Thanks for the Sub (camboy!seokjin x gamer!reader) (s, a, f)
Stressed about your newly acquired fame as a video game streamer, you're just trying to find something to take the edge off. What you never expected was that you'd find your crush coworker boss sitting at the top performer spot on a sex camming site. A gay sex camming site.
TBA
I'll Give You the Sun (sundeity!hoseok x moondeity!reader) (s, a, f)
The prophecy states that during the first total solar eclipse, the fates will ascend two princes into kings and gods of the celestial realms. Hoseok, the future ruler of the solar kingdom, wants nothing to do with his new role. As for you, you're just hoping to get through your brother's coronation in one piece and return to your quiet life back home. But when the moon overtakes the sun, nothing goes to plan, and suddenly you are holding the title of Goddess and Queen of the Lunar Kingdom, a burden you too never wanted to carry.
Penalty Shot (prohockeyplayer!jimin x minorleagueplayer!reader) (s, a, f)
Part One
He's the worst hockey player on the worst team in the national league, with an awful attitude to go with it. You're the best player in the local chapter, but turned down your chance to go pro. After a scandal benches him for part of the season, he recruits your help to get him ice ready by the New Year.
Vienna Waits for You (vampire!taehyung x vampire!reader) (s,a,f)
Coming Autumn 2024
Time. That's something he knew you didn't have. Still, he gave it to you, even though it wasn't his to give. Now, while he owns the streets of Paris, his past choices are coming back to haunt him and he can't run from the memory of a life he once loved, and all the things he left back in Vienna, including you.
My Bloody Valentine (vampire!jungkook x human reader) (s, a, f, ~)
You don't understand why your vampire boyfriend is so caught up in the idea of a silly holiday, until you realize it's about more than just candy hearts.
Others:
TBA (this man is going to be the death of me goddamnit woozi)
Tumblr is rolling out a new reblog/notes system that completely disregards creators. In their new system, they're taking a twitter-style approach where reblogs will have their own notes that DO NOT contribute to the original post's notes.
Because of this, creators will no longer be able to see an accurate display of likes/reblogs/etc. This is completely altering the way feedback and responses to works are going to be received on this website.
If you come across a fan work that you enjoy, please take the extra step to go to OPs original post, and leave your comment/like/reblog there. Or go one step further and send an ask to OP directly to tell them what you liked!
I really hope Tumblr staff reverses course and reverts to the original reblog system for the sake of the large base of creators who use this site to share their works, but until then, please be considerate and make sure the creators here see/feel the love.
Summary: He's the worst hockey player on the worst team in the national league, with an awful attitude to go with it. You're the best player in the local chapter, but turned down your chance to go pro. After a scandal benches him for part of the season, he recruits your help to get him ice ready by the New Year.
Warnings: mentions of threesome, Jimin is bi, probably inaccurate ideas about hockey, Jimin is an asshole, swearing, misogyny in sports, slightly homophobic comments, hometown trauma, arranged marriage, corny Christmas references, holiday party stress, mentioned death of minor characters, teen pregnancy, abortion and discussions of abortion processes, emotions, and characteristics of shame angst, misunderstandings, Y/N is a self sacrificial person, fighting and threatening violence, alcohol, sexual innuendos, omg look it's Shinee's Minho as the role of bff, mention of random kpop artists on y/ns team, groping, oral (f receiving), hand jobs, unprotected sex, creampie, rivals but not, friends but not? Who knows, Christmas is all around and the cheer is in the air idk
a/n: It's here! I mean, kind of! Here's part 1 of what has become a monster of a fanfic. I just have 1. Learned so much about hockey it's ridiculous, and I feel like I need more time with these characters. To all who celebrate, Merry Christmas. I hope everyone enjoys this fic. Be easy on me with the proofing errors. I rushed the proof a bit to get it out on time.
“That’s it, babygirl; Cum on my cock. That’s it. Fuckkk.”
“No no no, what did I say? Did I say you could ride me? No. On your knees. Mouth open. Just your mouth, not your hands. Be a good boy or you won’t get my cum. There we go. Open. I said open. Do you want my cock or not? There we go. Ah-ah, swallow. That’s a good boy.”
“Fuck, Jimin, my turn, please please please.”
“What did I say about begging? There’s plenty to go around.”
“Oh for fuck’s sake. Close the damn laptop. I’ve seen enough.”
The sharp, wet slapping sounds and deep, guttural moans echoing through the conference room cuts off as the laptop is snapped shut. As if rehearsed, all bodies in the room turn toward the subject of the scandal, expectedly awaiting a very different response from the one they’re given.
“What? Everyone has sex, it’s not new,” Jimin says.
“Yes, everyone has sex. But not everyone is filming a sex tape, much less an orgy, and putting it out onto the internet,” Sophia, the public relations manager says.
“I didn’t put it on the internet. I’m not that stupid. And, it was a threesome, not an orgy.”
“Well, clearly you are stupid, if you thought attending, much less filming, your not-so-private sexual exploits wouldn’t come back to haunt you. And yet, shocker, they have, and we are swiftly becoming the top headline in every tabloid magazine on the planet. You seriously thought none of these participants would want to brag about how they bedded the bad boy of the UHL?”
“Park, you finished off last season being one of the most famous people in the Universal Hockey League, and not in a good way. Need I remind you that we just spent the whole summer trying to implement a marketing campaign to improve sales of your jerseys since manufacturers don’t even want to make them? That after ‘Park the Park’ became a trending hashtag on every social media site, you suddenly caught attention as the ‘Hottest But Worst Player in Professional Sports’?” Coach sighs heavily into his hands, clenching his fists as if he needs to punch something.
It’s very much the Coach way. It’s not unheard of for him to be taking swings at the punching bag during gym training days. Clearly this is how he releases steam.
Only the problem is, the steam is channeled directly at Jimin.
“I thought any press is considered good press.”
Sophia snorts and rolls her eyes. “That is a load of bullshit that PR reps say to make shitheads like you feel better. But I’m not here to soothe your ego. I think it’s been stroked enough, based on what we all just saw.” She clears her throat, shaking her head. “The point is, JImin, you’ve cost this team a lot, and at this point, I can’t advise the staff enough to let you go. You’ve caused fights on the ice that almost turned lethal, you have the worst stats, and the highest lien we’ve had to take out after you damaged the rink in LA and caused them to end their season early. In any other job, you’d be fired by now.”
Sophia scoops her laptop up off the table and places it in her bag. She stands, hastily collecting her other things. Her assistant-slash-lackey, some nameless, anxious young woman, follows suit, clattering her impressive collection of color-coded pens across the conference table. She bows in apology, shakily attempting to collect her things. No one, including Sophia, moves to help.
“I have to go, because I need to figure out some way to spin this story now that we are receiving hundreds of requests for interviews, quotes, and extra footage.” She fake gags, as if Jimin and the debauching act on the screen is repulsive to her. “Stay off social media. Do not make a single claim unless advised by your lawyers. We are petitioning the website to take the video down. I know it’s out there forever, but I think if we act fast we can reduce views and hopefully end its virality quickly. Once I hear back from the firm I’ll send you an update.”
The door shuts behind them slowly, but once the final click ensures that no one outside can hear what’s being discussed, Jimin turns to see the deep set frown of Coach and Assistant Coach Jay sharply aimed toward him.
“Do you. Have. Any fucking idea. How bad this looks?” Coach’s voice is clipped, fury piercing through his staccatoed breath. Gone is the negotiator, the collected cool that he’d worn while Sophia was here. Instead is the same anger and resentment that Jimin has gotten used to experiencing in the locker room before and after every game, as well as his many meetings as of late.
“It only looks bad because people take shit way too seriously. If this was a threesome with two women, I’m sure it wouldn’t be blowing up right now. But add a man into the mix and all the homophobes come with their torches and pitchforks. This’ll all blow over in a few weeks, or days even depending on what new scandal the tabloids decide will get the most clicks. Really, Coach, it’ll be okay.”
A vein protrudes from Coach’s neck, and he huffs a heavy sigh. “You’re missing the point, Park. It’s bad because it’s gay or bisexual or pansexual or whatever the hell your generation is calling things now. But that’s only part of it. All those celebrity gossip pages have been reporting on you for months as is, detailing your explicit sexual appetite and partying with celebrities. You’ve built a reputation for yourself as a playboy, and they’re eating that shit up. And maybe that would all be fine and fun and you could be the next Travis Kelce of the world toting around your celebrity fuck buddies, but there’s one thing Kelce’s got that you don’t.”
“…Taylor Swift? Whiteness? A mustache?”
“No you dumbass, talent. Travis Kelce is good at his sport, Jimin, and you fucking suck at yours.” Jay interjects. He reaches into his padfolio, pulling out a complex spreadsheet. “We’ve pulled the totals of all the stats. In the Universal Hockey League, you have the lowest stats out of every active player. Minor players are doing better than you. A hell of a lot better.”
Jimin reaches out and takes the page, scanning it, brows furrowed. “Okay, so I need to clean up my game a little bit. I don’t see how those two things are connected.”
“Then let me explain it to you, son.” Coach leans back in his chair, revealing the lower portion of his suit coat, stained from the bit of pasta sauce that dribbled down during his lunch. Jimin finds himself staring at it for so long that it takes Coach three tries before his attempts at calling Jimin’s attention actually works.
“Focus, Park.”
“Sorry,” he responds reflexively.
“Basically, what Sophia said in the meeting is true. I have been advised by her as the official Public Relations Director to fire you. You’ve caused significant risk in various ways. And what I didn’t tell her is that the manager of the Bells and team owner both called me this morning worrying about the integrity of the team. Your little bullshit behaviors have been adding up. Not only are you impossible to market to Bells fans, you’re untradeable and undesirable to any other team. No one wants the Scarlet A you’ve tainted the team with.”
Jimin raises an eyebrow. He didn’t know Coach was so familiar with classic literature.
“The point is, investors are backing out. Brand deals are falling through. The capital gains of our team are dwindling because we have a shitty player with an even shittier attitude.”
It feels like a brick has been launched at Jimin’s chest. A hot, crumpling feeling washes over him, and the very cool and collected nature he’s kept fresh this whole meeting has now taken the backseat.
“I don’t know what happened to you, Park, but you weren’t always this way. When I scouted you and signed you onto the Bells, you were just this young kid with a dream. You loved the game more than you loved the fame. I miss that guy. That’s the one who I wanted. I wanted the fresh energy of early morning practices led by a player with eagerness and potential. And you were that for a while.
“But all I’ve seen in the last two seasons is someone who cares about hair gel and being an A-lister for afterparties. When you’re supposed to be driving the net, you’re getting flanked. You can’t control your mouth so you start chirpin’ and hand every opposing team at least one power play, usually in the third period and leaving your team to handle the mess you created as you sit in the box.”
Heat floods Jimin’s cheeks. “Am I supposed to just let all those guys walk all over me? I’m one of the shorter players in the league, and they love to talk shit.”
“Of course they love to talk shit when you’re such an easy target! It's a practical strategy! If you target the hothead, they’ll take themselves out of the game! They don’t even need to be good to do that!”
“Isn’t that allegedly your strategy anyway?” Jay says, raising an eyebrow. “Doesn’t seem like a very good one.”
“Shut up, Jay,” Jimin retorts, blowing air sharply out of his nose.
“Don’t you two get started on me now,” Coach says, snapping his fingers. Jimin refocuses his gaze.
“So, what does that mean for me then? Am I fired? Just like that?” He folds his arms over his chest defensively.
Coach rubs a hand over his face. “I don’t know, son. It depends on what you want from this.”
This shocks Jimin. Is he seriously being asked if he wants to be fired? Isn’t the answer obvious? He opens his mouth to speak, but is cut off by Coach.
“What I mean, is that now is a good time to think about your goals. Do you just want to be a celebrity or do you want to be a player? A good one, one who makes his team proud.”
His chest twists with sadness. For nearly ten years, Jimin has been with the Bells. He’d been scouted by Coach himself at the age of 19, having just completed high school and graduating from his own league. During the try-out period, he’d been one of the best, and after a summer of ups and downs, he was offered a contract to be the rookie starter of the season.
“I want to play. You know that. You know how much this means to me!” His voice trembles as the pain in his chest spring tears into his eyes.
Coach gives him a sympathetic smile, nodding. “I do. At least, I used to. But now, I need you to prove it to me. To all of us. Which is why I think this break will be good for you to do so.”
He knits his eyebrows, counting how many days of break he’ll have over the holidays. Then he nods. “Sure. It’s not much, I know, since we have a game between Christmas and the New Year, and one next week, but I’ll come to the arena every day, morning ‘til night. I’ll do explosion drills and I’ll rework my stickhandling. Shit, I’ll even do one better. I know we’ve been struggling to get the puck out of our zone, so I’ll focus on drills that shift us into neutral position. I know Zelensky was complaining about that last game and–”
“Whoa, whoa, slow down kid. I’m glad to hear you’re taking this matter seriously, but it’s not going to correct itself in a matter of days. It’s going to have to be a change in attitude. You need to learn how to not let every little thing trigger you on and off the ice. That’s going to take some time. Therapy, maybe.”
“I’ll get a therapist. Right after this, I’ll call my friend Yoongi who can recommend me to someone and…” But already they’ve moved on, Jimin’s promise hanging in the air.
Coach opens the folder he has in front of him before digging into the pocket of his jacket to fish around for something. He produces a glasses case, and then pulls out his reading glasses, placing them on the bridge of his nose. “Let’s see here. What are you thinking, Jay?”
Jay careens his body to glance over at the schedule Coach has unfolded and laid before them. “Well, you already know what I think.”
Jimin and Jay haven’t always had such a sour relationship. They were friends once, before Jay was hired as the Assistant Coach. Before there was a significant power imbalance between them. Most days, they can get by without making snarky remarks. Some days, Jimin even likes the guy still. Jay is a good AC. He looks at problems with a square eye, knows usually before anyone else what strategy the opposing team is laying out. He protects and vouches for all his players in press meetings, including Jimin. But when he doesn’t have to be doing his job, Jay is ready to cut down anyone and everyone who gets in his way of going home early.
Jimin sighs, looking around the conference room. A framed poster from the 2000 season Choice Cup championship stares back at him. It’s faded, but he can see the beaming face of his favorite player: Lee Wonhyuk.
Wonhyuk is seen as a hockey legend, having more hat tricks than anyone in Bells’ history. Always a balanced player, he led his team to the 2000 Choice Cup Playoffs. Jimin was just a kid then, but that was what started his love for hockey.
“Hmm, well, then I think this is going to be the only option. Park, you’re suspended until late January.”
Jimin freezes. “What?”
“Suspension. I don’t want to see you on the bench in your jersey until the 23rd.” Coach marks the calendar with a thick black marker and nods. “That’ll give you enough time to start getting your shit together and maybe we will have cleared the air from this scandal long enough to recover some of our team’s reputation.”
Coach stands, gathering his folder and heading toward the door.
“B-but I said I was going to fix this! Did you not hear me promise I’d get a therapist?”
“We heard you, Jimin. That doesn’t suddenly erase everything you’ve done. How can we even be sure you’ll take it seriously? It doesn’t seem like you’ve taken much of your career seriously for a while now. You’re just lucky you’re not being fired,” Jay knocks his knuckles on the table, almost like a gavel from a judge.
“Don’t take this thing too much to heart, kid. A suspension is kind of like a break. A vacation even! Go enjoy Christmas with your folks and enjoy some eggnog. Watch one of those ridiculous Hallmark movies about the magic of Christmas making some uptight lawyer into a farm girl because of the hot ranch hand or whatever it is. Take a crash course in anger management, I don’t know. Either way, stay away from the team or else you might not be part of it for much longer.” Coach idles in the open doorway, wafting his hand for Jimin to leave. “Either way, let’s go, we need to go. Our time is up with the conference room and I gotta get home to the Mrs. to help make enough cookies to feed an army.”
Jimin deflates, grabbing his bag and shuffling out of the building and into the mild winter air swirling around him.
Christmas with his folks sounds like a nightmare. He hasn’t talked to them since the scandal leaked, despite the worried calls from his mother and the less-than-enthused follow-ups from his father who began calling on behalf of his mother.
He wasn’t planning on going home for the holidays. The excuse of his work schedule would keep him away another year, and he also suspects that the invite to attend Christmas is one that has no real urgency behind it. He hasn’t been home since his first year going pro. He was just a kid then, trying to balance this new life with the one he left and heal a broken heart. He had hopped on a plane home, only to have to turn around just after the Christmas dinner was finished. The entire flight he was nauseated from overeating.
The idea of coming home now, while being the biggest loser in the UHL just sounds like another way to rub salt in his wounds.
He drives home, calling Yoongi and getting a number for a therapist, only to realize that they would be closed until the new year. Of course they will. He turns the key to his apartment, he can’t help but feel like the place looks completely different even though it’s exactly as he left it a handful of hours ago: blinds drawn, warm-lit sconces on his display shelves in his living room giving everything a soft glow. Everything is pristine. Jimin values tidiness and control of his home. Of his life.
Which is why standing here with nothing to guide him for the next 30 days suddenly feels paralyzing. How is he supposed to become another person in a month? He’s not allowed at the arena for practice, and god, he knows everyone will recognize him at the next closest community one, though who knows if he’ll even be allowed in after how “inappropriate” his type of fame now is.
And it’s too warm here to skate outdoors. He checks the weather app on his phone. No snow is forecasted for the next two weeks. It’s looking to be a warm Christmas this year. Meanwhile, he knows from the location settings that his hometown he’s saved into his favorites is reporting frigid temperatures and at least a foot of snow by the end of the week. Which means the pond he spent so many winters on with his father learning the rules of hockey and practicing on will be frozen solid. A safe place to anonymously practice.
“Fuck.” He knows what he has to do. And as the phone rings one full time before an answer, Jimin tries not to feel the heat that floods to his cheeks in humiliation. “Hi, Mom. It’s me.”
“Okay, now drive through! Tighter, tighter! That’s it Y/N! Go! Go! GO!”
You weave through the blur of jerseys, somehow avoiding a tripping maneuver that would have had you crashing head-first into the wall. Well, barely. Maybe you’d be easier to trip if you hadn’t calculated their positioning early enough in the quarter.
You drive forward, just as you’re told, scanning. Where’s the weakest link in the defensive lineup? Ah, there he is. Number 55. The taller one who has already spent half of the game tailing you as if he’s an offensive player. The one that said shit on socials about your pussy being so tight because of how much you enjoyed being anal.
As if that made any sense. Encountering an entitled, hot-headed loser in the minor leagues is about as unique as a tiny, crusty white dog being named Bella. They exist in abundance. Lucky for you, these are always the worst players on the team, and it became immediately obvious to you who was going to be your target for the rest of the game.
As you redirect your position toward his direction, 55 seems to have plenty to say.
“Hey Baby, why don’t you leave the big game to the big boys?” he coos, clumsily regripping his stick as he glides toward you.
“Mm, if this is a game for the big boys, then why are you here?” you say with a smile, cutting the puck around his right skate before tapping your stick against his. It clatters to the ground.
“You fucking bitch!” he yells, but you’re already well past him, leaving just the rookie goalie between you and the goal.
He tightens up when he sees you barreling toward him, the puck guarded tightly behind your stick as you weave it, turning slightly to your side to make it seem like you’re going in for a slapshot on the left side of the goal post.
Naturally, the goalie floats to the left, creating a huge gap on the right side.
Suddenly, you pivot, shooting the puck to the right, where your teammate, Minho, has stationed himself perfectly to receive and slide the puck neatly into the net.
Easy. As the buzzer sounds at the end of the game, you high five Minho, solidifying the hottest win streak the Griffins have had to date. The teams line up, a slur of “good games” parroting from the mouths of each team member as you go down the line tapping sticks. That is until you reach 55, whose expression has soured significantly.
“Fuckin’ slut,” he mutters under his breath. You pause, turning to him.
“But I thought my pussy was so tight since I’m so anal? Now I’m a slut? Wow, I really got around fast,” you laugh, rolling your eyes. “Leave it to the worst player on the team to have the most unoriginal, misogynistic insults. Maybe if you practiced holding your stick properly instead of trying to craft an insult, you would have one less thing to suck at. I’m sure not knowing how to handle your stick isn’t just a problem on the ice either. Yikes.”
You feel a nudge on your back, knowing your team captain, Christopher, is bringing up the rear.
“Easy there, Y/N, don’t make the guy pop a blood vessel when the season’s barely started,” he says and you chuckle. “And for what it’s worth, I don’t tolerate the sexist machismo you’re carting around. You’re lucky you didn’t lose some teeth this game. If I hear you chirping more bullshit on the ice next time, I’ll personally make sure you have a dentist on speed dial, we clear?”
Christopher smiles with shiny white teeth, making his threat all the more menacing despite his usual golden retriever energy.
55 deflates, giving you one more loathsome glare before spinning on the ice and skating away.
“Bang, Y/N, hustle! We have a party to get to!” Your coach, Bee, curls one gloved finger in, her impatience apparent on her face as she waits at the end of the rink.
You and Christopher shrug at each other before racing across the ice, the high of the victory still swirling in your head.
“Oh, bullshit! You know for a fact that if given the chance he would rather be cameoing in some D list movie in LA than getting his shit together. I get that he was your idol, Chris, but times have changed.”
Jihyo takes a swig of her beer, jabbing a tipsy finger in Christopher’s direction.
“So he’s gotten a little big-headed with his team. It happens to the best of us. Jimin still remains a hometown hero and we should be grateful he put us on the map!”
“What map? No one has come here to scout talent since Y/N was being considered for the UHL. I still don’t get why you turned that down. Fucking moron.” Wonpil scoffs as he bites down into his pizza, effectively silencing Christopher, and well, the rest of the room.
“Ah yes, the awkward silence about me missing out on my once chance,” you snort, glancing around the room as the remaining members of your team devour the last of the team holiday dinner. Bee left not long after the party started, getting some phone call that appeared urgent. Slowly, your families and friends made their way home, leaving only a handful of you behind in the old bar.
Taeyon, one of the servers you’ve known forever, smirks at you as you gather some plates together to make cleanup easier.
“Why did you turn it down?” Soobin, the youngest and shyest member of the team asks.
Everyone in the room turns to you. Everyone in the room besides Soobin knows why.
“Uh, well, a lot was going on in my life at the time. I had a scholarship to go to college, but then I’d heard that some coaches were coming to scout for the UHL during the summer so I deferred the fall semester, just in case. I was up for consideration and offered a spot with the Bells, but um…I was…sick. And he only had room for one person on his team. While he’d told me I was his first pick, I don’t know, I was…sick, and the other player deserved it. He had a future in it, a need to get out of this place more than I can say I had. So I declined the offer and made plans to use my scholarship and go to school.”
“I didn’t know you went to college,” Soobin says, eyes wide.
“She didn’t. Finish the story, Y/N.” Minho says before shoving a tree shaped cookie into his mouth.
You click your tongue. “Honestly. It was no big deal. It turns out my deferment voided my scholarship, so I didn’t go.”
“So you gave up on both the major leagues and college? Who’s the other player?”
You wince at the question, knowing the storm that Soobin has just unknowingly unleashed.
“What do you mean who’s the other player? Who do you think? She’s talking about Park Jimin, dumbass. He’s the only pro hockey player from here.” Christopher says, delivering a light punch to the maknae.
“Oh, right,” Soobin says, blushing in embarrassment.
“And look at what he did. He’s fucking up his chance in this after everything Y/N went through. He knows how to rub it in.” Wonpil downs the rest of his beer. “Honestly, Y/N. If I were you, I’d want to beat that guy to a pulp for being such a loser when you were the one who was rooting for him the most, it seems. Bastard. Good thing he doesn’t come around here much.”
“Yeah, ha, well. He’s probably off somewhere warm and sunny and not thinking about anyone but himself anyway. It’s for the best, probably.”
“I never knew you were sick,” Minho says later that evening as you two gather the empty bottles of soju and beer and place them on the counter for the barkeeper to collect. “Bummer that was aligning at the same time that you were about to make it big.”
“Yeah, it was. Um, hey, my mom wants to know if you’re going to the caroling party,” you say, hoping to change the subject.
“Oh, uh, no sorry I can’t make it. I have a date.”
“A victory and a hot date? Well, Minho, look at you! Looks like you’re growing up.”
He rolls his eyes, chucking a wadded up napkin at you. “Shut up. She’s nice. We are going to that Thai place downtown.”
“Well, it sounds like we need to get you out of here so you can get your ass downtown. Are you even going to be hungry? You ate like, a half a package of those cookies by yourself.”
“I’m a growing boy! I need my calories! And yes, I’ll be fine, Mom. And I’ll remember to wear my coat and hat too.”
“Well, good. It’s supposed to be sub zero tonight. Not the night to be outside without the proper gear.”
You grab your purse, doing one last run of the room before you shove Minho out the door to prepare for his date.
“Fuck, I thought you said it wasn’t too cold, Mom!” Jimin climbs into the passenger seat of his mother’s car, his luggage practically owning the backseat.
“It isn’t! It’s just a cold snap! I thought you’d be used to it from spending so much time in the cold.” She clicks the turn signal, pulling them away from the curb while Jimin fidgets with the heat settings. A thin stream of hot air puffs out of the ancient sedan.
“I usually have tons of padding on me and am moving so much I’m sweating. That’s different from whatever tundra this is.” The heat finally kicks in. “Where’s the Kia I got you for Christmas last year? Don’t tell me you traded it in for the cash or something.”
His mother scoffs, merging into the freeway. “No, we didn’t trade it in. It’s in the driveway. You can drive it while you’re here.”
“Why aren’t you driving it?” Her annoyance is annoying him.
“Because it’s too complicated. Touch screen and Bluetooth and heated seats and cameras. I don’t need that. I just need to go from one place to another place!”
The old car roars as if it is in agreement. Jimin rolls his eyes.
“You could have told me you wanted something simpler. I would have at least gotten you a car from this decade. This piece of junk’s falling apart.”
“It does what I need it to. It’s fine. I didn’t ask for a car anyway.” The lights of the bigger city begin to fade. With a metropolitan city so close to where he grew up, it’s shocking how much Jimin’s mother is clinging to the outdated ideas of small town life.
The strained conversation dies out as his mother turns up the volume of the radio. As the final commercial clears the airwaves, the car is flooded with Christmas carols.
“It’s good to have you home, my little star.”
Jimin’s chest wrenches with guilt as he hears the term of endearment. His mother always called him that when he was a child. For a long time, he really lived up to it. Lately though…
I’m more like a fallen star. A star on its way to burning out.
He lets the music do the talking for the remainder of the drive, and as his hometown comes into view, he’s surprised by how little has changed in the time he’s been gone. Everything is just more worn, older than it used to look. The faded sign of the main grocery store still has the same design.
The bar where Jimin drank his first beer is still open, and he watches as two people leave through the door, a tall, handsome guy who is laughing and smiling while a woman with her hood up hits him with her purse, also laughing.
For some reason, his stomach churns at the sight. God, what a miserable place to be stuck in. How can anyone still want to live here? How can anyone smile about the idea of being outside in that frigid air?
He grumbles to himself and folds his arms, hoping to trap some of the heat back in his body while his mother drives confidently to the sounds of jingling bells.
In the near decade since Jimin has last been home (he doesn’t count the quick stop-ins during longer layovers at the airport or his grandfather’s funeral), his childhood home has gone through enough renovations to disorient him but still create the same pang of nostalgia.
He goes to hang his coat up in the front hall closet and finds that there no longer is one. Instead, it’s an inset wall with a set of drawers tucked away. His parents have a new dog, Bada, who isn’t even all that new. He’s five now, a full fledged member of the family. Bada growls when Jimin walks through the door, but barely lifts his head off the couch cushion to do so before falling back asleep.
“Are you hungry?” his mother asks as Jimin pads into the kitchen.
“I ate on the plane,” he replies. His mother turns to him, her face twisted in disgust.
“Ugh, that’s not food they serve on those things. It’s cardboard! Here, come sit down; I have some rice and mackerel from lunch leftover. And soup. You’re so skinny. It’s time we plump you up.”
“I’m not skinny. I have a very specific diet and exercise regimen in order to stay light and fast on my feet while on the ice.”
But his mother has already left to duck into the kitchen, the sounds of the rice cooker turning on making Jimin wonder if she really had leftovers at all.
When she reappears about twenty minutes later, she comes with an entire filet of hot fish, black beans, radish kimchi, a mountain of rice, some clear broth soup, and cut up pears.
“Eat! Eat my son!” she orders, and Jimin obeys, his full stomach betraying him over the promise of home cooked food.
He is about to ask his mother where his father is when he hears the door open, his father bundled up tight with a dusting of snow on his coat.
“Storm blew in earlier than I thought.”
“Oh, honey. Come sit. Give me your coat, I'll hang it to dry.”
With a grunt from his father, he settles next to where his mother was sitting before, casting his eyes across the table.
“So you finally made it home to see your parents, huh? When’s the last time we saw you in person again?”
“Uh, I think last summer. When you guys came to visit.”
A year and a half. That was the last time they’d been partially together as a family. His brother comes home much more frequently, though this Christmas he’s in Hawaii with his girlfriend.
Lucky bastard.
“Well, it’s good to see you. How was the flight?”
“Fine,” Jimin responds awkwardly.
He and his father haven’t been close since he moved, and he’s gotten used to vague and scripted questions his father often asks.
His father nods, slurping his soup from his bowl.
“So did they fire you for being a porn star or is something else bringing you home.”
His cheeks flood with heat. Of course his father would bring this up.
“Um no, just suspended for a bit. And I'm not a porn star.”
His father shrugs and continues eating. “Hey if it’s what you want to do I’m not here to judge. Just wondering what brought you back home after years of trying to convince you. Your mother was so happy to hear from you that she deep cleaned the house.”
A heavy weight of guilt settles in Jimin’s gut. He’s been gone for so long. And while he knows his parents will never wish for anything to be different for him and his career—well, up to this point— the fact still remains that Jimin has been distant and detached since he moved away. He looks over to the curio cabinet that has been filled with his sports memorabilia. A photo of Jimin when he was on his first team, the bulldogs, sits in the back, Jimin’s two front teeth missing as he gives a gummy smile to the camera.
“It looks great, Eomma,” Jimin says to his mother when she returns, not even blinking an eye to the fact that his father took her spot.
“Well, thank you. Now eat up, before it gets cold.”
As the dinner carries on, Jimin learns that his mother has agreed to go to some neighborhood caroling event tonight.
“Do you even know who is hosting it?” he asks when his mother fails to name anyone associated with the event besides her friend.
“I’m sure she told me her name but I’ve forgotten. Names are hard to remember when your friend of a friend invites you. Even harder to say no.”
“But isn’t there a storm happening?” He glances out the window, confirming the heavier sheet of snow blowing around outside.
“Sure, but that’s no problem. It’ll make it more festive. Walking in a winter wonderland and all that.”
“We’re already in one. There’s like, a foot of snow out there.”
Jimin looks to his father, who has since abandoned the conversation for a sudoku puzzle.
“Well, I need the exercise. If you’re so concerned, you can always come.”
No. Absolutely not. The idea of caroling in a blizzard sounds like the bottom of the list of his favorite things. That’s just above dying.
But as he watches his mother bundle up for the snow and move to grab the keys to her dying sedan, something prompts him to snag the keys for the Kia off the hook, and after a few minutes of painfully shoving his body into his former winter wear his mother kept all those years, he walks out into the snow, insisting to his mother that he drive.
“Hot chocolate has arrived!” you sing, carrying a large steaming carton to the drove of community members who have shown up to bring “Christmas cheer to all”, as your mother has claimed.
It’s freezing. You have heat packs shoved into just about every nook and cranny of your body. Even as you pour the warm, sweet liquid into cups to be passed around, you have to fight the urge to shiver.
“Don’t worry, everyone! Once we get our bodies singing and moving, we’ll be warm in no time!”
“I thought you said there would be a heat shelter we can go to!” someone says among the crowd.
“Well, not exactly. It’ll be my house! I have my husband getting the snacks prepared now. And a warm, crackling fireplace. So let’s get this carolfest started!” Your mother beams, unfazed by the sour mood that has fallen upon the group.
With a deflated woo, the carolers set off on foot from the parking lot.
You have been specifically instructed to wait ten minutes past start time in case anyone else shows up. But given how fast the clouds have rolled in to dump more snow on you, you don’t foresee anyone else coming.
Still, you abide by your mother’s wishes, pulling your hood over your hat and rewrapping your scarf over your nose, hoping that will encourage less heat to escape.
Just as your timer buzzes for you to ditch the greeter position and catch up to the crowd, you see a Kia pull into the parking lot, two people shuffling out toward you.
“Did I miss it? Is it over?!” the woman says, panicked.
“No, no, they just got started. They’re just down here.” You pull out your mother’s hand-drawn map she passed out to all participants at the start, and point to the one block your mother marked with a star for newcomers. “We will be able to catch up to them easily.”
“Ah, thank you! Thank you! My son is visiting from out of town, so I was a little late.”
“It’s no issue, really, this is a volunteer activity. I’m just glad you made it in this snowstorm. Would either of you like some hot cocoa? Or hand warmers? I have some extra.”
“Oh, you’re so sweet. Nothing for me, really, but maybe my son would like some.” The woman pivots her body toward her son, who is still idling by the car, bundled up from head to toe and appears to be staring at you. “Jimin! Come here!”
The second you hear the name, you freeze.
No. There’s no way he’s here. Because he never comes home for Christmas. He’s always playing hockey around the holidays. But then you remember. He’s suspended. So where would he be able to hide and wait for his scandal to blow over. Where else could he hide but here?
Slowly, the bundle moves, shuffling his way toward you. You’re prepared for an awkward conversation, for some unenthused hey to leave his lips, but instead he says nothing, just looks at his mother.
“What?” he asks. His voice is velvety and soft, just like you remember. Even annoyed, it’s a powerless annoyance, one without much heft to sting.
“Hand warmers. Hot cocoa.” His mother gestures, forcing his gaze to follow her hands and over to you.
“No thanks,” he says flatly. When his eyes meet yours, they’re empty, and something about how impersonal it is sours your stomach.
Jimin’s mother sighs before turning to you and smiling. “Is this the way we go?” she asks. You cock your head, confused.
Before you can ask what she’s talking about, Jimin interjects. “Yes, Eomma, it’s this way. Come on. Let’s get this holiday bullshit over with.”
His mother trudges forward and for a moment you’re too shocked to move. You stand there as the snow continues to float down onto your coat and bare hands, until Jimin speaks again.
“Uh, hey. You comin’ or…?”
You blink up at him, still seeing no recognition in his face, no anger, nothing.
“Oh, uh yeah,” you say, quickly depositing the leftover hot z cocoa and maps into your car and matching your pace to Jimin’s. “So, um, how have you been?”
You don’t risk looking at him, insteading focusing on placing your feet carefully into the snow.
“Fuck, it’s cold,” he says, not quite answering your question.
“Oh. Yeah, it is.” You pull a heat warmer out of your pocket. “Here, take this.”
He eyes it for a moment, then relents, taking the heat pack from your warm palm. “Thanks.”
The crunch of snow under you sounds loud, an occasional crack as you step on a patch of ice fills the silence.
“So, you’re home for the holidays?” you ask lightly.
He snorts. “Something like that. Although you’ve probably heard everything on the news already.”
“Something like that,” you parrot, turning the corner of the parking lot to head down the side street you know the carolers will be on. Mrs. Park has outpaced the both of you, already joining the cluster of people on the far end of the block.
“Are you home for the holidays too?” he asks and you frown, clearing your throat.
“Oh, um, not really. I live here. Well not here, here, but in town.”
“Right. Hm. Well…cool. And you grew up here?”
You stop dead in your tracks, turning toward him.
“What?” he asks, facing you. His plump lips look even more rosy in the cold, and his nose has gotten red to match.
“Don’t do this. Don’t pretend you don’t know me.”
His eyes flick across your face and he furrows his brow. “Why?.”
“What do you mean why? You know damn well why.”
He kicks at the snow under his foot. “Well, I mean we were good at pretending we didn’t know each other for so long, Y/N,” he says sharply. “So you’ll have to forgive me if that’s an old habit.”
Your heart sinks, and you shove your tongue into your cheek. “Right. Forget the fact that you were the one who initiated it. But the truth is that I do know you, Jimin. Your mom seems nice, by the way.”
His head snaps up and he glares at you. “Are we just going to pick up on the same argument from a decade ago? I might have initiated but you’re the one who shut me out and never let me know what was going on. I think then, maybe it makes sense to say I don’t know you. And you may have read everything the tabloids have said about me, but let’s make one thing clear. You don’t know me, anymore, Y/N. You know nothing about me at all. So don’t start acting like you do.”
His voice is cold, this time a true seething annoyance and anger leaking out of his words.
You blow air through your lips. “Wow, yeah I guess I don’t. The Jimin I used to know wouldn’t jump down my throat the second that I ask him if he’s home for the holidays. Some hot headed macho temper you’ve got there.”
He rolls his eyes. “Whatever, Y/N.”
He begins to stomp off toward the crowd, but clearly thinks better of it as he waits for you to catch up.
“Temper tantrum over?” you say sarcastically, and he grumbles under his breath. “What was that?”
“I said it wasn’t a temper tantrum. You’d be pissed too if your hockey career was pulled away from you because someone couldn’t keep shit to themselves.”
Your mouth drops open, and while your stomach churns, all you can do is laugh, your laughter forcing you to misstep in the snow and land right on your ass, which only leads to more laughter.
“What is wrong with you?” Jimin says, his eyes cast down on you judgingly.
“Oof, man, I haven’t had a laugh like that in forever. A good joke coming from you of all people.”
You pull yourself up from the snow, ignoring his outstretched hand in front of you.
“I don’t think it’s all that funny.”
“Yeah, well, you really should learn to lighten up,” you say, dusting the clods of snow from your legs. ”And work on that temper of yours.”
“You sound like my coach,” he says, lifting his eyebrow. “Did he send you to watch me?”
You squint your eyes at him. “Huh?”
“Forget it. Let’s get this shit over with so I can go dethaw in the comfort of my own home.”
“Oh yes, heaven forbid Mr. Heatmeiser is out in the snow for any longer.”
Jimin is pretty sure that he’s a lost cause when it comes to redeeming himself as a somewhat decent person.
He’s not sure what compelled him to lie and pretend he didn’t know you. Maybe it’s because when he stepped out of the Kia and he realized it was you, his throat dried up. Over the last decade, he’s distracted himself from thoughts about you and what happened when he left home. How much it destroyed him when you stood in front of him during one of the last days of warm weather and called it all off.
He was so in love with you. So in love even though you were his biggest competition. Someone who had just as much of a chance at going pro as him. Maybe even more so. And while your town was too big to know everyone, but too small to not recognize people, Jimin had always known you. Had watched you on the rink practicing for your figure lessons while he waited for junior hockey practice. And how slowly your movements became less dainty and more powerful, less whimsical and more fierce as you dashed around the ice to be faster than everyone else.
One day you were tossed into hockey with him, but as you both grew older and your bodies shaped themselves around different figures of puberty, it led to the eventual discontinuation of co-eds.
His mother wouldn’t remember you. Because Jimin never told his strict parents that he was breaking the rules and went to your home games when his schedule allowed it in high school. That in the spring of his senior year, he finally got the guts to ask you out after he heard you’d broken up with your shitty boyfriend. That nearly every night after the first date he spent sneaking in through your bedroom window or driving you around in his car with the windows down.
When he said he was going to practice, you always were in the parking lot waiting for him, your skates and gear ready for you two to practice drills and place bets on who could win in a shoot-out, only for him to buy you a blue raspberry slushie an hour later as you glowed from your victory, poking your stained tongue out at him to tease him.
He loved that flavor when he tasted it on you. How many of those sweet kisses had turned hot and filthy, leading to your little whimpers and cute little sighs as he thrust into you in his back seat when everyone had left for the night?
You told him you hadn’t told anyone you were together either. Not because your family wouldn’t understand, but because if word got out in this town, the chances of someone telling Jimin’s parents would mean the end of your relationship. It was easy, you said, to let things be private and just for you.
Which is why the breakup felt like an unexpected death sentence when it happened. You’d both been scouted by Coach, and Jimin was certain you were going to be the one signed to the Bells.
But then you’d both gone to a grad party for a classmate in August. And much like every other social event, you’d agreed to not be too friendly together, to not rock the boat of parental expectations or be a part of the town gossip. So you went to the party with your separate friend groups, danced around each other but never with each other. When one of the girls drunkenly stuck her tongue down Jimin’s throat, you watched without jealousy. And when Jimin begged on the walk to his car for you to forgive him, you’d laughed and said easily that there was nothing to forgive because he didn’t consent to the kiss.
But after that night, after you showered him with plenty of kisses in many places he did consent to and closed the door to his car, everything shifted.
Suddenly, you were absent from try-outs and had texted Jimin saying you were sick. When he offered to come over, you replied that he needed to stay away for a bit. He’d tried to talk to you, but you often left his texts on read. After two weeks of pseudo ghosting, he had finally had enough.
This wasn’t what you did. Something was clearly wrong. And after hearing that day that he’d officially been selected to contract with the Bells, he needed answers. He drove over to your house and snuck into your bedroom when your light was on.
You were sitting on your bed, hair neat and dressed comfortably, with no signs of ailment despite what you’d said before.
“So you’re feeling better I see. You don’t look very sick,” he said, bewildered at how normal you seemed.
“It wasn’t that kind of sickness,” you’d replied, teeth gritted as you turned down the volume of your TV.
“Why didn’t you tell me? Why did you lie to me?” His anger had started building, lifting the volume of his voice to above the whisper-level policy that you’d both implemented.
“Shhh, my parents will hear you.”
“Fuck it! Let them hear me! It’s stupid to keep this shit a secret anymore!”
Your jaw had dropped. You had looked at him with venom. “I was only keeping it a secret for you!”
“Why? Why then was that a secret you could keep between us but you couldn’t even tell me what’s been going on! Are you mad about the party? About that kiss?”
By that point, both of you were talking loudly, and Jimin had heard your parents call up to ask you who was in your room.
“Don’t worry about it!” you called back, returning to your argument. “I can’t believe you think I’m mad about that when I told you it was fine!”
“What do you expect me to think when that’s the last time I saw you? The last time things were normal between us, Y/N?”
“Nothing between us has ever been normal, Jimin.”
“What do you mean?”
“We’re rivals. Competition for each other. You really think that this would hold up if either of us went pro? How would that work? The sore loser just carts themselves behind the other and sits on the sidelines despite their dream being crushed?”
“What? Baby, that’s crazy. Is that how you would feel if I was signed?”
“Maybe, but maybe you’d feel that way.”
“Y/N, I wouldn’t. I would be so happy for you. And maybe I would still have my chance too. To get signed for another team or–”
“And then be on opposite schedules in different places? Really? You think that would work out?”
“It could! Why are you being this way? Did you fake being sick because you’ve been rotting in here thinking about things that haven’t even happened yet?”
You shook your head. “No, I was sick but it’s whatever now. Anyway, I know you were signed today. Coach called me.”
An early fall breeze blew through the open window, settling the heat between you.
“I haven’t signed yet,” he said quietly.
“You will.”
“Maybe I won’t!”
“Oh be serious for one fucking second, Jimin. All summer you’ve talked about this. This is your dream. This has always been your dream.”
“Yeah well that was before you! Before this.”
“What is this?”
“Love! I’m in love with you. I want to spend every day of my life with you, don’t you know that? Since we were kids on the ice, when you were a failed ice skater because you were too gruff. Don’t you love me?”
Tears had welled up in your eyes, but you didn’t move from your bed.
“You can’t give up on hockey Jimin.”
“I’m not going to, Y/N. Now tell me, do you love me, too?”
He sat down on the edge of your bed, looking over at you sadly. He wanted so badly to hold you, to wipe away your tears, but he knew if he moved any closer, you’d be sure to kick him out. He sat anxiously as you silently looked at him, more tears spilling forward.
“You need to leave.”
“Then tell me you don’t love me. If you say that, I’ll climb through that window and I promise I will never bother you again.”
“Stop it. Please, just go home.”
“What is wrong? What happened? I don’t understand. We were fine. Please, tell me.”
The desperation in Jimin’s voice cracked him open, tears falling down his face too.
“It’s over, Jimin. I’m breaking up with you.” You didn’t look him in the eye as you said it. Instead your eyes were fixed on your shelf above your dresser, decorated with trophies, team photos, and medals from your years of hockey. Noticeably gone from that shelf was the stuffed purple whale he’d gotten you from an arcade that summer.
When he looked around, that’s when he noticed every trace of him was gone from your bedroom. The little things you’d put there as symbols of your relationship like postcards he’d written love letters to you on the back of, a small picture you kept by your bedside of your reflections in the water, and the dried flowers from the field off the highway he’d picked for you the day his car stalled on your way into the city. Almost like every trace of him was gone.
“Y/N? I’m coming in.” The sound of your father opening your door pulled Jimin off your bed, wiping his tears as he turned toward the window.
When your father saw him –and as Jimin assumed, you– he cleared his throat. “I think it’s time for you to go, son.”
With one glance back, Jimin looked at you, pleading for you to return his gaze. And as he for the first and last time walked out of your bedroom door, you looked up at him. Your eyes were filled with an agonizing sadness. One that answered every question he asked that night. You loved him. But that somehow, didn’t mean anything.
Now, as he stands in the deep snow looking out across the frozen pond in his parents’ backyard, Jimin can taste the memory on his tongue. Not just of you, even though since he’s gotten home from caroling with his mother he’s been obsessively replaying the memories he thought he put to rest. But he also is remembering his first time skating on the pond.
Back then, it felt like it stretched on for miles, but back then Jimin was also about half his height and terrified the ice was too thin. Over time, he’s learned how to get a better idea of the ice’s thickness and safety, but even if he fell in, the water in the pond is only 4 feet deep.
Carefully, he takes the shovel to the surface, trying to scrape away at the layer of snow that has caked over the ice. He knows by tomorrow the snow will just be another layer of thicker ice to reinforce itself, but he can’t wait.
After shoveling, he returns to the bank and props himself on the old log bench his father put on the edge of the water, replacing his boots with his skates. It feels so natural and right to lace himself back into them, though the missing bulk and weight of his padding feels out of balance. Still, he pulls himself up, shuffling over to the pond and shifting his weight forward to feel it out.
It takes a moment to get used to the rougher ice. It reminds him of the time the zamboni driver was on paternity leave and the roughed up edges from practice after practice made it harder to glide across. Yet this is the pond he first learned to skate on. He knows its bends, how to steady himself among it. And once he feels the ice glide easier under him, it feels like a giant weight has been lifted off his shoulders.
“Do you think they’ll want wreath cookies or tea cakes? Or those ones with the snowmen cutouts! Ooh, we should get those while we’re here, too, just in case.”
Your mother has been leading you down aisle after aisle of the grocery store, nervously questioning every decision she’s made for her Christmas party. After the lackluster turnout post- caroling, she decided she wanted to try again, and for some reason has decided that the selection of cookies was the reason for low turnout, not the record-breaking snowstorm occurring during it.
Unlike yesterday, when you were forced to carol alone, you managed to lie to Minho about needing to get a few things from the store and wanting to hear about his date, waiting until he got in the car to inform him that you would be meeting your mother at the store.
You sigh as you turn the heavy cart around, back in the direction of the dairy section from where you just came. “They’ll be back here. I’ll go get them.”
But her attention is focused more on the list in front of her, so you wheel the heavy load through the masses of shoppers, Minho grumbling behind you about how much he hates you.
“Listen, now that we’re away from my mother, you can give me all the juicy details. How was the Thai food? How was downtown? Did you kiss?”
“I don’t think you deserve to know,” he pouts, pretending to stall at the discounted advent calendars.
“Look, I have stuff to tell you too, so let this be an equal exchange of tea.”
“Y/N, I don’t want to hear about whatever some loser said to you on a dating app about hat trick record holders.”
You arrive at the section with the pre-cut cookie dough. Minho snags two boxes and holds them up, trying to make you pick between the Rudolphs and the Christmas trees. After a second deliberating, he puts both in the cart, knowing your mother will be pleased with his decision making.
“It’s not about dating apps. It’s about Park Ji-”
“Hi!” A bright voice chirps close by, and you jump, focusing on the source. You whirl around to see Mrs. Park waving with a tree shaped butter mold in her hands. Standing behind her at the handle of the cart is Jimin.
“Oh, hi Mrs.Park,” you say, your voice strained. “How are you?”
Mrs. Park smiles at the question. “Good! Please tell your mom I had a fun time yesterday. Lots of good singing! Especially you. Are you a professional?”
Minho snorts behind you, causing you to elbow him in the stomach.
“No no. I’m really not good. I’m not a professional by any means.”
“Oh, I see. Well, what do you do for work then? Is this your husband? He’s very handsome.”
Your eyes widen in horror as you realize she’s talking about Minho.
You try not to look at Jimin, but you do, and he still wears the same blank expression from yesterday, only his jaw is set and the tips of his ears are red. He looks back and forth between you and Minho, almost like he’s trying to imagine you two together.
“Oh, you’re really sweet, but, no. I’m not her husband. Neither of us are married.” Minho pipes up, his hand gently rubbing up and down your back. Somehow, you know he has pieced what you were about to say together, and the comfort of his touch makes you feel a little less like running at full speed out of the store.
Jimin’s blank expression has turned into a glare.
You clear your throat, not only drawing his gaze up to you but also his mother’s.
“I, um, I own the ice arena. So I am usually there, sorting out bills and repairs. Or driving the zamboni. When I have downtime I play offense in our hockey league.”
This seems to draw Jimin’s attention. “You own the arena?”
“Yeah, the Lee family who owned it? Both of them passed away a few years ago. None of their children wanted it, so I bought it from them about two years ago.”
Jimin frowned. “Oh no, that’s so sad. They always gave me extra time to practice and always had those licorice laces at the food counter. Remember the time we–”
His mouth snaps shut as he realizes his mistake. His eyes flash to his mother, who is looking between the two of you. “Oh! Then you must know each other!” she says ecstatically.
You raise your eyebrows at Jimin expectantly. What narrative is he going to choose?
“Yes, Eomma. Y/N and I went to high school together. And we saw each other a lot.”
“Yeah, something like that,” you say, quietly challenging him even now to say the whole truth. He responds with a shake of his head. His mother doesn’t notice.
“Oh, how nice! Such a shame my son never mentioned knowing you before. He could be the one shopping with you now if he had gotten you sooner instead of your husband! But, my son was always so focused on sports. Do you know the UHL? He’s on a team there!”
Something twinges in you at the mention of the truth. You know Jimin never mentioned you, as that was part of your arrangement. But the thing his mother says about getting you sooner really throws you.
“She knows, Eomma. She of all people will know about the UHL. She had tried out during the same trials as me.”
“Is that so? Well, a pity that he beat you then. He’s always been so talented. I guess fate really made things work out for both of you then.”
You find yourself folding your lips into a thin line, trying to avoid spilling the details about her son’s talent. But just as you wrap your hands around the cart rails until your knuckles pop, you feel MInho reach over you, loosening the cart from your grasp.
“Hey, uh, you know, your mom is probably looking for us,” he says, introducing the bait that you can take to escape the increasingly painful conversation.
As if summoned, your mother appears, rambling on about how long it has taken before she recognizes who is standing in front of her.
“Oh, well hello there! It’s great to see you again. Thank you for attending yesterday, it was wonderful having you. Too bad you missed the post-caroling cookies!”
You sigh, knowing that your mother is sounding passive aggressive to anyone within earshot.
“Oh, yes, I’m sorry we couldn’t attend. My son had just flown in earlier in the day, so we went home after so he could rest.”
Your mother’s smile falls a little, no doubt from the guilt.
“Of course! Well, no harm done. In fact, I’m having a soirée on Christmas Eve, and you should attend! Bring the whole family!”
You glance back at Minho, whose mouth is pursed to hold back a laugh, much like yours. A soirée. Sure.
“I don’t know Eomma, we still have–”
“It sounds amazing!” Mrs. Park interrupts, shooting a harsh look at her son. “We would love to attend, thank you.”
“Perfect, I’ll email you the details then. Well, we should get going. These cookies won’t bake themselves!”
As you peel yourself away from the Parks, you take a deep breath.
“Well,” Minho says, “I don’t think I need to hear your story anymore.”
“Well, there’s something more I need to tell you, but not here.”
When you first met Jimin, you were seven, though you don’t remember him. While he once claimed he’s known you for forever, it wasn’t until you were both teenagers before you actually remembered him.
In high school, you’d laid low, avoiding just about every social event that you possibly could. Your focus was on academics and the ice, with 5am wake times to get to the arena to practice, and late nights doing extra cram school sessions to keep your grades in shape despite your busy schedule. You had friends, but they were ones who lived in different cities, most of them commuting to your traveling team. Because co-ed hockey wasn’t an option and your high school had only invested in boys’ leagues, Park Jimin wasn’t someone on your radar.
Until you’d learned that you were on his.
It started in the early spring. Rumor had it that major league coaches were scouting for new recruits. Of all genders. There was a special trial process, and the trials would happen during the summer, with a potential for newly contracted players to begin their rookie season as soon as the fall.
You’d tried not to get too excited. With an early decision college acceptance under your belt, your future was already looking bright. There was even an athletic scholarship attached. You could play on the women's team. But the potential of playing for the UHL, to be scouted and live out your dream to play hockey professionally was still filling your stomach with butterflies.
So you kept yourself chill until the rumor became official, and marched into the arena you knew so well with your head high, ready to take on the other recruits.
It was then that you and Jimin officially met.
He was a bit scrawny looking then, his mop of black hair almost shadowing his face. It was hard to believe that this kid was the one you knew to be the MVP of the boy’s hockey team at your school.
But once you saw him move, you understood why. Jimin had the form and movement almost of a dancer, with his build keeping him strong but light on his feet to race forward and snake around even the most complex of defense measures. He instinctively knew how to bend his body and stick away from a targeted maneuver, and cut swiftly enough to throw off the goalie and score. He would have made a great figure skater.
You, however, were different. From the start, the grace of figure skating wasn’t with you, with your skates sloppily digging into the ice so you could chase after the object of your affection. A little brutish, you were also cunning, and the strategy of hockey and the game board that laid before you made it all the more satisfying. Your patience and ability to unfold a game play before it fully manifested often led to your team’s win.
It also made playing against Jimin all the more intriguing.
Because during each scrimmage, shoot-out, and obstacle you faced for the try-outs, Jimin was often neck-in-neck with you, somehow knowing your own plan of attack, and sliding the puck out of your hold as if he was plucking a feather from a pillow. It appeared so effortless, like he’d studied you for so long and knew your every movement. When he would shrug and give you an angelic smile during his wins over you, it made you all the more angry.
One day after a scrimmage, you were stressed and hormonal and pissed. Some of the other players had gotten under your skin, shit-talking you for being the only woman on the team.
“You sure you aren’t on some steroids or some shit? Performance enhancement can happen to everyone.”
“I’m sure your daddy taught you quite a bit when you played on your little ponds, sweetheart. But this is the big leagues. There’s guys out there three times your size who will ruin that pretty little face.”
“Are you sure you’re cut out for this? The position of Puck Bunny is open. If you want to experience hockey with the pros, might as well be safely bouncing on my cock to do so.”
The sexism was rampant in hockey, and you knew it. But that was a day where it was too much. With graduation on the near horizon, just breaking up with your boyfriend, and the scouting day schedule being released soon, your nerves were as tired as your body.
When Jimin found you crying in your car outside of the arena, he’d gently knocked on your window, a light smile warming his face as he held up a protein shake and a Kit Kat.
You’d let him in, and from there, your whole world shifted.
The days grew longer, the sun warming parts of your life you’d forgotten winter took away. Jimin was there to listen, to sit and strategize plays with you, to eat Subway sandwiches after practice and walk you to your car after school.
“Hey, so, there’s this movie coming out. It’s a documentary, actually, about my favorite player, Lee Wonhyuk? Would you, uh, like to see it with me?”
You knew that was his favorite player. He mentioned Wonhyuk nearly every day, and wore his jersey when he wasn’t in his own padding. You also had learned other things about Jimin during this time, like how the tips of his ears would turn red when he was embarrassed, and that his parents had a no dating policy because he was supposed to have an arranged marriage some day. He dreamed of leaving the town you both grew up in, wanting more for himself and hoping the distance from his family would allow for him to be more himself than simply fulfilling the dreams of his parents.
He wanted it so badly he repeated it like a mantra to you often, it sometimes sounding like a plea to the heavens as tears fell from his eyes.
He had a tooth that was a little crooked, and sometimes when he was tired, his voice would lisp a little. When he laughed, it was often with his full body, a cute giggle that scrunched up his face and folded him nearly in half with joy. He was allergic to cats but loved them. He had a brother. He learned to skate on the pond in his backyard.
But he never bragged. Never let his anger get him on the ice. Was respectful to you and held open doors or carried your equipment bag when your shoulder hurt.
So of course you said yes to the date. Of course you let him tuck your hair behind your ear and kiss you in the warm night, his breathy finally he sighed when your lips broke apart ensuring you’d made the right call about him.
“So you were seeing each other in secret,” Minho says, drinking his Americano smoothly, like it isn’t a pile of caffeinated sludge.
“Yes,” you respond, the cinnamon on top of your gingerbread latte making you cough slightly.
The café’s window is foggy, but you can still make out the figures of bustling shoppers. For the sake of discretion, you agreed to Minho’s suggestion to go into the big city for “decent coffee and the ability to be strangers in a larger public”.
He was right. Everyone is either deep in their own discussions or blocking out the world with headphones as they work on their laptops. The soft jazz Christmas music makes it feel safer to speak your secrets into the air.
“Well, then what happened? What led to you breaking up? It sounds like you two were in love.”
“We were…I think” you say, correcting yourself immediately after.
“You think?”
“Can you be in love when you’re nineteen?”
“Uh, yes? Nineteen is young, but have you seen the teens these days? I think they have emotional maturity.”
“Well, I didn’t, I guess. Because that summer was so intense. We graduated, but we were already together. And then we were hanging out with our own friend groups and trying to balance things. But we saw each other just about every day. And then it was almost like an obsession. We were unable to go a singular day without each other. He would sneak into my room to be with me at night and then leave before either of us had to get up to go to practice. We didn’t want to get caught, so we would makeout behind the movie theater in his car or drive to a more secluded part of the woods so we could…you know.”
“Have sex? Come on, Y/N, don’t get all shy on me now when I know you were eating up the details about me taking my date the other night and eating her out while she–”
“Shh!” You look around, but if anything, your shushing is the thing that drew attention.
“You’re such a prude,” Minho laughs. “Anyway, go on. So you would sneak around, make love, and spend every hour with each other possible. Sounds like you were being nineteen.”
“Well, it was intense. And once the coaches came it was rigorous and terrifying. Jimin was getting better and stronger, but I was constantly getting slower and I felt weaker. At first I thought I was just tired, like I’d overworked myself, but then I was getting more anxious and nauseous. So I just assumed that it was nerves. But I was playing pretty good and I was drawing attention from the coaches in a great way. Well, one in particular. The coach for the Bells. He was the only one who seemed to be interested in signing a woman.”
“Well, yeah, because we live in a hellish and misogynistic society and you kick ass!” Minho says enthusiastically, pounding his hand onto the table.
A woman carrying her tiny Pomerainian in her purse whips her head over. “Do you mind? Snowball is trying to get her beauty sleep.”
“Sorry,” you both say in unison.
“Anyway, yeah, I was so excited about the opportunity. And so was Jimin. He kept going on and on about playing on the same team as his idol. But Coach approached me one day after practice and told me that despite there being another three weeks in the trial period, he’d already made his decision. He wanted to sign me on for the fall season. And he would see through the process to be fair, but he had already contacted the legal team to begin drawing up my contract.
“And I had to keep it a secret. While it’s kind of known that coaches do this, they usually keep it to themselves. But Coach said that he hadn’t seen the strategy his team needed in their play execution for quite some time and I would be a huge asset to the team. I’d asked about Jimin, too, out of curiosity but he kind of skirted around the details, saying that there would only be one recruit for the team from this area.”
“Oh my god, that’s incredible! So why didn’t you go through with it? What did Jimin say when you told him?”
“I didn’t,” you shake your head, fiddling with the cupsleeve of your latte. “I couldn’t. Not only was I sworn to secrecy basically, but how was I supposed to tell the person who adored the Bells that he wasn’t going to play for them? How could I crush his dreams like that? He needed this. Not only because he wanted it, but he was good at it. As much as I hated to admit my shitty opponents were right, I physically was going to be one third of the size of my competitors sometimes and there is a danger in hockey.”
“Okay, but it’s not like Jimin is some massive dude.”
“No, but you’ve seen how graceful he is. He slips out of the hold of the other team fairly easily. I’ve only seen him get body checked recently, when he got whatever that temper is he now is known for. He wasn’t like that at all when we were younger.”
“Did he find out? Is that how things ended?”
You shook your head. “I never told Jimin about this meeting. Maybe he knows now and that’s why he’s always pissed whenever he sees me, I don’t know. But there’s multiple reasons why I didn’t sign on, and yes there’s that part I just told you about, but there was more to it than that.”
Minho sips his coffee, gesturing for you to continue.
“So, as the week went on, my stomach was hurting more and more. And with all the stress and nerves but all the crazy workouts, I’d been skipping my period for a few months. Jimin and I had been safe for the most part, but not always. Sometimes we were too hot and heavy and we’d do the pull-out method instead. But I didn’t ever make the connection. A lot of the time, female athletes who are super physically conditioned have lighter or missed periods. It had happened before, but that was before I was sexually active. Stress, too, can sometimes make you miss periods. So one night Jimin and I went out to this party. Nothing really important happened but some girl threw herself at Jimin and he was worried I’d be upset. I wasn’t, but all-too conveniently I was super sick the next day. I missed practice. And that’s when I started putting the dots together and bought a test that was clearly positive.”
“Oh my god, Y/N. What?”
“Yeah,” you chuckled, taking a deeper sip of your drink. “Pregnant. And for a little while actually. When I got into the clinic and they took the blood tests and ultrasound, they suspected I was about 8 weeks along. Which means I had been drinking, getting body checked, and all sorts of shit during that time. But, they said it was still viable.”
“Did you want it to be viable? I mean, how did you feel? Scared, I can imagine.”
Your lips curve into a soft smile. “I don’t think I really gave myself much time to decide how I felt besides that I was terrified and that this was happening at the worst possible time. I asked for an abortion right then and there. So they sent me home with the pills, and I just waited. It takes a few days, and god, honestly it was awful to experience alone. I didn’t tell anyone, because if I told my parents I was afraid they would ask whose it was, and I didn’t want that to get back to Jimin’s parents. So, I just spent about a week at home, saying I had a really heavy period this time, experiencing heavy cramps and crying and letting it pass. The following week I had to go back in and make sure it worked, but in that time I just laid low and didn’t talk to anyone.
“My parents didn’t suspect much, but Jimin was freaking out, thinking I had some infectious disease and threatening to come over every five minutes with soup or a Hazmat suit. I didn’t want him to be there, though. If he knew I was pregnant, I knew it would throw him off. He’d be worried about me even more and start thinking about us having babies together and getting old and staying in this town.”
“I can understand why you didn’t tell him, I do. But I do wonder what’s so wrong about letting him think about those things too.” Minho reaches his hand out gently, stroking his fingers on the back of your hand. “I’m not saying what you did is wrong in any way, Y/N. It’s your body and always your choice matters the most. But based on how you described him to me before, do you think he would have thrown it all away or tried to make you keep the baby? Do you think that your decision and his wouldn’t be aligned in that way?”
You think for a minute. “No, I think he would have been on my side. He was really adamant on letting me be independent and pursuing what was best for myself. I just couldn't give him the option at the time. I was too focused on making sure things went right for him.”
Minho smiles softly and nods. “I just hate that you went through that alone.”
“I do too. But I’m glad I can finally talk about it. I did end up telling my parents, about a year or so later, that I had an abortion. I didn’t say whose it was, but my mom cried for like three days because she was so sad for me that I went through it alone.”
“Is that why you turned down the offer, then? Were you okay after?” Minho furrows his brow with concern.
“Oh, I was fine after about two weeks. I felt completely back to normal. And it wasn’t really that reason that I turned the offer down. I mean, it was a part of it, obviously, but mostly when I was having the abortion and was alone at home I was thinking about how fucked up life is. I was a normal teenager and then shit I was pregnant. I was in love with someone but oh god we were almost parents. We were breaking rules despite being adults. We were living in secret and baby or no baby, life was going to change for us and soon. If I was signed to the Bells, I would be leaving home, but what about Jimin? Would he come with me, stay back? Would he get other offers and we’d play on opposing teams? If I said no and he said yes, would he seriously be okay coming back and seeing me or trying to figure things out while I was away at school?
“Keep in mind, at that time, I didn’t realize my deferment was me rescinding my scholarship. I just suddenly felt like the world was so, so big and the tiny, romantic solitude we’d coveted was not going to work out. So I made up my mind. I turned down the offer for the Bells. I told Coach the world wasn’t ready for a woman in professional hockey and told him about Jimin and his drive and passion and dreams. I told him to sign him instead. Or at least I hoped I told him. I was really laying it on thick,” you laugh.
“And then you broke things off with Jimin,” Minho finishes. You frown softly.
“Yeah. And it was awful. He begged me not to. He didn’t know where all this was coming from. He told me he’d only leave if I told him I didn’t love him, but I couldn’t do that. Eventually my dad busted into my room and sent him away. And that was it. That was the last time we talked or saw each other.”
“Until now.”
“Until now,” you confirm.
‘Well fuck, Y/N, that’s one hell of a story.”
“I’ll say.”
Your head pivots to the Pomeranian lady, who is turned toward you and Minho, sipping her coffee indulgently.
“You were eavesdropping that entire time?” you ask.
“Well, it’s not like you were being discreet. Either way, honey, these kinds of places absorb everyone’s biggest secrets. That’s what makes the coffee so good.”
When Minho dropped you off at your house, you felt like a huge weight had been lifted off your chest. After years of holding onto something that wasn’t necessarily shameful but still heavy, someone else knowing the full story was relieving.
However, one question he asked before leaving has been popping around in your head, taking up a residence that you weren’t quite expecting, even as you unlock the doors to the ice arena the next morning.
“Are you going to tell him?”
Had Jimin not been only mere miles away from you at this very moment, you would say no. There’s no point in bringing up the past if it’s never around to haunt you. But it seems like Jimin is determined to make your small town feel even smaller.
When he walks through the doors behind Bee, you can’t help but feel like you manifested him.
“So, Y/N, here’s the deal.” Bee always tells you news this way. A deal, a situation. This is her way of telling you she’s made a decision and you’re probably not going to like it.
“I got a call the other day from the Head Coach of the Bells. I don’t know how, probably Jay gave it to him since he’s the AC but whatever.” Bee suddenly admitting that her long distance boyfriend, Jay–the Jay she has baby talked to multiple times after a game loss– is the Assistant Coach for the Bells is shocking. But not as shocking as what next comes out of her mouth. “He wants us to rehab Park. Drill him, get him back to his roots and all that shit. He’s hoping some time on a familiar rink will help him shape up. So starting today, he’s going to be training with you.”
You blink silently at Bee, wishing you could communicate “I want to strangle you” through the pattern.
“What?” Jimin says incredulously. “I thought I was just going to be training with the space, not with her specifically.”
Bee cocks her head at Jimin. “You got a problem training with women, Park? Because if so, I would be happy to call Jay and let him know you’re not complying.” She smiles viciously.
Jimin sighs in resignation. “No, ma’am.”
“Bee,” you say. “That’s not fair. If he doesn’t want to train with us, he doesn’t have to. I have some opening slots since the junior teams and figure skating lessons are on hold until after the new year. He can just come do drills during those times if he wants to.”
Bee flicks her gaze between you and Jimin, raising an eyebrow. “What’s with you, Y/N? You’ve never disagreed with my plans before. Are you guys ex lovers or something?”
You suck in a breath, ready to deny the accusation, but Jimin beats you to it.
“Yeah, actually. We dated in high school.” He says it calmly, with no malice or venom. It actually shocks you a bit.
“Oh. Well...do you think you two can make it through the holidays without killing each other?”
Jimin laughs lightly. “I don’t know, you’ve seen her slapshots. I think you know how lethal she can be.”
Bee smirks, nodding. “Fair.”
You knit your brows together. Jimin making light jokes to Bee? What reality do you live in?
“So, Y/N? Can you not enact Kill Jimin at this time?”
Despite yourself, you find yourself smiling, allowing a light laugh to fall from your lips.
“Yes, I promise I won’t kill Jimin.”
Practicing with you feels like a weird dream Jimin is walking through. Familiar because the arena looks about the exact same as it did back when you were teenagers. Only now, you are both older, and when Jimin gets a good look at you without a giant winter parka over your body, he can’t help but notice how good you look.
Your body has filled in, with wider hips and strong legs that lunge forward with ease, carrying you as you slam the puck into the goal post, chiming in the air before it pivots in. Your ass has gotten bigger, too, and it looks perfect in your leggings you’ve chosen to wear for practice. He can’t see much of your arms due to the bulky hoodie you’ve chosen, but he can tell by the way you bodycheck one of your teammates that they are far from weak.
It’s almost enough to get him hard. Until he hears you laugh, and then he remembers how long it’s been since he’s experienced your laughter, and the empty ache of his past drags his sulky mood back up.
Being home sucks. Seeing his parents is great, but he’s been coddled since he got here, being sent off with homemade lunches from his mother and warnings from his father not to stay out too late. He’s almost thirty and he feels sixteen. This morning his mother woke up even before him just so she could corner him in the kitchen and ask if he’d reviewed any of the potential matches she sent him so he can also go on a date while he’s home.
He’d said not yet, but what he wanted to say was “No, Eomma, because marriage couldn’t be the furthest thing from my mind right now when my career is dying in front of me.”
Now, witnessing you be still so much of yourself after nearly ten years, Jimin can’t help but feel even worse about himself.
“Park, you’re up.” Coach Bee whistles for Jimin to begin his drill, handling the puck quicking between a set of cones. It’s a familiar drill he’s done hundreds of times with the UHL, but this time there’s a twist: he must avoid the agitator, a player who will skate behind him tightly, not only trying to intercept the puck, but also piss him off.
Naturally, you’re the agitator.
“Before we do this, no low blows,” he says as you glide up to him. “Treat me with the same knowledge any other player would have. Nothing too personal.”
“Oh, uh, I wasn’t going to, but sure,” you say softly.
When Coach Bee blows her whistle, he begins, curving his body along the cones, with you right behind him.
“Pussy,” you say, which catches Jimin off guard immediately, throwing him into a laughing fit and knocking a bunch of cones down.”
Coach blows her whistle. “Reset! Come on Park, Y/N, be serious.”
“I am being serious!” you shout back, but Jimin is still laughing hard.
“Oh come on! Pussy? You’re kidding me!” Jimin wheezes. Your lips twitch.
“Okay, fine, I haven’t gone into my zone yet. Give me a break.”
“I know you can be mean,” he says. Your face falls.
“I don’t want to be mean.”
“Well that’s your job right now isn’t it? To agitate me? So just suck it up and do it. Or are you a pussy?” He raises an eyebrow. You clench your jaw.
This is how he knows he’s got you. All it ever used to take was a little bit of a challenge to rile you up. And Jimin knows just what buttons to push.
“Reset your shit and let’s go,” you say.
He smirks.
This time when Coach Bee blows her whistle, you’re practically on top of Jimin, careening your body so your stick is just millimeters away from his.
“You know, you used to be hard to crack. What’s wrong? All that fame get to your head? Or was it the fake orgasms you gave that girl in your little sex tape?”
“Oh, baby, you of all people should know those orgasms were real.”
“Hmm, I don’t know. You were going awfully hard on the poor girl with your needle dicking. Does being shitty at hockey now amount to being shitty at sex these days?” You smack his hockey stick, causing it to rattle uneasily in Jimin’s grasp.
He chokes up on the handle, reshaping the curve of his arm so the puck tucks behind the stick when you go in for another slap.
“Aw you’re asking about sex? Has no one fucked you since me or are you just having awful sex?” he retorts. You scoff. With a twist, Jimin begins the second set of cones, this time with a more fluid movement that feels natural to his body.
“So interested in my pussy, aren’t you. If you were maybe more attentive to the other people you fuck, you wouldn’t be the worst player in the major league.”
“As opposed to what? The best player in the minor league? I’m not the one stuck at home.”
He feels your skate sliding between his legs, the force of your body checking, almost knocking him to the ground. He steadies, glaring at you as you coast behind him gracefully.
“Oops, sorry. Did I almost trip you?”
“You always played dirty,” he spits. “Come on, babygirl, give me your worst.”
You roll your eyes and fall into position as he passes the puck back and forth between his stick.
“Being awfully quiet back there. What’s wrong, big boys got your ego down?”
“Hardly. I think you’ve got enough ego for the whole fucking town.”
“And how did I get it, hmm? It didn’t come from sucking, Y/N, it came from talent. Something you didn’t try hard enough for.”
“And you did? I’m sure Coach really loves to tell you all about your talent.”
“He does, he said I had drive and passion and that’s why I needed to come back here. To show how far I’ve come from this shithole. How skilled I am and how much I deserve to be there instead of here.”
“Well lucky for you to have been the top contender.” Your voice drips with anger, and Jimin peers back to see your eyes piercing through him. You drop your stick, shifting to Coach Bee.
“Bee, I’m done. Send in someone else to agitate.” You skate off the ice, whispering angrily to her as you jab your finger in Jimin’s direction. She nods, blowing her whistle.
“Alright, reset! Let’s get this show on the road. Wonpil, you’re with Jimin. Minho, go take goalie position. Hustle! It’s Christmas Eve, we all want to get home!”
Everyone resets, and the player named Wonpil pulls up behind Jimin. As the fellow players begin their drills, Wonpil immediately jumps in where you left off.
“God, I can’t believe they let an asshole like you in here,” he says, leering over Jimin’s shoulder.
Jimin snorts, focusing on his positioning.
“Seriously, you’re the scum of the entire UHL and you really think you’re the shit? Embarrassing.”
“Well, at least I have a contract. How's a dinky rink going for you, bud?”
“You know you only have that contract because Y/N turned it down, right?”
Jimin grips his stick harder. “Nice lie, you almost got me with it.”
Wonpil laughs, empty and cruel. “Oh you don’t know do you? Your coach scouted her for the Bells. She only turned it down because she was sick and felt bad for you.”
“You’re lying,” Jimin said, teeth gritting.
“Sure I am. Keep telling yourself that. But facts are facts, Jimin. You playing like a piece of shit is a disgrace to not just yourself, but everything she built for you too.”
“Stop. Lying.” Heat flares through Jimin’s body, and he pivots on the ice, slamming his body into Wonpil.
“Oh, I’ve wanted to do this for a long time,” Wonpil says, teeth sharp as he smiles at Jimin. “Someone really needs to put you in your place, and I’m more than happy to do it.”
Jimin grabs Wonpil’s shoulders, jerking him into the barrier. “Go for it, bud. Show me how cool you think you are.”
Wonpil jerks his arm up to bring his elbow down onto Jimin's face, but something stops him. A hand squeezes his forearm, and as Jimin follows the limb, he sees you.
“Stop it, Wonpil. That’s enough.” Your voice is soft but ragged, and Jimin realizes you’ve been crying.
Somewhere in the background, the whistle is screaming through the arena, and the entire team of the Griffins are streaming forward to break up the fight. But it’s your touch, your voice that seems to break Jimin from his fury.
“Are you okay?” he asks, but the question confuses you, and you stand there staring at him, your body only looped through one arm of the hoodie, your skates untied.
You don’t answer, instead skating back off the rink, grabbing your equipment bag and disappearing behind a door marked for employees.
Jimin doesn’t see you until closing time. While practice ended hours ago, he stayed, doing drills, eating a hot dog from concessions, and most of all, waiting for you.
Your hair is messy, eyes puffy and red, but when your eyes land on Jimin, you don’t look fazed by his presence.
“I saw you on the security camera,” you say softly.
“Ah,” he responds. Your arms are crossed, the long sleeves of your shirt confirming the muscle definition he suspected before.
“I assume you wanted to talk to me?” you ask.
Jimin clears his throat, nodding awkwardly. “Um, yeah. Your teammate, Wonpil. What’s his deal?”
“What do you mean?”
“Does he have it out for me or something?”
You shrug. “I’m not sure what you mean. Besides you trying to beat the shit out of him. Did something happen?”
“Well, I didn’t try to beat the shit out of him for nothing. The guy has a screw loose or something. He was saying all sorts of shit.”
“Didn’t you tell me that this is what the agitator does? Of course he’s going to say shit. Come on, follow me. I need to lock up.” You lead him through the various lobbies and areas around the arena, checking bathrooms and corners for anyone who might be loitering. Jimin saw the last people leave about an hour ago, but he doesn’t say so.
“Yeah, but this was crazy stuff.” You duck your head into the women’s bathroom.
“Mhm.”
“He said that the only reason I’m contracted with the Bells is because you turned it down. Isn’t that nuts?”
You freeze, your hand on the key that turns off the lights to the south side of the arena.
“Oh.”
Jimin watches you. Your voice sounds shaken, and when you turn to him, you don’t meet his gaze.
“Y/N,” Jimin says.
“Yeah.”
“Look at me.” You obey. “Is that true? Did you get a contract for the Bells?”
“I did,” you say.
Jimin’s chest clenches but he forces a deep breath through it anyway.
“And did you turn it down so I could go?”
“Yes,” you say. Tears well up in your eyes. Jimin blinks in disbelief.
“Why? Why the fuck would you do that? It was your dream and you just threw it away!” Anger pulses through him again, making him flushed and hot. “Why didn’t you tell me? What the fuck, Y/N?”
“You wanted it more than I did, Jimin! You needed it more than me. What was I supposed to do? Leave you behind?”
“You were supposed to tell me! You were supposed to be honest so I could figure things out for myself! If I wasn’t the first pick, I deserved to know! Now I know I was the pity pick? All this time I was thinking I was chosen because I was wanted, but I wasn’t even good enough for that?”
He rubs his eyes with his hands, trying to stamp out the burning he feels in them. Despite himself, his throat tightens, and the hot lick of tears begins to fall in mirror to your face.
“Of course you were good enough! Why else would you have been contracted! He saw in you what I saw!” you yell, a ragged cry leaving your chest.
“So that’s why you dumped me all those years ago? Was it guilt for what you did?”
“No! No, it was because I couldn’t be the one dragging you down, Jimin. You spent that whole summer telling me how badly you needed to escape. You talked about your dreams, everything. If I went and played for the Bells, would you have been happy for me? Would you have been okay with letting your dream go?”
“Of course I wouldn’t Y/N! Because you were my dream. You never seemed to get that! All along you were playing with my future like I was your puppet on strings. Did I live up to your expectations? Hm? Is watching me fuck strangers in a threesome that has since ruined my life been a dream for you? Has watching me become the loser that I am been satisfying for your sick idea of reality?”
“No, it isn’t. It’s been sad, Jimin. It has been absolutely awful to watch! And keep in mind, there’s no way for me to be a puppeteer if I’m not around to pull the strings. You became who you are now by your own hand. Not mine. Yeah, it was wrong of me not to tell you, I know that now. I’m sorry. It wasn’t fair to you. But I’m not responsible for your career failing. That’s all you.”
You turn the key to the set of lights, shutting the arena down into darkness.
