. . . 𝑇𝓞ℛ𝓤'𝓢 IN HIS FEELINGS AND HE CAN'T GET OUT OF IT :(
SUM. rumor has it that in an attempt to sleep with you, satoru gojo thought it would be a good idea to work at the same campus cafe as you! does he need the money? no! does he need your attention? well yeah.
CONTENT. MDNI. explicit sexual content. slow burn. kinda enemies to lover. oral sex. riding. unprotected sex. creampie. slight dom/sub undertones. lots of teasing. dirty talk. semi-public making out. mild angst from miscommunication. eventual fluff.
A/N. satoru art by uruyuuu ... malcolm todd is goated
you meet satoru gojo on a tuesday morning when the cafe is packed worse than usual. the line stretches all the way past the entrance, your apron is covered in dried milk splatters, and your patience is basically gone.
then in he walks.
satoru gojo is the kind of guy who makes the world bend a little just by existing. cocky without apology, charming in that infuriating way that has people falling over themselves, the type who never hears no because he doesn’t give them the chance to say it. and well he’s rich, he’s brilliant, he’s everything and he knows it, which is exactly why you hated him from the second you met him.
“one of everything sweet you got back there,” he says. “extra whip, extra shots, and throw in a smile for me while you’re at it, yeah? name’s toru by the way.”
you stare at him for half a second. he can’t be serious.
“do you even know how bad that’ll taste?” you mutter, not even bothering to hide the annoyance in your voice. you start slamming cups and pumps because arguing with customers is a quick way to get written up, but god, this one makes it tempting.
the smirk on satoru’s face gets wider, those ridiculous sunglasses sliding down the bridge of his nose just enough for you to catch a flash of those too-blue eyes.
“aw, c’mon princess. live a little. i like my coffee like i like my company—sweet, messy, and a little overwhelming.”
you nearly drop the cup. the audacity rolls off him in waves and when you finally slide the drink across the counter (extra everything just like he asked), he takes one dramatic sip and makes a face.
“too sweet,” he declares as he sets the cup down. “way too sweet. you tryna put me in a sugar coma or what?”
your eye twitches, “you literally asked for one of everything sweet. that’s what you got. if you wanted plain black coffee maybe you should’ve just said that.”
he leans in closer, elbows on the counter, completely ignoring the growing line behind him. “feisty. i like that, it’s almost cute.”
“cute?” you echo. “buddy, i’m two seconds away from spitting in your next drink if you don’t move.”
satoru throws his head back and laughs, you also notice a few girls in line giggle along with him. he then pulls out his card, taps it against the reader, and winks.
fucking asshole.
“that should be it, princess. and hey—i’ll be back tomorrow! maybe you’ll get my order right next time.”
you watch him saunter out, white hair catching the light, and you mutter under your breath the entire time you’re making the next customer’s latte.
you think that’s the end of it. that he’s just another entitled campus pretty boy who’ll forget your face by the time he hits his next lecture.
but satoru gojo doesn’t forget things that interest him.
and apparently, you just became interesting.
˚⟡˖ ࣪
“hey, new hire starts today. show him the ropes when he gets here. he’s a fast learner, supposedly.”
you nod... you’ve been working at this campus cafe for almost eight months now. started right after your financial aid package came up short and you needed something flexible that wouldn’t kill your gpa. the pay is decent, the tips are better on busy days, and it beats retail. plus the free coffee reallyyy helps.
pops, your manager, has been running this place longer than most of the students have been alive on campus. he’s kind of aloof that borders on comedy, always saying the bare minimum while somehow making it sound like the most profound shit you’ve ever heard. you get along with him in that weird way where you trade sarcasm and he never takes anything too seriously.
“great,” you say, already dreading it. “i’m babysitting today basically”
pops snorts, “this one applied with a resume that looked like it belonged in a fortune 500. probably won’t last, but at least he’ll look pretty while he burns the milk.”
“so you hired him because he’s pretty?”
“i hired him because we’re short staffed and he said he could start today. pretty is just a bonus. try not to scare him off on day one, yeah? i don’t feel like doing interviews again.”
the bell above the door chimes. “oh look, there he is. right on time.”
you turn around and your stomach drops straight through the floor.
no. fucking. way.
satoru steps inside wearing the exact same black apron as you have, name tag already clipped to his chest slightly crooked.
he spots you instantly.
“morning, princess,” he says, voice carrying across the quiet space. “ready to teach me how to make that sugar coma special?”
you just stare at him, mouth half open.
“you’ve got to be kidding me,” you mutter.
satoru walks behind the counter, already rolling up the sleeves of his shirt like he’s done this a hundred times. he stops a little too close, that familiar cocky energy filling up the small space.
“what? you told me to try plain black coffee next time. figured the best way to get it right is to learn how to make it myself. plus the tips here looked decent when i was scoping the place out yesterday.”
“play nice, both of you. i don’t want to hear any screaming before ten.”
you pinch the bridge of your nose, already feeling the headache coming on. “this is a joke, right? he’s the new hire?”
“looks that way,” pops says, shrugging. “show him the basics. registers, milk steaming, the usual. don’t let him break anything expensive.”
satoru leans against the counter looking way too amused. “don’t worry, i’m a fast learner. you’ll barely have to babysit. we're gonna be real good friends."
˚⟡˖ ࣪
supervising satoru on his first day turns out to be exactly as annoying as you expected, except somehow worse.
he picks up the register faster than anyone you’ve ever trained. customers love him. older ladies compliment his “lovely smile,” frat guys clap him on the shoulder, and half the girls on campus suddenly decide they need an extra shot in their latte. every time someone tells him his coffee is perfect he makes sure you hear it, tossing the praise your way.
“did you catch that? she said it was the best cappuccino she’s had all semester. guess i’m a natural.”
“she was flirting with you, not rating your foam.”
“eh, same thing.”
he’s extra with everything too, especially the latte art. while you’re trying to keep the line moving he spends an extra ten seconds swirling hearts and little flowers into every cappuccino, sometimes even attempting tiny cats or stars. half the time they come out lopsided but he’s proud of himself.
one girl actually took a photo and posted it right there at the counter. again, satoru made sure you saw it.
“see? people appreciate the details. you should try it sometime instead of just dumping plain foam on top.”
“we’re not an art studio, gojo.”
he just laughs unbothered and keeps going. every time you correct him on something he listens for about five seconds then does it his own way anyway, but he never actually messes up. it’s infuriating how quickly he fits in.
˚⟡˖ ࣪
by the end of the first week you’re convinced satoru gojo was put on this earth specifically to test every last nerve you have left.
he shows up every single shift you’re on. the worst part is he’s actually good at the job. terrifyingly good even.
you catch him quiet one afternoon working the espresso machine.
there’s something weirdly attractive about how easy he is when he’s focused like this. when he’s not the loud, cocky version that grates on your nerves. the quieter side. the way his shoulders relax, the small smile that sits on his lips when no one’s watching, the brightness that seems to live under his skin even when he’s not talking.
he’s stupidly pretty like that, when he's just simply existing.
it's like the whole world softens around him without him even trying. it pisses you off how much you notice it.
“you know,” he starts, “for someone who claims to hate me, you spend a lot of time staring.”
“excuse me. i’m not staring at you—im looking at the espresso machine.”
satoru steps closer to you. he’s tall, unfairly so, and he knows how to use it, looming enough to make the space between you feel smaller than it should.
“admit it, princess. you’re impressed.”
“sure, most trust fund babies last two days max.”
he laughs, “you think i’m doing this for the money? please. i could buy this whole campus if i wanted.”
did this asshole just flex on you?
“then why are you here, gojo?” you finally look up at him, arms crossed tight over your chest. “you don’t need the tips. you don’t need the experience. so what’s the angle?”
suddenly he reaches out, tucks a loose strand of hair behind your ear.
“maybe i like coffee,” he murmurs. “or maybe i simply just like seeing you. either way… i’m not going anywhere.”
your heart beats faster, traitor that it is. you slap his hand away, ignoring the way your skin tingles where he touched you.
“touch me again and i’ll steam your fingers instead of the milk.”
“violent,” he says. “i like that about you too.”
before you can fire back, the bell over the door rings again and a group of students shuffle in, saving you from whatever stupid thing was about to come out of your mouth. you turn away from him fast, busying yourself with the register.
by closing time the cafe is empty except for the two of you. pops already left an hour ago, so now it’s just you wiping down the last tables while satoru sweeps the floor.
you’re stacking chairs when he appears beside you without warning, grabbing the one next to yours and flipping it onto the table. his shoulder bumps yours on purpose this time.
“so,” he starts, casual as ever, “what are you doing after this?”
“going home, i’m pretty tired… uh you?”
“boring, you're boring," he yawns, "lemme walk you back to your dorm to be safe.”
“i’ve walked myself home for eight months, gojo. i think i’ll survive without a bodyguard.”
“yeah, but now you don’t have to.” he continues, “c’mon, princess. one walk. i’ll even try to keep the pet names to a minimum.”
you study him for a long moment.
“fine,” you say finally giving in, “annoy me again and i’m pushing you into the nearest bush.”
“deal.” he holds up both hands in mock surrender. “but just so you know… i’m really good at dodging bushes.”
you roll your eyes at that, he never runs out of bullets. the two of you finish closing up in comfortable quiet. he locks the front door while you kill the lights, and when you step out into the cool evening air together, the campus paths are mostly empty, strung with soft golden lamplight.
satoru falls into step beside you, hands shoved in his pockets. for once he’s not filling the silence with cocky one-liners. he stays at your side, occasionally glancing over like he’s making sure you’re still okay with this.
“you know,” he says after a few minutes, “i wasn’t lying earlier about liking seeing you.”
“seeing me glaring at you?”
“exactly.” he bumps your shoulder lightly with his. “it’s cute. you get this little crease between your brows when you’re annoyed. makes me want to annoy you more just to see it.”
“you’re weird, gojo.”
“and i’m also walking you home like a gentleman.”
you snort, preventing yourself from smiling. you would never hear the end of it if he sees it.
the walk to your dorm isn’t long. when you finally reach the front steps he stops, rocking back on his heels with his hands still in his pockets.
“working tomorrow, right?” he asks.
“yeah.”
“night, princess,” he says as he backs away. “sweet dreams. try not to dream of me!”
˚⟡˖ ࣪
you overslept like an idiot.
your alarm didn’t go off, or maybe it did and you smacked it into oblivion in your half asleep state. either way you’re rushing across campus because you completely missed the lecture you usually go to. now the only option left is this later section if you want any chance of catching up.
you slide into the back row just as the professor starts droning on about macroeconomic theory. you’re busy trying to catch your breath and fish out a pen when someone drops into the seat right next to you.
“well well well,” that familiar voice drawls, low enough not to draw the whole room’s attention. “didn’t know you were stalking me now, princess. following me to my lectures?”
you turn your head slowly and there’s satoru.
of fucking course he’s here too.
“you wish,” you hiss under your breath. “i overslept, this is the only section that still had seats. don’t flatter yourself, gojo.”
he leans in a little closer, “sure, sure. keep telling yourself that. but here you are, sitting right next to me when there’s like twenty empty spots further down the row. coincidence? i think not.”
“there weren’t twenty empty spots when i sat down, genius. and move your arm, you’re taking up half the desk.”
“admit it. you saw my pretty head of hair from across the room and couldn’t resist. it’s okay, happens to the best of them.”
“you’re delusional,” you mutter. “i sat here first.”
“well i was already in this section.”
the professor’s voice fades into background noise while satoru keeps up his quiet commentary, whispering dumb observations about the slides or how the guy in the front row is clearly asleep with his eyes open. it’s annoying. it’s also kind of funny, in a way that makes the lecture drag less.
by the time class ends you’re packing up faster than usual, hoping to slip out before he can say anything else, but of course he matches your pace, rushing beside you as you both head down the steps.
“shift starts in thirty, right?” he asks.
“yeah,” you say, adjusting your bag strap. “you don’t start yours till later. go do better things, please.”
“nah, i’ll come with. what if you fall asleep on the way? need to keep you in check..”
“one, that’s not gonna happen. two, i didn’t fall asleep,” you protest, “i overslept. big difference.”
“same difference when it leads to you accidentally stalking me.”
“gojo.”
“princess.”
you guys keep walking, the silence only lasts a few seconds before he breaks it again.
“so what’s your major anyway?” he asks. “gotta be something serious.”
“business with a minor in econ. figured it was the safest bet for actually getting a job after graduation. plus the classes overlap enough that i can knock out credits without killing myself.”
he hums, nodding slowly. “it suits you.”
“what about you?”
“finance, technically. heavy on the econ side too—market theory, behavioral stuff, all that. my family’s been pushing it since i could walk. boring as hell most days but the numbers click for me.”
“huh,” you say after a beat. “explains why you’re weirdly good at the register. and the latte art, actually. ever think about taking art too? you could probably minor in it without even trying.”
satoru raises an eyebrow, clearly surprised you noticed.
“...art? me?”
he continues, “i doodle sometimes when i’m bored in lectures, it’s nothing serious. but yeah… the latte stuff is kinda fun.”
“just saying you’re good at it. might be worth adding to the schedule if finance ever gets too soul sucking.”
“most people just call it extra.”
“it is extra,” you clarify quickly. “but it’s not bad extra. customers eat it up and you don’t suck at it. if you like that kind of thing, maybe you should.”
“maybe i will. only if you sign up with me though. can’t have you missing out on watching me be naturally talented.”
you say shoving his arm lightly. “in your dreams, gojo.”
“oh it’s definitely in my dreams,” he shoots back. “speaking of dreams, did you see me in your dreams last night? did i look good? hope i didn’t flutter your heart too much.”
˚⟡˖ ࣪
it’s terrifying how easy it is to fall for satoru gojo’s charm.
you’ve been telling yourself for weeks that it’s just the proximity talking, that anyone would start to soften after seeing the same face everyday. but it’s been a month now since he first showed up and the annoyance you felt on day one is slowly fading away.
it’s disarming in a way that feels unfair, like he figured out exactly where your walls are thinnest and decided to camp there.
the thing about satoru is he never pushes too hard, even when he’s being impossible. sure, he’ll tease you about your order of plain black coffee (because he thinks you’re boring) but then he’ll remember how you take it on the days when you're stressed and slide it across the counter before you even ask. a month of this and you’ve caught yourself noticing the way his little habits. he’s a show off and obnoxiously aware of it, but he’s also the guy who stays late to help you mop even when his shift ended an hour ago, who quotes your professor’s driest slides back to you in a deadpan voice that makes you laugh despite yourself.
“morning, princess,” he greets, handing you a cup of coffee.
you smile as you take the cup, “morning, toru.”
his eyes widen just a little at the name, then the grin returns, brighter than ever.
“careful,” he teases. “keep calling me that and i might start thinking you actually like me.”
you blink. “what’d i do?”
“you just called me toru,” he says.
you freeze. “no i didn’t.”
“yes you did.”
“no. i didn’t.”
“yes you did. you said ‘morning, toru.’ clear as day. i heard it with my own two ears.”
“prove it or it never happened.”
“i heard it. that’s my proof.”
“you hear what you want to hear, gojo. it’s what they call selective listening.”
satoru straightens up, crossing his arms over his chest. a dramatic pout settles on his face. bottom lip jutting out with his brows furrowed, those pretty eyes narrowing at you.
“selective listening? really?” he huffs, the pout deepening. “i’m standing right here, princess. you said it. you finally said it and now you’re taking it back? that’s cold. that’s actually cruel.”
you bite the inside of your cheek to keep from laughing.
“i didn’t say anything,” you reply, “you’re imagining things again. maybe you need less sugar in your system.”
he lets out a dramatic sigh and slumps against the counter. “you’re so mean to me. i make you coffee all the time, i stay late to help you close, i walk you home like a gentleman, and this is how you repay me? denying my existence? denying toru?”
the way he says his own nickname in that whiny tone is ridiculous. “say it again,” he demands, though the demand comes out more like a sulky request. “just once. call me toru again and i’ll drop it. i swear.”
“no.”
“please?”
“absolutely not.”
satoru groans, dragging a hand down his face before peeking at you through his fingers. “you’re killing me. slowly and painfully. i finally get a win… a tiny, beautiful win and you snatch it away like that.” he snaps his fingers for emphasis. “heartless… you’re heartless, princess.”
you can’t help the small laugh that escapes. “you’re such a baby when you don’t get your way.”
“i’m not a baby,” he mutters, “i’m a grown man who just got emotionally devastated by a terrible girl who won’t even admit she likes saying my name.”
you roll your eyes and finally turn back to face him, crossing your arms to match his stance. “fine, satoru. happy now?”
his pout vanishes instantly. “heh i’ll take it.”
all morning the teasing doesn’t stop. every time your eyes meet across the counter he mouths “toru” with exaggerated lips, making you glare at him. you don’t fight him with it though, that’ll be more tiring.
later that afternoon, you remember the big econ test is coming up in a few days.
“hey… have you studied for the test yet?” you ask knowing he has the same class, “the one for macro? i’ve been so buried here i barely looked at the slides.”
satoru glances over at you, one brow raised. “yeah, kinda. skimmed the chapters last night while i was pretending to pay attention in that boring finance seminar.”
you hesitate for a second before pushing forward. “did you happen to take notes for the lecture i missed last week? the one on monetary policy? my notes from the earlier section are trash and i can’t make sense of half the graphs.”
he thinks for a moment, then shakes his head. “nah, i don’t usually take notes. everything sticks up here anyway,” he taps his temple with two fingers. “but my bag’s in the back room. go check if you want—there might be some loose papers or something i scribbled on. i’m not promising anything though.”
you nod going right away. satoru’s bag is tossed carelessly on the small table near the lockers. you unzip it carefully, feeling a little weird going through his stuff even if he said it was okay. there are a couple of notebooks, some loose receipts, and a few crumpled pages from lectures.
you flip through them quickly but nothing looks like the notes you need. then your fingers brush against a smaller sketchbook tucked near the bottom. you pull it out without thinking, flipping it open to the first page. it’s an unfinished drawing—pencil lines forming the rough outline of a face. no eyes yet, no mouth, just the shape of cheekbones and the suggestion of hair falling across a forehead. it’s surprisingly delicate, the strokes careful. you can’t tell who it’s supposed to be; the features are still missing.
it’s probably just some random doodle from class, and shove the sketchbook back where you found it. no notes on monetary policy so nothing useful.
you come back out, “couldn’t find anything. your bag’s a mess by the way.”
satoru shrugs, not looking the least bit surprised. “told you i don’t usually bother. you know—” he turns toward you fully, a mischievous glint lighting up his face, “i could teach you instead. i remember most of it. we could go over the graphs and everything.”
you raise an eyebrow, suspicious. “really? you’d do that?”
“yeah, of course,” satoru says without hesitation, “i’ve got the graphs memorized anyway, also will you hate me less after?”
you narrow your eyes at him, “for the record, i don’t hate you. i just think you’re annoying.”
“same thing,” he pouts, already reaching for a clean cup to start scribbling formulas on the side with a sharpie. “consider me your personal tutor, princess.”
and just like that, satoru found another way to get closer to you.
after closing, the two of you end up at a corner table with textbooks and laptops spread out on the table. the cafe lights are dimmed low, only the warm glow of the hanging bulbs left on, and it feels strangely intimate with just the two of you.
“see this curve?” satoru says, tapping the screen of his laptop with his pen. “that’s the liquidity preference curve. when it shifts like this—” he drags his finger across the trackpad, “—interest rates drop even if money supply stays the same. ya following?”
you lean in closer as you nod slowly, even though the words are starting to blur together.
“mmm kinda… keep going.”
for the next hour he walks you through every graph, every theory, every formula that’s been kicking your ass for weeks. he’s good at it. you like that he explains things in ways that actually stick with you.
satoru has always been scary smart. even as a kid, his past teachers would vouch to that. finishing exams in ten minutes, correcting them on accident, winning academic awards he didn’t even try for. now it’s the same. he barely listens in lectures, he literally doodles instead of taking notes, he zones out half the time, and still somehow walks out with good scores.
when you get a question right he gives you this little proud smirk that you find cute. what’s more is that he doesn’t gloat when you slump back in your chair after a while, letting out a frustrated sigh and staring at the messy notes in front of you.
“god, i wish i could remember stuff as fast as you do,” you admit quietly, “it takes me forever to get things to stick. i have to reread the same slide ten times and still feel like i’m gonna blank during the test.”
“here’s a tip,” he says, leaning forward on his elbows. “stop trying to memorize it all at once. the brain hates that. instead, explain it out loud like you’re teaching someone who knows nothing. even if it’s just to me or the wall. it forces you to actually understand it instead of just cramming the words.”
he continues, “works way better than staring at slides until your eyes cross. trust me, princess. i’ve tested every lazy method there is.”
you look at him, a tiny smile pulling at your lips despite how tired you feel.
“you’re surprisingly good at this teaching thing.”
“only because it’s you. now c’mon, pick a graph and teach it back to me.”
˚⟡˖ ࣪
you come straight to the cafe after the test, the bell above the door chiming as you push it open with your shoulder. you weren’t even scheduled today, but you wanted to tell him how it went.
“....hey? you’re not on today, right? did i mess up the schedule?"
you slide onto one of the stools at the counter giggling, “test went better than i thought. like actually good.”
his eyes light up instantly at that.
“yeah? see that? knew how fucking smart you were.”
you nod, the excitement bubbling out before you can stop it. “yeah, the way you explained everything made it click in my head during the test. i actually remembered instead of blanking like usual.”
satoru lets out a low whistle, smile widening until it takes over his whole face. “that’s my girl. told you explaining it out loud works. see?”
“genuinely thank you.”
“stay right there. we’re doing something to celebrate.”
you end up staying until closing. when the last customer leaves and your manager waves goodbye on his way out, satoru flips the sign to closed and turns to you with a nod.
“reward time since you aced that test, i helped a little, so we’re getting ice cream.”
“that’s your big celebration?”
“c’mon, there’s that place two blocks off campus that stays open late. they have that ridiculous pistachio with the chunks of chocolate. you’re gonna love it.”
when you reach the little ice cream shop, you find a small table by the window and settle in after ordering, the sweet cold already melting on your tongue. satoru watches you take the first bite with way too much interest, chin resting on his hand.
“good, right?”
you nod, licking a bit of pistachio off the spoon.
“mhm sooo good.”
he laughs softly at first, but then his eyes drop to your mouth as you lick another slow stripe along the spoon to catch the melting edge.
his throat bobs once, “fuck,” he mutters under his breath, barely loud enough for you to hear.
you glance up, spoon still halfway to your lips. “what?”
satoru suddenly reaches out with his thumb, wiping a tiny smear of melted ice cream from the corner of your mouth.
“you can’t just do that,” he says, “licking the spoon like that, it’s unfair.”
“unfair how?” you oblivious ask.
“because now all i can think about is how that mouth would feel on something else.” he says it so quietly, so casually too. now heat floods your face. you set the spoon down, suddenly hyper-aware of every inch of space between you and him.
“sorry,” he murmurs, though the small smirk tugging at his lips says he isn’t sorry at all. “too much?”
you shake your head slowly, biting your lip to keep it from smiling too obviously. the warmth in your cheeks refuses to fade.
“.…i don’t mind?”
satoru’s eyebrows lift, surprise flickering across his face. “you don’t?” he echoes, leaning forward a little more, elbows on the table. “don’t do that, i’m already trying really hard to behave.”
“you never behave.”
“hey, i’ve been on my best behavior for weeks,” he protests as his hand finds yours on the table, “just waiting for you to admit i’m not so bad.”
you squeeze his fingers lightly, eyes meeting his. “you’re not.... most days.”
“most days? that’s the best i’m getting?”
“take it or leave it, gojo.”
he laughs under his breath then his free hand comes up, cupping the side of your face, thumb brushing along your jaw. “i’ll take it for now.”
satoru leans in slow enough that you could pull away if you wanted to.
just like that his mouth meets yours, and the kiss starts soft but the second your lips part he doesn’t hesitate. his tongue slips in first, sliding against yours. he tastes like chocolate and pistachio, sweet and overwhelming in the best way. you kiss him back just as eagerly, fingers tightening around his hand on the table while your other hand finds the front of his shirt, curling into the fabric to pull him closer.
satoru makes a low sound in the back of his throat, tilting his head to deepen the kiss, one hand still cradling your face.
suddenly the worker behind the counter clears his throat loudly, “sorry folks, we’re closing up. you two might wanna take that somewhere else.”
you pull back quickly feeling embarrassed while satoru pulls back just enough to laugh, not even a little embarrassed. “man sorry about that,” he says, “can’t help it. i’m irresistible and she’s a bit greedy tonight.”
you hit his arm playfully, face burning as you stand up fast. “toru!”
˚⟡˖ ࣪
the next few days were different in the best kind of way.
well nothing much changes inside the cafe itself. everything is mostly the same. but satoru? he has zero shame now, and you’ve clearly unlocked something dangerous in him.
his clinginess is a whole new beast.
you’re at the register ringing up an iced caramel latte when he appears right behind you, chest brushing your back as he reaches for a stack of lids he absolutely does not need. his chin drops onto your shoulder like it belongs there.
“missed you during that eight a.m. lecture, princess. thought about skipping just to come bother you earlier.”
you elbow him lightly, “we have the same shift, toru. you saw me forty minutes ago.”
“forty minutes too long,” he murmurs, pressing a quick kiss to the side of your neck before he pulls away. the customer gives you a knowing little smile and you feel your face heat up as you hand over the drink.
he does it constantly now.
during the slow hours he’ll tug you into the back room under the excuse of “checking inventory” and then spend the whole time crowding and kissing you.
“we’re gonna get caught,” you whisper.
“let them catch us,” he says against your mouth. “i’ll just tell pops i was giving you mouth-to-mouth.”
you laugh and shove him harder. “you idiot, he would never believe that.”
he only laughs louder and pulls you back in for one more kiss before the bell over the front door saves you.
the worst part (or maybe the best) is how he switched half his schedule just to match yours. you found out when he casually mentioned it during one afternoon, like it was no big deal.
“my advisor was pissed,” he told you, “said something about ‘not rearranging your entire academic plan for a girlfriend.’ i told her my barista girlfriend was non-negotiable.”
you stared at him. “you changed your schedule?”
“mmhm. dropped the early monday seminar and swapped it for the afternoon one. added a useless elective just so i could keep these exact shifts with you.” he shrugged, completely unbothered. “worth it. now i get to stare at you all day.”
you wanted to scold him for being ridiculous, but the way he said it made something warm bloom in your chest. so instead you just flicked his forehead and called him an idiot again. he caught your wrist before you could pull away and pressed a kiss to your palm.
how freaking adorable.
sometimes he’ll slide a stool over so you can sit for a few minutes while he handles few customers alone, shooting you little winks every time you look up from your phone.
it’s how he takes care of you.
and you like when he takes care of you.
˚⟡˖ ࣪
satoru gojo has always been pretty experienced with girls.
he’s never had to chase too hard. regular hook ups, quick flings during freshman year, girls who wanted the thrill of the rich pretty boy who never seemed to take anything seriously. he knew how to kiss, how to touch, how to make them feel wanted for a night without promising more than that. it was easy, fun, but never deep enough to stick.
none of them ever made his chest feel this tight. none of them made him nervous the way you do.
“is this okay?” he asks as his thumb brushes just under the edge of your bra, waiting, always checking even when his body is clearly aching to keep going.
“yeah…. it’s okay, toru.”
that’s all he needs.
he starts kissing you then trails his mouth down—his hands push your shirt higher, bunching it up under your arms. when he finally tugs your bra down, cool air hits your skin for half a second before his mouth is there.
satoru groans softly against you, the sound vibrating through your chest as he takes one nipple into his mouth. he’s gentle at first, lips closing around the peak. his tongue swirling before he sucks. a little harder, a little hungrier.
your back arches without thinking, a quiet whimper slipping out. one of your hands finds his hair, fingers tightening in the soft white strands as he switches to the other side, giving it the same attention.
“fuck, you taste so good,” he mumbles against your skin, voice muffled.
“mhmm.… it’s so good baby.”
“yeah?”
he presses open-mouthed kisses across the swell of your breast. his free hand cups the other one, thumb brushing over the wet nipple he just left behind, pinching lightly.
he’s thorough with it. every little sound you make seems to spur him on.
“still okay?” he questions, “tell me if you want me to stop, princess. i’ll stop.”
you shake your head, tugging him back down by his hair.
“don’t stop,” you breathe.
satoru’s smile is slow and a little dazed before he leans in again, mouth finding your breast like he never wants to leave. he’s still careful, still checking in with every new touch, but the clingy, greedy part of him is winning tonight.
he’s making sure you feel exactly how much he’s been holding back.
clothes come off slowly after that, piece by piece, until there’s nothing between you. satoru lies back against the pillows, his hands resting on your hips as you straddle him. he’s hard under you.
you take the lead.
your palms press flat against his chest for balance as you shift your weight, lining yourself up.
“fuck—” he breathes when you start to sink down, the head of his cock pressing inside you. his head tips back, throat bobbing as he swallows hard. “you’re doing so damn good, baby.”
you go slow at first, letting yourself adjust to the stretch. the fullness is overwhelming in the best way, once you’re seated fully, you pause for a few seconds.
then you start to move.
you roll your hips experimentally, finding a rhythm that makes pleasure spark up inside you. satoru’s hands slide up your sides, thumbs brushing the undersides of your breasts. he contains himself so he doesn’t take over. he wants to let you set the pace, let you ride him exactly how you want.
“that’s it, use me, baby. however you need.”
the words send a shiver through you. you brace your hands on his chest and start moving faster, lifting up and sinking back down. satoru’s eyes stay locked on your face, then drift lower to watch where you’re joined, the way your body takes him in again and again.
his grip tightens on your hips when you start grinding down instead of bouncing, circling your hips so his cock rubs against that sensitive spot inside you.
“a–am i doing good, toru?”
“god, yes,” he pants. “so pretty riding me like this.”
you feel a rush of confidence at his words. you plant your feet on the bed, hands still braced on his chest, and start riding him faster. your hips snap down harder and quicker as satoru’s head presses back into the pillow, a low, broken moan slipping out of him.
“you’re insane f–for this,” he groans, he sounds wrecked.
“shh you’re so big toru.” you whine too, “feel so soo good.”
you don’t slow down, continuing to ride him hard, bouncing on his cock like crazy.
you feel the thick head of his cock kissing that spongy spot inside you, satoru’s fingers dig harder into the soft flesh of your hips anchoring himself while you use him. his abs tense and ripple beneath your palms every time you slam down.
“fuck baby, slow down or i’m gonna—” his words cut off into a guttural moan when you purposely clench around him. “oh you evil woman.”
you giggle in response letting out a high, needy whimper after.
“im sorry,” you gasp, voice breathy.. “can feel you everywhere.”
satoru’s eyes roll back for a second. he looks a mess. his white hair sticks to his forehead, damp with sweat, and his mouth falls open on another moan.
“shit h-hahh princess, your pussy’s—ah so greedy tonight.”
you’re breathless, thighs burning, but the ache only adds to the pleasure. you brace one hand on his chest and reach back with the other, cupping his balls gently, rolling them in your palm while you keep bouncing.
oh you are so killing him.
“toru you’re twitching so much inside me,” you tease. “feels so good when you throb like that…”
he lets out a string of curses in response while your breasts bounce with every movement, nipples still shiny from his earlier attention, and satoru can’t stop staring, mesmerized and completely undone.
