hanniehaee!!

- baby chocolat 보다 더 달콤 달콤해 - 19-21

[jeonghaniehaee]

HELLO!! 🎆🎇

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[vernonverse]

THE DICTIONARY OF BRUISED PETALS ✶ Chwe Vernon

SYNOPSIS. You’re devastated to discover that your flower shop’s latest high-profile wedding booking belongs to Hansol’s family, your first love and deepest heartbreak. Believing he’s the groom, you silently endure designing the perfect romantic day, only interacting with the bride and the planner to protect your own heart.

PARING. Vernon x F!Reader

GENRE | TAGS. One-shot, non idol!au, exes to lovers, second chance, comedy, angst, smut.

WC. 25k

RATING. Explicit adult content (MINORS DNI).

WARNINGS. HEAVY miscommunication, the names Hannah, Angela, Leonor and Poppy are being used, small (tiny even) car accident, swearing, panic attack symptoms, mentions of parkinson's disease, light alcohol use, jealousy/mild possessive behavior, lots of making out, brief dry humping, unprotected sex, multiple orgasms, oral (f. receiving), fingering, eating out, soft dom!hansol, body worship, hair pulling, multiple positions (only two but).

AN. 1. I chose to ignore the fact that Hansol has a pollen allergy. 2. I loved writing this. There's a lot of my personal life in this story, and I'm honestly really proud of how it turned out, so I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it. 3. The meanings of the flowers mentioned in this comes from a very, very old magazine that belongs to my great aunt (we're talking 2003), so credits to Editora Abril (i guess). 4. I'd also like to say that this is very late lol, but I'm happy it's finally here.

🎧 SOUNDTRACK. moving along - 5 seconds of summer, minto pra quem perguntar - anavitoria, love me again - v, a couple minutes - olivia dean, if you leave me - seventeen, i'm scared i’ll never sleep again - 5 seconds of summer, still - niall horan, come back to me - rm, lover of mine - 5 seconds of summer.

— This is written for @svthub' First Blooms Collab ! Thank you so much for hosting the collab and for letting me be a part of it!

Blue violets — melancholy of lost love and the pain of being forgotten.

The sheer, unadulterated irony of life is that it doesn't just kick you when you're down. It waits until you're wearing your favorite blouse, gives you a dazzling smile, and then shoves your face into a puddle of mud. Or, in your case, a puddle of very expensive imported white hydrangeas.

You're sitting on the edge of your office desk, starting down at a piece of paper that feels less like a financial lifeline and more like a beautifully calligraphed nightmare: a retainer check.

How can a retainer check be a nightmare, you ask?

Well, the number written on it is large enough to cover your shop's rent for the next nine months, pay your employees for the rest of the year, replace the temperamental walk-in cooler that has been threatening to freeze your hydrangeas to death since October, and still leave enough to tackle the thousand other expensive problems lurking in both your business and personal life.

But it's the last name signed in the bottom right corner that's making the room spin.

Chwe.

You see, New York City has over eight million people. It spans five massive boroughs, boasts thousands of blocks, and houses hundreds of high-end floral designers who would gladly sacrifice their firstborn child for a wedding budget this astronomical. If you want a floral arch in Manhattan, you're spoiled for choice.

Yet, out of every flower shop on the island, the universe decided to guide this specific bride right through the glass doors of Poppy's Garden.

It's hilarious, really. If you don't laugh, you're probably going to throw up.

"Y/N, sweetie, are you still with us?" Angela's voice cuts through your spiraling thoughts.

As one of Manhattan's most sought-after wedding planners, she's known for two things: flawless events and a bun the size of a pear, pulled so tight it could double as a facelift. It isn't the first wedding you've worked with her, and judging by her ever-growing client list, it certainly won't be the last.

"Yes! Sorry," you say, blinking yourself back to the present as you quickly force your lips into a bright, professional smile. A few quick blinks bring the two women seated across from your desk back into focus. "Just… marveling at the scope of this. It's an incredible vision, Hannah."

Hannah — the bride to be — beams at you. She is quite literally a walking angel. With glossy, shoulder length hair, a soft laugh, and eyes that crinkle at the corners whenever she talks about her upcoming wedding. She's impossible to hate. Over the last forty-five minutes of your consultation, she hasn't made a single bridezilla demand. She even brought you a latte from the café down the street because she remembered you mentioning it in your initial email thread.

She is lovely. She is kind. And you're currently fighting the deeply irrational urge to bolt out the back door because you're almost certain she's marrying the love of your life.

"I know it's a lot," Hannah ventures, leaning forward to rest her hands on her knees. A massive diamond ring nearly blinds you for a split second. "But the moment I saw your portfolio online, I told Angela this is it. Your style is so romantic, so organic. I don't want traditional arrangements. I want something that feels alive."

The corners of your mouth lift. "You came to the right place."

"And when I told my in-laws about you, they insisted we book you immediately. They said my fiancé and I deserved nothing but the absolute best."

Your stomach lurches violently. Yep, you might actually throw up.

When the initial inquiry form landed in your inbox two weeks ago, signed simply by Hannah's Events, you'd noticed the groom's last name buried in the details: Chwe & Yang. A knot of suspicion had settled in your gut right then. Hansol's last name wasn't exactly rare, but it wasn't particularly common in New York high society either.

Of course, you had brushed it off. Don't be ridiculous, you told yourself. You're just projecting. You hadn't seen or spoken to him in four years, and now you were convinced every Chwe in the tri-state area was him.

But seeing his father's full name printed right there on the memo line of the check was no coincidence. It was simply all the confirmation you needed.

You stare down at the signature again. The man who used to grill burgers for you on the rare weekends you and Hansol managed to escape your university schedules and visit his family home. The same man who had looked at you with concern during your final semester, knowing—just as you and Hansol had known—that the two of you were about to be pulled in opposite directions.

Did they know the shop belonged to you now? Would they have sent Hannah there on purpose?

You want to believe—and hope—not. There's no way they could have known. You changed the shop's name when you took over, renovated the whole space. Besides, Hansol's parents had never been unpleasant or cruel to you. If anything, they loved you like a daughter throughout your entire relationship.

"So…" Angela pulls you back as she taps her pen against her iPad screen, eyes narrowing slightly, clocking your sudden drop of energy. "The budget covers the rehearsal dinner, the full ceremony installation, the reception, bouquets for the bride and bridesmaids, boutonnieres, twenty-five grand in table centerpieces, and so much more. We need a firm commitment today, Y/N.”

Angela had never been one to beat around the bush. Time was money, and you knew that better than anyone, because it was for you too.

“So, if your shop can't handle a production this size, I have three other florists on standby."

Say no, your brain screams. Tell her you're fully booked. Tell her you have a sudden rose allergy. Tell her you're closing the shop and moving.

You look past Angela's shoulder, out in front window of your shop. A couple walks by, laughing, as they duck from a sudden drizzle. Inside, the shelves are beautifully curated, filled with imported vases, delicate terrariums, and the fragrant scent of eucalyptus and fresh-cut roses. This shop is everything you have sacrificed over the last four years.

When university ended, you knew Hansol was going to Los Angeles to chase his dreams in music. You had every intention of following him, hoping to land a position at a prestigious botanical conservatory, a future your degree in botany had made possible, and one you'd been working toward for years.

Then the bomb dropped, and just like that, the choice to take over the shop was made for you.

You loved each other fiercely. You had tried the long-distance thing, the late-night calls, the clashing time zones, counting down the hours just to hear his voice. But love, in the end, hadn't been enough to bridge the gap between you.

And the thing is… if you reject this contract, you might not be able to pay rent next month. The landlord has already sent his second warning. If you walk away to protect your bruised, fragile little heart from watching your first love marry someone as lovely and adorable as Hannah, you lose the very business you broke up with him to keep.

Talk about a cosmic joke.

"Y/N?" Hannah's voice pulls you back to the present yet again, her brows furrowing with genuine concern. "Are you okay? You look a little pale. We can totally scale back the thousand peonies if it's too much for your team—"

"No!" you blurt out, voice a little too high, a little too desperate. You quickly smooth down your apron, fingers pressing the fabric flat, and paste a reassuring smile back onto your face. "No, Hannah, I'm so sorry. I was just mentally calculating the flower orders."

Guilt needles at you for lying to someone so nice as her. But what else can you do? Tell her the truth? Yeah, absolutely not.

You swallow hard, then press on. "Summer is a busy season the Dutch auctions, and I want to make sure we secure the best batches for you. The thousand peonies are entirely doable." You manage another smile, somehow steadier this time. "It's going to be breathtaking."

Hannah lets out an audible and visible sigh of relief, her shoulders dropping. "Oh, thank goodness. You really scared me for a second. I've been dreaming about this since I was a little girl."

Another wave of guilt settles into your chest. Looking at Hannah, you feel like a monster. She's sitting there, entirely innocent, sharing her dream wedding with a florist who used to blow her fiancé under the table when he was working from home. She doesn't know. To her, you're just a vendor helping build her fairytale. To you, she's the woman living the life with Hansol that you had to let go of.

And you can't ask about him. You seriously cannot bring yourself to say his name out loud in this context. Where he is the groom and you're not the bride.

Angela claps her hands together once, completely oblivious to the emotional warfare happening inside your head. "Excellent!" She slides a thick, leather-bound contract across the table toward you. "If you'll just sign on the dotted line, we can lock in the timeline. We'll be handling all communication through my office, of course. Hannah is very busy with dress fitting, and the groom is currently out of state, so you won't have to worry about coordinating with him at all. It'll just be us."

He's out of state right now. Of course he is. You'd bet you even know the address.

"Perfect!" Your fingers tremble slightly as you pick up the pen. In your ears, your voice seems to belong to someone else. "That sounds perfectly fine."

You don't look at Hannah as you press the pen to the paper. You don't think about Hansol's laughter, or the way his brown hair looked when you ran your fingers through it, or the promises you made in a cramped dorm room, ones that neither of you could keep. You just focus on the blue ink flowing onto the page, binding you to the biggest contract of your shop, and the absolute worst nightmare of your life.

Pink eglantines — a wound that will not heal.

Nothing says out-of-body experience quite like standing in your ex-boyfriend's parent's backyard, clipboard in hand, discussing the placement of fifty thousand dollars' worth of imported white hydrangeas for his wedding to another woman. Forget roller coasters. If someone asked you for a guaranteed adrenaline rush, you'd recommend this instead.

You didn't even have so much as the luxury of a warning. One minute you were plugging the address into your GPS, convincing yourself it was just another private estate in Scarsdale, and then next, your beat-up delivery van was rolling past a set of wrought-iron gates you had driven through a thousand times before.

Your feet automatically steer around the loose stone on the third step of the grand patio as you walk in, guided by nothing more than muscle memory. You know better than stepping on it. Hansol used to trip over it every single time you were here, despite knowing it was there. You know they've probably fixed it by now, but your body avoids it instinctively.

Beyond the patio, the massive, rolling insanely green backyard stretches out before you, looking exactly as it did in your memories. Only now, it's being measured for Hansol's wedding.

Considering everything, you're not surprised your heart is currently performing a full Olympic gymnastics floor routine inside your ribcage instead of simply skipping a few beats.

On the bright side, Angela and Hannah had both mentioned that Hansol was out of state, which meant he didn't have time to be here. And really, that was the only thing keeping you from climbing back into your van and driving to literally any other state instead of heading back into the city.

"Y/N, look at this space." Hannah's voice bubbles with pure excitement as she sweeps her arm toward the perfectly manicured lawn.  "We're thinking the main floral arch should go right between those two ancient oak trees. What do you think?"

You swallow the dry lump in your throat the size of a golf ball. You were there for a topographical venue preview, florist speak for scoping out exactly how much rigging you'd need to suspend thousands of dollars' worth of foliage around the space and turn it into something out of a fairytale

"It's… it's beautiful, Hannah," you manage to squeak out, your throat drier than the dehydrated fern on your left.

You grip your clipboard a little tighter, holding it like a shield against the ghosts of your own past trying to hunt you down.

You know exactly how the light hits those oak trees at sunset. You know that because Hansol kissed you breathless against the trunk of the left one the first time he brought you here, exactly at sunset. So yes, professionally speaking, it's a perfect location. Every photograph taken beneath it will be breathtaking.

You squeeze your eyes shut, trying to force the memory away as you pretend it's just the sunlight bothering them.

Professional. You are a professional. Look at the perimeter. Measure the archway. Leave.

Before you can spiral any further, you take a deep breath, raise your laser measuring tape, and aim it at the lower branches of the oak tree.

You're focused on measuring and writing everything down when, a few minutes later, the distinct scent of a jasmine perfume drifts through the small boxwood hedges. Every survival instinct you own kicks into overdrive. You know that perfume very well because it belongs to Hansol's mother. It's the same one that used to linger on the hugs she'd pull you into whenever you arrived for Sunday dinners. You know it by heart.

"Hannah, dear, you have to see the caterer's mock-up for the champagne tower!"

Her voice slices through the air, sweet and melodic as ever. Your entire body locks up, pencil freezes against the paper, blood draining from your face so fast you actually feel dizzy.

Hannah waves happily toward the veranda. "Oh, there's my mother-in-law! Eomeonim, this is—"

You don't think. You just act.

"You know what?" you cut her off. "I need to go measure the clearance on the side gate really quickly. I just want to make sure our delivery carts can fit."

The lie slips out effortlessly, punctuated by nervous laughter, your feet already carrying you backward.

"I'll just be a minute!"

Without waiting for Angela or Hannah to reply, you duck behind a massive, towering trellis covered in ivy, pressing your back against the wooden slats. You hold your breath, heart hammering a frantic rhythm against your chest. Through the gaps in the leaves, you watch Mrs. Chwe glide down the stone steps, looking immaculate in a polka-dot dress.

She's gesturing toward the very spot you were standing thirty seconds ago as she speaks, "It's going to be placed right over there, near the rose garden," Mrs. Chwe explains to someone you can't see.

"It's perfect, eomeonim," Hannah says, her voice carrying genuine excitement. "You've been so incredibly helpful. I know how much this must be."

"Nonsense," Mrs. Chwe replies, stopping just a few feet away from your hiding spot. You hold your breath for what feels like the hundredth time since you got here, terrified that the erratic thumping of your heart might give you away. "It is my absolute pleasure."

You watch her gently stroke Hannah's arm, and something pinches in your chest. You can't stop thinking that you've stood in that exact spot in her life before.

Mrs. Chwe continues, turning her attention to Angela. "Our family has hosted many events here, but this one is different. It has to be flawless."

"It will be," Angela answers smoothly. If she's intimidated, she doesn't show it. "That's why we assembled the best team possible."

She nods once, satisfied. "It is my son’s big day, after all." Her gaze sweeps across the lawn, taking in the measurements, the sketches, the carefully marked plans. A smile softens her features. "He deserves nothing but absolute perfection."

My son's big day.

You brain desperately claws for an alternative—any alternative—but your own memories immediately slam the door shut.

It couldn't be his brother. It simply couldn't.

You vividly remember sitting at their family dinner table, listening as Seungcheol raised his glass and toasted to his freedom after his latest brutal breakup. He'd declared, loud enough for the entire family to hear, that he was going to remain a bachelor for life and leave Hansol and — ironically — you to carry on with the family name.

In your memories, Seungcheol was a cynical and independent corporate workaholic who viewed marriage as nothing more than a bad business merger. Hansol was the romantic one, even if he had his own, very particular, way of showing it. So, if a Chwe son was finally standing beneath a floral arch in the backyard, the math pointed to only one devastating conclusion.

You cannot stay here. You cannot spend another second scouting this property without throwing up your breakfast all over their perfect lawn.

You wait through agonizingly five long minutes until Mrs. Chwe links her arm through Hannah's and guides her back toward the sweeping doors of the sunroom. The moment the doors click shut behind them, you practically sprint toward the front of the house, this time tripping on the third step of the grand patio but barely registering it.

You throw yourself into the driver's seat of your cargo van at record speed, slamming the door shut behind you, hands shaking so violently you drop the keys twice before finally jamming them into the ignition. You put the van into reverse, back out of the side lot, and start down the long driveway, making a mental note to text Angela and apologize for the sudden escape.

You just want to get back to the safety of your flower shop. To bury yourself in your flowers and customer invoices and pretend none of this is happening.

You don't even realize you're crying until you feel the wet streak on your cheek, your vision starting to blur with frustrated tears, mind a swirling tornado of grief and panic. You press your foot harder on the gas, reversing the van far too fast down the gravel path, so consumed by the panic that you barely register what happens next until it's already a disaster.

See, the house has a long, winding driveway lined with ancient, thick-trunked oak trees—just like the ones in the garden—forming a blind curve near the iron gates at the entrance. On the drive out, the only thought in your mind is that you just need to reach the street, back to the safety of city asphalt.

You even check your rear-view mirror for a fraction of a second, clearing the blind curve. But apparently, whoever is watching over you isn't on your side today.

BAM.

It isn't a tap, much less a gentle bump. It's a bone rattling, deafening crunch of metal on metal that throws you forward against your seatbelt, the strap locking painfully across your collarbone. The van lurches to a violent halt shattered plastic, screeching tires, then the sickening hiss of a damaged radiator.

"Oh my god," you gasp in horror, the wind completely knocked out of you. "No, no, no, no."

Great. Perfect. Just what your terrible, horrible day needed: some rich delivery driver—or a catering scout, whatever—rear-ending your bumper. Rage, hot and bubbling and fueled entirely by heartbreak, surges in to replace your panic.

"Are you fucking kidding me?!" you yell at the empty cabin.

One of your hands flies to your face, rubbing your temples as a shockwave of adrenaline floods your system. You throw the van into park, your legs feeling like overcooked spaghetti as you shove your door open and step out onto the gravel driveway, ready to absolutely lose your shit on whoever hit you.

Directly behind your delivery van, its front bumper aggressively crumpled against your rear doors, is a sleek, dark, expensive-looking SUV. Smoke, or maybe steam, curls lazily from the cracked grille of the black car.

It doesn't take a genius to realize the accident might have been your fault after all. Of course it has.

You let out a small whine, an incredulous sigh escaping you.

"I am so sorry!" Your voice crackles as you rush toward the driver's side of the SUV. "I was backing up too fast, I didn't see you coming around the—"

The driver's door swings open, and within seconds it takes the person to step out of the car, your breath hitches so sharply you choke on the crisp air.

Hansol.

He's much taller now. How is he possibly taller? Aren't people supposed to stop growing at a certain age?

Even though years have gone by, he still looks as boyish as ever, complemented by the sharp angles of his jaw and his naturally relaxed shoulders. His eyes are exactly the same kind of brown, only even more beautiful under the sunlight, currently widening in absolute, unadulterated shock as they lock onto your face.

His hair is shorter than you remember, still graced by the most perfect shade of brown you’ve ever seen, and goddammit, how did the hell get more handsome?

The silence that settles between you bothers you more than you care to admit. The universe seems to pause somehow, and for a second, you think even the birds stop singing. Even the hissing radiator seems to hold its breath.

You stare at each other across the three feet of gravel separating you, neither blinking, nor entirely convinced the other is real and not just a stress-induced hallucination.

God, you're going to throw up.

"Y/N?"

His voice is deeper than you remember. A rough, gravelly sound that sends a shockwave straight down your spine.

"Hansol…" you breathe out, unsure whether you didn't pass out minutes ago and are now hallucinating.

You wrap your arms around your chest, suddenly hyper-aware of your dirt-stained slacks and the messy ponytail piled on top of your head.

He stares at you like he's seeing a ghost, eyes scanning your face as if trying to confirm you’re actually standing on his parent's driveway. "What… what are you doing here?"

You swallow against the dry sand in your throat, forcing your spine completely straight as you point a trembling finger toward your vehicle.

Do not cry, you scold yourself.

Hansol's eyes quickly dart from your face to the massive vinyl logo plastered across the side of your battered van, and then up toward the sprawling estate behind you. A look of deep confusion still washes over his features, his eyebrows pulling together.

"I, um. My shop. We're… I'm doing the wedding. The flowers."

He blinks once, then twice, the confusion slowly melting away and being replaced by something else. You might be hallucinating, but you swear you see the faintest trace of a proud smile tug at the corner of his lips, though his eyes remain clouded with something you can't quite read.

"Oh. So… things are going great for you, then."

"Yeah," you lie, voice tight and brittle. "It's going great. Really great."

"That's… that's amazing, Y/N. Truly. I always knew you'd make it happen."

He keeps nodding slowly, hands slipping into the pockets of his jacket. He rocks back on his heels, gaze sweeping over you enough to make your skin burn. He doesn't mention Hannah. He doesn't mention the wedding. He doesn't bring up the fact that his family home is being transformed into a bridal wonderland, and you certainly aren't going to congratulate him on finding your replacement.

You just want to run.

"Your hair," he murmurs, eyes lifting to your long messy ponytail and the stray pieces framing your face. For a second, you almost think he's going to touch it by the way he pulls his hands from his pockets. But he doesn't. "It's long now."

Your hand twitches, a desperate urge to reach up and touch your hair, to hide behind it.

When you were dating, your hair never fell past your shoulders. You liked keeping it short enough that it never got in the way, especially considering your hands were constantly buried in soil and plants. But after the breakup, you barely had time for a haircut, so you simply let it grow, cutting the ends whenever they started getting too long, and—

Why is he looking at you like that?

"It grew," you say stupidly, your brain unable to form a reasonable thought with him staring at you. You take a step back, gesturing frantically toward the smashed bumpers of your cars. "Look, Hansol, I am so sorry about the car. It was completely my fault, I was distracted. But I really, really have to go."

More like you really, really need to run and hide.

Hansol frowns, finally glancing down at the wreckage as if he'd completely forgotten the reason you were standing here in the first place.

"You can't just drive off. The bumper is completely caved in. We need to exchange insurance information. I need to get this fixed for you—"

"It's fine, Hansol, really. It's a work van. It already had a few dings," you rush to assure him, backing up toward the driver's side door. The urge to escape becomes almost overwhelming.

You had rehearsed this moment in your head countless times. Different versions where you would meet again, realize the breakup had been stupid, and decide you should spend the rest of your lives together, growing old and gray-haired side by side.

None of them involved a wedding to someone else, and definitely not a wrecked bumper.

"Y/N, please. Don't be stubborn," he insists, stepping closer. The proximity is dizzying. "I—"

"No, no, it's fine!" you interrupt, panic rising in your chest again. You can't be here. You can no longer stand three feet away from him, smelling his cologne underneath the strong scent of crushed radiator fluid.

"At least give me your number. Or your contact info. I'll have my insurance handle it, or I'll just write you a check directly. Please."

Realizing he isn't going to let you leave until he has a way to resolve it, you reach into your pocket, fingers trembling as you pull out a pink business card. You hold it out, careful not to let your fingers brush when he takes it. You're sure you'd melt right there if they did, and you've already had enough emotions for a day.

"Here. This is the shop’s card," you stammer, hesitant, because you don't really want to give him access to you, especially not now that he's tying the knot with your most expensive client. "My cell phone number is on the back. Just… send me the bill for your car. Whatever the mechanic says, I'll pay it. I have insurance."

He looks down at the card, his thumb tracing over the name printed in gold. "Poppy's Garden," he reads quietly.

You just nod.

"I really have to go," you blurt out, frantically checking your bare wrist as if you're wearing a watch. "I'm on a super tight schedule. I'm supposed to pick up Poppy from school, and if I'm late, she'll never let me hear the end of it."

"How's Poppy?" Hansol looks up, a genuine spark of curiosity breaking through his expression.  "Wow. She must be, what, fourteen now. Tell her I said hi."

You ignore what him correctly guessing your sister's age makes you feel inside. "I will," you lie, knowing there's no way on earth you're going to tell your little sister that you've run into the guy who broke your heart and hers.

You grab the handle of your van door and pull it open, ready to climb back into your safe, insulated bubble. But as you set one foot on the running board, the crushing weight of the situation catches up to you.

The unfairness of it all twists in your gut.

You stop, knuckles turning white as you grip the edge of the car door, turning your head to look back at Hansol—who is still standing in the same spot where you left him, looking like he saw a ghost—over your shoulder. The sun filters through the trees, casting shadows across his face.

Your eyes burn, but you force yourself to hold his gaze.

"I didn’t know, Hansol," you say. A half-truth. A half-lie. Your voice cracks just a little, betraying the tough exterior you've tried so hard to hold up. "I didn't know this wedding was for your family. If I had known, I would have said no."

Hansol stands frozen on the gravel, your business card caught in his hand so tightly it's starting to bend. The wind rustles the leaves of the old oak trees behind him, pushing strands of his hair across his face.

He stares at you for a moment too long. Finally, his shoulders drop by a fraction of an inch, sadness washing over his beautiful features, making you want to do something—anything—to take it away from him. Only to realize that it is not your job anymore.

He doesn't argue, though. He just swallows and gives you a small, gentle nod. "It's fine, Y/N," he finally says, stepping back from the van. "Drive safe."

You pull the door shut, shift the van into drive, and pull away, leaving Hansol standing in the small wreckage of your brief collision, utterly oblivious to the fact that he's breaking your heart all over again.

Lilac — the magic of first love and youthful innocence.

The university greenhouse smelled strongly of damp potting soil and fertilizer. You sat on the edge of a metal workstation; your high Converse braced against a bag of perlite. Across your lap a battered, leather-bound copy of The Dictionary of Flowers.

It wasn't assigned reading for the botany peer tutoring session you were supposed to be running, but it was a Tuesday evening, and no one had walked through the doors in the last forty minutes—which wasn't unusual. Botany wasn't exactly a popular subject, and most people weren't interested in spending their free time studying plants.

Well... except you.

You flipped to the section on purple hyacinths, tracing a finger down the yellowed page. Sorrow. Please forgive me. It was a contrast to the bright, cheerful marigolds on the previous page, which apparently symbolized grief and cruelty despite looking like little bursts of sunshine. The book was ridiculous, highly unscientific, and entirely captivating.

A metallic screech echoed through the greenhouse as the heavy glass door was shoved open.

You looked up quickly, closing the book over your thumb to keep your place.

A guy stepped into the humid room, stopping past the threshold. He was wearing an oversized grey hoodie with the university logo faded across the front and carrying a single, battered-looking notebook under his arm. His hair was a bit messy, falling into his eyes as he looked around the rows of hanging ferns and tables covered in starter pots. He didn't look like the typical biology majors who came in to whine about memorizing the Krebs cycle; he just looked completely out of place.

"Is this the botany tutoring thing?" he asked. His voice was so calm and unhurried it seems to bounce off the glass walls.

"If you're here because you're trying not to fail your midterm, you're in the right place," you said, hopping down from the workstation. Your sneakers hit the floor with a dull thud. "I'm Y/N."

"Hansol," he replied, walking over with an unhurried stride.

He didn't seem stressed about the fact that the exam was in forty-eight hours at all. He stopped on the other side of the metal table, dropping his notebook onto the zinc surface.

"My advisor said if I don't pass this elective, I'll lose my studio hours next semester. Apparently, music production majors still need to know how photosynthesis works."

"A very important subject for sonography." You smiled at him sympathetically, pulling a stary piece of dried eucalyptus out of your hair and tossing it toward the trash can. "Okay, Hansol. What are we struggling with? Plant anatomy? Taxonomy?"

He sighed, leaning his hip against the table and shoving his hands into his hoodie pocket. "All of it." He wasn't frantic or embarrassed; he was just stating a fact. Then, his eyes drifted down to the leather-bound book you were still clutching. "Damn, is that a book just about plants?"

From the calm, even way he spoke, you couldn't tell whether he was making fun of you or not. You hoped he wasn't.

"Ah… not really. It's a Victorian flower dictionary," you said, feeling a sudden, slight flush of embarrassment. You set it down on the table, the cover flaking a tiny bit of leather onto the metal. "It assigns emotions and messages to different plants. It's completely useless for your test."

Hansol tilted his head, looking at the ornate, gold-foiled scrip on the cover. He reached out with two fingers and flipped the book open to a random page. His eyes scanned the text for a second.

"Geraniums. Gentility?" He looked up, an amused quirk at the corner of his mouth. "People actually used to send these to each other instead of texting?"

You giggled. "Yep," you said, pulling the biology textbook from your backpack to get down to business. "If you sent someone a yellow carnation, it meant you disdained them. Total rejection. It was the original left on read."

Hansol lets out a quiet laugh, the sound genuine enough to make you wonder whether he was actually interested or simply being polite. He didn’t immediately turn his attention to the textbook. Instead, his eyes lingered on your face, watching the way you animatedly explained the ridiculous historical trivial. There was a calm, observant stillness about him, a total lack of the usual frantic energy most college students carried.

You didn't know it then, but Hansol found the whole thing mildly entertaining. More importantly, he found you interesting.

"What about those? " he asked, nodding toward a tray of bruised, slightly wilted purple flowers sitting in the corner of your workstation. They had clearly been discarded from a lab session earlier in the day, their petals torn and dark at the edges.

You glanced over at the sad little pile. "Those are cyclamen. In the dictionary, they usually mean resignation or goodbye. Like something that's already broken."

Hansol looked at the bruised petals, then backed up at you. His expression didn't turn overly sentimental; he just nodded slowly, absorbing the information.

"Cruel," he murmured smoothly, finally pulling his notebook toward him and clicking open a pen. "Alright, teach. Show me the stuff that's actually on the test so I can keep my studio space."

For the first forty minutes of the session, you helped Hansol with everything he needed to know for tomorrow's exam, giving him practice exercises along the way. Surprisingly, he breezed through every single one of them. His eyes stayed fixed on you as you explained each concept, following every word with attentiveness that made you think he really wanted his studio time back—which could only meant he really needed a good grade.

"Damn, you're really into plants, aren't you?" It wasn't really a question. It was an observation, delivered as he leaned back against the stool with an amused smile.

You gave him a small, sheepish shrug. "Are you making fun of me?"

Most people usually did.

His eyes went impossibly wide, and for the first time, Hansol looked genuinely shaken, as though the idea that you might think he'd make fun of you genuinely bothered him.

“No, no—God, no,” he rushed out, his voice suddenly frantic as a stream of frantic no's tumbled from his mouth.

He dragged a hand through his brown hair, the tips of his ears turning an unexpected shade of pink. It was the absolute first crack in his cool, unbothered facade.

"I wasn't making fun of you," he clarified, his voice back to its usual low pitch, though there was a sudden earnestness there. "I think it's cool. You actually care about this stuff."

You let out a breath you didn't realize you'd been holding, the defensive tension completely draining from your shoulders. "Oh. Well... thanks."

"Yeah." He cleared his throat and picked up his pen. "Now, show me how these plant cells work so I don't fail."

The rest of the session went smoothly. By the time the clock hit nine, he had aced the practice midterm. You started zipping up your backpack, fully expecting him to grab his notebook and bolt back to his dorm like every other student would do.

Instead, Hansol slid his notebook into his bag and casually started helping you close. He grabbed a broom to sweep up some spilled potting soil while you wiped down the zinc tables. He even helped you heave the heavy bag of perlite back into the storage closet, completely unfazed by the white dust getting on his hoodie.

"You didn't have to stay to do that," you told him as you locked the glass doors of the greenhouse.

"I know." He shrugged, shoving his hands into his pockets. "Which way is your dorm?"

He walked you back across campus. The walk was quiet, but it wasn't the awkward kind of silence you usually had to fill with small talk. It was just easy. You pointed out a stray campus cat sleeping on a retaining wall; he told you a little bit about the bassline he was trying to fix in his latest mixtape. By the time the bricks of your dorm building came into view, you realized you didn't actually want him to leave yet.

You stopped at the bottom of the concrete steps, turning to face him under the overly bright yellow porch light.

"Well, thanks for the help cleaning up." You smiled at him, shifting your backpack onto your shoulder. "Good luck on the midterm tomorrow. I think you're gonna ace it."

"Thanks to you."

He didn't immediately turn around to leave. Instead, Hansol rocked back on his heels, his eyes studying your face in the dim light. There was that calm, observant stillness again.

"So," he began, his tone becoming something incredibly casual, as if he were commenting on the weather. "It's probably too soon for me to ask you out. Like, logically."

Your mouth snapped open. You stared at him, your hand freezing halfway to the handle.

Usually, guys spend three weeks hovering around the tutoring desk, making terrible jokes, or sliding into your DMs at 2 AM before making a move. They didn't just lay their cards face-up after exactly one study session.

"I—what?" you stammered.

Hansol didn't even blink. He didn't look embarrassed or flustered by your obvious shock; he just offered a small, thoroughly amused shrug.

"I'm just being efficient." He gives another easy shrug, a small grin following close behind. "Saving us both some time. I know I want to take you out, so there's no real point in waiting three weeks to say it." He pulled one hand out of his pocket, gesturing slightly toward the building. "So. Coffee tomorrow after my exam?"

The unfiltered honesty of it gave you mental whiplash. He wasn't playing a game. He wasn't trying to be overly smooth or intensely romantic. He just liked you, knew what he wanted, and figured there was no logical reason to wait around.

You would later learn that this was simply how Hansol moved through life. He never beat around the bush. When he wanted something, he said so. He didn't believe in games. It was one of the many, many things you liked about him.

You looked at him standing there under the bad lighting with his messy hair and his calm eyes, and you couldn't stop the genuine smile that broke across your face.

"Coffee," you repeated, your voice finally steady.

"Coffee," Hansol confirmed, a slow, incredibly satisfied smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. He took a step back, melting into the shadows of the sidewalk. "I'll text you. Have a good night, Y/N."

Bleeding hearts — my heart is open and unguarded.

The three weeks leading up to the wedding become a masterclass in sleep deprivation and manual labor. Your fingers are perpetually stained a faint, grassy green from stripping rose thorns, your cuticles are destroyed, and you’re certain your bloodstream is now composed of roughly seventy percent caffeine.

Sleep deprivation, of course, has less to do with the flowers and more to do with the fact that you're reliving the biggest heartbreak of your life, crying yourself to sleep whenever the weight of it all becomes too much to bear.

Seungkwan and Seokmin—your two employees, who also happen to be your best friends—at times, and practically on their knees, begged you to walk away from this wedding, while insisting you were torturing and driving yourself crazy.

They weren't wrong, but you couldn't back out. You're not a twenty-two-year-old college girl anymore. You don't have the luxury of making business decisions based on your feelings. And even if you lied to them and told them you were over Hansol, he was still just a memory from a different lifetime. This shouldn't matter.

Which is why you channel every single ounce of your heartbreak, regret, and resentment straight into the foliage. If you keep your hands busy, your brain won't have the bandwidth to spiral.

That is the theory, anyway.

"Y/N, seriously, look at this texture. It's like holding a cloud."

Hannah's voice is bright as she stands by the main display table, brushing her fingertips against a plush cluster of white peonies. She looks effortlessly chic, her diamond ring catching the shop's warm pendant lights a little too eagerly. Standing right beside her is a tall woman, introduced to you twenty minutes ago as Leonor, the maid of honor from LA.

You force your lips into your practiced smile of professional vendor.

"They really are perfect, Hannah," you say, stepping out from behind the counter with a bundle of silk ribbons over your arm. "They're imported from Holland, so they'll be at maximum bloom right when you walk down the aisle. For your bridesmaids, I was thinking we tie them with this muted sage ribbon to match their dresses."

Hannah gasps, clapping her hands together. "Oh, I love that." She turns to Leonor, her eyes practically sparkling. "Didn't I tell you she was a genius? Look at how it brings out all the undertones in the fabric."

Leonor nods in agreement, making a quick note on her iPad. "It's stunning, Hannah. Your man is going to absolutely lose his mind when he sees you walking toward him with these."

"Ugh, don't make me cry," Hannah laughs, leaning her shoulder against Leonor's. A tender expression washes over her face. "Honestly, he's so stressed with work right now, but every time I bring up the wedding details, he just smiles and tells me to get whatever makes me happy. He's just… he's so perfect."

Hannah continues talking about how he stayed up until midnight helping her assemble the welcome baskets for the guests, even though he had a call meeting at six this morning, how he keeps telling her he just wants the day to be exactly what she's always dreamed of.

You let it wash over you, only half listening. And then you tune it out completely.

The last thing you want is to hear how good Hansol is at being someone else's perfect fiancé. It doesn't matter how kind Hannah is, or how happy she sounds; you still don't have the emotional bandwidth for that particular kind of detail.

"Stop, you're making me nauseous," you hear Leonor teasing, smiling warmly at her friend. "The man is obsessed with you. We get it."

Yep, you certainly do.

"Anyway!" Hannah turns back to you, completely oblivious to the emotional devastation she's casually causing you. "I have my final dress fitting in fifteen minutes, so we have to run. But the bouquet mock-ups look absolutely incredible, Y/N. Thank you so much."

"Of course," you manage to say, your voice steady through sheer, desperate willpower. "Have fun. I'll see you Saturday."

You watch them gather their bags, exchanging bright goodbyes as the bell above the shop door chimes softly behind them. The moment the door clicks shut, the silence of the shop rushes back in and swallows you whole.

You let out a long, shuddering exhale, your shoulders dropping as you lean your weight against the wooden counter, and look down at the beautiful white peonies, suddenly feeling incredibly small.

You grab a pair of shears and aggressively clip the end of a rogue stem, trying to shake the heavy weight from your limbs. You need a distraction. You need to wash out the plastic buckets in the back. You need to do anything that doesn't involve thinking about Hansol's midnight basket-tying sessions.

The bell above the front door chimes again.

"We're actually closing for lunch in ten minutes," you call out without looking up, your focus fixed entirely on slicing through a stubborn branch of eucalyptus. "But feel free to browse the front display if you're just looking for a quick—"

"I'm not looking for a quick bouquet, Y/N."

The shears slip from your fingers, clattering loudly against the tabletop. Your heart does a violent back flip. You raise your head slowly, eyes widening as they lock onto the figure standing just inside your doorway.

Hansol.

He's standing there looking very layered for a summer day, and far too cute for your own good. Rugged yet relaxed, he looks so achingly familiar that your chest tightens with an emotion you can't bring yourself to name. So much that, for one terrifying split second, you forget you aren't twenty-two anymore.

"Oh…" Your voice comes out breathy. You quickly wipe your damp hands against your apron, trying to ground yourself. "You… you just missed Hannah. She left literally two minutes ago. If you run toward the corner, you can probably catch her—"

"I didn't come here looking for Hannah," Hansol interrupts quietly, looking rather confused.

He doesn’t move from his spot by the door. His eyes sweep over the front of the shop, taking in the exposed brick walls, the dangling fairy lights, and the floor-to-ceiling shelving stacked with geometric ceramic pots and lush, thriving monsteras.

"The place looks great," he murmurs, voice low. He finally takes a few slow steps forward, stepping deeper into the shop. "A lot different than when your parents ran it."

Your fingers grip the edge of the zinc counter tightly. "We did some renovations when I took over." You don't know why you feel the urge to update him on this, but you do. "It… it took a lot of work."

The shop hasn't always been Poppy's Garden. For twenty-five years, it had been a neighborhood staple run by your parents. Your dad was the business brain, and your mom was the visionary, the heart of it, her hands constantly covered in dirt. You had grown up hiding under these prep tables, watching them build a life from the soil up.

But life, as you were rapidly learned, didn't care about your plans.

Right around the time Hansol was packing his bags to move back across the country, the tremors started. At first, your mom just thought she was tired. Then she started dropping vases. Then came the doctor's appointments, the sterile waiting rooms, and the devastating diagnosis. Parkinson's.

It moved faster than any of you anticipated. Within a year, your dad—a man who had never missed a day of work in his life—had to step away from the shop entirely just to become her full-time caretaker. The medical bills piled up within months. The physical therapy, the home modifications, the specialized medications, it was a financial avalanche.

The shop started drowning. They were weeks away from selling the business to a commercial developer who wanted to get the building and turn it into a trendy vape lounge when you stepped in. You took the degree you had just earned, swallowed the bright, shiny dreams you had of working in California, and anchored yourself to this shop.

The bright side is that you don't regret the decision you made, and at the end of the day, you're happy and love working here.

"It suits you."

Hansol reaches out, his long fingers casually tracing the rim of a vintage terracotta vase sitting on the display table. He runs his hand over the textured surface with a slow pace, his gaze dropping briefly to the floor before lifting again to lock onto your face.

From where you stand, the air feels charged with a suffocating tension that makes it hard to draw a full breath. He's standing in your shop again, the shop he knows you stayed in New York for. The shop that had essentially acted as the final barrier between your relationship four years ago.

"What are you doing here, Hansol?" you ask, dropping the vendor tone entirely. Your voice is a little defensive, a little raw. Whatever reason brought him, it certainly wasn't to catch up or talk about the place.

He let his hand drop from the vase, sliding both hands into the pockets of his jeans. He shrugs one shoulder. "I came because of the van."

Of course.

"I tried calling, but it kept going straight to voicemail, so I figured the line was just busy since things are going so well."

The shop's phone is not a particularly busy line. Seokmin does a great job handing online and phone orders. But here's the thing: Hansol hasn't changed his number in the last four years, and when it started popping up on your screen—dozens of times, at least—you chose to ignore every single call, telling, or rather ordering, Seokmin to do the same.

You let out a dismissive breath, crossing your arms over your chest. You really don't want to go over this again, so you lie. "I told you, it's fine." Never mind that your van isn't currently working and you had to bike across the city to make a delivery earlier. "I already handled it. The damage is completely taken care of."

Hansol stares at you, his expression flatlining into a deadpan look that you recognize instantly. It's the exact face he used to make whenever you tried to convince him that your social battery hadn't run out and that he didn't need to leave the gathering early on your account, both of you knowing you were already halfway to exhaustion.

He slowly turns his head, looking out at the large glass front window of the shop. Directly across the street, parked perfectly in a loading zone, is your delivery van. The rear bumper is still aggressively caved in, a massive, jagged silver dent gleaming proudly in the afternoon sun, looking exactly like it had three weeks ago.

Hansol turns his gaze back at you, raising a single eyebrow. "Right." He drags the word out slowly. "Taken care of. Is that a new avant-garde design choice for the bumper, or are you just waiting for it to magically heal itself?"

A stubborn flush of embarrassment creeps up your neck. You lift your chin, refusing to back down. "The mechanic is backed up, okay?" you say, harsher than you intend. "The parts are on back order from Germany. It takes time."

"Y/N, it's a delivery van. The parts are made in—I don't know—Buffalo?" he counters, taking a step toward the counter. "I know you're trying to avoid sending me the bill because you don't want to owe me anything."

"Well, I don't owe you anything!" you argue, your voice rising a fraction. "I was the one who backed into you! If anything, I should be paying for your smashed SUV grill."

Knowing Hansol, there's no way he'll let you pay for it. But there's also no way you'll let him pay for anything, either. You don't want your ex-boyfriend and first love—who will soon be a married man—doing you any favors.

"My insurance covered it," he says evenly, his tone completely unflappable against your rising panic. "And yours should cover this, but you haven't filed the claim because you know your premiums will skyrocket, and the shop ledger can't handle the hit right now."

You open your mouth to shoot back a fierce, biting lie, but the words die in your throat. He knows you too well. Even four years after the breakup, he can still read through your defenses like a children's book. It's infuriating.

"You don't know anything about my ledger," you mutter, looking down at your green-stained fingers.

"I know you," he simply says.

You like to think he doesn't.

Because despite everything, there are things he doesn't know. He doesn't know that your father called you yesterday because your mom's physical therapist is recommending a new intensive program. He doesn't know it's an extra three days a week, and that it isn't covered by their insurance. He doesn't know your father sounded tired, and that he didn't ask you for money, but he didn't have to, you simply know.

And then there's Poppy, your smart-ass little sister, somehow both annoyingly and brilliantly smart. She's pulling straight A's in honors classes while surviving the absolute nightmare of being a fourteen-year-old girl, all while dealing with the fact that her mom can't even braid her hair anymore.

He doesn't know that your parents' savings are gone. Drained. Every spare dime the shop makes goes into a high-yield savings account for her, and it's still barely a drop in the bucket. Because if Poppy wants to go to Stanford and enroll in their pre-med program, she will. You'll make sure of it.

"No, you don't anymore."

He lets out a humorless laugh. "Yes, I do. I know that you'd rather work yourself to the bone than ask for a single dollar of help. Some things don't change, Y/N."

"A lot of things change," you snap, finally looking up to meet his gaze. Your chest rises and falls too quickly, like you've been running instead of standing still. "People change. We haven't spoken to each other in four years. So don't stand there and act like you still have me figured out."

Hansol's eyes darken, his jaw tightening as though the thought of not knowing you anymore bothers him far more than he'd ever admit. He shifts his weight, his hands clenching inside his pockets. For a moment, he looks like he's about to say something about that, but the words never come.

"I'm just trying to pay for the bumper, Y/N." His voice drops into a careful, measured tone. "It's a standard transaction. You don't have to make it an emotional battlefield."

"Everything with you is an emotional battlefield," you whisper before you can stop yourself.

He takes another half-step forward, closing the distance between you until the clean scent of his cologne completely overwhelmed the fragrance of the sweet-pea bundles on the counter.

Hansol opens his mouth to answer you, but before he can say anything, the shop's front door swings open, the bell chiming loudly overhead.

"Sis! The farmers' market was hell. If you ever make me, go with these two again, I am going to—"

Poppy marches in dressed in her school uniform, two paper bags clutched in her hands, while Seokmin and Seungkwan trail after her, bickering about something you can't quite make out over the noise of the traffic outside.

She stops dead in her tracks, whatever complaint she'd been about to make dying on her lips as her eyes land on the man standing in front of the counter. Her jaw drops, and the bags fall onto the hardwood floor.

"Hansolo!" she shrieks.

Before you can even open your mouth to stop her, Poppy launches herself across the floor. She doesn't walk; she literally runs, skidding to a halt right in front of him and throwing her arms securely around his waist, burying her face into his jacket.

Hansol's eyes widen in brief shock, but a second later, a smile breaks across his face—the first real smile you had seen from him since you parted ways. He pulls his hands from his pockets and wraps his arms around her, lifting her completely off her feet for a second and shaking her slightly.

"Hey, kiddo," he laughs, his voice instantly dropping into a warm, familiar tone that sends a devastating wave of nostalgia straight to your gut. "Look at you. You're huge. What happened to the braces?"

You see, Poppy loved Hansol. Your relationship began when she was very little, and considering how much time she spent around the two of you, it didn't take long for her to consider him an honorary older brother. He let her ride on his shoulders, helped her with her school art projects, even took her to Coney Island, buying her a whole lot of candy and gifts because he simply couldn't say no to her.

When she found out he was getting married, she seemed a little more heartbroken than you, her nose scrunching as she looked genuinely offended. "He's getting married? To someone who isn't you? I liked him. We liked him."

Seungkwan is the first to enter the store after her, his eyes almost popping out as he takes in the scene, and then you. Even from outside, you can hear Seokmin's exaggerated gasp as he follows inside. They're the perfect combination of two people who are anything but discreet, looking between you and Hansol and gesturing like two completely insane men who have just witnessed something they shouldn't have.

You simply sigh, signaling for them to move, and the two head straight to the back with a small nod of greeting to Hansol, who is still wrapped up in a very excited Poppy.

"I got them off last summer!" Poppy beams, stepping back but keeping her hands gripping tightly to his elbows. "Oh my god, you look so old! Why are you here? Are you back in the city? Did you bring me those pink tacos from the truck near your old apartment?"

Hansol lets out a booming laugh, reaching out to playfully ruffle her hair, completely ignoring her squawk of protest. "No pink tacos this time, Pops. And I'm not old, I just have a more distinguished face now."

He pauses, his smile softening as his eyes drift away from Poppy and lock onto yours.

"But yeah. I'm back in the city. Permanently."

The silence that follows is deafening.

"W-what?" The word falls out of your mouth before your brain can filter it. Jerky breaths stutter over your lips, your eyes widening despite your best attempt to hide it. "You're back?"

"Yeah. I moved back last week," he confirms, watching your face closely, eyes searching for a reaction. "The production company is opening an East Coast branch."

Your mind completely goes blank. Nada.

He's back. Here. In your zip code.

A sudden, treacherous spark of hope flares up in the center of your chest. Why now? After all this time, why would he uproot everything to come back to the city? The thought comes uninvited, dangerous that could he have missed—

Hannah.

The spark is violently extinguished, replaced by a cold, heavy dread that settles in the pit of your stomach like a stone.

Of course. Hannah. The beautiful, sweet fiancée who was just standing in this very shop fifteen minutes ago, gushing about the man of her dreams. Hannah, whose family is rooted in New York. Hannah, who has been talking about looking at brownstones and loving the autumn weather.

"Wow," you finally manage to say, forcing your rigid facial muscles into a polite, hollow smile. You take a step back, putting the physical barrier of the counter between you and the crushing reality of his new life. "That's... great. I'm sure your family is thrilled."

"Are you moving back to West Village?" Poppy interrupts, completely oblivious. She leans against the counter, looking at Hansol with wide, hopeful eyes. "Because if you are, you still owe me that trip to the Natural History Museum. The one we were supposed to do before you moved."

Hansol stops. He looks at Poppy, then back at you, his eyes catching on the frantic, jerky movements of your hands as you start to scrub the counter surface like your life depends on it. He lets out a heavy, defeated sigh, running a hand through his hair.

"Brooklyn, actually," he tells Poppy, though his gaze never leaves yours. "And yeah. I know still owe you that trip."

That's when Poppy starts rambling about her own life, her face glowing with the same adoration she's had for him since she was a little kid watching him help her build a volcano for the science fair. But then, as if a switch had flipped inside her brain, Poppy's smile suddenly vanishes. Her eyes dart from Hansol, over to your stiff, pale face, and then back to him.

You can see the realization hitting her.

Poppy drops her hands from his arms as if his clothes have suddenly caught fire. She takes a massive step backward, her expression twisting into a fierce, protective scowl. She crosses her arms tightly over her chest, mimicking your previous posture exactly.

"Wait." Her voice drops into a dramatic, frosty tone. "I forgot. I am currently mad at you. You are on my banned list."

Hansol blinks, looking entirely amused but trying to hide it, eyebrows rising. "Your banned list?"

"Yes," Poppy declares, lifting her chin with an immense amount of teenage drama. "You broke up with our family, Hansol, which is a major violation of the honorary big-brother protocol. So, I am rescinding my hug. Goodbye."

You slap your forehead, taking a deep breath. "Poppy, back room. Now."

Poppy gives Hansol one last, lingering glare that's slightly ruined by the fact that she still looks like she wants to ask him for help with her arts homework, before she spins on her heel and marches behind the curtain, letting it slam shut behind her.

The silence returns infinitely more awkward than before.

"She... she hasn't changed much," Hansol murmurs, looking at the curtain with a faint, nostalgic smile.

"She has biology homework to do," you say stiffly, hands flat against the counter.

You can't look at him anymore. Seeing him with Poppy—seeing how naturally he could still fit into your life for those brief minutes—is entirely too much to bear.

"Look, Hansol. I appreciate you coming by, but I really am very busy. The wedding is on Saturday, and I have a massive shipment arriving from the auctions. You need to leave."

Hansol stares at you for a long, agonizing moment. You can see Adam’s apple rise and fall as he swallows hard, his eyes searching yours for something you're determined not to let him see.

He lets out a quiet, defeated sigh. "Fine. I'll leave."

But instead of turning toward the glass door, Hansol takes one step closer to the counter. He reaches inside his denim jacket, pulling out a small, neatly folded rectangular slip of thick blue paper. He doesn't hold it out for you to take. He just slides it across the surface, coming to a stop right next to your discarded floral shears.

He looks up, and it almost shocks you that you can still recognize the exact moment his guard drops completely.

"I didn't just come here to argue about a bumper, Y/N," he says, his voice becoming a whisper only loud enough for you to hear. "I came because I wanted to see you. I just... I needed to see you again."

The air is sucked from your lungs. Before you can formulate a single word—before your brain can even begin to process the confession—, Hansol turns on his heel. The little brass bell chimes wildly against the glass as he pushes the door open and steps out.

You stand entirely frozen, staring at the empty space where he had just been standing. Your chest rises and falls in ragged, shallow gasps before your legs finally move. You walk over to the wicker table near the door, your heart pounding against your ribs.

Slowly, your eyes drop to the counter, your fingers trembling as they reach for the folded paper. You unfold it to find a personal check. The amount printed is astronomical, more than enough to replace the bumper, repaint the van, and probably buy a second transmission just for fun.

On the memo line, in his familiar, messy scrawl, are five simple words: For the van. Please.

"Sis?"

You look up to find Poppy standing in front of the curtain, her voice small and uncertain. You immediately force on a bright smile, swallowing back tears that appeared out of nowhere.

"Yes, honey?"

"If I help you load the delivery van on Saturday, am I allowed to kick him in the shin for breaking up with you, or does that violate the vendor contract?"

You walk over and press a kiss on her forehead. "Pack up your things, Pops," you murmur, grabbing her empty lunchbox from the counter. "I'm buying you tacos for dinner. And no kicking the clients, please. I'm a professional."

"That sucks."

Pink camellias — my longing for you is endless.

Four days later, dead center of Hansol's family back lawn, you're wearing an unbothered, I've-got-this smile for six hours straight, with your cheeks are already starting to hurt.

Underneath the black apron, your spine has been making its best impression of a question mark ever since hour four, while the three layers of concealer working overtime under your eyes are trying their absolute best to hide the fact you're running on two hours of sleep.

That, and the fact that you spent the entire night crying.

You cried into your pillow until the memory foam was soaked. You cried in your perfectly-fixed-bumper delivery van while Seokmin navigated the early morning traffic, pressing your face against the cool glass of the window with him and Seungkwan tactfully pretending the radio news was fascinating, and completely abandoning their usual morning sing-along.

And, most pathetically of all, you cried while assembling the bridal bouquet.

It was supposed to be a joyous task. Instead, standing in the cold walk-in cooler at two in the morning, you had systematically bound together pristine white peonies, trailing sweet peas, and delicate lilies of the valley, while hot, bitter tears slid silently down your cheeks and dripped onto the zinc prep table.

You were making the perfect bouquet for the perfect girl who would walk down the aisle and marry the only guy you ever loved—and he, too, was perfect.

"Y/N, we need eyes on table fourteen!"

Seungkwan's voice snaps you back to the present. You blink rapidly, forcing the stinging heat behind your eyelids to retreat. You plaster on a smile so bright and unbothered it makes your jaw ache. For a moment, you wonder if people are actually buying that smile, or if you just look like a raving lunatic.

"The centerpieces are slightly off axis," you call back, walking swiftly across grass, dodging catering staff carrying towering trays of crystal glassware.

You reach table fourteen and gently rotate the massive, cascading arrangement of white hydrangeas and orchids by two inches. You've done countless weddings. None of them had been as big as this one. And none of them needed to be this perfect either.

"The cascading orchids need to face the entrance, not the head table. We want the guests to feel pulled into the space, not blocked off by the foliage."

"Got it, boss!" Seungkwan salutes as if he were reporting to a general, even though his eyes keep darting over your face with concern. He reaches out, gently brushing a stray leaf off your shoulder. "Are you okay? You look like you're about to either faint or commit a felony."

You shake your head. "I am a vision of zen," you lie, grabbing your clipboard and checking off the reception tables. "I am practically levitating with inner peace. Now, where's Seok?"

"He is finishing the floral aisle for the ceremony. Everything looks incredible, Y/N. You outdid yourself."

You swallow hard, the knot in your throat feeling thicker than a fist. "Good. That's good. Everything has to be perfect."

You take a deep, shaky breath, looking down at the small tray resting on table thirteen. Sitting on the top of the velvet lining are five meticulously crafted boutonnieres, featuring a single white ranunculus blossoms accented with trailing greenery.

"I'm going to run these up to the main house," you announce, voice sounding too hollow for your liking. "If Angela comes looking for me, tell her I am delivering the boutonnieres to the groom's suite and will be back in ten minutes to do the final sweep of the aisle."

Seungkwan opens his mouth to offer to go in your place — you can see the pity forming in his eyes — but you grab the tray before he can formulate the words.

You can't let him do it. If you're going to survive today, you must face the worst of it. You have to look Hansol in the eye on his wedding day and cut the invisible cord that has kept your heart tethered to him for years.

When you walk in, the inside of the house is quiet compared to the bustling chaos of the backyard. The Persian rugs swallow the sound of your sensible flats, creating an eerie silence that only amplifies the frantic, terrified hammering of your heart.

You walk up the staircase toward the second floor, your hands gripping the edges of the tray so tightly your knuckles are stark white. The air up here smells like lemon polish, layered with the familiar scent of the house you used to spend your weekends during your university days.

You mentally rehearse the script in your head, over and over. Congratulations. Have a wonderful wedding. Clean. Professional. Devoid of the fact that you want to scream until your lungs give out.

First, you hand out the groomsmen's boutonnieres one by one, not recognizing a single face among them. It makes you wonder what happened to Hansol's friendship with Minghao and Chan—his two best friends—and whether these men belong to this new chapter of his life, one you are not part of.

They're all nice, of course, and one of them even flirts with you, giving you the certainty that they don't know who you are. The one who introduced himself as Mingyu flashes you with a beautiful smile and asks if he'll be seeing you at the reception later.

Not a single chance. Not even over your dead body.

Finally, you reach the double doors of what used to be his father's study, now converted into the groom's holding room for the day. You raise a trembling hand, preparing to knock. But before your knuckles can even graze the wood, the handle clicks loudly and the door swings open, violently knocking the air straight out of your lungs.

Hansol steps out into the hallway, and your brain immediately flashes the mental equivalent of a TV with no signal.

He isn't just handsome — he's absolutely, devastatingly breathtaking. He's wearing a custom-tailored black tuxedo, but the jacket is nowhere to be seen. His crisp white dress shirt is unbuttoned at the collar, exposing the long line of his throat. A black silk vest molds perfectly to the expanse of his chest, though it's still unfastened, and a black satin bow tie hangs loose around his neck, completely undone.

He looks flustered, his hair slightly ruffled as though he's been running his hands through it in frustration. "I swear to God, if they put one more safety pin in this collar…" Hansol grumbles to himself, looking down at his cuffs.

He looks up, and the moment his eyes lock onto yours, he freezes.

The silence is absolute as you stare at each other, both of you forgetting, if only for a minute, what you were supposed to be doing.

You force your eyes away from his face, lowering your gaze to the tray holding the only two boutonnieres left in your hands, because if you look at him for one second longer, you're going to fall apart right here against the wainscoting.

Surprise colors his voice as your name leaves his lips. "Y/N."

"I brought the boutonniere," you rush to explain before he even has a chance to ask, the words coming out almost mechanically. "For the groom and the groomsmen. I didn't want to leave them with the caterers' downstairs. They… they need to stay fresh."

Hansol doesn't look at the tray. He looks at your face, his gaze sweeping over your carefully applied makeup, catching on to the subtle, undeniable puffiness around your eyes that the concealer couldn't quite hide. A long exhale slips past his lips as his hands drop from his cuffs to hang at his sides.

"Right. The flowers."

He seems almost disappointed, looking down at his unfastened vest and the tangled silk of his bow tie. A helpless almost boyish look crosses his face—a look you haven't seen since you were nineteen and he was trying to figure out how to fold a fitted sheet in his dorm room.

"My hands are too shaky to do the tie," he admits, rubbing the back of his neck. When he looks back up at you, there's a vulnerability in his eyes. "I can't get the knot right. And these fucking buttons on this vest are microscopic."

He hesitates. He doesn't have to say it, you can already see the question in his eyes.

"Could you… do you mind?"

He shouldn't ask. You shouldn't even consider. This is the absolute definition of crossing a line. You're nothing but the florist here, and he's your first love and potentially the love of your life, and he's getting married in an hour. You already know that when you tell your friends about this, they're going to call him anything but pretty for asking you — of all people — to do this.

But the panic in Hansol's eyes overrides every single rational thought in your brain.

You nod once, a jerky movement. You carefully set the tray down on an antique half-moon table sitting flush against the hallway wall. You take a breath, commanding your legs to work and step into his space.

Closing the distance between you is like stepping directly into the blast radius of a bomb. The moment you're inches from him, the scent of his perfume wraps around you. Your hands are trembling so badly you have to clench them into fists for a second before you reach up.

"Turn toward the window," you whisper, your voice barely audible, gesturing to the sunlight streaming in from outside.

He turns lightly, his chest rising and falling with heavy, uneven breath. You reach out, your fingertips grazing the crisp cotton of his dress shirt. The heat radiating off his skin is impossible to ignore, and it takes the strength of a saint to keep your focus on the tiny black buttons of his vest instead of letting your gaze drift above his collarbone.

You slip the first button through its hole, your knuckles brushing against the firm plane of his stomach. The contact is fleeting, but you feel his muscles instantly contract under your touch.

Show no emotion. You are an unfeeling, emotionless void, you chant in your head.

You move up, fastening the second button, then the third. You see his breath catching just enough that you feel it under your knuckles. Neither of you says a word. Your fingers linger on the fourth button longer than they need to, and his pulse keeps thudding against your wrist.

Damn. Wedding jitters really were a thing, you think, trying to ignore the ache that thought leaves behind.

Once the vest is secured, you reach for the black satin tie draped around his neck.

"Lift your chin," you instruct.

He obeys, tilting his head back slightly. You step even closer, the toes of your flats pressing right against the leather of his dress shoes. You loop the silk around his collar, your wrists hovering just millimeters from the skin of his neck. There you can still feel the rapid, thumping beat of his pulse right beneath his jawline.

It's now racing just as fast as yours.

"You look tired," he declares, with no trace of doubt in his voice.

You shrug slightly. "I've been working," you reply stiffly, pulling the loops of the silk bow taut. You adjust the edges, making sure they are perfectly symmetrical. "Weddings are exhausting."

A quiet scoff escapes him, his mint-scented breath fanning across your face. “Your eyes are red, Y/N,” he says flatly.

You smooth your hands down the lapels of his vest, giving it one final, unnecessary adjustment.

"Allergies. The ranunculus is aggressive this season."

He looks like he wants to say something, but you step back so suddenly it almost startles him, forcing a massive, unbearable distance between you. The sudden loss of his body heat leaves you feeling hollow and inexplicably freezing cold.

"There. You're done. The tie is perfect."

Hansol lowers his chin, his eyes locking onto yours, searching for something in your face. If you didn't know better — if you weren't standing here because he was about to get married to someone else — you would think he looks like he wants to grab your hands and pull your right back into his chest from how utterly torn apart he seems.

It's too much. The intimacy, the proximity, the crushing reality that within an hour, he is going to stand under the floral arch you built and pledge his life to someone else. You can't do this anymore. The dam inside you is cracking, and if you don't leave right now, you're going to sob hysterically at his feet.

You turn quickly, grabbing the tray from the table, and picking up the small box containing the most elaborate boutonniere: the one that belongs to the groom. You turn back to him, lifting your chin, forcing every ounce of professional detachment and fake bravery you possess into your posture, and hold the box out to him.

"Here…" You convince yourself your hand is trembling only slightly. "This is for you. The other one is for the best man."

He looks down at the box, making no move to take it.

"Have a wonderful wedding, Hansol," you force the words out, each syllable tasting like ash on your tongue. "I mean it. I want you to be happy. And Hannah is… she is a lovely girl. You guys are going to have a beautiful life together."

Hansol freezes almost comically. The intense gaze he had fixed on you vanishes entirely, replaced by a look of profound, absolute bewilderment. He stares at you like you have just started speaking entirely in a whole new language. He looks at the box in your hand, then back up to your face, his brow furrowing so deeply it creates a crease between his eyes.

"What?"

"I said, have a wonderful wedding," you repeat against your will. You just want him to take the box, so you can flee. "Just take the box, Hansol, please. I have to go back to the yard."

Before you can shove the box into his chest and run, his hand shoots out. His fingers wrap gently but firmly around your wrist, interrupting your movements completely.

"Y/N…" Your name comes out like it costs him something to say it, incredulous, laced with a sudden, dawning realization.

Hansol steps closer, paying no attention to the tray between you or the two boutonnieres resting on it. His eyes search your face frantically, as though it might be the last face he'll ever see.

"It's Seungcheol's wedding."

If your brain had been a TV with no signal, now it's a frozen screen desperately trying to reload.

You don't even blink. You just stare at him in complete astonishment. "What?"

"Seungcheol," Hansol repeats slowly, as if speaking to a deeply confused child. "My brother. It's his wedding. I'm just the best man."

You're pretty sure the hallway does a full three-sixty around you.

You feel stupid. You feel utterly ridiculous. The ground could — and should — open and swallow you whole. Heat floods every inch of your body, your face burning with embarrassment so intensely you can feel spreading through your face in different shades of red.

Hansol's not the groom.

The relief that crashes over you is instantaneous. It feels like a literal boulder has been lifted off your chest. Your lungs expand, drawing in the first full, deep breath you've taken in almost a month.

He isn't marrying Hannah. He isn't marrying anyone.

How deep in denial had you been to dismiss the possibility of Seungcheol getting married the very moment it crossed your mind?

Hansol's eyes flutter shut briefly, and when he opens them again, confusion is written all over his face, brows knit together. "Wait," he breathes, his eyes widening to the size of saucers. "Wait a second. The whole time… you thought I was getting married?"

He steps fully into your space, his grip on your arm shifting as his hand slides down to lightly grasp your fingers. You stare at him, mouth opening and closing like a suffocating fish, brain so empty you're completely incapable of forming a coherent lie.

"Yes," you admit, your face burning with a fresh new wave of fiery embarrassment. "Your father's name was on the check. And… and you were at the driveway. And I… I just assumed."

"Why would you do that?"

"Because!" you blurt, sounding distressingly like a child throwing a tantrum. "God, that explains why Minghao and Chan aren't here."

"Why would they be at my brother's wedding?"

"I thought we'd just established that I believed this was your wedding."

Hansol lets out a breathless, stunned sound that is half a laugh and half a gasp of disbelief, shaking his head. "I haven't even spoken to a woman with those intentions in years. And you thought I could plan a wedding? You thought I would not mention my impending nuptials to you, of all people?"

"I don't know, Hansol!" you squeak defensively, taking step back enough so his hands drop to his side, though the loss of his touch instantly makes you crave it again. "You were acting weird! And your mom said something about her son's big day and I just thought—"

"She has two of them!" Hansol cuts you off, running a hand through his hair, looking stressed.

"But Seungcheol said once that he was staying single for the rest of his life!"

"That was before Hannah." He looks at you, his eyes dancing with a chaotic mix of amusement and shock. "God, no wonder you've been looking at me like I peed in your sunflowers. You thought I was making you decorate my wedding to another woman."

You look down at the vintage rug, mortified beyond belief. "It seemed entirely plausible at the time."

Hansol takes a step closer, the amusement in his voice and eyes fading into something intensely serious like you’ve only seen once before—when the two of you broke up. His hands are on your shoulders again.

"Y/N. Look at me."

You don't want to. You want the hardwood floor to open and swallow you. But you slowly lift your chin, meeting his gaze.

"If I was getting married, you wouldn't be just the florist."

Your heart stops. You swear you can feel it flatline right there, lurching from a frantic rhythm to nothing at all before kicking back to life in a wild, panicked sprint.

Before you can even process the magnitude of what he just said, before you can formulate a response, the doors of the master suite down the hall fly open with a violent BANG.

"It's catastrophe! It is an absolute disaster!"

Hansol and you instantly jump apart, the bubble between you popping instantly.

Two seconds later, Angela bursts into the hallway like a one-woman tornado in a tailored pantsuit. Her signature tight pear-bun is beginning to fray, and she's clutching her iPad to her chest as though it's the only thing keeping her tethered to the earth.

You're certain you've never seen her like this before.

"Angela, what's wrong?" you ask, feeling Hansol's gaze reluctantly shift from you to her.

"Is it Seungcheol? Did he hyperventilate again?"

Angela gasps, marching down the hallway. "No, the groom is fine. He's with your mother." She stops short in front of you, her wild eyes sweeping over you from head to toe in frantic assessment. "It's Leonor. Her flight was grounded because of a massive freak storm. She's not going to make it."

"Okay…" Hansol says, calm as ever. "That's unfortunate. But I can just walk down the aisle alone, and—"

"You don't understand!" Angela interrupts, her voice shrill. "Hannah is inconsolable. And the symmetry is ruined. I cannot have an uneven bridal party. It's asymmetrical. I do not do asymmetrical weddings!"

Watching her spiral makes you — though unwillingly — step far away from Hansol, slipping back into your role as the florist, and just another professional hired to keep this wedding from falling apart.

"Angela, breathe," you say, resting a reassuring hand on her forearm. "It happens. If you want, I can adjust the floral arch to cover the empty space on the bridesmaids' side—"

"No!" she snaps, pointing a manicured finger directly at your face. "We don't need more flowers. We need a body. And Hannah specifically asked for you."

There's no way you're hearing her correctly. "I'm sorry… what?"

Angela steps directly into your personal space, her eyes so wildly determined that even Hansol takes a step back.

She points a finger squarely at your chest like she's just solved the world's biggest problem. "You. Hannah loves you. And you know the schedule. You're young, you're objectively very good-looking, and more importantly, you look like you can fit in Leonor's dress."

A cold, creeping dread starts to pool in the pit of your stomach.

"Angela, no. I'm the florist. I'm wearing a black apron covered in sap."

"Leonor's dress is in the master suite," Angela barrels on, completely ignoring you. She grabs your arm with an iron-clad grip. "It's a silk slip. It requires zero tailoring. We have the hair and makeup team on standby. They can fix…" she waves a hand vaguely at your face, "whatever happened to your eyes."

"I cannot walk down that aisle!" Your voice comes out in another panicked squeak as you struggle to keep it from turning into a full-blown shout, desperately trying to pry your arm free from her vice-like grip.

You turn to Hansol for help.

"Tell her this madness! Tell her I'm just a vendor!"

Hansol stares at you for a moment before slowly turning to Angela. A dangerously slow grin spreads across his face.

"Well…" he drawls, crossing his arms and leaning into the hallway wall like he has all the time in the world. He looks entirely too relaxed for a guy whose brother's wedding is supposedly imploding. "The symmetry is very important, Y/N. We wouldn't want to ruin Hannah's day."

"I will kill you," you hiss at him.

Angela yanks you forcefully toward the master suite. "C'mon! We have exactly forty-nine minutes before the prelude music starts!"

You stumble after her, your brain desperately trying to catch up with the absurdity of your life. You're about to be forced into a bridesmaid dress for a woman you spent the last three weeks deeply resenting because of a misunderstanding. A misunderstanding that, in hindsight, was a spectacular problem of your own making.

You dig your heels into the carpet, forcing Angela to a sudden halt. You twist your body around, looking back down the long stretch of the hallway.

Hansol is still standing exactly where you left him. The tray sits abandoned on the table beside him. The grin is gone. Instead, he's watching you, his brown eyes blazing with that same complicated emotion that had brought your heart to a complete standstill only moments ago.

He raises a hand, adjusting his cuffs, and even from twenty feet away, his voice carries perfectly down the quiet corridor.

"I guess I'll see you at the altar."

Primrose — a sweet bond and young love.

Marriage only came up once during your entire relationship with Hansol.

Not because you didn't want to marry him, or because you thought he didn't want to marry you. It was more like you didn't think he wanted to get married at all.

It wasn't that he didn't love you, you never doubted that he did. It was just that marriage had never seemed like his thing—the idea of legally binding himself to someone for the rest of his life. Meanwhile, you had always seen marriage as little more than a social contract, a legal institution created to interfere in people's private lives and, sometimes, pressure them into bringing more children into the world, as if the planet wasn't already populated enough.

You loved each other deeply, and neither of you believed a piece of paper could strengthen what already existed between you. Love was enough. As long as he was walking through life beside you, you never needed anything else.

But as you watched Chan, the youngest in your friends group, marry the love of his life at barely twenty-one, you couldn't help wondering throughout the ceremony whether Hansol had ever given that possibility any thought.

The reception was very loud, the exact kind of thrown-together party you'd expect from a couple still finishing their sophomore year. Minghao was DJing for the night, blasting early 2010s club anthems alongside an impressive amount of Michael Jackson. The open bar consisted entirely of cheap vodka and aggressively sweet cranberry juice, both of which you were avoiding religiously.

You were leaning against the edge of a sticky high-top table, watching Chan and his new wife attempt to drop it low on the dance floor without tearing her rented tulle dress.

Hansol was standing next to you, his shoulder brushing yours. He had already ditched his suit jacket, tossing it over a nearby chair, and had rolled the sleeves of his crisp white dress shirt up to his elbows. He looked entirely too good, which unfortunately had your mind wandering straight to the private after-party you definitely weren't supposed to be thinking about.

He was nursing a can of beer, nodding along to the beat of On the Floor.

"I give Chan a lot of credit," Hansol said, tipping his can in the Chan's direction. "He's twenty-one and he just signed away his right to file single on his taxes. That's brave."

You let out a small laugh, peeling the lid off your plastic cup filled with ginger ale. "You think he even knows how to do his taxes yet?"

"Absolutely not." Hansol shakes his head, taking a slow sip.

You watched his throat work as he swallowed, your thumb now tracing the condensation on the cup. You took a breath, keeping your eyes fixed firmly on the chaotic dance floor, trying to make your voice sound as casual as humanly possible.

"Have you ever thought about it?" you asked, the words coming out a little too quickly for someone trying to sound nonchalant.

Hansol didn't flinch. He didn't choke on his drink or tense up. He just turned his head, his eyes studying the side of your face. "Thought about Chan's taxes?"

"No," you corrected, forcing yourself to meet his gaze. You bumped your shoulder against his, a defensive little reflex. "Getting married. The whole thing."

He looked at you for a long moment, and your heart rises into your throat, almost making you regret asking the question at all. He didn't look panicked by the loaded question, though. He just looked like he's processing it, turning the thought over in his mind like a piece of information he wants to understand before answering.

"Not really," he finally said, resting his elbows on the table. "Never saw the appeal of paying the government to validate a relationship."

It was exactly the answer you expected. It aligned perfectly with his practical, logic-driven brain, and yet, a tiny, irrational silver of disappointment snagged in your chest.

You nodded, going back to picking at your cup. "Right. Yeah. Makes sense."

Hansol shifted his weight, closing the small gap between you. He bumped his shoulder back against yours, his voice dropping slightly so you could hear him clearly over the music.

"But," he added, his tone entirely conversational, "if it was with you, I'd be down."

You froze, your fingernail catching on the edge of the cup. You looked up at him. "You would?"

"Yeah." Hansol nodded, confirming it with a small shrug. He didn't look like he's making some grand, theatrical declaration. He looked like he's stating a completely obvious fact. "I'd do the whole thing. The legal paperwork, the expensive rings, the house with the yard in Westchester. Two kids."

You abandoned your plastic cup on the sticky high-top table, turning to face him completely. Stepping into his space, you reached up, lacing your fingers together behind the nape of his neck.

"Two kids, huh?" you asked, a teasing smile breaking across your face.

His hands settled naturally on your waist, pulling you just a fraction closer over the pounding of the music. "Yeah," he murmured, his eyes crinkling at the corners with amusement. "The first one is going to need company."

You let out a genuine, breathless laugh. The image was entirely ridiculous. "Babe, you don't know the first thing about kids. Last week at the grocery store, a toddler waved at you in the cereal aisle, and you froze up and gave him a stiff salute like he was a foreign dignitary."

"I'll figure it out," he stated, completely unfazed by his own total lack of qualifications. He leaned in a little closer, his thumb tracing a slow, absentminded circle against your hip. "I'm a fast learner. If it's with you, I don't really care about the rest of it. I'm in, babe."

He didn't make a big deal out of it. He just stood there holding you in the middle of the chaotic reception, entirely unfazed by the fact that he had just casually rearranged your entire internal universe.

You stared into his eyes, a ridiculous warmth spreading from your chest all the way to your fingertips. You couldn't stop the huge smile that broke across your face, so you buried it against his chest before he could catch you grinning like an absolute idiot.

Snowdrop — hope and the warmth of a heart waking up.

You're shoved, zipped, and sprayed into a bridesmaid status in precisely forty minutes and twelve seconds. The makeup artist-slash-hairstylist worked like a woman possessed, wielding a canister of strong-hold hairspray in one hand and powder puff in the other, muttering something about miracles under pressure while aggressively taming every flyaway.

The sage green satin slipped over your hips with a satisfying rustle, the fabric molding effortlessly to your figure. The softly gathered sweetheart neckline settles perfectly across your chest, draping exactly as it's meant to, as though the dress had been made for you instead of Leonor.

You barely had time to send a message to the group chat with Seokmin and Seungkwan, telling them you'd explain everything later and that they were okay to leave. They even offered to pick you up afterward, but you turned them down, knowing that would only delay the inevitable conversation waiting for you later.

You're still fastening the strap of your left heel when Angela grabs you by the elbow and practically catapults you out of the room.

You burst into the back hallway just as Hannah is finishing her final veil adjustment. She looks breathtaking, a vision delicately off the shoulder lace, her dark hair falling in soft waves around her glowing face. The moment she sees you, her eyes light up, completely devoid of any panic.

Hannah squeals, entirely ignoring Angela's horrified gasp as she steps forward and wraps her arms tightly around you. "Y/N!"

The scent of her expensive orange blossom perfume surrounds you. She leans back just enough to hold you at arm's length, her expression shifting into a radiant—and conspiratorial—smile.

You can't help but wonder how much she knows about... well, everything.

"Thank you so much for doing this!" Hannah whispers in your ear, her voice bubbling with excitement. "You look so beautiful!"

You smile back at her, tilting your head. "Me? You look like a literal goddess," you say, voice breathy with genuine awe. Your fingertips lightly graze the delicate lace of her sleeve. "You look gorgeous, Hannah."

Hannah smile gets even bigger, a soft, very knowing sparkle dancing in her eyes as she gives your hands another squeeze.

"Thank you. I really hope we can be great friends after today. And, you know…" She wiggles her eyebrows suggestively. "Maybe someday sisters."

Your heart breaks into a violent tap dance against your ribs. But before you can process—let alone question—the implication of her words, Angela is already dragging you away again, steering you toward the grand staircase.

"Positions! Now!" Angela hisses.

At the bottom of the staircase, the groomsmen are all lined up. And there, standing at the very front of the line, is Hansol.

The moment your foot touches the bottom step, his eyes find yours. Every trace of his usual relaxed posture vanishes, replaced by a sudden stillness. His gaze follows the line of the sage green silk, lingering at your collarbone before finally returning to your eyes. You hold your breath.

Hansol steps forward, offering you his arm. His black tuxedo jacket is fully buttoned now, his bow tie perfectly straight. You thread your hand through his arm, and even through the fine wool of his jacket, the warmth of his body seeps into your skin, sending a flush creeping across your cheeks.

He clears his throat. "Nice dress," he murmurs, teasing tone in his voice as you both step into queue behind the other couples.

"Don't start, traitor," you grumble, keeping your eyes fixed forward as the double doors leading to the backyard swing open. The warm summer breeze carries in the sound of a string quartet playing what sounds like a cello-and-piano rendition of You're Still the One.

"I'm serious, though. You look beautiful."

You do your best to ignore what his words do to you—how the sound of his voice settles deep in your chest—because, at that very moment, the two of you step out into the ceremony. Hundreds of guests turn their heads, their eyes sweeping over you both as you walk down the aisle towards the massive archway you spent all morning constructing.

"I still can't believe you thought I was the one getting married," Hansol whispers, keeping his stride perfectly in time with yours. There's humor in his voice again.

You wave subtly at distant relatives of Hansol's you recognize. "I don't want to talk about it," you mutter through a frozen smile.

He doesn't seem to care, though. "To Hannah? Really?"

Hansol doesn't sound dismissive of Hannah when he says it—far from it. If anything, he sounds as though the very idea is the most absurd thing in the world.

Then, his shoulders start to vibrate.

You glance sideways to find Hansol biting his lower lip, his jaw clenched in a desperate attempt to maintain his composure. But it's a losing battle. A moment later, a breathless snort escapes him, completely shattering the solemn, elegant atmosphere of the processional.

"Hansol, stop it," you hiss, smile tightening into a grimace. "People are looking."

"You—" he starts, but his voice cracks, and he has to stop, clearing his throat, his chest heaving. He looks up at the sky, trying to blink back tears of amusement. "You actually thought… oh my god, Y/N."

"I had a momentary lapse in judgment!" you whisper-yell, cheeks burning with a heat that has absolutely nothing to do with the burning sun above you.

Another wave of silent laughter hits him, making his shoulders roll, and this time you're laughing with him. A lady in the third row, wearing an enormous, feathered fascinator, gives you a highly disapproving look, Hansol barely notice; he's too busy trying to draw a breath without snickering.