“Now, excuse me. I have a Christmas Eve party to get to.”
You manage to get the swelling of your eyelids to go down with some cold spoons your mother shoves into the freezer when she sees you arrive at the party.
You know you’ll have to face Jimin again tonight, but some resolve has washed over you in the time since you left the arena earlier this afternoon. You’ve had time for a shower, and thrown on some makeup so no one can ask you why you’ve been crying.
With Minho here, things are feeling a little less stifling, as he instinctively knows how to assemble a killer charcuterie board while also wearing a dashing smile on his face when your aunts ask him if he’s single. He’s good for the distraction, giving you more time to mentally prepare for when Jimin walks through the door with his parents, wearing a white button-up shirt and open suitcoat.
He looks good. Put together, unlike earlier when he and you were crying and screaming at each other. Composed in only the way a celebrity with PR training could.
“Oh, hello Y/N!” his mother says as you greet them at the door, taking her pea coat into your hands.
“Hello, thank you for coming. My mom will be happy you’re here.”
“Thank you, dear. It’s our pleasure to be here. Jimin, help Y/N with our coats while we go put the tapenade on the table.”
Mechanically, he obliges, taking his and his father’s snow-dusted coats and following you to the spare bedroom down the hall that has become the coat room.
“You look nice,” he says, nodding in your direction. You chose to wear a sparkly black dress with shooting stars on it. It was one of the few things in your closet you could deem festive enough without being tacky. The only downside is that it’s shrunk in the wash, making your breasts spill over and your ass practically falls out the back when it rides up.
“Thank you,” you say, trying not to notice too much that his eyes are glued to your chest. You feel a light jolt of warmth in your stomach. “You do too.”
Jimin flushes, looking down shyly. “Thanks.”
Without much effort, you turn toward the door, falling back into the warmth of the party. Your mother clinks her glass, drawing the attention of others.
“Thank you all for attending this party at the last minute,” your mother beams, clearly pleased with the turnout.
“That being said, we have lots of games at the ready, song sheets with lyrics, and plenty of eggnog and mistletoe to help you feel some holiday cheer.” She looks at you and winks. “So, enjoy! And cheers!”
The partygoers cheer, and some swingy, festive rendition of “Deck the Halls” kicks on. You retreat to the designated bar table, where Minho is pouring a heavy glass of something.
“What’s ailing you?” he asks.
“Jimin,” you scoff, gesturing for him to pour you a shot of vodka. He goes to top it with cranberry juice, but you shake your head.
“You sure you want to get wasted?”
“Absolutely. I can’t imagine getting through any of this sober,” you grimace. Minho laughs.
“Fair point. Cheers.”
You clink your shot glasses, downing the alcohol quickly. The burn pulls down through your chest, warming you instantly.
For the next two hours, you and Minho take turns pouring each other drinks before jumping into games like Christmas Pictionary, where your father draws the worst reindeer you’ve ever seen in your life, looking more like a group of sausages on a grill.
Jimin hovers around, refusing to partake in the fun, and his Grinchy attitude is still weighing on you too.
When your mother passes out her caroling sheets and your father shoves someone over to the piano, you find yourself stuffed into the corner with him.
“Having fun yet?” you ask, the alcohol giving you the guts to feel daring enough to speak to him.
“Is this supposed to be?”
You frown. “God, you’re such a grump. You better be careful, or you’ll be visited by the ghosts of Christmas past, present, and future tonight.”
“I’d say that I’m already experiencing it,” he says, gesturing toward you. “You get to be all three it would seem.”
You roll your eyes, putting some distance between the two of you.
At some point, you’re stuck together again. This time near the snack table and you try to pad your stomach with something other than alcohol. As you load your plate with salami roses and lots of different cheeses and vegetables, Jimin reaches over you, grabbing the bag of potato chips and depositing some of his plate.
“Here,” he says, when he sees you struggle to balance your stash, and he carries it into the kitchen so you can eat against the counter in peace.
“Um, thank you,” you say, and pop a tomato into your mouth.
“About earlier,” he says. Something in his voice sounds less tense than before, and it prompts you to look at him, taking in the softness of his face.
“Yeah?”
“I was being an asshole,” he finishes. “I’m sorry. I just…it was a shock is all. And a bit disappointing.”
“It’s okay to be upset,” you say, dusting your hands off on a napkin. “And I’m sorry, too. It wasn’t right of me. I know it’s not an excuse, but I was really young at the time and I was scared.”
“I was scared too,” Jimin says, lifting his eyes to look at you. “God, leaving here was terrifying.”
The room is warm from all the crockpots still heating the various delights your parents have encouraged others to serve. Jimin’s face is rosy, and he looks almost like a teenager again.
You nod. “I can only imagine. A new place to start from scratch. Trying to get a hang of everything and be independent. You were practically a kid.”
“I was,” he smirks. “We both were.”
“Yeah,” you smile.
“I do have another question, if that’s okay,” he says quietly.
“Sure.” You bite down on a piece of cheese, chewing softly.
“When you broke up with me, you said something about how if you got the contract you were worried that I would be miserable. Was that why you did it? Didn’t take it.”
You sigh. “It was more complicated than that.”
“How so?”
In the living room someone whoops as the partygoers sing along to “Jingle Bell Rock”.
“Not here, let’s go somewhere more private.”
He follows you into the guest room where you left your coats earlier. The room feels colder than the rest of the house, since the door has been closed despite the groups of people warming the living room.
You sit. Jimin sits, too, though on the far side of the bed.
“Well, I guess that me worrying about you was part of it. But I think looking back, I was also worried about myself. We had such a hot and heavy summer and this contract felt like a huge question mark over both of our futures. And we’d never talked about it. While I was at home, I just kept twirling the idea of how things would work out over and over in my head.”
“Did you skip trials because of it? I had no idea you were so anxious. When I saw you and you didn’t look sick, I thought you’d lied. I never considered that you would have made yourself sick with all of that.”
“Um, well that wasn’t fully it.” His composure takes you by surprise. “The week of the party. The one you assumed I got mad at you for? I was kept after practice by your coach. He said that while the try-outs weren’t done, he had made his choice. He picked me. And I had to keep it a secret from everyone. Including you.”
Jimin folds his lips into a line. “Ah, I see.”
“But, I also had been feeling really shitty. Nausea, heightened anxiety, stress related stuff. Missing periods and stuff, which I know I told you some about. But the day after the party, I felt really bad. And then I finally realized what was wrong. Um…I was pregnant.”
Jimin’s eyes flare wide. “What?”
“Yeah. Turns out a lot of my symptoms were signs of pregnancy. And you and I weren’t exactly careful a lot of the time.”
Heat floods to Jimin’s face, and you watch as his ears turn pink. “No, we weren’t.”
“I knew I couldn’t have a baby. I wasn’t really thinking what you would want in that but–”
“What I would have wanted doesn’t matter.”
You smile, some warmth spreading to your chest over your instinct being right. “Well, thanks. I got an abortion. And then I turned down the contract. I was going to go to school but I guess my deferment resulted in me losing my scholarship.”
Jimin stares at you, unmoving.
“You okay? I’m not shocking you too much?”
“It’s not that it’s just. Holy shit, Y/N.”
“People keep saying that,” you chuckle.
“Because it’s a holy shit situation. Were you okay? Did your parents take you?”
“No, I just did it alone.”
“Fuck, god. And I was just off dicking around on a rink while you were going through that”
“Which is what I wanted you to be doing, Jimin. I didn’t want you worrying about me. You had to focus!”
Jimin rolls his eyes. “God, you are ridiculous. You were all alone having an abortion by yourself, going through that pain by yourself. Something of which I caused and you were still thinking about me instead of yourself?”
Your mouth opens to speak, but no words come out. You never thought of it like that.
“I’m not mad you didn’t tell me, just so you know. I don’t think I really have a right to be mad because it’s not my body that had to go through it. I just…I would have wanted to be there for you through it. More than anything. You were my world, Y/N.”
“But I couldn’t be. I needed you to be your own world. I needed you to go make something of yourself that wasn’t just because of me.”
He snorts. “But it was because of you that I made something of myself. I got contracted because of you. I played hard to not think about you. I kept myself busy for nearly a decade with my career so I could forget about you.”
“Well, did you get close?” you ask carefully. The alcohol has made your head feel a little fuzzy, but the conversation has sobered you up.
He picks up a throw pillow and tosses it at you. You laugh. “No, of course I didn’t. It’s you, for fuck’s sake. You were my every wet dream of my teenage years, do you think I would just forget you like that?”
“Well, you tried to pretend you didn’t remember me.”
“God,” he runs a hand over his face. “I think I was just shocked, honestly. I thought you would have left here. Gone away to college and got your sports physiology degree and I would run into you one day in LA after a bad injury and I could convince you to fall in love with me again.”
You scoff. “Oh is that the dream?”
“Well it was. I really didn’t think I’d see you ever again, actually.”
“I hope it’s not too much of a disappointment.”
“Well, we’ll see…it wasn’t because you were pregnant that you broke up with me, was it?”
“Oh my god, no. You’re obsessed with this like there’s a singular reason but there wasn’t. It was a culmination of everything. Besides, I’d had the abortion during the time I was home. When you showed up, I had just gotten clearance from my doctor that it was a success.”
Jimin frowns. “Were you sad about it? The abortion? Not that you had to be.”
“I was sad that I was alone. I was sad that I felt like I couldn’t tell you. I was worried that if I did, I would be the reason for you not getting contracted. It was a lot of worrying for you. But also for myself. I worried I wouldn’t be okay. And I worried I would regret it somehow, that I would wake up one day wondering what could have been.”
“Did you?”
You look down at your hands. “No, I mean, not really. I have since, I guess, but it’s less wondering what life would have been like without an abortion and more what life would have been like if I didn’t call everything off. That decision hurt me. And it never felt completely right. But my fear of things ending kind of ruled over me. I was so in love with you that I couldn’t imagine a lifetime where things would work out. Not when you had an arranged marriage you’d someday have to fulfill, or one of us would go pro and have to figure out how to make both our dreams work.”
Jimin nods. “Well, thank you for telling me. I’m glad you made the decision that was best for you at the time. It gives me some closure.” He scoots closer to you before reaching over and squeezing your hand. “And I hope that if you ever go through something like that again, you have someone by your side so you feel less alone.”
“Thank you,” you say.
The warmth of his hand comforts you both as you sit in the room. Your mother squeals in the other room, shouting at your father for allegedly grabbing her ass.
“Come on, babe! It’s Christmas!” he replies.
You and Jimin burst into laughter.
“You know,” Jimin says behind gasps of air. “I don’t think I hate being here as much as I thought I would. Sure, it sucks being under my parents’ roof again, but god, the sound of a holiday party is a welcome change from a bunch of locker room groans.”
“You smell better too,” you add. You sniff the air between you too. “I always liked that cologne on you.”
He smirks. “Remember when I ran out and you drove your car, broken A/C and all, into the city to get me a replacement?”
You groan. “God, my car was truly an oven that day. When I finally got home I thought I was melting like an ice cream cone.”
“I remember that.”
“I have a question for you now,” you say. Jimin blinks a bit, taken aback by your abruptness.
“Oh, sure.”
“Why are you home? Why didn’t you stay at your place and just see your celebrity friends? Why come back here which is clearly full of bad memories and feelings and experience all of this?” You gesture around you.
He takes a sharp breath. “Well, it felt like something that I had to do. First of all, I’ve been instructed by our PR team not to be seen out with any of my celebrity friends. I’m not supposed to be seen anywhere near Bells Arena, so practicing locally was out. And with it being too warm there to skate on a natural body of water, it seemed like home was the only option.”
“That sucks,” you blurt. “I mean–”
Jimin laughs. “Yeah, it does suck. But home isn’t the worst place to be, and I feel like there hasn’t been a lot tying me to anything lately. The last few years have been rough. Threesome notwithstanding, but my life hasn’t been exactly private for a while. And I guess that kind of presses you to become someone else.”
“Like a prick?”
“Am I really that much of an asshole?”
“Uh, yeah. You lost your drive because you’re too busy chirping on the ice and not focusing on the game.”
“You’re sounding like Coach again.”
“Well, he had a good point. Do you have your gear with you by chance?”
“It’s in the car, why?”
“Go grab it and meet me out back.”
“Why?”
“Just do it,” you roll your eyes and stand up, smoothing your dress. When you turn to face Jimin, his gaze moves from your ass.
You pretend not to notice.
“You have a rink in your backyard?”
“Yep, Dad built it back when we were trying out for the pros, thinking that during my break times I could come home and practice.”
Now knowing the truth, Jimin can’t help but feel an ache in his chest for you and the dream you left behind.
“It’s incredible. But are you sure that you’re not too drunk to skate?”
You balk at the question, laughing. “You think I haven’t skated absolutely wasted? Come on now.” Fair point. “Besides,” you add, “I feel fine now. The fresh air is nice.”
You’ve traded your tiny little dress he was admiring in the bedroom for a more sensible outfit. “Now, lace up your skates, Park. Let’s get to drills.”
An hour later, Jimin is sweating through his button down. He didn’t have an extra outfit with him in the Kia, just his skates, so he’s been sweltering in the stiff button down. A little perspiration is beading your forehead, but you still have a healthy glow to you, and are not nearly as out of breath as he is.
“You’ve gotten sloppy with your passing,” you say nonchalantly.
A lick of heat prompts Jimin to argue, but he shoves it down. He’s supposed to be working on that, after all.
“Just a tiny bit,” he says.
“You’ve got a long way to go if you’re going to be ready to hit the ice in less than a month.”
He pouts a bit, despite himself.
“Oh come on, you used to love the challenge of beating me on the rink. Did time change that much?”
“Well, there was a pretty good incentive for winning. Like seeing you naked.”
“Is not being kicked off your dream team not enough incentive?”
“I mean I’m a guy, Y/N. Of course my career is important, but I’m just saying, sex was always my best motivator. And if I remember correctly, yours too.”
You look away from him for a moment, thinking.
“Well, then, fine, let’s give you an incentive then. If you beat me in a shootout, I’ll let you see my ass.”
Jimin stalls. “What?”
“I know you’ve been checking me out like, all day. It’s obvious. So, you beat me in a shootout, I’ll show it to you.”
Jimin chuckles.
“What’s so funny?”
“Y/N, I’ve seen your ass. And while I’m absolutely sure it’s even better than I imagined, I hardly consider that a motivator.”
“Fine, then what do you propose? What is it that you would like to do?”
Heat pools into his stomach. As much as he doesn’t want to admit it, Jimin can’t ignore the intense attraction he still has for you. It’s like 10 years hasn’t changed much about his body chemistry.
He skates up to you, putting his hand on your waist, testing the limits of what in his desires he truly is allowed to ask for. As his hand works up your side toward your breast, you let out a small gasp. And that’s when he sees it in your eyes: arousal. Unmistakable, just as easy for him to spot as it was all those years ago.
“Do you remember that time we went to the beach? And you got vanilla ice cream all over your bikini because it melted before you could even eat it?”
You cocked your head to the side. “Yeah?”
“And so I licked every inch of you? That’s what I want.”
“Jimin!” you gasp, but as his other hand loops around your back, you don’t fight his touch.
“You tasted so sweet,” he whispers, his mouth hovering over your neck.
“Stop.” But it’s a weak gesture, mechanical.
“You fucking loved it, didn’t you?”
Your heart beats a little faster. “I did.”
“What else did you like, hm? When I fucked you that summer.”
Jimin’s voice lowers, a deeper, seductive tone replacing his usual, cheerful one. It’s the same one he used to use on you, and the pressure building in your core tells you that it’s having the same effect. A hand finds its way to the curve of your ass, and you melt into his body.
“Jimin,” you rasp.
“Yeah?”
“Fuck.”
“Tell me,” he whispers. “What used to make you come so hard that I had you screaming?”
“God.”
“Do you think about that as much as I do? Do you think about the little whimpers you made when you came all over my lap that day? Do you think about how hard my cock was for you? How desperate you were for it after I told you you’d have to wait?”
“You’re such an asshole,” you heave.
“I know. But if I win, I want you under me again. I want to lick every inch of you until all you can think about is me.”
He pulls away, ignoring the hardening of his cock, rasping a deep breath. You blink at him, confused, before taking in his form as he sails the puck into the net.
“That’s one, babygirl. Now show me what you’re made of.”
Sex, it turns out, is Jimin’s greatest motivator. Which is why after he wins in the shootout up to ten, you end up naked in the guest bedroom.
“Your nipples are so hard,” he says, sucking one into your mouth. “That’s how I always knew how needy you were. How badly you needed to be fucked.”
A moan escapes you. He squeezes your thigh again, his other hand roaming up your side.
“You were always so sensitive there. I’m glad to see that hasn’t changed.”
Your hands lurch forward, digging into the open ends of his jacket, pulling him closer.
“When was the last time someone fucked you good, Y/N?” he asks, and your brain searches through your list of ex lovers, turning up empty handed
“I don’t know,” you groan, hissing when you feel his other hand land on your breast.
He clicks his tongue. “You poor thing. Tell me, what do you need, hmm?”
“I don’t know,” you say again. Your thoughts are jumbled, how you got here, stripped naked while he still hovers over you fully clothed, your focus faltering as you clench your thighs. Jimin pulls away, grinning down at you. .
“I bet you’re just as sweet as I remember,” he says. “I bet you still get so wet that when you get fucked the nastiest little sounds come out of you.”
“Fuck, Jimin, god.”
“I told you I would like every inch of you. Do you think I was joking?”
“We can’t,” you say, your eyes flitting to the door.
“Does the door lock?” he asks.
“Yes, but–”
“Then lock the fucking door and come sit on my face.”
Heaven. Jimin has died and gone to heaven. As he laps at your clit again, he can’t believe this is really happening.
“Fuck, harder,” you order, and he finds himself grinning, sucking your bud into his mouth hard. Your legs immediately squeeze around his face, and he reaches up, forcing your thighs down harder, pressing himself deeper into you.
You really shouldn’t be doing this. He has no idea how long you’ve both been away, but all he knows is that they’ve finished singing the entire “12 Days of Christmas” and someone has been getting your friend Minho to do a rendition of “Santa Baby” that hopefully everyone is too drunk to remember. But he can’t help himself. Couldn’t help the electric feeling when he squeezed your hand, couldn’t ignore how your tits spilling out of your dress had him rock hard the second you gave him a knowing look.
And now, knowing what Jimin knows about you, about your past and why things ended, he can’t be mad. While yes, he’s frustrated by your positioning of him as the priority in your life, even seemingly now, he isn’t mad. And whatever happens after tonight, he hopes you’ll both be able to talk about it so you can reframe the future.
Until then, he really, really wants you to come on his face.
His fingers leave your thighs. You lift off of his face, gasping as you look down at him.
“Do you have a death wish?”
“Yes, now smother me with your pussy.”
You roll your eyes, lowering yourself back down onto him. He laps at you again, this time flicking your clit with his fingers before rubbing them through your slick folds. “Fucking missed this pussy. Do you know how many times I think about this? How much cum have I spilled thinking about this?”
“God, you’re such a perv,” you say. But he can hear the lightness in your voice, knowing that despite the slight embarrassment, you’re also flattered.
“How tight is it, hmm? Do you ever fuck your toys thinking about me?”
“Not often,” you tease before you wail as he bites your ass.
“Liar.”
“Ugh, fine. I think about your cock a lot, okay?”
“Yeah?”
“Yes, now are you going to make me come or not?”
“You know, I could, but now I can’t stop thinking about you thinking about my cock and fuck, I’m so hard.”
Jimin feels you leaning forward, your hand roving down his toned chest until you reach the tent in his pants.
“Please, babygirl, don’t tease me too much,” he warns and you chuckle, tugging at the zipper and clasp and reaching into his pants.
Your hand dips into his briefs, tugging the elastic and pants down his hips to free his throbbing cock.
“Fuck,” you say, sliding your hand up and down his leaking shaft. “Were you always this big?”
Jimin groans, sliding a finger into you. You moan. “Shit.”
“You used to take this cock like such a good girl,” he says, sliding a second finger in. “Though I’m not sure how with such a tight little cunt you have. I think I need to fuck it open.”
“Oh.”
“You like that, baby? My fingers fucking you open so you can take my cock? You’re so wet, god, listen to you.”
The room fills with the wet sounds of his fingers fucking into you, his tongue returning to your clit and sucking hard.
“Shit, shit, we need to change positions or I’m going to collapse on your face.”
He obliges, pulling his fingers out so you can lie on your back. You watch as he sucks your juices from his fingers, your mouth slightly parting as he moans.
“So sweet.”
“Fuck,” you say suddenly, your eyes once more turning toward the door. “We gotta hurry. Once we get to the cookie shots, it’s only a matter of time before my dad makes us do round two of competitive games, and they’ll be looking for me.”
“Aw, but I was just getting started,” he whines.
You roll your eyes. “You can fulfill your fantasy later. Skip the foreplay and fuck me already.”
“I don’t know if you’re warmed up enough for that–”
“Jimin, I promise you the second I feel your cock slide into me, I will be ten seconds from cumming because of how good it feels. Now you can take your time with me later, but if you don’t fuck me right now, I might lose my goddamn mind.”
He feels precum dribble from the tip, and he looks at you. “Shit, okay. Well, um, I don’t have a condom.”
“IUD. I’m clean. Please,” Your voice cants into a whine, which makes Jimin feel delirious.
“Okay, lie back down baby, I’ll take care of you.”
Despite your desperation, he moves slowly, sucking your nipples back his mouth, giving a little bite to one that makes you whimper.
“Please, Jimin,” you beg again. He reaches down, taking his cock in his hand and rubbing it through your slick entrance. As the head of his cock dips in, your eyes meet his, and a sigh leaves your throat.
“Yes,” you say when he seats himself to the hilt. You pulse around him, and Jimin hisses at the tightness.
“Shit, watch it babygirl or I’ll come right now.”
“Just feels, so good, fuck,” you pant, your body convulsing around him once more.
He pulls out slightly and thrusts back in, his cock tapping your cervix. Your whole body quakes and you moan loudly.
“Shh, do you want to get caught?”
“Kiss me, then,” you say and Jimin being the fool that he is, he does.
Your lips meet, and you taste like a peppermint candy cane. He licks along your lip, trying to get more of the taste in his mouth. Your lips part, welcoming in, his tongue tangling with yours as he thrusts fully into you.
You moan into his mouth, silencing yourself as his pace increases, sharp snaps of his hips making you curl and clench around him, your wetness coating his pelvis and balls as it drips down your thighs.
On a particularly hard thrust, you come, your body shivering and pussy spasming around him. Your nails dig into his back as you seat him deeper into you, riding out the aftershocks.
“Holy shit,” you whisper.
“Mm, feel good baby?”
“Yes. You’re so big; It feels so good.”
He kisses your nose.”Well, I want to make you come one more time before I do, so hold on.”
He rolls you over, propping you up on your knees.
“When I saw you earlier at practice in those leggings, I was imagining this moment. My cock deep in you while I watch your ass bounce on me. Do you think you can show me that, Y/N?”
You moan a yes, thrusting yourself back onto him as he pounds into you. The flesh of your ass bounces against him, and Jimin is hypnotized by it, his hands repeatedly slapping to spank your cheeks as you fuck yourself on him. With each slap, you clench harder, and as he places his hands firmly on your hips and bucks into you with speed and precision, it’s only a matter of time before you’re face down in the pile of coats, moaning freely as he thrusts into you. With one final gasp, you come, legs shaking violently as you succumb to your orgasm. Jimin follows behind, is cock pumping a heavy load of cum into you. You sigh satisfied, holding your hand under yourself to catch it while Jimin watches it leak out.
“Jesus, Y/N. That’s so hot.”
“Well, hot and practical. I’m not spilling your cum onto all my guests’ clothes. Now go get tissue from that bathroom over there. I need to clean up.”
Despite Jimin fucking you within an inch of your life, you manage to make your reappearance with your guests fairly easy, a glass of some concoction your mother has named Jingle Juice in hand.
“So,” Minho whispers after your father divides up the room into teams. “Are you creaming of a white Christmas with Jimin?”
“Ew, Minho! No! That’s disgusting!” You slap him on the arm. “How did you know?”
“Well, first I saw you two go out back and grope each other on the ice. And then you practically ran into the guest bedroom. After about thirty minutes of not seeing you, I figured I’d come check. But then I heard you and that confirmed my suspicions.”
Your cheeks burn with embarrassment. “Were we loud? Oh god, does everyone know?”
“I think everyone was too busy drinking or eating or singing to notice. But to answer your question, my god, Y/N, you’re so loud. He should put a muzzle on your or something.”
“Shut up. Besides, this is no big deal. A little Christmas stress relief. A one time thing.”
“Sure it is. Well may Santa bring you more stress relief very soon because you’re glowing from the orgasm he gave you.”
“Two.”
“Huh?”
“Two orgasms. With the promise of a third later if I meet up with him."
Minho looks at you uneasy. “I want to be happy for you, but I’m honestly not sure what to think. I thought you hated him. Or at least wouldn’t fuck him at your parents’ house.”
Heat floods your cheeks as the reality of your decision begins to set in.
“Yeah, uh, I don’t know.”
Minho takes a final sip of his drink, grimacing as he sets it down. “Well Merry Christmas to you, Y/N. Maybe you can fuck him into a better attitude while you’re at it. Because you’ve only got a few weeks before his suspension ends and if he isn’t ready by then, he can kiss his professional career goodbye.”
“I think he can do it. We have plenty of time.”
“I hope you’re right. Not to ruin your post-fuck glow, but be careful. People don’t change overnight. While I’m glad you two had a fun little reunion romp, there’s still a lot of work to be done with Park Jimin.”
Don’t tell Namjoon I have had wandering eyes this comeback season! When I stare him down in Tampa he can have me back but in the meantime I’m looking respectfully at everyone
Tell me why at the ripe age of nearly 33 I was mocked by my friends from college a few weeks ago when another friend simply addressed how in deep and parasocial she is about heated rivalry and I went “oh I get that. I’ve been there with kpop” and got the eye rolls and the annoyed looks.
Or how on the reverse of that, I was ostracized from a whole friend group for wanting to do more than talk about kpop and they weren’t interested in me besides that.
You can’t win because people are always seeing hobbies and interests and fandoms as something to one up each other in. Someone liking something you don’t like is actually good for your friendship and community too. But you can’t oust people and shun them for not fitting your idea of what that space has to look like when it comes to interests. Then you’re not building community, you’re destroying it.
PAIRING: Ferrari Driver!Jihoon x Journalist!Reader
SUMMARY: Jihoon is suffering through a heartbreaker of a season with Ferrari. The car won’t cooperate, his teammate keeps outpacing him, and nothing seems to go right. Worst of all is what’s happening off the track. It seems racing is slipping through his fingers - and so are you.
WC: 18,786
AU: Formula One
GENRE: Angst, Exes to Lovers, Smut
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: Angry Jihoon being miserable, things just not going right for him, a lot of self angsty, some petty arguments between reader and Jihoon, a lot of reflecting on the past and angst over a past relationship, a lot of awkward tension and just tension in general between Jihoon and reader, explicit language, a lot of race jargon shout out to google a lot of this might be wrong because the fuck if I know what some of these things are called only have a vague concept of tire strategy, explicit sexual content including oral (m. rec), vaginal fingering, sex where others can overhear it but who cares, multiple positions, multiple orgasms, a hint of dirty talk but not really, Jihoon is an Ass Guy.... um. I think that's it.
A/N: This is a piece for the Lights Out Collab hosted by @studiosvt! Apologies this is being posted late, Tumblr ate the scheduled post and I am on day 7 of 13 of full work days in a row and I do not even know what day or reality I'm in as I rush to post this. This is not beta'd I am so sorry.
A/N 2: This fic is a part of my Paddock Club Collection.
PADDOCK MAP: MAIN M. LIST | ASK | PADDOCK PLAYLIST
YOU'RE A HEARTBREAKER, DREAM MAKER
LOVE TAKER, DON'T YOU MESS AROUND WITH ME
-
LEE JIHOON FUCKING HATES PAT BENATAR SONGS. Not because she's a bad singer - she really isn't. But every time he hears one of her refrains from a distance, he's forced to think of you, and thus, it ruins his fucking day.
He'd like to go a single day without it being ruined. Today doesn't feel like the day. Neither had yesterday, or the day before that, an endless cycles of bad days and things that remind Jihoon of you everywhere he goes and everywhere he looks.
Jihoon swears the looming cloud over practice and media day for Day One of the Australian Grand Prix has followed him all the way from Monaco where he took his single reprieve between preseason testing and the start of the Formula One season. It hadn't been much of a rest, considering testing in Bahrain had been so bad that it had haunted him every night. What should have been warm days by the pool and runs down by the water had turned into hiding in the dark of his apartment, going through simulations and data and about a million other things to prep for this weekend.
This weekend that Pat Fucking Benatar is kicking off.
Australia blurs by on the other side of the window. As many times as Jihoon has been here, the sun never gets any kinder. He can feel its oppressive heat even behind the tinted glass of the car, and his sunglasses do almost nothing to keep the brightness at bay. Still, the sparkling blue of the ocean and the swath of blue sky above him is a nice break from the grey interior of his gloomy apartment back in Monaco.
"Can we change the radio station?" Jihoon asks.
The man in the front makes a questioning sound and Jihoon curses internally. He knew he should have committed to studying Italian in the off season. He's been a part of the Ferrari Formula One team long enough to need a better grip on the language, but he'd been uncommitted in the off season to learning it. He'd been too busy sulking over the poor end to last year's racing season and the very abrupt end of your relationship.
Soonyoung turns around the the front seat of the car, face dubious. "You don't like Pat Benatar?"
Jihoon is surprised his new teammate even knows who Pat Benatar is. Soonyoung, though older than him by a few months, doesn't seem to know much about music beyond the thumping techno and house that is often coming through his headphones or the hiphop that he swears he knows every word to.
Kwon Soonyoung has taken a bit for Jihoon to get used to. As the new driver for the second Ferrari seat, he is a personality that Jihoon can only categorize as wildfire and uncontrollable so far, but he begrudgingly doesn't dislike Soonyoung, which is a surprise. He thought he was going to hate the reckless upstart, but he actually kind of finds him refreshing. Plus, he's got an infection personality about him that reminds Jihoon of Chan, who had only been his teammate for a year, but he'd liked nonetheless.
Soonyoung is the kind of driver in F1 that is in the headlines for his behavior as much as he is his wins. It had surprised Jihoon when they signed Soonyoung after Chan moved to Williams. Soonyoung wasn't exactly the refined, classic Ferrari brand, but he was a good driver, and the long-standing Formula One name needed good drivers, particularly after Jihoon's not-so-great season last year.
"She's not my favorite," Jihoon responds, looking back out the window.
Hobson Bay gleams in the distance. Boats bob in the distance, random pops of colored parasailers dragging across the sky, the people in them the size of ants against the vast blue. As afraid as he is of heights, Jihoon would rather be tangling from one of them right now than heading to the first practice session of the season. He has no idea when he became so adverse to his own career, but the knot in his stomach only tightens the closer they crawl to the circuit.
"Oh man, you're missing out!" Soonyoung puts his hand to his face like a fake microphone and proceeds to belt, "You're a heartbreaker! Dream taker! Love taker!"
"Soonyoung."
"Yeah, yeah." He turns to the man in the driver's seat. He's grinning, apparently as easily charmed by Soonyoung as everyone else always is. "Puoi cambiare la musica? Grazie."
The driver nods and flips it to jazz and Jihoon sighs, leaning back in the seat and closing his eyes behind his sunglasses. Of course the new addition to the team speaks perfect Italian. Why wouldn't he? There seems to be a world of things that Soonyoung can do that Jihoon can't, including driving the impossible cars that Ferrari has given them this year.
Preseason testing had gone well for Soonyoung. He had the kind of testing sessions that made the Tifosi hopeful again, article after article talking about how he was bringing the spark back to Ferrari after a challenging last season that had ended up with Jihoon finishing outside of the top three and Chan losing his seat to shift to Williams.
Ferrari is a tough team to drive for. Jihoon knows that. He knew that when he started his rookie year with Alfa Romeo three years ago. He's going on his third season with Ferrari now, and the only thing that seems to stick is that he chases Red Bull and Mercedes for World Championships.
Still, Jihoon has been the closest Ferrari has been to consistent podiums in a while and he knows that. He's sacrificed everything - including being able to listen to Pat Benatar - to help lift Ferrari back to its former glory. To do so would be any drivers dream, and Jihoon was on track to take it until the tail end of last year. Preseason hadn't been kind to him either, leaving him with a dangerous sense of foreboding for what this season has to offer him.
The car this year is a beast, hard to control, hard to steer. Jihoon spend most of the practice sessions trying to muscle it to make the turns he wanted and grip it to death when it wanted to make turns he didn't want. It was like he was in personal conflict with the car, and while the car isn't sentient, Jihoon can't help but feel like it's purposefully chosen to work against him.
If Jihoon's relationship with you had taught him anything, it was that he liked stubborn. Stubborn girl, stubborn car, stubborn driver. Thankfully, Soonyoung doesn't seem to know what the word stubborn is, going with the flow and doing whatever Ferrari asked him to do. Mostly.
Australian sun beats down on Jihoon as he steps out of the car. He can already hear the fans screaming in the distance, the echo of their voices carrying over the black asphalt. He cringes internally, pulling the hat on his head down a little lower, trying to hide from wandering eyes. Soonyoung seems to come alive in front of fans, yelling back at them with his hands cupped around his mouth, making them go nuts. Jihoon resists the urge to smack him, knowing it isn't fair to steal Soonyoung's excitement just because he's miserable.
The garage smells the same as it always does, like rubber mixed with the slick scent of grease. The glare of the sun reflecting off the cherry paint on the car nearly blinds him and he holds up a hand, shielding his eyes. Jihoon steps inside and feels the familiar prickle across his shoulders. It's like stepping backward into a house that used to be his but has sold, a stranger in his own house.
Mechanics pause mid-motion when they see him, nodding and giving him tight smiles. Members of his team clap him on the back as he goes, and the tension bleeds out of him when he sees familiar faces. These are the people who want him to win most in the world. Despite the very passionate fan base Ferrari has, the men and women of this garage put just as much time and effort into wins as he does, and the tension eases a little when he remembers that the people her want whats best for him.
Soonyoung bounces in behind him, already waving at people he met for five minutes during testing, marveling at the gold painted Ferrari on the nose of his car. Jihoon ignores him, strolling over to gaze at telemetry screens that line the back walls. Numbers and graphs make more sense to him than people do, and he likes to find comfort in the data, to dive deep and puzzle out what he needs to do next.
It hadn't always been that way. There had been a time in Jihoon's racing career where how he felt behind the car had mattered more than the data. Those were the years that he was finishing inside the top ten with a car no one expected to do well, and before he'd been moved up to Ferrari where he felt more pressure to win, where he felt like he needed more than instinct. Having an instinctual edge for the car wasn't enough - he needed to understand. To be in control.
Data had been the worst thing that ever happened to him, you'd told him once. Jihoon had thought it was ridiculous at the time, but now as he stares at the wall of all the adjustments they've made from Bahrain, he isn't so sure you were wrong. You rarely were.
Matteo spots him first, the senior race engineer grinning as he walks over. Matteo has the look of someone sharp and scary, his dark hair threaded through with grey and wireframe glasses perched on a hawkish nose. Thankfully, Matteo's looks are deceiving. He's warm and loud, a riot in the garage as bright as the paint on the cars.
"Jihoon!" He claps his hands, sound ringing out. "Ready to make the data team cry again?"
Jihoon exhales sharply. Matteo's sense of humor is only appreciated sometimes. "Maybe it'll be tears of joy."
"Così ti voglio!" He claps Jihoon on the shoulder. "That's the spirit!"
After walking around the car a few times and killing time, they head to the motorhome. With his head tilted down, Jihoon heads to the team meeting room on the second floor where there are people sitting inside already through he frosted glass, including the team principal.
Unlike Matteo, Nico isn't as easy on the humor. He's serious and driven, his frown lines deepening when Jihoon sits down. Nico is also Matteo's opposite in appearance, his warm brown eyes and light brown hair making him seem kind and approachable. Jihoon had learned early on that it was deceiving, discovering Nico was clipped, to the point and direct. Jihoon doesn't mind it, but it makes for uncomfortable conversations when Jihoon is under performing like he had in Bahrain.
The table is covered in print outs of historical track data, schematics, tire degradation curves and overlays that probably make more sense to the people surrounding the table than they do to Jihoon. He picks a paper up and frowns when he sees a map of energy deployment in the car that failed him in Sakhir. Energy is a confusing thing in Formula One, especially as the FIA and the teams make new rules about how to be environmentally friendly while being cost efficient.
Matteo doesn't waste anyone's time, tapping the first sheet to start the meeting. The room goes silent, employees leaning forward with their elbows on the table to listen to the man that's supposed to lead them all to victory.
"Front wing adjustment was too aggressive," Matteo starts. He looks at Jihoon. "You were fighting the adjustment too much, so that needs to be accounted for. We made some adjustments that should give you more more control without over correcting."
Jihoon nods once. Clinical. Logical. He's good at this when the alternative is screaming into a helmet to fix problems no one can handle as he drives 200 mph.
"What about rear suspension?" He asks. "It was a mess."
Matteo flips a page. "We're running you two millimeters higher than Bahrain to start."
"Can we drop it back if it's too much understeer?"
"Yes. Better than bouncing like a kangaroo, no?"
They move on to the power unit and show him the revised energy harvesting maps and their strategy to conserve energy on the corner exits to leave him with more juice when he needs it most. He nods, detailing each thing they've change, knowing he'll stay up tonight overthinking about it in that same way that he always does.
As the sun dips outside, the rest of the meeting carries on like that, the team firing data and adjustments at him while he tells them about how the car felt. When the meeting concludes, Jihoon feels a little better, but he has a laundry list of things to report back on for the day's practice run, and he's already trying to commit to memory all the adjustments he needs to make when driving the car.
Soonyoung is waiting outside for his own meeting with Nico and the engineering team, leg bouncing as he sits on the couch. He grins at Jihoon as they exchange places, Soonyoung's team swapping for Jihoon's. Like most teams, they only share a few personnel, keeping the driver's goals, teams, and strategy separate to ensure for clean, fair racing.
Jihoon spends the next hour in his room watching his races in Bahrain, flicking through his notes. The room in the motorhome is small, but it's got good air conditioning, a soft couch that he likes to doze on, and TV screens that he can use for leisure or data. He almost always picks data, touching the mousepad on the computer in front of him to flip screens.
By the time he's entering the garage for his first practice session, the garage has come to life, a full world of life and sound and smells. His personal race engineer Luca waits for him, arms crossed over his chest as he orders something in rapid Italian to the man handling tires. Jihoon likes Luca. He's built like a fire hydrant and manages pressure like one two, keeping most of his feelings bottled up until they come exploding out when Jihoon blows a tire or when someone puts him into the wall. Thankfully, his outbursts are often well-timed and never pointed at Jihoon.
"We'll start with mediums today," Luca says when he sees Jihoon. "We'll do softs after twenty minutes if the track allows."
Jihoon nods, listening as Luca fires off some technicalities about the car. It's hard to listen with Soonyoung's side of the garage turning into a circus, the driver shaking hands with every single one of his engineers and mechanics. Jihoon notices there's a tiny tiger pin clipped to his race suit and decides e doesn't want to open the can of worms by asking about it.
A calm settles over Jihoon as he readies to get in the car. The mechanics swarm around him and someone hands him his balaclava. He pulls it down over his head, noting that it smells faintly like laundry detergent. The helmet goes next, the squeeze of it familiar against his skull, tight and secure. He's field of vision narrows to the oval of the open visor, and he knocks on top of the helmet out of habit, the solid sound good.
Jihoon climbs the car and gets in, the sun glinting off the visor of his helmet as he sinks into the seat, body molding to it immediately. He leaves the visor up for now, reaching up as someone hands him the wheel to the car so he can plug it in. The dashboard lights up like Christmas, numbers colors, readings that are green. Green is good, though he doesn't expect to see red from the jump.
The garage doors are open now and Australian heat pours in, the sun vicious as it bounces off every shiny surface in the garage. Outside, the grandstands are starting to fill in for fans watching practice, team flags everywhere. Jihoon watches the clock on the wall, counting down the seconds until he can get out of the car again.
He runs through the start procedure in his head over and over again, reciting everything that he needs to do and everything tiny thing that can go wrong in the first five minutes of a season. Already he feels like he's forgetting what he talked about during the strategy session, but he'll just have to make do. If the car wants to fight with him today, he'll fight back. Jihoon is stubborn like that.
When the car's engine finally roars, Jihoon comes to life. He changes entirely with the sound of the engine humming and the vibrations climbing up through his legs, the steady buzz making him a little itchy and jumpy. The heat soaks through the carbon body of the car and the faint smell of brake fluid reaches him as he shuts the visor to the helmet, rolling his shoulders to ready himself.
"Radio check," Luca says, voice crackling over the comms.
"Good."
"Pit lane opens shortly. You're P2 in the queue."
"Copy."
"All good?
"Yeah," Jihoon says.
What Jihoon doesn't say is how hard it is not to think about how badly he fucked up in Bahrain. He doesn't tell Luca that he can still feel the understeer even though he hasn't started yet, and he doesn't say that it feels like the car hates him and that he hates the car back just as much.
Instead of telling Luca all that - because what the fuck would Luca say - the board goes green and mechanics step away from the ca so Jihoon can shift to idle the car forward, slow and easy out of the garage and into the blinding light of Albert Park.
The radio crackles again. "Out lap. Bring it in nice and slow."
Jihoon doesn't reply. He's already sinking, going deep into the icy, quiet place where the rest of the world falls away and there's only the car, the track, and the thin line between glory and utter disaster. Here, the only thing that can hurt him is himself.
Taking in a shaky breath, Jihoon starts his race weekend with the out lap. It's always the slowest part of the weekend, but Jihoon tries to treat it like the moment before the storm, taking his time to feel the car and see how it's doing. He grips the wheel tight, then let it slides, the hiss of his gloves against the wheel lost to the engine of the car. He feels the vibration of the drive, every bump and drag of the tires against the asphalt, every snag and pull.
Albert Park in March isn't as hot as it could be, but the track's surface is already hot enough to make the car feel stifling. He ignores it, his focus turning to a laser point as he eases into his first practice session, the heat and the nerves secondary to everything else.
Sector one is forgiving, Turn One a long, sweeping right that rewards his patience, and as Jihoon feathers the throttle and lets the car settle, he smiles as he takes it easy, no red on the dash, no losing power.
"Tires at 71 front, 68 reader. Good for now," Luca tells him.
"Copy."
"How's the understeer?"
Jihoon pauses, feeling the way the car takes a curve. "Not bad."
"Good."
At Turn Three, the car fights back a little and Jihoon feels the twitch through the rear, just enough to remind him that he's got new flooring. He notes it and continues to drive, pushing through the turn and leveling out the car.
By Turn Nine, he's relaxed, sliding into a rhythm he was terrified he would never find again, as irrational as it was. He flies down the straight, the wind and the force of the car pinning him to the seat. He feels alive, grinning for real as he remembers why he does this stupid, dangerous job in the first place. He brakes late into the chicane and takes the corner perfectly, the relief so suddenly that he nearly lets out a shout.
"Nice," Luca says. "Brake temps good."
Jihoon exhales. Its' the first time all week he hasn't felt like he's dragging his car by the balls toward the finish line. He settles in deeper, pushing the throttle faster, the car picking up pace as the crowd blurs, the smear of clouds and blue overhead a watercolor backdrop.
"Alright, let's go flying lap."
"Copy."
Turn One and Turn Two are nice to him, the car gliding and letting him feather the throttle again. There's no sudden loss of power and the tires feel good, and Jihoon feels a sense of relief as he starts to eat off half a tenth from his benchmark in 2024.
Then the circuit bites back.
He turns into Turn Six and the front loses its grip, the nose of the car pushing wide and causing the tires to protest. Jihoon corrects the snag of the car, but it costs him momentum as he lets go of the throttle for a moment to avoid going off track. It doesn't shake him at first, but the car continues to fights back as he nears Turn Seven, the rear end stepping out and causing him to break too soon. He curses, losing more time as he shakes his head and curses.
Turn Eight turns into a mess as he rear steps out again and Jihoon jerks the wheel, relieving the throttle for a split second too long. It immediately breaks his flow and he curses, feeling the fear from Bahrain creeping in on him. He'd managed not to think about it for a few laps, but now it's there, looming behind him like the final boss music from the video games Chan likes to play.
Jihoon brakes at Turn Fifteen late like he always does, but the car understeers and runs wide. He curses and corrects again, giving the feedback to Luca in a clipped, frustrated tone. Luca notes the understeer but Jihoon has to keep driving, so he does, despite the fact that he suddenly would rather stop the car, get out, and walk into the fucking ocean to be eaten by the sharks.
When he finally crosses the finish line, he waits. Jihoon already knows it's not great when Luca's feedback takes a beat too long before he says, "Alright. P8 on times so far. Soonyoung is on pace for P3 on time for reference."
Jihoon doesn't answer. He breathes through his nose, jaw locked, staring straight ahead.
Luca, knowing Jihoon, says, "We'll make the adjustments. P8 isn't terrible."
"Noted."
He peels into the pit lane and heads to the garage. When he stops the car, he doesn't move as the mechanics swarm around him like a school of red fish. Instead of getting out, he kills the engine and sits there, staring, staring, staring.
He knew Pat Benatar was going to ruin his day.
-
FP2 is somehow worse.
The changes they made after the morning session should have helped in theory. On paper. On a whim. On track, though, Jihoon spends nearly twenty-five minutes chasing a balance that refuses to stay put, fighting the wheel and the tires and the engine and the entire world through the entire session, and he gets absolutely nothing out of it.
His best lap puts him at P11 when the practice session ends. Meanwhile, Soonyoung floats his way to P4, the younger driver laughing and clapping someone on the back as Jihoon crawls out of the car in the garage, glaring at the back of Soonyoung's head as he greets some girl with a brief kiss. Of course Soonyoung is also in a successful relationship - why wouldn't he be? He's everything Jihoon isn't, apparently.
It isn't Soonyoung's fault. Part of Jihoon his happy for his teammate, but he knows how bad this looks for him specifically, and it eats at him despite how much he likes Soonyoung. Giving a poor performance as the team's senior driver when the fresh blood can handle the car no problem is a tale as old as time in this sport, and Jihoon has no desire to make it a permanent reality.
Jihoon is still damp and simmering when his media responsibilities pull him toward the press conference room. The public relations team walks beside him, rattling off instructions with a tablet in hand: fifteen minutes in the pen, then the main presser. Sky, F1TV, then the big room. You're third.
It's clinical. Rote.
The media pen is the usual circus of cameras, mics, and reporters jostling for position. The sun is lower now, slanting across Albert Park in burnt oranges and faded pinks while the asphalt simmers behind, a black mirror of heat. Jihoon pulls his hat low and steps into the chaos, swallowing thickly as he puts on a brave face and a polite smile that probably looks more like a grimace.
"How do you feel about your performance today in the second practice session?" Someone asks, leaning forward.
He takes it in stride. "Still working through balance issues. We made changes between sessions, but the car's not giving us what we expected. We'll keep digging."
"Frustrating day?"
"Frustrating, sure. But it's Friday. We'll reset and head into qualifying tomorrow."
He keeps his answers short and clipped, nothing short of professional. The anger is there, coiled low in his gut, but this swarm of reporters ask him fair questions. He hates that most of all, how the critique is fair and warranted, how each question is posed with the real question - are you worried?
Jihoon is worried, but he can't say that. So he keeps his frustration leashed, answering each questioning with unfaltering precision that Ferrari loves him so much for. Honestly, interviews and professionalism might be the only place he surpasses his teammate, who had gotten in trouble last year with Williams for mouthing off during an interview.
The rest of the questions pass Jihoon in a blur of more questions and more clipped answers. He's aware he sounds short, but he doesn't care. He gets through it until he's being ushered toward the media room where he lets someone hook him up to a mic on the collar of his shirt and he's instructed to sit between Choi Seungcheol from Red Bull and Chwe Vernon from McLaren, both who had done much better than him today.
One leg crossed over the other, Jihoon waits as the conference starts. He's both relieved and irritated to be sitting between Red Bull's shining star and the man who had blown everyone else out of the water during practice session, everyone wondering what the hell Vernon has brought to the team in orange as the new driver at McLaren. It gives Jihoon the respite he needs to collective his thoughts, but it also gives him just the right amount of time to look at the crowd of media personnel, which is a mistake.
He spots you immediately, his eyes drawn to where you're sitting like second second nature. Perhaps it is still an instinct to look for you after all this time. He's spent so long doing it that he doesn't know how to train himself not to, doesn't know how to forget that you'll be in the room for every single one of these.
You look the same as you always have. Same focused expression, same slight tilt to your head when you're listening hard. You scribble answers down on a notepad - old school, you used to joke - your quick hand visible from where he sits. He already sees parts of the pages where you've torn them, a nervous habit you obviously haven't gotten rid of, and he notices the prong on your pen cap has been snapped off. You never did have still hands, tearing bits of paper and snapping caps whenever things were too quiet around you.
It knots his stomach and he forces himself to look away, swallowing past the tightness in his throat. He hates that he knows so many things about you. Last season, he would have been watching you ask other drivers questions, trying to hide the smirk as you grilled them on strategy and performance. Now it's been months since you walked out on him in Austin, and he hasn't spoken to you since.
When it's your turn to ask questions and you fix your gaze on him, Jihoon thinks he's doing to die. If looks could kill, yours would certainly cut his beating heart right out of him. There's no warmth in your expression today, no secret smile as you're given a mic to ask questions, the cool sharpness of your stare so sharp he almost doesn't hear you over the pounding on his own heart as you start talking.
"Jihoon, two questions if I may," you say. He wants to say no, but even now, he can deny you nothing so he nods as if he has a choice. "After two difficult practice sessions, how confident are you that Ferrari can still fight for podiums this weekend?"
The question isn't unfair. It's not even particularly mean, but the way you phrase it in that infuriatingly calm and measured voice, almost clinical, makes it land like a slap. He feels the heat crawl up his neck as he stares at you, rage simmering under the surface immediately. You've always been the only person who can get a rise out of him, and it seems that hasn't changed.
"It's not where we want it," he answers, voice low and controlled as he can manage. "But we've got time. Podiums are still the target and are within reach."
“Even with the gap to Red Bull looking bigger than last year?”
"We’re not here to talk about gaps. We’re here to close them. Next question.”
Your eyes narrow, just a fraction because you are here to talk about gaps. He knows it, you know it. Vernon who is scratching the back of his neck and pretending to avert his gaze knows it.
“Second question, then," you continue. "You’ve spoken before about how important mental reset is after a tough preseason. How are you handling the pressure personally, given that your teammate has adapted to this year's car much faster?”
Jihoon wants to scream. He wants to say a lot of things. Wants to ask why you're asking that question. Wants to ask if this is revenge, if this is what happens when the pressure and his career gets in the way of being with you and if this is punishment for putting you second one time too many.
His answer comes out dangerously low. "I'm handling it the way I always do. I drive the car I'm given, and the rest is noise. I focus on the data, I do the work. The only pressure is from myself to do what I've been tasked to do."
You hold his gaze for a beat. It can't be more than a second, but he swears you cut down to the fucking core of him, your gaze a scalpel he cannot fight.
You nod. "Thank you."
Even though you've asked your questions, Jihoon is so acutely aware of you that he can barely focus on anything else. You stand there in the back, almost hidden behind a taller reporter, but you've opened the floodgates now - not just to the dam holding back his rage, but to the audience of reporters who were waiting for someone to poke him first.
"Jihoon," a reporter from Motorsport.com asks. "A follow up question for you. Given the performance gap to your teammate today, do you feel like the team's development direction still suits your driving style? Or maybe there's a risk that Ferrari has built a car that suits a different style?"
Jihoon scoffs. He can't help it because he hears the question for what it really is - do you think Ferrari has built the car for your teammate. Even Seungcheol makes a face, trying to cover his expression by putting his chin in his hand. It's a bold move to imply that a team has built a car for someone specific, and someone like Seungcheol who has that exact narrative year-after-year recognizes it the same way Jihoon does.
"I think the team is building the fastest car they can," Jihoon shoots back. "My job is to drive the car. If I can't drive the car, I need to adapt. Ferrari does not build the car for the driver. They build the car, the driver drives it. That's it."
No one asks him another question and he's glad. He doesn't want to answer more questions about the car and he doesn't want to answer questions that are the same questions you already asked him organized in different ways to make it sound like it's not a repeat question.
He knows it isn't fair to be upset with you, but he is all the same. He hates that once upon a time, he knew there wasn't malice behind your questions, knew that there was warmth and love instead of this this cold, calculated precision of a journalist and nothing more, asking him questions like he was just another driver.
But that's what he was to you now. Just another driver.
Back on the paddock, the sun is almost gone. The rrange light bleeds across the garages as Jihoon walks fast, cap low, shoulders up. He glances at the sky once and begrundingly acknowledges that the spill of tangerine light is beautiful, but when he nears the Ferrari motor home and hears your voice, he forgets all about where he is and appreciating his surroundings.
He looks up and sure enough, you're standing there with Soonyoung. From the distance you're standing from the motorhome, it's obvious you had just been walking by - not looking for him. Not waiting for him. Just passing through like anyone else, probably heading back to your hotel room to write a feature on how god fucking awful he was.
Soonyoung is laughing, his head thrown back, and you're smiling - not the polite, press smile you give everyone else - but the real kind that's genuine. The kind of smile that Jihoon used to get in hotel rooms at two in the morning when he showed you a funny video next to him in bed or when you woke up in the morning to find breakfast waiting. The kind of smile that you gave him and made anything and everything feel possible.
The sight hits him like break failure at 180 MPH.
Jihoon changes direction without thinking and he's in front of you before he can talk himself out of it, cutting off whatever Soonyoung is saying to ask, "Soonyoung, can you give us a minute?"
Soonyoung's laugh dies immediately. He looks at you and then back at Jihoon, suddenly unsure of the atmospheric change happening now that Jihoon is in the equation. "Uh… yes."
"No," you answer over Soonyoung. You stare at him, eyes flashing. "I'm in the middle of a conversation."
"It'll take two minutes."
"I'm not doing this here."
Jihoon steps closer, not crowding, bust enough that you can’t pretend he’s not there. “Then where? Because you had plenty to say in there.”
“That was work.”
“Work,” he repeats. The word tastes bitter. “Right.”
Soonyoung is frozen, looking like he wants the ground to swallow him whole. Jihoon ignores his teammate, watching as you try to look anywhere but at Jihoon directly. Rich, considering you'd looked at him sharp as ever in the media conference.
"I have to go." You step around him. "I have a deadline."
The urge to try and stop you nearly takes over. Jihoon doesn't move though, knowing he can't, a boundary he is unwilling to cross. So he stands rooted to the spot, watching you storm off into the dying sun, your silhouette blazing like the inside of his chest.
Silence stretches. Jihoon can feel his heart pounding just as hard as it does when he watches the lights go out at the start of the race, the adrenaline rush making him dizzy in the dying Australia evening. He wants to scream, his hands tight fists, walking you turn and vanish from his sight before he can muster up something to shout at you.
Soonyoung clears his throat awkwardly and Jihoon glances at his teammate, who is desperately fumbling for something to say. "Umm. Bad day?"
"Yeah."
"Look, I don’t know what’s going on with you two, but she knows me from my time at Williams. Nothing weird. She's cool but I'm not - nothing weird here, alright? I'm not trying to step on anything. I have a girlfriend. Kind of. It's really complicated, to be honest."
Jihoon’s laugh is short and hollow. "You’re not stepping on anything.”
Soonyoung nods slowly. “Okay. Good. Cool.” Another beat. "You wanna grab a drink?"
Jihoon stares at the spot where you disappeared. He wishes you would re-materialize, that the sun's heatwaves will conjure a mirage of you, smiling and happy and looking at him the way you had Soonyoung.
"Yeah," Jihoon sighs. "Yeah man. I need a drink."
Soonyoung claps him once on the shoulder, light and tentative. "How many drinks until you tell me your beef with Pat Benatar?"
"In your fucking dreams, Soonyoung."
"No biggie. I can tell you about my fake girlfriend."
"Your what?"
-
Jihoon loses the Australian Grand Prix faster than he can conceptualize. One second the lights are going out, the next he's crossing the finish line in P12. It's not dead last, but P12 in a Ferrari at the start of the season feels like swallowing glass, especially with Soonyoung on the podium with a P3 finish after a ruthless drive that turned the crowd into roaring red flags and a thunder of noise.
First podium of the season for Ferrari, and it's Soonyoung's.
Jihoon kills the car and sits. Doesn't move. Mechanics swarm but he stays strapped in, visor down, breathing harshly. The radio doesn't crackle with Luca's voice because he knows there's no sense in a pep talk now. Everyone who knows Jihoon knows that a silver lining won't help cool the sting of reality cutting through Jihoon for the first finish of the season, not that there's any silver lining to pull from today's disaster.
Eventually, Jihoon unclips and climbs out of the car. The heat hits him like a wall, the Melbourne evening still thick and sticky even after the sun has faded beyond the track somewhere, the afternoon still raw but dying. He yanks his helmet off, balaclava soaked through while sweat runs into his eyes and he lets it, trudging toward weigh in before he has to cool down and head to the media pen.
He doesn't speak. No one speaks to him either. Seungcheol from Red Bull glances at him with a single brow arched, but says nothing. Jihoon doesn't expect the golden driver of Red Bull who snatched P2 behind Chwe from McLaren to get it. How could he? Seungcheol has done what Jihoon hasn't - fixed a team clawing for championships.
As always, the media pen is chaos. Jihoon walks through it with his head down, cap pulled low and race suit half-unzipped and hanging off his hips. The PR handler murmurs reminders that are lost to the pounding of his pulse in his ears and the sound of voices and questions and the post-race whirring of machines.
He barely stops walking before someone asks, "How disappointing is P12 after such high expectations from Ferrari this weekend?"
Jihoon stops and forces the corners of his mouth up in a mock smile. "Disappointing. We didn't extract what the car was capable of. That's on me and the team. We'll need to fix it."
"Your teammate just earned Ferrari's first podium of the season on his first race with the team," someone points out. Jihoon pivots toward them, staring. "How much does that result change the mood in the garage for you personally?"
"Soonyoung drove perfectly. He deserved podium. The mood in the garage is fine. I'm focused on why I wasn't there with him. Nothing changes and the goal is to be a team."
He keeps moving, giving short answers with no elaboration. The anger sits low and hot behind his ribs like old oil that won't clear, clogging up everything and making him overheat. Every question feels like someone pressing on a fresh bruise, and now half of them are laced with congratulations for Soonyoung that land like insults even though they're not.
The press conference room is blessedly cold when he enters. He drops to the seat on the far left with Soonyoung in the middle, still flushed and grinning from his race. Seungcheol sits to his right, relaxed and leaning back as Jihoon crosses his arms and stares at the sea of faces with unseeing eyes.
When the moderator starts, Jihoon barely hears her. Soonyoung gets a generic opening question and Jihoon listens to his teammate talk about the management of the car and the strategy, his easy energy making the room laugh. Jihoon has never been able to do that, but he admires Soonyoung for being able to command a room full of sharks.
"Jihoon."
He looks up and sees you're standing near the front row this time, not hidden like before. Your notebook is open, pen poised old school, just like you like it - and your expression is unreadable, save for the slight tightening at the corners of your mouth.
"Two questions," you say. It's the same calm delivery that used to make hotel rooms feel safe after bad races and now just makes him sick to his stomach. "After finishing P12 on a day when Ferrari still earned a podium, how do you assess the performance gap within the team, and what does that say about the car's direction?"
The room quiets or maybe that's just how it feels. It's a similar question to the one you asked after practice on day one, but now you've got a race to use against him and the poor performance as justification.
Jihoon hears his own heartbeat in his ears and notices the way Seungcheol shifts, a small uncomfortable movement. Seungcheol knows who you are and knows what you mean to Jihoon, and for some reason the empathy that comes from another driver that Jihoon considers a long-time friend makes him more irritable.
Jihoon leans into the mic. “The gap is real. We saw it all weekend. Soonyoung maximized what the car could do today. I didn’t. My job is to close the gap. We'll keep working."
You don’t flinch or soften. “You’ve been vocal in the past about the importance of mental reset after difficult sessions. Clearly that reset didn’t happen between FP2 and the race today. With your teammate delivering under the same conditions, what specifically prevented you from finding the same level of performance?”
The question isn’t cruel, but It’s surgical. Fair. Asked the same way you’d ask any driver who just threw away twenty points while his teammate stood on the second step. Butt it's you who's asking the question and it' Soonyoung who is sitting right there, proof that the car wasn’t the problem. Jihoon was.
He exhales through his nose. “Pressure. Expectations. Execution. Same things everyone deals with. I didn’t handle it well enough today and Soonyoung did, that’s the difference.”
You nod once. “Thank you.”
He wants to laugh. Or throw the mic. Or ask why the fuck you’re doing this - why you're sitting there looking at him like he's just data on a screen. But he doesn't. He sits through the rest of the questions and lets Soonyoung charm the room with humble gratitude and jokes, lets Seungcheol talk strategy like the golden boy he is. Jihoon stays quiet unless directly addressed, and when it ends, he stands first.
He doesn't go straight to the motorhome. The buzzing in his veins won't let him. Instead, he stands outside the narrow service corridor behind the media center and leans against the wall, arms crossed. He knows you'll walk this way because you always used to cut through here to avoid the main paddock and the crowd crush when you were on a deadline.
Knowing things like that about you is agony. He hates the way he knows your quirks and tells, hates the way it's instinct for him to know what you'll say or do. Hates that he knows you were being fair in the media conference but he's angry anyway, rage and something like heartbreak simmering just under the placid surface of him.
You appear a few minutes later, phone in your hand and notepad tucked under your arm, typing away at your phone. He says nothing but you sense him, pulling up short as you jerk your attention up to see him. Surprise briefly flickers across your face before it settles into a cool, unreadable mask.
"What, Jihoon?" You sigh, sliding the phone into your pocket.
"You're nitpicking," he says.
"I'm asking questions."
"You don't have to phrase them like I'm the only person who failed today."
"Maybe you didn't notice, but you were on the stage among podium winners and people who finished inside top ten. Bitch at the moderator for the shitting press window, not me."
The laugh that comes out of him is sharp and humorless. "Right. And you've got a story to write, yeah? Am I getting a villain edit?"
"I'm not writing fanfiction, Jihoon. I'm writing what happened. Ferrari got a podium and it wasn't you. The why is relevant. This is my job."
“Your job,” he repeats, the word tasting like bile. “And what exactly is your job now? Because it feels a lot like following me around and twisting the knife every time I open my mouth while everyone else gets to clap for the new guy.”
"Get used to it." You storm passed him and he fights the urge to reach out and stop you. "I've been assigned Ferrari full-time this season for a feature series. I will continue to twist the knife, since apparently asking appropriate interview questions is a crime now."
Jihoon feels something crack inside his chest when the words hang. Knowing you will be in the garage to write about his every failure and Soonyoung's every win makes the room spin as he puts together what you're telling him.
"So I get to see you every race," he grits out. "Every time I fuck up, and you get to write about it."
You watch him with an unreadable gaze before you dismiss yourself. "I'm not hunting you for sport, Jihoon. Stop acting like it. Thankfully for you, your teammate has a lot to write about and is a lot less of an asshole when I ask him about his mistakes."
Jihoon says nothing. He stares at you as you walk away, never looking back to him. The service hallway is cold against his still-damp skin. He stays there even after you're gone, back against the wall, head tipped back, eyes staring fluorescent lights until his vision is swimming in coalescing lights.
The sounds of the paddock are distant - laughter from hospitality, someone singing off-key, the hum of engines as people break down the race. Normal Sunday night noises after a race, except nothing feels normal to Jihoon. Not anymore, not when he's P12 and you've gone somewhere he doesn't know how to reach.
Fucking heartbreaker.
-
The Jeddah Corniche Circuit is one of Jihoon's least favorite tracks. He doesn't hate it because of the walls that come out of nowhere or the straights that punish any ounce of hesitation, but rather hates it because last year when he'd been here, you'd been fighting. Maybe he should have known then that the fighting happening between closed doors wasn't going to mend itself. Now you're here in the garage and he feels that familiar fight or flight hammering under his ribs, your presence in the garage bringing back to life the bickering you'd done in hotel rooms just a year ago in this very city.
He hates seeing you around, the awful sense of desire and frustration clashing inside him every time he sees you, the newest permanent fixture in Ferrari's garage. You move through the garage with the same quiet authority you used to have when you were dating, and he hates how normal it is to see you here, how easy it is for you.
You ask Matteo questions while leaning over Luca's shoulder at the telemetry wall, scribbling notes while you skirt around mechanics and team personnel. You fit in so well that it makes him want to scream, and worst of all, everyone likes you. They had liked you when you'd been around in a less official capacity last year, but seeing the way you make Soonyoung laugh and the way the mechanics stick close to you is just proof that you're not the problem.
Jihoon is.
This will be the fourth race in with you in the garage and Jihoon still flinches when he sees you. He tries to compartmentalize when he sees you with his visor down in the car or headphones on in the garage, but sometimes he can't avoid you, like right now when you're standing in hospitality in front of the coffee machine he was heading toward.
He swallows. Your back is to him, head ducked as you scroll on your phone, the espresso machine churning as it processes your coffee. You're dressed in the black jeans that used to - still - drive him crazy, your media pass dangling around your neck.
"Settling in nicely?" His voice makes you startle and you whirl, looking at him with wide eyes. "Sorry."
You don't answer immediately. "I guess."
He leans a shoulder against the wall a few feet away. Arms crossed. “Garage suits you. You’re practically living there now.”
"Yeah. Now I’m just like you.”
He pauses and let's the words settle. For a second, he doesn't know what you mean. Then he sees the immediate wince on your face, instant regret that tells him it's a barb. He narrows his eyes, arms tightening a little.
"What's that supposed to mean?" He asks evenly.
"Nothing. I shouldn't have-"
"No. Tell me what you mean."
For a second, you don't answer. Instead you take the coffee from the machine and put a sleeve and lid on, doing anything you can to delay an answer. You've always been good at. taking time to choose your words. It's the single quality you have that makes you stick out among the other journalists, thoughtful and careful in your questions, never stupid, never rage baiting.
"It means," you answer carefully. "That I'm here because the job demands it. No space for anything else. I assumed it would be familiar to you."
"That's not fair."
“Isn’t it?” You tilt your head, the same way you used to when you were trying not to cry in hotel rooms after he missed another anniversary dinner. “You were never really there, Jihoon. You chose the garage. Every time.”
He opens his mouth but nothing comes out because you’re right, and the truth tastes acidic. This isn't how he imagined starting a Grand Prix day. Outside the room, team members drift past like nothing is wrong, carrying about their day without a care in the world while Jihoon feels like someone is ripping the scab off of a wound he was hoping was finally healing.
It was a futile hope and he knows it. Jihoon has known from the moment he saw you that he isn't healing, and hearing you say why you left so plainly turns his thoughts to static. He doesn't know what to say or do - he never does. That was part of the problem too. You'd wait for him with tears in your eyes looking defeated and he'd come home tired, unsure of what to say or how to make it better. So he just didn't.
You swallow thickly and shake your head. "I apologize. We shouldn't be talking about this. You have a race and I was out of line. I apologize."
"No," he says, though his voice feels distant. "I asked for honesty."
Silence stretches for a moment before you nod and clear your throat. "Good luck today, then."
Jihoon doesn't follow you out when you leave. Doesn't watch you go. Doesn't do anything. He stands and stares with unseeing eyes, his thoughts grinding like the failing engine of his car in practice two days ago.
You were never really there.
It's all he can hear when the lights go out. He starts clean but his head is a mess, the car kissing the wall at Turn 22, him feathering the throttle too early exiting Turn 13. Every fuck up he makes, your voice echoes over and over again until it feels like he's talking to you through the headset, not Luca.
You were never really there.
Despite the haunting drone of your voice, he fights anyway, trying to defend hard against Xu into the final sector on lap 12, managing to hold the inside to force him wide. He even manages to overtake Lee in the Williams car with a late brake down the inside of Turn 1 that makes Luca praise him over the radio, but it's lost to the static of his mind.
You were never really there.
Jihoon finishes in points, but it feels hollow. P8 isn't anything to brag about, but at least he's inside the fucking points for the first time this season. It should feel like a weight off his shoulders, but its not. He still has work to do, the gap between him and Soonyoung at P4 not much smaller than it has been the last four races.
The press routine becomes rote. Jihoon climbs out the car, yanks the helmet off, lets the sweat burn his eyes, and eventually pulls a cap low over his sweaty hair before following PR out to the pen. It's the same wash, rinse, repeat of every race before this one, a time loop he can't break.
"P8 from last weeks P11 - is this a step forward?"
No, he wants to scream. Instead, his voice is clipped and efficient. "Points are points. Car is improving. We keep pushing."
"Mentality still good, then?"
Absolutely fucking not, he wants to holler. "Focused as always. We reset. We move on."
The press conference is a haze of questions and rehearsed answers. He barely hears the questions he's asked, but he somehow manages to ask them. You ask him no questions - pity or resentment, he's not sure - but he's grateful anyway.
Jihoon goes through the motions of finishing a race weekend, sitting through debrief silent and offering feedback when asked. His team looks at him sideways, but no one pushes. No one wants to be too hard on him, like he's fragile. It makes him want to throw something, to scream to stop treating him like a child.
He doesn't. He just gets through it with gritted teeth and steely focus until he's sitting in a hotel room that's too quiet and too clean, too empty.
Jihoon showers to escape the silence, the heat of the water burning away the residual anger and turning it into something else that hurts just as bad. He stays under the spray of water until it runs colder and his fingers prune, reluctantly getting out only to sit on the bed in a towel, staring down at his phone in his hand.
A blank thread with your name stares back at him, the blinking text cursor waiting for him to type. So he swallows and types, fingers moving haltingly.
I'm sorry about this morning.
Deletes.
You were right but I don't know how to do this with you around
Deletes.
You're fucking up my head.
Deletes.
The problem is me. I miss you.
Deletes.
Jihoon locks his phone and throws it onto the armchair across the room. He lies back, still damp as he stares at the textured ceiling. The room smells like generic hotel soap and the faint scent of the cologne you bought him two years ago.
Outside, the city thrums, the traffic and distant thrum of bass from a car echoing toward his window. Inside, your voice loop on repeat, haunting him like that stupid Pat Benatar song you love so much.
You were never really there. Heartbreaker.
You were never really there. Dream maker.
You were never really there. Love taker.
-
Rain beats down on the garage, the wind coming off Biscayne Bay blowing sheets of it across the track, turning it into a black mirror. Jihoon watches the radar with arms crossed in the motorhome, still in his fireproofs, suit tied around the waist. They expect a long delay and he blows out a sigh, hating the waiting game, his nerves frayed and the after burn of lost adrenaline making him itchy.
Mechanics kill time by playing cards and engineers scroll data on tablets while Soonyoung sits on the ground playing his switch, chatting with his race engineer. Soonyoung laughs at something she says, corner of his eyes crinkling when he smiles. Jihoon gives them a wide berth, staying away from that ticking time bomb of a PR nightmare as much as he can.
Jihoon spots you coming his way and his heart starts to hammer on instinct. You look toward an empty meeting room and jerk you're head toward it, half a command, half request. Jihoon should say no, considering the last time he spoke to you one-on-one fucked with him so bad he could barely drive the car. But the same desire to be close to you and to hear your voice overrides any logic he has and he nods.
You enter the room first, dropping yourself into one of the armchairs. He sits on the couch across from you, elbows on his knees, watching you fidget as you settle. You don't have a notebook or anything for an interview, so he realizes whatever this conversation is, it's personal. It makes him brace for the worst, muscles locking like he's going in for a fight, heart racing.
"You need to stop fighting the car."
He blinks, momentarily stunned. "What?"
"The car. You're muscling the shit out of the car, and that's never been your style of driving. You're bleeding time in sectors because you're not trusting yourself and you're over-correcting before the rear even steps out."
Jihoon stares. The words land like cold data readouts that are clinical and accurate, brutal in their simplicity. He wants to snap back and tell you to save it for the article, but you're not doing an interview right now. You're starring at him with the same analytical gaze you used to give him when talking strategy on a plane while heading to the next race.
He swallows hard and looks away toward the rain hammering on the window. The sky is gunmetal beyond the glass, Miami turning into a canvas of grey and purple, lightning cracking.
"I don't know how to stop fighting it," he sighs. "Every time I ease off, it feels like I'm losing grip or giving up."
You hum thoughtfully. "Remember Imola last year?"
He nods. Imola last year was one of his best races, a beautiful performance clawing his way from P14 to P1. You'd both celebrated well into the early hours of morning, you pinned under him, him drunk off of the high of winning and the heat of your mouth.
"That was a race you won on pure instinct," you point out. "You just locked in and didn't fight the car. You just drove.
He exhales long and slow. The advice sinks in and he thinks about every race prior to this season, all of his feathering too early, snapping the wheel, the way the car in Bahrain testing had started out like a dialogue but ended up as a confrontation.
Jihoon meets your eyes. You're watching him, fingers fidgeting in your lap, and he realizes you're nervous and that maybe he's not the only one who regrets the conversation in Saudi Arabia.
"You really think that's it?"
"I know it is." There's no hesitation when you answer. "I've watched every single part of your racing. You're fast when you let go. You lose it when you start to overthink."
"I guess."
"You never used to overthink."
You're right. Jihoon have never been someone who was over-controlling on the car or strategy. He was often calm and collected, absorbing the problems as they came. He'd been like that with you too, though. He didn't overthink your problems, didn't dig his heels in to try and figure out each one.
And then you'd left and he realized that maybe he hadn't thought about it enough.
Jihoon wants to tell you that, but he doesn't know how to say it in a way that doesn't make it sound like his failures this season are your fault, because they're not. He just wishes you understood his newfound obsession with control, how he doesn't know how to let it go because the last tie he had, you'd walked out of his life.
Rain taps on the window as he nods, exhaling long and slow. "Alright."
You nod and stand, wiping your hands on your jeans. "That's all I came to say."
"Thanks," he murmurs, voice soft beneath the patter of rain. "For telling me instead of making it a headline."
"I'm not your enemy." He nods but says nothing. "Good luck."
Then you're gone, leaving him with nothing but the rain until the delay ends an hour later.
It's a shortened race, the track wet and slick. Jihoon climbs into the car, a new energy humming in his veins, and for once, it isn't nervousness or the determination to control the car - it's confidence. Confidence in himself and in the car., confidence that he's driven on wet tracks and worse cars than what Ferrari's given him.
So he tries not to think about it too much when the lights go out and the spray is everywhere. The car feels different immediately and even though he starts to tighten his grip, he takes a deep breath and lets the car slide into Turn 3 instead of forcing it. He lets the rear slide a little, heart leaping until it catches and he's out the turn.
Jihoon grins a little, pressing the throttle to gain pace, the water on his helmet slicking off as he hunts the McLaren in front of him, the brake lights a smear of color in the mist off the track.
Luca's voice crackles over the radio. "Good pace. Keep it tidy."
Jihoon keeps it squeaky fucking clean. No over-corrections, no white-knuckles on the wheel, and he breathes through the turns, feeling the hum of the engine and the drag of the tires. He trusts the tires to catch when they need and by lap 12, he's up to P5 after overtaking Lee in the McLaren and Hong in the Mercedes.
Soonyoung is ahead of him, fighting with Choi for P3. Jihoon doesn't worry about chasing him. He drives his own race, cruising into Turn 1 with a late break and beautiful exit, defending against Hong desperately trying to retake P5 behind him.
And then he crosses the finish line inside the top five for the first time since last season. For the first time this season, Ferrari has two cars in the top five and Jihoon starts to laugh, Luca's excitement bleeding through the radio.
It is far from perfect and it's not on the podium where he wants to be, but its so much better than P8 or lower. So much better that he feels like he drove better, not grinding the brakes or bumping the wall on his exits, too tight on the control. For the first time all season, it felt like it was instinct, like he just drove without worrying about trying to control the result.
He rolls the car slowly down the pit lane, engine dropping to a soft purr as his adrenaline bleeds out. Jihoon kills the engine in the garage and sits for a second longer than usual, letting the post-race high crash a little.
He unclips, pushes the steering wheel up and out, and climbs onto the halo. He yanks the helmet off, balaclava peeling away with it, and shakes out sweat-soaked hair. Soonyoung is already out of his car, arms raised as he jumps down from the car and gives Jihoon a feral grin.
"Fuck yeah!" He bellows over the noise of mechanics and dying engines. Soonyoung meets him in the garage, clapping Jihoon hard on the back. "You drove like your old self today. Fucking loved it."
Jihoon swallows and nods once, not trusting himself to say more without his voice cracking.
The media pen is mercifully under cover as the rain picks back up, water streaming off the edges of the canopy in steady ropes as Jihoon stands with a towel around his neck, hair still dripping. He sees you before you see him, speaking to a Sky Sports producer, gesturing with your notebook the way you always do when you’re working out angles in real time. Black jeans. Ferrari media pass. Hair damp from the rain you must have crossed without an umbrella. You look focused. Professional.
Beautiful. So beautiful its like a knife to the ribs.
When your eyes finally meet his across the pen, you don’t flinch or look away. You just give a single, small nod and he returns the gesture, not friends but not enemies. It eases the pressure a little bit, but doesn't ease the ache.
Media goes better today, as it so often does when he's not sucking behind the wheel. Jihoon answers just as short and to the point as usual, but there's less bite today and he doesn't feel snappy, doesn't feel tired and poked and prodded. He just feels…. good, which he hasn't in a long time.
By the time he's back in the garage, you're coming his way, calm and collected. He pauses, brows raised as rain beats down on the garage roof.
"You have a moment to spare for an interview?" You ask.
He nods and gestures toward his dressing room. You look like you want to protest - the dressing room feels too personal - but it's you and him and he charges down the back hall without looking back, knowing you'll follow him.
You do, slipping in and closing the door behind you with a metallic click. He sits on the small couch, melting into it as he closes his eyes, thankful for the cool, dry air to fight of the wet Miami heat. You sit down on a folding chair where his trainer usually sits, crossing one leg over the other.
"Ready when you are," he murmurs.
"Alright." You tap your phone. "I'm recording today."
"No note pad?"
"No, I still have my notepad. It just makes it easier for the longer pieces."
"Got it."
"So," you start. "P5 today. First top five of the season for you personally and Ferrari's strongest team result so far. Walk me through what made the difference."
"Track was tricky," he admits. "But the car felt good but predictable. For the first time in a while, I could learn on the rear without it loosing control. The team gave me a good balance before the restart, and once I stopped trying to fight the car, the pace came naturally."
"You mention you stopped trying to fight the car. Was there a specific moment it clicked today?"
Jihoon opens his eyes and looks at you. He can tell you mean the question honestly - you're not asking him if what you said made a difference. You're asking if something happened during his drive, if the feedback on the radio or the data helped him figure it out.
"Yes," he says. "Someone reminded me that I've never been fast when I'm fighting the car. I took their advice. It had nothing to do with anything else but that."
You hold his gaze for a beat longer than necessary after his answer before nodding. "Team radio was pretty quiet on your drive today, you had less changes and corrections. Was that deliberate or did the drive just go that well?