“i’m—i’m so close,” you say, “toru—come with me please!”
“yeah fuck, yeah— i’m right there with you, princess,” he replies, voice breaking on the last word. his thumb finds your clit, rubbing fast circles that match your crazy pace. “come on my cock, baby. mess with it…shit!”
the pleasure pushes you over the edge first, milking his cock as your orgasm hits you. satoru follows right after you, his back arches off the bed as he comes hard, thick spurts of heat flooding deep inside you.
finally, you collapse forward onto his chest as both of you gasp for air. satoru’s arms wrap around you instantly, holding you tight against him. he presses open-mouthed kisses to your shoulder, your neck, anywhere he can reach.
“holy fuck… you just destroyed me,” he whispers, voice hoarse and awed. “never felt anything like that. you’re gonna be the death of me, princess.”
you smile against his damp chest, pressing a soft kiss right over his racing heart.
“i think i like being in charge.”
“yeah? then next time you can tie me down if you want. just give me five minutes first. i think my soul left my body for a second there.”
you laugh softly, letting your eyes drift shut while his warmth surrounds you.
˚⟡˖ ࣪
“wait, since when has gojo been a barista?” you hear one girl say, laughing like it’s the funniest thing ever. “him out of all people? no fucking way.”
you’re drying your hands when voices filter in from the stalls behind you. two girls chatting loud enough that you can’t ignore it even if you wanted to.
the other one snorts, “i know, right? i heard from his friends that he only applied there to sleep with one of the workers.”
your stomach twists a little, but you tell yourself it’s nothing.
campus gossip is always exaggerated.
“he’s probably quitting soon anyway,” the first girl continues, “what’s a trust fund baby doing slinging lattes?”
“like play charming until he gets what he wants then bounce?”
their laughter echoes off the tiles as they leave and you're left staring at your reflection again. you rethink everything in the span of thirty seconds—was it all calculated? did he really just do everything to sleep with you?
you show up to your shift pissy as hell, you hear satoru humming while he wipes down the espresso machine. he looks up waving at you, and normally that makes your chest warm. today it makes you want to throw a cup at his head.
“there you are,” he says, “you look cute when you’re all serious like this—did you run here or something?”
you brush past him without a word, grabbing the rag from the sink and attacking the already clean counter. satoru’s grin falters a little bit, blue eyes narrowing already picking up your mood.
“whoa, okay. bad day?” he asks, reaching out to touch you and you flinch away.
“don’t,” you mutter, keeping your eyes on the counter, scrubbing harder. “just not in the mood, gojo.”
he straightens up, his cocky energy disappearing.
“gojo?” he echoes, “what happened to satoru? you’ve been calling me that for days. did i do something? because if i did, tell me so i can fix it. i’m not above begging, princess. i’ll get on my knees right here.”
“nothing happened,” you lie, because admitting you overheard some random girls in the bathroom is affecting you feels stupid. “i’m just tired, you wouldn’t get it.”
satoru doesn’t buy it. he steps closer anyway, “try me,” he says softly, all the usual bravado dialed down. “i’m good at a lot of things, but i’m especially good at listening to you. baby, please talk to me. did someone say something? because if they did—”
“i said it’s nothing, gojo.” your voice comes out louder than you meant, and you see the way his shoulders tense just a little.
he nods, stepping back with his hands raised in that mock surrender. “alright, message received. whatever this is… we’ll figure it out later.”
well that didn’t happen.
the whole day you did your best ignoring him.
before he could even ask what you guys were doing after shift you made a cheap excuse to pops about how you felt sick (it was an obvious lie) and needed to leave early. pops just shrugged and told you to go rest. satoru watched you grab your bag, mouth opening to say something, but you were already out the door before he could get a word in.
later that night satoru is sprawled on suguru’s couch, one arm thrown over his eyes, the other gesturing wildly as he rants.
“everything was going so well, man. like actually well,” he groans, voice muffled behind his arm. “she's even initiating stuff, now she’s calling me gojo again? dude, fuck gojo. i hate that.”
suguru sits across from him, legs crossed, very used to satoru’s dramatic rants. he’s just not used to it being about a girl.
“so what happened?”
“i don’t know!” satoru sits up suddenly. “she flinched when i tried to touch her. flinched. like i’m some random creep.”
he drags both hands down his face, groaning louder.
“she even left early. made up some bullshit excuse to dip before i could even ask what we were doing after. she’s been staying at my dorm for days, suguru. my bed still smells like her shampoo. i had snacks stocked for her. and now she’s shutting down? i don’t get it.”
“you sure you didn’t do something stupid?”
“i swear i didn’t.” satoru flops back down dramatically. “i’m losing my mind. she went from soft and clingy back to hating me in like twelve hours. what the fuck did i miss? i really like her. like…. a lot. more than i thought i could.”
suguru hums, “if it’s not you, then maybe somebody else?”
“if someone said something to her i’m going to lose it,” he mutters. “i finally got her to let me in and now she’s pulling away again. i don’t know how to fix something when she won’t even tell me what’s broken.”
“look, relationships aren’t always smooth. problems come up, it’s normal. the difference is whether you actually talk about it or let it fester.”
˚⟡˖ ࣪
your morning has been irritating as hell.
you woke up cranky, then you spilled coffee on your shirt while rushing, you had to change, and still barely made it to your first lecture on time. every little thing felt like it was piling up—the crowded hallways, the professor droning on about stuff you already knew, and the constant replay of yesterday, everything was just irritating.
so by the time of your second morning class, you’re already exhausted and on edge.
you pull out your notebook when someone drops into the seat right next to you.
satoru slips into the seat beside you without a word.
he's not even in this class.
he looks exhausted, there are faint dark circles shadowing the usual brightness of his gaze, his white hair is messier than normal like he rolled straight out of bed and didn’t bother fixing it. he probably didn’t sleep much, if at all.
he doesn’t say anything at first. he pulls a small sticky note pad from his bag, scribbles something quickly with a pen, and slides it over to you under the desk.
are you still mad? :(
you glance at the note, then at him. his eyes are already on you, waiting.
you write back, keeping your handwriting small.
no i was never mad
he reads it, eyebrows pulling together. he scribbles again, passing it back.
but you were. look at your mad face right now.
you feel the irritation flare again, but you keep your face neutral and write:
you shouldn’t even be here. im. not. mad.
he huffs softly as another note slides your way.
see. you clearly are. can we please talk after?
you stare at the words for a second longer. part of you wants to stay stubborn. the other part hates how tired he looks.
later.
satoru reads it and nods before tucking the sticky notes away.
the rest of the lecture goes, but satoru stays right there beside you the whole time.
midway through, he opens his notebook and starts sketching again. first he shows you a proper drawing of you. it's the same unfinished face you had seen weeks ago when you dug through his bag looking for notes. now it’s finished. your eyes are there and your mouth curved in a smile.
you admire how pretty he sees you. then he flips the page without warning.
the next sketch is completely different—you again, but this time with a exaggerated angry face. brows furrowed deep, eyes narrowed, lips pressed into a tight line, tiny cartoon steam lines rising from your head. it’s ridiculous and accurate at the same time. he bites his lip to keep from laughing out loud, shoulders shaking quietly as he watches your reaction.
you glare at the page and he quickly flips the notebook shut before the professor notices.
when class finally ends, the two of you walk across campus until you reach a quiet stretch of grass near the edge of the field, far enough from the main paths. you drop down onto the grass first. satoru follows, sitting close but not too close, giving you space.
he reaches over and plucks a small white wildflower growing near his knee. he twirls it once between his fingers before holding it out to you, a tired smile on his face.
you look at the flower, then at him. it’s stupidly cute.
you flick it away with two fingers and the flower flutters to the grass between you.
satoru watches it fall before finally talking.
“okay,” he says quietly, “talk to me. what’s going on? you’ve been shutting me out since yesterday and i’m losing my mind here.”
you pull at a blade of grass, twisting it between your fingers.
“when are you quitting?”
satoru blinks, caught off guard. “quitting what? the cafe?”
you nod, still not looking at him.
he lets out a short, confused laugh. “is that why you’re mad? you want me to quit? because if that’s it, i can—”
“no—” you cut him off fast, finally turning to face him. “did you only start working there because you wanted to sleep with me?”
the question hangs between you. satoru’s expression changes. hurt flickers across his face before he schools it.
“that’s what this is about?” he asks, “you think this whole thing was just some long game to get in your pants?”
you don’t answer right away, the gossip from the bathroom echoes in your head again.
“is that really what you think of me?”
you swallow. “i heard some girls talking in the bathroom yesterday,” you admit, voice low. “they were laughing about how you only took the job to sleep with one of the baristas. that you’d charm your way in, get what you wanted, and then quit once it happened. it sounded… exactly like something people would say about you.”
“fuck,” he mutters. “fucking gossips.”
“look, i’m not gonna pretend i haven’t had that reputation. people assume the worst. and yeah—back in freshman year i wasn’t exactly turning down easy attention. but that’s not what this is. not with you.”
“when i walked into that cafe the first time, i was just fucking around. i saw you looking annoyed and thought it’d be fun to push your buttons. but then you pushed back and i couldn’t stop thinking about it. about you.”
“so i came back. then i applied for the job because i wanted an excuse to see you more. not to sleep with you and bounce—to actually be around you. i stayed because every shift with you made the day better. even when you were glaring at me. especially when you were glaring at me.”
you glance away, toward the empty field. “you could’ve just asked me out like a normal person.”
“and risk you telling me to fuck off on day one? no thanks. working there let me prove i wasn’t just fucking around. also you know that's not me.”
he pauses, then adds, “and yeah, i wanted you. i still do. i want all of it.”
satoru leans forward a little, elbows on his knees.
“i switched my entire schedule around for you. i told you how my advisor thinks i’ve lost it. i turned down better internships because they’d mess with our shifts. if all i wanted was sex, i wouldn’t still be here begging you to talk to me.”
“so no, i’m not quitting,” he says quietly. “not unless you tell me to. and even then i’d probably just sit outside the cafe and wait for you like a loser. but i’m not here because it’s convenient or because i’m trying to win some game. i’m here because i like you. a lot. more than i thought i could like anyone.”
he reaches out slowly, “i’m not gonna push if you need space. but tell me what you need from me right now. yell at me, ignore me, whatever. just don’t shut me out and leave me guessing.”
you stare at his open hand for a long moment. the irritation is still there, tangled up with the embarrassment of letting petty gossip get to you.
finally you sigh, shoulders dropping.
“i hated thinking it was all fake,” you mutter. “that the second you got what you wanted, you’d disappear and i’d be the idiot who fell for it.”
“not fake,” he says immediately. “none of it.”
you hesitate, then reach out and flick his open palm lightly with your fingers, enough to make him smile.
“you’re still annoying,” you tell him.
“yeah?” his grin comes back. “good.... means we’re getting somewhere.”
“you look like shit, by the way.”
“didn’t sleep much,” he admits, shrugging. “kept replaying yesterday trying to figure out what i messed up.”
“sorry for being so gullible.” you says knowing how that’s all on you.
“as long as you stop calling me gojo when you’re mad. hurts more than it should.”
you roll your eyes but the corner of your mouth lifts anyway.
the two of you stay on the field a little longer, the conversation flowing—back to classes, to stupid customer stories from the cafe, to nothing important at all.
when you finally stand up to head back toward campus, he falls into step next to you like always.
“so,” he says after a minute, voice casual again, “still mad?”
you glance sideways at him.
“not as much.”
“progress,” he declares, grinning. “i’ll take it.”
“hey,” he murmurs.
you turn to face him, he’s pouting extra hard....
“can i please kiss you now?” he pleads, “please. please. please”
instead of answering with words, you step forward, slide your free hand up to the front of his shirt, and tug him down the rest of the way.
satoru meets you halfway.
his hand comes up to cup the side of your face as his lips move against yours. he kisses you gentler than usual and you kiss him back just as softly, fingers curling tighter into his shirt.
when you finally pull apart, foreheads still touching, satoru lets out a shaky little breath against your mouth.
“thank you,” he whispers, the words barely there. his thumb brushes your cheek once more. “fuck, i missed that.”
you smile against his lips.
“don’t make me flick another flower at you.”
he presses one last gentle kiss to your forehead before straightening up.
“next rumor, i’m spreading how badly i’m in love with you and how you equally feel the same and can never live without me.”
only two years post-debut, NAPE are the band to beat, and you might be the only woman in london whose heart races in a bad way at the sight of their guitarist—your ex-boyfriend, jay.
pairing ✩ jay park x fem!reader
genres: band au, exes to lovers, smut, fluff, angst | warnings: minors dni, reformed evil guy jay, set in london (#SCOTLANDFOREVER), so many english people (#SCOTLANDFOREVER), yn is #GoingThroughIt #Confused, hoseok is the bus driver, BLATANT PLAGIARISM OF SONGS BY EXISTING ARTISTS SORRYYYYYYYY | word count: 37,699
playlist: lover, you should've come over by jeff buckley ✩ puddles by not for radio ✩ eventually by tame impala ✩ where do broken hearts go by one direction ✩ 505 by arctic monkeys ✩ no control by one direction ✩ stateside by pinkpantheress ✩ you da one by rihanna ✩ change your ticket by one direction
from zo: HAPPY BIRTHDAY ASAHICORE !!! wow u are 23.25 now! amazing. youngest person ever. happy reading to everyone else and go wish asahicore a happy birthday rn. AS ALWAYS SHARE FEEDBACK OK LMK WHAT U THINK !!!
BACKSTAGE WITH NAPE ON THE ‘NO WAY BACK’ TOUR.
By: Daydream Mag. Photographs by: Heeseung Lee, Jay Park, Jake Sim & Sunghoon Park.
4:02 P.M. SUNDAY, MARCH 9, 2025. PARIS: If you’re one of NAPE’s four members, how do you spend the hours before the final show of your sold out tour? By sleeping, calling your mum, watching YouTube mukbangs, or taking film photos of your bandmates doing any of the above.
In broken Frenglish, guitarist, Jay, plays tour guide for the green room they’ve made home over the course of their three day concert at the iconic Le Trianon. “Did you know that Rihanna played here?” he asks, eyes wide as he swats away Sunghoon’s camera. “And Kesha, and Fifth Harmony? So many legends and now we’re here—crazy downgrade.”
This same eager, mildly insecure, energy permeates the green room as the band discuss highlights from the last two months on the road — riding a beer bike in Manchester, seeing the Eiffel Tower at midnight — and express how much they wish the tour could last forever. “Performing is the absolute best part,” Jake says between slurps of cup ramen he brought with him from London. “We’re always trying to find local pubs to play in because we can’t get enough.”
“That’s where it all started anyway,” explains their half-asleep frontman, Heeseung. “Playing in pubs, busking in Zone 5 shopping—
“Well, well, well,” Aeri says, appearing over your shoulder and catching you in the act. “If it isn’t Little Miss NAPE-hater drooling over a two-page spread.”
A chill runs down your spine and you couldn’t have dropped the magazine quicker if you tried. At your feet, it clatters with a flinch-inducing thud that rings throughout the deserted entrance of your local twenty-four hour Tesco. Neither you nor Aeri make any move to lift Daydream Mag’s summer 2025 issue from the speckled tile, so from its glossy cover, the face you’ve come to loathe gazes up at you through lidded eyes.
You scoff, affronted by the very suggestion. “I’m not you, Aeri. I wasn’t drooling.” And even if you were drooling, it certainly would not have been over Jay Park and his band of idiots. “It’s a four-page spread, by the way.”
“Same difference.”
Over Aeri’s shoulders, the sun’s first rays are threatening to shine through the glass on what is already an obscenely hot day for September. Dye slips from her damp hair down her face like blood, staining her white collar red, and you watch as she takes a picture of the magazine on the floor between your feet and hers before picking it up. She posts the picture to her story with one of NAPE’s songs playing and tags them so they can eventually see it and repost. They’re always doing that—reposting things fans tag them in. Satisfied, Aeri puts the magazine back in its place on the shelf, between Interview and the last copy of Dazed that has a photo of NAPE’s bassist and drummer laying together on the cover like something from a CEO yaoi. You have no idea how or when they got so popular.
Finally, leaving the band behind, you and Aeri loop your sweat slick arms and move through the aisles. You sniff and review scented candles; browse the books on the shelves, sharing thoughts on the ones you’ve read; and pick up snacks with Clubcard discounts, all on the way to find the one thing you came for at this time of night: salted caramel cheesecake cookies. Along with the rest of the internet, Aeri’s boyfriend has been raving about them since he tried them two weeks ago, and the three of you have been on high alert ever since. You even reached out to Somi’s little cousin, Riki, whose ex-girlfriend has a friend that works here to see when they’d be back in stock.
She told him to kill himself.
This is why, when you finally see them — fully stocked and still warm in their bags — you gasp. Understandably, when Aeri tries calling her boyfriend, he doesn’t answer, but you take as many as you can carry and run for the self-checkout.
Under the purple sky, you and Aeri walk all the way home, carrier bags in hand. It takes a lot not to eat all thirty cookies as soon as you cross the threshold, but, in an exercise of immense self-control, you leave them in the bread bin, and bid your flatmate goodnight.
Love her as much as you’ve come to, you often find yourself wishing it was some incredible story that brought the two of you together. A great tale of intertwined fates and instant connection. Instead, you found Aeri on spareroom.co.uk and when you deemed each other harmless enough, you signed the lease and moved in. It took a few months for you to shake off your anxiety and say more to her than, how did you sleep? but you got there in the end, and almost one whole year down the line, this flat and Aeri feel more like home every day.
As the working world’s alarms go off, you get into bed, showered and fresh-breathed, where sleep is reluctant to find you. One hundred counted sheep later, you give up and open Twitter. Now, you are mature enough to know better than to engage with content you know you’re not going to like—you’re not a critic. But… you are a hater. While NAPE haven’t yet brought forth the next strain of fandom-induced illness — à la Bieber Fever or One Direction Infection — they’re inescapable if you use the internet in any capacity. Profiles in magazines, Spotify playlist covers, constant viral concert clips: sweat-sheened skin and lidded eyes, long, thick ring-clad fingers strumming guitars or stroking mic stands. The tattooed back of their frontman populates hit tweets and Instagram Reels alike.
It’s not like you’re immune to attraction or allure. You have eyes. Eyes that widen at the sight of Sunghoon flexing his arms or Jake biting his lip. At Jay and his perfectly mussed hair that sits right at the junction of neat and messy. His two silver hoops in each ear. His dimpled cheek. How he sings with his eyes closed. The scar on his nose that you can only really see up close or when the light hits it just right. Keeping up with things like this is important because if you’re going to be a hater, you’d like to at least be an informed one. This is why, when you search for them on Twitter and the first tweet that comes up is the link to NAPE Catch Each Others Lies | Teen Vogue, you click with no hesitation.
It’s weird seeing them in motion like this, comfortable and joking around. Not singing. They’re decked head to toe in smart casual. Loose blazers and tailored trousers, fake glasses and neatly parted hair, smart shoes and polo shirts. Even though it’s different to their concert outfits and doesn’t really match what seems to be their vibe — evil-demon-fuckboy-rockstar — it suits them, highlighting their oddly perfect proportions.
From this video, you learn that Jay doesn't know any of their birthdays, Jake uses Sunghoon’s deodorant, and Sunghoon has never fallen asleep during rehearsal. Heeseung is also there. When the video ends, you fall asleep without a hitch, fresh linen and sweet dreams pulling you under.
Until you force open your heavy eyes to the sound of your phone ringing at eight o’clock—you slept for exactly two hours. It’s Aeri’s boyfriend. You can’t even speak when you answer, letting out a grumble instead. “Welcome to the land of the living, sweetheart!” he chirps, sounding much too awake for your liking. “Care to open the door?”
“Come back later.”
“But your breakfast will be cold later.” There’s a poutiness to his voice that would irk you if your hungry ears didn’t perk up at the sound of breakfast.
Turning over under the covers, you lean up on your elbows. “What’s for breakfast?” you ask slowly.
“Toad’s.”
To you — and the rest of London’s Gen Z population — Toad’s is the breakfast spot. At seven a.m. every day, there’s a queue that wraps around the corner. They recently issued a statement to request that customers stop selling their spots in line. Tired as you are, the thought of eating Toad’s without having lined up thrills you so much that you run straight to the door and fling it open. There stands Heeseung, a cup-holder in one hand and several paper bags in the other. A pair of sunglasses keep his bleach-fried hair from his forehead.
“You look nice,” he says, smiling as you step aside to let him in.
Smoothing out your hair with self-conscious palms, you inspect your face in the mirror beside him, seeing the crust lining the corners of your puffy eyes. “We are not close enough for you to speak to me like that,” you tell him, leaning into your reflection to clean yourself up a little.
Though you’re joking, mostly, Heeseung and Aeri have only been together for two months, and as her close friend, he should be on his best behaviour around you for at least the rest of his life. He frowns, apologising sincerely as he holds out one of the red and white paper bags. “Can I interest you in a forgive me choux vanille?”
The words make your heart race in your chest as you give a reverent nod, taking the bag from him.
“There’s, like, four of them in there—all yours.”
You have seen fanpages for these choux vanilles, you have been close to starting one yourself, and here, now, on a random Tuesday morning, standing in your hallway with NAPE’s frontman, you hold in your trembling hands a bag of, like, four of them. Later in life, when the time comes, you will name your firstborn after this man, probably.
“Heeseung,” you say softly. “Speak to me however you like.”
He laughs at that, as if he hasn’t just made your whole week. The soft sound breaks you out of your stupor and you help him carry all one million things he brought. “How’d you even get all this?” you ask over your shoulder, everything is still warm, perfect. “What time did you get there? What time did you even wake up?”
Heeseung follows you into the kitchen, his footsteps light against the hardwood. “Will you think I’m a prick if I say I’ve been up all night?” His question surprises you as you take in the sight of him once more—he is the picture of wakefulness with his bright eyes and glowy skin.
“Ah.” You set the goods on the counter, nodding as you take a picture of his haul. “Rockstar life, huh?”
A smile spreads over his lips as he rolls up his sleeves, tattoos appearing from under the white cotton, oddly sheepish. For an artist of his — their — size, with his — their — visibility, there’s a certain meekness to Heeseung that you thought was an act at first, but now you’re not so sure.
“Not even,” he mumbles, looking down at the dark worktop and describing the epitome of rockstar life. “We had this party thing in Soho, but it was dead so we went round this guy’s flat instead, and he stays proper close, as in the line goes by his front door—one of Jongseong’s friends…”
Whether Heeseung knows you’ve stopped listening at the mention of that name is anyone’s guess, but suddenly, your long-awaited Toad’s matcha tastes like nothing and your blood pumps thickly through your body. Loud in your ears. It’s one thing to anticipate seeing or hearing about him — watching that video before bed or bracing yourself for posters plastered in stations and around the city — but like this, so casually, from the mouth of your one person in common, it still shakes you up.
“Whoa.” He waves his large palm in front of your face. “You alright?” Concern creases his eyebrows.
An attempt at a light-hearted laugh stumbles from you. “Just sleepy.” A long, ungraceful moment dawdles by as he studies you, performing some form of assessment that you’re sure you’ve failed.
“Same, honestly,” he finally agrees, though he doesn’t seem convinced. “I’ll catch you in a bit, yeah?”
You nod, watching as he makes his way to Aeri’s room and snapping your neck in the other direction when he looks over at you. “You sure you’re alright?”
“Perfect!” you call out over your shoulder, all but sprinting to your bedroom.
In the privacy of your four walls, you sink into the chair at your desk and eat your steak, brie, and mushroom toastie. Half of it anyway, the thought of Jay is too distracting to enjoy it fully. You open Instagram before you even realise, hitting the search button and typing pzzong without a second thought. Eighteen hours ago, he made a post. A photo dump: his guitar in his lap, a blurry sunrise, a gym selfie with Sunghoon’s naked back in the mirror, a video of a lively crowd, and a piercing through his left eyebrow. Life is good, he wrote. The comments display varying degrees of thirst for Sunghoon. Blue ticks light up the screen as you scroll through them. Heart eyes from Bae Sumin. Best show ever babyyyyyyy from Yeh Shuhua.
Good for him.
Seriously.
You have committed a cardinal sin, for which you will never forgive yourself—you forgot your headphones at home. And so, like the rest of Central London, you’ve been subject to hearing the rustle of plastic on plastic in your bag as you walk down the street. As it turns out, no matter how delicious, eating thirty ginormous, sickly sweet cookies is quite difficult, so you’re taking them out to the pub where you’re meeting up with some friends.
The bell above the door at Ruby’s rings loud and clear over the radio when you step inside. For a Wednesday afternoon, it’s busier than you expect, patrons crowding the bar and tables alike, though you suppose, as one of them, that this is the way of the unemployed. Speaking of, Riki towers over everyone at the bar, oblivious or uncaring towards the pretty bartender’s fluttering eyelashes. At the sight of you though, he raises his bleached eyebrows, waving you over.
“Three p.m. tequila shots, don’t mind if I do,” you say, beaming into the rough collar of his denim jacket.
His hug is tight and brief. “Aw, yeah. I’ve got class in the morning,” he offers unhelpfully, holding up a clear shaker. “Salt?” Riki pours salt all over the back of your hand, more granules falling to your feet than sticking to the spot you licked, and hands you his wedge of lime. Holding up his shot with surprising steadiness, he says, “C’est la vie!”
Doing a shot of straight fire would burn less, but Riki isn’t fazed, grabbing you by the wrist and tugging you towards the back of the pub where the rest of your friends are. Yizhuo sees you first, peering over the booth and her face splits into a grin. You feel yours doing the same. She and Somi leap to their feet, pulling you into a hug and wrapping you up in a cloud of florals and spice and beer. “You’re alive!” Yizhuo cries out, pulling back to get a good look at you, her hand on your jaw to turn your face this way and that. “And still so beautiful!”
“Against all the odds,” you mumble, accepting the wet kiss Somi plants on your cheek with a smile. Right when you settle into the booth beside Yizhuo, texts from Aeri light up your phone screen, notification bubbles covering up the chestnut horse on your lockscreen.
aeri: heeseung said the guys can make it after all ! he promises they’ll behave
aeri: they’re not as bad as you think !!!
You groan around a long sweet sip of the cloudy IPA Somi ordered for you. “I’m meeting Aeri’s boyfriend’s friends tonight,” you mumble, sending a thumbs-up emoji in response.
“Wait.” Yizhuo pauses, looking over her shoulders before leaning over the table. “NAPE are going to be at your flat tonight?” she whispers, eyes wide and buggy.
What comes from your mouth is a disgusting sigh-groan hybrid that makes Riki flinch as you say, “The one and only.”
Somi’s entire face crumples and she hunches over, hitting her forehead repeatedly on the tabletop, making it wobble. “Why do good things keep happening to you instead of me?”
“This is public knowledge, I texted the chat like a week ago.” You lift your golden pint and Yizhuo’s dark Guinness from the table so they don’t slip off the edge. “Plenty of time, no?”
“A week ago…” Riki repeats, voice trailing off into nothing as he rubs his stomach and leans back in his seat. “That’s like an hour’s notice in employed people's time.” He sighs. “No offense, YN.”
“Okay, Big Rik.” You scoff. “You’ve had a job for ten minutes.”
He glances at his watch before squinting at you, venom written all over his cute little face. “And that’s ten minutes longer than you, is it not?”
“Did I do something to you?”
“You know what? I’m glad you br—” Somi cuts off her little cousin by shutting his mouth with her hand. “Can we please focus on the real issue, you’re partying with NAPE tonight and I can’t go.”
“Why not?”
“My mum’s up and we’re having dinner,” she says bitterly.
“Just come after.”
“Or don’t come at all!” Yizhuo butts in. “I have plans for Jake Sim tonight and I don’t need him getting distracted.”
Riki kisses his teeth, shaking his head. “I’m willing to bet a good amount of money that your plans involve staring at him from across the room, then blowing up the chat to talk about how you two caught a vibe.”
This is, to Yizhuo, the greatest offence — despite its truth — and you have to actually hold her back from leaping over the table to strangle Riki, but there’s nothing you can do about the string of insults that leave her mouth.
Somi’s ring-clad knuckles rap against your side of the table, right beside your glass. “Really sorry about Daydream, by the way. Seriously,” she says, frowning. “If it makes you feel any better, I heard a bunch of their permanent staff got laid off as well.”
Only now, with Somi’s sincerity, do you realise how long it’s been since you last saw your friends. Nearly three weeks have passed since you lost your job, and this is the first time the four of you have managed to get together. As much as you hate to admit it, Riki was right about needing loads of notice to schedule something as simple as day drinking at the pub. Your world used to revolve around your planner, with separate sections in your worn Filofax for work, personal, and social—which was, largely in part, due to your obsession with stationary. Sitting down on a Sunday night to plan out the week ahead was one of your main hobbies, pencilling in coffee dates and errand-run-hangout hybrids wherever you found an hour or two in common with one of your friends. If you didn’t live with Aeri, you’d probably never see her.
“You know what, Somi? Not really, but thank you.”
Undeterred, she beams at you. “One door closed is a million doors opened, I swear.”
“Cheers to that!” Riki grins, raising his shot glass to his cousin’s nonsensical proverb.
Pushing your doubts away, you raise your pint and toast to the possibility of a million doors opening up before you. Beautiful doors with even more beautiful things behind them, of course. You need all the luck you can get.
Somi has time to nurse another half pint before she has to leave, begging you to text her everything about tonight as it happens. You make no promises. It’s another four pints and a sunset before the rest of you get up to leave, zigging and zagging through the crowded bar out into the crisp fresh air. And because the speakers in the beer garden are playing music, different music to what was on inside, Riki makes you and Yizhuo sit shivering with him at a picnic bench so he can listen to Folded by Kehlani.
“Fuck, Riki,” Yizhuo mutters, rubbing her face with her hands when the second verse starts. “Don’t you have music at home?”
He rolls his eyes, pausing his singing to say, “I’m sure even you could appreciate that hearing a song you like in the wild is way better than listening to it at home.”
“I would love to agree with you, but I have central heating at home.” Your teeth chatter when you finish talking, and all you can think about is your bed and the multiple other ways you could be experiencing warmth at home right now. Hot water bottle. Electric blanket. Taking a bath. Cuddling with Aeri.
“You also have NAPE at home.” Yizhuo points out.
“We’re all going there, what’s your point?”
She pulls a face that you know means she’s not coming.
“We?” Riki repeats, eyes bulging out of his head. “I’m going home. There’s music at home, as Yizhuo so kindly reminded me.”
“Neither of you are coming? Are you serious?”
“As a heart attack, brother.” He nods solemnly, standing up from his seat as the song comes to an end. “None of my mutuals are going.” He pats his pockets, in search of the big three — phone, wallet, keys — before zipping up his jacket.
“Your mutuals…” Yizhuo trails off, eying him. “Riki, this is real life.”
“Also it’s literally my flat, where I live… I thought we were mutuals.”
“Ladies, please.” He holds up his hands defensively. “I can ragebait Jay Park any time, okay, I don’t need to go to your house to do that. I also think I reserve the right to sleep in my own bed tonight. Alone.”
“Who else would be in your bed?” Yizhuo scrunches her nose, pulling the fallen strap of her bag back up her shoulder.