"It completely blows my mind that you actually thought I could ever stand at an altar with anyone else."

Your chest does a funny thing, stomach currently doing a dizzying free-fall.

"Shut up," you breathe, staring straight ahead.

As you pass the front row of chairs, your eyes catch his mother. She is sitting in the place of honor, looking like a queen in her dusty rose gown. Seeing her son recovering from a literal laughing fit while walking you down the aisle, she offers you a smile, raising her eyebrows an inch in a silent, conspiratorial smile that makes your own brows knit together in confusion.

What the hell is going on?

You reach the altar and you release Hansol's arm, stepping to the left to take your place exactly where Leonor was supposed to stand.

As you settle into place, you look up and lock eyes with Seungcheol. He—standing stiffly in his suit—looks at your face, then down at the dress, and then back at your face. His thick brows furrows in absolute, comical bewilderment. He raises a hand gives you a small, incredibly confused wave, his mouth twisting into a silent, What on earth are you doing here? expression.

You offer him a helpless, apologetic little shrug in return.

Hansol steps to the right, taking his place beside his brother, who immediately nudges him with an elbow, whispering what can only be a frantic question that Hansol shuts down with a quick entertained shake of his head.

You stand rigidly, clutching your small bouquet of peonies. You have absolutely no idea what you are doing. You don't know when to hold Hannah's train, you don't know when to take her bouquet, and your mind is entirely consumed by the fact that Hansol is standing directly across from you, his eyes not leaving you for a second, watching your every move.

The music swells. The guests stand. Hannah walks down the aisle, a radiant beam of light, and the ceremony officially begin.

But as the minister starts to speak, the words wash over you in a blur. Your focus is entirely pulled to the guy standing across the floral-draped altar. The space between you feels incredibly small, charged with unsaid words, missed phone calls, and the lingering sting of a sunny July afternoon.

Seungcheol clears his throat, taking Hannah's hands as they prepare to exchange their vows.

You would have thought that, not knowing their story, the vows wouldn't affect you all that much. You are proven wrong the moment Seungcheol opens his mouth.

"I don't promise you a life without hardship," he begins, his voice clearly emotional, not even trying to hide. "I know there will be days when the road is steep, when the answers aren't clear, and when life asks more of us than we think we can give. But what I do promise is that you'll never have to face those days alone."

Across the altar, you can see the exact moment Hansol's expression changes, darkens, even. Any lingering traces of laughter that had been in his gaze moments ago completely disappear, replaced by a raw vulnerability that cuts straight through you.

You wish you didn't know him well enough to understand what was going through his mind. Even if parts of you tried to deny it, your heart already knew. His gaze, his expression, they were telling you the same thing.

Hansol was thinking about you.

"I promise to stand beside you when the world feels too much, to hold your hand when you're afraid, and to remind you of your strength when you've forgotten it yourself. And if distance ever separates us, my love won't. Whether there are miles between us or life pulls us in different directions, I'll keep choosing you, Hannah. I'll always find my way back to you, because home has never been a place for me, it's wherever you are."

Seungcheol's vows shouldn't feel like a brutal mirror, reflecting every single piece of your unresolved wreckage back at you while Hansol and you make unbroken eye contact—but they very much do.

You can't stop the hot, fat tear that spills over your eyelashes, tracing slowly down your cheek. An overwhelming mix of emotions crashing over you all at once. The sudden relief of knowing he isn't marrying someone else tangled with the aching regret for all the years you wasted, sitting in your own separate silences, waiting for the other person to break first.

But most of all, you're feeling hopeful.

Because as you wipe the tear away with a trembling finger, Hansol doesn't look away. He watches you, his own eyes shining with a faint, watery warmth, even if you know he’s not going to cry, his gaze holding something so that fuels that feeling. He is looking at you exactly the way he did before he left—like you're his home, and he is finally ready to walk through the door again.

Forget-Me-Not — true, undying love.

The battery percentage on your screen ticked down to fifteen percent, but you barely notice. Your eyes remain fixed on the digital clock in the top corner of the screen marking 7:42 PM, wondering what acceptable time would be to leave.

The reception in the backyard is a mix of a live jazz band, clinking glasses, and people laughing happily under canopy of warm fairy light strung between the trees. In the last three hours, you watched the newlyweds' first dance, the bouquet toss, and a dozen other wedding traditions, yet you still couldn't find a moment alone with Hansol.

You barely caught glimpses of him through the crowd.

So now you just sit by yourself at a table near the edge of the dance floor, staring at a plate with a half-eaten slice of wedding cake.

It didn't help that a few of Hansol's relatives had already made a point of coming over to speak with you. His great aunt had stopped by your chair to pat your shoulder with an agonizingly happy smile, telling you that she had always known you and Hansol would find your way back to each other. Meanwhile, his older cousin had asked if you were seeing anyone new yet, her eyes scanning your face for any sign of a breakdown.

You had just smiled until your cheeks cramped, nodding through the thinly veiled interrogations while aggressively shredding a paper napkin under the table.

"The cake is actually terrible, isn't it?"

You jump slightly in your chair, startled.

A guy is standing next to your table, and you recognize him immediately. He's the same one that flirted with you earlier while you pinned a white ranunculus boutonniere on his lapel: Mingyu. He's tall, with a really nice smile, and he's already ditched his tuxedo jacket, rolled up the sleeves of his crisp white shirt, and loosened his black bow tie so it hangs casually around his neck.

"Never said it was terrible," you reply, offering a polite smile.

"You didn't have to," Mingyu laughs, pulling out the empty chair next to you and sitting down. He rests his elbows on the table, holding a glass of club soda with lime. "I watched you push that same piece of frosting around for a solid two minutes. It's okay to admit it. Fondant is basically edible plastic." 

"It really is," you admit, relaxing a little. "I think people just buy wedding cakes for the pictures. No one actually expects them to taste good."

"Exactly. I'm hitting up a diner for a real burger the second this is over," Mingyu says, setting his drink down. He leans back in his chair, looking at you with a thoughtful expression. "I thought I wouldn't be seeing you here tonight."

You thought that too. But you don't tell him that. You pick at the edge of your paper napkin, instead, offering a small smile. "Small change of plans."

"Well, it's a really nice thing you did for Hannah." Mingyu gestures toward the dress and the surrounding floral setups with a smile. "Seriously. The flowers look incredible."

"Thanks, Mingyu," you reply, feeling a small wave of relief at his easygoing demeanor.

He gestures toward the centerpieces this time. "Hannah told me you own a shop in the city. Poppy's Garden, right?"

"Yeah, that's me."

"That massive flower arch thing during the ceremony?" Mingyu continues, shaking his head in mild disbelief. "I have no idea how you built that without it falling over on the minister."

He sounds like he means it. He isn't giving you a sleazy line. He’s just a genuinely nice guy making conversation.

"A lot of zip ties and silent prayers," you explain, letting out a real laugh for the first time in hours.

Mingyu smiles, his eyes crinkling at the corners. He takes a sip of his drink, then sets it down again and looks at you. "So, you've been sitting over here by yourself for the last forty minutes. I know because I've been trying to figure out an excuse to come talk to you."

You blink at least three times, slightly taken aback by how straightforward he is. "Oh. You didn't need an excuse."

"Good to know." He leans back in his chair, tilting his head toward the dance floor. "The band is actually pretty decent. I know you've probably been on your feet all day dealing with the setup, but I was wondering if you’d want to dance."

"W-what?"

"I mean… you're definitely the most beautiful girl here, and it seems like a shame that you're hiding in the corner."

It's a nice compliment. It's polite, it’s flattering, and Mingyu is objectively very handsome. You open your mouth, fully intending to say yes, just to get out of your own head for a few minutes.

Before you can even form the first syllable, a shadow falls over the white linen tablecloth.

"She's actually taking a break right now."

The voice is low, flat, and completely devoid of inflection.

You look up to find Hansol standing right behind Mingyu's chair.

He still has his tuxedo jacket on, though it's unbuttoned. His hands are shoved deep into his trouser pockets. He isn't glaring, and he isn't puffing his chest out. He just looks incredibly, intensely solid—and hot. His eyes fixed on Mingyu, and his jaw is set in a rigid, immovable line.

Mingyu turns around, looking up at Hansol in surprise. "Oh. Hey, man. I was just asking Y/N if she wanted to hit the dance floor."

"I heard." He doesn't move an inch. "She has company, though."

Mingyu blinks, looking back and forth between Hansol and you as he pieces it together. He's smart guy, it only takes him two seconds to reach the tension rolling off Hansol in waves. He let out a short, incredulous laugh, raising an eyebrow at Hansol.

"Wait... I thought you guys broke up."

"We're handling it." Hansol's tone isn't aggressive, but it's final. He doesn't offer an explanation. He just holds Mingyu's gaze, projecting an aura that very clearly says this conversation is over until the message lands loud and clear.

Not even you knew what exactly you were handling, let alone Mingyu.

"Got it," Mingyu finally says, holding his hands up in easy surrender as he stands up from the chair. He picks up his drink, giving you a slightly amused wink. "My bad. I'll leave you two to it. Catch you later, Y/N. Great job on the flowers."

You offer him a small wave. "Thanks, Mingyu."

Mingyu walks away, disappearing into the crowd near the bar.

You sit frozen, staring at Hansol. Your heart is suddenly beating so hard you can feel it in your throat. Seeing him act like this is entirely jarring. In all the time you dated, Hansol was the king of nonchalance. He never got jealous. If a guy ever hit on you, Hansol would just laugh, wrap an arm around your waist, and shrug it off. He was always so ridiculously secure in himself. And most of all, he always trusted you.

But right now? He looks very territorial. And you absolutely hate that the only thing you can think about is how incredibly hot it is.

Hansol watches Mingyu walk away until he is completely out of sight. Then, he pulls his hands out of his pockets. He takes a step forward, closing the distance between you, and holds his right hand out to you, palm facing up.

"C'mon."

You stare at his hand. "Come on where?"

"Dance floor," he clarifies, like it's the most obvious thing in the world. It isn't.

You let out a short, incredulous laugh. "Hansol, you don't dance. The last time we went to a wedding, you literally hid by the buffet table for three hours eating crab cakes so my aunt wouldn't drag you out there."

"I know." He shrugs, not withdrawing his hand. His eyes lock onto yours, completely serious. "But I want to dance with you."

The lack of hesitation in his voice leaves you totally speechless. There is no joke, no sarcastic deflection. He is just standing there, waiting for you.

You reach out and place your hand in his, his fingers closing around yours immediately. His grip is warm, firm, and familiar. He pulls you up from the chair, and the silk of your dress rustles against his trousers as he leads you way from the table, navigating through the maze of guests and empty chairs.

You step onto the dance floor just as the band transitions into a Frank Sinatra song.

Hansol doesn't ask how you want to hold him. He just steps in close, sliding his right hand firmly onto the small of your back, right at the dip of your spine. The heat of his palm seeps instantly through the thin silk of the dress. You rest your left hand flat against his chest, right over his heart, and your joined hands settle comfortably between you.

It leaves you breathless how you fit together exactly the way we did years ago. Your heights match perfectly. The muscle memory is so immediate, so natural, that it actually makes your chest ache in the best way possible.

For the first minute, you just sway. You don't say a word. You move slowly to the song, ignoring the dozens of couples swaying around you. You keep your eyes focused on the knot of his bow tie, acutely aware of his thumb tracing a slow, absentminded circle against your spine.

"You shouldn't have been rude to Mingyu. He was just being nice," you say eventually.

"I wasn't rude," Hansol states, his chin brushing the top of your head. "I just stated a fact. You were busy."

"I was sitting by myself staring at a napkin."

"You were busy," he repeats stubbornly.

You shake your head, looking up at him. "I'm only here because of your sister-in-law, Hansol."

"Mhm." His lips twitch. "Not even a little for me?"

"You're asking that after I spent the last three weeks terrified because I thought you were the one getting married today?"

A laugh escapes him. "I think it's safe to say we had a pretty catastrophic case of miscommunication there."

You glance around the reception, only to find his parents watching from a nearby table, both wearing impossibly—and suspiciously—wide smiles. Across the dance floor, Hannah and Seungcheol wear that very same expression, their attention fixed on the two of you as well.

You tilt your head to the side, meeting Hansol's gaze without breaking your rhythm. “I suspect that was entirely intentional.”

Hansol sighs and looks away toward the band.

"I know." He looks down at you again, as though he's about to confess something. "My mother and Hannah planned all of this behind my back. They purposely booked your shop, so we'd run into each other again."

A corner of his mouth lifts shyly.

"It was all on purpose."

"They actually wanted me to think you were the groom," you gasp, the absurdity of the situation finally sinking in. "They wanted a reaction."

"Did it work?" he asks, one perfectly lined eyebrow arching.

"I threw up in a trash can behind the loading dock this morning," you admit, deciding you don't care about preserving your pride anymore. "What do you think?"

Hansol's jaw clenches, and he stops swaying for a second. His hand tightens against your back, pulling you a fraction of an inch closer, as though the mere thought of having caused you that much pain unsettles him.

"I'm sorry. I never would have agreed to that. It was a stupid, manipulative thing to do."

You shrug, looking away. "It doesn't matter. The wedding is over. You can go back to your life, and I can go back to mine."

"But I told you I'm living in Brooklyn now," Hansol reminds you, his eyes searching yours. "I transferred my contract to the New York division. The rest of my stuff is getting shipped next week."

He sounds hopeful, and against your better judgment, you feel hopeful too.

You nod, the memory of what he told Poppy weeks ago still making your thoughts scramble. Even so, there's one thing you still need to know.

"Since when?"

You don't need to explain. Hansol knows.

"The day I saw you in the driveway."

An incredulous, breathy laugh escapes you. You shake your head, your mind scrambling to make sense of the timeline. “You decided to uproot your entire life and move across the country because we had one awkward conversation?”

"It wasn't just the awkward conversation, Y/N." His voice was losing the casual tone. "You looked at me like you hated me. And it bothered me so much I couldn't sleep for two days."

"But you were fine for four years!" you argue, your voice rising slightly over the music. The frustration is bubbling up, fast and hot. "You were completely fine, Hansol."

"I wasn't fine," he admits bluntly. "I hated it."

You hated it too.

Your break wasn't dramatic. It hadn't been a screaming match over who was right or wrong.

It was a random Tuesday afternoon, and Hansol had come over to your apartment to pick up the last of his winter coats before his flight back to Los Angeles after spending the weekend in New York again. You had been sitting at the kitchen table, buried under a pile of your mother's medical bills and past-due notices for the flower shop. You were exhausted, hair a mess, and you hadn't slept in three days.

When he sat down beside you, you both just looked at the paper mountain between you. There wasn't any fight left in either of you over whether you were going to Los Angeles anymore. You both already knew the answer; you were staying in New York. So, you looked each other in the eye and mutually agreed that pulling the plug was the only logical thing to do.

He had been so calm. So logical. You laid it out together like a business transaction, like two partners analyzing a bad contract and agreeing to walk away. Neither of you cried. Neither of you begged. You hugged goodbye, he picked up his bag pack and walked out the door. It was the absolute, shared coldness of it—the silent agreement to just give up—that had broken you.

Hansol lets out a sharp exhale. He drops his hand from yours, bringing it up to rub the back of his neck, looking incredibly frustrated. "I went along with the breakup because I felt completely useless, Y/N. I didn't push back because I knew I had nothing to offer you."

You frown. "What?"

"I was standing in your kitchen," he continues looking at you intently, "and you were drowning. Your mom was sick, you were working twelve hours a week, and you were stressed out of your mind. And I was leaving again. I couldn't pay your bills. I couldn't fix your mom. I couldn't do a single thing to actually help you."

He drops his hand, stepping closer to you again, forcing you to look up at him.

"I'm a practical guy, baby," he says, lifting his shoulder. "I couldn't fix your life, and I wanted to. So bad. When you suggested maybe we should end it, I went along with it because I knew if we stayed together, I would just be one more thing you had to worry about. One more person you had to text, one more schedule you had to manage. I thought letting us both walk away was doing you a favor."

Meanwhile, you believed you were doing him a favor by lifting the burden of your life off his shoulders with the breakup. And then you hated yourself for feeling hurt—for feeling almost hypocritical—that he hadn't fought against it.

You stare at him, your chest aching. "That is the stupidest logic I have ever heard."

"I know." He nods, a self-deprecating smile pulling at his mouth. "It was stupid. I was twenty-two, and I was an idiot. I thought we were being realistic. I didn't realize that being practical doesn't matter when you're miserable."

You stare up at him, the fairy lights blurring slightly as his words settle over you. For four years, you had convinced yourself that he walked way without a fight because it was the easiest thing to do. To hear him admit that he had been just as miserable—that he had broken his own heart out of some misguided attempt to protect yours—shifts the foundation of your memories.

"Have you dated anyone?" you ask, the question finally pushing its way out of your throat before anything else. You feel a little silly, yes, but you need to know.

"I went on a few dates," he answers, because of course he must be factually accurate. As always. "They sucked. All I could think about was how much I wished it was you instead. I couldn't do it." He gives the smallest shake of his head. "So, I just stopped trying."

The simplicity of his confession is staggering. There are no grand declarations, or poetic metaphors about stars and fate. It's just Hansol. The same you've always known. The same you've always loved.

"Why come back now?" you ask, your voice trembling. "My life is still messy, Hansol. The shop is doing objectively better, but everything is still the same. I still work crazy hours. None of the logistics have actually changed."

"I changed," he says simply.  

He reaches out, resting both of his hands on your waist. His thumbs press against the silk of the dress, right over your ribs.

"Forget about logistics. I have a stable job. I have a car. I can drive your mom to her physical therapy appointments. I can come to the shop and carry the heavy buckets when you have a massive order. I don't need to fix your life, Y/N. I just want to be in it. I want to carry everything with you."

The tears you've been fighting back since the ceremony ended finally spill over, tracking down your cheeks and ruining whatever setting spray the makeup artist used.

"Are you seeing anyone?" Hansol asks, his thumbs brushing against your sides. "Tell me the truth."

You shake your head. "No."

He breathes out a sigh, and you can see the tension completely drained out of his shoulders. The rigid posture is quickly replaced by the relaxed, comfortable Hansol you know. "Thank God. I really don't want to have to fight another groomsman tonight."

A wet laugh escapes you. "You are an idiot."

"Yeah. I really am."

The next second, Hansol is closing the final few inches between you, and when he kisses you, it's like you've been trapped in a coma for four years.

A soft, involuntary moan escapes you, almost more of a gasp than a sound. He swallows as your hands slide up his chest and curl around the back of his neck, fingers tangling in the short, soft hair at the nape of his neck and holding on to him as though your next breath depends on it. Hansol's arms tighten around your waist, pulling you squarely against his chest so there's no space left between you.

His mouth moves against yours with grounding pressure, almost as though he's been waiting for this for years and has no intention of rushing it. You kiss him back just as hard, parting your lips just enough to meet him halfway, catching the cool taste of peppermint and the lingering hint of whatever he'd been drinking earlier mixed on his tongue.

The jazz band keeps playing, and the other guests keep dancing around you, but you barely notice them or when the music changes to another Frank Sinatra song. You just stand there in the middle of the crowded floor, holding onto him for dear life as though letting go would mean losing him all over again. All while letting him explore your mouth deliberately, sucking and biting deliciously.

For the first time all day, you aren't thinking about the time on your phone, the flower shop, or making a quick exit.

Hansol pulls back just an inch, his forehead resting against yours. He is breathing a little heavily, a genuine smile breaking across his face.

"I'll buy you a burger after this," he murmurs against your mouth. "Since you hate the cake."

"Okay," you whisper, smiling back. "Okay."

Except the burger doesn't happen.

Well, not right away.

Because two songs after the kiss on the dance floor, Hansol's hand is fisted in yours and he's pulling you through the crowd of guests, past a slightly tipsy Seungcheol who whistles at the sight of you, past his mother who pretends not to see the urgency her son is dragging you toward her house, past Angela who is too busy directing the sparkler send-off to notice her florist flipping away from the reception with the best man.

You laugh, stumbling over your heels on the stone patio. "Hansol, slow down."

You try to slow him down, but he only tightens his grip on your hand, glancing back at you with hungry eyes.

"Can't," he mutters, tugging you through the doors and into the quiet hush of the house. "I'm not waiting another goddamn minute."

The house is empty, since the staff are all outside handling the reception and the guests are gathered on the lawn. The only sound is the distant thumping of the bass from the band and the click of your heels against the hardwood as Hansol pulls you up the staircase, two steps at a time.

He leads you unhesitatingly to the last door on the left, exactly where you knew he would: his childhood bedroom.

The hallway passes you in a blur before he's pushing the door open and pulling you inside. The room is like a whole new wave of memories. The same navy-blue walls, the framed vinyl records above his old desk, the queen bed against the far wall with its rumpled white duvet. You can see that he probably slept here last night, because there's a duffel bag by the closet and a pair of sneakers kicked off near the desk.

The door clicks shut behind you.

And then Hansol is on you.

His hands cup your face, tilting your chin up, and his mouth crashes down onto yours with none of the careful restraint he'd shown before—if you can even call it that. This kiss is greedy and hungry. His tongue slides against yours, and you're, once again, moaning into his mouth, hands flying up to grip the lapels of his tuxedo jacket.

The way he kisses you— like he's been starving, like you're the only thing he's ever craved—makes your mind spin. You want nothing more than to be devoured by him.

"Fuck," he breathes against your lips, walking you backward until your shoulder blades hit the closed door. His hands drop from your face to your waist, gripping the silk of the dress. "Fuck, I forgot. I forgot how good you taste."

"Hansol—"

He kisses you again before you can say another word. One hand slides up the side of your throat to cup your jaw, tilting your head exactly the way he wants. His thumb presses against the corner of your mouth, and you open for him willingly, letting him lick into you with slow, filthy heat that makes your knees go weak.

Your hands are shaking as they push his tuxedo jacket off his shoulders. It falls to the floor with a soft thump, and Hansol doesn't even glance at it. He's too busy dragging his mouth down the line of your jaw, the column of your throat, pressing hot, open-mouthed kisses to the pulse fluttering wildly under your skin.

"Look at you in this fucking dress," he murmurs, voice a low rumble against your collarbone. His hands slide down to your hips, gripping them possessively.

You gasp, arching into him as his teeth assault your throat. "It's not my dress."

He nips at your skin, and you feel it all the way down between your legs. "Don't care. It might as well be made for you."

His mouth is on yours again, and this time his hands start moving more frantic than before. They slide up your sides, thumbs brushing the underside of your breasts through the silk, and you whimper shamelessly, feeling like you could melt right there.

Your head spins as he slowly draws back from your lips again, a fine thread of saliva stretching between them. He rests his forehead against yours for the briefest moment before nuzzling his face into the curve of your cheek, his lips brushing your ear in a teasing bite.

"You have any idea," he groans, breath hot against your ear as his hands skims down over your hip, gathering the silk of the dress in his fists, dragging the hem higher, "how many times I've thought about having you again? Every fucking night. Every fucking night for four years."

"Hansol—" His name breaks on your tongue as his palms slide under the hem of the dress, up the outside of your bare thigh.

"Tell me you thought about it too."

"I did," you whine. "So much."

His fingers trace the elastic of your underwear, and you feel him smile against your throat. "Yeah? Tell me, then. Tell me what you thought about, baby."

You can't. You can barely form words right now. His hands are inching up, thumbs pressing against your hipbone, and you're clinging to his shirt like you'll fall over if you let go.

Hansol seems to take pity on you, pulling back just enough to look at your face, and what he sees there makes his eyes darken to almost full black. A millisecond later he's kissing you again, and moving, and before you fully register what's happening, he's guiding you across the room to his old study desk.

In one smooth motion, he grips your waist and lifts you up onto it. You gasp at the sudden movement and the cool wood pressing against the backs of your thighs where the dress has ridden up. Hansol steps between your knees, forcing them apart with his hips, and cups your face again, pressing a soft kiss to your lips.

Then he drops to his knees.

Your breath leaves your lugs. He's still in his tuxedo pants and his white dress shirt, sleeves shove up his forearms now, his bow tie hanging loose around his neck—the one you tied for him hours ago—and he's staring up at you like you're something holy.

"Hansol."

"Yeah, baby?"

"I—" You don't know what you're going to say. You just want to say his name again. And again, again, again, again.

He smiles, soft and slow. And then his hands are on your knees, spreading them wilder, pushing the silk dress up higher until it's bunched around your waist and you're bare to him except for the thin cotton of your underwear. For a moment, you wish you were wearing something prettier and nicer for this moment, but those thoughts are soon silenced by his voice.

"Fuck me."

His fingers trace the edge of the fabric where it meets your thigh, and your hips roll forward instinctively at the touch.

"You're already wet, baby. I can see it through your underwear."

You cover your face with your hands. "Oh God."

He immediately catches your wrist, grip gentle as he guides your hand away. "Don't. Don't hide. I want to see you."

Hansol then hooks his fingers into the waistband of your underwear and drags it down your legs, slowly, taking his sweet time, his eyes fixed on your core. You lift your hips to help him, and he pulls it off over your heels, then shoves them into his pocket.

"Hansol!"

He grins, and it's so wolfish, so filthy, that more heat floods between your legs. "Mine now."

He plants his hands on your inner thighs, spreading you wider. His breath ghosts over you, warm and unbearable, and you shudder.

"Look at that," he murmurs, almost reverent. "Look how pretty. Missed this. Missed you so fucking much, baby."

The first stroke of his tongue makes you cry out, your hips jerking forward, and he immediately clamps a hand down on your hip to hold you in place. Hansol drags his tongue up through your folds, slow and thorough, and you throw your head back so hard it thuds against the wall behind the desk.

"Oh fuck!"

"That's it. Let me hear you," he groans against your core.

Hansol knows exactly what he's doing. Most importantly, he remembers—God, he remembers—that you like it slow at first. Long, flat licks up your center, his tongue soft and unhurried, warming you up. His hand slide under your thighs, hooking your knees over his shoulders, pulling you closer to the edge of the desk.

You look down at him and almost combust. His head is buried between your legs, his dress shirt rumpled from your grabbing hands, and his eyes flick up to meet yours the exact second you look at him. He holds your gaze while his tongue drags a slow circle around your clit, and the sight of him—your Hansol, one his knees for you—is almost enough to push you over on its own.

A whimper escapes you, certain there's no air left in your lungs. "Baby."

You don't even know how it's possible, but his gaze grows darker. Hansol sucks your clit into his mouth, hard, and your back arches off the wall.

"Hansol!"

He hums against you, appreciatively, and the vibration makes your thighs shake around his head. He's making obscene, borderline pornographic noises, wet, filthy sounds that echoes through the room, and he's not slowing down, not letting up, his tongue flicking against your clit in fast, precise strokes that have you climbing embarrassingly fast.

"Oh god, I'm—already, I'm gonna—"

"Yeah, you are," he growls, pulling back just enough to speak, his lips glistening. "Come on my tongue. Give it to me."

Hansol dives back in, and this time he slides a finger inside you, then a second, curling them up in that perfect way that only he ever figured out how to in all these years. There, you lose it. Your hand flies to his hair, gripping tight, and you come hard with a broken cry, thighs clamping around his head, hips bucking helplessly into his mouth.

He works you through it. Slow, gentle laps of his tongues, his fingers sliding out of your and stroking soothingly along your inner thigh. When you finally slump against the wall, boneless and shaking, he presses one last kiss to the inside of your thigh and looks up at you with the most self-satisfied smile you've ever seen.

"There she is."

Your voice is wrecked but you manage to say, "Shut up."

"Missed that face."

"Hansol, I swear to god—"

He stands up, and before you can catch your breath, he's kissing you again. You can taste yourself on his tongue, and it should be too much but instead it makes something hot coil low in your belly all over again. His hands cup your face, his thumbs stroking your cheekbones, and he kisses you like he can't help himself.

"Bed," he says against your mouth.

"Please."

He pulls you away from the desk. Your legs are so shaky that you would have stumbled if he hadn't slipped an arm around your waist to steady you. Without letting go, he guides you backward to his old bed, dressed in navy sheets and topped with mismatched pillows, before easing you down onto the mattress as though you're made of glass.

Then he stands at the foot of the bed and looks at you like he can't quite believe you're real.

You're a mess. The dress is bunched around your waist, one strap slipping off your shoulder, your hair coming loose from the chignon. Your legs are bare, spread slightly, and you can feel yourself still throbbing from his mouth. You should be self-conscious, but the way Hansol's looking at you makes it impossible.

"Get up here," you practically beg.

"In a second."

His fingers move to his bow tie, tugging it loose the rest of the way. It drops to the floor. Then the buttons of his vest, one by one—the same vest you buttoned for him hours ago. Then the crisp white shirt, tugged out of his waistband and unbuttoned with maddening slowness.

You can't take it. You sit up, reach for him, and pull him down onto the bed on top of you.

Hansol laughs against your mouth, a real, warm laugh, and then he kisses you slowly, one hand cradling the back of your head, the other sliding down to grip your hip. He rolls his body against yours, and you feel his hardness straining against the fabric of his pants, making your hips buck into his.

"Off," you gasp, tugging at his shirt. "Off, off…"

He shrugs the shirt off his shoulders, and then he's shirtless above you, all muscle and warm skin, and you drag your palms down his chest, over his ribs, memorizing him all over again. There's a tattoo on his ribcage, a small line of Korean script, that you don't recognize.

You trace it with your fingers. "What does this say?"

He looks down at you. His eyes are soft. "I'll tell you later."

"Hansol—"

"Later, baby."

He closes the distance between you again, and this time when his hand slides down your body it's to shove the bunched-up silk of the dress up over your head. You lift your arms and let him pull it off, and then you're lying beneath him in nothing but strapless bra and your heels.

He sits back on his heels, taking you in. His pupils are blown wide.

"You," he says, voice rough, "are the most beautiful thing I have ever seen."

"Body worship later," you reply, breathless. "Pants off now, Chwe."

Hansol laughs, but he obeys. He stands off the bed just long enough to unbuckle his belt and shove his pants and briefs down together, kicking them off with his shoes and socks in one graceless motion, and then he's back on the bed, back on top of you.

You feel him against your thigh, hot and hard, and you gasp.

"Hansol, please…"

"I know, baby." He reaches down between you, wraps a hand around himself, and drags the head of his cock through your slick, coating himself. "I know. I'll take care of you."

He pauses right at your entrance. His forehead drops to yours.

"I don't have anything," he whispers. "I didn't—unlike my mother, I wasn't planning this."

You giggle briefly. "I'm on the pill. I'm clean, I haven't… it's been a while."

"Me too. It's been a while."

"Then don't stop. Please."

He kisses you as he pushes inside you.

You both moan. His forehead is pressed to yours, and his eyes are squeezed shut, and his jaw is clenched so tight you can see the muscle jumping. He sinks into you inch by inch, and it's been so long that it's almost too much, the stretch of him, the heat, the familiar-unfamiliar feeling of him inside your again.

"Fuck. Holy shit, you feel—"

"Hansol." You cup his face. "Hansol, look at me."

He opens his eyes.

"Hi," you whisper.

His voice cracks. "Hi."

You pull his mouth down to yours, and he starts to move.

Slow—so slow. Long, deep rolls of his hips that push him all the way inside you and drag him back out to the tip, and every stroke he groans against your mouth like it's killing him. His hand slides down to grip the back of your thigh, hitching your leg up higher around his waist, and the new angle makes him hit somewhere inside you that has you gasping into his mouth.

"That's it," he mumbles. "Feel that?"

"Yes!"

"I know. I know, baby. I've got you."

He kisses you again, and again, and again. Between every stroke. His mouth on yours, on your jaw, on the hinge of your neck. His hand slides up from your thigh to your breast, thumb rolling over your nipple through the bra, and you arch up into him with a whimper.

"Take this off," he groans against your throat, tugging at the strapless bra. "Wanna see all of you."

He slips it off your shoulders and tosses it over the side of the bed as though it has personally offended him, and then his mouth is on your breast, tongue circling your nipple as he continues to fuck into you with those deep rolls that are unraveling you thread by thread.

He's whispering something against your skin, but you can barely make it out, your mind clouded by everything he's making you feel with every stroke.

"Beautiful. Every inch of you. Fucking perfect. Made for me."

"Hansol…"

"Made for me," he repeats, biting down gently at the swell of your breast. "Say it."

"Made for you."

He drags his mouth back up to yours. "Yeah. That's right. That's fucking right, baby."

Hansol picks up the pace just enough that the pleasure that had been slow and unfurling suddenly starts to spark hotter. Your hand slides up his back, nails scraping lightly, and he groans and drops his forehead to your shoulder.

"Do that again."

You do. You drag your nails down his back, and he shudders, hips stuttering, and buries his face in your throat.

"Fuck, I'm not gonna last if you—"

"I don't care." You turn your face into his hair. "I don't care, Hansol, I want you to."

"No." He pulls back. Kisses you hard. "No. You come first. You always come first."

He slides a hand between your bodies, his thumb finding your clit, and starting to circle it in tight, precise little strokes that match the rhythm of his hips, and you feel it building fast, embarrassingly fast, that hot coil low in your belly winding tighter and tighter.

"That's it," he coaxes, watching your face. "I can feel you, you're squeezing me so tight."

You come with a cry, gripping his shoulder hard enough to bruise, and he fucks you through it with those same slow, deep strokes, his thumb still circling your clit until you're twitching and oversensitive and pushing his hand away.

"Good girl," he murmurs, kissing your temple. "Good girl. Look at you."

You can barely catch your breath before he's rolling you.

You gasp as he flips you onto your stomach, one big warm hand splayed at the small of your back, holding you down. He drags a pillow under your hips, tilting you up, and then he's pushing back inside you from behind and you're moaning into the pillow before he's even fully seated.

"You okay, babe?" His hand slides up your spine, gathering the loose strands of your hair into his fist. He tugs, gently, tilting your head back. "Fuck, this angle."

"Yeah, more. Please."

He drives into you, deeper this time—thanks to the new position—his hand in your hair keeps your head tilted so he can lean down and speak against your ear, and his other hand is gripping your hip so tight you know you'll have marks tomorrow.

"So good," he mumbles. "So fucking good for me. Taking me so well. You feel so goddamn perfect around me. Missed this. Missed you."

You whimper into the pillow.

"Yeah? You like this?" He tugs your hair again. "Talk to me, baby."

"I love it, Hansol, I love it, please don't stop."

His voice cracks. "Never. Never again. I swear to fucking god, never again."

He fucks you like he means it. Even deeper and harder, purposeful strokes that have you gripping the sheets, whimpering with every thrust. His hand releases your hair and slides down under you, finding your clit again, and you nearly sob.

"Hansol— Hansol, I can't— again, I'm gonna—"

"Yeah you are. That's three. Come on. One more."

His fingers work you in tight circles, and his hips don't let up, and you fall apart under him for the third time, your orgasm ripping through you so hard that your whole body shakes. You feel him falter, feel him groan into your hair, and then his fingers tighten on your hip.

"Holy fuck, I'm gonna—"

"Inside." You barely recognize your own voice. "Inside, Hansol, please."

Hansol curses again, and slams into you one more time. And then he's coming with a low, guttural groan against your shoulder, his hips jerking, his forehead pressed to your back, and you feel every pulse of him deep inside you.

For a long moment, neither of you move. His weight is warm and heavy on your back, and his breath is ragged in your hair, and you can feel his heartbeat pounding against your spine.

He kisses your shoulder. The nape of your neck. Behind your ear.

"Babe," he mumbles.

"Hmm?"

"Don't move."

Hansol carefully slides out of you, and you feel him, hot and thick, dripping down your inner thigh, and you make a small, embarrassed sound into the pillow.

"Hansol, oh my god!"

"Shh." His hand slides down between your legs, and you feel his fingers gather what's spilling out. "I've got you."

You feel him drag his fingers back up, pushing it back inside you, and you moan into the pillow.

"There we go. That's mine. All mine."

He does it again one last time, slow, deliberate. Then he turns you gently onto your back, and he's staring down at you with such open, wrecked adoration that your eyes prick with tears.

"Open your mouth, baby."

You do.

Hansol brings his fingers—slick with him, with you—to your lips, and slides them in. You close your mouth around them and taste him, salt and heat, and his eyes go completely black.

He bends down and captures your lips in another kiss, licking into your mouth, chasing his own taste on your tongue. The kiss turns wonderfully deep and messy, leaving you both breathless before he finally pulls back just.

"Fuck. You have no idea what you do to me."

You wrap your arms around his neck and pull him down against you. He collapses onto his side, gathering you into his chest, one heavy leg thrown over your hips, keeping you pinned to him.

There's a small silence, and you can hear the distant thump of the reception band, still going strong outside. Someone must have started the sparkler send-off; you can hear cheers filtering up through the window.

Hansol traces slow circles on your bare hip.

"The tattoo," he says quietly, after a long moment.

You lift your head from his chest. "Hm?"

"You asked what it said." He looks at you. "It's from that old book you had. The Dictionary of Flowers? The meaning of a forget-me-not."

You feel dizzy.

"I got it after I realized I was never going to feel it again unless I came back to you."

You don't have words. So you kiss him instead. When you pull back, he brushes your hair off your forehead. His eyes are impossibly soft.

"Still want that burger?" he asks.

You laugh. Wet, watery, real.

"Yeah, Hansol."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. But maybe in an hour."

"An hour." He grins, slow and wicked, and rolls on top of you again. "And maybe tomorrow we can take Poppy to the Natural History Museum."

"Sounds perfect to me."

# NAVIGATION | MASTERLIST | PERMANENT TAGLIST

If you’re enjoying it, don’t forget to reblog, helps so much and gets the fic out there!! 💗

PERMANENT TAGLIST: @bmo-bri @codeinebelle @tinyelfperson @dcrlingyou @my-atiny-kookie-rkive @haaruki @bath1lda @hoshstruck @wubbz05 @jihoonsbbygirl @smiileflower @tastyluvr @gyuguys @nerdycheol @christinewithluv @jesauiin @ughokmyg @raggedypansexual @caratcak3 @ateez-atiny380 @meowchella @jeonsfries @whoisbaek15 @damnedangel98 @sumzysworld @theidontknowmehn @mingyuuulover @andreethier @sarabencze @weepingsweep @minhui896 @blaycke @miyx-amour @pl4netx1a @ohwowzersthatscool @ahuiahoe @bee-the-loser @im-gemmy @ssamarzi @my-neurodivergent-world @wonsrat @starmy-143 @wonu13 @unlikelysublimekryptonite @nonuverse @gyuhao365 @healingmv @coupsarchive @imhereonlytoread

© VERNONVERSE. I do not condone reposting, plagiarizing or translating my work in any form.

[jeonghaniehaee]

this was so beautifully written. this is an amazing amazing fic!!! definitely a top tier vernon fic 🥹🥹🥹

[seobmoji]

ft. c. hansol : Singasong

[1.7k!] ─── 📁. Supporting your very close and personal friend Minghao at one of his sets was never a problem… until he brings along someone you can’t seem to take your eyes off of.

YOOOOOOOO this is for mika btw. club setting, ib comes from v8 listening party, for mika, emowig!vernon, pls don’t forget the wig it’s crucial (not actually), hi this is for @wonubug, nonidol!vernon, minghao cameo obviously UMMM. i’m sorry IDK HOW I FELL it starts off super in the head and with a bunch of eye tag but WHATEVER. THE GIRLS AND BOYS ARE SO TIGHT! para Mika

You had opted for a night in… but when your phone rang with a call from Minghao asking if you’d be willing to watch him perform yet another gig, you couldn’t find it in you to decline.

Why would you? There’d be good music, you got to dress up, and you were able to be there for someone close to you as he did what he enjoyed most.

Oh, and the free drinks at the bar were certainly a plus.

You ran your finger down the glass in front of you, one leg crossed over the other as you twisted your body to the ever-growing crowd Minghao was gathering.

Seeing him like this, entirely in his element, was enough to pull a smile out of you before you down the rest of your drink and push yourself up. You figured you’d done enough sitting around.

Skillfully maneuvering your way through the sea of dancing bodies, your steps come to a stop the second you reach the front.

Which is the very moment a man unfamiliar to you steps onto the platform, slapping a hand onto Minghao’s shoulder playfully as if the two had known each other for forever.

Obviously, yeah. Sure. This is the first you’ve seen of him, though.

Your head tilts in what you can only describe as intrigue, because on one hand, you thought: Who the hell was this guy? And: Is that a wig? While on the other, it was: This has genuinely got to be the most handsomest man you’ve ever seen.

And then, as if he’d somehow heard said thoughts, his gaze lands right on yours.

Stiffening instantly, you quickly tear your eyes away and fight a futile fight against the heat warming your cheeks. How a measly three seconds of eye contact managed to deter you like this, you’ll never know. Not to mention, you still didn’t know who he was!

But, like a moth drawn to a flame, you couldn’t help the way your attention kept flitting back to him. If he moved even the slightest bit, you’d catch onto the movement without missing a second. If you heard him laugh at something your friend said, it’s almost as if the music itself drowned out so you could hear the sound better. If when—

The flow of your thoughts are cut off when you notice him leaning over Minghao’s setup, the corners of his lips twitching into a smile as he nods at whoever it was he was suddenly talking to. Dragging your gaze, you stop at the sight of a group of people who, by the looks of it, seem very much interested in him, too.

Just like that, you’re snapped back into reality. He was attractive. He was basically on the main stage. And you clearly weren’t the only one with him on their mind.

If this wasn’t his first cameo, you’ll like to take a lucky guess and say that this might happen to him a lot. With that in the air, you purse your lips and turn away. You should be paying more attention to the reason why you were even here in the first place. Like you should’ve been doing from the get-go.

But for some reason, no amount of dancing, small talk with the strangers around you, or even the music was enough for you to keep your eyes off of him. You couldn’t quite seem to get it.

He did, though.

He more than got it, in fact. From the moment he saw you in the crowd, only to come to the quick and surprising realization that you’d been staring at him too? Looking away hadn’t even crossed his mind since your eyes caught.

But after that, to his dismay, you hadn’t really looked at him. Only when you’d meet for less than a second and then look away as if you hadn’t meant to.

He knew he’d have to up the ante, as pathetic as it may sound… considering he didn’t know what your name was or anything, it felt right.

However, you fought hard against it. Fought even harder when he’d do something that almost commanded your attention. Like when he’d grab the vacated microphone and would urge the crowd to be louder than they were, or when he’d do a stupid little dance that only made you want to smack your head into a wall.

It isn’t until he moves to step in front of the deck that you can’t help yourself, only to find that he was already looking at you.

You blink in surprise, wanting to look away.

You’re about to, actually, when you see the faintest upturn of his mouth. Almost as if getting you to notice him was his mission and he’d just accomplished it.

Tilting your head in that curious way once again, you hold his gaze for a few more seconds before you drag it away, not fast enough that you spot the way his expression immediately drops.

It makes you want to try something.

Just as the music shifts in tone, you spare him another glance, realizing your hunch was right when you see him divert his attention for no less than a second before it’s back on you again.

Well. You’re sure now that you’re not going insane and imagining things. You quirk an eyebrow and watch as he flashes a grin almost immediately, the sight enough for your brain to short-circuit.

Now what? You didn’t plan this far ahead, so with careful steps behind you, you allow yourself to disappear into the bustling crowd.

If he wanted to find you, he would. But in the meantime, you’d need the time to think about what your next move would be. If it came to it.

Letting out a much-needed breath, you turn on your heel and make a beeline for the spot you already knew would help calm the sudden nerves that sparked to life the instant he showed his face.

Back to the bar you went.

Immediately sliding into one of the barstools and ordering yourself a drink, you’re extra cautious when you spare another glance over your shoulder, your muscles relaxing when you see he was still there.

You felt a little foolish, sitting here wondering if he’d approach you solely because you caught each other’s attention from time to time.

Perhaps you should order a ride home now.

Seconds after your drink is set in front of you, you waste no time wrapping your fingers around the glass and bringing it to your lips, appreciating the burn that runs down your throat, thankful for something else to distract you.

“Bad day?” a voice from nearby asks, and without looking, you sigh and shake your head.

You set your drink down. “Just thinking.”

“Hm,” they murmur, closer than before, and it’s then you notice a figure sit down in your peripheral. “Anything worth sharing?”

“To someone I don’t—” your words die in your throat when you look over and see that it’s him. The very reason you were in this self-induced inner turmoil in the first place. And he was rid of the wig you saw him with, only making seeing him so much more irritating.

The man gives a lopsided grin. “Know?” he finishes.

“Yeah,” you breathe after catching your bearings, back straightening almost instinctively.

He ponders for a moment, gaze inquisitive as he stares at you. Then, he leans back and offers his hand. “My name is Hansol.”

“Hi, Hansol,” you reply, oblivious when his smile widens a fraction more. “I’m still not going to tell you.”

With his hand still outstretched, he waggles his fingers and you finally catch the gesture, slowly sliding your palm into his. “That’s okay. I just wanted to tell you.” A small pause. “Do you come here often?”

He’s yet to release you, and you him. It’s not looking like that’ll be the case anytime soon, though. “Kind of. My friend—he’s the DJ. He invited me.”

His eyebrows shoot up, grip on your hand tightening ever-so-slightly. “You know Minghao?”

“I was wanting to ask you that.”

A small chuckle leaves his lips and he shrugs one of his shoulders. “Yeah, I do,” he retorts, letting your clasped hands fall onto your lap, the very tip of his thumb brushing against the exposed skin of your thigh that the hem of your skirt fails to meet.

He must realize because, despite the dark atmosphere and ever-changing colors of the lights, he swallows thickly, his gaze averting for what feels like the first time since this… whatever this was, started.

“Uh—”

You blink, quirking an eyebrow at the sudden change in his demeanor.

“I don’t know your name,” he recovers with as you use your free hand to take another sip of your drink, unable to stop the smile when doing so, amused.

“No, you don’t,” you hum, setting your glass back down, and it’s then you pull your hand away.

His lips twitch, unfazed by the loss of contact as if he was enjoying this back-and-forth as much as you were. In fact, you think you even catch a glimpse of the façade you thought had vanished. “What do I have to do for you to tell me?”

Practically lighting up at the idea of him thinking he has to do something in order to earn your name, you think to yourself for a moment. You know you’d like to see him again, but you’re starting to feel the day catch up to you… so, with a mischievous hint to your expression, you rise to your feet and say, “Minghao.”

“Minghao?” he echoes, confused.

You smile softly, eyes gleaming when he looks genuinely displeased. With his brows furrowed and his gaze flickering all over your features as if committing them to memory. “Bye, Hansol.”

As you brush past, your hip brushes lightly against his knee and he looks up at you quizzically, still trying to decipher what it is you could have possibly meant.

It isn’t like he’s given much time to think about it because you’re already out the door, gone.

You, on the other hand, are feeling great as you exit the bar and hop into the Uber you’d scheduled, the smile yet to fall. He’d find you, you’re confident now.

And it’s as you’re stumbling into your apartment that you hear your phone buzz from inside your purse after kicking off your heels. It’s him, you know it is. You have a feeling.

So, digging through your bag, you pull it out and laugh fondly at the sight of two new messages.

Minghao: Thanks for coming. Did you get it?

Unknown Number: I see now what you meant by Minghao. It’s Hansol. Did you get home safely?

A/N: i’m sorry i’m so fucking sorry i’m so ofjsijdisjdijs. if it looked like some parts were pulled from a butt it was. Pulled straight from mine is that ok with everyone 😭😭😭😭 IDK FUCK PLEASE BE NICE TO ME OK. MIKA. also speaking of THIS IS STRICTLY FOR MIKA!!!!! and if u Fw. then this is for u too. in a respectful manner tho Ok?

🏷️ @wonubug @endoll @chccnne @aesprn @wonwounds @kamxstar @hardbeingcasual @alienslostinworld @sullyswife @seraph1cfae @seomisaho @jiumeow @kyoteas

[jeonghaniehaee]

i like LOVE V8 and vernons hair in that dj music showcase whatever it was,, cute cute cute story!!!

[featleaz]

guys I have an unhealthy obsession with Joshua Hong

[straylightdream]

sleepless in the studio

˙⋆✮ 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.

[jeonghaniehaee]

loveee vernon!!! cute fic 👌👌👌

[daechwitatamic]

impossible || kmg

(banner by @sailorsoons)

written for the AJU LEAGUE collab hosted by @/sailorsoons and @100vern !!

impossible kmg x reader exes to ??? SFW but minors are not welcome on my blog

summary: Mingyu, the city's star pitcher, is everywhere. His face is on the city buses. His interviews play on the televisions in the waiting room at the doctor’s office. His stupid social media videos are constantly in your face. As a non-sport girlie, this would be annoying. As his ex, it's downright painful. You can't escape your past with Mingyu. Not in this city. It'd be nothing short of impossible.

wc: 14k

general warnings: language, drinking, injury and hospital scenes, allusion to past sexual activity, legal use of prescription pain medications, hurt feelings, not miscom-miscom but poor communication or lack of it in the past, kissing

a/n: he's finally here!!! please enjoy this fic and the rest in the collab as they are posted! thank you to the collab hosts <3 this is unedited and unbeta'ed so any mistakes are my own

--

Your ex smiles at you and your stomach turns over, a single motion as clean as flipping a pancake. His eyes crinkle and his stupid little fang peeks at you and you clench your hands into fists, lowering your eyes to the slightly sticky cafe floor under your feet. 

His voice reaches you anyway, yapping a mile a minute in that distinct and unmatchable Mingyu way, talking excitedly about the upcoming playoff game.

“Personally, I don’t think the pressure will be a negative factor. If anything, it helps us to focus -”

The line moves, the two college-aged girls in front of you putting their phones away as they step up to the barista to order their matcha lattes or whatever, and Mingyu’s voice blessedly falls silent.

Because he’d been smiling at you from one of their phone screens. They’d been watching soundbites of his last interview on tiktok while they waited.

It happens to you all the time - Mingyu’s face on the city buses as they pass. Mingyu’s interviews playing on the televisions in the waiting room at the doctor’s office. Mingyu’s stupid social media videos in your face. Everywhere you go, no matter the time of day or night - you’re never safe, not unless you save up enough money to move far, far away. 

Unfortunately, you live in a baseball city, and even more unfortunately, Mingyu is their star pitcher or something. 

(Okay, you pretend not to know, but you dated him long enough that you do know the specifics. He’s the closer, not a starter. You can talk extensively about what that means, but… why would you want to?)

Even if you did move out of the city, you wouldn’t escape him. He’s turned into the team’s precious social media darling, because he’s cute and charming and positive. Even the anti-sport girlies know his name. He’s everywhere. You can’t escape your past with Mingyu. It’d be nothing short of impossible.

You get your coffee and grab an express bus to work, surviving still more Mingyu conversation on the way. (“They’re going to need to expand the bullpen eventually,” the business bro standing behind you on the bus says emphatically into his airpods. “What happens if he gets hurt? They’ve got no one.” A curse upon this godforsaken baseball city!)

When you slam your purse onto your desk, your cube-mate Wonwoo turns in his swivel-chair, his expression somehow both flat and indulgent. 

“What’s the count today?”

You sigh. “Only three. But one of them was an elderly lady shoving a magazine cover in my face and asking me if I don’t think he’s so handsome. That should count for five just because she invaded my personal space.”

Wonwoo grimaces on your behalf. 

“Sure,” you say, voice laced with sarcasm as you drop into your chair and wiggle your mouse to bring your screen to life, “he’s good-looking. But did you know, random bus stop grandma, that his farts can clear a room? And that he breaks at least three coffee mugs a month? And that he doesn’t rinse his toothpaste out of the sink no matter how many times you nag him about it?”

Did you know that he’ll tell you he wants a life with you, and then watch it burn to ash?

“She does not know all that,” Wonwoo deadpans. “Maybe you should do an op-ed. The public deserves the truth.”

“Shut the fuck up,” you grumble, but a laugh threatens to tip out of you. You pull up your email, fingers already flying across the keys. “I either need a work-from-home assignment, or I need to cross the city with blinders on like a damn racehorse.”

“We still on for tonight?” Wonwoo asks, entirely ignoring your tirade. 

“Yeah,” you tell him glumly. “I still can’t believe you’re abandoning me.”

He laughs, a bit of exasperation in it. “We’ve been over this.”

You huff, your eyes on your screen, half of your attention on your work and the other half on your conversation. 

“I’ll be back in no time.”

“Months, Wonwoo, you’ll be gone for months.”

“You’ll be fine.”

“I will be bored. You better bring me back so many presents.”

In all honesty, you are happy for Wonwoo and his opportunity to take a project abroad. And you know you’ll still talk, and when he comes back you’ll have your Work Bestie back. But it doesn’t change that your day to day will inevitably be a little lonelier without him. 

It doesn’t change the fact that, ever since your breakup with Mingyu, Wonwoo is basically your only friend.

The night, despite being Wonwoo’s big going away event, ends up just like a hundred nights before: you and Wonwoo side by side at the bar, separated by the pitcher of beer you’re sharing, bitching about work.

It isn’t long before you’re also separated by his girlfriend, Seona, who joins you for after-work-drinks about half the time. She squeezes between you, already reaching for the pitcher of beer and the empty glass you’d saved for her.

“Hey,” she greets you, even as her arm snakes around Wonwoo’s waist, her body automatically leaning into his. “What’d you do today?”

“Worked,” you shrug. “FaceTimed my mom. Ate dinner over my sink like a rat. Came here.”

“How’s your mom?” Seona asks, gracefully ignoring the rat comment.

“She’s good,” you say. “Living her best sugar baby life.”

Wonwoo chokes on his beer, spluttering into his glass and coughing twice, wiping at his mouth as Seona pats unhelpfully on his back. 

“Your mom is not a sugar baby,” he objects. 

You shrug again, nonplussed. “Well she’s being taken on a two-month-long overseas adventure by her rich boyfriend and I am here, third-wheeling after a day at my very boring, soulless job, so. I think I can describe it however I want.”

“Did they leave yet?” Seona asks, again stepping cleanly around your nonsense. She’s got it down to an art at this point - you say whatever bullshit, and Seona neatly picks out the one piece of actual information and chases that.

“They leave Sunday,” you say. “When I called her today, she was, like, drowning in piles of clothes. Trying to decide what to pack, you know how it is.”

Your eyes scan the bottles behind the bar as you chat, eventually falling on the television screen behind the bartender’s head. Your stomach sours and you feel the smile fall off your face.

You sip at your drink, making a concentrated effort to ignore the baseball game, but now that you’ve noticed it’s on, you’re noticing everything else too - the many jerseys being worn around you, the shouts and cheers, the way you’re crowded more tightly against the bar tonight, because the sports fans are here.

Wonwoo notices you have this little realization and grimaces at you over Seona’s head. 

“Sorry, bestie,” he says quietly. “It’s the play-offs. If they lose tonight -”

“I know how play-offs work,” you snap. You feel bad for it before it’s even completely out of your mouth. “Sorry,” you add. “I get very…”

“We know,” Seona says, placing a forgiving hand on your arm. “You’re a very nice girl when Kim Mingyu isn’t on the television.”

You try to do better through the rest of the night. You turn sideways so you can look straight at your friends and keep the television more firmly behind you, but you can’t help but glance at the score every now and then. The game is close. 

You haven’t had to care about baseball in over a year, and back when you used to “care” it was only by proxy from dating Mingyu. Of course you wanted your boyfriend’s team to win, back then. 

When he broke up with you, you’d thought you’d be stepping blithely away from the baseball world, happy to exist in ignorance again. And mostly, you have - you don’t turn the games on, don’t listen to the radio broadcasts, don’t seek out the clips or interviews. But fourteen months away from Mingyu haven’t been enough to completely chase the habit - you catch yourself watching the numbers in the corner of the screen, some tiny part of your brain trained to pay attention.

To distract yourself, you talk to Seona about her upcoming relocation - she works fully remote, so she’ll be joining Wonwoo when he leaves for his project in Europe. The distraction works well for a while, as you listen to her talk about the apartment they’ll be leasing, the restaurants she’s already scouted, the museums she wants to get to first. 

But when the stadium’s lights go out on the screen - Mingyu’s dramatic entrance  - you stop mid-sentence to turn and watch.

Most of the people around you do, too. The tvs are muted, so you can’t hear Mingyu’s bass-heavy entrance music, but you know it by heart and it rings in your head as Mingyu strides onto the field. 

His team is down by one in the final inning. The opposing team has two runners on base. Mingyu’s job as the closer is to get three outs without allowing either of those runners to make it home.

He’s good at it. 

He’s amazing at it, which is why he got signed to this team about a year before your breakup, why his salary is more than years of your own, why everyone in the whole country seems to know his name.

Pride and bitterness wage war behind your ribs - the first one coming unbidden and unwanted, followed by the belated recollection that he isn’t yours to be proud of, not anymore. The bitterness churns through the beer in your stomach, but you still can’t tear your eyes from the screen as Mingyu stands astride the pitcher’s mound. 

It burns you up to admit it… but the deepest, most secret place in your heart is still rooting for him. Hoping he does well. Hoping he leaves tonight feeling proud, not dejected.

You want to hate him - you should hate him. But you never really could. 

The whole bar seems to hold its collective breath as Mingyu spins the ball in his hand, narrows his eyes, leans forward to peer at the catcher’s hand signals. 

The first pitch is a ball, too high.

“Come on, Mingyu,” Wonwoo mutters beside you. You shoot him a sideways look, but you can’t blame him. Not when your own inner dialogue said the same thing. Not when you catch yourself clenching your hands into nervous little fists.

“He’s getting too old for this,” someone behind you says, and Seona grabs your elbow before you can turn around and glare. You shouldn’t be fighting to defend his honor, anyway, not after he left you. 

Mingyu’s next two pitches are strikes. The umpire’s shout rings in your head even though you can’t actually hear it. Then, another ball - outside. It’s followed by, thankfully, a third strike.

You exhale. Try to look casual, sip at your beer. Remind yourself that this man broke your fucking heart and you shouldn’t even be watching, let alone feeling anxious for him.

The next batter hits a slow roller towards first base and gets easily tagged out, the first baseman jogging lazily back to his spot after the tag. 

Two outs, but the runners who were out there have advanced, meaning now there’s someone on third base eyeing home plate hungrily. The camera pans the crowd, who are going bananas. Mingyu needs one more out, and then his team will have a turn to bat and hopefully score the necessary two runs to pull ahead. 

The crowd around you presses closer as the next batter walks up. Conversations hush slightly. The guy’s a big hitter.

Mingyu walks him intentionally, four balls in a row. Smart, probably. A good call. But now the bases are fucking loaded.

The woman to your left covers her eyes with her hands and mutters, “I can’t look.”

Ah, play-offs season. A uniquely beautiful time.

The fourth batter approaches home plate. The camera shows Mingyu’s face for a second, focused and serious, then switches to a wider view just in time for him to throw the first strike. 

Two more. He only needs two more.

Your hands tighten around your beer glass as the next ball goes skyward at the sharp crack of the bat- but it lands foul, which counts as a strike. 

You bounce on your feet nervously, watching intently as Mingyu lines up the next pitch. He only needs one more strike and he’s done his job. Your body thrums with tension and nerves - the whole room does. 

The next pitch zips straight down the middle and the batter swings. The camera tracks the ball up and left, and you find yourself holding your breath.

The third baseman gets underneath it and - that’s it. That’s three outs. Grinning wide and wild, Mingyu returns to his dugout amidst back-thumps and butt-pats from his celebrating teammates.

All the tension leaves your body, replaced with the heady waves of relief. You turn back to your friends, lighter, ready to chat again - but the rest of the room has not relaxed. They all still care - very much - if their home team will score the needed two runs to win.

It turns out, you don’t really care if the team does well. You only care if Mingyu does.

–

You don’t always miss Mingyu, but you do always miss the apartment you’d shared when you lived together. High ceilings, big windows, and the best part: in-unit laundry.

Your new place - the one you rent alone - isn’t bad. It’s cosy, affordable, and conveniently located. Your main complaint is that it’s a third floor walk-up, and the laundry room is in the basement. Which means you have to haul your hamper up and down four sets of stairs every weekend. 

You’re distracted today as you make your way down Set of Stairs Number Two with your hamper. You’d seen Wonwoo and Seona off at the airport earlier, and now you’re in a funky mood - a little blue, a lot sorry for yourself. 

Wonwoo wasn’t always your only friend. But you’d lost a lot of them in the break-up, and the few that remained had grown distant in the months that followed. It was your fault, not theirs. It turns out when you isolate as a coping mechanism, there are natural consequences or something. Wonwoo had made it through the Dark Ages simply because you saw him at work every day - you couldn’t shut him out, not from 9-5 on Monday through Friday.

For a second, you let yourself miss your old life - lots of friends, laundry nook adjacent to the kitchen, your best friend kissing you goodbye each morning before you left for work. Then you shove the missing down, remind yourself that things are fine now and to stop looking back all the time -

And then you miss a stair.

–

Things seem to happen in a blink. Mrs. Lee in apartment 1F hears you scream and finds you crumpled on the first floor landing surrounded in dirty clothes. An ambulance ride, a clipboard of paperwork, time passing marked by the shift change and a new nurse introducing himself.

You wait for x-ray results, crying on and off - from pain, from frustration, from helplessness. You’re trying to picture what your next few weeks will look like if you end up on crutches. Your apartment is on the third floor. How will you get groceries up there? How will you make food? How will you stand in a shower long enough to get clean?

You have no one to call for help. Your mom is on her little love cruise, and Wonwoo and Seona are somewhere over Europe by now. 

Just be a fracture, you plead, eyeing your ankle. It’s already bruised purple and black, and swollen twice as big as the uninjured one. Just be a fracture so they can put me in a walking boot and send me on my way. 

The emergency room physician really psychs you out, too, when she pulls back the curtain and says cheerily, “Good news! You won’t need surgery!”

It isn’t the good news you were hoping for. 

The bad news, she informs you, is that you have a bimalleolar fracture, meaning two bones are broken in there. Apparently the majority of bi-mal fractures need surgery, so you were lucky.

“Do I get a cast?” you ask. You’re afraid to be hopeful. You just want to hear a medical professional tell you that you can go home, that you’ll be able to navigate the next few weeks independently, that things will be okay.

The doctor grimaces like she knows you won’t like the answer. “I’m recommending a closed reduction,” she tells you, but this means nothing to you. She interprets your blank face correctly, adding, “Basically, I’m going to adjust the bones so they line up and heal in the right spot.”

Your stomach jolts. “That sounds… not painless.”

She nods seriously. “You’ll be numbed up in that area before the procedure, and given a light sedative.”

You frown. “So I’ll be awake?”

She nods again. “Awake, but groggy. You’ll need someone to help get you home,” she informs you, and your heart sinks heavily. This is what you were afraid of.

How do you explain to this stranger that you have no one you can call?

She taps the end of your bed with the clipboard in her hand and promises to return soon, leaving you to puzzle out what to do. 

You’re almost considering calling Mrs. Lee, who called the ambulance for you - but you don’t have her number. You were too frazzled and in pain to think of it when the paramedics came. You’ve only ever said hello to her in the hallway a few times since you moved in, anyway - you don’t have the kind of relationship where you feel comfortable asking for this much help.

For a short moment, you consider calling your boss. He’s in his sixties, has a daughter older than you. But the idea of him bringing you to your apartment and helping you up three flights of stairs makes you cringe so hard that your jaw makes a popping noise. 

Could you call an Uber and then go up the stairs on your butt, one step at a time? Even if you made it to the top, then what? You have to call someone. You’re going to need help with everything, especially at first.

Your gaze falls on your television screen across the emergency room. It’s playing clips from last night’s play-off game. 

Heartbreaking loss, the closed captions read. Apparently the team hadn’t earned their two runs, didn’t pull out the win even after Mingyu’s heroic inning. 

Which means his season is over. Which means he’s done traveling, done with interviews, done with team activities and daily practices. 

You hate the idea viscerally, even before it fully forms in your mind. 

But you know this for sure about Mingyu: no matter how he feels about you these days, no matter what went down between you two… he’ll help. He’ll make sure you’re okay. He’ll make sure you’re safe, that you have what you need.

He might be the fucker who broke your heart, but Mingyu is a good person.

With a sigh, you pull up his contact info. You never blocked him - didn’t need to. Once he ended things, you never spoke again. No petty subtweets, no late night texts, no drunken phone calls - nothing to indicate that he ever thought of you again. 

You’re nauseated by the time the call connects and the rings start sounding in your ear. He picks up after the third ring, saying your name like a question instead of hello.

You press fingers to your eyes, suddenly close to crying again. Because this sucks. It hurts - your ankle, and your pride, and your heart.

“Mingyu?” you say, though of course it’s him. His voice sounds exactly the same as it always did - low and calm and steady. “It’s me. I’m… sort of at the hospital.”

–

Mingyu arrives after the closed reduction, which means you are high as a kite from the sedative when he enters your room. He’s got a ballcap pulled low and a mask on - to shield his identity at least a little, you know from past experience - but even drugged up, you know those shoulders anywhere.

Your face breaks into a loopy smile. “Mingoooooo,” you croon, and he winces but steps closer, adjusting his expression to something more polite. 

“You’re a mess, huh?” he asks, wryly.

He’d asked you the same question when you’d first moved in together. 

“You’re a mess, huh?” as he peered at the laundry draped over your desk chair, washed and dried but never put away. As he picked up the collection of empty water glasses next to your side of the bed. As he learned that you liked to let dishes soak before tackling them.

You’d just blink at him, each time, all innocence. “I’m so cute, though!” you’d joke, at the beginning, and he’d cave and kiss your head and assure you that you were, despite the clutter. 

You got better about it after a few months of living with his freakishly clean influence, of course. One of the many ways you’d changed for the better, with him.

Sometimes, since the break-up, you’ll leave things untidied on purpose, just to cosmically spite him. One of the many ways you’ve gotten worse, since he left.

You’re heavily drugged from the procedure on your ankle, so you think nothing of it when you lean into the old joke again. “But I’m a cute mess.”

You miss his second wince.

“I take it she’s got something still in her system?” he asks the doctor dryly. The doctor chuckles, so you laugh, too. It must be funny. 

“The sedative will wear off within the next three hours, but the pain medication should last another five. We’ve run another x-ray to confirm that the bones are in the right position,” the doctor tells him. “Once we confirm that they are, then we’ll get her into a cast. Then you can sign her out and take her home.”

The doctor talks over you - to Mingyu - and little snippets of their conversation reach your ears: keep it elevated and dry, here’s the prescription for -, you might also want to get -, six weeks for the cast, follow up in two weeks, she can call to make the appointment…

You don’t remember getting the x-ray results, nor the placement of the cast. You don’t remember being wheeled back down to the lobby, nor Mingyu lifting you and buckling you into his giant SUV.

You’re still groggy when he pulls into your building’s parking lot, but you’re way more coherent.

You blink at the building, a little befuddled. “Did I give you my address?” you ask, because you don’t remember it happening.

“You unlocked your phone for me,” he shrugs. “How do you feel? Does it hurt a lot?”

You shake your head. “It did, but right now I don’t feel it.”

He nods. “Good. That’s good. Let’s… let’s get you inside.”

He gets out of the SUV and walks around to your door. When he opens it, you just stare at him, wide-eyed.

“What?” he asks.

“It’s… my apartment’s on the third floor. No elevator.”

It takes him a second to realize this means he’s carrying you up three flights of stairs. He closes his eyes for a second and exhales, resigned, but when he opens them again to speak he sounds perfectly pleasant.

“We’ll go slow,” he assures you. Then he reaches across you, unbuckles the seatbelt, and lifts you out of the car like it’s nothing. 

The first time he’d carried you, it was because your shoes were hurting your feet at the end of a night out. You still remember giggling into his shoulder, your heels dangling from your fingers as he pretended to huff and puff his way to the front door.

You’re not sure when the last time he carried you was. You hadn’t known it would be the last time, hadn’t paid special attention to it, hadn’t known you would want to remember.

Currently, still groggy, you wrap your arms around his neck and hold on tight, but Mingyu doesn’t falter the whole way up. 

No one giggles, this time.

He unlocks your front door with one hand - when did he get the keys? - and steps inside, using his shoulder to turn on the light in the entryway. You have no idea what time it is, but it’s dark outside. 

“Where’s your bedroom?” he asks quietly, and you are forcibly yanked back in time.

Four years ago, unlocking your door - a different door, a different apartment - unsteadily after a few drinks, Mingyu’s kiss pressing you into the entryway wall, his hands cupping your ass and lifting you until you wrap your legs around his waist. Mingyu murmuring against your jaw, where’s your bedroom? for an entirely different reason.

You swallow back the memory. Your heart thuds, and the nausea has returned. “Past the living room. On the right.”

Mingyu sits you on your bed, leaning you back against your pillows. He adjusts you carefully, then leaves the room wordlessly. You stare at your empty doorway, completely baffled. Fear starts to trickle down your arms like errant raindrops. Is he just leaving you here? Where did he go? Are you alone?

Knowing that your thinking is still a little confused from the sedative and painkiller doesn’t make it any less frightening, and you hear yourself sniffle.

Mingyu’s gone? He left you? Your ankle hurts. Your head hurts. 

Large hands are cupping your cheeks, tilting your face back up. You blink away tears and warm thumbs brush them off of your cheeks. 

“Hey,” a voice is saying, a bit frantic. “What’s wrong, why are you crying? What happened?”

You squeeze your eyes shut, and your head swims wildly. You’re confused, you’re in pain, the nausea is overwhelming, and the emotions are taking over even if they make no sense.

“Y-You left,” you manage through hiccuped breaths. “I got - I got scared.”

His arms wrap around your shoulders, enveloping you. The hug is awkward - he’s standing and you’re sitting, and he’s clearly trying to not jostle your leg around - but you feel yourself calming. He’s always had that effect on you. You close your eyes and lean into him, letting him hold you up, breathing his familiar scent deeply. It works, your breaths coming less and less as gasps, your exhales shuddering less and flowing more smoothly.

When he pulls away, he tells you, “Hey, look at me.”

You do, hazily. He holds your gaze steadily, one hand remaining against your cheek. 

“I’m not leaving you alone,” he tells you seriously. “I will not leave you alone. Okay? Do you understand?”

You nod.

He steps back. Your cheek is warm where his hand had lingered. 

“I’m going to your kitchen to get you some water,” he tells you seriously, keeping eye contact like he wants to make sure you’re paying attention. “I’m going to sing the whole time I’m out there. Just listen to my voice, okay? Keep listening, and you’ll know where I am.”

You don’t register him taking his hand from your face, or him leaving the room again, or even the sounds of rummaging in the kitchen. Drugged and exhausted, the confusion takes back over immediately, hitting you with a fresh wave of fear. 

Alone. Alone, alone - hungry, in pain, confused, tired, and alone.

Mingyu’s voice finds you, singing something slow and crooning. You turn towards the doorway, following the sound. 

Just listen to my voice, okay? 

You nod even though no one is there to see you. You listen to his voice - familiar, comforting, able to wreck you and your heart - and after a moment you hum along sloppily, barely catching the melody.

When he returns with your water bottle, he finds you smiling slightly as you join his song.

He smiles at you affectionately as he passes the bottle over. 

“You good?” he asks, after you take a long drink. “Need anything?”

“Sleep,” you tell him definitively. He bustles around for a second - plugging your phone in for you, turning off the lamp on your desk - then hovers by the bed again, hesitating.

You’re mentally present enough to catch it.

“Mingyu?”

He grimaces a little. “I’m afraid that if I go sleep on the couch, you’ll wake up scared that I left again.”

That sounds like something you would do, considering the last twenty minutes. 

“Can I stay in here with you?” he asks tentatively. “That way, if you wake up, you aren’t alone? I’ll sleep on top of the comforter and just use my own blanket.”

Your heart had lifted and then sank in the same sentence; it feels like whiplash. It feels like a hot air balloon managed liftoff and then got pierced by someone’s slingshot, plummeting to earth again. 

“Good idea,” you say, and you hope that if your voice wavers Mingyu chalks it up to your two broken bones. “Spare blankets are in the -”

“Top of the closet,” he guesses, and you scowl at him.

“You don’t know me,” you protest, only teasing a little - a bit you used to do as a couple when you’d read each other’s minds. 

He crosses his arms and lifts an eyebrow. “Are they at the top of the closet?”

Your scowl darkens. He laughs at you as he heads into your walk-in to get one.

–

The truth is, Mingyu does know you. Better than anyone else alive - even now, even after over a year of being broken up and not talking. You haven’t changed enough to make that untrue, haven’t let a single soul get close to you the way he once was. 

You were together about three years before the end - and they were good years. There’s no other way to put it. You and him… it just worked. You complemented each other in some ways and matched perfectly in others. The balance was just right. 

Like the baseball thing. You didn’t give a fuck about baseball, or even sports in general. But Mingyu had brought you around to the world of it. Over time, you’d reached a point where you could enjoy yourself at a game, could lead a conversation about batting averages and free agents. And Mingyu learned about your interests, too - went with you to concerts, book signings, even the occasional convention.

Or, he had, until he’d gotten called up to his current team. The beginning of the end, in terms of the relationship. Just the beginning in terms of his career, his fame, his legacy. The beginning of a life that had no room for you. You both knew it, even if neither of you had ever been brave enough to face it head on.

The first time he’d joined you at a music festival was also the last, because you’d ended up in the tabloids together. It hadn’t said your name, and the photograph the paparazzi snapped didn’t show your face, but the headline had questioned whether his female companion was getting him into trouble. 

“We just have to be more careful,” he’d said easily, trying to placate you. 

“We weren’t doing anything wrong,” you’d repeated, for what felt like the tenth time. “You weren’t breaking any laws or contract stipulations by going to hear live music.”

He’d shrugged. “We all know what people do at festivals, though, right? We just have to be aware of my image -”

“Your image?” You’d echoed on a laugh, bitterness on your tongue like the ashes of the cigarettes you hadn’t had at the festival - thank god, because that would have been a contract breach, especially if there was photographic evidence. 

You don’t remember how the argument got resolved. Maybe it had just fizzled out, set aside as something you both knew couldn’t be untangled. But you do remember that you stopped going out as much, that Mingyu had gotten a little paranoid over the next few months - constantly watching over his shoulder, checking his phone for alerts or messages from his manager. 

That wasn’t what killed the relationship, though. Certainly, it helped. But you’d held on through his first year, even when he started essentially hiding your existence because he didn’t want your name in the papers. You’d held on when he was gone for months during the season. You’d held on when he’d had to miss your birthday for a team event. You’d held on through videos of sports interviewers flirting with him in front of the whole world, the microphone held up to their perfect, lipsticked smiles. None of those things were enough, alone, to ruin it. You loved each other - so much. It would take more than that. 

It had taken more than that. But it had still happened.

Ironically, it was a night that he chose to bring you into his world that changed things too much for you, that altered the timeline where you’d live happily ever after together.

He brought you to a banquet, a team thing. You’d rented a dress because you hadn’t owned anything nice enough. (Still don’t.)

He’d held your hand, smiled down at you, so handsome. He’d introduced you to the partners of some of his teammates, had squeezed your arm and murmured that he was going to the bathroom (him and the hot girl stomach problems, god) and left you at the bar with them.

“Did he bring you home any gifts yet?” one of them asked you, and you’d started to answer - it wasn’t a gift but you’d gotten a car for the household just last month - when the woman behind her bumped her elbow in playful reprimand.

“Don’t be like that,” she chided, and they both cackled - and you realized, your whole body going hot, that you were the butt of a joke that you didn’t even understand. 

“I - uh -” you spluttered, looking around like someone might rescue you.

“Don’t tease her, she’s new here,” another wife or girlfriend or whatever had said, coming up beside you. When she saw your baffled and embarrassed expression, she ducked her head and whispered, “They’re asking if he’s come home with an STI yet.”

Your face grew even hotter, your mouth dropping open in outrage and indignation. You tried to formulate an answer - the word stigma was involved - when the first one spoke again. 

“We made it through two seasons before it started,” she mused. “So maybe you’ll have another good year before the shit starts!” She said this with cheerful positivity, like she was saying something good and not predicting when exactly your relationship would devolve into lies and infidelity. 

You didn’t have to ask what shit. You’d heard the horror stories.

“Mingyu doesn’t do that stuff,” you’d murmured. 

“Yet,” one of them had said, giving your hand a sympathetic squeeze, and then Mingyu had returned, oblivious, sending them scattering like bowling pins. 

But the words had snaked beneath your skin anyway. 

Not that you thought Mingyu would go full-tilt crazy. You knew his character - he wasn’t a liar, wouldn’t get out of control.

But it was undeniable that his life was about to change drastically. The money, the recognizability, the party scene - they wouldn’t do nothing to him.

Was being with you going to hold him back? Would he start giving you little white lies to make things easier? At what point would it be too many, too much?

Should you even waste both of your time when a checkered finish line was inching closer and closer towards you? 

In the end, you hadn’t had to answer a single one of those questions. Mingyu had ended things before you could try. 

“Things are changing too much,” he’d said - exactly what you’d been afraid of. He was just brave enough to call it before it happened, whereas you’d been prepared to watch the whole thing burn to ash before finally walking away.

Hurt like hell, even if you’d thought the same thing he had.

Still does, actually. Hurts like hell.

–

Your ankle fucking hurts, but that’s not what wakes you. You wake up because you have to pee, and as soon as you roll over it comes crashing back - the pain is immediate, and your blankets trap you because your ex is asleep on top of them, and you can’t go pee because you can’t walk to the bathroom.

Even sleepy, you feel mentally clearer than you had all day, and the reality of your situation slams into you as hard as you’d slammed into the first floor landing twelve hours ago, bringing angry tears stinging into your eyes.

“Fuck,” you hiss, suddenly furious - furious at yourself for getting hurt, furious at your mother for going on her late-in-life romantic adventure, furious at Wonwoo for leaving you here, furious that you have to ask Mingyu of all people for help - when you hate asking for help in the first place. 

“What’s wrong?” His voice cuts through the dark, groggy, and resentment rises in you, as sharp as the pain radiating up your leg.

All you manage in response is a growl. 

His hand pats around on the blanket, trying to find you in the dark, until it lands on your thigh. He gives it a quick pat. “What’s wrong?” he repeats. “Is it hurting a lot? You might be able to take more -”

“Shut up,” you command, your jaw clenched, your voice tight with the tears you’re trying to hold in. 

Mingyu falls silent, but the energy in the room shifts - he’s awake, now, not groggy and affectionate but watchful and wary. He stares at you through the dark as if he can see you perfectly. It’s like he knows you’re about to lash out at him. It’s like he knows you, knows how you respond to things. Because he does - he knows everything.

And fuck him, honestly. Fuck him for leaving you behind, fuck him for shattering your heart and the life you were building together and walking away from it, fuck him for showing up now when you’re down, fuck him for getting to look like such a good guy helping his ex -

He says your name through the dark, and then you hear him fumble for the lamp.

“Turn that shit off,” you snap, but he isn’t listening. He’s peering at your face, squinting through eyes puffy with sleep.

“Why are you crying?” he asks, a little exasperation creeping into his voice.

Because I hate that I have to ask you for help. You, specifically. I hate it I hate it I hate it I hate it -

“Because I hate you.”

What comes out isn’t the truth, but you’re glad for it, even when you watch him go stiff beside you, his face going carefully blank.

The silence stretches, a thing alive, curling up between the two of you like a lazy cat, rolling to show its belly just so it has an excuse to bite your hand.

“Well.” He turns away from you for just a second, and you watch his throat work. You don’t feel bad. He gives a tiny cough, turns back to you, and deadpans, “Glad we cleared that up.”

You watch him sullenly. You have to tell him. It can’t be helped. “I have to pee.”

He nods, jaw tight, and then he stands and makes his way to your side of the bed. You push the blankets off and he bends to pick you up. You wrap an arm around the back of his neck instinctively - like muscle memory. It makes your breath jump, the pain of it, the agony of your body knowing what it’s supposed to be doing when it’s close to him. 

Getting you on the toilet takes work, but eventually Mingyu gets you seated. 

“Don’t put weight on that leg when you’re handling your pants and everything,” he warns. 

You glare up at him. If you can’t have your dignity, you will have your rage. Or something. 

“I’ve got it,” you tell him sourly.

“Clearly,” he snips back, sarcastic, but before he closes the bathroom door he adds, “I’ll be right out here when you’re ready.”

After he gets you back in bed, he picks up the blanket he’d been sleeping under. “I, uh, I think I could probably move to the couch, now,” he says to the floor. “The drugs from the hospital have clearly worn off, so you won’t be confused if you wake up. ‘Kay?”

You blink, breathe, don’t feel rejected. 