"Bit of both. Drive just started right from the beginning and Luca and I just sort of reached a flow state. Didn't need to talk much. Sometimes I just need to shut up and drive."
The corner of your mouth lifts just enough that he knows you're amused. He stares at it, heart skipping a little, and for the first time in a long time, this feels like familiar territory. You've interviewed him in every corner of every track for years, but the two years you were together were the best of them.
This feels almost like that now. Almost. You've reverted back to the polished, calculated interview style you had before you'd started dating, but there's something softer there that has stuck, even after the breakup, something personal. Something in the way you look at him, like it takes you a second to remember that you're not together when you're asking him questions.
Jihoon realizes how much he wishes you were. He enjoyed interviews more back then when it felt like you'd dissect his race because you cared about what was going on in his head and less to piece together a story. It helped that most of them were followed by him pressing you into the mattress until neither one of you thought about racing anymore, but things had been easier then.
Until they hadn't.
As much as he misses it, not every night was perfect. Most nights you'd sit in a hotel room and pore over telemetry together, head on his shoulder and he'd lean into your insights without question, nodding along. You strategy had always been - and still is - sharp as ever. He used to joke about you becoming a race engineer, but you like journalism and the challenge of a story.
But then there were other nights. Missed calls, reschedule dinners, him prioritizing workouts and strategy sessions over planned time with you. Jihoon has no idea when he started making you secondary to the garage, but you'd walked away from him before he figured it out.
"So," you start. "Soonyoung's been the benchmark for Ferrari so far this season with consistent top-five pace. Today you matched him more closely than you have all season. Does that make it feel like pressure is easing internally with the team?"
Jihoon looks down at his hands for a beat, thumbs tracing the edge of the couch cushion. This is the kind of question that could be spun a dozen different ways in print, and he knows you know that. Still, you've asked it anyway - not to hurt him, but to get something out of him that you probably know is there.
So he thinks about the question before he says, "Soonyoung is a good driver. His start reminds me of my first year with Ferrari. He's hungry and adaptive. The pressure isn't to match Soonyoung or catch up, but to drive the car the way I know I can. Today I showed that I can. It doesn't mean the job is done, but it means I'm capable when I apply myself."
Surprisingly, you do smile at that. It's like watching the first spill of pink into a morning sky as the sun rises, warm and startling. He feels his heart race a little faster as you look up, holding his gaze longer than you have all season. You nod once, acknowledging that you like the answer, before dropping your gaze back down to your notes.
"Last question," you tell him. "You've talked a lot in the past about instinct being your strongest weapon. Would you say you're getting that version of yourself back?"
Jihoon leans back, letting his head rest against the couch. He stares up at the lights, blinding by the fluorescent, color swimming at the edge of his vision as he chews on the question. Instinct is how he used to drive - it's what made him stand out from other drivers as he climbed his way through F2 and into F1. Where others spent years getting the mechanics and feel for racing, Jihoon just instinctively raced.
It's what initially drew you to him in the first place. His raw, uncalculated drive on the track was something you appreciated. You'd always told him there was a kind of honestly about it, that Jihoon was never trying to beat anyone else or be anyone else. His biggest competition had always been himself, and he was only ever trying to drive how he knew he could.
Somewhere in the last year, he'd lost that and started comparing himself to his teammates, to the other drivers on the grid that were younger and fresher. He had started thinking that if he just spent more time in the garage, if he just looked over the data more, he could keep up. That he could keep pace with where he wanted to be - needed to be.
Now, Jihoon see's the gap in the logic and sees your question for what it truly is: do you get it, Jihoon. Do you see where you've lost your way?
"Yeah," he croaks finally. "I think I get it now."
You let the silence stretch while you lean back, watching him as he drops his gaze down and looks at you. There's no follow up question. You just stare at him with an unreadable expression, and just when he thinks you're going to say something, you nod and lean forward to stop the recording.
"Thank you." You lean back for a second, finger tapping on your thigh. "It'll be a good piece. Honest without being brutal." You stand then, sliding your phone in your pocket. You hesitate just before you reach the door, turning a fraction to glance at him. "You looked good out there today. Like the old Jihoon."
The compliment makes his heart race. He nods, a tired smile splitting his face. "Felt good."
Before the moment can stretch too long, you slide out of the room, the door clicking behind you. Jihoon stays seated, staring at the door. The absence of you feels heavier than it used to, the ache behind his ribs steadily rising when he realizes that now you'll go back to a hotel room that isn't his and work on a piece without any chances of him distracting or interrupting you. No late night coffee date with your fingers intertwined, no shower hot enough to melt metal to ease the tension of a deadline.
Just you. Without him.
Fucking heartbreaker.
-
The streets of Barcelona past midnight are nice. It's quiet but not empty, making Jihoon feel like he has just enough room to breathe without being entirely alone. His hands are shoved deep into the pockets of his hoodie as he walks, the streetlamps casting pools of light on him as he wanders, the smell of the bougainvilleas strong, the violet flowers spilling over iron balconies and gates.
Jihoon had been stellar today. Not just stellar - he'd made his first podium of the season, securing P2 with a clean start and flawless driving. He'd been held off from winning by the McLaren, but for the first time in his career, Jihoon doesn't care about P1. He cares about his drive - about himself - and the trust he's had to put into himself to make the drive possible today.
After having to retire the car in Ferrari's first home circuit of the year at Imola, it's a fucking relief. While he'd done fine afterward in Monaco, being the heartbreaker of the home race had been weighing on Jihoon since slamming his head on the wheel and screaming as the car's engine gave out. Soonyoung had been Ferrari's only pride that day, making podium as a sea of red exploded in the Italian grandstands.
Seeing all that red again today in Spain had lessened the sting of it all. It had been a long time since he stood on a podium with the Tifosi screaming his name, red flags rippling in a sea of fans. Soonyoung had finished in P4, grinning like an idiot when Jihoon had wandered back to the garage, saying welcome back as though even Soonyoung knew the real Jihoon had been found again.
Jihoon turns left, walking toward a string of shops and late-night restaurants. He's still buzzing from the win, restlessness and a little hunger driving him from the quiet luxury of the hotel room onto the familiar streets of Spain.
He looks up and stops dead when he sees you.
You're learning against the low stone rim of a fountain that gurgles quietly, the lights strung between buildings casts a soft, gold light on you that makes you glow. You're in jeans and a soft grey hoodie that Jihoon realizes is his, making him jolt.
Sensing his gaze, you look up at him. You seem confused for a split second before you realize it's him and freeze. "Jihoon."
"Hi." His voice comes out a little more unsteady than he means it to. He clears his through, heart doing that stupid thing that it does whenever it sees you recently. "What are you doing out here?"
"Couldn't sleep." You pocket your phone. "You?"
"Same. Too much adrenaline."
You grin - a real grin, full of warmth that makes Jihoon want to burst at the seams. "Congratulations again. You raced clean today."
"Thanks. Felt good."
"I bet."
He hesitates a beat, the fountain bubbling as the two of you stare at one another. "I'm kind of starving and trying to find something open. Do you want to come?"
Surprise followed by hesitation flickers across your face. He braces for a polite no, realizing that he has over-extended beyond the polite fencing you've put up between the two of you.
"Sure," you say finally. He blinks in surprise. "I skipped dinner to make a deadline."
The two of you walk in silence for the first two blocks. The alleys narrow, forcing you a little closer, shoulders nearly brushing. Jihoon is hyper aware of your warmth and the soft smell of sandalwood perfume you like to wear, the one he bought you when you were in Singapore the year before. The scent nearly undoes him, his hands flexing in his pockets as he keeps himself from reaching over to close the distance and pull you closer.
You discover a tiny bodega tucked under a low archway almost by accident, the stripped awning sagging but the neon on the door flashing that its open. The tables outside are mismatched, some with wicker chairs some with metal, but the smell of hot oil and something spicy drifting from the door is too hard to resit.
A server gestures through the window to take one of the tables so you do, chairs scraping silently against the night. When the server appears, Jihoon panics for only a moment before remembering you are the Spanish speaker between the two of you, relief flooding him as you order two glasses of wine and plates of garlic prawns, bread and thing slices of jamón.
"Wine, huh?" Jihoon grins. "Are we celebrating?"
"Maybe." You take a sip and hum. "Better than podium champagne."
"Everything's better than podium champagne. You learn to hate the smell and taste after a while."
"Still crave being showered in it though, yeah?" He nods, sipping the wine. It's dry, the taste of cherries rich on his tongue. "You looked happy up there today."
"I was. The car felt good. Didn't have to fight the car."
"The car or yourself?"
As always, your question is sharp and to the point. You always had a way of voicing the real issue, of asking the right question. When Jihoon first met you, he thought maybe it was because you were a journalist, but now he knows its because you're good at seeing through the bullshit, your instinct for truth better than anyone else he knows.
"Both, I guess."
When the food arrives, your conversation lulls. Not in a way that feels awkward, but it feels nice. Jihoon watches you bite into a garlic prawn and make a little noise that does things to his stomach and chest, his eyes going to his plate as he steals a slice of jamón.
It melts on his tongue and he makes an equally obscene noise that has you laughing, leaning back in your chair as you nod and sip your wine. "Yeah. It's good."
"Remember Singapore?" He asks, peeling back the shell on a prawn. "That hole in the wall that we loved to go to with the laksa that almost killed me?"
"You mean the one that made you cry?"
"I did not!"
"You absolutely did, Ji."
The nickname is so sudden that it pulls both of you up short. Jihoon’s fingers freeze around the prawn shell. He doesn’t look up right away. He can’t. If he does, he’s afraid the careful distance you’ve both been maintaining since Miami will shatter, and he doesn't know what will spill out of him if it does.
“Sorry,” you murmur. “Old habit.”
When he lifts his faze, your eyes are fixed on the table. You look embarrassed, like the armor you've been wearing all season with him has as single weakness and you've just pressed on it yourself.
"It's okay." He swallows, still frozen. "It was nice hearing it. I know we're not-" He stops and shakes his head, putting the prawn down and wiping garlicky fingers on a napkin. "I know we're not together anymore, but hearing you say it just now felt nice."
You pick up a piece of bread, tear it in half, then tear one half again. You’re not really eating it, you're just giving your hands something to do. Jihoon has seen you do it a hundred times, usually with pens or pieces of paper, snapping caps and ripping corners of notebooks.
"I've almost used it before this," you admit, not looking at him. "It's an adjustment. You're not the only one who thinks of places like Singapore."
Jihoon’s throat closes as he nods. It's both heaven and hell to hear you say it, to know that you remember the smell of the hotel shampoo on skin, the way you'd lay in bed while you read over a piece as he dozed against your side.
"I fucked that up," he admits.
It's not a question and you don't rush to correct him. Jihoon feels his stomach hollow out, heart dropping to his ass. You're nice enough not to agree, but your silence is somehow worse, like you're trying to spare him.
He hates it.
"You can say it. I know. I did."
You lift a shoulder. "You chose something else. Over and over until I decided I wanted to make a choice for once, so I chose me."
“I thought if I gave everything to the car, I would be able to catch up. I guess I just thought you'd understand."
"I did - I do. But I'm not a pit stop, you don't get to come and go as you please."
Jihoon remembers the night you left so clearly. He remembers the exact shade of gold of the Austin skyline, the live music drifting from Rainey Street. You always liked it better than Sixth, and it was closer to the river. He'd almost made podium that day, finishing P5 after Ferrari finally began clicking after Jihoon had spent the entire first half of the season grinding himself to dust to chase Red Bull and Mercedes.
He remembers the way you'd come out of the bathroom fully showered, voice soft as you tried to spark up a conversation. Jihoon was staring at data, looping on how he could have done better, how he could have pushed the car a little harder. P5 was fine, but it wasn't good enough. Wasn't right.
The fight had started softly at first - you asking him if he was listening, him insisting he was. You never raised your voice, but you did that night, your anger sharp against the buzz of Austin traffic, accusing him of making the relationship too low-priority.
He remembers you pacing the room as he yelled back at you, raw and angry. This was his career, his life, you knew what you were getting into. If you didn't want someone who worked hard, what were you doing there? It had been the wrong thing to say, and as he remembers it now, he winces.
You'd packed by morning, pale grey light spilling across the Texas sky as Jihoon watched you numbly. You'd folded your clothes with shaking hands, your silence a wall of ice meant to keep him out. And he'd let you keep him out. He hadn't fought. Hadn't begged.
"Yeah," Jihoon sighs. "Yeah I know. I get it."
Your eyes soften, but there’s a guarded edge too, like this kind of honesty scares you more than it helps. "I know you do. It doesn't make it easier."
For a moment, the two of you stare at one another. Jihoon opens his mouth to take a risk, heart pounding, to apologize and tell you to let him try and fix it. But before he can, he watches you straighten, the softness in your eyes shuttering, replaced by the cool mask you've kept all of this season.
"It's late," you sigh, signaling for the check. "Early flight tomorrow."
Jihoon slams into your wall of ice at 200 MPH. He reaches for the check before you can, waving off your soft protest. You say nothing as he signs for it, the silence pressing in as you both stand, chairs scraping.
The lights of Barcelona hum softly in the night. He thinks of Austin again, the dim lights reminding him of the same strip of restaurants and bars burning outside the suite, the absence of your voice pressing in on him as he lay on the hotel bed staring at the ceiling.
When you part ways, Jihoon's blood is buzzing. He feels it in his hands and arms, a nagging feeling that he can't stop as he murmurs a quiet goodbye. You give him a small smile and head off. Just like in Austin, he doesn't stop you. Doesn't know what to say.
Somewhere, music is drifting through an open window of an apartment, the crackling sound of Pat Benatar's voice drifting on the wind, a constant phantom that always drifts behind him.
Heartbreaker. Dream maker. Love taker.
-
The roar of the Tifosi is a living thing. Sound crashes over the Autodromo Nazionale Monza, so loud that Jihoon can barely thing. Jihoon's car gleams under the Italian sun, the sea of red flags rippling in the grandstands visible as the heat presses in.
Visor down, the world narrows to the inside of the car. He doesn't let the crowd get to him. Breathes in. Breathes out. Wills his hands to stop shaking. Monza is just like any race, but it feels like more than that today. This is the home race, bigger than Imola, with higher stakes and a louder crowd.
There's no room for error today. Not with Seungcheol on pole, untouchable all weekend in qualifying. Jihoon is slotted at P3 behind Chwe's orange McLaren, and Soonyoung is just behind Jihoon in P4, the energy of two Ferrari's starting so high up palpable.
Beneath him, the engine hums. It feels like an extension of his own body, nervous and edgy but ready. Jihoon knows every straight here, every turn - knows that power and clean exits will reward him here if he just lets the car do what needs to get done.
Today, the goal is simple - finish the race where he started. He's not chasing Chwe and he's not trying to jockey for position with Soonyoung. Jihoon's only goal is to finish the race under his own terms without fighting the car, without forcing it.
Jihoon sucks in a sharp breathe. The grandstands are a blur of crimson, but he focuses on the five lights ahead, thumbs brushing over the wheel. He breathes out as the first light illuminates, then the second. He breathes in. The lights go out, and he exhales.
The launch slams into him immediately. He's careful as the vehicle shoots forward, holding the inside line to Turn 1 as Vernon's McLaren goes wide on the exit. Jihoon attacks without thinking, surging into P2 and peeling off as Luca says something encouraging in Italian. It's lost in the roaring blood in Jihoon's ears, eyes laser-focused on Seungcheol's car ahead.
Jihoon falls into a rhythm of feathering the wheel and braking late. The car feels good under him, each bump of the chicane smooth. His hands grip the wheel as he sails through the sectors, narrowing the gap between him and Red Bull.
"Gap to leader 0.8 seconds," Luca says. "Push push."
Jihoon doesn't respond. He's too focused, the world reduced to turns and braking points. He hardly registers the passing of time until he's debating pit maneuvers with Luca while he defends Soonyoung from overtaking him.
"Solid," Luca says and Jihoon grins, putting space between him and his teammate on the straight. "Gap to Soonyoung 1.2. Can the tires handle more?"
"Yes."
"Keep up the pace and stay out as long as you can. Box for hards on lap twenty four."
"Heard."
On lap twenty, Seungcheol makes a tiny mistake and locks up going into a turn. Jihoon presses the advantage, diving around the outside through the second part of the chicane to overtake. The car slides close enough to the gravel that he feels the rocks kick up and rattle against the metal floor, each ping of the stone on metal that he cut it too close to going out of bounds for an overtake.
He pulls out in front of Seungcheol and grins, pushing the car harder. He knows the heat is building in his tires as Seungcheol heads to the pit lane. The front tires are staring to wear, and the car pushes too wide through a turn, fighting him. Behind him, Soonyoung pits, the orange McLaren hunting Jihoon down.
"Gap to Chwe 3.2"
Jihoon feels the pressure in his shoulders, feels the wheel fight back. He doesn't grip it harder. He breathes deeper and lets the car slide a fraction more than usual, trusting it to catch the edges of each turns. It does, and he exhales, fending off Vernon until Luca calls for new tires.
The mechanics are a blur in his peripheral. He barely registers the stop before he's peeling back out onto the track again, narrowly sliding out in front of Choi to slot himself in P3 behind Soonyoung. But now Jihoon has fresher tires, closing the gap between his teammate on an inside overtake at Rettifilo that forces Soonyoung wide with a late brake.
Jihoon grins, hunting down the back of Chwe's car until he rolls across the finish line in P2 with Soonyoung narrowly behind him in P3.
"Belissimo!" Luca screams, his voice peaking the radio mic. "Fucking beautiful! What a drive, Jihoon. Kwon is in P3, forza!"
Grinning, Jihoon rolls the car into parc fermé and kills the engine. His hands are shaking like he just finished pole, and for Ferrari, it may as well be. He sits for a long second, chest heaving, sweat burning his eyes and soaking through the balaclava.
Outside, the roar washes over him like a wave crashing onto the cliffs. The Tifosi are so loud the air vibrates, smoke and flares of red drifting across the crowd as he rests his head on the back of the seat. Something cracks open inside of him, relief and joy spilling out that he hasn't felt in weeks.
Jihoon unclips and pushes the wheel away, climbing onto the halo to rip of his helmet and balaclava. His hair is plastered to his neck with sweat but he grins, raising his arms as he jumps down, the Tifosi screaming.
Soonyoung is there in an instant, helmet gone, grinning like a madman as he grabs Jihoon and kisses him on the head.
"Double fucking podium at Monza!" Soonyoung screams. Jihoon laughs, shoving Soonyoung off. "What a fucking race!"
Jihoon sees Chwe running to his crew as he launches into them, celebrating another win in what has to be the best season McLaren has had in years. Jihoon is happy for Vernon - happy for himself, jogging toward his crew as he and Soonyoung both celebrate with them, the sound of the crowd swelling even louder.
The podium ceremony is chaos, the fans so loud that the speakers become irrelevant. Champagne hits Jihoon in thick, foamy sprays as Vernon turns to shoot it right at his face, Jihoon choking on sweet fizz as he steps off to shake his bottle in retaliation. He laughs in delight as Soonyoung dumps half the bottle of champagne on Vernon's head in retaliation, screaming wildly like a kid.
A pressure releases in Jihoon's chest. Every missed point, ever bad turn of the car, every night spent staring at the ceiling of a hotel room - it all pours out of him as he yells, spraying the rest of his champagne in white arcs.
Jihoon is buzzing by the time the formalities end and he's jogging back to the paddock, heart hammering, blood buzzing. He waves to the crimson see of fans, holding a fist up in the air as he goes.
And then he sees you.
You're standing at the edge of the paddock, media pass flickering around your neck in the breeze. Your notebook is clutched to your chest like always, and Jihoon is surprised to see the smile on your face. For once, you look unguarded, and the small smile that used to light up dim hotel rooms at three in the morning cuts right fucking through him.
He doesn't think. He doesn't warn you. He just takes six long strides across the asphalt, cups your face in his hands, and he kisses you like he's been starving for it because he is. He pours every apology he never said out loud into the kiss, every regret from last season but especially Austin. Every follow race that felt empty without you comfort him after.
You freeze for half a heartbeat, your hands frozen near his hips like you don't know if you want to push him away or pull him closer. Jihoon's heart is hammering and he pulls back a fraction, lips still tasting like champagne and your lip balm - birthday cake, he thinks.
"You told me to stop fighting myself," he murmurs. "So I am. I'm not fighting the fact that I'm an idiot and an asshole or that I fucked up. I did. I'm sorry. I know I don't have to put you first all the time, but I can't make you a permanent second. I won't anymore. Even if I never make another podium again."
Your breath catches, eyes flaring with surprise. Your hands land on his hips, not pushing, but holding, your fingers curling into the sweat-dampened racing suit. Your eyes search his, wide and more vulnerable than they've been in months, looking for any hesitation that he doesn't mean it, any fault in his words.
Jihoon sees the indecision flicker through you. He knows you remember the sting of missed dinners, the lonely nights waiting for him, the way he'd chosen other things over you. But he sees the warmth there too, knowing that there is room for you, knowing that you trust him to be capable of doing both.
Then you're kissing him.
He grins into it, sighing as you press into him. Your kiss is softer than his, hands sliding up to his neck, fingers tangling in his damp hair to pull him closer until the champagne staining him is soaking through your clothes.
Love swells in his chest so much he thinks he might not be able to breathe. He crushes you to him, lost in the heat of your mouth and the sweetness of your birthday cake lip balm and the sweep of your tongue. He groans, a shiver rippling through him.
And then Soonyoung's wolf-whistle cuts through the haze and Jihoon breaks the kiss, glancing over. Soonyoung stands with his eyebrows raised, a swarm of mechanics around him, the girl that is Soonyoung's fake girlfriend standing next to the race engineer Soonyoung wants to be his real girlfriend, all of them watching.
Then they start cheering and you laugh covering your face with your hand as Jihoon cracks a smile, laughing as his team yells at him in Italian. He doesn't care, he just turns to you again, hand sliding to your waist as he keeps you close.
"I'm sorry."
"You're still an idiot. And we have talking to do."
"I know."
“And I’m still writing about Ferrari. Full season. That doesn’t change.”
“I know that too.”
You study him for several long seconds and he doesn’t look away. Then you lean up and kiss him again, short and sweet.
"You have press to do. Let's go."
Press is a breeze for once. Jihoon can hardly stop looking at you. For the first time in a long time, when you ask him questions, he trusts that they're not meant to hurt him. They never had been, but it's one thing to know something than it is to feel it. He answers them easily, a small smile on his face as he answers other questions.
Honestly, he barely hears them. His gaze goes back to you every time, watching the way you rip the edges of your notebook to keep your hands busy, watches the way you scribble things down on the corner of the paper. He wants nothing more than to finish this press conference and steal you away, to take you somewhere behind closed doors.
Jihoon is good at waiting. He waited most of his life to earn a seat in an F1 car, and waited again to get promoted to Ferrari. Now, he waits through the rest of a press conference, media responsibilities, a post-race strategy session, and some sponsorship related handshakes and greetings.
It's nothing compared to how many times he's left you waiting, he's sure. He intends to make up for it, spotting you near the coffee machine of hospitality, leaning against the counter with your head cocked. He doesn't say anything - doesn't have to. He nods toward the stairs and you follow, slipping behind him as he leads you toward the small, but clean room that belongs to him in the motorhome.
He doesn't want to wait anymore. Neither do you.
The door to the room clicks shut behind you. The space is small, filled by a single couch pressed against one wall, a coffee table, a mini fridge and two TV's directly across from the couch. The paddock hums faintly outside, but right now he's not worried about that. Right now he's turning to you, the post-race adrenaline humming in his veins.
Neither of you says a word a he closes the distance, hands finding your waist to pull you toward him. His mouth finds yours, desperate and hungry, all teeth and tongue, the past melting as soon as his tongue brushes against yours. He spins you toward the couch, careful as he cradles your face and walks you backward.
"Fuck I've missed this," he breathes against you. His fingers dig into your hips briefly as you tug at his team polo. Your hands peel it upward and off, fingers dancing along the taught muscle of his stomach, his heart hammering. "I've missed you."
"You never said so."
"I didn't think you wanted to hear me."
You press a palm to his jeans where he's already hard and straining. He makes a sound that's strained, lids fluttering as you drop to your knees and look up at him through your lashes. "I guess I didn't. I want to hear you now, though."
Jihoon's heart leaps as you tug the zipper of his jeans down. He doesn't dare move, watching with shaky breath as you hook your fingers into the waistband of his jeans and briefs and pull down just enough to free his aching cock. He shivers, the air cold, the tip of his cock flushed and hardening as you wrap your hand around the base, stroking gently.
"Oh fuck," he groans, tilting his head back, lashes fluttering.
You laugh. "Look at you."
Jihoon can't help it. He feels himself grow harder at just the touch of your hand, velvet around his shaft, stroking agonizingly slow in a way that makes his knees a little weak. He presses a hand against the wall, trying to keep himself steady when he feels the heat of your tongue slither up the underside of his cock.
A broken sound escapes him. His free hand threads in your hair, not pulling or pushing, but grounding himself, trying to gain some sort of semblance of control over himself. Your tongue is devilish, rolling around his swollen tip, and Jihoon swears he sees god.
"Fuck," he whispers.
"You're so fucking hard for me already," you tease.
He doesn't respond. He doesn't think he has the words. His hips twitch of their own accord when you take him into your mouth, slow and deliberate. He shivers, pressing his fist against the wall as he lets out an agonized sound. It feels so fucking good he can't think straight, and when you hollow your cheeks to suck him deeper, he thinks he's going to die.
"Shit," he swears. "Like that. Please. Fuck."
Your free hand grips what you can't swallow down, twisting as your spit drips down to ease the slide of your hand. Jihoon squeezes his eyes, trying not to come as you bob your head and suck him leisurely, humming lightly as your tongue scrapes the vein on the underside of his shaft.
The wet sounds of your mouth nearly break him. You take him deeper, throat relaxing as you swallow around him and his hips twitch. He grits his teeth, growling to stop himself from busting, feeling you gag around him and pull back a little.
"Sorry," he rasps. "You're gonna make me come if you do that again."
He glances down at you and thinks he's going to pass out. You're looking up at him with wide eyes, wet with want, mouth covering in spit and come, tongue darting out to wet your lips as you take a breath, hand sliding up and down his length.
"Come here," he growls, yanking you off the floor to crash your mouth into his.
The kiss is messy, spit and come mixed with the taste of you. He doesn't care. He'll take you anyway he can have you, his hands peeling your shirt away, your bra - anything that stops him from palming your warm skin.
Jihoon sinks to the couch and pulls you with him, your knees straddling his thighs. You're warm and soft in his hands, making him groan as you kiss him, fingers tangled in his hair, pussy pressed to his slick shaft. He grunts, fingers digging into your ass as he encourages you grind on him, the friction turning his stomach to static.
He slides a hand between your legs, fingers finding you slick and ready. He let's out a whimper as he circles your clit with feather-light touches that make you crumble, your head falling to his shoulder as your hips chase the friction of his fingers.
"So fucking wet, huh?" He asks, grinning as he kisses your neck. You nod, clinging to him like a life line. "Missed this pussy gripping my fingers. Can I stretch you out, baby?"
You whine and nod, rocking against him. He sucks greedily at the spot underneath your ear as he presses a finger in, the slide easy. You whine and a shiver ripples through you when his finger presses against your front wall, pressing against that spot he's learned over and over.
"Yeah?" He asks. "That the spot?"
"Please."
He doesn't make you wait. He presses another finger in, pumping slowly as you roll your hips to meet his fingers, pussy gripping him hard. He let's out a sound that sounds strangled as he fucks you with his fingers, grinning at the way you writhe for him, still sensitive just like he remembered.
Your mouths tangle again and Jihoon is spinning, his thoughts turning to a staticky mess as he strokes you, loving the way you drip into his hand, loving the way you whimper and can't focus on kissing him, your brows pinched tight, mouth open as you breath hard.
"Feels good," you whisper.
"Good. Come for me like this, baby. Let me hear you."
It doesn't take you long. His fingers are relentless and you shatter around him with a muffled cry in his neck, walls clenching around him. He works you through it, his heart hammering as he presses his mouth to your ear, tongue darting out to ease your lobe.
"That's it, just like that," he whispers, grinning when you nod, dazed.
Before you can catch your breath, you're lifting yourself and grabbing his cock, positioning him at your entrance. He barely registered you've pulled off his hand when you're sinking down on him, his brain whiting out as the heat of you wraps around him.
"Fuck," you swear. "You feel so fucking good."
Jihoon grips your hips, guiding your movements as you start to ride him, slow rolls turning into urgent bounces. His hands roam everywhere he can grab - your ass, your thighs, your tits - he can't keep his hands off of you, like if he lets go he might lose you again.
"Just like that," he groans, planting his feet on the ground to thrust up into you. "Fuck I missed this. Missed you so much."
You lean forward, foreheads pressing together, your breath fanning his lips as you quicken your pace. The couch leather creaks beneath you but he doesn't care, the heat of your skin sliding against his driving him insane, the smell of your skin and the sandalwood driving him to madness.
He wraps his arms around your waist, barring you to him as he fucks up into you hard, knocking you into his chest, your hands sliding against his sweaty shoulders. You make a loud sound and he lets you, uncaring who hears.
"Right there," you gasp. "Please don't stop, fucking asshole - oh my god."
"Yeah?" He grits. "I'm an asshole?"
"Yes!"
He laughs and shifts, lifting you off him. Your surprise is evident but he smiles and turns you around. "Ass up."
You comply, knees on the couch, hands braced on the cushions as he kneels behind you. You look over your shoulder, smirking as he presses the crown of his cock against your entrance.
"Still an ass man?"
He thrusts in hard and your smugness is knocked right out of you as his hands squeeze the globes of your ass. "Yes. Especially for this ass in particular."
Your head drops down as he thrusts in slow, grinding his hips each time he slides in fully. He presses forward, leaning over you to keep his chest pressed to your back, craving the nearness. You lift your head and lean into him, eager to press back as he fucks into you hard, hands grabbing at your hips.
When you beg him to go harder, he does, driving into you as one hand reaches around to toy with your clit, deft fingers circling as you turn into a mess underneath him. He loves the effect he has on you, loves to watch the ice between you all season melt, loves that he can have you like this.
"Come with me," he murmurs, breath shaky. "Please baby."
You nod, the two of you sliding together until you clench around him, squeezing him tight until he spills. Your name is broken on his mouth, his lips pressed to your shoulder, tasting the sweat on your skin. Your hand is reaching back, digging into his wrist, nails leaving crescent moons as you shake underneath him, coming undone.
Carefully, the two of you collapse together, both on your side. His back is against the couch, one arm slung around your waist to keep you from sliding off the couch, the other under your head. The couch barely fits the two of you - made for relaxing, not desperate sex - but neither of you moves to get up.
Jihoon noses the curve of your neck, still damp with sweat, lips brushing the tender spot beneath your ear. He kisses you lazily and you press into him, making him smile into your warm skin.
"Still alive?" He asks, voice rough.
"Barely. You?"
"Dead. I think you killed me." His teeth graze your earlobe playfully. "Worth it."
"Hmm."
He tightens his hold around you, desperate to keep you closer than you've been in months. "I meant what I said earlier. I won't be perfect, but I'll never put you as a permanent second again."
You turn your head just enough to catch the corner of his eye. You examine him before you nod and say, "That's all I've ever asked for."
“I’ll set reminders to not be a dick to my girlfriend. I'll make it a recurring alarm.”
"Girlfriend? Haven't heard that in a while."
He presses a kiss behind your ear, lingering. "Get used to it. I don't make the same mistake twice."
You twist in his arms until you’re facing him, noses almost touching. Even this close, he can't help but think you're the most beautiful woman on the planet. He grins, watching you through his lashes as you reach up to brush strands of sweaty hair from his face.
"You're sticky from champagne," you note.
"You're sticky from cum."
"Ji!"
He laughs deeply for the first time in forever, squeezing you close. You settle against him, the room falling quiet for a bit with the low hum of the air conditioning and the murmur of post-race activity beyond the door. Jihoon almost drifts to sleep when he hears a sound drifting through the door, muffled at first. When it gets louder, he cracks an eye open, recognizing the unmistakable voice of Soonyoung belting at top volume somewhere in the motorhome.
"You're a heartbreaker! Dream maker! Love taker don't you mess around with me!" Soonyoung shouts, the faint sound of the song on speakers somewhere muted somewhere beyond his yelling.
Jihoon’s entire body goes rigid behind you. Then you start laughing, slapping a hand over your mouth to muffle your voice as you lose it. The tension bleeds out of him as Soonyoung continues into the second verse, his voice moving around the building, a traveling circus.
"Of course he's singing that fucking song," Jihoon groans."
“Heartbreaker! Dream maker! Every time I think of you-"
You're laughing so hard you're nearly doubled over in his arms, tears pricking the corners of your eyes. Jihoon groans as you clutch your stomach, Soonyoung's voice cracking beyond the door.
"I hate him," Jihoon sighs.
"I actually think he's really good for you. He looks up to you, you know?"
"I guess."
"Come on," you tease, trying to free yourself from his arms. "Let's join."
"No!"
"Team bonding."
"I bonded when he kissed my forehead already."
"Jihoon."
He sighs and lets you stand, staring at the ceiling. "Fine."
Looking up at you, Jihoon can't help but smile, his entire world finally settling, the pieces falling back into place where they belong. All he had to do was stop trying to control it and let it happen. He watches you get dressed, entranced with the way you move, the way you smile at him.
Jihoon decides he doesn't hate Pat Benatar so much anymore.
Man I loved this. And now I need to listen to Pat Benatar 😂. Was worth the wait (and despite it not being beta’d there were only a few errors and they’re easy to overlook).
Also still look at me knowing jack shit about F1 and eating these meals up
ROOM 217.
part of the puttin' on the ritz collaboration with @studiosvt
pairing: lee jihoon x f!reader
genre: smut, hotel owner/speakeasy manager x server
summary: fresh starts are hard, but running away from your mafia husband is even harder. after escaping the protection of the lucky ace gang and fleeing to new york city, you find lee jihoon, a reserved yet enigmatic hotel owner. the hotel ruby conceals a popular speakeasy, the velvet ruby, within its walls. it takes some convincing, but jihoon eventually offers you a job, a chance at stability and anonymity. but every swanky hotel has its secrets. when you stumble upon the locked door to room 217, nothing could prepare you for what’s waiting on the other side.
warnings: dom!woozi, power imbalance, a lot of obsession, masturbation, oral (f!receiving), unprotected sex, slightly inexperienced reader, mentions of family death, reader's husband is in a gang, 1920s gang-related violence, use of pet names (angel), woozi is deeply infatuated with reader but it borders onto an insane level = light stalking, also insane rational on the readers part for woozi's obsession (aka these two are freaks). nsfw (minors / ageless blogs dni).
word count: 20.9k
note: this fic is a part of the puttin' on the ritz collab hosted by @studiosvt. the team at @studiosvt were so cool to let me participate again and I had a lot of fun writing freaky hotel owner jioon 😈 this is the second time now I've done a collab with them and I've made the member I got an obsessive freak, not sure if that says something about me but . anywho! make sure you check out the other stories in this collab 💘 (taglist posted at the bottom.)
in rotation: just me and you, the dreamliners / off to the races, lana del rey / love me or leave me, ruth etting / cherry, lana del rey / a little death, the neighbourhood / ruby, woozi
Inheriting the Hotel Ruby from his great grandfather had started out honest. A ritzy, well-known hotel that was in dire need of a upgrade was exactly what Jihoon wanted to get his life back on track. Being born into the Lucky Ace gang hadn’t been easy, but escaping it at the mere age of 21 was a feat in itself. Jihoon had experienced it all: violence, homelessness, grief, until finally coming into money. Why his great grandfather had deemed him worthy enough to include in his will – he had no idea. But he wasn’t about to look a gift horse in the mouth.
He was so sure he was going to make all the money back that was used for renovations, but when the hotel opened around the time of the stock market’s rapid expansion, no one was traveling. No one was wasting their money for flings in a swanky, New York City hotel. Instead, they were pouring their cash into the stock market and hoping for monetary gain. He had a full staff at the hotel, eager for pay, families to feed. He needed the money. In a time of failing businesses and social collapse, Jihoon had nowhere to turn.
This was where the Velvet Ruby came in.
Nestled in a hidden part of the hotel lobby, behind a password protected door, was a speakeasy. Jihoon pulled together the last of his savings, praying for a win, to decorate the old backroom of the hotel into the most swell joint he had ever seen. He had gotten lucky with the location: a speakeasy in an infamous hotel, right in Manhattan, where people were desperate for alcohol … It wasn’t long before the Velvet Ruby was the most popular juice joint for New York’s elite.
Jihoon didn’t want to reach out to old friends, but the only way to smuggle alcohol in was through bootleggers. He typically relied on smugglers from Canada to bring in his moonshine and other popular liquor from distilleries. Using people connected to the Lucky Aces and other gangs, Jihoon created a network of bootleggers so that he never, not once, ran out of alcohol to sell.
With his bartender and partner in crime, Kwon Soonyoung, they ran the Velvet Ruby like the military. Every employee at the hotel was paid fairly, and they even had enough to hire the finest entertainment and several servers that were looking to make a buck. Soonyoung was one of the best cocktail mixers around, and if you were lucky enough, sometimes he got up on the mic to belt out a tune.
The hotel business was steady, but the speakeasy earnings were pulling them through a harsh autumn. Even through the success, Jihoon still had bad days. Days when the music got too loud or the loneliness of leaving his family crept up on him. Sometimes the only warmth he could feel was when he stood outside in the cold rain, inhaling smoke from the cigarette in his gloved fingers, as he watched the light above his hotel flicker.
But if days like this didn’t come up, he probably wouldn’t have met you.
You were standing in the rain, soaked to the bone, when your eyes met his outside the Hotel Ruby. Hair wet and clutching what looked like a torn suitcase, Jihoon stubbed out his cigarette and opened the door for you without a word. You brushed past him, but he could feel you shivering. Water dripped from your coat and onto the plush red carpet, but Jihoon had never been the type to chastise a woman for anything. Not even for ruining his carpet.
He slipped behind the front desk at the lobby because Wonwoo had probably fallen asleep on break. Without looking up from the guest book, he asked, “Looking for a room?”
“Actually, a job.”
Jihoon’s head lifted. The night had shrouded most of your face outside, but now that he was looking at you under the warm lights of the lobby, his body froze. Despite your wet hair clinging to your face, there was a natural beauty about you. Something to be admired. The kind of face that didn’t belong in a seedy city, but somewhere gentle, warm. Your face stood out in a place like New York, where crime and gambling ran rampant.
You weren’t from here.
“We don’t have any positions open at the hotel,” he replied.
“I – I’m n-not –” You stuttered, teeth chattering. The handle of your suitcase shook in your lithe fingers. Voice lowering, you continued, “I’m not asking for a job at the hotel.”
It clicked then, and his brow raised. How did someone like you find out about the speakeasy? He couldn’t dwell on it, not when you had pertinent information. With a cock of his head, he led you into the manager’s office behind the front desk, locked with a golden key. Wonwoo was slumped in a cushioned chair by the door, waking up when the edge hit his foot. Jihoon side-eyed him, and he skedaddled before he could be reprimanded.
Moving the stack of bills to the floor, Jihoon sat down behind the desk and gestured for you to take the seat in front of him. You settled into the chair warily, still shivering, and just the sight of a pretty thing like you suffering made him pause. He stood and rounded the desk, reaching a hand out. You looked up at him with confusion. “Let me help,” he muttered. “Take your jacket off. It’s soaked.”
“O-Oh,” you nodded, sliding the wet material off and handing it over.
Jihoon averted his gaze when he realized your were wearing a white blouse underneath, the line of your undergarments clearly visible beneath the soggy fabric. Clearing his throat, he hung up your jacket before draping an old trench coat over your shoulders that he kept in the closet. You pursed your lips, and he was pretty sure he heard something that resembled, Thank you, sir.
Plopping back down in his chair, the first thing he said was, “You’re not from around here.”
Your mouth opened, but his words caught you off guard. After a beat, you replied, “No. I’m from up north. I took a bus to the city.”
“How did you find out about the Velvet Ruby?”
He was so blunt, his tone like a dagger. You almost didn’t expect it from someone like him. He was broad-shouldered, with dark eyes that spoke to what little sleep he got and slicked-back hair. Two inches shorter than you and smelling like a combination of cigars and expensive cologne, but his words cut sharper than a blade. You hugged the trench coat more on your shoulders.
“It’s because – I’m not –” You exhaled heavily. Your first instinct was to lie – always lie. It had become a habit after you married Han. Rubbing underneath your nose, you decided to be truthful: “I found out because I know the right people. I’m running away from my ex-husband.”
His brow shot up. “Divorced?”
“I don’t have the money to even get divorced. My family is flat. I married up, until I realized …” You smoothed a hand over your tired eyes.
He licked his lips, realizing how much your expression had soured. His back straightened in the chair and he laced his fingers together on the desk. “Listen, you don’t have to tell me, angel.”
The nickname made your gaze flicker to his, and you both let it hang in the air for a moment. The office was so quiet that you could probably hear a pin drop. So you cleared your throat. “No,” you muttered, “I probably should.”
He watched your chin fall into your palm, your eyes haunted and somewhere else. Whatever you had experienced left an imprint on you, a bruise that wouldn’t heal. A wave of protectiveness washed over him and he had no clue why. He didn’t know you, didn’t know what you’d been through, but for some reason, he felt the need to crush whoever made you this way.
“Everything okay?” He asked over a long beat of silence.
“I’m trying to fight the urge to lie to you.”
“Oh.”
You finally sat back up, pushing strands of wet hair behind your ear. Your lobe was pointed, something so characteristically you. “My husband’s friend is one of your bootleggers. He sources your gin and rum from Canada. Both him and Han are part of the Lucky Ace gang.”
It dawned on him then – he forgot some of the Lucky Aces reached as far as the north east. They were one of the most spread-out gangs on the eastern part of the U.S., but with the likes of the Chicago Outfit maintaining superiority amongst the crime syndicate, it was hard to believe they were still out there, past the boundary of New York State.
Suddenly, Jihoon felt his breath still. “Han,” he repeated, the name tasting burnt on his tongue. “As in Cheon Han?”
You swallowed, mouth refusing to open.
“Your husband is one of the leaders of Lucky Ace,” he said, though he was sure you knew that from the look on your face. “I grew up with him, until he moved … North.” It was all clicking in his head then: the day they met in elementary school; Jihoon’s 18th birthday when Han revealed he was moving in with his uncle; the night he got the news from his father that “his old friend” had went up in the ranks of Lucky Ace up North, surpassing folks older than him.
“Oh, my god.” He moved his chair back, surprised when it hit the wall. “I can’t hire you. I can’t house you. That’s asking for a death wish.”
“Only if he finds out,” you were quick to say. “I’m not asking for shelter. I got an apartment for myself outside Manhattan. I just need a job to pay for it.”
Jihoon shook his head. “He’ll kill me.”
“Let’s be honest, he never does the killing. One of his torpedos will do it for him.”
He paused, because he knew you were right, and it wasn’t exactly helping your case. You placed a hand on the desk, as if to reach out to him, but your fingers were trembling so much. The tips were red, so warm compared to the rest of your body. When he met your eyes again, they were pleading. “Please,” you said, “I wouldn’t ask for help if I wasn’t desperate. I’m good with customers. I can … I can be a server. I have good balance –”
“All my servers are male. I only hire female dancers.”
Your face fell. “I’m not a dancer. But I can … please. I know you don’t know me, but I’m asking you to take a chance.”
Jihoon stood, his mind swirling with possibilities. He paced in front of the door and ran a hand through his hair. She’s Han’s wife. They’re not even divorced. She’s running away from him. Fucking Christ, if he finds her here, he’s going to kill me –
A hand latched around his wrist. He turned, meeting your eyes.
“He won’t find me,” you promised. “He’s too busy with his deals to ever come home and I planted a seed within his friend group that I was going even further south to see distant relatives. He would never guess I’d be in New York. And if he does …” You looked down, realizing you were still gripping him. His skin was pale and cold, but not as icy as yours. Sucking in a breath, you pulled your hand away. “I’ll make sure I suffer the consequences. Not you. I swear."
It was a gamble. You were a gamble. And he quit betting a long time ago, after a risky night at a underground casino with Soonyoung on his 29th birthday. Jihoon had never been entirely sympathetic, had never let himself be swayed by anybody, and yet … The warmth in your eyes left him stunned. Frightened. Like he could feel the whole world turning on its axis, and there was nothing he could do about it.
He sighed, and then rubbed at his eyes. “The men who come into the joint aren’t kind.”
“I’ve survived my fair share of unkind men.”
“You’d be the only female server. I won’t go easy on you just because you’re a woman.”
“That’s okay. Nothing has ever been easy for me.” You adjusted the coat on your shoulders. “Are you offering me the job?”
He closed his eyes, wondering if he should back out now, but he was already nodding, holding out his hand for you to shake. “Name’s Lee Jihoon. I’ll be your boss.”
“Jihoon,” you repeated, lips pulling into a wide grin. You told him your name, but he decided then that the only name he wanted to call you was angel.
You supposed it didn’t exactly matter what you wore to your first shift, but you planned on being more put together than yesterday. A fresh shower in your new apartment and a couple rollers later, you looked more spiffy than the women having brunch at the Ritz. Your hair was perfectly curled, red smeared onto your lips in a perfect cupid’s bow, and you wore a simple, button-down plum dress. One that you made sure to iron before leaving the apartment.
Jihoon asked you to be on the premises an hour before the speakeasy opened, which was usually around 9 to 10 PM. Naturally, you arrived at 8:45, having just enough time for a cigarette with your hood up. You were on guard these days, never taking a chance to reveal more than half of your face, especially when indulging in your worst habit. After taking one last inhale, you crushed the death stick with the heel of your flat and walked inside the hotel.
You expected to see Jihoon there – behind the front desk, talking to a bellhop, anywhere – but the lobby was empty besides Wonwoo with the guest book. He waved awkwardly to you, looking like a beanstalk in his uniform that hardly fit his long legs. You cowered in on yourself, tucking your hands into your jacket, as you prepared for someone from your past to jump out. Wonwoo was probably looking at you like you lost your marbles.
“Hey, big shot!”
You turned at the loud voice, seeing the back door slam open behind Wonwoo, and the taller male almost jumped out of his skin. Another male with curled dark hair stepped out, just a few inches under Wonwoo, clapping his hands in your direction. He wore a black dress shirt and tie, accompanied by a pair of baggy slacks with the ends tucked into tall, tiger-print socks and leather shoes.
He looked insane, and yet … surprisingly on trend.
When you were within feet of him, he pulled you in by your hand, his grip stronger than you assumed. “Name’s Soonyoung. You’re the new one Jihoon let in, yes?” You nodded, and with your hand still in his, he pressed a kiss to your knuckles. His smile was mischievous, but weirdly contagious. “Look at you all dolled up for the first night. As lovely as …” He fingered the collar of your dress and attempted not to grimace. “… This is, you do have a uniform. Which I adapted from what the men wear.”
Wonwoo tossed him a pair of clothes from one of the desk compartments and Soonyoung caught it without missing a beat. He placed the uniform into your arms and spun you around, pointing to the public restrooms. “Change please,” he instructed, although it was more like a demand when he pushed you forward in that direction.
The uniform was tighter than you assumed, but that was a given when you didn’t get anyone your measurements. It still fit, the flared black skirt hugging your waist just right. Soonyoung paired it with a white, collared blouse and an apron that secured around your middle. You hadn’t realized he’d given you an old pair of kitten heels, the leather worn-out at the toe. After slipping on some sheer black tights, you stuck your feet in the shoes and prayed you’d get used to them. You’d never been a pro with heels.
Walking out, Soongyoung sent you smirk of approval before gesturing that you follow him. Wonwoo gave you one last nervous wave, all lanky and long-limbed, before you quickly trailed behind your new tiger-socked friend. He led you down the corridor to the left of the hotel’s entrance, and you noticed the lights getting dimmer the further you got from the lobby. You held your old clothes close to your chest, wary. When you reached the end of the hall, Soonyoung checked you were still behind him and presented the door in front of you both. It was tall and made of iron, with a window slot in the middle that was currently closed. Soonyoung knocked on the door in a specific pattern – two hard knocks, pause, one soft knock, three more hard knocks, slam your palm on the surface – and the window slot opened, revealing a pair of dark eyes.
A whiney voice emerged. “You wanna do that password again for me?”
“Oh, just open the door, Seungcheol!”
The bouncer chuckled, slamming the window shut before tearing the heavy door open. Seungcheol gave you a look as you strode past him, almost tripping in your heels when he winked. Soonyoung looked over his shoulder, glaring at the bouncer, before looping his arm through yours. “Don’t mind him. He’s an ass, but overly friendly. Has a wife at home,” your new friend explained.
Showing you the coat closet, he had you secure your clothes in your own locker before meeting him back out on the speakeasy floor. The joint was small, but clearly prestigious. The lights above where faint and colored in warm tones like yellow and red. Each circular table around the room fit at least four people, decorated with a red velvet tablecloth and a singular rose in the middle. A stage was set up at the front for live entertainment, and you saw a few dancers practicing their routine for tonight. The bar looked new, made out of dark maple and stocked full with every liquor imaginable. This place in fact was the real deal.
Soonyoung raised his arms. “Welcome to the Velvet Ruby.”
“It’s …” You crossed your arms over your chest, eyes scanning the room. “Very dark.”
“Yeah, tell me about it,” he gabbed, arm laced through yours again as you both flitted about the rooms. “Depending on the crowd, we won’t give you more than three tables. Just because it’s a small amount, doesn’t mean your attention shouldn’t constantly be on them. This is a business and we’re selling liquor. If someone isn’t being bum rushed out of here because their too canned to walk, I’m not doing my job right. You’ll typically find me mixing behind the bar with Seokmin, but don’t be mistaken. It is my bar.”
You nodded. “Noted.”
“Rules of the house,” Soonyoung continued, rounding the corner as they reached the seats at the bar. He held up three fingers. “No violence with patrons. No touching from patrons. And absolutely no questions about past lives.”
You began to nod in agreement when the sound of two bodies hitting each other emanated behind them. Your head spun out of instinct, seeing two of your fellow servers – one, a shorter man with reddish-brown hair and an otter-like smile; the other, a big six with hulking shoulders, strong muscles, and perfect features like wavy, black hair and honeyed skin. They greeted each other loudly, their raised voices making you flinch instantly.
Just a sound could take you back to Han. To the nights you heard him getting scrappy with one of his torpedos, right behind the door of your shared bedroom. To the days he yelled at his right-hand man as you prepared coffee in the kitchen, and then his hand gripping your apron as if to anchor himself to you before he clocked his friend in the kisser.
Han had never been violent with you. Never touched a hair on your head. But to be married to a gangster was to see a threat at every turn. How long would it be until one of his enemies got the upper hand?
“You got the heebie-jeebies or something?” Soonyoung asked, and you whipped your head back to him. But he noticed the look in your eyes, how scattered you were, and with a soft smile, he placed a reassuring hand on your shoulder. “It’s okay. You’re safe here. I’ll tell Chan and Mingyu to pipe down.”
You schooled your expression – one of the many skills Han had taught you once he revealed his true identity. Your shoulders squared and you cleared your throat. “I know. I’m just … getting used to being the only female server.”
He laughed. “Yeah, Jihoon kind of set you up for failure with that one. Especially in this city.”
You raised a brow.
“Not that I think you’re going to fail. I’m sure you’re swell. It’s just …” He closed his mouth, realizing that he was going on a tangent. “I should let Jeonghan take over.”
Soonyoung yanked over another tall male with dark hair that reached his shoulders, almost making him drop all the glasses on his tray onto the floor. Jeonghan shook his head at the bartender before introducing himself to you. His slender build was similar to Wonwoo’s, but he wasn’t as broad.
Jeonghan brought you over to one of the tables to explain the basics of serving: how to write out your orders, address customers, and when to exactly cut them off. “The hardest part of being a server isn’t even about interaction,” he explained, and then lifted his full tray of empty glasses on his shoulder. “It’s about learning how to balance. Never, ever, break a glass.”
You nodded, jotting down notes in your server book. Guests were beginning to pour in, but Mingyu and Chan took the lead while Jeonghan showed you the ropes. Businessmen strolled through with women that probably weren’t their wives. Even a few flappers made their presence known, requesting Mingyu as their server specifically for one of the ladies in the friend group. You tried to focus over the noise and be present with Jeonghan, but your eyes couldn’t help but drift around the room, until they finally landed at the corner of the bar.
Jihoon leaned against the edge, a lit cigar between his teeth as he spoke to Soonyoung. And it seemed his eyes were drawn to you too, because only a few seconds later, you were the only thing he could focus on.
Sitting on the cold wooden floor of your apartment, back pressed against the side of the twin-sized bed, you dug out a small box from underneath the frame. One of the little things you made sure to pack before leaving, the gift box was old and torn, the vintage paper from when your mom was a child. You placed it in front of your crossed legs, your work heels discarded just a few feet away. The time was nearing 3 AM and you’d just gotten back from the Velvet Ruby, but your hands were itching for this, for the memories.
Lifting the cover off, you smiled at the pile of rectangular photos from years past. You picked up the first one off the top: an overexposed shot of you and your mother from when you were a child. It was the time you were sick, so she dressed you up in the prettiest clothes and had a photoshoot with you, as if you were her little doll. Your big grin, one tooth missing in the front, a red nose from sniffling. It was a good memory – a really, really good memory.
Your hands pilfered through the family photos: the one of you and your grandparents, your first day working for your parents’ laundromat, your 16th birthday party. Each a crucial part of your childhood. Setting the plethora of memories to the side, you picked up a photo that felt like a lifetime ago: you, leaning against a telephone pole outside, wearing your mother’s old wedding dress that came to your ankles because you were much taller than her. The smile on your face was different, and when you flipped to the next shot, you knew why. It was the day you and Han got married at the courthouse. His hands were in yours, his eyes on you, while you were looking at your father’s camera. The court clerk was in the middle of almost dropping his booklet when the image was captured. You couldn’t help but laugh to yourself. This was when things were good, when Han was just a customer you met at the laundromat.
You flicked through the photos, noticing the way your eyes changed in each one. As if your fear of the unknown and the weight of being your husband’s moll had made you lose your sparkle. Even in the shot from your first anniversary – which you had taken of both of you, sitting on the beach in some warmer state, albeit on a day where you were so happy – there was something in your smile. The first inklings of uncertainty. Because even on this day – one of your favorite days with him – he had gotten a letter with a threat sent to their hotel room near the beach. And it had become clear then that you might have fallen in love with one of the most dangerous men.
One of the last shots at the bottom was a picture he asked your father to take after the wedding. You both stood in the middle of the courthouse, him holding your wrist as you presented your hand out, the ring on your finger glinting in the lens. Standing on both sides of you were men that you deemed as his friends at the time, unaware that they were his associates in the Lucky Ace gang. Now that the dust had settled, you wondered if you had just been blind, because you most certainly remembered one of them having a shiv in his suit to defend Han at a moment’s notice.
But you didn’t think anything of it. You didn’t need to. Because he hadn’t been truthful with you in the first place.
With a heavy exhale, you buried all the photos of Han to the bottom of the box. You couldn’t dwell on the past or else you’d be filled with dread. Reaching into your apron, you pulled out a new addition for your collection: a photo Jihoon had requested to be taken of him all his staff at the Velvet Ruby. This photo spoke of new beginnings, one where you’d stop being afraid of what would happen next. Because you were protected here; everyone promised you that.
In the photo, Soonyoung was standing to Jihoon’s left, one arm around him while holding up his other hand, curled like a cat’s paw. Beside him was Chan and Mingyu, and then Jeonghan with Seungcheol on the corner. On the other side were a few servers you had been introduced to that day – Vernon and Minghao – both sporting the same unamused expression, with the other bartender, Seokmin. You were standing to the right of Jihoon, lips pulled into a soft smile while his arm slipped around your waist, yet hovering. Your heels made you feel like a tower next to him, but he was still the most important, confident man in the room.
When he had given you the photo a few days later, you assumed it was because this was one of the damaged copies. The brightness of the image, the way Mingyu was mid-talking to Chan. But still, you couldn’t help to ask, “Why are you giving me this?”
“I like having pictures. They’re a good memento.” He tapped his finger against the flimsy paper before meeting your gaze. “And I want you to have a good memory. To show you that there will always be a place where you will be safe.”
It took a couple weeks to get into the swing of things, but it felt like you had finally established yourself in a new place. And you did it on your own. You didn’t flinch anymore at sudden footsteps and raised voices, although you did have to tell Mingyu to shut it every once in a while. You slowly got the hang of serving and attending to wealthy patrons, even picked up a few regulars that came by at least once a week. Much to your excitement, they were mostly women – a group of flappers looking to gossip about their dates or dance to whatever live band Jihoon hired that night.
As it turned out, working in such an energetic place was great exposure therapy.
Jihoon checked in on you regularly: before close, when you hung out by yourself at the bar. He’d meet you outside when you had a cigarette on your break. He asked you questions no one else did: Where do you see yourself in 10 years? Is everyone treating you well? Are you happy? Sometimes, he’d walk with you to the bus station, wait beside you until it came, and when you asked him why, he’d be so nonchalant.
“This is on my way home anyway,” he’d say.
And you’d tilt your head. “The bus station?”
“Yes, I live … just over yonder,” he explained with an awkward wave of his hand. “I should get going.”
Your apartment could be scary at times, especially for a woman living on your own. Sometimes you’d wake up in the middle of the day – since you worked long into the early morning hours – hearing your neighbors argue over the price of milk. Insistent door knocking startled you before it became clear that no one was at your door at all; they were downstairs. Every loud noise outside your window sounded like a gunshot at first, until you realized that it wasn’t. It was just the kids on the sidewalk playing with wooden blocks.
But you found solace at the Velvet Ruby – in a routine, in seeing your coworkers. Your friends. They were kind and made you laugh, the happiness returning to your eyes again. With them, you were safe.
Jihoon made you feel safe.
And then, December 1st came.
Soonyoung was keeping you at the bar as he slowly made two Gin Rickeys for one of your tables. The drink was simple – club soda, lime juice, and of course, gin – but he had a better time holding you hostage there with a story from last night, which he told rather exuberantly. “And there I was, wearing my favorite socks – you know, the ones with the tiger pattern?” He asked, giving you no time to nod before he was continuing. “I was cleaning up the bar when Laurie – you know her? One of the hoofers Jihoon hired to come dance every week? Dark hair, big brown eyes. Anyway, she comes up to me –”
You watched him gradually poor the lime juice into both glasses before looking over your shoulder to see your patrons bored of their minds. Not even the pianist on stage could keep their attention.
“– And she wants to see me past work hours. Complimented my socks and everything. Didn’t realize someone had a crush. Isn’t that just the bee’s knees?” He slapped the top of your hand, making you swing back to him. “Are you even listening?”
You blinked. “Oh, um – Laurie’s stuck on you. Anything else?”
Soonyoung glared at you and poured a shot of gin into each glass. “Maybe I should ask her on a date next time I see her. What do you think?”
“Well, do you like her?” Your eyes slid to the right, where Jihoon stood in the corner of the joint. He put a cigar to his lips while Seungcheol whispered something in his ear, and then his gaze was on yours, making the hairs on your arm stand up. For what reason – you had no idea. Yet.
“She’s pretty.”
You flickered back to Soonyoung. “Then you should go on a date with her.” Your hands wrapped around the two Gin Rickeys. “If you’ll excuse me, my table is about to fall asleep if I don’t get these to them.”
You turned, foot coming out to step forward, when two people breezed past you and you almost forgot to breathe. It was a man with a woman on his arm, and his face … it was something out of a nightmare, out of one of the pictures you had looked at weeks ago. But it couldn’t be him. Minho never let his hair grow that long, and he swore he’d never leave Han’s side, not even for a vacation. It wasn’t possible. It couldn’t be possible.
Minho was one of your husband’s enforcers in Lucky Ace, his right-hand man for all problems. A shield, but also a brother to him if he needed it. Which meant he was a brother to you too – however, you never let him get close enough. You kept Minho at an arm’s length, a hard task given the fact that he was almost always with your husband. Except for right now. If that was him.
Most likely, it wasn’t. But what if it was?
This had to be your anxiety talking and you weren’t going to let it win today. Not after all the progress you made. You avoided the table he sat and thanked your lucky stars that you didn’t have to be their server. Pulling Mingyu away from one of his regulars – a blonde flapper named Kallie, who skirted around the rule of not touching the wait staff with lingering caresses and eyes that spoke trouble – you informed him to not let you near that table under any circumstances. Typically, Mingyu would crack at joke in this moment, but when he saw the serious look in your eyes, he knew this was important.
Keeping your face turned away from his table was harder than you assumed, but when it was finally nearing closing and you were getting back your last check of the night, you thought maybe you survived. Maybe you could sneak a peak now to see if it really was Minho. You just had to swing by the bar and drop off this money –
A warm palm latched around your arm.
Eyes wide, you turned, seeing Minho so plastered that his Old Fashioned was sloshing over the sides of the glass in his hand. You were petrified, body going ice cold. Because it was him – it was fucking Minho. In the flesh. Right before your eyes. His hand feeling like an iron brand on your bicep, as if he could burn through your blouse.
What was he doing here? How did he find you? Did Han set him up to this –
“H-Hey,” he slurred, drool trickling from the corner of his mouth. The woman beside him was tugging on his arm and begging to leave. “Don’t I know … know you from sssssomewhere?”
“I – I –” The words were clogging in your throat. You tried to tug your arm free, but he wouldn’t let go. Oh, my god – he wasn’t going to let go. He was going to take you back to Han and the woman with him was just a ploy and – fuckfuckfuck –
“No touching my servers.”
Your arm was yanked free by a strong arm suddenly appearing on your left. Stumbling back, you caught yourself on the edge of a table as you recognized the back of Jihoon’s head. He was smacking away Minho’s hand, roughly grabbing him by the collar before he could even look in your direction again. Soonyoung was at your side instantly, wrapping an arm around your shoulders and shielding you from the scene.
You heard the scuffle behind you, and you turned your head just enough to see Jihoon bum rushing Minho out of the speakeasy with Seungcheol on his right. They were both yanking on Minho’s flailing arms, ignoring his drunken shouting, while the woman on his arm sprinted after them.
The Velvet Ruby shut its doors for the night and instead of cleaning, Soonyoung insisted that you take a breather. You found his small pantry nestled behind the bar, the entry marked off by just a velvet curtain. This was where he stored all the extra liquor, where bootleggers met Jihoon with their latest shipments. You sat on the steel table by the wall, your legs dangling off the edge, and you took a few deep breaths. Realizing your pantyhose had a few tears in them, you sighed. Sleep was already creeping up on you, but there was still so much left to do. You should offer to mop the floors, clean up behind the stage, and yet …
The curtain swung open, and Jihoon closed it quickly behind him. “Are you doing okay?” He asked while striding up. His tone was detached, but it was his words that spoke to how much he cared.
You didn’t answer, only nodded your head.
“Are you fighting the urge to lie to me again?”
You blinked a few times, his words making a tremor run through you. “I guess I was. Unintentionally, at least.” You looked back down at your legs swinging and gripped the edge of the table. Anywhere but his eyes. Sometimes you wondered if he could see right through you.
A moment of silence passed. Jihoon clicked his tongue. “So did you … know those two people?”
He was trying to pry you open, read through you like the Sunday paper. But you couldn’t let him. The less people who got in your shit, the better. It was for his own good. He was the one who almost didn’t hire you because he was scared of Han in the first place.
“You have to let me in at some point,” he whispered, softer this time. Intimacy laced in his tone and invited you in. He then snickered under his breath. “You got me all balled up over this. I probably just threw out someone who gave me good business –”
“He knows Han,” you confessed. “I don’t know who the woman was.”
Jihoon stuck his hands in the front pockets of his pants. “I see.”
You chewed on your bottom lip. Was the tear in your tights getting bigger or were you finally seeing things? “I didn’t think it was him at first, but … he saw me. What if he goes back and tells Han? What if –”
“He was too tanked to see, and he won’t remember anything now either.”
Slowly, you lifted your head to meet his gaze. His eyes were so dark that you swore you could drown in them. “What does that mean?”
“Don’t worry about it, angel.” He loosened his tie and rolled up the sleeves of his black dress shirt. Your stare drifted to his forearms, admiring the veins that led up to his knuckles, which you realized were now … red, bruised. Both of his hands were. “Do you trust me?”
His words rang through you, causing your gaze to flicker up to his again. After a moment, you nodded. You wouldn’t be here if you didn’t.
He stepped closer, the fabric of his expensive pants rubbing against your ruined pantyhose. “I think its best if we establish a plan. If someone asks for you, how should I respond?”
Your hands started to shake, knuckles turning white as you clutched the edge of the table. Looking to your feet, you realized how little you thought this through. Your plan had cracks. You hoped it wouldn’t get to a point where you had to worry about this happening. “I … I don’t know. Say you don’t know me. Say …”
He placed a reassuring hand on top of yours. Your eyes slowly slid to the right, realizing that his hands were bigger than you assumed, prominent veins and scars etched into his skin. His palm was warm, and one of your fingers couldn’t help but twitch.
He squeezed your hand. You squeezed back.
“A cup of Joe or tea?”
Your head swung up. He was that much closer, his hand not leaving yours. Cocking your head to the side, you answered, “Tea. Why?”
A smile flashed on his plump lips. “I figured that was easier than the hard stuff. Morning person or night owl?”
“I used to be a morning person.” Your lips pursed as his gaze burned into yours. “But these days, I think I prefer the night.”
You noticed the way he swallowed, and for a moment, you thought he shivered. But he let go of your hand before you could feel it.
“Are you comfortable here?” His voice was so smooth, like dark chocolate melting in your mouth. After a beat, he added, “With me?”
Your teeth sunk into your bottom lip for a moment, and you notice Jihoon’s eyes move down, ogling you like a painting. Finally, you uttered, “Yes.”
“Good.”
He was in your space now, so close you could inhale his cologne that he probably bought from Lord & Taylor. Or maybe he had it custom. He smelled like firewood and something so inherently masculine, stabling you. A hint of cigar smoke lingered on his collar. He placed his palms on the steel table, thumbs just barely brushing against your hips, as he leaned into you, meeting you at your eye level.
“Tell me,” he continued, “is it worse to be trapped by someone who has feelings for you, or hunted by someone who doesn’t?”
You arched a brow. “We’re back to the hard ones now.”
“You don’t have to answer.”
“I think …” Pausing, you debated your answer, even though you knew it instantly. Maybe you wanted to make him sweat a little. “I would rather be trapped. Better to be trapped and unharmed than hunted.”
Jihoon’s tongue darted out from the corner of his mouth, slowly dragging over his bottom lip. Your answer obviously unfurled him, making his body tense as he stood there and questioned his next move. Your stares connected, but both of you were completely frozen. “You know you can leave at any time, yes?”
You nodded. “I know.”
Time stilled, the small pantry seemingly warmer than usual as Jihoon inched forward. You were white knuckling the table again, but you weren’t moving away. Because maybe … just maybe, you wanted Jihoon to kiss you. And would that be so bad? To have just a modicum of happiness, only for a moment, with his lips agains yours? Or maybe this was a bad idea. Maybe you should lean back and say, “Bank’s closed,” like your friends used to in your single days.
But that was like torture. Moving away from him felt like a curse.
Just as you leaned in, he cleared his throat, stepping back. Both realizing just what you were about to do, your bodies went rigid again. Your cheeks flushed bright red while he rubbed a finger over his top lip. He had never shied away from eye contact with you, but now … he was avoiding you like a disease.
“Let me go get your coat,” he said, already heading for the curtain. “You don’t have to stick around to clean tonight.”
You opened your mouth, wanting to say anything. Even if it was the first thought that came to your head. But Jihoon had already vanished, the curtain swinging in his wake.
December came and went. The winter months were slowing blurring into each other. You were looking forward to the warm comfort of your bed after a long night at the Velvet Ruby. Once the doors had closed, you had to clean up the huge puddle of a spilt beer pitcher by a clumsy patron and his wife. Your knees burned and there were blisters on your feet; you just wanted to be curled up under your blankets before drifting off to sleep. Dragging yourself up the stairs to your apartment, hearing your neighbors arguing at 2 o’clock in the morning, you groaned and stuck your key in the lock.
But your door wouldn’t budge. The lock had been changed.
You looked up, seeing a folded up paper with a coffee stain on the corner. Once you opened the note, you read the words, RENT LATE. PAY OR MOVE OUT, in your landlord’s messy handwriting. A heavy exhale filtered through your lips as you pressed your back against the door, sliding down to the carpet. The same carpet that probably had bugs in it, but you were so tired right now that you didn’t care. Your head fell into your hands as your lack of sleep took over. You didn’t want to doze off out here – absolutely not – but your landlord was surely asleep right now and you wouldn’t be able to pay him until morning.
There was only one option for you.
Using the only change in your pocket, you hauled a taxi and gave the driver instructions to the place you knew best. The taxi pulled up the double doors of the Hotel Ruby, the blinking red sign out front casting a glow on the cab’s interior. You handed the driver your change before stepping out, quickly rushing in to escape the falling snow and giving the doorman, Joshua, a kind smile. He looked confused to see you back, but didn’t question much these days.
You expected to see Wonwoo lounging behind the front desk as usual, but you froze when you realized Jihoon was organizing the mess his regular employee always left there. Jihoon didn’t work here often; he typically stayed in his office or slept in his bedroom connected to it. His mind must be running. What other reason would someone be organizing this late?
Sensing your presence by the door, he finally looked up. A smile curled at his lips, and then fell, realizing that there probably wasn’t a good reason for you to be here after your shift. He said your name, so soft, and then asked, “What’s eating you? I thought you left for the bus an hour ago.”
“I did,” you replied, shaking the snow off your hair. “But I …” You wrung your hands out in front of you. “I must’ve forgot to pay my rent this month, so my landlord changed the locks. Obviously, I can’t reach him until he wakes up, so I was hoping … I could stay in a room tonight.”
Jihoon blinked, studying the red blush on your cheeks. You didn’t know if it was from the cold or your own nerves.
“I could pay, if you need me to. Or you could take it out of my paycheck. That would be easier. Used my last clam for a taxi here.” You chewed on your bottom lip. “I realize that this might be unethical –”
“It is entirely unethical,” Jihoon finished with a straight face. And then, he smiled again, smoothing back a stray hair that had slipped from his slicked back strands. The bags under his eyes became more prominent. “I don’t usually let employees stay. If I let one, then everybody’s got a chance.”
This was mortifying. You felt like cowering in on yourself, sticking your hands in your pockets and pretending you were never here. “I understand.”
“You didn’t let me finish,” he chuckled low, stretching out his arms over the edge of the front desk. His sleeves were rolled up, despite the chill from the door, the veins that ran from his wrists protruding and making you even more flushed. “I can make an exception for you, angel. As long as you keep my secrets.”
You were glowing now, a huge grin on your face. “Your secrets are always safe with me.”
“I know they are,” he snickered, and then called over one of the bellhops bringing a cart to the lobby. “Jun, can you bring her to any of the available rooms for tonight? Any floor. I don’t care. Use the universal key.”
Jun nodded, leading you to the elevator just off from the lobby. You looked over your shoulder, giving Jihoon a soft smile and a wave, before catching up to Jun. Jihoon simply watched you go, but you managed to catch his front teeth bite into his lip as you rounded the corner, and a familiar warmth pooled in your stomach.
Opening the lattice metal door, Jun escorted you inside the intricate elevator and told the lift boy, Seungkwan, to take you both to the second floor. “Nobody typically stays on that floor,” Jun said to you, filling the awkward silence. “Maybe it’s because the rooms are a little more drab. Not sure. But they’ll definitely be one available.”
The elevator stopped on the second floor and Seungkwan pulled the door open, tipping his hat as you left. You couldn’t help but ogle him, because he had the kind of look in his eyes that said, I know things you don’t. You couldn’t imagine the type of things he saw on a daily basis, the type of people he caught switching floors.
Jun twirled the shiny golden key in his hand, which you guessed opened every door in this hotel. The power he felt like he held right now was immense. He whistled under his breath, swinging his finger left and then right, as he decided which room to choose. Finally, he stopped by room 214, at the far end of the hall.
“Good with you?” Jun asked, peering over his shoulder.
You nodded. “As long as the heat works.”
His laugh was so low you almost didn’t hear it. As he fumbled with the key, you looked to the right and squinted, wondering if you were seeing things correctly. There was a room at the end of a corridor. Marked as room 217. It looked almost out of place, like a mirage. Why would the second floor end on an odd number for rooms? It just didn’t seem right.
When he finally stuck the key in the lock, you asked, “Does this floor really end on an odd number?” You pointed to the right.
Jun followed your finger. “You mean 217? Yeah, only floor that does, I believe.”
You were still perplexed. Was he incapable of offering any more information, or was it just you who thought this was strange? “Must be the biggest room on this floor,” you continued as he turned the key, “because its in the corner. Right?”
Jun shrugged, unlocking the door and holding it open for you. A blast of warm air hit your cheeks as he turned to face you. “I wouldn’t know. No one is allowed in there.”
Your brow knitted together, but he was still holding open the door, looking at you as if you were the bird in this situation. Why was no one allowed in that room? Was it never available for people to stay in? You walked forward, into the room, and shed off your coat. When you spun back to view at Jun, you opened your mouth to ask him another question, but he interrupted you.
“Can you butt me, doll?” He held out his hand. “I ran out of cigarettes.”
Your face fell. With a glare, you shut the door in his face.
Your bag accidentally whacked a shoulder on your way inside the hotel, and you looked to your left to apologize. Recognizing the photographer that had taken the pictures of the speakeasy staff nearly a month ago, you waved and blurted a couple thousand sorry’s before heading to the secret entrance for the speakeasy. You had noticed that photographer lingering around the hotel for weeks, but no one seemed to question it so you wondered if maybe you were the odd one out. Eventually, you brought it up to Joshua, since he saw most of the comings and goings of the hotel.
“Oh, him?” Joshua rubbed the back of neck. “Think Jihoon told me that he’s here to take photos of the hotel for advertisements.”
There was a hint of a question in Joshua’s tone, telling you that even he didn’t understand the reason for the photographer. He was just always around. Sometimes when you looked a certain way, he was right there, loitering in the lobby with his camera glued to his hands.
Maybe you were seeing things. Maybe he wasn’t here as often as you thought. You were having trouble falling asleep these days.
When you closed your eyes, sometimes you thought about room 217. It still baffled you; its presence haunting your mind like a ghost. A couple times, you took the elevator up to the second floor just to go see it, the secret of your visits staying between you and Seungkwan. You tried the knob once, and when it wouldn’t budge, you jumped back as if it burned you. This was crazy – you were crazy. Sleep deprived even. You should not care so much about this, but nearly a week after the late rent incident – which you did make up for, thankfully – you found yourself thinking about this room over and over again.
Nobody typically stays on that floor. No one is allowed in there.
Jun was going to be as helpful as a chocolate teapot, and you assumed that most people didn’t know or care much about a locked room anyway. You could ask Jihoon, but … something told you that you might not get the answers you wanted. And maybe what you actually needed to know was more about the elusive hotel owner first. Perhaps that could crack the secrets of 217, and truthfully … you were still a little embarrassed after your almost kiss to be alone with him again.
So you went to Soonyoung.
As the staff was preparing for the Saturday night rush, you dropped off your coat at your locker before stalking up to your favorite bartender. He was drying off glasses, fresh from a wash, and you noticed that he had smudged some black eyeliner on his waterline. Conveniently, Laurie was dancing tonight. It didn’t take an idiot to put two and two together.
“Level with me,” you said to him, lacing your hands on the edge of the bar.
Soonyoung glanced up with a wide grin. “Okay, big shot. What do you need from me?”
You had him right where you wanted him. Soonyoung was always willing to gossip.
“I have some questions about Jihoon,” you proposed, “but I’m just too scared to ask him. I know he’s busy and I don’t want him to have to recall any bad memories. I’m just … curious.”
“Well, now you got me curious. Shoot.”
You started off easy, asking him how the Hotel Ruby came to be. Soonyoung explained that Jihoon had inherited it by his great grandfather on his mom’s side that he almost never spoke to. Nobody ever understood why he had been written down in the will. Jihoon once thought that maybe his grandfather’s handwriting had been so bad that they just assumed the name was his. But he had been grateful, because inheriting this hotel had pulled him out of a series of bad events.
“After he modernized the hotel, he realized no one was coming to stay because of all that stock market bull, which was when he approached me about running the Velvet Ruby together,” he went on. “I was his first friend in the city, so it only made sense for us to become business partners. It’s proven to be his most successful venture, but I supposed anything is better than what he ran away from years ago.”
You raised a brow. “And what was that exactly?”
Soonyoung scratched the side of his head. “I probably shouldn’t be telling you everything …”
“Who am I going to tell? I only talk to you.”
He set down one of the dry glasses. “You make a great point.” He exhaled heavily, wrinkling his small nose, before continuing, “He was born into the Lucky Ace gang. His father was some big leader in it. I’m sure he’s mentioned this in passing, right?”
It all made sense now. Upon your first meeting, Jihoon had known your husband, even mentioned growing up with him. But you didn’t expect this: that he had once been part of the gang that you had somehow married yourself into. Just like his mother.
You schooled your expression and played along, hoping to get more out of Soonyoung. “I believe I heard it once. So he ran away from the Lucky Aces?”
Nodding, Soonyoung replied, “He only told me about it once, so I could be misremembering. He had some huge brawl with his father after his mother’s funeral, and then he stole his father’s car, drove it to the bus station, and got a one way ticket for the city. His father had sent for him, tried to get him to come back, but eventually stopped trying because he wanted his son to suffer on his own. Jihoon had been determined to never set foot near the Lucky Aces again, even put himself through poverty and lived on the street. Until he came into his great grandfather’s wealth. Guess he kept the luck from the Lucky Aces after all.”
“Has he ever talked to you about Cheon Han?”
He set a couple clean glasses on the racks behind him, thinking, and then shook his head. “Not really. Heard the name pop up once or twice. Said he was a good friend from home, but obviously not anymore. In fact, he actually mentioned that name again recently. I overheard Jihoon say it to Seungcheol and gave his description, told him to never let him in the bar under any circumstances.” His eyes slid to yours. “How do you know that name?”
You blinked, trying to keep your composure. “I thought we agreed on absolutely no questions about past lives.”
Soonyoung’s lips slowly curled into a cat-like smile. “Oh, horsefeathers! Look at you. Making me remember my own rules.”
You shrugged nonchalantly at his compliment, even though your brain was screaming at the new information you just received. Jihoon had known Han. Jihoon had been involved with the Lucky Ace gang. He probably still had low-risk friends in the gang, which was why one of Han’s friends was one of his bootlegger’s. This was almost unbelievable. You were more connected to him than you ever imagined.
“Do you …” Using the tip of your finger, you traced senseless circles onto the dark wood of the bar. “Do you know anything about room 217?”
He didn’t answer. Your eyes flickered back up and you realized his body was frozen, his gaze locked on the glass he’d been drying for longer than usual. After what felt like several minutes, his stare met yours. “You know about room 217?”
“Well … not exactly.” You were playing with your hands now, the nerves slowly creeping in. It was important that you stayed impassive during this conversation, but your true colors were starting to show. “I just … I just saw it when I had to stay the night here last week. That’s all.”