Gesturing towards all six feet of himself, Riki licks his lips, stumbling just a little. “Have you seen me?” he asks, a smug smile curling over his mouth.
“Unfortunately, we have, princess,” you say, patting his back. “Let’s get you home.”
Ruby’s isn’t your favourite pub, but it’s the best option if you’re drinking with Riki, because he stays so close and the only way any of you will have peace of mind after a night out is if you actually see him getting into his flat and hear the lock clicking behind him. The three of you walk arm in arm with Princess Riki towering over you in the middle. It takes all of fifteen minutes to get to his place and then the station across the road. Side by side on the platform, Yizhuo bumps your hip with hers. “How are you feeling?”
Given the pile of her texts you haven’t yet returned, you have a good idea of what she’s referring to. Even so, you ask, “About?”
Yizhuo gives you a look, pursing her lips before mumbling your name. She got lucky, jumping off the slowly sinking Daydream ship in time to snag a senior editorial position at Interview. She’d encouraged you to do the same, move up in your career, but no, you just had to prove your unwavering loyalty to a company for which you were no more than a name on a list. A recipient for an email with the subject line: Notice of Organisational Changes. Hindsight, as always, is 20/20 and the signs were there before you even got to London. The Edinburgh office, where you’d worked since graduating, closed last summer for financial reasons. Transferring seemed like a no-brainer, a blessing, but if you knew you had a year left, you would’ve stayed put.
“The downtime’s nice.” Over the last three weeks you’ve fixed your sleeping schedule, started and finished eight books, gone home to see Minjeong, applied and been rejected from nine editorial positions, and played through all of Super Mario Bros. Wonder. Twice. “I do, however, enjoy receiving a salary, so it would be nice to work again. Quite soon.”
Yizhuo nods, squeezing your shoulder. “I’ll keep an eye out for openings, but it might help to get your work out there, keep you sharp and all that. Are you on Substack?”
You laugh in her face. It’s 2025, everyone is on Substack—including the two-hundred subscribers you panicked and abandoned when your page started gaining traction. “Yes, Yizhuo. I’m on Substack.”
“Perfect!” she exclaims and because this is the Central Line and Londoners do not care about anyone else, no one spares her a glance. Your cheeks burn anyway. A happy sigh falls from her lips, and she tilts her head. “Write and post, write and post. Anyone will read anything these days, just get your name and your gorgeous words online, and I promise, you’ll be rolling in opportunities.”
“Yizhuo…”
“I’m serious. Write about your crazy NAPE party tonight, God knows how many people would kill to be in your position.” She lets go of the handrail and makes a show of pointing at herself with both hands. “Just do something, okay? You’re too young to sit in your room watching TV all day. You need to leave your house and live your life and see your friends.”
“I know, Yizhuo. I know that,” you mumble, fiddling with the hem of your jacket. “It’s not on purpose or anything, I just… sometimes I need a day to do nothing, and then it’s two days and then it’s a week.” Your stomach curls in on itself at the thought. The longer you spend at home, the harder it is to leave. You had to psych yourself up this afternoon, staring at your reflection and repeating: my friends do not secretly hate me. My friends enjoy my company. I am good company.
She frowns. “I get that, really. But you don’t have to deal with everything on your own, you have friends. A lot of friends who love you and want to spend time with you.” It all sounds a bit like an affirmation tape, a YouTube subliminal, and maybe if those weren’t the exact words you needed to hear right now, you might have laughed. “Next time you’re home doing nothing, text me and we can rot together, okay?”
You nod.
“And please, please, please get some NAPE dick tonight and review it ASAP,” Yizhuo says, whispering the name of the band as if that was the worst part of her sentence.
“I’ll pass.”
“Not a request.”
“Okay, daddy. I’ll do it,” you say, which, of course, makes London’s so-called nonchalant population turn their heads in your direction.
Yizhuo’s head falls back with laughter and you look up at the map above the door. Seven more stops for you, though hers is next. She pulls you into a hug, and you hide your face in her puffer jacket, willing your cheeks to stop burning. It doesn’t work. When the doors slip open, she kisses your cheeks and says, “See you later, Kitten.”
Flustered doesn’t even begin to describe how you feel as you call out, “Text me when you’re home, okay?”
She nods and blows you a kiss before climbing the stairs, disappearing into the sea of commuters leaving the station while the doors close. The Tube chugs on, homeward bound. With Yizhuo’s words on a loop, you finish the rest of the journey home, relieved to feel the autumn wind on your cheeks when you get back outside.
Dread stirs a pit in your stomach as you hear the party before you even see your front door. And dread almost kills you as you take careful steps around the people sitting in the corridor to get inside. The music is loud but there aren’t as many people as you thought. It’s mainly just a bunch of influencers you recognise by IG handle instead of name—jenaissante and _chaechae_1 are stretched over your couch, yawnzzn laughs with you.th in the kitchen doorway.
Heeseung spots you before you have a chance to retreat to your room. He is elated and red all over, pulling you into a hug, and wrapping his warm tobacco scent around you. “Hello!” he yells into your ear, before gesturing behind himself. “Jake and Sunghoon.” NAPE’s bassist and drummer, the ones from the yaoi magazine cover you went back for a copy of, are somehow much better looking in person.
The camera doesn’t quite do justice to Jake’s large… everything. His eyes, nose, lips, and rose-tinted knuckles are so big and so beautiful. He tucks some of his hair behind his ear and smiles with all of his teeth. “Nice finally meeting you,” he says, seeming to mean it. Having a favourite member in a band where you know half of the members personally feels wrong, but Jake is that for you, and so, the tipsy fangirl-adjacent part of you gives him a hug that he graciously returns.
At his side, Sunghoon stands in a white button-up that clings to his huge biceps. Great. His hair is perfectly parted over his forehead, his tie tight and straight. His lips are plump and pink, pulling into a sheepish smile as he raises his huge hand to wave at you. The sight of it, the dimple in his cheek, sets off a flutter in your stomach and you can’t help giggling like he’s done something special. “We’ve heard so much,” he says. “I mean, J—” He groans, keeling over and clutching his ribs where Jake elbowed him.
“It’s true, Gigi’s always talking about you,” Jake finishes off like nothing happened. “Something to drink?”
Dazed, you blink at the band boy, but take him up on his kind offer of a drink in your home. Jake leads you through the sparse crowd, weaving artfully towards your kitchen and making small talk along the way. “I actually used to play in church,” he tells you, opening your cupboards and taking out what he needs. Absolut Vanilla, simple syrup. A sticky bottle of Schweppes swiped from the kitchen island behind you. “I wanted girls to like me.”
“Did it work?”
Jake looks up from the counter at you, a smile playing at the corner of his lips as he halts his mixology. “Of course it worked,” he says, disbelief written all over his face. “But I was too shy to do anything about it.”
“I see,” you say, struggling to conceal your laughter as he hands you a cup.
“Wasn’t for nothing though.” He shrugs, leaning against the counter. “I guess you could say I’m pretty confident these days.”
You’ve seen enough about NAPE online, fanwars and uproar about the personal lives of the members, to know firsthand he’s not exactly lying. This is the face of some of Pinterest’s favourite couple inspo, one half of the now-mourned JakeZuha. You’d met her once, Kazuha, at a work thing. One of Daydream’s holiday parties. She was nice, more than, even if she didn’t have much to say about anything that wasn’t her boyfriend. Their breakup in the winter had fanpages proclaiming that love was dead and that they were children of divorce.
The thought makes you laugh in his face and you’re just glad he laughs too as you clink the rims of your plastic cups together.
Armed with the sweetest vodka lemonade you’ve ever had, you head to your room, desperate to change out of your jeans. After triple checking the lock on your door, you leave your jeans in a heap at your feet, stepping out of them and towards your dresser, where you settle on your favourite grey sweatpants and resolve to only be photographed from the waist up. One large gulp of drink, a deep breath, and you pull open the door, returning to the party—if fifteen people in your flat can really be described as such.
Before you can go over and join Aeri, a knock at the front door catches your attention, though you seem to be the only one to hear it. The knock comes again and you roll your eyes, unwilling to apologise for noise at nine p.m. on a Friday night. You know your rights. At the sound of a third knock, you stomp over to the door and fling it open.
“Mrs. Kim, we—Jay?”
The last year of your life living in London has been long. A massive adjustment. Hiked up prices and supermarkets closing early on Sundays, learning Tube routes and constantly being an hour away from any given plan you’ve made. So much has changed. You have changed. You are not the same petrified grown up who left everything she knew to move here, nor are you the same lovestruck girl Jay abandoned all those years ago. Yet the sight of him, live and in person and standing at your door dislodges something in your chest. In your memories, those odd dreams you have from time to time, he always looks so grown up. Jay at twenty. Twenty-one. It had never occurred to you back then how young you both were, especially given that he was a year older. Reconciling that version of him with the 25-year-old man before you now is impossible. The last of his baby fat, those stubborn chubby cheeks you loved with everything you had are gone now.
Is there any part of him, of this stranger, that you still know?
His hair is slicked back, a few strands left down, streaking over his forehead in that handsome way. You’d always liked it back like this, though he rarely did it. Reserved it for special occasions. Grad Ball Jay. Anniversary Jay. 25-year-old Jay. Even though the sun is down, a huge pair of sunglasses rests on the straight bridge of his nose. The silver ball above his eyebrow shines in the light. Making sense of the odds in your mind is impossible. How, at once, you are pleased to see him and thoroughly disgusted by it. How after everything, he can look at you, smile, and say your name.
“Jay…” you say again, trailing off, uncertain and half-expecting him to vanish into thin air, like some hyperrealistic figment of your imagination, complete with the cologne he used to wear. Scent — his scent — that most powerful of senses that hurtles you into the past as soon as you catch it. Hurtles you long back into his soft hoodies. Into your bed where that same honey musk lingered on the sheets long after he left.
“It’s so good to see you,” he says, sincere as ever.
“I know,” you agree, stomach turning. Nervous. Nauseous. “I, uh, I do think I’m going to be sick, though.”
Before you have the chance to rush away from him, to do anything, you wretch and spew alcohol onto the doormat between his feet and yours.
Pinching yourself does nothing—this is not a nightmare to be woken from.
“Fuck,” Jay says, crouching into view. Concern drenches his features, the last thing you see before screwing your eyes shut. “Are you okay?”
Mortification creeps through every last inch of your body, settling between your bones. This is not happening. This can not be happening. Seeing Jay again was supposed to be an event of Princess Diana revenge dress proportions. You own a revenge dress! You had grand plans to make Jay Park regret the day he was born, never mind the day he dumped you. Yet here you are, in a crop top and joggers covered in your own vomit.
“Great, Jay,” you mutter. “I’m great.”
Against your better judgment, you let him take you to the bathroom where you lean over the toilet bowl. Nothing comes out, but he rubs your back and holds your hair away from your skin anyway. His gentle touch burns through your clothes. “Are you alright?”
Kneeling on the checkerboard linoleum with Jay at your side has been a real test of strength, though, even with your screaming joints, you’re certain it’s better than the alternative—actually having to look at him. Weepy-eyed and vomit-breathed. “I’m fine,” you say for the hundredth time, sighing. “You can stop asking now.”
He scoffs, an amused sound that heats your skin to hear. Behind your closed eyelids, you can picture the look on his face. Clearly see the lopsided curve of his lips, the hint of a dimple. “Alright, my bad for worrying after you threw up all over me.”
Your hair slips from his hold when you whip your head to face him, strands sticking to your neck as soon as they’re free. Frantically, your eyes search his dark jeans. “It got on you?”
Jay smiles and he is so painfully gorgeous in the warm light of your shared bathroom, sitting on the edge of the tub. Seeing him here, seeing him at all makes your heart stutter. “No, YN.” He shakes his head, quickly, voice a low rumble. “You’re all good.”
You hum, raking a hand through your hair. “I’m all good,” you agree.
Now that your level of goodness has been sufficiently clarified, Jay clears his throat. “Alright, champ,” he says, as if you are an eight-year-old little boy while helping you to your feet in much the same manner. “Let’s get you cleaned up, yeah?”
On your waist the weight of his palm, the heat of it, is dizzying, and your alcohol consumption and post-vomit fogginess do nothing to stop the room from tilting. “Don’t touch me,” you croak, wriggling out of his grip. The words are rough on your throat.
Ever respectful, he lets go at once, stepping back and apologising as he flushes the toilet. A thrum of irritation flares in your head, hammering at your skull, at how easily that word came out of him, sorry, slipping from his little pink mouth and over the smallest thing. At once, the desire to wring his neck and to press your lips against his spar in your head. Neither wins. “So that you can apologise for,” you say under your breath instead.
Somehow, the look he gives you — tilted head, wide eyes, lips ajar — is the worst thing that’s happened since he arrived. Jay pities you, his scorned lover. The tightness in your chest is immediate, a thick knot that won’t give. Before he can speak, you turn away to clutch the sink and it is a grand effort. “Don’t look at me like that.”
“Like what?”
“It’s fine, Jay. I’m fine,” you say, though it is the furthest thing from fine you can think of. “It was a big deal to me and not to you. We’re over it, we’re fine.”
In the mirror, he looks at you like you’ve grown a second head, like you are Patrick Zweig asking for Tashi Duncan’s coaching. “Not a big deal to me?” he repeats, incredulous. “Are you kidding? Who said it wasn’t a big deal to me?”
You cover your face with your hands, sighing into your palms. “We’re not having this conversation.”
“I think we need to.”
“Yeah, Jay. We did,” you agree, catching his eye in the glass. It’s a mistake. “About three years ago before you up and left out of nowhere.”
“Out of nowhere?” he says, as if he absolutely must repeat everything that comes out of your mouth. “I was always moving back here, YN. That was always my plan, you knew that.”
Your eyes sting at the corners. Tears eager to spill. He’s right. You did know that. Jay made it explicitly clear. But there had been a time back then, when you were a part of those plans too. When his tongue slipped around I and we like they were the same thing. They were. To you. When we go to London… He brought you here that last winter. You drank Bailey’s hot chocolate at Winter Wonderland and met his parents. Met Heeseung. Jay had a life here, a vibrant one, and with each day you spent together, it became harder to imagine him anywhere else. By the fireplace in his family home, he asked you if you liked it, liked London. Of course you did. The flame raged warm in his brown eyes when he asked if you could see yourself here, with him. Your heart was beating in your throat. You loved London, and you loved Jay even more. You would have moved to Aberdeen if that’s where he wanted to go.
“Jay?”
His gaze softens, gone is the harsh crease of his brow, his squinting eyes. It’s like staring the past dead in the face. Everything you wanted so badly and never got to have. “Yeah?” he says gently.
“Get to fuck.”
Jay clenches his jaw, nodding slowly. “If that’s what you want.” He closes the door softly behind him when he leaves.
It’s only now, alone, that you register the hammering of your heart, the thudding of your pulse in your ears. You cry into the sink until your head hurts. You brush your teeth. Wash your face.
Opposite the bathroom door, Jay leans on the wall. Sunglasses on. Bottle of water in his white knuckle grip. He holds it out for you to take and you sigh, far beyond the mood to hear whatever he has to say. Minted by Colgate and Listerine, the water is ice in your mouth. Refreshing. “Thanks.”
Jay flicks off the bathroom light by your shoulder. “I’m sorry,” he says.
Together, you turn down the hall and into the living room. All of the guys — NAPE, at least — lapse into silence to watch you, though Heeseung is polite enough to pretend he’s not staring. Your stomach turns. Leaning up to Jay’s ear is grossly reflexive when you ask, “Do they—” You pause, pursing your lips and knowing the answer already. “Obviously Heeseung knows, but…”
“I told them.”
No matter how evil he was / is, he has every right to talk about what happened. About what he did. It’s Jay’s story as much as it’s yours, and he can do with it what he wants, regardless of how mortifying it is to think of other people knowing. What you did with it, and intend to continue doing with it, was keep the whole ordeal to yourself, like any other mentally sound adult woman would, which is obviously very healthy and working out really well for you. Jay had to move back home and we agreed it’d be best to end things. This is the version of events everyone else in your life has heard, and it’s what Minjeong and Jaehyun would have heard if it wasn’t for your living with them.
“Sorry,” he adds in a low voice.
That word again, easier than breathing it seems. “It’s fine.”
At the sight of you, Aeri’s face lights up and she stumbles out of Heeseung’s lap and over to you, taking you into her tattooed arms like it’s been an age since you last saw each other. In a way, you can’t believe it hasn’t been. “Here you are!” With her hands cradling your elbows, she takes a good look at you, eyes latching onto every part of your face. “You feeling okay?”
“Perfect!” Your voice is unusually high, strained.
“Heeseung cleaned up.” Aeri’s gaze flickers over your shoulder and she grins. “And I see you two have met.”
“Actually—” Jay starts, but you talk over him. “Yeah!” You face him, grinning too widely and extending a hand for him to shake. “Sorry about that. I’m YN.”
Only after a moment does his confusion clear and he takes your hand in his, shaking it. His fingertips are rougher than you remember, thick callouses boiling hot on your skin. “Nice meeting you,” he says, holding onto you for just too long. Too long for a conventional first meeting, anyway. No amount of time holding Jay Park’s hand could ever be long enough.
True peace and relaxation only find you when everyone has left, trickling out into London’s night time, cluster by cluster. Heeseung and his band boys stayed behind to tidy up and get their hands on one last pint before leaving your place even neater than they’d found it.
While you wash the breakfast dishes you abandoned in your room this morning, Aeri tiptoes into the kitchen behind you, humming happily to herself and pulling you into her arms. “They’re not so bad, are they?” Unfortunately, she and the rest of the world are correct. NAPE aren’t so bad after all. In fact, they are perfectly charming, and funny, and kind. Even their evil guitarist. You hum in response and focus on keeping a firm grip on your bowl as you move it to the drying rack.
“And…” She trails off, apparently waiting for you to finish her sentence. Much to her dismay, you do not. Aeri lets go of you and leans on the counter at your side, tipping her head to see your face. “What do we think of Jay?” she asks in a sing-song voice, and if she were referring to literally any other guy on the planet, you’d have smiled along with her.
But she isn’t and the sound of his name dries your mouth. “He’s… okay,” you say after too long. “Seems nice.”
Aeri’s jaw drops. “He’s okay?” Her disbelief is palpable, expressed through every part of her. “He held your hair while you threw up in the toilet and you think he’s just okay?”
“I actually didn’t throw up at all in the toilet,” you correct her, like that makes it any better, defensive in an off-putting way that makes you cringe. “But I guess the rockstar thing doesn’t really do it for me.”
“The rockstar thing,” she repeats under her breath, shaking her head. “What about the freakishly understanding thing? Or, I don’t know, the extremely fuckable guy thing?”
A pit takes over your stomach. “You’ve fucked him?” You don’t mean to ask, or to sound so dejected when you do, but the words come out before you can help it.
“Jesus, no.” Aeri sighs. “I’m not that lucky.”
You hate how relieved you are to hear it.
“He’s, like, impressively celibate. I wouldn’t be surprised if he had on, like, a chastity belt or some shit.” She shakes her head solemnly. “A damn shame if you ask me,” she starts, though quickly changes her tune. “But, you know, I’m obviously very lucky with Heeseung… yadda yadda yadda.”
A scoff comes out of you, but you can’t help the smile on your face. “Right.”
Aeri yawns and stretches her arms out over her head. “Believe me when I say I cannot wait to see the kind of person who does it for you.” It’s the last thing she says before she kisses your temple and heads for bed.
you: I threw up on Park Jongseong tn.
minjeong: YEEEEEAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHH
In bed, you open your phone and search for the thread you haven’t looked at in years. His contact still has a kissy face in it.
jongseong 😽: i got my shift swapped soooooo sleepover?
you: 😭😭😭 YES YES YES YES YES YES
jongseong 😽: hahaha leaving in 10 ❤️🔥
jongseong 😽: baby baby baby baby baby baby
Because this knife to the gut isn’t quite sharp enough, you search for the word dakgaejang, and those first messages come up.
jongseong 😽: hey yn! it’s jongseong from earlier, i hope you don’t mind me asking around for your number, i’m only now realising how creepy this is… i just wanted to make sure you were able to get home okay, and i’m really sorry i couldn’t walk you all the way back, i swear i meant to! and don’t worry about the hoodie, just hold onto it and stay cozy!!! if you have someone at home who can cook, my mom has this insane recipe for dakgaejang, that shit could cure anything, and if you don’t have someone at home who can cook, i’d be happy to whip some up for you when i get home and drop it off!!!
jongseong 😽: whatever works for you, okay? just lmk!
When you finally fall asleep, you dream of Jay. Of Jay and your university bedroom back in that freezing Edinburgh flat. At the foot of your bed, he hurriedly picked his clothes from the floor while your space heater roared into the cold. You leaned up on your elbows, but said nothing. You couldn’t speak. Finally, he saw you and froze in place. This was not the Jay of years past. Not Jongseong. It was Jay as he’d been last night. With his hair slicked back and his worn leather jacket over his broad shoulders. Still, he gave you that same look. Those same soft and sleepy eyes.
“Sorry, beautiful,” he mumbled, his voice low and thick. “I didn’t mean to wake you.”
You shook your head. “It’s okay.”
All it took was one blink, and he was right there, kneeling at the side of the bed. “I’m glad we got to see each other again, YN. I’ve really missed you.” His palm rested on your cheek, calluses on the tips of his fingers. “Get some sleep, okay? I’ll be back soon,” he said. A dimple dented his cheek when you nodded, and his soft lips grazed yours—you wake up with a start, sweat-drenched and heavy breathing. Heart pounding in your chest. Tears welling in your eyes.
When you finally manage to get out of bed, you go straight to the shower. You don’t bother drying your hair after, which you will regret. On the kitchen counter, the kettle boils noisily, but you can’t bring yourself to worry about waking your flatmate. Can’t bring yourself to worry about anything other than the fact you haven’t been able to steady your breathing in the thirty minutes since you tore yourself from your damp cheeks.
A door clicks shut down the hallway, making you flinch. Heeseung appears in the doorway wearing nothing but a pair of black sweatpants. “How’d you sleep?” he asks through a yawn.
Your dream, Jay, comes to mind quickly and with no warning. The ghost of his palm on your cheek, his lips on yours, all so vivid like he’s here with you now. Like he really spent the night. “Same as always,” you say, clearing your throat. “You?”
“Slept alright.” He shrugs and takes a glass from the cabinet by your head, filling it up with water from the filter. “Are you going to tell Gigi or should I?”
The drop of your stomach is immediate. “Tell Gigi what?”
After a sip of water, he presses his lips into a flat line and takes a moment, like he’s carefully choosing his next words. “I know it’s none of my business but—”
“Stay out of it then,” you interrupt, pulling the kettle from the element and filling your mug. Instant espresso splashes onto the counter.
“But he’s really sorry, you know?” Heeseung says as if it makes a difference.
He’s sorry? Great! The urge to punch Heeseung in the face for his crime of simply having a functional relationship with your life’s great evil is overbearing. Your clenched fist trembles at your side and a maniacal laugh rips out of you. He takes a step back. Your coffee burns your tongue. “Wow, Heeseung! Why didn’t he just say so? Holy shit, this changes everything!”
“YN—”
Desperate for this conversation to be over, to bury yourself under your duvet and start again tomorrow, you cut him off yet again. “It’s not your mistake to fix.”
“You’re right.” Heeseung sighs. “I’m sorry.”
“Look, obviously you’re going to stick up for your friend, I get that and it’s fine. It’s just that I’m not exactly—” You pause, running a hand over your face. “I have a lot I need to figure out.” The awareness of how long you’ve had to do just that, and how long you’ve spent avoiding it, weighs heavy on your shoulders.
He nods, twisting the back of the stud in his ear. “Of course, YN. It’s just… you know…” He trails off, gesturing vaguely into the space between you with both hands. “I’m your friend too, I hope. And, it’s not like I think he can justify what he did, but it might be helpful to hear why he did it. From him?” he suggests, voice tipping upwards as your eyes get progressively more squinted.
The absolute last thing you need right now, is to hear Jay wax poetic about being a true artist and unlocking one’s inner self. How he absolutely had to leave and that was it, you weren’t allowed to be upset about it, because trapping an artist in a box would be like clipping a bird’s wings. Or something.
“Just think about it, yeah?”
For lack of anything better to do, you blow on your coffee, rippling the surface before taking a cautious sip. Over the rim of your cup, Heeseung is watching you, gnawing at his bottom lip with his teeth. If not for the twinkle of hope in his ginormous eyes, you wouldn’t give in and say, “Fine, I’ll think about it.”
His face lights up like you gave him a firm yes and he claps his hands together. “Are you free on Friday night?”
You splutter, coughing into your elbow as you put down your cup. “You’re giving me thirty-six hours to make up my mind?”
“No, not at all. No rush, I swear,” he says, waving his hands frantically. “We’re playing a show at The Helmet, and I thought it would be cool if you came along.”
Disbelief tugs at your brow. “You thought that?”
Heeseung opens and closes his mouth repeatedly, saying nothing. And if you weren’t so curious, you’d drop the subject and decline, but… “I think—” He starts, cutting himself off to look at the ceiling. Then, with his hand on his heart, “All of us would be honoured to have you there. Collectively.”
You’ve seen enough clips online to know that seeing NAPE perform, seeing Jay, would do horrible things for not only your healing journey, but for feminism at large.
As if sensing your reluctance, he adds, “You can come backstage and everything!”
“That would be lovely, Heeseung. No thank you.” Right as the words leave your mouth, Yizhuo crosses your mind and you ask, “Is Jake single?”
With saucers for eyes, he tilts his head. “Pardon?”
“Is he?”
“Are you asking for yourself?”
“Would that change your answer?”
A quiet second passes, Heeseung’s actually thinking about it. “That depends.”
“I’m not going, but I have some friends, two, who would genuinely die to go backstage,” you explain unhelpfully. “I’ll speak to Aeri about it and they can all go together.”
“No can do, YN.” Heeseung purses his lips. “If you’re not backstage, then your friends aren’t either.”
“Then I guess they won’t be backstage.” You frown, lifting your coffee from the counter. The steam has cleared. “Break a leg, rockstar.” On your way out, you pat Heeseung on the back.
Poor Somi and Yizhuo.
The Helmet is a pub of relative dinginess. Each step you take is a mild effort for how sticky the floor is with God knows how many hours of uncleaned booze. And quite small compared to the venues NAPE have been selling out recently, but according to Aeri, “This place has sentimental value! They played their first ever gig here, it’s special.”
She loops her arm through yours and drags you into the throng, not caring who she elbows. And the elbowed don’t seem to mind either when they realise it’s Heeseung’s girlfriend. And you. And Somi. And Yizhuo and Riki and Jaehyun. There is no barricade between the stage and the crowd. Just a foot high elevation and a whole lot of trust from the lack of security the pub seems to boast. Despite how packed it is, it’s not difficult to get to the bar, as evidenced by Jaehyun and Riki’s trips back and forth to supply you guys with drinks.
The DJ plays a jarring mix of alt-rock and 60’s pop music and everything in between. Muse’s Supermassive Black Hole becomes Like I Love You by Justin Timberlake becomes Surfin’ U.S.A. Who the target audience is, you’re not sure, but the more you drink — and the more Riki moves his broad shoulders to the beat — it becomes easier and easier to bear.
“I went to international school with that guy!” Riki yells in your ear. “Name’s Asahi and he’s fucking crazy.”
“The DJ?”
“No, you idiot. That’s Jungwon.” Riki flicks your forehead. “I mean the bartender.”
Around you, the crowd cheers raucously when the stage lights dim. Nothing happens. The DJ continues to terrorise all of you with more insane transitions — Sugar Water Cyanide into No One Noticed — and you continue to drink.
The lights go dim and the crowd around you roars. At your side, Aeri shakes like she’s the one about to perform, grabbing your hand and giving it a tight squeeze. She doesn’t let go. Another swell of screams fills the air as a song starts playing, one of NAPE’s. No Way Back was the first and last NAPE song you ever listened to. It was everywhere—the lead single of their debut album, the title of the tour they just finished, the common song choice for TikTok OOTDs and DIMLs. They were everywhere—BBC Live Lounge, The Tonight Show, Saturday Night Live.
And, much to your dismay, they were damn good.
In the blink of an eye, the lights come up slowly and you hold your breath as NAPE appear on stage. With Aeri, you look straight up at Heeseung who smiles, leaning towards the mic and singing, “When the last sun sets…”
They are a golden spotlighted blur to your tipsy eyes, but Jay has maybe never looked so good. There’s nothing special about wearing a flannel over a plain white T-shirt, you know that, but on him, now, it’s mesmerising. He is mesmerising. Glowing under the lights and so, so close. His guitar sits right by his waistband, veins criss-crossing over the backs of his hands as he plays. Goosebumps rise along your skin, and a funny feeling ravages your stomach. Butterflies on crack, just like the first time you saw him.
It seemed unjust that someone like him could exist not only on your campus, but within walking distance of your flat without you knowing. That someone so handsome had been existing and so close to you for three years. That was all you could think back then. If only we’d met earlier. If only we had more time. It was a real cosmic injustice. You had no real plans to stay in Edinburgh, but not for lack of wanting to—there you had a roof over your head, you had friends, and you had Jay. You had nights spent curled around him, you had mindblowing sex, and you had something special and real that you will never get back.
Knowing what he has now, it would have been ludicrous for Jay to stay behind. He has a crowd screaming his name, and a flat right in the centre of London and most of all, he has accepted that things are over and his life is better for it.
When you lift your stinging eyes from his guitar, he’s already looking at you. His eyes are wide, his lips set apart. He looks like he’s seen a ghost, like he too is using this most inconvenient of moments to mourn the past. To mourn you. He freezes, fingers stilling over the strings for long enough that Heeseung casts a look in his direction.
You chew on your bottom lip until it hurts and snatch Jaehyun’s cup out of his hand to finish it. When the song ends, the crowd erupts into cheers, again.
Jay Park is a god among men.
“What you saying, London?” Heeseung says, grinning, and the crowd goes crazy over it. Over him. You can’t blame them. There’s a charm to him, like this, standing in front of you on the stage. Heeseung the idol, you the… well, reluctant fan of sorts. “We’re NAPE and we’ve got a special show prepared for you tonight.”
The crowd cheers. To his credit, Heeseung is electric on stage, and you are standing so close you can see the sweat beading along his hairline and can already predict the tweets you’re going to see later about all of this. For fear of doing something rash, like jumping on the stage and tackling Jay for a kiss, you keep your eyes trained on the reflective red of Heeseung’s microphone as he continues to speak to the crowd.
“If tonight’s your first time with us, then allow me to introduce the band,” he says, his voice low in a way you’ve never heard before as he gestures behind him. Sunghoon on the drums, Jake on the bass, and his good friend, Jay on the guitar.
“Thank you for that, good friend Heeseung.” The words leave Jay’s mouth in a slow mumble, his cheeks a little flushed as he touches his palm to his heart. The screams for him seem the loudest by far, but that might be because you’re screaming with everyone else. “It’s good to see you guys, I’m Jay. Let’s have fun tonight, London.”
They launch into the next song immediately, a funky track about how they’re always going to be there for their ex who they left in unfavourable circumstances and still love. Sunshine, another unfortunately good song that is a perfect fit for Jay’s voice. Minjeong was the one who sent this single to you when it first came out, along with a message telling you to check the credits. Jay was listed as the sole writer.