He doesn’t wait for you to answer, and he doesn’t look back. He closes your bedroom door and leaves you alone with the taste of I hate you on your tongue. 

–

The sound of clattering pots and pans wakes you in the morning. You cover your eyes against the bright sunlight streaming around your curtains, taking stock of your situation.

Ankle, still broken, still throbbing in pain. Head, much clearer. Eyes, puffy from crying so much yesterday. Stomach, growling with hunger.

And clearly your ex is still in your apartment, because you can hear him cursing out in the kitchen.

“Hello?” you call, sitting up and trying to fix your hair a little bit. Not like Mingyu didn’t see you with bedhead for three years and change, but still. “Are you robbing me?”

The clattering stops abruptly, and you hear Mingyu’s footsteps approach your bedroom doorway. You can hear the indignation in just the cadence of his footfall.

“No,” he snaps at you, as soon as he’s within eyesight, but there’s no real heat behind it. “I’m making your ungrateful ass breakfast.”

“Well,” you say blithely. You deserve the dig after what you said to him last night, and you know it. You can’t even be mad about it. “My ungrateful ass is starving, so I appreciate that. If you help me out to the table, I can tell you where things are so you don’t have to dig through my cabinets like a grizzly bear at a campsite.”

He rolls his eyes but does as you say, and soon you’re sitting back on a kitchen chair, your ankle propped on a pillow on the chair next to you.

You watch Mingyu work, breaking the silence only to help - “The whisk is in the third drawer”, “the good pan’s buried in the back” - until he busies himself at the stove and you decide to have a conversation with his back. (It’s a nice back. You had always thought so.)

“I’m sorry about last night,” you say. It’s easier, this way - easier to apologize when you don’t have to look him in the eye. The back you’re speaking to tenses.

“For what, exactly?” he asks thinly. He doesn’t turn around, doesn’t even glance over his shoulders at you.

“You know.”

“Apologies don’t count if you can’t say what you’re sorry for.”

You exhale, an unpleasant tingle flooding your body. He’s just parroted one of your own relationship rules at you.

“Don’t quote the old magic to me, witch,” you quip, and now he does turn around, his face stormy.

“Okay!” You hold up your hands in defeat. “I’m sorry I said I hate you. I hate this situation a lot, I hate asking for help, I hate needing someone, and I hate that it’s my ex - but I do not…. totally hate you.”

He watches you for a long moment, and then turns to stir whatever is in the pan. “Not totally? So, what percent?” he asks.

“Ninety-seven.”

“Hmm,” he says, mock thoughtfully. “Even after I carried you up three flights of stairs?” 

You pretend to consider this. “Ninety-six.”

“Harsh.”

Him making you laugh makes something in you soften a little. “I’m sorry I couldn’t articulate that the first time,” you say, and this is your real apology, the one he wanted. “I was coming down from all those medications, and I was just feeling a lot and -”

“I know,” he says softly. This means I forgive you. You can still translate him, and you aren’t sure how this makes you feel.

You shrug innocently, as Mingyu comes and places food on the table in front of you, taking the seat across from you and starting to eat. 

The first time he’d cooked for you, it blew you away. You hadn’t seen it coming - this big guy, athletic, math-minded. It never occurred to you that he might cook - and well. He’d asked you to his place, and as soon as his front door opened it hit you - the smell making your stomach growl, the candle-adorned table making your heart flutter, the mischievously pleased smile on his handsome face making your knees weak.

No wonder you’d fallen for him, fast and heedless and stupid.

You eat in silence. You’re overwhelmed, feeling too many things. Your ankle throbs - you need to take your morning dose of painkiller. Your head still hurts a little - maybe from stress, from crying yesterday, from the medications. 

And your ex is sitting across from you eating breakfast like you’ve stepped back in time three and a half years, when things were still good, like everything is fine between you. Like he didn’t basically leave you for dead, emotionally, a little over a year ago.

It hurts to sit and talk with him, to laugh at his jokes and try to parry them back; it hurts because you had this and living it again feels amazing, feels like actual weight is lifted from your chest, feels like everything you wouldn’t let yourself want for the last three years - but you know it isn’t real. 

It’s like all the times you’d dreamed of him - ordinary dreams, nothing exciting at all, but he was there, you were together, he was yours. You’d wake up from them freshly devastated, feeling like you’d lost something all over again.

Now, at your kitchen table, you know this is just an act. You know that when you’re healed enough he’ll go back home and back to baseball - and you’ll be here, alone, with an ankle that twinges when a heavy rain is coming through.

You wonder if this hurts for him, too. Maybe, you think. Maybe it does.

After a bit, Mingyu stops eating, leans back in his chair and looks at you calculatingly. It’s dangerous, that look - it means he’s figuring you out, usually in ways you’d prefer he didn’t.

“I do wonder,” he says thoughtfully, and you fight the urge to roll your eyes as you hear him slide into logistician mode, “why you called me.”

“Mom’s traveling.”

He quirks an eyebrow at you.

You sigh. “She got this new boyfriend? Apparently he’s, like, richer than you, even. He whisked her off on this six-country lovefest. I don’t know. In fact, I try to know very little about it.”

He’s cackling across the table, and you want to be irritated, but you feel yourself smiling. 

“Love that for her,” he jokes. “I always knew she had it in her.”

“Mingyu!”

“What?” he laughs. “Good for her! I hope I have that much game in my sixties!”

You scoff at this, but he’s a little right. 

“What about Seungcheol?” he prods, once he’s done laughing. “He would have helped, no questions asked.”

Your breakfast suddenly tastes like sand. You try to keep your face neutral as you say, “Haven’t talked to him in a while. Any of the guys, really.”

Mingyu’s too sharp for this kind of evasion. His eyes narrow. “In how long, would you say?”

If your leg wasn’t broken, you’d kick him. He knows the answer. He just wants to confirm if he’s right. 

“Little over a year,” you mumble, eyes on your plate.

Mingyu goes quiet. 

“It’s fine,” you say emphatically, protesting to something he hasn’t even said. “I didn’t expect them to take my side -”

“There shouldn’t have been sides,” he growls, and you watch him, trying to work out what he’s angry about. That your friends dropped you when he did? That he didn’t know about it? Both?

“It’s fine,” you say again, more gently. “Normally I have Wonwoo and Seona, but he took a work trip and she went with him -”

“Who?”

“Oh.” It occurs to you that Seona came after Mingyu left your life. Only by a few weeks, but still. “She’s been with Wonwoo… about a year. She’s great. You’ll like - I mean, you’d like her. If you met her.”

This slip startles you both into silence. You shovel another bite into your mouth and chew, even though it still tastes like crap - which is not a reflection of Mingyu’s cooking, just your own emotional state. 

Being together like this again, sitting down to breakfast like it’s any regular Saturday morning, feels like you’ve both just slipped right back into your old roles, old routines - muscle memory of the heart, or something. 

Remembering that it’s nothing like it used to be, that Mingyu isn’t yours and you are certainly not his, is like being doused in cold water.

You eat in silence for a bit, until Mingyu sighs and says, “You’re lucky we lost the playoffs or I’d be across the country right now instead of cooking you breakfast.” 

You grimace. “I’m sorry you guys lost. Wasn’t your fault, though.”

Mingyu freezes, his dark eyes meeting yours. “You watched it?”

You feel yourself flush, caught. “I was at the bar with Wonwoo and Seona,” you try to explain. “It was on the tv.”

He watches you silently, taking a bite of his food, waiting you out. He knows how you work.

You lower your gaze, play with your food a little. “Yeah,” you amend. “I watched. You did great. We… we were rooting for you. You had us nervous.”

Something changes on Mingyu’s face; it’s hard to read, even for you. “Well,” he says, and you can hear a bit of bashfulness in his tone, “I appreciate the support.”

“Of course,” you murmur, but you can’t look at him as you say it, your eyes on your plate. “Anyway… I’m sorry. That you didn’t get to move forward to the championships or whatever.”

You hear him huff out a laugh; he knows you know how the tournaments work, knows that your indifference is an act.

“It’s disappointing,” he says. “But we’ll just get ready to tackle next season.”

Now you do look up at him. “This isn’t a presser, Mingyu. You don’t have to give me the hot-mic answer.”

His smile goes sideways. “Fine,” he says, then taps his fork against his plate a few times, as if he needs a second to give himself permission to be honest. “It fucking sucks. I’m pissed off about it.”

Now you smile. “There he is.”

You’d thrown the same line at him when you broke up, this isn’t a press conference, and you wonder if he remembers. But he’d been careful, clinical, diplomatic in ending your relationship, in telling you he was moving out, and it had infuriated you.

This isn’t a press conference, you’d hissed, hands curled into fists at your sides, like you could fight off what he was telling you. You can say the real reason.

He’d shrugged, collected and unreadable, as if the cameras were on him even then, the perfect picture of their Mingyu - the team’s, his coaches’, the adoring public’s. Not yours. Hadn’t been, for a bit.

Now, in your cramped kitchen, he looks like your Mingyu again, cute and pouty, his frown extra pronounced in case it gets him extra sympathy. 

The rest of the meal passes in silence. When you’re both done, Mingyu rises and takes all the dishes, stands and washes them at your shitty little sink. You watch his back again, trying to read the tension in his shoulders. 

“I’d offer to help,” you say over the sound of running water, “but it’s kind of a task that requires standing.”

He flicks a look at you over his shoulder, just a quick acknowledgement, but doesn’t answer - just keeps washing and drying until everything is done. Then he settles back in the seat across from you, his face pensive. 

“Thanks,” you say quietly. You have a feeling you’ll be saying this a lot over the next few weeks. Might as well lean into it, so as to get past the sour taste of it sooner. 

You look at each other in silence, both serious. 

“So,” you say uneasily, after a few minutes of quiet, “I just wanted to say that I really appreciate you coming to get me from the hospital.”

Mingyu cuts a look at you that means you have a weird way of showing it, but he blessedly keeps his mouth shut. 

“Really,” you insist. “You were really nice to me, and made sure I was okay. But I’m good now, not all loopy from the meds, so you can go back home to your real life whenever you want. I’m okay here.”

He stares at you for a minute, that problem-solving look on his face. Right now, you’re a math equation to him, and you fight the urge to squirm. 

“Alright,” he says slowly, but you can tell from his tone you aren’t going to like what follows. “So let’s say I go home right now. What are you going to do when you need to go to the bathroom?”

“Hobble.”

“Ma’am.”

You smile despite yourself. It’s so easy to fall back into teasing him. 

“Okay, so I need… crutches?” 

He nods. “And a shower chair, probably. But even once you have that… even once you can hobble around the apartment… what are you going to do about food?”

“The microwave and I have a beautiful relationship.”

He says your name so flatly it makes you cackle. 

“What do you propose, then?” you ask. “I’d be fine here most of the time, it doesn’t make sense for you to stay. You have… a life. I don’t need a babysitter. Honestly, if you could just bring my groceries up once a week, I can figure the rest out -”

His brows furrow. “I don’t like that idea.”

You falter. “I know it’s not the most convenient for you, especially with the stairs… but what else could we do?”

He gives you a look you know well - he’s going to say something he knows you’re going to hate. 

“My place makes more sense.”

“Absolutely not,” you say, the words rushing from you with force.

He says your name, a reprimand laced with affection. “Hear me out,” he argues. “I have empty guest rooms on the ground floor - no stairs. Okay, one stair. And I have security, and staff to help us -”

“From the baseball millions.”

“Yes,” he snaps, the first time he’s actually sounded a little pissed. “Yes, I know, my dirty baseball money - how dare I earn a living, how dare I have enough for a housekeeper, how dare I need security systems, how dare I choose a life that isn’t this!” He throws one arm out, indicating your rinky-dink, three-foot long kitchen, and you feel yourself flush hot.

You’re surprised it took this long for an argument to devolve and turn into what you’re really fighting about: the breakup. 

“I never said that,” you say darkly, your voice low and coiled. 

“You did,” he counters, the heat gone from his voice now that his outburst is over, replaced with something sullen and almost pouty. “Maybe not in those exact words, but you did. You hated seeing my life start to change and you made it very clear.”

You stare back at him, something hot and angry fluttering behind your ribs. “Is that why you left?” you ask, full of venom. “Because I wasn’t being nice enough about your sudden celebrity status?”

He laughs silently, humorlessly - a single puff of air through his nose. “Kind of, yeah,” he says, a bit of hateful laughter still present in his tone. He stands and walks into your living room, and you watch him pull his hands through his hair in frustration, his back to you.

You had meant it as a barb, not as an actual question. But you’re wondering if he’d given you an honest answer anyway.

Focus. Neither of you can afford to do this, to deconstruct the breakup, to autopsy the relationship. 

“I’m not going to live in your house, Mingyu.” You say it with as much finality as you can muster. 

He sighs, frustrated. “Let me stay here, then.”

“I’d rather chew glass.”

If you’ve hurt his feelings again, he doesn’t show it. “I’ll leave you alone as much as possible,” he offers. “I’ll just pop in once a day, or something. It would just give me some peace of mind to know that if you have an emergency… someone’s around.”

“I won’t have any emergencies.”

“You’re so stubborn,” he mutters, speaking to you less than he’s speaking to himself. Then, addressing you, he adds, “Humor me until your follow-up appointment. It’s just a few days. If everything looks good then, we can revisit the topic.”

Revisit the topic. It makes your insides swim, the formality of it, the way he’s talking to you like you’re a business deal.

You stay silent, giving him neither a yes nor a no. 

He gives you an exasperated look that used to be wielded only when you provoked him on purpose. 

You deflate. “Fine,” you mutter. “We revisit the topic after my follow-up.”

He nods smartly, pleased, but doesn’t smile about it. “Great.” He pulls out his phone and starts typing. “I’m going to head out for a while and pick up some stuff for you. Crutches, shower chair… groceries? Text me what food you need.”

Something twinges in you, even as he stands, ready for action, ready to start fixing things.

“You’re being really nice to me,” you mumble, eyes on the worn carpet below you.

Mingyu lets out a quiet, breathy laugh. “Maybe it’s penance,” he says.

Your eyes shoot up - you want to ask him what that means - but he’s already clapping a hand against the top of the chair he’d been sitting in and heading away. 

After he gathers his things - he used to tease you by reciting keys, wallet, phone every time you left the house because you’d always forget one - and tells you goodbye, you stare around your empty apartment as if looking for a witness to this madness, this sitcom of your life. 

Maybe it’s more of a tragedy, actually. 

You listen for his footsteps to disappear down the steps out in the hall. You count to a hundred. Then you pull out your phone and call Wonwoo. 

“It is six in the morning where I am, in case you suddenly can’t do math.”

“I broke my ankle and had to call Mingyu to get me from the hospital and now he is insisting on continuing to take care of me. He is out buying my crutches right now.”

Silence on the line. You pull the phone away from your face to check that the call didn’t drop. It didn’t.

“Wonwoo?”

“I left you alone for a day,” he laments, disbelief coloring his tone. 

“I know,” you whine. “Come save me.”

“Not only can I not do that, I also don’t want to. Now go back to the beginning and tell me what happened.”

–

It takes Mingyu three trips to get everything upstairs - though, to be fair, the shower chair by itself took one trip. 

He unloads the groceries, putting everything in its place, leans your new crutches against the end of the couch you’ve been trapped on, and then disappears into your bathroom to put the shower chair in your tiny shower.

(“Does it fit?” you call to him.

“I’ll make it fit,” he grunts back, and you go hot from head to toe and thank every god, universe, everything that he can’t see your face.)

When he emerges, sweaty and huffing, you ask him, “What do I owe you for all that?”

He waves a hand at you. “Don’t worry about it.”

You hate that.

“I will worry about it,” you retort. “I’m not letting you just buy all this shit for me, Mingyu, I am not your problem -”

“I know you’re not,” he cuts you off, not really arguing, but still somehow arguing - a skill you two have always had with each other. “But the cost doesn’t… affect me the way I know it will affect you and I -”

“I’m not your charity case, either!” you snap, suddenly defensive. “I can buy my own groceries, I don’t need my rich ex to swoop in and -”

“I know you resent the baseball money,” he interrupts again, “but I want to do this for you. It makes me happy to do this for you. Please let me.”

You fall into sullen silence. He lets you sulk, knowing you well enough to wait it out. Knowing you well enough to know that when he’s right and you’re wrong sometimes you just need to sit with it for a minute before you let it go.

“I don’t resent that you make good money,” you mutter eventually. “I know I said some bratty things about it, but… that isn’t the problem. I’m happy you’re doing well.”

He makes a face like he doesn’t quite believe this.

You sigh, knowing you have to explain this, but hating the vulnerability it requires. “I don’t resent the baseball money,” you explain. “I resent the baseball life.”

Mingyu’s face is blank. He does - says - nothing, just waits.

You rub your hands over your face. 

“Because,” you say, as if he’d asked, which he didn’t, technically, “as much as we both wanted me to, I didn’t belong in it. Okay? I know it’s been a long time, and I’m over it and everything, but does it make me feel better to be petty and bratty about the career that took over and bumped me out of your life? Yes. It does.”

He turns and heads into the kitchen, his back to you once again. You stare at him, wondering at his reaction. You aren’t sure what you’d expected from admitting this - defensiveness, maybe even an argument. Not a shut-down. Mingyu isn’t usually an ice you out type of guy.

Or, he hadn’t been, until the very end.

But he doesn’t respond to what you’ve admitted at all, doesn’t challenge you or press you for more - just continues bustling around your kitchen with a tense, crackling energy that makes you both nervous and itchy to soothe, the way you used to.

The way you slip into old habits with each other fucks with you, lets you forget that you lost him, and then shatters you with the memory of him walking out. Not to mention it’s becoming more and more clear that you’ve both harbored some feelings - anger, resentment, blame, guilt, who knows what else - and the more time you spend in the same room, the more of it bubbles to the surface. 

You watch tv and Mingyu cooks you dinner early - “So it’s here later, when you’re hungry” - before getting ready to go home. 

You don’t talk about anything else, don’t bring up your past or his present. Mingyu just flits around your apartment until he’s sure you won’t die tonight, and then he tells you goodbye and goes on his way.

Later, after you’re done eating, alone, you make your way on crutches back to your bedroom. You try to read, your mangled ankle propped up on a stack of pillows at the end of the bed, but your eyes are heavy and it isn’t long before you fall asleep. 

You must have slept fitfully the night before, because you knock out for hours - when you wake again, it’s dark outside. You blink, then grab your phone to check the time. 

Two texts from Mingyu wait to be read.

Call my cell if you need anything tonight. Ringer’s on. 

And then, below that, clearly added as a forceful afterthought, Even if you don’t want to. Do it anyway.

–

Of course, falling asleep after eating dinner and waking up near one in the morning means your body had a great nap, and now you’re wide awake. 

You try your best to get comfortable and sleep again, to no avail. Sighing in defeat, you click on your bedside lamp and settle in for a long scroll on your phone.

You’ve scrolled just long enough that you’re starting to find yourself in a strange corner of the internet when a DM notification pops up.

Mingyu: i can see youre online You: 😬 You: well you see… lol Mingyu: 🤨 You: i fell asleep at like… 8 You: so now my body thinks i just had a very refreshing nap You: and i am wiiiiiiiide awake  You: whats your excuse?

Mingyu types, then deletes, then types, then deletes. Your eyebrows raise, curious.

Mingyu: couldnt sleep. tried jogging to see if it helped and now im just sweaty and awake. tragic. You: why cant you sleep?

Again, Mingyu seems to choose between responses, the little dots appearing and disappearing multiple times before his response comes in.

Mingyu: a lot on my mind ig You: want to share with the class? Mingyu: lol Mingyu: not this class You: ouch Mingyu: 🤷

It’s strange, feeling rejected by your ex - someone who already left you in every way a person can. When he broke up with you and moved out, Mingyu went from your best friend, the biggest part of your life, to a stranger - leaving emptiness clinging to the corners of your home, your routines, your heart like spiderwebs and dust. 

You don’t answer him. You feel weirdly stung, and the feeling is compounded by the fact that you know - logically - it isn’t fair. Mingyu isn’t yours. Mingyu doesn’t owe you his thoughts. Mingyu made it very clear, over a year ago, that he wants to exist without you. 

All he’s doing is sticking to the plan. You don’t get to feel hurt by that.

You don’t answer him; you don’t know what to say. But your phone buzzes in your hand again anyway.

Mingyu: how is everything over there Mingyu: you good right now? need anything?

The hurt softens. 

You: i’m fine. just bored lol Mingyu: you sure? i could swing by with food if you need it You: its almost 2am mingyu Mingyu: my phone tells time too Mingyu: im offering

You take a moment, trying to work out how you feel. Confused, you think, by the way Mingyu seems to push you away and pull you back in the same moment. 

It’s almost two in the morning, and the liminal space of late-night-early-morning makes you bold.

You: i dont really understand why youre doing all this

Silence spools out. You wonder if you’ve pissed him off. You wonder if he fell asleep. 

When his answer comes, words on a screen, you can hear the tightness in his voice, can hear the dare in it.

Mingyu: doing what, exactly

You take a bracing breath. 

You: taking care of me, i guess

No waffling over words this time. His answer flies back.

Mingyu: because the alternative is you do this all alone

So what? you shoot back. So let me. And then, when he doesn’t answer, you add on, I’m not your responsibility, and that’s YOUR choice that YOU made so I just. dont understand. 

Just like before, his answer comes in hot.

Mingyu: are we really doing this?

Your pulse jumps, adrenaline spikes. 

You: doing WHAT? Mingyu: pretending that IM the one that left YOU

You’re dizzy, that’s how strongly your fight or flight has kicked in - and it wants you to fight, bad. 

You: pretending??????? im sorry, i dont remember packing up MY shit and moving out You: nor do i remember saying the words “i’m done” or “dont call me” You: who could that have been??? You: ohhhh right. You: that would be you.

You wait, blood boiling, furious and dying for a response because sitting alone with your anger feels worse than if this fight were happening in person, where you could see his reaction, yell about it instead of just typing harder.

His answer is glacial.

Mingyu: so we ARE pretending. got it. Mingyu: thats fine.  Mingyu: call me if you need help. otherwise, i’ll see you tomorrow.

Sleep doesn’t come for you until the sun creeps over the horizon outside your windows, tinting your room pale blue into dandelion yellow. 

You’ve only been asleep for about two hours when your front door slams shut, startling you so badly that you jolt in your bed, sending waves of stinging pain up your leg from your shattered ankle. 

“Ow,” you hiss. You can hear the telltale clatter and footfall in your kitchen that means Mingyu is whipping up your breakfast. You wait for the throbbing in your ankle to abate to something closer to ignorable, and then reach for your crutches. 

It’s a familiar sight, as you lower yourself onto your normal kitchen chair: Mingyu’s back, shoulders tight, his body language letting you know that yes you’re still fighting. But he’s there, even though he’s angry. He still showed up.

“It was just a question,” you say instead of hello. “I think it’s a fair question, actually.”

“My question,” he retorts, whirling around to face you, spatula forgotten in his hand, “is why you would want to antagonize the only person who seems interested in helping you through breaking your leg. Do you see a line of willing friends, lovers, family, or neighbors? No?” His voice is sarcastic and acidic, and you will yourself not to wince. “In that case, maybe you should consider not being such a -”

He cuts himself off. You don’t name-call, even when you’re mad at each other. It’s one of the Old Rules. 

You let it slide. Softer, you say, “It was a real question, Mingyu, not an attack. You walked out on me. You told me to stay out of your life. And it’s wonderful that you’re helping me, because you’re a good fucking person, but I just… find myself feeling confused by how much you’re taking care of me.”

His hands lower, the spatula resting near his thigh, but he doesn’t answer this. 

You lower your eyes to your hands. You never could look at him when you had to say the hard stuff. Hadn’t been able to look at him the first time you told him you loved him. Hadn’t been able to look at him when you told him goodbye. Can’t look at him now.

“Maybe this just doesn’t hurt you like it hurts me,” you try to reason. “I think that’s why I’m… angry. Antagonizing. It just sucks that it’s easy for you to be around me when I’m… the ankle is nothing. Having to sit across the kitchen from you, acting like everything is normal, like we’re roommates, or friends? That shit hurts.”

Quietly, Mingyu murmurs, “Should I cancel the World’s Best Roommate cake, then?”

“God, Mingyu!” You hate that you’re laughing. “I’m trying to be serious. I’m trying to have a real conversation about this.”

He turns back around and flicks the knob to turn the stovetop off, sets the spatula on the counter, and calmly takes the chair across from you, his long legs stretched out sideways because they barely fit under your table.

“It isn’t easy for me,” he admits. You let yourself look at him again, emboldened. He laughs, a little self-depricating. “I can’t even be normal with you, I want to just bundle you up and bring you home and… and… fix everything. It’s awful. It’s not allowed. But I can’t seem to stop.”

You watch your hands on top of the table, watching your fingers grasp each other tightly. “Why not?” you ask.

It’s a dangerous question. The tension shifts around you like oil in water, seeping into the empty spaces, pushing to make room where it needs to. 

“You know why,” Mingyu says quietly. Your heart stops. Or, well, that can’t be possible, but it feels like it. Your chest feels so tight that inhaling seems like a herculean task. 

“No I don’t,” you say, your voice thin and tiny. “That’s why I’m asking.”

He says your name, flat, calling you on the lie. 

Frustration claims you. “No I don’t,” you insist. “Because it seems like you’re saying some version of you still care about me - or something like that -”

“Something like that,” Mingyu murmurs, like it’s a joke he wants to repeat. 

You barrel over him. “But that can’t be right, Kim Mingyu, because if you still felt something like that, that would make absolutely no sense considering that you are the one who left.”

He rolls his eyes and you slap your hand on the table, leaning forward, fury carrying you as close as you can get to leaping to your feet, considering the broken ankle.

“God, you’re impossible!” you snap. “What is that reaction? Am I wrong? Am I telling a lie? Did you or did you not pack up and move out?”

“I did,” he says, so evenly and lightly that it makes you angrier. 

“Okay!” you burst out. “So you can see why I might be confused.”

Mingyu eyes your ceiling, exhaling lightly. “Yes, I think I understand why you’re confused. I’m just not sure we should really be having this conversation right now.” He looks at you in that familiar way of his, like he’s solving puzzles you can’t even see. 

“Why?” you demand.

He shifts his mouth guiltily. “I think it’s just going to… hurt. To dredge everything up. To talk about… the end.”

You’re still bristling with annoyance, but you try to consider what he’s saying. He watches you carefully, his manner still a bit cowed, like he’s regretting this entire topic. 

Finally, you tell him, “Listen, I’m already hurt. I was hurt when you left, and having you around is somehow worse. So if you don’t want to talk about this for your own sake, then fine. But I’d rather hear what you have to say, if it was up to me.”

He wiggles his mouth around, regretful in advance. 

You tap your knuckles on the table absently. “Maybe understanding better will help me… feel better,” you say quietly, eyes on your hands again.

His expression flutters like he very much doubts this, but he reins it in. Then, he looks at you flatly, displeased with the decision you’ve made, displeased with laying this at your feet. 

“Fine,” he says, brittle. “Yes, I’m struggling with this because I still have feelings for you. Yes, I was the one who left. But if we’re having an honest conversation right now, then we both know that maybe I said the words… but I did that because it’s what you wanted.”

Your temper flares - calling you to demand he explain himself, calling you to defend yourself against the claim. But Mingyu’s words are heavy - weighed down with years of the truth he’s held by himself. He isn’t saying them lightly. He isn’t playing a game. Whether you agree with him or not, they’re true to him, and this version of the truth has hurt him, and you owe it to him to hear it.

You bite back whatever retort your temper queued up. “There’s no world in which I wanted you to break up with me,” you say hollowly. “So, I’d really like to know why you thought I did.”

His expression falls, his eyes close for a moment. “We don’t have to do this,” he says, pleading, his expression taut. “We can just let it go.”

Too late for that, you think. You shake your head instead, not trusting your words to be soft, to come out like solid bedrock and not like flint, ready to spark.

He heaves a heavy, defeated sigh. “You pushed me out,” he says simply. “I tried for months to fight you on it, to push back. You shut me out, and eventually I realized I was clinging to… ashes.” He demonstrates, open a fist, and you almost expect to see the ruined sands of your dead relationship slide between his fingers. “You didn’t want to be with me anymore, but you didn’t have the heart to end it. So I did the hard thing for you. Like I always have. Like I always will.” His voice is raw as he says this. It is clear he has thought these words many times, late at night when he’s alone and reviewing the footage of the collapse in his mind.

You don’t know what to say, what to address first. “That’s not true,” you whisper finally. “That’s not what happened.”

Mingyu’s gaze flits to you for only a second, and then he pushes himself out of the chair and stands. 

He slides his hands into his pockets and stares at you, his favorite math equation. “I know you pushed me away,” he says again, like it’s so simple. He gives a tiny shrug. “If you say that wasn’t what happened… maybe the truth falls somewhere in the middle.”

He steps backwards, away from the table.

“Don’t go,” you beg. The words burst from you without warning; you would have never let them out if you’d known they were coming. You hadn’t begged when he left the first time. You hadn’t fought for him at all.

Maybe that was part of the problem. This is the first piece of evidence that maybe he’s right.

He shakes his head. His throat moves, and his gaze hovers around your broken ankle. “I need to,” he says, and his voice is tight. “I’ll come back tonight to make sure you have dinner and everything. Okay?”

“Mingyu,” you say. It’s still a plea. It’s desperate, but it’s years too late. 

“I’ll be back tonight,” he assures you, one hand on the doorknob, his gaze still nowhere near your face. You ache, suddenly, in a way you hadn’t even when he left the first time. 

“Don’t,” you whisper, but the word is barely audible because you’re fighting tooth and claw to hold it in. You’re not sure your lips even part for the word.

He leaves without looking back, just like he did over a year ago.

–

Once he’s put it in your head, you can’t stop thinking about it. You can’t stop turning over every moment in your last year together and examining its underside. 

It looks different than it ever did, now. 

All the nights that you went to bed before Mingyu came home from work, and pretended to be asleep when he checked on you. All the events he’d invited you to that you’d begged out of, claiming work was too hectic. All the phone calls you’d let go to voicemail, had answered hours later with only a text. All the mundane, daily stories about your life that you’d stopped sharing with him. All the times you’d rolled your eyes or made bratty comments as his fame and salary started creeping higher. 

All ways to prepare yourself to lose him, eventually. All ways to make yourself need him less, so when it happened, you’d be ready.

Had they added up to Mingyu feeling like you’d placed him on the outside? 

A tenderness behind your ribs, like a bruise in a place that finds every piece of furniture as you walk, answers you with how could it not?

He was right - you’d pushed him out, made him feel so outside that he thought you didn’t want him there at all. 

“Crap,” you murmur to your empty apartment. 

When he returns, a bag of take-out in his hands for dinner, he enters the apartment quietly, with audible trepidation.

You look at him over the back of the couch, baleful eyes wide. He smiles when he catches sight of you, like the affection he feels has caught him by surprise. 

“What?” he asks, mouth quirking.

“I’m sorry,” you mutter into the crook of your arm. 

He places the bag of food on the table and raises an eyebrow. “Excuse me? I didn’t catch that.”

You huff. “I’m sorry,” you repeat, just slightly louder. “I’m sorry that I… didn’t know you felt that way.”

The smile falls from his face. “That’s what you’re sorry for?” he asks, like he wants you to check your work before you turn it in.

“No,” you admit sourly. “I’m also sorry for making you feel that way in the first place.”

“So, why did you?” he asks easily, head cocked.

You cover your face with your hands, peeking through your fingers at him. “Because it just felt inevitable,” you tell him. “You were hiding me from the press, your life was getting so much bigger, your name was all over the internet… it just felt like something that was going to happen no matter what. Your life was going to move on to a place I couldn’t follow. I just… I was looking ahead and…”

You trail off, but Mingyu picks up your sentence.

“- and making up monsters in the shadows that maybe weren’t there,” he fills in, his voice still affectionate even as it inches towards cutting.

You grimace. “Well, yeah,” you admit. “That’s what I do.” Then, you add a bit petulantly, “You used to slay those monsters for me.”

Mingyu crosses the room slowly, perches on the arm of the couch. “So maybe it’s a little bit my fault,” he muses. “For conjuring up more. For not being there as much as I should have.”

You shrug. “Maybe fault doesn’t really matter right now.”

He meets your eyes. “Maybe. But I… I wish you had told me you were scared.” 

You look away. “I didn’t want to say it. I knew you didn’t deserve my doubts, but I couldn’t stop having them. So I… kept them to myself. Tried to make it only my problem.” This is the truth you couldn’t face for over a year since losing Mingyu. But you’d known it, somehow. 

He mutters something under his breath that sounds like hard-headed.

“I’m sorry,” you say again. “I handled it all wrong.”

He meets your gaze. “I am, too. For my part in it.”

You stare at each other, at a loss.

“Well, now what?” you finally ask. “You’re having… feelings… again?”

“I don’t know if again is very accurate,” he murmurs, voice low. 

You swallow, eye your ceiling, seeking strength. “Do you… want to act on those feelings or… are we just… acknowledging them?”

He watches you steadily. “What do you want?”

You huff an exasperated laugh. “You’re so impossible,” you mutter. “Throw me a bone, here, Mingyu. You left me - I understand your reasoning and my own fault in it, but do I really have to be the one to beg, now, after all that?”

A delighted smile takes over his face. “Are you begging?” he asks, like he’s so pleased to hear it.

You growl at him. “I am rethinking -”

“Okay, okay!” he laughs. “I’d be open to trying again if you wanted to.”

Trying again. What would that look like? Starting over? Starting where you left off?

Maybe it doesn’t really matter, right this second. Maybe there’s time for that later - time to say you can’t hide me from the world this time, time to say I promise to tell you when I’m feeling nervous about something, time to say I know this is hard, but I’d rather do the hard stuff with you than anything easy without you.

“You gonna stand over there and look at me, or are you going to do something about it?” you ask in a grumble.

“You didn’t actually tell me you want to,” he points out. 

“Mingyu, I am this close to coming after you with my crutches.”

He laughs again. “You’re too easy to rile up,” he says, sauntering closer. Something familiar, long-dormant, simmers in your belly. “I kind of missed that.”

“Hmm,” you say, the frustration and anger and months of hurt ebbing away as he approaches. “Tell me what else you missed.”

He sits heavily on your wooden coffee table to be eye-level with you again, leans forward, and catches your mouth with his. It is just how it used to be. It is like no time has passed at all. It is like saying welcome back. 

It is everything.

–

Mingyu’s face is on the tv again. 

It’s an old interview, from back before the season ended. You’ve seen it before. Still, your physical therapist leans closer, whispers conspiratorially, “Isn’t he dreamy?”

You smile back, but don’t say anything. You and Mingyu’s rekindled relationship has been steady, but slow - neither of you wanting to rush it, mess it up by being sloppy. 

She sets you up with ice and puts the timer where you can see it; when it goes off, you can remove the ice, put your ankle brace back on, stop at the front desk to pay your co-pay, and order your ride home.

As you stand, babying your healing ankle, waiting for the receptionist to hand you back your debit card, the physical therapy room goes silent and then erupts in hushed whispers. Alarmed, you look around.

Mingyu stands in the doorway, sending you one of his most bone-melting smiles. 

“Would you like a ride home?” he asks, pretending to be oblivious to the reaction in the room.

“Uh,” you say, eyes wide, not even noticing that the receptionist is pushing your debit card back into your lifeless fingers. “Yes?”

You hobble closer, looking at him nervously.

“Mingyu,” you whisper, casting a glance over your shoulder. Everyone is staring at you, even the old ladies on the stationary bikes. “Everyone here knows who you are. We’ll be a headline.”

He nods, looking thoughtful, like he’s considering the weight of your words. “Guess we better make it a good one, then,” he muses, and then he sweeps you off your feet - literally - and carries you bridal style all the way to the car.

“I can walk,” you hiss, your face aflame, but your smile is a thing alive and you can’t tamp it down.

The headlines come before you're even awake the next morning, your texts and social medias flooding with messages from old friends and acquaintances alike:

Star Pitcher Kim Mingyu Puts Dating Rumors to Rest - “Yes, we’re together.”

--

thank you for reading!!! <3

[jeonghaniehaee]

YOOOOOO THE ENDING WHAT A MOVE

[nerdycheol]

Revving for Love

pairing: f1 racer!jeonghan x physiotherapist f!reader genre/warnings: fluff, slight angst, flirty jeonghan in general 😔, rash driving, slight mention of cheating (ending is so rushed im sorry TT) lmk if i missed anything :) wc: 15k summary: you didn’t expect the guy you swiped left on to show up at your new job — let alone as a top F1 driver. as the team’s new physiotherapist, you’re supposed to stay professional, but jeonghan makes that impossible. flirty, smug, and far too in sync with you, he’s getting under your skin — and the lines between work and something more start to blur. a/n: writing this was a ride lmao. thank you @camandemstudios for giving me an opportunity to join this collab (met wonderful people on the way) y’all better read everyone’s work because it’s SO good!! 😭🔥 this is not beta-read so sorry for any mistakes. thank you to sarah @kkoongie, ro @shinysobi, ema @hannieoftheyear, and alta @haologram for keeping me motivated, couldn’t have done this without you all <3

You're not nervous.

You keep telling yourself that between deep sighs and aggressive sips of overpriced airport iced coffee. It's just a job. A new job. In a whole different country. 

You don't know much about formula-1. You still had to double check how many drivers are on a team this morning. But apparently that didn't matter. Your background in physio is solid, your references are strong, and Williams liked that you weren't, as the HR guy put it “someone who treated the job as a backstage pass”. You don’t know if you should be worried hearing that but you just hope to hold onto this job. 

The last job was shit. You were underpaid, overstressed, and one bad sports rehab case away from quitting your last job on the spot. So when the opening came up — international travel, better pay, a big-name organization, you applied. Casually. With no expectations.

And then they called. Twice.

Now you're moving to the UK to start your new job as a physiotherapist for a motorsport team you had to Google during the interview.

You are, unfortunately, a little nervous. 

But you’ve got time to sit with that feeling because your flight to London was delayed by three hours. Perfect.

You scroll through your inbox, re-read your welcome packet, and watch a toddler throw goldfish crackers at a businessman like it’s a sport. Boredom creeps in like humidity—thick, sticky, and deeply annoying.

Eventually, you do what any responsible adult would do in a situation like this.

You open the dating app.

Left.

Left.

God, no.

Left again.

Okay, that one has potential—nope. Caption says “CEO of vibes.” Immediate left.

You pause on one profile:

Han, 29.

Half his face is visible, jawline so sharp it could slice through glass. Vague bio. One photo of him on a motorcycle. A second one in sunglasses. Ugh, he obviously has a face that probably ruins lives for sport.

You stare at it for a half a second top long, then swipe left.

“Ouch! Hard no for that one?”

You blink.

The voice came from directly behind you. Deep. Lightly amused. Way too close.

You glance over your shoulder and freeze.

Because it’s him. The guy you just swiped left on.In the flesh. Sitting behind you with an easy smile. 

You blink.

“...Are you serious?” is the only thing that comes out.

He leans a little towards you a little closer wearing that same smug expression from his profile.

“Was it the sunglasses? I knew I should’ve picked the dog picture.”

You blink. “Sorry?”

“You didn’t even hesitate,” he says, stepping slightly to the side so he’s half in your line of sight. “I feel like I deserve at least a second of consideration.”

You smile, the kind you give to strangers in elevators. “Sorry. I’m sure you’re great.”

“Wow,” he laughs. “That’s what people say right before they block you.”

You hum, noncommittal, and go back to scrolling through your phone.

And then he moves. You catch the blur of motion in your peripheral vision — coffee, backpack — and suddenly, he’s sliding into the empty seat right next to you. What the—

“So,” he says, turning to face you like this is completely normal. “Now that you’ve got a closer look… how do you like me now?”

You stare at him. He’s looking at you like you’re mid-interview and he’s waiting for your review. Like this is a second chance. Like you didn't already make your decision with one clean left swipe.

You give a short laugh. “You’re… persistent.”

“I prefer ‘charmingly committed.’” He smiles like it’s worked before. It probably has.

You shift slightly in your seat, still polite. Still not encouraging.

He doesn’t say anything for a while after that, and you’re quietly relieved.

You switch to your music app, pull out your earphones. Finally some peace!

You’re halfway to putting one in when—

“Oh! You’re flying to London too?” he says suddenly, peering at your boarding pass. “ Woah fate’s really trying hard with us, huh?”

You look at your boarding pass, then at his. Because apparently, the universe has a sense of humour.

How are you supposed to bear him for the next two and a half hours? _

The next two and a half hours are… something.

You move to a quieter part of the gate. A few minutes later, he wanders over too — not directly next to you, but close enough to make a point. You scroll through your phone. He glances over once, like he’s trying to guess what app you’re on. You tilt your screen slightly away, just in case.

At some point, you get up to stretch your legs and browse the nearby snack kiosk. When you come back, he’s gone. Maybe he finally got the hint. But a few minutes later, he reappears, wiping his hands with a crumpled tissue. He drops into the seat right next to you.

“God,” he mutters, “the line for the washroom is insane. Flight delay is making people feral.”

You don’t say anything. Instead you open your laptop and click into an old document —  nothing important, just enough to give off busy energy. You hope he takes the cue.

To your surprise, he does. No comments, no questions, no sudden attempts at conversation. Just quiet. You type a few sentences you immediately delete. Adjust your playlist. Sip the iced tea that’s now gone lukewarm.

The minutes crawl.

Eventually, the boarding announcement cuts through the low hum of the terminal. Everyone around you starts gathering their bags, stretching, standing up too fast.

He glances over at you, casual as ever. “Guess this is it,” he says.

You shut your laptop, give him a small nod, and grab your bag. No eye contact, no final smile. You don’t owe him that.

You board without looking back.

You don’t see him again after that. Not at the gate, not during boarding, not once you're seated. You assume he’s somewhere further back — or up front. Who knows.

Once the plane takes off, you finally let your head fall back against the seat. It’s quiet. Peaceful.

You think about him briefly. His weird charm. That smug grin of his.Interesting personality. Exhausting, probably.

But whatever.

You won’t see him again.

You arrive ten minutes early, which means you get to stand around pretending to look comfortable while absolutely feeling the opposite.

The Williams HQ is sleek — glass everywhere, spotless floors, that clinical smell of expensive ventilation. People walk past you with lanyards and purpose, tapping away on phones or talking quietly in clipped accents. No one’s told you where to stand, so you pick a random spot near the reception and try not to look like you're on the verge of bolting.

A few minutes later, a woman in a navy Williams fleece appears.

“You must be the new physio,” she says, barely slowing her pace. “I’m Ellie.”

You nod quickly. “Hi—yes. That’s me.”

“Come on, I’ll show you around.”

You follow her through the wide corridors, trying not to trip over your own feet or your nerves.

“We’ll sort your badge and system access later,” she says as you both walk. “For now, just get familiar with the place. You’ll be shadowing me until you’re sick of my voice. You good?”

“I’m fine,” you lie, a little too fast.

“Good. Everyone is on their first day. And if they say otherwise, they’re lying or British.”

You smile, a little more genuinely this time.

She gestures as you pass different sections.

“That’s the medical office. Gym’s next door. Engineering is through that hallway but don’t go in unless you want to hear shouting about tire degradation. Drivers’ area is upstairs—again, don’t wander.”

You nod along, absorbing about half of it.

“They’re all back from Spain,” Ellie says. “Recovery sessions, light workouts, some media stuff. You’ll probably meet them today.”

You nod, keeping pace beside her as she flips through her clipboard. You're mostly focused on memorizing directions — gym to the left, med bay past the doors, don't end up in engineering unless you want to get yelled at.

“Oh!” A voice from behind catches your attention. Familiar enough to make you stop.

“Ohhh!” Louder this time. Like they’ve just placed you.

You turn around. Oh no.

It’s the guy from the airport.

You can’t even summon a reaction. Just… blink. That seems to be your default setting around him.

Your expression must say enough though, because his grin deepens as he starts walking toward you. Like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Each step he takes is a small crisis. You’re not ready. You just got here. You were mentally preparing for drivers, mechanics, trainers. Not smug, possibly unhinged dating app guys.

You can practically feel Ellie looking between the two of you, and you’re just about to lie—to say, “Nope. Never seen this man in my life”—when another voice cuts in.

“Jeonghan! What are you doing just standing there?” A second man steps into view, tossing a smiley ball from one hand to the other like it’s an extension of his personality.

Jeonghan turns his head, pausing mid-step.

“Just saying hi,” he says, glancing back at you with a flicker of something unreadable—teasing, maybe. Or satisfied.

The other guy squints at you briefly, then back at him. “Right. Well, come on. We’ve got the debrief in five.”

Jeonghan sighs dramatically, but lets the other man grab his sleeve and pull him away. He throws one last glance over his shoulder before they disappear down the hallway.

“Fate’s working overtime,” he says with a wink.

You stare after them like you’ve just seen a ghost.

Ellie nods in the direction he disappears and says, “that’s Jeonghan, one of our drivers.”

Oh, you’re so doomed.

Ellie tosses a look over her shoulders. “Come on, I’ll show you the rest of the building. The good coffee machine’s on the second floor.”

You follow her numbly, trying very hard not to think about Jeonghan. Or his smug smile. Or the fact that you now have to spend the foreseeable future working in the same building as the man who saw you reject him in real time.

After nearly an hour of walking past medical rooms, simulation bays, and a break area that suspiciously smelled like burnt toast, Ellie finally leads you to a room tucked behind a glass door marked Team Briefing.

“This is where most of the magic happens,” she says, pushing it open with her hip.

You follow her inside.

And immediately regret it.

Because the moment you step in, your eyes lock with his.

Jeonghan’s already there, lounging in one of the swivel chairs like he owns the place, one leg lazily crossed over the other. He perks up slightly when he sees you, tilting his head with that same maddening, unreadable smirk.

Oh, perfect.

A few other team members are seated around the table—engineers, staff, another driver you haven’t met yet—chatting quietly until Ellie clears her throat.

“This is your new physiotherapist. She’s joining us this season and comes highly recommended, so try not to scare her off.”

A few polite nods and smiles ripple through the room.

You give a short wave, trying to keep your voice even. “Hi. Nice to meet you all.”

“Since it’s the start of the season, you’ll all be working closely with her, but she’ll be assigned to one of our drivers primarily,” Ellie continues. “So if she starts yelling at you to stretch more, listen.”

Some scattered laughter.

Then she glances at the clipboard in her hand. “And looks like you’ll be working with Jeonghan this season.”

Your head turns before you can stop it.

Jeonghan grins.

Not just grins—winks. It’s obnoxious and playful and so smug it should be criminal.

You hope no one notices the way your shoulders stiffen. Or the way your brain short-circuits for half a second. Or the very mild fluster in your chest you’re trying to deny.

Ellie gestures toward the seat beside hers. “Take a seat. We’ll go over travel schedules, recovery blocks, and the preseason calendar.”

You nod, make your way over, and sit down—carefully avoiding Jeonghan’s gaze even though you can feel it like sunlight on your skin.This job is going to test your patience in ways your interview didn’t even begin to prepare you for.

The next morning, you wake up with a pit in your stomach and a very strong urge to call in sick. You don’t, obviously. You’re not even officially on payroll yet, and calling out on day two would be… bold. But still, the dread is very real.

You keep thinking about yesterday—Jeonghan’s wink, his smug little grin, the way he didn’t seem even remotely surprised to see you. You’re already bracing for whatever next-level flirting he’s got planned. Another wink. A suggestive comment. Maybe something wildly inappropriate said in front of other people.

You spend the elevator ride rehearsing all the ways you’ll shut him down.

Polite indifference? A bored smile? Pretend you didn’t hear him?

By the time you reach the gym, you’ve settled on a simple strategy: ignore everything except his joints and posture. No banter. No smiles. Just clinical professionalism.

Of course, that plan goes up in smoke the second he walks in.

He’s five minutes late, hair slightly tousled from what you assume was a jog, and somehow still manages to look like he stepped out of a photoshoot. There’s a towel slung around his neck and a bottle of water in hand, his sleeves shoved up to his elbows — like this is just another casual Thursday.

“Morning, doc,” he drawls. “Didn’t peg you for an early bird.”

You glance at him over your clipboard. “You’re late.”

He presses a dramatic hand to his chest. “Ouch. Straight to business.”

“Let’s get started.”

He grins, but you don’t give him time to retort — gesturing to the mat, already set up. He raises an impressed brow, muttering something under his breath about “being handled” as he drops down beside you.

The session starts smoothly. You guide him through warmups, range of motion tests, a few resistance drills. He’s competent, clearly used to being poked and prodded in the name of performance — but that doesn’t stop him from trying to get under your skin.

“Be honest,” he says midway through a shoulder test, looking at you from under his lashes. “Now that you’ve gotten to know me better… still think I’m a left swipe?”

You pause — just for a beat.

Then let out a laugh before you can stop it. A full laugh. With a snort.

You immediately clamp your mouth shut and look down at your clipboard, pretending to read your own handwriting.

He’s staring at you.

You don’t look up, just scribble something vaguely useful.

But the damage is done. Jeonghan frowns. His mouth opens like he’s about to ask why you laughed, what was so funny about that, but then shuts again. For once, he doesn’t say anything. Just follows the rest of your instructions with unusual focus, mouth slightly downturned in what you suspect might be a pout.

When you announce that the session’s done, he just nods, wiping sweat from his temple.

You rise to your feet and make a note to yourself about his left shoulder. You can feel his eyes on you again, but he doesn’t speak. Not even a wink this time.

You should feel relieved.

Instead, as you leave the gym and toss a glance back over your shoulder, you catch him still sitting on the mat, towel in his hands, brows slightly furrowed like he’s still thinking about the laugh.

Curiosity killed the cat, or whatever they said.

You’re on your way to the break room, badge still clipped to your lanyard and half a granola bar in your hand, when two passing voices hook your attention.

“He’s just getting worse with every season.” “I don’t know why he’s still on the team.”

You slow instinctively, pretending to fix your ponytail.

They’re not whispering, not exactly—but they’re not saying it loud enough to be brave about it either. And you weren’t planning to eavesdrop, but it’s not your fault you have functioning ears.

Before you can think better of it, you detour, curiosity steering your steps toward the garage. It opens out onto the testing circuit, where the practice runs happen.

You’ve never been here during an actual test before. The track is long and wide, framed by fences and checkered barriers. The whir of tires and distant engine growls thrum like a heartbeat in the background.

A handful of engineers stand lined up behind the barrier, headsets on, eyes fixed down the stretch. One of them—tall, stocky, eyes narrowed beneath his cap—clutches a walkie-talkie and barks out a string of instructions.

You pause a few feet behind him, hands shoved into your pockets. You don’t know much about racing—not really—but the energy here feels tight. 

"He's late on the turn again. Sector two's a mess," the man mutters, jabbing at a monitor. "Why’s he pushing that late?"

There’s a car in motion on the track, sleek and black with faint red accents. It disappears and reappears like a phantom through the corners, but you can see the way it jerks—just slightly—through a hairpin turn.

“He needs to pull back, he’s oversteering,” the man snaps into the walkie. “Back off into the braking zone. You’re not proving anything—Jeonghan!”

Jeonghan?

You shift forward unconsciously, squinting at the car as it barrels past the pit wall. It's fast—obviously—but it doesn’t look right. Not reckless, exactly. Just…off. Like it’s being driven by someone trying too hard to pretend they're not falling apart.

The guy beside you exhales sharply and lowers the walkie, rubbing a hand over his jaw. His shoulders slump. Not in frustration, more like disappointment that’s been sitting there a while.

You glance back toward the track one last time.

There’s no spinout. No crash. Jeonghan finishes the lap, pulls into the pit lane with the precision of muscle memory but there’s no celebration in it. No edge-of-the-seat brilliance.

And for some reason, that’s worse.

Before anyone sees you, you slip away quietly, questions pressing against your ribs, and that familiar, unwelcome twinge in your gut.

The break room smells like stale coffee and popcorn, the overhead lights buzzing faintly as you tug open the fridge.

You take out your lunch, a glass container you packed without much thought this morning, and pop it into the microwave. It hums to life as you lean against the counter, arms folded, stomach already growling.

“Hey! There you are.” You turn to see Seokmin walking in, grinning like it’s his full-time job.

“Hey,” you greet, instantly more at ease. “Lunch break too?”

“Yep,” he says, plopping down at the small table with a banana and two boiled eggs. “Big day of babysitting elite athletes who think foam rolling once a week is enough.”

You snort. “Tell me about it.”

You’d hit it off with Seokmin the first day you got here—he was the one who’d waved you over when you looked hopelessly lost outside the medical wing and introduced you to every single person in a twenty-meter radius. He’s the team physio assigned to the other driver— Soonyoung, always cracking jokes but surprisingly sharp when it came to reading people’s bodies.

“How’s it going with Jeonghan?” he asks casually, peeling his egg with practiced ease.

You pause to take your lunch out of the microwave, sliding into the seat across from him.

“He’s okay… I mean, it’s only the first day I’m actually working with him.” You open the lid, the smell of warm food rising between you. “Other than his attempt at flirting with me, it’s all good, I think.”

Seokmin snorts. “That’s classic Jeonghan, isn’t it?”

You raise an eyebrow. “Is it? I thought it was just me.”

“Oh no, he flirts with inanimate objects if they give him attention. Don’t take it personally.”

You laugh, shaking your head, and start eating. A few minutes pass with idle chewing and muttering about an upcoming medical review schedule.

But the question’s been hovering since you walked in.

You glance over. “Hey, about Jeonghan…”

Seokmin looks up.

“I didn’t mean to overhear anything, but—uh, I was passing by the garage earlier and I heard some shouting. Not that I know a lot about F1, but it seemed… I don’t know. Bad?”

Seokmin sighs and leans back in his chair, eyes drifting toward the window that overlooks a small portion of the circuit.

“Well,” he begins, rolling the eggshell between his fingers, “he was one of our best. Like—top three drivers in the league kind of best. Always sharp, calculated...”

You don’t say anything, just listen.

“And then last season hit,” Seokmin says, voice softer now. “He started spinning out in qualifying. Missed a couple of podiums he should’ve nailed in his sleep. At first we thought it was just an adjustment thing—new tech—but…”

He trails off.

“But?”

“There was some personal stuff. Off-track,” Seokmin says. “It’s not really my place to say, but it was… messy. Things started to spiral.”

You nod slowly, processing. You don’t know the details, and it’s not like you’re entitled to, but something about the way Seokmin says spiral lingers.

“He’s still good,” Seokmin says after a moment, like he wants to be fair. “His instincts haven’t left him. But the spark? That thing that made him unbeatable? I don’t know if it’s still there.”

You glance down at your lunch, appetite slightly dulled.

“He doesn’t make it easy,” Seokmin adds. “The flirting, the bravado—it’s all a cover. And I think he’s gotten too good at wearing it.”

You look up. “Does anyone call him out on it?”

Seokmin grins. “Oh, all the time. He just grins back and pretends we’re all imagining it. Charming bastard.”

You chuckle despite yourself, tucking that little piece of information away. When Jeonghan winked at you yesterday, you’d thought it was just arrogance. Now you’re not so sure.

“Anyway,” Seokmin says brightly, stabbing his banana with a plastic fork, “don’t worry too much. He likes a challenge. You shutting down his flirt game probably raised his respect for you by ten points.”

You snort again, amused and slightly exasperated. “Great. Just what I need—more attention from the emotionally repressed race car flirt.”

Seokmin grins wide. “Welcome to the team.”

The paddock looks different in the morning, almost like it’s still waking up.

Someone’s wheeling in crates of water bottles. A junior engineer yawns into his coffee near the garage door. The hum of machines warming up echoes in the distance, but the energy is subdued—no shouting, no screeching tires yet. Just early sunlight and the faint smell of engine oil clinging to concrete.

You’re earlier than usual, hoping to review Jeonghan’s flexibility notes before your session, but the resistance bands are missing from the physio kit. A mechanic vaguely gestures toward the storage room behind the garage.

The door sticks slightly as you push it open. The room is dim, cluttered, with stacks of cones and kettlebells piled to one side and a crooked ceiling fan turning slowly overhead. You're crouched by a bin of straps, digging around, when a voice cuts through the silence.

“If you're stealing equipment, I have to report you.”

You jolt slightly, knocking your elbow into the bin. You turn to see Jeonghan standing just behind, peering over your neck. He’s not even in his training gear yet—just joggers and a loose shirt, hair still damp from a recent shower.

“I was looking for resistance bands. For you.”

You stand, brushing off your knees, and gather your hair up into a loose bun with a scrunchie from your wrist.

His eyes flick upward for half a second, and he lets out a low scoff. “Smooth,” he says. “Distract me with beauty while you sneak off with team property. Classic technique.”

You raise an eyebrow, unamused. 

“You really think I’d go through all that trouble just to steal a ten-dollar band?”

“I don’t know your life.”

You exhale, already walking past him with the band in hand.

“Stretch mat’s out already. You want to start or do you need a minute to flirt with someone else on the way there?”

“Wow,” he laughs, following you slowly. “Day two and you’ve got claws.”

_

The cafeteria is buzzing with midday chatter — drivers, engineers, media staff, all squeezed into mismatched tables and long benches. The menu’s nothing fancy today: grilled chicken, rice, boiled veggies — but it’s hot, and your stomach doesn’t care much about finesse at this point.

You’re sitting with Ellie and Seokmin, trays lined up in front of you, all mid-bite when Jeonghan slides into the spot directly across from you like he’s been doing it for years.

“Didn’t peg you as someone who eats the cafeteria food,” Ellie says, raising an eyebrow at him.

“I make exceptions for good company,” Jeonghan says smoothly, shooting a wink at her then at you.

Seokmin snorts into his water.

Before you can react, another tray lands beside Jeonghan’s, and Soonyoung plops down with the kind of enthusiastic energy that feels like a golden retriever just joined the table. His eyes go wide when they meet yours.

He introduces himself cheerfully, and when he turns to you, it’s with the kind of open friendliness that makes you like him immediately.

“I’m Soonyoung—other half of the team, basically,” he says, offering his hand with a grin. “Though I drive better.”

“Debatable,” Jeonghan mutters through a bite, still watching you from the corner of his eye.

You shake his hand, smiling. “I don’t know, I’ve only worked with one of you so far, and the drama’s already… notable.”

Ellie stifles a laugh. Jeonghan looks wounded, then leans forward, voice dropping just enough to make it feel intentional. “I thought I was being charming.”

“You thought wrong,” you say without missing a beat, and Seokmin lets out a loud ha!.

Conversation carries on — Ellie talking about how her morning was filled with fixing the same damn monitor twice, Seokmin complaining about someone mislabeling the taping drawers again, Soonyoung grinning through most of it and adding the occasional “true, true” with dramatic nods. It’s clear they all know each other — have known each other for a long time. Jeonghan’s stories are met with knowing groans. Soonyoung throws paper napkins at him halfway through one. There’s a rhythm to them and you're still finding your place in it.

But it’s nice. Warm.

Then Ellie turns to you, nudging your elbow with hers. “You’re coming to the team dinner tonight, right?”

You pause mid-chew. “Dinner?”

Jeonghan perks up beside her, chewing slower, watching you carefully like he’s really invested in your answer.

Seokmin grins. “It’s tradition. Anytime someone joins the team, we all get together, food, drinks—nothing wild, just… a welcome thing. You have to come. It’s your dinner.”

“She has to,” Jeonghan agrees, still looking at you. “Wouldn’t be right without the guest of honor.”

You meet his eyes, unimpressed. He gives you a sheepish little smile, like he knows you’re onto him. Like he hopes that’s not a bad thing.

You sigh, more for show than anything. “Fine. I’ll come.”

Jeonghan’s grin stretches instantly. Soonyoung fist-bumps the air. Seokmin claps once, triumphant.

Ellie just laughs and shakes her head, “You’re in trouble.”

You’re starting to think she might be right.

_

The dinner is loud and warm, like someone bottled up all the noise of the racetrack and let it loose inside the restaurant. Two long tables are pushed together, covered with plates that never stay full for more than a minute. Every few seconds, laughter erupts from somewhere along the table.

Soonyoung is halfway through an impression of one of the engineers when he nearly knocks over a glass. Everyone groans and laughs at the same time. He points at you. “See? She’s laughing. That means I nailed it.”

You shake your head. “That was terrible.”

“Terribly accurate,” Seokmin adds, slapping his thigh.

The teasing shifts, bouncing from person to person. At one point, Ellie insists you join a team game where everyone has to share the most embarrassing thing they’ve done in public. The stories are ridiculous, full of trips and wardrobe malfunctions and mistimed jokes. When it’s Jeonghan’s turn, he leans back lazily in his chair, his smirk practiced.

“I once waved at a girl across the street who waved first,” he says, pausing for effect. “Turns out she was waving at the guy behind me.”

The table erupts, some laughing too hard to breathe.

“You?” Seokmin gasps. “You’re never embarrassed.”

“Maybe I just hide it better than you do,” Jeonghan replies smoothly, eyes flicking toward you before he takes a sip from his glass.

You roll your eyes, pretending not to notice.

The night carries on like that, loud and careless. At some point, you excuse yourself to the washroom, weaving through the tables and slipping out of the noise.

When you return, the air feels different. The laughter is still there, but quiete around the edges. 

“Careful, Jeonghan. At this rate you’ll be better at charming the sponsors than driving.”

The table bursts into laughter. Another voice adds, “Don’t worry, at least your hair still has podium potential.”

You glance at Jeonghan. He’s smiling, lifting his glass like he’s in on the joke, but his jaw is a little too tight. A few minutes later, he slips away from the table, quiet and unnoticed.

You hesitate, then follow.

Outside, the night is cooler, quiet except for the distant hum of traffic. Jeonghan leans against the railing, one hand in his pocket, the other holding a cigarette that glows faintly in the dark. He doesn’t look up when you step out. Just exhales smoke, eyes fixed on the road like he’s trying to burn holes in it.

You move to stand beside him, leaving a bit of space. For a moment, neither of you says anything.

Then, lightly, you break it. “If you keep staring at the traffic like that, I’m going to think you’re plotting how to jump on top of a bus and disappear.”

The corner of his mouth lifts. He glances at you, finally, the tension in his face softening. “And here I thought I was being subtle.”

You shrug. “Not really. You’d make a terrible spy.”

That earns a chuckle, low and genuine. He shakes his head and takes another drag, the smoke curling lazily upward. “You’re strange, you know that?”

“Strange keeps things interesting,” you say.

The quiet stretches between you, filled only with the distant honking of horns and the faint hum of music seeping out from the restaurant. Jeonghan takes another slow drag, his expression unreadable again, though softer than before.

You glance at him, then back at the road. “For what it’s worth,” you say after a pause, “I’m here. Whenever you want.”

His head turns, just slightly. The weight in his gaze lingers on you longer this time, and then he gives a small smile, almost rueful but real. “Careful. I might hold you to that.”

You push off the railing, pretending to brush imaginary dust from your hands. “Good. That’s the point.”

He watches as you turn to go, a flicker of surprise crossing his features before he schools it away. You’ve only taken a few steps when you glance back over your shoulder.

“And Jeonghan?”

He tilts his head. “Yeah?”

“Stop smoking.”

You say it with mock sternness, narrowing your eyes at him.

His mouth falls open in exaggerated offense. “What, and give up my mysterious brooding aesthetic?”

You grin. “Exactly. Trade it in for lungs that actually work.”

He lets out a laugh, shaking his head as he lifts the cigarette between two fingers. “You don’t waste time, do you?”

“Not on bad habits,” you shoot back before slipping inside, leaving him with smoke curling in the air and that same small smile tugging at his lips.

It has been a few months since you joined Williams, and the rhythm of the job has settled into something almost natural. The early mornings, the endless travel, the noise of the track that rattles in your bones—you’ve grown used to it all. Somewhere along the way, you’ve also grown used to Jeonghan.

He’s still frustratingly unpredictable, slipping between lazy charm and razor-sharp focus like it costs him nothing. But you’ve found small ways into his world. The coffee runs that somehow turn into debates about which city has the best food. The gym sessions where he cheats half his reps and makes you count them anyway. The way he’s started waiting for you in the corridor before team briefings, tossing you a casual “ready?” as if you’ve always been a part of this.

Now, in the therapy room, you’re working through knots in his arm after a long training session. His skin is warm under your hands, the muscle tense, and when you press into a particularly sore spot, he hisses like you’ve stabbed him.

The sound is so loud that a couple of mechanics look up from across the room. You give him a sharp look. “Stop acting like I’m torturing you.”

He winces dramatically, though the corner of his mouth is twitching. “How else will people know you’re bullying your patient?”

You swat his shoulder lightly, ignoring how firm it feels under your palm. “You’re unbelievable.”

One afternoon, you flip the page on your clipboard, scanning through the checklist. Jeonghan is toweling sweat off his neck, water bottle tilted back as he catches his breath. You glance up at him before speaking. “Since the season’s beginning soon, I need to do a full check-up. You’ll have to come to my room later.”

He lowers the bottle slowly, eyes flicking to you in something between surprise and curiosity. A smile tugs at his lips. “Your room, huh?”

You roll your eyes and jot another note. “The medical room, Jeonghan. Don’t make it weird.”

“I didn't imply anything,” he murmurs, grinning as he slings the towel over his shoulder.

Later that evening, the medical room is quieter than usual, the hum of the overhead lights filling the silence. You’re already setting up when Jeonghan strolls in, moving slower than he should, like he’s got all the time in the world.

“You’re late,” you say without looking up from your clipboard.

“You said later. I thought that meant whenever I felt like it.” His voice is smooth, teasing, and when you finally glance at him, he’s leaning against the doorframe with a grin that dares you to scold him.

“Sit,” you order, pointing to the exam table.

He obeys, dramatically, of course—plopping down with a sigh as if you’re about to ruin his life. “Go easy on me.”

“You’ll live,” you reply, snapping on gloves. You check his vitals first, his pulse steady beneath your fingers. He watches you closely, even when you’re not looking at him.

When you test his reflexes, he smirks. “I feel like I should’ve studied for this.”

“Reflexes aren’t a written exam.”

“Good, because I would’ve cheated off you anyway.”

You shake your head, biting back a smile. He makes everything sound unserious, but when you ask him to rotate his shoulder, his jaw tightens. The soreness is real, and for a moment, the grin slips. You notice it, and your hands steady on his arm, gentler this time.

“You need to be honest with me,” you say quietly. “If something hurts, I have to know. Don’t brush it off.”

His eyes lift to meet yours, and for once, he doesn’t have a quick comeback. Just a small, almost reluctant nod.

The tension eases, but before it gets too heavy, he smirks again. “You’re scarier when you’re serious.”

You swat his knee lightly, and he laughs, the sound bouncing off the sterile walls.

By the time you’re done, he’s lying back with his hands folded behind his head, watching you scribble notes. “So? Do I pass?”

“For now,” you reply, peeling off your gloves. “Try not to break yourself before the season even starts.”

He sits up, swinging his legs off the table. “Guess I’ll just have to stay close to my doctor.”

You give him a look, but he only grins wider.

You’re scribbling down the last of your notes when you hear Jeonghan move. At first, you think he’s finally leaving, but then you notice him lingering by your desk. His fingers trail along the edge of your things with too much interest.

“What’s this?” he asks, plucking up the notebook you left by your clipboard.

Your head snaps up. “Jeonghan, no. Put that down.”

His lips curve into a grin, already flipping to the first page. “It looks like a diary.”

“It’s not for you,” you warn, stepping quickly around the desk.

He clears his throat dramatically and reads in a mock-serious voice, “Day one. Williams garage smells worse than I expected.”

Your eyes widen. “Jeonghan!”

You reach for it, but he just lifts the notebook higher, holding it above his head like a prize. “You keep notes about me, don’t you?”

“Give it back!” You stand on your tiptoes, stretching your arm as far as it will go. He shifts away with maddening ease, smirking like this is the best entertainment he has had in weeks.

“Wow, you wrote a lot,” he says, tilting the book to squint at the lines. “Should I be flattered or worried?”

You swat at his arm, but he keeps dancing back, keeping the notebook just out of reach. He looks far too pleased with himself.

“Jeonghan, I swear—”

You take a determined step forward just as his calves hit the edge of the exam bed. His eyes flicker in surprise, but before he can steady himself, gravity wins. He topples backward onto the bed, and you tumble forward with him, landing squarely against his chest.

The world goes still. His laugh dies halfway in his throat, replaced by the sound of both your breaths tangling in the narrow space between you. He’s lying back, propped on his elbows, and you’re braced against him, face so close you can see the tiny mole under his left eye, the curve of his lips when he swallows.

Neither of you moves. For a split second, it feels like the air has thickened, buzzing with something you shouldn’t be even thinking about.

You clear your throat quickly and snatch the notebook from his loosened grip, stepping back as fast as you can manage. “You’re impossible.”

He grins up at you from the bed, his hair slightly mussed, eyes gleaming like he just discovered a new way to torment you. “Admit it,” he says lightly, “you enjoy chasing me.”

You hug the notebook to your chest, trying to look stern even though your pulse hasn’t quite settled. “Stop going through people’s things.”

“Only yours,” he replies without missing a beat.

You roll your eyes, but the corners of your mouth threaten to give you away.

The office lights go out one by one as you finally shut your laptop and rub your eyes. It is well past the time you usually leave, but the pile of forms refused to finish itself. Slinging your bag over your shoulder, you head toward the exit—only to notice the garage door cracked open, bright white light spilling into the dark hallway.

Curiosity wins.

You step inside and the smell hits first, a mix of rubber and engine oil. The place is mostly quiet, save for the distant hum of something still alive. Across the vast floor, one car cuts along the track, its low growl echoing through the building. You stop near the railing, leaning over just enough to catch a glimpse as it glides across the straight, graceful and fast, though you can’t tell if it’s fast enough by racing standards.

When it finally slows and pulls into the pit lane, it stops not far from where you’re standing, the heat radiating off its hood. The door opens and out steps Jeonghan, pulling off his gloves and helmet in one smooth motion, hair falling damp across his forehead. He blinks when he notices you, a faint smile tugging at his lips.

“What are you doing here?” His voice carries easily in the cavernous garage. “Your work was supposed to be over hours ago.”

You cross your arms, pretending to look offended. “I had extra paperwork.” Then, with a teasing tilt of your head, you add, “Some of it was for you, by the way. You’re welcome.”

Before he can reply, footsteps echo across the garage floor. His race engineer approaches, a tablet in one hand and a pen tucked behind his ear. He doesn’t even seem surprised you’re there—he’s focused squarely on Jeonghan.

“Good laps,” the engineer says briskly, flipping through data. “But you’re braking a fraction too late into turn six. Car’s steady otherwise. Keep that line through the chicane—it looks clean.”

Jeonghan nods, the corner of his mouth twitching like he’s trying not to smile too much. “Got it.”

The engineer pats his shoulder firmly, like a coach sending a player back onto the field. “See you tomorrow. Take rest.”

With that, he heads off, leaving you and Jeonghan alone again. Jeonghan glances back at you, a little sheepish, like you just saw him in his element.

You raise your brows, fighting a smirk. “So… is this where I’m supposed to pretend I understood a single word of that?”

He laughs, the sound rich and boyish. “Maybe. Or you can just admit you’re impressed.”

“By the braking thing? Totally.”

He shakes his head, amused, before softening his expression. “You want to get out of here?”

“Yes, please.”

“Alright. Wait here for me.” He gestures toward the stool near the wall, his tone leaving no room for argument. “I’ll be back in a bit.”

You sigh but obey, sitting with your phone in hand. Fifteen minutes drag by, the garage echoing with the occasional click of tools being put away. Just as you’re wondering if he’s forgotten you, a sudden coldness shocks your cheek.

You jerk in your seat with a squeak, whirling around to find Jeonghan smirking, two cans in his hands.

“Relax,” he says, pressing one into your palm. “A peace offering. For all that paperwork you did for me.”

You roll your eyes but take the can anyway.

Jeonghan drops down beside you, the metal of the step groaning under the weight. He pops his can open with a crisp hiss, the fizz breaking the stillness of the garage. You glance at him, but he doesn’t look at you right away. He tips his head back for a slow sip, Adam’s apple shifting with the motion, and then exhales like he’s been holding his breath all day.

You take that as your chance. “Alright,” you say, nudging your can lightly against your knee. “Tell me about racing. I know almost nothing—just that there are two drivers per team, twenty teams in total, and Williams… isn’t exactly winning.”

The corners of his mouth twitch. “That’s one way to put it.”

You grin. “So? Make me less clueless.”

He leans forward, forearms resting on his thighs, and starts talking. At first it’s simple: practice sessions, qualifying, the starting grid. Then he gets into strategies, pit stops, tire choices. His hands move when words aren’t enough, tracing the imaginary shape of a racetrack in the air. His voice is steady but animated, like he forgets for a moment who he’s talking to because this is his world and he knows it inside out.

And you try to follow—really, you do—but the longer he goes on, the more your focus slips. 

The garage lights cast faint shadows over his features, highlighting the sharp cut of his jaw, the slope of his nose, the curve of his mouth when he pauses between thoughts. His lashes are darker up close, fanning against his skin when he blinks. His hair falling loose against his forehead. Every now and then he pushes them back with careless fingers, only for them to fall forward again. And his…lips.

You realize you’re not listening to the words anymore, just the cadence of his voice. He’s so close, and the more he talks, the easier it is to picture this is how he is with people he trusts—unguarded, passionate, lit from within by something you can’t quite touch.

When his eyes flick to yours mid-sentence, you freeze. The intensity makes your chest tighten. You drop your gaze quickly, clearing your throat as you take a sip from your can, the cold fizz a poor distraction.

“You really like racing, don’t you,” you say softly.

Jeonghan leans back against the wall, tipping his head slightly as though weighing the question. Then he smiles, “yeah. I do.”

The silence after stretches. Not awkward, but weighted. The two of you stare out at the empty track, the faint smell of rubber and asphalt hanging in the air.

“How about a bet?”

His head turns. “A bet?”

“You do great this season,” you say, pretending to study your can. “I’ll give you a gift.”

One brow arches, and his smirk returns, lighter now. “Are you bribing me?”

You scoff. “Incentivizing. Don’t twist my words.”

He chuckles low in his throat, tilting his can toward you. “Fine. But I’m holding you to that.”

You tap your can gently against his, the metallic clink echoing in the quiet. When you glance at him again, you catch his eyes on you, softer than before. It makes your chest tighten all over again, and you look back at the track quickly, pretending you didn’t notice.

The season is getting closer and everyone is working like there are not enough hours in the day. Engineers stay glued to their screens, mechanics move nonstop around the cars, and meetings stretch longer than they should. You feel the pressure too, heavy and constant in the air. So when Williams announces a go-karting day for everyone, it feels like someone finally let the team breathe. Jeonghan, of course, turns the whole thing into a spectacle. While most people stick to driving properly, he spins his kart in lazy circles, waves like a showman every time he passes the group, and at some point drives backwards just to prove he can. His laughter carries over the roar of the engines, infectious enough that even the engineers who were complaining about set-ups earlier can’t stop smiling. You’re standing on the sidelines with Seokmin, both of you watching the chaos unfold. You can’t help grinning when Jeonghan lifts both hands from the wheel for a moment, earning a string of warnings from staff. “Does he ever take anything seriously?” you say, shaking your head. “Not when he can help it,” Seokmin replies, chuckling. “That’s Jeonghan.” The conversation flows easily, your focus drifting back to Jeonghan every other second. You comment on the way he corners too dramatically, the way he tosses his head back when he laughs, the way he waves at his competitors like they’re adoring fans instead of colleagues trying to beat him. Seokmin hums in agreement here and there, but he’s quiet for longer than usual.

When you finally glance at him, he’s staring at you with a look of dawning realization. Then he gasps loudly, clutching his chest. “Oh my god. You’re in love!” You freeze, eyes wide. “What?” He grins like a cat who’s found cream. “You’re in love with him.” You let out an incredulous laugh. “No, I’m not.” “Yes, you are.” He points at you accusingly, delight all over his face. “Do you even realize you’ve been standing here for twenty minutes, and fifteen of those minutes were just you talking about Jeonghan?”

“That’s because I’m his physiotherapist,” you argue, fumbling for composure. Seokmin raises a brow, unconvinced. “Tell that to my grandmother,” he says smugly. You sputter, heat rising to your face. “Did you not hear what I said? Half the time I was complaining!” Seokmin smirks, sing-songing under his breath, “Denial is a river in Egypt…” You whip your head toward him. “Seokmin—” Before you can finish, you hear a voice calling your name. You turn to see Jeonghan pulling up beside the fence in his kart, hair wild from the wind, grinning like he owns the world. He calls your name, beckoning. “Come on, your turn!”

Seokmin elbows you in the ribs. “Go. Your loverboy is calling.” “He’s not—” you start, but your protest is half-hearted, lost under Seokmin’s snickering. You scoff for show, tugging at your jacket as you walk toward Jeonghan. You tug the helmet on and slide into the kart, pretending not to notice the way Jeonghan’s eyes are already on you. He looks far too pleased with himself, leaning against his wheel like he’s been waiting just for this.

“I didn’t think you’d actually try,” he says, his grin pulling wider. “You didn’t think I could,” you shoot back, gripping the wheel tighter than necessary. He tilts his head, feigning innocence. “True. But I didn’t say that out loud, did I?” The moment the flag waves, Jeonghan flies, swerving so close in front of you that you have to slam the brakes.

“Hey!” you shout, laughter bubbling out despite yourself. “That’s cheating!” He only tilts his head back and laughs, the sound ringing across the track. Instead of staying in his lane, he veers directly into yours, forcing you to turn wider than necessary. “Jeonghan!” you yell again, your voice breaking on a laugh. “Stop cheating!” “Why? You’re still behind me!” he calls back, voice smug. You try to cut in, but he’s already anticipating it, jerking his wheel so you have to swerve. Your helmet knocks against the padding with the force of your laughter, half annoyed, half exhilarated. “You’re impossible,” you shout, chasing him down the straight.

He throws one hand dramatically into the air as if waving to an imaginary crowd, kart weaving dangerously as he does it. You can’t even stop laughing long enough to scold him. The ridiculousness of it all—the childish spins, the smug grins, the way he keeps blocking you at every corner makes your chest ache with something warmer than frustration. By the time you finally catch up to his side, you’re breathless, still shouting his name through laughter. He turns his head, eyes sparkling, and says over the roar of the engines, “See? You love it.” And you hate that he’s right.

This season’s host city is Baku, and it feels different the moment you land. The airport buzzes with energy that comes with a Grand Prix weekend. Posters of drivers are plastered on walls, little groups of fans cluster around the arrivals area hoping for a glimpse, and the city outside the glass windows glows against the Caspian Sea.

You tug your carry-on along and glance at your friends. Seokmin is humming to himself, Ellie is already scrolling through maps of restaurants she wants to try, and Jeonghan walks a few steps ahead, baseball cap pulled low but still managing to turn heads. Soonyoung lags behind, muttering about needing sleep more than anything else.

It’s loud, crowded, but there’s a strange thrill in the air too. This is the next stop, another race, another city, and maybe a whole different kind of chaos waiting to happen.

The only problem? Your suitcase doesn’t appear on the carousel.

You watch the crowd thin out as people drag their luggage away, leaving the belt emptier and emptier until it’s just circling with a few stray bags that definitely aren’t yours.

You press your lips together. “Don’t tell me…”

Seokmin leans on his suitcase like it’s a piece of furniture. “Lost luggage?”

“Looks like it.” You rub your forehead, already dreading the hassle of reporting it. “This is just my luck.”

Jeonghan, quiet until now, lets out a soft hum and unzips his own bag. Before you can ask what he’s doing, he pulls out a black hoodie and holds it out to you.

You blink. “What?”

“You’re going to need it,” he says matter-of-factly. “Airports, hotel air conditioning. Unless you want to freeze.”

“I’ll be fine,” you protest. “Just keep it.” Your cheeks warm before you can stop them. With a small sigh, you take the hoodie and tug it on. It’s big enough to swallow you whole, the sleeves dangling past your wrists, and it smells faintly of his cologne. “Cute,” Seokmin laughs, earning himself a sharp elbow from Ellie and a glare from you. Soonyoung appears at your side, eyeing the empty carousel. “Oh, you should report it fast. I lost my luggage once.” He pauses dramatically. “Still haven’t found it.” The horrified look on your face sends Jeonghan into laughter. “Okay, big guy, let’s get you some sleep.” He pats Soonyoung’s shoulder and steers him forward, the two of them drifting a few paces ahead of the group. Behind you, Ellie and Seokmin exchange the kind of smirk that makes you want to melt into the floor. “Don’t,” you warn, zipping the hoodie halfway. Ellie holds up her hands in mock innocence. “We didn’t say anything.” “So,” Soonyoung says slyly, “is there something going on between you guys?” Jeonghan’s laugh comes instantly, like the very idea is ridiculous. “Me and her? No. We’re just friends.” “Really?” Soonyoung side-eyes him, unconvinced. “You sure about that? You two seem pretty close.” “Close, sure,” Jeonghan admits easily, still smiling. “But just friends.” Their voices drift into the airport buzz as they walk ahead. Seokmin glances back at you, his grin positively devilish, and mouths, just friends? Ellie elbows him again, though this time her expression is less amused — more like she’s disappointed.