“You’ve never been inside it?”
You shook your head.
“Oh.” His shoulders immediately relaxed, and he turned his back to you while putting away more glasses. He made sure he wasn’t looking at you as he said, “I don’t know anything about it.”
Your brow raised. “Really?”
“I know what everyone else does: Jihoon doesn’t let anyone stay in that room.” He spun back again, his shrug the picture of disinterest. “Maybe it’s haunted.”
After that unproductive conversation with Soonyoung, you decided that it was probably best to give up on finding out the secrets of the mysterious room. Clearly, no one had an inkling of knowledge about it, and the ones that did weren’t going to budge so easily. You knew it wasn’t the truth, but maybe it was just haunted. Every old hotel had one.
If you looked into it more, you would find out things that might hurt you. Things that might ruin the picture perfect image you had of everyone in this hotel. The place that had become your safe space.
So you gave up. For now.
February was treating you nicely. Jihoon had added an extra nickel to your weekly paycheck and put more tables in the speakeasy to accommodate the growing crowd on weekends. This Saturday was no less busy than the last, especially with Laurie’s growing fame. She was even looking into managers now to try to further her career, past the small stage of the Velvet Ruby, but she never forgot about Soonyoung. He still met her behind the curtain during her intermissions, doing who knows what. You were grateful to not know.
The joint was filled with male patrons tonight and the usual flapper group in the corner. Dollar bills were thrown on stage, and there was a particular table near the back that was especially rowdy, engaging in a loud bull session with each other over the music. This was your worst nightmare, so when you asked Mingyu to cover for you while you went on a smoke break, he agreed without question. If anyone could handle a table like that, it was him.
Some would say it was idiotic to make your way outside for a cigarette, especially in this weather, but it was a habit that you weren’t keen on breaking just yet. Slipping past Seungcheol and heading for the main lobby of the hotel, you pulled your cigarettes out of your apron, stuck one between your lips, and adjusted the tie in the back. Shouting emerged the closer you got to the lobby, making your brow crease. It was only when you reached the threshold that it all became clear.
The unlit cigarette dropped from your mouth.
Cheon Han was being held back by two of his friends – not Minho; you didn’t recognize these ones – while trying to swipe a knife in Jihoon’s face. Must’ve been a shiv he borrowed from one of his associates. Jihoon’s arm was out to shield his face, while Wonwoo was at his side to bite the bullet, if it came to that. Jun was on Jihoon’s right, looking utterly clueless and downright terrified, with his bellhop hat crooked and his fists in the air. As if that was going to do anything.
“Han.” The name slipped out of your mouth before you could stop it.
Your husband’s face whipped to yours immediately. His eyes were bloodshot and his body froze. Even his associates recognized you, but they looked like strangers in your wide-eyed gaze. A few long strands of hair escape from his signature slicked hairstyle, falling onto his distressed forehead. His nose scrunched as he took in your appearance. A uniform. A server. You worked here.
The knife dropped from his hand and clattered onto the floor.
But he was furious. His eyes blazed with a fiery intensity as he shouted, “Did you think I wouldn’t know where to look?! I have friends everywhere. You really thought you could run away from our marriage and I wouldn’t find you? You slay me. Really, that’s funny, doll.”
Your hands balled into fists. Han was seething with rage, while Jihoon was staring at you, not sure what to do. “Our marriage was built on a lie!” You exclaimed. “You know it was. You never told me – not once – until after we were married about what you were. What I would be putting at risk by being married to you – my life, my family. I didn’t want to be some moll, Han!”
“Oh, this is such bull.” He let out a laugh, but there was no humor behind it. His associates slowly let go of him and pocketed the shiv. Han looked back at you, and before you could blink, he was advancing. “Come on now, doll. Let’s stop playing around and go home.”
He was within a foot of you when Jihoon blocked his path, using himself as a human shield. Wonwoo and Jun watched with hesitation, ready to move at a moment’s notice. Jihoon stood tall, even if he was shorter than you than usual when you were in these heels. He was broad and his muscles bulged from the rolled up sleeves of his black dress shirt. His brows were narrowed as he said, voice low and menacing, “She’s not going anywhere with you. Beat it, Cheon.”
Han’s teeth gritted, his whole body shaking from the rage flooding through him. The same rage he showed his soldiers when they fell out of line. And he was leveling it towards Jihoon. “She’s mine,” he growled.
Your husband had never been violent with you. But that didn’t mean he wasn’t possessive.
“Not anymore,” Jihoon replied. His tone was surprisingly calm despite the situation.
“Han,” you called, letting your voice take on the velvety tone you used to have with him. His eyes went yours instantly, softening slightly with recollection, before he remembered how pissed off he was that you ran away and some pill was standing between him and his girl. You licked your lips and said, “You should leave. I’m not going home with you. This marriage is over.”
Jihoon snickered. “You heard her.”
His brow knitted together in frustration. “We’ll see about that.” Nodding to his associates, he turned on the heel of his boot and muttered. “Let’s go. We’ll be back around.” Han’s glare met yours. “I’m not leaving without my wife.”
Once the lobby was clear, Jun ran to tell Joshua to not let those men anywhere near the doors of the hotel again. They locked it from the inside, making sure to only allow in current guests and speakeasy customers leaving the building. Wonwoo headed to the front desk, phoning for the police immediately. (Specifically, the only officer they trusted who didn’t rat Jihoon out over the speakeasy.) Lucky for him, he hired good people who took care of the hard stuff without him asking.
He turned to you behind him, seeing your body start to crumble with the awareness of what just transpired. Hooking his arms through yours, he cooed, “Angel, no. It’s going to be okay. I promise. Let’s get you somewhere quiet.”
As the sobs began to rack through you, Jihoon used his strength to help guide you out of the lobby. He motioned for Wonwoo to take care of talking to the investigator, hoping that with a thorough description, they would be able to do something. Anything. But he stopped trusting those bulls a long time ago.
He led you to the laundry room just off from the lobby. He gestured for the two maids occupying the space to leave, and they followed his orders with a bow of their heads. Letting go of you, he allowed your back to slide against the wall until you were sitting on the cold stone floor. He sighed before taking the spot next to you.
You rubbed at your eyes and sniffled. “I knew this would happen.”
“It couldn’t have been that drunk fool that told him.”
You shook your head. “It doesn’t matter. All that matters is that he’s here. He found me. Right when I started to feel safe.”
“Angel,” his voice was so gentle when your nickname rolled off his tongue. His fingers were on your chin, turning your tear-streaked face to his. “You are safe here. I’m not going to let him take you.”
“I know I said before that I would make sure I suffer the consequences if you got found with me,” you said, tears welling up in your eyes again, “but now I don’t want to think about it. I don’t want to leave. And what if he kills you?”
Jihoon smirked. “One of his torpedos will do it for him, remember?”
A chuckle emerged under your breath, recalling the words you said to him months ago. You shook your head looked down to his lap, where his free hand was twitching, as if he was fighting himself not to touch you.
Lifting your eyes to his again, you felt his thumb swipe under them, catching the tears. “Jihoon, why do you care so much about protecting me?”
“Because,” he whispered, and then stopped himself. He bit his lip, unable to come up with anything that didn’t sound like a lie. “Because I …” His hand fell from your face.
So you grabbed it, placing your palm on top of his. His hand was warm and soft, despite the callouses that were constantly on his knuckles. “You don’t need to explain yourself,” you murmured. “I overstepped.”
“No, no, you didn’t. I …” He exhaled, annoyed more with himself than anything. Running a nervous hand through his dark hair, his gaze lifted to yours. You were sure that he had galaxies in his eyes. “Your marriage with Han … it was always a lie?”
You paused, chewing on your lip. Your hand on his was like an anchor, wondering how much you wanted to reveal. But if you had gotten this far, trusted him this much … maybe it was worth finally divulging.
“It started in a place like this.” Your fingers slipped from his, gesturing to the electric washers and washboards littered throughout the small room. “I worked at my family’s laundromat since I was 8. My whole life had always been school, then work. And when school was finally over, my life had become just … work. Washing and drying. Tending to the wealthy’s clothes and praying I didn’t ruin them. My fingers permanently pruned. But I digress.” You huffed longingly. “Han had come in one day to get a mark out of his suit. He was the berries, looking like he worked on Wall Street or something. I remember making sure I really got that stain out, and he was so kind when I gave it back. He proceeded to come back everyday, sometimes asking to wash a garment regardless if it was dirty or not.”
You shrugged and added, “I didn’t even realize he was carrying a torch for me until he asked me to dinner. I said, ‘Yes,’ because, well … who wouldn’t? He was the most handsome man I’d ever seen.” Your eyes casted down, fingers picking at the widening hole in your pantyhose. “We went on a solid five dates before he asked for my hand. It was all very fast, and I told him I had to think about it because I didn’t know him. I wanted to say no, see if he wanted to continue to date, but … my family. They encouraged me to agree. We needed the money and Han would provide whatever we wanted. It just made sense.
“So, I said, ‘Yes,’ again to Han. After the wedding was when I found out.” You thought back to those photos at the courthouse, how you’d been standing so close to all his right-hand men. “All those boys that I thought were his friends … days later, I learned they were his associates and soldiers. He didn’t tell me anything until after the ring was on my finger, said he was scared I would judge him or say, ‘No.’ Said he loved me and didn’t want us to change. And I believed it wouldn’t … for a while. But when your life starts to get threaten, you begin to realize just what you got yourself into.”
You turned your head, your haunted stare meeting his, and you realized just how close Jihoon was. “Sometimes love isn’t enough.”
“And do you still?” He asked, his voice just loud enough for you to hear. “Love him, I mean.”
You curled your legs to your chest, smoothing your skirt over your knees and playing with the hem. Eventually, you replied, “I love the memories.”
A beat passed, and then his palm slid on top of yours on your knee. His hands were partly cold, but you didn’t have it in you to move away. Not now. Not ever. You watched as his fingers squeezed yours, thumb running over your knuckles.
“I’m going to secure the perimeter of the hotel,” he promised, “and you can stay here until you feel safe.”
“I don’t want you to feel like you have to give me charity –”
“Angel,” he chastised with a shake of his head, “it’s not charity. I’ve never been that altruistic.”
He gave your hand one last squeeze, leaning in just enough for you to think something might happen, but he was getting to his feet. His shiny Oxfords were such a contrast against the speckled stone floor. When you lifted your head, you found him lingering by the doorway. With a lazy smile, he muttered, “Sometimes love is enough.”
You blinked at him, wondering if you heard him correctly. Maybe you were overthinking, because Lee Jihoon couldn’t have meant what you thought he just did. He barely knew you. He barely touched you.
But he had always stayed. He had always listened. And that could be enough.
He stepped forward to leave the laundry room, but then looked back, pointing a finger at you. “When you’re ready, let me know when you need me to contact my lawyer. I can help pay for your divorce.”
Ignoring Han’s phone calls to the front desk got easier with time. Especially when Jihoon sent a group of his old friends to drive him out of the city for the time being. Wonwoo had told you about the first few calls when you started staying at the hotel, and only stopped after Jihoon requested he only tell upper management about Han’s persistence. Your husband couldn’t even step near the property without the new body guards knowing. You wouldn’t have even found out about the party Jihoon sent after Han if you hadn’t overheard his private conversation with Wonwoo, when he described the money it took to haggle a group of hard boilers to chase down a well-known gangster.
His methods should scare you. His connections to the Lucky Aces should have you fleeing. But he was the only person, in such a long time, to make you feel secure. He was going to protect you, even if it cost him his life.
You didn’t understand him. And maybe it was better that you didn’t.
Jihoon helped obtain a private divorce lawyer through means you didn’t bother questioning. The kind of lawyer you would never be able to afford if he wasn’t paying, far from society’s prying eyes. It wasn’t like you were much of a big deal, but a divorce between any gangster and his wife was front page news. Society would rip you to shreds, demanding you provide proof of desertion or adultery. You wanted to avoid that at any cost. His lawyer was able to start the process of separation almost immediately, involving you at every step.
After cutting your lease at the apartment, which Jihoon happily stepped in to help, you moved all of your belongings into a room at the hotel. You wondered if you’d be put in another room on the second floor, but much to your surprise, Jihoon put you in a free room on the first floor. Close to his quarters and the manager’s office.
“I want to be close in case you need me,” he said, opening the door to room 101. “Please, don’t hesitate to call for me.”
You had looked back at him in that moment, setting your only two bags near the bed. The words that came out of his mouth were nonchalant, but you could see in his eyes what he really wanted to say: Please, need me.
Oh, how you wished he understood how much you did.
Using the phone in your room, you finally called your family again to tell them the news. Your mother had sounded relieved that you were even alive: “I had been holding out hope. I was so scared. I thought you might’ve run off with some drugstore cowboy!” But when you revealed that you were separating from Han, you had to pull the phone away from your ear just to drown out the sound of your mother’s screaming: “Excuse me?! How much have you had to drink right now? I bet everyone at this speakeasy you work at is just handing you hooch all the time. That’s the only reason why you would be spouting such nonsense. Han is a good man. Why would you even think about doing this?!”
You knew she didn’t mean it. Han had fooled everyone; you almost didn’t believe it when he told you his real profession after the wedding. And truthfully, your parents relied on him when times got tough. Han was constantly sending them money if they needed it; that was one of the many reasons they convinced you to marry him in the first place. Your family wasn’t well off. They needed him.
So you had to make her understand.
After finally coming clean to her about your husband’s crime-related activities, she had finally calmed down, started speaking in a tone where you didn’thave to have the phone so far from your actual ear. She became more concerned about the social implications of separating from such a well-known man, but you convinced your mother that you knew what you were doing. Even if you didn’t believe it yourself. Even if this process was scaring you half to death. And she trusted you.
For the first time ever, your mother trusted you.
The dust was finally starting to settle. You had been living at the Hotel Ruby for two weeks and honestly, your body had never been more relaxed. The phone calls to the front desk had stopped. Your lawyer was handling everything behind the scenes. And you were safe.
You found yourself spending more time with Jihoon than you expected. Long nights after the juice joint closed, the staff cleaning around you, and the two of you found yourself sitting at one of the tables and sharing stories from years past. You both preferred to share a cigarette because it felt less detrimental than smoking two individually. It felt intimate, almost like a kiss. A not-kiss, that maybe you desperately wanted to have. Maybe he did too.
Going in for your shifts became so much easier now that you didn’t have to rely on the bus or a taxi to get you there. You simply had to get dressed and head down the hallway that led to speakeasy. Seungcheol was especially chipper today, already having the door open for you as your new kitten heels clicked down the corridor. Jihoon had bought them for you in his favorite color: a deep burgundy.
Slipping into the backroom, you said hello to Minghao before opening your locker to grab your apron you left there overnight. Pulling out the discarded heap of fabric, you paused when you heard a thunk, noticing a folded up piece of paper fall onto the bottom of your locker. Your brow furrowed and you looked around, but you were still alone. When you picked up the note, you realized it had weight to it.
You bit into your lip, hesitating, and then opened up the paper. The first thing you saw was a small, gold key with the numbers 217 slightly embossed on the top. Your eyes widened. This looked like a copied key, and it wasn’t the first time you saw one of these. Han used to have a special person he went to for copied keys. The molding of the numbers was a crucial giveaway. When your gaze finally shifted to the note, you froze, reading over the words as you felt your throat close up.
Only visit when the clock strikes 1 PM, it read. Good luck.
You threw the note back into your locker as if it burned you. Someone was trying to set you up. You couldn’t have this in your possession. Maybe you could throw it in the fireplace tonight, watch the metal of the key slowly melt into charred wood and ash.
The possibilities ran through your head all night, but it was all cheap talk. Because that key stayed in your locker for another week before your curiosity got the better of you.
It was 1 PM on a Thursday and Seungkwan was giving you a look as he pressed the button for the second floor that made your whole body shake. Like he knew what you were doing. Like he’d been waiting. But neither of you said a word, just simply rode the elevator in silence. As you left the metal cage, he tipped his hat towards you and left you alone in the barren hallway of floor 2. You swallowed hard, and then turned on your heel to see room 217 at the end.
You didn’t know how much time had passed. You wondered if you blacked out. Because you were suddenly standing in front of the door in question, the copied key trembling in your hand. Why were you so nervous? You had no idea what was behind this door. Maybe it was excitement, the knowledge of finally seeing what had plagued you for weeks. To be in the know. Once you saw this, you could be on your way and never have to think about why everyone acted so strange about this abandoned room in the first place.
Twisting the key in the lock, you let the door slowly open and reveal the room. It looked like every other room, almost identical to the one you stayed in, so you stepped further inside. Your tread was silent, and you walked forward like you were waiting for someone to scare you. But the room was … the same. Nothing too out of the ordinary, besides the paintings hung up on the walls. These ones looked old and expensive. Worth a lot more than what this room costed. Your hands finally unclenched, feeling like a weight had been lifted off your shoulders. All that curiosity amounted to … nothing. But it did make you wonder why everyone spoke so oddly about this room in the first place.
And then you turned.
On the wall, directly facing the bed, was a gallery of photos. Each taken from different angles, days, situations. Some featured a smile, some had a cigarette dangling from lips. Eyes met the lens in a few. Some even included other employees of the hotel and speakeasy staff. But there was one similarity between all of them, and that was that they were all taken without any knowledge.
Oh, and they were all of you.
You stumbled, not sure what to make of this. Every photo was of you. This was a collage of your face. You took another step back, landing on the edge of the bed. Your hand came up to your mouth as you ogled the assortment of photos, until you almost couldn’t look anymore and peered at the room around you.
There were stains of self pleasure on the sheets.
Cigarette ashes piled in the litter of trays on every surface.
You gasped, standing up immediately as you took in the horror. But amongst the perverse, the deviancy, there was a sort of … softness here. There were fresh red roses on the bedside table. You recognized the paintings from the renaissance era, suggesting a fondness. And when you approached the desk by the window … there was a note, ink stains embedded into the thin paper. A box with a pearl necklace sat on the edge, and the note was addressed to you from Jihoon, explaining why he wanted to gift the necklace to you. He wrote as if he were devoted, as if he were in love, and simply didn’t understand how to express it.
This was Jihoon’s room. This was all his doing. That’s why no one was allowed in here, because they’d see … who he really was.
Turning to face the photo wall again, you suddenly realized that you didn’t know how to feel. Your emotions were torn in two different directions. For so long, you’d been devalued, treated as an accessory. Nothing but the doting wife to a notorious gangster, just shy on the totem pole to be important enough to receive threats to your life. Han loved you, but not like this. You walked forward, scanning the multitude of pictures, noticing the little moments he captured of you, and your heart … clenched. Like someone with an iron grip was holding it and wouldn’t let go.
He noticed you. You didn’t ask for it, but he chose you anyway.
You should be terrified. You should be running away screaming. This shouldn’t make your eyes soften or make you wonder if it was possible to stay here forever, with him. But you couldn’t help yourself when you reached out, fingers brushing the corner of a zoomed-in photo of yourself, your eyes fixed on the lens without even knowing it. You were smiling, the corners of your lips almost reaching your ears, as snow fell around your head like a crown. Your mouth trembled and your heart sped up because … you mattered to him.
But you shouldn’t be here. You knew you shouldn’t. Everything about this was wrong – from the collage wall to intruding on his private domain. This wasn’t meant for you to know, for anyone to know. And when you were sure you heard the elevator ding outside the room, you bolted, unaware that you knocked down a small frame of Jihoon and his mother on a small table near the door.
There was a maid’s closet right near room 214. You sprinted out of 217, whipping your entire body into the closet as you heard the metal doors of the elevator open at the end of the hall. Pushing yourself deeper into the small room, crowding against the mops and brooms and various cleaning products, you stilled your breath. Footsteps echoed, highlighted underneath the crack in the door, and you gripped a hand over your mouth. They stopped at the other corner of the corridor – near 217 – and it was only when you knew the door had opened and closed did you finally allow yourself to breathe.
The Velvet Ruby had never been more lively on a Thursday night, and you found yourself struggling to keep up. Everywhere you looked, it seemed that each of your customers wanted another drink, as if they were guzzling them. Sweat beaded your hairline each time you bumped into one of your coworkers, your mind somewhere else, thinking of the photos and pearl necklaces and ashtrays –
You collided into Mingyu’s shoulder, breaking you out of your thoughts. He apologized and brushed past you, allowing you a moment to still yourself amongst the chaos. You breathed out, closed your eyes, and gripped the edge of your tray. Everything was going to be okay. The day would end and you could go to bed soon enough. You would survive, because you had to. Because you were still safe. Maybe you’d even forget about the photos, the note.
Or maybe you wouldn’t. Maybe you’d let it consume you whole.
You finally opened your eyes, head turned slightly when you felt a gaze burning into your cheek. Even in the darkness, even amongst the crowd of drunken patrons and servers who jostled around you … you could find him. And he was watching you from the corner of the room, bringing a cigar to his lips, exhaling the smoke that filtered around his dark eyes. He didn’t approach. He didn’t nod. Jihoon simply watched, his stare never leaving yours.
Everything stopped. Your heart paused.
And it was then, that you wondered if he knew what you’d done.
Of course, he knew.
Infatuation was like a disease, spreading to every sap like it was going out of style. Jihoon had known infatuation, but he had never known it like this. He needed to restrain himself. He was a well-heeled man. Being a well-heeled man meant that he was a put-together, sharply dressed, impressive. The kind of man who knew how to act in public and paid attention to his employees, who smoked cigars but helped his patrons at a moment’s notice. The kind of man who secretly enjoyed cheap alcohol and taking a date home to bend her over before having his way with her. But it didn’t matter. It never got out, because he was a well-heeled man. Handsome and level-headed. He never got angry, never punched his employee’s husband so hard that his knuckles scarred, never thought about each way he could claim a married woman in just about every corner of his hotel. He was, as always, a well-heeled man.
But that was all a lie, wasn’t it? A character he fought with in his head. Because well-heeled men didn’t really exist. A well-heeled man didn’t take in women like you, someone married to a gangster he ran away from. A well-heeled man didn’t have the thoughts he had about you. A well-heeled man didn’t pour every ounce of his dough into getting his lawyer to take your divorce case. A well-heeled man didn’t have a secret room where he masturbated to a collage of your pictures on the wall.
The room didn’t start this way. It was just supposed to be a place for him to unwind. That’s why he hung up his favorite paintings – Sandro Botticelli’s Primavera, Jan van Eyck’s Arnolfini Portrait – and always had fresh flowers by the bed. It was a room away from the hustle and bustle of the hotel, the speakeasy. Everyone. Where he could decompress and smoke his cigars in peace.
And then, he hung up one picture of you. It was the staff photo, but he folded it up until it was just you, overexposed and smiling at the camera. You looked so beautiful, tall, nothing like the woman who walked through the doors of the hotel. You blossomed under him like a flower in spring-time.
He had more pictures taken of you. He couldn’t help himself, and he simply loved photography. You were his muse when he wasn’t even behind the camera. He hung up another photo. And another. And another. Until the whole wall was covered in you. And he was still calm – calmer than ever before. He had to be. Jihoon let himself fall back onto the bed, looking up at the wall of you, his gaze reveling in your smile, your eyes, you.
You were an imprint on his mind. An itch he couldn’t scratch. His angel. And it was then that he realized he simply couldn’t be calm anymore. Especially not when his hand started to drift towards his waistband, cigarette hanging from his lips as he unbuckled his belt. He was reaching into his pants and finding himself hard and – god, you created a monster out of him.
He wasn’t a fool. Of course, he felt perverse, shameful. But you had made him weak and he simply couldn’t stop. The pictures were beautiful – you were beautiful. And if he couldn’t have you the way he wanted, then maybe he could gaze upon you and find a little sense of peace while he fisted his cock until he came all over his thigh.
There was something off when he came back to 217 on Thursday. The air seemed different, a new perfume that hadn’t been there before, but he chocked it up to his imagination. His eyes were sharp though, and within seconds, he saw it: the small, wooden frame laying facedown near the door. His stare narrowed, lifting the frame back up so he could see the photo of him and his mother, taken just a few months shy of her death. He set it in place before walking around the room.
There was a shift in the bedsheets. One of the photos amongst the cluster – the close-up of your face, eyes fixed at the camera without you knowing it – had been tilted slightly. And that scent … it only got stronger the more he was in the room.
The only people that knew about this room were him and Soonyoung, who never came in here anyway because he didn’t approve of it. Soonyoung had always been the most open person, willing to understand just about everything, and it wasn’t that he was cruel to Jihoon about it. Cruelty wasn’t in his nature. When Jihoon finally finished the photo wall and decided to let someone in on the secret, he allowed Soonyoung to walk into 217 on his own.
His friend’s face was nothing short of shock.
He had stood there, staring at all the photos for a long time, before noticing the cigars on the desk, the indent of a body on the sheets. Soonyoung knew what this room was about, what kind of depravity his friend was up to as means of relaxing. It smelled of smoke and fresh roses, ink and arousal. He was momentarily disgusted, but didn’t have it in him to be shocked. This was Jihoon after all. His closest confidant, and if he was letting him in to this secret, it must be for a reason.
“Pal,” he finally said, “you can’t keep doing this.”
Jihoon waved his hand. “I’m not adding any more photos.”
“Not that. I mean this –” Soonyoung gestured around the room. “– in general. I know that you have no … ill intent behind this. I know you’re carrying a torch for her –”
“I think it’s more than just that now.”
“– But,” he continued, and then sighed, his eyes growing heavy. “What if someone finds this room?”
Jihoon shook his head. “No one will. The door doesn’t even open with the universal key.” He pulled out two distinct looking gold keys with his pocket. “217 was used for storage by my great grandfather back in the day. The lock will only open for these two keys.” He placed one of them in Soonyoung’s palm and then closed his fingers. “I want you to have the second one. Keep it safe.”
Soonyoung’s eyes flickered to his friend’s. “Absolutely not. I don’t want to be involved in this.”
“You don’t have to be involved in anything,” he chided. “Just don’t let this key out of your sight. Be my friend. Please.”
Soonyoung had always been weak to begging, and after a long moment, he nodded. That had been months ago, and he hadn’t been in 217 since. He didn’t tell a soul and tried his best to forget about his friend’s personal time. He kept the key safe, or so Jihoon thought.
Because someone was in here. Any normal person who found this room would come to him immediately about it, call him out on his behavior or threaten to call the police, take him down for a good price. But no one did. Even hours later, as Jihoon sat in 217 and contemplated who could’ve been in here, he realized that the answer had been in front of him.
The only person that would stay quiet, the only person that would refuse to look at him after stepping inside … was you.
He heard the lock click open, and he tilted his head to see Soonyoung opening the door. He looked relieved to find him here, as if he’d been looking for him for hours. Or maybe he was simply thankful he hadn’t walked in on his friend touching himself. Nevertheless, Soonyoung was panting, out of breath, and he didn’t even give Jihoon a second to ask what was wrong before he was exclaiming, “I think someone copied my key.”
You were going back to the room.
For an entire week, you wondered if it had all been a dream. The memory kept you up most nights, making your eyes tip up to the ceiling, where room 217 was locked just above your head. What if this was your cue to run again? What if these photos got back to Han? What if Jihoon had been secretly working on turning you into him this whole time? Rational was out the window now. Not when you were in the midst of divorce and he could use any piece of leverage against you.
The key shook in your hands as you stomped towards the room. You dared to not meet Seungkwan’s eyes this time, half-knowing that it must’ve been him who gave you this key in the first place. But why? Just to cause a stir, or was he curious himself? Maybe it wasn’t meant for you to know, and truthfully, you didn’t need the answer either. You just wanted to make sure that it was real, and then make a decision from there. What transpired this afternoon would change the trajectory of your future, if you fled this hotel or not.
You unlocked the door, key trembling in your grasp, and shut the door behind you before looking up. A gasp left your lips.
“So I didn’t scare you away?”
Back pressed against the door, you found Jihoon lounging in the desk chair, back slumped and legs spread comfortably. Instead of his typical cigar, he inhaled a drag from a cigarette before flicking some ash into a tray beside him. You swallowed hard and flattened your palms against the door, as if you could push it back. But you didn’t want to get away from him. Quite the opposite. Because you had questions and Jihoon, without a doubt, had answers.
“I don’t scare very easily anymore.” Your chin lifted to feign confidence.
Both sets of eyes shifted to the photo wall, still hanging in place, and when yours flickered back, his was already pointed on you. Transfixed. As if his gaze was always meant to find yours in a room.
“You had all these photos taken of me,” you muttered, leveling a glare at him, “and you’re using them for – what? Self pleasure, or are you actually working with Han?”
Jihoon’s brow furrowed. His stare was blank. “You think I would put my own life on the line like that by reaching out to Han about you, angel?”
You shrugged. “He must have a bounty on me though. It’s probably steep. Any hotel owner with a secret room is probably using it for …” You glanced at the sheets, which were now clean. “Nefarious activities.”
“That’s not what this room is for,” he answered. His voice was so calm, like you weren’t accusing him of anything. “And I am not, nor will I ever, be in contact with Han. I wouldn’t do that to you.”
Your stare flicked to his and you bit your lip. His eyes moved down to see your teeth sink into your plump bottom lip, but you couldn’t let him distract you as you assessed his tone. And somehow … you knew he was telling the truth.
He stubbed out his cigarette in the ashtray. “This room didn’t start out the way that you think. It was just a place to unwind, and then … I realized you face made me feel better than any rare cigar.”
You paused, lips pursed. “You knew I’d come back.”
“I was hoping you wouldn’t feel like you had to, but yes.”
“How long?” You didn’t even bother to gesture to the wall. He knew what you meant.
Jihoon’s gaze didn’t leave yours as he replied, “You’re not a fool. You know how long.”
Since the photographer came to the hotel. Even if you refused to admit it to yourself, to face the reality before you – you did know it. You watched him lean forward in the chair, elbows resting on his knees, as he took in your schooled expression.
Finally, you moved from the door and approached the wall. You reached out, fingers brushing over one photo in particular, before plucking it off. The corner ripped, and Jihoon fought the urge to get to his feet. It was a photo of you and Jeonghan, sharing a cigarette outside the Velvet Ruby. You could practically hear the laughter embedded in the ink. This had been a good day; you remembered it fondly.
When Jihoon eventually stood from his chair, he was careful not to crowd you, keeping his hands to himself. But you were slowly walking to the bed anyway, staring at the photo like it contained a hidden meaning you couldn’t quite figure out. You turned it over in your palm, then another time, before you let your eyes glaze over the surface again. “All these photos …” You murmured. “You don’t have a version of me that’s afraid.”
Jihoon’s spine was pressed against the old drawer in front of the photo wall. His hands gripped the edge, knuckles turning white from restraint. Well-heeled men control themselves. His voice was but a mere whisper when he said, “I wanted to remember you like this: safe, happy, beautiful. That’s the version of you this place created.”
You viewed up, crossing your legs over the edge of the bed. The confession struck you like lightning, making every hair on your body stand up and your skin prickle. You licked your lips and muttered, “If I told you this crossed the line …”
His answer was immediate: “I’ll remove every single trace of you from this room and I’ll …” He grimaced, but only for a second. “I’ll let you leave the hotel. I’ll wipe your name clean from the Velvet Ruby. I’ll let you move on.”
“And if I didn’t tell you that?” You bit your lip again.
His fingers flexed. Well-heeled men didn’t stare at married women like that. Well-heeled men didn’t imagine tugging on that lip before devouring her mouth. He did a sharp intake of breath.
“I would wait for you.” He took a beat. “Until you were ready. Until after your divorce finalized."
“The divorce will be finalized. The when part is simply up in the air. No need to be a worrywart.”
He tried to even his breathing, but the tension in the room was so thick that it could be cut with the dullest knife in his kitchen. His dark eyes never left yours, serious and unyielding. “Tell me what you want me to do and I’ll do it.”
“I don’t want anything from you, Jihoon,” you confessed. You knew it was wrong – it was diabolical – to want him in a moment like this. To acknowledge the desire you kept inside for so long, to hear him admit to it too. But you needed to, or else you might just explode. “I guess I just want … you. No one has made me feel safe like you do. No one has given me agency like you have. I’m not the person I used to be – I’m not afraid anymore – because of you.”
“Angel, you have to know …” His voice trailed off as he ultimately let himself step forward, slowly, in your direction. “You are the most enticing creature I’ve ever laid my eyes upon. Before you, before this – everything felt cold and lonely. But your presence has invigorated something in me, something protective and primal that I know is wrong. I simply couldn’t help myself. Everything about you invites me in. You’re the predator and I’m just your weak prey.”
Your breathing stilled as you watched Jihoon sink to his knees in front of you. His hands, still scarred from ramming his fist into Han, carefully went to your hips, hardly even touching you. “So if you really want me,” he continued, “I need you to say it again, and I’ll do whatever your heart desires. As long as it means I get to touch you.”
You swallowed down the bile rising in your throat, hesitated, and then let your nimble fingers trace his mouth. “I want you, Jihoon,” you whispered.
He surged upward, standing between your long legs, and crushed his lips onto yours. You didn’t know what to do. You hadn’t been kissed like this in years. And he knew that, so with his mouth still on yours, he took your palms off the bed and placed them on his chest. Instantly, your fingers curled, fisting into the silk shirt, bringing him that much closer. He laughed into the kiss, surprised by your eagerness, as he carefully slipped his tongue into your mouth. You couldn’t remember the last time Han kissed you, especially like this. With passion, with the kind of intensity that almost scared you, but you needed him more than you let on. You pulled Jihoon closer as he licked into your mouth, and you tasted nicotine on his tongue.
He leaned back, just slightly, noticing how swollen your lips looked from just one kiss. His mouth curved a little on one side, his fingers sliding down from your jaw down your collarbone, skimming your sides, before they rested at the buttons of your blouse. Your mouth sealed and you looked at him with wide eyes. “When was the last time anyone touched you?” He asked under his breath.
“I …” You shook your head. “I can’t remember.”
He raised one hand again, the tip of his finger trailing around your rounded lips. “Don’t sweat it, angel,” he whispered, leaning in to inhale your perfume yet again. He damn near groaned at the scent. “I wanted to go slow anyway. We have all the time in the world.”
“You have to go downstairs to watch the front desk though.”
Jihoon leveled a look at you. “Trust me. We have all the time in the world.”
You nodded, and your body froze when he tugged on your bottom lip finally, sucking it in between his teeth. He couldn’t stop the sound that reverberated from his mouth anymore, and when he released your lip, he saw the ident he left behind. The mark only he could give you.
No second guessing. No regretting. You slowly leaned back onto the plush mattress, your hair fanning out and making you look like an actual angel. Jihoon almost forgot to breathe at the sight of you. In this moment, you were all his and more. Everything he ever wanted was at his fingertips as he slowly unbuttoned your blouse and pulled your skirt down. He made sure to fold both pieces in a pile on the floor, topped off with the heels he bought you, before eyeing you yet again.
You were wearing a cotton chemise, trimmed with white lace, and stockings underneath. Under his gaze, you were already squirming, unsure how to handle someone looking at you with so much heat. Han had never, not even when you had first met, during the initial moments of attraction. Not even when he took your innocence. Never. Now Jihoon was, and even though it made goosebumps rise on your skin, you liked it. You needed it.
“You’re a real-life angel,” he whispered, hardly loud enough for you to hear, and helped lift the chemise over your head.
Jihoon almost fell back. He wasn’t that old, and yet, the sight of you half-dressed had him gripping the wall for support. Your breasts were the perfect size, rosy nipples that perked up from his attention. A garter belt was secure to your waist, holding up your sheer black stockings, and a pair of drawers underneath it all. The wet spot soaking into the fabric was so apparent, but even if he was blind, he could smell it. Smell you. He had never smelled this kind of arousal before, the kind that begged to be touched.
He wanted to taste you right now, like this. Push your drawers to the side and suck your clit into his mouth like a proper gentleman. Tights still on as one leg curled on his shoulder. But truthfully, he was too selfish. If he didn’t see you naked in the next thirty seconds, he might just come undone.
Taking off the garter belt, he carefully unhooked your stockings, slowly rolling them down your thighs, maintaining eye contact with you. He noticed your breathing pick up a little when his fingers hooked around the waistband of your drawers, and he paused, kneeling slightly and letting his breath ghost between your legs. His gaze didn’t leave yours.
“Jihoon –” You breathed.
“You’re wet,” he smirked, and your nipples hardened more. He hadn’t even touched them yet. “You’re so wet and I’ve hardly done anything.”
Your eyes closed for a moment, cheeks heating from embarrassment. “I just …” Words died on your tongue.
“You don’t have to explain yourself,” he whispered, peeling your drawers down and setting them aside in the pile he laid out for you. Placing your hand in his, he brought your palm to his groin, letting you feel the hardness beneath. Your eyes widened, connecting with his, and he added, “I need you too.”
You swallowed, fingers pressing down to squeeze his bulge, but he took your hand off before you could feel anymore. Lord knew that if you touch him any longer … his release would be completely wasted.
He set your hand back down on the bed and lowered his gaze. You had to be the most beautiful thing he ever saw. Completely bare, hair unfurled out like a halo, pebbled nipples and slick gathering between your thighs. To think he had you, like this, in the room where all his perverse fantasies lied … this had to be a dream. And yet, when his fingers grazed your thigh, felt your hairs quill, it was real. You were real.
“Wait,” he murmured, jogging over to the desk and grabbing a compact camera from the cabinet. He didn’t even close the drawer, too excited, and wound the knob on the camera’s frame. Your head tilted to the side, but he didn’t give you a moment to ask as he waved the camera. “Can I, angel?”
In most circumstances, you would say no. But this wasn’t most circumstances. This was Jihoon, the only man that had ever made you feel unharmed. You were his angel, his muse. God forbid, you liked the way you were seen in his eyes, under his lens.
Your chin nodded, a soft smile gracing your lips.
His cock throbbed in his pants.
Lining the viewfinder up to his eye, he adjusted the aperture to the dimly lit room the best he could. He was hardly a professional; he just enjoyed photos that much. You didn’t smile. You just laid there before him, one arm slightly behind your head so your breasts lifted. He made sure to capture the whole scene, even the wrinkles within the sheets, the slight shine of arousal from your folds. With steady hands, Jihoon held his breath as he pressed the shutter lever and took the photo. Then another, and another. He wanted to be absolutely sure when he developed this film that he captured you perfectly.
And then, he threw the camera onto the ground, not giving you a moment before he was burying his face between your legs. The immediate moan you let out was heavenly. Jihoon was sure that was what the choir sounded like when he was forced to attend church as a kid. You leaned up on your elbows, watching the way his eyes rolled back as he licked into your weeping hole. Your jaw unhinged; you’d never felt anything like this. Never once thought you would feel anything this good. His nose was hitting that part of your core that you had only touched a few times, the place that made your insides turn to mush and cause honey to drip down your thighs, as his tongue did ungodly things to you. Your moans, you realized, only spurred him on more, and he curled his tongue inside you faster.
He looked up, eyes meeting yours from between your thighs, and noticed you were sitting up to watch him. But he wanted you to enjoy this, so he slid one hand up your body and pushed down your stomach. You complied, fully lying back against the mattress, as his other bicep looped around your leg. He need to pry you open more, spread you like a feast.
Rolling up his sleeves, the last thing you expected was him sliding two fingers inside of you while taking your swollen bud in his mouth. You exhaled, hardly a moan, because you weren’t sure what sounds you could make at the moment. Your hips lifted, grinding against his face unintentionally. Jihoon groaned into your pussy and it vibrated through you, causing your nipples to perk so much that they practically hurt. Suckling your clit, he tasted your tangy flavor, and he knew then that no one, not one person, came close to you. You were meant to be his and he was meant to be yours and he would be doing this over and over again.
You weren’t sure how he did it, but he managed to shove his face impossibly deeper. He tugged at your clit, curled those fingers inside you in a come forward motion, making you reel. Your thighs began to shake. How was he able to reach places no one ever could? Your whole body was on fire, and he was still lapping at your core. “That’s it, angel,” he muttered, and you shivered at his hot breath on your swollen clit. “Soak my face. I know you can.”
“Says … says you,” you huffed out, unsure if you even could reach that peak. Had you ever with Han? Now you were questioning everything and this was certainly not the time to think back to your previous marriage.
Jihoon chuckled, and your back almost arched. “Don’t worry. I’ll get you there.”
Then he was going back in, swirling his tongue around that bud that made your knees twitch, pushing another finger inside of you. He was preparing you for his cock, stretching you to see if you would be able to take him, although you were unaware at the time. And when you finally came after just one curl of his three fingers, he knew you’d fit him so well. He almost whimpered at the taste of your release, the way you clamped down on his three thick fingers and rode out the rest of your orgasm on his face.
As he lifted his head from between your legs, you realized he made due on his promise. You didn’t just soak his face; he was covered in you. His chin mostly, but you watched him wiped down his entire face with his sleeve and you instantly blushed with embarrassment. It was impossible to hide.
Jihoon only smiled at your flushed face, getting to his feet and leaning over you. His lips grazed your cheek, feeling how hot your skin was, as he fought with the buckle on his belt. “No need to be embarrassed. Your flavor is … out of this world,” he whispered, and then leaned back slightly to study you. After a long moment, he asked, “Has no one got you off before?”
You closed your eyes and pinched the bridge of your nose. “I’m … not sure. Was it obvious to you?”
He flashed a smile. “Just a smidge.”
A sigh escaped you, and then your lashes fluttered open. “Of course, I … Han and I undoubtedly have had …” The words turned to ash on your tongue. Growing up as a woman during this time taught you to hold your tongue on all things sexual, but he understood what you were trying to say. Your hand smacked down on the bed. “I think he tried and I simply never realized that I was supposed to feel something like that after intercourse.”
“It shouldn’t just be after intercourse, angel,” he explained, licking the corner of his lips. “He should’ve been getting you off in other ways. You were his wife. Someone to worship.”
“Again, Han tried –”
He cupped your cheek, his thumb swiping down the slope of your nose, and your lips immediately sealed. Jihoon had a way of looking at you that just completely silenced you. He was so calm, so soft, when he said, “Can we not talk about your former husband anymore so I can make love to you?”
You nodded immediately, your own hand coming up to squeeze his wrist lightly. He tried to hold himself together at your submission; the last thing he wanted was to frighten you with just how much he needed you. But it was hard. He was fucking hard. Jihoon couldn’t remember another time that he was this aroused, just like how you were minutes ago. Precum was practically seeping through his slacks and there was a pretty significant tent. Your gaze drifted to it every so often. You knew how badly he desired you, and still … you were just as excited. It made him want to push into you deep, fast, so you could feel him stretching you and reach that one spot that made you crumble.
He was a well-heeled man though. He promised to take this slow, and once you were ready … then he would really take you.
Jihoon didn’t just want to make you see stars. He wanted you to see galaxies.
He unbuttoned his shirt in front of you, wanting to make you watch. It was obvious the way your fingers twitched and your toes curled that you liked what you saw: a toned torso with long arms and bulging biceps to match. Jihoon always felt the need to tell the women he slept with that his height was the only short part of him, but your dilated stare told him that you already suspected this. You felt it. And when he finally slipped off his belt, peeled down his slacks, you weren’t completely surprised. But your teeth still dug into your lip, almost hard enough to draw blood, because the size of him was unfair to most men.
Jihoon’s fingers were thick, but his cock was even thicker. His girth should be enough to scare you, and you tried to remain impassive. However … you weren’t sure how he was supposed to fit inside anyone – let alone you – who had only ever slept with your ex husband. He was probably still long when he was soft, but when he was hard like this … Jihoon might as well have been hiding a third appendage in his pants. Veins traveled up the shaft towards a head that was flushed ruby red, precum beading at the tip. You noticed the way his cock quivered, begging for an ounce of attention, flopping against his chiseled abdomen.
He moved forward, and suddenly, the dynamic shifted for him. He was now the predator, and you were the prey. Propping his knee on the edge of the bed, he knocked your thighs open, giving him enough room to take you. Slick oozed from between your legs, and just the sight made more precum trickle down his length. He leaned forward, his breath mingling with yours as he aligned his cock to your entrance with one hand. Using the other, he leisurely took your wrists in his grip and pinned them above your head.
“I’m going to take you slow, angel,” he murmured, trailing his mouth down your jaw, and then your neck, before licking down the valley between your breasts. You began to squirm again, but you didn’t budge. He kept eye contact with you as he swirled his tongue so lightly around one of your nipples, then added, “If you want me to go faster, or harder, tell me. I’ll do whatever you need.”
You nodded quickly. He grinned, as if he wasn’t just about to completely ravish you with his thick cock. He pecked your lips, and then adjusted his position slightly, before you finally felt his bulbous head start to push into your tight channel. Your breath caught, your walls pressing down when he wasn’t even halfway inside. “Relax, angel,” he whispered, lowering his head again to take your hard nipple into his mouth. Just the feeling of him suckling on you like this was the best distraction, and he felt your body give way to him.
Once he was fully sheathed, he paused and savored the tight connection between the two of you. You were almost afraid to move, praying he wouldn’t slip out just yet, no matter how uncomfortable the stretch was. Your eyes shifted over his shoulder, scanning the wall of photos. Every single picture of your face. He was devoted to you – god, was he devoted – and you knew it from the way he heaved against your nipple just from the realization of being inside you finally. In room 217. On the bed he pleasured himself on so many times to your image.
Because it was you. It was always going to be you.
His mouth moved, pressing against the curve of your breast, as he pulled all the way out before slamming back in. You gasped, still not used to the absolute fullness inside of you, but you relaxed again as he rolled your other nipple between two fingers. He began a steady pace, looking down at you so your eyes would never leave his. He wanted to make sure he caught every expression as he fucked into you deep. “God, you feel …” He lost the will to speak, only able to huff and sigh. “Like … like heaven.”
“Really?” You breathed.
“Really,” he muttered. “Terribly so.”
Your pussy was squeezing him so tight, but he wouldn’t yield. Not unless you said so. He molded you just for him. He would ruin you for anyone else. Jihoon had to, because he couldn’t bear the thought of any other man being inside of you, not when he finally tasted heaven. And it was when you said the words, “I want more,” that he might’ve lost all restraint.
“More?” His brow furrowed down at you.
You confirmed with a nod. “Harder. Faster. Please, Jihoon.”
“Angel, you don’t –”
“I do.” Your response was so calm, stern. You knew what you were asking for, and when he was still stalling, you pushed your hips up to meet his, rubbing against his groin. “Take me how you’ve always wanted to.”
His grip on your wrists tightened, and all you heard was him mutter, “Fuck,” before every ounce of control left his body. Pulling out again, he practically pounded back into you, relentless. His new pace knocked the wind out of you, his hips fucking into you so hard that you were sure there would be bruises the next day. And you didn’t care. Because he felt so good, and you felt good, and you finally understood why your old friends used to say that sex was only good with the right person. That was Jihoon. His cock curved into you just right, hitting that one spot, and you keened, whimpering his name like it was the only thing you knew.
“Squeeze me so good,” he grunted, meeting your completely fucked-out stare, “you know that?”
All you could do was nod, mouth falling open as your body vibrated with pleasure.
His free hand left your nipple to hitch your leg up onto his hip, and his groan sounded otherworldly as he fucked into you even deeper than before. He had to be dreaming. No one could ever feel this good, but you did. And of course, it would be you. Wrists fidgeting in his hold, you felt your arousal gush around him just from the pleasure of being absolutely filled like this. You managed to hold your leg up, even when it felt like jelly, and his hand crept between your legs. “I’m gonna make you see stars again,” he promised, fingers finding your puffy clit, “and then I’m going to let go inside you. Sound good, angel? Because I can’t hold on much longer.”
Before you could utter a strangled word, he pinched your clit, and then pressed down on it at the same time he pushed into you hard. All you saw was white. Just as you started to let out the kind of moan that would echo through the entire hotel, he sealed his mouth over yours. He kissed you with purpose, swallowing every sound as you came for what felt like forever. Your walls contracted, clenching around his cock, until he was groaning against your lips and spiraling down the same path. He fucked his release into you, not stopping for one moment, but his hips faltered slightly. Emptying himself inside of you, you felt the stickiness begin to drip from between your thighs and the deafening squelch when he thrust into you one last time. Finally, he exhaled, collapsing on top of you as the last of his release trickled inside.
You were both silent for a while. The sound of heavy breathing filtered throughout room 217. Jihoon finally slipped his hand off your wrists, muted red marks now blooming on your skin, and cupped your cheek so you could look at him. He admired you: hardly able to keep your eyes open, your dilated pupils, the flush on your cheeks and the sweat dotting your hairline, making your perfectly-kept hair now frizzy. You were even more beautiful like this – not put together, claimed. You were all his now. And no one – not even Han – could take you away from this hotel.
“I’ll keep you safe,” he whispered against your kiss-bitten lips, “forever.”
After going to PTD LA and various other concerts, I’m so prepared for this tour that I booked all my travel and accommodations for things JUST IN CASE.
It’s hard though because my bts bestie who I got into them with broke up with me last week. There’s a huge gash. I’d dedicated some chapters of my fics to her, as she was my biggest supporter of writing.
It was really sudden and there was no room for conversation or discussion, which is eating away at me, and I would trade the whole tour, or even never talking about kpop again if it meant she was still my friend. The last texts before the breakup were about our tour plans, so not having her to go with or even be excited with has me feeling so empty.
But that’s not where we are now. I understand that. I’ll still think of her when I hear them. When I go to the concerts, I’ll always remember the ones she was by my side for and miss her in that space. She’s not replaceable to me. Ever.
But life goes on, right? It has to. Even if I wish I could go back and spend one more day with her as my friend. I won’t forget how much she helped me when I needed it the most.
I hope if you want to go to this tour, you get the chance to feel the way she and I felt under the colorful lights. I hope you’re with someone who makes you feel at home.
Sorry I haven’t updated anything. I do feel bad, really.
So many drafts sit unfinished in a folder. The final part of penalty shot I have been working on for over a year and just haven’t been able to solidify. It’s slow work on this end. I used to throw my everything in writing, but in the last year, between my severe chronic migraines and just general fatigue, it’s been hard to even manifest sentences.
There will be chapters, endings, things that I finish because I never abandon a story I started telling. I’m still here, slowly chipping away at them as they take shape.
I can’t promise dates, I wish I could. I can’t promise “soon” or “tomorrow” or any given measurement of time. Just know they’ll exist for you to read.
Smut Warnings: Explicit sexual acts - Phone Sex - Mutual Masturbation - Dom! Wonwoo - Brat! F. Reader - Biting - Choking - Hairpulling - Semi Public Sex - PIV - Unprotected intercourse
This story is intended for an adult audience only. Minors do not interact.
You are going to die here.
That’s the thought that keeps drifting through your head as you blink at the same line of dialogue for the twelfth time, the blue light from three mismatched monitors painting your apartment in shades of insomnia. Your eyes burn and your spine feels like it’s been replaced with poorly implemented ragdoll physics, but your fingers keep moving anyway, muscle memory dragging you forward.
Your desk is a war zone. Empty energy drink cans stand around your keyboard. Sticky notes cling to the edge of your monitor in neon layers, covered in half-legible scribbles about branching choices and emotional beats, little arrows connecting one colour to another as if you thought that would actually help at the time. There’s a cold slice of congealed pizza on a plate somewhere under a pile of printed scripts you swore you’d recycle three days ago. A hoodie you don’t remember taking off is half on your chair, half on the floor. Somewhere under it all, your phone vibrates and then gives up when you don’t bother to check.
You crack your knuckles, stretch your neck until it pops, and reread the dialogue you just typed. You grimace. Too melodramatic, not enough specificity. Too “late-night drama,” not enough “player agency.” You delete the line and start again, fingers clattering, a soft plastic storm in the quiet of your apartment. The clock in the corner of your screen informs you, very helpfully, that it’s 02:43.
You were supposed to send the final script for this indie client six hours ago. But they pushed new requirements yesterday – “a more emotionally resonant, cinematic ending, you know, like that huge AAA title but different enough that we don’t get sued” – and then attached a list of notes that made it clear they had no actual idea what they wanted. Typical.
You scroll through the feedback again, jaw tightening at the last line: We know you’re really good with feelings and stuff, so just sprinkle some of that magic on there. We’ll worry about the “real” game bits. You don’t need a mirror to know your expression right now could curdle milk.
Sure. Feelings. Sprinkle some on. Like parsley. Like you’re not the one who also mapped their entire progression path because they didn’t hire a systems designer and hoped you wouldn’t notice.
Your cursor blinks. You type, erase, retype. The story in your head is broader than what’s making it onto the screen; it always is. Your brain wants to build a whole trilogy, and your contract only pays for four endings and twelve unique dialogue paths. You keep catching yourself jotting down ideas that go way beyond scope, then crossing them out hard enough to rip the page.
You force yourself to focus. Deep breath. Okay. You can do this. One last pass. Then maybe, if you’re lucky, three hours of sleep and a shower that doesn’t involve you crying silently under the hot water. You promise yourself an actual breakfast, too, even though you already know that’s a lie.
Your inbox tab flashes with a new email.
You almost ignore it. Nothing good ever lands in your inbox after midnight. It’s either a passive-aggressive reminder, a bug report, or your mother sending you a link to yet another “stable career path in marketing or UX writing.” Still, the notification icon is glaring at you like a boss’ health bar at 2%. You sigh, swipe the cans aside enough to find your mouse, and click over. The sender field makes your brain stutter.
From: [email protected]
Subject: Invitation to Discuss Potential Collaboration
The logo is crisp and tiny next to their domain, the stylised anvil-and-flame you’ve seen a thousand times on splash screens, posters, and awards shows. Titan Forge. The company that basically defined your teenage years, the one whose GDC talks you watch on YouTube when you need inspiration, the one that other studios name-drop in their “inspired by” decks. The name people drop into conversations with a certain reverence, like it’s a magic spell that can open doors. You click the email open with hands that suddenly don’t feel entirely attached to your body.
Dear,
Titan Forge is exploring potential collaboration opportunities with select external developers for upcoming projects. Your previous work has come to our attention, and we would like to invite you to our offices to discuss a possible partnership.
Please find attached a mutual NDA for review and signature, along with the proposed date for an in-person meeting at our studio.
We look forward to speaking with you.
Best regards,
Titan Forge Talent & Partnerships
You reread it once. Twice. Five times. Your heart thumps so hard you can hear it in your ears. The words blur, then snap back into focus. Your previous work has come to our attention.
You glance around your apartment like someone might be standing in the corner with a camera, waiting to yell “Pranked!” But there’s only your dying plant, your dirty mug, and your mess of cables. The plant droops accusingly, like it knows you’re about to forget to water it for another three days.
You check the sender carefully. It’s a real Titan Forge domain. The signature block looks clean, not one of those obvious scams with Comic Sans and bad logos. There’s an NDA attached, and it’s long and boring and full of legalese about confidential information and non-disclosure, and no, you may not tweet anything. This is real.
You scroll back up, suddenly hyper-aware of the film of sweat on your palms. There are no details about the project. No indication of what “upcoming projects” means. Just “potential collaboration” and a date in three days’ time, in an office you’ve walked past more than once, telling yourself someday you’d get inside. You remember stopping across the street once just to stare at their lobby, watching badge-wearing employees scan in like it was nothing.
Doubt slinks in like a glitch through a wall. Maybe they sent this to the wrong person. Maybe they meant it for someone else, and your email got autocomplete’d by accident. Maybe they think you’re your own more impressive clone, the version of you who’s already shipped a breakout hit and has a hundred thousand followers on whatever platform is currently eating Twitter’s corpse.
You’re painfully familiar with being underestimated. Conferences where you’ve been asked if you’re “here with your boyfriend.” Panels where your questions get redirected to the guy next to you. Clients who praise your “soft skills” and then hand combat design to some dude whose portfolio is three jam entries and a YouTube channel. This… doesn’t feel like that. This feels like someone, somewhere, actually noticed. Like they played something you wrote and cared enough to remember your name. Which, obviously, means there’s probably a trap.
You scroll again to make sure you haven’t missed the part that says “participation unpaid, for exposure only.” There’s nothing. Just an address, a time, and the NDA. Your cursor hovers over the “Reply” button.
If you accept and it’s a mistake, you’ll die of embarrassment in their lobby while security escorts you out and some bored receptionist makes a note never to let you back in. You can already picture yourself walking home with your laptop bag feeling heavier than your entire body. If you don’t accept and it’s real, you will never forgive yourself.
You drag a hand over your face, pressing your fingers into your eyes until sparks dance behind your eyelids. Your pulse is jittery, too fast, like pre-boss-fight music when you haven’t found the health pickups yet. You open the NDA attachment again, scroll to the bottom, and type your name in the signature field. You attach the signed document, and before you can talk yourself out of it, you type a reply.
“Thank you for reaching out. I would be happy to visit the studio to discuss potential collaboration. The proposed date works for me.”
You hover over the send button. Your stomach swoops like you’re staring down a boss arena. You hit send.
The email flies out into the void. There’s no explosion, no confetti, no immediate follow-up saying “Sorry, wrong person.” Just the quiet hum of your PC and the soft, endless buzz of the fridge in the corner. You lean back in your chair, staring at the ceiling.
You’ve been here before. This is the part where your brain tries to speedrun every possible worst-case scenario. It’ll tell you the competition is all men in expensive hoodies with more followers than you; that they’re going to look at you and see someone who likes “feelings and stuff” but doesn’t know real game design. You’ve survived this industry long enough to recognise the voice in your head that doesn’t belong to you. The one that sounds suspiciously like a collection of panel mansplainers and Reddit threads.
You take a breath. You can panic later. After the deadline you’re about to miss. You spin your chair back to your script and drag the current scene to the side, opening your notes. The feedback doc sits there, smug and bullet-pointed.
You let your forehead drop gently onto your keyboard. The keys imprint little squares into your skin. You exhale into the plastic. “Okay,” you mutter to yourself, words coming out muffled against the spacebar, then lift your head. “Fine. One more pass, then I send this, then I freak out about Titan Forge in a controlled manner.”
Promise made, you rework the scene until your eyes sting. You adjust lines, trim redundancies, and add that one small choice that ties back to an earlier conversation and makes everything hurt more. By the time you hit send on the revised script and attach the build notes, the sky outside your window is shifting toward that pre-dawn grey that feels like a graphics engine with no lighting baked in.
You watch your sent email slide into the folder and sit there, accusing you. There will be more notes. There are always more notes. But for now, you are free. Free, and buzzing with too much adrenaline and too many energy drinks in your bloodstream to sleep. You check the time: 04:19.
Sleep would be the sensible choice. Like good posture, or actually leaving your apartment sometimes. You open your game launcher instead.
The Aetherion icon glows in the centre of your screen, your most-used app after your engine and your writing software. The familiar loading animation swirls, the orchestral theme swelling in a way that still hits you in the chest, even after hundreds of hours. You’ve written breakdowns of this intro just to figure out why it works so well; you still don’t know, not really.
The login screen fades in. You type your password by muscle memory, fingers moving faster than conscious thought. Your username materialises in the corner: MidnightNyx
You select your main.
Nyx appears in a burst of light — slim, dark armour etched with faintly glowing sigils, twin daggers strapped across her back, a hood shadowing her face. She stands in the middle of the Iridescent Wilds, crystalline trees rising around her, their branches tinkling softly as pixelated wind passes through. Wisps of colour drift like fireflies between the trunks.
For a second, you just breathe.
The tiny floating UI elements, the faint shimmer of particle effects, the distant silhouettes of other players moving like fireflies through the forest — it all feels like stepping into a version of reality that fits you better than the one with rent and deadlines and emails that may or may not change your entire career.
You move Nyx forward with the lightest touch on your keys, listening to the soft thud of her boots on glassy ground. Her cape sways; the gems in the trees refract light in shifting patterns. Somewhere overhead, a dragon’s silhouette cuts across a distant moon. Your chat box blinks with system messages. A friend request from someone you don’t remember grouping with; a guild recruitment spam; a global shout about some rare world event spawning in fifteen minutes.
Your guild status still reads [Solo]. You’ve been invited to join groups before, but there’s something comforting about logging in alone, slipping into the world without anyone expecting you to talk. No cameras, no commentary, no one asking you to justify your design decisions in real time. The raid finder icon pulses.
You roll your neck, stretching the knot at the base of your skull. The Titan Forge email sits behind all of this like another open window in your brain. You’re not going to be able to stop thinking about it. But you can redirect the energy. Screw sleep. You guide your cursor to the raid queue and hover over “Crystal Depths – Mythic.”
Probably a bad idea. Your reaction time is trash on this little sleep. But Crystal Depths is your favourite: a dungeon carved entirely out of luminous gemstone, mechanics built around light refraction and shadow phases. Elegant, punishing, beautiful. The kind of encounter you secretly wish you’d designed. You click the queue button. A small confirmation pops up. Enter matchmaking as: [DPS] [Healer] [Tank]
You smirk despite yourself and tap DPS. The queue timer starts ticking up, numbers creeping higher in the corner of your screen.
You tug your blanket off the back of your chair and wrap it around your shoulders like a cloak, pulling your knees up under you. The fabric smells like coffee and takeout and you. Under your breath, you murmur, half to Nyx, half to yourself, “No pressure, right?”
The words hang in the air, small and wry, and you can’t tell if you’re talking about the raid you just queued for or the meeting you just agreed to with a company that could rewrite your career. Probably both.
The timer ticks past 01:23. Somewhere in the world, other players are also hitting “Join.” Different screens, different lives, all funnelled into the same encounter, the same boss arena, the same glowing loot. You watch the spinning icon and let your heartbeat settle into a steadier rhythm.
Here, you know what you’re doing. Here, you’ve already proven yourself a hundred times, in clean pulls and perfect dodges and clutch saves. Here, nobody cares what you look like or whether your voice sounds like it belongs on a panel. They care if you can play.
The screen flickers. Match found. Joining raid…
You straighten automatically, fingers finding their place on the keys. For the next hour, you’ll transform into Nyx, shadow-stepping through the Crystal Depths, blades flashing, dancing on the edge of failure and victory with nine strangers.
The loading screen swirls into a new scene of glittering caverns, light bouncing off mirrored walls. The raid frames populate on the left side of your UI, names appearing one by one in a quick cascade of colour and guild tags. You barely glance at them. You’re already moving Nyx forward, ready to work, ready to fight, ready — for just a little while — to exist in a world where your enemies are clearly labelled, and your objectives are simple.
Kill the boss. Don’t die. Don’t let your team down. Everything else can wait.
Titan Forge’s lobby looks just as intimidating as the outside.
It’s all polished concrete and matte-black metal, warm wood accents, and big green plants that are somehow alive despite being indoors. Screens on the walls loop trailers and dev diaries on mute, flashes of monsters and magic and UI mock-ups reflecting across the gleaming floor. The company logo glows behind the reception desk: the stylised anvil-and-flame, bright enough to make your heart skip. You clutch your laptop against your chest like a shield.
The receptionist gives you a professional smile, scans your ID, and hands over a visitor badge on a lanyard. “You’re here for the partnerships meeting?” she asks. “Yeah,” you manage. Your voice sounds surprisingly normal. That’s something.
“Great. Take the elevator to the fifth floor. Someone will meet you at the door.” You clip the badge to your shirt and head toward the elevator bank. The doors slide open with a soft whoosh, swallowing you into a box of brushed metal and your own reflection. You stare at yourself in the mirrored panel: dark circles under your eyes, hair pinned back in a way you hope reads as competent instead of I did this in a rideshare. Your reflection adjusts her grip on the laptop. “You belong here,” you whisper to yourself, barely audible. “Act like it.”
The elevator dings, and the doors slide open onto a hallway that smells faintly of coffee and expensive hardware. A guy in a Titan Forge hoodie greets you, scans your badge with his phone, and leads you past rows of open-plan desks and glass-walled meeting rooms. Everywhere you look, people are in motion — standing meetings around whiteboards covered in diagrams, clusters of devs staring at screens, someone testing a game build on a massive TV with a controller, laughing when something clearly breaks. Snatches of conversation float past: fragments about shaders, telemetry, and patch notes. It’s like walking through a highlight reel of your dream job.
You’re so busy trying not to gape that you almost miss it when your guide stops and holds a hand out toward a door. “Here we are,” he says. “They’re just getting set up. You can go right in.” You adjust your grip on your laptop again and push the glass door open.
Five heads turn.
There’s a long table in the middle of the room with sleek chairs around it, a wall-mounted screen at one end, and floor-to-ceiling windows that pour light over everything. Four people are already seated, each with their own laptop, each looking like they could front a different marketing campaign for “diverse, talented developers.”
Your gaze skims across them on autopilot — sharp-bobbed woman with a blazer and glitter eyeliner, guy with blond hair and suspiciously perfect skin, dude in a designer jacket scrolling on his phone, woman with a messy ponytail and sharp eyes — and then snags on the fifth chair. On him. Jeon Wonwoo.
You’ve seen him on stage more times than you care to admit — accepting awards, giving talks about combat pacing and enemy AI. You’ve seen his name on leaderboards, on credits, on headlines in trade blogs. You’ve seen his face across convention hallways, in green rooms, on tiny Discord icons. You’ve argued with him on panels, quote-tweeted his threads, DM’d him memes, and fought with him about difficulty curves at three in the morning in a group chat full of other devs who should also have been asleep.
You know him. Unfortunately.
He looks up as the door clicks shut, eyes flicking over you. The bored expression shifts just enough to register recognition, like the game has finally loaded the correct asset. “Well, shit,” he says, voice low and dry. “They really are scraping the bottom of the barrel.”
It’s almost a greeting. Heat spikes in your chest. You arch a brow, forcing your feet to keep moving. “Funny,” you say. “I was just thinking they must have lost a bet if they invited you.”
The corner of his mouth twitches. Not quite a smile, but familiar.
“Pixie,” he says, and there it is. “Try not to set anything on fire before the coffee break, yeah?”
It’s absurd that one stupid nickname can make your spine straighten and your heartbeat pick up, but here you are. You’ve heard it from him before, of course. He started using it after he saw your avatar in some game’s credit reel and decided you looked “like trouble but also like you’d fit in a backpack.” You hated it then. You still do. Mostly.
You walk past him to an empty chair across the table, two seats down. You sit, set your laptop down, and busy yourself with the charger cable like that little exchange didn’t just light up every competitive synapse in your body. He goes back to spinning his pen like nothing happened. It infuriates you. The others introduce themselves in polite murmurs while you’re pretending to check your email.
“Mina Myoi. Freelance designer.”
“Lee Felix. Systems and combat.”
“Byun Baekhyun. Creative direction, mostly.”
“Kim Yoohyeon. Narrative and content design.”
When it’s your turn, you look up and give them your name, a quick summary of “freelance narrative, RPG focus, some systems overlap.” They nod, murmur “Nice to meet you,” and then, inevitably, all eyes slide toward the last man at the table. He doesn’t bother to look up from his laptop. “Jeon Wonwoo,” he says, like he’s reading his own name off a bug report. “Combat design. Freelance.” He glances up then, eyes catching yours for half a heartbeat.
It’s really not long enough to be meaningful, but the overall effect is the same as always: he’s not surprised you’re here with him. He’s not impressed by it either. You want to throw your laptop at his head.
The door opens again before you can consider how bad that would look on a Titan Forge security report.
David Lee walks in like he owns the building, which, to be fair, he kind of does. Not literally, but close enough. You recognise him from interviews and presentations — sharp suit, white sneakers, the kind of charisma that could probably sell microtransactions to people who hate microtransactions.
Behind him: a woman in a Titan Forge narrative hoodie you recognise instantly as Jisoo, a tall guy with warm brown skin and a lanyard full of enamel pins who must be Raj, and a neat, prim man carrying a tablet who can only be Kaito. David claps his hands once, loud enough to snap everyone’s attention to him, and grins. “Look at this table,” he says. “If a bus hits this meeting room, half the indie scene is screwed.”
There’s a ripple of laughter. You feel your shoulders loosen a fraction.
He moves to the head of the table but doesn’t sit, pacing slowly instead, remote in one hand. “You all know who we are,” he continues. “You’ve cursed our patch notes, you’ve argued about our balance passes, you’ve probably watched at least one of our trailers and thought, ‘I could do better than that.’” He winks. “Good. That’s why you’re here.”
The wall screen behind him flares to life with the Titan Forge logo, then shifts. Mythfall: Eclipse
The font is big and clean, the art behind it a swirl of dark sky and shattered constellations. You feel your stomach drop and your veins light up at the same time. David sees the reaction around the table and smiles like a wolf. “This,” he says, gesturing at the title, “is our next big mistake waiting to happen. Co-op action RPG, mythic collapse, gods dying, all that good cheerful stuff.”
He clicks, and a new slide appears: Five Trials
Vision
Versatility
Co-op
Fire
Fallout
You blink. “Cute naming scheme,” Felix mutters under his breath. David hears it and grins wider. “We’re not hiring an ‘idea person,’” he says. “We’re not hiring a code goblin who can’t talk to another human without breaking out in hives. We’re looking for someone who can lead. That means having a clear vision and the ego to defend it, but also the humility to throw it away when it’s wrong.” He ticks off the words on his fingers as he talks, energy crackling in the air.
“Trial One is vision. We give you a very thin prompt, and you tell us what the hell Mythfall: Eclipse actually is. Pillars, tone, the kind of player who’s gonna lose a hundred hours to it.” Click.
“Trial Two is versatility. You’re all specialists. We’re going to shove you out of your lane and see if you drown or learn to swim sideways.” Another click.
“Trial Three is co-op. You’ll be paired up to build a vertical slice together. We get to see how you share the wheel, who hogs it, who knows when to let go.” His gaze flicks meaningfully between you and Wonwoo for a second before moving on.
“Trial Four is fire. Live playtests, live feedback, live iteration. No hiding behind ‘we’ll fix it in post.’” Click.
“Trial Five is fallout. Long-term vision, live-service thinking, crisis rescoping. Because everything goes wrong eventually, and we want to see how interesting your solutions are when it does.”
The slide lingers behind him, the words stark against a dark background.
“You’ll be judged by people who actually ship this stuff,” David says, nodding toward the others. “Jisoo on narrative, Raj on combat, Kaito on production. They will not be nice to you. If they’re nice, it’s because they’re worried about HR.” Jisoo grins. Raj gives a little finger-wiggle wave. Kaito inclines his head, expression politely deadly.
“We’ll talk structure, expectations, and all the fun paperwork after this,” David adds. “But the short version is: over the next few weeks, we’re going to see what you do under pressure. We’re going to see how you handle failure and how you handle each other. At the end, we decide whether Mythfall gets one of you as a lead…” He pauses, letting the silence stretch. “…or whether we go back to the drawing board and pretend this never happened.”
Your chest tightens. You’re not used to people talking about your career like it’s a boss arena you can win or lose in one shot. It’s always been incremental for you — contract by contract, line by line, tiny gigs stacking into something that looks like a trajectory. This is not tiny.
David’s gaze sweeps the table. “You’re here because I watched your work,” he says. “Because people on my teams argued about your stuff in meetings. In a good way.”
Wonwoo shifts slightly in his chair, eyes never leaving the screen. Of course, he’s interested. This is basically a love letter to everything he’s good at — combat, pacing, spectacle. If anyone in this room is a natural fit, it’s him. If anyone is currently feeding your imposter syndrome like it’s a Tamagotchi, it’s also him.
David wraps up with a reminder about discretion, a joke about “no leaks unless you want to see our legal team level up,” and dismisses you with instructions to check the portal for your first brief after lunch.
Chairs scrape. Laptops snap shut. You shove your notebook and laptop into your bag with maybe a little more force than strictly necessary and follow the others out into the hallway, heart still racing. The corridor hums with office noise: distant chatter, the clack of keyboards, the faint soundtrack of some game test playing behind a closed door. You’re halfway to the elevators when a familiar voice drawls behind you.
“So,” he says, “if you try to speedrun your burnout any faster, you’ll glitch through the floor, Pixie.” You stop. You turn slowly.
Wonwoo is leaning against the wall by the water cooler, hands in his hoodie pocket, head tipped slightly back. He looks like he’s been standing there for hours, even though you know you just left the same room. His badge dangles against his chest, tilted sideways. You lift your chin.
“Bold of you to comment on my burnout when your sleep schedule is a cryptid,” you say. “Do they know you only log off Twitter when the servers catch fire?” He arches a brow, mouth twitching.
“At least I don’t subtweet the people who might sign my checks,” he says. “Interesting strategy, by the way.”
You snort. “If Titan Forge kicked out everyone I’ve subtweeted, you’d be giving this little lecture to an empty hallway,” you shoot back. “You’re not that special.”
The corner of his mouth curls into that infuriating half-smirk. “Afraid of the competition, Pixie?” Your pulse jumps at the nickname, annoyingly traitorous. “Afraid you’ll finally have to notice it,” you shoot back. Something flickers across his face — brief, almost too quick to catch — before his expression shutters back into lazy.
“Don’t worry,” he says. “If you do something worth noticing, I’ll let you know.” Your jaw tightens. “Wow,” you say lightly. “I forgot how charming you are in person.”
“That’s okay,” he says. “I’m sure the internet reminds you all the time.”
You want to hit him and high-five him at the same time. It’s deeply annoying that his insults land with the same precision as his combat balancing. “Enjoy your temporary head start,” you tell him, stepping past. “I’m sure it’ll make losing more dramatic.”
His low chuckle follows you down the hall, threading under the murmur of office noise. “We’ll see, Pixie.” You don’t look back.
You have the sudden, vivid memory of losing that one industry award to him — the way he accepted the trophy with quiet grace, the way the cameras lingered, the way your agent patted your back and said “Next time,” like that fixed anything. You remember starting the stream of his thank-you speech at home later, getting thirty seconds in, and closing the tab because it was easier to resent him than admit he was good.
Now you’re sharing a hallway. A project. A shot at something you’ve wanted since you first saw the Titan Forge logo on a much smaller screen. You ride the elevator down with your heart still hammering against your ribs, the weight of the badge on your chest suddenly heavier.
By the time you get home, your brain feels like it’s been run through a blender and poured back into your skull wrong.
You drop your bag by the door, toe off your shoes, and stand in the middle of your living room for a full thirty seconds, just… buffering. The Titan Forge badge is still clipped to your shirt. You unclip it carefully and set it on your desk. Then you flop into your chair and stare at nothing.
You scrub your hands over your face, then reach automatically for the one thing that always helps when your thoughts are too loud. Aetherion boots up with that same familiar swell of music. You log in on autopilot, fingers flying over the keys.
Nyx materialises in the centre of a bustling hub, other players darting past like bright, restless birds. You roll your shoulders, mirroring the way Nyx stretches when she loads in, and open the raid finder. You don’t even care which one. You just need something that isn’t your own brain.
The queue pops faster than you expect. Raid ready. Joining in 5… 4… 3…
The loading screen dissolves into a vast, gleaming arena — all massive stone platforms and swirling magic, a boss at the far end already roaring in place. Your raid frames fill up in a neat list on the side of your screen, health bars stacking. Most of the usernames blur together as you skim them, all variations on edgy nouns and misspelt Latin. One stands out: KadeLocke.
Your gaze catches on the little sword icon next to the name. Melee DPS. Greatsword type, if you remember the class symbol right. You move Nyx into position near the group, bouncing on her heels while the raid leader pings markers. Chat scrolls by with the usual chaos. A message pings in party chat.
[Party] KadeLocke: First time for anyone? Mechanics are simple, but I can call them out as we go.
You smile despite yourself at the calm confidence in that one line. Not cocky, not plz listen to me, just… sure, like he expects people to follow because that’s what happens when he talks. Someone types first time here with a crying emoji. Someone else sends same lol.
You hesitate for a second, then type. [Party] MidnightNyx: I’ve done it, but I won’t say no to free carry commentary.
[Party] KadeLocke: Not a carry. Just prefer killing things efficiently instead of watching everyone panic.
You huff a laugh, shoulders relaxing a little. Same, you think. The pull timer starts counting down. The boss fight erupts into motion. Magic flares. Health bars dip. The arena shakes under heavy footsteps and explosions. In the middle of it all, Kade moves like he’s playing a different game. His greatsword arcs through animations with ruthless precision. He doesn’t waste a step. He doesn’t flail. His positioning is textbook. More importantly, his callouts are good.
[Party] KadeLocke: Stack centre for slam. Don’t touch the glowing tiles.
[Party] KadeLocke: Nyx, you and I take left adds? You’ve got the burst.
You blink. Nobody ever singles you out like that in randoms unless it’s to yell about aggro. You flick your camera and see him — his avatar, at least — already pivoting toward the left flank, greatsword resting on his shoulder as he waits for the next wave. You dart after him, Nyx’s daggers flashing as you fall into rhythm without even meaning to.
He pulls, you erase. He knocks enemies into the air, you chain combo off the juggle. Twice, you see a stray hit coming for him and dive in to interrupt, your fingers moving before you consciously decide to. You don’t have to think about where to stand. He’s always half a second ahead, his movements almost telegraphing what he’s going to need from you. The boss drops to one knee. Final phase.
[Party] KadeLocke: Everyone on boss. Save big cooldowns. Nyx, go crazy.
You grin, feeling the rush of it — the permission, the trust from a stranger. You burn everything you’ve got, weaving in and out of danger, leaving the boss’s health bar in ragged chunks behind you. When the thing finally goes down in a burst of light and loot, the chat floods. You lean back, letting your pulse slow, a stupid little spark of pride warming you as the victory fanfare plays.
A private message pops up. Kade: Nice damage. You’ve got good instincts. You stare at it for a second, lips tugging up. Nyx: You’re welcome for my hard work.
There’s a long enough pause that you wonder if you were too sharp, if text doesn’t carry your grin. Then, Kade: Bratty. Bold choice for someone who almost stood in the death beam twice.
Your mouth falls open in a laugh. Nyx: Almost stood in. Keyword. That’s called “living on the edge.”
Kade: That’s called “giving your healer a heart attack.” You wiggle your mouse, making Nyx circle in place. Nyx: They lived. Boss died. Sounds like a win to me.
Kade: Can’t argue with results, I guess.
He adds, a beat later, Kade: Queue another? Could use someone who knows how to improvise without completely ignoring mechanics.
Warmth pricks at the edges of your tired brain. This is just random matchmaking. You don’t owe him anything. You should probably log off, drink water, and stare at your notes for the first trial tomorrow.
Instead, your fingers are already moving. Nyx: Sure. But if we wipe, I’m blaming you in global chat.
You imagine Kade on the other side of the screen, wherever he is, reading that and maybe smiling. Maybe rolling his eyes. Maybe, like you, relieved to just play with someone who gets it.
Kade: Deal. I’ll try not to ruin your reputation, Nyx.
You feel a tiny, stupid flicker of warmth at the way he uses your name — not player or rogue or some generic label, but the one you picked, the one that feels a little more like you than your real one does some days. It’s nothing. Just a stranger in a game being mildly charming. The loading screen swirls, and the world pulls you forward.
In one life, you’re preparing to go head-to-head with Jeon Wonwoo for the biggest opportunity of your career. In another, you’re running into battle beside a stranger with a greatsword and good instincts. You don’t yet know how these two lives will collide.
For now, you tighten your grip on your mouse, flex your fingers over your keys, and step into the next fight.
The email arrives at 06:12, which is frankly rude.
You wake up to your phone buzzing itself off the nightstand, grope for it, and squint at the screen through one half-open eye.
You groan into your pillow. Sleep was not your friend last night. Every time you closed your eyes, your brain projected the Mythfall: Eclipse title card onto the back of your eyelids and ran a mental speedrun of Jeon Wonwoo being effortlessly competent in every possible scenario. You crack one eye fully open, tap the notification, and drag yourself upright against the headboard as the portal page loads.