Artists take creative liberties, you know that, and it’s easy to see why an attractive guy writing about still loving his ex, no matter what, would do better than an attractive man singing about being Satan’s son. But still, it’s weird to think of the millions of listeners who think they know what happened because Jay wrote about it. Who think he is the perfect, sweet, dream man who’d do anything to be wherever you are. Unless, of course, that place is Scotland—though you can see how that might have been difficult to rhyme.
And even still, despite your growing irritation, you can’t help but look at him in awe.
They play one song after another — not saying much — and you don’t know any of them, but they only get better. The crowd gets more excited, louder somehow, and Jay only gets harder to look away from. Seeing him like this, on stage, is overwhelming. His skin honeyed under the strong lights, slick with sweat making him glow. His thick fingers move quickly over the frets, his straight teeth bite his bottom lip. When he leans towards the mic, his lips brush the top of it, eyes meeting yours. You can see how people idolise him, idolise them, because holding his gaze, staring into the eyes of the man you once knew is impossible, and it’s an effort to stay upright on your weak knees.
A song called Helium closes to raucous screams and applause and all of the members look to Jay. You do the same. As the crowd calms down, he chuckles, tilting his head. Around his hairline, damp strands stick to his face, his temples, and he leans down, mouth a breath away from the mic. “This last song is actually, uh… It’s pretty personal, you know? It’s the first song I wrote when I moved back here,” he says, scrunching his nose. Jay is clearly nervous, his cheeks and neck turning rosy.
The girl behind you says, “He’s so cute when he’s shy!” And you hate that she has learned him enough to see what you do. Hate that she has learned him enough to have formed opinions on Jay and his tendencies, while being lucky enough not to know him personally.
Lucky enough to look at him and see hardly anything more than a blank slate upon which to project her every whim and fancy. This version of Jay, her Jay, that she has gotten to know through YouTube videos and overanalysing social media captions. Who she must imagine is very clear and upfront about his feelings, if that’s what she’s into. What does anyone in this crowd know about Jay? How lucky they all are to have only a part of the picture that makes up the whole, to have straightforward positive feelings for and towards this side of him that anyone with internet access can see. Lucky not to know what it’s like to fall asleep by his side, or to be scared half to death in the middle of the night to find him sleeping with his eyes half open. Lucky not know what it’s like to miss those things. To miss him.
“We don’t really do this one live, but Heeseung wasn’t lying when he said tonight was special.” His eyes flick over to you for the longest second and Jaehyun nudges your ribs.
While the crowd erupts once again, he shows you something on his phone. It’s his Notes app, with the words, get a fucking load of this male manipulator, written in all caps and bold. And because, yeah, I’m trying to, isn’t the right response, you can only offer your friend a forced chuckle before you gulp.
“So for what I think is the first time ever, here’s Carolina,” Jay says, launching into the opening chords. There is a clear difference between this song and the rest. It’s upbeat, and catchy, sounding almost like what you imagine would happen if The Beatles had made a song you enjoyed.
It is also, quite clearly, about you—though it was your father who told you to swim before you drown.
If you had your wits about you, you would probably turn on your heels and storm out. How unfair of Jay to do this. To sing about you and your life and the heartbreak he inflicted on you without so much as a simple text to let you know. Give you a heads up. Hey, I wrote a really fucking good song about our relationship for my first EP and reduced two years to a one night stand lmao. Unfortunately, you do not have your wits about you, and so, as you stand there bobbing your head to the beat and swaying, you cannot help but bite on your lip and stare indulgently up at Jay as he sings about what a good girl you are.
“How would I tell her that she’s all I think about?” Jay sings, looking at you. “Well, I guess she just found out.”
When Jay first told you about his dream, a pang of horror punched you in the gut. Fearing that your fate would be like that of girls everywhere, that he would be your tropey boyfriend, your canon event: the privileged, untalented SoundCloud rapper, or indie artist. All you could do was nod your head and smile stiffly as he told you how much he loved his guitar and writing music. It was to your great relief that Jay wasn’t just good, he was great. You’re certain that’s why, now, as you watch him sing about your relationship for hundreds of adoring fans, there is a flicker of admiration, of awe, right alongside your annoyance.
“She feels so good,” he sings over and over, with his eyes shut. A vein presses against his forehead. His neck.
With that, and a rapturous combination of applause and screaming, NAPE give a bow and leave the stage. They do not do an encore, though a good number of stragglers wait behind for one, while Aeri drags you and all of your friends through a door marked with restricted access. The corridor lights come on one by one as you walk further and further towards another door that she doesn’t hesitate to push open. All of the members are startled by your sudden entrance, but relax quickly at the sight of her.
“Baby!” Heeseung calls out, embracing Aeri, while you and everyone else stands around by the door.
Besides her, you’re the only other person who has met all of these people, and so, you’re tasked with introductions. Jaehyun greets everyone but Jay who stands there looking at him with a straight face. Thankfully, everyone is too caught up with Somi’s huge reactions and extra enthusiasm towards Sunghoon to pay anyone else any mind. He eats it right up, nodding at all the right moments and tucking blonde curls behind her ear while she speaks. Yizhuo, whose big plans for Jake Sim involved taking him to pound town, stands in the corner and stares at him from a distance while he drinks his water.
After filing out of the back exit, you quickly learn that trying to coordinate ten drunk people to use the Tube on a Friday night is more than a bit hellish. But somehow, you manage, with your arm looped through Jaehyun’s the whole way. Jay doesn’t take his eyes off of you, even as he and Sunghoon are tasked with keeping all six feet of Riki vertical.
What Aeri refers to as The NAPE House whenever she’s visiting Heeseung, is a four bedroom penthouse apartment that could surely hold more people than the pub they just performed at. There are people everywhere, influencers and other niche celebrities, drinking and laughing and grinding on each other. Not a phone in sight—only vlogging cameras. And on the black leather living room couch, you have a front row seat. A comfortable one you share with Heeseung and a sleeping Aeri.
“Can you do me a favour?” He lolls his head in your direction, yelling. “Will you get my hoodie from my bed?”
You make a show of rolling your eyes. “You owe me. Where’s your room?”
“Always.” Heeseung smiles. “It’s the last door in the hall, straight down.”
You weave through the crowd, throwing apologies over your shoulders and trying to remember exactly which hallway he was referring to. When you get there, his door is slightly ajar, a dim glow coming from the room right at the end of the hall like he said. The sight of the bed alone, dark sheets pulled tight and waiting, is enough to make you sleepy, a nagging exhaustion you only feel now. Noticeably missing though, is his hoodie, but it’s hardly an urgent matter. Surely not. Blinking heavily, the duvet calls for you, the corn on the cob plushie begging you to hold it—a weird choice for Heeseung, but maybe Jay got it for him.
Since you’re doing him a favour — and he uses your couch more than you — you figure there’s nothing wrong with resting your eyes on the end of his bed. It would be foolish not to seize this moment now that you have it. Carpe… moment. Closing the door behind you, you find a key in the lock, and if that isn’t a sign, you don’t know what is. With the door locked, you pass the guitar rack on the way to the bed, and make yourself comfortable, facing the ceiling. Sooner than you expect, your eyes flutter shut, honey musk tickling your nose.
A soft voice wakes you up. “Hey.”
You don’t need to see Jay Park to know it’s him. If not for the American shape of the word leaving his mouth, the fresh scent of his shower gel gives him away. How annoying, knowing someone. When you open your eyes, he’s leaning over you with a smile on his face, very close. Close enough to see that his hair is damp. To see the light from outside reflecting on the droplets that cover the solid muscle over his shoulders. The scar on the bridge of his nose.
A drop of water falls from his hair, hitting your chest—you swear you hear it sizzle. “What are you doing in here?” The words come out before you have a chance to think of something less accusatory to say. Hey, might have been a good place to start. You shoo him away with your hand, sitting up and facing him, ignoring the heat in your stomach. The butterflies. It’s a mistake to look at him properly, to see all of him. His white vest is vacuum sealed over his defined torso, cinching where his waist does. With his hair flat over his forehead, he looks so young again. Looks like himself. Looks like he’s yours. Like any second, he’s going to pull you into him and press his mouth into the crook of your neck, to say, I’ve missed you, gorgeous. You can feel it already, the shape of his phantom words against your skin, the hum of them from his chest. Jesus Christ. Why couldn’t you be one of those very strong women who’d fallen for an ugly man? How was it fair that Jay could break your heart and only get better looking?
“Shouldn’t I be asking you that?”
“I’m allowed to lie on Heeseung’s bed. He’s my friend.” With that, it’s all you do to hope Jay doesn’t pass this on, you calling Heeseung your friend.
Jay eyes you, wetting his lips. His attention, having all of it, warms your skin. “I’m sure you are, YN. But this is my bed, so if I let you lay on it… what does that make me?” His eyes narrow, just a little. Just enough. There’s something behind them, a challenge to match his low voice.
Everything in your life feels so different now. You have new friends, a new address, different interests and opinions, but still, a very agitating part of you is moved by Jongseong. Charmed. “I think that would still make you my evil ex-boyfriend,” you say, more as a reminder to yourself than anything else. A mental marking of the words, do not open, on the overflowing can of worms with Jay’s name on it—a solution about as effective as sellotape around a broken bone.
He pulls air through his teeth, nodding. “Fair assessment.”
It’s been long enough that the vague dim shapes of his bedroom have sharpened into some form of clarity. The names and faces on the posters visible now: Oasis, Bon Jovi, Destiny’s Child. His desk is completely free of clutter, only housing a huge monitor, a notebook, a mouse and a keyboard. It seems in your absence, he’s gotten a grip on keeping tidy. Mounted on the wall above the guitar rack is the plastic guitar that came with the old copy of Guitar Hero you bought for him. Your heart twists in your chest.
“So this is your room,” you announce. And just like that, the pieces of Heeseung’s drunken puzzle slot into place before your very eyes—he was already wearing his hoodie.
Jay hums, a smile tugging his mouth up at the corners. “You like it?”
“Yeah, I do. I mean, I’ve spent so long wondering what your life is like here. Where you hang out with your friends, if you still smoke. I’ve been really keen to find out your life is terrible.” You have no idea why you’re saying these things, but it’s difficult to stop now that you’ve started. “Seeing it though, seeing you on stage, seeing you at all. I’m really glad it isn’t, Jay.”
The crowd screaming his name. Singing along to lyrics he wrote. Of course he had to come here. There is no universe where Jay staying in Edinburgh, staying with you, was the right decision. All of those versions of reality play out in your head, split like a kaleidoscope—you are happy, Jay is not, there is more for him than you or Edinburgh can offer, and he resents you for that. Even if his method wasn’t ideal, he did the right thing by leaving, and the realisation forces a lump in your throat.
He mumbles your name, running his hand through his hair. The water makes it stay put like gel, pushed off his forehead, and his eyebrow piercing shimmers. “I didn’t even know you stayed here.”
“It was none of your business.”
“No, I… Yeah, you’re right, it wasn’t.” Jay looks like he has a billion things on his mind, you can practically hear the gears grinding against one another. “I’ve been wanting to see you is all. Catch up.”
A laugh bursts out of you, dry and bitter, as you stand up from the bed. “To catch up,” you repeat. “What, so you could tell me all about your perfect life in perfect London? So you could thank me for inspiring your discography?”
Jay’s jaw ticks when he clicks his tongue. “Do you think so low of me?”
“Hard not to.”
This seems to genuinely hurt him and some part of you takes delight in that fact. His face drops right away, a sad glimmer in his big eyes as he steps towards you. “I just wanted to make sure you were doing okay—more than.”
“I’m great, Jay.” You don’t bother wiping the first tear from your eye, but as soon as it falls, the floodgates open and there’s nothing you can do to close them. You can hardly see anything anymore, a fuzzy blob replaces Jay where he stands in front of you. “I just let go from a job I really loved and now I’m crying in my ex-boyfriend’s bedroom. Clearly, I’m…” Getting the words out is an effort so you stop, letting the sentence die around the block in your throat.
When you take your hands away from your leaking eyes, the heels of your palms are black with mascara and eyeliner, and Jay says nothing. He’s sitting on the end of the bed, hiding his face with his hands. In your head, a tiny drunk voice wills fervently for him to take you in his massive arms and pat your back. To rest his chin on the top of your head and tell you that it’s all going to be okay. That it’s all going to be good. You hate yourself for wanting that. For wanting him.
Instead, Jay looks up at you with wet eyes. “I really am sorry. It wasn’t meant to happen like that, I swear. I had everything planned out and I just… I don’t know.”
“After all this time, you’re telling me you don’t know why you did that to me?”
“It’s not as simple as that.”
“Elaborate then.”
“Before I met you, all I did was keep to myself, study, and think about coming back to London. That was it, okay. Being in a relationship was the absolute last thing I wanted back then an—”
You scoff, cutting him off. “Good to know.”
“That’s not what I… I was sure about you, YN. From the start, I was sure about you.” The rest of what comes out of his mouth is secondary, background noise to this.
You feel those words, in your bones, with every single fibre of your being. Recognise them. Because it’s exactly how you felt. There wasn’t a single part of you that would have believed or accepted anything other than the fact that he was the one. Your one—right from the day you met, you knew you wanted him.
Jay sighs, the sag of his broad shoulders catching your attention. “But I couldn’t ask you to do long distance, it wouldn’t have been fair.”
“Fair?” you repeat, hardly believing your ears. “You think disappearing was fair?”
“I thought I was doing the right thing, that it would be easier for both of us that way.”
The thought of hearing him say anything else to defend himself turns your stomach. Worse is the fact that you actually want to hear him out, pick his brain on it. Ask all the questions you never had the chance to. Try to make sense of the mess and sort it all out. Sort yourself out, finally. You just need a minute. Need a minute to get your head on straight, and that’ll be impossible with Jay watching you the way he is, his glossy eyes boring into yours. You fling open the door to his ensuite and shut it behind you before he has the chance to keep speaking.
Heat from the shower hits you immediately, condensation lingering in the corners of the mirror. It’s a beautiful bathroom, glossy white and matte black fixings, a deep sink basin with lots of counter space and a roomy shower. His hand wash and lotion are perfectly lined up by the tap, his watch and some rings placed neatly in front of them as if he wanted to take up as little space as possible. Despite how much makeup stains your palms, your eyes don’t look as horrific as you thought they would, it’s the swelling and redness that makes you look awful. His Le Labo soap smells warm and green, lathering nicely over your fingers when you finally spot something amiss. A blister pack sits between the tap and the wall, all of the tiny white pills gone bar one. Sertraline, reads the foil over the front when you pick it up, and for the second time since you and Jay have come across each other again, you throw up in his vicinity, vomiting into the sink.
The lone tablet clatters to the floor at your feet.
“Are you okay?” Jay asks. The door does nothing to muffle his concern.
How could you possibly answer that? I’m grand! Only gone and found your antidepressants HAHAHA. His antidepressants. Just thinking the word in relation to Jay is enough to make you wretch again. Nothing comes out.
“May I come in?” To your silence, he continues, escalating from polite question to concerned statement. “I’m coming in, okay?”
While you fight for breath over the sink, Jay counts loudly from one to five before the door clicks open behind you. In the mirror, you see his eyes drift to the floor and widen. He picks up the blister pack and puts it in his pocket, aiming for subtle but being more overt than you’ve ever seen. “I saw it, Jay,” you say. “I know.”
He nods slowly like he’s coming to terms with what’s happened. As if he’s the one finding out about his diagnosis. “It’s uh… I’m okay,” he offers weakly, though his reassurance only makes you feel worse.
Your palms itch against the counter, desperate to grab him by the shoulders and shake him. To yell in his face that he doesn’t have to act like he’s alright with everything all the time. Finally, you’ve found something about Jay that hasn’t changed. What a shame it had to be this. “You’re okay,” you repeat, speaking the words more like an affirmation than anything else.
“I’m seeing someone about it and I have good people around me. I’m okay.”
A chill runs over your spine, pulls the hairs on your arms straight up, at the way he says it. This, for Jay, is simply a part of life now, as ordinary and boring as brushing his teeth before bed or tying his shoelaces before he leaves the house. You brace against the sink, screwing your eyes shut again. Nothing changes when you open them, you’re still in Jay’s bathroom and he is still depressed.
“How long?” you ask, as if his answer will make a difference.
He looks away when your gaze meets his in the mirror and shrugs, his shoulders rising and falling in a stiff motion. You don’t press him on it. Whether it’s been one year or one day, the point is that he’s unwell. And the gaping chasm between his life and yours is big enough that you had no idea. God, you’ve been so selfish.
Neither of you says anything else, but it’s not until there’s a thump at his bedroom door and a muffled apology called out through it that you realise. Both of you let out the exact same laugh, a huffed breath from your noses, which only makes the pair of you laugh properly when your eyes meet. The crinkle of his eyes is still a delight, still heats you up from the inside out.
More than anything, you are desperate for this silence to end, desperate to be saying something, making conversation. “So,” you start, clearing your throat. “About this family of mine in Carolina.”
Jay’s cheeks pinken, a sweet, rosy tinge blooming against his skin. “That was just something I thought sounded good.” He was right, unfortunately, it did sound good.
This fact, however, does nothing to stop the harsh pull of embarrassment in your stomach. “I was being presumptuous, sorry.”
“No, it was… that song is definitely about you,” Jay admits, for better or for worse. “They all are, when I write anyway.”
Jesus. You still had an entire discography to listen to, all based around the worst event of your life so far. Such is the plight of dating an artist, you suppose. In the midst of your irritation with him over that, and sick pleasure at knowing your relationship — you — had impacted him as much as it — he — had you, was a flare of curiosity. All of his unknowable thoughts, the things you wished he said, existed only a mere couple of clicks away. You could listen to them all right now, read the lyrics. Given the dedication of NAPE’s fanbase, you were certain multiple Twitter threads had been posted with line-by-line analysis.
“Great!” you say, cheeks aching with the stretch of your lips as you give him a thumbs-up. “Thanks, champ.”
His laugh is warm, filling the space between you. “I wrote it thinking about your…” Jay scratches at the back of his neck, cheeks growing pinker by the second. The colour spreads down his neck and over his chest. “You used to talk about riding camp, when you were younger. That pretty chestnut horse you rode as a kid.”
“Carolina,” you supply uselessly, the name hardly audible over the thud of your pulse in your ears.
“The one and only.”
You gulp. “And here I thought I was well behaved.”
“There was that too, of course there was.” He’s smiling, but you can’t bring yourself to do the same.
You’re not even sure if Aeri knows you went to riding camp. “I can’t believe you remembered that.” Some twisted part of you wonders what else he remembers, what other Easter eggs he’d left behind for you. For everyone.
He seems bewildered by this, his brows furrowing, head tilting. “Who could forget anything about you?” Each word is as sincere as the last, breeding a fascinating and surely singular type of hurt deep in the pit of your stomach.
“You know, I don’t usually throw up so often,” you blurt out, turning to the mess you left in the basin and flicking the tap on.
His reflection smiles in the mirror, leaning against the door frame. “Am I that bad?”
“You’re so much worse.”
“Four words every depressed person wants to hear.” He’s still smiling, his posture relaxed, slanted, but it’s the look in his eyes that gives him away, breaks your heart. How glossy they’ve become in the light.
“You’re really okay?”
Jay nods. “I’m okay.”
Every part of you aches to believe him, willing with every fibre of your being that he’s telling the truth. Okay isn’t good, but it’s a start, and soon he’ll be more than that. He has to be. Without a second thought you wrap your arms around him, feeling his warmth as he hugs you back. “I know I can’t take back or change what I did, but I really am sorry,” he mumbles into your shoulder.
And all of a sudden, it’s too much. His soft lips on your skin, the vibration into the crook of your neck. The familiar squeeze of his strong arms around you, his faint honeyed scent. The fact that despite everything, despite the frenzied red flags waving in your brain, you want to believe him. You do believe him.
You pull away, quickly, and take a huge step back, hitting your hip against the sink. “Do you have a spare toothbrush?”
Jay watches you for a moment, his eyes catching on each of your features like he’s seeing you for the first time. He clears his throat, scrunching his nose with a sniffle before speaking. “I might have a spare head for my electric somewhere.”
“Great,” you say, while he opens the cabinet with pursed lips. “Thanks.”
Those lips. You feel them while you brush your teeth alone in his bathroom, and while Jaehyun walks you home. While you shower, and while you collapse into bed. I really am sorry. God. How much easier this all would be if his belated apology fixed all of this.
jongseong 😽: Thank you for coming to the show, it really meant a lot to me having you there
you: No prob 👍
Under your face, your pillow muffles a would-be bloodcurling scream. “No prob, thumbs-up emoji…?” you repeat into the fabric, affronted by your word choice.
you: Just texted “no prob” unironically
minjeong: To who 😭
you: Rhymes with Jark Pongseong
minjeong: You should have said YES prob or ALL prob in fact you shouldn’t even have responded to whatever that freak loser (VERY DEROGATORY) said to my sweet angel girl
you: It was kind of sweet tbf, he thanked me for going to the gig and then said it meant a lot to him
Minjeong calls you immediately. You answer but can’t say anything for the genuine wave of fear that crashes over you. Through the phone you hear the click of her heels against the pavement, rumble of traffic, roaring engines and beeping horns, the soundtrack to the functioning woman’s afternoon. “You are the lostest cause of them all,” she says. “I thought you were over this insane person.”
“I am over him. I am also allowed to think he is very good looking and incredible onstage.”
“Shut up!” Minjeong sighs. “Also, did you take my coat when you stayed? The wool one?”
“I wish.”
“I’m hanging up now.” Three beeps follow her words, and her black wool coat stares at you from the open wardrobe.
The room spins around you when you sit up from bed. You can feel your brain swooshing around in your skull. Waking up hungover in last night’s makeup and outfit is never a treat, especially not when last night’s makeup is coming off of your face in crumbs every time you blink, and the outfit is a tank top and Aeri’s sequin microshorts. Somehow you make it to the kitchen where you sway by the counter and make a cup of black coffee, flinching at the sound of Aeri’s key twisting in the lock.
“Ugh, the show was perfect, YJ! It really sucks you couldn’t make it, but I know they’ve got some other gigs coming around the city so I’ll text you deets, alright?” she says. “I dropped my film off after yoga this morning, but I was so drunk last night… not hopeful.” Her voice gets louder in the hallway, an ear-splitting squeal sounding through the flat as she approaches and blows a kiss down the phone before appearing in the doorway. “Hey, you!” The grin on her face is wide and shows all of her teeth.
“Hey,” you say, it’s the only thing you can muster as you watch her lean in the doorframe, decked out in a matching brown workout set that ALO sent her in PR.
Her eyebrows give a suggestive wag as she says in a singsong voice, “Guess who I had breakfast with?”
The full scope of Aeri’s circle is still unclear to you, so the answer could be anyone. Playing it safe, you simply ask, “Who?”
“Your boyfriend! Almost boyfriend.”
“And that would be…”
“Don’t be coy, YN. Jay told me all about last night.”
“Jay?” It’s a wonder that your eyes don’t fall from their sockets—it would’ve shocked you less if she’d suggested that Byeon Wooseok was your boyfriend.
“I wanted to put in a good word for you, but he already wants you bad. Never seen anything like that, he asked a million questions about you. If I didn’t have to get home to shoot I’d still be there telling him about your commute.”
“He doesn’t. At all.” You clench your fists behind your back, denting half-moons into your palms with your fingernails. “We dated for a few years at uni, but he…” The sting isn’t enough to distract you from the swoop in your stomach, so you settle instead for clawing at the back of your hand. “He had to move back home and we agreed it would be better to end things.” No matter how many times you say it, it doesn’t get any easier.
Aeri’s face flickers through the full spectrum of human emotion, never quite settling on one.
“I know I should have said something earlier, it’s just…” Embarrassing. It’s embarrassing that not only can Jay live without you, he can thrive. Meanwhile, you can’t even secure a job interview. “I don’t know.”
Finally, she pulls you into a hug, all citrus and sweat, and you sink into her arms. “I have two pieces of good news and one piece of bad news. What do you want first?” she asks, pulling away just enough to look at you.
Clearing your throat, you ask, “Can you do good news, bad news, good news? Like a sandwich?”
Aeri leans against the island opposite you, smiling. “Okay, good news: you don’t owe me, or anyone else, every last detail about your life, and given the whole me dating your ex-boyfriend’s best friend thing, I get why you kept that from me, alright? You don’t need to apologise for that. The bad news is that said ex-boyfriend is definitely still in love with you, but — and this is the next good part — you guys broke up because he didn’t think he could have London and you, right?”
Put simply, “Yes.”
“You’re in London now, you’re both single…” Aeri lets her eyes and hands spell out the rest of her sentence.
“Jay doesn’t… It’s not like that.”
“Okay,” she says, though you can tell she doesn’t buy it. “What about you? Do you still want him?”
What you really want, more than anything, is to feel secure. To feel like the people in your life won’t just up and leave at any given moment. You want to be with someone you can rely on, someone dependable. A person you can call and know they’ll answer—or at least call you back. You’re not sure if that person is Jay.
“I don’t know,” you admit.
“You don’t need to know that right now. What you need is to sit down,” Aeri says, guiding you by the shoulders to one of the stools under the island. “Watching you sway like that is giving me a hangover by association. I’ll make you something to eat.”
She makes you a cup of herbal tea and some fruit topped French toast with bacon. You inhale it before she shoos you out of the kitchen. “You need to sleep this shit off, okay? We need to leave at eight tomorrow morning.”
Fuck. She’d agreed to let you tag along on her work day tomorrow so you’d finally have something interesting to post on Substack. You didn’t realise that would involve facing the public so early in the day. “Of course!”
yizhuo: dear sweetcheeks bubblegum fairy woman consider this our final correspondence as i’m literally about to die idk who the fuck was sick near me but they got me brother stay safe also tell that fuckface riki he can stop praying on my downfall ok it worked.
you: i’ll pass that message along for you… get well soon angel pie dream lady :( do u need me to bring anything by for you?
yizhuo: jimin’s playing sexy nurse this weekend dw i’m right wehre i wanna be 🤤🤤🤤🤤🤤🤤🤤🤤🤤🤤🤤🤤🤤 in other more relevant news, interview is opening another office…….good day for the unemployed, look how many openings there are !!!
Her next message has fifteen links, and those are just the jobs you’re qualified for. These must be the millions of doors Somi was talking about. In a full-bellied haze, you write a new cover letter and apply to every last one of them. After that, with renewed pep in your hungover step, you climb back into bed and watch as many episodes of Pretty Little Liars as you can handle without breaking the screen in half at the sight of Mr. Fitz and his minor-student-girlfriend Aria. It’s two. You manage two episodes and sleep for the rest of the day.
At eight in the morning, when Aeri is ready to leave, you have, unfortunately, reached the end of your life. And as it turns out, Jennifer’s Body had it all wrong, hell is not a teenage girl. If only. Hell, you’re learning, is whatever strain of the common cold is currently nerfing your immune system.
Shivering under your duvet, you scroll through the pictures you took after the gig, smiling, laughing, completely oblivious to the fact that those would be some of your last moments on this mortal plane. Probably you’ll never, ever drink again. Never do anything again. Your throat is swollen. Raw and painful when you swallow. A dull ache reaches all of your joints, weighing them down. Swallowing ibuprofen is a tear-inducing, Herculean task, but you manage, and finally, sleep comes over you.
For the next few hours, you fade in and out of slumber until you quit trying. Your throat still hurts, but the swelling is down. When you blow your nose into your last tissue, your ears pop and the thumping in your head is actually at the front door. The Grim Reaper here to… well, reap, you suppose. He even knows your name and yells it incessantly like some sort of evil, murderous baby who’s just learned a new word. Gun! Knife! YN! It’s only after your fourth, weak, attempt at calling out for Aeri that you remember she’s not home, and quickly resign to your fate, dragging yourself out of bed and then all the way to the door. Against the wall you catch your breath before pulling it open.
“I’m not here to bother—” Jay stops short.
“Jay?” He is hazy and beautiful in front of you. His sunglasses hold his hair away from his face, and none of the three buttons on his black polo shirt are done up, exposing just enough of his collarbone and chest to make your cheeks heat up. He is the cruel mirage of an oasis in the desert. “Jay,” you say again, reaching out your aching arm to touch him.
Against your fingertip, he is completely solid and real, which is more than a little mortifying. He looks down to where your hand touches his chest, where your hand is still, for some reason, touching his chest. He grabs your wrist, his touch soft but scorching through your long sleeve, and puts your arm back down at your side carefully. “You’re sick.”
“A little.”
“Okay,” he says slowly, wearing his thinking face. Head tilted, tongue poking out between his soft pink lips, the same way he would when he was trying to calculate how long it might take your food delivery to reach your place, and if there was enough time for the two of you to share the shower first. “I just need to get Heeseung’s computer and then I’ll be out of your hair. You need to put on something warm.”
You step aside to let Jay into the flat and he goes straight to Aeri’s room, coming back with a laptop tucked under his arm. He inspects you from head to toe and frowns. “Drink some tea, okay? Lemon and ginger with lots of honey.” It’s the last thing he says before he disappears.
Heeding Doctor Jay’s advice, you use the last sliver of your energy to hobble into the kitchen so you can make yourself a cup of lemon and ginger tea with lots of honey. Equipped with a steaming mug, you go back to your room where you pull a jumper on and stuff yourself into your dressing gown, before crawling back into bed. As soon as your head hits the pillow, you fall asleep, lemon and ginger tea with lots of honey cooling down on your nightstand, untouched.
It’s Jay’s gentle voice that rouses you out of your thick sleep, saying your name over and over until your eyes open. “Hey,” he says, his palm massive on your arm. His glasses slip down the straight bridge of his nose but he doesn’t push them up. “Aeri gave me her keys and I—”
“Aeri’s at work,” you say, correcting him.
He smiles. “Yeah, I just saw her.”
“She’s on the other end of the city.”
“So here’s the cool thing about London — and you might not know this — but we have this thing called the Tube and it got me there and back.”
“But it’s so… it’s like an hour one way.”
Jay waves a dismissive hand, his smile unwavering. “Forty-five minutes.”
The words he’s saying are all words you’ve come across. Words for which you know the dictionary definition and spelling, but it’s taking a lot for your brain to make sense of them and their implications in these particular sequences, coming from him. Fuzzy-headed, you lie back down, sinking into the pillow and screwing your eyes shut.
“You okay?” When you open your eyes, he’s watching you with an arched brow, inspecting you like you are fungi on a petri dish and not his dying ex-girlfriend.
“The common cold doesn’t normally kill people, right?”
Instead of laughing or being charmed by these, your final words, he tilts his head. “Well, it can lead to more severe forms of sickness like pneumonia or sepsis, which could, quite easily, kill you, yes,” he says, delivering the information to you in a tone that suggests he was reading about this on the way over.
This had been one of your favourite things about Jay, his insatiable curiosity and willingness to share what he’d learned with whoever was around. He could talk about any subject for hours and you were always keen to listen. It got to the point that you would direct your queries to him instead of the Google search bar, just for a reason to text him. Hey Jay, is thirty minutes too long to cook a steak? Way too long??? I’m coming over. Hey Jay, what’s the name of that Bon Jovi song you played for me? Hi beautiful, it’s called Always :). Hi baby, would you still love me if I was a worm? I’m always going to love you, YN. No matter what.