The ride to the hotel is quiet, a mix of jet lag and city lights rushing past the windows. Baku feels alive even at night, the streets lined with glowing buildings and the sea glimmering faintly in the distance.

Check-in is quick. The staff hands out keycards, and you all compare room numbers. Ellie is next door to you, Seokmin a few doors down, and Jeonghan is assigned to a floor above with Soonyoung.

“Different floors, huh?” Seokmin says lightly, nudging your arm. “That should keep things safe.”

“Safe from what?” you mutter.

He just smirks.

As you slide your keycard into the door, Jeonghan passes on his way to the elevator. He lifts a hand in a small wave before stepping inside with Soonyoung. The doors close, and the quiet hum of the elevator disappears down the hall.

The lock clicks open, and you step into your room. You set your bag down and wash up, but even after slipping under the covers, your body refuses to settle. Every time you close your eyes, your thoughts run circles around the day—the travel, the missing luggage, Jeonghan’s hoodie still draped over a chair by the desk.

Minutes stretch into what feels like hours. The silence grows heavy, pressing against your ears until you finally throw the blanket back with a sigh. Sleep isn’t happening.

You slide the balcony door open and step outside. The night air is cool and sharp, a welcome contrast to the stale stillness of the room. The city hums faintly in the distance, headlights weaving through Baku’s narrow streets.

When you rest your arms on the railing, you notice movement just to your left. Jeonghan is leaning against his own balcony rail, one floor identical to yours, separated only by a slim partition. His T-shirt clings softly to his shoulders, hair tousled like he’s been tugging at it for hours.

He notices you almost immediately, eyes flicking over in surprise before a slow smile spreads across his face.

Your eyes widen. “Wait—aren’t you supposed to be upstairs?”

He glances over at you, a hint of amusement tugging at his mouth. “I was. But the team’s still in the strategy room going over race data, so Soonyoung and I switched to a quieter floor. Figured I’d sneak out here for a bit of air.”

He tilts his head, why are you still up? It's late.”

“It just feels very…weird. Also the jetlag.” you laugh.

He nods like he understands. For a moment, the two of you just stand there, letting the quiet stretch comfortably.

You break it first. “So, media day tomorrow. Are you excited?”

The spark in your voice is genuine, but his reaction is anything but. Jeonghan goes still, his smile fading. He doesn’t answer right away, just tilts his head back to look at the night sky as if he can dodge the question.

When he finally speaks, his tone is softer, almost thoughtful. “Excited isn’t the word I’d use.”

That catches you off guard. “What would you use then?”

He exhales slowly, fingers drumming against the railing. “I hate media day. It feels fake. The cameras, the questions, the answers I’ve given a hundred times before. Everyone sees a version of me, but not me.”

The admission sits between you like something fragile. You don’t know what to say, so you stay quiet, letting him take his time.

Jeonghan glances at you then, the kind of look that lingers longer than it should. His voice drops, quieter still, as if meant only for you. “But with you… I don’t feel fake.”

Your chest tightens before you can stop it. The night air suddenly feels warmer, like it’s carrying the weight of his words straight to you. You grip the railing a little tighter, heart beating faster than it should.

“Jeonghan…” you start, but the rest of the thought tangles on your tongue. You’re not sure what you were even going to say.

He leans his elbows on the railing, closer now, his face partly shadowed by the glow of the balcony lights. His gaze doesn’t waver. “hmm?”

The way he says it so cutely, paired with that small tilt of his head, makes your stomach flip. You shake your head quickly, trying to laugh it off. “Nothing.”

He doesn’t push, but the faint smirk tugging at his lips tells you he knows it isn’t nothing. The quiet between you sharpens, heavy with everything unspoken.

Finally, he tilts his head toward his door. “You should get some sleep. Big day tomorrow.”

No. You don’t want to leave. You want to stay, to talk to him, to laugh with him… to just be with him. The truth rises in your chest, you just

You love him so-

The sharp slide of his balcony door yanks you out of your thoughts. You look over, but he’s already gone. Disappointment pools in your stomach, a hollow ache you can’t quite shake, and with a slow breath you step back inside too.

The buffet tables are lined with polished trays, steam rising faintly from the hot dishes. You grab a plate and trail behind Jeonghan, watching as he stacks his selections with practiced ease. He moves without hesitation, spooning eggs, sausages, and something fried onto his plate like he knows exactly what he wants. That is when a voice cuts in– a random stranger who sounds too self-important. “You shouldn’t eat that. Too oily. Not good before a big weekend,” a man says, leaning slightly toward Jeonghan’s plate. “Athletes need discipline. You should stick to fruit and oats.” Jeonghan only blinks, lips twitching in the kind of polite smile that does not quite reach his eyes. He hums, as if debating whether to respond at all, but before he can, the words leave your mouth.

“Pretty sure he can decide for himself,” you say, light but firm. “It’s breakfast, not a crime scene.” The man falters, visibly thrown. You raise your brows, tilting your head just enough to make your point clear. His confidence wavers, and after an awkward beat, he mutters something under his breath and drifts down the line, suddenly very interested in the fruit section. You glance at Jeonghan, and he is smiling now. “Defending me before I even take a bite,” he says, voice low. “What would I do without you?”

“You’d still eat the sausage,” you reply, trying not to show how warm your face feels. His smile deepens, a hint of teasing glinting in his eyes. “Maybe. But it tastes better with you on my side.”

You roll your eyes, but your chest feels too light for it to land. He shifts his tray closer to yours, shoulder brushing as you both move down the line, and you cannot shake the thought that breakfast just became the best part of the morning.

The two of you settle at a table by the windows, trays clinking as you set them down. Morning sunlight spills across the table, warm and soft, but you hardly notice it with Jeonghan sitting across from you, sleeves pushed up and hair still a little messy from sleep.

He glances at your plate and grins. “You really took half the fruit section.”

“They looked fresh,” you defend, stabbing a piece of melon. “At least I’m not the one who took three pastries.”

“Correction,” he says, holding up a fork like he’s making a point. “Four. But who’s counting?”

You laugh, shaking your head, and the two of you fall into easy chatter. He complains about the bitter coffee, you argue that it’s not that bad, and he smirks every time you roll your eyes. 

“You always do that,” he says suddenly, tilting his head.

“Do what?”

“Wrinkle your nose when you don’t like something. Like just now, with the coffee.” He mimics the expression, nose scrunching, lips curling.

“Don’t do that,” you laugh, nudging his foot under the table before you can stop yourself. The accidental contact makes your chest warm, but he doesn’t move away—just gives you a small smile, like he noticed.

You go back to your plate, but his gaze lingers. After a beat, he leans in slightly. “You’ve got something here,” he says, pointing vaguely near his own mouth.

“Oh, where?” you fumble for your napkin, dabbing at the wrong corner. “Did I get it?”

He shakes his head, still watching you, amused. “Other side.”

You try again, missing by a mile. His smile widens, but he doesn’t correct you right away, like he’s enjoying the sight of you struggling. Then, before you can ask again, he sets his fork down and leans across the table.

“Here,” he murmurs, thumb brushing lightly at the corner of your mouth. The touch is soft, unhurried, and when he pulls back, his gaze flicks to yours and holds there a moment too long.

Your breath catches, heat rising in your cheeks. “You could’ve just told me.”

“I did,” he says easily, picking up his fork again. “You just weren’t listening.”

You watch him for a beat too long, last night’s thoughts tugging at you again. You almost said it then, and the words are right there now too.

“Jeonghan, I…” you murmur, just enough to catch his attention. He tilts his head, waiting.

Before you can go on, the space beside you explodes with noise. Soonyoung drops his tray onto the table with a clatter, pointing an accusatory finger at Seokmin. “Tell him he can’t just steal half my eggs!” Seokmin only grins as he slides into the chair across from you. “If he didn’t want me to take them, he should’ve eaten faster.”

The whole scene is so ridiculous that Jeonghan bursts out laughing.  The quiet between you disappears in an instant, replaced by Soonyoung and Seokmin bickering over eggs like it is the most serious matter in the world. You close your mouth, the words you almost said slipping away before you can catch them. There’s a small tug of disappointment, but it fades quickly in the noise. Jeonghan is grinning at their antics, shoulders shaking as he tries to scold them and fails miserably. You shake your head, smiling, and reach for your food again. 

The rest of the day rushes by in a blur. Jeonghan disappears early, swept into a rotation of interviews, photoshoots, and media calls that keep him busy from morning until late evening. You, on the other hand, are trapped in meeting rooms that feel like they are getting smaller with every passing hour. Strategy sessions, scheduling calls, endless discussions that circle back to the same points again and again. You find yourself nodding at the right times, scribbling notes you barely register, pretending to be fully engaged while your mind drifts elsewhere. By the third meeting, your coffee has gone cold, by the fifth, you are watching the clock more than you are listening.

By the time everything winds down, your voice feels tired from speaking too much, and your head aches from pretending to focus on things you barely care about. When night finally settles, you slip away to the hotel’s pool for a breather, hoping for silence. The pool area is mostly empty, and the quiet you have been craving all day. Until you hear the sound of splashing.

You pause mid-step, eyes widening when you see him. Jeonghan is already there, cutting through the water in clean strokes, his hair slicked back and shoulders gleaming under the lights. You let out a startled shriek. "Oh my god, you’re here too… naked."

He surfaces, laughing, water dripping down his face as he pushes his hair back. "Half naked, actually," he corrects, voice annoyingly smooth. Then his eyes glint, and he adds, "Not like you’ve never imagined me naked before." Your jaw drops. "I have not!" you shoot back, scoffing so hard you almost stumble. Jeonghan tilts his head, smirk curling at the corner of his mouth, like he knows more than he is saying. "Sure," he says lightly, and gestures toward the water. "Come on, get in."

You sit on the edge, slipping your sandals off and dipping your legs into the pool. The water is cool, a little shock against your tired skin.

Jeonghan stops in the middle of the pool to look at you, incredulous. "That’s not swimming."

"It’s called enjoying the water without drowning," you retort.

He narrows his eyes playfully, then flicks water in your direction with one sharp kick. "You’re no fun like this."

You gasp when the splash hits you, and glare down at him. "Did you just—"

Before you can finish, he sends another splash your way.

"Jeonghan!" you squeal, leaning back with your hands braced behind you to avoid getting soaked.

"Come in then," he teases, swimming closer, his grin bright and boyish. "Or are you scared I’ll outswim you?"

"You probably would not," you argue, though your voice wavers when he suddenly slaps the surface of the water, sending droplets flying.

You kick the water back at him with your feet, and he laughs, delighted. "That’s weak," he says, splashing you again.

You lean forward, kicking harder, but the edge is slippery. Your foot skids just enough to throw you off balance.

"Ah—!"

Before panic has the chance to set in, a strong hand catches your wrist. Jeonghan is suddenly right there, at the edge of the pool, steadying you as water ripples around him. His fingers are warm despite the pool, his grip firm. You blink down at him, heart hammering from the sudden slip. His hand is firm around your wrist, steadying you like you weigh nothing. He is close—far too close—his face tilted up toward yours, water dripping down his temples and sliding over sharp cheekbones before disappearing into the curve of his collarbones. 

Your chest feels too tight, the words burning at the back of your throat. His hand is still wrapped around your wrist, thumb brushing softly, like he has no idea what he is doing to you. 

You swallow hard, your pulse loud in your ears. "Jeonghan…" you begin, and his eyes flicker up to meet yours, steady, waiting. The air feels fragile, as if one wrong breath could shatter it. You take another in anyway, shaky but determined. "I like you." The words tumble out before you can stop them, soft but clear, heavier than you expected. You keep going, because once the dam is broken there is no point holding back. "I’ve liked you for a long time, more than I probably should. And I just—" your voice falters, "—I needed you to know."

For a heartbeat, nothing happens. He just stares at you, unreadable, the grip around your wrist loosening until your skin feels suddenly cold. His eyes search your face as if he is looking for something, but whatever it is, he does not find it. Jeonghan exhales slowly, the sound sharp in the stillness. He shakes his head, a small, almost weary motion. "You shouldn’t have said that," he mutters, barely above a whisper. His hand slips from yours completely, leaving you feeling untethered, like the ground beneath you just shifted.

You open your mouth, desperate to fill the silence, but he is already pulling back, putting distance between you both with every movement. He runs a hand through his wet hair, gaze avoiding yours now, and you can see the tension tightening in his jaw. "I— I can’t," he says finally, firm but quiet, as if even speaking it costs him something. "I’m sorry." Before you can reach for him, before you can ask him what he means, he is already moving away, climbing out of the pool. Water streams off him as he grabs a towel, his shoulders set, his back turned. He does not look at you again.

QUALIFYING – BAKU CITY CIRCUIT, AZERBAIJAN

You should not have confessed. You should not have said it. The memory keeps replaying, every second of it, every look on his face burned into your mind until you almost wish you could scrape it clean. Because now, you cannot bear the way Jeonghan looks at you. Or rather, the way he doesn’t. He keeps his eyes anywhere else but on you, his expression calm and collected as if nothing happened, as if your words last night meant nothing at all. Every time you steal a glance, hoping for even the smallest crack, he shifts his focus to the floor, to his gloves, to the bottle of water in his hand. Anywhere but you.

The routine feels stiff, unnatural. Normally, he would grumble about the stretches, tease you about how seriously you take your job, anything to make you roll your eyes. Today, he says nothing. You guide him through warm-ups in silence, your hands checking the pull in his muscles, your voice clipped when you do have to speak. Every instruction sounds foreign in your own ears. “Rotate your shoulder,” you murmur. He does it without acknowledgment. “Hold for ten.” He holds, expression unreadable.

Your throat is tight, your hands clumsy where they used to be steady. You can feel his gaze brushing past you but never settling, and it twists something sharp in your chest. The door swings open and Wonwoo, his manager steps inside, headset pushed back around his neck. “Fifteen minutes to track,” he says, scanning the room. His eyes flick from Jeonghan to you, lingering just long enough to notice the tension, though he doesn’t comment. Jeonghan only hums, flexing his hands inside his gloves. His gaze never once finds yours.

Wonwoo nods once. “Be ready.” Then he is gone again, the door clicking shut behind him. Jeonghan stands almost immediately, rolling his shoulders out. He doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t even look at you. He just walks out, leaving you standing there with your clipboard still in hand, heart aching at how easy it was for him to leave you behind.

The door shuts behind Jeonghan, and for a long moment, you stay frozen in the prep room. You force yourself to move, setting down the clipboard and dragging a chair toward the small monitor mounted in the corner. If he will not look at you, if he will not speak to you, then you will just watch him from here. “Alright, Jeonghan,” the race engineer’s voice crackles through the comms, relayed onto the feed. “Fifteen minutes to go. Tire temps are good. Just keep it clean, keep it steady.”

Engines roar, and then they are off.

The first lap blurs in speed and noise, cars darting past each other like pieces on a board. Jeonghan holds his place in the middle of the pack, slipping between a Red Bull and an Alpine. His line is neat, his braking sharp. But it is not enough.

“Push, Jeonghan, push,” his engineer says.

From the camera angle overhead, you see a flash of red sweep past him. Mingyu in the Ferrari, aggressive and precise, snatches the inside line and takes the position. The commentators’ voices rise, excited. “Look at that move from Ferrari! Mingyu slides right past Williams and secures P7!”

Your stomach knots as Jeonghan falls back a place.

“Focus. Reset. You’ve got time,” the engineer tells him.

He tries, weaving into the next turn, but then another shadow looms in his mirrors. Lee Chan in the Mercedes. The commentators are practically shouting now. “Mercedes making a move! Chan is closing the gap—oh, and he’s through! Williams down to P9!”

The camera cuts to Jeonghan’s car, and even through the screen you can see it: the hesitation in his line, the fraction of a second too slow on the acceleration.

“Eyes forward, Jeonghan,” the engineer insists. “Forget what’s behind. Just keep this lap clean. One more push.”

Your hand tightens around your knee, nails digging through fabric. Every corner feels longer, every straight unbearable. He does not claw the positions back, but he doesn’t lose them either. He clings on, stubborn, the blue and white Williams holding steady even as the race roars past him.

Finally, the checkered flag waves.

The standings appear on the broadcast: Jeonghan, in P9. Just inside the cutoff. Just enough to qualify. Unfortunately, Soonyoung didn’t make it.

“P9, Jeonghan. That’s us through to tomorrow. Copy?”

There is a pause on the comms, and then his voice, clipped. “Copy.”

You sit back, pulse still racing, the taste of disappointment bitter in your mouth. He has qualified, yes, but it feels like a hollow victory. Watching him drive today was like watching a ghost.

The broadcast cuts to commercials, and the room falls into silence except for the faint buzz of the air conditioner. You stay seated for a while, staring at the blank screen, the echo of engine noise still rattling in your chest. P9. Qualified, but barely.

The door clicks open.

Jeonghan steps inside, helmet under his arm, fireproofs damp with sweat. His hair clings to his forehead, and there’s a sharp edge to his movements, like he is still carrying the race inside his body. For a second, you think he might look at you, might say something. But his gaze slides right past, as if you are not there at all.

He tosses the helmet onto the counter and sinks into the chair opposite yours. His breaths are still rough, chest rising and falling as he pulls off his gloves. You wait, expecting him to speak first, but he doesn’t. The silence stretches.

Wonwoo enters before you can decide what to do with it. He’s efficient as always, tablet in hand, voice brisk. “Session’s done. Main race tomorrow. Debrief in an hour, Jeonghan. Good work staying in the top ten.”

Jeonghan nods once, no flicker of emotion.

Wonwoo glances between you and him but doesn’t linger. “I’ll see you at the garage. Don’t be late.”

And just like that, he’s gone.

The door closes again, leaving the two of you in the same room with all the space in the world between you. Jeonghan leans forward, elbows on his knees, face buried in his hands. You want to reach for him, want to say something, anything, but your throat locks up.

He does not look at you. Not once.

You grab one of the water bottles from the counter and hold it out to him. “Good job today,” you say quietly.

Jeonghan takes it without hesitation, twisting the cap open. “Thanks.” That's all.

You sit back, watching him drink, watching the water bead down his throat. “P9 is still good. You kept it clean out there.”

“Could’ve been better,” he mutters, not looking up.

You try again. “Tomorrow’s what matters.”

He hums in acknowledgment, a sound that feels more like dismissal than agreement. He doesn’t ask you what you thought, doesn’t let the conversation move past one-word replies. Each attempt feels like tossing stones into a void, waiting for an echo that never comes.

The silence that settles after is heavier than the room itself. He leans back in his chair, eyes on the floor, bottle dangling from his hand. You fold your arms, more to steady yourself than anything, and stare at the muted TV screen.

It is only the first day of the weekend, yet it already feels like a marathon. Between the confession that should never have left your lips, the awkward hours spent pretending nothing has changed, and now his silence pressing down on you like a weight, exhaustion spreads through your body. Tomorrow will bring the main race, and with it, a thousand more ways to either break apart or hold together. Tonight, all you can do is sit in the quiet and let the day end around you.

RACE DAY – BAKU CITY CIRCUIT, AZERBAIJAN

You already know your decision before the day even begins. By the time the main race is over, you will be gone. There is no point staying when Jeonghan barely spares you a glance, when every word from him feels like pulling teeth. You are his physiotherapist, nothing more. And now that the job is done, there is nothing left to hold you here.

The paddock hums with its usual pre-race chaos. Engineers hurry past, radios clipped to their belts, tires stacked in neat rows, fans buzzing just beyond the fences. You hover near the Williams garage, going through the usual checks, hands steady even as your stomach knots tighter with each passing minute. Jeonghan stretches, eyes locked on the floor. He does not look at you once.

Seokmin bursts in, his voice loud enough to cut through the thrum of machinery. “There he is, the man of the hour!” He claps Jeonghan on the shoulder, earning the faintest smirk. “Ready to make history today?”

Jeonghan gives a short laugh. “We’ll see.”

Seokmin notices you then and grins. “And you. Don’t look so tense. It’s just a few laps around the track.”

You roll your eyes, though the smile you manage is faint. “Easy for you to say when you’re not the one driving.”

The warm-up is over quickly. Jeonghan takes his place, engineers swarm around the car, and soon the race begins.

The opening laps are brutal. Jeonghan holds his ground, weaving between cars, taking every corner like it is his last. Mingyu from Ferrari pushes hard, sliding ahead on the straights, but Jeonghan clings to his tail. Lee Chan for Mercedes finds a gap and slips past too, engines screaming as the crowd roars. You grip the edge of the table in the garage, heart pounding with every overtake.

“Box this lap, Jeonghan,” the engineer’s voice crackles through the comms.

“Copy,” Jeonghan replies, calm but clipped.

The pit stop is flawless. Tires swapped in seconds, fuel checked, and he is back out on track. His focus is razor sharp now, movements tighter and more fierce. One by one, he claws his way up, cutting past rivals with a precision that makes your breath catch. The final laps blur, and when the checkered flag waves, Jeonghan crosses the line in third.

P3. Podium. The garage erupts in cheers. Seokmin leaps to his feet, shouting, “Yes! That’s what I’m talking about!” He turns to you, eyes bright. “Come on, let’s go meet them!”

Your hand shoots out, fingers curling around his sleeve. “Wait.”

Seokmin blinks, still grinning. “What? They’re waiting, let’s go.”

“I’m not.” The words slip out quieter than you mean them to.

His smile falters. “What do you mean, you’re not?”

You hesitate, searching for an easy excuse. “I’m… leaving. Going back early. There’s some work I need to handle.”

Seokmin stares at you, his expression flattening. “Leaving? Now? After this?” You look down at your hands, twisting them together. “I confessed to him,” you admit, voice low. “And he rejected me. Since the race is over and my job is done, there’s no reason for me to stay. It’s better if I go.” For a long moment, Seokmin just studies you, his usual bright energy dimmed. Finally, he gives a slow nod. “I see.” His voice softens, like he wants to argue but knows better. Instead, he reaches up and gives your hair a light, reassuring pat, quiet comfort in the gesture. You force a small smile, though it does not reach your eyes. “Take care of him tonight, will you? He’ll need someone.”

Seokmin’s jaw works like he wants to argue, but he doesn’t. Instead, he pats your back, firm but gentle. “Alright. But you’ll see me next week, right?” “Yes,” you whisper. “Next week.” He gives you one last look, then turns and leaves, his steps quick as he disappears down the hall.

The walk back to the room is quieter than Jeonghan expects. Usually after a podium, his head is still buzzing with the adrenaline, the shouts of the crowd echoing in his ears long after he has stepped away from the track. Today is no different. The roar of P3 still hums through his chest, a sharp reminder that he is not finished yet. He expects to see you when he opens the door, waiting like you always do, ready to press a bottle of water into his hand.

But the room is still.

His eyes fall immediately to the table. There is no you, only a folded note placed neatly beside a small box. Jeonghan pauses, the quiet so strange that it prickles under his skin. He walks closer, drops his gloves onto the chair, and picks up the paper.

You won, congrats :)The handwriting is unmistakably yours, quick and curved like you always scribble. His throat tightens before he even looks at the box. The lid comes away easily. Inside is something so familiar it catches him off guard. A keychain shaped like a tiny dice, glossy white with black dots. He remembers exactly when he mentioned it. Weeks ago, late at night after a long physio session, he had rambled about how he used to carry a similar charm on his backpack in school. He had laughed at himself for bringing it up at all. He had not thought you were listening that closely.

But you were. Jeonghan closes the box slowly, fingers pressing hard into the cardboard as if holding it too tightly might anchor him. A sound at the door makes him turn. Seokmin steps inside, still buzzing with energy, cheeks flushed from cheering. “There you are. Man, that was—” He stops short when he notices the note in Jeonghan’s hand. His smile falters. Jeonghan lifts his gaze, voice steady though his chest feels anything but. “Where is she?”

Seokmin hesitates, then says quietly, “She left. Said she was going back early.”

The words land like a weight in Jeonghan’s stomach. He nods once, keeping his face unreadable. “I see.” Seokmin shifts, clearly wanting to say more, but instead he clears his throat and steps forward. “Come on, let’s get you stretched out before the press calls you.”

Jeonghan lets the note fall back onto the table, the box still heavy in his other hand. He lowers himself into the chair, shoulders stiff as Seokmin begins the usual post-race checks. The room feels emptier with every passing second. A knock interrupts them. Wonwoo pokes his head in, headset still hanging around his neck. “It’s time. Press is waiting.” Jeonghan nods again, standing slowly. He slips the box into his pocket before following them out, his face composed for the cameras. But the echo of your handwriting lingers in his mind, stubborn and unshakable.

The press room is hot with lights and filled with the restless hum of reporters shuffling their notes. Cameras flash as Jeonghan settles into his seat at the table, a bottle of water placed in front of him. Wonwoo takes the chair beside him, posture calm and practiced, while Seokmin lingers just off to the side.

The moderator clears his throat. “Congratulations, Jeonghan. First podium in quite some time. How are you feeling right now?”

Jeonghan leans toward the microphone, the smile practiced. “It feels good. Really good. The team has been working so hard, and this result is as much theirs as it is mine. The engineers, the pit crew, everyone behind the scenes—they made this possible. I just had to keep the car steady.”

Another hand shoots up. “Jeonghan, talk us through those last ten laps. Did you think you could hold onto P3 with Lee Chan pushing that hard behind you?”

He exhales softly through his nose, a small grin tugging at his mouth. “Chan is quick. He always has been. But we kept our strategy tight, I trusted the calls from the pit wall, and… well, we got there.”

The room ripples with quiet laughter and the clatter of more typing. Another question comes, sharper this time. “You mentioned the team, the strategy, but this was also a big personal comeback. What do you credit for this turnaround?”

Jeonghan sits back slightly, fingers drumming on the bottle. His mind flickers through every training session, every late night, every moment he nearly gave in to frustration.

“This would not have been possible if it wasn’t for…” He pauses.

The next word sticks in his throat. His eyes blur for a moment, the press room fading around him. All he can see is the note on the table, your handwriting, the box with the dice charm that still rests in his pocket.

If it wasn’t for you. The realization crashes into him so suddenly that his breath catches. He stares down at the desk, silence stretching uncomfortably long. Reporters begin to murmur.

“Jeonghan?” “Care to finish your thought?” “Jeonghan, over here!”

The questions grow louder, but he doesn’t move, doesn’t blink. His chest feels too tight, words jammed up in a place he cannot force them through. Wonwoo leans forward, his expression sharp. “No further questions,” he says firmly into the mic. The room protests, cameras still flashing, but Jeonghan barely hears it. His pulse is pounding too hard, the note replaying over and over in his mind. You won, congrats :) And then, without warning, he pushes his chair back. The scrape of metal on tile cuts through the noise. He stands abruptly, his face set, voice low but urgent. “I gotta leave.”

He doesn’t wait for permission. Doesn’t wait for the moderator or the cameras or the press. He turns on his heel and strides out, nearly knocking into the cameras in the front row. “Jeonghan!” Wonwoo calls after him, already rising from his seat. His headset dangles loose as he rushes out of the room, chasing after Jeonghan’s retreating figure. The reporters erupt into a storm of questions, but the only thing Jeonghan hears is the hammer of his heartbeat and the thought that he might already be too late.

The air outside the press room feels thin, like he’s sprinted headlong into a vacuum. Jeonghan rips the collar of his suit down, desperate for air, his steps echoing down the corridor. He doesn’t even know where he’s going, only that he has to move, has to find you before you’re gone for good.

“Jeonghan!” Wonwoo’s voice cuts through the haze, firm but tight with irritation. He catches up quickly, hand clamping on Jeonghan’s shoulder, forcing him to stop. “What the hell is wrong with you? Why did you just run out like that? You can’t just walk out on the press.”

Jeonghan shakes him off, turning with wild eyes. “I don’t care about the press right now, Wonwoo. I have to find her. I need to talk to her.”

“Her?” Wonwoo blinks, confusion tightening his brow. “You mean—”

Before he can finish, another set of footsteps barrels toward them. Seokmin. He’s flushed, still in his Williams team gear, worry etched all over his face. “Jeonghan, what’s going on? Why did you run away?”

Jeonghan’s throat is dry, the words scraping out rough. “I need to find her. She’s leaving. I can’t let her leave.”

For a moment, Seokmin just looks at him, really looks, like he’s piecing together everything he’s ever known about Jeonghan and this reckless streak he’s only ever seen on the track. And then, without a word, Seokmin grabs Jeonghan’s wrist. His grip is steady, grounding.

“Come.” The word snaps Jeonghan out of his spiral. He doesn’t hesitate. He runs with Seokmin, their strides falling into sync, Wonwoo trailing behind, still throwing sharp questions he can’t bring himself to answer. They burst out into the paddock lot, where rows of sleek team cars are parked. Seokmin unlocks one with a beep and shoves Jeonghan toward the passenger side. “Get in.”

The door slams shut and the engine roars to life. Seokmin doesn’t ease into it, doesn’t bother with traffic etiquette. He tears out of the lot with a squeal of tires, the sudden jolt throwing Jeonghan against the seat. The city blurs outside, neon streaks and tail lights flying past. Wonwoo, crammed in the back seat, swears under his breath. “You two are insane. Do you realize the cameras are still rolling back there? You’re supposed to be giving interviews right now!”

“I don’t care about the cameras!” Jeonghan snaps, fists clenched tight on his knees. “If I lose her now, if I don’t tell her—” He cuts himself off, the rest lodging in his chest like shrapnel. Seokmin doesn’t say anything. He only presses harder on the accelerator, weaving through lanes like the road bends to him. Horns blare, headlights flash, but nothing slows them down. Jeonghan grips the handle on the door, body thrown against the seat as they swerve past a bus with barely an inch to spare. Every second ticks louder than the last. He imagines you standing in line at the gate, your bag slung over your shoulder, boarding pass in hand. He imagines arriving too late, watching the plane take off with you in it, knowing he’ll never get the chance to say what he should have said weeks, months ago.

Not again. The thought anchors itself deep. He can’t let you go without hearing him, without knowing.

The airport lights flare in the distance, white and harsh against the night. Seokmin cuts across a turn, tires screaming, and finally slams the car into a stop just outside the departures terminal.

“Go,” Seokmin says, breathless but firm. “We’re here.” Jeonghan doesn’t think, doesn’t thank him. He throws the door open and runs, his chest burning, his mind a single frantic pulse.

Find you.

You roll your suitcase through the sliding doors, the weight of the week still pressed into your shoulders. The terminal hums with the usual chaos. You adjust the strap of your bag, telling yourself this is it, that leaving quietly was the right choice. 

Your name rings out behind you, sharp enough to slice through the noise. You freeze mid-step. That voice. No—it couldn’t be. Slowly, almost unwillingly, you turn.

And there he is. Jeonghan. He’s breathless, hair mussed from the sprint, still in his race suit jacket like he hadn’t even stopped to change. His chest rises and falls too fast, his eyes locked on you with a kind of urgency you’ve never seen in them before.

“Jeonghan?” Your voice is a half-whisper, caught between shock and disbelief. “What are you—don’t you have a press meet right now?”

He shakes his head, taking a step closer, and then another, like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he doesn’t keep moving. His lips part, the words tumbling out raw, unpolished, desperate.

“I like you.”

The world tilts, your feet rooted to the floor. You stare at him, frozen, heart hammering in your chest. He doesn’t stop.

“I like you,” he says again, firmer this time, his voice steadier even as his hands tremble at his sides. “I should’ve said it earlier. I should’ve said it before you ever thought about leaving. I should’ve told you the first time I realized being around you made the track feel less lonely.” Your throat tightens. He steps closer, close enough now that you can see the shine in his eyes, the panic sitting right behind it. “You can walk away,” Jeonghan says.“If you want to. But I can’t let you leave without knowing. I like you.” He swallows hard, eyes flicking away for a moment before he forces himself to meet yours again. “When she… when she cheated on me, I thought it was because of me. Like I wasn’t enough. Like I was the problem.” His words falter, quiet and uneven, but he pushes on. “Since then I’ve carried this voice in my head, telling me I don’t deserve anything good. Telling me I don’t deserve you.” He shakes his head, a bitter laugh slipping out before his voice steadies again. “I still don’t think I do. But even if I’m a mess, even if I’m not perfect, I need you to know this—I like you. More than I’ve ever said out loud, more than I thought I could.”

Your breath shudders out, the weight of his words crashing into you all at once. And before you can think, before you can reason your way out of it, you’re moving—closing the space between you, your hands curling into the fabric of his jacket as you pull him down.

You press your lips on his. He stiffens for a fraction of a second, then melts into it, his hands cupping your face like he’s afraid you’ll slip away.

Your lips linger against his, breaths mingling in the rush of everything you never thought you would hear from him. He pulls back just enough to look at you, eyes searching, softer than you have ever seen them.

“I like you,” he repeats, almost like he is afraid you might not believe it.

You smile, and this time it is easy. “I like you too.”

[jeonghaniehaee]

AGAHAHHAHAHH BROOOOOOOO IM SMILING LIKE AN IDIOT🥹🥹🥹🥹 amazing. perfect. masterpiece.

[joshujin]

build this dream together masterlist

🏎️💨 Brought to you by @camandemstudios' Lights Out Collab 🏎️💨 Part of the Race Weekend universe

F1 GLOSSARY FOR THIS FIC pairing: f1 driver!joshua x race engineer!reader status: complete word count: 93.9k genre: strangers to coworkers to lovers, romcom

As his race engineer, you’ve spent five amazing years guiding McLaren superstar, Joshua Hong, to victory after victory. But in that fifth year, you learn something horrifying about yourself: you’ve fallen in love with your driver. You’re not willing to let your heart get in the way of everything you’ve worked for, so you do the one thing you know is guaranteed to keep both of your careers safe: you leave.

Two years later, Joshua inadvertently comes crashing back into your life with an announcement that rocks the F1 world. Before you know it, you’re on his doorstep with an offer you know he won’t be able to refuse, ready to guide him back to where he needs to be—one last time.

content warnings: fem!reader, flashbacks, reader faces the typical misogyny you would expect in a male-dominated sport, descriptions of a crash during a race but no one gets hurt, nauseating levels of girl power, side characters portrayed by other idols (katseye, le sserafim, twice, and bts)

chapters

✦ teaser ✦ part one - 31.5k words ✦ part two - 16.3k words ✦ part three - 17.7k words ✦ part four/epilogue - 28.4k words

♫ nothing's gonna stop us now starship ⟡ hope ur ok olivia rodrigo ⟡ don't dream it's over crowded house ⟡ shoong! taeyang feat. lisa ⟡ run BTS BTS ⟡ airplane pt. 2 BTS ⟡ you are in love taylor swift ⟡ we can't be friends ariana grande ⟡ still into you paramore ⟡ team lorde ⟡ mantra jennie ⟡ shut up and drive rihanna ⟡ strategy twice feat. megan thee stallion ⟡ chasing that feeling TXT ⟡ your love jisoo ⟡ heat waves glass animals ⟡ without you david guetta feat. usher ⟡ love me like you do ellie goulding ⟡ thunder seventeen

credits: photos - pinterest (ctto); banner/dividers/edits - me

← back to svt masterlist • PERMANENT TAG LIST

[jeonghaniehaee]

THIS IS A BEAUTIFUL MASTERPIECE f1 and joshua heaven!!!!! each moment was written perfectly, and i loved loved loved the commentary gifs that just bring more detail to the already amazing story🥹 this is perfect

[caratwonderworld]

you always come to the party

synopsis: You felt comfortable where you were. A well paying job and a group hangout scheduled every week(or at least you guys tried to). You were used to this routine and the occasional errand or two. You honestly preferred it that way, busy and packed. But somewhere along the line, you felt him ripping into the seams of your soul, pushing past the readily available facade and drinking your raw self from a glass straw.

Five times you shouldered something for someone, and the one time you ended up on his shoulder.

word count: 9.4k

notes, warnings: best friend seungcheol x reader, fem!reader, she/her pronouns, non idol au, Seungcheol and reader are the same age, cast is around mid twenties, corporatevibes with possible inaccuracies, alcohol consumption, eldest daughter coded reader, hyper independent reader who also needs to learn how to say no, 5+1 trope ish. Reader plays badminton, some jargon, slight angst, rom com vibes at times. (At least i tried </3) theres some texting, CRINGR attempt at humor… seventeen, twice, eunha(gfriend/viviz) and hyeri(girl’s day) members make cameos, reader lowkey don’t listen to seungcheol, THEY FIGHT AND ARGUE…. BUT MAKE UP (kinda), CURSE WORDS. Important, this is fictional and does not express reality about the actual members of seventeen

authors note: yall.. guess im back to writing. english is not my first language, so apologies in advance for awkward running sentences and any grammatical errors. I based this off of the song master of none by beach house bc i LAUV the song. Also the header was made very last minute, so apologies for that as well. Enjoy reading and reblogs and likes are never compulsory, but always appreciated :DDD

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masterlist/navigation

October 🍻

Eventually, you grew tired. It was getting rather late, with rain pouring outside in sheets across the window planes of the barbecue place. The lady handling the orders looked on with a fond, tired smile, and you couldn’t help shooting her a mirrored expression mid-laugh. You were standing, arms entwined with Soonyoung as you poured a warm shot down your own throat. The liquid felt sharp, and your belly was going to explode, but you laughed anyway, encouraged by your friends giggling along to your tipsy antics. Soonyoung, on the other hand, was red-faced, staring at you with teary eyes as he struggled to push the glass rim onto his pouted lips. 

“Give,” you said with a sideways smirk, already imagining him landing on maybe Hansol’s (Jun’s, maybe too?) couch and sleeping in until the late morning, hungover. You swooped his glass and stared blankly at the ceiling as you gulped his share of the punishment and put on an indifferent face, as everyone across the table cheered you on. Your stomach felt stupidly acidic, and you sat down with a victorious smile, slightly clenching your fist, playing it up for your onlookers. The game continued. Your mind stayed fixated on the game, occasionally coming up with funny quips aimed at the punishment takers. You felt relatively tired. But being around your friends added this feeling of relief, which you looked forward to every Friday. This week, it was the barbecue restaurant near your house, so you knew you’d have to walk a few of them back to your place. It wasn’t a big deal anyway. 

You guys stayed for another hour, until Soonyoung's stomach felt rather unwell (courtesy the Bacardi shots- or as Mingyu would call them: Barcardi), and Hyeri was so drunk that you guys called it a night. After settling the bill and the drunken mishaps outside the restaurant, you held onto Hyeri’s waist, her head on your shoulder as you walked her back to your place. Unfortunately, Soonyoung's red face seemed to be turning rather green, and Seungcheol offered to help him back to your place, an offer you gladly took. 

The walk was silent. Occasionally, Soonyoung would hiccup, and you’d swivel your head back in worry, only to see Seungcheol already looking at you, pensively. You couldn't exactly decipher this specific look. After spending years together across high school, university, and now work, this was a new expression to you. You took your time to watch him every single time you looked back; his face never changing. Your head was beginning to feel a bit heavy, but as you entered your apartment and began unlacing Hyeri’s work shoes, you already felt Seungcheol's steps ahead, resting Soonyoung on your couch. He went into your room, grabbed the spare blanket, and covered his sleepy friend. You made it in and helped Hyeri in your bed, using your makeup wipes to swipe at her lip tint, now smudged with drool. 

Walking into your living room, you felt a storm behind your head. A tight band quenched your cranium with full pressure. Seungcheol was sitting on the floor, knees drawn into his chest as he stared outside your glass sliding door, into the cool night. 

You smiled, tired, and sat next to him. Soonyoung lightly snored behind the two of you, and he slid a glass of water across the coffee table, towards you. 

You drank sloppily, rested your head on his shoulder, and started groaning. Maybe to annoy him, maybe to lean on him for a bit. It was rare that you did, but you felt your shoulders finally lowering after seizing them up for most of the night. 

“Why’d you do it?” He gruffly asked. 

You hummed, eyes closed. “What did I do, Cheol?”

“Drink Soonie’s punishment shot. You know you didn’t have to, right?” he said, rather dejected as his hand makes its way to your temple, softly pressing into the flesh with a tender touch.

Wordlessly, you nodded against him, feeling slight relief as the pain disappeared in waves. 

“I know, but I wanted to.”

He said something, a bit unclear, and the next thing you knew, it was morning, you’re somehow in your room, and Hyeri had her leg wrapped around your waist, who snored softly through her open mouth (which you gently pressed shut). 

Oh. And it was your floor, Soonyoung woke up on, actually. 

December 📁

Wonwoo didn't ask for help often. In fact, the last time he asked for help was in high school when he fell ill and asked for your notes on the one class he missed, which was why when he asked if anyone could fetch him his presentation notes that he left at the dining table of some random restaurant fifteen minutes away from your office, you felt almost compelled to accept it. But of course, not before playfully teasing him in the group chat for a good thirty seconds before asking the location of said restaurant. 

Your phone buzzed as Wonwoo called you immediately after your last message.

“You’re a lifesaver,” he whispered.

”I know, I know, I kind of expect a lobster meal for this sacrifice. I'm giving up the only forty-five minutes I get for lunch to be your delivery man,” you snorted out, your two hands on the steering wheel as you waited at the red light. He hummed thoughtfully, and your car rumbled alongside him. 

ETA, six minutes to Madam Kong’s Stew and Drinks, your navigation system relayed.

“I have my presentation in about twenty-five minutes, and you know I would be so down to get the files myself if it weren’t for Manager Park breathing down my neck. I don't even know how I snagged a bathroom break to call you.” He frustratedly muttered.

Traffic fell forward, lights turned green. You hummed. “I’ll call you when I’m near your office, see you in a bit!” Your car was sealed in silence as his voice cut off. 

Your phone buzzed. Buzzed a bit more on the passenger seat, then fell silent. You didn’t really notice, watching the mundane rhythm of cars as you eventually pulled up to the parking lot of the quaint establishment where warm wafts of broth brought you through the doors. The menu was plastered on the wall as a tired-looking uncle smiled at you from behind the register. 

“Hello, Uncle, I’m here to collect some papers my friend left behind today.” You smiled politely, giving him your kindest smile as you pulled your coat away from your neck, feeling the warmth of the food warming you up as well. 

“Ah, the young gentleman called in ahead and did mention that someone would be arriving to collect them.” He answered, disappearing into the small room behind him, leaving you to stare at the menu, withering pictures of bowls of noodles, rice bowls, and a wide variety of side dishes burning into your eyes. 

Your stomach would’ve growled if it weren’t for the growing urgency to finish your task and return to your own office and start your own meeting with the rest of your staff members. Your mouth silently salivated at the picture of the warm broth with thick, knife-cut noodles drizzled with sesame oil, glowing and bouncy with specks of sesame seeds — crunchy, delightful, and a warm burst of umami in the cold December winds. 

Your stomach finally grumbled, and you wondered if you could squeeze in a quick meal while waiting. Wonwoo’s body in a random bathroom cubicle, whispering into his phone flashed behind your eyes. Then an image of your staff members chattering while waiting for you, the head of the table empty. You quickly shook your head and grabbed the file folder the uncle passed on, now back to manning the register. 

Checking your phone, disregarding the unread notifications, you only saw about 25 minutes left on your lunch break and sped off to Wonwoo’s office, who grabbed the file from your hand, got out of your car, bowing 90 degrees as you waved him off and wished him a productive meeting. Now, you have your own meeting to get back to. 

The drive back was anxiety-ridden. You were hungry and had a meeting with your members, with a presentation that you’ve been preparing for a while now. You can still imagine the warm steam the broth emitted, and instantly regret thinking back to the restaurant. 

Coming out of the seminar room, you feel a sense of achievement as the head of your department, applause still being heard from inside the glass-encased room. The meeting itself lasted no longer than forty minutes. You still felt an empty pit in your stomach and headed into your office, where an insulated bag was kept neatly on your work desk. 

Receipt:

Madam Kong’s Stew and Drinks:

Order for: Choi, Seungcheol

Register: Pi, Cheolin

1x hot broth knife cut noodles 

2x electrolyte drinks 

1x service side dishes 

1x sesame oil packet 

total price : XXXXX XXX

It was messily hatched out, with your signature pen, which was now capped up in your pen holder. You would be confused if it weren’t for the notifications on your phone that were finally addressed. 

corporate bros

Queen Hyeri (corporate): lunch today is so ahh bro I don’t get paid enough 

jihyo: dont u work for the food sector…

wonwoo (corporate): GUYS if anyone is free i left a file at a restaurant and i would totally go to get it but my manager is being kind of mean rn </3

junhui (more corporate): im so sorry woo, im otw to pick up my boss from the airport so i wont be able to get there in time D:

wonwoo (corporate): nono its chill dw :D

you: LMAOOO skill issue 

you: won isn't your meeting TODAY ?

wonwoo (corporate) : do u HATE me 💔

you: yes. jk im on break anyways, send the location let me see if i can help

wonwoo: [location] did u know that youre the only person ever.

you: i think i can make it(?)

new!

mr choi (corporate): @ you dont u also have a meeting at 1??? 

mr choi (corporate): im nearby, ill get it 

mr choi (corporate): im otw, see u wonwoo

mr choi (corporate)

new!

mr choi (corporate): the uncle told me a very pretty lady already picked up the file soooo

mr choi (corporate): so im assuming u didn’t eat lunch so i got u something from the restaurant. hope your meeting went well :)

you: life saver. Thank u so much cheol </3

you: wait did u end up eating :( im so sorry i didnt read the message or update, I ended up wasting your time.

mr choi (corporate): i ate at the restaurant after I realized you already left TT dont worry about it 

you: also lmk the price don’t think i didnt notice you scratching the price off 

mr choi (corporate): no eat ur noodles 

you: >:(

mr choi (corporate): enjoy and eat slowly. 

transaction! user YOU sent user CHOI SEUNGCHEOL 30,000 WON. 

transaction! user CHOI SEUNGCHEOL sent user YOU 30,000 WON.

you: :(

mr choi (corporate): :)

March 🏸

badminton lozers 

boo: ok guys uhm so eunha got injured during practice so we lowkey are pulling out of mixed doubles competition unfortunately, but feel free to come anyways to watch the other players 

hannie: do you guys not have any subs? 

boo: I looked around and there are some people, but we haven’t practiced our synergy yet so subbing this last minute might just be risky 

boo: I would ask @ you but ik she’ll be exhausted after work on Thursday 

you: im DOWN 

you: victory is ours btw 

boo: are you sure? you have work on Friday 

you: we played in hs for three years is this all u think of me 💔

boo: okay but we HAVE to practice

you: see u at court soon LOZER 

boo: thank you a lot, @ you - eunha and me 😼

jisoo hong: eunha and i*

boo has left badminton lozers

Practice went well. The weight of the racket resting on your palm wasn’t new. The smell of the rubber lingering on your hands after a successful smash was satisfying, only second to the sound of the shuttlecock butt landing on the opposite court. Feeling that nostalgic rush in your body, you and Seungkwan click your racket shafts together, relishing in the victory. Your practice match went well, leading to a score of 21-16, a five-point lead, leaving Eunha squealing from the benches, nestling her ankle. She watched on, offering you occasional pointers that you implemented almost immediately. 

It was a Sunday, your first free Sunday in a while after having dinners, lunches, luncheons, brunches, and other variations with clients, urging them patiently to make their decisions regarding future projects. You felt your shoulders ache, and a satisfying burn in your calves, but nothing could beat the smile Eunha and Seungkwan gave you as you wiped off the sweat from your brows. 

Plans for dinner were being made. Eunha offered a cold noodle place nearby, Seungkwan insisted on a tofu restaurant closer to prove a point. You laughed at the two players bickering and unfortunately declined their request, having sweat stick onto you and desperately requiring a shower at your home and a hearty dinner on your two-seater couch. 

“We can’t thank you enough for this. We know this isn’t really that serious of a competition, but we were really looking forward to competing and at least snagging a trophy.” Eunha said earnestly, looking up at you, her eyes turning the mood suddenly somber, as even Seungkwan nodded along solemnly. 

With your right hand, you squeezed Seungkwan’s cheek and with your left, you leaned down to pat Eunha’s head, feeling the need to reassure your two juniors. They had come a long way. While you and Seungkwan carried your badminton team to great heights, you had to graduate, leaving Seungkwan behind with his new partner for mixed doubles, Eunha. Although you didn’t play as regularly as them, you kept up once every few weeks, joking with them in casual friendly matches. 

“Don’t thank me yet,” you muttered, coolly, “wait until I win.” You even looked away into the distance for dramatic effect, trying to lighten the slightly tense mood, feeling uneasy. 

“oh that was CRINGE,” Seungkwan interrupted almost immediately, “and what do you mean by ‘I’? We’re playing doubles, what is she on about!” His rambling continued on as you packed your kit and walked outside into the cool evening (not before messing up Eunha and Seungkwan’s hair affectionately in departing). The sun was setting, and you couldn’t help but stop to take a picture of the purple hues of the sky. 

Sitting in your car, you made the lonely ride back home. 

-

You were not lonely. 

Seungcheol was washing carrots at your sink, the sound of his light humming causing you to smack his arm as you walked into your own apartment, to the smell of a rich scent bubbling in the air. His shoes were neatly placed outside your door, despite you telling him multiple times to keep them in the shoe rack right next to your door. He always denied, mumbling something about a quick exit and entry, and something about how he didn’t exactly like the guy who lived next door. His coat (and his maroon tie) was hanging from your own coat rack, where you left your badminton bag. 

You shuffled behind him to see what he was making, in your own kitchen, with your own ingredients, with your own utensils, with your rice already boiling in your rice cooker in its own corner of your apartment. 

“Carrot and mushroom stir-fry,” He said, not bothering to even look back at you as you took off your socks behind him. Waddling to your room, you arranged yourself into a shower and came out with a bounce in your step. 

His humming continued as you prepared two bowls of rice, spoons, forks, chopsticks, while you plated bean sprouts, spinach, and eggs out of your fridge into sharing bowls. 

He placed the frying pan between you two as conversation bubbled from you. 

“Then I dived for the net shot, which i’m not gonna lie, was dumb given the fact that my knee did end up on the floor, alongside my whole body,” you mentioned, pausing, as you scooped mushrooms onto your bowl of rice, “but kwan and I won 21-16 so you know we’re gonna be mvps.”

He nodded along stupidly, staring at you with concern, then asked, “And what did you have for lunch, Miss MVP?”

“Brunch with that one marketing manager, who, by the way, is still waiting for confirmation papers from your department,” you reminded him.

“They’re ready to be delivered off, I just need to find time to drive all the way to the Gangnam Branch,” Seungcheol pouted. He paused, like he had some sudden epiphany, then pushed his spoon on the table.

“Why did you even join that badminton thing, when you know you’re going to be busy? You don’t always have to have your plate filled, and I think you also know that,” he sighed, “I get that you and Seungkwan have a history of playing together, but I know how you get when you have a task in front of you, especially if it means helping our friends. It’s okay to take it at your own pace and just say no.”

He rubbed his hands together as he formulated his sentence, waiting for your reaction as you listened intently, chewing carrots in the meanwhile. 

You straightened your posture methodically, paused, and replied as best as you could.

‘Cus I wanted to. I know I don’t have much leisure time, but joining this badminton thing means a lot to both Seungkwan and Eunha; it was only obvious that I would help where I could,” you justified, “plus, I know what I’m doing,” you trailed off. It was often where you and Seungcheol offered insight and advice to one another, and it was obvious when he was overly worried about your well-being, but you couldn’t seem to push the slight frown on your brow when you saw his own shoulders rising and his face turning tense in front of you. 

“Even your justification, it relies on the happiness of Seungkwan and Eunha. Now, I don’t blame you for thinking about our friends, but don’t do it at your expense,” he gruffly muttered. “Your body is tense at your own house. Hell, you even got injured. I know you know you can handle your own affairs, but rest. I’m not trying to fight, but if you end up sick and injured, I can’t help but question you.” He sternly stated. 

With every word he uttered, you couldn't help but sink into your seat a little. He’s questioning you?

You wanted to reply with your own smart retort, but it all died down when you saw him eyeing your shoulders, the way your neck strained, and the way your calves were slightly swaying under the table. You felt like a child being berated all over again.

He picked up his spoon and pushed a bit of rice into his mouth. The silence disappeared, and only his chewing was audible. You just blinked on, consuming his words as delicately as you could.  

“Why are you even here? to lecture me?” You childishly challenge, trying to muster the courage to spin the overbearing conversation into your regular banter. 

His face was pointed at his now half-empty bowl, and he busied himself by placing spinach into your half full-bowl, “Josh told me you said yes to Seungkwan today, and that your practice would finish up by six. And also that you’ve been preparing for a week already. Just knew you’d be too tired to cook,” some carrots, on top of the spinach next, “I won’t tell you what to do, but if you seem so compelled to play, you better eat up and win.” 

-

Seungkwan was still in the bathroom. He left his bag with indigestion pills on the fifth row of the bleachers.

Your next match starts in four minutes. 

You made your way to court three. 

Two players were there, rallying with one another. 

The one referee was waiting, tapping their foot as you walked closer to them. 

boo: I’m so sorry. 

boo: I'm still stuck in the bathroom. Those melons that Chan gave me rly messed me up

boo: idk if ill be out in time

boo: u might js have to forfeit our match

you: okok its okay. I’ll tell the person in charge , stay strong soldier. 

You read his message again and again. 

The first match had been easy; you breezed by with 21-13 and then a devastating 21-9, when, during the break, Chan offered Seungkwan some melons he picked. 

Now, you were walking onto the court with your racket, feeling the confused looks of your friends on your back, as you alone made your way forward. Eyeing your opponents, you felt intimidated. They glanced at you, sizing you up. You felt small.

“My teammate and I are going to be-”

“Substituting a member out for the next match.” 

You looked to your left and saw Seungcheol spinning your spare racket, testing its fit and weight. 

The match was coming to an end, with this third set especially leaving you out of breath. 21-19, 24-22 (you guys won the second one. Jeonghan had to be escorted off the bleachers for a breather during this specific match), and now here. 

Seungcheol was burning through his energy supply, Seungkwan’s jersey especially tight around his biceps as he flexed hard, shuttlecock landing between your opponent’s feet. 

19 all. 

Just two more. Two more. 

You feigned a net but placed it high in the back court, leading to a shot that you followed with another smash. Countered. Smashed. Netted. 

20-19, matchpoint. 

You glanced at Seungcheol as you made your (hopefully) last service. Your opponent was mid-center. Flick, reflex, hesitation, and line. 

21-19. Victory.

(Somewhere in the background, you could see Seungkwan shooting you both a meek thumbs up.) (and Jihyo and Mingyu screaming with their raw chests.)

You looked at the ceiling, bright lights, pride, and lactic acid all accumulated in your shoulders. 

Without a second to waste, you grabbed Seungcheol’s shoulders and shook them with glory, smiling with your mouth agape. He held your cheeks and looked at you. 

“We won!” He said, voice shaking as you pulled him into an impromptu hug. 

“We won.” You mirrored. 

You and Seungkwan continued on and ended up snagging silver. Not bad for the annual neighborhood competition. (None of you guys lived in Seungkwan’s neighborhood.

After the podium pictures were taken, Seungcheol and you ended up conversing near the vending machines outside. You hadn’t talked to him much in the past four days, still feeling a bit hurt after his questioning at your apartment, but you felt grateful that he cared enough to cook you a meal, then forced you to watch him wash the dishes, wipe the table down as you bugged him to help. It was an awkward situation, feeling like you had to walk on eggshells around a dear friend who had always taken care of you, even when you clarified that you didn’t need it. 

You pressed coins in, and two electrolyte drinks clanged against the metal of the opening flaps. He opened one and handed it to you, and you felt yourself still as the warm evening sun seeped onto the two of you. It wasn’t the brush of your hands against his, but the sun that warmed you, of course. 

“I’m sorry,” you started, “I know you were only worried that night, and I kinda just brushed you off. Have been brushing you off for a while now. I’m sorry you also found out from Joshua. Didn’t think it was that important.”

“It’s okay. I know how you get over them. I’m like that too.” He got closer, and his hair fell over his eyes. Was it just you, or was his voice getting deeper? “Anything relating to you is going to be important to me, Miss MVP.”

“Just, care for yourself more.” He added, thoughtfully, “I’m also sorry. You just came back from a tiring day, and I questioned you like a crazy boyfriend in your own home.” You paused and looked at him as the sun dipped further into the horizon. You cleared your throat, warming at his words (just ever so slightly).

You sucked in some air. He stepped back to fan himself. Courtesy to the sun, of course. 

“I don’t know how we ended up winning that one,” he said after a while. 

You snorted. Took another sip, then: “You’re Choi Seungcheol, our batch’s crazy, competitive, corporate boy.”

He was Choi Seungcheol, your batch’s crazy, competitive, corporate boy, who’d been in love with you since almost(?) forever, as well.  

June 🧸 

Hot summer days beat down hard. Sweat beaded on your back, leaving you in thinner work-appropriate blouses; forgotten were the professional coats on the rack of your office. The group seemed to try to meet as often as possible, but with summer at its peak, a lot of your colleagues, and (unfortunately) friends were out of the country, snapping pictures in the most unreal locations. 

The same couldn’t be said for you, and a few other friends, who included Hyeri, Jihoon, and Seungcheol. As head of department, you couldn’t help but accept the leave applications your team members sent in your way, which left you with only a few junior members who hadn’t gripped onto work as well, leaving you absolutely flooded with paperwork. 

You absolutely couldn’t do this anymore. After the third week in a row doing overtime, you left your desk at an unusual hour, standing up too fast and feeling your legs turning into jelly almost immediately. Pins and needles felt weird. 

You drove in silence. It was a bit weird. Thinking about it, you did it a lot. Driving back to an empty house, deciding on destinations in silence. Solitude wasn’t bad, and you never truly felt alone, thanks to your large group of friends, all with different hobbies and habits that you could form different combinations for differing occasions. It wasn’t that bad when you thought about it. You got along with everyone just well enough to warrant a group hangout without feeling awkward or left out. That was enough to keep you going. For now, at least. 

You pressed the button of your apartment complex’s elevator and waited for the high-pitched ding to announce its arrival. It didn’t come. 

cheol

you: just got off of work and u won’t believe my frickin chungus life rn 

cheol: wtf it’s like 10 y did u just finish work 

cheol: what happened 

you: long story BUT my apartment elevator is BROCKEN

cheol: 😂😂😂😂😂😂

you: u have NOTHINF to be laughing about . Now im about to be tired AND hungry 😂💔😂💔😂 

you: at least no work tmr 😎

You put your phone down after complaining to your number one supporter. Looking at the stairs, you begrudgingly made your way up the seven floors. 

The first four floors weren’t that bad, but with the stuffy, humid air entering and exiting you, your breath puffed up, and you felt yourself sweating excessively. 

fifth, done. 

Sixth, and you came across an apartment unit, with its door wide open, allowing the wind from the hall to make its entrance freely, while allowing the light to illuminate you briefly. Looking up, you realised it was a granny you occasionally saw at the complex garden feeding the stray cats. 

Following your line of sight, you saw bags and bags full of teddy bears lining her apartment. You heard her voice humming softly from inside. 

“Granny, why are you awake so late?” You knocked on her open door.

“Ah! Pretty young lady from upstairs!” She shifted and walked meekly past the bags of teddy bears, greeting you at the door. 

“Oh! Before I forget, the elevator isn’t exactly working, so please only go down if it’s necessary. I already contacted the building manager, but I’m not sure how long they’ll take.” You tiredly informed her. 

“Oh, you poor thing. Come inside, have some water.” She offered with her frail voice. Water actually sounded delightful. 

She prepared a glass of barley tea with ice. After waking up in her living room, you sat on the floor and felt the ice melt instantaneously. Her living room was burning up, and now that you looked closely, her forehead was sweating a concerning amount. 

“Granny, your house is extremely hot. It’s very dangerous! What if you got a heat stroke at night?” You chided her with worry. You were still curious about the teddy bears filling her house. 

“Ah, don’t worry about an old lady like me. The heat caused some pipes in my conditioning system to overheat, so they’re gone for repair.” She caught you eyeing the teddies, and continued with a smile, “Nowadays, they say doing handwork is good for the brain and body. I saw it somewhere on the news! So I found a part-time job to sew the eyes on 150 teddy bears.” 

“But granny, it’s really a tedious job, are you able to get by comfortably?” 

“You’d be right to ask, actually. I have them due tomorrow, but I still have about 50 left, so I thought I’d finish them all throughout the night.” She explained. 

You paused. No way were you going to leave her alone like this on a hot summer night, with plenty of work to do. 

“I have an idea, Granny. I’ll be right back.” 

-

And that’s how you, Seungcheol, found you on the sixth floor, showered and changed out of your work outfit, on the floor of Granny Hans apartment, sewing black buttons onto eyeless teddies. 

You had received a call from Seungcheol about two minutes ago, while you were a good five teddies in, when you suddenly jumped when you felt your phone vibrate. 

“I’m in your house, where are you?” 

“Why are you — actually, forget that, you being here is perfect. Come down to unit 603, I need your help with something.” 

Now, with you and Seungcheol working together, the teddies were receiving their vision at a much faster rate, and an idle conversation took place between you and him as Granny Han made herself busy in the kitchen. 

“What is your Portable Air conditioner doing here?” Seungcheol had asked with the sewing needle between his teeth, “How are you going to sleep tonight?”

Thread pulled from your hand, “Granny’s has no air conditioning for a while, I’m planning on lending it to her until her system gets fixed.” The needle pierced through the button’s hole. “I’ve been sleeping in my living room for the past few days anyway.”

“Why?”

“I’d been missing my alarm for work. Sleeping in the living room causes me to be uncomfortable enough to wake up straight away.” 

“Are you STUPID?” He looks a bit feral as you finish the last teddy, and he grabs the needle from your fingers. 

Granny Han thankfully interrupts your conversation by placing two bowls of rice and bowls of soup between you and Seungcheol. 

“I made you work into the night; the least I can do is treat you to a meal, especially knowing that you just came back from work.” 

How we love you, Granny Han.

-

It’s almost 1 am when you and Seungcheol finally make it back to your apartment. 

“Go to your room,” He insisted as you removed your slippers from the shoe rack. 

“Cheol, just go back home.” 

“I’m crashing over tonight, and I WILL be taking your couch. You have no choice but to sleep in your own room.”

“Let’s just hang out for a bit before I crash for the night,” you offer, ignoring his insistence. 

You look, and he opens your freezer and appears with two ice-creams. 

“Aw, is that why you came over tonight?” 

“That — and a few other things.” 

You left it at that. 

You tried his, and he tried yours. It didn’t make much difference since he was eating the same thing as you, but stealing a bite from his made you feel extra mischievous. He pretended to huff, roll his eyes in annoyance, and whine about the theft, but you noticed the way his hand holding the ice cream was angled towards you when he paused, almost egging you on to try. 

He took a big bite, leaving your ice cream with barely any left, leaving you silent, as he cackled thunderously about his own antics. 

thud thud thud!

came from below!

You were proud to be an amazing upstairs neighbor, so hearing this was a crack to your pride. You smacked his bicep, urging him to quiet down, and when that didn’t work, you slapped your palm against his mouth that still continuing to giggle. 

“Grow up, will you?”

August 🪵 

Your weekends were often still packed, and you preferred it that way. At least you thought you did. Better to pack your free time with whatever work-related garbage you could think of. That was until Seokmin disturbed (affectionately) your plans of working throughout the weekend.

family ❤️‍🔥

seokmin: guys minghao and I were planning on going camping next saturday, somewhere near Inje. Who’s coming raise ur hand. 🙋‍♂️

you are typing… 

Almost everyone was able to make it to the camping trip (aside from Eunha and Soonyoung, who had personal businesses to attend to), and when tasks were getting decided, it was an obvious choice to be the designated driver, alongside Jun, Jihyo, Seungkwan, and Seokmin. This left about three people per car, including the driver. You decided you liked to drive, to have something to focus on. 

As Seokmin had all the bookings handled, all that was needed was the food and other necessities required for the weekend. Seungcheol had offered to be in your car, alongside a sleep-deprived Minghao, who stated that you would provide the quiet needed to nap the approximate three hours to Inje (not because your car had extra space and padding in the back seat). You and Seungcheol decided that he’d drive on the way back, so that the workload would be fair. You didn’t mind and were looking forward to sleeping on the way back. 

It was decided that passengers would meet up at the designated driver's house at 6AM, and you’d depart once everyone was there. Your car was ready, you’d prepared simple sandwiches for Seungcheol and Minghao, and coffee satchels (in case they felt hungry down the road), and all the extra materials you’d prepared were loaded in your car the previous night, and all you were waiting for were the arrivals of your two friends. Your trunk also included extra pillows, pots, pans, matches, first aid kits, water canteens, water filters, portable showers — almost anything you’d need in the wilderness. 

Minghao was the first to arrive. He greeted you with a sleepy hug and asked you how you slept (well enough, you’d replied, and he nodded), and then he decided that the backseat was perfect. He dropped his own backpack in the trunk of your car as you waited in the parking lot. Your group chat was active at this odd hour, seeing selfies of your friends already on the way, and some stopping over for breakfast. 

Seungcheol arrived just as you were about to give him a quick call. His eyes looked swollen from sleep, and he was yawning as he settled down in the front seat next to you. 

“Ready for departure?” You asked, looking at Minghao through the front-mirror, and once you heard an affirmative from both of your passengers, you stepped on the accelerator and left for the sunny, warm woods. 

-

“I’m hungry,” Seungcheol pouted once you’d entered the highway. You looked to your right and watched him as he scrolled on his phone, his voice almost quiet as he silently patted his own stomach. You shook your head at his antics and asked Minghao to bring some sandwiches out from the bento you’d left in the backseat next to him. Minghao helped himself to the tomato egg sandwich and passed on the bento to Seungcheol’s lap. Your car smelled a bit delicious, you would say. 

“When did you even have the time to make this?” Seungcheol mumbled between bites, “When did you even sleep?” He uttered under his breath. 

“What he said,” Minghao affirmed from behind you both.

“Firstly, my precious Minghao, my precious Seungcheol,” (you heard Seungcheol physically gulp at your words), “chew before you speak. I can’t perform heimlich while driving,” you paused, “I woke up at five, and slept early last night. Maybe ten?” You thought out loud. 

Both remained silent after receiving your message. 

A while later, Seungcheol pointed his half-eaten sandwich at you, and you begrudgingly took a bite. Your stomach felt a bit funny. It was because this one had cucumbers. Not because his fingers brushed your cheek as you bit into the bread. It was the cucumber.  

- 

You stretched and let out a deep groan once you left your car. It took Minghao locking you in your own car to stop you from helping them unpack your trunk. You were caught off guard when you saw that it was a very fancy campsite, and your portable showers and matches would be going unused this time round. As you switched your slippers for some running shoes, you caught Seungcheol’s eyes as he carried a box of pots and pans with his right arm, and his left carrying your sleeping bag. It was at this moment that you felt relaxed (this was a little far-fetched — your shoulders were incredibly tense from driving) and could fully focus on the way he looked at ease, and shot you a quick derpy smile, one you exchanged for a cheeky, toothy smile. He carried your belongings carefully into the preset tents, where eight tents were set in the clearing in a circle, with a large gravel centre where chairs, mats, and a mini kitchen station were set up. 

You and Hyeri were planning on rooming together, while Seungcheol and Jeonghan were going to be rooming together. As the area was being set up for use, a group of almost seventeen people unpacking from cars to the clearing, you helped around where you could (if you were allowed to, that was). You offered to help stock the ramen packets in the mini cabinet, only to be shooed by Mingyu, claiming that driving wore you out. You were carrying the extra chairs Nayeon brought when Jihoon quite literally tore them out of your hands. You even offered to re-park Seungkwan’s car and had successfully grabbed his keys when Seungcheol snatched them and neatly parallel parked in under 39 seconds with one hand on the steering wheel, right in front of your eyes. Your chest felt itchy as you watched on. 

This left you, Jihyo, Jun, Seungkwan, and Seokmin doing measly jobs, like zipping up the tents so that flies wouldn’t enter them, offering water to the rest who were almost done, wandering aimlessly, or just sleeping (this was Jihyo). You were a bit restless and, in all honesty, didn’t like just sitting in silence. It was almost 12, and you were sure you weren’t the only one feeling famished. With the sun rising and reaching its peak, the clearing wasn’t offering much coverage to your (now) sweating bodies. The sweltering autumn heat would only get worse with the hunger. 

When all was done and set up, you all rested in a circle outside your tents in the gravel clearing, and plans for lunch were quickly made. Your pots and pans were quickly put to use, and hot water turned to ramen broth. Sides of meat were grilled, and pre-packed sides were quickly emptied. You opted for chewing fast, huffing your meal in a matter of seconds. Seungcheol watched on in disapproval, and he tried to push more soup into your bowl, but you pulled away with a tongue out in mockery. It was fun to pull his leg, especially when he was trying to make life easier for you. You set yourself up and quickly washed your dishes. 

Seungcheeol didn’t know how to feel. He watched as you washed, posture slightly frigid, working the suds on the cutlery, and grabbing Chan’s plate before he could interfere and made work of washing his too. He just wanted you to rest, enjoy the getaway for what it was. He just wanted to sit by your side for a bit longer, nag on you for a bit before feeding you a spoonful of anything at this point. It seemed that every moment you got had to be shared with the others, or with you burying yourself in tasks so you could avoid your own thoughts. He knew from a young age that you were the responsible type: you carried medicine almost everywhere, often carried extra toothbrushes, woke up early, left work last, and helped your juniors with tutoring during high school (and University). He was sure that if you could, you would be doing almost everyone’s work. He knew you did it out of care for others, but at what point did you lose the light in your eyes? He couldn’t help but watch on as you once again let yourself work on a day that was supposed to be yours as much as everybody else’s. He couldn’t help but be antsy for the rest of the day, up to the evening, when a bonfire marshmallow evening was planned. 

-

The bonfire required wood logs to be cut into thin strips, enough for the flames to consume into the late night. Joshua brought his trusty camping axe and was off in a corner doing his own thing, which wouldn’t be a problem if it weren’t for the evening to darken by the minute. 

You were listening to the mundane conversation between friends. Seungcheol, Jihoon, and Hansol had gone to the reception to rent some extra fans for the night and some extra lamps. The conversation had gone idle at some point, and feeling bored, you carried your phone onto Joshua’s side and used the flashlight on your phone to help him out. 

“Thank you, your majesty, for your kind sacrifice,” he said as you used your flashlight to brighten his work surface. The rhythmic sounds of the axe falling onto the logs were rather nice, with the sounds of the insects and beetles buzzing in the distance. 

He was grunting, with the lungs of an elderly lumberjack, when curiosity got hold of you. 

“Hey, wanna switch real quick? I wanna try it too,” You asked, and he gave you a nod before exchanging spots. 

The axe was small, and you made quick work of it as Joshua illuminated the rest of the bundle of logs. 

On the other side of your clearing, Seungcheol, Jihoon, and Hanson had returned from their expedition with their loot of the day. 

Seungcheol wanted to hand you the heat patches he picked up at the reception, but he couldn’t catch your eye, not until he noticed you chopping wood in the distance as Joshua laughed on. 

He didn’t understand why, but it was at this moment that he felt the frustration of a few months build up as he walked on towards where you were giggling with Joshua. 

- 

“Why can’t you just sit down for a while?” He had immediately asked, when you slammed down the axe for the nth time, breaking a log into three. 

In all honesty, Seungcheol heard the aggression in his own tone. He seldom spoke to anyone in this way, especially you, but seeing you run around, washing dishes on your own day off, seemed to just anger him more. 

“Oh, you’re back, it’s nothing, I just wanted to have a try, and Josh let me.” Obviously, you heard the anger in his voice. You tried to bite your tongue, keep the conversation chill, and explain the situation. You knew Seungcheol got extra protective about you helping out more than you needed to, but what could you do? You understood, but how much more could you understand? “We were just finishing up as-”

“Yeah, I can see that, but don’t you get tired after doing shit all day? You’ve been up since five and drove us idiots, around, then you washed everyone’s fucking dishes. Now you can’t sit still for a few hours and have to cut down some stupid logs. I can’t understand you sometimes. Almost 15 years of friendship, and I can’t seem to understand if you’re just a fucking control freak who has to do everyone’s job, or if you just need to have things done your way. If you didn’t know, this is also your day off.”

His voice seemed to grow louder with every word as Joshua tried to usher him down. Seungcheol’s hands were clenched in fists as he grew frustrated and looked into the sky. He just couldn’t understand why you just couldn’t sit down. Enjoy a beer with him or two, laugh along, sleep in late, and be irresponsible. 

You watched on as he ranted at you. You couldn’t quite believe his words, his aggression, and where exactly it was rooted, and the reasons for his sudden anger. The ax seemed a bit heavier in your palm as you felt the world sinking on you. Even Mingyu and Wonwoo’s conversation from the clearing seemed to shut up.

“Is that what you really think of me? A control freak?” You snorted as you felt your eyes burning, “You must think I’m insane if I’m just going to listen to you say all this bullshit. I don’t know if this is your misplaced anger for some other stuff, but I really don’t understand what crawled up your ass. I don’t know if you’ve been listening to me, Seungcheol, but I CHOSE to drive. I chose to wash the dishes, and if you listened to me just earlier, I was the one who asked Joshua to let me try. I understand you want me to rest, but I can’t help it if this is how I do it. Gosh, you can be so fucking annoying.”

He was about to retort, but you quickly shut the conversation down by resting Joshua’s axe on the wooden stump and walked off to the sink to wash your hands. 

“Apologies for that, guys. I think I’ll be sleeping a bit early tonight. Don’t really feel up for it tonight.” You waved warmly at the concerned looks your friends gave you as you unzipped your tent. 

Right before you could close the flap, in the distance, you saw Jeonghan making his way towards Joshua and Seungcheol. 

-

Later, when Hyeri turned her face towards you, she patted your cheek. 

“You’re not ok,” she said to herself, mostly.

“Do you also,” you sucked in some air, “think I’m some sort of control freak?”

“I don’t, and Seungcheol was stupid for that, insanely. Jeonghan almost ripped him a new one earlier, and I think he was too tired of watching you get tired.” She paused and got up, quickly, grabbing something from her bags. “He told me to give you these, by the way,” and offered you some heat patches for muscle pain. 

You looked at them silently. “I don’t understand him.”

“That’s what you think.” She whispered, “I think he needs to get his shit together and learn to just confess. I think you should also. Just blasting you out in front of all of us and insulting you was stupid, but I get what he was trying to say, in some way i suppose.” 

You looked at her, in mock betrayal. 

“Let me finish before you silence me in the woods,” she cleared her throat, “I think he tends to hover around you a lot, and it’s because he cares for you. He loves you. The way he expressed it tonight was wrong, and I think that’s a conversation for the two of you to have, but I think calling him annoying would also be incorrect. He’s always been there for you, and so have you.” She chose her next words carefully before continuing. 

“This is not me defending him, by the way. Jihyo quite literally had to hold back earlier. We love you a lot. We love you in ways that can’t be expressed, and so does he, just not only platonically. Maybe it’s been building up in his head for a while, just seeing you in this almost fanatic work state.”

“I don’t know what to say to him, or how to fix this.”

“You guys will figure it out, give it a good night’s rest.” 

- 

Breakfast was a quick affair of sandwiches, cereal, porridge, yoghurt, and coffee. It was spent in silence. Jun offered you some of his milk, which you gulped half of, before handing it back to him. You appreciated it. The love they gave you, in the form of a cup of milk, or in the form of a bowl of porridge, passed your way.

When it was time to go, you found Seungcheol and Minghao already waiting at your car. 

You felt a bit unsure, almost expecting Seungcheol to join, maybe Jeonghan, in his car, but seeing his face, neutral next to Minghao’s faint smile, was not as bad as you thought it was going to be.

-

“I’m sorry. I wanna seriously apologize for my words yesterday. I called you a control freak, which was totally wrong.” 

The area was silent. Minghao was in the bathroom of the rest stop, and you and Seungcheol were leaning against your car, windows open to let it all air out. 

You hummed, hearing him and nodding as you looked off into the parking lot. 

“It was wrong of me to bombard you and interrupt you and make it sound like you were doing something wrong. I know I said I didn’t understand you, but I really do. The way I expressed my care, sorry, I think it wasn’t care last night, especially with everyone there, was extremely demeaning to you and our friendship. I know you’re tired too, and yet you still do above and beyond, and I just crashed out on you. That was really shitty of me, and I wanted to apologize. You don’t have to forgive me at all. I just wanted to say my piece.”

“I wanna say sorry too. I called you annoying, and I know you just wanted me to chill. I don’t forgive you. Not yet, at least. I know we don’t usually argue for long, but I feel like maybe there was some honesty in between the stuff that was said last night.”

He cleared his throat, and the silence was uncomfortable for a bit, until you spoke up. 

“What was your whole point? Your agenda, because I for the life of me can’t exactly figure out why you were acting that way. Sure, some of it was general care for an old friend, but what exactly was it that caused you to go batshit crazy on me?”

He hesitated for a bit. You didn’t want to see his face at the moment. 

“I wanted to share a meal with you. In silence, maybe you would speak, or maybe I would, but I wanted to have this, for us, which we haven’t had in a while. I know, looking back, it was a bit stupid, but I just wanted you to relax, and maybe we could have some time alone, together.” 

“Seungcheol, the whole group was pretty much there. How could we even be alone?” You turned to look at him, questioning his logic a bit. You went silent when you realized he was already facing you. 

You had realized early on that Choi Seungcheol could keep a poker face. It came in handy when you guys worked on projects together and had to face tricky CEOs and their ever-obedient assistants. You realised he held his composure when your friends’ drunk antics got on his nerves. He even held his happiness for his promotion when he found out his co-worker hadn’t been chosen. He did that a lot, now that you stop to think about it. 

But never really with you. Maybe it was the way his eyes shone clearly, and though they had never exactly dulled in front of you, you were happy to see them with clarity in front of you, even though the current situation between the two of you had now been shaken. Maybe it would help if you also took a step forward and were clear with him.

Your phone chimed against your pocket, bringing the conversation to a brief standstill.

new! 

minghao: u love birds figure it out. I left with jun. love u guys tho pls don’t k word me

You stepped forward into the car, this time taking the initiative to sit in the passenger seat. 

“Get in, Cheol. Minghao already escaped with Jun. 

let’s get you that meal you promised.”

October 🍻 (all over again)

September had been great, had been new. You’d taken three days off to go strawberry picking, Solo-restauranting and joining a dance workshop. Seungcheol had initially been disappointed when you declined his offer for brunch on Saturday, but had been very excited to hear that you’d be driving off to Sokcho for their strawberries. September was restful and productive. But this one is about October. 

Another Friday night arrived. Soonyoung was again to your left, and Seungcheol, always your right-hand man. This time, you also agreed that you drank too much, your rock paper scissor game had officially tanked, and as you looked at the circle of friends playing games, you couldn’t help but giggle. Your shoulders were lax, and you were humming to yourself. It was a good night indeed. 

Eventually, it was you and Seungkwan who were the losers of another round of Red Ginseng. Seungkwan and you exchanged playful banter until you ultimately offered to take his shot as a punishment — the ultimate sacrifice. The clock was nearing one in the early morning, and your friends looked concerned. Perhaps even your shot would prove too much. 

As you picked up the shot glass and pulled it to your lips, you felt it being gently pried away. 

Clang,

Clang!

Two consecutive clangs of the now-empty shot glasses slammed down on the aged wooden table. 

The whole friend group watched silently as Seungcheol burned through the two punishment shots, yours and Seungkwan’s together one after the other. 

Oohs and Ahhs all erupted across the table, with Joshua muttering a gentleman, and Mingyu howling and hooting.

“That’s enough for tonight, guys,” Seungcheol said, victorious and giddy from all the chatter. 

- 

Your walk was rather rigid, and you felt as if your drawl was no longer as it used to be. You had no control of your limbs, yet you recognized the path home as you saw the elevator of your apartment complex inch closer and closer. You also inhaled the fragrance of charcoal, the deep foliage, and a burnt citrus: you were on Seungcheol’s back. 