TRIAL ONE – VISION
Objective: Articulate a concise, compelling core vision for Mythfall: Eclipse.
Deliverables (max 1 page total):
– 3–5 clear game pillars
– A short scenario synopsis (1 key story moment)
– A high-level combat loop outline
Deadline: 48 hours
You stare at the “max 1 page” line and make an offended noise. They want your entire brain in 500 words or less.
You swing your legs out of bed and immediately step on a sticky note. Of course. You peel it off your foot and squint at the scribble: “Player choices = emotional scars, not stats.” You have no memory of writing that, but past you was onto something. You decide: coffee first. Then vision.
Two hours later, your apartment looks like a crime scene where the victim is “scope control.” Your whiteboard is crammed with phrases in different colours, circled, underlined, connected by frantic arrows:
“All myths collapsing into one dying world.”
“Co-op = emotional co-dependency, not just DPS checks.”
“Players as unreliable narrators of their own legend?”
You pace in a tight loop between the board and your desk, marker tapping against your palm, trying to distil everything into something clean enough to fit on one page without losing what makes it interesting. You can practically feel Raj threatening to fall asleep if you don’t mention anything with numbers, so you scribble in:
“Synergy skills: co-op abilities that get stronger the more you ‘trust’ your party member.”
You add a quick note about positioning mattering, about telegraphed attacks that tell a story instead of just glowing red on the floor. You hate yourself a little for writing “visceral,” but it fits. You step back, chewing the end of the marker cap, and imagine Wonwoo in his apartment somewhere, sitting down with a notebook, pen in hand, completely unbothered. One neat, clean page. Probably annotated. Probably infuriatingly good. The thought lights up your competitiveness. No way, you think, turning back to the board. You are not letting him walk in with a cleaner pitch. You drag a line down the centre of the whiteboard and force yourself to pick. Three pillars. Just three. You write, slowly, in big letters:
Shared Fate, Shared Story – Co-op choices that bind players’ destinies together.
Myths in Freefall – Colliding pantheons, broken rules, consequences that reshape the map.
Every Fight Tells a Story – Combat as character expression, not just math.
Underneath, you sketch out one scenario: a boss fight where a dying god refuses to let go of power, and players have to decide whether to kill them outright or siphon what’s left to save a village. Either way, something breaks. Either way, the world remembers what they did.
You stare at it until the words swim, then force yourself to sit down and turn the chaos into a one-page doc. You trim, condense, murder your darlings. You cut a whole paragraph about mythological canon because nobody has time. You wrestle the combat loop into three sentences: anticipation, reaction, pay-off. You squeeze in one line about accessibility without making Kaito’s eye twitch from imagined budget creep. Every time you get stuck, your mind flashes a quick image of Wonwoo in that glass room — pen spinning, expression unreadable, sitting there like all of this is just another Tuesday. You type a little harder.
Titan Forge in the early morning feels like a level before enemies spawn.
The corridors are quieter, the lights a little softer. Most desks you pass are still half-empty, monitors waking up, a couple of early birds nursing coffee the size of your forearm. Somewhere, someone is yawning loud enough to echo. It’s almost peaceful.
You’re one of the first to reach the meeting room. The door is propped open. Inside, Jisoo is already there, leaning over the table with a notebook, pen moving in quick, looping strokes. Raj sits near the end with a massive mug, scrolling through something on his tablet with the kind of frown that usually precedes a refactor. Kaito has his laptop open, fingers flying over the keys, expression composed in that I’m already thinking three steps ahead of all of you way. You hover a second in the doorway, then step in. “You’re early,” Jisoo says, glancing up with a quick smile.
“Figured I’d get my panic out of the way before the others show up,” you reply, sliding into a chair near the middle of the table and setting your laptop down. Raj huffs into his coffee. “If you’re not panicking a little, you’re not respecting the process,” he says. You’re pretty sure that’s his version of encouragement.
People filter in over the next few minutes. Mina arrives with a neatly organised folder under her arm and a latte in a reusable cup. Felix stumbles in behind her, earphones around his neck, hair still damp like he showered in a hurry. Baekhyun saunters through the doorway, looking like he woke up directly into that outfit. Yoohyeon slips in quietly, tablet hugged to her chest, eyes already scanning some document. You watch them all take their spots, the party assembling.
Wonwoo is one of the last to appear. He walks in without hurry, hoodie thrown on over a plain T-shirt, badge clipped crookedly to the pocket. He’s got his notebook in one hand, pen in the other, as if he’s been taking notes on the way over. He takes in the room with one quick sweep, then his gaze lands on you. For a moment, his eyes soften — not enough that anyone else would notice, but you do. “Look at you,” he says, heading for the empty chair across and one over from you. “Almost human in daylight.”
You snort. “Careful. If you keep flirting with me in front of your future employers, people will talk.” He drops into his seat, flips the notebook open, and spins his pen between his fingers.
“Relax, Pixie,” he says. “I only flirt with people who can actually beat me.” You open your mouth, ready to bite back, when he adds, almost offhand, “But, you’re closer than most.”
It takes your brain a second to decide whether that was a dig or a compliment. By the time you land on both, David makes an entrance like the room has been waiting expressly for him. Probably because it was.
“All right, legends,” he says, grinning. “Trial One: Who actually knows what game they’re making?” He moves to the head of the table but doesn’t sit, pacing slowly instead, remote in one hand.
“Here’s the deal,” he says. “No slides, no mood boards, no thirty-page bibles. You get five minutes to convince us Mythfall: Eclipse is worth sinking the next several years of our lives into. Imagine I’ve just stepped into your Discord call and I’m one bad pitch away from cancelling the project and making a mobile idle clicker instead.” A reluctant chuckle moves around the table. Your palms are sweating.
“Keep it focused,” David adds. “Pillars, a moment that sells the fantasy, and how it plays. Make us feel it. We’ll ask questions. We’ll argue. If you’re lucky, Raj will try to break your combat loop. If you’re very unlucky, he’ll succeed.” Raj lifts his coffee cup in a little salute.
“Who’s going first?” David asks. Silence. You feel your hand lift before your brain fully catches up. “I’ll go,” you hear yourself say.
Wonwoo huffs a soft laugh under his breath, like, of course you will. You ignore him. You stand, unplug your laptop and move to the front of the room. The screen behind you is blank, your reflection faint in the glass. Five minutes. You breathe once, in and out, and begin.
“Mythfall: Eclipse,” you say, “is a co-op action RPG about what happens when the stories that shaped your world break… and you and your friends have to decide what replaces them.” That gets their attention.
Words fall into the space between you and the table. You talk about colliding pantheons and a sky full of dead constellations. About player characters who grew up praying to certain gods and now have to fight them. You anchor everything in co-op — not just as a feature, but as the heart of the experience. “Every big decision,” you say, “isn’t just ‘press A or B.’ It’s something you have to live with together. If you sacrifice a city to save a god, that’s not just a cutscene. That’s a thing your party remembers, brings up later, colours how NPCs talk to you.”
You outline your three pillars in plain language, watching their faces as you do. “Shared fate, shared story,” you say. “The game remembers what you and your friends did together, not just what you did alone.”
“Myths in freefall. The world is collapsing under the weight of all these pantheons smashing into each other. You’re not chosen ones so much as… the last ones who still care.”
“And every fight tells a story. Combat isn’t a separate thing from narrative; it’s where your character’s beliefs show up. A healer who’s lost faith in their god doesn’t cast the same way as one who’s still devout.”
You walk them through one key moment: a crumbling temple, a dying war deity chained to their own throne, a village on the edge of starvation outside. The choice: channel the last of the god’s power into the land to save the harvest, effectively killing the deity… or spare them, preserving a dangerous, wounded god whose followers will remember your mercy.
“Either way,” you say, “the map changes. The way enemies behave, the rumours you hear in taverns, the dreams your characters have — all of that shifts based on that choice. And because it’s co-op, there’s space for people to disagree. Maybe one of you wanted mercy and got outvoted. That friction is part of the story.” Then you ground it in play.
You outline the combat loop: learn, react, retaliate. Fewer inputs, more meaningful windows. You sketch how co-op skills could kick in — one player pinning an enemy in a beam of starlight while the other shatters it, the timing requiring communication, not just number crunching. You don’t look at your notes. You don’t look at Wonwoo. You look at Jisoo.
Her eyes have warmed, that faint, sharp smile tugging at her lips when you describe co-op dialogue that unlocks only if players have made certain choices together. You see little sparks of oh, I could write that lighting in her gaze. Raj’s expression is harder to read, but he leans forward when you talk about fights evolving based on past choices — enemies adapting to your party’s habits, not just their level. You make it clear you’re not pitching a bottomless pit of bespoke encounters; you’re pitching a framework. You wrap up just shy of five minutes.
“…Mythfall: Eclipse should feel like you and your friends carved your own constellation into a broken sky,” you finish. “And you’re the only ones who know what you sacrificed to make it shine.”
For a second, the room is quiet in a way that isn’t empty. Then Jisoo speaks. “I like the emphasis on shared memory,” she says. “A lot of co-op games are about sharing a space, but not a story. This would give us… teeth.” You blink. Your lungs remember how to work.
Raj taps his pen on the table. “If we start tying combat AI behaviour to narrative choices,” he says, “how many distinct states are you imagining?” There it is. You don’t pretend you have every answer, but you talk through modular behaviours, categories of outcomes instead of one-off snowflakes. You frame it as adjustable: test with a smaller matrix, expand if it works. Raj doesn’t smile, exactly, but he stops tapping.
Kaito’s questions are all about scope and pipeline. You acknowledge the risks, point to places the system can scale, and promise you’re not secretly trying to kill his schedule. David hasn’t looked away once. When you’re done, he tilts his head. “You’ve thought about this,” he says. “Good. I hate vague.” You sit down on legs that feel faintly like someone swapped your bones for jelly.
Wonwoo doesn’t say anything as you slide into your chair, but his pen stops spinning for a heartbeat. His gaze flicks over your face, then back to his notebook. The tiniest nod, like he’s marking down “respectable.”
One by one, the others present. Mina’s pitch leans into exploration and environmental storytelling — ruins that tell their own myths if you’re paying attention. Felix’s is systems-heavy, all elegant loops and progression paths. Yoohyeon’s is full of mood and texture, leaning into horror edges. Then it’s Wonwoo’s turn.
“Mythfall: Eclipse,” he says, “is a game about learning to read an enemy that doesn’t want you to.” He goes straight for the jugular: combat.
Not just numbers and cooldowns, but rhythm. He describes enemies as “conversations you have with violence.” Bosses who “remember” what you did last time and punish you if you try the same trick twice. Patrols whose route changes if you’ve been sloppy, mini-bosses that gain new abilities when their god dies or survives. If you talked about consequences on the macro level, he’s drilling into the moment-to-moment. “The core loop is simple,” he says. “See. Survive. Solve. First attempts are about staying alive long enough to understand what the hell this thing is doing. Once you’ve read it, you start rewriting the fight. That’s where mastery lives.” You watch Raj’s eyes brighten like someone plugged him in. To your surprise, Wonwoo doesn’t ignore narrative entirely. He frames it differently.
“The story is what explains why the enemies change,” he says. “If players killed a storm goddess in one region, storms everywhere get weirder. Enemies with lightning-based attacks behave differently. We tie myth states into the AI so the world’s response to what you’ve done isn’t just flavour text; it’s trying to kill you in new ways.”
There it is: the overlap. Where your pitch leaned into the emotional and social consequences of shared choices, his leans into the mechanical consequences. You’re talking about the same coin from opposite sides. You hate how satisfying that is.
From your angle, you can see his one-page document on the table — clean, dense handwriting, a little sketch of a boss arena with arrows showing attack patterns shifting over time. You clock phrases that echo your own thoughts: “player habits,” “party behaviour,” “myth-state driven modifiers.” You also notice what isn’t there: no mention of specific character arcs, no example of how two players might feel differently about the same fight based on their backstory. His story is the world. Yours is the people in it.
“So in your version,” David says when he’s done, “the gods die, the weather freaks out, and the world starts fighting back using your own habits against you.” Wonwoo lifts a shoulder. “Players get lazy if we let them,” he says. “We shouldn’t.” Raj looks openly delighted. “Punishing predictable play is my love language,” he says. “I like this. A lot.”
Jisoo’s expression is thoughtful. “It’s very strong on the ‘what you fight,’” she says. “I’d want to make sure we don’t end up with a technically brilliant game where players can’t remember a single character’s name.”
“We wouldn’t,” Wonwoo says easily. “As long as someone who cares about that is in the room.” His gaze flicks, briefly and unmistakably, toward you.
David sees it. Of course he does. “Interesting,” he says, clasping his hands. “We’ve got one pitch where story is the skeleton and combat is the muscle…” His attention moves to you. “…and one where combat is the skeleton and story is the connective tissue.” He looks back at Wonwoo. “If I locked the two of you in a room and told you to come out with a single vision, would we get a masterpiece or a murder trial?”
“Depends who gets the whiteboard,” you say before you can stop yourself. A couple of people laugh. Wonwoo’s mouth curves. “She can have the whiteboard,” he says. “I’ll take the controller.”
David’s smile says he got exactly what he wanted out of that. “Noted,” he says. “Either way, that was fun. Go eat. Check the portal this afternoon for Trial Two.”
By the time you get home, you feel like someone stretched your nerves out on a rack and then told you to “just relax.”
You drop your bag by the door, kick off your shoes, and slide bonelessly onto the couch while your brain replays the day on loop: your own voice pitching into the room, Jisoo’s interest, Raj’s questions, the way Wonwoo’s ideas slotted uncomfortably well next to yours without actually overlapping. Combat as conversation. Shared fate as story.
It should be validating that your instincts line up with his on the big picture: myths reacting, world state changing, co-op actually mattering. Instead, it makes your chest feel tight. You need to stop thinking. Or at least think about something that can’t email you back.
You get up, shuffle to your desk, and boot up Aetherion.
You log in, watch Nyx shimmer into existence in the middle of a crowded plaza, the usual swirl of players flitting past, and feel your shoulders loosen a notch. You don’t move her right away.
Your fingers hover over the keys as you stare at the minimap, debating. You could run a quick dungeon, do your dailies, mindlessly farm materials while your brain chews on David’s smug face and Raj’s questions. You could wander the fields alone and pull too many mobs just to feel something. Your friends list blips. KadeLocke is now online. Almost immediately, a whisper pops up. Kade: You look like someone standing in town and pretending they know what they’re planning to do.
You blink. You hadn’t moved. You hadn’t typed. The accuracy is unsettling.
Nyx: Wow, psychic. Or are you stalking the login feed now?
Kade: You log in at weird hours and then stand still for a full minute. I’m allowed to draw conclusions. A beat. You busy?
You glance at your very empty, very Mythfall-filled real-life calendar and snort softly. Nyx: Busy spiralling. Why?
Kade: Tower challenge unlocked for me today. Two-player run. Want in?
You pull up the dungeon list automatically. The Tower icon pulses at the edge of the map – high difficulty, recommended party size: 2–3. You’ve never clicked it before. Nyx: Never done it. Thought it was one of those “sweaty tryhard” things.
Kade: It is. I’m inviting you anyway. A party invite pops. You hesitate for half a heartbeat, then accept. The UI shifts to show just two frames: KadeLocke and MidnightNyx.
Kade: Ready?
Nyx: Define “ready.”
Kade: You know your buttons. I know the layout. I’ll tell you where to stand and what to stab. Try not to improvise too much on the first pull.
You roll your eyes even as you move toward the teleport glyph. You step into the portal. The world dissolves in a flare of light, then reforms as a high tower lined with glowing runes and platforms suspended in midair. Far below, mist swirls in a bottomless drop. Above, you can just make out the silhouette of something huge moving in the clouds. You tighten your grip on your mouse. Nyx spawns beside Kade’s avatar on a wide, circular platform. His greatsword rests casually against his shoulder; his cape flutters in some dramatic wind the engine insisted on rendering.
Nyx: Okay. Mildly terrifying.
Kade: It’s worse if you look down. Don’t look down. A pause. First rule: stay on my left unless I tell you otherwise. Second rule: if the floor glows, move. Third rule: if you’re not sure what to do, ask. Don’t guess. You bristle automatically. Nyx: You know I’ve played this game before, right?
Kade: I know you have good instincts and a bit of a chaos streak. I’m accommodating both.
You open your mouth to type something sharp and entirely unconvincing about not having a chaos streak, but the pull timer appears before you can. You exhale, shake your hands out, and ready your daggers.
The first wave hits like a test you didn’t study for: enemies blink into existence around the edge of the platform, beams of light sweep across the floor in predictable-but-not-obvious patterns, and runes start charging under your feet. You dart forward on reflex.
Kade: Left. Now. You jerk Nyx in the indicated direction just as a beam carves through the space you were about to occupy. A rune explodes where you had been standing, showering the area with crackling energy. Okay. Maybe letting him lead isn’t the worst idea. He moves with that same calm precision you remember from the raid — no wasted motion, no panic. He kites enemies into tidy clusters; you slip in and out of their blind spots, carving them down. Every time something new appears — floating orbs, tether mechanics, lines aiming at your feet — his text pops up a fraction of a second before your brain finishes parsing what’s happening.
Kade: Ignore orbs, they’re bait. Hit the casters. Platform’s going to tilt in 3… 2… jump on my ping.
You jump when he pings. The platform shifts on its axis like a seesaw. For a sick second, you’re sure you mistimed it, and you’re going to slide off into the void, but Kade’s avatar slams his sword into the stone at the edge, anchoring himself, and your character bumps into his collision box instead of gravity. You land in a heap against him, metaphorically speaking. Nyx: Did you just body-check physics for me?
Kade: You were about to meet the bottom of the tower. I need you alive for at least one phase.
Your cheeks heat even though there’s nobody here to see you. You push off him and keep going, adrenaline slowly shifting into something steadier. The higher you climb, platform by platform, the less you hesitate, and the more you anticipate where he’s going to be. He calls less; you move more. When he does call, you listen, even if you grumble about it in chat.
On one particularly nasty platform, lines of magic crisscross the floor like a laser grid while enemies fling projectiles from the far side. You start to dart through an opening that looks safe.
Kade: Stop. You halt Nyx mid-step. A beam slices through the space in front of you a heartbeat later. Nyx: You’re no fun.
Kade: Fun is surviving long enough to brag about this. Move when I move.
He waits. You wait with him. When he lunges forward, you follow, toes skimming the edge of danger, heart thudding. It works. It’s infuriating. By the time you reach the top platform, your palms are slick, and your pulse is high, and you kind of hate how much you… trust him?
The final boss materialises in a flare of light and thunder: some towering construct woven from broken runes and discarded god-armor, eyes burning bright. You swallow. Nyx: So what’s the fun surprise here?
Kade: Don’t die. And when it splits into three, take the one that mirrors you. Shadow twin. You’ll know it when you see it.
You want to argue that this is unhelpfully cryptic. Then the fight starts, and you don’t have time. The construct slams its fists down, platforms appear and vanish, the whole top of the tower becomes a dance floor for people with a death wish. Halfway through, the boss shatters into three smaller versions; one of them moves exactly like you do — same skills, same dash, a twisted echo of Nyx. You swear under your breath and go after it. Kade doesn’t micromanage. He tanks his own twin with grim efficiency and throws you the occasional text when something truly unfamiliar appears, but otherwise, he lets you figure it out. You make mistakes, you adjust, you get better fast. When the last shard of the boss explodes, and the Tower falls quiet, your hands are shaking a little.
Loot appears in a tidy chest at the centre. You exhale slowly, the adrenaline high morphing into something warm and fizzy. A private message pops. Kade: You handle vertical runs better than most. Didn’t even try to swan-dive off the top platform once.
You let Nyx idle, daggers sheathed, while you reply. Nyx: I like to keep my dramatic exits for when someone deserves it.
Kade: Good to know. I’ll make sure I’m never standing near the edge if I piss you off. You pause, then let your fingers wander a little closer to the line. Nyx: Bold of you to assume you’d see it coming. I’m sneaky, remember.
Kade: Then I guess I’ll just have to keep you where I can see you.
A flicker of heat runs through you at that, entirely disproportionate to a handful of text characters. You push it, just a bit. Nyx: That sounds suspiciously like you enjoy being in charge.
You hesitate, thumb hovering over Enter, then hit it anyway, heart ticking up a notch. If he gets weird about it, you can always blame it on sleep deprivation and never queue with him again. The reply comes faster than you expect. Kade: I enjoy it when people follow instructions. Everything else is a bonus. And you strike me as someone who needs very specific directions, or you’ll start trouble on purpose.
You stare at that, surprised laughter bubbling up in your chest. He’s… not wrong. Nyx: Are you calling me a handful?
Kade: I’m saying if I tell you “stand here, hit that, don’t lick the glowing floor,” you’ll do the first two and then ask what I’ll give you if you obey the third.
Your face heats. Okay, you walked into that one. Nyx: Depends. What are the rewards for good behaviour?
You send it before you can talk yourself out of it, suddenly very aware of how quiet your apartment is. There’s a longer pause. Long enough that you wonder if you pushed too far, if you’ve misread the tone and he’s going to bail. Then, Kade: Clean clears. No repair bills. Maybe I’ll even say “good job” without sarcasm. Another line appears before you can respond: Start with that. We can renegotiate your perks later if you behave.
Something tightens pleasantly under your ribs. It’s not explicit. It’s barely suggestive. But there’s a shape to the way he phrases things — steady, teasing, a little bossy — that hits a very particular switch in your brain you try not to examine too closely. You type with fingers that feel slightly less steady. Nyx: Wow. High praise. Guess I’ll have to earn it.
Kade: You’re doing fine so far. But don’t let it go to your head.
You open his profile without thinking about it this time, skimming raid stats and titles. Whoever he is, he’s good. Better than good. The kind of player you’d happily trust to lead you through something brutal. He sends another whisper before you can fall too deep into the numbers. Kade: You on around this time often? I’d rather stack the party with people who can take a joke and a mechanic.
You roll your eyes even as your chest warms. Nyx: I keep weird hours. Freelancer life. But yeah, I’ll probably be around. Why, miss me already? You wince the second you hit Enter. That was… bolder than you meant it to be. The answer comes back, cool and easy.
Kade: I miss not wanting to yeet half my raid into the sun. You make that easier. I’m being practical. A half-second later: But if your ego needs the other answer, you can have that too. Your mouth curves helplessly.
You glance at the clock in the corner of your screen. It’s later than you thought. Tomorrow’s brief will hit. Trial Two will start. David will smirk. Raj will poke holes. Wonwoo will be there, spinning his pen, acting like pressure is something that only happens to other people.
Right now, though, your world has shrunk to a little chat window and a name glowing quietly on your friends list. You tap out one last message. Nyx: Fine. Be practical. Just remember you asked for more time with me when I start “accidentally” pulling extra mobs.
Kade: If you do that, I’m putting you on callout duty so everyone knows exactly who to blame. Deal?
Nyx: Deal.
You sit there for another moment, watching the empty chat box, the way Nyx shifts her weight from foot to foot on the screen, Tower music still echoing faintly in your head. Then you log out. The game melts away into your desktop. Your room is quiet again, save for the soft whir of your PC fans.
You close the laptop with a soft click and let your head fall back, eyes slipping shut, the phantom sensation of standing on a narrow platform with nothing but open air below you lingering just long enough to make your stomach flip.
Raj is waiting for you when you walk into the meeting room the next morning, which is not a sentence you ever expected to think.
He’s usually glued to his seat beside Jisoo and Kaito, half a step removed from everyone, eyes sharp behind his glasses. Today, he’s leaning back in a chair at the far end of the table with a tablet in his lap and a coffee cup that says “I BREAK LOOPS FOR FUN” in chipped letters. He looks up as you come in. “Good timing,” he says. “Sit.” You obey mostly because your body is too tired to disobey this early.
“Did I miss an email?” you ask, dropping your bag and sliding into the chair next to him. “Portal update at six,” he says. “I thought I’d save you the joy of reading through production boilerplate and just give you the actual task.”
He hands you the tablet. On it, a document is open with a single bold title: TRIAL TWO – ROLE SWAP
FOCUS: COMBAT ENCOUNTER DESIGN
Design a self-contained combat encounter for Mythfall: Eclipse.
Deliverables (max 2 pages):
– Encounter fantasy
– Enemy types & abilities
– Arena layout
– Difficulty curve (phases, tuning goals)
Narrative dressing is optional but not required. Encounter must stand on its own as a “fun fight” in test harness.
You reread “narrative dressing optional but not required” three times, like if you stare at it long enough, it will turn into “please write us a monologue.” It doesn’t.
“So,” you say slowly, “you want me to design a fight with no story.”
Raj shrugs. “You can hang some story on it if you want,” he says. “But if I strip all your flavour text out and drop this into a greybox test build, it should still be fun. That’s the assignment.”
It’s like asking you to write a symphony using only drums. You like drums. You respect drums. You just also like… melody. Lyrics. Feelings.
“And I assume Wonwoo is writing a heartwarming branching quest about a puppy,” you say before you can stop yourself. Raj’s mouth twitches, like he’s trying not to smile. “You said that, not me,” he replies. “But yeah. He’s on narrative. You’re on combat. I want to see you both out of your comfort zones.” That stings. Because he’s not wrong.
You scroll further down. At the bottom, in small text:
Evaluation focus: clarity of encounter vision, readability of mechanics, pacing, difficulty curve, player learning moments.
No mention of “did this make anyone cry in a good way.” No space for your usual metrics. “Duration?” you ask.
“Short,” Raj says. “Think single dungeon boss or a set-piece fight. Ten minutes tops for an average group. Ideally, less.” You nod, throat tight.
“You’ve got two days,” he adds, standing. “Ask questions if you need to. I mean about the doc. Not about your feelings.” You blink. “What if my feelings are about the doc?” He gives you a flat look that softens at the edges. “Then write a good fight,” he says. “It’ll help.”
Trial Two is like being handed someone else’s toolkit and told to build the same house.
Your next forty-eight hours are a blur of spreadsheets, dev wikis, and documents with titles like “Enemy AI Behaviour: Beginner-Friendly Patterns” and “Damage Per Second Tuning – Internal Guidelines (Do Not Share Externally).” You learn how Raj and his team talk about fights: openings, checks, punish windows, soft enrages. You learn there are words for things you’ve always felt when playing, but never had to label in quite this way. You also learn that half your instincts are illegal.
Your first draft has three enemy types, a shifting arena floor, and a mechanic where the boss “remembers” which player took which action in earlier phases and punishes patterns. You show it to Raj in a one-on-one review. He skims, eyebrows rising. “This is cool,” he says. “It’s also three encounters stapled together and a QA nightmare.”
“I like to aim high,” you mutter. He pushes the tablet back across the table. “Cut it in half,” he says. “Then cut it in half again. Think of it like writing — this is your first draft. You’re not killing the idea; you’re putting it on a diet.” You go back to your desk and put it on a diet. Reluctantly.
You strip out one mechanic, then another, until what’s left is a tight, focused fight: a fractured avatar of a god of echoes, a circular arena with shifting safe zones, a loop that teaches players to listen and watch before punishing them for flailing. You still sneak story in. You can’t help it. The boss’s abilities are named like lines of a poem. When it splits into mirrored copies, you note how they repeat players’ own moves back at them. Raj might not care, but it helps you care. You fall asleep on your keyboard once and wake up with ASDF imprinted on your forehead.
In between coffee refills, you hear whispers. Someone mentions in the kitchen that “Jeon’s questline wrecked Jisoo.” Someone else says, “I heard she had to leave the room for a second.” You pretend not to listen as you stir powdered creamer into your mug. Later, you pass Jisoo in the hall. Her eyes are a little pink. She’s smiling, though. Wonwoo walks behind her, one hand in his hoodie pocket, notebook tucked under his arm. He looks like he always does — composed, maybe a little tired, hair falling into his eyes.
“Nice work,” Jisoo says to him as they head toward a meeting room. “I’m stealing at least half of that, just so you know.” He huffs a quiet laugh. “As long as you make it better,” he replies. You walk by them with your mug, heart doing something unpleasant. He doesn’t look your way; you don’t give him the satisfaction of glancing over your shoulder. It doesn’t bother you. It absolutely, one hundred percent does.
Two days later, you present your combat encounter to Raj and a couple of designers he’s dragooned into a small review. You stand at the front of a smaller room this time, whiteboard behind you, your spec open on the screen. No David. No David-related theatrics. Just Raj, Jisoo, and one gameplay engineer with tired eyes.
“Echo Warden,” you say, and launch in.
You outline the fantasy first: a broken fragment of a god that repeats everything it hears, stuck in a loop of its own prayers. You emphasise the mechanics more than the lore. Phase one: teach players to follow safe zones. Phase two: punish them if they just chase the same pattern. The boss starts mimicking the party’s positioning, forcing them to break their habits. You talk tuning goals: a group that learns quickly clears in five minutes; a group that doesn’t dies in three. You talk about telegraphs that are readable but not clownishly obvious. You talk about giving melee and ranged different jobs so nobody feels useless. Raj interrupts with questions. You’re ready for most of them. The ones you’re not, you attack sideways, using examples from other games and the internal docs you memorised at three in the morning. At the end, he nods once, slowly.
“You overcomplicate things,” he says. “But you cut back. That’s good. The core loop is solid. Pacing might need adjustment — I’d want to see it in a prototype — but this is… yeah. This is real combat design.” A strange warmth spreads through your chest at that last sentence.
Jisoo chimes in. “I like how you’re already thinking about what the fight is saying about the god,” she says. “Even without story text, you’d still feel like this thing is… stuck. That’s useful for us later.” You exhale. Your shoulders drop half an inch. It’s not your natural habitat, but you didn’t drown.
By the time you drag yourself home that night, your brain is buzzing with numbers instead of feelings. Every time you close your eyes, you see telegraphs and phase transitions and Raj actually called it solid playing on repeat. You should sleep. You open Aetherion instead.
Nyx appears in a familiar city square. Before you can decide whether to do anything, your friends’ list pings. KadeLocke is now online. Right on cue, a whisper pops. Kade: You’re logging in later and later. Should I be worried you got abducted by “real life”?
You huff, but it comes out more like a sigh than a laugh. Nyx: Real life would have to pry my keyboard from my cold, carpal-tunnelled hands. Just… long day.
There’s a longer pause than usual before his next message. Kade: You sound tired even in text. That’s a talent.
Kade: Was gonna ask if you wanted to do something dumb and dangerous, but I’m downgrading that to “chill and mildly hazardous.”
Despite yourself, your lips twitch. Nyx: My brain is soup, but I could maybe manage “mildly hazardous.” Nothing too sweaty, or I’m just going to feed the floor.
Kade: Noted. Come somewhere quiet with me, then. Less chaos, more me telling you where to go while you complain about it.
You hesitate over the keys, then type, Nyx: Bossy and comforting. Multitasking, huh?
His reply comes almost immediately. Kade: Text is slow if you’re wiped. You wanna try voice in-game? I use a modulator. Keeps things less weird. You can just follow my lead and save your energy for being a menace.
You stare at the message. You’ve been running content together for days now — raids, dungeons, the occasional open-world nonsense when you both needed to switch your brains off. You’ve talked about sleep schedules (bad), vague “projects” (worse), favourite snacks (you argued for a solid ten minutes about the correct ratio of chocolate to cookie in ice cream).
You know his timing, his playstyle, the way he reacts when things go wrong. You know he’s steady, that he doesn’t tilt, that he doesn’t yell at people when they screw up. You do not know what his voice sounds like. Or where he lives. Or his real name. Sharing your voice feels… weirdly intimate. Like handing over a piece of yourself you can’t take back. You chew your lip, fingers hovering over the keyboard. He’s been respectful. Funny. Reliable. Never once pushed when you dodged personal questions. Never once got gross when you made a joke that could have gone sideways. If this goes weird, you can hang up. You can mute. You can block. You are not trapped. You take a breath.
Nyx: Sure. If you sound like a 12-year-old, I’m disconnecting.
Kade: Fair. Join party. I’ll drag you through something interesting while we test it. A party invite appears. You accept before you can overthink it.
The party UI slides into place; a little voice icon glows to indicate an open channel. Your pulse kicks up a notch. You drag your headset over your ears, thumb hovering over your mouse for a second, then click to join.
There’s a soft crackle, the faint hiss of open mic, and then his voice comes through — filtered by the modulator, a touch lower and smoother than it probably really is. You can hear the whisper of fabric, a chair creaking as he shifts. It still sounds like him somehow. Calm. Steady. Threaded with that quiet amusement you’ve already learned to recognise in his text. “Nyx?” he says.
“Yeah,” you answer, aiming for casual and landing somewhere near it. “Hey.” There’s a small pause, like he’s calibrating. “Okay,” he says. “Not twelve. Good start.” You huff a laugh, the knot between your shoulders loosening just a little.
“Neither are you,” you say. “You sound like… the voice of a very smug tutorial.” He laughs, low in your ear. The modulator doesn’t hide the warmth. “I’ll take ‘smug tutorial’ over ‘nasal gremlin,’” he says. “You sound more awake than your messages.”
“Lies,” you reply. “I’m eighty percent caffeine and bad decisions right now.”
“Then no raids,” he says, matter-of-fact. “Come outside the city gate. I’ll show you something low-effort and pretty. You can pretend it’s a walk and not a carry.”
“Wow,” you say. “Already planning to drag me around?”
“You said your brain’s soup,” he reminds you. “You point, mash a few buttons, I’ll do the heavy lifting. It’s called party synergy.”
You make an exaggerated little tsk noise. “Bossy,” you say. “Functional,” he counters, and you can hear the smile.
You guide Nyx out through the city archways, past the usual crowd of players advertising dungeon runs and trading items. A ping appears on your map, marking his position just outside the walls. He’s waiting on a small hill overlooking the road, his greatsword planted tip-down in the grass, his avatar leaning on the hilt like it’s a posing stick. When Nyx jogs up, he turns to face you, gives a short bow emote, and then starts running toward the far-off line of cliffs. You fall into step beside him. “So,” you say, eyes on the screen. “Where exactly are we going, oh mysterious guide?”
“There’s a glade most people ignore because it doesn’t drop gear,” he says. “Fireflies, skybox, zero pressure. You can stab a few things if it makes you feel better.”
“You say that like I have a problem,” you protest. “You logged in to hit things after a long day,” he points out. “It’s not exactly a mystery, Nyx.” You open your mouth to argue, then close it again.
Bits of countryside roll past as you run — ruined stone arches, wandering NPCs, the occasional player sprinting by on some oversized mount. Every so often, a stray enemy spawns too close; Kade lazily swings once and deletes it before you can even target it. “I could’ve handled that,” you say eventually. “I know,” he replies. “Tonight you don’t have to.”
The words land heavier than they have any right to. You clear your throat and nudge Nyx closer, hip-checking his avatar with yours. On screen, your character brushes his shoulder, the collision box making him shift a step. “Careful,” you say. “Keep shielding me like that, and I’ll get spoiled.”
“You already are,” he says mildly. “You just hide it behind all that ‘I can do it myself’ energy.”
You want to argue. You don’t. He leads you off the main road, through a narrow canyon that opens into a hidden hollow: a small lake ringed with luminous trees, their branches glowing softly in blues and purples. Fireflies drift in dense clouds over the water, reflecting like scattered stars. The in-game soundtrack shifts to something softer — strings, a lone flute. You stop Nyx at the edge of the lake. “Okay,” you admit. “This is… obnoxiously pretty.”
“Mm,” he says, and the sound through your headset is oddly pleased. “Sit.”
“Excuse me?”
“Hit the sit emote,” he clarifies, unbothered. “Before you decide to jump in and aggro the fish or something.”
You scoff. “I’m not that bad.”
“You pushed a cursed button just to see what would happen last time,” he reminds you. “I’m learning from experience.”
You roll your eyes, but Nyx drops into a sit at the water’s edge anyway, knees drawn up, daggers resting across her lap. Kade’s avatar sits beside her a heartbeat later, sword laid on the ground within arm’s reach. On screen, their shoulders almost touch. There’s a small, quiet space in your chest that you hadn’t realised was clenched until now. It eases, just a fraction. “So,” you say. “Do you bring all your exhausted carries here, or am I special?”
He hums thoughtfully. “You’re the first one who complains this much and still shows up for hard content,” he says. “Makes you… unique.”
“Wow,” you say. “Swoon.”
“Careful,” he replies. “Your standards are showing.”
A few low-level mobs wander near the tree line. When they stray too close, he stands, dispatches them with lazy efficiency, and sits back down without comment. “You know, you don’t have to nanny me,” you say, watching him.
“I’m not,” he says. “I’m optimising. You’re not at full capacity. No point wasting resources.”
“Reducing me to resource management. How romantic.”
“You want romantic, go stand under the virtual moon,” he says. “You want to log off less cranky than you logged on, listen to me.”
You feel your lips curve despite the words. “You realise you’re bossing me around while also telling me to relax,” you point out. “It’s a confusing brand.”
“You logged in sounding like you’d faceplant mid-raid,” he says calmly. “So I brought you somewhere you can sit down while I kill things. It’s not that complicated, Nyx.” There’s your name again, familiar now.
You watch the fireflies drift, tiny particles dancing across your monitor. After a while, you realise you’re just… sitting there. Not tabbing out to check your email, not mentally rehearsing how you’re going to defend your tuning decisions tomorrow. Just existing, with his voice a steady background presence as he talks about nothing and everything.
He tells you about some spectacular bug he saw that turned every enemy in a dungeon into spinning cubes. You rant about a client who decided you now care deeply about damage spreadsheets. You argue the merits of crunchy versus chewy cookies. You laugh more than you mean to. At one point, you yawn, the sound pulled out of you before you can smother it. He stops mid-sentence. “There it is,” he says. “That’s my cue.”
“I can keep going,” you protest automatically. “I’m—”
“Tired,” he cuts in, not unkindly. “You’re clipping the ends off your sentences. Your camera movements slowed down by, like, half a second. Go to bed.” You blink. “You were timing my camera moves?”
“I was watching my party member,” he says simply. “I don’t need a wipe to tell me when someone’s out of gas.” Something in your chest twists at the casual way he says “my party member,” like that’s a position with responsibilities attached. You try to deflect with a joke. “You’re very bossy for a stranger on the internet,” you say.
“You keep logging in at stupid o’clock and following me into content,” he replies. “At some point, that becomes my problem too.” You stare at Nyx and Kade sitting side by side on the bank, fireflies drifting lazily around them. Your cursor hovers over the disconnect button. You don’t click it.
“Hey, Kade?” you say. “Yeah?”
You hesitate, then lean in anyway. “You give surprisingly good directions,” you say. “For a control freak.” He laughs, the sound low and warm in your ears. “And you follow them better than you pretend to,” he answers. “For a menace.” You grin, too tired to hide how much that pleases you.
“Don’t get used to it,” you warn. “Too late,” he says.
You disconnect from voice before you can say something softer and more dangerous, then log out of the game entirely.
Your room is suddenly too quiet. No ambient lake sounds, no modulated baritone in your ears, no bright UI demanding decisions. You shut your laptop and stretch out, the day replaying in flickers: Raj calling your fight “real combat design” with that reluctant approval, Kade’s calm “Tonight you don’t have to,” when he helped you relax. You’re not sure which one is going to echo louder in your head as you finally, finally drift toward sleep.
David waits until everyone’s seated to drop it on you.
The room is smaller this time, with fewer chairs. The roster has already been whittled down; Mina and Felix are gone, casualties of Trial Two. Nobody says it out loud, but the absence sits heavy at the edges of the table. You, Wonwoo, Baekhyun, and Yoohyeon sit opposite Jisoo, Raj, and Kaito. David leans against the screen at the front like he’s about to introduce a new trailer instead of your impending breakdown.
“Trial Three,” he says, smile bright and sharp. “Vertical slice.”
The screen behind him flickers to life, showing a simple list:
TRIAL THREE – CO-OP VERTICAL SLICE
Duration: 5 days
Teams: 2
Deliverable: Playable slice + pitch
“We’ve seen what you can do in your own lanes,” David continues. “We’ve seen you swap lanes and not crash the car.” His gaze flicks over you, then Wonwoo. “Now we want to see if you can drive together without killing each other.” You do not like where this is going.
David lifts his tablet, scrolling. “Team one…” he says. “Baekhyun and Yoohyeon.” They exchange a quick look — a mix of nerves and determination.
“Team two…” David’s eyes find yours. “…our favourite civil war: Wonwoo and his Pixie.” For a heartbeat, the room feels too small.
You feel Wonwoo’s attention like a prickle on your skin. You turn your head; he’s already looking at you, expression unreadable, pen still in his hand. “You’re kidding,” you say before you can stop yourself.
David’s smile widens, all teeth. “If either of you wants to lead at Titan Forge,” he says, “you need to show you can co-lead. This is a co-op game. We’re not hiring a lone wolf and letting them dictate from a tower.”
Raj snorts quietly. Jisoo hides a smile behind her coffee cup.
“You’ll each get a war room,” David goes on, tapping his tablet to bring up a diagram. “Whiteboards, pinned builds, your own branch in our repo, access to a small strike team for support — programmers, artists, whatever you need within reason.” He slides a folder across the table toward you and Wonwoo.
“The slice is a single mission,” he says. “Fifteen, twenty minutes tops. We want to see combat, story, co-op mechanics, and how you onboard players to your weird ideas. Five days. Internal playtest at the end. Don’t embarrass us.”
You flip open the folder. There’s a loose prompt on the first page: “First contact with a failing god. Co-op decision. Mid-tier difficulty. Must support two players and scale to four.” You glance sideways at Wonwoo. His jaw is set. He taps his pen against the folder once, twice, then stops, catching you looking. “Don’t worry, Pixie,” he says under his breath. “I’ll use small words when we talk about frame data.”
You smile sweetly. “That’s cute,” you murmur back. “I was just wondering how I’m going to explain to you what feelings are.”
David claps his hands once. “Keys to the war rooms at the front,” he says. “Shared drives are already set up. Go figure out if you’re soulmates or mutually assured destruction.”
Your war room looks like a crime board from a detective show. By the end of the first day, anyway.
It starts clean: a long table, three whiteboards, a couple of monitors on rolling stands, a window that looks out over the city and the neighbouring rooftop gardens. Two chairs on opposite sides of the table, like you’re about to negotiate a hostage release. You dump your laptop bag on one chair. Wonwoo drops his notebook on the other. For a few seconds, you just… look at each other. “Ground rules?” you say finally.
He tilts his head. “Don’t waste time,” he says. “Don’t sand down anything interesting just to be polite.”
“I wasn’t planning to be polite,” you reply.
“Good,” he says mildly. “Then we’re aligned.”
You start by carving the prompt up into chunks. A god that’s failing. First contact. Co-op choice. You sketch a rough mission spine on the whiteboard: approach, first fight, narrative beat, second fight, choice, fallout. Wonwoo marks combat beats in red over your black storyline. That’s where the friction starts.
“Your cutscene here is too long,” he says, tapping the section you’ve labelled “confrontation.” “Players will be mashing skip.”
“It’s thirty seconds,” you say. “They can survive thirty seconds of emotional context before they go back to hitting things.”
“Thirty seconds before the boss, thirty seconds after the boss, a dialogue choice in the middle,” he says. “Pacing matters. They’ll feel the drag.”
You plant the marker on your hip. “Maybe if your boss fight had any emotional stakes,” you shoot back, “they’d want to see what they’re fighting about.”
His mouth tugs sideways. “It has stakes,” he says. “Failing god, collapsing arena, co-op mechanics that change based on who takes damage and when.”
“Mechanical stakes,” you counter. “I’m talking about something more than ‘health bar go down.’”
He watches you for a heartbeat, then sighs. “Okay,” he says. “Sell me.”
You blink. “What?”
“Sell me,” he repeats, leaning back against the table. “Why should I care about this cutscene when I’m the player? Don’t say ‘because narrative.’”
Fine. You pace once in front of the board, words lining up in your head.
“Because this is the first time the players see a god scared,” you say. “Up until now, gods are this untouchable environmental thing. Here, the god is cracked. Their voice glitches. They offer the players a deal — keep the worship flowing and they’ll keep the sky from falling over this region.”
You sketch with your marker as you talk, lines turning into rough silhouettes. “One player wants to take the deal. The other doesn’t,” you continue. “Or they both disagree with each other about how. That’s conflict before you start swinging. So when they do, it’s not just ‘we’re killing a thing.’ It’s ‘we’re killing something we might have needed.’ That makes the fight feel different.”
Wonwoo’s gaze tracks your motion, thoughtful. “What’s the co-op hook?” he asks. “Beyond ‘we voted differently.’”
You grin. “In the fight, the god only targets the player who argued against them,” you say. “The one who refused the deal takes more aggro, more direct hits. The other player gets all the buffs — damage, shields, healing. Narratively, the god is punishing the defiant one and rewarding the obedient one even as you’re killing them.”
He goes still. You see the exact moment it clicks in his head. “So if I was the one who told the god to fuck off, I’m the one getting smashed into the floor,” he says slowly. “And if my co-op partner told them ‘yes,’ they get to feel strong because I’m suffering.”
“Exactly,” you say, heart beating faster as the pieces line up. “It creates friction between players beyond ‘you didn’t dodge.’ They chose this dynamic.” He exhales once, sharply, like a laugh he doesn’t want to give you. “That’s… not bad,” he admits. He reaches past you, uncaps a red marker, and starts annotating the fight beats you’d sketched in black.
“If we do that,” he says, “we need to make sure the punished player isn’t just miserable. Give them tools. Let them redirect some of that damage back, or convert pain into a big finisher if their partner times something with them.”
You blink. “Hurt/comfort but make it gameplay,” you say.
The corner of his mouth twitches. “You would put it that way,” he says.
The rest of the day goes like that. Friction, then connection. You argue about enemy counts, about how much information to put in UI versus VO, about whether the god should recognise each player individually or just the party as a unit. He tells you your first draft of encounter callouts sounds too “pretty” and not enough “actionable.” You tell him his initial co-op mechanic reads like a spreadsheet and needs one emotional hook, or you’ll fall asleep. Underneath the barbs, you start to spot the pattern.
His arenas carve out little pockets of story space for you — choke points that feel like altars, environmental hazards that tie into the god’s mythology. Your characters give his systems purpose — lines of dialogue that make the co-op mechanics feel personal instead of arbitrary. At one point, you’re both standing in front of the monitor, watching a quick blockout build one of the level designers put together from your notes: rough geometry, grey textures, placeholder god model. The fight’s barebones, but the shape is there.
The god slams a hand down. The floor fractures. One player’s health spikes; the other’s buffs flare. Kaito’s borrowed QA guy moves both characters through the motions while you and Wonwoo talk over each other, calling changes. “That spike is too harsh, they won’t recover—” you say. “Make the tell on the second slam clearer, they’ll think it’s random—” he says at the same time. You both stop. You look at him. He looks at you.
It should feel like you’re clashing. Instead, weirdly, it feels like you’re harmonising. Different instruments, same song. You hate how satisfying that is.
By the end of the day, your war room smells like coffee and whiteboard marker. The walls are covered in diagrams and snippets of dialogue, sticky notes stuck at every angle. A shared drive full of docs and reference videos hums on the monitor. You should probably go home and sleep. You go home and log into Aetherion instead.
Nyx appears in the city square. Before you can move, your voice channel pings — Kade inviting you into a call as casually as if he’d nudged your elbow. You accept.
“Hey,” he says, modulated voice sliding into your ears as the game finishes loading. “You sound like ten percent less dead today.”
You flop back in your chair. “That’s because I’m currently powered by spite and a very unhealthy amount of validation,” you say. “How’s your evening?”
“About to improve,” he replies. “Queue up. There’s a new story chain. Co-op only. Figured I’d try it with my resident menace.”
You smirk. “Flatterer,” you say. “Lead the way, Tutorial.” He laughs, low and warm.
You follow his party ping to a quest giver on the edge of the map — an old NPC Hermit perched near a cliff, exclamation mark hovering over his head. Text scrolls about “shadows gathering” and “only those bound by trust may face what lies ahead.”
“Subtle,” you say. “Very understated writing.”
“Some narrative designer got paid by the metaphor,” Kade says. “Accept it. Let’s see how deep this rabbit hole goes.”
The quest chain takes you both through a series of short encounters — ambushes where you have to cover each other’s blind spots, puzzles that only trigger if you step on pressure plates at the same time. At the end, a prompt flashes: New Campfire Scene Unlocked: “Between Battles”. [Play now with your party member?]
“Ooh,” you murmur. “Fancy.”
“Hit yes,” Kade says. “If it’s boring, we can bail.” You both confirm.
The world fades out and reforms in a small, quiet clearing — a tucked-away grove beneath a massive tree, moonlight pouring through the branches. A campfire crackles at the centre, logs placed around it. Your UI melts away until only minimal prompts remain. Nyx and Kade stand a few feet apart, idle animations softer now, shoulders relaxed.
A prompt appears at the bottom of the screen: [Press X to sit]
You hit it. Nyx crosses the distance and drops onto one of the logs by the fire. Kade’s avatar moves a second later, taking the space beside her. Your characters’ knees almost touch. A dialogue choice pops, classic Aetherion style — three options on a radial wheel, each with a short line.
You read them out. “Option one: ‘Long day.’ Two: ‘Nice spot.’ Three: ‘Don’t get used to sitting this close.’” You say.
Kade huffs. “Three,” he says immediately.
“Of course you’d pick the one with attitude,” you reply. “Look who I’m sitting next to,” he says.
You select the third option. Nyx shifts, leaning back on her hands, eyes half-lidded as she glances sideways at Kade. Text scrolls at the bottom.
Nyx: Don’t get used to sitting this close. I might decide you need personal space.
Kade: You say that like you didn’t pick this log when there were others.
You can’t help the small smile tugging at your mouth. “Wow,” you say. “They coded mutual calling-out. I feel seen.”
“You feel attacked,” Kade corrects. “Which, to be fair, is your baseline.”
Another set of options appears. You read them out again, more amused now. “Okay, new choices: ‘Is that your way of saying you like me here?’ / ‘Don’t read into it.’ / ‘Shut up and enjoy the fire.’”
You hesitate, thumb hovering over the wheel. The safest one is obvious. You don’t pick it. “First?” you suggest, feigning lightness. “Or is that too forward for you?”
“No,” he says, almost before you finish. “Hit it.” Surprise fizzes in your chest. You choose it. Nyx shifts a little closer, one shoulder bumping his.
Nyx: Is that your way of saying you like me here?
Kade: If I didn’t, you’d be on the other side of the clearing.
The camera pans in slightly, framing their profiles, the glow of the fire casting warm light over armour and skin. Under your headset, your heartbeat ticks up. “Didn’t know this game had romance options in co-op,” you say, half joking, half not.
“Apparently, we unlocked the DLC,” Kade replies. His voice is lighter than usual, but there’s something under it — a note you haven’t heard before. “You complaining?”
Your mouth is suddenly dry. “No,” you say. Your voice comes out softer than you meant. “I’m not.” On-screen, another prompt fades in, different this time — a single, simple option on its own little button: [Lean closer]-[Change subject]
You stare at it. You could click away. Laugh. Make a bit out of it. Your finger moves almost of its own accord. You choose [Lean closer].
Nyx shifts, folding her legs under her, turning to face him more fully. Their shoulders press together now; the firelight makes the metal of his armour gleam where it brushes the leather of hers. The camera lingers. You can hear your own breathing in your headset. “Oh,” you say, eloquent as ever.
Another prompt: [Touch his hand] - [Nudge his shoulder]
“They really went all in, huh?” Kade says, a low thread of laughter in his voice. “What do you want to do, troublemaker?”
You swallow. “You choose,” you say. “You’re the one who dragged me out here. Take responsibility.” There’s a faint noise through the modulator — a small exhale. “All right,” he says. “Hit the hand.”
You select: [Touch his hand].
Nyx’s fingers slide over, resting lightly on the back of Kade’s gauntlet. His avatar turns his hand palm-up, their fingers slotting together for a brief, deliberate squeeze before they relax against each other.
It’s a ridiculously simple animation. No moaning violins, no sparkly hearts. Just two characters sitting too close by a fire, hands touching. Your heart is hammering like you’re about to present a pitch to David again.
And then, like the game has been waiting for this moment, the real option appears: [Kiss Kade] - [Stay like this]
You suck in a breath. “Oh,” you say again, even less eloquent. Kade chuckles softly. “Panicking?” he asks. “No,” you lie.
You stare at the screen. It’s pixels. Animation. A pre-written scene. This is not actually doing anything in the real world. But it feels like choosing something anyway. You drag the cursor to [Kiss Kade] and hover.
“If this is weird, we can back out,” Kade says gently. “Pick the other one, we’ll tease the game for being thirsty and move on.” The fact that he gives you the out makes something in your chest unclench. You think about the way he’s been with you in runs — never pushing when you joked around a boundary. The way his voice softened last time when he said, “I brought you somewhere you can sit down while I kill things.” The way he calls you menace like it’s a compliment.
“I’m not panicking,” you say, more certain now. “I’m… deciding.” A beat passes. “Decide faster,” he says quietly. “You’re killing me here.”
The words send heat curling low in your stomach. You click.
Nyx leans in first, which you appreciate on a spiritual level. She tilts her head, eyes fluttering half-shut, and presses her mouth to Kade’s in a slow, clearly animated kiss. He meets her halfway, hand lifting to rest at the back of her neck. The camera pulls in, then stops just shy of full close-up—enough to see it, not enough to make it awkward. The fire pops in the background. Fireflies drift lazily overhead. It’s all code. Your heart doesn’t seem to care.
The scene lingers for a few seconds, then eases them back into their seated positions, shoulders still pressed together, fingers still loosely linked. Text scrolls at the bottom.
Kade: You know this means I’m going to expect you to stick around after the next raid, too, right?
Nyx: Guess you’ll just have to keep giving me reasons.
You let out a breath you didn’t realise you’d been holding. On the other end of the call, Kade clears his throat. “Well,” he says, tone light but a shade rougher. “That’s one way to test co-op features.”
You laugh, a little shaky. “Think we passed?” you ask.
“You tell me,” he replies. “How’s the pacing?”
“Honestly?” you say. “Pretty good.” You don’t add: and I kind of want to hit replay.
You sit there a moment longer, watching your avatars by the fire, heat still simmering under your skin for no good reason.
You just watched your character close the distance with someone whose voice you only just learned this week — someone who keeps catching you when you’re about to fall into traps, in-game and out, and acts like it’s just part of the job.
You’re not sure what this is yet. You are sure, when Kade quietly says, “Queue another campfire after the next raid?” That your answer comes a little too quickly. “Yeah,” you say, smiling at your monitor. “Yeah. I’d like that.”
Trial Three crunch is the kind that eats time. Five days sounds generous on paper. In practice, it’s a blink.
Morning to night, you live in the war room with Wonwoo. Whiteboards fill, empty, fill again. Builds go up, crash, and get patched. You mainline Titan Forge coffee and half-stale pastries, your brain flickering between dialogue and damage numbers.
Raj wants the boss to be tougher. “Phase two is a victory lap,” he says in one review, flicking through the combat log. “If they don’t feel like they might wipe, they’ll get bored.”
Jisoo wants the scene more grounded. “The god doesn’t need a monologue,” she says, brow furrowed. “A few sharper lines will hurt more. Right now they sound like they’re auditioning for ‘Tragic Deity of the Year.’”
Kaito wants it all yesterday. “You are stacking new systems on new systems,” he tells you both, expression pinched. “We cannot build an entire religion and its AI in five days. Pick the one thing you want to prove and cut the rest.” Every note is fair. That doesn’t make them hurt less.
By the evening of day four, you’re frayed down to the wire.
The internal playtest build judders on the big screen while David and the others watch, controllers in hand, QA driving. The fight plays. The cutscene hits. The fight plays again. When the lights come up, you’re already braced. The feedback comes in low blows and body shots.
“Telegraph on the second slam is still muddy.”
“I don’t buy the god switching on the player that fast emotionally.”
“If this were a real milestone, I’d be yelling about scope creep.”
You nod. You take notes. You feel each comment slot into your already-overloaded brain like another brick on a tottering Jenga tower. Then Kaito says, almost offhand, “Right now, it feels like we’re playing two different slices stapled together. It’s… disjointed.”
Something in you snaps. “Because we keep cutting connective tissue,” you say, sharper than you meant to. “Every time we add a mechanic, something has to give, and it’s never the numbers.”
Raj’s brows lift. You can feel Wonwoo go still beside you.
“We don’t need more connective tissue,” Wonwoo says coolly. “We need the fight to feel coherent. The narrative padding is what’s making it drag.”
You turn to him. “Padding.”
“You know what I mean,” he says, jaw tight. “If players are dying because they’re watching a god act instead of reading the floor, they’re gonna get pissed.”
Heat flares in your chest. “If players don’t care why they’re fighting, they won’t remember the encounter in a month,” you fire back. “But sure, let’s just make it another pretty arena to wipe in.”
“I’m the one making sure they don’t wipe in the first thirty seconds,” he snaps. “Yeah, and I’m the one making sure they don’t alt-tab during the cutscene.”
The room goes very quiet. You realise, too late, that you’re arguing in front of David and the leads like this is a Slack thread and not your entire future. Kaito clears his throat.
“Okay,” David says lightly, but there’s steel under it. “This is good. Passionate. I’d rather see you fight for the slice than shrug at it.” You can’t tell if he’s sincere. “Take the notes,” he continues. “Cut one thing each. Combat, narrative. Meet in the middle like grown-ups. You’ve got… twelve hours.” You swallow down the sting. The meeting breaks. Chairs scrape. People file out. You stay long enough to collect your laptop, keeping your eyes glued to the table. You can feel Wonwoo’s presence like static beside you. “Pixie—” he starts.
“Don’t,” you say, sharper than you intend. You sling your bag over your shoulder. “I have to go make my padding less offensive.” You don’t wait for an answer.
You don’t remember the commute home.
One minute, you’re in Titan Forge’s elevator, badge still clipped crookedly to your shirt. The next, you’re in your apartment, keys on the counter, shoes half-kicked off, the room dim except for the glow from your monitors. You don’t change. You don’t shower. You don’t even take your badge off. You sit. You boot Aetherion.
Nyx materialises in a familiar forest — the crystalline one where you first really noticed Kade’s calm callouts. Fireflies bob between trees; particle-lit leaves sway in an endless digital breeze. The moment you load in, your voice channel pings. You accept on instinct.
“Hey,” he says, modulated voice sliding into your ears like you’ve been waiting for it. Then he goes quiet for a beat. “Rough day.”
It’s not a question. You let out a breath you didn’t know you were holding. “You have no idea,” you breathe.
“Try me.”
You move Nyx forward a few steps, then let her stop under a glowing tree. Your fingers hover uselessly over your keys. You don’t give details. You talk in vague, jagged shapes. “There’s this boss,” you say. “And he won’t stay dead the way I need him to.”
“Bad tuning?” Kade asks.
“Bad… everything,” you say. “Every time we fix one thing, something else breaks. And my co-lead—” you bite the word. “He’s brilliant and infuriating and somehow always exactly where the problem is, but he makes me feel like I’m just sprinkling glitter on top of his work.”
Silence, but not empty. Nyx idles on the screen, cloak fluttering. “Sounds like the boss isn’t the only thing that needs tuning,” Kade says eventually.
“He just… got under my skin today,” you admit. “We snapped at each other in front of everyone. I know better. I’m supposed to be… professional. Cool. Whatever.”
“You’re supposed to be human,” he says. “News flash, menace: humans lose it sometimes when they’re pushed.”
You swallow. “They’re only seeing the cracks,” you murmur. “Not the hundred things we did right. And he’ll be fine. He always is. I’m the one who looks… emotional.”
The word tastes sour. Kade exhales quietly.
“You’re carrying different things,” he says. “Both matter. One’s just easier to chart in a spreadsheet.” You blink back an unexpected burn in your eyes. “You’re very wise for someone who threatened to report me to floor safety,” you say. He laughs, low and warm. “I contain multitudes,” he says. “Come on. Walk with me.”
He pings a direction. You follow, letting Nyx fall in beside his avatar as he leads you off the usual path, deeper into the forest where the crystals grow taller and the ambient sound softens. He doesn’t try to fill every silence. He lets you vent in half-sentences and unfinished metaphors about bosses and deadlines and the way it feels to pour your whole heart into something and then watch people poke holes in it. When you crack a self-deprecating joke about “maybe I’m just not as good as I thought,” his voice cuts in, flat and sure.
“No,” he says. “That’s not it.”
You falter. “You don’t even know what I do,” you say.
“I know how you talk about it,” he replies. “I know how your brain works when we’re learning a fight. You look for angles other people miss. You see the story, not just the pattern. That doesn’t sound like ‘not good enough’ to me.”
Heat pricks behind your eyes. You tilt your head back in your chair, stare at the ceiling, and blink hard. “You’re very… soothing,” you say, trying to make it a tease so it doesn’t feel like a confession. “Don’t tell anyone,” he says. “They’ll expect me to start a support group.”
You laugh, real this time. The sharp edge in your chest shifts into something else. Softer. Sharper, too, in a different way. You’re aware of him in your ears, of the low rumble of his voice, of the way he keeps nudging you gently out of spirals and into smaller, safer topics — food, a bug he hit in another game, an NPC you both hate. The flirting that’s been threading through your conversations lately doesn’t disappear. It just evolves. When you grumble about your co-lead always being right in the most annoying way, Kade says, “Sounds like you need someone else to listen to you for a change.”
You shoot back, “Oh, so you’re volunteering for the job?” He doesn’t miss a beat. “Already doing it,” he says. “You’re just slow to accept my application.”
Later, when you call yourself “a disaster with a keyboard,” he says, “You’re not a disaster. You’re… high difficulty content.” You snort. “Is that your way of telling me I’m a pain in the ass?”
“It’s my way of telling you you’re worth the effort,” he says.
There’s a beat of quiet. Your heartbeat stutters. You find yourself wanting… more. More of that voice closer in your ear. More of his attention focused squarely on you and not filtered through a game lobby. More of this feeling of being guided and held together when you’re fraying apart. You don’t say it. You hover on the edge of it, teeth worrying your lower lip, fingers playing with your headset cord.
He gets there first. “Check your whispers,” Kade says suddenly.
You frown at your screen and open the chat. A private message blinks at the bottom. Kade: If I give you my number, you gonna use it?
Your pulse spikes. It’s reckless. It’s also the first thing you’ve wanted all week that feels like it’s just for you. Your fingers shake a little as you type. Nyx: Maybe. If you’re not a serial killer.
Kade: Too busy raiding to murder anyone.
You huff, breathless. You trade a few more lines — nothing identifying, just a string of digits and a “don’t be weird” from you, answered with a dry “no promises” from him.
When you finally log off, the forest dissolving into your desktop, the number is already in your contacts under: Kade. You stare at it for a long time.
Later, you lie in bed in the dark, in your T-shirt and panties, hair a little damp from the shower you barely remember taking. Your badge is on the nightstand, the screen of your phone the only light in the room as you scroll through nothing, thoughts chasing themselves in useless circles.
You flip to your contacts. Kade sits there like a dare. You should not. You really, really should not. Your phone vibrates in your hand.
Kade – Incoming call.
Your heart jumps so hard it almost hurts. You stare at the screen for two rings, three. You swipe to accept. “Hey,” you whisper, voice smaller in the dark than it ever is in daylight.
There’s a crackle, a breath, then his voice — softer than in-game, the modulation gone but worn down to a quiet rasp by the late hour and whatever he’s feeling. He’s whispering too, low enough that the edges of his words blur, like he’s sitting just out of sight instead of however many miles away. “Hey,” he says. “Couldn’t sleep either?”
You huff out a breath that isn’t quite a laugh. “Is it that obvious?”
“You still sounded wired when you logged off,” he says. “Figured you’d either be lying in the dark replaying everything, or doomscrolling. Thought I’d offer a third option.”
You shift onto your back, staring at the ceiling. “What option is that?” you ask. When he speaks again, his tone is different — lower, careful, edged with something you’ve only heard in brief flashes before.
“Let me get you out of your head for a while,” he says quietly. “If you want.” Heat curls low in your belly at the way he says it. Not pushy. Not coy. Just sure. You swallow. You could laugh it off. Make a joke. Change the subject. You don’t.
“And how exactly are you planning to do that, Tutorial?” you murmur, aiming for teasing and missing the mark, landing somewhere breathier.
You hear the faintest hitch in his breathing. “You trust me?” he asks.
The question hangs there, heavy and electric.
You think of how easily your body has learned to respond to his voice in-game — left, now, wait, with me — and how today, when everything else felt like it was slipping, that steadiness was the only thing that made you feel held together. You swallow. “Yeah,” you whisper. “I do.”
There’s a quiet exhale on his side of the line, like something in him unwinds. “Good,” he murmurs. “Then here’s what you’re going to do for me, Nyx.” Your name in that tone sends a shiver racing down your spine.
“Lie back,” he says softly. “All the way. Head on the pillow. I want you comfortable.” You obey, shifting until you’re sprawled on your back, phone resting against your ear, the cotton of your T-shirt whispering against your skin. “Done,” you say, a little breathless already.
“Close your eyes,” he murmurs. “No screens. No ceiling. Just your body and my voice. Okay?” You let your eyes slip shut. The darkness comes in, thick and soft. “Okay,” you whisper.
“Good,” he says. “Now breathe for me. In… and out.”
You inhale slowly, chest lifting, then exhale, letting it all out. He counts it out for you, low and steady. “Again,” he says. “In… hold… out… Good.”
You focus on his voice, on the rhythm he sets. Gradually, the edges of your thoughts blur, the endless loop of feedback and whiteboards and sharp looks fading to background static. When your breathing has evened out, his tone shifts again — still soft, but more deliberate.
“Put your hand on your throat,” he says quietly. “Not hard. Just… there.”
Your fingers lift, drifting up to rest lightly against the hollow at the base of your throat. You can feel your own pulse hammering under your touch.
“Feel that?” he asks. “That’s how wound up you are. You’ve been holding everything right there all day.” You swallow under your own hand.
“Slide down,” he murmurs. “Slow. Over your neck. Your collarbones.”
You obey, fingertips gliding down, following the line of your skin, over the small dip at the centre of your chest. The simple motion sends a shiver through you; you’re too keyed up for anything to feel casual. He hears the tiny intake of breath you make. “Yeah,” he says under his breath. “Just like that. Take your time.”
Your hand drifts lower, skating over the top of your chest. Even through your shirt, every brush feels magnified. You hesitate there, fingers resting, not quite squeezing. “You know what’s next,” he says, voice gone rougher. “Go ahead. Touch yourself how you like it. Over your shirt first.”
Your cheeks flame, alone in the dark, but you do it — carefully cupping your breast through the fabric, testing how sensitive you are. The answer is: very. Your back arches a little without your permission. A soft, involuntary sound slips out of you. He hears it.
You hear him react — a muffled curse, the kind you’ve only ever seen as text, now breathed into your ear. “Fuck,” he mutters, like he didn’t mean to say it out loud. Your stomach tightens. “You okay over there?” you whisper, voice shaky. There’s a rustle of fabric, the faint drag of something over skin. “Yeah,” he says, but the word comes out rough. “Just… appreciating the audio.”
You can picture him, suddenly, lying on his own bed somewhere, phone at his ear, hand not exactly idle. The thought sends another jolt of heat through you.
You roll your nipple gently between your fingers, breath catching, everything buzzing. “Spend a minute there,” he tells you. “You’ve been ignoring your own body. Make it up to yourself.”
You follow his lead, letting each slow touch build on the last until it’s almost too much. You’re panting softly now, the room feeling smaller, heavier.
“Lower,” he says at last, voice a little strained. “Hand down. Over your ribs. Your stomach.” Your palm drifts down, gliding over your torso, skin hot beneath the thin shirt, the muscles there jumping under your touch.
“Under the waistband,” he adds, quieter. “Don’t rush. Just get your hand where it wants to be.”
Your heart kicks hard against your ribs. You slip your fingers beneath the elastic, the contrast between air and warmth making you shiver. Just having your hand there, grazing lightly over your clit, pulls a soft, helpless sigh from you. “Yeah,” he breathes. “I can hear how badly you needed this.”
Your fingers start to circle on instinct, ready to chase what’s coiled so tight inside you, but his voice stops you. “Slow,” he says. “Start with just… exploring. Light pressure. See how sensitive you already are.”
You obey, fingers gliding in careful, teasing passes over the already sensitive nub. It’s not much, but it turns the volume up on everything; even the smallest stroke makes your thighs tense, your toes curl.
Your breath grows uneven, little gasps hitting the speaker.
On the other end, his breathing changes with yours. You hear the faint rhythm of movement, the slightest catch in his inhale now and then.
“You touching yourself too?” you ask, voice barely above a whisper.
There’s a pause. Then: “Yeah,” he says, honest and low. “I am.”
The admission sends a sharp pulse through you. You press down on your clit a bit harder, your hips giving a tiny jerk. He groans quietly, like the image in his head just shifted into focus. “Tell me what you’re doing,” he murmurs.
Your face burns, but you give him something — that your hand is moving in slow, careful circles over your clit, that every pass makes your breath stutter, that it’s not enough and somehow already too much.
It stays like that for a while.
You touch yourself the way he tells you to: small circles when you want to drag your hand, slow passes between your folds when your instinct is to grind down, the occasional shallow dip of your fingers into your heat that makes your whole body jump. Every time you try to speed up, he reins you back, murmuring “Not yet,” and you find yourself obeying even as you whine. The restraint makes everything sharper.
At one point, when the need to move harder is almost painful, he says, “Put me on speaker.”
You blink up at the ceiling. “What?”
“Speaker,” he repeats, steady. “Phone on the pillow. You’ll want both hands in a minute.”
Your pulse spikes again, but you do it — pull the phone slightly away, tap the screen until his voice fills the room instead of just your ear, set it on the pillow beside you. He sounds closer now, somehow bigger, every sound magnified. “Good,” he says. “Now you don’t have to hold back.”
You slide your other hand down to join the first. Where your left stays on your clit, the digits of your other hand move through your folds and over your entrance. The extra freedom makes your movements bolder, less restrained. Finally, you dip two of them inside, feeling the wetness and your tightening walls around them. When you curve them upwards, rubbing the spongey part on your upper wall, another sound escapes, something between a raw little gasp and a broken sigh.
“You hear yourself?” he asks, voice gone almost hoarse. “You have no idea what that’s doing to me.”
You do, actually. Because you can hear him now, too — the slick rhythm of his hand, the quiet curses slipping between his teeth, the way he has to stop talking for a second when you moan a little too loudly. “Tell me what you’re doing,” you manage, turning his earlier request back on him. “I want to know.”
He hesitates, then gives you just enough: “My hand’s around my cock,” he says, the vulgarity somehow making your whole body heat. “Palming the head, slowly. I’m trying to not let myself get ahead of you.”
The mental picture hits you like a punch. Your next moan comes out louder than you meant; you bite your lip, but it’s too late. He swears again, softly, like he’s the one being wrecked by the sound.
The tension builds and builds, each deliberate stroke of your fingers inside your hole dragging you closer. Your legs are trembling now, stomach tight, breath catching with every movement of your hands. You’re not even really thinking anymore; you’re just chasing what you need, guided by his voice.
“Kade,” you whisper, almost shocked at how wrecked you sound. “I’m… I’m close.” There’s a raw exhale from the speaker.
“Yeah?” he says, voice shredded around the edges. “Me too.”
You can hear it — the way his breathing has gone shallow, the way his rhythm has gone a little messy, like he’s barely holding on.
For a few seconds, neither of you talks. You just move, the room filled with the sounds of your shared urgency: your ragged breaths, his groans, the faint slide of skin on skin, the muffled wet squelch of your pussy.
You’re right on the edge, everything inside you drawn tight as a bowstring. He must hear the change in your breathing, because he finds his voice again, pushing the words out around his own impending end.
“All right,” he says, low and rough. “Now. Give it to yourself. Come for me.”
The command tips you over. You break apart with a soft, strangled cry, thigh muscles locking, back arching off the mattress as pleasure slams through you in sharp, blinding waves. Both hands stutter and then keep moving, drawn along by sheer momentum and his voice in your room saying, “That’s it. That’s it. I’ve got you.”
Somewhere in the middle of your own unravelling, you hear him let go. A rough, bitten-off groan, a rush of air, a muttered curse that blurs into a sound you’ve never heard from him before — not a word, just a noise dragged up from somewhere deep.
For a few long moments, all that exists is the echo of that peak and the sound of both of you trying to remember how to breathe. Slowly, your body loosens, muscles unwinding, hands falling still. You collapse back into the mattress, chest heaving, every inch of you feeling oddly light and heavy at the same time. His breathing is still coming hard through the speaker, a little ragged, but softening. You stare at the dark ceiling, fingers still twitching faintly, heartbeat pounding in your ears.
He’s the first to speak, voice softer now, edges sanded down.
“You back with me?” he asks.
You swallow, licking your lips. “Yeah,” you whisper. “I… yeah.”
You hear him smile “Good,” he says.
There’s a pause. Then, lightly: “On a scale from one to ‘still thinking about your boss,’ where are we?” You let out a breathless laugh that feels more like a sob turned sideways. “I have no idea what my boss looks like,” you admit. “Or my own name.” He chuckles, warm and smug and weirdly fond.
“Mission accomplished, then,” he says.
You lie there in the dark, sweat cooling on your skin, pulse slowly working its way back down. The knot between your shoulders feels looser. The buzzing panic in your chest has been swapped out for a warm, heavy ache. Guilt tries to poke its head in — about work, about lines you’ve blurred, about how you’re letting a stranger talk to you like this.
It doesn’t stick. Mostly, you feel… lighter.
“You okay?” he asks after a stretch of quiet. “Yeah,” you say, this time without hesitation. “Better than okay.”
“Good,” he says again, a little hum in the word. “Then you’re going to drink some water, maybe wash up, and then you’re going to sleep. That’s an order.”
“Bossy,” you murmur.
“Effective,” he counters, back in that dry, familiar cadence. “Can you do that for me, menace?” Your chest squeezes. “Yeah,” you say quietly. “I can do that.”
“Text me if your brain starts doing the spiral thing again,” he adds. “I can’t promise I’ll always pick up, but… I’ll try.”
Warmth blooms under your sternum. “Kade?” you say.
“Mm?”
“Thank you,” you murmur. “For… all of it.” You hear the smile in his reply. “Anytime,” he says. “Now hang up before I start liking you too much and say something embarrassing.” You laugh, soft and stunned. “Too late,” you say.
You end the call before you can hear his response.
You drag yourself up, drink water straight from a glass, stand under too-hot water until your skin prickles and your legs feel a little weak for more than one reason, then crawl back into bed, phone on the pillow beside you. As sleep starts to pull at you, you glance at the screen one last time.
One new message: Sleep, Nyx. You’ve got bosses to kill tomorrow.
You fall asleep with his words in your ear and the ghost of his voice still telling you what to do, for once not minding in the slightest.
The morning after, you’re wrecked and glowing in equal measure.
You wake up to your alarm feeling like someone unplugged your bones and put them back in slightly wrong, every muscle loose and heavy. Your body is tired; your brain is oddly quiet. Like somebody cleared the cache overnight.
You drag yourself through a shower and into vaguely clean clothes on autopilot, trying very hard not to think about how you got here — the way Kade’s voice had wrapped around your nerves, the way he’d pulled that earth-shattering orgasm out of you over the phone, like it was nothing.
You fail, obviously.
Every time you close your eyes too long in the elevator up to Titan Forge, you hear him again. “Give it to yourself. Come for me.” You almost miss your floor.
Wonwoo’s already in the war room when you walk in, standing by the whiteboard, one hand braced on the table, the other wrapped around a coffee like it’s the only thing anchoring him to this plane of existence.
He looks tired. Not his usual “up late thinking about enemy AI” tired. His hoodie is rumpled, hair messier than usual, dark circles under his eyes like he lost a fight with sleep and caffeine is only barely keeping him upright.
When you step inside, he glances up. Your gazes catch.
Something flickers across his face — a flash of something unreadable— before he looks away a fraction too quickly, taking a long swallow of coffee. You tell yourself the weird lurch in your chest is leftover vulnerability from last night, not anything to do with him.
“Morning,” you say, dumping your bag in your usual spot. “Barely,” he mutters, not quite meeting your eyes. You arch a brow. “Did the combat doc keep you up that late?” you ask.
He shrugs one shoulder. “Something like that,” he says, voice a shade rougher than usual. “You ready to make this god bleed for the playtest?” You grab a marker, capping it off with more force than necessary. “Born ready,” you say. “Let’s go break our own hearts before everyone else gets a turn.”
Between bug reports, tuning passes, and Jisoo poking her head in to ask for “just one more line” that will “totally make that cutscene land,” you barely have time to breathe. On your first coffee break, your phone buzzes in your pocket as you stand in the kitchen staring at the sad remains of a pastry tray. You fish it out.
Kade: “How’s your ‘colleague’ today?”
Your lips twitch. You glance at the doorway, half-expecting someone to be watching you. The kitchen is empty except for the hum of the fridge. You lean your hip against the counter and type back.
You: “Annoying. Smug. Infuriatingly good at his job.”.
Kade: “Sounds like you want to strangle him or sit on his lap.”
Heat flashes under your skin so fast you almost drop your coffee. You bite your cheek, thumbs moving before your brain can meddle.
You: “Bold of you to assume it’s not both.”
Kade: “There’s that bratty streak. Save some attitude for tonight.”
Your stomach does a slow, traitorous flip. You stare at the screen a second too long. A voice behind you makes you jump. “Coffee machine’s not a puzzle, you know.” You twist around.
Wonwoo’s standing in the doorway, mug in hand, watching you with that flat, unreadable look. Up close, the tiredness is even more obvious — the way his shoulders slump a little, the faint redness at the corner of his eyes, like he rubbed them too hard. You thumb your phone screen off and push the kettle button. “I was psyching myself up,” you say. “Trial Three, final day. Feels like a boss rush.”
He moves past you to the machine, sleeve brushing your arm. It shouldn’t register. Your skin registers it anyway. “At least on boss rushes you get loot,” he says. “If we survive this, I demand loot,” you reply. “Bare minimum: one nap and something with melted cheese.”
He huffs something that might resemble a laugh. “Aim high, Pixie,” he says. You don’t let your brain linger on how your nickname sounds in his sleep-rough voice.
The hours blur. You and Wonwoo fall into an uneasy, surprisingly efficient rhythm. He tweaks timings in the fight script; you adjust lines to match the new pacing. You suggest one more tiny reaction shot on the god when the choice lands; he grumbles about scope and then works the animation team to squeeze it in anyway. At one point, when Raj swings by to ask about the spike damage in phase two, you start to answer, and Wonwoo cuts in. “That tuning pass was mine,” he says before you can open your mouth. “If it feels unfair, blame me, not her.”
You blink at him. Raj squints, then shrugs. “It’s not unfair,” he says. “Just mean. I like it.”
He leaves. You glance sidelong at Wonwoo. “You didn’t have to do that,” you say. He keeps his eyes on his laptop. “You didn’t,” he says, “when they said the cutscene was too long. You argued it down to shaving five seconds instead of twenty. Call it even.”
You don’t have an answer to that, so you pretend to be very invested in your line spacing. You press your lips together, refusing to smile. It doesn’t work.
By midday, the war room looks like you detonated a design doc bomb.