“Great, Jay. Thanks.” You lean up on your elbows, coughing with your mouth open like a child. “Still a fount of knowledge, I see.”
Bright red blooms over his cheeks and neck. “As always,” he says, though he doesn’t seem happy about this fact, scrunching his nose. “I… uh… I made you some soup.”
“Your mum’s dakgaejang?” you whisper. To his sheepish smile, you mumble, “That shit could cure anything.”
“It always did,” Jay agrees, lifting the steaming bowl from your desk. He gasps at something, putting the bowl back down and holding up a magazine for you to look at. The magazine, with him and the rest of NAPE on the cover. “Wow, I had no idea you liked us this much,” he says, flipping through the pages to find the article.
It hurts to roll your eyes, but you do it anyway. “Don’t flatter yourself, Park. I bought it because it was my first printed write-up.” And last, you do not add.
The lump in your throat is immediate and all-consuming. Seeing the magazine was a real shock, knowing that — though uncredited — you had left a mark on the world, no matter how small. And that thousands of NAPE fans around the country, and in all nations that print Daydream Mag, had you to thank for transcribing the interview. It wasn’t much, but it was yours. Jay’s eyes turn glassy and his gaze falls to the pages once more, running his finger over the words, your words. The thud of your heart in your ears pads the silence. You wonder if he’s thinking what you were, that you’ve both made it. Both of your dreams unspooling before your very eyes, and somehow, after all these years, your paths found a way to cross again. In print, no less.
At least, that’s how it felt before you lost your job.
“Wow,” Jay whispers. “This is really special, YN. You’re amazing.”
The article wasn’t much to write home about. And sure, when you found out, some of your work friends treated you to drinks that evening, and got a celebratory cake made. And yes, you called your mum in happy tears from the office toilet. But seeing Jay make a fuss over it on your behalf is nothing short of humiliating. Your cheeks burn at the sight—a chart-topping artist praising the ex-girlfriend he ghosted over some paragraphs no one else knew she wrote.
God, what a joke.
“You’re the one who said all the words, and the guys.” You fiddle with the loose thread at the top of your duvet cover. “All I did was read some notes, watch a recording and type it all up.”
He shakes his head and in a blink, he’s crouching by the side of your bed, looking up at you with huge eyes. “That was our first big feature, my mum cut out the parts about me and stuck them to the fridge. Heeseung’s parents got it blown up and framed for the living room.”
“Anybody could’ve written it.”
“I know, but ‘anybody’ didn’t write it.” Jay’s eyes search yours, like he’s begging you to see where he’s coming from, that he means it. “You did.”
It’s only when you cough, a harsh rattle in your throat, that he seems to remember himself, remember the situation and the dakgaejang on your desk. Without a word, he helps you sit up in bed, propping your pillow up before bringing the soup over on a tray. Steam curls up from the bowl, heating your face, and the first spoonful is rich and spicy and perfect. Tender shredded chicken and soft vegetables. A long, contended hum rumbles out of you. “Holy shit,” you murmur, already feeling your blocked nostrils starting to open up. It tastes more like a memory than anything else. Like Jay’s broad shoulders in the kitchen, standing over your stove. His hoodie over your shoulders and the soft hum of the washing machine as you watched him cook. Like cuddling on the couch with a stranger and asking him to stay. Whether it was period-induced sensitivity or that food really was the quickest way to someone’s heart, you fell for him that night.
Jay gives a firm nod. “Alright, I know I’m not exactly who you’d want to spend your time with, so is there someone I could call to look after you? At least until Aeri gets off work?”
Hearing it from him, the reminder that he has a life and things to worry about that no longer include you stings the backs of your eyes. Another cold symptom, probably. You take another glorious spoonful of rice and soup, chewing slowly.
“I’ll call Riki when my phone’s back on.”
As if on cue, your phone starts to life, a black and white film strip of you and Aeri staring up at you from the lockscreen. Jay chews his lip, watching you with his hands on his hips, clearly eager to leave, and, to his luck, Riki answers on the first ring. “Yo, YN. What you saying?” he asks, delighted as the music in the background comes to a stop.
“Are you busy?”
“Not really — ow — okay, yeah, I’m kind of busy. What’s good, though? You alright?”
Your cuticles sting where your thumb bothers them, picking at the raw skin unthinkingly. Terrified of admitting to Riki that you need him, you say, “Yeah, no, I’m fine. Talk later, yeah?”
“Safe,” he says and cuts the phone.
Jay raises a brow. “It’s okay to ask for help when you need it. You know that, right?”
“I know,” you say, trying to convince yourself. “I’ll call Somi then Jaehyun.”
“No!” he blurts out, covering his mouth with his palm as if he can push the words back in. “I mean, you don’t need to bother him when I’m here, I could stay. If you want me to stay, I can stay.”
There’s no time to overthink his reaction, nor is there time to overthink the flutter in your chest at the sight of it, because as soon as he’s done speaking, you’re already saying, “You can stay.”
He only nods and stays there, standing over you. He is very still. It doesn’t even look like he’s breathing. Or blinking. Unless he’s blinking at the exact same time you are.
“You can also sit on the bed if you want,” you offer.
He gestures vaguely towards his body. “These are my outside clothes.”
You could have laughed at that, the idea that maybe his smart trousers and the Ralph Lauren polo shirt tucked into them were his casual inside clothes. Unfortunately, because he is Jay, and you are you, you’re too busy being struck by his remembering such a mundane detail to joke around. A silly thing you’ve since grown out of worrying about. You point him towards the drying rack in the living room where Heeseung had left some laundry. You’re not sick enough to tell Jay he can change in front of you, but you are sick enough to picture it as he closes your door behind him.
Sick enough to picture the smooth expanse of his back, muscles flexing while he pulls his T-shirt over his head. The cinch of his waist, the unfairly round curve of his ass, his Calvin Klein boxer briefs clinging to him like a second skin. His toned arms and thighs. It only takes a second for him to come back, fully dressed, in Heeseung’s grey sweatpants and white Henley that hugs his biceps. You open your mouth to say something casual like, I wasn’t picturing you naked, or you look nice in clothes, but he uses the bottom of his shirt to clean off his glasses and the sight winds you. Dark ink sticks out of his waistband, round edges touching his waist.
“You…” The sentence dies on its way out, your finger shaking as you point at him. “When did you get that?”
“Get wha—Oh.” He looks down at his side, the tips of his ears burning pink. “Two years ago? Last year? I don’t really remember.” Putting his glasses back on, he lifts the left side of his shirt properly, tugging at his waistband too. Only a little, only enough to make your heart race and show the word, nape, written in huge swirling cursive. “Hurt so bad, but it’s pretty, right?”
Pretty sexy, more like. “Yeah. Pretty,” you agree, willing for him to stop showing off his skin before you do something unwise.
“I actually have a couple now.”
The rest of Jay’s tattoos, all one of them, are very tiny and very him—a treble clef behind his right ear. He blushes when you tell him you like it, giving a sheepish smile as he gets under the covers beside you, careful not to knock your bowl over.
“You’re not scared of getting sick?”
“Nah.” Jay shakes his head. “I’m sure you’ll take good care of me if I do.”
“Whatever,” you mumble, focusing on your dakgaejang instead of your blushing cheeks.
When you finish eating you take a nap, eventually waking to the long set sun and Jay bringing over a cup of tea and some paracetamol. He crouches by your side and feels your forehead with the back of his hand. “How’re you feeling, sleepyhead?”
“Is Aeri home?”
“She texted saying she was going to crash at ours. With Heeseung.”
“Do you think you could stay over?” you ask slowly.
Jay tilts his head, eyebrows meeting in the middle. He’s as taken aback by your request as you are. For a long while, he simply stares up at you, like he’s waiting for you to take it back. You don’t. And so, finally, he nods and says, “I can stay over. Absolutely, I can stay over.”
After a surprisingly restful night of sleep, your second day with the cold begins with your head on Jay’s chest and your leg around him. Neither of you says anything about that.
For breakfast, he makes toast soldiers and beans, and you can’t contain your excitement, even though it hurts your throat to speak. “This was, like, the only breakfast I ate when I was little,” you gush, taking a picture to show your mum. “Especially when I was sick. This is perfect, Jay. Thank you.”
From the other side of the table, he watches you dunk a strip of buttered toast into your dippy egg with a smile on his face. “I know, YN. I’m just glad you still like it.”
You sniff, ignoring the heat rushing to your cheeks and neck—Yizhuo was right, this cold is no joke. Rubbing your hands together, you let crumbs fall to your plate and pull your dressing gown tighter around yourself, redoing the belt.
Back in bed, you warm your hands against a cup of tea while Jay opens your laptop. He insists there is a YouTube video you must see, but when he opens the site, the very first video is NAPE Swap Favourite Snacks | Snacked, uploaded fifteen minutes ago. Great. As it turns out, you had it all wrong, hell is not the common cold. Hell, you’re learning, is whatever the fuck is happening to you right now. This cannot be real life. All you did was watch that stupid video of them spotting each other’s lies. And then the one where they played most likely to with Variety. And showed Glamour what was on their phones.
Every inch of your body burns. “I didn’t put that there,” you blurt out. “Should we watch it ironically?”
A shudder racks through Jay and he scowls. “I kind of do not like to… look at myself. At all. So, no. Thanks though.”
Nothing about his tone or demeanour suggest that he’s joking. The thought that someone so beautiful, that Jay, could feel that way seems senseless. “If I had that face…”
“You’d what?” His straight teeth dent his bottom lip, curious eyes roving your face. Whatever insecurities plagued him a second ago are long forgotten now apparently. To your silence, he says, “I’m glad you don’t have my face, I really like yours.”
When this is all said and done, you’ll have to see a doctor about whatever part of the cold is making your heart race like this. “Just show me the video,” you mumble.
“Yes, ma’am.”
What if forks were made of salt? is eight minutes and twenty-four seconds of some white guy asking and answering what you now feel is an essential question. What if forks were made of salt? Would every bite of steak be perfect? Glossing over the mild existentialism at the end, the video is uplifting, awe-inspiring.
So much so that you and Jay discuss it for an hour before he says, “I bought one.”
Your jaw drops. “No way.”
“Yeah way! I’ll let you try it ou—” Jay’s ringing phone cuts him off and steals the smile from his lips. “Fuck,” he mutters, wiping his face with his palm. “Sorry. I’ve been ducking our manager’s calls, kind of, so I have to take this.”
Nosiness gets the better of you. “Put it on speaker.”
Jay obliges, screwing his eyes shut like he’s bracing himself. Through the phone, his manager’s voice is soft, kind, when he launches straight into his spiel. “I’m trying to bear with you here. I get it, I swear, but if you don’t have lyrics, can you just tell me that? We’ll figure it out, but you need to let me help you.”
Immediately, you regret asking Jay to put the phone on speaker, feeling your stomach drop.
He lets a quiet second pass before sighing. “I don’t have lyrics, Sunoo.” At this, the groan that comes through the phone is never-ending. “Yet,” he adds, rubbing his temples.
“I really did not want you to say that.” Sunoo sighs. “But it’s okay. See, you told me the truth and nothing bad happened. We’ll work something out, okay. Just take it easy, talk to your bandmates, and answer your fucking phone when I call you.”
“Got it.”
Sunoo cuts the phone abruptly and Jay hides his face in his hands, ears burning red.
“Ar—” He utters your name, interrupting you. “Yeah?”
“I don’t really want to talk about this right now.”
You reach out for him, palm resting on his knee and giving it a squeeze. He rests his calloused palm over your hand, locking his fingers with yours. There goes your heart, racing again. And what’s left of the day passes in half-awake snippets. The opening scene of The Matrix here, some spoonfuls of hot soup there, until you finally settle down for the night next to Jay. He falls asleep first, his strong arm around your shoulders holding you close. The thump of his heart is soothing as a lullaby. His chest rises and falls steadily with his slow breathing, in stark contrast to the shallow breaths you’re fighting for, until finally, you fall asleep too.
Hours later, a coughing fit wakes you up, skin damp with a cold sweat as you lean over your side of the bed. It’s relentless, each wheezy hack aching a spot in the back of your skull—your throat has never hurt so much in your life. Jay rushes out of the bed and comes back with a cup of water, rubbing circles on the wet fabric of your t-shirt with his palm while you try to catch your breath. When you manage to, you drink the water in gulps, finishing it quickly while he squints at the boxes on your nightstand before opening one of them—antiseptic throat spray. He pushes your hair away from your face, tucking it behind your ears and watching you with worry in his massive eyes. “Can you open up for me, baby?” he asks softly. When you do, he positions the nozzle between your lips and clears his throat. “It’s going to be a little uncomfortable, yeah?”
You nod, blinking with heavy eyelids. He sprays it three times and it takes a lot of work not to gag. A little uncomfortable might be the understatement of the century, but already the menthol is soothing your throat.
“There you go,” he murmurs, taking the spray out of your mouth. “Atta girl.” His large palm rests on your cheek, his thumb wiping your tears.
At this, at all of it — him being here, doing this for you with no complaints — your stomach is in knots. You wrap your fingers around his wrist, keeping his hand in place. “Why are you being so nice to me?” you croak.
In the lamplight, his eyes flicker over every part of your face before he sniffs. “Let’s try and get some sleep.”
“Jongseong…” His full name slips out of you, like you’re back in uni. Like you’re back together—still together.
He says nothing, only closing the lid on the spray and helping you lie back down before joining you in bed. He doesn’t say anything when you curl into his side or when he wraps his arms around you.
Then, right when you blink for the last time, you feel the rumble of his chest against your ear. He says, “You make it so easy.”
It’s another three days before you feel better and Jay spends all of them at your side. At the end of it all, though there’s no reason for Jay to stay any longer, hugging him goodbye is bittersweet. But in all of your time apart, your phone doesn’t get much rest from seeing his name on it. And you don’t get sick of texting him back. Texting him first.
you: We’re having a movie night on Friday!!! Heeseung is coming so I was wondering if you wanted to come along too? Also it would be nice to see you again if you’re not sick of seeing me
you: Or just sick in general… how are you feeling actually?
jongseong 😽: That sounds really nice!!! I’d love to join you guys thank you for thinking of me ❤️
jongseong 😽: Who could ever be sick of seeing you? If anything I’m surprised you’re not sick of me
jongseong 😽: This is a serious emergency ik it’s 8am but please text back
jongseong 😽: HIIIII can u reply rn
jongseong 😽: Heeseung said you liked the choux vanilles from Toad’s so I picked some up for you even though you did NOT reply in my time of need. Are you home? I’ll leave these at your doorstep and get out your hair
you: THANK YOU THANKY OUU THANK YOU THANK YOU
you: You can come in! I’m getting ready to meet Yizhuo for breakfast but maybe we can head out together?
jongseong 😽: Sounds goood!!!
jongseong 😽: It was really nice seeing you yesterday morning, even if it was only for a little bit. I didn’t mean to make it weird and ik that doesn’t make it any better but I’m really sorry
you: Noooo!!! I swear you didn’t make anything weird, I had a lot of fun with you and I wish we could have spent more time together!
When Heeseung arrives for movie night an hour early, he arrives alone—not counting the two bottles of wine and three pints of ice cream he brought with him. “Hey!” he says, smiling from ear to ear. “You look well, I’ve heard awful things.”
You roll your eyes, taking his offerings and letting him in. “Trust me, it was much worse than whatever you heard.”
“Five days with Jay though, how was that?” he asks in a sing-song voice, following you into the kitchen. At this, your smile is immediate and very wide, so much so that he raises his brows, beaming too. “Wow, that good, huh?”
You turn away, putting the wine in the fridge and the ice cream in the freezer, trying your best to look any less elated. “Did you ask him?” you ask, genuinely curious.
Heeseung shakes his head, sinking into one of your dining chairs at the table. He is quiet for long enough to make you wonder if you’d imagined that second night, what he’d said. You make it so easy. Five simple words that your mind has allowed to colour the rest of the week, and all of your conversations since, rosy. To think harder about how Jay cooked an endless supply of dakgaejang for you and Aeri, restocking your groceries afterwards. How you sat with your back to the bathtub while he washed your hair over the edge of it.
Five simple words that may have been nothing more than that.
Finally, Heeseung says, “I didn’t have to ask, he was texting me nightly updates and gave me a full debrief when he got back.”
“Wow,” you repeat. “That good, huh?”
Shrugging off his jacket, he nods. “Better—” He stops short at the sight of Aeri in the doorway. She’s in her pyjamas, scrunching her wet hair in an old T-shirt and holding her phone to her ear. A great big grin tugs his lips up at the corners, scrunches his eyes. “Hey, baby,” he says, pulling her into his arms, splashes of pink hitting his white T-shirt when he leans down to peck her lips.
She seems just as delighted, holding the speaker against her chest as she looks at you to ask, “Is it you that hasn’t tried that mussels from Lilly’s?” When you nod she puts the phone back to her ear. “Could you add another portion of mussels and black bean sauce to the order, please? Okay, perfect, see you at eight!”
Just the mention of food makes your stomach grumble, hunger taking over as if you didn’t have a bowl of rice and stew an hour ago. From the mini charcuterie board you’d been preparing before Heeseung arrived, you eat a slice of smoky chorizo. And another. Aeri joins you, lifting the wedge of cheddar you bought earlier and taking a bite straight out of it. She hums, pleased, while you watch in horror.
“So that’s actually for sharing,” you point out belatedly.
“It’s only you two.” Shrugging, she puts the cheese down, cutting off her teeth mark. “And Jay,” she adds, looking around as if he might pop out from behind something. “Where is he anyway?”
“On his way. Probably?” Heeseung suggests.
“Probably? You live together, what do you mean probably?” Aeri asks.
“I’ve been out all day. Shall I ring him and see?”
You shake your head. “We’re not watching anything until eight o’clock, he’s got half an hour.”
Armed with snacks, you all set up the living room together. Charcuterie plate in the middle of the table for easy access while you wait for dinner, chilled wine and carton of apple juice, the coveted final packet of salt & vinegar crisps which you plan to steal so Jay can have them. Aeri’s in control of the remote, so the three of you watch YouTube videos of eighteen-year-olds playing Dress to Impress on Roblox while you wait for food and Jay to arrive. Eight p.m. comes quickly and with no sign of either, though it seems like you’re the only one to take notice as Aeri and Heeseung are fully locked in on rating the looks coming down the runway.
“One star.” He groans, gesturing at the TV with both of his palms, furious. “The theme was sea monster, why are you wearing a beret and holding an ice cream cone?”
It’s half-eight when your takeaway arrives, and your phone lights up in your lap.
jongseong 😽: Can’t make it tonight
jongseong 😽: Sorry
Not many things can wipe the Lilly’s-induced smile from your face, but this does the job. In a split second. Worsened by the fact that he doesn’t say anything else. Beside you, Heeseung and Aeri open every container, humming with increased volume and enthusiasm at the sight and smell of each new part of your meal.
jongseong 😽: Tied up with recording but I would’ve loved to see you!
You split a pair of wooden chopsticks, stealing a salt & chilli covered chip from the box in Aeri’s lap. She doesn’t stop you. Nor does she complain when you take more. Heeseung hands you an oil-spotted brown paper bag, chicken balls, but still, the stir in your stomach persists, disappointment rather than hunger.
jongseong 😽: Are you free in the morning? Coffee date?
jongseong 😽: *coffee run
you: No worries!!!!! A coffee date sounds really nice :)
you: *coffee run
jongseong 😽: :)
Locking your phone, you tuck it under your thigh and reach over to open a bottle of the wine Heeseung brought. “Jay can’t make it,” you say, hating how small and upset you sound. Heeseung frowns and Aeri squeezes your knee. You’re the one who presses play on the remote, and Superbad’s opening credits start up, while the empty spot to your left gets colder and colder.
jongseong 😽: Hiiiii sorry again about last night, are we still on for this morning?
jongseong 😽: Ik it’s so early hahaha
You almost drop your toothbrush in the sink at the sight of his name in your phone, rushing to text back.
you: Wowwwww Park, are you trying to bail on me already…? Again? Sick.
jongseong 😽: No way! I’ve already left the flat!!!
Right away, a picture of Jay on the Tube appears in the thread, his smiling cheeks and eyes poking out over the top of a thick black scarf. You heart-react to the picture then remove it, replacing it with a friendly thumbs-up instead—there is, however, no fix for the butterflies in your stomach. The heat in your cheeks. You gargle mouthwash and pack your bag before running off to go meet him at once. So excited, so jittery, you can’t even read the thriller you packed for the commute.
Through the café window, you see Jay before he sees you. He’s drumming his fingers against the table, lips pressed together, his eyes on the door. His hair is short and styled so it sits up off his forehead, spiky sort of. You’ve never seen it as short as this. It’s good, you think, that you’ve seen him first, because now you can turn on your heel and go home to address the thump in your chest. As if feeling your eyes on him, he turns around, gaze meeting yours right away, and a grin breaks out over his face. Crinkles his eyes. Dimples his cheek. Takes your breath away. You can’t help but smile too as you hurry inside. He’s standing when you reach the table.
“Hey,” Jay says, pulling you into a hug that smells like honey and smoke and doesn’t last nearly long enough. “I really am sorry about last night.”
“Don’t worry about it, you’re here now.”
He nods, grinning. “I like your jacket, it’s cute.”
“Right? It’s Minjeong’s.” You look up at him, overwhelmed by the closeness of his face to yours, by the handsomeness of said close face. “You cut your hair,” you say, because it’s the only thought you’re having that has nothing to do with how good he looks and smells.
Jay’s lips curl into a sheepish smile. “Thanks for noticing.”
“Of course.” You nod. “You look like a baby.”
And there it is again, that grin. A laugh. “Great, because that’s exactly what I was going for. Thank you, YN.” He gestures to the table, at the steaming mug across from his seat. “I got you a latte.”
He really did! And the art on top of it is really normal!! It’s a love heart!!! And your actual heart is beating at a rate others might hear and think: wow, she’s being really normal right now! Hey, everybody!! Come take a look at how normal she’s being!!!
“Are you ageist?” you ask, taking your seat. To his furrowed brows, you continue. “There’s nothing wrong with looking like a baby. I was a baby once, you know.”
Jay sits down slowly, studying you over the rim of his cup and taking a long sip before he says, “I was too.”
Something about it all, seeing him like this, in a café and not studying, is strange. Jay was big on brewing his own coffee, steeping his own tea—exam season was the only justifiable time to splurge on delicious multi-hyphenate beverages. You take a sip of your own drink and try to come up with something normal to say, settling on, “I can’t believe we’re getting a coffee and it was your idea.”
“I don’t really drink anymore, my medication doesn’t… like that very much.”
“Jay, it’s nine o’clock,” you point out. “Oh… my God.” You cover your hand with your mouth, horrified, and leap to make things better. “I’m not judging you.”
“I didn’t mean I’d drink at this time. Jesus, YN. I’m not Scottish.”
“Okay, so you’re judging me.”
“I can’t help it, that’s just my God given right as a… sort of English person. Asking me not to judge you would be like asking me to kill myself.”
“Really desirable?” You sigh as soon as the words come out. “I’m sorry,” you whisper, guilt washing over you.
Jay’s eyes widen and his jaw drops, a surprised, contagious, laugh rushing out of him. He covers his face with his hands while you watch in horror. “Anyway, I was going to ask, how long do you have to stay somewhere before you can claim it?”
He’s still smiling. Your heart is still racing.
“I think it’s more of a feeling,” you say finally.
“Yeah, I think you’re right.” Jay lifts his notebook from the table, stuffing it into his jacket pocket. “You look a lot better since I last saw you, I was starting to think there was something about being near me that was making you sick, you know? Three times is a pattern and all that.”
“We saw each other two days ago.”
“For ten minutes,” he points out.
Ten minutes that you spent the rest of the day poring over, recounting every single detail, every little thing that led to him kissing your cheek when he said goodbye.
“Well, I only just got here, so I’m not sure we can rule it out yet.” Racing heart, turning stomach, breathlessness—symptoms of post-acute infection, apparently. You offer a weak chuckle. “Thanks again for looking after me, you really didn’t have to.”
“I wanted to. And besides, it was nice spending time with you.” Jay smiles. “How’ve you been?”
“Just the usual.”
“I don’t really know what your usual is these days,” he admits too casually for the weight of it all.
“Right… uh, I’ve been—” You try to think about it, wondering what usual means to you. It used to be so simple. Your usual used to be studying with Jay before and after classes. Sharing every meal you could when time permitted. Ending the night together at his place or yours, even if you’d spent the day apart. He used to be your usual.
“I had an interview yesterday morning. At ‘Interview,’ and I think it went well,” you say, voice high pitched and trailing off towards the end. Worried about jinxing yourself, you hadn’t told anyone about it, not even Yizhuo who sent you the job posting. But now that you’ve said the words out loud, to Jay, you can’t bring yourself to stop. “But my friend told me they’re interviewing until the end of the month, so it might be a bit before I hear anything. I’m feeling good about it though, my portfolio is strong, and it’s versatile — at least that’s what the recruiter said — so I should have a shot for a few of the jobs there if I don’t get this particular one.”
Jay’s face lights up with every word you say, as if you’ve let him in on something secret, something precious.
“I didn’t mean to talk your ear off,” you say, hiding behind a warm sip of coffee.
His smile takes over his face, ear to ear and so delighted. Pink kisses the tips of his ears, the apples of his cheeks. “Luckily I have two ears, and they really love your voice so…” He trails off, ducking his head like he’s embarrassed by his own sincerity. “I’m really happy to hear that, YN. I want all of your good news. And the bad stuff too—everything.”
Suddenly sheepish, you direct the question back towards him, asking what’s been keeping him busy lately. His smile is immediate and wide. “I’ve been writing like crazy since I last saw you.” Jay tilts his head, chewing on his bottom lip, but his smile doesn’t budge. “It’s stupid but it sort of feels like I can… see or something now, again. If that makes sense.”
“Not at all.” You can’t help but smile too. “Tell me everything.”
Pressing his lips together, Jay lets his gaze flick towards the window, looking out at the quiet street. Across the road is a deserted play park with swings that sway in the wind. A fish-shaped spring rocker does the same, bobbing gently. A man pushes a pram. Jay opens his mouth and says, “It’s like I’ve been walking around blindfolded for the last few years and someone finally took it off of me, and now I can see and there’s—” He stops short, biting his lip as his eyes fall on the swirls in his coffee. And then flick up to meet yours. “Well now there’s so much light again.”
You clear your throat, your mind a storm, thoughts unclear over the rush of your blood, the pounding of your heart in your ears. The latte he got you, while delicious, does nothing to calm the raging waters. It feels so pointed, too pointed to ignore. You were startlingly aware of how your five-day fever dream had blurred a line or two in your head. Spending all that time together, letting him look after you — Neo opening the door, following the white rabbit — flipped the switch in your head and turned your ifs into whens. If / when we’re alone, if / when we kiss. Turned you back into an eighteen-year-old, waiting by the phone for Jay to text you back.
It’s only when his smile falters, just a touch, that you realise you haven’t said anything. “That’s kind of extremely beautiful,” you say finally, massively understating it.
“Yeah.” He nods. “I thought so too.”
After finishing your drinks, you sit for a while longer, rehashing uni gossip you bled dry years ago, until the staff start giving you increasingly dirty looks, all but begging you to leave.
Jay holds the door open for you. “So what are you up to today?”
“This is—” Cold wind scrapes your neck, cutting you off as you button your coat to the top. “This is what I’m up to today.”
An amused breath slips out of him, a white cloud by his nostrils, and he takes his scarf off, wrapping it around your neck instead. “I mean after,” he says, unmoved by his gesture. Meanwhile, you’ve got an inhale full of his scent and the exposed column of his neck, his heart-shaped birthmark, on your mind like a thirsty vampire. To your silence he waves his large hand in your face. “Earth to YN.”
“Right here, Park.” You swat his hand away, clearing your throat. “What are you up to after this?”
“I have a session in about an hour, come with?” he offers. “I should warn you though, it’ll be really boring.”
“Boring? I could tell you hated your job and all of your fans.”
“No, I mean for you.” Jay nudges your shoulder. Despite the layers, your heart stumbles at the contact. “Because you kind of just have to sit there and be quiet, which I know will be difficult for you.”
Heat floods your cheeks, pools at the base of your spine. “Shut up,” you mumble, turning away from him.
“What?” Genuine confusion pulls his voice up a few octaves. “Oh,” he says after a beat, figuring it out for himself. “I didn’t mean it like that, but when did I ever complain? I like it.”
“Please stop talking.”
Jay stands to attention, saluting you. “Yes, ma’am.”
“Fuck, if you’re going to beg me then, fine, Jay. I’ll come to the studio with you.” You sigh, struggling to fight a smile. “I can’t catch a break with you.”
His head tips back with sweet laughter and he loops his arm through yours, tugging you and the butterflies in your stomach down the road towards the station. “No, YN. You really can’t.”
On the empty platform, you stand side by side, looking at the massive NAPE poster plastered on the wall. Jay, who usually has no shortage of things to say at any given moment, stares at it in silence. The poster is taller than you are, with No Way Back Tour written at the top in blocky red sans serif. In the centre is a four cut photo strip with a picture of each member, that’s thresholded to oblivion, and the bottom lists a bunch of different venues around London.
“What do you think?” you ask. “I think it’s cool, the portraits look good with the red on them like that.”
Jay snaps back into motion, turning to face you, his teary eyes finding yours. He smiles. “I think I had something else in mind when Riki told me there was a huge poster of my face in the station.”
“What? Just your face?”
He shrugs. “Yeah, just my face.”
“Park Jongseong,” you utter, shaking your head. “Where is your team spirit?”
Jay rolls his eyes but can’t hide his smile. “Dead and gone. Take a picture? Please.” He holds his phone out for you to take and stands by the poster, poking the cheek of his large, printed face.
“Celebrities…” You sigh, though you can’t ignore the swell of pride in your chest. You’ve taken a thousand pictures of Jay standing by posters for movies and artists he enjoys, so this feels almost full-circle in a way you’re struggling to wrap your head around. “Can I take some on my phone?”
He nods, and you slip his phone into your bag, reaching for yours—“This is not happening right now!” A uniformed teenage girl is standing right behind you when you turn around. The strap of her backpack has a can badge with NAPE written on it. Her face and neck and ears bright red as she points a trembling finger at him. “You’re—you’re… Jay fucking Park!”
“Hello,” Jay says, he’s smiling too. He is also turning red. “Good morning.”
“Hello?” she repeats, incredulous. “Hello, yourself, Jay Park. Holy shit!” Everything she says sits at the junction of whispering and screaming as your eyes flick back and forth between the two of them.
“I really slept in this morning and I was like ugh, I don’t want to go to school, so I almost didn’t leave the house, but then I finally did and I was like, I don’t want to walk, so then I came down here, which I literally never do and then I saw you and I was like, she’s so pretty, and then you were taking pictures of literal Jay Park. This is like literally a sign,” she continues, all in one breath. When she shows you her lock screen, she’s listening to Carolina. “My top song for the last two years.”
You’ve never met a celebrity before, as a fan anyway, so you can’t say for sure how you’d react, but her coherence is impressive—you’re not sure you could stand in front of Michael B. Jordan without crying or screaming or proposing, never mind recounting the events that led you there in the first place.