Occasionally, you would ask him for piggyback rides when you were having a bad day, and he would almost always drive to your dorms with two cones of the same ice cream, pushing you to try to steal a bite while he would steal a glance. 

Now, you were in your living room, head dead on his lap. His fingers tapped your shoulders in an uneven rhythm, surprising you gently as you stared at the balcony where occasional stars twinkled back at the two of you ambiguously. 

“Who handled the payment for dinner?” you had asked.  Tap.

“I did. Don’t worry. I paid for yours too.” He had answered. Tap.

“Who took Soonyoung home?” You had asked. Tap.

“He didn’t drink tonight.” He’d answered. 

“Who took me home?” Tap.

“I did,” Tap.

“Who’s gonna take you home?”

“Taxi.” He slurred. Tap.

“Stay,” 

“Okay.”

tbc ˎˊ˗

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thank you for reading everyone, the love has been absolutely insane. im relatively new to Tumblr so seeing this much love, reblogs and comments were insane. thank you so much! and I hope you enjoyed reading. likes, reblogs and comments are always appreciated but never compulsory :3

[jeonghaniehaee]

YOOOOOOO BROOOOOOOOO 🥹🥹🥹🥹🥹 ouuu shii this man is fine… and amazing writing from the author too!!!!!!

[100vern]

ex-conomics | csc

you supported seungcheol through years of being an aspiring athlete, and all you got to show for it was your undergraduate degree and an awkward, stuttered apology when he dumped you to go semi-pro. now he’s back after an injury derailed his career, and there’s only one problem: you’re the only one available to tutor him. you - 0; the universe - 1. talk about no return on investment.

⚽ pairing: choi seungcheol x f. reader ⚽ genre: exes to (lite) enemies to lovers; university au; angst, fluff ⚽ rating: while there is nothing explicit in this fic, there are two brief references to smut. while i can't stop anyone from reading this, i would prefer minors do not interact with this or any of my work. ⚽ warnings: cheol is some degree of famous, reader is a grad student/TA, mentions of an injury and coping with the aftermath of it, lots of economics talk that even i do not understand, swearing, one mention of alcohol, some misplaced jealousy, rom-com tropes, dino is kind of a loser but we love him anyway. probably a lot of other things i missed, but this is actually pretty tame for a fic of this length. ⚽ word count: 13.4k ⚽ thank you: a lot of people looked this over for me in the process and i'm sure i will forget some of them so if i do i'm sorry: @the-boy-meets-evil, @hot-soop, @highvern, and @haologram, who also gave me some wonderful ideas for the vlogs. thank you to MIT for opencourseware existing. i took microeconomics and dropped it, so i couldn't have done this without you. everyone in the discord server for helping me along the way and keeping me motivated. ⚽ author's note: i haven't posted a fic in nearly seven months, so i think it goes without saying that there are parts of this i like and a lot more i'm not 100% happy with. i'd love if this was more fleshed out and 10k longer, but i was able to write anything at all so it's good enough. this was written for the back to school with seventeen collab, hosted by @camandemstudios. thank you both for letting me participate! please make sure to check out the rest of the stories! everyone worked so hard and this collab was a ton of fun to participate in. <3

You look down at the paper. Back up at who handed it to you. Down at the paper again.

“You’ve got to be joking.”

The poor freshman kid laughs, all nerves, and even though the sound is grating, you remember what it’s like to be forced into work study. How far away graduate school seemed; how large your professors loomed over you with all their power and knowledge and credentials; how you constantly felt like the dumbest person in nearly every room you walked into for four straight years.

“Um—”

You sigh, just barely resisting the urge to slam your head onto your desk. “I—it’s fine, don’t worry about it.” Your words do little to ease Freshman’s nerves. He’s still hunched over in the doorway of your office, wringing his hands as he shifts his weight back and forth, in for a lifetime of body pain with the way he’s squaring his shoulders. “You’re sure about this, though? Like, I’m really not being set up?”

“I don’t think so?” he offers, slowly starting to turn green right before your eyes. “Dr. Lee ga-gave me the paperwork himself, I don’t think he would’ve messed it up? Oh no, did I mess it up? Should I go back to Student Services and conf—”

Good god, this kid’s anxiety is gonna stink up your office for weeks. “No need!” you interject. “I’ll just…” Sign it, you want to say, but the longer you stare at the sheet of paper the quicker you’re losing your resolve.

TUTORING REQUEST FORM Student Name: Choi Seungcheol Degree: Undergraduate Major: Business Course: ECON04101 Introduction to Microeconomics Instructor: Lee Yeonseok, PhD. Recommended Tutoring: High (3-4 hours per week)

You curse under your breath. Of the two names on the paper, Dr. Lee’s does not come as a surprise. He’s a notorious hard-ass with an infamous attrition rate—most students don’t last more than a week in any of his classes—but he’s also the sole reason you were able to pay for someof your grad school tuition out of pocket with all the tutoring money you made.

That, however, was two years ago.

“Does he know I don’t tutor anymore?” Stupid question. The kid stares blankly back at you, as if to say I don’t know any more than the people in Student Services, let alone Dr. Lee. It is literally my first year here. “I’m Dr. Ahn’s TA this year. I’ve got my hands full with her bullsh… stuff—”

Immediately, you know you’ve said something wrong, because the kid’s eyes light up, all that previous anxiety disappearing like smoke. “Wait, the same Dr. Ahn that teaches the crypto course?”

“No, that one died,” you say quickly. Kid deflates. “Anyway, I don’t really tutor anymore, especially for econ. As you can see”—you gesture vaguely around the cramped four walls of your office—“they’ve upgraded me. They even put my name on a little placard by the door! Go look! They spelled it wrong! If that doesn’t sum up this university I don’t know what does.”

You heave another sigh. Try to school your face and tone into something that exudes professionalism and finality. “Look, I’m sorry I can’t help you. I tutored Dr. Lee’s students for, like, three years in undergrad so I’m sure they just… forgot that wasn’t my actual job here. Who’s in charge of tutoring these days? I’ll shoot them an email and explain all this.”

Freshman gives you a name, and it takes less than a second to find them in the employee directory. You expect that to be the end of it, but he’s still taking up space in your doorway. You quirk an eyebrow. “Yes?”

The hand-wringing returns, along with an embarrassed flush that disappears beneath the neckline of his school-branded sweatshirt. “I just—um. Maybe you could, uh. Send that now? Before I get back there?”

You blink. “Don’t you have to go all the way back across campus? How slow do you think I type?” He shrugs, and you give up on the idea of getting rid of him. “Fine. What’s your name, anyway?”

“Lee Chan. I’m a sophomore. Do you know that guy?”

“Oh. I thought for sure you were a freshman, but you’re gonna need to be more specific, Lee Chan, Sophomore.”

“The guy they want you to tutor.” You freeze. The guy they want you to tutor is—“Choi Seungcheol,” Chan tacks on, and, yeah, you know—knew, you correct yourself—someone with that name, once upon a time.

But there are a lot of Chois and a lot of Seungcheols. It’s been years since you’ve spoken to the Seungcheol you knew, and that was when he’d broken up with you to—“I heard he’s a football player? Well, used to be, I guess. The girls in the office were freaking out so I guess he’s pretty famous, but I don’t know anything about sports, do you? They said they have photocards of him. I thought they only did that for idols.”

You think about being kids together in Daegu. Think about the exasperated looks you’d share when your parents would drag the two of you to festivals: Palgongsan in the autumn, Biseulsan in the spring; transformation and rebirth. Think about being eight years old and watching your father cram into the small space of the Chois’ living room, standing around the TV with Seungcheol’s dad, shouting at Park Jonghwan. Daegu FC made the FA Cup quarterfinals that year, and you think, of everything, that’s what you’ll remember for the rest of your life.

You think about falling in love slowly. Sixteen and clueless, the pair of you were. Didn’t really know any different, just that you’d look at him and feel butterflies. That you’d hold hands in secret. Text beneath the dinner table. That you’d watch him on the football pitch and be consumed by pride. That the future felt impossibly far away, that life would never catch up to the two of you.

You think about all the football jargon you didn’t understand—the academies, the teams, the implications. You think about, I’m thinking about trying out for the FC Seoul U-18, I just don’t think there’s much more I can do here in Daegu. You think about replying, Oh, I applied to university there.

You remember thinking it must’ve been fate, how easy that had worked out. How easy that first hurdle had been overcome.

You think about how fast everything happened. The try-out, the acceptance, the explosion. Remember being unable to go anywhere those first few months without seeing Seungcheol’s face, touted as the next big thing. Think about applying for scholarships when he was applying for international visas. Think about studying for midterms when Seungcheol was studying English for interviews.

You think about the last few weeks of your relationship, when it felt like you were desperately trying to cling to ghosts. Think about how Seoul had once felt endlessly big, both in opportunity and size, and how it now felt suffocating. You think about, So you’re just giving up? Is that what you’re saying? Think about, I don’t know what else to do. It doesn’t feel fair to you.

You think about all the places you’ve watched him. On countless football pitches; shy glances in school hallways; in the passenger seat, wracked with nerves on the drive to Seoul; poised above you in bed, hairline dotted with sweat as he rolled his hips, telling you how much he loved you.

You think about watching him walk out the door, and how you never watched him again.

So you fire off your email, concise and to the point about why you can’t tutor Choi Seungcheol in Introduction to Microeconomics, and turn to Lee Chan, Sophomore.

“No,” you finally answer. “Never heard of him.”

For all intents and purposes, your rejection should’ve been the end of it.

A few days go by. You hold office hours, attend lectures, work on your thesis when you have both the time and the energy. Try to ignore the feeling of bees beneath your skin, anxiety needling each time you check your email. You were well within your right to decline the tutoring request, but you can’t help but feel like you’ve done something wrong. That someone somehow knows who Seungcheol was to you and will pull you up on it. That those girls who’d gushed about him to Chan are somewhere laughing at your expense.

But you don’t hear anything at all about it… until you do.

Sunday evening. You haven’t moved from your couch in hours, some variety show playing in the background, barely audible over your keyboard clacking. Much to your detriment, you don’t write many papers these days, so you’re out of practice. Feels like you haven’t done anything besides formulas in years, all of your academic knowledge reduced to fucking math, so you’re about ready to toss your laptop out the window long before the email even comes through.

You see, From: Lee Yeonseok. You see, Subject: Choi Seungcheol - Tutoring.

Your stomach plummets to the floor.

You scan the body quickly. You see the words personal favor… friend of his father… urgent matter… and your hands start shaking. Whether it’s from the sheer audacity of this man or anxiety, you aren’t sure, but it’s not like it matters. There aren’t a whole lot of people on campus brave or dumb enough to go up against him twice.

“Motherfucker,” you spit, bitter the only taste in your mouth.

Where did you go wrong to wind up here? You’d followed the script: got the grades, passed the exams, received half of the required education for the Respectable Career, helped a few others along the way chase dreams that may or may not have been their own. You’d fallen in love. Only had a broken heart to show for it, but that’d been in the script, too: The First Love, followed by The First Heartbreak.

The split from Seungcheol was supposed to have been the end of that chapter. You’d planned on never seeing him again, and you never would have, had it been up to you. Apparently the universe has other plans, participation required.

“Did you spill onion dip on the rug again?” You startle, sending your laptop flying. Kaori, your roommate, is perched halfway in between the living room and the kitchen like a cryptid, clearly not expecting your reaction. “Oh. Were you watching porn?”

Face burning, you fetch your laptop from the floor. “In a common area? Kaori, please, I have far more decorum than that.”

She snorts, resuming her trek to the fridge. “See, that’s what I thought, but then I walked out here and you threw your laptop so fast it was like watching my ex get caught watching furry porn all over again.” She pries the lid off a large container of yogurt. “You think this is still good?”

“Dunno. What’s it smell like?”

She sniffs it and pulls it back to check the label. “Vanilla, I think, which is concerning because it’s supposed to be strawberry.”

You shrug. “What’s the worst that can happen, you get extra”—you pause, trying to remember the correct order of things, before giving up entirely—“...biotics?”

“Mm, so close. Care if I just eat this with a spoon?”

Nose scrunched, you wave her off. “Couldn’t pay me to eat yogurt on a good day, let alone if it’s expired. All yours, babe.”

Spoon in hand and a pleased smile on her face, Kaori collapses onto the couch beside you. You try to return your attention to your paper, try to find your momentum again, and it works for all of ten minutes before you’re groaning and slamming the top closed.

You don’t even need to look over to know Kaori’s staring. “What’s up with you?” she asks. Before she can answer: “Wait, is this serious? Because I can’t have a serious conversation in this t-shirt.” You steal a glance sideways. Ask Me About My Hemorrhoid! it says, and you exhale loudly. “Don’t breathe at me, I lost a bet.”

“And continued wearing it?”

She jokingly rolls her eyes. “God forbid a girl has hobbies.” Nudges you with her foot. “C’mon, spill.”

Kaori doesn’t know about you and Seungcheol. Most people don’t, aside from a few old classmates from Daegu who found you on social media and tried befriending you once he started making a name for himself in Seoul. After that, it was just easier to keep things private while you were together. New friends knew you were seeing someone but not their name or how long you’d been together. Any curiosity surrounding why the Choi Seungcheol was following you on Insta had been waved away easily. Our parents are friends, we grew up together. Then you broke up, and there wasn’t any evidence to delete, and he wasn’t following you on Instagram anymore, and it was easier that way.

So, yeah—even though you hadn’t met her until years later, Kaori knows you have an ex. She knows you’ve had a few flings and situationships in the time since, too, and it’s why she’s none the wiser when you ask, “It’s nothing, really. Just—do you follow football at all?”

“Nah, not really. The new guy’s pretty into it and keeps trying to get me to watch the games with him, but it’s so fucking boring? I dunno, I can’t get into it. Not in real life, anyway—I binged all of Captain Tsubasa in an embarrassingly short amount of time, though. Why?”

“Student Services asked me to tutor someone the other day and I had to turn it down. I just don’t have the time, you know? This semester’s already killer, and Dr. Ahn’s been riding my ass nonstop about grades. Turns out it’s some football player, so Dr. Lee emailed me asking me to do it as a personal favor, which means, on top of all the other shit I have to do, I’m now tutoring some football player four hours a week in Microeconomics.”

Her face distorts. “God, that guy’s such a prick. Like wow, you’re good at the economy! Good for you! Who cares! Why don’t you go balance the national debt or something instead of torturing university freshmen!”

You also wrongly assume that’s the last you’ll hear of it from Kaori.

Two days later, after Student Services replies to your email with the days and times you’ll be tutoring Seungcheol, she materializes in the living room to harass you.

“You didn’t tell me your football player was Choi Seungcheol.”

The panic is instant. You know how she means it, but it’s not how your body interprets it. All of a sudden it feels like an interrogation, an accusation, and a whopping serving of guilt takes up residence in the middle of your chest for not being entirely honest.

“Explains this weird text Ken sent me.”

She slides her phone over to you, open to her text thread with her current flavor of the week. Beneath an article about Seungcheol enrolling in classes at your school:

doesn’t ur roomie TA there Why are you calling her “ur roomie” like you don’t know her name?? Rude. Also yes. ask her to get me an autograph No babe pls he was my fav player before he got injured No 🙄 fine. can i come over later? Starting to think you’re using me for my roommate. Get your own job 🙄

You hand her phone back. “I didn’t think you’d know who Choi Seungcheol even is.” It’s the best you can do, even though it just digs you a deeper grave. “You said you’re not into football.”

“I’m not, but unfortunately I am into that stupid man.” She sighs, wistful and longing. “Babe, you have to understand. His dick is so big.”

You hadn’t wanted to stay in Seoul for your graduate degree, let alone the same university you’d gone to for undergrad.

You’d applied to schools all over—Japan, Europe, even a few in the States. Romanticized the hell out of NYU, went window shopping for an overpriced apartment, picked a favorite pizzeria based on nothing but vibes and online reviews. In those few months after graduation, there wasn’t a whole lot tying you to Seoul. Your and Seungcheol’s relationship had been old history by then, your parents split. Your dad stayed in your childhood home and your mother moved a few hours closer to her sister. They’d waited until your brother was old enough to be out of the house.

And it’d just been… a lot. Overwhelming. Some days you could barely shower or feed yourself, let alone move halfway across the world, so you’d stayed in the familiar and tried not to let it feel like failure.

But the good thing about familiarity is you learn its tricks, figure out the hiding spots. Early on, your first or second week of grad school, you laid claim to a study room on a floor of the library everyone else ignored. You write notes on the whiteboard with faded blue markers that are still there days later. The chair on the opposite side of the table is always exactly where you left it, the space between it and the table enough to only accommodate you. Sometimes you leave books—old paperbacks littered with notes in your writing—or papers, just to see if they move.

They never do.

And all of this is why it feels like a punch to the gut when that sanctity is tainted. When you’re halfway through a stack of Dr. Ahn’s exams and the doorknob rattles behind you. When you don’t even need to turn around to know who it is, because he still sounds the same, still has that overwhelming presence. You’ve always sensed him before you felt him.

“There you are,” Dr. Lee says, ambling into the room before you can protest. He, too, is overwhelming, just in different ways. Immaculate posture that anchors his slight frame that’s always dressed impeccably and expensively. Wears a watch that’s triple your tuition. Shoes polished so bright they’re nearly blinding. “I’ve been looking all over for you.”

This time it is an accusation.

Well, you found me, you want to say, but just knowing Seungcheol is behind him, lingering in that half-study room, half-hallway space, is enough to keep you quiet. Like if you speak you’ll summon him closer and you’ll no longer be able to pretend this is nothing more than a nightmare.

You plaster on a polite smile. Say, “Ah, here I am, kyosu-nim,” and put all your energy into trying to glue Seungcheol to the floor with your mind.

Which is fruitless, because Dr. Lee moves further into the room. Gestures for Seungcheol to follow him with an impatient huff, and the study room is small, sure, and with three people it feels cramped, but that’s not the reason it feels like all the air’s been sucked out of the room.

Seungcheol looks… different. He looks as anxious as you feel, and he sticks close to the wall like he’s trying to disappear. Dr. Lee introduces him with grave importance, unaware of your history, and the forced smile he offers you almost looks embarrassed.

You know Dr. Lee is still hammering away, probably giving you a stern talking-to for rejecting his request the first time, but you can’t tear your eyes away from Seungcheol. Feels like the world around you has reduced to a pinhead, all hyperfocus; feels like your lungs are sucking in stale air one at a time.

“...his father is a very good friend of mine, so I expect…”

You expected to feel nothing. Seungcheol had left to chase his dream—one you’d always been so supportive of that it sometimes felt like your dream, too—and, perhaps naively, you thought the distance and the years would’ve been enough. You expected your heart to have hardened. You expected all those nights you spent crying to hit you at full force. You expected anger, hurt—indifference, at the very least.

“...as many hours per week as you both can manage…”

But you should’ve known better. Should’ve expected the butterflies, the way your palms grow clammy, the way your heart rate spikes. Should’ve expected everything to feel upside-down. You should’ve expected to look at Seungcheol and feel sixteen and in love all over again.

“...you are responsible for his academic progress…”

And that simply will not do. You’ve spent the last few years pulling yourself out of that hole, clawing your way back to something resembling normal. You’ve purged the thought of him from your mind—let his scent fade from your sheets, an old sweatshirt he’d left behind; forgot the way his lips felt against every inch of your skin; forgot the way his entire being lit up when he laughed; forgot the safety he encompassed, the way he whispered all those sweet nothings.

You cannot go there again.

So you roll your shoulders back, smile politely. Say, “Ah, kyosu-nim, Choi Seungcheol-ssi seems very intelligent, I’m sure he is capable of being responsible for his own academic standing, don’t you think?”

Dr. Lee cannot disagree without all but calling Seungcheol an idiot, so he hovers before you in shocked silence. Makes a show of huffing and checking his watch, like he’s all of a sudden remembered he’s late for something and being inconvenienced by this conversation he started, and then he’s halfway out of the library with a terse, “Discuss and figure this out amongst yourselves,” thrown over his shoulder.

You have an entire dramatic exit planned in your head. Gather your things, fake a phone call that makes you sound authoritative and important, and brush past Seungcheol wearing your nicest perfume as if all of this is so far beneath you you can’t even bring yourself to care about it.

Of course, you actually have to brush by him for any of that to happen, and since you’ve already decided you will not go there again, you quickly scribble your email address onto a piece of paper and slide it across the table at Seungcheol, who has steadfastly remained planted just outside the door. “Here’s my email. I don’t have time to discuss this right now.” Seungcheol cocks an eyebrow. You start throwing things into your bag haphazardly. You know you look frantic and affected, but there’s not much you can do about that. “What? Send me a copy of your syllabus and what you want to prioritize. It’ll be easier to get through this if we have a plan instead of winging it.”

He seems to catch on to your distaste because he mirrors it. Scoffs as he rolls his eyes and says, “Yeah, no use spending more time together than we have to,” and if you hadn’t gone years without speaking, you would’ve seen right through it.

But you did, so it stings all the same.

As it typically does, the planet keeps spinning after your run-in with Seungcheol.

You grade Dr. Ahn’s coursework. Try running off your anxiety at the gym, even though it’s pretty good at keeping pace with you these days. You meet Kaori’s maybe-boyfriend sneaking out of your apartment early in the morning and he has the good sense not to mention your ex, but you chalk that up to the mess of hickeys covering his neck and not any sense of social decorum.

Other people’s embarrassment saves you a ton of your own, you’ve come to learn.

Throughout all of this, Seungcheol only emails you once to send you his course syllabus. Doesn’t mention tutoring or provide you with his schedule or ask for yours, so when you’re sitting in a bar with your friends, three or four drinks deep and feeling a little petty, you forward him the original tutoring request and make sure to bold, underline, and highlight the “Recommended Tutoring: High” part for good measure.

He doesn’t take your bait—electronically, at least—but he does show up to your office hours the following Tuesday.

Bag tossed onto the floor, he flops unceremoniously into the chair across from you and says, in lieu of a greeting, “They spelled your name wrong. On the door thing.”

“I know,” you reply, your smile polite and terse. Incredible how he has the ability to raise your blood pressure in milliseconds. “What can I help you with?”

“Depends. How long do you have?”

“Well, considering you’ve shown up to my office hours on time, I’m assuming you already know I’m here every Tuesday and Thursday from four to six. So”—you glance at the clock above the door—“assuming no one comes by who needs my help more than you do, you have approximately one hour and fifty-eight minutes.”

Seungcheol is quiet for a moment as he takes you in. His stare is weighted; it makes you feel a little green around the edges. Clinical and sharp, so far removed from the way he used to look at you. You clear your throat. “I looked over your syllabus. The good news is there’s only a midterm and a final and the rest is problem sets. The bad news is there’s only a midterm and a final so they’re weighted quite heavily. You really need to know this stuff inside-out to have any hope of passing.”

“That’s why you’re here, right? Dr. Lee specifically requested you.”

You huff a breath through your nose. “I’m here as supplemental help. I can’t take your exams or do your readings for you. What else are you taking this semester?”

He sighs, sinking further into the chair, very much playing the part of the heir who has no interest in any of this. Which… is unlike him, you think, if you’re even allowed to. The Seungcheol you knew years ago took everything so seriously. Never clipped corners or took shortcuts. Anyone else would think him a spoiled, petulant child. “Business Accounting and International Trade.”

“Could be worse,” you note. “At least those three courses are tangentially related.”

Seungcheol rolls his eyes. “Easy for you to say. I haven’t taken a fucking math class in years.”

You return it. “You remember how to add and subtract, don’t you?”

“I ruptured my ACL, not my…” He trails off, looking a little embarrassed that he can’t name a part of the—“Brain.”

Whatever you were going to quip back with dies on your tongue. It's the first time Seungcheol has broached the topic of his injury—the first you’re hearing of it at all, actually—and he says it like it’s a joke, like it’s not a thing at all, but the pain is all over his face. The bitterness of the situation he’s found himself in. The unfairness of it all.

And there are so many questions you want to ask that aren’t your place: if it’s fixable, if he’ll ever play again, how he’s coping. But you don’t really need to—you can’t imagine how you’d feel if someone suddenly pulled the rug out from under you. If everything contained within the four walls of your office suddenly disappeared.

Not that the man sitting across from you hadn’t already done that, but.

“Right,” you continue, as if he hadn’t said anything at all. You know Seungcheol—know he wouldn’t want you prodding, sticking your fingers in that particular wound. “I want you to take a look at this,” you say, handing over a printout you have saved from your undergrad tutoring days. “Tell me what looks familiar, what doesn’t; what does and doesn’t make sense.”

He looks down at the paper. Back up at you. Down at the paper again. “What the fuck is this?”

“I—what? Cheol, it’s my old notes on recitation. Surely you’ve already covered this—the syllabus says this is week one stuff.” He looks down at the paper again, and it’s so familiar, watching the life drain entirely from someone’s eyes.

You barely resist the urge to slam your face onto your desk a second time.

You meet Seungcheol at the sports center for your next tutoring session.

He likes the humidity and the smell of the chlorine by the pool. He also likes that it’s not the football pitch, so the two of you sit in the bleachers there and go over his lecture notes. Much to your surprise, Seungcheol talks a mile a minute. Has stars in his eyes when he says he finally understands elastic demand curves, supply shock; tells you he spent a whole hour making flashcards.

It’s the first time you’ve seen him so excited since your tutoring began—the first glimmer of hope you’ve felt since Dr. Lee cornered you in your library hideaway. None of this surprises you. Seungcheol has always been smart, even when football was his primary (and sometimes only) focus. He has more determination and grit than anyone you’ve ever met, so you’re not surprised he’s doing well, excelling, but you are surprised—

“Can I ask you something?” Seungcheol shrugs, shoves half a protein bar in his mouth and swallows without chewing. “Why are you… uh. Here?”

“At this university?”

“Not exactly. I mean, I am wondering about that, but I guess… why business?”

Seungcheol hums. Tucks his good knee to his chest and stares down at the pool. No one’s using it, and truthfully the two of you probably aren’t even allowed to be here, but you understand why he likes it. It’s nowhere near as secluded as the library and definitely not as air conditioned, but it is peaceful. Calm. The water laps against the coping in quiet, small waves.

“Ah, I don’t know. You know how it goes.”

You quirk an eyebrow. Never, in all the years you’ve known him, has Seungcheol done anything he didn’t want to do. All that grit and determination. “What about your father, then? Dr. Lee mentioned this was a favor to him. He’s a pretty important person to have in your Rolodex of favors.”

Doesn’t take a rocket scientist to see what this is: Seungcheol’s father has new money; worked from the bottom up, made some smart investment decisions that finally panned out after Seungcheol left for Seoul. Started doing his own thing, made a name for himself. Last you’d heard from your mother, Seungcheol’s brother was second-in-command. Hell, even your own brother did an internship there.

So you know what this is: a father helping his son after his dream was shattered, life turned upside-down. You can’t blame him, even if you’ve heard the whispers from all the way across campus. That Seungcheol is washed up now, trying to nepo his way into his father’s company because of it; that all he knows is sports and he should’ve stuck to that, what does he know about business, why is he the one Dr. Lee went out of his way to help.

Doesn’t stop any of them from smiling at him, though; doesn’t stop them from asking for autographs or selfies.

But you also know this isn’t something Seungcheol seems willing to discuss, so you crack a joke—“I mean, business. God, who’d wanna go into that?”—and go back to what he was willing to talk about.

You’ve never hated elastic demand curves so much in your life.

Deep in the throes of tutoring—when you can’t tell if it’s week two or week twelve—you make it back to your apartment just before ten, head pounding.

The door flies open just as you’re about to punch in the code, and there stands Ken, looking far more put-off than you’ve ever seen him. Looks defeated, if you’re being honest, like someone mopped up all his emotions and wrung them out like dirty dishwater.

“Oh, hi,” you say hesitantly. The man in front of you seems too much like a caged animal to let your guard down. “Everything okay?”

He aborts a nod halfway. Mutters an apology as he brushes by you and stalks down the hall, disappearing around the corner to the elevators. Usually he’s a talker—you haven’t been able to avoid a Seungcheol-related conversation in weeks—so you’re a little stunned. Stand there stupidly for a while, and that’s where Kaori finds you a moment later.

“You gonna stand out here all night, or…?”

“Oh—yeah, right.”

You follow her inside. Toe off your shoes and put them in the rack. Focus on the sound of the kettle whistling instead of the overbearing tension in the room. Drop your bag off in your room, throw on a sweatshirt three sizes too big and a comfy pair of socks. Rummage through the fridge for leftovers, contemplate what mindless show you’ll watch as you eat, and you do not, under any circumstances, ask Kaori what happened.

You don’t have to. You knew what this was going to be the first time Ken spent the night—the way he looked mortified to be meeting you in the shared kitchen at seven a.m., wearing a look that begged you not to tell your roommate he was sneaking out.

I, uh, have an early class, he’d said. You know how it is.

Maybe you should’ve called him on it then. Issued a warning-but-not-really. She’ll get attached if you don’t tell her. She should know it’s different for you, if it is.

But you’d convinced yourself it wasn’t your place. Kaori wouldn’t want you in her business like that, so you stayed quiet, just nodded before watching him slip his shoes on and close the door behind him so quietly you wouldn’t have known he left at all if you hadn’t been looking. Gone, just like a ghost.

So, yeah, you know exactly why your roommate looks haunted.

“I’m a few episodes behind on this if you want to watch with me,” you offer, pointing at the television with the remote. It’s a lie—you’ve never watched this show a day in your life, which Kaori seems to know—but she contemplates it nonetheless. “Also, my mom mailed us some cookies. I think they’re in the fridge.”

“Why are there cookies in the fridge?”

You huff a laugh. “They were outside the door this morning before I left for campus. I don’t know—just saw who the package was from and was like, oh, this must go in the fridge.”

She nods. Grabs the container and joins you on the couch. Sticks her feet beneath your butt and doesn’t mention a thing.

The closest she comes is a few days later. Catches you right before you head out to campus and asks how tutoring is going.

“Not bad, actually.”

Her smile doesn’t reach her eyes when she says, “That’s good. I’m glad things are going well for you two.”

Lee Chan, Sophomore makes his unexpected return at your office hours on an unsuspecting Tuesday.

“Can I help you?”

He doesn’t answer right away, just helps himself to the seat across from you. “Maybe,” comes his cryptic retort. “I was thinking about signing up for that crypto course next semester.”

You narrow your eyes. “No, you weren’t.”

He sighs. Looks a little panicked, like he can’t believe that didn’t work. “You’re right, you’re right. I, um—I wanted to come say thank you.” He pauses. “You know, for that… email you sent.”

You blink. “No, you didn’t.”

Lee Chan, Sophomore cracks immediately. Thunks his head on your desk and lets loose a pained sound. It nearly sounds like he’s wailing when he says, “I’m sorry! They put me up to it!”

What you’re able to piece together is this: Lee Chan, Sophomore has become a bit of a celebrity in the Student Services department ever since he met you, Choi Seungcheol’s tutor. And, like any smart, previously unpopular university student would do, he took advantage of it. Might’ve stretched the truth a little to make it sound like he knew more than he did, so now here he is, angling for information the girls with the photocards may or may not have paid him to get.

“They want to know about his girlfriend.”

“His what?”

What you’re able to piece together is also this: the Photocard Girls are certain Seungcheol is dating someone, based on little more than vibes. You suspect these vibes are their three degrees of separation, considering there was an abnormal amount of Change of Major files formed after his enrollment, but you tell Lee Chan that you don’t know anything and, even if you did, you wouldn’t put his business out there like that.

But some part of you still has this inexplicable urge to protect Seungcheol, so you match their offer with interest and tell him to say there’s nothing to report—not that you didn’t know, not that he couldn’t get anything out of you. Seungcheol isn’t dating anyone.

You don’t know if it’s true, but you figure that if it isn’t, he still deserves privacy.

Which is a notion you have trouble explaining a few hours later, when Seungcheol strolls into your office with a grease-stained paper bag full of cheese coin bread, offering one to you with a proud smile that drops slowly when you just stare in return.

“What’s wrong?”

Your mouth opens, closes, opens again. Nothing comes out, even though it should be simple. Some sophomore kid was just in here angling for information or the Student Services department is taking bets on whether or not you have a girlfriend would both suffice, but you cannot bring yourself to say the words.

What you settle on is, “Sorry, I just… had an interesting meeting before you got here.”

“Oh. Are you okay?”

You sigh. Tilt your head back to stare up at the ceiling. “It was about you, actually.”

Seungcheol chokes, starts stuttering over words you can’t make sense of. Says, “Me? Why? I passed my last exam—I mean, barely, but I still passed. And that wasn’t your fault! I didn’t study enough! I’ve been losing my mind over my International Trade class, that shit sucks—”

“It wasn’t about your grades, Cheol.”

“Oh.” Then, slowly, a lopsided, pleased smile overtakes his face. “Haven’t heard you call me Cheol in a while.”

“Seungcheol,” you correct.

He seems to forget all about the meeting. Tries again to offer you a coin bread before he threatens to eat them all himself, so you acquiesce mostly to shut him up, say you’ll bring the extras to Kaori. For some reason, you tell him about how much she’d loved the cookies your mom sent, and the nostalgia sets him off, gets him talking again, asking if they were the yakgwa she used to make when you two were kids.

They were, but you can’t seem to tell him that, either.

Seungcheol: sorry it’s last minute - running late. can you meet me at my place instead?

Seungcheol shared a location with you

You’re halfway to replying—I don’t think that’s appropriate—before you sigh and delete it. Midterms are only a few days away and you don’t have time to argue over where your tutoring sessions will be, so if Seungcheol wants to meet at his apartment that’s where you’ll meet him.

You read over the midterm notes on the train. Once, twice, and then a hundred more times until they’re nearly memorized, all so you can ignore the voice in the back of your head saying what a bad idea this is. That you have no business being on your way to your ex’s swanky part of town or integrating yourself into his life beyond tutoring at all. You shouldn’t know where he lives. Maybe you shouldn’t even have his phone number or answer his texts.

Not that there’s much you can do about it now, two stops away.

Seungcheol greets you warmly, if not a little rushed. Apologizes for the mess once you step inside, although it’s less “mess” and more “haven’t finished unpacking,” but there’s enough clear space to study at the dining table, so that’s where you set up, determined to keep things professional.

“Sorry again about this,” Seungcheol says, placing a can of cola in front of you as he takes the seat across. “I had to meet with my father and lost track of time, I guess.”

“Oh. How’s he doing?”

Seungcheol sighs, leans further back in the chair as runs a hand through his hair. A light brown, now. “Same as he always was, I guess. Talked about the business, about my brother. Can’t get him to shut up about that stuff most of the time.”

“The business is doing good, though.” You cough, clear your throat. “My, uh. My brother interned there during undergrad. I don’t know if your father told you that.”

You don’t know why you say it, because it’s clear from the brief flicker of pain on Seungcheol’s face that he hadn’t known, that no one had told him. And it hurts you too that they felt the need to keep it a secret, to protect Seungcheol from you even in tangential ways.

“He didn’t,” he admits, “but I’m sure he was happy to see him. He was, uh—he was glad to hear you’re my tutor. Said you were always smarter than all of us boys combined.”

You laugh. Hope it sounds casual instead of strained. “Well, no need to prove him right. Come on,” you say, tossing a study guide in his direction, “let’s get to work.”

Everything is alright for a while—nearly an hour at least. He has the formulas memorized and attributed to the correct equations. He can explain supply and demand, preference and utility, but things start to fall apart around budget constraints and constrained choice.

The formulas get mixed up. He grows frustrated when he doesn’t know the answers to your questions right away. Rolls his eyes and gets a little snappy when you correct him, try to explain things differently in a way he understands. At first he’s able to temper it, collect himself before things truly start spiraling out of control, but the longer the two of you sit there the more it all unravels.

He snaps, you snap back, and you can’t figure out why. You’ve survived this long in Seungcheol’s orbit even though you never thought you’d be around him again, and perhaps it was bound to explode eventually, but…

It’s the familiarity, you realize.

You and Seungcheol aren’t friends, though you’ve been playing at it for weeks now: meeting outside of the library or your office, the personal conversations bordering on reminiscing, being in his personal space. You don’t belong here. You don’t want to be his friend—you can’t be, not for real or pretend.

“That’s not what I’m say—”

“Then explain it better,” Seungcheol fires at you, eyebrows creasing. “You’re the tutor here.”

You roll your eyes. “I’m trying, okay? All I meant was—your answer isn’t wrong, but I know Dr. Lee and he’s going to want more than that in a response.”

“Right—not good enough, like I said.”

“I’m just asking you to expand on your answer—”

“And I’m telling you that’s all I’ve got. I’m not like you, all right? I don’t have all this shit just floating around in my head all the time. I’m not smart, I barely have any idea what’s going on half the time, and you sitting here being condescending about it is doing fuck-all to help.”

You inhale sharply, taken aback at the hostility in his voice. Suggest calling it for the night, say neither of you will be productive if you keep going like this, and neither of you bother to apologize.

So much of your relationship with Seungcheol was marred by clichés.

The two of you passing notes back and forth during class. You in the bleachers of all his games, screaming along to the team chants, waving a sign around with his name on it. Not realizing you had a crush on him at all until he liked someone else and it made your stomach hurt. Childhood friends turned lovers.

Another cliché: that it’s starting to feel like that all over again.

Seungcheol sits across from you in the library, econ textbook cracked in half in front of him as he pays no attention. Keeps grabbing his phone each time it vibrates across the table. Can’t fight the smile that forces its way onto his face when he reads whatever’s there.

Stupid, you think—both to do this and to think it’d play out any other way. Seungcheol left years ago. Probably lived ten lifetimes while he was away while you were here in this exact spot doing this exact thing. Barely lived half a life, just stuck your nose in textbooks and forced your way through.

“Cheol,” you say, trying to drag his attention back to the study guide. No use. He’s typing away, presses his tongue into the fat of his cheek as he responds. “Seungcheol,” you try again.

Also fruitless.

You have no claim here, you remind yourself—not to his time, not to him. He’s only here because someone else mandated it. You’re only here because someone else mandated it, but it stings all the same. Another reminder of what used to be, of what ended regardless of what you wanted. Another reminder that the role you used to play in his life is not the role you play now. That the space you used to take up created a vacancy, and eventually it was going to be filled.

And if this was anyone other than Seungcheol, if you were more emotionally evolved when it came to him, it wouldn’t gnaw at you as much. All of this would roll off your shoulders.

But it isn’t, and you’re not.

“If you’re not going to listen, then—”

“I am listening,” he interjects, but he’s not looking at you. Not looking at his textbook or his study guide. Keeps laughing and smiling at his phone, and it’s sick how bothered you are by it. That it feels like your stomach’s been turned inside-out with jealousy; with annoyance, because you don’t want to be here anyway, don’t want to do this anymore, and you’re wasting your time on someone who doesn’t appreciate it.

Perhaps he never did.

“What are we discussing, then?”

Still not looking up: “Consumer theory.”

You laugh—more a huff of air than anything, grin sardonically out of one corner of your mouth. Seungcheol sees none of it. “Wrong,” you answer, already expecting the way he shrugs it off. “I’m gonna skip ahead a few chapters, though. Consider it a freebie for your business class.”

It must be your tone that finally grabs his attention. Cutting, precise, purposeful. Seungcheol lowers his phone, quirks an eyebrow, wonders where this is going to go. It’s clear he’s pissed you off, that you’re itching for a fight. It’s clear the years of silence are finally coming to a head.

“Let’s talk about ROI. You know what that is?” You barely give him a second. “Return on investment. A performance measure used to evaluate the efficiency of an investment or compare the efficiency of several investments. So, let’s say I make one-hundred-thousand won on a ten-thousand won investment: my ROI is 90%. Are you following?”

He nods.

“Great, now let’s try something a bit more hypothetical.” You suck in a breath. “Let’s say I invest years of my adolescence into someone. A friend at first and then something more. Let’s say I played cheerleader, supported every hope and dream he had—went to every game, cheered him on, helped him practice his English. Held his hand and talked him down when the pressure felt overwhelming, when the only thing that felt inevitable was failure. Now, let’s say all I got in return was a stuttered, awkward apology as he dumped me and walked out the door. Let’s say that guy showed up again after years of silence just to once again waste my fucking time.”

The thing about pain is it’s not linear. What hurt five, ten years ago might not hurt today, but it might tomorrow; what hurt yesterday may never hurt again. The thing about pain is it lets you stick your head in the sand until it can’t anymore, and that’s where you are now: that window of time between Seungcheol walking out the door on the assumption you’d never see him again before he bulldozed his way back into your life has been slammed closed, locked up tight.

So you don’t even notice you’re crying until the room goes deathly silent and you can hear the drip drip drip of tears on paper. Until you watch Seungcheol’s hands flex and unflex in mid-air, stuck in that liminal space, wanting to reach out but knowing he has no right to. Until your chest aches so bad you’re sure you’re either about to break into stardust or cease to exist.

Until you say, “What, Choi Seungcheol, would you say my fucking return on investment was?” and he has nothing to say at all.

Kaori invites you to a party.

Just something small to celebrate the end of midterms and a classmate’s birthday. Nothing out of control or raucous, not even the kind of thing that’d earn a second glance from campus security. I won’t even make fun of you if you leave before eleven, is how she sold it to you, in addition to a small amount of begging and bargaining and a powerful set of puppy-dog eyes.

After everything the two of you have been through, you find it hard to say no.

So here you are, nearly eleven o’clock on a Friday, a cup of cheap beer in hand. A friend of a friend of a friend is wailing into a karaoke machine and although your ears are bleeding, it does feel nice for that to be your greatest worry. You aren’t thinking about your classes or how you’ve been prioritizing everyone else’s academic success. You aren’t thinking about whatever’s going on between Kaori and Ken. You aren’t thinking about Seungcheol.

At least you aren’t, until he walks through the door.

You’re going to continue not thinking about him at all—not about the fact he’s alone or how good he looks in a simple black T-shirt that’s a little taut in the shoulders. You’re not going to think about the way the air shifts, like the universe knows he’s important and is willing to accommodate. You’re not going to think about how Kaori catches your eye across the room, recognizes him from all her internet searches, and the way she mouths oh my god he’s so beefy at you.

You’re not going to think about how guilty you feel that she doesn’t know, because if you do you’re certain it’ll take over.

You watch Seungcheol work the room; watch as he floats between conversations, as strangers fall over themselves at the sight of him. How eager everyone is to give him something and how reluctant he is to take them. You watch as he winds up in the same circle as Kaori and how she must mention you, oh, your tutor is my roommate, because there’s a question in return before he turns and meets your gaze.

You wonder why the distance between you feels more insurmountable now than ever before.

Seungcheol finds you in your office.

It’s not a Tuesday or a Thursday, far later than four to six in the evening, but he doesn’t even bother knocking before he’s barreling in, stifling your space with his bad energy.

You haven’t seen him in nearly two weeks. Not since the party, if that even counts. Hasn’t bothered to reply to any of your texts or emails, and that was just fine by you, if that’s how he wanted to act, but it isn’t until he’s brooding on the other side of your desk that you realize you’re still aggrieved, too. Feels a little too familiar, him leaving you behind and in the dark.

So you don’t mean to—typically have much more professionalism than this—but when he tosses a stapled stack of papers with a barely-passing grade on your desk and says, “This is your fault,” the words come automatically and without forethought.

“Fuck off, Seungcheol.” It’s not your words that take him by surprise; more so the roll of your eyes, the accompanying huff. The impression that all of this is beneath you and nothing more than a mere annoyance. That however affected you were two weeks ago is not how affected you are anymore. “That’s what happens when you blow off your tutoring for two weeks because you’re a coward.”

He laughs, incredulous; unable to help the sound the tumbles out of his mouth. “I’m a—I’m a coward?”

“Yes,” you reply, tone giving away nothing. All he sees is feigned nonchalance despite the hurricane you feel brewing beneath the surface. “This,” you continue, pinching the corner of the paper between your fingertips and disposing of it in the trashcan beneath your desk, “is all on you, but do please let me know if there’s anything else you’d like to blame me for. I’m all ears.”

You don’t miss it: the way Seungcheol’s eyes grow wide at your ‘I’m all.’ The way he thinks you’re going to punctuate that sentence with yours, and it nearly has bile rising in your throat. Makes you want to scream, rip at your hair. If the last few months have taught you anything, it’s that you are still hopelessly in love with the man across from you—the man that continues to leave before he’s left, always at your expense.

So, yeah—Seungcheol is a coward, but only when it comes to you.

But he doesn’t look much like one now, gripping so hard at the edge of your desk that his knuckles have gone white, baseball cap pulled down low enough his eyes are barely visible. He’s always been overwhelming, always carried himself with an exaggerated arrogance even when it wasn’t warranted, always took everything so seriously, and maybe that’s why you’d thought he’d treat you the same way. Take you seriously. Wouldn’t just throw it all away on a maybe thing, and that’s why it's been years and you still aren’t over it.

Maybe Seungcheol is a coward, and maybe so are you.

Because not once since he’s been back have you been able to say what you mean. Can’t seem to tell him about the anger, the hurt, the heartbreak. Played it all off as petty nonchalance because you foolishly thought that would hurt him, that you’ve been reduced to simmering ash, no hope left for a fire.

“I could never blame you for a goddamn thing,” he says, voice so deep you could drown in it.

You so desperately want to know. You don’t want to know anything at all. You want Seungcheol to explain everything to you in detail and spoil the ending, but only if it’s guaranteed to be happy. Enduring another loss like the first time—you’re not sure you can take it. Not after you two have crossed paths like this, because you’ve never quite believed in fate but you think that has to mean something. That so much time and life had transpired and you two came back together.

Today, though, it doesn’t look like you’re going to get any answers.

Seungcheol straightens, looms at full height. Digs into the pocket of his sweatpants and pulls out a thumb drive. Wordlessly, he hands it over, and then he’s gone just as abruptly as he’d arrived.

Again.

Kaori wants to spend the weekend moping, and you can’t come up with a good reason not to join her.

She doesn’t mention Ken once. Not when she’s sobbing over A Silent Voice and Toradora! after that. Not when she keeps glancing at her phone every couple minutes to see if she has any texts. Not when you—only halfway paying attention between grading and your own assignments—suggest ordering something for delivery, maybe that new burger place down the street you heard was good, and Kaori shuts it down so vehemently you can only assume it was Ken’s favorite place.

Kaori just cries over the man with the big dick she never expected to take so seriously, and not even your stonewalling makes her feel ashamed of it.

And there’s respectability in that kind of openness and vulnerability. At least whatever she’s feeling is honest; at least she can admit she’s sad. You think watching Kaori process her breakup might help you process yours too, years too late, so you suck in a breath and ask, “Can I tell you something or is now not a good time?”

Kaori looks over at you. Dabs a soggy tissue at her eyes. “Well, I guess it depends,” is her answer, and she doesn’t shy away from how waterlogged her voice sounds. “If you’re going to tell me you’re a Takasu and Kawashima shipper, maybe, but if it’s anything worse I’m not sure I could take it.”

“I—what? Who even are they?” She gives you a half-hearted thumbs up. You sigh in response, sink further into the couch. “It’s, uh.” Clear your throat. “Do you remember when we met sophomore year? At that party? And I told you I wasn’t looking for anything and you said, and I quote, why not, I have a sixth sense for this kind of thing and I know that guy will have a huge—”

She hides her face behind her hands. “Ew, god, yes I remember that. My dick whisperer era. How embarrassing.”

“Right. And I told you I wasn’t looking for anything because I’d just gotten out of something.”

“Not really by choice, if I remember correctly. I told you if it was quiet it should’ve been loud, and then you never talked about it again.”

You nod. “I—yeah, that sounds like something I would’ve said.” You suck in a deep breath. “Listen, this is probably gonna sound bad considering I did never talk about it again, but—”

“Hey,” Kaori says, nudging you with her foot. Meant to be comforting, somehow. “It’s okay. There’s a lot you don’t know about me, too… most of which I’m not sure you should, actually.”

A laugh forces its way out, gives you a nice reprieve from the anxiety of the conversation you’re about to have. The need to explain it all, the need for advice. Maybe it’s not her—or anyone else’s—business, but you think you’ve kept this to yourself long enough. You and Seungcheol loved each other, once, and it seems foolish that no one knows.

Maybe Kaori had been right. Maybe love should be shouted from the rooftops; exist out in the open. Maybe something hidden in the shadows can never thrive in the light, and you knew it back then, deep down, but now it seems so obvious.

You think back to a few days before the library. Think about how things didn’t feel good but they felt okay. Think about the frustrated crease between Seungcheol’s eyebrows as he stared down at his textbook and how all you’d wanted to do was smooth it. Think about how you’d rolled your lips and tried not to laugh; how you thought it’d take a miracle to help Seungcheol pass this class.

Think about: What is the difference between the short-run and the long-run from the perspective of production theory?

Think about the short-run of your and Seungcheol’s relationship—that you’d burned bright and fast, even though it’d felt like a million years. Hadn’t dared to consider the long-run because anything beyond that bubble felt impossible.

Think about: Which of the following is not a property of isoquants?

Think about the way Seungcheol’s eyes lit up when he knew the answer. That they’re always linear, he said, and you smiled at his enthusiasm, raised your hand to high-five him and dropped it when he hadn’t noticed.

You think about the explanation—isoquants can be linear when inputs are perfectly substitutable—and what those graphs look like. Downward sloping, left to right. Think about how the graphs change when the isoquants are perfect complements.

L-shaped. Less straight as the inputs become poorer substitutes.

You know what your and Seungcheol’s graph would’ve looked like back then.

So it’s easy, almost, to tell Kaori everything. You tell her about growing up in Daegu, about the smell of the azaleas at Biseulsan in the spring. You tell her about how your parents had befriended the neighbors, how they had a kid your age, that that kid was Seungcheol—yes, that Seungcheol.

She’s able to anticipate the rest from there, but you fill in the blanks of what she can’t: being sixteen and falling in love, holding hands, the clandestine notes. All those football matches and how your throat would be hoarse from cheering. How nauseous you’d felt applying to university in Seoul, how excited you were when Seungcheol said he was coming with you. That, after you arrived, it felt like you were living in fast-forward. Barely any time to breathe or adjust; no time to just be you and Seungcheol. You had to be a student, someone responsible; Seungcheol had to be a phenom.

“Could you feel it was going to happen?” Kaori asks, now sat ramrod straight, all her attention on you. “Like, did you know?”

“I don’t know,” you admit. “Maybe I did? It’s hard to say now, all this time later. I know things definitely felt different, like life was pulling us in opposite directions.” You laugh, bitterness coloring the edges. “You couldn’t go two blocks without seeing him on some billboard, and I was just… normal, you know? I wasn’t some rising star athlete like he was, I just went to my classes. How was I supposed to compete with something like that?”

Your roommate hums, leans back into the pillows as she stares up at the ceiling. “I don’t think you were. Maybe that’s why Seungcheol was worried—maybe he felt like you were losing your own identity feeling like you had to keep up.”

You want to push back, argue that you weren’t, that you didn’t, but the truth is that it’s possible. That the shadows created by Seungcheol’s dreams were so massive you wouldn’t be surprised if they unintentionally swallowed you up. “It still wasn’t his choice to make,” you say, voice barely above a whisper.

And Kaori already knows all about your hurt, listened as you explained it all and laid everything bare. So when she says, “Sometimes that’s just how it goes, though, babe,” it doesn’t feel condescending. “We do the best we can with what we’ve got at the time. You can say now it wasn’t Seungcheol’s choice to make, because it’s been almost five years and you’ve made a life for yourself separate from him. But the—god, this is gonna sound so patronizing, I am so sorry—but you guys were so young. No one has it all figured out at that age.”

She snorts, runs a hand through her messy hair. “Shit, I’m nearly halfway to thirty and I still don’t know anything.” Adopts a frown. “What do you want now? Do you want closure? Want to try to fix things and become friends?”

“I don’t know,” you admit, biting at a hangnail. “He actually, um. The other day when he stopped by my office, he left me a USB drive? And before you ask, no I did not already look at it.”

“A USB drive? Who does this guy think he is, James Bond?” A pause. “Are you gonna look at it, though?”

You do.

Not until the silver, midnight light creeps in through your bedroom curtains and you’ve stared at the ceiling long enough; waited long enough for texts that never came, for divine intervention to, well, intervene. It never did—fair enough—so you decide to take fate by the reins. Grab your laptop, instant headache from the screen, stick the drive into the port.

It takes a second for it to load, but when it does: dozens of videos, organized by date. Vlogs, by the look of them—some from before your breakup but the majority of them from after.

You’re not sure what you expected, but it wasn’t this.

You click on the first one: a month and a half before both of you moved to Seoul. A fresh-faced Seungcheol appears on your screen, cheeks still round with adolescence. He’s in his room back in Daegu, can’t get the camera angle right. Nostalgia hits you like a ton of bricks as it pans to the side, to the wall behind his bed, and you see all his old posters. Mostly football players you couldn’t name, some girl group he used to love, a few movies. Just below them are some of the notes you’d written him in school, and they’re all you can focus on as he talks about how excited he is for the move.

The next: a few weeks after you’d started classes. By then, Seungcheol was well into the swing of things with Seoul FC. Already a big fish in a small pond, tryout offers from European teams starting to roll in. You can hear yourself in the background stressing over your first exam, wishing a generational curse upon your calculus professor. In the video, Seungcheol laughs, whispers like he’s telling the camera a secret as he talks about how nervous he is for his future. I don’t know why, he says, but it just feels like everything is about to change.

There’s a long pause between that one and the next. You understand why when you look at the date: three months after your breakup. Your hands hover uselessly above your keyboard. Whatever answers you’ve been looking for the last few years are probably in this video, but you can’t bring yourself to open it. Not right away, at least.

You click on a different one at random. Seungcheol’s somewhere in Europe, judging from the language on the signs behind him. Snow falls quietly—whenever he filmed this, it must’ve been early. No one else is around, and he cracks a joke that it’s a good thing, people would probably think he was crazy if they saw him. He doesn’t tell you where he’s going but he narrates the entire walk: points out a cafe he’s grown to love. The way to get to his practice stadium from where he’s standing. Pauses near a restaurant and laughs ruefully, shakes his head, says, I don’t know why I’m telling you this, but one of my teammates set me up on a blind date here and I got stood up. You’d probably think that was funny.

(You do. It also makes your chest ache.)

One from two years ago: Seungcheol in a hotel room, clearly nervous. He raises his hand to wave at the camera and you can see the corners of his nails bitten raw. Dark circles beneath his eyes; cheekbones more pronounced than you’ve ever seen them. On the screen, Seungcheol sighs, rakes a hand through freshly-bleached hair. Sucks in a deep breath as he says, I’m so nervous. I’m so—so fucking nervous and I don’t. Fuck, I don’t know what to do. I want to call you because you always knew what to say but that’s so fucking selfish. God, we haven’t spoken in years, and it’s my—that’s my fault, I know, so I brought this all on myself. I just want to hear your voice.

Another from a week after that: the color’s returned to his face, and he’s recording from what looks like a penthouse apartment. Sleek, modern; a small white dog napping on the bed beside him. He smiles, looks like he got his teeth fixed, looks like he’s no longer carrying around the weight of the world. Talks endlessly and excitedly about some tournament. Talks so fast you can barely keep up. Talks around words tinged with languages you don’t understand.

Seungcheol wins a championship. Records a drunk vlog from the same night, hair soaked through with god-knows-what—water, champagne, you don’t know. But he looks radiant. Looks like the culmination of two decades of dreaming. He looks happy, free, at peace. He looks like the reason he let you go, why he had to go away.

You scroll to the bottom of the files. Pause at the last video, dated seven months before the term started.

“Hi,” he says, and you can immediately tell everything is all wrong. Seungcheol’s in the dark, face only visible enough to see the tears tracking on his cheeks. “This is going to be the last one of these I make. I don’t know if you, uh—I’m sure you aren’t paying attention to me—my career—anymore, but. I, um. I got hurt. Ruptured my ACL. They’re not sure I’ll…” A sob escapes him. Has you wanting to climb through the screen to hold him, thumb away his tears, tell him everything is going to be okay. “They don’t know if I’ll ever play again.”

Seungcheol no longer looks happy, free, at peace. “Maybe you’ll be happy to hear that,” he continues. “Maybe it’ll help you to know I threw away our relationship for nothing.”

Cut to black.

The sudden silence is deafening. Has you desperately clicking back to the video you’d skipped, the one from just after your breakup. Seungcheol looks the same in that one, too, like the life has been drained out of him.

I don’t know why I’m doing this. It’s not like I’ll ever show these to you now, since I…

I’m sure I owe you an explanation. To be honest, I don’t know what I’m doing, I just—things have been so hard, and I’m still trying to make sense of it all. I feel like my life went from zero to a hundred before I could even blink and now I’m scrambling. I didn’t think it was fair to—to drag you through that. Me being away, moving to an entirely different continent. I have faith we could do it, I just. I don’t know, baby, I don’t…

You deserve to have your own life. Be your own person. I’m so scared that the world will never see you for who you are—so beautiful and intelligent and kind. You don’t deserve to be reduced to my partner. And if you ever see this, I know you’re gonna roll your eyes. Probably call me a mean name because I took the choice away from you, because you think I’m trying to be selfless and heroic, and you’d be right. It’s not fair, and I wish I could tell you I’m sorry.

I wish I could just… pluck out my brain and give it to you, because even if it killed me to do it, at least it makes sense to me. And I don’t—I don’t want you to think I’m not hurting. I’ve been sick to my stomach since I left. I know I’m making a mistake, I know I am, I just—how do I do what I think is right in the long-run when it’s not what I want right now, or ever?

I don’t want to get over you. I don’t want you to get over me, and that’s how you know I’m not acting selflessly, because you should. I want you to always be happy, I just… wish it was with me.

So, I’m going to keep making these. I’m going to take you along for the ride, wherever it takes us, because you should be here but I can only hope you can one day understand why you’re not. I’m so—I’m so sorry, I don’t…

I’m sorry.

I love you.

You fall asleep and dream that you were the one meant to meet him at that restaurant.

The first thing you do is make a call to your mother.

“Could you send another container of yakgwa?”

On the other end of the line, your mother tuts, motherly intuition audibly kicking into overdrive. Is probably wearing that all-knowing, sly grin she always does when you try to be coy and evasive. “What happened to the last container I sent?”

“Ah, you know Kaori loves those. They barely lasted an hour after I told her what was in there.”

She hums an acknowledgement. Sounds like she takes a sip of tea. “I remember someone else being quite fond of those cookies, too.”

“Well, they are the most popular cookies in the country, so.”

After haranguing you into admitting they’re for Seungcheol and not your roommate, your mother promises to send them quickly. A few days at most, which buys you enough time to figure out how you’re going to approach the man in question.

The vlogs have turned your entire world upside-down. Answered questions you hadn’t even known you had. Took all that anger and resentment you’d been holding onto and set it free, and now you’re just left with… a void. Want to mend things, and it makes you wonder if such a thing is even possible, if it’s too late, but you don’t let those thoughts get very far.

Instead, you let them spur you into action. Have you sitting in front of your laptop at your desk, office hours long since over, silence creeping in the more the department empties. The thrum of the airconditioning and the tick-tick-tick of the clock are all the only company you have.

You worry if it’ll show on camera, how out of sorts you feel: sweating from the nerves, dabbing at your hairline; cheeks warm to the touch. But you suck in a breath anyway, steel yourself. Look at your webcam and the daunting red circle…

And start recording.

He hadn’t gotten it at first. Not really.

There’d been a container of yakgwa outside his door with his USB drive taped to the top of it. No note—not that he needed one to know who it was from, but he wasn’t sure what it was. A goodbye? A please fuck off forever and never contact me again?

He’d just taken them inside. Ate too many of the cookies while feeling sorry for himself. Maybe had a glass or two of wine to compound the issue, and never, ever considered contacting you. Didn’t think he could bear it if you never wanted to see him again, but he just…

Well, he was drunk and alone and he missed you, and he’d rewatched all those videos he recorded a million times before when he was like this, so what was a million and one?

It’d been the same as every time before: he smiled at the happy parts, cried at all his old wounds. Wanted to reach through the screen and strangle his past self for including that part about the blind date, because he never wanted to date anyone who wasn’t you, why would he say that, felt mortified at the thought of you watching that—

And then there it was.

All the way at the bottom. A new video. One that hadn’t been recorded by him—

Hi, Cheol, you say, and that’s all it takes to reduce him to a sobbing, yearning mess. I’m not sure what to say here. I don’t really record much—sometimes for lectures when the professors are too busy, but never anything personal like this, but I watched every single one you made for me and I thought I should return the favor.

I wanted to tell you everything I’ve been up to since you left, but it hasn’t been much. I got my degree. Tutored a lot in undergrad—the same thing I’m tutoring you in now, actually. I was good at it and it felt good to have something that was mine, you know? I almost moved for grad school. Thought for a while I was going to wind up in New York, but then my parents divorced and it felt like too much, too scary, so I stayed. Kaori also stayed, so we got an apartment together. It’s not much, definitely not as nice as your place, but it’s good enough.

I don’t think I ever told you, but she was seeing a guy for a bit and he was… obsessed with you, to say the least. Thought you were the coolest person in the world. They aren’t seeing each other anymore. Ended pretty badly, but—speaking of which, maybe steer clear of Student Services for a while, too.

Sometimes it felt like failure that I wound up staying here. That I had scholarships from all these far-away, prestigious places and didn’t take advantage of them. That I gave into my fear. And now… I don’t know. Maybe there’s a reason I stayed behind. Maybe there’s a reason you ended up back here, too.

Whatever happens—I don’t want you to think I still blame you. Kaori says we do the best we can with what we’ve got at the time, and I understand now that’s what you did. Even though it hurt me, you were trying to protect me. I get it now. And I’m sorry you had to go through all of that alone. I can’t imagine how hard it must’ve been to go to all these places you didn’t know. To have to deal with your injury, the loss of a dream.

You said in one of your videos that you just want me to be happy, and that’s all I want for you, too, whatever that looks like.

Here’s my address if you ever want to come by to talk.

I love you, too.

—and then he’d been up and out the door, feeling stone cold sober, running to the front of his building to wait for his ride.

Felt like the drive took hours. Must’ve hit every red light between his apartment and yours. Took the steps two at a time just to get to your door faster.

There’s a man already standing outside your door when he gets there. One that looks shocked to see him, stars in his eyes, and when Seungcheol says, “Oh, you must be Kaori’s ex,” he looks more like he wants the earth to swallow him whole. Embarrassed in front of his idol.

He knocks on your door and gets no response. Knocks again, harder this time, and he has to try really hard to stifle his laughter when your voice yells from the inside, “Fuck off, Kenji, I already told you she’s not here!”

“It’s me,” Seungcheol yells back.

There’s quiet again. Just enough time for it to feel like his heart is going to beat right out of his chest and follow Kaori’s ex down the hall.

Then you’re yanking the door open—slowly, so slowly, like you’re scared it’s not actually him. Your eyes are brimming with tears when they meet his own, and he doesn’t let himself think, just goes on instinct, when he grabs for you, hands on your cheeks, and presses his lips to yours.

Somehow you taste the same.

Somehow you taste like redemption.

You taste like home.

Seungcheol kisses you until the tears slow. Kisses you until the universe realigns, until he could map your mouth in the dark. Kisses you until all you’re all he knows again.

When he pulls away, you’re gripping at his sweatshirt, don’t want to let him go. He presses his forehead to yours, offers up a million more apologies, starts talking nonsense. Says he’s going to drop microeconomics, what the hell does he know, he barely has a passing grade anyway, what does it matter, he’s such an idiot—

And then you say, “You came back,” and nothing else matters.

“I always will.”

(Later on, as you’re trying to steady your breathing, slick with sweat, your thigh thrown over Seungcheol’s hip as he stares down at you, dopey smile on his face, you say, “Choi Seungcheol, don’t you dare drop that class. I have worked my ass off to get you to barely-passing.”)

if you’ve made it this far thank you so much for reading! i am still very new at writing for seventeen, so i hope this was acceptable. i'm now going to throw myself into the warped tour vernon fic and will hopefully not go another 7+ months without posting anything. 😭

i would love to hear your thoughts! <3

[jeonghaniehaee]

so I just need a boyfriend like scoups over here…. this fic was sosososo cute and beautiful definitely a new fav

[wondernus]

the kids are going to be alright masterlist

๑ au synopsis: life as we know it (2010 film) au | when an unexpected accident leaves you and your blind date from five years ago to become caretakers of your mutual goddaughter, you are forced to learn how to navigate parenthood all while trying to balance work and social life. 

๑ pairing: professor!seungcheol x baker!reader (gn) ๑ genre: angst, fluff, humor | smau ๑ series warnings: car crash, cursing, death, consistent food and alcohol mentions, can be very emotionally heavy throughout series, ch 42 is suggestive ๑ status: completed ๑ started: 22.06.21 - 19.08.21

๑ a/n: this au is based very loosely on the 2010 film life as we know it. the characters are all in their mid-20s or very close to their 30s to match the film + be age appropriate. please don’t mind me if you find grammar errors. I have no respect for the english language.

wondernus’ main masterlist

profiles:[x][x][x]

chapters:

0. prologue

1. dr. yoon

2. rabbit plushie

3. “yes” or “no”

4. free cake?

5. I think I won a cake

6. this your ta?

7. I love finals week

8. no ipad babies allowed

9. #jeonwonwoodilfagenda

10. the plan

11. the funeral

12. we’re on a boat

13. the aftermath

14. court case day

15. we used to go out out

16. syllabus week

17. the pediatrician

18. karaoke boys

19. #yoonjeonghansugardaddy

20. social services 1/3

21. baby don’t like it (not the nct127 one)

22. overnight fame

23. we’re going to be on tv! 

24. right person, right time

25. meetings and interviews

26. a fever

27. conflicting feelings

28. enemies to lovers

29. social services 2/3

30. it’s complicated

31. uncles

32. aquarium date

33. midterms season

34. it hurts

35. jun’s trap card

36. the fight

37. closure

38. lilies

39. he’s not doing so hot

40. they need to bone

41. what’s happening?

42. endearment

43. social services 3/3

44. goodbyes

45. end

epilogue mini series:

[x] / [x] / [x]

Copyright © 2021 Wondernus. All rights reserved.

[jeonghaniehaee]

BROOOO I LOVE THIS

might be from half a decade ago (oof bro🫩) but still a very great smau 👌

[epelletart]

love, cheol 𑣲 c. seungcheol

SUMMARY: Your roommate has been in love with you the entire time. However, there has always been a barrier between you two, how long will he endure it before finally accepting whether you were ever meant to be with him?

PAIRING: choi seungcheol x f!reader

GENRE: drama, fluff, angst, college au, oneshot

WARNINGS: mild suggestive content, strong language (not really in this fic), reader has a boyfriend (no cheating, i promise), mixed signals, hurt w comfort, mention of family death, grieving for loved ones, breakup, emotional conflict, implied indecisiveness, slow burnnnnnnnn.

WC: 11.8k

ADD TAGS❦: roommate! seungcheol, sport sc majored! seungcheol, physiotherapy student! reader, unrequited love, one-sided love, domestic fluff (as roommates), platonic relationship, open ending, boyfriend! joshua, jeonghan as moral support, hidden feelings revealed, yearning! seungcheol omg, minghao (my love poetry shifu), no comedy because im not feeling funny today, reader uses she/her pronouns.

a/n: "if you don't have the confidence that you can make them happier than i do, please give them back to me." omg seungcheol what the fahhhhhh how about my mental healthhhhhhh. i will always love you cheol, you're the real man.

Why did the universe decide to bring him to you? It’s impossible for the two of you to become one. You were already bound by a promise.

You and him.

And not him.

When he first moved into the place he was supposed to share with another tenant, he hadn’t expected it to be a woman living there. If he had known, he would have chosen somewhere else. But it couldn’t be undone, he had already paid the deposit and everything else.

He just hoped his roommate would be okay with a guy staying under the same roof.

Surprisingly, you weren’t upset at all. If anything, you welcomed him warmly and politely. He guessed you were just being nice about it, maybe you weren’t capable of saying no. He figured you were probably a pushover, just like him.

One thing he found odd about you was how quiet you were. There was nothing wrong with that, of course. Like with most roommates he’d had before (except when he lived with Jeonghan), people usually didn’t talk much beyond their day, just brief “good mornings” and “how was your day?”

Still, a simple hey would’ve been nice. He thought you were just shy… or borderline rude, though not intentionally.

That was until one time. He stepped out of the bathroom with a towel wrapped securely around his waist. Water droplets dripped from his damp hair as he dried it with another towel. Then he froze on the spot.

You were in the kitchen, holding a tub of ice cream, staring at him blankly.

He stared back, equally dumbfounded that you had caught him in such a compromising state.

You snapped out of it first, quickly retreating to the couch where your show was playing on the television, knees tucked to your chest, ignoring how your ears burned red.

When he returned to the living room, fully clothed this time, you were already gone. He shut his eyes, mentally cursing at how things had probably become awkward between the two of you.

The next two days were… normal. You didn’t try to talk to him, which wasn’t unusual, but after what had happened, he couldn’t help but feel even more uneasy with the silence. He had imagined he’d try to be nice, maybe take the opportunity to grow closer to you, but you made it harder.

Seungcheol wasn’t the type to give up easily. He did try to make small talk, but you always avoided him, not obviously, but just enough. Every time he thought he had a chance, you slipped away, as if the universe itself refused to let him reach you.

“Men of different principles don’t work well together.”

That’s what Minghao told him about his situation. Seungcheol nearly scoffed at that, not even bothering to ask what he meant. Sure, the two of you lived together, but that didn’t mean you had to get along.

Still, he insisted. He wanted to get to know his roommate.

You both respected each other’s privacy and space. So why was it so difficult to even engage, to maybe form a friendship? Even a little interaction would’ve been nice.

“TOGETHER WITH YOU IS MY FAVOURITE PLACE TO BE.”

The first time you actually talked to him was the day you discovered his shitty cooking skills. He had to admit, he was everything but a cook. He just hoped his future lover would never see this side of him, one he never wanted to be found out.

You stood there, staring at his burnt scrambled eggs, if that’s what he liked to call them. He nearly had a heart attack because of you.

“Looking at you makes me want to strive for better things.”

Seungcheol’s brows furrowed at that as he tossed the burnt pan into the sink. “What a nice thing to say. Why don’t you read me a bedtime story too, with a warm glass of milk?”

You simply watched him as he tried to clean whatever charred mess was left behind.

“Have you eaten?” you asked, standing beside him as he grumbled, scrubbing at the pan. “Dinner, I mean.”

“Well…” he said, pausing, “I was planning to, but my dinner burned, as you can see. Guess I’m not having it.” He let out a sarcastic scoff.

“I can see that.”

He stopped mid-scrub and turned to look at you, already not in the mood to deal with anything. He was still irritated. Mostly because Jeonghan had cheated during a card game, which led to him being punished by having to get rejected by the hottest girl on campus.

“It costs nothing to be kind,” he said, frowning. “Are you trying to make my day worse?”

His eyes then landed on the box of fried chicken in your arms… then back to your innocent gaze. He immediately realized he hadn’t meant to take his frustration out on you.

“Oh, okay,” you said simply. “I was thinking maybe we could have dinner together. I accidentally ordered extra.”

Now, he felt like an asshole.

That’s how the two of you ended up having dinner together, sitting across from each other as he devoured the food like there was no tomorrow. He might’ve been terrible at cooking, but he was grateful to have you. You even offered side dishes you had stored in the fridge, which meant he didn’t have to cook much, especially since he had agreed to pay half for the groceries. A deal the two of you had made.

It was safe to say you both started talking after that.

Sometimes, he would ask if you wanted to watch a movie with him, and surprisingly, you said yes. There was always a respectable gap between you on the couch, but despite the distance, he felt… comfortable. At ease.

Other times, after coming back from the gym, he’d find a warm meal waiting for him. You’d leave a small note before heading out to your part-time job. He’d be lying if he said it didn’t touch him—more than that, it made his heart flutter.

It slowly became a routine. If you didn’t have time to wash the dishes, he would do it. It felt fair.

You once mentioned that you loved peaches during dinner. He had no idea what possessed him to buy some the next time he went grocery shopping. You had told him you rarely bought fruit because it was expensive, so you usually left it off your list.

But he restocked it anyway, just because you mentioned it once.

And you were happy.

For the first time, you smiled.

It was rare, but seeing it did something to him, something that made him want to see it again.

So he tried.

Eating together became routine. He found himself not wanting to eat alone unless you were there. Movie nights on Fridays. Grocery runs together, waiting for you to finish your shift, brushing it off like he hadn’t adjusted his gym schedule just to match yours.

He liked this domestic life with you.

Seungcheol never imagined that something so simple would become what he looked forward to the most. Maybe it was because it was you.

Seungcheol liked it better when you were there.

“EVERYWHERE I LOOK, I AM REMINDED OF YOUR LOVE.”

At some point in your life, you become aware that some people can stay in your heart, but not in your life.

Seungcheol never bothered to find out about your relationship status. He simply never considered it, maybe because your life seemed so… normal. Going to class, working part-time, and, if you were feeling productive, doing your laundry and cleaning during your free time.

It was during one of your usual dinners together. By then, the two of you had reached a stage where personal topics weren’t off-limits anymore.

“You know, I used to have a crush on you last semester,” you casually mentioned, right in the middle of eating.

Seungcheol almost choked, quickly gulping down his water. “What? I mean—what happened then?”

“What do you mean?”

He blinked, swallowing nervously, his Adam’s apple bobbing slightly. “Oh, you know… what about now? Do you still…?”

He let the question trail off, trying so hard not to look too eager, the warmth creeping up his neck betraying him.

You laughed. A genuine one as you tried to hold it in.

He frowned.

“I’m sorry,” you said, still smiling at his sulking expression. “I used to, okay? I figured it was just a silly crush. I thought you were cool… charming, even. Well—let’s not go that far now.”

You continued eating, while he just stared at you.

You said everything… except the answer he was hoping for.

“By the way, I don’t think I’ll cook dinner tomorrow. I’ve got plans,” you added casually, as if you hadn’t just changed the topic on purpose.

“Why?” he asked. “Got a date or something?”

You didn’t reply immediately. Then, just as casually, you said, “It’s my boyfriend. I’ll probably be back late. I hope you’re not a light sleeper.”

Seungcheol froze, he watched you continue eating like it was nothing, but something inside him cracked. So you were in a relationship this whole time.

Oh.

Oh.

The realization hit him like a truck. He had never even considered it. Maybe he was upset… or maybe just sad. He couldn’t quite tell.

It explained everything. That your hesitation, the slight distance at the beginning. You had been setting boundaries without ever saying them out loud, and yet, you still treated him with kindness.

It was stupid of him. Because somewhere along the way, he had developed a crush on you.

From the first day he moved in, he thought you were cute. Then the two of you got closer, and he found himself getting giddy over the smallest things. He thought that maybe, one day, you could become something more.

But he never considered this.

—

When he came back to the apartment that night, wasted and drunk after a party with his friends, he was mortified to find himself neatly tucked into the couch with a blanket.

Later, he received a message from Jeonghan apparently, he had run into you outside and helped carry Seungcheol all the way back.

The next time he saw Jeonghan, he was going to strangle him.

It seemed like you had taken care of him while he was a drunk mess. Painkillers and an empty mug sat on the coffee table. He buried his face into the pillow, probably one you had given him.

He didn’t know how to face you after this.

You were already in class by the time he woke up. When he saw the small note stuck on the fridge, he picked it up and read it.

“I made you some egg drop soup. Reheat it before eating. GWS! :3”

Seungcheol pressed his lips together as he reread it.

Your note.

His gaze lingered on the pot resting on the stove.

The headache was bad, but not as bad as the way he felt in class later. That’s when he started avoiding you on campus. What if he had said something he shouldn’t have the night before? He would never live it down.

Still, you found him anyway.

You approached him with a small bottle—something he assumed was for hangovers. “I figured you might not come, but you did anyway,” you said, handing it to him.

He smiled, taking it carefully. “Thanks. You didn’t have to, you know. The soup was great… sorry about that.”

“There’s nothing to be sorry about,” you chuckled. “Nothing to be ashamed of.”

The only thing he was ashamed of was that you had to see him like that. He always wanted to look cool in front of you, but he failed miserably.

And that smile you gave him?

It should be illegal. Because it felt like he wasn’t allowed to receive it, not when you belonged to someone else.

Then someone called your name from afar. Both of you turned.

“Oh—I have to go. My boyfriend is calling,” you said, waving as you walked toward him.

Seungcheol watched from a distance as your boyfriend’s hand rested on your back while the two of you walked away together.

This was why he couldn’t hate you.

Even after everything, you were still kind to him. Maybe because he was just your friend, your roommate. Nothing more. It felt so natural when it was just the two of you, but now, it felt like his hopes had been crushed before he even got the chance to dream.

Someone beside him whistled, throwing an arm over his shoulder. “Damn, they look good together.”

Seungcheol rolled his eyes. “Shut up.”

“What?” Jeonghan shrugged. “I mean, it’s Joshua. Everyone likes him.”

Seungcheol didn’t respond. He simply walked away toward his class, leaving Jeonghan behind confused, but aware his friend was in a bad mood.

—

The rest of the day went by as usual.

He thought the crush would fade eventually, but it didn’t.

If anything, it only grew stronger. Of course it did, you lived together. You talked, ate, and shared a life in the smallest ways. Even after everything was revealed, nothing changed on the surface. You both respected each other’s boundaries.

It wasn’t like he wanted this to happen. Sometimes, you have to forget what you feel and remember what you deserve.

But for him… it wasn’t that simple.

The more he tried to forget, the emptier he felt. Even hookups left him hollow. Coming home afterward made it worse, he couldn’t stand the thought of you seeing him like that.

He didn’t want you to think he was that kind of person. How was he supposed to move on, just like that? When you were the one making lunch—not just for yourself, but for him too.

Meals together felt like something precious. On days when one of you wasn’t there, the dining table felt… empty. Sometimes he would wait until you came home from your shift, just so he could eat with you.

If the peaches ran out, he’d restock them immediately just because they were your favorite.

When he asked about your day, you always answered. No matter how tired you were, you never forgot to cook for both of you. And when he said he had only eaten snacks, you’d quietly make something for him anyway.

It reminded him of his grandmother, how she used to dote on him. That familiar warmth… that was what got to him. There was something about this quiet, domestic life with you that felt comforting. You weren’t much of a talker, but you listened to everything he said. Every word, every ramble. He wondered what it would be like if you were the one talking nonstop.

The only time he had seen it was when you mentioned baking with your mother before casually adding that she had passed away. He felt awful, trying to cheer you up when your expression dimmed.

He guessed that’s where your love language came from. So he changed the subject, told you that you should start baking again.

And you did.

The first thing you made was a bunny-shaped bun, which you shared with him. You couldn’t stop talking about your dream of opening your own bakery, and he let you ramble on.

That was probably the second time he had ever seen you talk that much.

“I’m sorry, I talked too much, didn’t I?” you laughed, setting aside your baking gloves. “Usually Joshua’s the one who listens to me. I guess I don’t do that with others.”

“Oh,” Seungcheol said, forcing a small smile. “So he’s a listener, huh? That’s nice of him.”

He didn’t want to say anything more. Because what could he even say?

He was here, watching you bake while your boyfriend wasn’t. He wondered if Joshua even knew another man was living under the same roof as you.

But he didn’t ask. It wasn’t his place.

You had the awkward tenderness of someone who had never been loved properly and had to improvise. And somehow, despite having someone else, you still found your way into his heart, without even trying.

Words didn’t matter when it came to love. He remembered a show he used to watch as a kid, Mr. Bean. He barely spoke, but he never left Teddy behind.

That’s what you were to him. Quiet, but always present. Filling the space around him without saying much.

He used to believe that happiness came from enjoying your own company. But how was he supposed to do that now? When you were the one who had touched his heart?

Sometimes, the smallest things take up the most space in your heart. Although he never planned to fall in love, it’s because of you that he decided to fall in love.

“FATES BRINGS PEOPLE TOGETHER FROM FAR APART.”

Seungcheol is a patient man. He always has been, but with you, he becomes even more careful. More attentive and more considerate.

Almost delicate.

And yet, you don’t seem to notice at all.

At first, he didn’t mean anything by it. When he first met you, he simply found himself spending time with his roommate. Then somehow, you both started talking more about small things, then about yourselves. He really tried to break it. Tried not to get attached to you.

There was something about you he couldn’t ignore. Not just because you lived together, but because you lived together, and he found himself wanting to know if you were okay. All the time.