Sticky notes bloom in clusters on every available surface. One whiteboard is entirely “CUT” and “KEEP” columns; another is scribbled with a half-dozen variations of one line of god dialogue.
You stand shoulder-to-shoulder with Wonwoo in front of the build monitor as the latest version of the fight plays back. The QA tester controlling the characters executes your “punished vs. rewarded” dynamic perfectly — one player glowing with buffs, the other staggering under repeated hits.
When the god finally falls, the cutscene triggers. The new, sharpened version hits harder than you expected.
The god looks directly at the defiant player and whispers the line you fought for — the one about “you’ll carry this choice even when my voice is gone.” The look they give each other just before the screen fades out punches you in the chest.
You glance sideways. Wonwoo’s lips press together in what might be grudging satisfaction. “It works,” he says.
“You sound surprised,” you say.
He shrugs, eyes still on the screen. “I’m surprised we got it to work in time,” he says. “Not that it works.”
You’re definitely too sleep-deprived, because your brain momentarily short-circuits at that. Before you can unpack it, your stomach growls loud enough to be embarrassing. He actually cracks a small smile at that.
“Go eat,” he says. “I’ll push this build to the playtest branch.”
You hesitate. “You should eat too,” you reply. “You look like you might ascend if someone breathes on you too hard.”
His mouth twitches. “If I ascend, you don’t get your cutscene,” he says. “Go.” You point two fingers at your eyes and then at him in a “this isn’t over” gesture, then back out of the room, phone already in your hand.
In the hallway, the fluorescent lights are a little too bright as you unlock your phone.
You: “We’re almost at presentation. I’m fifty percent adrenaline, fifty percent spite.”
You: “If this goes badly, I’m blaming you retroactively.”
He doesn’t make you wait long.
Kade: “Bold, blaming your emotional support raid lead.”
Kade: “How bad on a scale from ‘mildly annoying’ to ‘I need to set something on fire’?”
You glance down the hallway toward the war room and smile despite yourself.
You: “Hovering around ‘light arson.’”
You: “But the project is finally behaving. The flow feels good. It might actually… be something.”
Kade: “Of course it is. You touched it.”
Your breath catches. You stare at that for a second, feeling something warm and weird spread under your ribs. The dots keep bouncing.
Kade: “You pour yourself into things. It shows. Even from here.”
Kade: “Worst case, if they don’t get it, they’re wrong.”
You: “You’re dangerously close to being sappy.”
You: “That’s my job.”
Kade: “Relax, menace. I can be sappy and tell you what to do.”
Kade: “Speaking of. Deep breath. Shoulders down. Drop your jaw.”
You roll your eyes but follow the instructions, exhaling slowly, unclenching muscles you didn’t even realise were clenched.
Kade: “Better?”
You: “Hate that you’re effective from another timezone.”
You: “But yeah. A little.”
The reply this time is slower, the dots lingering.
When it comes, the tone has shifted — lighter, teasing, the kind of playful edge that makes your pulse tick up.
Kade: “Good.”
Kade: “Now go impress them so I can ruin your composure again later.”
You choke on nothing.
You: “You’re very confident.”
Kade: “Last night says I’m allowed to be.”
Heat streaks through you at the reminder. You lock your phone before you can type something incriminating in the middle of Titan Forge’s hallway.
The internal playtest and presentation take place in the same big conference room where your earlier trials happened, but it feels different with a build you actually believe in. QA runs the slice while David, Raj, Jisoo, Kaito and a handful of other leads watch, controllers in their hands. You and Wonwoo stand side by side at the front, laptops open to your notes, pretending your hearts aren’t banging against your ribs in sync.
The fight plays. The mechanics land. There are wipes, but fair ones. The co-op dynamic between the “defiant” and “obedient” players sparks arguments and laughter in all the right places. The cutscene at the end hits; you see it in the way Jisoo goes very still, in the little “ohhh” murmured around the room when the god spits their last line.
Lights up. For a moment, nobody talks.
Then Raj lets out a breath that sounds suspiciously like he’s been holding it the whole time. “That phase two pattern is nasty,” he says. “In a good way.” He looks at Wonwoo. “I like how the punished player gets just enough tools that you want to be the one taking the hits.”
Wonwoo nods once. “Pain loop needed a reward,” he says.
Jisoo looks at you. “And the choice,” she says. “Tying the aggro mechanic to who argued with the god—that’s mean. I love it.”
You smile, shaky and a little relieved. “It felt right,” you say. “If they’re going to commit to defiance, the world should respond. Even if it’s inconvenient.” Kaito scrolls through notes on his tablet. “For a five-day slice,” he says slowly, “this is… ambitious. But it’s coherent. The systems and story are actually talking to each other.”
David has been quiet, watching you both instead of the screen. Now he straightens from where he’d been leaning against the table.
“It’s good,” he says. “Rough around the edges, sure, but the spine is strong. I can see the game in this.” Relief washes through you, sharp and dizzying. Then he smiles that sharp little smile that makes you nervous.
“Whose idea was the punished/rewarded co-op split?” he asks, eyes flicking between you and Wonwoo. “Combat or narrative?”
You open your mouth automatically. Wonwoo beats you to it. “Both,” he says. You blink at him. “She pitched the emotional hook,” he continues, nodding in your direction. “I built the numbers around it. You rip either side out, and it falls apart.” You catch up, mouth catching up to brain. “He’s the one who made it actually work,” you add. “If I’d tuned it alone, it would’ve been a story beat that accidentally killed everyone.”
David’s gaze moves back and forth between you like a metronome. “Cute,” he says. “You’ve discovered teamwork.” There’s a faint edge there you can’t quite parse. “If we had to ship this slice as-is,” he goes on, “I’d be yelling at you about scope, but I wouldn’t be ashamed of it. That’s… not nothing.”
Raj closes his notebook. “You two actually managed to make co-op feel like it matters,” he says. “That’s the thing I was most worried about when we started this project. I’m… impressed.”
You glance at Wonwoo. He’s looking straight ahead, jaw relaxed for the first time in days. When he notices you watching, he flicks a brief look your way. You share a small, tired smile. It feels oddly like a truce.
Later, after the room has emptied and the war room is in that strange limbo between “still yours” and “soon someone else’s mess,” you sit at the table with your laptop open, mostly for show. You know you should go home. Sleep. Eat real food.
Your phone buzzes. You don’t even pretend you’re not waiting for it.
Kade: “How’d it go?”
You: “We didn’t crash and burn. Presentation played all the way through. People made noises, I think, that were good.”
You: “Someone difficult even said he was impressed.”
You: “I might frame that sentence.”
Kade: “You should.”
Kade: “Told you. You touch something, it turns into something good.”
Heat creeps up your neck.
You: “Careful. I’ll start believing you.”
Kade: “Good.”
Kade: “I want you thinking about what you did right today when I tell you what else I want you to do later.”
Your breath hitches. You glance reflexively at the door. Still empty.
You: “You’re very sure there’s going to be a ‘later.’”
Kade: “I believe the odds are in my favour.”
Kade: “Unless you regret it?”
You chew your lip and type.
You: “No.”
You: “Definitely not.”
You: “You?”
The answer comes fast.
Kade: “Not even a little.”
Kade: “But if you ever do, we stop. No questions. That’s the deal.”
You: “That’s very responsible of you, Tutorial.”
Kade: “Don’t get used to it.”
Kade: “I still plan on bossing you around mercilessly.”
You grin at your screen. Footsteps sound in the hallway. You lock your phone on reflex just before Wonwoo pushes the door open, a folder tucked under his arm, his phone in his hand. “Jisoo wants our notes for the presentation doc,” he says, crossing the room as he types something. “She’s doing a postmortem write-up.”
You nod, closing your laptop. Your phone buzzes again on the table, screen lighting up with Kade’s name for a second before going dark.
Wonwoo’s eyes flick to it, then away just as quickly, expression unreadable. “Big plans tonight?” he asks casually. You swallow, hoping your face isn’t doing anything incriminating.
“Sleep,” you say. “Maybe forgetting my own name for ten hours.”
His mouth twists like he’s suppressing a comment. “Try not to die before Trial Four,” he says instead. “I’d hate to have to steal your ideas posthumously.” You snort. “You’d miss me.”
He doesn’t look at you when he answers, putting his phone away instead. “Yeah,” he says softly. “I think I would.”
Before you can respond, he drops the folder on the table and leaves again, the door swinging shut behind him. Your phone buzzes one more time. You pick it up, a little faster than before.
Kade: “Tonight I want you on call, no game. Just you and me.”
Kade: “Think you can be good for me twice in a row?”
You stare at the words, heat flooding your lower stomach. Between two fires, you think. One rival who makes you want to prove yourself every time he looks at you. One disembodied voice who sees right through you even without a name.
You: “No promises on being ‘good.’”
You: “But I’ll pick up.”
You set your phone down, the war room spinning quietly around you, and realise that, for the first time in days, you’re not just surviving the crunch. You’re looking forward to something. Even if you have no idea how dangerously tangled those two parts of your life could get.
Trial Four comes and goes in a blur of pitch decks, leadership questionnaires, and David using phrases like “scalability of vision” until the words mean nothing.
By the time the dust settles, the roster has shrunk again. Baekhyun and Yoohyeon are cut post-Trial Three, with a quick “thank you for your time” and corporate smiles that don’t reach anyone’s eyes. Now it’s just you and Wonwoo. Two names on the board. Two badges in the war room. You thought it would feel triumphant. Mostly, it feels like the world is narrowing to a single point.
You notice it slowly at first — little shifts around the edges.
In one review, David circles your cutscene outline with a red pen. “We could trim here,” he says. “Skip straight from the god’s first line to the choice prompt. Keep the pacing tight. What do you think, Jeon?”
Wonwoo twirls his pen once between his fingers, eyes flicking from the page to the whiteboard where your emotional beats are mapped out. “If you cut that line,” he says, “the god’s turn comes out of nowhere. The player needs the hesitation to believe the threat.”
David lifts his brows. “We can show that in gameplay,” he says. “No need to over-explain.”
“We are showing it in gameplay,” Wonwoo replies, tone even. “That line lets them feel it before they see it. It’s doing work. I’d cut the second reaction shot instead.” David looks between you, clearly weighing how much blood he can squeeze from both stones.
“You okay with that, Pixie?” he asks you. You’re still stuck on the we in “we are showing it.”
“Yeah,” you say, clearing your throat. “We cut the second reaction shot, we keep the line.”
David’s mouth twists. “You two are getting very good at presenting a united front,” he says lightly. “Dangerous.”
Later, in a systems meeting, David tries again. He leans back in his chair, hands steepled. “If we were going to ship this,” he says, “I want to know whose name goes on the credits as lead. Narrative or combat. You can’t both be in charge.” He watches the words land, eyes bright like he’s waiting for sparks. You open your mouth, defences already snapping into place.
Wonwoo speaks first. “Pick whoever pisses you off less,” he says dryly. “It won’t change how we designed this. The slice is both of us.” You blink at him, caught flat-footed. David’s gaze sharpens. “You’re really okay with that?” he asks. “Even if the role lands on her?”
Wonwoo doesn’t flinch. “If she’s lead, I still get to build fights,” he says. “If I’m lead, she still gets to make people cry. Either way, you get a better game using both.”
You just stare at him. He feels it, finally glancing your way. “Don’t look so shocked, Pixie,” he says, shrugging one shoulder. “I’m not a complete villain.” Your mouth opens. Closes. You look back at your laptop because looking at him suddenly feels dangerously complicated.
The days grow stranger by degrees. You and Wonwoo still bicker, but the barbs land softer now, wrapped in a layer of something almost like fondness. He still pokes holes in your logic, still rolls his eyes when you get too poetic on a first pass, still mutters “scope” under his breath whenever you pitch something ambitious.
But when David tries to pin a problem on you alone, Wonwoo steps in with a steady “that one’s on me.” When someone suggests cutting a narrative beat you love, he backs you up with combat justification. When you’re too fried to translate Raj’s tuning complaints into story terms, he quietly rephrases them until they make sense. You keep waiting for the other shoe to drop. For him to pull away, to remind you this is still a competition, that only one of you walks away with Titan Forge on your CV. He doesn’t.
Meanwhile, your phone has become a second heartbeat. You don’t text Kade in the war room. Not when Wonwoo’s there. Not when anyone’s there. But the second you step away — into the hallway, into the stairwell, outside to gulp cold air on the rooftop — the buzz starts.
Kade: “Project update?”
You: “Internal politics worse than external action. Send help.”
Kade: “Kill them with charm. Or, failing that, numbers.”
You: “Charm stat is low. Spite stat is maxed.”
Kade: “Spite is a perfectly valid build.”
The sexting thread slithers between the jokes now, woven through the mundane.
Kade: “What are you wearing?”
You: “Corporate casual and despair.”
Kade: “Hot.”
Kade: “Lose the despair later. Keep the rest on until I tell you.”
Your cheeks burn on the rooftop, wind biting at your ears. You type with your back to the door.
You: “You’re very sure I’ll do what you say.”
Kade: “You say that every time, and then you do exactly what I tell you.”
Kade: “Eventually.”
You hate how true that feels. You love how true that feels. You delete three responses that are essentially variations of “fuck you” and settle on:
You: “You’re lucky you’re good at this.”
Kade: “I am. And so are you.”
You go back inside with your pulse racing for reasons that have nothing to do with the final trial brief sitting on your desk.
In Aetherion, the boundary between “game” and “something else” keeps dissolving.
You and Kade finished the main story content weeks ago, but the devs keep patching in co-op vignettes — little side scenes, optional story nodes that only trigger if two players have a high enough “bond” score. You’ve unlocked almost all of them.
Campfires under different skies. Quiet nights in hidden shrines. Short quests where your characters work together to fix small, almost domestic problems — an NPC’s broken cart, a haunted well, a lost kid who won’t talk to anyone but Nyx. Tonight, you’re tucked into your usual corner of the crystalline forest, Nyx and Kade sitting on a log, a new “Between Wars” scene flickering to life around them.
You’ve both set your controllers down. At some point, the active playing stops and the two of you default to just talking. The conversation drifts like it always does.
Music first — soundtracks you love, tracks you loop when you’re playing or working. Then favourite boss designs, the ones that made you swear out loud in the best way. “The first time I beat that fight,” Kade says, “I screamed so loud my neighbour knocked on the wall.”
“Did you apologise?” you ask. “No,” he replies. “I asked if they wanted the build.” You laugh until your sides hurt.
That slides into childhood games — cartridges and cracked CDs, memories of borrowed consoles and staying up too late, the first time you realised you could be in a story instead of just reading it. You describe playing an ancient fantasy RPG on a hand-me-down system with a broken save battery, having to keep it paused for hours because turning it off meant losing everything. “That explains so much about your personality,” Kade says. “Early exposure to high stakes.”
“Says the man who thinks floor traps are a fun learning tool,” you shoot back. “They are,” he insists. “Pain is an excellent teacher.”
His voice is warm, amused, threaded with that intimacy that comes from too many hours spent comfortingly in each other’s ears.
At some point, you realise you’re lying sideways on your couch, phone in one hand, controller barely touched in the other, just watching Nyx and Kade’s idle animations flicker by the campfire. The game has become scenery. He has become the main thing.
The thoughts that have been circling for days finally break the surface three nights later.
You stall for a bit — talk about a minor NPC, toss a few jokes out, let them fall. Then, before you can talk yourself out of it, you blurt: “There’s someone at work I can’t stand.”
You hear him go quiet, the soft crackle from his mic shifting as he settles more fully into listening mode. “The same one you mentioned before?” he asks. “The ‘annoyingly talented’ one?”
You exhale, long and uneven. “Yeah,” you say. “Him.”
You pick at a loose thread on the couch with your free hand.
“He drives me insane,” you continue. “He’s smug, and infuriating, and he always seems… collected. Even when I’m falling apart. He used to act like I wasn’t even a threat. Like I was just… there.”
“Used to?” Kade prompts gently.
You think of Wonwoo taking the blame in front of Raj. Of him backing your line against David. Of his quiet “If she’s lead, I still get to build fights” like your success doesn’t diminish his. Think of the way he said, “Yeah. I think I would,” when you joked he’d miss you.
“Lately he’s been… different,” you say slowly. “Backing me up in meetings. Deflecting shit that isn’t my fault. It’s like he decided not to be an ass overnight, and my brain hasn’t caught up.”
You swallow. The words feel like they’re scraping on the way out.
“And I think I might also…” You force yourself to say it, “…be kind of into him, which is very annoying.”
When Kade finally laughs in reply, it’s not cruel. It’s strained, like he’s trying very hard to keep something steady. “Enemies-to-lovers is a classic trope for a reason,” he says lightly. You groan, dropping your forearm over your eyes. “This isn’t a romance novel,” you protest. “He’s— I mean, we’re competing. For the same project. He’s my rival.”
“Rivals to lovers,” Kade corrects. “Also a classic.” You make an inarticulate noise of despair. “You’re not helping.”
There’s a soft exhale on the other end. When he speaks again, his voice has dropped — not into the commanding cadence he uses when he’s telling you where to stand, but into something lower, more careful. “You sure?” he asks.
“Sure about what?”
“That this isn’t a romance novel,” he says quietly. “Feels like it from over here.”
You want to argue. You also want to crawl into your own hoodie and never come out. “You’re romanticising this,” you grumble. “You don’t know him.”
“I know you,” he says. “You light up when you talk about work. Even when you’re pissed off. You wouldn’t waste this much energy on someone you didn’t… care about, on some level.”
You chew on that, on the word care, on the possibility that your anger has been hiding something else. It’s too much. So you dodge. “So what, I’m just supposed to confess my undying love in the next meeting?” you say. “Wear a shirt that says ‘I hate how attractive your brain is’?”
He laughs, the tension in his voice easing a fraction. “I mean, I’d pay to see that,” he says. “But no. I’m saying you don’t have to have it all sorted right now. You’re allowed to want to throttle someone and kiss them at the same time.” The worst part is that you’ve already told him that exact thing — about your colleague — in texts. You’ve practically written your own trope label. You sigh, scrubbing a hand over your face. “You’re infuriatingly reasonable,” you say.
“I contain multitudes,” he replies.
You can hear him smile, but there’s still something tight underneath, like holding this conversation is scraping against a nerve you can’t see.
On screen, Nyx shifts closer to Kade by the campfire, their idle animation nudging them nearly shoulder to shoulder. You watch them, heart thudding, as Kade says, almost too casually, “For what it’s worth?”
“Yeah?”
“Whoever he is,” Kade says, “he’s an idiot if he doesn’t see what he’s got in front of him.”
Your throat closes up for a second. You swallow around it. “Yeah, well,” you say, voice coming out softer than you like. “Good thing you’re not an idiot, then.” There’s a tiny, startled pause. Then he laughs, low and a little shaky. “Working on it,” he murmurs.
You log off hours later with your head spinning, your heart sore, and a growing suspicion that you’re in way over yours.
In one world, you’re gearing up for the final trial against the man who’s been an accidental measuring stick for your entire career, who has started quietly stepping into your corner when it counts.
In another, you’re falling asleep with your phone on the pillow beside you, waiting for a notification from the voice that can pull you apart and put you back together from miles away.
The lines between them blur a little more every day.
Trial Five doesn’t feel like a trial. It feels like a war of attrition.
You and Wonwoo are basically living at Titan Forge. Someone wheels a spare couch into your war room; it becomes a graveyard for hoodies and half-finished coffee cups. The blinds stay half-closed because the outside world is starting to feel like an optional DLC you didn’t purchase.
The brief is simple and cruel: “Pitch a three-year roadmap for Mythfall: Eclipse and then, in a live scenario, rescope that roadmap when we throw crises at you. Show us how you think, how you cut, how you lead.”
You’re not just designing a game anymore. You’re designing a future.
And David is done pretending he’s rooting for you both.
It starts with the one-on-ones. He frames them like standard check-ins.
“Just to make sure you’re both supported,” he says, smiling bright and harmless. “We don’t want you burning out before you even get the job.”
You go first.
David’s office is smaller than you thought it would be. Crammed with shelves, concept art pinned everywhere, a whiteboard full of half-erased scribbles. His desk is cleared, though — tablet, a little stack of sticky notes, your file. He leans back in his chair, fingers steepled. “You’ve done good work, Pixie,” he says. “Mythfall’s heartbeat? A lot of that is you.”
The compliment lands, then immediately feels suspicious. “Thanks,” you say carefully. He nods, like he expected the caution. “But you know how this works,” he goes on. “We can’t have two leads on one title. Someone has to own the final call. Someone has to be willing to say ‘no’ when everyone wants ‘yes.’”
“I can do that,” you say. “If that’s what you’re asking.”
“I’m asking if you’re willing to out-think Jeon,” David says, sharp now. “Because he’s very good at what he does and he’s talking about a solo vision in his meetings.” Your heart stutters. “Solo vision?” David shrugs, casual. “Not in those words,” he says. “But you know how combat people are. Systems-first. He’s got strong opinions about how this game should play and end. I need to know you’re not going to just… orbit him. That you can bring something equally sharp to the table.” You sit a little straighter, pulse beating in your ears. “I’m not orbiting anyone,” you say before you can soften it. “I have a vision. Our slice works because I fought for it. I can fight for the larger picture too.” His eyes warm. “Good,” he says. “Show me that tomorrow. Show me where you would push back if he gets stubborn. We need different perspectives. That’s the best-case scenario — not two versions of the same mind.” You leave feeling like you’ve swallowed a live wire.
You don’t see Wonwoo’s one-on-one. But you see him come out.
You’re walking past the row of glass offices with a printout in your hand when his door opens. He steps into the hallway, face set in that neutral, unreadable way you’re starting to recognise as his version of upset.
David’s voice carries through the cracked door, too loud to pretend you don’t hear. “—just don’t get blindsided, okay? She’s smart. She’s already talking about pitching a separate direction. I’d hate for you to assume you’re on the same page when you’re not.”
Heat floods your face. You don’t stop walking. You don’t look at either of them. You keep going until you’re around the corner, then press your back to the wall and stare at the printer paper in your hand without seeing it.
Separate direction. You replay the conversation in David’s office. The way he framed his concern. The way he twisted “I need you to be strong” into “he wants to lead alone.” The way he’s now telling Wonwoo you might split.
The next two days are a mess of splinters.
You and Wonwoo are still working together, but the soft goodwill that started to build after Trial Three now has hairline cracks running through it. When you push for a narrative-heavy arc in Year Two, you catch him hesitating before he backs you up. When he sketches a system for rotating co-op alliances in Year Three, you hear yourself ask, sharper than you meant, “And where exactly does that leave story continuity?”
You both apologise, quickly and awkwardly, but the apologies feel thin over the tension buzzing underneath. Tiny misunderstandings, yesterday’s nothing, turn into petty frustrations today. You find out, during a review, that he moved one set piece on your Year One roadmap to fit a boss he’s been dreaming up. He finds out, during a call, that you rewrote some flavour text for his combat trees without telling him because “it fit better tonally.” Each time, you both say “It’s fine,” and neither of you sounds like you mean it.
The blowup happens at 1:17 a.m.
The war room is lit only by two desk lamps and the blue glow of the big screen. Everyone else on your floor went home hours ago. Even the cleaning staff have passed through twice and left. There’s an empty pizza box on the table, three coffee cups, two energy drink cans, and one very frayed patience between you. You’d crashed on the couch for “ten minutes” and woken up forty minutes later, neck stiff, mouth dry. You push yourself up, scrub a hand over your face, and stagger toward your laptop. Wonwoo’s already there.
He’s standing at your side of the table, eyes on your screen, fingers moving over your keyboard. For a moment, your half-sleeping brain can’t parse it. Then your stomach drops. Your roadmap document is open. The Year Two narrative section — your section, the one you stayed up to write, the one about fractured pantheons and co-op betrayals — is on the screen.
Words have changed. Sentences shortened. Bullet points rearranged. One of your carefully built emotional beats has become a single bland phrase: “relationship fallout.” Something hot and ugly surges up your throat. “What are you doing?”
He looks up, startled. “Editing,” he says. “The wording was a little—”
“I didn’t ask you to touch that,” you snap, stepping closer. “That’s my section.” His brows draw together. “You were asleep on the couch,” he says. “The deck needs to go to Kaito by eight. I was trying to make sure it’s coherent.”
“By stripping all the specificity out of my pitch?” you demand. “Turning ‘the party has to live with the cost of sparing a god’ into ‘relationship fallout’?” You jab a finger at the screen. “Do you have any idea how hard I fought for that arc when Jisoo thought it was too dark?”
He sets his hands on the table, jaw tightening. “Yes,” he says. “I’m the one who backed you when she wanted to cut it.”
“And now you’re rewriting it while I’m unconscious,” you throw back. “So which is it, Jeon? Support or sabotage?” The air between you goes very still.
He straightens slowly. “You can’t be serious,” he says.
You laugh, harshly, too loud in the small room. “David told me you’ve been talking about your ‘solo vision,’” you say, the words spilling out before you can stop them. “That you need to know you can lead this game on your own.”
Something flickers across his face — genuine surprise, then anger. “And he told me you were considering pitching a separate direction so I shouldn’t get blindsided,” he says, voice cool. “So forgive me for wanting to make sure our names are attached to something that actually fits together.”
You stare at him. You’re too tired. Too raw. Too used to being made to feel like the emotional one, the one who can’t take criticism, the one whose work is “padding” until proven otherwise. All you see is your document on the screen under his hands.
“If you wanted to ‘make sure it fits,’ you could’ve woken me up,” you say, hurt sharpening every syllable. “Instead of quietly sanding down my work until it looks more like yours.”
His expression shutters. “If I’d known you were going to accuse me of sabotage every time I tried to help,” he says, voice flattening, “maybe I shouldn’t have started helping at all, Pixie.”
The nickname lands like a slap. You cross your arms over your chest, nails biting into your skin. “Nobody asked you to start,” you shoot back.
He flinches. It’s small. A tightening around his eyes, a tiny shift in his stance. If you weren’t staring at him, you might miss it.
For a second, neither of you says anything. The war room hums quietly around you — computer fans, the faint buzz of fluorescent lights, the ghost of someone’s laughter from three days ago stuck in the walls.
You break first. “I’m going home,” you say, snatching your laptop cord out of the wall. “You clearly have this under control.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” he says, exasperation slipping into his tone. “We have a deadline. We don’t have time for—”
“For me to be upset about you rewriting my work?” you cut in. “No, of course we don’t. That would be inconvenient.”
You stuff your laptop into your bag, way rougher than necessary.
He runs a hand through his hair, visibly struggling for patience. “What do you want me to say?” he asks. “That I won’t touch anything that isn’t mine, even if the whole thing sinks because of it? Congratulations, you’re lead then. Alone.”
The worst part is that a piece of you hates how much that hurts. You yank your bag onto your shoulder. “Goodnight, Jeon.”
You’re halfway out the door when he says, quieter, “You know that’s not what I meant.” You don’t look back. If you do, you might crumble.
Your apartment feels foreign when you stumble in.
You drop your bag by the door, kick your shoes off hard enough that one skids under the table. Your Titan Forge badge lands on the counter with a clatter. You pace the length of your living room three times, pulse still hammering in your ears. You’re furious. You’re exhausted. You’re hurt.
That last one feels like betrayal.
You scrub a hand over your face, breathing hard. Your gaze lands on your PC. You know you should just go to bed, let the anger burn itself out, deal with the fallout tomorrow like a professional adult.
Instead, your fingers move on autopilot. You boot Aetherion.
Nyx materialises in the crystalline forest, same as always. The world is quiet, glowing, almost gentle. Your voice chat icon lights up almost immediately. You accept before you can reconsider.
“Hey,” Kade says. Usually, there’s a smile in his voice when he greets you. Tonight, there’s something else too — a thread of concern.
“You’re on late,” he adds. “Even for you.”
You don’t bother pretending otherwise. “Big surprise,” you say. “Work imploded.” You move Nyx without thinking, running her in circles under the trees, needing the motion.
“Walk or hit things?” he asks.
“Both,” you say. “At the same time.”
He chuckles softly. “Come on, then,” he says. “There’s a patrol route with some elites that deserve it.” He pings a spot. You follow, falling into the familiar pattern — Nyx at his flank, his greatsword a constant weight at the edge of your vision.
Your hands know what to do. Your brain does not. You take a hit you normally would’ve dodged. Miss an obvious telegraph. Overextend into a pack and eat a stun to the face. Kade notices.
“Nyx,” he says, after you faceplant into the same cone twice in a row. “You’re playing like someone swapped your dexterity for salt.”
“Maybe I did,” you mutter. He keeps his tone light, but there’s a hint of steel underneath now — the same edge he uses when a raid is one mistake away from a wipe.
“Talk to me,” he says. “What happened?”
You don’t want to talk. You also kind of want to scream. Instead, you give him the redacted version: the project, the roadmap, the one-on-ones that feel more like trap rooms, the late-night scene in the war room with your “colleague” at your laptop. You still can’t say Wonwoo’s name here. It doesn’t matter. You talk in silhouettes; Kade connects the lines.
“He rewrote my work while I was asleep,” you say, fingers tight on your mouse. “Then acted like I was overreacting for being pissed about it.”
On screen, Nyx lunges forward at the wrong moment. You notice too late; a phantom’s blade kisses her health bar. Kade swings in, intercepting, catching the enemy’s attention before it finishes the combo. “Of course you’re pissed,” he says. “Anyone would be. That’s your name on the doc.”
“David’s already trying to pit us against each other,” you push on, anger rising with your words. “I’m supposed to be his co-lead, and I feel like I’m constantly fighting for my own oxygen. I don’t know what the hell I’m doing.”
You take another hit. Kade yanks the mob off you again, but his voice is less smooth now. “You know exactly what you’re doing,” he says. “You’ve been holding half the project together by force of will.”
“Hasn’t felt like it,” you say bitterly. “Feels like I’m either in the way or being used as decoration.” You rush into the next pack too early, ignoring the patrol path you usually follow. Three enemies turn at once, converging on you. Kade curses under his breath and dives in after you, sword flashing. “Nyx,” he says, firmer now. “Back up. You’re going to get yourself killed.”
“Maybe I don’t care,” you snap, dashing anyway. Your screen floods with damage numbers. He burns cooldowns to keep you from eating dirt. “I care,” he says. “Fall. Back.” Something in you bristles at the command.
You do it anyway, because your health bar is screaming and he’s clearly not about to let you die on his watch. You kite backward, breath too fast in your own ears. “You can’t keep charging red telegraphs and then get mad when you get hit,” he says tightly. “That’s not how this works.”
“Wow,” you say, the bitter laugh scraping out of your chest. “Thanks for the life lesson.”
“You wanted to hit things,” he reminds you. “I’m trying to make sure you don’t wipe in the process.”
The words land wrong tonight. You hear I’m trying to show you how to do it right. You hear you can’t handle this without me. You know that’s not what he said. It doesn’t matter.
“Maybe I’m just an idiot,” you say, fingers clenching around your mouse. “For talking to someone I don’t actually know. For letting some guy on the other end of a phone tell me what to do like he knows best.”
There’s a small, sharp silence. You hear his exhale, short and disbelieving. “Wow,” he says quietly. “Okay.”
You push on, because it’s easier than stopping. “You’re not the one who has to deal with the fallout if this blows up in my face,” you say. “You’re not the one with your real career on the line while you—” You cut yourself off before you say too much. The damage is done anyway. “Nyx,” he says, and there’s a warning in it now. “That’s not fair.”
You laugh, the sound sharp. “What part?” you demand. “The part where I rearrange my sleep to match your raid times? The part where you tell me how to breathe, how to touch myself, how to—” you choke on the memory, “—and I just… listen, because you’re so calm and sure and it’s easier than trusting my own judgment?”
Your vision blurs for a second. You blink hard. On screen, the last enemy dies. Loot explodes around you in a shimmer of colour. Neither of you moves to pick it up. His voice comes back, rougher. “You know me better than you think,” he says. “This isn’t just some game to me.”
You freeze. Something under your ribs twists. He keeps going, words tripping a little. “I’ve been here,” he says. “Every night you’ve wanted to scream. Every time you’ve doubted yourself. I know how you think about fights. I know how you talk when you’re stressed, when you’re happy, when you’re about to do something reckless. I know you.”
The hurt from the war room flares again, now tinged with something like panic. “Do I?” you ask, voice low and shaking. “Know you?”
You stare at Nyx and Kade on the screen — two avatars shoulder to shoulder, weapons sheathed, both idle animations breathing in sync. You realise, abruptly, that if he disappeared tomorrow, you don’t have a last name. You don’t have a face. You don’t have anything but a voice, a handle, and the mess he’s made of your heart. “Because from where I’m standing,” you say, “you’re just another guy who gets to be mysterious and in control and take what he wants and call it ‘help.’”
You can hear his breath on the line, sharp once, then pulled in. When he speaks, his voice is very, very controlled. “That’s what you think I’m doing?” he asks quietly. “Taking?”
You don’t answer. You don’t trust what will come out if you open your mouth. You hit escape. The menu fills your screen. You see his avatar turn toward you, as if he knows what you’re about to do even without mechanics for it. “Nyx,” he says, and there’s something in his tone you haven’t heard before — not command, not teasing, something brittle. “Don’t log off angry. Talk to me.”
Your cursor hovers over “Log Out.” Your eyes sting. You do it anyway. The world blinks out to the character select screen, then to desktop. His voice cuts off mid-breath.
Your room rushes in — the hum of your PC, the tick of your wall clock, the too-loud sound of your own heartbeat. You sit there in the dark, headset still on, fingers pressed white-knuckled into your thighs, breathing like you just wiped to a boss at one percent. You tell yourself you’re justified. That it’s good to remember you don’t really know him. That you’re protecting yourself. You tell yourself a lot of things. None of them makes your chest hurt less.
You rip the headset off and toss it onto the couch, then crawl into bed without showering, without brushing your teeth, without turning your phone face-up on the pillow like you usually do. You don’t want to see his name. You don’t want to see if it doesn’t appear.
In the dark, with your eyes burning and your throat tight, one thought echoes louder than the rest: In one world, you just accused your co-lead of trying to cut you out. In another, you just shoved away the only person who’s been holding you together when you felt like you were coming apart.
For the first time since this all started, it feels like you might have done real damage in both.
The next day, the whole building feels off-kilter.
The air in Titan Forge’s hallway is too dry, the fluorescents too bright, the hum of servers too loud. Every sound seems to scrape along your nerves. You step into the war room and feel it immediately: the shift.
Wonwoo’s already there, standing by the big screen, flipping through printouts. His hoodie is cleaner than yesterday’s, hair pulled back off his face, badge clipped straight. He looks composed. You do not feel composed. He glances up when you enter. For one suspended heartbeat, you meet each other’s eyes. There’s a flicker there—regret, maybe, or just the echo of yesterday’s fight—but he’s the one who looks away first, gaze dropping back to the paper in his hand. “Morning,” he says, neutral. “Sure,” you answer, just as flat. You take your seat at the table. He stays by the screen. You talk only when you have to.
“We’re missing milestones for Year Two.” “Check the second tab.”
Voices clipped, eyes skimming past each other, never lingering. On paper, nothing is wrong. The deck is getting done. The roadmap is tightening. The final trial is tomorrow. Underneath, it’s all shattered.
Last night sits between you: you finding him over your document; his face when you accused him; your own words, sharp and ugly. The slam of the door when you walked out. You don’t know what to do with any of it.
You don’t know what to do with Kade, either. Your phone stayed face down on your nightstand, buzzing once, then silent. You didn’t look. You can’t now. Not with Wonwoo ten feet away. You dig your nails into your palm and focus on the work.
Today is “final prep day,” according to David. Polish. No surprises. Dot the i’s, cross the t’s, make sure the build and the deck and your brains all say the same thing. It feels less like polish and more like threading a needle during an earthquake.
You and Wonwoo spend the morning in the war room scrubbing the roadmap slides until they gleam. You tighten the wording on your emotional beats; he reworks a couple of graphs so they’re legible from the back row. You trim one story example; he trims two features and then adds a line to your slide so you can point to how story and systems saved scope together. In the afternoon, you move to the big conference room you’ll use tomorrow. Kaito’s assistant booked it for your “tech check and rehearsal.” It feels like walking onto a stage before the curtain.
You plug in the laptop. The title slide for your deck—Mythfall: Eclipse – Three-Year Vision—fills the big screen. You and Wonwoo take turns at the front, clicking through, talking to empty chairs. “Year One is about promises,” you say, gesturing to the map. “We teach players what this world honours and what it punishes.”
“Year Two is about consequences,” he adds, when the slide shifts. “We start cashing checks we wrote in Year One. Systemically and emotionally.”
You time yourselves. You tweak transitions. You add two backup slides for the live Q&A. You scribble a list of potential “crises” they might throw at you tomorrow and argue through how you’ll answer each one so you don’t contradict each other in front of the leads. Sometime around nine, David sticks his head in. “You two still here?” he asks, sounding more amused than surprised. You click out of slideshow mode; the fluorescent lights feel harsher when the screen isn’t filling your vision. “Just making sure nothing explodes when we hook it up tomorrow,” you say.
He glances at the screen, at the neatly ordered thumbnails in the sidebar, at the whiteboards with timelines still half-erased. “Looks thorough,” he says. “Get some rest. Don’t over-rehearse. I want your brains sharp tomorrow, not fried.” You fight the urge to snort.
“We’ll head out soon,” Wonwoo says instead. David gives you both a quick, bright smile that somehow still feels like a test. “Big day,” he says. “Try not to think about it.” Then he’s gone, door swinging shut, leaving you in the echo of his advice. You and Wonwoo run the deck one more time anyway. Just once more.
By the end of it, your throat is scratchy and your shoulders ache. The clock on the wall says 11:34 p.m. The rest of the floor is dark. You start packing up—closing your laptop, stacking your printouts into a neat pile that immediately slouches sideways, capping the last dry-erase marker. Chair scrapes as you push yours in. “See you tomorrow,” you say, without looking up. You don’t wait for an answer. You head for the door, letting it swing shut behind you, never checking whether his footsteps follow or if he stays behind in the empty room.
You make it all the way down the hallway before you realise something’s missing. You stop dead. Your phone. You remember setting it on the table beside your laptop before you started rehearsing. You remember telling yourself you’d deal with Kade’s existence later. You did not remember picking it back up. “Fuck,” you mutter under your breath. You pivot and head back.
The corridor is dark now, most of the floor already shut down for the night. Only the conference room door glows with light under the frame. You hesitate for half a second, then push it open. Your phone sits near the far end of the table, exactly where you left it. Right next to Wonwoo.
He’s in the chair you vacated, hunched over the table, elbows braced, face in his hands. His phone lies just off to the side, screen dark.
He jerks upright when the door opens. You both freeze. For a moment, you just look at each other, lit by the overheads and the flicker from the screensaver on the big monitor. You open your mouth to say something neutral—forgot my phone, or didn’t know you were still here—when you notice your screen is already lit. You cross the room automatically, reaching for it, then stop when you see what’s on the lock screen. A text preview, right there in familiar formatting.
Kade: “I’m sorry about last night, Pixie. I pushed too hard.”
You stare at the words, at the nickname. Pixie. You feel it like a physical impact: the word, the timing, the apologetic tone that matches the one you’ve come to know from his texts and calls. Your head snaps up. Wonwoo is watching you. You catch the movement as he slides his own phone into his back pocket, the guilty tension in his shoulders, the way his hand lingers there a second too long, like he’s just shoved something incriminating out of sight.
The puzzle pieces don’t fall into place so much as smash together.
The nickname. The way Kade has always understood your stress too well. The raid schedule that magically fit your crunch. The little phrases that echoed things Wonwoo said in person. The way he knew how fried you were before you even spoke some nights. Your stomach drops, molten and cold all at once. You reach for your phone with numb fingers, staring at the message, praying it might rearrange itself if you look hard enough. It doesn’t. Your voice, when it comes, sounds distant to your own ears. “It was you.”
You swallow, throat burning. “This whole time,” you whisper, “it was you.”
He flinches like you hit him. “Pixie—”
“Don’t,” you snap, the word cracking on the way out. “Do not call me that right now.” Silence slams down. You can hear your own heartbeat pounding in your ears. Somewhere, faintly, the elevator dings in the distance. Wonwoo stands slowly, palms flat on the table like he’s afraid to move too fast. “I was going to tell you,” he says, voice low. “I just—”
You laugh, short and ugly. “When?” you demand. “Before or after we fucked on the phone again? Before or after I cried about you to you?” His jaw tightens. “You didn’t use my name,” he says. “You never said it was me.”
“Because I didn’t know,” you spit. “Because I thought I was safe there. That Kade was—” You break off, biting the name in half. He winces.
“I figured it out after Trial Three,” he says quietly. “When I brought Jisoo’s file, and you left your phone on the table.”
Images slam into your mind: that evening in this same room, your phone lying next to your laptop, the soft buzz as a notification lit the screen; Kade’s name flashing for a heartbeat; the way you’d flipped it facedown a second too late as Wonwoo walked in with a folder under his arm. You grip your phone tighter, knuckles white.
“So you knew,” you say slowly, “for days, that I was Nyx.”
“Yeah,” he says. “And you didn’t say anything?”
He deflates a little, shoulders sagging. “You hated me,” he says simply. “Here.” He gestures around the room. “You barely tolerated me during Trial One. I thought if I told you I was Kade, you’d cut me off in both places. I… didn’t want to lose you.”
Something in your chest twists. “So you lied instead.”
“I never lied,” he says. “Not to you. I just… didn’t correct your assumptions.”
You stare at him. The distinction feels paper-thin. “You let me talk about you,” you say, voice shaking now. “You let me complain about my ‘colleague’ being dismissive and infuriating and… and you listened as if you were someone else. You didn’t even—” you swallow hard, “—you didn’t even try to defend yourself.”
He swallows, Adam’s apple bobbing. “I liked how you talk about me when you forget you’re supposed to hate me,” he says, so quietly you almost don’t hear it. “I liked hearing what I was getting wrong. I wanted to fix it.”
You shake your head, anger spiking through the hurt. “You wanted to have it both ways,” you snap. “You wanted me as your rival and your raid partner. You got to be the asshole who made me doubt myself and the voice who put me back together at night. Do you have any idea how messed up that is?” His expression breaks, just a little.
“Of course I do,” he says. “You think I haven’t been calling myself every name you just did? I thought I’d get a chance to explain before… this.”
He waves a hand between you, helpless. Your eyes burn. You take a step toward him before you realise you’re moving. “Explain, then,” you say, bitter. “Explain the part where you also decided to sext me for weeks without telling me who you were.”
Colour climbs his throat. He doesn’t look away. “I didn’t plan that,” he says hoarsely. “I wasn’t sitting here thinking, ‘how do I trick her into phone sex?’ I was already gone for you before I knew you were Nyx.”
You choke on a disbelieving sound. “Gone for me,” you repeat. He nods once.
“I’ve had a crush on you for years,” he says, words coming faster now like he’s afraid that if he stops, he won’t be able to start again. “Back when you were doing little indie visual novels, and everyone wrote you off as ‘the feelings girl.’ I watched you eat people alive with your writing. I watched you win awards I wanted and clapped for you from the back row.” Your heart lurches, confused. He keeps going, voice rough.
“And every time I tried to talk to you at a con, I said something stupid, and you looked at me like I was bored. So I did the only thing I know how to do when I don’t know what the fuck I’m feeling.”
He gives a humourless huff. “I acted like you weren’t a threat,” he says. “Like I barely noticed you. It was a shitty defence mechanism. I thought if I kept you at arm’s length, I’d stop thinking about you every time I opened a new brief.” You stare at him, chest heaving. Something cracks open under your ribs. “Spoiler,” he adds quietly. “It didn’t work.”
You let out a wild, half-hysterical laugh. “So instead,” you say, “you went with secret alt and made me fall for you there.”
“I didn’t think you’d…” he trails off, eyes closing briefly. “I just liked talking to you without the history. You liked me there. Or at least you didn’t hate me.” His gaze finds yours again, raw. “I meant every word I said to you as Kade,” he says. “Every apology, every compliment, every time I told you I was proud of you. That was me. I just… didn’t know how to be that guy with my own face.”
He looks wrecked—eyes too bright, shoulders hunched like he’s braced for impact. You feel like you’re going to fly apart. Anger, betrayal, want, old hurt, new hurt—it all churns inside you until you can’t tell one from the other. “You don’t get to do this,” you whisper. He frowns. “Do what?”
“Be both,” you say, gesturing wildly. “You don’t get to be the man who made me feel small for years and the man who held me together in my headphones and—” your voice cracks, “—and the man who made me come late at night with his voice and then text me like nothing happened. You don’t get to be all of that and expect me to just… slot it into one person and be fine.” You see his hands curl into fists at his sides, like he’s physically stopping himself from reaching for you.
“I don’t expect you to be fine,” he says, quiet and fierce. “I expected you to be furious. You should be. I deserve that.”
You close the distance between you without meaning to. You’re close enough now to see the faint stubble on his jaw, the way his pupils are blown wide, the tension in his neck. You want to hit him. You want to kiss him. You hate him. You want him. The contradictions tear at you, each one feeding the other. Your hand moves before your brain catches up. You shove at his chest. He rocks back a step, not because you’re strong enough to move him, but because he lets you.
“You made me feel crazy,” you say, shoving him again. “I thought I was losing my mind because I was falling for a guy I’d never seen while I couldn’t stop thinking about kissing my rival at work.” He catches your wrist before you can shove him a third time—not hard, just enough to halt the motion. “You’re not crazy,” he says. “You were falling for the same idiot twice.” That does it.
You surge forward, grabbing the front of his hoodie, and crash your mouth into his. The kiss lands messy, teeth clacking, too much force and no finesse. It feels less like affection and more like a collision. He makes a low sound in his throat, like he’s been waiting for this and is still somehow surprised. Then he’s kissing you back, just as rough. His free hand comes up to cup the back of your head, fingers threading into your hair. He yanks you closer, mouth moving over yours with an intensity that borders on feral. You bite his bottom lip, hard enough to make him gasp. He hisses between his teeth, grip in your hair tightening just shy of painful.
“Careful,” he murmurs against your mouth. “You keep that up, and I’m not going to be gentle.”
“Maybe I don’t want gentle,” you snap.
Something in his eyes darkens. He searches your face, breathing ragged. “You sure?” he asks, voice low. “You say ‘stop’, and we stop. I don’t care how pissed you are.”
Your whole body is buzzing, every nerve screaming. Logic tells you that this is a terrible idea—that you are too angry, too hurt, too everything. Your mouth doesn’t listen. “Don’t you dare stop,” you whisper.
Whatever thin leash he had on himself snaps. He backs you up until your hips bump the edge of the conference table, never breaking the kiss, hands all over you now—at your waist, your ribs, sliding up your sides like he’s trying to memorise every inch. You tug his hoodie down his shoulders, grabbing at cotton and heat, needing him closer, needing something to hold onto before you come apart. He obliges, stepping between your legs, his body slotting against yours like it was always meant to fit there. Your hands find his hair, sinking in, tugging hard. He groans, the sound vibrating against your mouth. “Brat,” he breathes. “Of course you are.”
He drags his mouth down your jaw to the spot under your ear that makes your knees threaten to give out. His teeth graze your skin; his lips soothe the sting. The conference room around you falls away. There’s only the harsh sound of your breathing, the scrape of his stubble against your neck, the solid weight of him pinning you to the table. One of his hands slides up, skimming your throat. He doesn’t squeeze. He just rests his fingers there, a firm, possessive circle that makes your pulse trip under his touch. You shudder. He feels it. “Okay?” he asks, voice suddenly very careful. You nod, too fast, words tangling. “Use your words,” he says, even now, even like this. You exhale shakily. “Yeah,” you manage. “I’m… good.”
His answering sound is halfway between relief and hunger. “That’s my girl,” he murmurs. Your insides twist. You grab his wrist, not to pull him away but to anchor yourself, nails digging into his skin as his other hand finds your hip, fingers biting in.
Clothes shift and tangle. Buttons fumble as both your pants come undone. There’s the thud of your back hitting the table, the drag of his hands over your newly bared skin, the rasp of his breath as he curses softly into your mouth.
At one point, you spin him, shoving him back against the table, palms flat on his chest. “You don’t get to be in charge of everything,” you pant. His mouth curves, even now. “You keep saying that,” he says, “and then you keep doing exactly what I tell you.” You answer by biting his shoulder. He laughs, short and breathless.
He pushes you back to the table anyway, rougher now, turning you, bending you forward until your palms hit the cool surface. Your heart rabbit-kicks against your ribs. He pauses. You feel his hand splay over your lower back, steady and warm, holding you in place without holding you down. “Last chance to tap out,” he says, voice wrecked. “Tell me if this is just anger and you’ll hate me for it tomorrow.” You look back over your shoulder, hair wild around your face, lips swollen, eyes blazing.
You’ve never wanted anything as much as you want him in this exact, terrible, perfect moment. “I already hate you,” you say, breath shaking. “Do something about it.” Something breaks in his demeanour. He bends over you, his chest warm at your back, his cock hard against your ass cheeks, breath ghosting over your ear as his hand slides from your spine down, around your hip. His fingers slip between your thighs, knuckles brushing your sensitive, aching core he’s already worked up. You jolt, a broken sound catching in your throat. “God—” He groans quietly, like the confirmation hurts him.
“You’re shaking,” he mutters, more to himself than to you. “Look at you.”
He starts to touch you there, fast and deliberate, drawing tight little circles on your clit that make your legs shake. It’s too much and not enough, heat building in dizzying waves. “Wonwoo,” you gasp, fingers clawing at the edge of the table. “I— I’m ready, just— please, I need—”
You don’t finish the sentence. You don’t have to. He stills instantly. “Yeah?” he asks, voice wrecked, checking one last time. “You sure?” You nod frantically, words tumbling. “Stop teasing,” you snap, desperate. “Now.”
He swears under his breath, the sound rough and reverent all at once. Then he presses forward, fitting his hard cock against your entrance in one slow, inexorable push that knocks the air from your lungs. The stretch, the pressure, the sheer presence of him hits you like a shockwave. You choke on a strangled moan, fingers white-knuckled on the table. He exhales a ragged curse.
For a second, he just holds there, buried deep inside your cunt, both of you shaking. “Fuck,” he breathes. “You feel—” He cuts himself off with a shaky laugh. “Of course you do. Of course you’re like this.”
You rock back on instinct, testing him. He gets the hint. The first thrusts inside you are measured, like he’s making himself count. Each snap of his hips drives you forward, your palms sliding on the smooth surface, the bite of the table’s edge at your thighs grounding you even as everything else spins. He’s not gentle. You didn’t ask him to be. He’s not careless, either.
Every time your breath stutters wrong, he eases up. Every time your fingers claw at the table like you’re slipping, he steadies you—one hand banded tight around your hip, guiding you back to meet him; the other roaming, finding your ribs, your stomach, the base of your throat, touch firm and anchoring. You push right back, refusing to just take what he gives you. You meet every thrust with your own, gasping curses into the tabletop, chasing your own pleasure as fiercely as he drives you toward it.
The room fills with it: the obscene slap of your bodies meeting, the creak of the table, the scrape of a chair knocked sideways, your broken little sounds spilling out despite your best effort to stay quiet, his low, filthy praise in your ear. “Look at you,” he grits out at one point when you turn your head enough to catch his eye over your shoulder. “Still arguing with me even when you’re about to fall apart.”
“Shut up,” you gasp, words punched out of you. He laughs, breathless, sweat-dark hair falling into his eyes. “Make me,” he says.
You try. You shove back harder, changing the angle, dragging a ragged groan out of him that sounds suspiciously like surrender. He adjusts his grip, and suddenly his hand is fisting in your hair again, not cruel, but firm enough to tip your head back. He uses the hold to pull you upright, peeling you off the table until your spine is flush to his chest, his mouth at your ear. The new angle punches a startled cry out of you. He swallows it with a groan, hips jolting. “That’s it,” he murmurs against your skin, voice shredded. “Take it. You’re doing so fucking well for me.”
The hand in your hair loosens, slides down, wraps back around your throat—fingers spread, thumb under your jaw, holding you there. Not choking, just owning, a perfect, unbearable collar. You whine, the sound high and broken. He feels it vibrate under his palm and shudders. “Okay?” he manages again, even now. You nod, too far gone to be anything but honest. “Harder,” you whisper. “Please.” You feel, more than hear, the way he swears at that, the way his control frays.
His free hand drags back down, over your chest, your ribs, your stomach, until he finds your clit again, fingers slipping down to work in ruthless counterpoint to his thrusts. You almost come right then. The pleasure spikes so sharply you have to grab his wrist, nails digging into his skin to keep yourself tethered. Your moans get louder, spilling out of you unchecked, echoing embarrassingly off the glass walls. Panic and arousal tangle. Without thinking, you grab his wrist where it’s banded around your throat and drag his hand upward, pressing his palm over your own mouth.
It muffles the next broken sound that tears out of you. It also gives you something to bite. You clamp down when the first wave of your orgasm hits—teeth sinking into the heel of his hand as your body seizes, vision sparking white at the edges. He groans, the noise punched out of him, hips stuttering. The combination—the way your walls clamp around him, the way your teeth mark his skin, the way you tremble against his chest—is what finally yanks him over the edge with you. He spills into you with a hoarse curse against your shoulder, thrusts stuttering, both of you shaking through it, riding out the aftershocks tangled together—your mouth still pressed to his palm, his chest a rough, solid drum against your back.
For a while, there’s nothing but the ringing in your ears, the burn in your lungs, and the heavy, shuddering weight of him braced around you as the storm you both started finally, finally breaks.
Slowly, the world comes back into focus. Your hands hurt from how hard you’ve been gripping the edge of the table. Your knees feel unreliable. Your clothes are a mess. You become acutely aware of exactly where you are: Titan Forge conference room, table still scattered with notes and printouts. Security cameras might be off at this hour. You don’t know and don’t particularly want to know.
Wonwoo eases back, gentle now, hands suddenly careful like he’s afraid you’ll shatter if he moves too fast. He helps you straighten, fingers automatically reaching to adjust your shirt, pull up your pants, smooth your hair, thumb barely brushing the marks he left on your throat. You flinch away from the touch like it burns. His hands fall. “Pixie,” he says softly.
You shake your head, staring at the table, at your phone lying there with that text still on the lock screen. Your body is humming, boneless, satisfied in a way that makes your brain want to crawl out of itself.
Your heart is a wreck. “Don’t,” you say, voice raw. “I can’t— I don’t know what any of this is, okay? I don’t know how to be around you when you’re… all of that at once.”
He looks at you like you’re the only thing in the room. “Then let’s figure it out,” he says. “Talk to me. Yell at me. Ask me anything. Just… don’t walk away without giving me a chance to be honest with you, for once.”
You want to. Some part of you wants to curl up on this stupid table, let him confess every stupid feeling, let yourself admit your own. The rest of you is too raw, too exposed, nerves stripped bare. If you stay, you’re going to say something you can’t take back. You scoop up your phone with shaking fingers and shove it into your pocket. You don’t look at Kade’s apology again. You don’t look at Wonwoo.
“I can’t do this right now,” you whisper. You grab your bag from the chair, sling it over your shoulder, and head for the door. He doesn’t try to stop you. He just stands there, chest heaving, watching you go with something like devastation in his eyes. “I’m not going anywhere,” he says quietly, just before you cross the threshold. “In either place.”
You don’t answer. You leave him in the conference room—hair mussed, hoodie askew, notes scattered, the ghost of you still on his skin—while you walk out into the empty hallway, legs unsteady, mouth still tasting like him and your heart a tangle of love and fury you’re not ready to name.
The elevator doors slide shut in front of you. Your phone buzzes in your pocket. You don’t look.
You last exactly three minutes in front of your bathroom mirror before you decide to quit.
The first thirty seconds are just an assessment. Your eyes are ringed with exhaustion. There are faint bruises on your hips where his fingers dug in; a scatter of marks along your throat that your collar can almost hide. Your lipstick from last night is long gone, but your mouth still looks swollen, like your body remembers what it was doing on that conference table.
Your brain insists on replaying it in high definition: Wonwoo’s hand in your hair. Kade’s voice in your ear. The same man, the same mouth, the same hands. Your rival. Your crush. Your online almost-boyfriend. All stacked into one very real, very complicated person.
You press the heels of your hands into your eyes until little sparks dance. This was supposed to be simple. Titan Forge was supposed to be simple: win the contract or don’t. Get the credit or move on. Instead, you’ve acquired:
One crushed childhood dream brand
One emotional disaster of a dual-identity situationship
One very vivid mental catalogue of Jeon Wonwoo’s dick
You stare yourself down in the mirror. “Fuck my career,” you tell your reflection. You mean it. You’re not doing this. You’re not going to chain yourself to a project where the director pits you against your partner, and your partner is also the person who knows exactly how you sound when you come apart for him. You’re going to go in, tell David he can keep his title, and walk. You throw on the first halfway-clean shirt that doesn’t show your throat, yank your hair up, and head out.
By the time you swipe into Titan Forge, your resolve is layered over with a thin film of nausea. The lobby is its usual sleek, intimidating self. The Mythfall: Eclipse key art looms on the big screen—your god, your pantheon, your systems and story, all rendered in glossy concept art that now makes your stomach twist. You ride the elevator up alone, rehearsing lines. “I’m withdrawing from consideration.”/ “I’m grateful for the opportunity, but this isn’t the right fit.”/ “No, I don’t want your NDA-locked ‘consultancy’ crumbs, thanks.” The doors slide open onto your floor.
Before you can head for the war room, your phone buzzes with a calendar notification. Mandatory check-in – 15 min. Of fucking course. You sigh, stuff the phone back into your pocket, and change course for the big conference room. If nothing else, you can quit with an audience.
Everyone’s already there when you arrive. David stands at the head of the table, tie loosened, hands clasped like a man who’s about to deliver Very Important News™. Raj sits halfway down, arms folded, expression wary. Jisoo has a notebook open, pen twirling in her fingers. Kaito’s tablet is on the table in front of him, screen dark for once. Wonwoo is at the far end, one elbow on the table, fingers pressed to his mouth. His eyes flick up when you walk in. For one suspended second, everything that happened last night flashes between you like a glitch—his hands on your hips, your teeth in his palm, the way you’d both been shaking after. The way you’d walked out anyway.He looks wrecked and put-together at the same time: freshly washed hair, clean hoodie, bruised half-moons under his eyes. You take the empty chair at the other end of the table. You don’t look at him again.
David clears his throat. “Thanks for coming in early,” he says. “I’ll keep this brief. I know you’ve both been burning hard.” You fold your hands in your lap to stop them from balling into fists. This is it, you think. You open your mouth. He beats you to it.
“First,” David says, “I want to thank you both for your incredible contributions over the past weeks. What you’ve built for Mythfall: Eclipse is—genuinely—some of the strongest design work I’ve seen at this studio in years.” Your heart doesn’t even have the decency to flutter at the compliment. It just waits.
“Unfortunately,” he continues, and there it is, “due to some… unexpected shifts in budget and restructuring at the executive level, we’re not going to be hiring an external lead for this title after all.” For a moment, you’re sure you misheard him. The words land, rearrange themselves, refuse to make sense. He keeps talking. “The board has decided we’ll be internalising direction for Mythfall,” he says. “We’ll fold the frameworks you’ve both developed into our existing leadership structure.” Internalising. What the fuck?
“That doesn’t mean your work isn’t valued,” David adds quickly. “Far from it. We’ll absolutely be discussing consultancy fees, maybe ongoing advisory roles as things progress. Your names will be in the ‘Special Thanks’ without question.”
Special Thanks. You hear your own heartbeat in your ears. Five trials. Weeks of unpaid crunch. Your systems. Your narrative. Your fights. Your god. No lead role. No credit that actually matters. Just a vague promise of “maybe” money and a scroll at the end of the credits where your names get a half-second of blur. You realise, very calmly, that he never planned to hire either of you. The trials weren’t auditions. They were an extraction.
You feel your chair scrape back before you realise you’ve pushed it. “So that’s it?” you ask, your voice eerily steady. “We put everything on the table for you and you just… internalise it?”
David’s smile tightens. “I understand this is disappointing,” he says. “But this is the reality of triple-A right now. We have to make hard calls. You’ll still have the prestige of having shaped a Titan Forge flagship title.”
“Without a title,” you say. He shrugs, palms up. “Titles are fluid,” he says. “Impact is what counts.” Your vision goes a little white around the edges.
Maybe this is where you flip the table. Maybe this is where you walk out without another word. You’re right on the verge of one or both when Wonwoo speaks. His chair doesn’t scrape. He doesn’t raise his voice. He just says, very calmly, “No, you won’t.” Every head turns. David blinks. “Excuse me?”
Wonwoo straightens, rolling his shoulders back, and for the first time since you met him, he looks like he’s stepped fully into a role that fits: not the aloof rival, not the bored genius, but someone who knows exactly what he has and exactly what he’s willing to do to protect it. He reaches into his bag and pulls out a thin folder, a sheaf of stapled printouts, and his phone. “I had a bad feeling about this,” he says, flipping the folder open. “So during Trial Three, I filed provisional patents on the co-op systems we built, and registered copyright for the narrative framework and key beats.” He slides one of the pages down the table toward David. Your name is on it. So is his.
You blink. “You what?” He doesn’t look at you yet. “Under both our names,” he says, still watching David. “As joint creators. As independent contractors, not employees. The NDA you had us sign is for evaluation, not work-for-hire.” David’s expression curdles. “That IP was developed on our premises, using our tools,” he says. “With our staff overseeing. It belongs to Titan Forge.”
Kaito shifts in his chair. “Not automatically,” he says mildly. “Not without a specific assignment clause, which isn’t in the documents you had Legal send them.” David throws him a look. “Kaito—”
“I read what I sign,” Kaito replies. “And what I ask others to sign.”
Wonwoo taps his phone, bringing up an email thread. You can see the subject line from here: Re: Provisional Filing – Cooperative Risk/Reward Narrative Loop. He angles the screen toward David.
“My lawyer timestamped the submissions and acknowledgements,” he says. “We filed on the underlying mechanics and the specific expression of the narrative—two-player punished/rewarded dynamic, pantheon collapse beats, branching co-op romance structure, the whole package.”
He finally glances your way. There’s apology in his eyes, but also something like pride. “Titan Forge can’t legally ship this game as pitched without us,” he says. “Not without paying through the nose and crediting us as co-creators.”
The floor tilts under your feet. You grab the back of your chair, knuckles whitening, brain scrambling to catch up. He did this. Quietly. During Trial Three. When you were still trying not to kill each other over cutscenes and boss patterns. And he put your name on everything.
You turn to David. Your anger sharpens into something clean. “You used us,” you say, and your voice doesn’t shake this time. “You dangled a title every developer in the city would kill for, made us jump through hoops, pitted us against each other, and you never intended to hire either of us.”
His jaw tightens. “That’s not—”
“You thought we’d be grateful for scraps,” you cut in. “For ‘Special Thanks’ and ‘maybe some consultancy fees’ while you shipped our work under someone else’s name.” You take a breath that feels like stepping off a ledge. “We’re not.”
A beat of silence. Then, unexpectedly, Raj speaks up. He leans forward, forearms on the table, gaze fixed on David. “I signed on for a tough evaluation,” he says. “Not for exploiting candidates’ work and cutting them out of leadership entirely. If we ship their design without them, I’m not putting my name on it.”
Jisoo’s pen, which has been motionless for the last few minutes, starts to move again. “And I’m not rewriting their story to make it just different enough to dodge the legal filings,” she says calmly. “You’d feel every compromise. The players would too.”
Kaito sighs, rubbing his temples. “We can’t afford this,” he says quietly. “If they walk and this goes public, the narrative becomes ‘Titan Forge runs unpaid lead design gauntlets and steals pitches.’ That’s a PR nightmare. Especially with the way hiring practices are under a microscope right now.” David looks between the three of them like he’s suddenly found himself outnumbered on a board he thought he controlled. “Nobody is talking about stealing,” he says, too quickly. “We were always going to compensate them—”
“With what, exactly?” you ask. “Because all I’ve heard is ‘maybe’ fees and ‘special thanks.’ No title. No real ownership. Just enough to shut us up.”
Wonwoo’s voice is quiet, but it carries. “If Titan Forge wants Mythfall: Eclipse as it exists now,” he says, “we talk proper contracts. Co-lead or co-director credits. Ownership percentages. Real money. Otherwise, we take our ideas somewhere else, and we call it something else.”
David snorts. “Good luck getting this scope off the ground without our resources,” he says. “You’ll be pitching for years.”
“Maybe,” you say. “Maybe not. But here’s the thing, David: we’d rather spend years pitching than hand you the keys to something you don’t respect enough to pay for.” You meet his gaze, steady.
“And if we do go somewhere else, we’ll have a hell of a story to tell about how this process went. About five ‘trials’ that were really free labour. I’m sure a few outlets would be very interested.” His face goes chalk-white, then mottled. “Are you threatening me?” he asks.
“We’re outlining consequences,” Wonwoo says before you can answer. “Which is what good designers do.” Silence stretches.
David looks at each of you. He sees no allies. Just a narrative lead, a combat lead, and a producer who don’t want their names on a theft; two designers who own the skeleton of the game he wants; and a potential scandal breathing down his neck. The fight goes out of his shoulders all at once. He exhales, long and disgusted. “Fine,” he grinds out. “We’ll revisit the roadmap internally. Shelve this version for now.” He flicks a tight look at you and Wonwoo. “Legal will be in touch about formalising whatever we used,” he adds. “If we use it.”
You know what that means. They’re not going to ship your blueprint. Not like this. They might try to rebuild something from scratch later, but it won’t be your pantheon, your punished-and-rewarded co-op dynamic, your particular mix of systems and story. They can’t, not without you. Good. “We’ll look forward to hearing from them,” Wonwoo says, polite and icy.
The meeting dissolves in slow motion. Raj gives you both a short, respectful nod on his way out. Jisoo squeezes your shoulder as she passes, eyes soft. Kaito mutters something about “coffee and a long talk later” and follows David out, tablet already in his hand, damage control mode engaged. Then it’s just you and Wonwoo and the ghost of a game that doesn’t belong to Titan Forge anymore. You stare at the empty doorway. You feel hollow. Furious. Relieved. Terrified. Weirdly, also free.
You’re ready to walk. You head for the door. He falls into step beside you without asking. The lobby is quieter on the way out than it was coming in. No one stops you. No one knows yet that a whole possible future just imploded on the top floor. You swipe your badge one last time. The reader beeps green. The turnstile clicks. You step through. So does he.
Outside, the city air is cool, cutting through the leftover heat in your skin. People move past on the sidewalk, oblivious. Cars hiss by on wet asphalt. The Titan Forge logo glows above you, massive and smug. You stare up at it. Then you flip it off. Wonwoo huffs out a laugh beside you.
“That’s mature,” he says. You lower your hand. “Thanks,” you say. “I work with what I’ve got.”
For a moment, neither of you speaks. It’s just you and him, side by side on the pavement, not as candidate and rival, not as winner and loser, but as two people who just told one of the biggest studios in the industry to choke. Your pulse hasn’t quite settled. Your brain hasn’t picked a lane on him yet. He shifts his weight.
“So,” he says quietly. “Do you hate me?”
You let out a breath that’s almost a laugh, almost a sob. “I tried to,” you admit. “Really hard. For a long time.” You meet his eyes. “It’s not… working out.”
Something in his expression loosens. The corner of his mouth lifts, small and disbelieving. “Good,” he says. “Because I don’t think I can do this solo mode thing anymore.” You snort. “You’re not exactly built for it,” you say. “Mr. ‘let me tune the whole fight around my co-op partner.’”
He shrugs, a little helpless. “You’re not exactly built for it either,” he says. “Ms. ‘I accidentally wrote a love story into every mechanic.’” You roll your eyes, but your chest warms. “What do you want?” you ask, before you can overthink it. “With… all of this. The game. Us. Whatever we are.” He looks at you like he’s cataloguing every possible answer, then discarding all but the most honest one.
“I want to build something with you,” he says. “That nobody else gets to claim. Not a company, not a director, not some faceless board.” His gaze drops to your mouth, then back up. His voice goes quieter. “And I want to see where this goes,” he adds. “All of it. If you’ll let me.”
You think about all the versions of him you’ve known: the dismissive rival at cons; the bored genius in black hoodies; the stranger in a fantasy forest who told you where to stand and who to stab; the man who just stood up to his own dream job for you. You think about yourself, too, and how you’ve felt more seen in the last few weeks—by him as Kade, by him as Wonwoo—than you have in years.
“Professionally,” you say slowly, “we already have a game. We just can’t call it Mythfall: Eclipse.” He nods. “Different pantheon,” he says. “Numbers filed off. Better anyway.”
“Indie scale,” you add. “Smaller scope. Tighter focus. No trials where people try to steal it.” His mouth twitches. “Co-op studio,” he says. “Just us. Maybe a few other masochists.” The thought scares you. It also lights you up in a way Titan Forge never quite managed to, even at its brightest. You take a breath.
“Romantically,” you say, and the word feels huge in your mouth, “we’re a mess.” He winces, accepting it. “Accurate,” he says.
“You lied by omission,” you go on. “You hid behind an alt. You let me say things to you as Kade I never would’ve said to you as Wonwoo.” He nods, jaw tight. “I know,” he says. “And I’ll spend as long as it takes proving I can be the same person in both places.”
“You… also backed me in every meeting you didn’t have to,” you say quietly. “You filed IP under my name without telling me because you wanted to protect my work. You sat on calls with me at stupid o’clock and told me I wasn’t crazy when I felt like I was.” His eyes go soft, stunned, like he hadn’t expected you to list his good points out loud.
“You make me better at what I do,” you say. “You piss me off. You challenge me. You make me feel… big. Not small. I haven’t had that in a while.” His breath leaves him in a shaky exhale. “So,” you finish, heart hammering, “no, I don’t hate you. I just need you to be honest. No more masks. No more secret alts.” He nods immediately. “Deal,” he says. “Full co-op mode. No splitscreen bullshit.” You snort, a startled laugh bursting out of you. “You’re such a nerd,” you say.
“You knew that already,” he replies.
You stand there, facing each other in the shadow of the building that just rejected you and tried to rob you, and realise that for the first time since this whole thing started, you’re not waiting for someone else’s verdict.
You get to decide. “So,” you say, voice lighter now, “are you going to kiss me like my rival or my raid lead?” His grin flashes, small but real. “Both,” he says. “If you’ll let me.”
You don’t say yes. You step into him instead, fisting your hand in the front of his hoodie and tugging him down. He meets you halfway.
The kiss is nothing like the one in the conference room. It’s slower. Softer. Still a little messy—your noses bump, you both smile into it—but there’s no desperation in it this time. Just warmth, and the dizzying feeling of your two lives finally, properly slotting together. Rival and partner. Kade and Wonwoo. Nyx and you.
When you break apart, you’re breathing a little harder, but the world hasn’t tilted off its axis. It’s just bigger. More possible. He rests his forehead against yours. “We really did just tell Titan Forge to fuck off,” he murmurs.
“We did,” you say. “And we still have a game.”
“And a name,” he adds. “For the studio.” You pull back, brow arching. “Oh?”
“Co-Op Mode,” he says. “Seems on the nose.” You roll your eyes, but your smile is helpless. “We’ll workshop it,” you say. “We will,” he agrees. “Together.” You lace your fingers through his, turn your back on the giant Titan Forge logo, and start walking.
You might have lost the contract. But as you step into the future with him—equal, chosen, finally on the same side—you have a strong suspicion this is the biggest win of your career.
A/N: Thanks to 76% of the 130 votes on my last poll, I present you my latest fic. I was inspired after finishing Ali Hazelwood's 'Two Can Play' and thought this would be an easy write. Joke's on me because I had to restart it three times. Oh well, hope you like this version. 💟
Taglist: @igetcarriedawaywithyou - @amazinggraxia
Send me your thoughts - feedback/fangirling is always welcome. Want to be tagged in future works? Let me know.
(Collage created by me. Credits to owners of the pictures taken from Pinterest.)
This fic was amazing. The writing was sensational and I know nothing about game dev but truly start to finish, the tension? THE KNOWING AND ANTICIPATION. It didn’t matter I was there with them. I savored this for three days because I didn’t want it to end.
It should have more likes on it. There’s so much poetry in the language of this now GO READ IT
(where your boyfriend suggests testing out a theory from a comment on a video)
pairing: lee seokmin x afab!reader
genre: est. relationship, idolverse | smut
rating: explicit, this is mostly porn so MDNI !!
wc: ~3.6k
warnings: minor plot? really just them being in love and talking, otherwise just porn. so much kissing, face sitting/riding, talk about dk's nose (yes, this is warning), briefest mention of breath play, cum eating (kinda, implied), blowjob/handjob, multiple orgasms (reader rec.), slight edging/orgasm denial, fingering (reader rec.), unprotected sex (they're in love, assume they're safe), creampie, petnames (baby, babe), reader has female anatomy but no gendered language used, i think that's it but lemme know if it's not!
a/n: this entire thing is really thanks to @sailorsoons sending me a video of dk's nose entirely too early in the morning yesterday. so credit to my chaos demon hali for the idea, the banner, and the title. idk why but i struggle to write him (yes, i know he is my ult bias, it's fine). please enjoy my first attempt at returning to writing shorter fics.
a/n 2: not edited and no beta, we die like men!
It’s a lazy morning in bed with your boyfriend. A complete rarity given how busy his schedule is and how often he has to travel out of the country. Still, you love him enough that you'll take these moments. It makes them all the more special. And you know that he’s infinitely thankful for you being so understanding of his schedule. It’s just part of him. You love him and his schedule seems like a small price to pay in exchange for the type of love he gives you. Especially when he never makes you feel less important than everything else in his life.
When he comes back to bed with coffees for both of you (and sets yours on your side of the bed), you’re scrolling through Tiktok. Somehow, no matter what you interact with, you get videos of your boyfriend or his other group members pushed to you. Their fault, honestly, for being so insanely popular. Thankfully, your boyfriend never seems to react when the video is of someone else rather than him. He knows that it’s unavoidable. Even seems to enjoy it by teasing him saying someone else is your bias.
“I can’t take any of these videos seriously when I know Mingyu gets scared of his own shadow,” you say through a snort when a video of him pops up. Seokmin glances over from his phone and laughs too. “Like, really, I have heard him scream at a bug. I can’t take him seriously when he’s trying to be all sexy.”
“I’m glad you don’t think he’s sexy,” he says with an affectionate smile.
“Oh, haven’t I told you? I think he’s my bias now,” you say. It gets you an exasperated eye roll.
“Come on,” he says. “At least pick someone other than the most popular bias.”
“Mmm, I think I’ll stick with what I have,” you say and turn back to your phone.
Seokmin leans over and presses a soft kiss to your temple. “That’s my girl.”
Another comfortable silence falls around you, only broken by whatever song comes through as you scroll. Seokmin is in a meme battle with some of his group members, mostly so that he doesn’t have sound competing with you. When you land on the next video, and this time it’s your own boyfriend, he’s too distracted to notice. It seems innocuous on first glance, just highlighting what a nice nose he has. You definitely agree. Even look over to the side at his profile. He’s so stunning and it takes your breath away to get to see him relaxing like this.
Then, you return to the video and check the comments out of curiosity. Always an interesting decision. Unsurprisingly, it takes approximately 2 seconds before the comments turn at least partly feral. Start talking about how to put his insanely nice nose to use. Saying the kinds of things that might make you blush in another situation. But, this isn’t anything new. It’s not the first time, and certainly won’t be the last, you stumble across someone thirsting over Seokmin.
You turn to the side again and admire his profile. This time, focusing on his nose. The slope, the way the tip of it sticks out. You’re so lost in your own thoughts that you don’t even realize when he feels your eyes on him.
“You’re staring,” he comments.
“Busted,” you answer guiltily. And, because he knows you, he looks down at your phone.
“This isn’t even a thirst edit. It’s just my nose,” he says with that bright smile.
“Look at the comments,” you say and hold out your phone. He takes it with an eyebrow raised and reads. For a moment, his eyes go wide. But, then they settle into something a little more like desire. Something that gives you a flutter in your belly.
He hands back his phone and gives you that look that you know all too well. “Maybe we should test out the theory.”
“What theory?” you ask to buy yourself a little time.
“How my nose feels between your legs.”
“Baby, I know how your nose feels, you’ve…”
Seokmin points at a specific comment still open on your phone. “No. I want you to ride my face and test it out. See if it feels as good as all these people seem to think.”
It makes you nearly choke on air for a second. Here’s the thing about your boyfriend. He’s the sunshine member in his group. The one that smiles and makes everyone else smile. The one with the voice of a literal angel. He’s not (typically) the slutty member. He’s one of the silly ones. Of course, every once in a while, he does a photoshoot that sends the fandom into shambles. It’s not the default, though. Then, there’s Seokmin, your boyfriend, who is definitely still sunshine personified, but he’s so much more than that, too. He can be so singularly focused on your own needs that it overwhelms you. This isn’t any different.
“God, I love you,” you say after you take a moment to catch your breath.
He gives you the briefest flash of his sweet smile before he takes your phone to put it on the nightstand. You pull your t-shirt off and toss it aside. Shimmy out of your panties next since you don’t typically wear anything else to bed. Seokmin removes his own shirt as well. And then he settles back with his head on the pillow and looks up at you. For a moment, you’re not sure what to do. Until he smiles and you’re at ease.
You move over and settle yourself so that your knees are on either side of his head. Lower yourself carefully so that you think he’ll be able to reach you. Without warning, he wraps his arms around your legs and pulls you further down onto his face. Makes you let out a soft gasp. So much for making sure you don’t suffocate him. That’s before he even does anything. Almost like he wants to prove a point, he nuzzles his nose into your folds. Lets his nose hit your clit and pulls a soft sound out of you.
“Oh fuck,” you whisper just as he licks a stripe up your core.
It’s immediately more intense. Seokmin has eaten you out before. More times than you can count, honestly. It’s one of his favorite things to do. And his nose always brushes along to almost tease you. So, you think you know what to expect here. You don’t. Not really. He buries his tongue even deeper into you from this angle and his nose brushes past your clit on each pass. Seems like he’s swirling his tongue inside you just to tease you more.
You lean forward and grip the headboard as he continues to lap into you. Feel the way he hums into you and it sends vibrations through you. You dig your knees further into the mattress to keep yourself suspended over his face, even as he holds you tight. Wonder how he can even breathe buried so deep in your pussy. Maybe that’s just as much a part of it. Shocking that he would enjoy something so close to breath play.
The string of words that slip from your mouth is sinful. Not even coherent, really. Just endless moans and praise for how good he makes you feel. You grip the headboard even harder to try and hold yourself in place. Seokmin takes the chance to move his mouth again and suck your clit into his mouth. To make you buck forward before remembering that he’s captive beneath you. It’s hard to focus on not moving your weight too much.
“Babe, I’m gonna…fuck, baby, I’m gonna come,” you start babbling, thighs shaking as you feel yourself losing control.
Seokmin doesn’t stop tonguing into your cunt. Lets his nose keep running over your clit with every pass. You try to pull yourself off of him, but he grips your legs tightly. Doesn’t let you go anywhere. Just keeps pushing you.
“Baby, please,” you whine and he squeezes your leg comfortingly. Like he’s telling you that it’s okay. And so you take him at his word. Just let go. Your body shakes with the intensity of the orgasm. It’s all you can do to keep your weight offset. Clinging hard to the headboard as your legs shake on either side of your boyfriend’s face. You know you must coat his face with the intensity of your orgasm, but he laps it all up. Happily swallows the results of his effort.