Jay’s entire face is smiling, looking down at this sweet girl like she hung the moon and the stars—he looks like the fan here, hanging onto her every word. “It must be a sign. A great one. I’m really happy to meet you.” A beautiful mix of intrigue, delight, and timidness colours his tone and his wide eyes, straightens his spine.
You feel equally mesmerised by each of them.
“Same,” she says simply, extending a hand for both you and Jay to shake, the picture of composure all of a sudden. She’s amazing. “I’m Wonhee. No one at school’s going to believe this at all, holy shit.”
“Wonhee,” he repeats, to her utmost elation. “Do you want a picture, Wonhee? So everyone at school believes you?”
Wonhee’s jaw drops. “Are you kidding?”
When she says it’s okay, Jay puts his arm around her shoulders, a boyish grin scrunching his sweet face. He looks even more like the fan in all one million live photos you take on Wonhee’s phone. “Wow,” she utters, swiping through the pictures. “Wow!” A glorious, giddy laugh comes out of her and she bolts away up the stairs, leaving the station—so much for school.
“She was so cute,” you coo, unable to keep the smile off your face.
“Yeah.” Jay’s gaze stays on the stairs like she might come back. “Yeah, she was.”
“Look at you, my little celebrity!”
This makes him look away, his eyes falling to his feet, ears and neck just as red as Wonhee’s were. “No, not really,” he mumbles. “Or, not universally, which is a relief. I don’t really get noticed like that, and I think it was only because I was standing next to a giant picture of my face.”
And what a lovely face it is. “You’re her lockscreen, Jay. I’m sure she’d recognise you if she only saw the back of your head.”
“I’m her lockscreen?”
You nod, liking the giddy smile he wears. Liking the flutter in your stomach at the sight of it. The warmth in your chest. “Isn’t it so crazy that you’ve made her day, maybe even her week, and all you did was take a picture?”
“Not really, she’s made my day too.” Jay shrugs, blush still lingering on his skin. “I was already having an amazing day with you, of course. So meeting Wonhee’s just the cherry on top of a great day that already had a cherry on it.” His words come out rushed, one big run on word with no breaks to breathe or think. Like everything he says is coming out of him as soon as it crosses his mind.
“Great,” you say through a breathy laugh. “I’m having a good time too.”
“Washington State is actually the top producer of sweet cherries in the States, did you know that? I was starting to miss them, being away so long—and now I have two cherries on my wonderful day.” Jay is grinning from ear to ear like some sort of adorably Cheshire Cat / Joker hybrid, rocking back and forth on his feet. He might be the most excited person in the whole world at this very moment. Second to Wonhee at least.
You can’t think of the last time you saw him so excited about something. It’s interesting to see a celebrity so thrilled by parts of the job that seem so normal from the outside looking in. Something you’d think he’d be used to by now, two years and millions of streams in. Regardless, you’re just happy he’s happy.
And because you can’t resist teasing him, you say, “I get it, Jay. You’re having the best day of your life because you got attention from a pretty girl. Congratulations.” You give him a slow round of applause.
Undeterred, he tucks some of your hair behind your ear, his warm touch lingering on your skin. “I’m not trying to brag or anything, but I’ve gotten attention from two pretty girls today.”
Your cheeks burn. “Even better.”
Behind you, the Tube whooshes to a stop and the doors slide open right in front of where Jay’s standing. A distraction, finally. “And look at that,” he says, pointing to the doors. “Three cherries.”
NAPE’s room at Laughing Kitty Studios is a large wood-panelled rectangle and you two are the first to arrive. Jay takes his shoes off by the door, so you do the same, stepping in after him. Plaques and posters line the walls, streaming milestones and Nirvana. A worn leather couch sits in the middle of the room with a long table and two chairs at its back. Jay gestures around him and says, “This is where the magic happens.” He gives you a tour when you ask, showing you the huge monitor and lots of expensive mixing equipment that all looks the same to you. In the vocal booth, he shows you the controls and the locked cabinet where they keep snacks.
Helping you out of your coat, Jay hangs it up on the rack beside his and watches as you sink into the couch. “Do you prefer working here or at home?” you ask.
He takes a beat, thinking it over with his hands on his waist. “I guess it depends where we’re at. If we have a deadline or just want to get shit done, we work better here. And it’s nice having, like, a base, I guess, where other writers or producers can come to work with us.”
“That makes sense, it’s like a safe space, kind of.”
“Mmm, safe space,” he repeats. “I like that.” Jay sits too, leaving a small gap between you. “Most days though, especially when the weather’s shit, I prefer working at home.”
“Ah, see, I hated working at home; too many distractions.”
“Sunoo takes all our phones if he’s with us, so no distractions for NAPE at the studio.” Jay licks his lips, eyes meeting yours. “Not normally.”
Your awareness of Jay peaks. Of the spread of his thighs, of his hand grazing your leg when he lifts it from the couch cushion. Every cell in your body zings with this awareness, humming, and even though you’re smiling, even though your heart is a second away from beating out of your chest, you roll your eyes at him, cheeks on fire.
“Will you show me what you’ve been working on?” you ask. “Since I’ve come all this way?”
A boyish grin takes over his face as he nods. “But only because you’ve travelled all of fifteen minutes to get here, my strong, strong girl,” he says, taking out his phone and plugging it into the speaker behind the couch.
His strong, strong girl. Your sanity slips, just a little. Though you suppose it’s this alleged strength that keeps you sitting where you are, rather than jumping into his lap and kissing his stupid, handsome face.
Jay’s thumb hovers over the play button and he hesitates, seeming to second-guess himself before giving a hurried preface. “It’s just a demo, you know? Me and my guitar. I threw it together last night so the final thing probably won’t sound anything like this, alright?”
“You don’t have to play it for me if you don’t want to,” you say, squeezing his knee. “I’m sure it’s amazing though, because you wrote it.”
His ears go bright pink and he scratches the back of his neck. “It’s important to me that you hear it,” he tells you, sounding very certain for someone so clearly nervous. There’s something about it, his certainty, that makes your heart pick up, just a touch as you nod. He presses play and immediately the sound of his guitar fills the room, humming against the couch. Just like he did at the show, how he used to on the end of your bed, he picks a pretty melody. The image comes quick and clear—Jay at twenty. Twenty-one. Sitting in his underwear with his acoustic in his lap, picking the same notes over and over until they either sounded right, or you managed to convince him to get into bed instead. A knife to the gut would hurt less. And then he starts to sing. At first, in some of the most beautiful gibberish and lalalas you’ve ever heard. You open your mouth to compliment him anyway, but the lyrics come in, actual real words with actual real meanings, and everything you wanted to say falls to the wayside.
“You make my heart beat for you. I always cry too often, but I put too much in your hands. So much regret in the end,” Jay sings.
Through the speaker his voice is full and sincere and gorgeous as ever, all while he sits next to you with his bottom lip caught between his teeth. In your chest, your heart does an ungraceful tumble. If he can hear it, your thumping heart, he is polite enough not to comment, instead watching you closely, trying to gauge your reaction, maybe. Trying to read your mind.
“It’s a shame for you, it’s a shame for me. Is the blame on you? No, YN, it’s all on me.”
Oh.
A demo and a confession.
His thoughts laid bare at last, the vulnerability you used to beg for handed over on an acoustic platter. Curling around the room and filling the shortening gap between your bodies until your knee presses against his thigh, or the other way around—you can’t tell who moved. You don’t remember. You don’t care. Not when his lips are parted like that, not when he’s close enough for you to feel the heat radiating from his body. Close enough to kiss. The voice in your head says his name over and over. Jongseong. Jongseong. Jongseong. Your favourite nine letters stuck on the tip of your tongue. There are too many things to say, and too many ways to say them, so you don’t say anything at all.
Luckily, Jay says it all for you—sings it. “Wish I knew how to make it right. Just wanna look into your eyes, tell you the truth that I can’t hide, I love you so much.”
Answering seems so simple, but when you try, your mind blanks. Fills, rather, buzzing with all the wrong things. Thoughts and memories. Everything that’s happened over the last three weeks, the time you’ve been together again. Back in each other’s orbit. How he dropped everything to look after you, chose you.
How he finally chose you.
There’s a lightness in your chest, like some persistent weight has been lifted at long last. And now, looking at him, Jay. Your Jay—Jongseong. The freckles on his cheek, how the skin is tinted rosy. Pinched pink. His eyes, dark and wide and staring straight into yours. The only thing on your mind is: I love you, I love you, I love you. You tip your chin, and the space between your lips and his becomes little more than a technicality. His breath is warm against your skin, close enough to feel when it hitches. Close enough to see each of his eyelashes, to count them. To see how they flutter when he blinks, gaze falling to your mouth. Yours does the same, latching on the smooth pink skin, desperate now. Resisting seems futile, so you give in, pressing your lips to his and hoping it’ll be enough to tell him everything.
Jay’s relief is immediate. Clear in the shuddered breath that slips out of him, caught between kisses as he melts against you. His hand finds your jaw, fingers slipping into your hair behind your ear just like they used to. Tongue brushing up to tickle the roof of your mouth and make you smile like always. It feels like it’s been two minutes since your last kiss, not three years. Feels impossible that you went that long without this.
Without Jay.
His grip on your waist is gentle, but his fingertips sear your skin. He pulls you closer, and closer, each point of connection setting off a blaze in its wake. Mouth to mouth. Chest to chest. Knees to the sides of his thighs as you sink into his lap. Like this, under you, the sight of Jay is too much—flushed cheeks, plump lips, ragged breath. The feel of him, all solid muscle and huge palms slipping under your skirt. Nails digging into the curve of your ass. You lean in, lips catching his jaw, finding the side of his neck. His skittering pulse. His birthmark. Sucking on the warm skin there makes him groan, makes his hips buck. His dick strains against his jeans, hitting the exact spot that makes you putty in his hands, moans slipping from both of you as you work up a rhythm.
Your name trails off into a sigh when he tries to say it. “What does this mean?” he asks, breathless.
“I don’t know,” you admit, and for a long while afterwards, the only sound in the studio is the two of you trying to catch your breath. “Do you want to stop?” you ask, terrified for the answer.
Jay says nothing.
Your fingers slip easily through his hair, playing with the tickly short strands on the sides of his head. His question feels heavier the longer he goes without speaking, the longer you stew on it. What does this mean, if anything? There’s an uncomfortable swoop in your stomach, how could this possibly mean nothing? Nothing more than a spur of the moment makeout, never to be spoken of. A unanimous mistake.
On an inhale, Jay’s chest puffs out, touching yours for a heartbeat and he shakes his head. “Not for anything,” he whispers, leaning up to kiss you again.
And this time, when he rocks his hips, his grip on you tightens and he pulls you down to meet them. It’s too much all at once, heat lashing at you from every angle. Increasing with each brush of your tongues, with each press of his covered dick between your legs. Need burns a flame at the base of your stomach, tugs a whine out of you.
Against yours, Jay’s lips quirk into a smile, a smirk. “Needed this just as bad as me, huh, baby?” he asks, voice a low rasp.
“More,” you breathe.
To this, he pulls away, looking up at you with furrowed brows. He shakes his head and says, “No way.” Jay’s heavy palm cups your cheek, his eyes round and wide. A burst of tenderness in the midst of all the heat as his hips freeze under you. A flutter in your stomach. Warmth in your chest, on your cheeks.
“Absolutely, no way,” he says and once again, his lips come up to meet yours. Slow this time, gentle and sweet.
Until laughter erupts from the door, and forces the two of you apart. As if being caught in this position isn’t bad enough, a string of spit attaches you to him when you pull away. There are two guys standing in the doorway, one of them still laughing, the other one pressing his lips in a flat line, as though seeing the two of you like this is disappointing but not surprising.
Frustration and embarrassment wash over you in equal measure, a wave with the force of an eighteen-wheeler casting its great shadow above you. Only death could fix this, of that, you are certain—you can’t laugh at a dead person. At least not right away, surely there’s a buffer period of some description.
The amused one speaks first. “I thought you said you moved the couch off the wall so they wouldn’t fuck on it.”
“Yes, Jungwon. That was the general idea.” Stepping into the studio, shoes off, the disappointed one points at the sign above the light switch—a short list of forbidden things that has, no sex in the studio, written in bold, red letters at the top of it.
Great.
Maybe under different circumstances, if Jay had shown it to you, you might have laughed at the sign, thinking of what had to go wrong to lead to such a notice existing in the first place. For sex to rank over smoking and playing ball games on the list of things not to do in there. Now, like this, sitting in Jay’s lap with only a few layers of clothing between his erection and your dripping cunt, it makes you want to die.
Already, you had a whole host of things to stew over in bed tonight — spending all morning with Jay, the song, the kiss — and now you get to add being walked in on to the roster.
The rush of blood in your ears is disorienting, warbling Jay’s voice when he says, “It’s a great sign, Sunoo.” Completely unconcerned, he wears a great big smile and keeps his hands under your skirt. “But it says nothing about kissing.”
Your breath catches. Sunoo. His manager. Even better.
Without another thought, you stand, straightening your skirt. Jay doesn’t move, he just sits there with his hands on his thighs, eyes trailing over every inch of your body as if you’re still alone. As if now that he knows he can, he wants to use the opportunity to the fullest.
“Yes,” Sunoo agrees, sinking into one of the spinny chairs by the monitor and rubbing his temples. “And I’m coming to regret that.”
Silence hangs over the room as Jungwon steps inside, closing the door after himself. He runs his finger over the sign, following the words one at a time like he’s sounding it out or studying it. How nice it must be, not to have a stake in this moment. You clear your throat, deciding that if the universe isn’t going to answer your pleas for sudden death, you might as well perform good and normal social niceties. “I’m YN,” you announce, so loud that Jungwon flinches by the door. “It’s… nice to meet you both.”
“Likewise.” A genuine smile covers Sunoo’s face, scrunches his eyes—it’s like looking at an angel. “I can see why Jay talks about you so much.”
“Sorry for…” You trail off, unsure how best to put across whatever the hell you and Jay were doing—sorry for having a reconciliatory dry hump on your couch, doesn’t exactly roll off the tongue. “That,” you say finally.
He laughs and the sound is delightful, a dismissive wave of his hand accompanying it like he wasn’t just losing his mind. “Please, that wasn’t even the worst thing I’ve walked in on this week.” Sunoo shudders, seeming truly disturbed. “First time offence for Jay though,” he adds thoughtfully, which is oddly reassuring.
Jungwon claps his hands, one loud smack as he sits on the other end of the couch, a bright smile on his face like he’s solved some pressing matter. “So what if the sign says, no partners in the studio, instead?” he asks, nudging Jay.
His emphasis on the word partner sets off your stomach, steadily fluttering butterflies flying around a swirl of heat. Is that where this might have led? Where you and Jay could end up? Partners. Again? Casual-workplace-dry-humpationship isn’t a relationship status you’ve had before, or heard of, but now, the thought of it being as far as things go here, with Jay, is a horrible weight on your shoulders, a pressure in your chest.
Sunoo sighs. “I love this band, I really do, but the horny fuckers would just kiss each other.”
At this, you all laugh. All but Sunoo, anyway.
It’s straight to work when the rest of the guys arrive, and Sunoo settles on the other end of the couch, typing away at his laptop and pausing to give his opinion when they ask. Sunghoon sits with his knees to his chest, picking at his lip as he stares at the screen, clicking this and that, playing it back over and over, no matter what imperceptible change they’ve suggested.
Standing over his shoulder, Heeseung tilts his head. “Actually, yeah. Your way’s better, cut that.”
“I think quiet for half a bar instead of fading out—everything off just vocals, and then back on full force for the last chorus. Louder,” Jake suggests, so Sunghoon does just that and plays the whole thing over again. You can’t hear the difference, but all of the guys hum in approval.
Heeseung riffs. Jay does the same on his guitar, and he was sort of right. Maybe if you were less fascinated by him, you would be bored. But he’s kind of extremely good at this. All of them. They manage to lock in for hours at a time, bouncing ideas around and executing them perfectly in a matter of two or three takes. Late in the afternoon, Jungwon orders pizza and they stop working to eat before getting right back to it. It’s the only break they take all day.
“Look, I know you want to, but you don’t need to take a new song out with you—not yet anyway.” Sunoo stands up from the couch, putting his laptop into his bag. “You still have time to decide on the encore show, but maybe after all the travelling you’ll have a few finished songs. New setting, new inspiration.”
Jake furrows his brows. “Meaning?”
“Meaning, I think we’re cutting it a bit thin. I mean this is your last full week off — bar rehearsal — before tour starts, and I don’t want you so stressed about something with an easy fix.”
At the mention of the word tour, Jay stiffens. You do the same.
Jungwon takes his headphones off and turns to face the room, laptop in hand to show the screen. “Do we like these T-shirts for the U.S. shows?”
“Yeah, but…” Sunghoon squints, getting closer. “They look just like the Australia and New Zealand shirts.”
“Which look just like the Europe ones,” Heeseung points out.
Every sentence makes things worse and worse. They’re going on tour in a week. Jay is leaving in a week. Going to the U.S., to fucking Oceania, and this is how you’re finding out. The tightness in your chest, the ache in your stomach, is immediate. Instead of looking at you, Jay bites at his nails. Scrunches his nose.
“If we could kindly get back on track,” Sunoo interrupts, pulling his jacket on. “You have Live Lounge when you’re back in March, VEVO Studios in April—much better opportunities to showcase new music. I know you want something special for fans, but maybe we can shoot a performance video of… Royalty? And release it on Valentine’s Day?”
Jay hides his face in his hands. “Okay.”
“Just think about it, okay. It’s up to you, and I promise I’ll support whatever you decide. For now, though, I have carbonara and an episode of Lovely Runner waiting for me at home, so I’m away, yeah?”
With that, Sunoo leaves and Jungwon is quick to follow. The guys sit in silence for a bit before getting back to work. By your side, Jay hunches over his guitar, resting his chin on the body, picking at the strings aimlessly. Across the room, Heeseung, Jake, and Sunghoon crowd around the monitor, nitpicking.
While their demo plays through the speakers again, louder than before, Jay finally speaks. “You and your friends can come if you’re up to it, to the London show. Whoever you want. On me,” he mumbles, looking at the fretboard instead of you.
“Okay.” You nod, though the thought of having to tell Minjeong that Jay has upset you again, that you’ve let him close enough to be upset by him again, is too grim to bear, so you text the chat, inviting them along instead.
you: Nape concert next Friday night on me (on the band) who’s there?
somi: me me me me me
yizhuo: Will Jake be there?
riki: will jake be at his concert.
riki: what happened w you and jimin 🤔
yizhuo: No further questions your honour (she only wants to hookup HAHAHHAHA).
riki: my apologies twin (Go Get Your #Man).
you: Oh okay bc I thought you all had very important jobs right . Right. MY FUCKING BAD.
And just like that, all three of them stop texting.
It’s ten p.m. by the time you and Jay reach your flat, and neither of you have said anything since you said bye to the other guys back at the studio, ten Tube stops ago. You search in your bag for your keys, desperate to end this silence by disappearing inside. Jay has other plans though, apparently, because when you twist your key in the lock and step over the threshold he sighs, saying your name. You don’t look at him.
“I swear to God, I was going to tell you about the tour, okay? I wouldn’t just leave like that. Not again.” Though his credibility where telling you things is concerned is shaky at best, you nod and he continues. “I’ve known for ages, obviously, but I wasn’t sure when to tell you or if you’d care.”
“You weren’t sure I’d care that you’re leaving for two months?” you ask, hoping he can hear how absurd that sounds.
“Three months,” he corrects, mumbling an apology when you squint at him. “I didn’t want you to get the wrong idea about what I thought this was or could be, by talking about my short-term plans like you’re my girlfriend or something.”
Your scoff echoes through the hall, an accurate reflection of the irritation that heats you from the inside out. “Sure, Jay. Give me the right idea then.”
He takes a beat, his eyes catching over all of your features. “You’re cross with me,” he states simply.
Cross, he said. As if that even begins to cover it. Maybe if you were any less cross with him, the Briticism might have made you smile. “Very.”
“I’m sorry, YN. I should’ve told you sooner.”
“Sunoo told me. You didn’t say anything.”
“Look, I didn’t mean to—” Jay pauses, pressing his eyes shut with his fingers until his nails turn pale. With a shaky breath, he tries again. “We didn’t have hard conversations at home. My parents would just make up their minds and do shit, you know. I found out we were moving to Seoul when my dad came into my room with a bunch of boxes, and told me to fill them up.”
The words rush out of him, each of them a blade to the heart, deeper than the last. Twisting. You’ve seen all of his childhood photos, the calendar his parents had made when he was eight. His permed curly hair and bright smile, those big round eyes that never failed to melt your heart no matter how many times you saw the pictures. Hearing that his parents could raise him that way, their only child, to change his life at the drop of a hat, like he was just another thing to put in a box and cart away, stings the backs of your eyes. From what you remember, he’d gone from the U.S. to Korea, then London, all so quickly—and now you know, with no warning.
“London was the same, back to Tacoma, same thing, and back again. I never really…” He trails off, chewing on his lip before he starts again. “I thought Edinburgh would be like that too, it was supposed to be. But then I met you, and for the first time, the thought of leaving was terrifying. I thought it was about the band, what my parents might say, but it was you, YN. I never had a home to leave until I met you, and I didn’t realise that until it was already too late.”
The realisation sets in with deep unease. His room in Edinburgh was completely bare when you met him, just the essentials, the stuff you can only assume was easy to move with. It was only after the two of you had been together for a while that his room started filling up. Posters and knick-knacks. Snowglobes and postcards from whatever holiday Minjeong had planned for you, her and Jaehyun. At the end of it all, by the time it had been two weeks since Jay left your place and never looked back, his flatmate Wonbin handed you a box with these things in it. To your confusion, to your upset, he only raised a brow and said, I thought you agreed it’d be better to end things? With him moving back home and that…
“And even after I left, I had a million and one chances to reach out to you, to explain, apologise, all of it, but I—I really let you down, and I’m sorry. I’m not that person anymore.” He looks down, shaking his head. “I don’t want to be that person anymore.”
Your body reacts before your words can, hand reaching out to his cheek, cupping the smooth, flushed skin. His eyes flick up to meet yours, and the only thing you can say is, “You’re not. It’s okay, I promise.”
“It’s not, YN.” He presses his lips together, biting the skin until the pressure turns the pink pale. “I just want you to be happy.”
Again, the words are right there, twisting painfully in your throat and stuck to the tip of your tongue. I love you. I still love you. It’s you, Jay. It’s always, only you. But you can’t get them out, can’t bring yourself to say them. “I am happy, Jay,” you say instead.
Jay’s lips quirk up at the corners, not quite a smile but close. “You’re happy,” he repeats, nodding his head as he seems to consider this. The silence is awful, turning your stomach and when he finally opens his mouth to speak, you’re so certain he’s going to wish you a goodnight that you rush to speak first.
“When are you leaving?”
“Saturday.” One day after the London show. Ten days from today. “Manchester’s Tuesday, then Glasgow, Dublin…” He trails off, but you know the rest—Paris, Hamburg, Stockholm… Auckland, Brisbane… You studied the order from the poster Jungwon showed you.
“When can I see you again?” you ask quietly.
“I’m not sure.” Jay tilts his head. “Want me to send you my Google Calendar?”
He’s kidding, you know that much, but still, you say, “Please.”
At this, he pulls up the app on his phone, multi-coloured blocks filling the screen. “Looks like I’m free at 3 a.m. tomorrow,” he says, clicking the share button and pasting the link in your text thread, where your contact is saved as MY ❤️. Still. Jay hits send on the message and again his calendar fills the screen. “And right now.”
“Me too…” You trail off.
To your surprise, it doesn't take much more to get Jay into the flat, into your room. To have your back against the bedroom door and his lips on yours, not even separating to push your coat down your shoulders. His hands span wherever he can touch, slipping under your shirt to press your body closer to his.
Jay tugs at the waistband of your tights. "Want these off."
"Later." You chase his kiss, desperate not to lose momentum, not to give either of you an opportunity to think about this and what it means.
Relenting, his hand slips under them instead, grabbing your ass. Bucking forwards, you feel his thick cock against you, a swirl of heat ravishing the base of your stomach. He sighs into the kiss, parting your legs with his thigh and guiding you over the solid muscle.
It's not enough. "My tights," you say, changing your tune. "Rip them, Jay.”
He moans on a shaky exhale, pulling away to look down at you. "Are you joking? I can't tell if you're joking." His eyes are blown and frantic, searching your face. As soon as you shake your head, he tugs at the thin fabric until it tears, making a hole. Cool air rushes against you, forcing you to draw a breath. "Now what?”
You push your damp underwear to the side, fingers parting your slick folds before you rock your hips once more. Painfully slow. The feeling of his thigh, the rough denim of his jeans grazing your clit, makes you whimper into the space between you. Jay's lips quirk up at the corner, his bruising grip guiding your hips back and forth.
"So needy, aren't you?" He pushes his thigh harder against you. "What am I gonna do with you, beautiful?"
Holding his gaze is an effort, but you'd die if you missed the way he looks right now, half-lidded eyes looking down at you, his bottom lip pulled between his teeth. Even blinking feels like a waste. "Anything, Jay. Do anything."
"Bed?" As soon as you nod he carries you over, setting you down.
You lean up on your elbows to watch him undress—his jacket comes off first, falling to the floor. Then his T-shirt, pulled over his head, triceps huge when he bends his arms. A lick of need burns your core at the sight of his tattoo peeking out over his waistband, the thick dark hair under his belly button. You have to chew on your lip to hold a moan, but he notices.
"Like what you see?" He smiles, freeing his belt from the loops of his jeans.
"Mhm."
Jay's eyes trail over your body, skin ablaze wherever his gaze lands. "Not as much as I like you." He leans over and kisses you. "Your pretty little mouth," he murmurs, lips trailing your throat. "Your neck, your shoulders." At your chest, he takes his time. Sucking and licking your nipples through your tank top, urging whimpers out of you with each bite and tug. It's only when he continues down the rest of you that you remember the point he's making, a kiss pressed by your belly button. "Your stomach, thighs. Everything, baby. Love all of you.”
Love all of you. You can't breathe. Love all of you. His hands slip under your skirt, pulling off your panties and torn tights in one go. Love all of you. You might die here, now, like this.
He gets up to take off his pants, leaving only his tight grey underwear and the dark patch in the centre, where the fabric clings to his leaking tip. "Want you on me, YN." He licks his lips before a breathtaking smile spreads over them, slow and feline. A smirk, more like. "Sound good? You wanna sit on d—my face?" Even the thought of riding his face, of the word he stopped himself from saying, hitches your breath.
Saying, please, is a measured effort, though he wastes no time getting between your legs. Just the feel of him under you, his built shoulders and solid chest, thick arms wrapped around your soft thighs; seeing him like this, eyes half-lidded and stuck on your cunt, is dizzying and he hasn't even touched you yet.
"So pretty everywhere." The words are a low whisper, warm and sudden, before he licks you from back to front.
A burst of pleasure arches your back, coursing through you immediately as you grind down on him, rutting against the tip of his nose. Dipping into you, his tongue moves slowly to match the roll of your stuttering hips—he's kissing you, making out. And loving every second of it if his groans are anything to go off of. It is, at once, too much and not enough. His pouty mouth finds your clit, licking it in circles, driving you crazy.
"Fuck," you whine. "Like that."
When he hums in response, it rumbles through you, forcing a moan from you as you tug at his hair. At the feeling of it, he groans, burying his face deeper and deeper. Tipping his chin towards you. In his enjoyment of it all, in his actions, he makes no effort to be quiet—squelches amplified and filthy, with his exaggerated movements of his mouth against your soaking cunt.
Your orgasm creeps up on you, slow to start but quickly overbearing. "Jay." From your lips, his name is a wobbly cry. "Jay," you repeat. Falling forwards, your hands grip fruitlessly at the sheets, whole body trembling in his hold. Pure bliss washes over you in harsh waves, whiting the dark behind your closed eyelids. How could you ever go without this again? How did you manage in the first place? You can't even voice it, warn him, that you're close, that you're there, unthinkable heat hitting you from every angle as you gush all over him. He doesn't let up, only humming and licking more feverishly, quicker, harder, and pressing the entire bottom half of his face to you, drinking up your release.
Catching your breath is an impossibility, your legs and stomach twitching as he cleans you up with his tongue, murmuring praises against you. Thank you, baby, as his nose hits your clit. Missed this pretty pussy, after he licks your clenching hole. So good for me, when he sucks at your inner thigh. Jay looks a mess when you finally sit up, glancing down at him. Ruffled hair. Slow blinking eyes. Everything from his straight nose down is slick and shiny, cum slipping over his jaw, and a smile curving his swollen lips. A handsome mess.
You clench around nothing.
Later, you share the shower and lots of kisses, teeth bumping under the spray as Jay whimpers, coming in your hand before getting into bed. He strokes your hair, twirling the ends around his fingers, and opening his mouth to speak but says nothing. Minutes pass like this until you finally ask, “What is it?”
He shakes his head, smiling too. “It’s nothing.”
“Tell me, baby.”
“I just… I kind of feel like I’m dreaming or something,” he admits softly, though you feel the words in every part of you.
Stuck for what to say, scared to say anything, you lean up and kiss him instead. Kiss him until your stomach starts to flutter. Until you’re gasping for breath, legs tangling together under the duvet, because if this really is a dream, you don’t want to have any regrets when you wake up.
@.gigiseung: DUDEEEEEE JAY GOT A GIRLFRIEND 😭😭😭 I USED TO PRAY FOR TIMES LIKE THIS THE MUSIC IS GONNA BE HAPPY !!!!!!! FINALLY!!!!!!!!!!
@.nojayback: WHY DID HE PUT HIS SCARF ON HER LIKE THAT WHO TAUGHT HIM THAT ??? WHO EVEN IS SHEEEEE 😭😭😭
@.sunghoon67: IDK WHO SHE IS I JUST KNOW SHE’S HOT AND HAS AN ACCENT
@.nojayback: AND LOOK AT HIS OUTFIT HE MET WONHEE IN THIS OUTFIT DID THIS GIRL TAKETHAT FUCKING PICTURE??? @.jaykeyaoi wake tF UP RNNNN DID YOU MEET HER TOO???
@.NAPEisFOUR: So friendship between a man and a woman isn’t a thing anymore? This fandom never fails to disgust me.
@.gigiseung: @.NAPEisFOUR GOODBYEEEE a sex tape would be less incriminating.
minjeong: Oh girl I can’t defend you anymore send my fucking jacket back TODAY
you: What jacket ???
Her next message has ten pictures. And then another set of ten pictures. And then another.
minjeong: Lie again. Asking “what jacket” DUDE I SEE YOU WEARING IT AND WITH YOUR FUCKING SATANIC EX TOO… Killing you would not be enough.
All of the pictures are Twitter screenshots, threads of NAPE fans trying to solve a mystery by the looks of things. Several photos of you and Jay, a video, even. All from yesterday morning.
@.hojumilkpuppy: ALL THESE FUCKING PICTURES AND NOT ONE SHOT OF HER FACE ??? ARE WE KIDDING RN WHO IS THIS AND WHERE DID SHE GET THAT JACKET
@.gigiseung: OP said she has an accent and jay said he studied in edinburgh right?
@.hojumilkpuppy: Are You Trying To Tell Me This Is Miss Carolina.