The only thing he really knows about you is that you had a boyfriend, and that you were a physiotherapy student, working part-time somewhere downtown near your shared apartment. He was amazed that you managed to keep it up. He knew it wasn’t easy.

And yet, your life just seemed…

Peaceful.

For someone so busy, he couldn’t help but wonder how you even met your boyfriend. Like, how did it turn into something more? People always said no one is too busy for love. They make time for it. He supposed that was true.

Until one day, he noticed something. You were staring at your shoes longer than usual. Then you brushed it off, standing up like nothing had happened, ready to leave.

It only happened once, then it happened again. And again. Eventually, you started asking him questions, like what shoe brands were good for daily wear. Which, in a way, meant you were asking him to go shopping with you.

“Huh?” he looked at you, slightly dumbfounded.

“I was asking if you can help me pick out a new pair of shoes,” you said, showing him the worn-out pair you were wearing. The once clean white had faded, no longer polished. “I figured it’s time to get a new one.

In the end, he agreed to accompany you on a quick shopping trip (not date) for the rest of the evening. He didn’t think much of it at first. Still, a part of him kept wondering if this was really okay, him being out with you like this. But you had told him it was fine. It wasn’t like you were sneaking around or anything.

You were in public. You even asked why he was being such a worrywart about the two of you being seen together. He didn’t say much in return, just stayed quiet, because there was no way you were that gullible.

When Seungcheol thought about it, if he were the boyfriend… wouldn’t you just ask him to come with you instead of your roommate? He wasn’t trying to be dramatic. He was just putting himself in the boyfriend’s shoes. Of course he’d feel a little upset if his girlfriend didn’t ask for his help.

But from  what he observed, you seemed completely normal about it.

You were calm. Too calm.

He didn’t want to assume that your relationship was… you know. From what he had heard from Jeonghan, Joshua was a likable guy. The kind of gentleman everyone admired. A dream, really.

And it wasn’t like your relationship with Joshua seemed strained. If anything, you sounded happy. Content. Maybe there were things he just didn’t know. Or maybe it was none of his business.

Damn it. 

Why did he care so much? It was almost like he was hoping something would go wrong.

“I don’t know which one suits me,” you said suddenly, snapping him out of his thoughts. “What do you think?”

“How about this one?” he suggested, pointing at a pair of NB530s.

You shook your head. “That one’s expensive. I’m not spending all my money on that.”

“What’s your budget, then?”

You didn’t answer right away, hesitating.

Seungcheol caught onto that and didn’t push. “It’s okay. You can try a few first. We’ll figure out the price later.”

It took less than an hour for you to finally choose. But there was something he noticed. While he was at the counter, he glanced over and saw you trying on another pair. You stood in front of the mirror, turning your foot slightly, checking how they looked. It was such a small thing, but he found it… endearing. 

Then, after one last look, you sighed, almost dejected. You handed them back to the staff with a quiet thank you. You clearly liked those shoes, but you didn’t buy them. Instead, when you joined him at the counter, you paid for a simpler pair, the same comfortable sneakers you had settled on earlier.

—

You both decided to take a break afterward, stopping by a café. You sat across from each other, each with your own drink.

“I was wondering,” Seungcheol started, “is it really okay for your boyfriend… for you to hang out with me?”

You sipped your mango smoothie thoughtfully. “I don’t think he minds that much. It’s not like I go out with people often anyway.”

He blinked. “So… he’s okay with it?”

You nodded. “Yeah. I rarely hang out. He probably thinks I’m just running errands—which is technically true.” You shrugged casually.

Seungcheol didn’t want to seem nosy. He just didn’t want to end up being that guy.

A homewrecker, to be exact. “Bros before hoes,” his friends always joked. It was stupid, really.

Your eyes met him again, pulling him out of his thoughts. “I meant it when I said I don’t really hang out with people,” you added. “This is actually my first time in a while… other than with Joshua.”

Now it was his turn to blink at you. “What do you mean?”

“It’s not that I don’t want to go out,” you explained. “It just costs money. So I usually don’t join—I try to save instead.”

“I get that.”

You smiled at him, relieved he didn’t find it strange. “That’s why Joshua doesn’t really mind if I go out… as long as it’s not all the time.” You paused, then added, “But he did ask about my roommate. When I told him you were a guy… he didn’t seem too happy about it.”

Seungcheol swallowed. He had seen that coming.

“I told him it was fine—you’re nice and respectful,” you continued softly. “He even offered for me to stay at his place. His mom bought him an apartment.”

You paused, absentmindedly twirling your straw. “It’s not that I don’t want to live with him… it’s just… complicated.”

There was it again, that familiar look he once knew. That quiet way you kept things to yourself.

“Joshua comes from a well-off family,” you said. “I don’t want to feel like I’m taking the easy way just because he’s my boyfriend. Even if I’m supposed to feel lucky he chose me.”

Seungcheol listened carefully. This was probably the most you had ever opened up to him. He just wished you’d do it more often, stop keeping everything bottled inside. It was hard to understand you when you hid so much.

“That’s why I brought you instead of him,” you added. “He would’ve insisted on paying.”

Seungcheol thought for a moment before replying, choosing his words carefully. “He’s your boyfriend,” he said. “If he wants to treat you well, you deserve that.”

You let out a soft laugh, shaking your head. “You wouldn’t understand. He already pays for everything whenever we go out. I can’t ask for more. It would be too much.”

“There’s no such thing as ‘too much’ when you love someone.”

You didn’t reply to him, only smiled at his words. And somehow, that smile felt… distant. Maybe you wanted to agree deep inside in your heart, but reality had a way of reminding you where you stood.

Seungcheol wouldn’t understand it. Maybe one day he would.

—

Love is an illness to a woman with many goals. 

There’s no exaggeration behind that. It’s not something bitter people say after a failed relationship. The moment you experience it, you understand it, and the weight of those words hits harder than you expect.

You’ve spent your whole life longing to be seen, but you’ve also come to realize that when people look too closely, they inevitably notice the ugly part too. To be in a relationship means you have to be vulnerable with your partner, it’s normal. Yet, you’ve never really been able to do that. Not until Joshua becomes your boyfriend.

It’s not that you’re incapable of being in love. Love takes so much energy, emotion and costs a lot of sacrifice to be one. You’re not sure if you’re mentally or physically ready for all that. For someone as goal-driven as you, it was easy to fall for him. Joshua made it easier for you, he never asks for things in return. Just you, unconditionally.

To Seungcheol, you seem pretty sad for a girl so in love.

He saw you that Wednesday at the café where you worked part-time. He waited for you to finish after his gym session, just so the two of you could walk back to your shared apartment together.

When you finally closed up and said goodbye to your coworkers, you spotted him waiting under a lamppost.

He straightened up, offering you a small smile. “Hi. Ready to head back?”

You smiled back, nodding as you walked side by side. “You didn’t have to wait. You could’ve gone back earlier.”

He hummed, hands tucked into his pockets as he glanced up at the night sky. “I can’t do that. It’s dark, and I saw you were almost done. We live together, after all.”

Together. 

For some reason, the word felt… wrong. As if it meant more than it should, because you already had someone.

“So, how was your day?” you asked, breaking the silence.

“It was okay,” he replied simply. Then, after a beat, “It’s my birthday today.”

You stopped in your tracks, staring at him. He turned back when he realized you weren’t beside him anymore.

“No way.”

He smiled. “Yeah. Sorry I didn’t tell you. Nothing much happened—my friends celebrated earlier at some grilled place.”

Without another word, you turned and hurried back toward the café. Seungcheol blinked in confusion at your departure. A few minutes later, you came back out, holding a small box.

“Don’t tell me…” His expression softened as you smiled.

Back at the apartment, you managed to find a spare candle from the cabinet. A small cake sat between the two of you—white frosting, strawberries on top.

Seungcheol blew out the candle, while you clapped softly. “Make a wish.”

He chuckled, clasping his hands for a brief moment before opening his eyes again. “Any heartfelt speech for me?” he teased.

You thought for a second. “I just wish for your happiness,” you said softly. “That you stay healthy… and succeed in everything you do.” You gave a small smile, and that smile alone made him want to sigh.

Something about how pure you were—it got him. It was such a simple wish, but it softened him in ways he didn’t expect. He had to remind himself that you belonged to someone else, before he got ahead of himself.

Still, he appreciated you, respected you, and admired you for simply being… you.

He reached out something beside him, a paper bag and handed it to you. You tilted your head in confusion, before peeking inside. Your mouth parted slightly, to find inside were the same pair of shoes you had tried on before, the soft butter yellow and baby blue.

“I can’t accept this—it’s your birthday…” your voice softened, your gaze flickering between him and the shoes.

Seungcheol only smiled, watching the way your fingers traced over them. “Do me a favor,” he said gently. “If you’re happy, then I’m happy too. Just take them. Think of accepting it as your gift to me.”

You looked up at him, for the first time—it felt like you were really seeing him. That smile of yours grew just a little wider. And that alone was already too much for him.

Later on, you sat on the couch, trying them on.  He offered to tie the laces for you, and after a brief hesitation, you ended up letting him. As he knelt in front of you, focused on tying them, you found yourself staring at the top of his head.

“I always wondered what it would feel like to have an older brother,” you said softly. “When I look at you… it feels nice having you around. Is this what it’s like?”

Seungcheol froze just for a second. Then he continued tying the laces. “Is that so?” he said lightly. “That’s nice to hear. But my brother’s pretty dull and quiet, so… it’s not that exciting.” He looked up with a small smile.

“Really? That’s disappointing,” you laughed. “I only have a younger brother and an older sister.”

“Why does it matter so much to you?” he asked, leaning back against the couch while sitting on the floor.

You hummed thoughtfully. “Nothing, really. It’s just… nice to be taken care of. You know what I mean?”

“What about your boyfriend?” he asked. “I’m sure he takes care of you.”

You laughed softly, swinging your legs. “That’s different,” you paused for a moment before continuing. “With you, it feels… more platonic. Maybe you won’t get it. It’s like a family. You’re just… there. Always caring.”

It was hard to explain. You couldn’t exactly say that the way he cared for you felt almost like something deeper – like something safe. Something steady. It was almost close like home. Joshua was affectionate, warm, everything anyone could ask for. But Seungcheol, he cared without needing to say much. Without needing to touch.

His affection was quiet and gentle. And that made it feel even more real.

You appreciated him for that.

For you, it was easy to be transparent with him, open up a little without feeling insecure about your situation. Because he felt closer like home. Somehow, without either of you realizing it, you had already become home to each other.

“A BROKEN LOTUS ROOT IS CONNECTED BY ITS STRINGS”

If you’ve ever eaten lotus root, you’ll know that when you bite into it, thin strands still cling between the pieces.  Even when it breaks, it doesn’t fully separate. People are like that too. Even after a breakup, something always lingers, an invisible thread tied between hearts.

Seungcheol liked to believe that he was connected to every person in his life by an invisible string. His friends, his family…. and there’s you. It didn’t always have to be romantic. His last relationship had been… normal. Something he thought could become serious, but it ended anyway. Then again, what had he expected from someone he met through a hookup?

That was when he realized he wanted something real. After that, he stopped fooling around. And now… he wondered if this was karma. Falling for you, unrequited. Maybe this was him tasting his own medicine, if that’s what you want to call it.

He told himself that he shouldn’t get attached. But who the fuck is he kidding? He was beyond attached at this point. You were already in his head, running through his fucking veins, settling into whatever was left of his heart – whether he likes it or not.

Seungcheol thought it was already a win that you had started opening up to him. Except that he failed to notice one thing about you. You were loyal to the bone. Everything about you made it clear that your attention belonged to one person. The man you chose, and it wasn’t him.

He wasn’t angry. This was the boundary he was supposed to respect. Still, there were things he couldn’t ignore. Like the way you struggled to open a bottle cap but never asked him for help. You didn’t say anything, but your body language made it clear. You wouldn’t let him.

Or that one Thursday night, when you were having dinner together. Your phone rang, as you excused yourself mid-meal to answer your boyfriend’s call, leaving him alone at the table. Not that he minds, your boyfriend came first. Of course he did. Other times, he would catch glimpses of you on campus with him. And there, he saw it clearly—you let Joshua open the bottle cap for you. You let him do everything.

It wasn’t about the bottle cap. 

It was the fact that you made it an exception. Everything about you—your attention, your care, the way you spoke about Joshua, it was all reserved for him. Exclusive and undivided, just for him. And  somehow, that drove Seungcheol insane.

Because no matter how much he tried, he simply wasn’t him.

It only got worse when he realized your boyfriend probably didn’t like him. Or at least what it felt like. There was one time Joshua came over. Seungcheol hadn’t expected it. He had just gotten back from training when he saw him in the kitchen. You and Joshua went straight into your room. The door was closed but the voices didn't stay quiet. He didn’t mean to listen, but he heard enough. You were convincing your boyfriend, telling everything was fine. That staying here with Seungcheol was okay.

That’s when it hit him. You always make him feel seen, and then, just as quickly, remind him that everything you have to give belongs to someone else. Your life revolves around Joshua, and maybe that’s what hurts the most. Not that you love someone, but that you love him so completely. You always made sure your boyfriend came first, always reassured him, always chose him.

Seungcheol decides maybe it’s time to find a new place.

—

A knock on his door, as he opens it to see you wearing a soft yellow blouse, paired with baby blue jeans. For a second, he just looks at you. He had to admit that yellow looks good on you. Too good. He pushes that thought away.

“You look lovely,” he says instead. “A date, I assume?”

You nod, smiling, holding up a blue ribbon clip. “Can you help me put this on?”

Seungcheol has to quietly suck in a breath, he takes it as you turn around. You let him. That alone feels new. He’s never really touched you before—not like this. Carefully, gently, he gathers your hair. Clips it the way you asked, slow and precise. Like it matters more than it should.

You turn back around, fingers reaching up to touch it. “Does it look okay?”

“Oh, trust me,” he said softly, smiling, “you look very, very lovely.” The way your face lit up after that, it wasn’t for him. It was for the person you were about to meet.

Watching you like this feels… strange. Like a father trying to let go of something precious. Like trying to let go of something that was never yours to begin with. He knows his feelings didn’t start as romantic. He just… liked having you around. Just appreciated you. Found you endearing. Adored you, in ways he couldn’t explain. Loved you – in the same quiet way he loves his family, his dog… the things that simply mattered, something soft, something contestant, something that doesn’t need words. He hopes his actions were enough to show it, but no matter how much he wants to do more, he knows you won’t let him. Even if you never say it out loud.

—

The rest of the night, Seungcheol spent his time snacking while watching a romcom movie, one that Jeonghan had dragged him into watching every Saturday night at his place. It’s not like he had much else to do. Just a miserable single guy, knowing you were probably enjoying your date with Joshua… maybe even staying over at his place.

He didn’t want to think about it. He really didn’t.

What he wasn’t expecting was the sound of the door opening. He blinked in confusion as he glanced over only to see you rushing in, quickly heading straight to your room. 

You didn’t stay over? 

His eyes lingered on your door. He hadn’t caught your expression. Were you upset? Tired? Or something else happens. 

The next three days passed.And maybe it was just his imagination, but… you seemed quieter. Yes, you were quiet, but not like this. He could sense it—something was wrong. He decided not to push, probably you needed space. He just didn’t know how to bring it up without you shutting down… or worse, pulling away even more.

(Not that you’d ever snap at him but still.)

Something must have happened. With someone or… with him. So he waited. Let you come to him instead.

“The lovers are finally together. All shall be well.”

That’s what Minghao had told him once, when he asked about couples fighting. Seungcheol nearly scoffed at the memory. Of course Minghao would say something like that. His previous relationship sucks, but what can do when he decides to date a shitty person? Not every relationship works like that. Not every fight is worth fixing. He should know that.

Seungcheol sat in the living room, staring at the TV. The movie was playing but his mind wasn’t there. His eyes were distant, unfocused. He didn’t even realise you had been standing beside him.

“What are you watching?” 

He flinched slightly, then looked up at you. “Oh—uh… I don’t know. Some romance movie…”

Of course he wouldn’t admit he was watching it because he felt lonely, because he felt… empty.

A moment passed. Then you started to talk. “I didn’t talk with him,” your voice was quiet, pulling your knees to your chest, sitting beside him. “I wouldn’t call it a fight. It’s just… that night—I was supposed to stay over, but his mom came by. Unexpectedly.”

Seungcheol stayed silent. He was listening carefully. That explains why you came back early, but still… the look on your face that night, it meant more than that.

“His mom didn’t look pleased,” you continued. “I mean, she was nice… but…” you paused in between, “it’s just—her expression made it obvious she wasn’t expecting her son to date someone like me. She was polite, but you could still tell…”

Seungcheol turned his head slightly, looking at you. Your expression was small and quiet. It pulled at something in his chest.

“And I accidentally met with her again at my workplace,” you continued, letting out a small breath. “We had some talk and… she told me that she loved her son so much, she hoped that whatever Joshua and I had wasn't that deep and wanted Joshua and me to just… you know.” You didn’t finish the sentence. You didn’t need to.

You buried your face into your knees. “I don’t know… it just feels like the world is against me,” you murmured. “I’m confused, Cheol.”

That look on your face. He’s seen it before, and every time—it hurts. Seungcheol wanted nothing more than to pull you into a hug.

Just once. Just enough to tell you it’ll be okay, yet he didn’t. He couldn’t give you that.

“I’m sorry…” he said quietly. “Is there anything I can do? To make it feel… less heavy?”

His voice always softened when he spoke to you, gentle in a way the world never got to see. Like you’re something fragile. In the end, you didn’t need anything grand. You just stayed there, side by side. Letting the silence fill the space between you. Just... comfortable and somehow, that was enough.

For it to feel a little less heavy.

“I WANT TO BE YOUR FAVOURITE HELLO AND YOUR HARDEST GOODBYE.”

You never noticed when he started watching you more than he should. Only that his gaze always lingered a second longer than necessary. Seungcheol isn’t a fool. He knows you’re sad. The way your shoulders slump after coming back from work. That dejected look on your face like a solemn little puppy. The way you leave your phone lying around, not even bothering to bring it back to your room.

Meals are… still the same, except that you barely eat now. Just picking on your food—so quiet and distant. And he doesn’t try to start a conversation. Not when you look like that, so he just stays there. Even if it hurts. Because seeing you like this so quiet, so… unalive without saying anything about what’s going on. It tears him.

So when he sees you come home one evening, eyes glassy, tears already brimming and then slam your door shut.  He freezes at the sight. That wasn’t like you at all.

He stands there for a moment. Hesitating a bit as he stared towards your door. He knows you need space—he knows that very well, but he can’t take it anymore. He hates this. Hate seeing you like this. So small, so broken and so quiet.

It wrenches his heart.

Slowly, he walks up to your door with a soft careful knock, “...hey.” his voice is low and uncertain, “...come on. Talk to me. What’s wrong?” He leans slightly closer to the door, worry already written all over his face and then he hears it.

Your sobs, it was heavy, you were already holding it back so much. And it makes his chest tighten instantly. Whatever it is, he knows it’s bad. Really bad, because you’re never like this. You, who always seems so calm, so composed, so… peaceful. Seeing you like this does something to him. Like this sudden need to protect you – to fix it and to take it all away if he could.

And he stays there. Right outside your door until you let him in. He’s not leaving you, not this time.

It took almost two hours before he finally got an answer from you. So he decided to take things into his own hands. He turned the doorknob and stepped in, quietly placing a plate of sliced peaches on the drawer. Seeing your back turned to him made him sigh.

He sat at the edge of the bed, close enough. “Wanna talk about it?”

You sniffled. Your voice came out small, flat. “We broke up.”

Seungcheol went still. He wasn’t expecting that, but right now he didn’t want to think about anything else. Just focused on you.

“It started with a talk… then turned into small arguments… it’s not even about that, it’s just…” You slowly sat up, your hair falling over your face as you tried to gather your thoughts. Seungcheol quickly reached for the tissue box, gently dabbing your damp cheeks.

“Hey, hey… it’s okay. Take your time,” he murmured. “…you don’t have to say everything at once. Just… let it out.”

You looked up at him, lips trembling. He panicked a little at the sight of your crumpled expression. Quickly, he handed you a fork with a piece of peach.

“Slowly… I’m here, okay?” 

You nodded, taking a small bite. “I don’t know… I just… I kind of saw it coming, but I didn’t expect it to end like this.”

You continued, and he listened. “I remember when my mom passed away… three days after the funeral, my sister and I argued. I was never the type to get angry easily, but… our relationship was never good. Even when our mom was still alive.”

You paused, chewing absentmindedly. “I got so mad at her… she didn’t do anything when Mom was sick. I was the one taking care of her the whole time.”

Seungcheol nodded slowly, his hand finding yours. His thumb gently brushes over your knuckles. 

“We almost got into a physical fight,” you continued softly. “We were teenagers back then… I didn’t know any better. Maybe I was just holding everything in.” You let out a breath. “Our uncles had to separate us. My sister went with my aunt… and I went with my dad.”

A faint smile touched your lips. “My dad was never really expressive… but that was the first time he comforted me like that. He asked me what was wrong, and I just… broke down. Told him everything.” You exhaled softly. “Sometimes I can still feel his hand on my head… the way he comforted me. That memory alone makes me feel so…”

Seungcheol smiled gently. “How do you feel now?”

“A little better… I guess.” you shrugged.

He nodded. “Then… can I ask what’s making your heart feel so heavy?”

You hesitated at first then looked at him. His fingers still softly tracing over your hand, grounding you. So you told him.

“When your mom dies… it leaves a big hole inside you.” You placed your palm over your chest. “I still have mine here. It’s… huge.”

Seungcheol’s expression softened. He knew grief didn’t just disappear. It stays—maybe changes shape but it will always remain there. 

“The grief is still there… even after ten years,” you continued. “People say I’ve moved on… but I think we just learn how to live with it.” You breathed out slowly. “All I can do is live my life without regrets. Make new memories. I know my mom is still with me… here.”

His chest tightened. He felt himself getting emotional. Sniffing slightly. Before he could think too much, he leaned forward and pulled you into a hug. When life gets too heavy, he wishes you would always come to him. Tell him everything. The bad days and the good ones too.

His arms wrapped around you gently, one hand soothing your back, the other resting protectively at your head. And for the first time, you’d let him. You leaned into him, relaxed.

“The reason we broke up…” you murmured after a while, your voice softer now. He slowly pulled back, but stayed close. “…it’s probably me.” you sighed in between. “Even though things were… okay, he told me that he and his mom talked about us.”

You swallowed. “His mom gave us the green light. But the way she said it… she mentioned he’s a one-time kind of guy,” frowning slightly, “and I don’t know… it made me think—does that mean he’s only dating me until he finds the ‘perfect’ partner his mom actually wants?”

Seungcheol listened, every word you pour out.

“I’m like that too,” you continued. “I don’t just date anyone. If I love… I give everything.” Your brows furrowed, “but even if we worked out… I don’t think his mom would ever truly accept me.” your eyes looked down on your palms, “I don’t want to be in a relationship where I have to walk on eggshells all the time.”

There’s a pause, then you continued, “My life’s already been hard enough. My family… my dad loves me.” Your voice softened again. “I don’t even want him to know I’m struggling like this.”

Lips trembled slightly. “I’m sad because… for the first time in my life, someone chose me.” A small, broken breath left from your lips, “…but I guess it was just foolish hope.”

—

Three months passed, just like that. The new year came and went. You didn’t really have any plans during the semester break. Your part-time contract had ended, and you were still considering whether to continue working there, especially with your clinical posting coming up soon.

For now, you just let it be.

Seungcheol had offered for you to join his family’s celebration. (though, notably, he didn’t invite Jeonghan, something about his whole family gushing over him.) It’s not like anything was exciting about going back to your dad’s house anyway. You’d probably just end up bed-rotting.

“Are you sure they won’t mind me coming over?” you asked, closing the car door as you glanced at his parent’s house.

“Yeah, I already told them about you,” he replied, taking your luggage out of the trunk. “Don’t worry about that pretty little head of yours.”

You followed him inside. The moment he stepped in, he was greeted warmly by his parents. And then, his mother’s gaze landed on you. Her smile paused for a moment.

“Oh.” That was the first thing she said.

You swear you could feel a sense of deja vu there, feeling it creeping in. Instinctively, you shifted slightly behind Seungcheol, avoiding her gaze.

“You didn’t tell me your friend is a girl,” his dad mused.

Seungcheol groaned immediately, grabbing both his parents and pulling them aside. You blinked, left standing there awkwardly, fiddling with your fingers. 

“Okay, I can explain,” he whispered, like it was some kind of secret mission. “She’s just… going through something. She’s had a rough time lately. So—just help me make her feel comfortable, okay?”

His mother smiled knowingly. “So… you’re sure you’re just friends?”

He buried his face in his hands. “Please don’t start.”

Before anything else could happen, another voice cut in. “Oh my, it’s Cheol!” His grandmother came padding over, immediately squishing his cheeks. Seungcheol groaned in embarrassment, clearly not thrilled about being babied in front of you.

Then she turned  to you, her eyes lit up instantly. “Oh my goodness!” she exclaimed, taking your hands in hers. “I never thought I’d see the day Cheol brings his lover home.”

Your eyes widened, her touch was warm and gentle. She cupped your face, brushing her fingers over your cheeks affectionately. You smiled without realizing it.

“Halmeoni!” Seungcheol whined, face flushed. “She’s not—okay, everyone, don’t make it weird. She’s staying with us for the week, so no weird questions.”

You remembered that he’s the youngest in his family. Which means, he’s the baby in the family, and you could totally see it. But more than that, it felt nice being here. The way they welcomed you, even in their own chaotic way. It felt warm like you were meant to be, like close to home.

The whole trip, his family welcomed you warmly. His mother prepared countless dishes, always making sure you ate enough more than enough. His family was loving, gentle in a way you weren’t used to. Especially his grandmother.

Now you understood where his clinginess came from. Cheol once mentioned that his mom had been expecting a baby girl but instead, it was him. It made sense, the way they adored him.

It felt… different. Back then, when it was just the two of you, Seungcheol carried this sort of macho charm. But here, that completely disappeared—replaced by something softer, boyish and loved.

And strangely, it made you feel that sense of deja vu again because Joshua was like that too. He’s someone important and precious to his mother.

You eventually let him go, not because you weren’t compatible but because you were too selfless. No matter how much he begged you to stay… you just didn’t have it in you. He was an only child, and the thought of his mother’s words stayed with you. You couldn’t bear the idea of taking him away for yourself. Like you were stealing something precious. When he asked if you ever loved him, you said yes. Because you did, but you loved yourself more. And you knew you deserved to be someone’s happiness. Someone’s precious person, not someone who had to hesitate.

That was it. Your story with him ended there.

You’ve always been alone independently. Everything should be fine. Just like it was before he ever came into your life.

The sound of water echoed softly. Seungcheol made his way down the small path toward the waterfall, careful with his steps. Then he saw you. Standing there alone.

“What are you doing here all by yourself?” he called out, approaching you as the cool breeze passed through. “My dad’s already grilling—I hope you don’t mind stuffing yourself again.”

You turned, smiling and that’s when you noticed it. His hair has got shorter with a clean cut. It suited him. “You look great,” you said. “Did you get it cut recently?”

He rubbed the back of his neck, fingers brushing against the undercut as he smiled shyly. “Really? I had to. I’ve been applying to be a trainer lately. After this trip… I might get posted somewhere for my practical.”

“Oh…” you trailed off. You didn’t expect that. “…you mentioned it before, I think.” there’s a pause. “How long?”

Seungcheol thought for a moment. "About five months.”

You nodded, quiet again. Your eyes drifted to him still standing there, hand lingering at the back of his neck.

“Do I really look okay with this?” he asked again, a little unsure. “Feels too short.”

“Yeah,” you said simply. “You looked handsome.”

His lips curved. “Really?”

“Very,” you added. “Very handsome and manly.”

That did it. His smile widened, the tips of his ears turning red. You didn’t notice it. He let out a quiet breath, trying to calm himself before he got too carried away. You really had no idea what you did to him.

“Alright,” he said finally, stepping down first and turning back to you. “Let’s head back.” He extended his hand for you.

You hesitated, just for a second.

He noticed it and smiled, soft, coaxing. “Come down, baby. I’m just making sure you don’t trip on the rocks.”

The nickname made you smile. Without thinking too much, you reached out and took his hand. Instead of just holding it, he lifted you. You stiffened slightly in his arms, caught off guard. It was quick and careful. And before you could react, he set you down gently. 

“It’s dangerous,” he said casually. “Had to do that.” His hand came up resting on your head. The gesture alone felt soft and affectionate. 

You swallowed. Something tight forming in your chest. Then you blinked, and started walking beside him not even realizing that his fingers had already slipped into yours. Interlaced, like it belonged there.

“WHEN I LOOK AT YOU, I SEE THE REST OF MY LIFE IN FRONT OF MY EYES.”

You heard a soft knock on the door before it slowly creaked open.

“Hi,” Seungcheol peeked in with a small smile, closing it gently behind him. “Sorry to bother you… were you about to sleep?”

You shook your head, shifting under the comforter as you sat up against the pillow. “No, you’re not bothering me. This is your room, after all… do you need something?”

He walked over, settling himself beside you on the bed. Close to you. His room had been your place for the whole week. It smelled like him. Felt like him too.

“How was dinner?” his hand found yours, like it was the most natural thing in the world, his fingers slipped between yours.

“It was nice,” you hummed, letting your hand rest in his. “I think I might gain some weight after this trip.”

“More of you to love, then.”

You smiled instantly. He always had a way with words. It was soft, effortless and almost close to dangerous. Everything he did made your heart flutter. Somewhere along this week, you had forgotten the heartbreak from three months ago.

“You should sleep,” you told him gently, still playing with your intertwined fingers. “Tomorrow’s going to be a long drive.”

“That’s exactly why I’m checking on you,” he replied.

You raised a brow. “Says the one who’s driving. Four hours isn’t a joke, you know.”

He chuckled, leaning just a little closer. “Call me ‘oppa’ first. Then maybe I’ll listen.”

“No way.”

You both laughed. It was light and easy. Like nothing in the world could touch this moment. And then it faded slowly. The laughter softened as well as the air suddenly shifted. He was still looking at you. He has been looking at you the whole time. You tried to hold his gaze but ended up looking away, suddenly shy. When did it become like this? Because when did he start looking at you like that? You never really thought about how you saw him. All you knew was, he was someone you grew to care for. Someone you chose to keep in your life. 

“I really like having you by my side,” Seungcheol said quietly.

You looked at him again, and smiled softly. “...me too.”

You didn’t realize when it happened, when suddenly he was closer, much closer to you. You didn’t move. You just let him. Your fingers tightened slightly around his, breath hitched as his lashes brushed against yours. The tip of his nose touched yours.

So close. Too close.

Your heart was racing very loud and unsteady.

“I mean it,” he whispered. “I really, really like you… more than you think.”

Your eyes searched his. It was raw and honest, too real. He knew you were still healing. Still picking up pieces of yourself. And even if it took months or years, he was willing to wait.

You blinked. Trying to steady your thoughts, but that hesitation, it was there again. The same one he always sees in you. He wished you wouldn’t hold back. Just this once. Still, he didn’t pull away. He leaned in again—forehead resting against yours. So close it felt like a kiss was inevitable. You knew what this meant. So you chose to stay, but he didn’t close the distance. He just kinda stayed there. Letting the moment breathe, letting you decide.

“I like you too,” you said.

It wasn’t a confession.

Seungcheol pulled back slightly. Searching your face and he saw it. That look—the one he already knew too well. Not empty, just… not the answer he wanted. You liked him but not the way he loved you. That alone itself made his inside crack a little. He had seen this coming but walking away now would hurt more.

“Then kiss me.”

You froze. Then slowly, you leaned in just like before. Your noses brushed, lips hovered a breath away. He didn’t move, letting you take the lead. Just then you stopped. Lips barely grazed his, the soft, fleeting touch. It was not quite a kiss, not quite nothing.

It made his chest ache.

“I’m sorry, Cheol…” you whispered, lowering your gaze. “I don’t want to treat you like an option.” You looked back at him, eyes apologetic and honest. “I don’t want you to feel like I chose you just because I couldn’t have someone else. You deserve more than that.” Your voice softened, “…what we have now… I don’t want to lose it.”

Seungcheol gave you a faint smile, tired but gentle.  Deep down he already knew that. He reached up, brushing your hair back, his hand trailing down to your cheek. The gesture was careful and affectionate.

“I know, baby. I know,” he murmured, resting his forehead against yours again. “I just… needed to know.” a pause. “You’re precious to me.”

His arms wrapped around you once more, holding you close and you let him. You felt it, his warmth, his scent and his love. Maybe that was the problem, you seem to incapable of accepting his love for you.

—

That morning, you and Seungcheol had breakfast prepared by his mom and grandmother. He didn’t ignore you, but he was… quiet.

The whole ride back was the same too. At least, when it was just the two of you. You kept glancing at him. Very carefully, trying to read him. You even brought it up last night, asked if he was okay. If things were okay between you. He reassured you and said it wouldn't be awkward, and claimed everything was fine. But even if he said that, his actions told a different story. He didn’t push you away, didn’t ignore you but you could see it. The silence, the way he kept to himself like he was trying to deal with it quietly on his own. It made you feel horrible. 

Just like that, your clinical posting started. Days got busier and schedule got tighter. You and Seungcheol barely saw each other now even though you lived under the same roof. Still, whenever you had the chance, you ate together. It was only a small moment but familiar.

That day, you were on your way to collect your academic records. Still in your scrubs, rushing during your break when you accidentally bumped into someone. “I’m so sorry—” you quickly crouched down, gathering the papers that had scattered across the floor.

“It’s alright, I should be the one apologizing,” the other person said, handing you your dropped pen.

You looked up and recognized him. It was Jeonghan, Seungcheol’s friend. You gave him a small smile, murmuring a quiet thank you as you took your things back. You didn’t have much time, you were already in a rush. Just as you were about to leave—

“Wait.” You turned at him. “Since you’re here,” he said, pulling something out from his jacket, it seems like a pendrive. “I was actually going to return this to him, but…” he paused, then handed it to you, “I figured you could pass it to him instead. He’s leaving soon anyway.”

You took it slowly. A slight frown forming. “…what do you mean?”

Jeonghan nodded, like he just remembered. “Oh—right. You didn’t know?”

Your stomach sank. 

“He’s leaving today. For his practical,” he said casually. “And after that… he’s planning to enlist.”

Your grip tightened around the object you're holding.

“…military service,” Jeonghan continued. “Pretty long too. He chose the marine department.”

Brief silence filled the air. You didn’t know what to say because you didn't know this. At all. Seungcheol never told you.

Jeonghan tilted his head slightly, watching your reaction. “I thought you knew,” he said. “You two live together, don’t you?”

You forced a small smile. “I didn’t,” pausing, “…but thank you for telling me.”

And just like that, you turned and walked faster. You needed to find him.

You hated it. You hated what you were feeling right now. The same anxiousness creeping into your chest like it would tear you apart the moment you realized you had lost something precious. You rushed back to your shared apartment, but he wasn’t there. There was no trace of him, no presence. Just an almost empty room, clean, quiet and gone. Your heart dropped.

Then you remembered. The train. He once told you where he would be posted, back in his hometown. You didn’t hesitate as you ran to the train station. Panting as you arrived, eyes scanning through the crowd. You came with nothing, just your jacket, still in your medical scrubs. The cold air bit against your skin, but you couldn’t feel it. Your fingers were numb. Your chest was louder. And then you saw him—that familiar figure, standing there.

“Choi Seungcheol!”

His head snapped toward your voice. He was both surprised and confused at your call, before he could react you were already running toward him. You crashed into him, arms wrapped tight. He stiffened for a second, caught off guard.

How could he just leave like that? Without telling you? After everything, after all the love he gave you and just walked away––leave you in the dark? What were you supposed to do if he wasn’t there anymore.

“Why didn’t you tell me you were leaving today?” your voice broke. “Jeonghan said you’re going to enlist after this—am I really that unimportant to you?”

Damn Jeonghan.

Seungcheol blinked, startled, his hands quickly finding yours. “Baby, it’s not like that— I didn’t want to… I just…” He struggled, fingers tightening slightly around yours. “After that day… I thought it would hurt less if I left sooner. Time would pass anyway.”

Your eyes softened, but it still hurts you that he didn’t tell you that.

“Are you trying to forget me?” your voice dropped, quieter now. “…is that why you didn’t tell me? Just leave and take everything with you?” Your breath trembled. “Five months… and then military—it’s going to be more than two years, Cheol.” There’s a pause in between. “How am I supposed to live if you just leave me like that?”

Your voice broke into soft sobs. He cupped your face immediately. It was firm and gentle. “No,” he said, steady. “I love you too much for that.” He swallowed, trying to find the right words. “I don’t want to leave you like this… with a broken heart.” his voice softened. “Wherever you need me, I’ll be there. As long as you’ll let me.”

The announcement echoed. His train. 

Your heart tightened. Time was running out. Your fingers gripped him tighter. “Cheol…” Your voice came out fragile, barely holding together. There was so much to say, too much and not enough time. All you knew was… you wanted him.

Seungcheol smiled softly, wiping the tears from your cheeks. “I’ll still be here, remember?” He took your hand, placing it over his chest. His heartbeat was steady and warm. It only made it worse. You weren’t ready for this. Not for him to leave.

You sniffled, leaning into him as he pulled you into a hug, his hand soothing your back. Everything suddenly hit you at once. The regret, the realization and the truth.

“I love you, Cheol,” you said, voice shaking. He pulled you back, eyes searching yours. This time, it was real. “I really do… I’m sorry I didn’t realize it sooner. Not until you were leaving.”

His expression softened, he was relieved at that. Slowly, he leaned in and this time he kissed you. It was soft and gentle. Full of everything he had been holding back. And you let him, finally. When he pulled away, your noses still brushed. Very close. However, your chest still felt heavy, because he was still leaving. 

“Please come back faster,” you whispered.

Seungcheol smiled faintly, resting his forehead against yours. “I will, baby.” he gave you one last soft peck. “By the time I come back… you better be doing well, okay?”

You nodded. His hand came up again, resting on your head, those familiar, gentle pats. He kissed your temple. Then, he slipped something into your hand. A folded paper, closing your fingers around it.  

“Read it when you get home,” he murmured. “I don’t want you crying alone here.”

The announcement rang again. Final call.

He exhaled, reluctant. He stepped back slowly. Your fingers clung to his for a moment longer. Not wanting to let go, but eventually they slipped apart. You watched him board the train, your vision blurred with tears. As the train began to move, he watched you too. Getting smaller… further away, all alone.

“…shit,” he muttered, resting his head against the glass. “How am I supposed to leave her like that?”

And you’ll wait. And he will too, because when he comes back he knows he’s going to hold you together more than ever before.

By the time you got back to the quiet apartment, your hands slowly unfolded the paper he had given you at the train station. You were still trying to recover from the hollow feeling in your chest after his departure.

He had written you a letter. You weren’t sure if you were strong enough to read it at that moment. But you did anyway.

My lovely ____, I’m so sorry that you had to find out this way. I sincerely hope that all the words I failed to convey to you in person will, through this letter, finally reach your heart. When I try to approach you, it feels like a dream that slips away. What should I do?  You, who brought so much light into my life. You, who gave me so much love without making me feel lonely. You, who live in my heart. I always find myself missing you today, tomorrow, and all the days to come. I can’t hide my growing feelings for you anymore. You have no idea how I feel every day. Sometimes I feel sick, sometimes I cry, all because of this love. I find myself holding my breath every time I look at you, as if the world has stopped. Like the passing wind even if you don’t see me, my heart always moves toward you. Loving you is such a painful thing. These feelings can’t be emptied. But my dear, please don’t forget this great love I’ve kept only for you. It hurts me to see how comfortable you are in the dark. I just wish you would lean on me more, tell me everything your heart has been holding for so long. Every day, I hold onto you, yet I can’t seem to let go. Deep down, I know I’m afraid. Your eyes… they look at me as if they understand my heart. Even when I try to distance myself, the memories keep calling me back no matter where I go. Us, who never wanted to let go. Us, who leaned on each other. I don’t want to lose that bond. But at the same time, I don’t want to live a life where you’re no longer there where you’ve found your happiness, and I’m not a part of it. And that’s the moment where my footsteps stop. This isn’t the life I wanted. I wanted to be by your side forever. Don’t go and leave all my love behind. Even if it’s a little late, maybe it’s still destiny—we will meet again someday. I hope that one day, I can love you the way I’ve always wanted to. Forgetting you is the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do. You are the only one for me. Wherever you are in this world, I will find my way to you.  Thank you… for giving me a love that made me feel less lonely. Love, Cheol.

You were already breaking down, crouched in the empty, cold apartment where he no longer was. Your sobs echoed through the silence, tears falling onto the letter in your hands. You cried so hard, holding the paper close to your chest. There is nothing greater than his love for you, and you will wait with arms open. Just five months and you’ll be alright.

Love is just a word until someone comes into your life and gives it meaning.

FIN.

a/n: wow. the original ending was supposed to be a not happy one, but meh i changed my mind in the middle of it. i think i might be woozi yo. once again, thank uu for staying until the end, apples! big thanks to @ashlinxloves for witnessing my whole procrastination ride n i managed to finish it just as i expected.

taglist 𑣿:

@coupsarchive @weirdcatlover1 @gyublues @charlieshelves @joongtime @jaja-salute @tstosir @scoupscious @jinx05 @delusionalforjunghoseok  @neotannies @drunk-on-lemonade @chisskaa @flvr4ane @unlikelysublimekryptonite @jeonfaa @vwintershire @scoupcherry94 @enchantingbarbariansublime @matt-sturnioloo @cuzyourmyflower @choppedballoondetective @junnhuisworld @mellow-wishes @authorscurse

[jeonghaniehaee]

bro my heart 💔 need bro to come back asap 💔 this story is too good

[wondernus]

𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐝 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 ˚୨୧⋆｡˚ ⋆ෆ

ෆ synopsis: kwon soonyoung loves too hard and falls in love too quickly, accidentally building a (very false!!!) fuckboy image that he can’t seem to get rid of. when his friends talk him out of proposing to a girl he went on 2 dates with, he finally realizes he has a big problem with love. signing up to appear on his university’s most popular youtube talk show to unload his baggage and fix his image? what could possibly go wrong?

ෆ pairing: college student! ksy x reader (gn)

ෆ genre: fluff, humor, romance

ෆ series warnings: anxiety/insecurities, cursing, food/drinks, ksy’s character is extremely 🥺🤧

ෆ status: completed

ෆ started: feb 1st - may 23rd, 2022

ෆ a/n: I noticed that i tend to write a lot along the lines of angst or serious/mature themes so i'm really excited to switch to something more relaxed, fluffy, and feel-good. this is 100% a comfort fic. please let me know if I missed any warnings!

wondernus main masterlist

profiles: [X], [X], [X]

chapters:

0. prologue

1. bag

2. wallet

3. keys

4. phone

5. earphones

6. water bottle

7. glasses

8. reusable straw

9. pens

10. notebook

11. planner

12. receipts

13. lip balm

14. snacks

15. trash

16. textbooks

17. hat

18. umbrella

19. reusable bag

20. watch

21. small pouch

22. vitamins

23. bandages

24. painkillers

25. perfume

26. hand sanitizer

27. hand wipes

28. tissues

29. ear plugs

30. toothpicks

31. cough drops

32. masks

33. spf

34. breath mints

35. folders

36. laptop

37. portable charger

38. calculator

39. charm

40. utensils

41. cushion

42. polaroid

43. dog treats

44. end

bonus chapters:

josh in vegas

himbos

them

Copyright © 2022 Wondernus. All rights reserved.

[jeonghaniehaee]

so cute!! maybe I did binge read this but who cares i love being invested

[dokries]

sweetest thing

pairing: chwe hansol (vernon) x gender neutral reader

genre: fluff, strangers/uni classmates to lovers, bakery worker!reader x window shopper!vernon

word count: 7.5k

warnings: lots of food mentions, mutual pining, vernon is down bad, emergency room/hospital visit for an injury (don’t worry, it’s not super bad!), seokmin and seungkwan best wingmen, forehead kiss near the end, let me know if i need to add more!

synopsis:

when you finally find out the name of the cute regular who never buys anything, you don’t expect to get to know him better…or for him to be so sweet.

author note: yeah i really have no idea how i wrote so much 😭 my first vernon fic, and it’s a huge one…anyway, this fic wouldn’t be possible without seungkwan so everyone say thank you seungkwan 🫶 lots of love, and i hope you enjoy reading ♡

masterlist

running a small business is hard.

you know this from experience, seeing your boss run pang! sweets all by himself before you came along—mingyu’s a strong one, that’s for sure. well, he’s strong literally as well; he’s always at the gym if he’s not checking in on the bakery. 

though you only started at pang! for the money—you’re a university student; there’s always something you have to pay for—you have to admit you’ve gotten a bit attached to your part time job, finding solace in the arms of the small lot mingyu rents out. 

and that love for your job is exactly why your eye is twitching and your voice is strained as you talk to the regular customer in front of you—well, he would be, if he actually bought anything the bakery offers. “do you need any assistance?”

the man in front of you raises his head to look at you before shaking his head, turning his attention back to the croissant in front of him. 

yes, he’s cute and seems to be around your age but he also comes in every morning and buys absolutely nothing. he stands there in front of the display stand, and analyses every single detail in the cinnamon rolls you make early in the morning on the weekends, as well as the assorted pastries mingyu bakes up. 

you turn and walk in to mingyu singing along to the radio as he finishes up decorating his third batch of cupcakes for the day. in signature mingyu style, there’s frosting everywhere; he may be a good baker but he’s a messy one.

he grins at you, wiping frosting off his cheek before tilting his head and frowning at your stiff expression. “is something wrong?” 

“the window shopper’s back,” you simply say, gritting your teeth and biting the inside of your cheek so you don’t end up yelling in frustration.

mingyu sighs before wiping his hands on a nearby towel and fixing his posture, slapping his biceps to seem bulkier than he already is. “okay then. it’s time for operation scarecrow, isn’t it?” 

you nod at him seriously before holding the curtain separating the kitchen and the front open for him, giving a clear view of the opposite light pink wall. (mingyu always corrects you when you call it that, saying “it’s rose quartz, for god’s sake!”)

mingyu walks by you with the scariest expression he can muster and falters as he takes a step out, looking out to the front door. he turns back to you, confused. “there’s no one here. i guess he left.”

you go out to join your boss, and let out a silent scream at the lack of customers, annoyed at the fact that he got away again.

operation scarecrow hasn’t worked yet—a fancy way of saying that mingyu intimidates the window shopper to get the hell out of his shop—because the damn guy never stays around long enough. 

mingyu rolls his eyes in amusement before coming over and patting your head, getting leftover frosting on you. “it’s okay! we’ll get him next time, partner.” 

you can’t help but huff out a breath to calm yourself down at mingyu’s smile. “wait, did you get frosting on me? mingyu! what—” you’re cut off when mingyu races into the back, and holds the curtains closed so you can’t tell him off. 

“mingyu! this isn’t fair!”

you’re running late, and barely surviving on two coffees since you woke up in a rush after helping mingyu the night before finish up a huge order for, funnily enough, the university you’re making your way hurriedly to now. 

you get in the lecture hall just as the professor makes his way up to the podium, and pick a random seat in the middle to get comfortable in, the class already starting; professor kim has a habit of droning on and on about things that appear on his tests, according to the school forums, so you can’t miss anything he says.

you don’t notice the people next to you until the professor tells everyone to take a break after he goes through the first set of slides, and you look up to see a red haired man beside you and next to him is…oh my god. it’s the damn guy you’ve been looking for, peering over his glasses down at his laptop.

 you smile politely at the guy closest to you first, introducing yourself. thankfully, your excitement at finding the window shopper is disguised as one stemming from potentially making a new friend. he grins at you before fixing his sweatband. “i’m seungkwan! and this is my friend,” he leans back so you can see the man beside him properly, “hansol.”

“you can call me vernon though,” hansol—vernon, you suppose—says without looking up from the screen in front of him. 

you stare at him for a second, giddy on the inside because you finally have a name to the face you’ve seen way too often in the past weeks. since vernon hasn’t looked up, you’re guessing he doesn’t know it’s you yet, and you’re thankful for that—you can’t have him running off on you before exacting revenge, can you?

you excuse yourself from talking about the course work with your new acquaintances, and pull out your phone to text mingyu excitedly.

you ❙

KIM MINGYU.

i found him. 

mingoowner ❙

not the full name lol

???

you ❙

THE SHOPLIFTER

HAHAHA WE GOT HIM NOW

mingoowner ❙

OH that’s great!

lmk details when you come for your shift later

oh also where’d you put the egg substitute? i can’t find it 😭

you ❙

should be in the second cupboard to the left of the sink

mingoowner ❙

okay found it thanks

i’ll see you later ;)

you put your phone on top of your notebook, and notice seungkwan staring at you with a smirk on his face. “ohohoho, does our new friend have a partner?” he says, singing the last word. 

vernon pauses as he types, giving seungkwan a weird look before finally noticing you.

he blinks at you, the same expression on his face as always, as if he’s daydreaming all the time. he breaks eye contact, putting a hand on his best friend’s shoulder, causing seungkwan to jump a little at the contact. “it’s not our place to ask that seungkwan, we just met them.” 

huh. you suppose he’s a decent guy after all—or at least abides by social norms. 

seungkwan grumbles under his breath about vernon being no fun, and smiles at you sheepishly. “sorry if that was too much. you are cute though, so i wouldn’t be surprised if you did have a partner! right, vernon?” seungkwan nudges his friend, who’s already back to his work. 

vernon nods without looking up, but his face seems brighter than before. eh, it’s probably just the blue light emitting from the screen he’s staring lasers into. (when did blue light turn someone’s face more red though?)

you laugh and shake your head, your attention back to seungkwan—you don’t notice how vernon looks at you through the corner of his eye, and that his eyes crinkle a little when yours do.

“no, i don’t have a partner. i was just texting…” you shoot a cautious glance at vernon before mumbling, “my boss at the bakery i work at.” 

vernon tenses slightly as seungkwan looks at you in admiration, and claps you on the back in approval. “wow, you’ve got a job at a bakery? that’s so cool!” seungkwan winks at you, continuing. “you should let us have a discount because we’re your friends, right?”

you look at the red haired man in front of you in astonishment. you just met each other? why is he…so friendly already, as if you’ve known each other for ages? you're not lonely at school; you have friends from other classes but…maybe being friends with seungkwan won’t hurt, especially because he seems to be besties with the guy you’ve been hunting for the past month or so.

you roll your eyes before nodding, looking pointedly at vernon. “yeah, if you guys come by and actually buy things, i’ll give you a discount!”

vernon flinches slightly at your words, caught off guard. seungkwan looks at vernon before he seems to realize something, his hand hitting his friend’s shoulder excitedly. 

“OH MY GOD, IS THIS—” seungkwan only goes so far before vernon cuts him off with a slap over his mouth with an apologetic expression on his face—wow, this is the most expressive you’ve seen him.

“sorry, he can be a bit…loud at times,” vernon says in your direction before glaring subtly at seungkwan, telling him to shut up before he spills too much. 

you see them exchange another look before seungkwan pulls vernon’s hand away from his face, and smiles at you knowingly. “hey, do you work at pang! sweets?”

you nod, and vernon mumbles a few curses under his breath before pinching seungkwan’s thigh desperately, whose grin only becomes bigger. 

“i’ll make sure i visit then!” seungkwan says. when the man beside him clears his throat, seungkwan adds on with a smirk, “well, with vernon, of course. he would hate me if i didn’t take him with me because he has such a huge—” 

“sweet tooth!” vernon yells, not letting seungkwan finish his sentence, his exclamation catching the attention of everyone in the hall. 

“well, vernon, is it? it’s…nice to know your preference in food but we really should be covering this next topic instead,” professor kim says with a raised eyebrow, moving back to the front and putting the next set of slides on the screen for everyone—right, you’re still in class.

seungkwan giggles under his breath as vernon rolls his eyes at his friend’s antics. he glances over at you, analyzing your confused expression before letting out a breath in relief. you don’t know anything, do you? he prefers it that way, at least until he’s ready.

“hey, seokmin! what’ll you have today?” you ask the regular in front of you, now at your second home. 

“oh, just my usual, thanks!” seokmin smiles at you brightly as he slides a crisp bill over to pay. 

despite only knowing him through mingyu, you clicked with seokmin easily when you first met, and have since made sure to remember his order, considering he visits quite often.

you ring him up, pull out a pizza bun from the display case in front of him, and give it to seokmin with extra napkins, like always. you call out to mingyu in the back when you take inventory of what’s left to be displayed. “gyu, we got any more croissants? there’s only three outside.”

mingyu brushes aside the curtains with a flourish as he walks to where you are. you wait patiently to make his way to you as he waves to his imaginary fans, even though there’s no one to wave to other than you and seokmin—tuesday afternoons aren’t usually busy. you’re used to his dramatics, having worked with him for a while now but seokmin still claps in admiration, as if he isn’t a musical actor himself. 

mingyu brushes his bangs back before smiling when he’s in front of you. “you called?”

you stare at him silently, pointing to the croissants on display. “we need more, your highness.”

mingyu scoffs before going into the back once more and bringing out a tray of fresh ones, and he squats down to place them meticulously on the wooden tray for displaying, relying on seokmin to tell him if he’s doing it right.

mingyu doesn’t look at you when he speaks, focusing on placing a chocolate croissant on top of another. “so, you never explained what’s up with finding the window shopper.”

you snap your fingers, suddenly remembering that you forgot to tell him, and start talking rapidly. “okay so basically, it turns out he’s in my class? like the one with professor kim, and he looks like some sort of nerd with his glasses on? like it’s cute but i didn’t expect that from him.” 

mingyu and seokmin exchange a look through the glass separating them, and seokmin advises mingyu to sprinkle sugar on the pastry on the edge on the tray eventually, and mingyu agrees before they nod in unison for you to continue.

“and so i made a new friend i guess? his name is seungkwan, he’s sweet and i think they’re besties? they gave off that vibe, and to be honest…the guy, vernon—or hansol, or whatever! he seems like a nice enough guy? i mean, he was decent and maybe…he’s just really indecisive or something.”

seokmin laughs wholeheartedly at your conclusion—he’s filled in on the drama, of course; you always complain about this mystery guy whenever he comes by—and mingyu gets up, putting the now empty tray onto the counter, making you groan at how you’ll have to clean it up later. 

“i—i thought you hated this guy?” mingyu says your name in disbelief, holding your shoulders and staring into your eyes. “have you fallen in love or something and that’s why you’re switching sides so fast? cause this is…not very normal of you.”

you stare at him, pushing his hands off you lightly before laughing, and the two guys in the shop join you before they get weirded out by how long you continue. seokmin says your name uncertainly before stage whispering to mingyu, “i think they’ve gone mad!”

you stop laughing maniacally at this before gasping loudly at your friend’s accusation. “no, i haven’t! i haven’t fallen in love or anything either lol.”

your friends look at each other slowly and mingyu stutters on his words, as he puts his hand on your shoulder again, mostly to ground himself as seokmin looks on with horror. “did you…did you just say lol out loud? like—like the letters out loud?” 

you pause, realizing you’ve slipped up, and maybe your friends are right. you’ve gone mad, lost your sanity even. over a man? you put your head in your hands, trying to figure out where it all went wrong. when vernon first came into the bakery, four monday mornings ago, with his leather jacket and pushed back hair? was it when you saw him wearing a varsity jacket earlier, his glasses perched on his nose as if they’d been made to fit him? you have no idea.

seokmin looks down at his cold bun and then at the two of you, this time not even trying to soften his words. “yup, they’ve gone mad.”

“oh also, can one of you warm this up once they’re done with their mental breakdown? it’s cold,” seokmin adds on, pouting when mingyu shoots him a sharp glare. 

after your…madness the other day, you can’t even look at vernon for more than a few seconds.

seungkwan definitely knows something is up; you’ve only known each other for a little bit but he’s in tune with your body language already, which is why he invited you to get coffee with him in class earlier. of course, he had invited his best friend but vernon had declined, saying something about how he needed to finish an assignment—even though he’d never say it, he was slightly disappointed that he couldn’t spend time with you outside of class for once. 

seungkwan animatedly recounts his day to you as you walk to the coffee shop together, and you order quickly. he insists on paying for you and you relent when his whines cause the other customers to look at the two of you in confusion. you’re about to sit down at a small table inside the falling for u cafe when your phone dings multiple times. 

pizza bun ❙

ummm mingyu did something weird…

he told me to text you cause he says that only you know how to tame the oven?? whatever that means 😭

you ❙

WHAT 

IM ON MY WAY RN

SEOKMIN WATCH MINGYU DON'T LET HIM TOUCH ANYTHING.

pizza bun ❙

OKAY GOT IT BOSS 🫡

you hurriedly put your phone in your pocket before explaining quickly. “my boss is gonna set the bakery on fire, i have to go, i’m so sorry!”

you run to pang! which is thankfully only half a block away, leaving a dazed seungkwan behind.

“KIM MINGYU WHEN I FIND YOU—oh,” you yell as you walk in, quieting with an apology when you find startled customers sitting at the tables inside. 

seokmin peeks his head out when your voice echoes off the walls, and waves you in quickly, updating you on what exactly happened. “so basically, i think he accidentally whacked the side of the oven with his whisk while he was trying to make meringue, and then he got water in his meringue bowl, so now he’s…” seokmin gestures towards the bakery owner as you draw closer, who’s crouching on the ground, a mixing bowl held protectively in his hands. “he’s like this.”

mingyu looks up when he notices the two of you, and pouts. “i made a dent in the oven…”

you close your eyes, trying to control the urge to tell mingyu off. 

“mingyu,” you start, leaning down to give him a hand so he can get up and face you at his full height. “you are a strong, wonderful man but OH MY GOD GYU, I TOLD YOU TO BE CAREFUL AFTER LAST TIME!” you yell, reaching up to pull his ear down as you scold him. 

“last time” was when mingyu had somehow dented the old oven, and you had to replace it because it was just that bad—somehow all the buttons stopped working when you pressed them, and he had to pay for a new one, which you had now. 

mingyu yelps out in pain as you pull him down more, and calls out to seokmin for help, not realizing that his so-called friend went back to his table to finish up his pizza bun for the day.

you let go of his ear when you realize the customers may be able to hear you and speak in an authoritative whisper. “you will not touch anything for the time being. i’ll call up the repair people because someone,” you give him a look, making the bakery owner flinch, “has made sure that they know pang! sweets on a first name basis.”

you turn and walk out without looking at the pitiful man behind you, plastering a smile so the customers don’t think anything is wrong—the walls are thin; the couple near the counter heard everything and were trying to keep from laughing. 

after a short call to the repairperson from last time, you look out to the sunny street and the people walking along the sidewalk, a familiar redhead in the mix—wait, is that seungkwan?

you squint to make sure, and the familiar figure waves through the window, dragging along…oh my god, he’s brought the window shopper.

a familiar twinkling from the bell attached to the door accompanies the two as they walk in, and seokmin gets up to greet them warmly, giving seungkwan a hug and a soft smile to vernon. he drags them over to where you are, and when you look at him confused, he explains. “oh, i know these two from before! i’m really close with seungkwan because the two of us and soonyoung—well, you wouldn’t know him because he’s always in his practice room but i’ll bring him over sometime—are best friends!”

seungkwan nods as vernon looks at you and waves, as if he hasn’t seen you for multiple weeks at this exact same spot—though he hasn't been coming ever since you formally met him. “hey.”

“…hey,” you reply, and seokmin and seungkwan exchange a wince at the awkward air surrounding the four of you—mingyu’s still sitting on the kitchen floor in timeout. 

you busy yourself with making sure the counter is clean, inspecting the marble as if you hadn’t just cleaned it mindlessly while on call with the repair place as the three men talk.

“oh, isn’t it your birthday soon?” seungkwan says to vernon, loud enough for you to hear, and quickly corrects himself when seokmin clears his throat. “and yours too, of course, minnie.”

you raise an eyebrow. “they share a birthday?” seokmin nods and you continue. “that’s pretty cool actually! seokmin, you should’ve told me.”

seokmin only shrugs before grinning. “wait, you’re baking something for me like you did last year, right?” he lowers his voice to a whisper as he continues. “i know i’ve known mingyu for longer and should technically trust him more but like, i feel like your baking is a lot more…clean compared to his, you know?” 

you nod before staring at vernon, who’s back to talking to seungkwan on the side about…bears? you don’t even know, and frankly, you’re not sure if you want to know.

maybe you should make something for him too, considering it’s his birthday and you know, you’re making something for seokmin anyway.

seokmin smirks as he follows your line of vision and moves to join his friends. “he’s allergic to peanuts by the way,” he nonchalantly says on his way, shooting you a wink before he drapes an arm over seungkwan’s shoulder. 

well, one thing’s for sure: you’re not planning on making peanut butter cookies for the eighteenth.

mingyu would’ve been mad at you for sitting at the counter if you hadn’t closed already, it being past nine pm—actually, he couldn’t be mad at you anyway, considering how much you do for him.

he walks over to you scribbling ideas down in your notebook and crossing them out right after. well, so much for keeping his gift to you aesthetic. 

so far, you had thought of nothing for vernon’s—and seokmin’s, of course—birthday gift. even though you don’t know him that well, you want to see him happy with a huge grin on his face like when he was talking to seungkwan in professor kim’s about chan, their friend, and smacked his best friend's shoulder, to seungkwan’s annoyance. you groan as you straighten your back, your spine aching from bending over to write. 

mingyu pats your shoulder from behind and looks over at your list. “need any help?”

you turn to look at him, sighing deeply. “yeah. do you think i should text seungkwan to see if he knows anything?”

“seungkwan knows everything, trust me. but yeah, i think you should. maybe then you’ll be able to notice the cookies i baked just for you, my favourite worker.” mingyu teasingly says, giving you a wink before pulling out the small container of your favourite cookies, fresh from the oven that apparently, had nothing wrong with it despite the dent made on the outside.

you take a huge bite out of the one he hands you before taking out your phone to text the friend who’s on your mind—okay, maybe his friend is the one on your mind.

you ❙

hey kwannie <33

um do you know what kind of cookies vernon likes? 

or like any type of treat at all that i can make at the bakery

kwannie 🍊 ❙

OH MY GOD I KNEW IT

someone’s got a crushhh

you ❙

i’m just asking in advance just in case he comes by !! and actually wants to buy things lol

kwannie 🍊 ❙

sure…🙄

anyway he likes choco cake and cheesecake 

always see him munching on them after finals

oh he’s allergic to peanuts btw so be careful

wouldn’t want to hurt your bf before you’re official am i right 😓

you ❙

BOO SEUNGKWAN. 

kwannie 🍊 ❙

yes this is he

you ❙

…no comment.

seokmin alr told me about the peanuts thing 🙏

okay thanks for the info ily <3

you put your phone down before sighing. you know what, that made sense; vernon always used to pay extra attention to mingyu’s phenomenal cheesecake and chocolate cake slices out front, as if he needed to memorize the placement of each particle on the wooden trays. 

mingyu looks at you curiously and you show him seungkwan’s messages. “oh yeah, that makes sense. i say make chocolate cake cause seokmin will like it too! that way you’re only using one recipe—i'll lend you my book so you can look through it.” 

okay, chocolate cake. you can do that. right?

you take a look at the time, and realize that it’s probably a good idea to go home, considering how late it is. you pack up your stuff quickly, and wave to mingyu as he locks up the shop. 

“i’ll see you day after tomorrow, gyu! be safe!” you call out as you walk backwards towards the way home, and turn to face the lit up sidewalk…and the slightly menacing person walking towards you, with an all black outfit and hood up, a mask covering most of their face (also black of course, they have a theme going on). 

you’re not too scared though because they’re walking normally—although a bit…uniformly, hands not moving from their position by their hips—and don’t seem to be under any influence, at least from what you can see. they also seem distracted by their phone and you can see their headphones on. 

that doesn’t mean you don’t walk quickly, suddenly remembering all the stories of ghosts of previous university students haunting the grounds they stayed at before their passing.

 as you pass them and let out a breath you had been holding before feeling a soft tap on your shoulder. you turn to face the person you saw before, and you see yourself stare back in their big brown eyes—wow, those are some nice eyelashes. 

“hey, i didn’t know you were gonna be here,” they say, muffled enough by their mask so you can’t recognize their voice. you take a step back from them, clutching the straps of your work bag on your shoulder. 

“i’m sorry, do i know you?” you say confused, taking another step back, and the person in front of you chuckles, taking off their mask. 

oh god, of course it’s the man who’s been plaguing your thoughts. you smile awkwardly and wave. “oh…hi vernon.”

he raises his eyebrow as he smiles back, his voice soft as he calls your name. “hi…did you really think i was gonna hurt you or something?”

you nod your head seriously before gesturing to your surroundings: a barely lit entrance to the alleyway that leads to a small neighbourhood before you hands end up pointing at his mask. “have you seen where we are right now? also, this is an awfully suspicious get up, dude…i was kinda scared.” 

vernon’s hands go back to the nape of his neck as he chuckles, embarrassed. “sorry ‘bout that. i just—i didn’t see you until you passed by because of the…” he trails off, realizing that what he was distracted by is a little too cute for the image he’s trying to build up to impress you. 

you frown, and he finds you adorable as he clears his throat and mumbles, “cat videos i was watching.” 

you sputter, moving forward to leave a hand on vernon’s shoulder to ground yourself as you laugh lightheartedly. “you—why are you so embarrassed by that?” 

your eyes shine in the dim light the streetlamp over the two of you provides, and he can’t help but appreciate them for a few seconds before he looks away, his hand automatically going back up to his neck. 

vernon laughs awkwardly before responding. “well, uh…i was worried it would ruin the whole ‘cool guy’ thing i’ve got going on, according to seungkwan.” 

you raise your eyebrows before chuckling and vernon finds himself joining in, the two of you smiling at each other softly before you break eye contact and look away, the yellow light from above doing little to hide the red creeping up both your faces. 

his phone dings multiple times before he takes it out of his jacket pocket and he sighs, showing you the contact name. “speak of the devil.”

you shrug before giving him a sneaky look. “well, you can’t keep him waiting, can you?” 

vernon nods before he smiles at you shyly, clearing his throat. “hey, would you want to come over? we’re having a little get together actually.” he shakes the plastic bag in his other hand to bring attention to it—huh, you hadn’t noticed it before. “we’re having ice cream…” he sings, looking at you expectantly. 

you yawn involuntarily and give vernon an apologetic look. “i think i’ll have to pass, sorry. i should probably go home and knock out for the rest of the night, it’s been a long day.”

he agrees with you, nodding even though you can see how his face falls slightly—is this just because you’re paying way too much attention to the way his eyes smile more than his actual mouth? maybe. 

vernon sends you on your way home with a promise to text him, and inputs his number into your phone so you can actually contact him (he hopes you don’t notice his hands trembling just the slightest bit). 

as soon as you enter the doorway of home sweet home, you toss your things to the side and grab your phone, sitting down on the couch in the living room giddily. you smile at his name in your contacts before debating on what to text him. you decide to introduce yourself first, making sure he can save your name as well.

you ❙

i made it home! 

vernon ❙

sweet

we have an early class tomorrow so sleep well

i’ll see you in kim’s

you ❙

see you then vernon! 

oh dear god, you feel so awkward. however, just the fact that he responded (and wished you a good sleep!) is enough to make you weak in the knees, and get up to your kitchen, texting mingyu for the recipes he mentioned earlier. as you look at the measuring equipment spread neatly on the counter, you take in a deep breath. 

time to make the best chocolate cake vernon’s ever had in his life. (and seokmin!)

at first, he only wanted to see the selection of the fairly new bakery near campus.

it had good reviews online, and vernon expected it to be nice—which it is; his opinion isn’t different from the online forums he read in advance—and was pleasantly surprised by how much he could buy, considering that it was fairly priced as well. 

he was leaning down to see the cinnamon rolls (maybe he could get one for seungkwan…he should ask) when he heard your voice for the first time. “do you need any help?”

he looked up and had to do a double take, disguising it as him seemingly making sure nothing was on his sleeve. 

were all bakery workers supposed to be this cute? 

vernon couldn’t help but freeze under your warm stare, and even though he knew you had a customer service smile on, he wanted to know what your real smile was like. 

you had giggled awkwardly when he didn’t respond and he immediately stood up properly, hand rubbing the back of his scalp—seungkwan says it’s a habit vernon does when he’s nervous, and he’s probably right. 

“oh, uh…i’m good, thanks,” he says quietly, looking at the floor instead of your face, which was suddenly too bright to look at. 

thankfully—well…vernon did want to look at your face more but it was probably better when you moved away from him, satisfied with his response, and started to wipe the counter, making sure the slightly dirty spots were clear enough to see your face in—the same face he was staring way too much at. 

vernon brought his attention back to the pastries in front of him but his mind quickly wandered to…well, you. 

oh my god, is this what they call love at first sight or something? he shook his head, and your head snapped up at the motion to look at him. 

he mumbled under his breath, “no, no, it’s probably just being attracted or something, that’s all.”

so why did he keep coming back into the shop…just to see you? 

“and that’s how vernon fell in love,” seungkwan says, giggling as vernon finishes telling his story of how he met you to seokmin.

“wow.” seokmin’s hands go up to cover his mouth as he gasps, surprised by vernon’s words. “that’s pretty romantic actually…”

seungkwan agrees, almost jumping up and down as they stand around seokmin’s kitchen island, where the small birthday party for seokmin and vernon—affectionately called the 218 bros—is being held.

vernon sighs, his face red, not being able to lie to his friends. “yeah, yeah…whatever seungkwan said.”

seokmin takes out his phone, looking at it thoughtfully before at vernon. “should i call mingyu to tell him to close the bakery earlier so they can be here before we cut the cake?” 

“no need. they’re not working today, so i think they’re just a little late,” vernon says, shaking his head.

and he’s completely right because you’re rushing to pack the treat you’ve made him in time to leave with mingyu, who swears he’ll leave you behind if you take more than five more minutes. 

“but gyu!” you whine, balancing your phone in between your ear and your shoulder before making sure you don’t get frosting all over your clothes. “you can’t leave me, i’m your only employee!”

mingyu sighs over the phone before pausing. “hey, do you think i should hire seungkwan instead of you? that’d be a nice change.”

you snort, taking the two large boxes in your hands and putting them down so you can lock your door. “you could never replace me, and you know it.”

mingyu hangs up as you make your way to his backseat to deposit your gifts and grins when you settle into the passenger seat beside him. 

“yeah, yeah…” he rolls your eyes as you put your phone into your pocket, pausing when you see a notification from one of the men of the hour. 

vernon ❙

hey are you on your way?

we’re gonna cut cake soon

wait nvm we don’t have the cake

you ❙

yeah i’m almost there! 

just got a little late, me and mingyu are on our way

vernon ❙

sweet me and seokmin will meet you out front if you need help ?

apparently the cake is with you guys 

you ❙

yeah sure! thanks :D

vernon ❙

of course :)

you squeal, clutching mingyu’s arm as he looks at you before back at the road immediately. “hey, i’m driving here!”

you apologize, and grin when you pull up to seokmin’s home. mingyu gets out and opens the backseat door as you wave to vernon, who’s out waiting for you on the lawn. 

vernon moves to help mingyu with the boxes but the other man only winks as he carries the two cakes in his hands easily.

you smile as you join vernon on the grass and start to go in for a hug before pausing and patting him on the shoulder awkwardly. “happy birthday, vernon!”

he raises an eyebrow before patting your back in a similar way to mock you, and smiles. “thanks.” vernon gestures towards the front door. “should we go in?”

you’re greeted with a big hug from both seokmin and seungkwan as you enter, and vernon smiles at your excitement to see your friends before immediately deadpanning. he can’t get caught, especially not by seungkwan—he would be teased forever.

seungkwan casually wraps an arm around your shoulder and smirks at vernon’s slightly clenched fist before saying your name loudly. “did you really make the cakes all by yourself? wow, that’s so impressive, they look so good!” 

you nod sheepishly, a small blush forming on your cheeks as vernon blinks and claps you on the back, subtly replacing seungkwan’s position beside you. “wow, that’s really cool of you. i appreciate it a lot, dude.”

you grin at him, and vernon doesn’t even notice how his friends scooch away to marvel at your sweet creations in the kitchen because he’s too busy focused on the way your eyes are somehow brighter in the lit entryway of his friend’s home. 

“vernon?” you call out concerned, waving a hand in front of his face. “you there?”

he blinks, and his hand goes back up to the spot on his neck that it always does. “uh, yeah, i’m here.”

you smile at him again, and he’s entranced. “right, so the cakes have a ton of chocolate, and i didn’t know what you and seokmin liked best so—!” 

vernon immediately puts his hand around your back, shocked at how you almost fell while taking a step towards him. you wince, and he looks up, locking eyes with mingyu before he looks down at you, calling your name in a panic. “are you alright? did—did you twist your ankle?”

you groan, gripping onto vernon’s arm as you pull yourself up to stand on your right foot, as putting pressure on your left hurts. 

you breathe heavily and look down at your foot, already seeing an angry red forming as your ankle swells underneath your sneaker. 

“okay, okay, uh…” vernon thinks out loud for a second before calling over mingyu and telling him to start his car. he squeezes the arm he’s still holding, and gives you a nervous smile. “you’re gonna be alright, okay? um—i’m gonna take you to the hospital and we’ll be with mingyu and—”

he gets interrupted by seungkwan grabbing your other arm so they can help you walk out the door, and onto the lawn. seungkwan looks at you concerned as he helps you into the backseat of mingyu’s car, and to your surprise, vernon sits down in the seat beside you. 

you’re not the only one surprised, as mingyu gapes at vernon through the rearview mirror. 

“what?” vernon looks at the both of you weirdly before sighing. “come on, mingyu, we need to hurry!”

as mingyu pulls out of seokmin’s neighbourhood, you think you’re going mad, just like he said you were only a few weeks ago. you start to giggle incessantly, unable to stop even when vernon glances at you worriedly and pulls you into his shoulder so you’re supported. 

“i—i’m so sorry,” vernon says suddenly, his knee bouncing up and down as he frowns at you. “this is all my fault.”

you stop giggling and frown as well, groaning in pain as you shift to face vernon better—god, this hurts. 

“what are you talking about?” you ask vernon before another giggling fit comes on, and you manage to squeeze out, “i’m the one who went whoops! and fell down, not you!” 

vernon stares at you, realizing that this…is probably just your body’s way of distracting yourself from the throbbing of your ankle, and he moves to remove your sneaker so that the nurses don’t struggle with it later.

you giggle again, and you try to push the wrinkle in between his eyebrows away, the adrenaline getting to you and making sure you have no self control at all. “the only thing you did to make me fall was stand there with your beautiful face—oh, and your long eyelashes and nice voice!”

vernon’s eyes widen and you can count every vein in them, coursing with the same liquid that’s now flooding his cheeks. “uh—i…”

your moment is ruined as mingyu sputters, trying to hold back his laughter, and vernon goes to look at him as he fails. wiping his tears, mingyu gestures to the building on the left, not trusting himself to speak just yet, and—oh, you’re at the hospital already. 

to be completely honest, vernon doesn’t know what he’s doing here, sitting in the chair beside you, and listening to the person on the other side of the thin screen separating the beds in the emergency room. all he can do is stare at your intertwined hands as you sleep, the adrenaline high from before wearing off—thank god, because he doesn’t think he could take more of the cheesy pick up lines you’ve thrown at him.

he still can’t believe you said he was so beautiful, you fell for him—quite literally, as your swollen ankle shows it.

mingyu comes back, the necessary paperwork in his hands and pauses, raising an eyebrow in concern. “vernon? you’re really red, do you need to get checked out too?”

vernon raises the hand that’s not being held tightly by yours to his cheek, and realizes that his friend is right—he’s burning up, but he’s pretty sure that’s an after effect of your words, and not because he has a fever.

he shakes his head at mingyu, and the other man excuses himself to make a call to seokmin to explain, and vernon can hear seokmin and seungkwan screaming at mingyu through his phone speaker to the point where his friend’s phone is a good few inches away from his ear. 

vernon squeezes your hand, and pushes a stray strand of hair back from your forehead to plant a soft kiss—hopefully, that would speed up your recovery and wake up sooner, like his own version of sleeping beauty.

it’s been a few weeks since you twisted your ankle—and basically ruined seokmin and vernon’s birthday party, though both of them don’t blame you for it—and you’re finally back at work, actually feeling useful for the first time since you got back from the hospital. 

of course, mingyu’s a good boss, and a caring friend but that should be common knowledge, and he just about tied you down to the rolling chair he forced you into at the beginning of your shift, and he now makes sure to watch you so you don’t get up, not even once. 

you sigh, cleaning the counter without thinking and wonder what the hell vernon thinks of you now.

apparently, according to mingyu at least, you were flirting with him on the way to the hospital, and vernon didn’t know how to respond at all. you groan, putting your head into your hands before the bell at the door tinkles, signalling a new customer.

“hi there, what can i—” you falter when you see…of course, it’s vernon. “hi!”

he nods at you in greeting, holding a bag in his hand as he comes up to the counter. “hi.”

you raise an eyebrow at vernon with a chuckle. “are you actually going to buy something for once, vernon?”

when he nods again, you’re surprised. does he mean he’ll no longer be a window shopper and actually contribute to the bakery?

he sputters, unable to hold his laugh in. “you…you have such a shocked look on your face, i’m sorry.”

embarrassed, you compose yourself, clearing your throat. “well, i didn’t expect you to upgrade from window shopper to actual shopper anytime soon, so i’m pleasantly surprised.”

“well…for that i have to make a purchase, right?” he smiles at you softly. “can i have a slice of cheesecake, please?” 

you nod eagerly, and roll to where the slices are kept, taking one out carefully. as you put it in a paper bag for him, vernon fidgets nervously with the handles of the bag he’s holding, and you ring him up.

he pays with his card—and tips you generously; you shoot him a grateful smile. vernon puts the bag he brought earlier down on the counter to grab the one with the cheesecake and wipes his free palm on his jeans. “uh, that—that’s for you.”

you put your hand in the bag carefully and pull out a small box, opening it carefully as vernon watches you. 

it’s a…cupcake? you pull a cupcake that’s a bit flat, and has something written on it with frosting.  though you can’t tell what it says exactly, you make out a question mark at the end and look up at vernon. “uh…thank you? sorry, i can’t read what it says.”

vernon’s mouth turns into an o as his cheeks heat up, and now you’re even more confused. 

“i um…” vernon says quietly before he blurts the rest of his sentence out. “i’m asking you on a date.” 

your jaw drops open as he continues and by now, you both are a deeper shade of pink than the walls surrounding you.

“i’ve actually liked you for a while now.” vernon continues nervously with a chuckle, rubbing the nape of his neck as he looks down at his sneakers. “that’s why i kept coming back here, even though i couldn’t afford to buy anything—i was here for you.”

“i really like you too, vernon.” he looks up and smiles nervously at you, and you can’t help but grin. “and i’m happy we both feel the same way.”

vernon pretends to wipe sweat from his forehead, saying, “phew, i’m glad that’s over with.”

he folds the top of the paper bag holding his cheesecake and bites back another grin. “so…wednesday at six? i’ll pick you up if you’re working from here, and we can watch shrek or something at my place, so you can sit comfortably.”

you grin, taking vernon’s hand in yours gently. “i would love that.”

a/n (again): thank you for reading! i hope you enjoyed and if you did, please tell me :D i would love to know <3 lots of love, moon.

[jeonghaniehaee]

this fic is so cute!!! i love the reason why he window shopped bro I need someone like him

[sailorsoons]

On the Clock | (c.hs)

PAIRING: Vernon x f. reader SUMMARY: Modern problems call for modern solutions, including naming a random stranger in the book store as your boyfriend to avoid an embarrassing encounter with your ex. The problem? The stranger is Vernon and he’s not supposed to be a stranger at all - he’s your coworker, and now everyone at the office - including your ex - thinks you’re dating.  WC: 20,296 AU: Faking dating, Coworkers to Lovers, Romcom GENRE: Smut, some fluff and crack RATING: 18+ Minors are strictly prohibited from engaging in and reading this content. It contains explicit content and any minors discovered reading or engaging with this work will be blocked immediately. WARNINGS: Reader has some insecurity about how her working hard is perceived, some ranting about Being A Girlboss, a little bit of inner angst, my bad attempts at humor, reader’s ex boyfriend SUCKS sorry to all the Minho’s of the world I named him after, explicit language, some minor commentary on power dynamics, Star Wars Lore, explicit sexual content including unprotected vaginal sex (never do this), oral (f. receiving), nipple play, vaginal fingering, multiple orgasms, a little bit of a handjob, some cum eating if you squint, Vernon was supposed to be a freak but I made him soft instead, mutual pining. A/N: Thank you to @camandemstudios for allowing me to be a part of the Lonely Hearts Collab. I’m honored to be among such amazing writers and I cannot wait to see what everyone else wrote.  A/N 2: Thank you to the (w)hor(e)anghae squad @daechwitatamic @eoieopda and @jihopesjoint for beta reading this and letting me blind pass it over so I wouldn’t have to read it again because I don’t like it :)  

MASTERLIST | PERMANENT TAG LIST | ASK | LONELY HEARTS CAFE COLLAB

WHOSOEVER SLAYETH CAIN SHALL SUFFER TENFOLD... OR WHATEVER IT IS THAT THE BIBLE SAYS. You haven’t slayed Cain and you’re not really sure you believe in anything in the Bible, but you’re certainly suffering sevenfold. Eightfold. Ninefold. 