He’s so patient as you come back down and eventually roll over. This time, he lets you go. Lets you fall back onto the bed next to him.
He doesn’t let you rest for long, though. Justs runs the back of his hand across his mouth and then rolls himself over. Suspends himself over your body without resting his weight on you. Kisses you hard, desperate. A little needy. His face is a mess that you made and you don’t care. Instead, you just wrap your arms around him and pull him down, flush against your body. The weight of him doesn’t matter. You relish it, actually. Tangle yourself up in him as you kiss him fiercely.
After a minute, he pulls back to look at you. Face a mixture of admiration and desire. You’re sure that you look a little drunk off your orgasm. Glassy eyed as you look up at him. Something on your face must give away how gone you are because he smiles knowingly. Moves his hand to gently brush a piece of hair off your face. Then slides off of you so he can lay next to you, almost curl against your side.
“So, what do you think?” he asks, gently running a finger along your arm.
“I think it’s very lucky your fans don’t see this side of you,” you say, causing him to bark out a surprised laugh.
“Why’s that?” he asks after a moment.
“Becuase they’d be even more feral than Mingyu’s fans,” you return, making him laugh even harder. “I’m serious, Seok, do you remember when you did that photoshoot? It nearly broke the internet!”
“And you teased me over it,” he points out, making you laugh.
“Yeah, so I didn’t go crazy,” you grumble and roll onto your side to face him. Let him reach out to pull you into him. “Sometimes I think you don’t realize how insanely hot you are.”
“Mmm, is that so?” he asks in that low voice that shoots right to your core. You let him pull you into him and slide an arm under your neck. You hike a leg up over his hip to eliminate any space. Feel the way his dick brushes against you through his shorts.
“Do you need me to tell you again?” you tease him. Grind a little into him.
“Doesn’t hurt to hear it.”
“Was it not enough that I just came all over your face?”
“It’s a start,” he says. Leans forward to give you a tender kiss at complete odds with the mood. The wonderful duality of your boyfriend.
“I should really ask if you liked it,” you say softly into the thin space between you and him.
“Honestly, I’m probably going to be demanding you do that all the time now,” he admits and it makes you pull back to get a better look at him. “The way I could feel everything. The way I was totally at your mercy. The way it was a little hard to breathe. You’re so unbelievably sexy.”
It makes your breath catch. Even now, when you think you know him better than yourself, he still manages to surprise you. Makes you a little shy before you shift into just feeling powerful that you have this effect on him. “Yes, though, the comment was right. You do have the perfect nose. The way it hit…”
You shudder at the memory. Seokmin grips your thigh that’s draped over him possessively. Makes you realize that you’re still completely naked and he’s not. Which feels unfair.
“Maybe you should tell them,” he suggests and you just shake your head.
“I can think of things I’d rather do with you,” you counter, pressing further into him.
“Good answer,” he confirms and kisses you again. Slow and deliberate.
At least, until he pulls away, making you pout. He laughs for a moment and leans forward to press a kiss to your forehead. Then he gets out of the bed and pulls his shorts and briefs down in one go. You track his movements with so much interest. Don’t think you’ll ever get used to appreciating his body. He’s beautiful. Without waiting any longer, you move over to the edge of the bed. Surprise him a little when you lay on your stomach and reach out to him.
“You don’t…”
“Let me,” you insist.
At least he knows better than to argue with you. For now, that is. He moves closer to the edge of the bed and you take his length into your hand. Spit down onto his cock and then look up at him. Watch the way he reacts when you slowly run your hand up and down his dick. His eyes flutter closed just for a second. Appreciate how much you like to take care of him. As soon as your lips touch his tip, his eyes fly back open. Wants to watch as you swirl your tongue around. Eyes full of affection for just a moment. And then you reach down to take gently grasp his balls while taking more of his length into your mouth. His eyes go dark nearly immediately.
Seokmin gathers your hair up in his hands to keep it out of your face as you bob on his dick. Mostly keeping it shallow. Keep him guessing, too, when you suddenly take as much of him as you can handle. Choking a little as you let him hit the back of your throat.
“Fuck, what are you doing to me?” he asks, voice cracking. It’s hard for him not to fully fuck your face. You feel in it the way he grips your hair. The way his hips jerk ever so slightly. The way his groans turn downright sinful. The only sound in the bedroom apart from your slurps and occasional gags when you take him deeper into your mouth. It gets you going just as much when he’s like this. Putty in your hands and completely out of control. Gives you kind of a complex to know that he trusts you in that way. He may be the one standing while you lay on the bed on your stomach, but you’re in control. Just like you felt in control riding his face.
When you pull off to catch your breath, Seokmin drops your hair and drops to his knees. Kisses you desperately. Like a man on a mission. A man who can’t see anything but you. You break the kiss, intending to make your boyfriend come, but he stops you.
“What?” you ask, eyebrows knit in confusion.
“I really just wanna fuck you,” he says. Blunt. Direct. A little needy. It goes straight to your head, knowing that you make as much of a mess of him as he does of you.
“Well, how could I deny you anything?” you ask with a smirk.
“Good,” he says and gives you that smile. The one you know only means good things for you. The one he doesn’t really let anyone else see. It’s a little private piece of him just for you. “Roll over.”
It’s direct and you consider teasing him just for a moment. Testing to see how badly he wants you. The look he gives you stops you, though. He’s wound tight. Ready to go. And you could probably say you teased him all through riding his face and then sucking his dick. So, you do as he asks this time. Just turn over and prop yourself on your elbows to watch Seokmin.
He’s impatient, though. Hooks his arms behind your knees and pulls you to the very edge of the bed. Drops to his knees and spreads your legs open. Licks into your cunt without warning.
“Fuck!” you scream. You’re not prepared. It makes your back arch against the bed. Makes you grasp at the sheets beneath you.
Seokmin moves to flick his tongue over your clit and slides a finger into you. Pumps quickly and mutters encouraging words into your cunt. Adds a second finger and scissors them open to stretch you. It’s all too much for you with the earlier orgasm. Has you on the edge of something before you can even process it. And then, just like that, he pulls his fingers out and pulls back from your throbbing cunt. Stands up and gives you that look.
“You’re a fucking demon,” you curse and fall back against the bed dramatically.
“Told you I wanna fuck you,” he says, moving to the nightstand. He pulls out a bottle of lube and returns to the edge of the bed. “I wasn’t going to let you come again just like that when I want to feel you.”
“Ugh,” you say and close your eyes. Throw an arm over your face for effect. Hear the way he chuckles as he opens the bottle of lube. He dribbles some along your entrance and the cold feel of it makes you squirm. Makes you open your eyes in time to see him coating his dick in some as well.
“Don’t worry, I won’t make you beg,” he teases as he tosses the bottle aside.
“You’re still a shit,” you counter.
Instead of answering, he only lines his dick up at your entrance. Watches you carefully as he gently presses the tip in. You watch the way he slowly disappears into you. Wrap your legs around his hips so that you can encourage him to move faster. All you get is a chuckle, likely at your impatience. But, you’re sensitive both from the earlier orgasm and him bringing you right to the edge a second time, only to back off. A demon, like you always say.
“Please, Seok,” you beg. You’re not above anything when it comes to him.
“Please, what?” he asks.
“Just fuck me. Wanna really feel you,” you say, breathy and needy. He loves you like this just as much. Loves knowing that you’re only like this for him. That you’re as whipped for him as he is for you.
“Whatever my pretty baby wants,” he says.
Quickly, he pulls nearly all the way out of you, only to immediately snap back in. Causes you to scream out in response. Thankfully, he sets a quicker pace, probably just as wound up as you are. He fucks into you, hard and fast. You tangle your hands in the sheets for something to hold onto. Close your eyes against the rapid way your lower belly coils. Until he asks you to look at him and can you deny him anything? He leans forward and catches your next moan in a searing kiss. The kind that makes you forget your name or his or anything else in the world.
He pulls back from the kiss and moves your legs so your ankles are up on his shoulders. It lets him press you deeper into the mattress with each thrust. Lets him hit you even deeper, reaching that spot where you need him most. There’s a steady stream of praise coming out of his mouth with his thrust. All you can do is moan between incoherent thoughts. Your pussy is so sensitive and he fills you so well. Fucks you just the way you like. Knows how to claim you so completely that you can’t imagine anyone else in the world existing apart from him.
“Oh my god! I’m gonna…fuck, I’m gonna come!” you scream.
“Come up, baby, I wanna feel you come all over my dick,” he says, voice strained between his thrusts.
“Oh fuck,” you scream. Clench your pussy around his dick as he keeps pumping into you. Come hard on him. Somehow even harder than you did riding his face. His thrusts falter and he groans as he releases his load into you. Tries to keep slowly pumping through it, both of you breathing hard. He lets your legs fall from his shoulders and stills inside you.
After another moment, he slowly pulls himself out of you, careful because he knows your tender. Can’t help but watch the way his cum leaks out of you. Fights the urge to push it back inside you and collapses on the bed beside you. Scoots both of you further back onto the bed so that he can pull you close into his body.
“We’re gonna make a mess of the bed,” you mumble against his skin when he gets you tangled up in him once again.
“I don’t care,” he says and you chuckle. He presses a soft kiss against your head, into your hair.
“I should get up and…” you start, only for Seokmin to cling you closer into his body.
“Nope.”
“But the sheets…”
Seokmin turns your face so that he can meet your eye. Kisses you for what feels like the millionth time. Lets his tongue tangle with yours. And pulls back before you’re ready, making you chase his lips. “The sheets can wait. I’m not done with you yet.”
Desire sparkles in your eyes, just like you see it in his. You bite your lip as you consider his words. Wonder just what he might have planned. “Mmm, is that so?”
“Oh, yes.”
Lazy days like this with your boyfriend might not come around as often as you’d like, but he sure knows how to make up for it when they do.
If you watched that buzzfeed video that came out today, you’re going to think this author predicted the future because damn if that didn’t feel wild to read this a few days ago and have the video hit the air and him just being like 🧐🧐🧐 LOL.
I’m listening to this on audiobook and I’m wondering how many people who don’t read fanfic are about to be horrified as they are introduced to the omegaverse.
I was sitting here like “okay we got the nest. At least there hasn’t been a mention of the slick, that might freak people out.” And then…OPE. 😂
How many of us have normalized A/B/O that we don’t even flinch when slick is mentioned. Those poor innocent souls.
Summary: Seungcheol and your brother Joshua battle over everything - pole positions, championships, the title of Mercedes’ best driver. The one thing they were never supposed to fight over was you.
WC: 22,853
GENRE: Exes to Lovers, Best Friends to Lovers, Brother's BFF
AU: Smut, Angst
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: Lost of tension and angst, reader sacrifices what she wants constantly for Joshua (her brother) and feels like she is responsible for him, mentions of a parent's death, petty drama, non-linear storytelling, Joshua and Seungcheol are both unfair and stupid in a lot of parts of this, two car crash scenes, both mildly traumatic for reader, arguments/never-ending competitiveness, explicit language, Wonwoo is a little bit of a motherfucker, feelings of betrayal/sneaking around, recreational drinking, sexually explicit content including oral (f. and m. receiving), vaginal fingering, multiple orgasms, unprotected sex, cum eating, a single slap on the ass.
A/N: This fic is for the amazing Lights Out Collab hosted by @camandemstudios! It was originally only supposed to be one part, but I've decided to try something new with non-linear storytelling which has made it so much longer than I originally planned. Part two will be out soon :) THIS FIC HAS NOT BEEN BETA READ I'M SORRY FOR ANY ERRORS.
A/N 2: Shot out to everyone in the C&E server for this collab - so many people (including myself) are new to F1, and this was so much fun to write. You do NOT have to know anything about F1 to enjoy this fic! There are some terms and race tracks you won't understand, but the main focus is the building tension between the characters. Honestly, there are a lot of parts of this that are not realistic and probably would not work this way in the F1 world on the business side, but WHATEVER!!! This entire fic was inspired by the drama that is Brocedes with Lewis Hamilton and Nico Rosberg lmfao.
MASTERLIST | ASK | LIGHTS OUT COLLAB | PART TWO
BAHRAIN INTERNATIONAL CIRCUIT | 2025
DAY BEFORE PRESEASON TESTING
5.412KM | 57 LAPS
-
THE BAHRAIN SUN IS MERCILESS. You suppose it's fitting for the day. The paddock is filled with dry heat and tension, the sweat dripping down your spine as you stride across black pavement. Your polo sticks to your skin, making you irritable as everyone else who is buzzing with the energy of preseason testing.
Five years of this hasn’t made you any less nervous. Five years of flights, jet lag, highs and lows, and watching Joshua both fail and win at Bahrain hasn’t made any part of the next few days easier. You try not to think about the list of media needs, the sponsorship requirements, the sheer amount of things Joshua is beholden to.
It’s worth it, though.
Jogging up the steps of the Pit Building, you nod to the dozens of other people that make things for the Mercedes team work. The dozens of people here pale in comparison to the hundreds involved in making sure Joshua’s car can start, much less make it over the finish line.
You spot Wonwoo coming out of a media room and you quicken your pace. Wonwoo only oversees a single driver and you have no desire to see your brother’s teammate right now. You take the stairs to the second floor at a near sprint, hearing the familiar rumble of laughter behind you, chasing you around the corner to the hospitality suite where you find your brother.
Joshua is slumped in a seat, cap tugged low on his head. He fidgets with a water bottle between his hands, jaw locked tight. He senses you as you approach, the tension in his shoulders easing as he sits up a little straighter while you take the seat across from him.
“Don’t look so nervous,” you tease, trying to break the ice. He huffs and rolls his eyes as you pull a tablet from your satchel. “Not going to lie, it’s a pretty full afternoon.”
“Great.”
“Lighten up. You’re getting paid to do it.”
“Thanks for reminding me.”
Joshua leans back in his chair, tapping the corner of the bottle against his knee. He doesn’t say anything else, so you scroll through your notes and start reading aloud. Today, he’s got sponsor check-ins, media hits, content requests, track walk and team dinner. You know he’ll smile and charm his way through all of it, but it’ll drain him to do it.
You’ve both been at this long enough to know the rhythm. Even when you were kids, you were always his manager, bossing him around, telling him when he needed to go to practice, reminding him to finish his homework. You’ve carried that role into adulthood, but above all, you're his sister first, and being his sister means choosing him over everything else.
Everyone else.
You shove away the thought before it can distract you from the task at hand. Joshua leans back in his chair, glancing around the room before his gaze settles back on you. “What?”
His smile doesn’t reach his eyes. “What what?”
“Say what you want to say. I can tell something’s bothering you.”
“Feels like it’s going to be a bad year.”
You frown. “You haven’t even run the car and you’re throwing in the towel?”
“No, I just have a vibe.” He pauses. “Feels like they’ve put more faith in him.”
You don’t have to ask who him is. Joshua only says him like that when he means Seungcheol.
“They won’t do it out right,” Joshua continues, twisting the bottle cap. The plastic cracks and you have to resist the urge to snatch it out of his hands to get him to stop fidgeting. “But it’s pretty obvious.”
You watch him quietly. You know he isn’t wrong. The press has already started sharpening the narrative between the Mercedes teammates ahead of the racing season. Seungcheol, the driver with the bite and the edge that can take Mercedes to another championship. Joshua, the reliable one who knows how to be a team player.
The memory of Singapore looms in the back of your mind. When you look at Joshua, you know he remembers it too, the taste of the memory more bitter than others. Sharper and more painful, too.
“We won’t let them,” you reply, shrugging.
“Simple as that?”
“Simple as that. You’re their driver too. If we need to fucking remind them, we will.”
His mouth twitches. “I’d be fucked without you.”
“Definitely.”
Joshua’s smile fades as he leans his head back against the seat, looking up at the ceiling. When he speaks again, it’s softer. “Remember when we thought driving together would be the dream? Feels like the worst fucking thing we could’ve done.”
You don’t answer. You don’t have an answer, because Joshua is right. Five years ago, Seungcheol and Joshua joining team Mercedes together was the dream. It was what all the money, hope, sweat and tears of your childhoods had been poured into. Countless hours of practicing, of racing, of being dragged around to watch him. To cheer him on. To give him advice.
You’d been that for Seungcheol, too. Until Singapore.
Sighing, you lean over and squeeze Joshua’s knee. “Let’s go. You have to do some TikToks, buddy.”
Outside, the sun hasn’t gotten any better. It’s an unrelenting, brutal reminder of the pressure cooker that is media day. The paddock buzzes with frenetic energy, full of reporters jostling for soundbites, cameras clicking, cameras in Joshua’s face, phones recording. You’re glued to Joshua’s side, tablet in hand, helping him navigate a relentless schedule of sponsor obligations, interviews, and content shoots.
Joshua’s smile is as polished as ever. He’s always been the media’s darling, a handsome and charming racer who is polite and warm, even when he loses. His answers are rehearsed and perfect, but you catch the strain in his eyes, the way his fingers fidget with the hem of his polo.
Breaking up a media scrum, you navigate him toward a meet-and-greet tent for sponsors. He shakes hands and poses for photos with executives decked out in team gear - some with tags still on it. Afterward, you drag him to another interview with a motorsport outlet where he dodges un-approved questions about team dynamics with a practiced laugh.
“That’ll be all,” you cut in, your smile sharp. “Thanks for your time today.”
The reporter falters, opening his mouth to ask another question but Joshua is already moving, twisting the cap on his water bottle back and forth. “Thanks,” he mutters as you head out of the room. “This is why I drive cars. I hate this.”
“If you want to drive cars-”
“I know,” he sighs, quoting your father. “You have to do the work.”
The content team is waiting for you when you head back to the Pit Building. A sense of dread drops like a stone in your stomach, sinking into the very pit of you when you see the shape of Seungcheol. His back is to you, broad shoulders pulled tight in his team polo as he leans to see something on the social media manager's phone. Wonwoo is a few feet away on the phone, nodding with the device pressed to one ear, his finger pressed into the other.
When Seungcheol turns, your chest tightens. He looks the same as he always does, though his hair has gotten longer. His dark brown hair is wavy today, a little damp with sweat. He bites his bottom lip as he listens to the instructions being given to him by the social media team, arms crossed over his chest.
You’re forced to look the other way. The ache there hasn’t dulled even after a year, and though you’ve prepared all offseason to deal with the frustration of seeing Joshua’s teammate, it still doesn’t prepare you for the stab between the ribs when he looks at you.
Seungcheol’s dark eyes go from inquisitive to guarded. You see the shift happen as you and Joshua approach. You feel yourself stiffen, the tension rippling from Joshua to you and onward. The social media girls notice the sudden silence and turn to see you, both of them grinning and greeting you to try and dispel any awkwardness.
It works in the professional sense. Joshua tilts his head to Sungcheol politely before turning to listen to what the girls are asking him to do. You don’t look at Seungcheol at all, drifting away and pulling out your tablet to stare at schedules and emails and documents.
“You look sour.” You look up at the voice as Wonwoo pockets his phone. “The iPad do something to you?”
“No. Must have been the smell of your cologne.”
He laughs. “Good to see you too.”
You hum but don’t reply. You don’t dislike Wonwoo. On the contrary, you think he’s an extraordinary manager with a lot of connections in Formula 1. But Wonwoo is team Seungcheol and Team Seungcheol is often anti Team Joshua, so Wonwoo gets your distaste by default.
“How was your offseason?”
“Do you care?” You ask him while deleting spam emails.
“No, but it’s the polite thing to ask.”
“Spare me. You don’t have to pretend with me.”
He laughs again. “I like you. Shame we can’t be friends.”
“Mhmm.”
You and Wonwoo watch from afar as the social media team leads Joshua and Seungcheol through a series of content pieces. Watching them interact is strange. Joshua keeps his cap low, mouth twitching when he’s asked to stand closer to Sungcheol. The two of them shift, shoulders brushing just once before Joshua steps to the side.
“They’ve gotten worse at this,” Wonwoo sighs, folding his arms.
“Or better at making it awkward.”
“Good for the media, though.”
You glance up sharply at that. It’s always a game with Seungcheol’s camp, how the narrative bends and who gets painted in what light. Joshua has always been painted as the second, the fallback plan, the team player who is prioritized no matter how hard he tries. Bitter. Charming, but salty.
“They’re supposed to be teammates, not headlines.”
“Naieve,” Wonwoo shoots back. Not rude, just matter of fact. “You know better than that. It’s never just about the race.”
The social media team wraps up and Joshua offers a clipped thank-you to the staff before heading toward you. He glances at Wonwoo and says nothing, brushing past you without stopping. His hand flicks your elbow as if to say let’s get the fuck out of here but you’re rooted to your spot when Seungcheol looks up.
It’s fleeting, no more than a split second, but it feels like the Bahrain sun is scorching through you again. His expression doesn’t shift, still the cool, unreadable driver, but you know him. Know the twitch in his mouth is a tell, know that the flex in his jaw is him gritting his teeth. Angry.
Wonwoo notices. “Still radioactive between you two, huh?”
Instead of answering, you pivot on your heel, following Joshua. He waits for you near the door. This is how it always is - Joshua goes. You follow. He waits. Your entire life has been the same pattern over and over again, but if you didn’t choose your brother, no one else would.
It’s a burden you have no problem bearing.
“You holding up?” You ask as you both jog down the steps into the heat of the late afternoon.
“Barely. Just have to get through strategy.”
You nod, checking the time. “I’ve got some sponsor calls while you’re in strategy. Team meeting after. You should have time to shower and get ready.”
Joshua gives you a grateful look, the kind that reminds you why you do this, why you’ve always done this. He’s your brother, your responsibility, your constant. Even when both of your worlds have tipped over and over again.
“You’ll be okay without me for a bit?”
You smirk. “I’ve been managing you for years. I think I can handle a couple of hours.”
He lifts a hand to his head and gives you a two finger salute. You mimic the action, a little sign off you’ve had since you were kids. He heads to meet with the team for a strategy session as you head for his trailer, the sun baking the top of your head as you squint and hurry, desperate for air conditioning.
Inside Joshua’s trailer, you sit on the couch and get to work. You have about a hundred emails worth of media inquiries, sponsorship questions, news articles and appointment requests, but you’re barely able to focus on any of them. Seungcheol’s gaze haunts you, even hidden away out of sight from the rest of the paddock.
Five years ago it seemed like the culmination of a dream when Joshua and Seungcheol stepped into their Mercedes seats. It was something they’d wanted as kids when they were karting together. You’d been there by default, watching their races under flickering lights, falling asleep in the car on late-night drives to the next place, the three of you dead tired.
You’d been a trio. Joshua, the steady river, the one who kept focus and calculated his moves. Seungcheol, the furious storm, all instinct and ego. And you, some sort of combination of the two of them, the one who tried - and failed - to keep them on track.
Wonwoo was right. Press was always about more than the race. The media had loved the story of childhood best friends turned teammates, an illustrious fairy tale for an illustrious sport. You’d loved it too, watching two of your favorite people get to do what they’d worked so fucking hard for.
Those dreams were for nothing. It had only taken five years to realize that.
The weight of those years settle over you. You’ve spent half a decade managing Joshua’s career, fighting for his place in a sport that demands everything. You’ve watched him battle self-doubt, media scrutiny, and the shadow of a teammate who seems to thrive on chaos.
You turn off the tablet, rubbing your temples. Tomorrow, practice begins. It’s the first bout of the fight, the first taste of what the season is going to be like. Knowing that Joshua already feels like the scales are tipped in Seungcheol’s favor gives you anxiety. There’s only two years left in Joshua’s Mercedes contract.
He needs to win.
Tomorrow, you hope he will.
-
BAHRAIN INTERNATIONAL CIRCUIT | 2025
DAY 1 PRESEASON TESTING
5.412KM | 57 LAPS
The morning is sweltering. You can barely breathe in the air thick with heat. The low hum of engines warming up makes your teeth vibrate as you stand in the Mercedes garage, headset snug over your ears and very much out of the way as people in uniforms run around making final checks.
Joshua’s radio crackles in your headset as he confirms comms with the pit wall. Your tablet is tucked under your arm, your focus entirely on the screens above that display telemetry data and live footage from the track. You don’t handle strategy - that’s for people far more equipped than you - but you’ve been watching Joshua race for years.
The paddock is alive with the shouting of mechanics and engineers, media buzzing around the garages. You’re hyper-aware of your surroundings, trying to keep out of the way but also trying to avoid him. Seungcheol’s presence is a constant undercurrent in the garage, buzzing along your awareness like static.
You spot him across the garage, conferring with his race engineer. His dark hair is still damp with sweat and your stomach twists. You force your eyes back up to the screens, trying to focus as your brother readies to run the car for practice.
Seungcheol’s first practice session of the team was perfect. You’re unsurprised. Mercedes has always had reliable cars, and Seungcheol is more than a reliable driver. He’s got an instinct rarely found in drivers his age and he’s competitive. Vicious, even.
Practice starts and you tune out Seungcheol’s existence, entirely focused on Joshua’s car and the crackle of comms between him and the Pit Wall. Today isn’t a day for nerves exactly, but you feel them anyway, a mix of excitement and worry that the car won’t be ready mixing to make your stomach flip.
Joshua completes his first few laps, the car looking sharp as he pushes through the corners. The telemetry shows a decent pace and you feel yourself relax. Joshua sounds relaxed, too. “Car feels solid so far. Bit of understeer in Turn Eight, but nothing major.
One of the media managers walks by and gives you a tap hello. You smile at her - genuine - before turning back to the screen as Joshua paces ahead of his practice group.
Just as he starts his seventh lap, Joshua’s voice comes through, frustrated. “Losing power. Engine’s cutting out.”
You chew the inside of your cheek. The engineer’s voice is calm, but urgent, instructing Joshua to retire the car immediately and to get into the pit if it can. You squeeze your fists, sighing deeply as you watch him struggle toward the pitlane, trying to retire the car.
This isn’t how you want to start the day.
As Joshua’s car rolls into the garage, mechanics swarm him like a hive of bees, tools in hand. You stay back, letting them work as you pull the headset down. Joshua climbs out of the car, yanking off his helmet. His face is flushed, eyes dark with anger as he exchanges clipped words with the engineers. You catch his eye, offering a small nod of support, but he just shakes his head and heads toward his dressing room.
You let him. You know him well enough to feel when he needs support and when he needs to blow off steam. The last thing he wants right now is your empathy, so you linger among the whir of engines and the smell of burnt tires.
“Hey.” You look up in surprise to see Seungcheol coming your way. It’s the first time he’s spoken to you directly in months.
You cross your arms. “What do you need?”
“Just checking in. Tough break on the car.”
“Yeah. Tough break. Happens to him a lot.”
Seungcheol’s borrow furrows. He’s so beautiful up close. You hate that about him. It makes standing this close to him all the more vexing. No man - especially a rival - deserves silky long eyelashes and a perfectly rosey mouth.
“I don’t control what happens to his car. You do know that right?”
“I know how cars work, Seungcheol.”
“Then why does it feel like you think it's my fault?”
You meet his gaze, your eyes hard. “Was there something you wanted, Seungcheol? I’m busy.”
His jaw tightens. His eyes flash with something raw - hurt, maybe - but it’s gone so fast you think you might have imagined it. Seungcheol takes a step back, stiffening. He crosses his arms over his chest, closing himself off from you.
“Busy,” he echoes. He laughs without mirth. “Right. Always busy.”
You say nothing. Seungcheol turns away, making a beeline for his own dressing room away from the eyes and away from you. Wonwoo crosses the garage and raises his brows as he follows Seungcheol’s stormy form down the hall. You watch them go, watching as Seungcheol rakes his hands through his hair, frustrated.
It isn’t until they’re gone that you realize your heart is hammering. It's infuriating how easily Seungcheol throws you off, how he still manages to affect you with a single, clipped conversation. You’d hope not speaking to him over the last few months would dull the edge of his presence, but it seems like a stupid dream now.
Stupid like all the other dreams you’ve had together.
The voices of the mechanics pull you back to the present. They chatter about engine diagnostics, leaning over Joshua’s car. You sigh and turn on your heel, going in search of your brother. There’s work to do - there’s always work to do - and you need the work. Need the distraction.
Need to think of anything but Seungcheol.
The dressing room is tucked in the back of the garage down a narrow hall. You try not to think about the fact that Seungcheol’s is directly across the hall, ignoring the low pitch of his voice as you slip into Joshua’s room. The room is small and utilitarian, kept incredibly clean and orderly by the man sitting on the couch inside of it.
Joshua’s still in his race suit, the top half unzipped and bunched around his waist. His helmet rests on the couch next to him, discarded like an afterthought. He leans back against the couch, hair sweaty and pushed off his head. He refuses to meet your gaze, knee bouncing up and down as he stairs at the TV in the corner instead where the practice run continues.
You sit in an armchair. “There’s still more practice days. It’s why we do this.”
“I know.”
“If you know then why are you pent up like a tiger in a cage?”
“Feels like I’m already playing catch up.”
The fluorescent light overhead buzzes faintly. You sigh and lean back in the chair, watching him. The light casts harsh shadows across his face, deepening the worry etched into the lines around his mouth. It’s the same look he’s had since you were kids, when a bad race would eat at him for hours. Back then, you’d drag him out for ice cream or make him laugh with a stupid joke.
Now, the stakes are higher and you work for him. You’re his sister first, but sometimes being his manager is more important than being the kid he dragged around the karting track.
“You’re not playing catchup,” you tell him firmly. “It’s day one, Josh. One bad session means fuck all. You cannot start the season thinking you’re already losing or I’m going to make you attend more therapy sessions.”
He huffs, but he nods. He finally looks at you and you see a little bit of the tension melt from him. “I know. Just feels like there’s always something new, you know?”
“Yes. One practice session isn’t going to change the fact that there’s always something. It’s not the first time your car has gone to shit. It won’t be the last.”
“Encouraging.” He smiles, but this time it’s real. “What would I do without you?”
“Suffer. Have shitty sponsorships. Do more weird ass TikToks, I don’t know.” He laughs and leans forward, placing his elbows on his knees. “I mean it, Josh. You can’t let the little things like this set you back. You’re way tougher than that.”
“You sound like dad.”
“Good. He was a smart dude.” You stand, gesturing at him. “Shower. You smell awful.”
Joshua laughs, a real one this time. “Yes, boss,” he jokes, mimicking your two-finger salute from earlier.
You step out of Joshua’s dressing room, the door clicking shut behind you. The muffled hum of the garage filters through the walls, the roar of cars going down the pitlane reaching you from here. You pause for a moment, leaning against the wall, the cool metal grounding you as you take a deep breath. The air smells like oil and rubber, familiar.
Keeping Joshua in the right headspace is hard. You’re his sister, his manager, his cheerleader, often his strategist, and sometimes, it feels like you’re stepping into the void left by your father.
Your father would have known exactly what to say. He always had a way of cutting through the noise, of making Joshua believe he could outdrive anyone, even on his worst day. You try to channel that now, to summon the same conviction, but it’s hard. You’re not your dad. You’re not a larger-than-life figure who could command a room with a single look. You’re just you, juggling holes that don’t always fit together seamlessly.
It’s a strange kind of loneliness, the responsibility of knowing when to shift between sister, manager, pseudo-parent, friend. You’ve spent years building Joshua’s career, fighting for his place in a sport that chews up talent and spits it back out without a second thought.
Standing through him through every high and low hasn’t been easy, but it has been worth it. You’d do it again every time, you’d choose Joshua every time. You’ve chosen him even when it meant not choosing yourself because if not you, then who was going to do it?
You push off the wall, straightening your shoulders as you head back toward the garage. There’s no time to dwell on it all - not today. Not with more work to be done, media to answer to, and a team meeting to get through. But not for the first time, you can’t help but wonder what it would be like just to be you - no roles, no responsibilities, just… you.
You file away the thought in the same folder as all those silly dreams of you, Seungcheol and Joshua taking on the world together.
-
ALBERT PARK CIRCUIT | 2022
SEASON OPENER
5.278KM | 58 LAPS
Albert Park Circuit is nothing but noise. The grandstands are packed with over a hundred thousand fans waving flags and chanting under the Australian sun, but it’s barely audible over the roar of engines and the hum of machinery and drills as cars pit before spilling back out into the lane to get back to the race.
The Mercedes garage hums with tension. Your eyes are fixed on the monitors above you, arms crossed as you watch the race. Lap times flash in green on one screen, and on the other, Joshua is closing in on Seungcheol in front of him, getting into an overtake position.
“Push here,” the engineer tells Joshua, voice crackling over the radio.
“Heard.”
It’s been a grueling race. Seungcheol and Joshua both started in the midfield after bad qualifying rounds the day before, but the two of them have managed to climb their way to first and second position, turning the race from a battle with other teams to a fight between teammates.
You hate this part. Joshua and Seungcheol have been competitive since you were kids, but the stakes have changed the game. Your palms begin to sweat as Joshua takes a turn fast and perfect, closing the gap between him and the race leader.
“Clear to overtake,” the engineer says.
Joshua’s car shoots forward on the monitor. You hold your breath as he squeezes into the DRS zone, the nose of his car edging alongside Seungcheol’s as they tear down the straight. The garage holds its breath along with you, everyone going rigid as they dive into turn three, neither driver yielding. For a moment, it looks like Joshua has the overtake - but Seungcheol brakes late, tires spitting sparks as he defends the line and forces Joshua life.
You groan. You can’t help it as your head rolls back, watching Joshua lose his momentum. Unfortunately, you have to commend Seungcheol on his driving. He is nothing less than perfect as he holds Joshua off, defending his position until the checkered flag waves and they cross the line in a one-two punch, a double podium
The garage erupts in cheers but you don’t join them. Someone slaps your back and you smile, nodding and giving a thumbs up. You are happy - P2 is great. A double podium is even better. But you know Joshua wanted P1, and starting off in the wake of Seungcheol’s success for the second season in a row is hard.
On the monitors, you watch Seungcheol climb from the cockpit of his car, yanking his helmet off. His smile is bright enough to put the afternoon sun to shame. Joshua parks just behind, slower to climb out, helmet still on.
Sighing, you pull the headset off and follow the PR team into the pit lane, swept in the tide of black uniforms and noise. Fans scream from the grandstands, flags whipping against the sky. Joshua offers Seuncheol a clap on the back as you approach, but when he pulls his helmet off, the smile doesn’t reach his eyes.
Not the way it used to.
And then it happens.
Seungcheol spots you through the chaos. Still buzzing with adrenaline, he pushes past a cameraman and pulls you into his arm and lifts you, spinning you as he screams in delight. It’s instinctive, you realize. Dizzying. Elating.
He smells like sweat and fuel, his heartbeat slamming against your cheek where it’s pressed to his chest. For the smallest fraction of a second, you let him hold you there, arms caught halfway between pushing him off and holding on. Because his win is your win - it’s been like that for years.
You push him away, giving him a look. He grins at you before jogging back over to Joshua’s side, waving to the fans while your world erupts into chaos of cameras, questioning glances and cleared throats. You ignore them in favor of getting back to your job, ducking to talk to the PR team for Joshua’s upcoming post-race media.
Thankfully, you get through the podium ceremony without incident. You’re back to normal, refusing to think about the way Seungcheol stares at you from the podium or the way Joshua very specifically sprays Seungcheol in the face with champagne. Rivals first. Best friends second.
By the time the ceremony is over and done with and you’re sitting in the hospitality suite doomscrolling on Twitter, wincing at every new post.
Seungcheol wins P1 but tell me why he’s hugging his teammate’s SISTER before anyone else 💀
Joshua finally back on the podium and all ppl can talk about is his teammate and his sister LMAO
Nahhh Seungcheol celebrating w his teammate’s sister is CRAZZZZYYY 😭
Joshua drops in the seat next to you. You flinch, dropping your phone and losing sight of all the insane things people are talking about online. You look at him and offer a forced, nervous smile. He raises his brow, leaning forward to pick up your phone. He glances at the screen as he does, frowning.
“Seungcheol didn’t even hug Joshua first,” he reads out loud. “Straight to his sister? Be serious crying face emoji, crying face emoji, crying face emoji. Is this what you read online?
“No!”
“I just know Joshua is losing his mind frrrr. What’s frrr?”
You snatch the phone back and look at it. “That says ‘f-r’ dumbass, not furrr. It means for real.”
“Well you for real, made things weird today, so who's the bigger dumbass?”
You deflate and slide down in your seat. “Me. P1 in the Dumbass Grand Prix.”
“Why is the internet more interested in you two than the fact Mercedes got a double podium?”
You shove your phone in your bag. “Because the internet is a dark and evil place. Plus, he didn’t mean anything by it.”
Joshua snorts. “Give me a break.”
Across the suite, Seungcheol is laughing with a group of engineers, champagne glass in hand, his eyes flicking toward you every so often like a thread you can’t untangle. You ignore it, despite the fact that every time you feel his eyes on you, your heart starts to race all over again.
The double podium feels a bit hollow. For Joshua, the headlines will sting. P2 is an excellent way to start the season - but it means Seungcheol already has an edge on him. Joshua hates when Seungcheol has the edge. For Seungcheol, it’s an immediate mark in the win column - something that he just expects.
For you, it’s another fault line in an already damaged structure.
-
SUZUKA CIRCUIT | 2025
RACE DAY
307.47KM | 53 LAPS
Purple clouds swell in the distance, hanging low and angry over the Ise Bay. You eye them as you walk toward the media pen. The air tastes heavy with rain, wind pulling at strands of your hair. You quicken your steps, checking the time as you near the buzz of reporters and other media outlets. The hum of the crowd from the grandstands vibrates through you, the ruckus from the team garages carried on the wind.
Your chest tightens as you enter the media pit. The air promises rain and rain changes everything. It reminds you of Singapore last year, and you want to do anything but think of Singapore last year, when the dam between Joshua and Seungcheol - and you and Seungcheol - had finally broken.
Joshua breaks from his assigned media person and drifts toward you. He’s stoic as always on race day, giving you a nod and a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. You’re both in business mode and you lead him to his scheduled media slots, cameras flashing and voices shouting. You steady him with a tap to the elbow before drifting to the side to observe.
“Joshua,” the representative for Sky Sports starts, “We’re just three races into the season and it seems like Mercedes has taken to using you defensively. How do you feel about being asked to hold other teams back to protect your teammates' lead?”
For a moment, you think Joshua is going to bristle. He hates questions like this. But he smiles, polished and polite like he’s been practicing as he answers the question. “I don’t see it that way. Every driver protects position. That’s racing. If I’m in the lead, I expect Seungcheol to protect his position, which in turn protects mine.”
The words are sharper than they sound. No one else seems to notice, but you do. The press laughs and moves on to the next question, but you see the edge in your brother's jaw, the tension set in his shoulders.
It continues like that for a few more interviews. You can taste the static of distant storms in the air alongside a tension you can’t rid yourself of. You don’t like rainy races and Suzuka is a difficult track to race. Joshua is going to need his full focus to get through all of the fast corners, and he’s not going to be able to hesitate when driving today. He’s going to need to be equal parts confident and patient, but he needs to commit.
Joshua is not as good at committing as Seungcheol is.
When the media scrum disperses, Joshua appears at your side. You walk side-by-side back outside, the sky darkening. You see him look at the impeding clouds swollen, with rain, see the tension tighten the corners of his mouth. He turns straight ahead, ignoring the storm, determined to not let it bother him. So you do the same, pushing ahead in silence, the thrum of pre-race energy shivering over the entire circuit.
You part ways when you reach the garage. This is Joshua’s ritual now. You give him a hug and your standard two finger salute, and he returns it, giving you a smile that’s more confident than you feel before he vanishes for a physical therapy session ahead of climbing into his car.
Instead of going into the garage, you head for the main building, needing the steady rhythm of work to distract you from the nerves. You spot Seungcheol walking toward you on his way to the garage and a tingle goes up your spine as his eyes meet yours. He slows his steps, waiting for you to do the same but you don’t, averting your eyes to charge ahead.
“Really?”
You say nothing, ignoring the weight of his eyes on your back. You feel your hands shake but you can’t think about Seungcheol right now. There is no room for him on race day - any day, really - but you cannot let his constant attempts to speak to you disrupt your routine. Your rhythm.
Having a steady cadence to race day is as important for you as it is your brother. While you’re not superstitious, there is a comfort in doing the same thing over and over on race days. And if you occasionally switch something up when Joshua’s race goes poorly - well. That’s between you and whatever higher power is watching.
You exhale when you’re in the hospitality suite again. You find an unoccupied office space and get to work. When you’ve carved through most of your emails, several phone calls and a single brief virtual meeting, you pull out the stats and the logistics from Joshua’s qualifier yesterday.
He’s starting P3 today with Seungcheol at P1. You like his odds. As you flip through the paper, you try not to think about the potential for rain. It isn’t supposed to start until perhaps mid race, but you don’t want rain at all. It makes a race that much harder and when bad enough, suspends the race entirely.
By race time, you’re back where you belong in the garage, headphones on and craning your neck to look up at the monitors. Wonwoo is standing next to you, his silence welcome. Neither of you speak today, the tension too high for a game of wit or to play frenemies.
The race begins dry. You feel a sense of relief as the cars tear down the figure-eight layout. You watch as the driver in front of Joshua takes turn eight too wide and flies into the gravel, giving him an immediate advantage to keep on Seungcheol who is still in P1.
“It’s going to start to rain,” the team engineer radios to Joshua. “Box for new tires.”
“Heard.”
Your nerves spike with every radio call. You watch as Joshua pits for a tire change, the team effortlessly getting him back out before losing too much ground. He easily retakes P2, catching back up to Seungcheol with newer tires, flying through the turns as they near Turn 1 again.
“Push,” the engineer calls. “Overatke in Turn 1.”
Your heart pounds for a few seconds and you hold your breath. As the two Mercedes come around Turn 1, Joshua overtakes, his newer tires giving him the advantage. You clap your hands together, bursting at the seams as the garage goes nuts at Joshua’s flawless maneuver. Seungcheol is still close, but he needs new tires.
And then the rain starts on lap thirty-two.
By lap forty the tarmac is wet and the cars are slipping. Mist sprays up from the tires as the cars slip along the turns. It’s not a full deluge, but already the track is ten times more dangerous. There’s only thirteen laps left though, and Joshua is pushing to win.
“Fuck,” Joshua says over the radio. “Visibility is shit but I’m good.”
“Copy. Stay out. Choi is on new tires and pushing hard - gap is 1.2 seconds. He’s fending off Kwon. Stay focused.”
“Heard.”
The rain intensifies, turning the track into chaos. Someone loses control and goes into the gravel at the back of the race, but there’s no debris and no safety car. You watch as water sheets off the asphalt, Joshua’s tires hydroplaning that send spray arching into the air. You grip your table, fingers trembling as he holds on to P1 - but it’s precarious.
Every corner is a potential disaster, every straight a battle against the elements. The garage is like a pressure cooker, engineers barking updates from the pitwall through your headphones and the pitcrew leaning forward as Seungcheol fights for an overtake position as the laps wind down.
You glance at Wonwoo beside you. His face is a mask of calculated calm, but his eyes are locked on the telemetry data, fingers drumming against his thigh. Seungcheol’s car is a predator now, slicing through the rain with fresh tires that give him the edge in grip. Joshua’s are older, degrading faster in the wet, rough track of Suzuka.
He defends like a fortress. He brakes late into turns, blocking every line Seungcheol probes. You suck in a breath when Joshua weaves into Turn 1, his car twitching as he fights for traction. Seungcheol dives inside, but Joshuaq shuts the door, forcing his teammate wide. You exhale sharply, but it’s short lived.
“Let Choi through,” Joshua’s engineer says. “He’s on fresher tires - better chance to hold off Kwon.”
Your stomach drops. The garage goes deathly quiet, all eyes flicking between the screens and the pit wall. Joshua’s response is immediate. “Fuck that. There’s four laps left.”
“Hong, confirm. Team orders to swap positions.”
“No. He can fight for it.”
Singapore comes back to you. It’s the same nightmare scenario, battle between teammates in the rain, a refusal to comply with team orders. You feel sick, chewing the inside of your cheek so hard that you taste blood as you watch Joshua defy orders.
“Stubborn idiot,” Wonwoo mutters, shaking his head.
“Fuck off,” you snap. “It’s a bullshit ask.”
Wonwoo says nothing. Suzuka is a river of water as Joshua and Seungcheol start the final lap. Seungcheol is aggressive, positioning himself for the kill as they enter Turn 1 again. Joshua holds him off but you see how hard the fight is. All the while, Kwon Soonyoung keeps behind them in an orange McLaren, waiting for them to crash into one another and seize the opportunity.
Seungcheol goes for it again Turn 3, feinting to the outside. Joshua blocks him out, but Seungcheol doesn’t back off. You can barely breath, your heart pounding as your world narrows to focus only on the monitors in front of you. Seungcheol goes for it again at Turn 8, shoving the nose of his car inside, wheels locking as he brakes late.
Time slows. You see it unfold in microseconds as Seungcheol’s car clips Hoshua’s rear wing, a spark of contact that sends Joshua spinning. His Mercedes aquaplanes across the track, slamming into the barriers with an explosion of carbon fiber and metal. Debris shoots outward on impact and the other cars on the field scatter to avoid impact.
Terror claws up your throat as the garage turns into chaos. Your hands fly to your mouth as you watch, chest heaving. Mechanics are all standing on their feet and you hear Joshua’s engineer call for him over the radio. For a second, he doesn’t answer, just static.
“I’m okay,” Joshua says. His voice is deadly calm. “Getting out of the car.”
The cameras cut to Joshua as a team rushes to help him. His helmet is still on and he staggers when he gets out of the car. He’s upright, gesturing wildly with his hands. Even through the rain, you can see the fury on him as he stalks off down the track to head back to the garage.
Seungcheol crosses the line under a red flag, claiming P1 by default. You don’t care. His victory tastes sour in your mouth. You tear off your headset, tossing it onto the seat behind you. You exit the garage, immediately drenched in rain as you jog toward the beacon of light that is the medical center.
Joshua is the only patient inside, sitting on a cot and swinging his legs. His helmet is still dripping on the table behind him, his race suit soaked with rain and sweat. He looks up when he hears you, eyes burning and hands trembling as he grips the edge of the cot he’s sitting on.
“Fucking shit head-”
“You’re okay, yeah?” He nods. A medical attendant comes over to run him through a short series of concussion protocol. When he’s cleared, you squeeze his arm. “It’s more important that you’re okay.”
“Barley.” He looks at you, his anger morphing from anger to something raw. “It’s Singapore all over again. He could have fucking killed me.”
You don’t answer him because you don’t know what to say. He’s right. The team will be angry at the both, but ultimately it was drivers being drivers. It’s competitive. They’re stubborn. Joshua was ordered to let him overtake and he didn’t - Seungcheol wanted to win.
Seungcheol would never intentionally hurt Joshua. You both know that. It doesn’t make the sting of the crash hurt any less, knowing that either of them will do what it takes to win. Once upon a time, they had that in common, fighting side-by-side. Now they’ve turned that ferocity on one another, the need to beat the other strong enough to make them clash like this over and over again.
By the time you both leave the medical center, the podium ceremony is over. Seungcheol has collected his points and Joshua is finishing without any, dropping him in the standings behind Soonyoung for Team McLaren.
Back in the garage, the air is electric. Joshua storms in and spots Seungcheol by his car, his race suit unzipped and tied around the waist. You don’t stop him, swallowing past the tension in your throat, fighting your instinct to play buffer, to keep them from fighting.
That isn’t your job anymore.
“What the fuck was that?” Joshua yells, startling the entire garage. “You pushed me right off the fucking track.”
Seungcheol’s eyes flash. “You didn’t leave room! You always leave-”
“Fuck that, you know you’re in the wrong.”
“You were told to let me overtake-”
“I’m not your lapdog. You locked up, lost control, and took me out.”
“Enough!” You flinch at the sound of Elias König shouting. The team principal for Mercedes rarely raises his voice, but he’s livid now, stalking toward the arguing men. He points to them both. “My office. Now.”
Both men scowl but comply. The garage is silent as they watch them go, steam practically coming off the both of them. Elias turns around to look at the garage, his gaze deadly enough to kill. Everyone jumps into action, going back to post-race duties before Elias stalks off after his drivers.
You like Elias, for the most part. A former high-powered corporate strategist from Frankfurt, he never dreamed of being involved in the world of motorsports. He’s made his reputation restructuring underperforming companies with surgical precision, and he’s done the same for Mercedes.
Elias has always been polished and calm. He’s a deliberate man who leads with logic and discretion, empathetic but ruthless when he needs to be. The last time you heard him raise his voice was in Singapore.
It’s hard to shake the memory of that race.
“Your boy is going to be in trouble.” You look up at Wonwoo who sighs, tired. “He can’t keep ignoring strategy.”
“Fresher tires don't give Seungcheol a free pass to do what he wants,” you snap. “It was a bad strategy. There was no reason for them to ask for a position swap.”
“Long term strategy requires sacrifice.”
“Shut up, Wonwoo. Don’t talk to me like I don’t know anything. I’ve been in this world since I was five.”
Joshua and Seungcheol emerge from Elias’s office, faces dark like thunder. Neither speaks. Joshua brushes past you with a curt nod and you follow. You glance at Seungcheol a single time to see him looking at you, his eyes dark and unreadable.
The silence is louder than any shouting, heavy with everything unsaid.
-
SUZUKA CIRCUIT | 2025
POST RACE
307.47KM | 53 LAPS
Rain falls against the hotel windows. You stare out through the misty glass, unseeing. The hotel is one of those luxury hotels that focuses on the little details - rich carpets that are soft underfoot, careful designs in the tiled floors, exquisite art in the hallway.
You can’t appreciate any of it right now. Japan always feels like a favorite in your long season of racing. You have memories here over the years: noodles at a tucked-away spot that Joshua insists on revisiting, walk throughs on the lantern-lit streets near the track, late nights spent drinking after a podium win. Japan feels less magical without Seungcheol, though, and neither one of you dared to mention it all evening.
Seungcheol.
Even thinking his name makes something sour rise in your chest, equal parts fury and something else you try to ignore. You can still hear the crunch of the carbon fiber, see the sparks from the barrier as Joshua’s car slammed into it. For one terrible second, there had been that split second of silence on the comms and you thought - this is it. This is when it happens.
It’s always been your worst nightmare. Joshua does a dangerous job. He crashes all the time. But the memory of last year’s crash looms in your mind like an angry spirit you can’t get rid of, following you even to the most remote places.
And now here you are again. Same rain. Same pit in your stomach. Same fight as last year in Singapore.
Anger propels you out of your room and across the hushed corridor. You take the elevator up two floors. You know where his room is - Joshua had been complaining about it all weekend, annoyed at how close he was. Always too close - Elias’s doing, probably.
Joshua isn’t in his room now, though. He’s downstairs with Soonyoung and Jeonghan, who despite being on different teams, have a positive relationship with your brother.
Unlike the man on the other side of the door you pound your fist against.
It opens quicker than you expect. Seungcheol fills the frame, shirtless and hair damp, sweat still cooling on his chest. He has sweats swung low on his hips, and a feminine voice drifts from the room. His eyes flick back before he slips into the hallway, shutting the door almost closed behind him.
“What the fuck is wrong with you?” You demand, voice harsh. “You could have killed him.”
His jaw tightens, but he’s maddeningly calm. “That’s a bit much. We crash all the time.”
“You didn’t have to overtake-”
“He refused orders. He wanted to race, and so did I. You have to leave room-”
“Fucking leaving room!” Your voice spikes, echoing down the corridor. You take a deep breath, trying to steady the rage coursing through you. His gaze pins you in place and you hate that the heat rises in your chest, the way it feels like shame and anger and something you refuse to name. “You didn’t have to. You know you didn’t have to. It was your ego.”
“Ego? You’re one to talk. You’ve been icing me out since Singapore.”
“This isn’t about Singapore.”
“It’s always about Singapore!” He shouts, finally raising his voice. He steps closer, the hallway suddenly too narrow, the air thick between you. “It always comes back to fucking Singapore.”
Your hands are shaking, but you don’t back away. “He’s all I have left” you hiss. “And with the way you fucking treat him, it’s like you’re trying to take him away from me. Like winning is all that matters.”
The words land like a slap. He flinches, mouth opening and closing. Something falters in his expression and he softens for a second before he turns to stone again. That familiar, old ache blooms beneath your anger, heavy and relentless, the grief of what you once were to Seungcheol pressing into the cracks of his fight with Joshua.
It’s always like this. Seungcheol and Joshua fighting as the primary, your pain and struggle with Seungcheol secondary.
You ignore it like you always do. “Joshua is all I have left,” you whisper, tired.
“Yeah,” he huffs. “You made sure of that, huh?”
Anger and hurt twists into something raw and ugly inside of you. You step back, shaking your head. “I can’t even look at you right now.”
He glares, but his voice is quieter. “You never do.”
“Go back to whatever you were doing. We’re done here.”
“At least she looks at me.”
The words hollow you out. They’re meant to hurt and they do, but you don’t give him the satisfaction of a reply. You turn, your steps too loud in the muffled carpeted corridor. Outside, the rain still hammers the windows, mimicking the storm inside of you as the elevator takes you back down to your floor.
At least she looks at me.
You don’t know how to tell him that if you do look at him, you won’t be able to stop. You’ll give in and let him win.
Just like he always does.
-
ZANDVOORT CIRCUIT | 2020
POST-QUALIFYING
162.097KM | 37 LAPS
The hotel room smells faintly of takeout and a hint of motor oil, a reminder of the long day at the track. Joshua and Seungcheol - you by default, maybe - permanently smell like fuel and leather, a scent you know by instinct. You sit cross-legged on the floor, balancing styrofoam cartons of noodles and dumplings between you, Joshua and Seungcheol.
Seungcheol is mid-story, animated as his hands fly through the air. “So then I looped the kart around the corner, hit the hale bale, and somehow ended up sliding into the marshmallow pit.”
“I remember that!” You laugh, clutching your stomach, tears forming at the corners of your eyes. “Your mom was so pissed - you’d just gotten over a concussion!”
For a fleeting moment, the world feels small and safe, like it did when the three of you were kids sneaking past curfews and running around hotels until your legs ached. You’re older now, still going from hotel to hotel as Seungcheol and Joshua chase pennants in Formula 2, but that gold halo of childhood seems far away from the hotel room floor in Zandvoort.
Joshua nearly chokes on his noodles, his laughter erupting somewhere between a cough and wheeze. “Oh my god, that’s when she threatened to pull you out of karting!”
Seungcheol grins, unabashed. His eyes crinkle in a way that makes your heart flip. “Worth it. I still won the next race.”
He leans back on his hands, the movement pulling his T-shirt tight across his shoulder. You force your gaze back to the dumplings before he catches you staring, terrified that if he does, he’ll immediately start making fun of you for it.
For a moment, the world shrinks to the three of you on the floor, passing cartons and reflecting on your childhood. It doesn’t feel like you’re hopping from country to country, shoving online courses between races so you can keep up with Joshua and your dad.
Your dad wanted you to attend university in earnest. You insisted that you belonged by his side. With him managing both Joshua and Seungcheol, someone needed to take care of him. Even now as the three of you share food, you know your dad is out on the phone with sponsors or strategizing something, leaving the three of you to your own devices.
It’s rare, these moments without his watchful eye. You savor the ease of it and the way you can just be yourself with Joshua and Seungcheol. No pressure. No expectations.
You reach for a dumpling, chopsticks clumsy from laughing, and catch Joshua sneaking a sip from a can of an energy drink tucked behind his knee. Your eyes narrow. “Hey! You’re not supposed to be drinking those anymore!”
He freezes. “It’s just one!”
Seungcheol’s head snaps up and he grins. “Oh you’re done for.”
You lunch across the circle, snatching the can before Joshua can react. He yells and tries to snatch it back, but you press your hand to his forehead, pushing him away while Seungcheol chants, “Manager! Manager!”
Joshua makes a dramatic dive for the can but Seungcheol tackles him back, both of them collapsing in a heap. “Traitor!” Joshua wails, flopping onto the floor with an exaggerated groan. “My own sister and my best friend, stabbing me in the back!”
You roll your eyes. “You’ll thank us when you don’t sleep all fucking night and start tweaking through Turn 1 tomorrow.”
All of you settle back onto the floor, the can hidden behind you. Seungcheol looks at you and his grin softens. He nudges your knee with his, a sideways smirk on his face. “Teamwork, huh?”
Seungcheol’s voice is light, but there’s a warmth in his eyes that makes your stomach twist. You shrug, trying to play it cool, but you feel the heat creeping up your neck.
You’ve had a crush on Seungcheol for what feels like forever - since the days he let you ride on the back of his kart, you think. You know he doesn’t feel the same - you’re just his best friend's kid sister who runs around the paddock behind them - and it makes it all the worse.
“Teamwork,” you agree. “Pass me the noodles.”
He chuckles, low and warm, and passes you the carton. The three of you settle into a comfortable quiet, the TV flickering behind you, casting you in a halo of blue light. Tomorrow’s race looms, but for now, it’s just you, Joshua and Seungcheol, the three of you united in your joint dream of getting them to Formula 1.
-
BAHRAIN INTERNATIONAL CIRCUIT | 2025
POST-RACE
5.412KM | 57 LAPS
Even without the sun, the Bahrain International Circuit is choked with heat. The air is still thick with the electric buzz of the race that sets your nerves on edge. The roar of the grandstands lingers, a feverish pulse that hasn’t died down since the checkered flag waves. Mercedes has wrapped with another double podium, but this time it’s Joshua stepping onto the first place podium, Seungcheol right next to him in second.
It’s a riot of celebration around the stage. Mechanics clap one another on the back and everyone gives you a congratulatory hug as they pass you where you stand watching. Joshua’s smile is bright as he lifts a bottle of champagne and starts to spray it. Seungcheol does his part well enough, dousing Joshua in champagne and clapping him on the back. But you know him well enough - you see the tightness in his jaw, the flicker of disappointment in his eyes.
P2 is good, but for Seungcheol, it’s never enough. Not when Joshua is standing on the top step next to him, doing better in the same car.
You make your way to the pit lane, weaving through the post-race chaos. The media swarm, cameras flashing, fans scream. Joshua’s already surrounded, answering questions with his easy charm, but you keep your distance, checking schedules and murmuring quietly with the PR team. You’re in manager mode, but your focus shifts when you feel him before you see him.
Seungcheol strides toward you, awareness prickling at the back of your neck as you turn to glance at him. His race suit is unzipped to his waist, hair still damp with sweat and champagne. He hesitates only for a second before he asks, “Can we talk?”
Your stomach twists, the memory of your fight in Suzuka still painful. “I’m busy,” you grit out, turning away.
“Wait, just-” He reaches out, not touching you but close enough to make you pause. “Can we please clear the air?”
“This is not the place.”
Your voice is colder than you mean, but you’re right. There are too many cameras and wandering eyes here, and the press and fans alike love inventing theories about you and Seungcheol. They have your entire career. So you pivot, heaving toward the hospitality suite, your heart hammering.
He doesn’t follow, but you feel his eyes on your back. You push through the crowd, dodging reporters, your tablet a shield against the world. By the time you reach the suit, your hands are trembling. You hate how easily he unravels you, how one word from him can drag you back to all the places you’ve been, both good and bad.
Joshua finds you waiting for him in the suite. He’s glowing, the win radiating off of him. His eyes narrow when he sees you, picking up on the tension you’re trying to hide behind a false smile. He sits down and slings an arm around your shoulders, squeezing.
“What’s with the face?” He teases. “I just won and you look like you’re going to fire someone.”
“Maybe I should.” He rolls his eyes. “Just a lot to do. You know how it is. But I’m glad you’re back on top.”
“Feels good, honestly. Don’t let him ruin the fun, yeah?” You start to protest and Joshua gives you a look. “Come on. It’s time to celebrate.”
You laugh and let him pull you to your feet. “You’re insufferable when you win.”
“Honestly, so are you. Let’s go. I’m starving and I want more champagne.”
You follow him, the weight of Seungcheol’s gaze fading with each step. You’ll think about it another time.
Like you always do.
-
CIRCUIT DE MONACO | 2021
POST-PRACTICE
260.286KM | 78 LAPS
Sea salt clings to your skin, the scent of bougainvillea drifting in the air. The hum of the circuit still lingers in your ears as you follow Seungcheol up a narrow, cobbled street. Practice day is utter chaos - yachts gleaming in the harbor, paparazzi swarming, the glitz of Monte Carlo pressing in from every angle. You’re exhausted, but Seungcheol is moving with purpose, his hands brushing yours. So you follow.
“Found this place last year,” he says as you walk. He gives you a grin that makes your heart stutter. “You’re going to love it.”
Seungcheol leads you to a cafe tucked between weathered stone buildings, its faded awning and tiny wooden chairs a world apart from the polished chrome of the paddock. You squeeze into a corner table, knees brushing under the cramped space. The proximity is stifling, sending a quiet thrill through you.
Seungcheol’s dressed down, hair messy. He looks softer here, away from the track, his usual intensity tempered by the distance between the two of you and the world that keeps threatening to break you under pressure. It’s his first year in Formula 1, and you swear you’re ready to let this world break you already.
“You look like you’re about to bolt,” Seungcheol teases, nudging your foot with his.
“I’m fine,” you argue, unwilling to let him know how nervous he makes you.
Even after all this time, he makes you nervous. It’s only gotten worse with age as he’s grown from a semi-lanky teenager into a broad-shoulder man. The weight of adulthood has changed things, and you swear his eyes linger on you longer than they used to. Perhaps it's your own silly dreaming.
The waiter sets down two small espressos on the table. Seungcheol leans back and sips his coffee, wincing at the bitterness. You laugh. “Not your thing?”
“Not when it tastes like motor oil.”
“Everything probably tastes like motor oil to you.”
When Seungcheol smiles, his eyes crinkle in that way that makes it hard to breathe. You feel like you’re tiptoeing around something, a secret neither one of you want to mention for fear of making it real. You’d think you were imagining it, but when his knee brushes yours and neither of you pulls away, you start to realize maybe it isn’t just you.
“So,” Seungcheol says, stretching. “What happens when Joshua retires one day? Like, what would you do? I know you’re finishing school right now but are you going to work for your dad or what?”
You snort. “Joshua? Retire? He’d rather crash into every barrier. You know he’ll drive for as long as any team will sign him.” You swirl your espresso, not meeting his face as you think about his question. “I don’t know, though. I guess I’ve never thought about it. This is my life - him, dad - you. What else is there?”
Seungcheol is quiet for a moment. His fingers tap on the table and you watch them. He has pretty hands. It’s a fact about him that you catalogue with all the other facts about Seungcheol, like the way you know his favorite flavor of soda is cherry, or the way he likes to listen to a specific playlist on race day, or the way he has a scar on the back of his neck from a crash as kids.
“There’s more than this, you know.” He looks at you, eyes serious. “You could travel for fun. Study something that’s not online. Go be a big corporate baddie. What do you want?”
The question catches you off guard, his tone gentle but probing. You want to brush it off and make a joke, but the way he’s looking at you makes it impossible. Your chest tightens and you realize you don’t know the answer. Not really. You’ve spent so long being Joshua’s shadow, his support, that the idea of wanting something for yourself feels foreign.
“I…” You shake your head. “I guess I’d figure it out. Maybe I’d just follow you instead, huh?”
His lips twitch, a half-smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. “Careful. I’d hold you to it.”
Your breath hitches at the way he says it. His eyes are serious as they stare at you, something flickering there. The cafe feels smaller, the air heavier. You fight the urge to lean into it, to close the distance between you, but you don’t. Can’t.
The waiter passes by and breaks the spell. You lean back in your seat as Seungcheol clears his throat, looking out at the street where tourists wander around. Finally he says, “You’d be good at anything. You’re smart as shit.”
You roll your eyes but your cheeks burn. “I’ll make sure to put tough as shit on a resume.”
He laughs, loud and bright and the tension between you eases. It’s not entirely gone, still simmering under every glance. But you manage to finish your coffees, the conversation shifting to safer ground.
Later, when you lie awake in your hotel room, you think back on his question: what do you want? You think of his knee against yours, the warmth of his smile and the way his eyes crinkle at the corners. You think of the way he laughs and how he’s always so sure of himself.
It occurs to you that the only thing you’ve ever wanted for yourself - truly, entirely wanted - is Seungcheol. And you have no idea what to do with that.
-
JEDDAH CORNICHE CIRCUIT | 2025
RACE DAY
308.45KM | 50 LAPS
Something about night races makes the world come alive. The Saudi Arabian night is sharp with the scent of fuel and asphalt, the grandstands pulsing with energy. Fans chant wildly as cars scream down the straights, their engines echoing off the concrete barriers as they race under the floodlights.
You chew on your thumbnail, eyes fixed to the monitors. Joshua is chasing down Red Bull ahead, his pace relentless despite the punishing heat of the track. The race is halfway through, Joshua currently the only member of Mercedes in pole position as Seungcheol fights his way through the midfield from a bad starting position.
Out of habit, you watch Seungcheol’s car. His speed starts to drop down on a straight and the garage groans, mechanics throwing their hands up in the air. It seems the engine trouble he had yesterday in qualifying has returned, his car crawling toward the pit lane as he’s instructed to retire the car.
Your stomach sinks as you glance across the garage where Seungcheol’s crew is already scrambling. His car limps to the garage, mechanics swarming him like a beehive. He climbs out, yanking off his helmet with a scowl that could curdle milk. He exchanges clipped words with his engineer before stalking to the pitwall to talk to Elias. You turn back to the race, crossing your arms as you track Joshua’s movements.
Seungcheol returns, his suit tied around his waist. You assume he’s going to his dressing room, but instead he drifts toward you. You stiffen when he stops beside you, sipping his water bottle. He doesn’t look at you, his hair sweaty and finger-raked back of his forehead. You haven’t spoken since brushing him off in Bahrain, but his presence is a steady weight.
Neither one of you says anything. Instead, you watch the race in silence, both of you with your arms crossed as you glance back and forth between telemetry data and the actual race. You focus on Joshua’s lap times, momentarily distracted when Seungcheol reaches for the headset someone brings him. His arm brushes yours as he leans to take it, the contact sending a jolt through you. You want to move, to put space between you, but you’re frozen to the spot until the contact breaks.
Seungcheol puts the headset on, watching Joshua’s race. Your arm is still buzzing where he brushed against you, so out of it that you nearly miss when he notes, “He’s pushing too hard in Turn 22.” You glance at him, but his eyes are on the screen. “He’s losing time in the exit. Needs to brake later.”
You hesitate. Your instinct is to snap at him, but the nostalgia kicks in, making you swallow past a riposte. “He’s managing the wear,” you say instead, voice hoarse. “Late breaking there risks locking up.”
Seungcheol huffs, but it’s not dismissive. It’s more like he’s thinking it over. “Maybe. But Lee has better traction off the corners. Josh has to match him there or his ass is grass.”
It’s weird. You used to have this kind of back-and-forth all the time. You nod though, adjusting your headset. “He just needs to close that gap for DRS.”
“Hope so.”
You don’t talk a lot. You only make comments here and there, both of you falling into laser-like focus as Joshua closes the gap between him and Red Bull and gets the clear for DRS. He flies on the straight, jerking around Lee Chan, your entire garage clapping as Joshua pulls ahead.
Seungcheol doesn’t smile, but the corner of his mouth twitches. Standing next to him like this feels familiar. It’s the most you’ve spoken in months - not that you’ve given him the opportunity. You don’t know why you do now, other than you’re a sucker for nostalgia. You miss this - miss him - and the realization twists in your gut, sharp and unwelcome.
You catch yourself stealing glances at him, at the way his jaw clenches when Joshua nails a corner, the way his fingers tap restlessly against his thigh. He’s still Seungcheol - intense and competitive. You hate how much you still notice.
Joshua holds off P1, fending off both McLaren and Red Bull as the checkered flag waves. You clap excitedly, a thrill going through you as the garage erupts into a mixture of relief and pride. You pull off your headset, glancing at Seungcheol.
He pulls his headset off, eyeing you. “You still have an eye for strategy.”
“I’ll stick to management.”
He hums. Seungcheol turns to leave and hesitates. He lowers his voice, voice so soft you can barely hear him in the roar of the garage and the noise of the paddock. “I miss this. Talking to you. You.” His eyes are steady and your chest tightens, the ache of the past flaring up again. “I wish you’d let me be your friend again.”
Friend.
It doesn’t feel like the right word. You and Seungcheol had been friends for years. Joshua had brought Seungcheol home with him after the first day of karting to find you playing video games and it had sealed your fate with the three of you. You’d been a unit ever since, three moons circling the same gravity: the dream that they’d be big someday.
But you and Seungcheol had transcended that. Friends feels like where you started, but not where you ended. You don’t know what to call where you ended, friends but something more. Something almost. You remember the thrill of it, the longing you’d felt for years taking shape into something real and tangible.
And then Seungcheol had ruined it in Singapore.
The ache of the memory makes you shut down again. It feels as raw now as it did almost a year ago and you pull your headphones off, tossing them onto a seat. Seungcheol watches you put the wall back up, the cool indifference sliding back into place where you’re safe from the memories of being friends - of being something more.
You glance at the screen where Joshua is climbing out of his car. “I have to go.”
Seungcheol doesn’t stop you. The look on his face is resigned, as if to say I know. You pivot and head out. He doesn’t follow you, but you feel his gaze, heavy as ever until you’re out of sight. Your heart hammers, torn between the pull of what was and the pain of what is.
You hate how much you wish it could be again.
-
SILVERSTONE CIRCUIT | 2022
POST-PRACTICE SIMULATION
306.198KM | 52 LAPS
It’s quiet at the factory. It feels strange to be here in season - usually being at headquarters only happens ahead of the season for events, business, branding shoots and meetings. Now, the hum of machinery and the faint glow of computer screens are the only signs of life.
The simulation room is tucked away in a corner of the Mercedes facility, a high-tech cocoon where Joshua likes to chase perfection in a virtual world. He’s got a set up in his apartment too, but with the home team advantage for the race weekend he’s begged you to come with him to run simulations of the race again.
As if he doesn’t have this one memorized down to every groove in the track.
It’s well past midnight as you trudged through the building, tablet heavy under your arm. Joshua is practically a zombie in front of you, chugging down water and trekking blearily to the exit. Tomorrow’s grand prix is looming, but he’s been pushing himself harder, desperate to keep up with his teammate in their second year with Mercedes.
The very teammate that you catch in a separate simulation room. You glance through the glass window to see Seungcheol is still there, strapped in and hands gripping the steering wheel like he’s fighting for pole position. The screen in front of him flashes with the familiar curves of the Silverstone Circuit, the same curves and straights you and Joshua have been talking about all night.
Joshua laughs. “He’s going to keep at it for hours. Maniac.”
You hum, noncommittal. Your feet slow until you stop at the door. Seungcheol’s focus is unrelenting, his posture rigid. “Go ahead,” you tell Joshua. “I’ll catch up. Someone needs to pull him out.”
Joshua raises a brow, but he’s too tired to argue. He gives you a two finger salute. “Don’t stay too long. If he won’t leave, just head out. You need sleep too.”
“Yeah, yeah.”
Joshua leaves you standing near the glass. You stare at Seungcheol for a moment, watching the way each twitch of his hands is controlled. Deliberate. When the screen in front of him finishes his current session, you knock on the glass.
Seungcheol’s head jerks up and he pauses the simulation. His face is flushed, sweat beading on his forehead. He looks at you, eyes heavy with exhaustion, but he gives you a tired smile and waves you in. He relaxes in the seat as you slip in and walk over.
“Didn’t expect you here this late,” he says, voice rough. “Josh here?”
“Just left. Begged me to come with him. Says he likes my strategy more than your own team.”
Seungcheol’s mouth turns. “You are pretty good.”
“Chasing lap times?”
“Always.”
“Maniac.”
“Says you. You’re here too, aren’t you?”
“Mmm.” You cross your arms over your chest, drinking in his features. Seungcheol is handsome as ever, even when the signs of exhaustion are all there. Dark circles under his eyes, dry lips, red eyes. “You’re pushing too hard, Cheol. You’re going to burn out.”
“You sound like your dad.”
“Rude.” You perch on the edge of a table in the room, swinging your legs. “Hows it going, then?”
“Elias has been on me about consistency. I’m struggling with it. Plus, your brother sets the bar so fucking high. His lap times are almost perfect. Always.”
It’s true. Joshua’s lap times are scary consistent, proof of years worth of refined practice and talking over his drives time and time again. Joshua isn’t just perfect - he’s clinical. Logical. Refined. Not like Seungcheol who wins often, but is just as likely to face disaster or have to climb his way out of a bad qualifying position.
“You’re doing fine,” you tell him softly. “P4 in quali today was solid. You’re not out of the race.”
He looks at you, his expression unreadable. There’s a flicker of something that makes your gut tighten and your breath quicken. “Doesn’t always feel like it. Feels like no matter how fast I go, it’s not good enough unless I finish first.”
“Not good enough for who?”
“Anyone.”
The silence stretches between you. You watch as he takes a sip of water, Adam’s apple bobbing. You want to comfort him. You want to get up and cross the room, to run your fingers through his hair and tell him he’s doing fine - more than fine.
But you don’t. He’s your brother’s best friend and biggest rival, the single person in the world who understands what it’s like for both you and Joshua.
“Doesn’t matter,” Seungcheol says eventually. He sighs and leans against the seat, slumping slightly. “It just feels… heavy, sometimes.”
“I know. I feel it sometimes. Different, but you know how it is. Joshua, too. I’m in your corner though, if it counts for anything.”
His eyes meet yours and for a moment, the world shrinks to just the two of you. The air feels charged and full of something - promise, maybe. His gaze flickers down to your mouth so fast you think you imagine it.
“It counts,” he says, voice soft. “It counts more than you know.”
-
MIAM INTERNATIONAL AUTODROME | 2025
POST-QUALIFYING
308.326KM | 57 LAPS
I wish you’d let me be your friend again.
The words play over and over in your head, looping like the cars around the circuit. You haven’t spoken to Seungcheol since - not that there’s been a chance - but you can’t stop thinking about how easy it had been in Saudi Arabia. How many times in your life had you sat next to him and ranted about strategy? Arguing positioning? Quipped back and forth?
For a moment, it felt like your Formula 2 days again, pressed closed together while watching the cars that Seungcheol would inevitably end up in, both of you arguing about teams and strategy and just… being you.
It haunts you. It always does. Most days you find yourself opening your mouth to say something to him before remembering it’s not like that anymore. That you’d cut him out of your life and slammed the door shut on any sort of a relationship. Sometimes, you walk into a hotel room, scrubbing your hair with a towel only to stop and swear you can smell his cologne again, lingering just beyond in a place you cannot reach.
Everyone talks about the death of relationships. But no one talks about the death of a what if.
Once again, you shove down the thought. You have no time for mourning the past tonight, especially with the piss poor interview Seungcheol gave after securing P2 in qualifying. The memory of it is hot as the Miami pavement as you cross the neon-drenched street. Palm trees sway lazily against a cotton-candy sky, the last of the sun dying soaking the sky in color.
Rows of waterfront venues line the street, each one of the high-end restaurants and beach clubs dotting the Miami River. Heat simmers in the air, the humidity sticking to your skin, balmy and irritating. You try not to let it irritate you, deciding that you want to enjoy Miami while you’re here.
CASA NEOS thrums with lowkey energy as you enter. Fairy lights are draped over open-air cabanas, the water in the distance lapping gently against docks where you can see shiny speed boats and MasterCrafts bobbing alongside orange buoys.
Servers carrying fresh seafood towers and grilled wagyu sliders rush by you as you duck into the private dining room where the buzz of voices draws you to Team Mercedes. The private dining room and then some is roped off for team dinner, your coworkers and everyone who makes anything tick in the garage spread out and enjoys a night of mingling before the race tomorrow.
Team dinners out are rare. Usually formal team dinners happen in the hospitality suite, but Miami is one of the cities where Elias likes to make a show of it, bringing everyone together and rewarding them - within reason - for the season so far.
Joshua raises his hand when he sees you. You nod and dart over to him, pausing to accept a sweating glass of margarita with a cute little umbrella in it as you go. You take a sip and make a face, forgetting how strong the drinks are in Miami.
Honestly, you need a strong drink. A single look at your brother tells you he’s still just as angry as he was two hours ago, and the single beer he’s allowed himself to have hasn’t eased the frustration from hearing Seungcheol’s interview.
It was stupid. Even the PR team hadn’t liked his answer much, but Seungcheol has never been as polished in Joshua with the media. Seungcheol giving an interview about the push and pull between him and Joshua had been fine - every team deals with it. But Seungcheol calling it personal had awakened the online media circus again, reigniting the conspiracy theorists to work out what happened in team Mercedes that broke the friendship between two teammates.
Like every other time fans online caught the tension between Joshua and Seungcheol, you were dragged into the thick of it. You’ve never been able to escape it fully - not since Joshua’s elevation to Formula 1 and your rise to the role of his manager after your dad’s passing. Mercedes die-hards have been calling you the atom bomb of Mercedes for years - the Yoko Ono of Mercedes.
Joshua stabs his salad as you sit down next to him. “What did watercress ever do to you?”
He glares. “You know why I’m pissed.”
You nod. What should be a happy mood to be bonding with the team has been poisoned yet again. You sigh, reaching across the table to pluck a salad plate from the middle. Down the table, you see Seungcheol enjoying himself just fine, laughing at something one of the engineers says. He’s dressed in a casual linen shirt, sleeves rolled up to reveal tan arms, the buttons at the top of his shirt undone.
When Seungcheol glances at you, you avert your eyes, turning your attention to one of the strategists next to you to engage her in conversation. She’s a few drinks in but nice, and you decide she’s better company than Joshua who is now nursing water with melting ice and a small cup of gelato that is melting faster than he can eat it.
Halfway through dessert, your phone starts to ring. You sigh, realizing it’s a sponsor you owe a sign-off on a post to. Scooting your chair back, you dismiss yourself outside the venue. It’s night now, lights reflecting gloomily off the rippling black surface of the river, a mix of tropical music, drums and voices drifting from each restaurant on the dock.
You hold the phone to your ear, apologizing as you walk down one of the empty docks. In the distance, you can see the Jose Marti Park across the river. The hum of the city backtracks your conversation as you finish up your phone call, hanging up and pressing your finger to the bridge of your nose as though it could relieve the tension there from the long day.
Footsteps behind you draw your attention. You turn, expecting people returning to their boats. Instead, you find Seungcheol. He’s silhouetted in shadow, a soft glow to his face from the lights on the side of the boat. Your heart immediately lurches at the sight of him, followed instantly by anger.
“Uh oh,” he says, stopping a few feet away. “You’ve got your mad face on.”
“Yeah I’ve got my fucking mad face on.”
The humor vanishes from his face. “What now?”
“What now? Your horrible media training is what.”
He rolls his eyes. “Are you seriously mad about the interview? I said nothing wrong. It’s no secret we’re competitive.”
“Whatever.” You move to walk past him but he steps in front of you. “Seungcheol, not now.”
“Not now. I’m busy. Not the right time. That’s all it ever is with you. I thought maybe we made a bit of progress in Saudi Arabia. I thought we were working on this-”
“There’s no this, Seungcheol. What is so confusing to you?”
You stare at him, the words hanging in the humid air between you. The dock creeks softly under your feet, the gentle lap of the river against the pilings the only sound cutting through the sound from the restaurants.