@.jaysnape: am i the only one who thinks filming them like this is weird af idk it’s nice seeing him all smiley and in love but idkkkkk it feels weird seeing this when they clearly have no idea they’re on camera
@.ClubNAPE: If you’re feeling distressed by the video, it’s ok. But please take care of yourself. Step away from social media for a couple of days. Don’t attack or criticise Jay, too much money and time went into publicly harassing him and it finally paid off for those people.
@.jm4pjs: Thanks for trying to encourage us, but I’m so sad and furious at the same time…For now I’m empty… I hope he uses condoms…
@.ClubNAPE: Trust me when I say he doesn’t go that far with her. Just, please trust me.
@.hojumilkpuppy: You are an adult.
Each thread follows a similar pattern, hundreds, maybe thousands, of NAPE fans freaking out over the video. Posting detailed body language analysis to prove and disprove the true nature of your and Jay’s relationship. The split seems even enough—half of them happy for Jay, for you; half of them affronted by the mere suggestion that Jay might have feelings for any woman in a way beyond friendship. The worst part of it all, by your standards at least, is that you’re just as confused as them and it’s your relationship.
The original video, sunghoon67’s pinned tweet, has over a million views. In all of her replies, she goes to bat for you, insisting that the whole time she saw you and Jay, the two of you seemed comfortable and happy, and that she was not stalking him, but happened to be at the café studying for over an hour when you arrived.
somi: YOU AND JAY???
yizhuo: Do Not even get me started.
riki: you told them about uni? i thought that was a secret yn u made me feel special…you okay though? this is kind of extremely crazy 🤔
yizhuo: What the fuck do you mean UNI
somi: ???
riki: ning yizhuo you have a degree i know ykwtf uni is.
You mute the groupchat, putting your phone on Do Not Disturb.
What Twitter user #hoonjay real’s deep analysis of it all says about them, you’re unsure. An odd mix of delight at the thought of other people perceiving you and Jay as happy together, and discomfort at the thought of someone studying you so closely, filming you without your knowing, clash in your head. The more tweets you read, thanking OP for sharing, and bashing OP for the same thing, the more confused you feel. You spend an hour like this, laying in the bed Jay left this morning, scrolling through Twitter and Reddit, refreshing the timeline to read new responses as they come in. More and more people claim to have seen you together, inventing stories about you yelling at Jay in Notting Hill, or kissing him in Piccadilly. All the while, Minjeong continues to text.
minjeong: And you did it in the street WEARIGN MY FUCKING JACKET THIS IS HOW I FIND OUT YOU STOLE MY JACKET??? This is SO embarrassing for me imagine all the people that think I’m Park Jongseong’s fucking girlfriend because they saw you in my jacket
you: Imagine all the people that think I’M his girlfriend ???
minjeong: You’re not?
you: Define girlfriend.
minjeong: A frequent or regular female companion in a romantic or sexual relationship
you: Define frequent.
minjeong: I really don’t have time for this YN.
minjeong: Are you okay though? Fr
you: I’m good! People think I have nice hair and good taste in jackets, over the moon rn 🥰
Three dots appear on her side of the chat and your phone vibrates in your palm. Jay’s name and an old photo of him with his hair bleached take over your screen. Jay at twenty-one—fast asleep in your childhood bed, cuddling your worn Snoopy plushie. “Hey, are you home?”
“Mhm.”
A sigh comes through the phone, he sounds relieved. “Please open the door.” He’s standing on the mat when you do, chewing furiously at his lip. He hugs you and apologises into the crook of your neck. “Are you okay?”
“Yes, Jay,” you mumble into his chest. “Are you okay? Are you coming in?”
Jay sighs again, letting his shoulders fall. He assesses your face, still holding you close. “Wish I could, baby. I’m on a potty break,” he says, completely earnest.
“Potty break?”
“Like, restroom? It’s a long story, but the suits made a slidesh—” His phone goes off loudly in his pocket, buzzing between your bodies and making him sigh. “I’ll tell you later, alright? I have to get back.”
“Later today?”
Jay shakes his head, pecking your lips. It’s not enough—there’s no such thing with him, so you pull his bottom lip between yours. “Don’t want you… staying up just for me,” he mumbles, the words warm against your mouth as his hand comes up to hold your cheek.
“You’re worth it, Jay,” you admit.
He draws a breath, pulling away just enough to look at you. His face softens, a smile on his lips, his eyes on yours. “You’re cute,” he says softly, thumb brushing over your skin. “I’ll think about it.” When his phone goes off this time, it rings. A call. He mutters a curse, pressing his forehead to yours like he might ignore it, like he might stay, then he kisses you once more. “I really have to go.”
“How about you text me when you’re done and we’ll see if I’m still up?” you suggest.
“Alright, princess. We’ll see.”
And by fire, by force, you are still up at two in the morning when he texts you to say he’s all done at the studio. You open the door to usher a tired Jay to the kitchen, sitting him down at the table where you’ve heated up leftovers for him. A slow smile lights up his face and he eats quietly, only breaking to chug water.
Aeri comes into the kitchen, greeting you both with a tired hum before filling her bottle with water from the filter. On the way out, she smacks Jay over the head with a flat palm. “My loyalty is to YN before it’s to you or Heeseung, okay?”
He winces, clutching the back of his head and nodding. “Got it.”
After food, you wash his dishes while he showers, and he climbs into bed with damp hair, pressing a kiss to your temple. “Thank you, thank you, thank you,” he mumbles against your skin. “Thank you so much, baby.”
“Thank you for coming over…” You trail off. For making time for me, you think but don’t say.
“I really am sorry about this whole thing. The photos, people talking… Jesus.” Jay sighs, rubbing the back of his neck. “I don’t want you worrying about any of this, it’ll die down, alright? I promise, shit like this, it always dies down.”
“I’m not worried about any of it, Jay. Promise. It’s kind of cool how much your fans care, a lot of people really love you,” you say. “I’m just happy you’re okay and that you’re here.”
His lips spread into a smile against your temple. “I’m happy I’m here too,” he murmurs, pulling you into his chest. Though naturally, because you are you, and he is Jay, your lips find each other anyway. Kissing for an hour like a bunch of teenagers before you fall asleep.
It’s perfect.
Mostly.
The days leading up to the concert go by similarly, with you and Jay meeting up after his studio sessions or rehearsals. Some nights you hook up, most nights you cuddle and watch the newer seasons of Formula 1: Drive to Survive, which he pauses every two seconds to add his own — very necessary — commentary. Neither of you mention the concert or what’s going to change when he leaves the day after. Its first mention is on the day of, when he sends you a text.
jongseong 😽: We have about an hour or two downtime before the show if you want to head over during that? So around like 5, yeah? Sunoo can come and meet you and bring you up
you: Sounds good see you sooooonn!
jongseong 😽: See you babyyyyy got soundcheck so talk in a few :D
At a pub you’ve never been to, you meet up with Yizhuo to nurse a pint and eat truffle mac‘n’cheese. So much has changed since you last saw her and it’s only been a week and a half. Life has a way of doing that—flipping things on their head when you least expect it.
“Have you heard back from anywhere?” she asks, clearing her plate. “From Interview?”
You deflate, sipping sweet golden nectar from your glass. “Not yet.”
“Try not to look so worried, it’ll be good news. I can tell.”
“What if it isn’t?” The words are impossible to say, a pathetic mumble over the speakers. It feels a bit like admitting defeat. You’d been relatively optimistic at first, but hardly anyone gets the first job they apply for. Or the first thirty. Creative jobs are hard enough to come by as it is, and after all the difficulty of securing one, the only thing anyone leaves for is the grave. “I can’t wait forever, Yizhuo. I’ve got maybe two more months before I need to go and stay with my parents again.” And that’s if you stop using your redundancy pay for frivolous things like groceries and rent.
“It won’t get to that. You’re capable, you’re smart, you’re qualified.” Yizhuo says firmly, squeezing your hand over the sticky tabletop. “Just because things are bad now doesn’t mean they’ll be bad forever. Soon, we’ll look back at this moment and laugh about it at work drinks. I promise.”
You hope she’s right. You need her to be right.
When you meet up with Sunoo, he leads you through the venue’s back entrance and to the green room, where Jay and Riki are the only people inside, bickering on the couch. At the sound of the opening door, they quit it, and Jay greets you with a bright grin. His tight-fitting black long sleeve is tucked into his dress pants, and a pair of wire-frame glasses sit on the bridge of his nose. It’s like seeing God. He hugs Yizhuo first, though in light of #JaysGF-gate and your sharing of the full story, she’s not his biggest fan at the moment. You however, as evidenced by the last week you’ve spent joined at the hip, are more than eager to have Jay’s arms around you.
“Hey, beautiful. How’s your day been?” he asks, pecking your lips.
“Good, Jay. How are you feeling?”
He was a nervous wreck this morning, pacing the length of your bedroom until the absolute last second he had to leave. Now though, he seems relaxed, like he’s left with only excitement for tonight. “Better now that you’re here,” he admits. It doesn’t sound like a line when he says it, but Sunoo mutters, Jesus fucking Christ, before he leaves.
You tease him too, rolling your eyes despite the smile on your face. Despite the fact you feel the same way.
Unfazed, he only smiles wider, holding your jaw and kissing you. He tastes like spearmint, like Jay. “Want me to show you around, baby?”
“Yes!” Riki says before you have the chance. “I’ve never been backstage before.”
Yizhuo has to grab him by the sleeve, stopping him in his tracks. “Not you, weirdo.”
“You don’t know that.” He yanks his arm from her hold, straightening his denim jacket over his shoulders and running a hand through his hair.
Jay takes you by the hand to give you a tour. Just you. Dressing room, catering, the wings. One small lounge for each of the members. There isn’t much inside: a vanity, a couch, a coffee table. His guitar and his bag. All the while, a nervous flicker turns your stomach, anxious like you’re the one about to perform in front of thousands of people.
In the privacy of his locked room, he holds you in his arms, looking down at you. His eyes trail your body, a sweet smile curving his lips. “Look amazing, baby. Always so pretty,” he says, tucking your hair behind your ears.
A different kind of nervousness sets in, classic giddy fluttering, mind racing and trying hard to think of the perfect thing to say at the perfect time. It’s reassuring, feeling like this again, warm and happy—bitten by the lovebug you’d long stopped believing in. No matter what happens tomorrow, when he leaves, at least you know that feeling can still exist for you. The thought is scary now, but most of those big truths always are in the abstract. Until they happen.
You smile up at him, desperate to live in this moment forever, pushing his hair back from his forehead. “Thank you, Jay. So do you,” you say. “My handsome baby.”
Pink tints his cheeks, eyes wide for a split second. “You mean it?”
“Mhm. Love these glasses too, they make you look all serious, like a sexy professor or something," you joke, startled to find you mean it. “Tell me more about changing the subject of a formula, Mr. Park.”
“No way,” Jay mutters, his hips bucking towards yours. “Can’t do this with you right now, baby.”
“Can’t do what, Mr. Park?”
He sighs and shakes his head. “Be good, YN. Please.”
“Yes, sir.”
And like you’ve scalded him, Jay steps away, biting his lip. With his eyes screwed shut, he grabs at the crotch of his pants, adjusting himself before sitting on the couch and patting the cushion next to him. Stepping out of your boots, you curl into his side, playing with his fingers. “You never told me what happened with the song you guys were working on,” you say, hoping not to pressure him after what you heard at the studio.
Luckily, your question seems to do the opposite, and his face lights up. “We finalised it this afternoon! You’ll hear it tonight, baby. I really hope you like it.” A knock on the door punctuates his answer, and he has to disappear for hair and makeup while you wait in the green room.
The boys aren't gone for long, but you don't get any time alone with Jay before he has to go on stage. No time to properly process how good he looks with his hair all spiked up. His freckles aren't covered at all, and his black long sleeve fits like a second skin, clinging to every curve and contour on his torso and arms. You can't help but touch him, feeling his sculpted chest and racing heart against your palms.
"You look..." There's no single word you could use to describe him right now, as he looks at you through matte black sunglasses. "I think you're going to have to surgically remove my mouth from you later," you say pressing a kiss to his soft lips, already picturing your evening plans. As if overhearing, excited as well, the crowd roars before starting to sing along to whatever Jungwon is playing through the speakers.
“Good, baby. That’s good to hear, I’m looking forward to it.” Jay’s grip on your waist is firm, holding you as close as possible, tickling the roof of your mouth with his tongue. A breath comes out of him, flustered, eager, happy, and he rests his forehead on yours. “Wish me luck?”
Giddy butterflies turn in your stomach, your smile impossible to contain. “Good luck, Mr. Park.”
“Mm,” he hums, kissing you again. “I have no plans to go easy on you later, darling.”
It’s Sunghoon who finally has to pry Jay’s grip away from your waist, a firm tug that does little to quell the burning heat on your cheeks and neck. His transformation takes a split second, going from Park Jongseong, the guy you’ve known and wanted all this time, to Jay Park from NAPE, golden under the amber spotlight and singing his heart out. If he wasn’t so good, you’d have more time to process how strange it all is, how clear it is that he comes alive on the stage. All of them do. Like they’re finally doing the exact thing they were put on earth to do.
Song after song, it becomes clear what they mean when they talk about themselves and the fans and the energy. How they meet in the middle, feeding off of each other. Watching it like this, backstage with your friends, it feels like you’ve been let in on something unthinkably special. That feeling sticks around for the length of the entire two hour set, amplifying.
The crowd boos when Jay announces that they’ve reached the end of the show. “But we have one last song for you tonight, something very new and very dear to me—” he says, grinning into his mic when they cheer again. “—I’ve been going through a bit of a funk, I guess,” he admits.
In the front row, you see very pretty women frowning, touched to hear about Jay’s hardships — no matter how vague — like they’re taking them on themselves. Somi squeezes your hand, pointing them out to you and mumbling that they’re so cute. You agree.
“But a couple weeks ago, something really special happened for me, and when I finally figured it all out, what it meant to me, I sat up all night working on this song. And the guys and I have been grinding to get it done, so it’s been a long time coming, and we hope you love it. This is Out Sick.”
All of the lights go dim, save for a stark spotlight that shines straight on Jay. The venue holds its breath, and he looks over his shoulder, craning his neck just a bit to find you. When his eyes meet yours, he gives you a smile, soft and warm, your Jongseong in that moment. Your smile is immediate, a second of calm in your pounding heart as he strums the first chord and turns back to the crowd.
You know this song already, its shape. As familiar as the back of your own hand. As Jay’s lips on yours or his hands under your skirt on the couch at Laughing Kitty. Your stomach plummets to the floor, eyes stinging with tears. Sunghoon comes in slowly on the drums, Heeseung and Jake’s guitars following to make it warm and round and full.
And then, Jay sings, “I don’t have to try to love you, it comes easy to me…”
His demo. Complete. And performed so beautifully. His voice is raw, vulnerable, as he bares his soul for everyone, for you, to hear. Heeseung’s harmonies are simple, sweet, a perfect anchor for the song. They’re amazing. They are actually amazing. All of them.
As the final note rings out, the lights go dim once again, and applause erupts backstage, your friends squealing and hugging each other while you wait. NAPE don’t take long to appear behind the curtain, all four of them a blur of black clothes and adrenaline. Jay doesn’t stop to speak with the crew or with the other guys, he comes straight for you. Short strands of his hair slick with sweat, his glasses fogging up as he pulls you into his arms.
“It was perfect, Jongseong. You were perfect.”
He doesn’t say anything, but you feel him smiling into the crook of your neck as his heart thuds against your chest.
Tearing Jay away from the tour kick-off party is easier than you expected. Largely in part due to the fact that he’s the one dragging you through the crowded flat to his bedroom. Music muffles through his door and as soon as the lock clicks shut, you sink to your knees at his feet and Jay gulps when you look up at him, a gentle look on his face, in his eyes, that makes your heart trip in your chest—that he could look so tenderly at you in this moment seems unreal. Slowly, you unbuckle his belt, unsure who you're teasing more. You undo his zipper. The button.
He cups your cheek with his palm, clearing his throat. "Only if you want to, baby." His voice is soft, delicate as he traces your lips with the pad of his thumb.
You nod. You need to.
Jay's trousers give easily when you pull at them, falling to his ankles. His white underwear stretches over his erection, a dark patch where he leaks onto it. You can't even pretend to resist, tongue finding the spot immediately, and taking his tip between your lips, sucking on it through the wet fabric. Precum seeps into your mouth, the taste of it heady and familiar, leaving you hungry for more.
His hips buck forward, stuffing more of his clothed dick into your mouth, groaning. "My beautiful girl," he mutters, tucking your hair behind your ears. "Still so dirty and all for me, yeah?"
White-hot desperation buzzes along every inch of you. You can't wait any longer. Jay shivers when his leaking tip smacks his stomach, leaving a streak on his toned skin. Oh, my God. When you take him by the base, your hand only just wraps around him, thumb and index finger brushing. "Let me help you, YN." One of his hands covers yours easily, the other holding your head still. "Want my help, don't you, baby?"
All you can do is nod, watching Jay stroke himself—help you to stroke him.
"Say it. Use your words."
"Want you to help me—" Your mind blanks, that five letter word burning on the tip of your tongue. "Jay," you say instead.
His dick twitches in your fist as he brings his slit to your mouth, spreading hot, sticky precum like gloss over your lips. "Good girl," he whispers, thumb tracing your cheekbone. "Always so good for me."
Molten need pools between your thighs. "Only for you," you admit, words muffled against his tip.
Jay's breath hitches, fingers curling in your hair, then, finally, he stuffs your mouth—starts to. At an agonising pace. Inch by torturous inch, he pulls you towards him. Watching with furrowed brows and holding his breath as the stretch starts to ache your jaw. Only when his tip brushes the back of your throat, making you gag, does he let out a breath, a ragged, whiny thing, torn from him. Hearing him like this, being the cause of it, never gets old. Never fails to flip your stomach.
Chest heaving, eyes fluttering shut, he throbs in your mouth when you stroke the part of him that won't fit. "Fuck," he whispers. "Fuck, baby. Too good, need a — fuck — need a minute." He pulls out, looking down at you like he's confused, like he can't make sense of the thick string of spit and precum that attaches your lips to his tip.
Can't make sense of the way you kiss it anyway, lapping up the mess from his slit with your tongue. Every word that follows is a whined curse, his legs shaking as his grip on your hair lets up. Your name comes out of him, a stern mutter that makes you press your thighs together. Even so, you keep going, licking a strip from his tip to his base, thick hair tickling your face when you suck on his balls.
"Shit, YN," he mumbles, watching you with squinting eyes, shivering while you stroke him. "So good, baby."
Kissing your way back up to his tip, you take him in, letting your hollowed cheeks pull him further. He's twitching already, erratic on your tongue, low grunts and shallow breaths coming from him. This time when he says your name, it's gentle, sweet, as he rocks his hips to fuck into your mouth in shuddered strokes. Over and over, he moans for you, the sound of it lighting you up, spurring you on to take him deeper, quicker.
His stomach tenses, thighs shaking until he bucks hard against you, coming straight down your throat, hot and thick, without warning, making you cough. It leaks from the corners of your mouth, rolling down your chin, warm on your chest. Jay moans at the sight, licking his lips while you swallow what you can, still working your fist over him. Bracing against the door behind you, he lets out a cry of your name that drives you mad, loud and unbidden, as he trembles.
When he pulls out, his dick hits his legs with a loud squelch. Spit and cum drip off of him, wetting your thighs and making a mess.
You can hardly catch your breath or wipe your mouth before Jay's kneeling in front of you, pressing his lips to yours. Pressing your body to his. "My sweet, sweet baby," he mumbles, licking into your mouth. Teeth bump teeth. Tongues on tongues. "Way too good to me." He pulls you into his lap, cock wet under you. Something about the feeling of it like this, soft and pressed against your thong, twists your stomach.
Taking him in your fist, you thumb at his slit, and he whimpers. "Need it. You, Jay," you tell him, stroking desperately.
At this point, the wet smack of his mouth on yours can hardly be described as a kiss, but he keeps at it. "I'll give you what you want, I promise," Jay says, pushing your hand away and running his finger over your slit. "But I can't right now." He sounds truly apologetic, distraught and whiny as he presses on your clit.
Relief comes immediately, but it's not enough, when he slips his finger into you and fills you to the knuckle. Still, you chase pleasure, fucking yourself on his thick digit, humming at the stretch of another finger pressing in. "Yes, right now."
Against your mouth, Jay smiles. "Want you ready, yeah? Don't wanna hurt you," he coos, a third finger joining the rest.
"You won't," you whisper. "Please, Jongseong."
On this, he concedes. On not using a condom, however…not so much. Laying you down on the bed, he undresses you before pulling his own shirt off. Now that he's had a beat to collect himself — free from your eager hands — he's hard again, standing up taller than before. His tip not just flushed but angry red and leaking. At the very least, he lets you roll the condom onto him before joining you under the covers and hiking your leg up over his hip.
"You're gonna kill me," he mutters into your neck, pressing himself against you, right between your wet folds. So close yet so far. "Gonna die if you keep this up."
"If you're going to die anyway, you might as well take the condom off," you point out, rocking towards him. "For old time's sake, you know? Last night, two nights ago—the good old days." It was a lack of condoms that led you there, to Jay whispering sweet filth in your ear while he spilled into you.
"Very funny, YN." His breath fans your skin when he chuckles. There's no humour in it, but he throbs between your legs, rolls his hips back to match your rhythm. "Can't keep chancing it." You can hear his resolve fading, his lack of conviction.
"Don't you think I'd look pretty? All nice and full?"
His teeth sink into the crook of your neck, making you cry out. "Don't," he mumbles, soothing the bite mark with his tongue.
"Used to — fuck, Jay — talk about it all the time." You're panting more than you're talking, eyes fluttering shut as your sweat slicked skin slips over his. "Lost your shit when I'd call you da—" He cuts you off with his dick. Finally.
You moan in unison, eyes screwing shut as he thrusts into you, filling you up with one shaky stroke. There's no getting used to the size of Jay. Whether he's fucking you with it or sending a video, it shocks you every time. It's like he's trying to split you in half to make room for himself, thick heat spreading, unbearable, from between your legs out. He doesn't move yet.
"All good, baby? Feels good?" he pants, burying his face into your throat.
You nod into his pillow, gasping for breath, only managing to say, "Uh huh."
A low groan heats your neck when you claw at Jay's back and he pulls almost all the way out before thrusting right back in. "So good for me, YN. Fit so good, baby. Always fit so good." He fucks you with the same strokes each time, even when his breath turns ragged, pulling you closer and closer to the edge. Tip on the burning knot in your stomach, nudging it undone, one deep thrust after the other.
You bury your face in the pillow, biting down on it, as he brings you to your orgasm like this. Finger pressed to your clit, teeth nipping your neck, hips rutting frantically. He fucks you through it, wet and overwhelming, scorching heat tearing through you. The memory foam muffles your mewls and whiny babbles, and he groans when you tug his hair, muttering, oh, my God, over and over, until he finishes with a loud cry of your name, shuddering in and out of you.
Calming down is difficult, but Jay's hand stroking your hair is a comfort. Lips pressing sweet kisses to your jaw and muttering praise into your skin. Again, you find those three words on the tip of your tongue, eight letters eager to make their way out. They don't have a chance, thankfully, because he pulls out slowly, moving just enough to kiss your lips. His tongue brushes yours, wiping your I love you away, taking it for himself, and smiling against you like you actually said it. Like he's saying it back.
Sleepiness overwhelms you, eyelids heavy, lips lazy on Jay's. After you pee, he wipes you clean with a warm towel, kissing your knee while he does. Falling asleep is easy in his arms, with the steady rise and fall of his chest under your head, butterflies swirling in your stomach, and the knowledge that the terrifying and uncertain tomorrow is still hours away.
When you wake up, no music seeps into Jay’s room, no heavy footsteps in the hall. No doors slamming shut, no yelled conversations. The flat is completely still. Even the street outside is quiet through the open window, London’s morning running on silent. Soft cotton kisses your skin, detergent and sweat float around you. Sunlight streaks the wall, slipping through the gaps in the blinds. Jay’s fingers twirl the ends of your hair. His voice, low and gravelly from sleep, asks, “You sleep alright?”
Alright isn’t enough of a word for how well you slept. You’re not even sure if perfect would suffice, but you nod anyway. “Did you?”
“Mm.” He squeezes your shoulder, holding you closer. “Perfect, darling.”
I wish we could just stay here forever, you think. Saying it is another story. “Do you really have to go?” you ask instead, knowing he’ll have to leave soon to make his flight.
You hear the spread of Jay’s lips and see the curve, his perfect teeth, his smile lines and dimple, so perfectly clear behind your closed eyes. His hand is heavy on your arm, his fingertips warm and calloused, dragging senseless patterns into your skin. “I’ll be back before you know it,” he mumbles. “Promise.”
Resting your arms on his chest, you finally get a proper look at him. His hair sticks up in tiny spikes all over his head, pointing this way and that. A smile creeps over his lips, slight and sleepy, but warm all the same. How desperately you want this all to be something, to mean something. Now and when he gets back. The soft look in his eyes, the relaxed lull of his breath, chest rising and falling slowly under you, his hand on your back. How desperately you want this to be something more than simply blowing off steam before he goes on the road.
“What is it, baby? What are you thinking?” Jay asks, using his thumb to smooth out the crease over your brow. His touch is unthinkably gentle, but it ties your stomach in knots.
The words are right there, slipping from your mind and taking their juvenile shape on the tip of your tongue. What are we? It seems absurd to think that he could leave, even if only for a few months, without asking that question—but picturing yourself asking him is worse.
“It’s nothing.”
Jay’s lips curl downwards and the sight tugs at your heart. He kisses the palm of his hand and presses it to your forehead like a stamp, making you giggle, before his fingers find your hair, scratching your scalp. You could fall asleep again, your eyelids weighing more and more with each graze of his nails against your skin. He smiles, finally, he smiles when you lean into his touch.
“You could always come with me,” Jay suggests. “If you want.”
If you were even a little more secure about your place in his life, those three words — if you want — wouldn’t be so jarring. Wouldn’t turn your stomach or make you want to roll your eyes and ask, what the fuck kind of an answer is that?
“What do you want?” you ask instead.
“I want you to do what you want.”
You sigh, a deep breath torn out of you and into the silence.
“What do you want me to say? What am I getting wrong?”
Feeling bad, you shake your head. “Nothing, Jay. It’s nothing, I swear,” you try to assure him, but you can see his thoughts passing through his head. You can’t stand it. Can’t stand to think about whatever comes after this, after he leaves.
You lean up and kiss him to stall the inevitable, warmed by the low sound he makes, by the way he pulls you into his lap. Warmed by the feeling of him under you, hard already. His lips are slow against yours, tongue licking lazily into your mouth and sighing when you roll your hips over his.
“Tell me, baby,” he says, lips barely leaving yours. “Can’t fix it if you don’t tell me.”
When you pull away, his eyes search yours, a million questions written all over his face. His cheek is soft beneath your palm, thumb stroking his skin, and it’s all you can do to hope this won’t be the last time. “Fix what, Jay?” Your voice comes out small, frightened. “What is this?”
Say it, you beg silently. Say you want me. Say that this is everything.
He bites his lips instead. Says nothing.
“Do you still want me?” you ask around the lump in your throat. “Properly?”
Jay’s brows knit together. “I feel like I should be asking you that. I don’t know how else to show you.”
“I can’t go with you, Jay.” Saying it feels final, like you’ve drawn a line under whatever the hell you two have been doing, and he will leave for his tour and come back and this will still be over.
“I didn’t ask you to.”
Before you can help it, your face falls, lips curling downwards, and Jay wraps his fingers around your wrist to keep your hand on his cheek. He jumps to take it back, to fix it, but you’re not sure if he can.
“That’s not what…” He sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I shouldn’t have said it like that. Can we just… Can we take a second?” His cheeks are flushed, skin rosy and warm under your hand, his eyes wide, pink lips pressed together. “I just need a minute,” he adds softly. “I’ll be right back, yeah, baby?”
You nod and Jay kisses you quick, gentle, before slipping into the bathroom and locking the door behind him. It doesn’t take long for you to make up your mind. To put your clothes on and stuff your bra into your bag, turning your phone off on your way out of the flat.
At home, you get straight into bed, pulling the duvet up to cover you completely.
Twenty-year-old you would be mortified if she could see you now: twenty-three, unemployed, and still worrying about the same problems you had three years ago, about the same guy. Surely by now, having known him all this time, known yourself, you should have seen this coming a mile away.
Sleep comes easily like this, moping under your covers like a kid.
By the time you wake up, it’s well into the afternoon and you turn on your phone to one new notification. A text from Aeri asking you to check if her parcel has come yet. Nothing from anyone else, from Jay. He and the rest of the guys are probably in the security queue, fumbling laptops out of bags and shoes off of feet. Chatty and excited and too busy to spare you a second thought, to send a text—which, maybe, given how you walked out, that’s what you deserve. You’re even now though, you and Jay. And it doesn’t feel good at all.
As if you’d willed it, wished it so much it came to be, your phone vibrates next to you on the mattress. Not a text, an email. It’s from Interview, with the subject line: Offer of Employment.
The smile that breaks over your face is instantaneous and aching, tears welling in your eyes as you read and reread the first line of the email. As you read and reread the whole thing, closing the app and opening it again, waiting for something to change, for a second email to come in saying there’s been a mistake. But no. The word congratulations stays right where it is. A job. An actual job that you get to start in a month when the office renovation is complete. It’s a weight off your chest, a blinding ray of light in the face of countless rejection emails.
When you open the phone app, Jongseong 😽, is right at the top, and it takes your thumb hovering over it to even realise what you’re doing. This week-long instinct, relearned and deep as marrow. I need to call Jay, I need to tell Jay, now your default thought. Again, your default thought.
The silence of the flat feels greater, bed bigger without him in it. As quickly as it came, your delight sours, curdling in the pit of your stomach. Everything you’ve been working towards, the fruit of your efforts finally reaped, and the one person you want to tell all about it, is the one person who’d care the least.
Locking your phone, you press the cool top of it to your forehead and take a deep breath. This is okay. You’re okay. You’re great! You have a job, finally, an actual named and recognised role. And it’s all yours.
Feeling lighter, if only a little, you get up to check the mail room, stuffing your feet back into your boots and pulling the front door open. Jay is there. Here. He looks like he’s run a marathon just to stand on your welcome mat, cap on backwards and his suitcase at his side. Sweat shines on his upper lip, his neck. His eyes are wide, brows raised like he’s surprised to find you here, at your flat, where you live. Nothing comes out when you open your mouth to speak, but your name comes from his in a whisper.
“I can’t go.” His voice cracks when he says it, making him smile. “I couldn’t, we got to the gate and I—I can’t leave if we’re like this. I love you, YN. I do. So much. I’m a coward, okay? I’m a coward and I’m awful at all of this, but I love you.” The words leave him in a rush, and he sighs after like he’s relieved, like the words have been weighing on him all this time. “I know how much I’ve hurt you, and I know I can’t make it up to you, but I’d like to try.”
Your heart races in your chest like it’s trying to burst out, thoughts scattered, too fast to latch onto, to process. You need to say something, you know that much. “I wanted to call you,” you utter, pointing at him as though maybe he doesn’t know to whom you’re referring. “I got the job at Interview.”
