard.
Wonhee stood at the door clutching her teddy bear dramatically.
“She won’t stop crying,” Wonjun complained from beside her. “And I can’t sleep.”
You and Wonwoo stared at the twins in complete silence. Then at each other. Just like that, the rest of the night ended with all four of you cramped together in one bed.
...
The next morning came far too quickly. The entire night had left both you and Wonwoo restless and unsatisfied, but at least everyone had slept peacefully. That was until Wonwoo’s snores woke everyone up, and your nephew loudly declared that he sounded like a car engine.
After throwing together something quick for breakfast before dropping the twins off at your brother’s place, you set the plates down on the table while Wonjun sat comfortably on Wonwoo’s lap, inhaling an entire cup of instant ramen. You genuinely wondered if he even chewed those.
“Thank you for the food!” the twins chorused in unison.
Wonhee sat beside Wonwoo, already picking up her food so she could eat in front of the TV in the living room. You shook your head at the sight.
Then your eyes landed on the little boy sitting comfortably on Wonwoo’s lap.
For once, you had never been jealous of children—except maybe that one time you realised you couldn’t order a Happy Meal in your mid-thirties anymore, which you now used as an excuse to buy them for the twins.
“Wonjun, can you go eat somewhere else? There are plenty of seats around here.”
Your nephew looked up curiously, pancake stuffed halfway into his mouth. “Nope.”
Your eyes narrowed. “You’re five. You don’t need to be babied anymore. Yesterday was one thing.”
Wonwoo didn’t seem bothered at all, still securing the boy comfortably in his arms. “Let him be. Why are you so worked up?”
“Of course I’m worked up. That was my spot before they took it over.”
Both Wonwoo and your nephew stared at you. The silence only broke when Wonhee suddenly ran over holding a handmade card.
“Look! Look!” she squealed excitedly. “I made this yesterday at school. Happy Mother’s Day!”
Your heart melted instantly as you accepted the card with a soft smile, patting her head affectionately. “Aw, that’s so sweet of you, darling.”
Wonjun immediately scrambled off Wonwoo’s lap and ran toward their room to grab his own version.
You took the opportunity immediately, settling yourself onto Wonwoo’s lap instead. A small “oof” escaped him at the sudden weight.
“Thank you, sweetheart, but I think you should give this to your mom.”
Wonhee leaned against both you and Wonwoo, shaking her head. “I made two! One for mama and one for you because teacher Yoon said Mother’s Day isn’t strictly for biological mothers. You took care of me when I was little, so you have a motherhood role too. You’re basically my mom!”
Then Wonjun returned, proudly handing over his own handmade card filled with messy scribbles and barely readable words.
The twins kissed both your cheeks before running back to the living room.
“They sure love you a lot for someone like you,” Wonwoo muttered.
“It’s a shame I can’t officially be called a mother.”
His palm slid gently against your lower abdomen as he leaned closer, voice dropping lower.
“I can change that.”
You immediately slapped his hand away. “Wow, look at you. I’m surprised kids are drawn to an asshole like you,” you replied nonchalantly while taking a bite of your pancake.
“The genes never lied then,” he murmured while squeezing your waist. “There’s a reason you ended up with me in the first place.”
You nearly choked at that, refusing to acknowledge how true it sounded.
“Did you know belugas don’t chew their food? Yeah, it reminds me of you inhaling those noodles. Who the hell eats like that?”
Wonwoo shrugged as he continued inhaling the noodles. “It tastes better this way.”
“Only a psychopath would eat like that.”
“Then tell me who the hell gets jealous over a kid sitting on my lap?”
You stared at him, and he stared right back just the same.
“I’m not jealous,” you replied a little too quickly.
“Who said it was you?” A shit-eating grin spread across his face, and you immediately wanted to slap the hell out of him.
“Anyway,” you quickly changed the topic while sipping your tea, “did I know you from somewhere? How did you and Mingyu know each other aside from being roommates?”