All you can focus on is Seungcheol, standing there with his hands shoved in his pockets, his linen shirt rumpled and dark hair tousled by the breeze off the river. He’s too close - always too close. You can smell his cologne, woody and warm. It hits you like a punch to the gut, remembering the way the scent used to cling to your clothes after stolen moments in hotel rooms and quiet corners of the paddock.
Before Singapore.
Your heart twists as a familiar ache blooms in your chest. You miss him. You miss hearing his laugh, you miss the way he’d lean in close after long nights of travel, you miss his shoulder brushing yours as if it were the most natural thing in the world. You miss his late night talks in Formula 2, you miss dreaming big under fluorescent garage lights.
Missing him changes nothing. Not after the blowout from last year, not after the way Seungcheol’s ambition has rotted his friendship with your brother. Not after the way he dragged it being personal into the mix again, pulling you back into the chaos.
You’re mad at him for stirring it all up again, for not letting the past stay buried. Mad at yourself for the way your pulse quickens looking at him, for the part of you that wants to throw caution to the wind and cross the dock and take what you want.
But you can’t. You won’t. Joshua is your brother, and protecting him means keeping this door shut, no matter how much it kills you.
Seungcheol’s jaw tightens like he sees right through you. Maybe he does. “What’s confusing,” he grits out. “Is that you’ve been shutting me out for months even though I’ve been trying. I’ve tried apologizing, reaching out - fucking begging you to talk about Singapore and you won’t let me.”
You cross your arms over your chest as the wind picks up. You feel a chill, both from his words and the wind. The sound of voices carry down the dock, but it’s just the two of you out here, night snapping with tension.
“Because I don’t want you to, Seungcheol.” It’s a lie and you know it, but you continue, “I don’t want the apologies. I don't want to talk about it. Singapore happened. You and Joshua blew up. End of story.”
He steps closer, the dock’s wooden planks groaning under his weight. The soft glow from the boat light cast shadows over his face that sharpen his features, his full lips pressed into a thin line. “My friendship with your brother is separate from my relationship with you.”
“No. It isn’t. You told me to choose because you were incapable of separating me from your drama with him. So I did.”
“Oh yeah? So you’re over me, then? Just like that? You suddenly feel nothing anymore because me and your brother don’t have a friendship anymore? Bullshit.”
The words sting. You feel your throat constrict painfully, trying to swallow past a denial of your feelings but they get stuck. It isn’t nearly as simple as being over him. As if you haven’t spent nights staring at the ceiling, replaying every moment spent with him, every whispered conversion in the dim light of a Monaco hotel room. As if you didn’t ache for the what if life that Seungcheol always asked you about.
You’re furious at him for pushing, for not letting you grieve the loss of him in silence - the silence that he forced when he tried to make you choose between him and family. But beneath the anger is the raw, unrelenting fucking want. The want for his touch, his voice, the way he made the chaos of your world feel steady.
You shake your head. “Yes. I’m over you. Happy now?”
The lie tastes bitter in your mouth, and from the way his eyes darken, he knows it’s a lie. For a moment, the air between you stills. The sound of the lapping waves and the distant music fades, the world narrowing to just you and him on the dock.
Then he moves, closing the distance in a single stride. Seungcheol’s hand cups the back of your neck, fingers threading into your hair, and he pulls you in. His lips crash against yours, not gentle but desperate. Demanding. Like he’s been holding back for months and the dam has finally broken.
The kiss tastes like the whiskey he’d had at dinner. You gasp into his mouth, melting into the familiarity of it immediately. His free hand slides to your waist, pulling you flush against him, the heat of his body searing through you.
Everything tilts. You hear the pounding of your own heart as his mouth slides against yours, the rush of blood in your ears. The woody smell of him wraps around you, intoxicating. You clutch at his shirt, fingers twisting in the linen, though you don’t know if it’s to pull him closer or push him away.
Seungcheol pulls back just enough to breathe, his forehead resting against yours, breath ragged. His eyes search yours, dark and stormy. “Tell me you don’t feel anything. Say it again. If you mean it, I’ll stop trying.”
You swallow, the words sticking. Your mouth tingles from the kiss and your heart screams in your chest. “I don’t feel anything.”
He lets out a harsh laugh. “I said to mean it, liar.”
He kisses you again, slower and deeper this time. His lips move gently against yours, teeth pulling at your bottom lip softly until you open up for him. He groans, his tongue sweeping in to taste the faint lime on your tongue from your margarita.
Seungcheol is intoxicating. You remember the first time he kissed you, dizzying and hypnotic. It feels that way now as his hands roam, one hand pressing up your back to pull you closer, the other tracing the curve of your hip.
When you break apart again, both of you are breathing hard. He lifts a hand to cradle your face, thumb brushing against your cheek. “Please let me apologize to you. Properly.”
The neon lights from the waterfront are a smear of watercolor across the oil-slick surface of the river. His eyes are dark and searching, holding yours with an intensity that makes it hard to breathe.
“Please,” he says again. “I’ve been trying for months. Singapore was a mess, I know. I didn’t mean to hurt you. I should have never told you to choose between Josh and I.”
It hurts. You’re torn between the longing to let him back in and the fear of what it would mean. You miss him so much it's a physical ache, a hollow space that gnaws at you in quiet moments. But letting him apologize feels like stepping into quicksand, something you won’t be able to escape from.
“I don’t know how,” you admit. Seungcheol’s face falls, the hope in his eyes dimming. He steps closer but you step back, breaking his hold. The dock feels unsteady beneath you. “I can’t. Not now.”
His hands fall to his sides, his shoulders drawing in slightly. The glow of the lights catch the tension in his jaw, hurt flashing in his eyes. He doesn’t push further, though. He just watches you, silent as ever as you turn, your heart hammering so loud it feels like the entire city can hear it.
Your steps are near frantic as you hurry back toward CASA NEOAS, the lights and open-air cabanas a blur through the tears you refuse to let fall. The buzz of voices wash over you, drowning you as the sounds of laughter and your smiling coworkers greet you, completely at odds with the storm you’ve just escaped.
Inside, Joshua is still at the table, his interest in the dinner no better. His gaze flicks up to you when you reenter, eyebrows raising slily. You just shake your head and slide into your seat, reaching for a glass of water to chug it down. The glass is slick with condensation, the coolness of the water doing nothing to undo the heat of the dock moments ago.
You think nothing will.
-
MARINA BAY STREET CIRCUIT | 2024
POST-QUALIFYING
306.143KM | 62 LAPS
Marina Bay Sands glows like a become, the Supertree Grove a distant silhouette against the night. It’s humid outside, the air clinging to your skin and making your clothes feel heavy. Seungcheol is standing outside on the sidewalk, focused on the phone in his hand. He’s dressed down, less like a Formula 1 superstar and more like the kid who used to steal your skittles.
Stomach fluttering, you walk toward him, adjusting your shirt as it ruffles in the breeze. Seungcheol senses your presence, looking up from his phone. His eyes soften when he sees you, the smile he gives you threatening to do you in right there. No one else smiles at you the way Seungcheol does, which is why you’ve agreed to wander down here at his request.
“Dinner?” He asks, voice low. “Just us?”
You nod, heart kicking up a notch. “Lead the way.”
Seungcheol knows this place better than you do. It’s one of his favorite places to visit even when it’s not racing season. He takes you to a quiet restaurant tucked along the Singapore River, a place with open-air seating and lanterns strung across. The water reflects the lights in shimmering streaks of gold and red, the air heavy with chili crab and pandan leaves from nearby vendors.
You settle into a corner table, letting Seungcheol order a spread of Hainanese chicken rice, satay skewers and tiger prawns. You sip a beer, tilting back in your seat to look at him. He looks tired but relaxed, leaning back in his chair to glance out at the river, eyes soft.
“I could have done better today,” he says eventually, turning to you. “A little frustrating. Josh must be happy with pole position.”
You nod, treading carefully. The growing tension between them has you on edge, hating the way something dangerous has been simmering around the three of you all season. “You were half a second behind. That's nothing here. You’ll make it up tomorrow.”
He shrugs, but he doesn’t let it go. “Yeah. Hopefully tomorrow my own teammate doesn’t box me out again.”
“Cheol…”
“It’s frustrating. I don’t know how we went from living our dream together to barely being able to be in the same room.”
The weight of his words hangs in the air. You feel the familiar tug-of-war to stay loyal to Joshua but offer comfort to Seungcheol. It’s starting to feel like you can’t bridge the gap between them, but every piece of advice you offer them feels like a betrayal one way or the other.
“Maybe talk to him,” you offer. “The two of you are so fucking stubborn. Just talk.”
His eyes darken. “We’ve tried. You know how it goes.”
You want to tell him Joshua’s just protecting himself, that he’s scared of losing what he’s worked so hard for, that he’s carrying the weight of your dad’s legacy too. But saying that feels like crossing a line, like choosing Seungcheol over your brother.
Instead, you reach across the table, your fingers brushing his. “He’ll come around.”
Seungcheol’s hand turns, capturing yours, his thumb tracing slow circles against your skin. The touch sends a shiver up your arm, a reminder of how easily he unravels you. “Whatever. Let’s talk about something else.”
The dinner stretches on, the food growing cold as you talk—about dreams, about fears, about the what-ifs that feel too big to name. But the frustration lingers, a quiet undercurrent. You want to fix things for him and Joshua, to be the sister and the whatever you are to Seungcheol. But every solution feels like a compromise, and you hate it, the way you’re caught between two people you love, the way you can’t fully give yourself to either without betraying the other.
When you leave the restaurant, the Singapore night wraps around you, the air heavy with heat and the distant pulse of music from Clarke Quay. Seungcheol walks you back to the hotel, his hand brushing yours until he finally laces your fingers together. You smile, squeezing his hand back, feeling every callus and rough patch from years of driving.
At the hotel entrance, he stops, turning you to face him. The neon glow from a nearby sign casts his face in shades of blue and pink, his eyes searching yours.
“I don’t care about the rest,” he murmurs. “Josh, the team - it’s secondary. I like this, though. Whatever this is. I like this with you.”
Before you can respond, he leans in, kissing you soft and sure, his lips warm and tasting faintly of the beer you shared. It’s slow and deliberate, his hands framing your face. The world falls away, the hum of Singapore fading until it’s just the two of you kissing in the shadow of the hotel.
When he pulls back, his forehead rests against yours, breath mingling in the humid air. “See you tomorrow?”
You nod and sneak a soft kiss to his lips again. He groans and tries to steal another but you dart away from him, your laughter trilling and manic as you skip back inside. You leave him standing there smiling at you, the crinkle of his eyes genuine. Real.
It’s not much longer until the season is over. You’ll wait until then to make it real, to fix the bullshit between your brother and Seungcheol. It’s what your father would do.
You vow to do it too.
-
MARINA BAY STREET CIRCUIT | 2024
RACE DAY
306.143KM | 62 LAPS
Heavy rain lashes the ground. You watch the screens with your arms crossed over your chest, heart hammering. The tepid air makes your team polo stick to you, turning the air in the garage heavy with tension and moisture.
You don’t know why they haven’t called off the race. The rain makes the night race all the more difficult, the team radios crackling with barking orders as Joshua tries to maintain his position at the head of the race, Seungcheol right behind him. Seungcheol has fresher tires though, trying to fend off both McLaren’s as they round the last few laps of the race.
A single glance at the pitwall tells you how tense it is. You see Elias arguing with strategists, the engineers debating on how to keep both McLaren’s from passing on fresh tires and better grip. You’ve been here before, and you feel the sense of dread as Seungcheol closes in closer on Joshua just before the call comes through.
“Let Choi overtake. He’s on fresher tires. He has a better chance to hold the lead.”
Your fists clench at your sides, fury bubbling up hot and fast. The garage feels too small, the air too thick, as you stare at the monitors showing Joshua's car slicing through the deluge. He's been the team player, swallowing his pride, and now this?
“The fuck do you mean let him overtake? I fucking protected his lead the last two races guys. Get the fuck out of here with that.”
The garage falls quiet. Your heart races, a mix of pride and dread twisting in your gut. His race engineer asks him to let Seungcheol overtake again, but Joshua refuses, battling the slick road and the shit visibility while Seungcheol rides his ass, two orange McLarens not far behind.
Seungcheol is a shadow in Joshua’s spray. You watch on the screens, breath held as Seungcheol dives for the inside at Turn 10, a risky move when it’s dry and near suicidal when it’s wet. His front wing clips Joshua’s rear tire and it’s all that needs to happen to send Joshua into the barrier.
Time slows. Joshua’s car hits the barrier in a spray of sparks and debris. Everyone in the garage shoots to their feet, hands on their head. You feel a cold tingle sweep over you, your entire body going numb with fear as you watch as red flags appear while your brother’s car goes up in flames, the rain doing nothing to put it out.
Voices on the radio call his name as crews rush to get to him. The other cars on the track stop, the session halted amid the downpour and the disaster that is Joshua’s car. Your world narrows to a single point, hands pressing the headphones closer to your ears as your heart pounds, waiting for Joshua to answer.
The pit wall feels like it’s closing in, the hum of rain on the roof and the wet tires screaming through the track melding into a single, unbearable pulse in your chest. Your stomach is in knots, fingers trembling as you grip your headphones. You can barely breathe, and every instinct in you screams at the impossibility of what just happened.
Joshua’s car is mangled against the wall. You stare and stare and stare until finally, you see him helped out of the wrecked car. The visor on his helmet is cracked and he has to be helped to stay steady as he walks. You press a palm to your mouth, watching as tears sting your eyes in relief, anger, terror. You don’t even know.
The race is called finished. Seungcheol wins by default, but it feels hollow. Drivers carefully start to return to the pit with winners instructed to the air near the podium. You wait in the garage alone, watching the team file out into the rain for a podium as Joshua is escorted to the medical tent.
You don’t move. Can’t move. Everyone leaves you alone, staring at the screen and the replay of the destruction. Each time you see Seungcheol’s front wing clip Joshua’s car, you flinch.
Joshua has been in tons of accidents. It comes with the territory. But you’ve never seen one like that, helmet cracked, care in flames. Worst of all, it had been an overtake attempt by his teammate. His best friend.
Something sour twists in your stomach as you wait for your brother to come back from the medical bay. You finally peel the headphones from your ears, the sound of the rain hammering on the metal roof your only company. The garage seems eerily quiet with half the people out celebrating Seungcheol’s win with the other half waiting for pieces of Joshua’s car to be brought back.
Anger buzzes beneath the surface. Seungcheol is competitive, but the reality of how dangerous he’s willing to play it sinks into you like a knife between the ribs. He was willing to risk a terrible overtake for something like that. You look at the pitwall where you see Elias already talking to an FIA representative. You’d be shocked if Seungcheol wasn’t given a penalty.
Joshua is trembling when he enters the garage. He’s alone, his helmet tucked under his arm. You see the fault line in it, heart flipping. You shoot to your feet and dart over to him, hesitating to make sure he’s okay before he nods and you hug him.
“Fucking christ,” you mutter. “Are you alright?”
“Feels like every bone in my fucking body is broken. Surprisingly, it’s not. I’m under concussion protocol.”
Relief floods you, sharp and fleeting, chased by rage. “Let’s go-”
“No.” You step back, wide eyed. “I want to see him when he comes back.”
“Josh-”
“No.”
The silence in the garage is heavy. You stand next to Joshua, trying not to fidget. His jaw is tight, eyes fixed on the entrance as he waits for the team to filter back in after the podium and media. You want to say something, to ease the tension coiling in the air, but words feel useless. Joshua’s trembling has stopped, replaced by a quiet, dangerous stillness that has you on edge.
You glance at the monitors. The podium ceremony is in muted colors under the rain. Seungcheol’s face flashes on screen but he doesn’t smile. It’s an awkward ceremony, no champagne sprays and dulled by the dramatic ending.
Joshua watches too, his knuckles white around the helmet tucked under his arm. You know he’s replaying the crash too.
Members of team Mercedes start to filter back in. You watch them with an impending sense of doom, several people stopping dead in their tracks when they see the look on Joshua’s face. No one says anything - not to you, not to him. This is something only the team principal can handle, and Elias is nowhere to be found yet.
When Seungcheol enters, it’s like a bomb goes off. One second Joshua is next to you, the next he’s halfway across the garage, voice raced. “What the fuck was that, Choi?”
Choi. Not Seungcheol. Like they haven’t been on a first name basis with one another since they were in their teens. Joshua launches his helmet at the wall and the entire garage flinches as it cracks loudly against the metal.
Seungcheol’s face hardens and he stops walking as Joshua approaches him. “I didn’t mean to hit you. It-”
“Fuck you!”
The garage feels smaller, the air electric with rage. Seungcheol throws his helmet onto a nearby table, the clatter echoing. “You think I wanted this? I was fighting for the win, same as you! You could’ve let me by like the team said-”
“Fuck the team!” Joshua shouts, stepping closer, his fists balled. “I’ve been playing your wingman for two races, Cheol. Two. I gave up my shot to protect you, and this is how you repay me? By putting me into the fucking wall?”
The argument explodes, their voices overlapping, each word a spark in a powder keg. You feel your pulse hammering, your hands shaking as you watch your brother and his best friend tear into each other. The other mechanics and engineers in the garage freeze, eyes darting between the two drivers.
You step forward just as Elias appears, shouting, “Enough! Both of you in my office now!”
“Fuck that,” Joshua spits.
You grab his arm, pulling lightly. “Josh-”
“Don’t,” Joshua warns, his voice low but sharp, his eyes flicking to you for a moment before returning to Seungcheol. “This is between us.”
Seungcheol’s gaze shifts to you, and something in his expression darkens. His voice drops, cold and deliberate. “No, it’s not just between us. She inserts herself every time. So choose, right now. Me or him?”
Your heart nearly stops. Your palms are slick with sweat, everyone silent. “I- what?”
“Choose,” he seethes. “You can’t play peacekeeper anymore. Choose.”
The garage is deathly silent, the weight of his words suffocating. “Seungcheol, there is no choosing, I’m not a -”
“So you choose Joshua. You always do. That’s fine. The two of you can make me the bad guy, but I’m done with your fucking family.”
The words slice through you, sharp and cruel. Your vision blurs with tears, but the rage surges forward, unstoppable. “What is wrong with you? Is that how bad you want to fucking win?”
“The two of you always make me the bad guy. It’s my fault Joshua refused team orders, it’s my fault he didn’t win, it’s my fault he’s mad, I should say sorry, I should be more reasonable. You two are birds of a fucking feather.”
It feels like you’ve been slapped. You take a step back from him, staring. It feels like he’s a total stranger. Seungcheol has never spoken this way to you before, never voiced that he felt like you were ganging up on him. You immediately feel defensive because Seungcheol is often the aggressor in arguments, he is the one who goes for the throat.
And yet you say nothing. You stare and stare and stare at the man who just the night before, was telling you all of the nonsense didn’t matter. That you were important. That he wanted to make sure he kept you around. And how he’s telling you to choose as though its some sort of fucking powerplay and he can overtake Joshua again by taking his sister.
You turn away from Seungcheol, avoiding your brother's gaze but stepping toward him for protection like when you were kids, seeking his comfort. Seungcheol swears, scoffing, but he doesn’t say another word.
Joshua grabs your arm, his grip tight but grounding. “Let’s go. He’s not worth our time.”
The cold air hits your face as you step into the downpour, but it does nothing to cool the anger burning in your chest. Joshua’s hand stays on your arm, a silent anchor, as you both head toward out, leaving Seungcheol behind.
-
CIRCUIT DE MONACO | 2025
THREE DAYS UNTIL QUALIFYING.
260.286KM | 78 LAPS
Sunlight bends off the pastel shutters and brass balconies of Monte Carlo. The faint tang of the Mediterranean lifts on the breeze, carrying the sweet scent of bouganvillea. You’ve been in Monaco all week, using the excuse of early meetings and sponsor prep to linger here longer.
The truth is simpler: you’ve needed the quiet. Needed the soft press of books and paper in your favorite little shop on the hill, tucked away from the glossy yachts and the press swarms that will start in a few days.
A bell tinkles above the door to the bookshop you’re in. You don’t even look up as you trace the spines of novels both familiar and unfamiliar to you. A group of tourists next to you whisper over postcards and rare first editions, their excitement making your lips twitch in an almost smile.
“Of course you’re here.”
Your spine goes rigid at Seungcheol’s voice. You turn to see him. He’s dressed in a slouchy hoodie, baseball cap pulled low on his head. He leans against a shelf, shoving his hands in the pocket of his hoodie. He looks good but tired, like the nights between now and Miami have been keeping him up too.
“What are you doing here?” You whisper.
He takes a step closer, a little hesitant. “Can we talk?”
You should say no like you always do. You should walk out, push past him and drown yourself in work until race day swallows you whole. It’s how you’ve managed up until now - until that kiss in Miami alongside the river. Against your better judgement, you nod.
It surprises him. He gives you a fleeting smile before gesturing you to follow. The two of you move through aisles of books, silent for a few minutes. His hand skims the spine of a poetry collection, his fingers reverent. You fight a shiver looking at them.
“I need to explain,” he starts, voice rough. “Whath happened in Singapore. When I made you choose. It’s been gnawing at me and you…”
“I haven’t let you.”
He snorts. “Yeah.”
“I’m letting you now.”
“I thought I’d lost you already,” he admits. He chews his lip, not meeting your eyes as you walk. “The moment I clipped him, I felt like it was over. Knew I fucked it up. It felt like I was always compromising for Joshua with so many things, like I was holding back. Even with you - especially with you. So I thought if I just made you choose, I could make you reject me then instead of sometime later when it would hurt more.
“Seungcheol.” Your voice comes out sharp, but it wavers. Your pulse thrums in your throat. The bookstore suddenly feels too small, too close, the air heavy with all the words you never said. “You can’t just do that. You can’t put me between you and him.”
“I know.” His jaw tightens. His voice drops lower, hoarse. “But I wasn’t thinking about him. I was thinking about you. About every moment I’ve bitten my tongue or stepped back because it was easier than pushing against Joshua. That night I wanted - just once - for you to choose what you wanted.”
You close your eyes for a second, but it doesn’t help. You still see the flames licking Joshua’s wreck, the spray of rain, the red flag waving. You still feel the taste of Seungcheol’s mouth in Miami, the way you folded into him like it was inevitable.
The silence between shelves is thick, the kind that makes you hyper-aware of every breath, every shuffle of his sneakers against old wood. He waits for you to say something - anything - but your throat is tight, your chest hot. Finally, you find your voice, though it shakes with the weight of it.
“Do you know what that felt like?” you whisper, your hand pressing against the spine of a book just to feel something real. Grounded. “Standing there, watching Joshua’s car go up in flames like that. For a few minutes, I thought he might be dead.”
You bite down hard, but the words push their way out, jagged and ugly. “It felt like you wanted to win more than you wanted your best friend safe. Like the race mattered more than him. And then you told me to choose like it was more important for you to win me than it was for me to choose for myself.”
The words hang in the air, and for once, he doesn’t have a quick answer. His face twists, like each syllable slices straight through him. He opens his mouth, closes it again, fists curling at his sides.
“That’s not what I meant, but I understand.” He kicks a stray piece of dust on a carpet runner. “I was just scared of always being second to Joshua. I thought if you didn’t choose me then, you’d never do it later.”
“You keep using the word choose like it’s a game of choices. It’s not. I don’t have to choose anyone.”
He flinches. You see it, even if he tries to mask it by ducking his head, dragging a hand over his face. For the first time since he walked in, he looks small in front of you. Not a champion. Not Joshua’s best friend. Just Seungcheol, raw and stripped down to the bone, staring at you like you’ve gutted him.
“I didn’t want to hurt you,” he says finally, voice hoarse. “I just… wanted you. And I went about it in the worst way.”
Your fingers tremble as you press a book back into place, needing something to do with your hands, anything to stop the way your chest aches. “And that’s exactly the problem.”
The bookstore feels impossibly small, the air dense with everything you’ve just said. Seungcheol doesn’t move at first. Just stands there, staring down at the faded rug between you like the words might rearrange themselves into something easier. When he finally lifts his head, his eyes are glassy, raw.
“You’re right,” he sighs. “I did want to win that night. And I did want you. But neither of those things matter. I was selfish and afraid, and I let it twist together with my struggle with Joshua and that wasn’t fair to you. You’re different people.”
You blink, caught off guard. You’re not used to him being vulnerable like this. He hasn’t been since… well, since before Singapore. But you see him trying now, see him genuinely letting you see him. He takes a step closer, not crowding you, but close enough to bridge the gap.
“I hate how I handled it. I hate that I made you feel like you were trapped. That’s not who I want to be to you.”
“Who do you want me to be to you?”
He hesitates. “Anything you’ll give me. Just… not your enemy. Anything but that.”
The silence stretches. It’s fragile and tentative. It makes your heart beat faster, the urge to immediately answer yes warring with the instinct to say no. You’ve been saying no for months now, and it seems to have gotten you nowhere. Which begs the question - who are you protecting?
“Neutral ground,” you say at last, the words steadier than you expect. “We’re not friends. We’re not enemies. Just… neutral.”
Something loosens in his expression, relief washing over him even as his shoulders stay tense, like he’s afraid one wrong move will undo it all. He nods. “Neutral.”
For the first time since the 2024 Singapore Grand Prix, you feel like you can breathe again.
-
CIRCUIT GILLES-VILLENEUVE 2024
PRACTICE
305.27KM | 70 LAPS
Rain opens up in the sky in seconds. One moment, practice is underway with engines roaring down Circuit Gilles Villeneuve and the next, the clouds are cracking open and dumping sheets of rain across the track. Marshals immediately wave everyone in as mechanics scramble to cover equipment and move out of the rain.
You sit tucked beneath one of the flapping canopies of a tent, arms wrapped around yourself against the sudden chill. Around you, voices rise and fall. Joshua is joking with a mechanic as he pulls his helmet off as someone passes around towels.
Seungcheol appears, jogging in the rain. He’s drenched, hair plastered dark against his forehead. His racing suit clings to him and he doesn’t bother shaking himself off, just drops down into the seat next to you with a groan.
“You look like a wet dog,” you tease.
That gets a shake out of him and you scream as water droplets fly from him to you. You shield yourself against him, laughing as rain mists against your legs. He tilts his head toward you, grinning. “Tell me a story. Something to pass the time until they let us back out.”
You blind at him. “A story?”
“Yeah. You’re good at them. Better than just sitting here listening to Joshua argue about tires.”
So you try. You reach back to a memory - not something funny or something from the time that Seungcheol entered your life, but something a bit farther. A memory that Seungcheol wouldn’t have with you.
“When Joshua and I were little,” you start. “My mom used to let us help in the kitchen on Sundays. She’d drag chairs to the counter so we could reach, even though we made a mess of everything. I used to spill flour everywhere and Joshua would try so hard to be serious and organize, but I always ended up convincing him to steal chocolate chips for me.”
You laugh softly, surprising yourself. “She never told him off for it. She just…pretended not to see. And the three of us would end up sitting on the floor, eating half-burned cookies before they cooled.”
The words taper off into the drum of the rain. Seungcheol shifts a little closer, smiling. His head tips toward you, shyly resting on your shoulder. You glance around to see if anyone is watching, but the sheets of rain hide you in your little corner of the world, everyone else faraway and distracted.
“Keep talking,” he murmurs. “I like the sound of your voice.”
So you do. At first, you think he’s faking the heaviness of his head on your shoulder. But then his breathing evens, warm against your arm, and you realize he’s drifted off to sleep, letting your voice lull him into some soft dream.
You hope it doesn’t stop raining.
-
CIRCUIT DE MONACO | 2025
POST RACE
260.286KM | 78 LAPS
It smells faintly of roses and expensive perfume in the lobby of the hotel, the marble floors gleaming under the soft glow of chandeliers. Monaco at night hums beyond the glass doors, laughter spilling in from the harbor, engine purring along the winding streets.
You press the button of the elevator, heels dangling from your hand, bare feet cool against the marble. The celebration of Joshua’s podium stretched late, and you’d slipped out just before the crowd turned rowdy. A part of you is thankful he’s distracted by the friends who had flown in for his birthday - you are far too tired to go into the early morning hours tonight.
Someone clears their throat behind you. You turn to see Seungcheol. You make a surprised sound as you look him up and down. His black dress shirt is rolled at the sleeves, collar open to reveal the line of his throat. His jacket hangs carelessly over his arm, his hair mussed from the humid night air. His eyes catch yours, dark and bright at the same time.
“Hi,” you breathe.
“Hi.”
Seungcheol gestures for you to enter the elevator first when it arrives. You step in, a little light-headed and breathless. He follows you in, leaning against the wall as you hit a number. You glance at him and he grins, telling you top floor. You roll your eyes.
“Congrats on the win, by the way,” you manage after a beat.
His mouth twitches. “Thank you.”
The elevator hums softly as it begins to climb, and for a moment all you hear is the thrum of machinery and the faint echo of music drifting up from the harbor. The air feels thick, charged, almost stifling in the small box of metal and glass.
He’s leaning back against the mirrored wall next to you, head tilted, eyes fixed on you in that deliberate way that makes you squirm. His chest rises and falls slowly, the low light of the elevator catching on the necklace hidden beneath his shirt. The distance between you feels unbearably narrow, the silence deafening.
“You look good,” he notes.
You stare. “Thanks. You do too.”
Seconds tick by. Then he tilts his head, eyes darkening. “Stop me if you want to.”
Your pulse kicks hard against your ribs. “Stop you from what?”
He leans forward, slow and sure, the kind of movement that leaves you with an out. His breath is warm against your cheek, his hand braced against the railing just beside your hip. You smell his woody cologne, your eyelashes fluttering as it mixes with the softest buzz of the champagne you’d had earlier.
You could turn your head. You could laugh. You could stop him.
You don’t.
The kiss collides between you, soft for only a second before the dam breaks. His mouth is urgent, desperate, all the words neither of you have said spilling out in the way his lips part against yours, in the rough drag of his thumb along your jaw. You match him with equal force, the weeks of tension snapping like overstretched wire.
By the time the elevator dings at your floor, you’re pressed back against the wall, your shoes long forgotten on the floor of the elevator, his hand tangled in your hair. Both of you are breathless, tasting champagne and salt, your mouth aching with the force of his kiss.
Neither of you moves when the doors open. He breaks the kiss only to rest his forehead against yours, breathing hard. Then, without a word, he catches your hand in his and pulls you with him. Down the hall, past gleaming sconces and thick carpets muffling your footsteps, until you’re inside his room with your back pressed against the door, his mouth on you again.
He breaks away, peppering your jaw with kisses as your fingers tangle in his hair. His teeth drag against your pulse point and you make a breathy sound, hips coming off the door to buck forward into his. He makes a wrecked sound, sucking at the spot beneath your ear.
“You should have stopped me,” he groans. “Tell me to stop.”
“I can’t.”
“Fuck.”
You pull his mouth to yours again. The kiss is hungrier this time, edged with something almost desperate, like both of you know this is reckless but can’t bring yourselves to care. His hands bracket your waist, pulling you flush against him, and heat skitters through your whole body at the press of his chest, the solid warmth of him surrounding you.
When his lips trail down your jaw to your throat again, tongue swiping over the sensitive skin, you shiver. His tongue traces the curve of your pulse, slow and deliberate, and your knees nearly give.
“Cheol,” you whisper, voice breaking on his name.
“You have no idea how long I’ve wanted this,” he says, voice low and rough. His hand slides down, finding the edge of your dress, skimming the bare skin of your thigh. “Let me show you.”
You nod. "Show me."
That's all it takes for the last thread of restraint to snap.
Seungcheol's hands are everywhere at once, mapping the curves of your body like he's been starving for the chance. He tugs at the zipper of your dress with a roughness that borders on frantic, the fabric pooling at your feet. His finger traces the lace of your panties, teasing, before he hooks them under and drags them down your legs.
"God, you're beautiful," he breathes, voice ragged, like the sight of you is undoing him.
And maybe it is.
He drops to his knees before you, right there against the door, his broad shoulders filling the space between your thighs. The carpet is plush under your bare feet, but you barely notice as he parts your legs with gentle insistence, his breath hot against your core.
"I've thought about this so many times," he confesses, lips brushing your inner thigh, sending sparks racing up your spine. "Tasting you. Making you come undone for me. I never got the chance.”
His tongue traces a path up your thigh, teasing the sensitive skin until you're trembling. When he finally presses his mouth to you, it's with a groan that vibrates through your entire body. Your breathing turns ragged as Seungcheol licks into you, slowly at first, like he’s savoring you. The sensation is overwhelming, the wet heat of his tongue in your cunt making you buck forward.
He holds you steady with one hand on your hip, the other sliding up to spread you open further, exposing you completely to his mouth. He hums, sucking your clit gently. You see sparks, dropping your head back against the door hard enough for it to thunk. He laughs, looking up at you through his dark lashes as his tongue slides through your folds.
“Taste so good,” he tells you, voice desperate. He dips his tone back in, teasing your entrance. “Could do this all night.”
"Cheol," you gasp, fingers threading through his hair, tugging as he circles your clit with the tip of his tongue.
He moans against you, the sound filthy and desperate, like he's the one being pleasured. You feel the press of his fingers against your thighs, the way his lips seal around you, sucking gently before diving back in with renewed fervor.
He doesn't rush, drawing it out until you're a mess above him, legs shaking, breaths coming in short, needy pants. The first orgasm crashes over you unexpectedly, a wave of heat that leaves you arching against the door, gasping his name.
He doesn't stop, tongue circling your throbbing clit, prolonging your high until it's almost too much. Only then does he pull back, lips glistening, eyes wild as he looks up at you. “Can you give me another?”
You nod and before you can catch a breath, he's back, this time slipping two fingers inside you while his mouth works your clit. The stretch is perfect, his fingers curling just right to hit that spot that makes stars burst behind your eyelids.
Seungceol drives you insane. Always has. But this is something different, your eyes fluttering at the slick slide of his tongue over your cunt, the rhythmic pump of his fingers, the way he hums in approval when you clench around his dingers. You feel the coil in your gut tighten again, faster this time as he devours you.
The second climax hits harder, your body convulsing as pleasure rips through you. You pull his hair harder, grinding against his face, and he takes it all, fingers thrusting deeper until you're spent, collapsing against the door. He rises then, mouth crashing onto yours, letting you taste yourself on his tongue.
Your hands slide up his chest and you push him toward the bed. “My turn.”
Seungcheol watches you, gaze fucked out and lids heavy as you press him toward the bed until he’s falling backward. He props himself up with two hands, watching you with his mouth parted and glistening in your cum as you sink to the ground.
You press Seungcheol’s knees open, dragging your nails up his thighs. He shivers, head falling back slightly, eyes half closed. You pull the zipper down, making sure your fingers press into his hardening cock, teasing. He groans and you grin as you free him from his pants.
His cock springs free, thick and hard, already leaking at the tip, turned on by just getting to taste you. It makes your desire for him spike. You’ve never wanted anyone this much in your life, and even though you know you’re not supposed to, you do want him. More than anything. Like a covetous, greedy little creature.
You wrap your hand around him, stroking slowly, watching his head fall back with a groan. You take him into your mouth without warning, lips stretching around him as you swirl your tongue over the head. He tastes salty, musky, and you hum in satisfaction, taking him deeper.
His hand fists in your hair, not guiding but holding on as you set a rhythm. It’s slow at first, teasing the underside of his cock with your tongue, then faster, hollowing your cheeks. The sounds he makes are obscene, low curses and your name tangled together, his hips twitching forward involuntarily.
"Fuck, just like that," he grits out, eyes locked on yours.
The intensity in his gaze is searing, like he's memorizing every second. You feel powerful like this, on your knees but in control, drawing out his pleasure until his thighs tremble. The tip of his cock presses the back of your throat and you gag but you don’t care, letting the spit leak down the sides of your mouth onto his shaft. He swears, a shiver rippling through him.
He pulls you off suddenly, breathing ragged. "I don’t want to come in your mouth."
With his help, he hauls you onto the bed. You pull at his shirt, the buttons popping as you tear it open. The hard planes of his chest gleam in the low light coming in through the windows. You lean down, nipping at his collarbone while he kicks off his pants, jostling you.
You help him get rid of his shirt and the world tilts as he rolls you over, pressing you into the sheets. They’re crisp and cool against your overheated skin, the weight of Seungcheol pressing you down grounding you. His fingers slip between your thighs again and your breath catches as he presses them in.
"So wet for me," he murmurs, thumb circling your clit.
“Please don’t tease me.”
He grins and withdraws his fingers, smearing your arousal down his shaft. You open your legs wider as he grasps his cock, pumping. You watch him, feeling delirious. There are a million reasons you shouldn’t be doing this right now, but for the first time in your life it feels like you’re doing what you want.
And you want Seungcheol.
Seungcheol presses his cock to your entrance and you both moan. He pushes in slowly, inch by inch, and you both gasp at the fullness. He's big, stretching you perfectly, and the sensation is exquisite. It’s a tight fit and overwhelming, but you don’t care. He slides all the way in, pressing his forehead to yours, breath mingling.
“Fuck,” he whispers. “You feel incredible.”
The first thrust is slow, letting you adjust, but soon the pace quickens, driven by the desperation that's consumed you both. He moves with purpose, hips snapping forward, each stroke hitting deep. You wrap your legs around him, pulling him closer, nails digging into his back.
It is maddening, having him like this. His movements jostle you up the bed but you don’t care. Your fingers slide down his back, feeling the muscle flex under your fingertips as he fucks into you with a desperation that is echoed by the way you whine his name.
Seungcheol slows suddenly, pulling out. You start to complain and he laughs, huffing, “Turn over.”
You comply rolling over with your knees propping you up as you lay down on the bed, ass up. He positions himself behind you, palming your ass briefly, fingers squeezing. You laugh and wiggle your hips, earning a groan and a soft crack of his hand across your right cheek.
His hands grip your hips, thumbs digging in as he slides back in. The angle is deeper and he sets a punishing rhythm. Each thrust sends shockwaves through you, his cock dragging against that spot inside that makes you see white.
"Harder," you plead, pushing back against him as your fists tangle the sheets.
He obliges, one hand sliding up your back to tangle in your hair, pulling your head back just enough to arch you further. The other hand reaches around, fingers finding your clit again, rubbing in tight circles. You go nearly catatonic in his hands, feeling the static build as he works you toward another orgasm. You have no thoughts, no worries, no anything. It’s just his breaths against your temple as he bends down, pressing his mouth to the crown of your head softly.
It undoes you. You clench around him suddenly, pulling him in deeper. He slows as you squeeze around him, your breath coming out in broken sounds. Your sounds must do him in, because he shivers and comes shortly after, fucking you through it until he can’t stand it anymore.
Seungcheol pulls out and gently rolls you over. You stare up at him, dizzy and so drunk on him that you barely register a brief kiss to your lips before he sinks back down, mouth trailing lazily down your stomach.
“One more,” he murmurs, settling between your thighs. “Can’t help myself.”
“Fuuuck,” you rasp, feeling his tongue press to your aching cunt.
He’s gentler this time, lapping at your oversensitive folds, cleaning you up while building you back up. You look down to see him looking up at you. His eyes are dark and heavy with want, but there’s a softness there too.
The room feels like it’s spinning, the air thick with the quiet sounds of your shared breaths. Your moans are soft, broken, each one pulled from you by the careful swipe of his tongue, the gentle press of his lips. His lips close around your clit again, and this time he sucks, so softly it’s barely there, but it’s enough to make your back arch off the bed, a ragged sound tearing from your throat. He releases you almost immediately, soothing the sensitivity with a slow, broad lick that has you shaking.
“You’re going to kill me,” you pant, hand tangling in his hair.
“I’m making up for lost time,” he mumbles, mouth smearing against your pussy. “You’ll forgive me.”
When your breathing starts to hitch, your moans turning into desperate little gasps, he finally takes pity on you. His tongue flattens against your clit, pressing just a little harder, and he hums softly, the vibration sending a wave of pleasure crashing through you. You cry out, your body tensing as he licks you through the last of your orgasm.
You go boneless. He presses wet kisses to your thighs, smearing spit and cum. You don’t care. You don’t care about anything but the fact that you want him back pressed close to you, that you just want to be near him again.
Seungcheol’s hands stroke your thighs, soothing the tremors, and he presses one last kiss to your clit, soft and chaste, before crawling back up your body. His lips find yours and you let him kiss you, not caring about the mix of fluids as his tongue tangles with yours.
Somewhere in the room, your phone rings. It pulls you from your thoughts and you break the kiss, lifting your head. Your phone is lighting up by the door, a beacon where it lays on the floor near your dressed. You can’t see the screen, but you know the ringtone.
And the reality of what you’ve just done overtakes everything else.
….i can’t believe i got into f1 because of this collab. These writers had me learning the politics of the game and im not even a car girlie i just love learning about the rules 😭 and these writers are so wonderful and clearly know their shit. Definitely excited for the others/any potential continuations
Lee Jihoon doesn’t break the rules. He bends them. Just enough to get away with it. Just enough to make your job harder, just enough to see if you’ll flinch. He’s testing the boundaries. And the worst part? You kind of want to see what happens if he crosses them.
✇ pairing: redbull racing driver! lee jihoon x fia race steward!f! reader
✇ wc: 7. 1K (part 1 of 2!)
✇ genre: enemies-to-??? (sue me okay i have a favorite trope), the max-verstappen-ization of lee jihoon, etc etc etc
✇ warnings: mentions of food, alcohol, erratic (and sometimes frankly dangerous driving), swearing, suggestive content
✇ a/n: this is for @camandemstudios light's out collab! please check out all the other amazing authors <3 // if you see any mentions of ferrari!jeonghan, know that he is from full throttle
Albert Park Grand Prix Circuit — March 8th, 2026
It starts in Australia.
Engines scream against the damp Melbourne air, twenty cars twitching on the grid like restless predators. The new ground-effect regulations have left everyone guessing—cars stiffer, more skittish, the rear ends snapping if you even think about leaning too hard. Jihoon sits low in the cockpit of the RB22, visor fogged at the edges, his pulse steady but alive. Lights out.
His launch isn’t perfect. Wheelspin. He feels it immediately in the vibration through his seat, the rear threatening to snake, but he catches it with a flick of opposite lock. Behind him, a papaya blur—Mingyu’s McLaren—sniffs at the gap, darting to the inside, then abandoning it when the Red Bull squeezes across. Jihoon plants the throttle. The car judders, porpoising in the braking zone, but he doesn’t lift. He can’t. Not in this field. Not with these rules.
Turn three—chaos. A Ferrari spears wide, a Williams twitches on the paint, the track shimmering with light drizzle that never fully left overnight. Jihoon dances on the brake pedal, the rear skating, front begging to bite. Every corner feels like rolling dice.
Lap after lap, the fight breathes down his neck. The McLaren is faster in a straight line, the new engine package giving Mingyu a shove Jihoon can feel every time DRS opens. But through the corners, Red Bull still has claws. Jihoon threads the car across the kerbs, twitching but holding.
“Balance, Jihoon,” his engineer warns over the radio. “You’re over-rotating entry. Keep it clean.”
He doesn’t reply. He’s too busy muscling the car through Turn Nine, the wheel kicking in his hands like it wants to escape.
Mingyu tries one down the inside at Turn Eleven. Jihoon shuts the door—hard. The two cars skim inches apart, a flash of papaya in his mirrors, a heartbeat away from contact. The crowd gasps. Jihoon’s jaw sets tighter.
The race doesn’t feel like strategy anymore. It feels like survival, like two men trying to tame beasts the rulebook barely understood.
And as the laps tick down, one truth hardens in Jihoon’s chest: the car is wild, the regs are chaos, but so long as Mingyu’s shadow sits in his mirrors, he’ll bend every line on the track before he yields.
The rain has stopped but the track is still slick, drying in patches that catch the light under Melbourne’s late sun. Cars twitch through the high-speed chicanes, skidding wide at the exit curbs, no one entirely in control. The new regs promised stability; instead, they’ve delivered chaos.
Jihoon sits third, his RB22 weaving like a restless animal. Ahead, two silver arrows fight each other into turn nine, sparks hissing. Behind, Mingyu’s papaya-orange McLaren shadows every move. For thirty laps he’s been there, a flash of color in Jihoon’s mirrors, always close, always waiting.
Lap 55. Two to go. Jihoon hugs the inside line through turn three, car snapping under braking. Mingyu tries the switchback, gets the nose alongside, but the Red Bull drags ahead with better traction.
Radio crackles.
“Careful, Jihoon. Remember how we go racing.”
He grits his teeth. I know.
Last lap. The grandstands are on their feet, white rain ponchos flapping. The track glistens, half-dry, half-wet, every braking point a gamble. Jihoon brakes late into turn nine, tires squirming, car skating a fraction off line. Mingyu sees it—lunges.
For a heartbeat, the papaya nose is there, filling Jihoon’s peripheral vision. Jihoon jerks left, instinct, blocking under braking. The cars nearly touch, carbon fiber trembling on the edge of disaster. The Red Bull survives the corner, but only just.
The engineer’s voice bursts in, urgent, clipped:
“Race control might be looking at that. Just bring it home.”
Jihoon exhales once, white-knuckled on the wheel, and floors it down the straight. Mingyu stays glued to his gearbox, too far to strike again, close enough to remind him how thin the line is.
The checkered flag waves. Jihoon crosses just miliseconds ahead of the papaya car, and he feels the collective breath everyone at in the garage breathes.
Radio static crackles. “That’s a podium. But you might be having a conversation about that move.”
Jihoon exhales, the ghost of a grin tugging under the helmet. He's never really cared about the lecture. First race of the new regs, and he’d made his point: he wasn’t here to play safe.
He knows why his engineer is so tense—the paddock had been loud with first-race chatter, a mixture of optimism and nerves that always clung to season openers. But this year, there had been a new name threaded into every conversation.
The FIA had appointed a new steward for the season—fresh from MotoGP, already infamous for an unflinching, textbook interpretation of the rulebook. The drivers grumbled about it when the Netflix microphones were too far away to pick up on their wariness. The engineers muttered warnings over headsets. The journalists circled like sharks, eager to see whose weekend will be ruined first.
Jihoon, for the better part of the weekend, pretended he didn't hear any of it. He never had. Stewards, in his mind, were all the same: rigid, faceless, convinced that a white line drawn on asphalt means more than the race itself. He’d been dealing with them for years, and not one has managed to get under his skin.
So when someone in the pre-race strategy briefing had mentioned that the new hire was especially strict, Jihoon only smirked and continued doodling on his notepad.
That’s why Red Bull had wanted him in the first place, isn’t it? He didn’t break rules—he bent them. Just enough to get away with it. Just enough to make their jobs harder.
Maybe that made him cocky, or an asshole, but he’d gotten away with Abu Dhabi last year just fine—he’d even cinched 3rd place from Mercedes by the skin of his teeth, though he’s sure his engineer had almost put in his two weeks during lap fourty-two.
(Jihoon doesn’t blame the guy. The poor man probably shudders every time he thinks about Minghao’s move into Turn 6, wheels almost interlocking with Jihoon’s. Jihoon had shifted just enough under braking to unsettle the Mercedes—any more, and the stewards would have flagged it as a block. But Jihoon had spent a career mastering where that invisible line lay.
The silver car had twitched. The Red Bull sailed through.
Radio crackled in his ears.
“Race control has noted the incident, Jihoon. No investigation.”
Of course. There never was.)
So this new steward? He’s already decided.
They won’t be any different.
The press room hums with stale air and the low buzz of journalists waiting their turn. Jihoon sinks into the couch, posture loose in the way he knows cameras read as confidence rather than arrogance. One arm draped along the backrest, one hand curling absently at the fabric of his race suit, he looks more like someone waiting for an airport lounge announcement than a driver fresh off the podium.
A question cuts through: sharp, clipped, designed to prod.“Jihoon, about the incident with Mingyu: moving under braking. Do you think you crossed the line?”
The microphone hovers near his chin, but Jihoon barely glances at it. He leans forward just enough for the camera lights to catch the edge of a smirk. “Oh, I knew the FIA wouldn’t investigate,” he says, voice light, conversational, as if they were discussing the weather. “There was no room for Mingyu to make that move.”
He finishes like it’s obvious, like the question itself was a waste of oxygen. The corners of his mouth twitch, satisfied, until he catches movement at the edge of the room. His press officer, half hidden near the door, raises a hand in a tiny, desperate motion, the universal signal for shut up. Jihoon blinks, just for a beat, and the smirk falters into something more unreadable.
He blinks once, like he might go on anyway, but before he can, the moderator taps his mic. “Sorry to cut in, Jihoon. Uh, you’ve been called to the stewards.”
The air shifts. A ripple of muffled laughter rolls through the room, reporters leaning closer to their neighbors, amused murmurs spilling between them. Jihoon’s brow furrows.
“For what?” he asks flatly.
More laughter, sharper this time, bouncing off the walls of the press room. Jihoon sits there, eyes narrowing, the ghost of a smile threatening at his mouth—not because he thinks it’s funny, but because he knows the game: play it cool, don’t give them the crack they want.
He stands, straightens out his racesuit. Calm. Deliberate. The cameras keep blinking.
Jihoon is no stranger to the stewards’ office. Years ago, when he was younger and far too eager, he spent afternoons pacing these same hallways, hands clenching the leather of his gloves, trying to argue lines he hadn’t learned to bend yet. The memory irritates him now, a dull thrum under the rush of adrenaline still clinging from the podium. It still irks him to be back, the sterile smell of paper and polished glass reminding him that sometimes he isn’t as untouchable as he thinks.
His engineer, GP, falls into step beside him, voice low, almost conspiratorial. “Just stay calm,” GP murmurs, though his eyes flick constantly to the curious eyes trailing them across the paddock. “Don’t give them any theatrics.”
Every photographer, every team member, every media drone is a ripple in the current Jihoon has to wade through to reach the office. Jihoon lets the words wash over him. Every stride, every measured turn of his head, projects calm; everyone reads it as confidence. He knows the truth—he’s just practiced at looking untouchable.
The door looms ahead, polished, official, unyielding. Inside, the air is cooler than the paddock, the faint scent of coffee and paperwork replacing the warm exhaust and sun-baked tarmac outside. But before he can even reach it, Mingyu and his race engineer materialize in front of him, faces tight with frustration.
“That was too close!” the McLaren driver hisses. “You can’t just jerk under braking like that. You almost took me out.”
Jihoon raises an eyebrow, leaning one shoulder against the wall. Calm. Calculated. “I didn’t take you out, did I?” His voice is smooth, light, almost teasing. “Millimeters, Mingyu. You were on the edge. I didn’t give you room to make that move. That’s racing.”
Mingyu throws up his hands, stepping back. “Racing? That’s reckless! You know the stewards were watching. I shouldn’t have had to guess if you’d slam me!”
Jihoon shrugs, smirk tugging at his mouth. “Guessing is part of it. Part of the fun.” He flicks a glance toward the door. “Anyway, I’m going to see what they have to say. Try not to get caught up in complaining before the show even starts.”
Mingyu grits his teeth, mutters something under his breath, and stalks off down the hallway, feet heavy against the linoleum floor.
The door to the steward’s office swings open. Inside, the room hums with fluorescent light and electronics. Multiple screens line the far wall, each flickering with frame-by-frame footage of incidents from the race. Wheels lock, sparks fly, DRS trains flicker across curbs; each angle frozen and looping in perfect detail. Several older stewards sit behind polished desks, pens in hand, murmuring to one another over notes and laptops— a shrine to authority, to a game Jihoon has always considered himself the master of.
Jihoon knocks once, clears his throat. Heads snap up. Pens pause mid-scribble. The energy in the room stiffens, as if the fluorescent lights themselves are holding their breath.
GP hovers near the door, shifting from one foot to the other, eyes flicking between Jihoon and the other stewards.
“Take a seat,” someone says. The voice is calm, measured—but not familiar. Not a tone he’s ever heard in this room.
Jihoon’s eyes follow the sound. Across the polished desk, a figure looks up from a stack of papers. His gaze drifts down to the nameplate.
Newest steward.
The puzzle pieces click. The chatter he’s heard all weekend—the whispers about the FIA’s latest appointment, the one who’s said to follow the rulebook with unflinching precision—makes sense now. Jihoon fiddles with his fireproofs, moving deliberately toward the chair across from you. Every step is measured, like he’s stepping onto a chessboard he’s never played on before. For the first time today, the game he usually controls feels… slightly unfamiliar.
Even the other male stewards, older, seasoned, experienced—they glance at you before speaking, defer slightly, voices softer when you talk. Their hands hover, pause, eyes tilt toward your expressions. A subtle choreography of attention that’s instinctual, unspoken, and entirely unnoticed by anyone not paying attention. Jihoon notes it, the smallest twitch of respect that frames the room around you. Interesting, he thinks.
“Lee Jihoon,” you say, voice even, professional. Nothing theatrical, no automatic deference. “Have a seat.”
Jihoon tilts his head, smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. He slides into the chair, legs uncrossed, hands resting lightly on his knees. “I did,” he says, voice light, teasing, “nothing worth discussing, I’d say.”
You study him, pen tapping lightly against the desk. “A move that nearly clipped another car under braking might qualify as ‘worth discussing.’”
The smirk widens subtly, almost imperceptible. “Ah,” he says, voice soft, measured, like he’s considering a puzzle rather than a reprimand, “so that is the meeting I’ve been summoned for.”
Jihoon settles into the chair, fireproofs still warm from the paddock heat, and lets the room breathe around him. The older stewards lean back in their chairs, shuffling papers, tapping pens, occasionally glancing up at the screens that loop the race incidents in slow motion. He cracks a half-smile.
“Late braking,” one of them begins, voice steady but careful, “the RB22 squeezed the McLaren—approaching the apex, traction lost—”
Jihoon interrupts smoothly, fingers drumming on his knees. “Traction ‘lost’ is an overstatement. Look at the telemetry. Front tires at 87 percent load. Rear at 91. Not a slip, a correction.” He tilts his head, letting his gaze sweep the room. “I maintain control. No contact. Inches.”
A few of the older stewards shift in their seats, nodding, muttering under their breath. He leans back, arms crossed, eyes flicking lazily to the screens, smug. He’s in the zone. The game he knows.
Then your pen taps. One crisp, deliberate rhythm. The heads of the other stewards snap toward you. Even the ones who’ve spent decades in this office pause, eyes catching yours, voices quiet, waiting.
Jihoon notices the shift before he hears it—the room bending, subtly, toward you. He straightens, a flicker of intrigue.
You lift a hand, pen poised. “The rulebook doesn’t care that you didn’t make contact. Forcing another driver off track under braking, especially in a high-speed section, is precisely what we review. Show me your data. How close was the McLaren at the apex?”
He tilts the monitors toward himself, adjusting the angle. Fingers tap telemetry points, throttle response, braking force. “Look. I left exactly one car width to the white line. He had room, technically. Not a violation. Not dangerous. Inches.”
You tap your pen again, slow, deliberate. “One car width is the margin. Your braking reduced that margin to the absolute minimum at high speed. The FIA considers that forcing. The line you walked was intentional. The maneuver was late, aggressive, and held Mingyu off. Explain why that does not qualify as a breach.”
He leans forward, intrigued now, eyes narrowing. This is different. He can outmaneuver the others with charm, calculation, a well-placed statistic. But you? You don’t blink. You hand him the data, slow, precise, waiting for him to speak.
He scans, running numbers in his mind, recalculating his moves in real time. “Well,” he says finally, voice lighter than the weight of his thought, “the lateral load suggests I held the line, yes—but Mingyu was pressing. He had an option to adjust—”
“Option exists only in theory,” you counter, voice flat. “Track width and your trajectory left him less than a car width at the apex. That meets the definition of forcing. And under braking. High-speed section. Risk multiplied.”
Jihoon pauses. Not a stall. A calculation. He runs through the replay in his head, imagines every microsecond of the move. “Hmm,” he murmurs, more to himself than to you, “that’s… inconvenient.”
You lean back slightly, tapping the pen on the desk. “The penalty is three grid places for the next race in China. No appeal. No room for discussion.”
He blinks, just once, slow. The weight of it sinks in—not because it’s devastating, but because it’s precise, immovable. The older stewards shuffle, muttering approval. The screens flicker with his own actions in the glow of the monitors, yet you remain still, unshaken.
Jihoon leans back in his chair, fireproofs creasing at the shoulders, eyes tracing the lines of his car on the screen. For the first time in a long time, he’s lost something he’s never lost before—control, certainty, the effortless upper hand. The room feels smaller somehow, the air heavier.
You give him an appraising look, pen resting lightly against the desk. “Anything else, Mr. Lee?”
He opens his mouth, then closes it, aware that whatever he says next would be conceding more ground than he’s comfortable with.
GP slides in, hand on his elbow, guiding him toward the door. “Stupid fuckin’ new steward,” he mutters under his breath. “Three places is nothing. We’ll have the pace in quali, don’t worry, Jihoon.”
Jihoon lets himself be herded, but his mind is elsewhere. Every step toward the paddock echoes with the precision of your questions, the weight of your rulings. He doesn’t know what’s more infuriating or more thrilling—the penalty, or the fact that for the first time in ages, someone in this room forced him to pause.
And that… that is a rare, delicious kind of challenge.
Shanghai International Circuit — March 14th, 2026
The sun barely warms the Shanghai skyline as the RB22 fires to life, engine screaming through the pit lane. Concrete walls glint with morning dew, the track slick from an overnight drizzle that never fully disappeared. Jihoon slides into the cockpit, gloves snug, visor fogged at the edges. Three-place penalty from Melbourne? Already weighing on him, but not enough to break rhythm. He breathes in, lets the roar of engines wash over him, and leans back against the headrest.
Qualifying begins like a symphony of controlled chaos. Tyres hiss on the hot, damp asphalt. DRS zones flash green. The team chatter is constant, precise, cutting across the roar.
“Lap time good. Clean exit through Turns 13 and 14,” GP reports.
Jihoon nods, carving through the corners like he’s cutting silk. The RB22 twists and snaps under him, every twitch anticipated. He hits a personal best in sector two, pushing closer to the front, ignoring the three-place penalty. He can work with this.
“That’s provisional pole,” GP’s voice crackles through the radio. “Other driver penalties incoming.”
Then the screens in the pit wall flicker with updates—other drivers’ infractions. Sparks of red beside their names. First Jeonghan, Ferrari. Technical violation. Three-place penalty. Then Mingyu, McLaren. Excessive track limits. Another three places.
Jihoon freezes mid-turn, hands gripping the wheel, mind calculating. His own penalty feels weightless now, a ghost. The stewards, the rules—they are absolute, unflinching, impartial. And you? He knows it’s you behind this. The ruthless precision he’d glimpsed in Melbourne isn’t an accident. It’s deliberate, cold, perfect.
The chatter in his headset fades into white noise. He pulls out of the final corner, looks up at the tower scoreboard, blinking at the new grid.
Fourth place. Almost a guaranteed win, now that both Jeonghan and Mingyu were P5 and P6 behind him. His penalty? Already neutralized by the steady, unyielding hand of a steward who does not bend, does not negotiate, does not care about reputations.
He exhales slowly, letting it out in a long stream beneath his visor. The RB22 hums like it knows its master has paused only for a fraction of a second, then drives on.
The pit lane fills with murmurs as teams reconfigure strategy, whispering about penalties, protests, and the sheer efficiency of the stewards’ office. Jihoon hears snippets, half in disbelief: “New steward… unreal… ruthless…”
He sits back in his seat for a beat longer than necessary, hands relaxed now. The realization settles in: this isn’t just bureaucracy. This is you. Methodical, precise, unflinching. The rules are your god, and you worship them with a devotion that leaves no loopholes, no negotiation, no mercy.
The paddock is quieter at this hour. Most teams have retreated to garages, trailers, and hospitality tents. The floodlights along the back lot cast long reflections on wet asphalt, glittering like shattered glass. Jihoon strides toward the back parking lot, fireproofs replaced by a simple leather jacket over a T-shirt. He prefers this exit—less fan frenzy, fewer cameras, fewer ears to hear the muttered expletives of pit staff impressed or exasperated by his qualifying run.
He heads toward his car, a sleek black Porsche GT3 parked in the far corner of the lot, away from the usual flood of fans and photographers. The wet asphalt glimmers under the late-evening lights, reflecting the Shanghai skyline in fractured shards. Every step echoes in the near-empty paddock, the hum of distant engines and chatter fading behind him.
He rounds the corner and freezes for a fraction. You are walking toward the lot, badge catching the light with every step. He doesn’t startle, just tilts his head, calculating, eyes flicking over your stance, the sharp line of your heels against the pavement.
“Mr. Lee.” Your voice is even, clipped, the syllables precise, carrying just enough weight to make him register that this is you.
“Interesting call on the Ferrari and McLaren,” he says smoothly, keys dangling from his fingers. His tone is teasing, casual—like he’s discussing the weather, not penalties that cost big teams positions.
You glance at him, almost like you’re reading his posture instead of his words. “It wasn’t just me. The other stewards agreed.” Your badge catches the light again, glinting metallic against the dark asphalt, a little like a weapon you don’t brandish but could.
He hums, eyes narrowing slightly. “Besides,” you continue, sidelong glance aimed squarely at him, “you don’t seem too upset about it.”
“Maybe.” He shrugs, grin teasing at the corners of his mouth. “Is that your game, then? Stack the deck against me and then reshuffle?”
You laugh lightly, the sound clipped and measured. “No game. The rules are the rules.” He notices the heels clicking sharply against the asphalt, a rhythm that matches the authority in your stride.
He tilts his head, studying you like he would a rival car’s telemetry. “You don’t give an inch, do you?”
You shoot back instantly, eyes glinting under the lights. “Interesting lesson from a man who doesn’t budge an inch on the track. Or did you forget our conversation last week?”
Jihoon chuckles, low, amused. “I remember. You love absolute control. Don’t you crave a little chaos?”
“Chaos is for people who don’t understand the rules,” you reply, not missing a step. “I prefer certainty.”
He shakes his head, half-smile spreading wider, shadows from the floodlights flickering across his fireproofs. “Certainty’s boring. I like bending. Just enough to test the edge. Just enough to make people flinch without breaking.”
“And yet,” you say, lifting your chin slightly, “you’ve met your match.”
He laughs this time, low and dark, brushing rain-speckled hair from his forehead. “Maybe… or maybe I’ve just found someone worth studying.”
You tilt your head, not missing a beat. “Study the rulebook first. The rest comes later.”
He steps closer on instinct, then stops, respecting the invisible line you set. The lights glint off the windows of his car. “Lesson one,” he murmurs. “Follow the rules. Lesson two…”
“Lesson two?” You prompt, heels clicking closer as you pace past him, glancing over your shoulder. “I don’t hand out lessons for free.”
“Fair,” he hums, voice teasing. “I was hoping you might demonstrate—maybe on track, maybe off.”
You smirk faintly, almost imperceptible. “Demonstrations are not in my job description. Observations are.”
Jihoon exhales, shaking his head with mock exasperation, and slides into the driver’s seat of his car. The engine purrs, a soft counterpoint to the echo of your heels fading behind him. But the your words follow him, sharper than the track limits, tighter than the apex. He knows he’ll be recalculating this encounter for a long while—fascinated, frustrated, intrigued. And maybe, just maybe, a little bit off-balance.
Suzuka Circuit — March 28th and 29th, 2026
For all the penalties you seem to hand out like Christmas presents in Japan, Jihoon is not in your sights at all. He glides onto the Suzuka tarmac in the RB22, engine singing through the misty afternoon air, and for the first time in weeks, he feels untouchable. No creeping reminders of Melbourne or Shanghai. For the first time, it feels like the track and car exist solely for him. Pole position is his, earned, clean. The roar of the team’s garage erupts in approval, echoing across the pit lane, bouncing off the grandstands. He lets himself savor it, slow, deliberate, letting the adrenaline crawl along his spine. Finally, finally, the car is doing what he asks.
The RB22 is perfect this weekend—every curb, every apex, every sweeping corner executed with precision. There isn’t a twitch of oversteer, not a hint of snap under braking. The rear holds like it’s welded to the asphalt, the front biting without protest. Through the S-curves, through 130R, through Spoon, the car flows under him like a living thing, responding to every fingertip on the wheel, every nuance of throttle and brake.
He feels like a god. On the long back straight, the telemetry in his mind confirms it: perfect exit speeds, optimal DRS openings, the car dancing in rhythm with his pulse. He slices through each lap like a knife through silk, smooth, unbroken lines.
And yet… somewhere in the back of his mind, a faint shadow flickers—the memory of you, the unflinching steward who makes sure the rules aren’t just followed, but enforced with surgical precision. He hasn’t felt your interference this weekend, hasn’t had the thrill of calculating margins against your gaze. It’s almost disorienting, driving without the invisible hand pressing just slightly against his shoulder, reminding him that even gods have limits.
As the checkered flag draws closer, the RB22 hums perfectly beneath him. He allows himself a brief, almost imperceptible smile. He’s done everything right, danced on the edge and stayed within, and for the first time in the season, he feels like the one setting the terms. Suzuka bends to his will, clean and relentless, just like the feeling in his chest. He glances at the pit wall, watches the telemetry, sees the engineers’ animated celebrations through the glass. Pole for real. No penalties, no compromises. For once, the game feels… his.
Yet even in this rare, unshakable triumph, the thought of you lingers—somewhere between irritation and intrigue—because he knows that a weekend this clean is almost too perfect to last.
The sun breaks through low clouds, casting dappled light over the grandstands. The grid shuffles into position, engines whining in anticipation. Jihoon lines up P1, the RB22 gleaming under the pale morning sun, slick with morning dew. Tires prepped, brakes warm, heart steady. He can almost feel the track flexing beneath him, knowing it has been tamed… for now.
Lights out.
The launch is clean, tires gripping the asphalt perfectly, car shooting forward with a hiss of energy. Kimi and Yuki behind, threats muted, no one close enough to challenge the apex he carves through Turn One. The RB22 feels alive, responding to every twitch of the wheel, every micro-shift of his weight.
And all the while, that ghost lingers. You. The steward who could, at any moment, erase a weekend of dominance with a single call. He doesn’t see you, yet he feels your gaze in every corner, every braking zone, every inch he stretches the car toward the legal limit. The rules bend around him, but he knows they are not just mechanical—they are watched, measured, enforced.
Lap five, and he edges closer to 130R, just kissing the apex, car balanced on a knife’s edge. He wonders, fleetingly: if he pushed one inch further, would you step in? Does the perfect weekend exist because he’s mastered the RB22—or because you, somewhere above the pit wall or hidden in the steward tower, are letting him test the margins?
Through Spoon Curve and the Casio Triangle, he drives like a man possessed, aware of every microsecond, every vibration in the chassis. No mistakes, no twitch, no hint of compromise. He is everywhere at once, fluid, untouchable. Yet beneath the thrill is the subtle, delicious tension of a game half-played. He wants to see how far he can push. And more importantly, he wants to see if you will stop him.
By lap thirty, the gaps are solidified. The RB22 dominates, every overtake, every exit, perfect. He hears the radio chatter—engineers cheering, strategists shouting—yet he hardly registers it. His mind loops on one thought: Suzuka has been conquered, yes. But the measure of this weekend isn’t just in the car’s obedience. It’s in you.
The checkered flag waves. Victory. Pole to podium conversion seamless. The RB22 hums beneath him like a satisfied predator. He allows himself a slow, deliberate exhale, letting the adrenaline wash over him.
And even in triumph, the thought persists: when will the rules, when will the unseen steward, finally push back? When will the perfect rhythm end?
Suzuka has yielded to Jihoon’s skill. But somewhere, invisible and relentless, you wait.
The podium has barely cooled, the sticky scent of champagne still clinging to the Red Bull fireproofs, stinging his eyes, coating the back of his throat with its sour sweetness. Cameras flash like a hailstorm, catching droplets that glint on his helmet, on the contours of his suit, sparkling against the sun-drenched metal of the podium steps. Mingyu and Jeonghan laugh, spraying reckless streams of golden bubbles, oblivious to the heat rising in Jihoon’s chest as the liquid dribbles into his neck and collar, a pungent reminder of victory’s chaotic trappings.
The press conference had been a carousel of exhilaration. Questions flying, lights blinding, the air thick with excitement and smell of coffee and inked papers. He’d laughed, he’d smirked, he’d charmed every lens aimed at him. Blood had surged in his face repeatedly, cheeks tingling, lips twitching from the strain of constant, radiant smiles. He had felt alive. Untouchable. Perfect.
Now, standing in his quiet, white-walled driver’s room, the chill of air conditioning brushing damp fireproofs, his trainer corners him with that familiar, hesitant expression. There’s a clipboard pressed tight against her chest, pen idle. The silence stretches too long, anticipation gnawing at the edges of his mind.
“Mclaren has lodged a complaint,” she says finally, voice careful, brittle. “They believe your fuel load was too low. The stewards investigated your car.”
The words land like ice cubes down his spine, sharp and sudden. Cold creeps into his chest, numbing, tightening around his heart in a grip that feels unnatural. His lungs seize for air. The perfect weekend, the flawless driving, the gleaming RB22 sliding like liquid through Suzuka’s curves—all of it teeters on a knife-edge now.
“And?” The word escapes his mouth clipped, harsh. Panic coiling in his throat, cutting off his usual composure. His pulse thrums in his ears, loud, relentless.
“I—Jihoon, it was underweight, I’m so sorry—”
The apology never lands. The sound of it dies against the wall as his hands shoot forward, yanking the Red Bull cap from his head. It sails across the room, slamming against the whiteboard with a sharp thunk, ricocheting off the metal corner of a filing cabinet. Even his trainer flinches, eyes wide, as if witnessing a force of nature incarnate.
“FUCK!” Jihoon shouts, voice raw, straining, echoing down the narrow corridor. The single word multiplies in his mind, a relentless mantra of disbelief and fury. “FUCKING FUCK! The fucking STEWARDS!”
He throws himself against the cool wall, palms splayed, helmet still under one arm. He feels like a god, and yet. How thin, how fragile that godhood is. One call, one line in a rulebook, and the pedestal crumbles beneath him. His chest heaves. The blood pounding in his temples feels like it might burst through the skin, and the sharp tang of sweat and champagne stings his nose.
Every sense is hyper-focused: the sterility of the fluorescent lighting above, the faint hum of air conditioning rattling across the walls, the dull metallic scent of the podium behind him mixing with the lingering sweetness of celebration. The RB22 rests outside in the pit lane, gleaming, perfect: untouched, yet its perfection feels meaningless now.
Jihoon’s hands ball into fists, knuckles white against the fireproof suit. The rage is physical, tangible, curling around his ribs and heart, squeezing, tightening, refusing release. It isn’t just disappointment. It’s betrayal, insulted mastery. He had measured the limits of asphalt and regulations with godlike precision, danced on the edge, controlled the chaos, and now someone had reached into that equation and upended it.
And he knows. He knows. It’s you.
The memory of your voice, precise, calm, cutting through the tension of the steward room, echoes unbidden. The cold steel logic, the absolute adherence to the letter of the rules. The three-place penalty in Melbourne was only a taste, a warning. This is the full weight. You had watched, measured, ensured that even the most perfect weekend bends, if not breaks, under scrutiny.
His mind screams. Go back. Go to the stewards. Right now. Demand answers. Confront them. Make them—
“Jihoon! Stop,” his trainer says, hand on his elbow, firm and grounding. “You will not go in there like this. Not now. Not ever. You’ll—”
“I will! I’m not letting them get away with this!” he snaps, jerking away. “I’m not going to sit here while they rip it from me!”
He spins toward the windows, where the RB22 gleams under evening light, perfect and untouchable, mocking him. Every second of triumph is poisoned. The smell of champagne, sweat, and burnt rubber hangs thick in his nose. His hands shake, clenching into fists so tight the knuckles white out, nails biting into palms.
The cold hand of authority presses invisibly on his chest, a force he cannot see but feels in every fiber of his being. It’s you. Your judgment, absolute and unflinching, wrapping him in the certainty that no speed, no skill, no history of outsmarting every steward since he was eighteen—nothing—can alter the outcome. The vise tightens, squeezes. He gasps for air, for leverage, for anything to fight it with—but there is nothing.
Helplessness, raw and unfamiliar, floods him. Rage twists with humiliation. He’s ten years in, a four-time world champion, a master of bending the rules without breaking them, and yet here he stands, trembling with fury, at your mercy.
“I,” His voice is rough, ragged. “I… I can’t,”
His trainer keeps her hand firm on his elbow, guiding him, restraining him from charging off toward the stewards’ office. “Breathe. Don’t do something you’ll regret.”
He glares at the wall, at the gleaming RB22, at the invisible hand that has circled around his neck and refused to loosen. The world narrows to a single, crushing truth: for the first time in a decade, in a lifetime spent controlling every move, every fraction of a second, he cannot move the game to his favor.
He can feel it, sharp as a blade beneath his skin. You’ve made him small. You’ve made him helpless. And it burns.
The elevator hums, lights flickering faintly, as Jihoon leans against the brushed steel wall, gym bag slung over his shoulder. He’s stripped out of the fireproofs, clad in simple black shorts and a grey tee, hair still damp from a quick shower. His jaw is tight, pulse still thrumming from the memory of the steward’s verdict earlier. The disqualification—sharp, brutal—still slices at him. He tries not to think about it. Failing spectacularly.
The doors squeal open at the next floor, and you stumble in. Badge gripped tight in your hand, heels tapping against the metal floor. Hair mussed, cheeks flushed from wind or wine or both—normal. Ordinary. Like someone his age trying to enjoy a Sunday night in Tokyo, instead of the person who dismantled his weekend less than five hours ago. It hits him like iron filings in his throat. Razor blades.
“Oh!” you giggle, spotting him. Voice light, casual, like nothing happened. “Mr. Lee!”
“Hi,” Jihoon says wryly, forcing his shoulders to relax. He shoves his hands into his pockets, the gym bag threatening to slide off his shoulder, trying not to think about the DQ.
“I thought FIA officials can’t be in the same hotels as drivers on race weekends?” he asks, brows raised.
“Well,” you say, stumbling slightly as if tripping over your own words. You wave a hand, dismissing some invisible objection. “Some friends were staying here and—” You giggle again, brushing a strand of hair from your face. “—so, you know.”
Jihoon exhales, a dry laugh escaping. “So you do bend the rules a little.”
“Only off the clock, Mr. Lee,” you shoot back, heels clicking softly against the elevator floor.
“Uh-huh.” He tilts his head, smirk teasing the corner of his mouth, but it doesn’t reach his eyes.
The elevator shudders, groaning, then screeches violently to a halt between floors. The lights flicker. A low, metallic clank echoes through the shaft.
“Shit,” he groans, fists tightening briefly at his sides.
“Shit,” you agree, biting your lip, one hand curling around the rail.
The confined space suddenly feels smaller. His pulse hammers in his ears, heat climbing his neck. He glances at you, then at the faintly glowing digital display that refuses to change. Great. We’re stuck.
“Well,” he mutters, kicking lightly at the steel floor, “this is awkward.”
“You think?” you say, tilting your head, voice still light but measured. “We’ll be here a while, I think.”
Jihoon exhales sharply, dragging a hand down his face. “Yeah. We’ll be here,” he echoes, tone darkly amused. Then, before he can stop himself, the words tumble out, raw: “You—about the DQ. I want answers. I want why my car was underweight.”
You straighten immediately, posture snapping into that precise, professional stance. Gone is the flushed, playful exterior; your shoulders tighten, spine straight, eyes cold and exacting. But the corner of your mouth quirks, a faint, rueful smile—apologetic, human. He sees it. A tiny fracture in the unshakable steward mask.
“It was 0.25 kilograms underweight,” you say, carefully, measured, like reading off a caliper. “The sensors confirmed it. The fuel log corroborates it. It’s… precise, not personal.”
He laughs bitterly, shaking his head, jaw rigid. “Precise. Right. It doesn’t make it hurt any less.” His fists clench at his sides, knuckles pale. “I could’ve done better. I could’ve… I could’ve won. And this: this handcuffs me, makes me powerless. You know how that feels, don’t you?”
You look at him, softening fractionally, gaze catching his in a rare moment of connection. “I know how it feels, yes. But I didn’t make the rulebook. I just… enforce it.”
He paces the elevator in a tight loop, sneakers echoing on steel. “It’s… cruel. It’s unfair. I’ve spent ten years bending rules without breaking them, and you—you make me feel like a rookie again. Helpless. And it’s infuriating.”
You lean slightly against the wall, arms relaxed, body casual, but your gaze is pin-sharp, trained, inescapable. “Maybe that’s the point,” you say softly, tone calm but deliberate, like a scalpel.
Jihoon exhales, lungful of metallic-scented air. Heat rolls across his skin, adrenaline tangling with frustration. “Yeah. Maybe.” He glances at your eyes, catching the subtle trace of regret, the human under the steward. And it makes him want—he doesn’t yet know what. To yell, to argue, to challenge, to push.
The elevator hums, stalled between floors, a low vibration running through the polished steel walls. Lights flicker faintly, casting thin shadows that crawl across the corners. Jihoon leans against one wall, shoulders tense, fingers curling into his pockets as he rocks slightly on his heels. His casual clothes feel too soft against the hardness in his chest.
“This feels… unfair,” he says, jaw tight, voice low but edged with fire. He paces a fraction, the echo of his sneakers hollow against the metal floor. “Like you’re punishing me.”
You shift your weight, heels clicking softly, the sound crisp in the silence. The street lights outside filter through the small elevator window, glinting off your badge, long since removed, so all that catches the light is the tilt of your head, the faint curve of a confident smile. “I’ve never punished you, Mr. Lee,” you say, voice even, deliberate. “I only enforce the rules.”
He stops mid-step, fists unclenching but hands still tucked in his pockets, knuckles white. His gaze flickers across the steel walls, as if measuring how much control he has in the space between you. “Doesn’t feel like that. Doesn’t feel like I can even bend them anymore. The sport… it doesn’t feel fun.”
You tilt your chin, eyes sharp, not moving an inch closer, not retreating either. The faint shimmer of your badge in your hand catches the light. “Your safety is what I get paid for. Besides, I’ve only ever penalized you when you explicitly broke the rules. Never otherwise.”
He exhales, slow, deliberate, letting it out like steam from an engine. The tension in his shoulders loosens slightly as curiosity flickers behind the anger. “So… you would let me bend the rules?”
You glance at him, lips tight, eyebrow raised. “I don’t let you do anything, Mr. Lee. You just need to play by the rulebook.”
He smirks, and it’s slow, deliberate, curling just at the corner of his mouth. He steps closer, not threatening, just testing the air. “A deal, then,” he says carefully, voice soft but loaded, “you… let me bend the rules.”
“I—again, I don’t let you—”
“Potato, potahto,” he interrupts, hand waving lazily in the confined space. His casual gesture is at odds with the electricity in his posture, the way his eyes track yours, sharp and playful. “I can bend the rules. Sound fair?”
Your lips press into a thin line, gaze narrowing, but there’s a glint—amusement, maybe, or a spark of challenge. “What do I get out of it?”
The metal beneath your heels shivers faintly as the elevator jolts, groaning back to life with a metallic hiss. The numbers flicker upward, the movement throwing shadows across the two of you. The sudden motion makes his chest puff slightly, a mix of anticipation and triumph. The elevator comes to a grinding stop on the gym floor. He moves forward first, long strides, shoulders relaxed but eyes flicking back to catch yours, the unspoken challenge lingering in the air. “A show, sweetheart,” he teases, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth, daring you to care.
The doors slide open, and he’s gone, leaving only the faint echo of his presence, and the lingering sense that the game is far from over.