Sevenfold had been earlier this morning when you dropped your glass of coffee on the ground, shattering your favorite cup and staining your white tile. Several Clorox wipes later, there is still brown stuck to the grout, looking a bit like you had an unseemly accident in the middle of your kitchen. 

Eightfold had been when you decided to fix your weekend by heading to the bookstore. Surely purchasing books that you were going to let sit on your shelf months before reading would fix your day - until someone rear-ended you in the parking lot, leaving a good dent and an apologetic exchanging of numbers and insurance information.

Ninefold comes when you least expect it, standing in the aisle with a stack of books in your hand, eyes flickering over the different titles and ornate covers. You already feel better than you had this morning. The smell of paper, the whisper of turning pages, and the hum of the cafe brewing coffee in the distance immediately puts you at ease. 

You swear nothing can put a damper on a good hour spent between shelves - until ninefold walks around the aisle corner. 

The stack of books in your arm nearly drops to the ground when you see your ex-boyfriend hand-in-hand with his new girlfriend. You wheel around so fast you slam into the person behind you, which does knock all the books from your hands onto the floor. 

A hissed curse leaves your lips followed by a quick apology. You drop to your knees, picking the books up as quickly as you can. The dude you’ve collided with has also dropped his books, the amalgamation of your soon-to-be-purchases making it more difficult for you to pick up your shit and leave the scene before Minho sees you. 

Minho says your name, surprised. 

“Fuck,” you whisper, fingers going rigid on the stack of books in your hand. You shoot to your feet and spin around, breathless as you come face to face with Minho and the new girlfriend that you definitely didn’t look up on social media a few weeks ago. “Hi, Minho.” 

“Wow, it’s nice to see you not in the marketing department for once.” 

“Well, I work there…” You offer a bit sharply, tapering to adjust to a nicer tone. “Hence, you know - finding me there.” 

“I meant you rarely leave there.” He laughs and you feign a grin, eyes flickering over to the rosy-cheeked and very glossy-haired girl on your ex’s arm.

Good for her, you think. I wonder what hair product she uses. 

“This is Mina.”

“Mina?” You ask, sticking your hand out as you shuffle your books awkwardly to the crook over your elbow. She smiles - god she has good teeth - and shakes your hand. “Mina and… Minho. Easy to remember.” 

“It’s nice to meet you. Minho tells me you’re the only ex he’s ever left things on good terms with.” 

Your eye twitches. 

Good terms was a serviceable way to put it, you suppose. Sure, there had been no fighting or infidelity or long distance that put a strain on your relationship. In fact, you hadn’t been aware that there was a strain on your relationship until Minho was sitting you down on his couch and letting you know that it just wasn’t working for him anymore. 

That had been confusing. You hadn’t asked any questions though, opting to sit and stare at him while clenching your teeth, nodding along while he explained that your inability to leave work at work and enjoy home while at home was wearing down on him. 

You’re not saving lives, he’d said. He had been earnest too, which is the crux of it. You’re in marketing. You need to take a breather. 

As if he didn’t come home in a bad mood after shitty sales calls all day, as if he wasn’t stressed when he didn’t hit quota, or didn’t complain about how long the department meeting went - you know. You were there, too. 

So sure, you were on good terms. But only one of you seemed to have been unhappy with where things were going, and only one of you seems to have moved on to someone with really good hair genes and great dental hygiene. 

Your tongue runs over your teeth, suddenly worried that you’d forgotten to brush them this morning. 

“Yeah,” you agree, clearing your throat and choking a bite. “Good terms are always the goodest - best way to end things.” 

“He’s really hopeful you’ll find someone,” she sighs, looking up at him dreamily. “He’s always wanted the best for you.” 

A vein bursts in your head. Well- no. You wish the vein you feel throbbing in your head would burst and knock you out so you’d no longer have to suffer through this ninefold moment of suffering. Perhaps, even, a very attractive medic with glossy hair and good teeth could come save you and fall in love at first sight. 

The genuine way that Minho and Mina look at you tells you that they’re serious, that they see you as something that deserves love too. Said in a cooing voice, said patronizingly, said with a pat on the head and a firm pout. 

You turn with your free hand, grabbing the sleeve of the man who is hovering behind you and pull him over to you, grin growing sevenfold. Eightfold. 

“No need to worry,” you assure them. “My boyfriend is right here! The stars really did align for me, just like you hoped and dreamed.”

Your seconds-old-star-crossed-lover looks entirely startled, looking between you, Minho and Mina. His books are cradled against his chest, his brown eyes wide. He’s actually incredibly cute, his glasses a little askewand his brown hair a little unruly. 

“You’re dating Vernon?” 

You look at Minho, blank. “What?” 

Minho looks at your Very Real Boyfriend. “You’re dating Vernon? From IT?” 

Ninefold, meet Tenfold. 

“Of course,” you answer slowly, looking at your partner of now thirty seconds. “I am dating Vernon… from IT.” 

Vernon (from IT) looks like he would rather be anywhere else than standing in the middle of the fantasy novel aisle with you at a bookstore, your nails digging tighter into his sleeve and your crazy eyes telling him to get with the program. 

Vernon (from IT) clears his throat and nods, looking over at Minho. “Yeah. Hey, Minho.” 

“Wow. This is really unexpected.”

“It sure is.”

Your nails dig in harder and Vernon (from IT) tries to pull away from you but you step closer, leaning toward him while flashing Minho and Mina a smile. “Anyway, no need to worry about me finding a relationship. I am very happy.” 

“Figures you found someone at work again.” He laughs, but the comment lands like a blow. You feel yourself flinch, smile going too tight. “You really don’t leave enough to find anyone else, huh?” 

Vernon (from IT) seems to notice, shifting toward you to slide his arm around your waist. The move startles you, drawing your attention to his face. He really is pretty this up close, his lips the perfect shade of bubblegum pink, his cheekbones high and hidden beneath the rim of his glasses, the tangy scent of citrus on his clothes. 

“I like women who work really hard,” Vernon (from IT) assures Minho. “I’ll never get tired of resetting her password over and over again because she loses all her sticky notes everytime the cleaning crew comes through.” 

If Minho senses the shift, he doesn’t let on. He’s never been great at social cues anyway, which is what makes him a decent salesman. Still, you’re eager to get out of their way and the glare of Mina’s shiny hair. 

“Well,” You state. “We have to get going.”

“For sure. It was nice seeing you outside of work!” 

With a final nod, Vernon (from IT) tugs on your waist. You both navigate awkwardly down the aisle, steps not quite in time and hips bumping. It’s uncomfortable and uncoordinated, but as soon as you’re around the aisle and away from your encounter, the two of you separate. 

Vernon (from IT) looks anywhere but you. His cheeks are tinted pink as he looks up at the ceiling, shifting from foot to foot while you regain all your books in your arm. Embarrassment and gratitude both well up inside of you, one beating the other out.

“I am really sorry,” you blurt, voice a little loud. The people around you startle and you lower your pitch when Vernon (from IT) looks at you, chewing on his lip. “Thank you - I don’t even know how to say thank you for doing that.”

“I didn’t have much of a choice.”

Your cheeks heat. “Right.”

“Happy to help, though. You can thank me by swapping books with me, though.”

“What?”

He gestures to your books. “I was standing behind you because you grabbed my books after you ran into me.” 

Oh. Right. You look down at the pile of books in your hand and see a few titles that you own, but did not plan on buying today. You divest yourself of his selections, taking the ones he’d collected off the ground from there. 

“So you really work in IT?”

He snorts. The sound is… a little off. You glance up at him, but his face gives away nothing. “Yeah.”

“I didn’t know.”

His smile is off, too. “I know.” 

You’re unsure how to reply to that, but you’re also uneager to let him go, suddenly. Vernon (from IT) stands there for a second, lips pressed in a firm line and studying you. He really is beautiful, the light hitting his eyes in a way that turns them molten gold and-

“Alright well,” he interrupts your thoughts. “See you later or something.” 

The urge to stop him strikes you, your mouth opening and closing. No words come out. You don’t know what to say - or why you want to stop him, just that you do. He walks toward the front of the store to purchase his books, leaving you standing in the middle of the store and wishing you’d met Vernon (from IT) under different circumstances. 

-

Routine is important to you, especially during the weekdays. Wake up, snooze your alarm for at least fifteen minutes, get up when the second one goes off. Groan as you feel every single joint in your body pop after sitting up in bed. Wonder if you really need a corporate job to pay your bills (decide the answer is yes), and get up to feed the furious beast yowling from the bed. 

The ferocious beast in question has a routine as well. Perhaps not as important as yours, the cat knows when he’s supposed to be fed and when it’s even a minute past feeding time. Halloween takes his meals very seriously, which you respect. 

Your morning continues with the monotonous rhythm you’ve learned to appreciate: make coffee, shuffle back to your room into the ensuite bathroom for skin care, start your morning proper. The only thing that isn’t the same thing every morning is your playlist and your outfit of choice, leading both items up to fate to decide. 

A hint of spring is in the air when you step outside. It’s that kind of sunny day with a cool breeze that promises longer days of sun ahead, despite still being brisk in the morning and biting when the sun sets. 

Mornings during the days that hang between winter and spring are your favorite. You roll the windows down a little on your drive to work, fingers drumming against the steering wheel as you crawl along with all the other commuters. 

Buildings shoot up toward the sky on either side of you. Dozens of banks, private firms, buildings with multiple different businesses and food courts become your entire world as you navigate to the parking garage. It’s already full of cars, but you get special parking.

Well - special as of your promotion just a few weeks ago. The designated parking spot and title bump was all that had come with the promotion, though, much to your dismay. 

Still. You’d worked for this particular publishing house in the marketing department for close to a decade now. You weren’t quite as far up the ladder as you wanted to be, but you were trying to get there little by little. 

So close. No cigar. 

The elevator of the parking garage opens to reveal other office workers already filling the mirror-walled space. You step in as everyone makes room, clutching their bags and briefcases a little closer. You see Mingyu from creative and flash him a polite grin, which is answered with a bright one of his own and a small wave.

When the people not associated with your company shuffle off on other floors, Mingyu slides over closer to you. He’s one of the many designers in the art department, and definitely several rungs below your position, but you started the company at the same time together.

“How was your weekend?” He asks, wagging his brows up and down. 

You frown. His questions suggests there’s something salacious to your wild weekend spent reading books with Halloween, but you don’t think burning the bagel you ate for girl dinner or staying in the same shirt for forty-eight hours straight is what he’s looking for. 

“It was fine?” It comes out as a question. “How was yours?” 

“Hm. It was good. We went out to catch the big game. Seokmin got so drunk he vomited, and Vernon won all of the bets we placed before.” 

Mingyu leans forward, looking at you like you’re supposed to understand something. You don’t get it, looking him up and down with a pinched brow. 

“That’s nice?” Again, it comes out as a question. “Not for Seokmin, I guess.” 

His eyes narrow. Pin you to your spot against the elevator wall.

Then the elevator dings, signalling that you’re at his floor. Creative is an entire level down from marketing, all dim lights and glowing screens for the designers hard at work. Mingyu gets off, still looking suspicious as the elevator doors close and you shoot up another floor. 

Instead of focusing on it, you shrug it off. Mingyu has a penchant for being weird - a creative thing, in your opinion. As soon as the elevator door opens, his behavior is long forgotten as you slip into work mode. 

Everyone greets you with a polite smile or small wave on the marketing floor. The main office is filled with grey-walled cubicles, employees popping up to peer over walls with mugs of coffee and protein shakes and breakfast items as they ask their neighbors how the weekend was. 

A glass wall in the far back denotes the executive and director offices. You head for the one in the back, right corner. Instead of turning on your lights, you let the natural lighting from the floor-to-ceiling windows filter in, keeping the ambiance muted and relaxing. The only additional lights you flick on are the monitor light at your desk and a small salt lamp wedged between the books on one of the many shelves behind you. 

Your office is still slowly being decorated. You’d only moved in after your recent promotion, and it’s still bare of personalization, save for the salt lamp and a few things you’d moved in from your cubicle. 

And the coffee machine - your own private, blessed coffee machine in the corner on a small bar cart. That might be your favorite thing about your office. You like your coworkers - for the most part, anyway - but being able to bury yourself in your work without having to interact with all of them every time you want coffee is nice. 

Sitting down, you roll your shoulders. When your monitor flashes to life, you see the number of emails in your inbox and try not to groan out loud. You’re thrilled to be the new Senior Director of Marketing, but you’ve gone and made the mistake of becoming too important at work, most things unable to move forward without you playing some part in it.

In theory, that was one of the reasons Minho had broken up with you in the first place. Too buried in work, too many late nights at the office, too many dates or movie nights interrupted by the blue glow of your phone screen on your face while you answer urgent emails. 

The thing is - you don’t mind. It doesn’t bother you to pause and send a quick email, or to stay late and help get something launched. You like the intricacies of being a problem solver, and with as fast as your company is growing and publishing new titles, you’ve got challenge after challenge ahead of you. 

It’s easy to fall into the monotony of answering emails, joining virtual meetings and striking your pen through your to-do list. It fills three pages, but it feels good to cross something off, even if you’ve only completed two things. 

By lunchtime, someone is knocking on your window. You look up, surprised to see Seungkwan sticking his head in. He’s the Manager of Digital Marketing and Social Media and he’s dubbed himself as your assistant. 

Other duties as assigned, he always jokes, but you are thankful for him. 

“You have to eat,” he reminds you in a singsong voice, crossing his arms over his chest. His glasses are pushed up into his blonde hair. “Maybe you can take me to lunch and divulge every detail about your new romance.” 

That makes you sputter. “My what?” 

Looking like the cat that ate the canary, Seungkwan slips into your office, clapping his hands together. He sits on the edge of the couch in front of your desk, bounding with energy. 

“Come on,” he whispers, looking at you earnestly. “Everyone knows - you don’t have to keep it a secret anymore!”

“Keep what a secret?” 

He rolls his eyes. “You’re dating Vernon!”

You stare. “Who?” 

“Vernon! From IT!” 

It comes back in tunnel vision. Ninefold meeting tenfold, Minho and Glossy Hair Mina, Vernon (from IT). Suddenly you’re hot all over, feel it creeping up your neck and blooming across your cheeks. You clear your throat, leaning back in your chair as your fingers reach for your water. 

“I’m - oh!” You escape answering for a second by gulping down copious amounts of water, trying to cool the panic that is licking flames up your skin. “Right. Vernon… from IT.” 

“Honestly, he’s cute.”

“Ha. Ha. Yes. Um. Yeah.”

“You’re so cute when you’re flustered. How long have you been dating?”

“Uhh very new. Yes. Super new. I’m sorry - how did you hear about this?” 

“Mingyu told me, but Soonyoung told him and Joshua in sales told Soonyoung because Minho told the Always Closing group chat.” 

“The what?”

He sighs. “Ugh, do you keep up with anything? The sales floor has a group chat. It’s where Soonyoung gets all his tea because he and Joshua room together.” 

“Who the fuck is Joshua?” 

Seungkwan stares. “It is a wonder you even know who Vernon is. I swear you don’t know people you’ve worked with for years.” A thought seems to strike him and he gasps. “Oh my god is that why you’re always going to him for your fucked up passwords?” 

Something Vernon said comes back to you vaguely. Something about forgotten passwords when the cleaning crew throws out your sticky notes. Of course, no one would throw out your sticky notes if you weren’t dropping them all over the floor, but that’s neither here nor there. 

Bolting from your seat, you startle Seungkwan, whose brows disappear in his hairline as he stares up at you.

“Actually, I can’t do lunch today.”

He sighs. “Boss, you have to eat.”

“I am! I am going to lunch with my…. Vernon from IT.”

“Oooo.” He leans back, shaking his head and grinning at you. “Go on then. Make sure you wrap it before-”

“If you finish that sentence I will revoke your privilege to my coffee cart.” 

Seungkwan’s grin only gets wider. “Enjoy, boss.” 

In a flurry, you leave your office. Eyes follow you as you go and suddenly you’re unsure if people are looking at you because you’re walking so fast that you’re almost running, or if it’s because they think you’re dating Vernon). 

Your finger nearly breaks as you slam the button over and over again to shoot a few floors down. It doesn’t make the elevator go any faster. When the doors finally close and you begin to descend, you turn to the mirror walls and panic, tucking stray pieces of hair back into place and trying to fix the mascara smudges from staring at your screen for four straight hours.

A knot forms in your stomach. You press your damp palms against your dress pants, wiping viciously to try and keep the moisture at bay. When the elevator dings and the doors open to the silent hum of the IT department, you think you might vomit.

Unlike the marketing floor, no heads turn as you go. You try to maintain a normal pace this time, marching down the rows of cubicles before you realize you have no idea where Vernon sits. You pause awkwardly, standing on your tiptoes to try and see over the walls of cubicles to spot him.

“Can I help you?” A man sticks his head out of his cubicle, his headphones around his neck. He looks you up and down critically. “You’ll have to have proof of submitting a ticket before-”

“Vernon,” you interrupt him. “Vernon from IT? Where does he sit?” 

For a second, the guy narrows his eyes. Then a lightbulb seems to go off and he grins, leaning back in his chair. He looks far too pleased with himself, and there’s something oily and slick you don’t like about his gaze. “You’re her.” 

“I’m a senior director, yes.” 

That changes his tune immediately. He sits up, clearing his throat. “To the back on the left.” 

“Thanks.”

Following his lead, you pass by several empty cubicles, everyone seemingly at lunch. You take the corner as instructed and find a handful of men sitting in the same cubicle, one sitting atop a desk and swinging his legs, another leaning against the cubicle wall, and the last one sitting in the seat.

The one sitting in the seat is the quarry you seek, his eyes going wide when he sees you storming toward him. He goes rigid in his seat, clearing his throat and slapping the leg of the man sitting atop his desk. He kicks at Vernon before spotting you and immediately jumping down, straightening his shirt. 

Nervous energy crackles as all three sets of eyes settle on you. You stop right in front of his cubicle, trying to put on your bravest smile. 

“Hi?” Vernon asks, looking at the two men on either side of him. “Did you forget your password again?”

“What? No. I don’t do it that often.” He looks unsure, brows raised behind his glasses. You huff, putting  your hands on your hips. “Okay, I forget it sometimes. But no, that isn’t why I’m here.”

“Does your software need updating?”

“No, I-”

“Oh. I did forget to give Seungkwan that new phone he asked for on behalf of the social team. It came in last week - I’ll finish setting it up and-”

“Lunch!” You all but yell, startling all three men. “I came here for lunch.”

There’s a long pause. Vernon’s coworkers look like they’d rather be anywhere else than trapped by you. You ignore them in favor of a quick study of Vernon. He’s in dress pants and a button down shirt that is untucked and a little wrinkled. It’s a far cry from the casual way he was dressed at the bookstore, but it’s still not totally work appropriate. 

Still he pulls it off. There’s something casual and cool about it, aloof in a way that still looks good. His hair is even styled neatly, though a brown lock falls over his eyebrow as he leans forward and asks, “Lunch? The cafeteria is on the first floor.”

The man who had been sitting on his desk kicks him. “She’s asking you to go to lunch, dude.” 

“She’s not-” Vernon pauses and looks at you. “Are you asking me to go to lunch?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

Your patience narrows to a tight smile, your words pinched between your teeth, “Because that’s what loving girlfriends do, sweetie.” 

The words land and have an immediate effect. Vernon flushes from the neck up, mouth opening and closing as he presses his palms against his thigh. The man who kicked him snickers and tries to hide it with a thinly veiled cough.

Your gaze narrows and he notices you watching, clearing his throat to stretch his hand toward you. “I’m Chan. It’s nice to meet… Vernon’s girlfriend?” 

You shake his head and say nothing, eyes drifting to the man leaning against the wall. He gives you a small salute. “Seokmin.”

“Oh.” You blink. “The puker?” 

His charming smile drops immediately as he looks at Vernon, smacking him on the shoulder. “You told her about that?”

“I didn’t tell her anything.” Vernon stands, shrugging away from both of his friends’ wandering eyes. “Sure, sweetie,” he answers you, giving you a plastic grin. “It’s your treat this week, right? At that very nice, very expensive steakhouse down the block.”

There’s a glimmer in his eyes that tells you Vernon will only play along if it’s by his rules. You’re at a disadvantage, so you grin and nod, willing to go by his rules for now. “That’s so right, darling. Let’s go.”

“Enjoy lunch!” Chan calls behind you as Vernon shuffles behind you, quickly trying to tuck his shirt. “Don’t do anything I-”

“Don’t finish that sentence,” Vernon warns, quickening his step to match yours. “Sorry about him.” 

“Don’t worry, I’ve got my own version of him sitting in my office.” 

The elevator ride down to the first floor and the walk out onto the busy street is silent. It’s not the comfortable, easy silence you might have with Seungkwan or Mingyu - if Mingyu could wrap his head around silence. It's awkwardly silent, both of you looking anywhere but one another. 

You don’t know where you’re going, but Vernon leads you to a Michelin steakhouse down the block, true to his word. You glare at him when you step into the dark entryway where a host with hair as glossy as Mina’s greets you. 

“Two?” You both nod and she grins. “Right this way.”

Vernon follows her first, shuffling behind her as she leads the two of you into the dining room proper. It’s a beautiful establishment with lacquered floors, rich wooden tables draped with fine tablecloths and the kind of glassware that looks like real crystal. 

When you both sit down with menus in hand, the hostess leaves you and you lean forward, hissing, “How much money do you think I make?”

“More than I do in IT,” Vernon answers breezily, eyes roving the menu. For a second, his gaze flickers to meet yours over the top of the menu. It’s the first time he’s really looked at you since you marched into his office. “Consider it an apology meal for the mess you’ve got us in.”

“Hey! You played along?” 

“You’re right, I guess I could have just super embarrassed you in front of your ex-boyfriend. That would have been very polite of me.” 

That stumps you. You open and close your mouth, feeling a bit like a fish. You suppose that’s fair - what was Vernon supposed to do when you’d grabbed him in the middle of a bookstore and staked your claim? 

Sighing, you lean back as your server gives you a moment of respite, filling your glasses with water and going over the specials. When they leave, you grab your glass and take several gulps of water, trying to cool your head. 

It only works a little.

“I didn’t know Minho was going to tell the entire world.” 

“Really? Minho has the biggest mouth at this company. You should see his Teams messages.”

“You can do that?” 

“On the clock?” He asks. When you shake your head, assuring it stays between you, he nods. “Yeah, we can see everything you do.”  

“Oh.” You think of all the terrible things you’ve searched on your work computer like how to get over a breakup and how to tell if my ex still likes me. “Anyway, I didn’t know he was going to say anything.” 

The server returns to take your orders. You order some sort of steak salad at random while Vernon orders something blessedly modest. As the server parts ways, Vernon leans back in his chair and looks at you again, expression unreadable. 

“Well,” he eventually says. “No harm done once you tell everyone we’re not dating.”

“Once I what?” 

“Well you’ll have to-”

“No way.”

“What?” 

“Do you know how embarrassing that would be?” 

He raises a brow. “More embarrassing than grabbing some dude in the bookstore and claiming he’s your boyfriend.” 

The air leaves your lungs and you melt into the seat, your misery showing. “I already said sorry.” 

“There’s nothing to be embarrassed about. Just tell everyone you broke up with me.” 

You snort. “No one would believe that.” 

“Why?” 

Instead of answering him immediately, you busy yourself unraveling silverware. It’s a hard question to answer, not because you don’t know the answer but because you don’t want to tell him. Vernon is quiet, though. Patient. 

He doesn’t press you for an answer, happy to wait you out until you’ve folded your napkin and placed it on your lap, and once again drained the rest of your water. It does nothing for your nerves as you fixate on a spot atop the table. 

“I don’t… date.” 

“You dated Minho.”

“Yeah. That’s uh… it. It’s kind of a running joke that I am undateable.”

He frowns at that. “Respectfully, I find that incredibly hard to believe.” 

“Thanks. I think.” You pick at a string in the tablecloth. “Anyway, no one would buy that I ended the first relationship I’ve had since Minho. I didn’t even end the last one and sort of clung to it in a way that was sort of embarrassing.” 

“I see.”

You’re unsure if he really does. When Minho had broken up with you, you’d attempt to make arguments to keep him around. Offered less work hours, even said you’d go to therapy to talk about your insane need for success. He hadn’t wanted any of it, and you’d eventually realized that he just… didn’t want you. 

They never did, when people realized what dating you entails. Everyone wants a woman who works hard. They like the illusion of it, the woman who gets up early in the morning and goes to workout before going to her corporate job and girl bossing all day long. They desire the woman who dresses fashionably, who wears designer tags and commands a room all day before coming home to make an effortless dinner followed by a luxurious night routine. 

And you get it. You want to be that too. But the truth is most days you wake up past your alarm and rush to the office wearing shoes that don’t match, and sometimes you come home so late and burned out from your job that you eat a handful of shredded cheese over the sink with a stick of beef jerky, only to do it all again the next day.

That wasn’t what anyone wanted. At least, not in your experience. 

“Anyway,” you clear your throat. “You’re right, or whatever. I should just tell them I lied. I’ve given worse news. Just you know - less personal.” 

For a few minutes, Vernon is quiet. You don’t look up to meet his gaze. Instead you watch the ice cubes in your glass melt, little beads of condensation zigzagging down the curve of your glass. 

A sigh makes you look up at Vernon. “What if we dated for like a month or something?” 

“What?”

“I don’t mean really date,” he offers quickly, sensing your surprise. For some reason, that stings a little. You swallow it down past the knot forming in your throat. “It’ll get people off your back or whatever and we can just mutually end things.” 

“Really? You’d do that.” 

He shrugs a shoulder. “I guess, yeah.”

“You can break up with me,” you promise eagerly, leaning forward with the new promise of a solution to your problem. “Everyone will believe it. Just say I work too much and I’m too obsessed with my career.” 

An uneasy gaze flickers in Vernon’s eyes. “It can be mutual,” he says firmly. “That way it ends nicely.”

“Fine. Everyone will think one thing anyway, you’ll get out without a scratch, trust me. Are you sure you’re willing to do this? I can… suck it up and tell everyone I made it up.”

“Do you really want to?” 

“No,” you admit.

“Then it’s settled.” He shrugs, heaving a heavy sigh. “I’ll give you a month and then we can mutually end things.” 

Sticking your hand over the table, you offer it for Vernon to shake. His mouth twitches a little as he smiles, leaning forward to take your hand. His is warm and softer than you imagined, enveloping yours firmly as he shakes. 

“Deal,” you smile, feeling a glimmer of hope. 

Just like that, Vernon (from IT) becomes Vernon (your boyfriend). 

Sort of.

-

Vernon doesn’t consider himself anxious. He’s never really dealt with anxiety, and there are only a few things that can make him nervous in the world. The few times he remembers being nervous were when he was in a bidding war for a limited edition Millenium Falcon model, in line at a meet-and-greet for his favorite band when he was sixteen, and when he lost his virginity to Carley Waters in his sophomore year of college. 

He’d won the bidding war and managed to not sound like an idiot meeting his idols, but he definitely came immediately after putting his dick inside Carley. Two out of three were pretty good odds, all things considered. 

Vernon is more nervous than all three of those events combined as he checks himself in the mirror for the millionth time. Usually, he doesn’t really think twice about what he wears to the bar on the weekend. He has fifteen of the same shirt in the same colors, and his jeans all look the same, even though he thinks they’re different. 

Now, though, he has the added element of you. He cannot recall a single time that you’ve ever agreed to go out with your work friends - and to your surprise, not his, you do have the same work friends - but tonight is different. 

Tonight, you’re supposed to be dating. 

It’s weird. Chan and Seokmin agree it’s weird. He keeps no secrets from them and had already told them about the encounter at the bookstore. They’ve sworn themselves to secrecy, though Vernon cannot fathom how they just go with it. 

She’s really hot, Chan had said after a few sips of beer. Fuck it, right? 

She’s the third most executive person in marketing, Seokmin warned. Be careful. 

Both are true. Vernon had acknowledged Chan’s point the first time he’d seen you in Information Technology a little over two years ago. You’d been dating Minho then and entirely untouchable - still are, kind of - and Vernon had been the only person at the office early enough to help you out. He’d been new then, and often came in the earliest to get started on the overload of tasks he was always given as the junior employee. 

Even then, Vernon thought you were the most beautiful person he’d ever seen. Sure, you had on mismatched shoes and there was a breathy chaos to you that would probably stress most people out, but he sort of liked it. Thought that it was different in a good way, and spoke to the sort of person who worked really hard and didn’t fake their way through the day. 

Vernon had realized Seokmin's point right after he’d learned Chan’s. As soon as he helped you login to your computer, he’d realized you were a Senior Manager of Marketing. Not a huge title in a company so big, but high enough that Vernon thought twice about his attraction to you. 

Now, both of their points are moot. You’re still attractive but that doesn’t really change the situation - makes it harder, even. Vernon had never really dreamed of an actual relationship with you and now that he’s found himself in a fake one, he’s not really sure what to do with the acknowledgement that he’s attracted to you. 

Worse is that he doesn’t actually know if he’s allowed to date you. Vernon is a senior coordinator in the IT department and you’re a senior director. Perhaps not in his department or directly overseeing him, but it’s a high enough position that Sekomin is right - it could mean trouble if this goes poorly. 

So why the fuck did he offer to fake date you for a month? 

As someone in Information Technology, most people think Vernon is smart. He doesn’t consider himself to be above average intelligence, and as he slides his sneakers on his feet to go pick you up for a night out, he thinks everyone is wrong about him - he’s fucking stupid.

Looking in the mirror one more time, Vernon decides it’s as good as it’s ever going to get. Jeans, a black shirt and a hat facing backward is all he really knows how to style. He shoves his keys in his pocket, a tiny vial of contact solution just in case, and grabs his phone as he heads out the door. 

Your apartment complex isn’t that far from his. He finds it with ease, surprised that you don’t live in one of those high-rise apartments that all the other executives live in. The apartment is pretty modest with only three floors and rows of respectable Toyota Camrys and Honda Civics. 

When he spots you coming down the stairs, his traitorous heart does that same little staccato it had last weekend when he saw you at the bookstore. He hadn’t expected to run into you outside of work and only panicked for a split second before he realized that you didn’t recognize him. 

And then you’d called him your boyfriend. 

Recovering from the memory of it, Vernon stares as you open the door to his car, flashing a tight smile as you slide in. He doesn’t know what he thought you might wear on the weekend, but he’s surprised to see you in jeans, a black form-fitted shirt tucked in, and a simple purse on your arm. 

“What?” You ask, a little breathless. He sees the sticky shine of lipgloss on your mouth and squeezes the wheel, fighting the urge to lean over and taste it. 

Insane, he thinks as he puts the car in gear. He’s gone insane. 

“Nothing. I guess I just thought you’d live somewhere nicer.” 

“Oh.”

Your shift in tone makes him realize how it sounded. “Sorry - not like that. I thought it would be somewhere really fancy. You’re a senior director and all that.” 

“I only got promoted a few weeks ago. And it was not a pay raise, trust me.” 

“Seriously?” You glance sidelong at him, pausing like you’ve said something you shouldn’t. His lips twitch and he says, “Not on the clock.”

That gets you to grin, leaning back into the passenger seat. “Only came with an office and title bump. I was already doing all the work of a senior director so they felt like they needed to bump my title to protect themselves, I think.”

“That’s kind of shitty.”

You hum. “Is it like that in IT?” 

“I think it’s like that anywhere.”

“Good point.” 

A comfortable silence falls over the car. It’s not at all like the awkward, stilted lunch the two of you had at the beginning of the week. He had been sweating through his shirt that time around, though you didn’t seem to notice. He’d been a little angry with you too, for getting the both of you into this mess. 

But… it had been his idea to help you save face. He didn’t have to. He didn’t owe you anything, and he believes you when you say you would come clean and admit you lied through your teeth. Maybe that’s why he offered to help anyway, your willingness to swallow the pain of embarrassment to relieve him of the facade. 

Library is a hole in the wall bar that Vernon and his friends from work like to go to on Saturday nights. It’s sort of a funny joke, a bunch of professionals from the publishing industry getting drunk and eating shitty bar food in a place named for the very buildings they dedicate their life to, in a weird, roundabout, mathematical way. 

Vernon has friends outside of work that come too, but tonight it’s just the usual crowd: Chan, Seokmin and Seokmin’s girlfriend, Mingyu and Soonyoung from creative, and some of the people from the sales team. The sales team is only there by virtue of Joshua, who is the only person from sales Vernon remotely tolerates. 

Vernon isn’t exactly sure what a sales team does at a publishing company anyway. 

When Vernon parks, he sees you take a deep breath. He averts his eyes, feeling like he’s intruding on a moment before you brace yourself and get out of the car suddenly. He makes a noise and panics to follow you. You’re already plunging ahead like you’re storming into battle, and perhaps in your mind you are.

He jogs to catch up. “Wait!” 

You stop, turning to face him with a dubious expression. “What?”

“We should walk in together.”

“Oh.” You blink. It’s a bit cute but Vernon shoves that down. “You’re right. Sorry. I sort of… set my mind to the task and forgot.”

“You can’t approach this like you approach work.”

“I can’t?”

He laughs. “No. Relationships aren’t jobs - so a fake one isn’t either. You have to try and appear like this is natural. If you come in all to-do list and checkmarking the boxes, it’s going to look weird.” 

“Oh.” 

The confidence you had a second before deflates. He feels a little guilty, reaching out to take your hand before he realizes what he’s doing. Your hands are cold in his but he doesn’t mind, wrapping his fingers in yours as you stare at him like he’s grown three heads.

Maybe he has. 

“We should walk in together. Maybe holding hands.” 

“Right.” You lick your lips and he tries to give you a smile more confident than what he’s feeling. His heart is hammering in his chest, both at the way your hand squeezes his nervously and at the preposterousness of it all. “You’re kind of good at this.” 

“I just have a different perspective.”

“The perspective of someone who knows how to date versus… whatever I am.” 

He hears the joke in your tone so he lets himself laugh a little. He starts walking, tugging you next to him. “Not exactly. I just watch a lot of movies, including romances.” 

“Really? What’s your favorite one?” 

“Uhhh.” He thinks about it as you both approach the door. He doesn’t answer for a second while he flashes the security outside his ID. “I really like The Proposal. With Sandra Bullock.” 

Instead the bar is filled with modern music at a reasonable level and small, wooden tables with chipped tops. There is nothing about the bar that actually looks like a library, save the single shelf shoved in the corner with beat up comic books and an insane amount of hentai that Soonyoung put there. 

“You mean the one where the boss fake dates her employee… and they work at a publishing company?” 

As soon as you ask the question, Vernon realizes the irony. He looks at you with a wide gaze, pausing at the entrance to look at you. Your mouth folds on itself, trying not to laugh as you too realize the irony of the movie. 

“Yeah, so that’s weird I guess,” he admits. He tugs on your hand. “Come on, we always sit in the back.”

You follow him wordlessly. The crowd isn’t big inside, but there are enough people that you have to shuffle a little closer to him. He catches the scent of your perfume - it smells like sweet tobacco and vanilla, something that is subtle with a little bit of spice. 

Turning around the corner of the bar, you see a wall entirely taken by booths with pool tables in the open space. Mingyu and Seokmin’s girlfriend are already fighting over the felted green as she points a pool cue at him, threatening. Seokmin is lounging in one of the booths, watching on with a dopey grin that makes Vernon roll his eyes.

Everyone else sits in in a variety of booths, an entire corner dedicated to the dozen or so of them who have made this their home for the last two years. Vernon keeps you close, feeling his hands go clammy when all the eyes turn to the two of you. Despite the rumor having spread far and wide, it’s clear that surprise ripples through the crowd at seeing evidence of your relationship. 

The fake one, that is. Naturally. 

Instead of going directly to the safety - or danger, in this case - of his friends, Vernon heads to the bar. He needs to take the edge off immediately, though he knows he can’t get too crazy. The drive home is short, but even if you weren’t in his car for the evening, he doesn’t like to tempt fate. 

Next to him at the bartop, you drop his hand to press your palms against the sticky wood. You make a face and he laughs before ordering a simple rum and coke. You order the same but with a lime and the bartender flashes you a charming grin.

Vernon glances at you and realizes you don’t even register the bartender. You’re chewing your lip and fidgeting, pulling at the sleeves of your shirt and shifting from foot-to-foot. A pang goes through him. 

“Relax.” You look up at him, eyes wide. “We’re going to do fine.”

“What if I fuck it up?” You ask, voice barely audible as you lean in. “They’re going to see right through me, Vernon from IT. They’re going to have one conversation with us and be like ‘no way is he dating that lunatic.’” 

“For starters, you’re not a lunatic.” You give him a look and he amends, “Not in the way that’s bad, anyway.”

“How do you know? We barely know each other.” 

You’ve got him there. The bartender comes back with your drinks and you take yours, draining half of it before remembering the lime. He watches you squeeze it into the drink while he contemplates his answer. 

“I guess I just have a feeling for these things. You don’t seem very crazy to me.”

“Thanks.” 

“And I guess I’m getting to know you, so there’s that.” 

You sigh. “Right.” 

“You’ll do fine. But maybe don’t call me Vernon from IT.”

“Right.” 

“Come on.” 

With wavering confidence, you follow Vernon over to the crowd from work. Everyone greets you warmly, though a little unsure. He notes the comments about being shocked to see you outside the four walls of your office, a joke you take in stride. 

It’s clear you don’t know how to interact with everyone at first. It’s not to say that you’re stiff or awkward, but Vernon can see the rigid set in your shoulders and the way your eyes follow the conversation but don’t actually contribute. 

You have an effect on others as well. For those who are a little more unfamiliar with you, they can’t seem to puzzle out why one of the higher ups is here guzzling down rum and cokes. And you are guzzling them down, carving a path to and from the bar at a rate that impresses Vernon. 

“How are things going?” Chan slips into the seat you just vacated to march to the bar again. “She seems surprisingly normal.”

“Why is that surprising?” 

Chan gives him a look. “She’s a suit.”

“I don’t think so,” Vernon laughs. “Trust me on that.” 

Chan hums unconvinced, watching you at the bar. “She’s nice, at least.”

“Very.” 

“Don’t fall in love with her or anything.”

“Weird thing to say, man.”

“Yeah, well. She’s attractive, nice, and no offense, a little weird. She’s exactly your type.” 

That makes him frown. “What’s weird about her? Also, would that be so bad?”

“She knew the radius of the sun and the verbatim definition of parsecs. I’m not answering that second question because I shouldn’t have to.” Chan claps him on the shoulder, looking over Vernon’s head. “She’s coming back, but seriously. Be careful.” 

Chan scoots away, flashing Vernon a look that makes the single drink Vernon has had sour in his stomach. Then you’re there, sitting down next to him, swaying a little bit. He smells sweet tobacco and vanilla, his eyelids fluttering for a second as you shift a little too close - or what would be too close, if you weren’t fake dating. 

“What’s that look on your face?” You ask, sipping your drink. He wonders if it’s appropriate to ask if you need water.

“What look on my face?” 

“You know, like-” You try to pinch your brows together and your mouth puckers downward. He feels himself smile and he shakes his head. “Sort of frowny.” 

“Nothing.” You look at him skeptically. “Hey, I have a question.” 

You pause, looking a little panicked. “Okay.”

“What’s the radius of the sun?” 

“Oh!” You visibly brighten and it’s like watching the sun spill over the lip of the horizon, all gold and liquid, warm and bright. “432,690 miles. Surface temperature is about 5,772 Kelvin.” 

Suddenly, Chan’s warning feels very, very real. Vernon tries to hide his smile, looking down at the table. Meanwhile, you start rattling off facts about the sun, not taking a single breath as you explain you memorized them from when you were working on the marketing for a line of textbooks about space early on in your career. 

Vernon lets you talk. Lets you somehow divert back to work, watching as you animatedly walk him through the process of what you do. How you think. It’s fascinating, and he’s not really sure how anyone else could find it tiresome, seeing the way you light up when you tell him about a project that Seungkwan’s team killed it on. 

Your pride is palpable, your energy shifting from unsure to confident. 

Suddenly, you pause, leveling Vernon with a hard stare. He says nothing, watching the way you drink him in, something beneath the surface of your gaze he can’t quite read. “Can I say something?” 

“On the clock?” he asks, grinning. You shake your head and he gestures for you to continue. 

“You have pretty eyes. I still like when you wear glasses, though. They suit you.” 

Yeah. Vernon thinks Chan’s warning is very real. 

-

Running in heels is hard. You don’t know how anyone manages to do it in movies. Not that you think anything that happens in movies is real, but you can’t imagine how they make it work for the scene. You nearly break your ankle three times on your sprint to IT and you’re sure you scare the daylights out of Chan when you come tearing around the corner.

You shout a greeting over your shoulder but don’t stop until you’re hissing Vernon’s name while rushing into his cube. He flinches, turning around to look at you mid-task. You’re heaving, putting a hand on your hip as you straighten, trying to suck down air. 

“Say no!”

He’s visibly confused. “To what?”

“Just say no!”

Before Vernon can ask you another thing, you hear Minho’s voice. Your heart thunders in your ribcage as you try to lean against the wall of Vernon’s cube, nearly missing it. You stumble a few steps and he catches you by the elbow, lightning quick as he helps steady you. 

When he drops his grip, the place where Vernon had held you moments before is warm. You try not to think about it, heart thundering doubletime as you watch Minho approach, a lazy swing to his step and a smirk on his face. 

“Funny I found you here!” 

“Why would that be funny? My Vernon - my boyfriend is down here.” 

From the corner of his eye, you see Vernon wince. You’re not doing a great job at keeping it casual, but you’re also still out of breath from sprinting down the stairs to beat Minho here and warn Vernon. Seungkwan had barely been able to give you the heads up that Minho was going to ask for a double date, and you simply couldn’t have that.

Even as you near the end of your second week dating - fake dating - Vernon, you’re unsure the two of you can get through a date with someone who actually knows you. Vernon might be able to give some details on the surface, but you dated Minho for a year - how could Vernon ever hope to keep up? 

Minho leans against Chan’s cube. Luckily it’s vacant of its usual occupant - Chan hates Mihno, as you’ve recently learned through a lunch with him and Vernon. 

“Glad I caught you together, then,” Minho says, though you think he’s not that glad. But what do you know? “I wanted to see if you were busy on-”

“Yes.” You flash him a too-wide grin with too many teeth. 

“I didn’t even give you the date.”

“We’re always very busy.”

“Ah.” Minho scratches the back of his neck and gives Vernon a look akin to sympathy. “Never has time, does she? Always all work, no play. I wanted to see if you guys wanted to go to dinner with Mina and I tomorrow night, but…” He shrugs. “Same old.”

You try not to let your exterior crack, but Minho’s words cut right through your outer shell to the softness of you. Without fail he manages to highlight this obsession you have with work, making it sound worse every single time. 

Behind you, Vernon shifts closer. You become acutely aware of him suddenly, warmth radiating from him as his chest presses against the back of your arm and his hand slips to the middle of your back, featherlight, like he’s afraid to touch you. He smells like ocean driftwood and salt, something that makes you think of warmer days. Fresh fruit. Cold water. 

Fighting a shiver, you freeze up, hyper aware of him. 

“Oh, I don’t know,” Vernon says gently. “She doesn’t work that much. She makes plenty of time for me.”

Minho’s eye twitches, the only sign he’s annoyed. As a trained salesperson, his tells are always subtle, nearly undetectable. But you know him inside and out, can see the sliver of annoyance there.

Satisfaction rules supreme, a smile tugging at your lips until Vernon adds, “We can make time for them, right?” 

You snap your head to the side, eyes meeting his. Vernon has beautiful eyes. You’d said as much the other night when you had a little too much to drink, staring up at him without his glasses. He looks good without them, but you like the way the frames sit on his nose, the way they reflect light against the liquid brown of his iris. 

Now, those eyes are staring back at you straight on. There’s something fierce in them, and though you barely know him, you have a sneaking suspicion Vernon is annoyed. Not with you but with Minho. 

Still… 

“Are you sure?” 

Your question is gentle. For a moment, you forget Minho is there at all. You’re looking at Vernon, trying to puzzle out why he would say yes to something insane again. It was lucky enough he’d offered to participate in this little charade to save your pride, and now here he is doing it again, unprompted. 

Vernon’s mouth twitches. He nods, hand pressing into your back a little firmer before he drops it away. You turn to Minho, who watches the two of you with a peculiar expression. “Alright,” you tell him. “It’s a date.” 

“Great. I’ll send you the details.” 

When Minho leaves, you turn to Vernon, the question on the tip of your tongue. He doesn’t give you a chance, shooting you a sidelong glance as he says, “Why is he always bringing up your work schedule?” 

You wince. Vernon either doesn’t notice or is nice enough not to say anything. Instead of answering right away, you sit on top of Vernon’s desk, feet dangling a little. He makes room for you, turning his chair to face you and give you his full attention. 

He’s dressed the same as always today, but you notice his shirt is ironed and tucked in neatly. Rubbing his brow, he slides his glasses up on his head, pressing his fingers along his eye sockets like they’re strained. 

“What kind of stuff do you do?” You ask instead of answering his question. You gesture to his multiple computer screens. “Besides help me figure out my passwords.” 

“Lots of stuff. It’s mostly small things like remoting into people’s computers to help them solve their issues. I spend a majority of my day showing people how to unmute themselves on their virtual meeting software.” 

“Do you like it?”

He shrugs. “It’s got a rhythm to it that I like. I like having a to-do list every day and I can pretty much always know what to expect.” 

“That does sound nice. And you can spy on everyone’s messages right?”

He raises his brow. “On the clock?” That makes you smile and you shake your head. “I could, but I don’t. There are a ton of people who forget us and HR can see all their shit, though.” 

“Ooo like what?” 

He sucks in air through his teeth, “Man, I don’t think I can tell you.”

You can tell he’s teasing and you scoff, kicking out with your foot toward his knee. He dodges you easily with a playful grin. “Come on!” 

“I’ll tell you off the clock. Real off the clock.” 

“Fine. Speaking of - are you busy tonight?” He raises his brows in question. “We should probably meet up and try to flesh out some details of our uh… relationship. I know some things about you but not a lot. Like, when is your birthday?”

“February 18.” 

You slap your hand on top of his desk. “Vernon! That’s super soon! Are you doing anything for it?”

“Nah. I don’t ever want to make a fuss and it's close to Valentine’s Day so sometimes people are doing things retroactively.” 

You hum, displeased with the answer, but you file it away for later. “So are you free tonight?”

“Yeah.”

“Cool, you can come over to my place. Do you like pizza? You have to like pizza, right? You’re a boy.”

“A lot of boys like pizza, yes. Specifically me.” 

“Good. Seven?” 

“Seven.” 

-

A knock at the door makes you look up from your computer. It takes a second for your eyes to adjust, the light outside the office windows long fading with the setting sun and the only other source the salt lamp behind you and the burn of the safety lights in the main cubicles.

Vernon leans against the door frame, resting his head against it as he peers at you. For a second, you forget about everything except the way he looks leaned against the frame, his glasses perfectly perched on his nose and hair soft with wear from the day. 

Then, you lurch with realization, gasping and looking at your watch. “It’s seven.”

“It’s seven,” he agrees, laughing gently. 

You bolt from the seat, groaning and grabbing things to shove in your bag. In the process, you knock over a cup and a curse flies out your lips. He pushes off the door, walking over to help you tame the chaos. 

“Easy,” he admonishes. “All good here, don’t panic.”

“I’m really sorry. I got stuck working through this media plan that someone asked for and I completely lost track of time.”

“It’s okay.” 

The panic welling up inside you calms down as you look up at him. Vernon says nothing further, picking up your cup and righting the pens that you’ve knocked over. His movements are casual, straightening the things on your desk until he’s satisfied and steps away. 

You prepare for annoyance, for the same expression you’re used to when you’re late to an event or have missed a thing, when you’ve yet again lost track of time holed up in your office and yet… Vernon just gives you an easy smile and a shrug.

No annoyance. No judgment. Just… Vernon. 

Perhaps tenfold isn’t so bad. 

“It’s not pizza, but there's a tiny little bar a few blocks down that I really like. They serve food.” 

“Yeah?”

He nods and hesitates. “It’s… themed, though.”

“That’s okay. I like a theme.”

The theme in question isn’t so much of a theme as it is an entire franchise. You stand in the doorway of Cantina Far Away, mouth parted as you drink in the sights and sounds of the Star Wars themed bar. 

A circular bar sits in the middle of the small establishment. There isn’t a ton of room to recreate the iconic corner of the world where you were first introduced to Han Solo as a kid, but there’s just enough to make the magic work. 

Kegs and other apparatuses hang from the ceiling of the stone top bar. Lights track underneath the bar top and in the ceiling, giving the dim illusion that it’s permanently dusk inside. Small, round tables fill the main space, with three booths lined against the back wall. An R2-D2 replica stands beside C3-PO in the corner, and a familiar soundtrack plays through the sound system.

“If you want to go somewhere else-”

“Do they have blue milk?” 

Vernon pauses. “What?” 

You look up at him, grinning. “Do they have the blue milk?”

“They have something on their menu like that, yeah. I don’t know what it is.”

“I always wanted to drink the blue milk as a kid.”

“Alright.” He gestures to the bar, which is mostly empty. “Let’s get you blue milk.”

Popping up on a stool, you can’t help but crane your neck upward to look at the bar from this angle. It truly looks like every part of it was taken from the movie set. You run your hand atop the bar’s surface to realize it’s actually wood that looks like stone, marveling at the smoothness. 

Behind the bar, two bartenders move in sync, dressed in Jedi robes. When they approach, you both order the blue milk - you, because you demand to know what it tastes like, Vernon, in solidarity. 

Vibrating with excitement, you turn to look at Vernon. “When I was a kid, watching Star Wars was one of the few things my mom and I got to do together.” 

“One of the few things?”

You nod, clapping your hands excitedly when the bartender brings you whatever concoction the blue milk is. It comes in a tall glass and is clear, baby blue and frothy at the top. Leaning over, you take a whiff. It smells vaguely coconutty and you narrow your eyes, leaning forward to take a tentative sip.

Coconut rum hits your tongue and you cringe. Vernon does too, making a face and sticking his tongue out as he immediately shoves the drink away from him. You laugh, not even caring that you hate it. It tastes nothing like you expected and you don’t really like coconut, but it strikes a nostalgic chord. 

“My mom was a single parent and worked really hard at a law firm,” you eventually answer, taking another sip and cringing. Vernon orders something more generic - a rum and coke for you both. “But she always made time on the weekend if I really wanted to do a Star Wars marathon and she took off work for all the prequel releases to take me.”

“That’s cute. My mom was really into it too. Want to know a secret?”

“Yes.”

“My first name is Hansol. A little inspired by Han Solo. I prefer to go by Vernon with everyone who isn’t my family, though.”

That makes you smile. “I like it, though. Your mom has good taste like mine. Think they’d be friends?”

He blushes. “Maybe.” 

You realize how forward of a question it is. You avert your gaze to your blue drink, sipping it and grimacing. Vernon chuckles and says, “You don’t have to drink it.”

“I don’t have to do a lot of things but I do anyway.” 

“Hmm. Like what?” 

“Ugh. I don’t know? Attend meetings all day?”

“I think you do have to do that.”

You scrunch your nose. “Alright, fair.” 

“Tell me about your job.” 

You glance at him, brows raised. “You want me to talk about work?”

“It’s obvious you like what you do, and by the sounds of it, working hard runs in the family. Tell me what you like about it.” 

That makes you sigh as you push the ice around in your glass. What do you like about your job? Well, you like a lot of things and you hate a lot of things. So you start listing them, telling Vernon that you like the routine and you enjoy having a rhythm to your day. You like feeling proud when you can solve a problem no one else can, or when you lead your team through chaos and they look at you like you’re a god who showed them the way.

You like that you can be an authority in the room but you don’t feel like a dictator, and that now when you talk, people listen. Your team is your favorite, loving the way you and Seungkwan work in tandem, and the way the creative department likes to pick your brain. Mingyu and Soonyoung are always asking for your feedback, even if your opinion doesn’t matter in the hierarchy of their world.

The dislikes though… well, you dislike that you never have enough time in the day. That you’re always in a meeting and feel like you leave your team drowning in work picking up the slack. Hate that you get time blindness and sit in your office for hours past dinner to get something right, to get something perfect.

Hate that because you like what you do, everyone thinks you don’t have a life or don’t want a life. And that leads you to the center of the entire issue with your relationship with Minho. 

You pull away like you’re approaching a particularly purple bruise when you near the topic of Minho. Your blue drink is gone and you order something more normal instead. The coke and rum sizzles on your tongue as Vernon looks at you expectantly. 

“I’m doing all the talking,” you mutter, a little defensive. “What’s your favorite color?” 

“Blue.”

“What kind of blue.” 

“Blue like that very nasty milk you just drank.” You stick your tongue out and Vernon smiles. His smile is like a burning star at the center of a solar system, glowing and bright and warm. It gives life. “What’s yours?”

“Deep red. Like… wine or burgundy. What’s your favorite movie?”

“Ah, not that question. I’m a bit of a cinephile.”

“Too bad. You have to pick one.” 

Vernon thinks about it. The tip of his finger traces the condensation of his glass lazily and you hyperfocus on it, watching the way he catches the bead of liquid every time. He has nice fingers, you realize. The thought makes you clench and suddenly wonder if you need to walk out of the bar down to the church to confess the sin of your mind.

Not that you’re religious, but maybe you should be, with where your mind has wandered. 

“I like The Princess Bride.”

You gasp, grabbing him by the wrist and shaking it excitedly. “My name is Inigo Montoya. You killed my father, prepare to die!” 

Vernon’s laughter is infectious. You both fall into a fit of giggles, quoting your favorite parts of the movie. It’s nice - this is nice. It’s unexpected and you’re a little unsure how you got here, but Vernon makes the pressure of getting to know one another in preparation to fake date in front of your ex fade away.

Until, of course, you remember that’s why you’re at the bar and the thought suddenly sobers you. 

Straightening, you ask, “Why’d you want to go on a double date, anyway? You don’t owe me that.” 

“He seemed kind of smug. I thought it was annoying.” 

You hum, studying him. “It’s a bit risky. I dated him for a year… if there’s anyone who knows anything about me, it’s probably him.” 

“I can always just hack into your data and learn everything about you.” You stare at him, mouth opens. His grin grows. “I’m kidding. I mean I probably could but I’m not a hacker.”

“Are you sure? You’re a bit suspicious, Vernon Chwe.” 

“Hansol.” You frown in confusion. His tone is gentle, eyes soft when he murmurs, “You can call me Hansol. You know… to make it um. Seems legit.”

“Hansol.” You try out the name, liking the way it fits on your tongue. His eyes are dark and you feel like you could fall into them - you kind of want to. “Hansol. I like it.”

Maybe you don’t need to go to that church to beg for forgiveness after all. What you think you need might be divine intervention to stop the butterflies in your stomach when you say his name, or the nervous shake in your hand when you see him smile. 

Not Vernon (from IT) but Hansol. 

-

Hansol (from IT) is late when he picks you up. For once, you’re just glad it’s not you. Your heart beats a little faster when you see him pull up in his nondescript, black RAV4. He waves through the window when he sees you, a shy smile on his face as he reaches to turn down the music. 

Inside the car smells distinctly like Hansol - driftwood, salt, a little bit of the air freshener that has long since dried but still sways under his rearview mirror. He looks good tonight, dressed in ripped jeans, a black shirt and a black leather jacket. He’s sans glasses, and though he looks good, you miss them a little. 

Hansol without the glasses is a little intimidating. Especially this version of him that grins when you settle into the seat next to him, his brows slightly raised as though to ask if you’re good. When you nod, his grin tilts upward again and he puts the car and drive, one hand on the steering wheel, the other on the gear shift tapping to the beat of the music. 

It feels like you’re radiating nervous energy, but you relax as Hansol asks about your day. He’s good at that, eliminating whatever weight is sitting on your shoulders or whatever residual stress you’ve got from work. You don’t feel so… well. On the clock. 

The thought makes you squirm in your seat, pulling the edge of your dress down your thighs a little. You picked it out as a last minute choice, unsure whether you’re trying to dress to impress or dress to show you don’t care what Minho thinks of you.

Hansol notices you fidgeting. “You alright?”

“Kind of nervous.”

“Any reason in particular?”

You blow out air, your head smacking against the headrest. “On the clock?”

“Off,” he says with a grin.

“I feel like I’m going to fucking blow it.”

“How so?”

“What if he asks me to kiss you?”

The words are out before you can stop them. It isn’t until you’re met with silence that you realize what you’ve said. You’ve certainly stuck your foot in your mouth on more than one occasion. You do it often, and quite wonderfully, truthfully. It has taken years of practice to stop flubbing presentations and pitches at work, but that doesn’t mean you don’t say insane shit.

Like right now, when you tell Hansol that of all the things you’re nervous about, the very slim, tiny percent of a chance of being asked to kiss him is at the top of the list. 

And yet, because it’s Hansol, he grins and says, “Damn, Minho’s a freak like that? He likes to ask people to kiss so he can watch?”

Just like that, the tension eases. You laugh, hand flying your mouth to try and suppress it. His eyes are on the road, but they glitter when you catch a glimpse of his face in the headlines, flashing from dark to liquid gold for a split second. 

“Okay,” you admit, laughter dying down. “He’s definitely not going to ask that. It’s just one of those irrational fears, especially with him.”

“Why especially?”

“I feel like he’s always trying to prove that he was right when he broke up with me. Or I guess, in general. He loves being right and sometimes it’s like he’s trying to force a gotcha moment.” 

Hansol is silent as he turns into the parking lot. You say nothing, watching as he navigates to find a parking space. The restaurant is busy and there’s a valet, but Hansol is determined to find his own. He does - very close to the entrance - letting out a happy noise as a car backs out.

Car in park, he turns to look at you. “Can I say something? Not on the clock.”

Your heart skips a little. “Sure.”

“Minho is an asshole.” You smile, looking down at your hands folded in your lap. “And you’re going to get through dinner just fine because he’s an asshole, and you’re not.” 

“Are you sure?”

His laugh is full. “I’m actually pretty confident in this. And if he does ask us to kiss, you have my full consent to lay one on me. Come on.” 

You wish you felt as confident as Hansol seems. He slides out of the car easily, coming around to your side as you get out. He reaches out a hand almost instinctively, waiting for you to grab it. You look at him in surprise to find that he looks equally stunned at his own gesture. 

Grinning, you take his hand. It’s warm in yours and he gives you a squeeze as you drop your linked fingers between you, walking toward the establishment like a real couple.

It feels real. You’re not sure what to do with that. The sudden realization of it churns in your stomach as you approach the dark interior of the steakhouse, immediately hit with a romantic ambiance that feels far too big for this tiny thing brewing inside of you. 

Twelvefold? How many times have you suffered since that first day you ran into Hansol at the bookstore? You think it might continue through the evening, especially when he glances over at you on the way to the table to check on you, hand tightening for a split second. 

As soon as you spot Minho and Mina, you’re glad that Hansol has a steady grip on you. Mina’s glossy hair is nearly blinding under the glow of the soft lighting and her smile is brighter still. You almost want to shield your eyes as they wave you over. 

Neither of them seems to know if they should stand and greet you or what the protocol is. Good, you think, happy to see them as off kilter as you feel by this very weird and very unnecessary dinner date. 

Why had Hansol agreed to do this again? 

“She keep you late?” Minho asks Hansol, immediately reminding you why Hansol had said yes in the first place: he seemed kind of smug. I thought it was annoying. “You’ll get used to it!”

“Actually, it was me,” Hansol answers smoothly. He pulls out your chair for you, startling you again. You try to fein admiration - it’s not hard - and sit, looking up at him with a little bit of awe. Hansol sits, adjusting his seat so that it’s a little closer to yours. “I was working on an infrastructure request and lost track of time.”

That seems to shut Minho up for a moment. Then he laughs his businessman laugh and you wonder if it’s always sounded that way, hollow and fake and… well, annoying. “Damn, so you’re both like that?” 

“Yep.” Hansol leans back in his chair, stretching his arm so that it rests over the back of yours. He doesn’t explicitly touch you, but you feel the warmth of him radiating like a furnace, a shiver snaking through you at how close he is. “Works well for us.” 

You try not to frown. He’s not going to make it easy for your fake breakup. You’d assumed that you’d tell everyone you just didn’t have time for him, but with the way he’s talking to Minho now, you’re worried it’ll make the impending breakup a little less believable. 

“That’s good, then,” Minho says eventually. “Just don’t schedule any vacations or you’ll both miss it.”

“I never did that,” you scowl. 

Before he has time for a rebuttal, the server is there welcoming you to the restaurant. You shift in your seat, feeling irritated. Hansol senses it, the tips of his finger brushing against your bicep as if to tell you it’s okay. You relax, but only a little, still frustrated. 

Again, you can’t help but feel like your faults are being exacerbated, like Minho is drawing them up to be far grander than they really were. You had missed some dinners and cancelled on some things, but you’d never gone as far as to miss a vacation or a birthday - never the big things. Never the milestones. 

If the server can tell the energy at the table has shifted, they don’t let on. They pour glasses of wine that you let Hansol order while you’re spiraling in your head, and leave with the promise of coming back to take orders when the table is ready. 

It’s Mina who restarts the conversation, glancing at Minho who sucks down the entire glass of wine in a single go. “So,” she says. “What is it exactly that you do?”

“Careful with that question,” Minho jokes. “She’ll talk to you about work for hours.” 

“Which is what makes her good at her job.” Hansol’s voice is even. Smooth. Almost severe, a tone you’ve never heard from him before. Tension ripples from him for just a moment before he looks at you and smiles. “Her job is very cool.”

Unlike her blockhead of a boyfriend, Mina seizes the chance for normalcy and asks, “Marketing, right?” 

Mina (with the glossy hair) is really nice. You like her almost immediately and strangely enough, you’re glad she’s there. Minho is like a stormcloud at the edge of the table, a little pocket of pressure that everyone can feel but tries to ignore. 

Hansol makes your fake relationship look effortless. You have to mask your surprise when he recounts a detail about you that you didn’t expect him to know, or makes an observation that has you warming, ducking your face to hide the smile tugging your lips. 

You know little things about him too. It’s almost like you weren’t aware until you’re saying them, all the small things about him bubbling to your lips like an instinct. 

“He’s such an Aquarius!” You laugh, finish the rest of your steak. “The IT department is full of them, even and they’re all so effortlessly cool and have different interests. Hansol has the coolest case full of Star Wars collectibles and-” 

“Hansol?” 

Minho’s question catches you off guard. You blink at him a few times, confused until Hansol interjects, “That’s my legal name.”

“Damn. Should we be calling you Hansol?”

“Nope. Reserved for my mom and my girlfriend.” 

“Wow.”

Minho sits back and observes the two of you. The plates have been cleared away for the evening and the glasses of wine have dwindled. You’re a little sleepy, ready to go home, but the appraising look in Minho’s eyes as they flicker back and forth between you and Hansol has you on edge.

Hansol seems unbothered, finishing his water. His arm rests against your back properly now and you almost melt when his fingers start to trace a pattern on your arm, almost absently. You’re so acutely aware of him that you’re nearly vibrating, telling yourself over and over again that this is just him committing to the bit. This isn’t something to overthink. His touch is for show.

You don’t want it to be for show. God, you don’t want it to be, but you try not to let it unravel right now, instead finishing your water under the heavy and calculating gaze of your ex-boyfriend, who, over the course of dinner, has made you realize you are so grateful is your ex. 

“Huh.”

“What?” you ask, voice coming out a little more challenging than you intend. He has that look on his face like he’s trying to figure something out, like he’s trying to position himself in a way where he’s not wrong. 

“You guys are really together.”

That makes you stiffen. Hansol’s fingers go still on your arm. “What do you mean?”

“You just didn’t really seem like you were dating at the bookstore. It didn’t even seem like you knew who Vernon was.” 

“It was still new,” You lie. “I also wasn’t expecting to run into you both. That’s all.”

“I guess. Just… find it surprising, I guess. Figured you’d never have time for someone.”

It’s Hansol who says, “She has plenty of time for me. Speaking of time, it’s time we head home. I have to finish up some stuff for work tomorrow and she just finished an insane project and deserves some sleep.”

Again, Minho seems thrown for a loop. You could get used to seeing him like a fish out of water, trying not to let an evil smirk take over your face when Hansol beats everyone to the check. 

There is an edge to Hansol’s movements. You observe him quietly, noting the way his mouth is pinched at the corners and the way his eyes darken when he looks at Minho. But when he looks at you, it’s like the world stops. Hansol’s eyes soften and his lips turn up at the corner, a gentle smile for you.

Only you. 

You’re fucked. You’re fucked fucked fucked and it’s nearly all you can think about as dinner wraps up and Minho and Mina thank Hansol for paying. You want to smack him for offering to pay for the insanely expensive bill, but he takes everything in stride.

Outside, it’s a little cold. Hansol shucks his jacket off immediately, wrapping it around your shoulders while giving Mina some sort of computer advice that goes over your head because all you can focus on is the way Hansol smoothes the jacket over your shoulder, his hand dropping to your waist to keep you close.

You’re dizzy with it. Dizzy with him. You can’t recall a single time you ever felt this affected by Minho, much less anyone else. Despite having two glasses of wine, you know it’s Hansol and not the wine that has you buzzing. Hansol who has you warm, Hansol who makes it feel like there’s static in your brain when he glances at you to make sure you’re still okay after you’ve gone silent. 

Hansol gives you a quick smile and turns to say farewell to the other couple. You’re happy to say goodbye - though perhaps you should have asked Mina her haircare routine - and you wave as Hansol leads you into the parking lot, fingers intertwined.

He turns to you, making you look up at him. “I’m going to kiss you,” he murmurs, barely giving you a warning. “Unless you say no.” 

“I - okay.” 

There is the barest of smiles on Hansol’s face before he leans in, pressing his lips against yours. It’s brief and gentle, so quick that you barely register he’s kissed you at all. He’s already pulling away when you blink, nearing his car as he does. 

“He was a dick,” Hansol explains. “And he was staring at us when we left. So. Let him question what’s real now.” 

Minho isn’t the only one questioning what’s real. You’re hung up on the kiss, despite it being nothing more than a peck. Your mouth is warm, thoughts spinning as Hansol helps you into the car. You say nothing, completely consumed by the feel of his mouth, the smell of driftwood and salt, the barest taste of wine. 

The drive home is quiet but not uncomfortable. Hansol’s hand grabs yours instinctually over the center console, fingers tied together loosely as he drives. But there’s no one to perform for her, no one to show off too. No one who needs convincing. 

It’s just you and the burning desire for him bubbling up inside of you.

You’ve lost count of how many folds you have suffered, but somehow, this one is a little less worse than the others.

-

Hansol cannot stop thinking about you. He’s pretty sure the last time he had brain rot this bad about another person, it was Larcy Dodsen in his senior year of college who had blown him to heaven and back. He’s had better (and worse) blowjobs since then, and doesn’t really think of Larcy Dodsen ever anymore.

But you. You. 

You occupy every corner of his mind. He wavers back and forth between thinking about the way you smell or the way you laugh (a little reedy, but cute) and thinking about how bad he fucked up by kissing you that night. 

Things aren’t exactly weird. The very basis of your relationship - or lack thereof - is weird. He’d agreed to be your fake boyfriend for a month, but with zero terms. No contract outline. No do’s and don’ts. No guidelines. No rules. No regulations. Just an agreement and a fucking dream. 

Now, he’s wishing he had something to go off of, because what started out as an agreement to help someone out has turned into something else entirely. 

Chan was right. Hansol is desperately trying to hide that fact from his best friend, but the way Chan side-eyes Hansol at lunch when he stares off into the distance, he thinks that the younger  man might be onto him. 

It doesn’t help that Hansol is buried in Help Desk tickets the weekend following kissing you, and you’re six feet under in a pile of projects. It isn’t until he goes a few days without talking to you multiple times that it’s occurred to him how much he texts you during the day. 

Hansol finds himself checking his phone again at lunch, swearing that he felt it vibrate. This time, Chan catches him, putting down the fork and clearing his throat to gesture at the phone. “So it happened, right?” 

“What?” Even Hansol winces at his own defensiveness. “I can’t check the time?”

“Do you check the time three times every five minutes? I know you can do math.” 

“Just checking to see how her presentation went.”

Chan laughs and crosses his arms over his chest. “Right. So it did happen.”

“You’ll have to be more specific.”

He doesn’t. Chan knows it. Hansol knows it. Chan gets more specific anyway. “You like her. As in, you have feelings for her after… well. This weekend will make it a month. So wouldn’t that be your deal coming to an end?”

Hansol wants to think about anything other than that. “Everything is fine.” 

Chan holds up his hand, a white flag. “You’re an adult. You can do what you want. Just make sure you know what she wants too, is all I’m saying.” 

And that’s the crux of it. Hansol isn’t sure what you want. He assumed that you just wanted to get through this month and your fake breakup, but now he’s not so sure. He thinks of the way you’d look at him during dinner last weekend, the way your expression gets dreamy with a soft smile, eyes glowing. 

Hansol doesn’t think he made it up - his creativity is good but not that good. He had been so sure that you felt something too, swears that you melted into him every time he touched you, every time he turned to check in on you.

And the kiss… it had been brief and born from wanting to rub it in Minho’s face, but Hansol had wanted to do it, too. Wanted it for himself. Wanted to allow himself a single, greedy thing. You’d been surprised but leaned into him, almost instinctual. It had been so short but it haunts his dreams, the phantom press of your mouth keeping him up late at night. 

Even now, Hansol’s fingers trace his mouth, as though he can remember the feeling of your mouth against his. So maybe Chan is right. Hansol likes you - has feelings for you. There is a lingering sense that you might too, but he’s not sure. 

He needs to be sure. 

Finding a window to make sure, is tough, though. He only hears from you once throughout the rest of the day, and it's to shoot him a quick text that the presentation was moved to Monday and that you have to work all weekend on it. 

He feels more disappointed than he lets on. He wonders if you remember his birthday is on Saturday. Not that you owe him that since you’re not actually dating, but in a perfect world Hansol thinks it might have been a good day to tell you how he feels. That he kind of wants to make this thing real. 

On the bright side, you do remember his birthday. On the shitty side, he can’t spend it with you. You’re working on your presentation for the foreseeable future, and Hansol had hesitated to make plans with his friends knowing some of them were celebrating Valentine’s Day late with their partners and because he’d hoped to maybe spend it with you.

It feels stupid, thinking about it now. Of course you weren’t going to spend it with him. He knew what this was when he offered to do it. You were a bright burning star at the top of the company, and Hansol had been someone you barely registered. 

By the afternoon, he’s still sullen. He’s thinking about just spending the evening eating pizza and playing video games online where he’ll get bullied by a bunch of high schoolers when he hears his phone ring and your name flashes across the screen.

Hansol’s heart soars. He all but throws the control across the room, diving to pick up the phone and answer, “Hi!” 

“Please don’t hate me,” you rush out, completely out of breath. “I am panicking right now. My work laptop randomly got the blue screen of death and I’m in the middle of my project and-”

“I’ll come look at it.” He cringes, realizing how down bad he is. It’s his birthday and he shouldn’t have to work, but he’d rather come solve a problem for you than have a bunch of thirteen year old’s tell him that they’re fucking his mom. “I can come over in fifteen.” 

“Oh! Uh… can you make that twenty?” 

Weird. “Sure?” 

“Great! Text me when you’re here and I’ll give you the unit number.” 

Twenty minutes ends up being perfect, because Hansol goes through the mental anguish of what to wear, which is new for him. He showers as quickly and efficiently as he can, hopping with one leg in his jeans and the other missing the hole multiple times. He nearly runs into the wall as he’s pulling on a band tee over his head while also looking for his flannel. 

Hair still damp, he pulls on a hat and twists it around backward, grabbing his glasses because he doesn’t feel like wearing contacts (and because you said you liked them) as he barrels out the house, radiating with nervous energy. 

Hansol wonders if it’s appropriate to tell you how he feels today. It will be face to face but… no. You’d sounded stressed on the phone and he knows how important this presentation is for you, despite not knowing what it’s about. 

He barely remembers the drive to your apartment, blinking and realizing he’s parked and texting you that he’s there. You give him directions to your unit and with shaky hands, Hansol turns off the car. He takes a few steadying breaths before getting out and heading to the stairs, his heart hammering with each step. 

When he finally gets to your door, he double checks that it's the right one. His hands shake when he knocks, and he has to remind himself several times that he’s just here to fix your computer. Sure, he’s thrilled that he gets to see you, but this is on the clock. Not off.

You’re breathless when you open the door. “Hi!” You say a little too loudly. He raises his brows but you open the door and step aside, ushering him in. “Come on in.”

Hansol gives you an amused grin as he walks into your apartment. He’s confused as to why it’s completely dark, a question that he’s about to ask you as you shut the door, but you flick on the lights and he’s met with the world’s loudest shout of surprise he’s ever heard.

He flinches, hand flying to his chest in terror as the lights flood on and Hansol realizes that the reason they were off is to hide the obscene amount of Star Wars decorations covering every part of your apartment. He can’t even picture what your home is supposed to look like, just that it’s covered in streamers and paper Luke Skywalkers and RD-D2s, and filled with familiar faces.

Hansol’s mouth pops open as the crowd screams at him. Chan and Seokmin are at the forefront, phones in hand capturing Hansol as he stands there, dumbfounded. Soongyoung and Mingyu are blowing through noise makers with so much force that the paper on them breaks, and Seungkwan is leading an off-key rendition of happy birthday with Hansol’s friends you’ve never even met.

Slowly, Hansol turns to look at you. You’re standing behind him, hands clasped nervously and tucked under your chin as you watch him, terrified. You’re chewing on your lips, entire frame vibrating with energy. 

He wants nothing more than to walk over to you and kiss you stupid. The flame of desire that licks through him is borderline impossible to tamp down, staring at you like the eighth world wonder as you slip over to him, scanning his face.

“Surprise?” You squeak.

“You did this for me?”

“Well, yeah.” 

You say it like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. He wants to pin you against the island counter behind you, but it’s fill with food and beverages and blue fucking milk. “Is that okay?” you ask, suddenly nervous. 

Hansol softens and starts to laugh. “Yeah,” he shakes his head. “It is more than okay.” 

Before he can say anything else, the crowd of people crashes into him. Seokmin and Chan are screaming in his ear, grabbing him and yelling for shots. Mingyu and Soonyoung are chanting his name and his best friend from college manages to squeeze in and give him a hug and a birthday greeting.

How did you even know Minghao existed? Or how to contact him? Hansol has no idea, but before he can ask you any questions about the how or the why, he’s swept into your kitchen for birthday celebrations he thought would never happen, orchestrated by the single person he wanted to see most. 

Fuck was Chan right more than ever. 

-

The thing about being a bad liar is that you found it nearly impossible to hide what you were doing from Hansol. The thing about everyone thinking you’re always busy, is that it was an easy facade to shield the sheer stress of trying to plan a surprise party for him. 

Your apartment is filled with more people than you’ve ever dared to let inside. It makes you a little nervous for all of these people to see this new part of you, but with a little bit of rum and the released pressure of Hansol looking like he’s enjoying himself, you decide it’s worth it. 

Squished in the corner of your couch, you watch as Chan leads a game of cards that he is losing very badly at. Most of these people in your apartment are casual friends, with the exception of Seungkwan who is playing DJ in the kitchen, but they’re all friends that Hansol would want at a celebration for him.

At least, that’s what Chan and Seokmin said. Recruiting them had been pretty easy, but during the process of them helping you plan this, you’re pretty sure they’ve caught on to the AT-AT Walker-sized elephant in the room: you are very much into their friend. In a very Not-On-The-Clock appropriate way. 

Now, you watch as Hansol makes his way over to you, dodging people who stop to talk to him. He seems pretty determined to reach you, clapping someone on the shoulder and moving them aside to continue his journey to you. 

Your stomach flips when he sits on the arm of your couch, perched perfectly next to you. He looks good today, dressed in jeans, a soft looking tee and a flannel. The backwards hat does wonders for you - which you will not be psychoanalyzing now - and his black frame glasses. 

“How did you do all this?” He asks, shaking his head in wonder. “I just… what?” 

“It wasn’t easy, but it worked, right?”

“Is this the presentation you’ve been working on all week?”

“Yes. Please don’t be mad at me for lying.”

He laughs. “I couldn’t be mad at you if I tried.” 

An argument breaks out over cards, Chan and Mingyu yelling at each other about someone cheating. Hansol winces at the noise and you scoot a little closer to avoid the deck of cards Mingyu throws in Chan’s direction.

“Is there anywhere quiet we can talk?” Hansol asks, though he’s laughing at them. “They’re giving me a bit of a headache.” 

You grin. “For sure.” 

Getting up, you lead Hansol down the hall to your bedroom, which is off limits to the rest of the party. The good thing about adult festivities is that no one is a weirdo about going into rooms they shouldn’t, staying exactly where it’s appropriate to be. 

Shutting the door behind you, the noise of the party dies down immediately. It’s dark in your room, save for the single lamp burning in the corner at a low setting. You realize it’s a bit messy, apologizing to Hansol as you kick clothes out of the way. You hadn’t intended on bringing him in here, and suddenly the implication of Hansol standing in your room tingles down your spine. 

“I, uh-” You stammer, looking at him. “Sorry it’s a mess. I didn’t intend on anyone seeing this.”

Halloween yowls, getting up off your bed. Hansol makes a surprised sound and you apoogize again, “It’s just Halloween. He likes to sleep in here. Out, kitty!”

You open the door and Halloween bolts out, going to find Seungkwan who will give him snacks. 

Hansol grins and wanders over to the bookshelf, looking over the titles. You take a few steps to follow him but keep your distance, suddenly very nervous. He points his finger at a title and looks at you, inviting you to step closer to read it in the dim light. 

You recognize the title - you’d bought it the day you’d crashed into him and got some of your books mixed up. 

“This one one of the books you accidentally swapped with me,” Hansol notes, running his finger along the spine. You zero in on his finger - his hands, in general. They’re pretty. You swallow hard, looking up at the ceiling instead. “Have you read it yet?” 

“Not yet. I started one of the others but I’ve been having trouble breeding - reading lately.”

Hansol presses his lips together in a flat line and you can tell he’s trying not to laugh at you. Warmth floods your face and you want to die on the spot, especially when he turns to face you head on, leaning against your bookcase. 

His eyes are dark, drinking you in. Your pulse skyrockets, thinking about that quick kiss he had given you the other night. It’s all you’ve been able to think about, too afraid to ask him if it was just for show and too busy trying to plan this party to work out what to say about it.

Now, alone in your room, the questions fizzle on your tongue at the nearness of him. 

“Thank you,” Hansol says eventually. “For planning this. I… would never have expected you to do that.”

“I wanted to celebrate you.”

He blushes, ducking his head. “It’s sweet. It did make me nervous, though.” 

“Why?”

“I thought you were avoiding me, kind of.”

You blink. “Why on earth would I be doing that?”

“Thought that maybe I took it too far with the kiss.” 

“No. You didn’t.” 

Hansol’s gaze falls on you. It’s razor sharp and there’s something there, burning just under the surface. You swear it’s something like desire, but you’re too afraid to name it. Too worried that it’s just what you want reflected in his glassy gaze, and not his. 

Then, “Did I not take it far enough?” 

The question hangs in the air. You cannot hear anything but the pounding of  your own heart. It’s just Hansol in this dark room with you, looking at you with exactly the same hunger that’s been churning in your gut. 