He thought for a moment, adjusting himself while you still sat comfortably on his lap. “We went to the same school and university. He doesn’t like sharing spaces with strangers.”
You mused at the information. “You went to the same school as me? Why did I never see you around?”
“I was in the Faculty of Business and Management. Maybe that’s why. Mingyu took architecture before changing to finance and accounting.”
You paused mid-bite and turned toward him. “Oh, I was in the Faculty of Applied Science… something like that. I guess that’s probably why I never saw you.”
“What did you major in?”
“Food science,” you answered simply.
After a brief silence, you spoke again.
“I’m surprised you and Mingyu haven’t kissed each other’s asses yet.”
“I know I’m an asshole, not an assfucker.”
You burst out laughing at that while reaching for his wallet and flipping through his ID picture and cards.
“What do you call a baby whale? A little squirt!”
“You’re not funny,” he deadpanned. “Give me that. Don’t go checking what’s inside.”
Did you listen? Of course not. When have you ever listened to anyone anyway? You barely listened to your parents, so why would you start with him?
“Knock knock,” he suddenly said.
You raised a brow but played along anyway. “Who’s there?”
“Whale,” he answered simply.
“Whale who?”
“Whale…” He paused before immediately snatching the wallet away from your hands. “That’s enough of that.”
You rolled your eyes before shamelessly eating half of the ramen that clearly belonged to him.
“I hope your entire generation experiences bad luck in every possible streak.”
He narrowed his eyes on you. “I’ll just marry you then. We’re going down together whether you like it or not.”
“Give me your card.”
“No. Use your own, you have money.”
“You said you’d marry me. I want to be spoiled,” you whined dramatically while leaning against him like an oversized cat. “I’ve had enough of being the alpha woman all year long.”
“I don’t want you using my money to buy your own diamond ring. I want to buy it for you.”
You turned your head toward him properly this time.
He looked completely serious.
“Unfortunately,” he continued, “I’m not being sarcastic today. Maybe tomorrow, though.”
Before you could even process that, the twins suddenly came running over excitedly. Wonhee repeatedly called your name as if you weren’t literally sitting right there.
“When can I see you become a princess one day?” she asked excitedly, twirling around while showing you a picture of a bride on her tablet.
You hated admitting it, but every year you were reminded that maybe you would never become one—though you were certainly close to becoming a witch.
Still, you smiled softly.
“Oh, maybe soon.”
The little girl gasped excitedly, eyes sparkling. “Does that mean Uncle will be your prince? And I want to stay with you the whole time when you become a princess!”
“I think he’d be more like the villain who stole the princess away rather than Prince Charming.”
“Villains are way cooler,” Wonjun added confidently.
Wonwoo merely rolled his eyes at your comments.
“Besides…” you trailed off, leaning closer until your lips brushed against his. “The evil ones are always hotter…”
You chuckled softly before kissing him, earning a smirk from Wonwoo almost immediately.
The twins loudly made gagging noises before scurrying away to continue playing around the living room. You and Wonwoo watched them go before falling back into your own little world together, spending the rest of the morning tangled up in each other before the weekend truly began.
Unfortunately, your love life never unfolded like those Prince Charming fairytales. Instead, it felt more like a ridiculous romcom sitcom filled with stupidity, arguments, and way too many unfortunate coincidences.
Unfortunately, you never met him sooner back in school. Maybe if you had, you wouldn’t have spent so long giving up on love.
Fortunately, though, you loved the way invisible strings worked.
It was beautiful that way. And fortunately, this piece of shit was yours forever to keep.
FIN.
a/n: omg, i'm finally free!! now i can focus on cheol's fic. it wasn't supposed to be so long, i spent the entire time writing shit in here. i tried eating noodles without chewing btw, almost left me choking to death and never again. it's always the shitty fic that everyone enjoyed, goodday apples! comments, reblogged are appreciated :)