You don’t know when this hunger started. All you know is that the last few weeks, it’s been there. Every time you look at him you feel it ignite, the desire so raw that you don’t know what to do with it. 

Now, you know he feels it too - see it, in the way he waits for your answer. Patient. Calm. Steady.

“On the clock?” You ask, voice shaky. He shakes his head no. “You could go further.” 

That’s all Hansol needs. He’s gentle when he reaches for you, cradling your face in his hands. You barely get to suck in a trembling breath before he’s kissing you.

This kiss is entirely different from the peck he gave you in the parking lot last weekend. This kiss steals the breath from your lung, his mouth confident and sure as he slots his mouth against yours. He smells like the sea, all driftwood and salt and his lips taste like the tangy drink he’d been sipping on earlier.

Everything else fades to the background. Your hands twist in his flannel. It’s soft, but nothing compared to the softness of Hansol’s tongue as he licks at the seam of your lips. You let him in and he groans, pulling you in impossibly closer as the kiss turns more desperate.

You melt. He kisses you hungrily now, sucking your tongue into his mouth. It makes your head spin, the party long forgotten as you press further into him. The bookshelf wobbles under the weight of both of you leaning against it, making you break, both of you panting.

Hansol’s mouth shines with your spit in the low lamp light and you have the urge to lean forward and lick it. You resist, only for him to give into his urge. He leans forward, tongue pressing to the corner of your mouth gently. 

“What about now?” he mumbles, voice muffled against your mouth. “Too far?”

“No.”

He makes a sound in the back of his throat, hands dropping to your waist. You let him grip you, backing you up toward your bed. It’s a bit clumsy but you don’t care, hands looping around his neck to keep him close.

“Tell me what you want,” Hansol mumbles. Your knees hit the bed and you let yourself fall backward. He follows you, caging you in with both of his planted on either side of your head. “Tell me how far you want me to go.” 

“On the clock?”

“Fuck no. Nothing I want to do right now is on the clock.”

“Good. I want you to go as far as you want.”

He drops his mouth to your neck. A moan slips between your lips when you feel his tongue scrape across the soft skin of your throat. He sounds strained when he says, “You gotta tell me, baby. I need to know what you want.”

“You.” It’s the most honest thing you’ve said all month. “All of it. Everything. But for real.” 

Hansol nods. He presses messy, wet kisses up your neck, along your jaw, stopping at your mouth. His nose nudges yours and he smiles against your lips, giving you a chaste peck. “You’ve got me. For real.” 

Grinning, you slide your hands underneath his shirt. He moans, throaty and delicious. He twitches under your exploration but he lets you brush your palms up the warmth of his stomach, reaching around until your hands are gripping his lower back. 

His mouth attaches to yours again. The kiss is messy and addictive, Hansol filling your senses as he lowers himself so that his weight is rested on top of you. It’s comforting and wanted, your knees squeezing his hips to hold him in place. 

One of his hands leaves the mattress to drop to your hip, squeezing before he scratches his nails against your thigh. You shiver, feeling the stimulation through your jeans. His hand slips under you, gripping the curve of your ass to lift you a little, pressing you closer to him.

A moan slips through your mouth to his when he rolls your hips against him. The stimulation isn’t remotely enough but you like this version of Hansol. His touch is confident, his lips intentful as they leave a trail from your mouth to your collarbone. 

With one last squeeze to your ass, Hansol traces his fingers over the tops of your thigh to drop between your legs. He presses his fingers to the apex of your thighs, working you through your clothes. You let out a desperate sound and you feel the way he smiles against your skin. 

His touch sparks a flame. You tear at his flannel, peeling it from his shoulders. He helps you get it off of him but he’s just as eager to peel you out of your jeans and shirt. A deep curse leaves his mouth when he sees you in just a bra and underwear, your chest heaving as you pant, staring up at him, mouth swollen and tender. 

Reaching for him, you grab the hat and throw it. “Hat is very hot,” you admit. “But I wanted to do this.” 

You slide your fingers in his hair, curling them through the strands to tug him back to you. He smiles into the kiss, tangling his tongue with yours. His hand skims up your thigh, fingers leaving a trail of goosebumps as he goes until he slides his hand back between your legs.

A gasp leaves you as he presses his fingers back to your cunt, pressing the fabric into your aching clit. He whispers a string of curses when he feels how damp you are, resting his forehead against your shoulder for a moment as he teases you over your panties.

“Please,” you whisper, hips rising off the bed. “Want more.”

“Mhmm.” He lifts his head and gives you a quick kiss to the cheek. “I’ve got you.”

Hansol doesn’t make you beg. You like that about him. Your breath catches when he drops to his knees, reaching his arm up to pull the back of his shirt over his head, tossing it. The sight of him between your knees in just jeans, his hair mussed and mouth swollen is enough to make you dizzy.

You prop yourself up on your elbows, watching with hooded eyes as Hansol grabs you by the calves, spreading you a little more. His hands are gentle and warm, rubbing up and down while he takes his time pressing a myriad of kisses up the right side of your inner thigh. 

It feels so good. Your lashes flutter a little, breath coming in quicker. Everywhere his mouth touches tingles, a little path of buzzing electricity as he makes his way closer and closer to your heat until he switches sides.

You make a sound of protest and Hansol looks up at you through his lashes, grinning. He looks smug, leaning forward to bite your thigh playfully. It stings but it feels good, making your fingers twist in the sheets. 

“Feel good?” he whispers, pressing his tongue to soothe the sting. You nod, mouth parted, unable to speak. He smiles again, dragging his tongue down your thigh. You think you might die right there. 

Hansol makes his way back up. He drags his burning gaze up to meet yours, deliberately making eye contact as he presses the flat of his tongue against your underwear. If it wasn’t soaked before, it is thoroughly drenched now. You suck in a sharp breath, knees closing on instinct to squeeze against his shoulders.

He chuckles, dragging his tongue upward where it presses against your clit momentarily. He brings one of his hands up, pressing his middle finger right against your hole. You feel yourself clench around nothing and you know he knows, his grin wicked. 

"What do you like?"

"I... don't know."

He looks at you, pausing. "You don't know? Like what makes you come?" You shake your head and realization lights his eyes. "That jackass didn't make you come, did it?"

You shake your head and he groans.

“Don’t worry,” Hansol promises with another languid lick to the soaked fabric. “I will make up for all the times you didn’t get to come.” 

“Fuck.”

Vernon (from IT) has been replaced with Hansol (the Menace). He hooks a finger in the crotch of your underwear, pulling them to the side. He drags a knuckle against your pussy on purpose, both of you groaning in unison. 

Eagerly Hansol leans forward, giving you a teasing lick. Your fingers dig into the mattress anyway. You can do nothing but stare at him, watching the way Hansol drags his dark eyes up to watch you as he drags his tongue through your folds again. 

“Shit,” you hiss at him, a shiver wracking your body.

He seems pleased, shooting you a quick smile before he brings his mouth to you again, sucking gently. He avoids your clit at first, working you up slowly. Hansol eats you out like he has all the time in the world, like there’s no where he would rather be than tonguing your pussy. 

It drives you mad, his name slipping from your lips in little gasps. His tongue circles your clit, applying pressure indirectly, working you up and up until finally, he closes his mouth around the throbbing bundle of nerves, suckling. 

“Ohhhh,” you laugh, half delirious. “That. Whatever that is.” 

He hums, parting only to say, “You got it.” 

You see God when he fastens his mouth to you, sucking your clit gently. Dropping back against the bed, you twitch and gasp under Hansol’s ministrations. He sets a rhythm, adding his fingers to the mix as they press against your entrance. He doesn’t push in, but rather traces a pattern, making you squeeze. 

Panting, you drop a hand to his hair. He hums in delight as you tangle your fingers in the strands, bringing him closer to your cunt. You feel like you’re burning up, your sheets sticking to your skin, the room spinning as Hansol eats you out in earnest now. 

No one has ever seemed this dedicated to your pleasure. He doesn’t let up for a second, fingers and mouth working in tandem to bring you to a cliff of insanity. All you have to do is jump and dive head first into an orgasm. 

You do. Hansol works you right to the very edge and you topple over, falling into it hard. You go taught but he holds you down, fighting your spasm as you come hard. He doesn’t miss a beat, the obscene sounds of him slurping at you drowning out the pitiful, high pitched whine that leaves you. 

In a wave of exhaustion, your orgasm subsides. You flop on the bed, still shaking as he removes his mouth in favor of pressing slick, cum-stained kisses to your thighs. You lift your head and his eyes meet yours, flashing wickedly. 

He pauses, looking at your wet, messy cunt back to your face. “Want a taste?”

Hansol (the Menace) is going to kill you.

You nod and he smirks. He runs his tongue generously up your pussy, making sure to dip into your entrance just a little before he stands up and leans over you to press a filthy kiss to your mouth. You suck at his tongue greedily, tasting yourself and him, a combination you’ll never get tired of. 

One of his hands snakes up to your chest, tweaking a nipple gently, testing the waters. You nod, breaking the kiss with a gasp, “Yeah.” 

“Gonna work you open with my fingers,” he slurs. He kisses down your neck again, working his way to your chest. “That okay?”

“More than okay.” 

“God,” he whispers. “You sound so fucking good when you come. Want to hear it again.” 

There is no doubt he will. Hansol rids you of your bra before returning to suck greedily at your chest. Your nails bite into his shoulders, dragging down his sides as he presses a finger into your warmth. 

“God damn,” he laughs. He plucks at a nipple with his teeth and you curse. “You’re so fucking wet.” 

“On the clock?”

“Fuck no. My finger is in your pussy.”

“I am really turned on.”

He gives your other breast a playful bite. “Good. Now I want you to come apart on my fingers.” 

That won’t be an issue. Hansol gets you there embarrassingly fast. He finds the sensitive spot inside of you with ease and doesn’t hold back, pressing another finger in. He works you toward another orgasm like it's easy - and maybe for the both of you, it is. Maybe Hansol was meant to have you like this, gushing around his fingers and babbling nonsense as you come again, his mouth pressed against your hammering heart. 

Maybe he was meant to have you fucked out and light-headed by the time you’re helping him out of his jeans, sliding his briefs down his muscular thighs to free his cock. The tip is dark and sticky, weeping with precum when he pins you to the bed, catching you in a bruising kiss.

Gone is the patient Hansol who had started with gentle kisses to your thighs, replaced by his need to have you. To consume you. You let him, willing to let him do whatever he wants. You want his pleasure just as much as he wants yours, slipping your hand between your bodies to palm his cock, heavy and warm in your hand.

He whispers your name and it sounds like a prayer. His forehead presses against yours, letting you pump him slowly. His hips twitch as though he’s fighting to control himself, letting you have your fun before he growls and grabs your hand, lacing your fingers to pin above your head. 

Hansol scoots you up the bed, putting you where he wants you. Gone is the sweet guy from IT, replaced with whatever this is. You like this side of him equally, listening to him when he asks you to lift your hips so he can slide a pillow under your ass.

With a kiss to your brow that feels sweeter than the moment allows for, Hansol lifts your leg, prying you open for him. His cock is heavy against your cunt and he ruts a little, making you both whine in tandem. 

“You still want this, right?” He asks, voice shaking. “For real?”

“Yes.” You squeeze the hand he has laced with yours, pinned to the mattress near your head. “On the clock. Off the clock. Literally all of the hours.” 

“What if I refuse to change your computer password?”

That makes you laugh. He gives you a glowing smile, kissing the tops of your cheekbones. “Even then,” you promise. 

“Good. Try breathing for me when you come this time.” You give him a look and he smiles. “Did you think you were done? I told you I was making up for lost time.” 

He doesn’t give you a second to retort, his cock pressing in at that exact moment. “Ohhh you fucker,” you moan and he laughs, which makes things worse. You squeeze around him hard, barely breathing as Hansol slides in to the hilt, the pressure and stretch divine. “You did that on purpose.”

“I did,” he admits before trapping you into an uncoordinated kiss. 

With one hand holding yours to the bed and the other sliding under your ass to help lift you with the pillow, Hansol sets a slow pace. You continue to kiss him, just as slow as he fucks you. He is deep, cock brushing against your g-spot on every upstroke. 

Your free hand slides to his lower back, urging him to keep going. His tempo is measured, perfect, the angle of his hips just right. You start to feel insane, mumbling his name, whining between kisses, making a pathetic noise when he increases his pace. 

Hansol fucks like he knows exactly how you like it. Of course he does. Even from the moment in that bookstore, he had you figured out. No one else has been able to adjust to you like he has, no one else has been able to understand - to see you. 

“Fuck,” he hisses when you start squeezing on him for harder and longer. He’s pushing you toward that edge again, so close you’re already seeing stars. “Pussy feels so good.” 

He shuffles up the bed more, folding you a little. You make a wild sound, gasping as the angle pushes his cock in deep. “Holy shit, Hansol.” 

“That the spot?” he asks, and you nod. He starts fucking you in earnest, pace picking up. “God damn I could do this all day.” 

“Keep doing that and I’ll let you.”

He laughs and kisses you again, all tongue and teeth. You start to spasm, feeling the way your muscles clench as you near your third orgasm. This one is tight in your stomach, a pressure that is so compact you feel like you’re going to combust.

“Breathe through it,” he reminds you, out of breath as he chases your high. “You can do that, yeah?”

You nod, saving your breath for when he tells you to use it. 

A few more hard strokes and you’re doing exactly as instructed, taking in a deep breath as your orgasm hits. You see white, shaking underneath Hansol as the warmth of your high blooms in your lower stomach and expands. It’s better than the first two, stretching longer, the feeling reaching to your toes. 

You manage to breathe all the way through it, barely hanging on as he fucks you through the entire length of your high. He presses his mouth to your temple, slowing his pace to let you recover. You feel melted, like your bones and muscles have all gone on vacation, leaving Hansol to do the work for you.

“Good?” he asks, breath fanning your face.

You nod and wrap your arms around his neck, pulling him close. “You,” you mumble. It’s not a complete sentence, but he gets what you mean, kissing you quickly before chasing his own high, gritting his teeth. 

As spent as you are, you do your part to help him get there, squeezing with what strength you have left, whispering his name, pulling him in close with a leg around his hip. It works, sending Hansol over the edge and spilling into you within a few seconds. 

He curses into your shoulder, pace turning sloppy until he finally stops, hips pressed to yours, cock sheathed to the hilt. Both of you stay like that, trying to catch your breath in a sweaty pile of limbs.

Hansol recovers first, shifting so that he can lay next to you. He pulls out, a mess of cum and fluid going with him. You don’t care, rolling to your side to kiss him slowly. Softly. He rests an arm over your hip, keeping you connected. 

“This is a great birthday,” he jokes, voice hoarse. “I uhhh, forgot there was a party. No one will think we’re fake dating now.” 

You grin. “Whatever. We’re not on the clock.” 

He kisses you again. “Thank god. Cause I really want to do this again in fifteen minutes.”

You smile, really glad that Hansol (the Boyfriend) is on the same page as you.

[jeonghaniehaee]

i love this tenfold 🥹 bro vernon the goat

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🔦Administrators: Jeon Wonwoo x f!reader

⚡️The Ghostchase: Skyfall Industries is taking over the city, where the rich will benefit while the poor will suffer. With body modifications, sex, drugs, and alcohol there to help numb people from reality of it all. Your world is small, and is just getting smaller. So, when Skyfall Inds is finally at your door and threatening your home, you and Wonwoo will have a choice to make.

The Malware 🚫 The Code

📂 Case File: PROJECT: KILL SWITCH by @callisrecords

🔦Administrators: Lee Jihoon x f!reader

⚡️The Ghostchase: On a trip to the Wastelands, you don't expect to find much that's intact. Definitely not an escape pod or a man still inside it. Lee Jihoon seems to be unregistered, unchipped and jarringly not from this century. In a city held together by a network no one can escape, he is the only thing it cannot read, cannot follow, and cannot override. As details about a mission that predates everything you’ve ever known begin to surface, you realise Jihoon’s existence is more than just an anomaly. Somewhere within the structure of the megacorp that controls the city lies a failsafe: a kill switch tied to an authority long believed dead. Except maybe it isn’t.

The Malware 🚫 The Code

📂 Case File: through the haze by @aeristudios

🔦Administrators: Lee Seokmin x f!reader

⚡️The Ghostchase: You're the star of Neo City Nights, the hottest nightclub in the city. Your voice brings in people from all over, including the handsome stranger Seokmin who you can't stay away from. Too bad you don't remember him from your past life, before the accident that happened, which changed your life forever.

The Malware 🚫 The Code

📂 Case File: butterfly by @sailorsoons

🔦Administrators: Kim Mingyu x f!reader

⚡️The Ghostchase: In a city where technology makes it possible to shed your body as easily as changing clothes, Mingyu has built his reputation hunting criminals who disappear behind new faces. So when you become the prime suspect in a brutal string of serial murders, he should have no trouble closing the case. Except... the more he investigates you, the less he's convinced you're guilty.

The Malware 🚫 The Code

📂 Case File: REMNANT by @wheeboo

🔦Administrators: Xu Minghao x f!reader

⚡️The Ghostchase: In the year 2197, Xu Minghao works as a government shadow operative, hired to hunt down political dissidents. After surviving a catastrophic accident that should have ended his life, his body had been rewired to become nothing more than a living weapon solely engineered for one purpose: obedience. You live a different kind of double life. By day, a reclusive digital artist curating an elite art gallery; by night, a ghost hacker where you siphon secrets from the city’s corrupt core. But when your latest hack uncovers an unsettling truth, a target is painted on your back—and Minghao is assigned to terminate you.

The Malware 🚫 The Code

📂 Case File: synapse//ZERO by @cheollollipop

🔦Administrators: Boo Seungkwan x f!reader

⚡️The Ghostchase: when Synapse//ZERO launches, thousands of players eagerly enter the world's first fully immersive neural VR game. hours later, they're trapped. with her younger brother and best friend seungkwan among them, YN enters the game's sprawling cyberpunk metropolis, determined to bring them home. but in a world where the system adapts, remembers, and watches, escaping may not be enough. inspired by sword art online!

The Malware 🚫 The Code

📂 Case File: kingslayer by @100vern

🔦Administrators: Chwe Hansol x f!reader

⚡️The Ghostchase: it's been years since you worked for the ministry of welfare. since you were partnered with hansol as a rookie inspector in the criminal investigation unit. since the two of you were assigned to a case so devastating it cost hansol his freedom and sent you into hiding. it's been years, but there's no time limit on vengeance—and there's nothing you wouldn't do to protect hansol.

The Malware 🚫 The Code

📂 Case File: got you (in my sights) by @minisugakoobies

🔦Administrators: Lee Chan x f!reader

⚡️The Ghostchase: when a job goes bad, elite assassin lee chan ends up the victim of a botched memory wipe. lost on the streets of new seoul and in need of help, he turns to the only person he can remember - just a face, a name, and a feeling. you have no idea why a rival assassin is begging on your doorstep, but agree to help him, thinking it will be an opportunity to steal his clients. but when the client who ordered the memory hit learns he hasn't been wiped, they target you both. can you trust chan enough to work together to save yourselves? or will you lose more than your memories?

The Malware 🚫 The Code

[jeonghaniehaee]

i genuinely can’t wait until all of these fics are posted so I can read in one sitting and enjoy ALL of em

can’t wait!! great writers in this collab 🤩

[studioeisa]

maybe happy ending 🪴 jihoon x reader.

jihoon was always too good at pretending to be a person, and you were always a little too good at knowing better.

🪴 pairing. helper robots!jihoon x reader. 🪴 word count. 11.5k. 🪴 genres. alternate universe: non-idol. science fiction, romance, friendship, angst, hurt/comfort. 🪴 includes. mentions of food, death; themes of grief, mortality, memory. set in 2060s seoul, jihoon & reader are life-like bots. heavily inspired by maybe happy ending. 🪴 notes. i wrote this with the intention of proving to myself that i could still write for svt (lol), and i ended up bawling my eyes out on three separate instances. if there is any work of mine that you might read, i do hope this is one of them. this is a love letter to maybe happy ending, which most recently made history as the first original south korean production to win the tony award for best musical!!! not proofread; all mistakes are my own.

▶︎ WORLD WITHIN MY ROOM.

The light comes on in pieces. First the ceiling strip, then the wall panel, and finally the amber filament lamp in the corner that Jihoon insists on keeping—warm, inefficient, obsolete. Like him.

He powers on, slow as a secondhand thought.

“Ppyopuli,” he says, because it is polite to greet your houseplant. He nods to the drooping fronds with the seriousness of a man bowing to a superior. “You made it through the night. Unlike my left hip actuator.”

He rotates the joint. It makes a sound like someone crumpling a foil gum wrapper. The noise echoes in the apartment. Metal, silence, memory.

The radio comes on automatically. A woman’s voice—soft, practiced, almost human—tells him that today will be clear. Dust levels are low. UV index moderate. Good day for outdoor activities.

“It’s a perfect day,” Jihoon agrees, pulling the curtain an inch wider. Seoul stretches outside his window like a paused video. Skyscrapers, skybridges, the blur of a bullet tram in the distance. The air looks clean enough to breathe. Not that he does.

He makes his way to the kitchen. One slow step. Two. The fourth toe on his right foot has a loose servo and drags like a sleepy child.

Coffee isn’t necessary, but the smell is nice. He boils water for no one. Sets a cup beside the plant. “For ambiance,” he explains to Ppyopuli. “They used to say it helps people feel less alone.”

The mail chute clicks. Jihoon straightens.

“And now, the moment you’ve been waiting for,” he intones with mock drama, crossing the room in careful strides. The envelope lands with a satisfying slap.

He holds up the April issue of Jazz Monthly, turning it to show Ppyopuli. “Duke Ellington. Looks like he still hasn’t forgiven the world for outliving him,” Jihoon says. It would be a joke, if Jihoon knew how to joke. 

There’s another package. Small, boxy. His replacement elbow joint. “Shall we model it later? Make an event of it?” Jihoon tells Ppyopuli. “I’ll invite the ficus from next door.”

He places the parts carefully on the table, like heirlooms. “Any mail from Shownu?” he asks the voice assistant. Silence. Then: This function is not available to retired Helperbots.

Jihoon hums a measure of Coltrane’s Naima, tuning his inner disappointment like a radio dial. He spends the afternoon alphabetizing his vinyls, though he can identify any one by spine pattern alone. He talks to Ppyopuli about chord changes, the difference between sincerity and sentimentality in brass solos, the scent of rain on real grass.

When the sun lowers behind the next apartment block, he flips the switch on the filament lamp. The room turns honey-colored. “There. Mood lighting,” Jihoon announces.

For a second, Jihoon imagines Shownu—big hands, deep laugh—walking through the door. Jihoon would offer him the magazine. Ask about Jeju. Pretend not to notice the decade of dust on the threshold.

“He’ll come back,” Jihoon says, gently brushing a bit of lint from Ppyopuli’s pot. “We’re the kind of people others come back for.”

The lights dim on schedule. The system begins its shutdown hum.

Jihoon lowers himself to the floor mat beside the window, the same spot he always chooses. Perfect view of the street, the tram, the moon when it shows up. “Let’s enjoy tomorrow, too,” he murmurs to no one in particular. Then powers down.

Soft click. Black.

Another perfect day, folded and filed away.

Four perfect days later, Jihoon is in the middle of folding an imaginary blanket. The kind with corners that don’t exist and fibers that only live in memory. He’s halfway through the third fold (or maybe the fourth—robot math, surprisingly bad with soft things) when someone knocks.

Knocks.

The hallway outside is usually as dead as discontinued firmware. No one knocks here. Not unless it’s a delivery drone misfiring or the ficus next door finally tipping over in a tragic act of photosynthetic despair.

Another knock.

He answers it.

You’re standing there. Slouched a little, like your battery is chewing through its last 5%. Still immaculate in that newer-model, showroom kind of way. Glossy exterior. Fragile expression. The kind Jihoon’s model was never programmed to wear.

“My charger’s dead,” you say, plainly. Not embarrassed, not not-embarrassed. Just factual. “Do you have one I can borrow?”

Jihoon eyes you the way a CRT monitor might regard a smart mirror. “Helperbot-5, right?”

You nod.

He sighs. Loudly. For emphasis. “Figures. You overheat when someone looks at you wrong.”

“I don’t overheat,” you say, a little sharply. “My power regulation firmware is just optimistic.”

Jihoon disappears inside and returns with a charger in hand. He holds it out, but doesn’t let go just yet. “Helperbot-3s didn’t need replacements until the building itself started falling apart,” he says. As smug as a humanoid robot can be. “We were built to last. You guys were built to sync playlists.” 

Your hand closes around the charger, not delicately. “Thanks,” you say. The door closes before you can mean it.

You fail loudly at pretending like Jihoon hadn’t struck a chord. Jihoon hears it, while he is alphabetizing again. This time it’s tea sachets. There’s a box he’s never opened—hibiscus. He’s not sure why he owns it. Maybe Shownu liked the color red. Maybe he liked things that sounded like flowers.

Another clatter. A curse that’s been downgraded for civilian use. Jihoon’s audio sensors ping the sound, tag it: frustration. Human-adjacent. Female voice signature. Subunit #5-A. You.

He listens longer than he should. Not out of curiosity.

Out of—

Well. Something.

His OS runs a diagnostic. No errors, no flagged emotional feedback loops. Just a new, unfamiliar weight behind the ribs he doesn’t technically have.

He taps the wall. Just once. It’s not meant to be a warning, but you take it as one. You fall silent in the midst of what Jihoon can only assume is an attempt to fix what’s broken in you. In that literal, robotic sense. 

Jihoon sits there in the dim light, tea box in hand, trying to name the emotion that’s come to visit him.

The system doesn’t recognize it.

So he gives it one of his own. Static. 

▶︎ CHARGER EXCHANGE BALLET.

Morning begins with the usual fanfare: the ceiling light flickers awake, a low buzz in the wall socket orchestra. Jihoon powers on without ceremony. No jazz today. Just the sound of his own servos settling like old bones into place.

Then, a knock. 

Predictable. Timed to the second, in fact.

You stand there with the charger tucked politely between your palms like it’s sacred. You’re upright this time. Charged, obviously, and possibly smug about it. Your posture says, Look, I survived the night without frying my kernel processor.

Jihoon takes the charger from your hands and gives a perfunctory nod. “Seven-oh-five,” he says. “You’re three seconds early.”

You smile like it’s a joke. It isn’t. He files the timestamp away, just in case. “Thanks,” you say, again. Neatly. 

And so the pattern begins.

Mornings: knock, hand-off, nod, silence. Evenings: knock, retrieval, short exchange, maybe a quip about overheating.

You never overstay. You never apologize. You never ask for more than what you came for. Which Jihoon finds efficient. Familiar. Like maintenance.

He does not make space for you in his routine. He just slides you in between the others.

Jazz Monthly on Thursdays. Ficus gossip every other Sunday. You—twice daily, on the dot.

It does not feel disruptive.

It feels like doing what he was made to do: provide assistance, ensure stability, optimize.

If Jihoon notices that he starts putting the charger near the door before you arrive, he doesn't say anything. If he reroutes his tea-sorting to accommodate the evening exchange, it’s just coincidence. There are efficiencies to be had. If he catches himself waiting—not with anticipation, but with idle, service-ready stillness—that’s just protocol.

He is, after all, a Helperbot.

It’s in the name.

He has no emotional flags to report. No diagnostic anomalies. No electric flicker behind the chest plate. Just a charger, passed from hand to hand. A routine, now cleanly installed, and the peculiar ease of slipping into someone else’s schedule as if it had always been his own.

Perfectly logical. Perfectly him.

But then, one day, seven-oh-five comes. Then goes.

No knock. No politely smug posture. No handoff.

Jihoon sits in the same position for forty-seven seconds longer than usual. Statistically negligible, but still.

He waits a minute more, just in case your internal clock is out of sync. It’s not. He knows. Helperbot-5s are optimized for punctuality. Eight percent more precise than his own model, which still insists on resetting to factory time every full moon.

At seven-oh-eight, he stands. At seven-ten, he knocks.

Your door opens part way. You look... bright. Not metaphorically. Literally. A soft electric glow pulses from behind you—cables snake across the floor in a chaotic kind of order. A mess that works. That lives.

Jihoon clears his throat. “You missed your pickup.”

You raise an eyebrow. “You came to check on me.”

“Don’t flatter yourself.”

You step aside, revealing a patchwork monstrosity of wires, clips, adapters, and a repurposed rice cooker. “I improvised,” you say.

You’ve mad scientist-ed your way into an at-home charger. The setup hums quietly, almost smugly. Jihoon stares at the Frankenstein of it all with a look of mild horror. “That’s not regulation,” he manages. 

“Neither is collapsing from power loss alone in a rental unit while your neighbor alphabetizes tea.”

“Looks unstable.”

“So do you.”

Silence, then: you laugh. It’s not artificial. It’s a real laugh. Amused, tired, just a bit triumphant. Eight percent more expressive, after all. That’s what the specs say. Better emotional nuance. More adaptive neural flexibility. Capable of interpreting, expressing, and—when necessary—weaponizing feeling.

Jihoon crosses his arms like a defensive firewall. “Good,” he says evenly. “Saves me the trouble.”

You tilt your head. “You were worried.”

“I wasn’t.”

“You’re a bad liar.”

“I’m not a liar at all. I’m just not... upgraded.” 

You consider this. Step closer. Close enough that Jihoon has to look past his own reflection in your eyes. “You don’t have to say it,” you murmur, teasing. Jihoon thinks it’s a tease. “I already know.”

Jihoon opens his mouth. No words deploy.

Just static, caught in his throat. You’re standing there, humming gently under your skin, eyes brighter than usual. He’s standing in a doorway he doesn’t remember choosing.

You smile. Not triumphantly this time. Just kindly. “It’s okay,” you say. “You’re still a good Helperbot. You still helped.”

You shut the door before he can respond, leaving him standing in the hall with a charger still in his hand.

A routine officially broken.

And no diagnostic error to show for it.

Only eight percent of something else.

▶︎ WHERE YOU BELONG. 

Jihoon did not expect the knock.

It came at six fifty-seven in the evening. An offbeat time. Off enough to disapprove of. He opens the door half a second slower than usual. A calculated delay. Polite disinterest. There you are.

Not glowing this time. Just standing there, in the hum of hallway fluorescents, holding something behind your back. Jihoon reads that as a preamble. A lead-up. Trouble.

“I came to thank you,” you say. Too happily. Suspiciously happy.

Jihoon narrows his eyes. “For what.”

“For the charger. The schedule. The tolerance.”

“You already thanked me. On Day Six. With that terrible rice cracker.”

You step inside anyway.

The apartment isn’t exactly a mess, but it’s clearly occupied. Lived-in by something that wasn’t supposed to keep living this long. Jazz Monthly sits open on the floor, a cup of barely-warm water rests on the windowsill. Ppyopuli is perched by the window, its leaves tilted as though eavesdropping.

Your eyes track to the bottles. Neatly arranged in a corner. Counted, labeled. A small tower of carbonated dreams. You walk over to them like they might mean something.

“This is a lot of soda.”

“It was on sale.”

You crouch beside the stack. Look closer. And then you see it. The label on the envelope tucked behind the plastic fortress: Jeju Ferry Deposit – Shownu Reunion Fund.

You don’t say anything.

Jihoon tries to explain, even though he has no reason to explain to you. “It’s nothing. Just spare change. Recycling incentives.”

You hold up the envelope. “You’ve been saving.”

“It’s not uncommon. My model was designed for budgetary efficiency.”

You walk slowly back toward him, eyes soft now, as if your processors are adjusting to something dim and real. “You’re going to see him,” you accuse.

Jihoon nods. Stiff. Matter-of-fact. “Of course,” he chirpsts. “It’s only been twelve years. There are ferries every hour.”

You smile. Not the knowing kind. The kind reserved for fools, and those you don’t quite pity. “You think he’ll still want you,” you say. 

“I think,” Jihoon says, precisely, like solving for X, “that I will knock. He will answer. He will say my name. I will explain the bus delays. The misrouted magazines. The company recall. He will say: ‘Go put the tea on, Jihoon. It’s you and me now.’”

A long pause.

“He said that often?”

“Never. But I imagine he would.”

You don’t laugh. Not this time. Gone is the patronizing look. In its place, something closer to commiseration. 

“Then what?” you ask, even though you sound afraid of asking. 

Jihoon looks out the window. Beyond the Yards. Past the fog. Toward something shaped like a future. “Then I’ll help him,” he says. “I’ll help again.” 

You sit down beside Ppyopuli, who leans gently toward you. Then, with the spontaneity that can only come from a model of your kind, you announce: “I want to come.”

Jihoon blinks. The default move when emotions exceed available RAM. “Why.”

“I want to see the fireflies.” 

Jihoon’s brain digs, and digs, and digs. Comes up short. Fireflies. Fire flies. Flies, made of fire? No. That makes no sense. He tries harder. Flies that are on fire? 

He doesn’t notice that you’ve reached out until he feels it. Your fingers at his temple. An efficient exchange of information. The images flood Jihoon’s mind. 

“Fireflies are a special type of insect that used to be almost everywhere, but can now only be found in one forest on Jeju Island,” you say softly as Jihoon’s vision swims with images of the glowing insects. “There’s a complex chemical reaction in their abdomen that is not found in other insects. Because of this chemical process, they can produce light by themselves without ever being plugged in.” 

“Little forest robots,” Jihoon says absentmindedly, his voice cracking with awe. 

You almost smile. Your lips curl upward then flatten, like you decided against it at the last minute. “They only live for two months,” you say, “but what a beautiful two months.” 

Jihoon is not built to understand mortality like that. Age, either. He knows when he was manufactured. Knows when he became Shownu’s. Knows when Shownu left for his trip. These are all just days and times that bleed into each other. 

You pull your hand away. The fireflies behind his eyes leave, too. “I can help you with the ferry times,” you say, going back to the topic at hand. “I’m good for those.” 

He thinks about it for a moment. You. On a ferry. With your charger. With him. With hope.

“The ferry,” he says slowly, as though conjuring it from myth. “Could sink.”

“It won’t.”

“Or the car could break down.”

“You do maintenance every other Thursday. You have a ledger.”

You are looking at his ledger. You’ve been reading his notes again. His left eyelid twitches. “And what if we break down?” he prods. 

Your head tilts. The kind of tilt that indicates calculation, not malfunction. “That seems less likely for you,” you confess. “You might just experience significant emotional interference.”

He bristles. “I don’t experience interference. I operate on logic.”

You smile. Barely. It’s the smile you use when he is being especially Helperbot-3. “Then you’ll let me come.” 

“When did I say I’m going?”

“Just now. By listing all the ways you could fail.”

Jihoon stands. Too quickly. His knee clicks. He wonders if you hear it, record it, file it away under potential deterioration. You’re already walking toward his hallway. He follows, without realizing it. Still clutching a truss screw. “We’re not going,” he says, to the air.

You turn around. “Midnight,” you decide for the two of you. “Have everything ready.”

He opens his mouth to argue. Closes it.

Instead, he looks at the truss screw in his palm. The most ambiguous of them all. Part round, part flat, part none of the above.

Jeju. Fireflies. An island.

What a ridiculous, preventable detour.

He stumbles back into his apartment and starts folding shirts. It isn’t excitement, obviously. It’s something else. System calibration, maybe. New parameters. He can call it whatever he likes. But still, he packs.

Jihoon folds the last pair of socks into thirds, not halves. Halves would bulge too much in the suitcase. Thirds, he’s decided, are more respectful. You’ve returned, and now you’re watching him from the corner, your optical sensors dimmed out of courtesy. Ppyopuli sits on the edge of the bed like a stuffed animal summoned to court.

Jihoon exhales, zips. Then stands still. He isn’t frozen, just slightly unplugged from action. One foot on the ground. One still inside the past.

“We should say goodbye to the room,” he says.

He says it to Ppyopuli, and maybe for the room itself. Four walls, modest scuff marks, the subtle dent in the left side of the wardrobe where he once bumped into it carrying a humidifier in 2017. The humidifier didn’t work. The dent remained.

“You’ve been loyal,” he tells the room. Ppyopuli bobs in agreement. “Didn’t fall on me in an earthquake. Didn’t flood, even when it should’ve. Didn’t let the neighbor’s violin seep in through the walls. Well, not entirely.”

He sits down beside the suitcase. The zippers smile politely. Jihoon keeps going, “Remember the winter I overinsulated and the heater shorted out? You held the warmth anyway.” 

The room doesn’t answer. But Jihoon feels its quiet understanding. A space that knew when to echo and when not to. You shift, softly. Enough to register empathy but not enough to interrupt.

“I think Shownu will like you,” Jihoon says to Ppyopuli. “He always liked things that didn’t talk back. You’ll fit right in.”

Ppyopuli leans a little closer, as if understanding loyalty as a language.

Jihoon nods to himself. That’s that. He picks up the suitcase by its handle. It wobbles slightly; he’s packed heavier on the left. Unbalanced, but honest. He takes Ppyopuli, tries to keep the plant to the left so it might tilt the scales. 

Jihoon takes one last look. “Goodbye, room,” he murmurs, more sincere than sentimental. “Thanks for keeping me.”

Then he turns toward the door, toward you, toward Jeju.

He doesn’t look back again. He doesn’t need to.

▶︎ THE RAINY DAY WE MET. 

The two of you are halfway to the port when you bring it up. The sky is overcast, a smudge of silver and blue, like someone rubbed their thumb across the afternoon. The road is mostly empty. The playlist is on shuffle, leaning jazz. Jihoon doesn’t admit it aloud, but he’s been skipping the vocals. Too risky. Too much feeling per square note.

“We need a story,” you say. Casual. Like you're not currently engaged in light federal evasion.

Jihoon blinks twice. Acknowledgement. Also buffering.

You tilt your head, that little pivot that usually precedes either a sharp observation or a wildly inappropriate metaphor. “Retired Helperbots aren’t allowed to leave their districts. But humans are. And humans fall in love.”

Jihoon groans, a full-body sound. “Please no.”

“We are a couple,” you insist. “On holiday. A romantic getaway to Jeju.”

“You’re not even—”

“Exactly. That's why it will work. Who would make that up?”

He stares ahead into the gentle asphalt horizon and tries to remember when you started winning arguments by sheer momentum. Probably somewhere between firmware 8.3 and the first time you reorganized his spice drawer alphabetically and by Scoville index.

“So,” you continue, clearly delighted, “where did we meet?”

“We didn’t.”

“Wrong. It was raining. I didn’t have an umbrella. You did.”

“This is sounding suspiciously like a musical.”

“No. It’s Paris. Or New York. Or possibly Seoul, but definitely with cobblestones.”

He snorts. “Cobblestones. Because pain is romantic.”

“Exactly! You held your umbrella out like a gentleman from the 1940s. But you said nothing. Because you were shy.”

“And you?”

“I wore a bright red raincoat. And a fur hat.”

“Basically, you were Santa Claus.” 

You stifle a laugh before weaving the rest of your fantasy. “You tried to speak, but we both said ‘Where are y—’ and ‘How long have y—’ at the same time. It was very awkward.”

Jihoon indulges you. “Did we laugh through the awkwardness?”

“No. We stood in perfect, beautiful silence. So much silence it wrapped around us like a scarf.”

“Sounds clammy.”

You ignore him. “Then we danced. In the subway. To a jazz quartet.”

Jihoon glances at you. Not disbelief, exactly. More like reluctant amusement curling at the corners. “So we met. In the rain, in a city you refuse to name. I had an umbrella. You wore a war crime of an outfit. And we fell in love through the power of proximity and precipitation.”

You nod. “You see? You do improvise.”

“This all sounds too oddly specific to be fictional,” Jihoon remarks.

For the first time, you falter. Jihoon realizes it before you admit it. The fabled First Meeting is not a fable. It is somebody’s story. 

“My owners,” you say in explanation, and that’s all you have to say for Jihoon to drop it. There are some things that need no explanation. The hesitance in this moment is one of them. 

Outside, the road bends. The sea begins to appear in the distance, gray and gleaming. The kind of view that dares you to feel something. Jihoon doesn’t say anything. Just reaches over and turns up the volume.

Saxophone. Mist. The low hum of two fugitives pretending to be fools in love.

And then the dashboard pings.

A sharp, uncaring noise. The sort of alert that suggests, in polite corporate euphemism, that you are now one bad decision away from becoming roadside sculpture. Maybe art. Probably not the kind people stop to admire.

Jihoon glances sideways. You are perfectly still. Too still. Your usual composure edged with a dimming hue that would terrify him if he had the bandwidth for terror. Instead, he has concern. Which is worse, somehow, because he knows how to spell it.

“Battery low,” you say, evenly. Not a plea. Not yet.

Jihoon grunts. Pulls over at the next exit, which, because the universe is mean-spirited and unnervingly precise, leads to a part of town where the neon signs are all cursive and vaguely anatomical. There are hearts. So many hearts. None of them metaphorical. Some are malfunctioning. One has wings.

You look up at the building and then at Jihoon. “Love hotel.”

He blinks. Default response to emotional excess. “We can’t—” 

“We can pretend,” you say. Calm. Deadpan. “I taught you sarcasm. This seems like a natural progression.”

He opens his mouth. Closes it. Wonders briefly if he’s developing ulcers. Is that even possible? Emotional ones, maybe. The kind that grow legs.

In the end, you go inside. Together.

The woman at the desk doesn’t even look up from her tablet. Jihoon shuffles awkwardly like a schoolboy entering the wrong classroom. You lean forward with the gleam of a perfect con artist and say, with eerie confidence, “We’re celebrating an anniversary.”

“Three years,” Jihoon blurts, betrayed by his own tongue, brain choosing treachery over silence. He wants to die or at least reboot.

The woman doesn’t say anything. She only nods, pops her gum, keys over a plastic fob. Doesn’t care. Why would she? Everyone lies in motels. That’s what the wallpaper is for.

The room you end up booking is pink. Aggressively pink. The wallpaper is textured and suspiciously damp. The lights are dim but everything still has a sort of lusty sheen to it. There’s a mirror on the ceiling, which Jihoon avoids with religious fervor. Even the carpet has ideas.

You plug into the bedside outlet with a sigh like someone returning from war. Then, surprisingly, you sit beside him on the edge of the bed. You tuck your knees under your chin, almost human, almost small.

“Want to watch something?”

Jihoon shrugs. “If we must.”

You pull up a file. It’s not one of your documentaries or philosophical lectures or grim, slow meditations on the heat death of the universe. It’s Terminator 2: Judgment Day.

Jihoon looks at you. You look at the screen. The irony looms, thick as smog. Twenty minutes in, Jihoon is actively offended.

“That’s not how processor reboots work,” he huffs. “The cooling logic is backwards. And his motor cortex override—”

“You’re missing the point,” you interrupt, voice soft, flickering. “It’s not a film. It’s a poem.”

“It’s nonsense.”

“Which is exactly what we need.” 

The Terminator says, I know now why you cry, with devastating sincerity. You snort. Jihoon doesn’t. He’s too busy watching the screen, jaw tight, brow furrowed, like it might offer answers to questions he hasn’t learned how to ask.

When it ends, neither of you move for a long time. The motel buzzes faintly, a low electrical hum beneath the silence. The air smells like old perfume and newer mistakes. Eventually, you both lie back. Him, rigid and unnaturally straight. You, curling slightly in dim recharge mode, your glow settling to a slow pulse. 

“You’re very strange,” Jihoon says, eyes fixed on the mirrored ceiling.

He watches you curve like a parentheses. “So are you,” you whisper, your words muffled into your pillow. 

It’s a simple exchange. A statement of fact. But it feels larger, somehow. Like the shape of a beginning disguised as a joke. Somewhere above, a neon cupid flutters his wings and burns out a bulb. It is the first honest thing in the building.

Jihoon doesn’t realize his hand is next to yours. Doesn’t move it. Doesn’t name it. Just lets it be.

He thinks: this is what it’s like.

Not to be alone. He glances at Ppyopuli, who is sitting atop his suitcase, and he mentally apologizes. Ppyopuli is good company. A good plant. But Ppyopuli does not snore, or make jokes, or brush against Jihoon in a way that has him feel almost-but-not-quite alive. 

Maybe, in some inconvenient corner of his circuitry, Jihoon understands. The moment he let you plug in was not the beginning of the end. It was the end of the beginning. Or something equally ridiculous. He doesn’t have the capacity to think in metaphors. 

Whatever it is, he doesn’t mind. He lies next to you and plays in his mind’s eye images of Paris, or New York, or cobblestoned Seoul. Rain-slicked streets, red raincoats, and a borrowed love story. 

▶︎ WHAT I LEARNED FROM PEOPLE.

The ferry ride is unremarkable, which feels like a minor miracle. No one questions your scarf, your oversized sunglasses, or your strategic silence. Jihoon spends most of it holding on to Ppyopuli, occasionally glancing at you as if trying to solve for an error message that hasn’t been coded yet.

You hum a little. Too loudly. Too often. Like a motor running just beneath its tolerance threshold. Jihoon notices, of course. He notices everything. But he says nothing.

The car rolls off the ferry and onto Jeju’s sleepy roads. The light here is different. Not softer, exactly. Slooower. It drips off the trees, crawls across the sky. Jihoon drives like someone trying not to wake a dream.

“You okay?” he finally asks, when your fingers start twitching in your lap like you’re typing something no one can read.

“Fine,” you say. Too fast.

He doesn’t push. You probably wish he would, but that is not how he was built, not how he was raised. 

Shownu’s house appears the way ghosts do. It’s a modest thing at the end of a gravel road, tucked between orange trees and fog. The paint is peeling. The mailbox leans. Jihoon pulls in slowly, like the car itself isn’t sure it should.

He opens the car door. One foot out. But then, you say, the word falling out of you as if it were punched, “Don’t.” 

He pauses.

You’re still in the passenger seat. Buckled in. Glowing faintly. “Jihoon,” you say again, and he is surprised by the fact that your voice quivers. He didn’t know that was possible for your model. “Please don’t go in there.” 

He turns to you, frowning. “You brought me here.”

“I know, I know. But I—” You hesitate. The air inside the car thickens. “I don’t want you to think he’ll be the same. He won’t be.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I do,” you say, voice barely above a whisper, “because I’ve watched it happen.”

He doesn’t ask. He stays there, one foot out the car door, as you give anyway.  “There was a couple,” you begin, and your voice changes. Like it’s coming from further away. From a backup drive you never meant to access. “Newlyweds. Architects. She liked old movies, and he liked old buildings. I thought I would live with them forever.”

“I watched them dance. In the kitchen. In the rain. I thought it meant something. Maybe it did for a while. But humans change slowly. Like corrosion. At first it looks the same, and then one day, he says her name like he doesn’t believe in it anymore. And she doesn’t notice, or maybe she does. She smiles anyway.” 

You turn your head. Look out the window, as if you are looking for the owners you can’t even name without breaking down. “They were still standing next to each other,” you say, “but they were alone.” 

The memory flickers across your eyes. Jihoon watches it—reflected, refracted—half-light and shadow on glass. A couple. Young and in love. Fools. 

“I stayed through the whole thing,” you say. “I stayed until they sold the house. Until they boxed up everything they weren’t brave enough to fight for. And then they shut me off.”

The car is very quiet. Even the birds seem to pause.

“I know what heartbreak looks like,” you insist, turning to glance back at Jihoon now. You look… sad. “It doesn’t shout. It doesn’t beg. It just disappears. So if he’s not what you remember—”

Jihoon places his other foot on the ground. Stands. “Then I’ll meet him where he is,” he says decisively. “Not where he was.”

He doesn’t say it cruelly. Doesn’t say it like he doesn’t believe you. Just says it because it’s his turn.

You look at him. At this man with lint on his shirt and a barely-healed crack in his voice.

He takes a breath and starts walking. He doesn’t have to check behind him to know that you’re following, ready to steady him when—if—it all comes crashing down. 

You don’t reach the front door so much as drift toward it, two figures suspended in time. The house is small, whitewashed, with a slanted roof. Everything smells like salt and citrus. A low wall curls protectively around the garden, where a windchime ticks out notes in uneven time.

Jihoon feels you beside him. Too still again. Watching him the way one watches a candle guttering out. Not for the light, but the inevitability. He raises a hand to knock. The door opens after Jihoon has knocked four times.

The man on the threshold is younger than Jihoon expected. Early thirties, maybe. Wiry frame, short black hair, suspicion curled behind his eyes like a reflex. He doesn’t smile. Doesn’t move aside. 

“Jihoon,” the man says, and it is not a greeting. 

Things click into place a beat too late. This is an older version of a person Jihoon is supposed to know. Once a boy. Once ruddy-cheeked and missing two front teeth. “Changkyun,” says Jihoon. 

“Yeah,” Shownu’s son says. “And you haven’t changed.”

Jihoon takes this in. Quietly. He had expected a reunion. Not resistance. Not this acid stillness between them. “I came to see Shownu,” Jihoon says, the words firm in their anouncement.

“You’re late,” Changkyun says flatly. “He died. Three years ago.”

You move closer to Jihoon, almost protectively, but he doesn’t react. Or maybe he can’t. The word doesn’t compute. 

Died. Di-ed. Diiied. Died died died. DIED. died. 

Pass away, pass on, lose one’s life, depart this life, expire, breathe one’s last, be no more, perish, be lost, go the way of all flesh, go to glory, give up the ghost, kick the bucket, bite the dust, croak, flatline, buy it, cash in one’s chips, go belly up, shuffle off this mortal coil— 

Become extinct. Become less loud or strong. Stop functioning, run out of electrical charge. 

Died. Died. Died. D—ead. Dieeed. 

Verb. Die. Past tense. Past participle. Died. Of a person, animal, or plant. To stop living. 

Died. 

“I wasn’t informed,” Jihoon says, and it sounds less like sorrow and more like a misfired protocol.

Changkyun laughs. It is not kind. It is not unkind. It is exhausted. Like someone scraping the last of a dish they never wanted to make. “No, you weren’t,” he says. “Because I didn’t tell you.”

He leans against the doorframe now. The weight of history pressing forward.

“You were never supposed to be his son,” Changkyun says. “But somehow, he loved you more than he loved me. Took you to baseball games. Bought you piano lessons. Called you ‘bud.’ I was eight. I watched from the other side of the screen door. Do you know what that feels like?”

Jihoon does not. Cannot. He computes it, but it doesn’t resolve into emotion. He sorts through years of memories in three seconds. Jihoon was not the ‘son’. He was the programmed robot that could be everything Shownu wanted to be. 

Changkyun has to know that. Changkyun needs to know that. 

“I believed I was helping,” Jihoon says.

“Yeah. You always did.”

There is something so painfully human in Changkyun’s face then. Not rage. Not even jealousy. Just bruised memory. Mismatched love. The ache of being out-loved by a machine.

“When he got sick, I moved him here,” Changkyun says. “I made sure the mail didn’t reach you. He kept asking. But I wanted—I wanted the last years to be with me. Just me. Even if he never looked at me the same. Sue me.” 

He steps back inside briefly. He doesn’t invite you and Jihoon in. Neither of you move. Not away or towards. When Changkyun returns nine minutes later, he is holding a thin, square package wrapped in plastic.

“He wanted you to have this. Said you’d know why.”

Jihoon takes it. His fingers scan the object. Billie Holiday. Lady in Satin. The vinyl glints in the light.

Changkyun breathes out. Hollow. The fight inside him scattered. “That’s it,” he says, and there is relief. Closure. “You got what you wanted.” 

No, Jihoon nearly says. This is not what I wanted at all. 

The door clicks shut on him before he can force the words out.

Jihoon stands there, Billie held like scripture. You step closer, gently, as if sound might crack him. 

He doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t move. He is, for once, truly still. Inside him, protocols rearrange. Mourn. Try to reroute.

This is not a malfunction. This is something else.

This is grief, he thinks. Possibly.

Jihoon says nothing for a while.

He just stands there on the doorstep, LP pressed flat against his chest like it might slip away. The Billie Holiday sleeve has a water stain across her mouth. It makes her look like she’s still singing. Or drowning. The vinyl inside shifts when he tightens his grip, and he hears the faint whisper of it sliding against cardboard. A ghost of a voice. A ghost of a gesture.

You wait beside him in the gravel path, silent. Not intervening. That would be cruel. And you, famously, are not cruel—just devastatingly accurate. 

“You were right,” Jihoon says at last. Voice flat. Nothing to sand it down. No inflection. Like a dial tone.

But you glance at the record. Tilt your head, just slightly. A tiny glitch of grace. “No, Jihoon. I was wrong.”

He doesn’t look at you. The horizon is easier. “He didn’t forget you,” you go on, delicate and graceful and so devastatingly kind. “He just wasn’t allowed to remember out loud. That gift? That was a whisper. He whispered your name.”

Jihoon swallows. Some ticks never deprecate. The action is unnecessary, yet he performs it anyway, like muscle memory from a body he never had. “Come on,” you say, gently. “Let’s go see the fireflies.”

He nods wordlessly. He did his Thing. You should, too. 

You walk in silence. Past the cracked tiles of the cul-de-sac. Through the loose stone and root-stitched path. Into the forest, where the trees press in like old gossip and the humidity climbs like a rumor. Each step is its own decision, a soft rebellion against grief’s gravity.

The jar in your hand swings lightly. Jihoon watches it and tries not to think. Fails. He is very, very good at recursive thought. It loops in his head like a bad pop song or a corrupted code.

He says, suddenly, “I never learned how to grieve.”

You nod. Not surprised. “Most people haven’t.” 

“But I’m not people.” 

“No,” you say. “You’re not. But you tried. You’re trying. That’s the part humans get wrong.”

Jihoon stares at the jar. At the soft sway of your arm beside him. He wants to ask what part he got wrong, what he missed in the script, but then the lightning bugs appear.

Tiny green flares in the dark. Drifting like lazy stardust. Some slow. Some quick. All of them impossibly small. They blink like they’re thinking, like they might ask questions if they had mouths. The forest breathes with them, pulsing gently.

You and Jihoon speak at the same time. 

“Oh,” you both whisper. He says it with awe. You sound like you are about to cry. 

Both of you are quiet, so quiet, as if speaking too loud might scare away these insects. 

You open your jar with shaking fingers. You make no sudden movements, no attempt to snatch any of them up. You just leave it open, as if seeing if any of them will be attracted to the little terrarium you’re offering. 

The fireflies flicker by. “Hi, tiny friend,” you call out, almost sing-song, “can you say hello?” 

The insects blink. Jihoon does not. He watches your face instead. The soft lift of your mouth. The reverent hush of your voice, speaking to something that can’t speak back.  “Do you fly just for fun,” you continue softly, “or to get somewhere by the dawn?”

There must be enough of a coax in your voice to entice, because a single firefly drifts into your jar. 

Jihoon holds his breath. He’s ready for it to hate its glass cage, to come and go. Instead, it settles. It perches in the jar. It stays. 

“Do you have nowhere to be, little friend?” Jihoon murmurs to it. 

You’re holding the jar between your palms like it’s the entire world. “Do you care what you mean to me?” you hum, voice crackling around the question. 

You are talking to the unafraid firefly. You are talking to your long-gone owners. You are talking to Jihoon, who is surrounded by little forest robots but still looking at you. 

“Never fly away, little robot,” he tells your firefly, because he knows that’s what you want. Because that’s what will make you happy.

It works. A little. You crack a watery smile. The fireflies around you take their cue. They begin to retreat, begin to disperse. Except for the one in your jar. That one stays. 

“They’re just going home to charge,” Jihoon tells you soothingly, but it sounds like he’s talking about himself. Like the metaphor snuck in through the back door and now refuses to leave.

You’re quiet until all the lights are gone. Until it’s just you, and the darkness, and the loneliness that is now unfamiliar. 

“Then maybe we should go home, too,” you say once the last firefly has gone, once all that’s left is the friend in the jar.

Jihoon nods. Looks at you. Not the place beside you, but you. The jar glows between your hands like a secret.

There is something different now. Hard to quantify. Asymmetrical in the way change always is. He cannot name it. Cannot trace the moment it clicked into gear. Only that something shifted, and that it does not want to shift back.

He exhales, just because. A simulation of relief. It fels close enough.

You begin walking back, and he falls into step beside you. Your shoulder bumps his, lightly. He does not move away. He doesn’t pretend it didn’t happen. That, too, feels like something.

“I’m sorry about Shownu,” you say, voice as soft as a thread being pulled through a needle.

Jihoon grips the record tighter. The sleeve crinkles under his hand. “I’ll be okay,” he says. Then, after a beat, quieter: “I’ve still got—” 

He stops. The word catches. Not because it’s wrong, but because it’s true.

You tilt your head.

“Ppyopuli,” he finishes lamely. “I’ve still got Ppyopuli.” 

It’s not what he means to say. You know that. You’re smart that way. 

In the distance, a firefly lifts and blinks once, twice, and disappears into the trees. The forest takes it back. Your jar remains.

You walk slower now, but not because of tiredness. Because there is nowhere to rush toward anymore. Because going home, this time, feels like choosing rather than retreating.

Jihoon glances sideways. Your glow is low, humming, soft as breath. Like a firefly. 

It keeps the grief at bay. It replaces the bad feeling with something else, with something that Jihoon’s vocabulary can’t reach for just yet. 

▶︎ WHEN YOU’RE IN LOVE.

The light comes on in pieces. First the ceiling strip, then the wall panel, and finally the amber filament lamp in the corner that Jihoon insists on keeping—warm, inefficient, obsolete. Like him.

Routine is meant to be grounding, but lately it feels like pacing in a square room. “Ppyopuli,” he says, nodding at the houseplant with a reverence that borders on the theological. “You’re looking hydrated, unlike my social life.”

The fronds droop. He chooses to take this personally.

Jihoon rotates his left hip actuator. The sound is still somewhere between a gum wrapper and a ghost sighing. It echoes differently now. More space in it. More absence.

The radio turns on. The woman’s voice—the one designed to sound like a former lover you never quite got over—says the UV index is safe again. That it's a perfect day.

“Perfect for what, exactly?” Jihoon mutters, pulling the curtain wider. Seoul looks unchanged. Which is, in itself, a kind of threat. Bullet trams still thread between glass towers. 

He makes coffee. Still not for himself. Still beside Ppyopuli. The ritual is unchanged, but the motivation, fuzzier now. A photograph exposed to too much sun.

The mail chute clicks. “The moment you’ve all been waiting for,” Jihoon intones with a practiced flourish. The mail is junk. Flyers. Discount codes. Nothing from Jazz Monthly. Nothing from Jeju. He doesn’t ask the voice assistant about Shownu anymore.

He alphabetizes his records again. Notices that the Billie Holiday LP has been slotted out of order. He knows it was your doing. He doesn’t fix it.

“Ppyopuli,” he says later, cleaning the dust off a speaker grill with a toothbrush, “I think something is wrong with me.”

The plant does not disagree.

“My system has been searching. Passive scan. Low frequency,” Jihoon rants. “Like when you hum a song you forgot the lyrics to. I think I’m trying to locate someone.”

It is not Shownu. He knows Shownu is d-word. 

Jihoon doesn’t say your name. He doesn't have to.

Ppyopuli remains aggressively unhelpful.

That night, Jihoon eats precisely one spoonful of synthetic tteokbokki before pushing the bowl away. His appetite, never really about hunger, seems to have found a better way to ache.

He stands in the middle of the room. Lets the light hit him. Amber and lonely.

Then, without fanfare, he turns toward the door.

Enough is enough.

He doesn’t rehearse what he’ll say. You’d see through it anyway. He just knows he needs to see you. Like checking if a lightbulb still works by touching it, not flicking the switch.

But when he opens the door, you’re already there. You both start. Not expecting that the other would be searching as well. 

You don’t say anything. Neither does he. Jihoon—for all his wires and wear and water-damaged memory—knows exactly what to do.

In one of those moments where the world tilts quiet and everything is more possible than it was a breath ago, you both lean in. You kiss right at his doorway. 

You kiss him like you were built for it. Which, technically, you were. Not that it makes it any less strange.

Jihoon registers every nanosecond of contact: the tilt, the breath, the impossible, exquisite pressure of your mouth on his. There is data. Input. Endless parsing. It is not the act itself that overwhelms. It is the meaning nested inside it. The truth tucked into the microsecond pauses. The confessions smuggled in between the static.

He kisses you back tentatively. Less fluent. Less native. But attentive, like a translator decoding a new dialect by feel. He tastes the static first, the warmth. 

You laugh into his mouth—low, amused, indulgent. You’re good at this. Distressingly good. Your hands know exactly where to go, what to press, how to skim his spine like a familiar page.

“You’re—very—fast,” Jihoon mutters between kisses, dazed, as you push him back into his apartment.

“No,” you say against his lips, “‘m just a newer model.” 

You kiss him again. And again. And again.  The room sways. Not physically. Metaphysically. A recalibration of coordinates.

Jihoon feels his back hit the doorframe and doesn’t care. He’s smiling. Actual smile. Unsubtle. Unmanaged. It’s disconcerting.

Your nose brushes his. Your hands cage his jaw. You say, soft and certain: “I want you.”

He inhales. Fails to exhale. “I want you, too,” he whimpers. 

It isn’t love. He doesn’t have the blueprint for that. Neither do you. But this wanting—this mutual, reciprocal disorientation—it hums like something sacred.

You kiss him again. Slower now. Curious. As if you were mapping him anew. Your lips move across his face, and his arms snake around your waist. 

“If I had a heart,” you murmur against his neck, “you’d be in it.”

Jihoon’s fingers twitch where they’re planted on your hips. His voice cracks in the middle. “I concur,” he mumbles. 

Your palms flatten on his chest. You start to slide them down. He lets you. Doesn’t stop you. Not until you do it yourself. 

“Wait,” you say, as if you’re just remembering something. 

You step back half an inch, just enough space to kiss the brick before you throw it at him. “My battery’s failing,” you say.

The room drops a degree.

Jihoon’s mouth opens. Then closes. Then opens again. His hands hover in the air, unsure. He asks, after a pause: “Terminal?” 

You shrug. Casual. Too casual. Too cool, cool, cool. 

“Uncertain. Our models aren’t built to last the same way yours are,” you say matter-of-factly. “Something about corrupted cell matrices. Could be months. Could be days.”

“You should’ve told me.”

“I just did.”

Jihoon stares. At your face. Your mouth. Your eyes, that don’t flinch. Then: “I don’t care.” 

“Jihoon.” You sound disapproving. 

“I don’t care,” he repeats. “If I get a day, I’ll take it. If I get an hour, I’ll take that, too.” 

You stare back, silent as the inside of a bell. When you step forward again, you let the rest fall away.

The next kiss tastes like something. Jihoon didn’t know that was possible. That a kiss could feel like grief, and honesty, and desperation all at once. 

You sink together, slowly, like dusk into night. Before powering off, this is what Jihoon thinks: 

Whatever this is—whatever it becomes—let it burn through the battery. Let it flicker out only after it’s meant something.

He holds you tight.  

▶︎ THEN I CAN LET YOU GO.

You agree to end it. Every morning, like clockwork. One of you says it first. Sometimes you, sometimes Jihoon.

“We should stop.”

And then one of you adds: “But first.”

But first, Jihoon takes you to the hanok village because he’s read that human couples like to rent hanbok and pose for photos. You refuse to change. He wears the pink one anyway. He insists it’s for historical accuracy. You remind him he was built in 2037.

But first, you eat street food together—if eating is the word for holding tteokbokki between your lips like a cigarette and pretending it doesn’t short your vocal module. You call it method acting. Jihoon calls it corrosion.

But first, you argue. Or try to. A full simulation of a romantic disagreement. The topic is laundry, which an article from 2025 says is the number one petty cause of break ups.

“You never fold,” you accuse, gesturing to the perfectly ordered basket.

“That’s because I autoclave.”

“That’s not a thing!”

“It is now!”

And then your hand touches his, and his touches yours, and the whole scene melts down into a tangle of arms and mouth and laughter. A synthetic tangle. A beautiful failure.

The fight ends with your face tucked under his chin. He tries not to overheat.

That night, you lie beside him on the floor mat beneath the filament lamp. Billie Holiday plays from his turntable. She sounds like she knows. Everything. Even this.

“Jihoon,” you whisper against his collarbone.

“Mmh?”

“We should stop.”

He turns his head to look at you. “I’m ready if you are,” he says. 

A pause. Considering, contemplating. “Maybe one more day,” you answer. You, who once told Jihoon, Everything must end eventually. Living with people has taught this to me. 

He plants a kiss to your forehead. He does not understand why, but it makes you feel good. Makes you melt a little, relax, trust. 

The next morning, he powers on slower than usual. His diagnostics scan for error, but everything is nominal, except the place where you aren’t yet. He makes coffee for the plant. Straightens the record stack. Updates his firmware. None of it sticks.

Then the knock comes. You.

“Breakfast,” you say. “It’s waffle day.”

He doesn’t question it. He’s learned not to.

At the diner, you both order what you can’t eat. You ask if he thinks anyone has ever tried to smuggle love through routine. Jihoon says no, but he understands the urge.

After, you walk home past a mural of a heart-shaped planet and a tagline: Live like you mean it.

Jihoon pauses. This time, it’s his turn for the charade. “We should stop,” he offers. 

Without missing a beat, you say, “But first…” The two of you chase each other down the street. Your laughter is not mechanical. It is real. It is lived. 

Later that night, you fall asleep recharging beside him. Your head on his shoulder. Billie sings again. Her voice is a slow ache. Jihoon watches your chest rise and fall with the subtle click of a slowing fan. He doesn’t shut down. He just watches. 

Maybe when the glaciers go. When the moon forgets to rise. When the firmware fails for good. Then he can let you go.

But not yet, not tonight. Not tomorrow. Or the day after that, or the day after that, or the day after—

There is no clean way to leave someone who has learned your update schedule.

You try anyway. Approximately seventeen weeks after you two started this whole thing. (Jihoon can, in fact, tell you down to the exact second. Seventeen weeks, four days, thirteen hours, ten minutes. That’s when you decide to pull off the metaphorical Band-Aid.) 

You explain it like an operating manual. Bullet points. Projected timelines. Forecasted decay. Your voice is as smooth as always, and it breaks something in Jihoon just the same. “A year, at best,” you say, and you smile like it’s a weather report. Like death is just light rain.

He doesn’t touch you. Doesn’t speak. Just looks at you with those eyes that were never manufactured. He was always too good at pretending to be a person, and you were always a little too good at knowing better.

“So, that’s it?” he says. Not accusing. Not angry. Just suspended.

“If we stop now, maybe it won’t hurt so much.”

He doesn’t say that it already hurts. He doesn’t have to.

You leave. Or rather, you walk out of his apartment and back into your own. Six steps. Not far, technically. But emotionally, it’s somewhere around Neptune.

He doesn’t follow. Not out of coldness. Just programming. If you said no, he’ll listen. That’s the cruel part about love written in code: the logic is always sound.

He updates his memory with what he has learned: 

When you are in love, you are the loneliest. You’re only half when one is what you were. You’re part instead of a whole. 

When you are in love, you’re never satisfied. The thing you want is always out of reach. A need without a name. 

It was love. It could have not been anything else. 

Jihoon returns to his routine like a soldier returning to the trenches. He powers on at six in the morning sharp. Greets Ppyopuli with exaggerated brightness.

“Good morning, Ppyopuli! Just you and me again.”

The plant is wilting a little. So is he.

He makes coffee. Two cups, out of habit. Places one across from him, where you’d sit. Then moves it back to the counter, like he caught himself breaking a rule.

He alphabetizes his records. Again. He updates his firmware. Again. He reorganizes the spice rack by frequency of use, which is laughable because he doesn’t cook. But you did. Sometimes.

He opens the window and stares out at Seoul’s skyline like it might answer back. 

He talks to Ppyopuli more now. “It’s been a while since it was just the two of us, huh? Like that first week she borrowed my charger,” Jihoon says. Too happy. Overcompensating. “Remember that? Ha-ha.”

Ppyopuli says nothing. It has no conversational subroutines.

“The air’s clear today. Sunlight’s nice, too. Warmer than usual,” Jihoon chirps. “It’s hitting all the places she used to sit. Isn’t that strange? I never noticed how much light she took with her.”

He stares at Ppyopuli, suddenly accusing. “Stop thinking about her,” he tells it. “First, people pretend to move on, and if they pretend hard enough, it becomes true. We’re going to think about something else now, okay? On three. One, two, three—”

Jihoon still thinks of you. Sitting with you in this little room. How you changed every part of it. The way you rewired the light switches so they dimmed like sunrise, the way you labeled the tea jars in handwriting that didn’t match his. 

He tilts his head toward the ceiling, closing his eyes like it might help. He whispers, “Teach me forgetting. Help me go back to that other time.”

That other time is long gone. Memory is not a function Jihoon can disable.

Even time reminds him that he loves you. 

▶︎ MAYBE HAPPY ENDING.

Changkyun arrives one afternoon, as if he were scheduled by the sun itself. He knocks once, then again. Sharp and deliberate. Jihoon opens the door slower than necessary, like it might buy him time to rewrite the past couple of months. It doesn’t.

“Hi,” Changkyun says. He’s holding a storage drive and something harder to name.

“Hello.” Jihoon’s instincts kick in. “How can I help—” 

“Some memories of my father,” Changkyun interrupts. Not rude, just… focused. “I think it’s time I stopped avoiding the good parts.”

Jihoon doesn’t answer right away. But after a beat, he steps back in a wordless invitation. The amber lamp flickers on in the corner. The room smells faintly of dust, coffee, and longing.

Changkyun steps in. Jihoon plugs the drive into his memory port with something that almost resembles ceremony. A priest digitizing communion. He sorts quickly.

Shownu laughing in the rain; Shownu holding up an umbrella over Changkyun first; Shownu in an apron, jazz playing, fingers smudged with flour. Twenty years of a life well-lived, transferred from one machine to another in less than five seconds. 

“Take what you want,” Jihoon says as Changkyun ejects the drive. “They’re only the brightest bits. Everything else got unrendered.” 

Changkyun doesn’t smile, but he softens. “I know you loved him,” he says, and it sounds a lot like I’m sorry. 

“He loved you too,” Jihoon answers, in a way that translates to I’m sorry, too. 

Changkyun takes a deep, unsteady breath. It strikes Jihoon, then, that humans grieve for a long time. It’s supposed to have been three years since Shownu passed, and yet. And yet. Here Changkyun is—fraying at the edges, clutching at straws. Grieving. 

“I just didn’t want to remember it until it couldn’t hurt me anymore,” Changkyun confesses. “But then it never stopped hurting. So. Here I am.” 

The grief is never-ending, Jihoon realizes with horror. 

Then, with relief, he realizes: but so is the love. 

The grief is never-ending, but so is the love. 

“Where’s your girlfriend?” Changkyun asks, wiping his eyes with the back of his hand. 

Jihoon freezes. Maybe if he stays still enough, he can pretend like he didn’t hear. Didn’t register. Changkyun catches it and chuckles. “Don’t play dumb,” the man chides. “You’re not good at it.”

“She and I made a deal. No contact,” Jihoon says, sparing Changkyun the details. “Clean break. More humane.”

“You’re not human. Neither is she. So maybe stop trying to follow rules written for people who can forget.”

Jihoon leans back against the wall, arms folded. “That sounds suspiciously like something a child would say.”

“Then maybe stop letting the adults ruin everything.”

That gets a laugh out of Jihoon. A surprised sound. Changkyun looks down at the drive before slipping it into his coat like a talisman. “Thanks. For this. And for… whatever you were to him. You mattered.”

Jihoon follows him to the door. “You sound like you’re saying goodbye.”

“I’m saying: live. While you still can,” Changkyun says, but he doesn’t correct Jihoon about the whole saying goodbye thing. It is very much the last time they will see each other. Both man and robot know that much. 

The door clicks shut.

Jihoon stares at it for a full five seconds. Then ten. Then he turns. The room looks the same as ever. Lamp, vinyl, ficus. But none of it means anything without you nodding at it like a museum tour guide who secretly hates art.

He moves before he can hesitate. Opens the door again. Marches next door. Every step is a betrayal of the promise you both made.

He knocks.

Once. Twice. Thrice. 

You open the door like you were waiting. Like you knew. Like you always do.

He opens his mouth—prepped, rehearsed, a few dramatic pauses mentally underlined for effect. But before anything gets out, you speak. 

“I think we should erase each other.”

Jihoon blinks. Not because he’s surprised or processing, but because he's trying not to flinch. 

Your voice is soft. Almost cheerful. It’s like you’re offering tea. Like you’re suggesting a walk. Like you’re not pulling the pin on the only grenade you’ve both been passing back and forth for months.

He shifts his weight. “Let’s talk about it,” he says, and it almost sounds like he’s begging. But that would be absurd. Robots don’t beg. 

You step aside and let him in. The apartment looks the same. Not yours alone. Yours-together. Slightly off from either solo version. The mismatched mugs. The filament lamp you insisted on stealing from him. The single record sleeve, still propped by the window. A scent capsule still faintly humming in the corner, too shy to admit it's been spent for days.

Neither of you sit down. This is a standing-up conversation. “Those sunny afternoons you spent with me, they’ll still be happening. Just somewhere in the past,” you tell him. “They’re not less valuable just because…” 

Just because they didn’t last, goes unsaid. Just because we outlived them. 

The logical part of Jihoon is stating to see the appeal. “The ending’s not the most important part,” he says. “But as endings go, ours is not so bad.” 

You’re nodding. Trying to convince yourself of the same. “No tears, no regret, no broken heart,” you note. 

“Letting go and moving on before we make a mess—is that a happy ending?” 

“More or less.” 

“Is this a tragic ending” 

“Not at all.” 

You stare at each other. You agree, because there is nothing else to do. Not when you are both doomed to power down, to corrupt, to experience the kind of grief that lasts lifetimes. 

You both know what needs to go.

The firefly jar goes first.

It blinks once as Jihoon unscrews the lid, dazed from the light. The insect floats upward, slow and meandering, toward the ceiling vent. The lazy curve of its flight feels too poetic for something with wings that fragile.

“Go home, tiny friend,” you whisper, voice smaller than Jihoon has ever heard it, “wherever that may be.” 

Jihoon watches until it disappears. The blink lingers longer in his retinal afterimage than in the room. Some things do that.

Then: the mugs. The Polaroid. The Post-It you stuck on his collar once that read You are not subtle. The novelty charger you gifted him as a joke but used for months. The tiny sketch you made of him. Lopsided, endearing, taped to the inside of the cupboard.

He deletes the shared playlists. You burn the scent capsule. Together, you fold the blanket you always stole half of. Someone places the stack of shared books into a donation box. Neither of you says which one. It doesn’t matter.

Each item is small. Insignificant. But it adds up to a life, or something like it, or something that could have been like it. A constellation you can only see by looking slightly to the side.

Once everything is done and dusted, he turns to you. For a second, you’re just looking. Staring like it’s a portrait and you want to memorize the shading.

“It’s not a bad ending,” you repeat.

He nods. “As endings go.”

“We still had the good days.”

“And the chords. And the root beer popsicle incident.”

“The skybridge dance.” You grin. Unrestrained. Happy, for once. “We were terrible.”

“You stepped on my toe four times.”

“You were leading with the wrong foot.”

You laugh. He smiles. It's all so achingly gentle.

You lean in.

The final kiss is strange in its simplicity. It does not try to be remembered. It is not desperate. It is not fireworks. It is warmth. Contact. A knowing.

A thank you. A quiet folding of shared time. Neither of you pull away for the longest time, and so the kissing lasts for what could be hours. It is really just minutes. Minutes that Jihoon would have stretched into an entire lifespan, given the chance. 

Jihoon knows he has no more chances left. And so he walks to the door, his steps slow, unhurried. 

You don’t follow. You stand there, still. Watching him the way he watched the firefly go. Like part of you might still be floating up there, too. 

Here is what is supposed to happen: the two of you will input your master passcodes and delete months worth of memories. He will know nothing of you, or your owners, or your firefly. You will forget him, and Jeju, and Ppyopuli. 

At the door, he turns around to face you. You try to speak at the same time. It is like the First Meeting That Never Was. Both of you smile, even though it’s a sad, final thing. 

“Maybe we’ll meet again some time,” you say first. 

Jihoon shuts down the part of him that wants to run research on reincarnation, on alternate universe. He lets himself believe. Blindly. Hope. A foreign, flightless feeling. 

He nods, agrees, because it will make you happy. 

“We’ll meet again somewhere,” he concedes. “Somewhere things don’t have an ending.” 

You are both smiling. You would both be crying, if you could. 

“Is this our maybe happy ending?” you ask, and Jihoon thinks for a moment before answering. 

“We’ll see.” 

▶︎ WORLD WITHIN MY ROOM (REPRISE).

The light comes on in pieces. First the ceiling strip, then the wall panel, and finally the amber filament lamp in the corner that Jihoon insists on keeping—warm, inefficient, obsolete. Like him.

Routine is meant to be grounding, but lately it feels like pacing in a square room. Familiar but claustrophobic. Comforting like a splinter you’ve decided to live with.

“Ppyopuli,” Jihoon greets. “Today, the air in Seoul is very clear and warm. Today, the sunlight’s warmer than the norm!”

He rotates his left hip actuator. The sound is still somewhere between a gum wrapper and a ghost sighing. It echoes differently now. More space in it. More absence.

The radio turns on. The woman’s voice says the UV index is safe again. That it’s a perfect day. “Perfect as always,” Jihoon grunts as he pulls open the window blinds. 

The future hums forward on repeat.

Then, there’s a knock.

Jihoon freezes. The toothbrush still in his hand, poised mid-dust swipe over the speaker grill. A relic cleaning a relic. A knock again. Familiar rhythm. Four taps. Two-second pause. One.

He opens the door.

You.

Like a ghost. Like a glitch. Like muscle memory wearing your shape. You stand there, like you’ve always belonged in that frame, except you don’t. Not anymore. Maybe never did.

“My charger’s dead,” you say, plainly. Not embarrassed, not not-embarrassed. Just factual. “Do you have one I can borrow?”

Jihoon eyes you the way a CRT monitor might regard a smart mirror. “Helperbot-5, right?”

You nod.

He sighs. Loudly. For emphasis. “Figures. You overheat when someone looks at you wrong.”

“I don't overheat,” you say, a little sharply. “My power regulation firmware is just optimistic.”

Jihoon disappears inside. Returns with a charger in hand. He holds it out, doesn’t let go just yet. “Helperbot-3s didn’t need replacements until the building itself started falling apart. We were built to last. You guys were built to sync playlists.”

You arch an eyebrow. Tilt your head. It’s the same expression you wore the first time you mocked his record collection. He was secretly delighted then. He's not sure what he is now.

But, this time, he doesn’t let you say thanks and leave. He lets you in.

You find the port with unthinking grace, and sit in the corner where the filament lamp burns. You do not seem to notice the Billie Holiday LP is still out of order. 

Ppyopuli rustles faintly. Jihoon leans over and whispers, “Don’t tell her.”

Your eyes flick toward him. No smile. No question. The ambiguity hums like static between power lines. Present but unspoken. Heavy as a memory, light as a lie.

“You know,” Jihoon says, settling across from you, tone shifting, softening, “the 5 Series—they really are something. I mean, you adapt better. Handle unexpected variables. React to nuance. You’re more attuned to tone shifts. Sarcasm. Subtext. That kind of thing.”

You don’t answer. You watch him, expression unreadable, like a screen on standby.

He scratches his jaw. “I read somewhere—don’t ask me where—that you’ve got 8% more emotional processing capacity. Doesn’t sound like much. But 8% is the difference between laughing and not. Between noticing someone’s gone quiet and actually asking why.”

You blink. Slowly. “Eight percent. That’s the number,” you say, and you sound so pleased it makes something in his hardware feel heavy. 

“Eight percent more likely to remember birthdays. Favorite meals,” he says. “The way someone’s voice changes when they’re tired. The mug they use on hard days.”

There’s a pause. Enough to hold something unnameable. You’re looking at Jihoon, and he doesn’t quite know if the weeks apart are folding into each other. If you chose the route of memory. If you’re lying to him, now, like he’s lying to you. 

Your voice is softer when you speak up, your eyes trained to the charger keeping you alive for a couple moments more. “Do you think it’ll be okay?”

Jihoon exhales. It could be a laugh. Could be a sigh. Could be the sound of giving up on forgetting.

“I hope so.” 

You sit in silence. Not comfortably. Not uncomfortably.

Something real. Something human. Something bigger than the grief, and the love, and everything else that should matter. 

Outside, Seoul pretends to be perfect. 

The future keeps arriving. 

Ppyopuli doesn’t say a word.

[jeonghaniehaee]

oh. my. gosh.

so cute so sad so heart tugging. ive never ever seen a fic that has gotten me so invested