To this, he lets out a sound you’ve never heard him make. A half-laugh, half-sob as he takes your pointing hand in his, pulling you in. “Of course you did,” he says, the words a warm mumble against the top of your head. “Fuck, YN, that’s—that’s amazing. You’re amazing.” He holds you so tight you can feel the frantic pounding of his heart against your chest. The frantic pounding of your own heart. For a long moment, you bury your face in his chest, taking it all in. His scent, honey and detergent and sweat. The grounding feel of him, his arms around you, his palm stroking your back, mouth kissing your hair.
Reality, everything he’s just said sinks in, slow and heavy. Jay, here, with you, again. At last. And saying all the right things, saying almost everything you’ve been waiting years to hear. Meaning them. Too good be true surely, the job and now this, and all in a matter of minutes. You pull back, only enough to look at him with your palms flat on his shoulders, and wait. For the other shoe to drop. For Jay to glance at his watch and realise he can still make his flight if he leaves right this second. It doesn’t come. He doesn’t even look over his shoulder, his eyes are stuck on you. Only you.
“What are you—what do you want?”
“I want to be with you, and I want you to want that too. Still, again, whatever, just… you’re it for me,” Jay says decisively. “You’re always going to be it for me.”
Whether he knows it or not, he changes your life with those words. He changes everything. Quiets the years of chaos in your mind and finally, finally calms the storm.
“Yes, Jay. Whatever you’re saying or asking, my answer is yes, okay? I love you, Jay. I love you too, I love you still, all of it.” You tip your chin to kiss his smiling lips, and after all this time, your heart falls back into its natural rhythm.
pairing — pilot!satoru gojo x air traffic controller!reader
summary — captain satoru gojo is the most infuriating pilot you've ever had the displeasure of guiding through tokyo's airspace. for months, he's turned every radio call into an opportunity to flirt, compliment your voice, and generally make your work life insufferable. you've never seen his face, but you're convinced he's exactly the kind of arrogant pilot you never want to deal with outside work. if only your heart would stop racing when you hear his voice.
word count — 16.5 k
genre/tags — aviation AU, pilot x air traffic controller, annoyance to lovers, mutual pining, slow burn, workplace romance, voice kink if you squint, long distance relationship (kinda), he falls first and falls so HARD, i love him in this ugh, yearning endboss, dramatic love confessions bc we need
warnings — 18+ ONLY. contains explicit sexual content, mentions of grief/loss (death of family member), strong language, aviation emergencies, and satoru gojo being criminally sweet over radio frequencies.
author's note — friendssss i really hope u like this one bc i am obsessed lol. grab your headphones, play your favorite music and prepare for takeoff <3
masterlist + support my writing + ao3 + artwork by @3-aem
“Tower, this is Flight 447 requesting permission to land.”
You didn’t even need to check the screen. You’d recognize his voice anywhere, even in your nightmares—warm, cocky, and already grinding on your nerves like nails on chalkboard.
“Miss me, honey?”
Your pen snapped in half. Around the control tower, heads turned in your direction. Maki, your longest colleague and friend, pressed her lips together, shoulders shaking with suppressed laughter. Even Ijichi raised an eyebrow from his station. You hated them all a little for how they all enjoyed the situation so much.
You closed your eyes, counted to three, and then hit the transmission button. “Flight 447, you do realize you’re on a public frequency, right? Everyone can hear you.”
“As long as you’re listening, Control, that’s all that matters.”
“Lucky me,” you muttered, pulling up his flight information on the screen. Scattered clouds drifted past the tower’s angled windows, casting fleeting shadows over your cluttered workstation. “Also, you’re late, Captain.”
“By two minutes. Come on, that’s hardly anything.”
“More than enough time to get on my nerves.”
“I love it when you talk to me like that.”
Behind you, someone coughed—probably trying to hide a laugh.
“And I love it when you stop talking,” you shot back.
His laugh came through the radio, warm and amused. “Someone’s feisty today. Is the coffee in the tower that bad again?”
“Coffee’s fine. It’s the pilot that’s giving me a headache.”
“Mmm. I like it when your voice gets all defensive, beautiful.”
There it was again. Beautiful.
Always beautiful. Never ‘ma’am’ or ‘tower’ or even your call sign like every other normal fucking pilot with a shred of professionalism would do. With Gojo, it was always pretty, or beautiful, or—God help you—honey. Like he was talking to a date he wanted to charm, not calling for airspace clearance on public frequency.
You’d corrected him once early on. “Use proper radio protocol,” you’d said, but all he replied was, “Sorry, Control. Slipped. Won’t happen again, pretty.”
It had happened again. And again. And again.
You leaned back in your chair, staring up at the ceiling and entertaining the fantasy of reaching through the frequency and strangle him with your headset cord. Instead, your fingers found the stress ball on your desk and squeezed until your knuckles went white.
“You don’t even know what I look like,” you said, frustrated.
“Your voice tells me everything I need to know. And I’m betting you’re even more beautiful than you sound.”
“Is that why you like hearing yourself talk so much? Because your voice tells you how pretty you are?”
He laughed. “Ouch. You’re brutal today, Control. Permission to land before you completely break my poor heart?”
“Flight 447, you’re cleared to land, runway 24L. Wind 240 at 8 knots. Try not to crash while you’re busy thinking about how charming you are.”
“Copy that, beautiful. And for the record? I wasn’t thinking about myself.” His voice dropped lower, not caring at all that he was on public frequency. “I was thinking about you.”
Heat crept up your neck. Around the tower, a few heads turned your way once more—grinning, and you wanted to punch them in the face.
You were silent for a few seconds and you could basically hear his grin forming on the other end of the line.
“Looks like I’ve got you blushing. Well then, see you on the ground, Control.”
More heat crept up your neck. You yanked off your headset and slammed it down on the desk, resisting the urge to scream into a stack of paperwork. Goddamn it, he made you want to quit your job. Or strangle him. Or both.
You looked out the tower’s window just in time to watch his plane break through the clouds and touch down. A fucking textbook perfect landing. Of course it was. Captain Satoru Gojo was, without question, the most infuriating pilot you’d ever had the displeasure of guiding in. And unfortunately, he was also the best.
It had started a few months ago when he began regularly flying the international routes from Japan to Central Europe—the very same routes you’d specifically requested when you transferred to Haneda.
The 2 AM flights? The twelve hour shifts from hell? The ones that made most controllers question all their life choices and develop an unhealthy, codependent relationship with the espresso machine?
You loved them.
These were the long flights where pilots were usually dead tired and just wanted to get home. Communication was professional and efficient. No small talk, no unnecessary chatter, just vectors, altitudes, and a few polite acknowledgments. You could guide a Boeing 777 from Tokyo to Frankfurt with maybe twenty lines of dialogue, max. That was the dream.
These pilots had been airborne for twelve hours or longer—the last thing they wanted was a chatty air traffic controller stretching out their shift with unnecessary conversation. And the last thing you wanted was to listen to their rambling. You loved those quiet and professional pilots—the ones you barely had to talk to, just guide them in and call it a day. Great. Easy work. You loved your job when it was uncomplicated.
While your colleagues dealt with the chaos of domestic flights—tight turnarounds, grumbling pilots, weather complaints, gate drama and all that shit—you got the stern and serious long-distance flyers.
Until Captain Satoru Gojo.
The first time you handled Flight 447’s approach out of Prague, you braced for the usual. Someone who’d been flying for thirteen hours straight and just wanted to land, deplane, and find the nearest bed. What you got instead was a happy voice that sounded like the man had just woken from the greatest nap of his lifetime and could easily fly for another thirteen hours.
“Tokyo Control, Flight 447 requesting descent. And might I say... what a beautiful night it is up here.”
You blinked at your radar screen. It was 2:03 AM. Cloudy skies. Visibility barely above minimum levels. Nothing about it was beautiful.
Most pilots at this hour could barely remember their own call signs. But not Gojo. Gojo sounded wide awake and relaxed—and, unfortunately, talkative.
God, he talked so much. Always cracking jokes, always so cocky, always dragging out what should’ve been a thirty second exchange into a five minute monologue over the radio.
“Flight 447, descend and maintain flight level 240.”
“Descending to 240. Had to adjust our approach three times tonight because of wind shear. Amazing how much the atmosphere changes in just a few thousand feet. Did you know that—”
“Flight 447, contact Tokyo Aproach on 119.7.”
He sighed. “Copy that, beautiful. Always a pleasure chatting with you.”
It started professional enough—well, as professional as someone could be while constantly calling air traffic control ‘beautiful’—but overtime, he got more and more flirty. Somewhere around the fifth or seventh flight, you guided him in, he stopped sounding like a pilot and started sounding like a man leaving voicemail notes to his girlfriend.
“Good morning, gorgeous.”
“Did you miss my voice, honey?”
“Until next time, beautiful.”
Maybe it was his personality, as if he simply couldn’t help himself—like he’d physically explode if he didn’t borderline sexual harass his ground crew and was naturally incapable of having a normal conversation. But goddamn, did it annoy you.
He’d never even seen you. Didn’t know your name, wouldn’t recognize your face if you passed him in the terminal. He probably couldn’t even point to the tower from his cockpit window. And yet, every transmission felt like he thought he was on private frequency with you, and not broadcasting on public monitored by half the airspace.
And oh my God, the rambling—the fucking rambling. And, of course, you were his favorite audience.
“You know, Control, I was reading this article about albatrosses during my layover in Warsaw and it got me thinking. Did you know they can fly for years without ever touching ground, like literally sleeping while they fly? Can you imagine? They use these tiny wind gradients over the waves to do that. Makes our fuel consumption look pretty inefficient, doesn’t it?”
You already felt your soul leaving your body.
“Although I bet you could optimize their route better than they can to save even more energy. You’ve got such a lovely voice for giving directions. Very authoritative. I like that—”
Sometimes he’d yap for minutes until you got so annoyed that you’d rip off your headset before he could finish whatever outrageous story he was about to finish and waved at Ijichi to take over. Poor Ijichi—an actual saint and unfortunately still a rookie, so he was your victim—would sigh, slid on his headset and took over the frequency to reply to Gojo’s rambling about birds in a very distinctly male, distinctly unimpressed voice.
“Flight 447, this is Tokyo Control. Please state your current altitude.”
A pause. “Oh. Um. Flight level 380. Sorry—Is the other controller… did she…?”
“Flight 447, maintain current altitude and heading. Contact Approach on 119.7.”
Out of the corner of your eye, you saw Ijichi shoot you a pained look and mouthed, “Your boyfriend’s looking for you” while you pretended to be very busy with paperwork, highlighting the same line of a weather report you’d already read four times.
You’d complained to your supervisor, of course. Marched into Yaga’s office with a list of incidents and timestamps of what you considered to be highly unprofessional behaviour that was interfering with air traffic operations.
Yaga had listened, occasionally nodding, while you explained in detail why Captain Gojo’s voice should be banned from all airspace. When you finished, he’d leaned back in his chair and given you that look—the one supervisors gave when they were about to tell you something you didn’t want to hear.
“Has he ever caused a delay?” Yaga asked.
“Well, no, but—”
“Missed a radio call?”
“No, however—”
“Failed to follow vectors or altitude assignments?”
“That’s not the point—”
“Has he ever said anything explicitly inappropriate? Sexual harassment, offensive language, anything that would violate communications protocols?”
You’d opened your mouth, then closed it. You were fighting a losing battle.
Yaga had shrugged and pointed out that Gojo never said anything explicitly inappropriate, never caused delays, and had the cleanest safety record of any pilot flying commercial routes in Japan. Zero incidents, zero violations, zero passenger complaints. He was the perfect pilot.
“The guy’s annoying but harmless,” Yaga had said at last, and slid your complaint folder back across his desk.
Harmless. Right.
Harmless if you didn’t count the fact that he was actively driving you insane and making you seriously consider changing careers. Or at least requesting a transfer to cargo flights, where the pilots were too busy dealing with departures every thirty minutes to spend time talking about stupid bird flyting techniques.
But damn it—you worked so hard for this position. You were a certified, professional air traffic controller with five years on the radar and an impeccable safety record. You’d studied for two years to pass the brutal exams, survived months in training simulations and clawed your way up from ground control to tower to approach and finally to the international routes.
You directed aircraft worth billions of dollars, carrying hundreds of lives, through some of the most complex and congested airspace in Asia. You coordinated with air traffic controllers in twelve different countries, handled language barriers, time zones, techchnical delays, and medical emergencies—all while being always fucking calm and polite.
Okay, scratch the polite part. But you got the job done, and that’s what mattered. And you were not about to throw it all away because one stupid, obnoxious pilot with an equally stupid, attractive voice was too dense to tell the difference between air traffic control and fucking Tinder.
Okay, forget about the calm part, too.
It didn’t help that your colleagues found the whole thing all too amusing. Your colleague Maki—who handled mostly domestic routes and therefore dealt with normal, professional pilots—had already labelled Gojo your ‘work husband’.
And every time his flight number popped up on the radar, she’d make kissy faces in your direction and sing, “Oh, your boyfriend’s calling,” to which you’d reply “He’s not my boyfriend.” Or worse, she’d lean over your shoulder while he was in the middle of yet another monologue, whispering when you’d finally ask him out. Of course, she knew he’d hear every word on the other end of the radio, prompting him to tease you with, “She’s right. When will you finally ask me?”
“Flight 447, turn left heading 090, descend to flight level 200.”
“Left 090, down to 200. And might I add that you sound particularly lovely today, Control? Did you do something different with your… well, I can’t see your hair, but I bet it looks very pretty.”
Maki would choke on her laughter like a middle schooler watching her crush talk, and you’d have to clench your fists to stop yourself from punching them both.
And it didn’t help that everyone loved him, of course.
Everyone except you, apparently.
The ground crew basically fought over who got to service his aircraft. You’d see a swarm of orange vests crowding Gate 7 whenever Flight 447 rolled in—like teenage fangirls waiting backstage for their favourite boy band. It was ridiculous.
You’ve seen how the gate agents would always check their hair and straighten their ties. Hana from passenger services bought new lipstick “just in case” she ran into Captain Gojo during a layover.
Even the janitors—the fucking janitors—somehow developed a sudden obsession with the floor around Gate 7. Mr. Takeshi, who’d been mopping this place since the airport was built, now took his sweet time in that exact area. Like. What the fuck.
It was like the entire airport had developed a collective crush on a man most of them had never even spoken to. All based on stories and the occasional glimpse of him walking through the terminal in his pilot uniform.
You’d never actually seen him. In the months he’d been flying your routes, your shifts always ended right before he arrived—or you were stuck up in the tower when he was on the ground. Like you existed in parallel universes. You guided his plane through the airspace, but never actually crossed paths on the ground.
Everyone said he was stupidly pretty—so damn dreamy and everything. You could’ve looked him up, googled him, stalked the airport intranet. But you didn’t. For all you knew, he was sixty with a beer belly and balding. But unfortunately, he also had an infuriatingly attractive voice over radio communication.
Which only made it worse.
── ⟢ ·⸝⸝
It was one of those days where everything had gone wrong the moment you’d stepped into the tower. The coffee machine was broken, spitting out something between coffee grounds and mud. Your computer crashed twice during the morning shift, erasing twenty minutes of logged flight data. And to top it off, Ijichi had called in sick, leaving you to handle both international and domestic flights with only Maki as backup—who was currently tied up managing a medical diversion across three different frequencies.
So when Flight 447’s call sign appeared on your radar screen a full twenty minutes ahead of schedule, you felt your eye twitch.
“Tower, this is Flight 447 requesting vectors for approach.”
You glared at the radar. Of course he was early. And of fucking course he was screwing up your carefully timed arrival window. You’d scheduled him between two other flights, and now you had to rearrange everything yet again.
“Flight 447, turn left heading 180, descend and maintain 3,000 feet.”
“Left 180, down to 3,000. You sound tense, Control. Long shift?”
Deep breath. Remember, violence is not an option.
“Just doing my job, 447.”
“Ouch. That’s definitely tension. Let me guess—computer crash? Did someone steal your lunch? Ah wait, I know—the coffee machine spat out mud again, didn’t it?”
You blinked at your screen. How could he possibly—
“Flight 447, maintain current heading and altitude.”
“Come on, don’t be like that. I brought you something from Zurich. Might help improve your mood.”
You paused, finger hovering over the radio button. “You… brought me something?”
“Mhm. You know those famous Swiss chocolatiers? Heard they make the best chocolate in Europe, so I picked some up for you.”
You stared at your screen for a beat, unsure whether to feel weirdly flattered or wildly uncomfortable. Probably both.
“You don’t even know who I am.”
“I know enough,” he said, still annoyingly casual. “I know you prefer late international routes because they’re usually quiet and professional. I know you drink your coffee black, because I’ve heard you complain—more than once—that no one washes out the cream dispenser in the break room, and that it will one day cause a biohazard. Which, judging by your mood today, I’m guessing no one’s done that in a while, so now the good machine’s off to maintenance again, and you’re stuck with that old one that just spits out grounds.”
A pause.
“And I know you stay late to help train the newbies, because I’ve heard your voice in the background on calls. I have to say, you’ve got this calm, patient tone that makes it almost sound like you’re not seconds away from strangling them. It’s kind of adorable, really.”
You sat up straighter. How did he know all that? And more importantly, why had he noticed all that?
You didn’t respond right away, unsure what to respond at all. Then, finally, you clicked your radio.
“Flight 447, turn right heading 240. Contact Approach on 119.7.”
“Wait, that’s it? No ‘thank you’ or ‘wow, you’re so thoughtful for bringing me treats form overseas’? I declared that stuff at customs, you know. It was a whole ordeal.”
Despite your awful morning, your lip twitched. “You declared chocolate at customs?”
“Had to. They were weirdly suspicious about a pilot carrying so much chocolate in his carry-on. I told them it was for someone special, and they got all sentimental and waved me through.”
“You told customs agents I was special?”
“I told them the truth. …Though I may have implied you were my girlfriend to avoid further questioning.”
“You what?”
His laugh crackled through the headset, way too pleased with himself. “Relax, beautiful. Customs agents don’t exactly hang out with air traffic controllers. Your secret identity is safe.”
“Flight 447, I’m transferring you to Approach. Stop inventing fake relationships with me at international borders.”
“So we’re not dating? Huh. That’s news to me.”
“I’m doing my job.”
“Yeah. And your job involves listening to me, technically speaking.”
“My job involves keeping you from colliding with other planes, not entertaining your delusions.”
“See? You care about my safety. Such a good girlfriend, Control.”
You could almost hear the smirk through the static. Across the tower, Maki—finally free from her emergency—was trying desperately to look anywhere but your direction. She was listening too, you realized, her face reddening as she barely held in her laughter.
“Flight 447 switch to Approach now, or I will reroute you to Osaka instead.”
“You wouldn’t dare. You’d miss me too much.”
“Try me.”
“Okay, okay, I’m switching,” he said, still laughing. “I’ll make sure the chocolate gets delivered to your gate. It’s got your name on it. Well… your call sign, anyway. Couldn’t exactly ask for your real name without sounding like a creep. Oh, and there’s a little something extra in the box, too.”
Your finger froze over the transmit button. “What kind of extra?”
“Just a little something. See you on the ground, beautiful.”
The line went silent as he switched to Approach, leaving you staring at your screen with a whole lot of annoyance, curiosity, and something dangerously close to anticipation swirling in your head.
Maki rolled her chair over without missing a beat. “Did he just say he brought you chocolate? From Switzerland?”
“Apparently.”
“And declared you his girlfriend to customs?”
“I hate him.”
“And there’s something extra waiting for you at the gate?”
You gave her a warning look. “Stop that.”
“You realize most guys don’t even text back. And he flew across eleven time zones and smuggled in fancy chocolate for you. Yeah, no one does that unless they’re into you.”
“It’s creepy.”
“Sure,” she said. “So creepy that you’re smiling about it.”
“I’m not smiling.”
“You absolutely are.” She leaned closer. “And you’re totally going to check the gate during your break.”
You turned back to your screen. “I have work to do.”
“Right. Want me to cover for you while you go see what the handsome pilot brought you?”
“I’m not—”
Your radar lit up. “Tower, this is Flight 892 requesting vectors for approach.” Saved by traffic, or whatever. You put your headset back on, thankful for the distraction, and focused on the radar.
You were definitely not thinking about Swiss chocolate.
Or whatever extra he brought.
Not even a little.
Okay, maybe a little.
── ⟢ ·⸝⸝
You waited until Flight 447 was safely out of range and someone else’s problem before making your move. The tower had quieted into its usual evening rhythm—slower, calmer, manageable. Most of the midday traffic was gone. And you? You were definitely just walking to the gate to, you know, get your steps in. Obviously.
“Off to investigate your love offerings?” Maki called as you headed for the elevator.
“Gate operations check,” you tried, but you couldn’t fool her.
The box was sitting right there at the international gate desk—impossible to miss. It was white and elegant, wrapped with a dark green ribbon, and with your controller call sign handwritten on the tag. Hana, the gate agent on duty, lit up the moment she saw you.
“Oh! You’re Control Seven! Captain Gojo dropped that off a few hours ago. He was very specific that it had to go to ‘the controller with the most beautiful voice in aviation.’” She giggled like a schoolgirl. “He’s so romantic.”
You stared at the box. It was bigger than you’d expected with a fancy logo that suggested the box probably cost more than your monthly food budget.
“Did he… say anything else?”
“Just that you’d had a rough day and deserved something sweet.” Hana sighed. “He’s so thoughtful. And his eyes? Like a winter sky.”
Winter sky? My god. You swore everyone around here was losing their goddamn minds over this man. You were so fed up with the collective swooning, you were starting to wonder if you were the only one left immune to his bullshit.
“Right. Well. Thanks.”
Back at your console, you set it down and stared at it as if it were a ticking bomb. Maki appeared at your side, peering over your shoulder.
“Holy shit. Is that from that famous Swiss brand? Do you even know how expensive that place is?”
“It’s just chocolate.”
“Just chocolate?” Maki carefully lifted the lid. Inside, each handmade confection was perfectly nestled in its own spot. “These are, like, forty bucks each. There’s at least thirty pieces in here.”
Ijichi gave a low whistle. “Your pilot boyfriend just dropped twelve hundred dollars on chocolate for you.”
“He’s not my boyfriend.” But your eyes were still glued to the box, your brain struggling to process the fact that someone had just casually spent more than your rent on Swiss truffles. Someone who’d never even seen your face.
“Oh my God, try one,” Maki said, already plucking out a champagne truffle. “Don’t be shy.”
You picked a dark chocolate filled with salted caramel and bit into it. It was... really good. Incredible, even. Probably the best thing you’d ever tasted. Which, somehow, only made this entire situation worse.
“Girl, you are so lucky,” Maki sighed, popping another piece into her mouth. “A hot pilot who brings you fancy chocolate? Where do I sign up for that kind of harassment?”
“He’s probably not even attractive. I’ve never actually seen him.”
Both Maki and Ijichi froze, their mouths full of chocolate.
“Wait,” Maki said slowly. “You’ve never seen him?”
“Our shifts don’t overlap. I’m always in the tower when his flights come in.”
“Oh my God.” Maki turned to her computer. “I’m looking him up. The airport has photos of all the regular pilots for security, right?”
“Tower, this is Flight 234 requesting vectors for approach,” crackled your headset.
You grabbed your radio. “Flight 234, turn right heading 090, descend and maintain 4,000 feet.”
You moved quickly back to your station, eyes fixed on the radar screen. Behind you, you could feel Maki and Ijichi staring at you, clearly waiting for you to come back to them to gossip, but you waved them off without turning around.
As you guided the aircraft in, your hand absently toyed with the ribbon around the box, and that’s when you noticed the ‘something extra’. Tucked beneath the chocolates was a postcard that showed the Swiss alps. You turned the card around.
“For the voice that always guides me home. Thank you for keeping me safe up there.” — S
You shivered.
Out of annoyance. Obviously. Not because of the note. Or the postcard. Or the very stupid, very warm feeling creeping up your neck. Nope. Pure irritation. And maybe a tiny bit of cardiac distress. From rage. Clearly.
── ⟢ ·⸝⸝
You’d barely slept the night before. Every time you closed your eyes, you’d thought about stupidly expensive Swiss chocolate, that annoyingly sincere note, and the way his voice had softened when he’d called you special. It was infuriating. You were a professional, rational adult, not someone who lost sleep over a cocky pilot with a bedroom voice that was clearly a walking red flag.
Yet here you were at 12:28 PM, exhausted and surviving on your fourth cup of awful Tower coffee because an emergency landing had turned your normal shift into a fourteen hour marathon. A passenger going into labour during a flight from Beijing had caused half the Pacific to be rerouted, and by the time the situation had been handled, the night shift was understaffed and you’d agreed—more or less voluntarily—to stay and help out.
The tower had gone still in the way airports only do at night. Just you and your collegue Kai on shift, and him busy on a separate channel, handling a delayed cargo inbound. Somewhere below, the terminal lights flickered as the cleaning crews did laps. You rested your chin in your palm and tried not to hate everything.
“Tower, this is Flight 447 requesting approach clearance.”
It took your brain a second to catch up. Flight 447. He’d just arrived from Paris. Of course. You took a breath.
“Flight 447, unable to clear for approach at this time. We have outbound traffic. Maintain current altitude and turn left heading 270 for holding.”
“Copy that. Left 270. Long night down there?”
You rubbed your eyes. “Medical emergency earlier. You’ll be in the hold for about an hour.”
“Roger. Hey—did you get the chocolates?"
Despite your exhaustion, you felt heat creep up your neck. Damn him. “Yes. Thank you. They were... unnecessary.”
“But good?”
You exhaled. “Really good.”
“Knew it. You sound tired, Control. How long you been on?”
You checked your watch. “Fourteen hours.”
“You shouldn’t be pulling shifts that long. You always look after everyone else but you’ve got to take care of yourself too, you know.”
You paused, the words hitting you sideways. Maybe it was the fatigue making you soft, or maybe it was the fact that, for once, he didn’t sound like he was trying to get a rise out of you. He sounded genuinely concerned—and it threw you off more than any flirtation ever had. You didn’t even have the energy to fight him on it.
“Someone had to cover.”
“Not at the cost of your own health. You drinking water? Eating real food? And I don’t mean the sandwiches they sell in the vending machines in the gates.”
“I did eat something a few hours ago. I’m okay. We had a pregnant passenger go into labor. Coordinated three hospitals and rerouted six aircraft, then landed them priority.”
“Is she okay?”
“Baby girl, born healthy. I heard from the flight attendant that they’ve named her Sky. It’s kinda cheesy.”
“That’s beautiful.” His voice was soft. “You helped bring a little life into the world tonight.”
“It’s just part of the job.”
“It’s not just your job, you know that,” he said gently. “It’s you being the person people count on when it really matters.”
“I don’t know…”
“You know why I always ask for this route?”
“Because you like to annoy me?”
He laughed quietly. “Because your voice is the best part of my day. Doesn’t matter what went wrong, how difficult the passengers, or how many delays we had to deal with—the moment I hear you on frequency… I know I’m okay. I know I’m home.”
You blinked. Words tangled somewhere between your chest and your mouth, but none made it out. How could they? Not with your heart thudding like it was trying to escape. Not with your lungs suddenly feeling too small.
It was silent in the tower. Kai was still busy on the other frequency with his cargo flight, leaving you alone with nothing but Gojo’s soft breathing in your headset and the pounding of your pulse.
You pressed your forehead to your arms on the desk, willing your heart rate to slow. Eventually, quietly, you said, “Why? Why are you being so… like this? You don’t even know me.”
“I know enough. I know you work too hard and care too much. I know you’re calm even when the tower’s on fire. I know you have the most beautiful voice I’ve ever heard, and you use it to keep people safe.”
You could barely breathe.
“You deserve more than what this job takes from you, you know,” he added, almost like an afterthought.
“You’re so stupid,” you whispered, the insult so soft it barely had teeth.
“You’re exhausted. Lie to me tomorrow.” A pause. “You know, the cherry blossoms along the Seine were beautiful in Paris.” His voice grew wistful, and you closed your eyes, letting the sound wash over you in the quiet tower. “I’d love to show you someday.”
“Your girlfriend probably wouldn’t appreciate you taking other women on romantic trips to Paris.”
“I don’t have a girlfriend,” he said without hesitation. “I wish you were my girlfriend.”
You took another deep breath, slower this time, but it didn’t help. Your face felt hot, your pulse wouldn’t settle, and worst of all, you couldn’t even pretend it wasn’t happening. What the fuck were you supposed to do with that information?
Normally you would have hung up by now, would have found some cutting remark to shut down whatever this was becoming. But maybe it was the exhaustion seeping into your bones, or the way his voice had gone so unsual gentle, that made you let it happen—this slow unraveling of the careful distance you’d built between yourself and the voice that had somehow become more important to you than you wanted to admit
“You’re insane.”
“You’re beautiful.”
You pressed your forehead deeper into the crook of your arm, as if you could bury the whole situation under your sleeves. As if he couldn’t still hear every shaky breath of yours over the radio.
“What? No comeback?” he teased. “You really must be tired.”
“I hate how you say stuff like that,” you mumbled into your sleeve, “when you know I’m too tired to fight back.”
“Sounds like good timing, then.”
“You’re the worst.”
“Mhm. I like when you sound all sleepy,” he said, lower now, almost like he was smiling. “It’s really cute.”
“Shouldn’t you be asking if I have a boyfriend or something?”
“Sounds like you want me to ask you.”
“I don’t.” You exhaled slowly, turning your head so your cheek pressed against your arm. “I’m not looking for anything.”
“Good,” he said. “So no boyfriend. Because it would be really awkward for me to take you to Paris if you had one. Boyfriends tend to get weird about that sort of thing.”
A soft laugh escaped before you could stop it. “You don’t even know me. Why are you so persistent?”
It was silent for a while—so long it made your skin itch. You glanced at the console. Still active. But then his voice returned.
“Because for months, your voice has been the only thing that’s felt like home,” he said. “Every flight, every approach, every time you say my call sign... it feels like coming home. And maybe that’s stupid. Maybe I’m just a pilot who’s spent too many nights alone in hotels, wondering what it’d be like to hear you say my name—my real name—just once, but I…”
The tower felt impossibly still around you, save for the sound of his soft breathing in your ear and the heavy press of something strange in your chest.
“Flight 447—”
“Can I ask you something? And you can say no.”
“…What?”
“Do you want to switch to a private frequency?”
You shouldn’t. It was a clear breach of communication policy. You knew that. But the tower was empty, Kai was distracted, and there was something in the way he said it that made you want to say yes so terribly much.
“Frequency 121.9,” you said.
“Copy that. Switching now.”
Your heart thudded. You flipped over to the private channel, palms slightly clammy against the controls, and waited.
“Tower, this is Flight 447 on private frequency.”
“I’m here.”
You could hear the smile in his voice when he answered. “Tell me something about you.”
“What do you want to know?”
“Anything. Doesn’t matter. I just want to listen to your voice.”
You went quiet for a beat, still resting your head on your arms, the headset cord wrapped loosely around your fingers. Your body was heavy with exhaustion, but something warm had started to bloom low in your chest.
“That’s… I don’t know what to say.”
“Start simple. What did you have for breakfast?”
Despite everything, you almost smiled. “Coffee.”
“Just coffee?” He groaned. “That’s terrible for you. You need read food.”
“Says the man who probably only eats airplane food and orders hotel room service.”
“I make great scrambled eggs, actually,” he said, a little smug. “Secret ingredient is a little cream cheese folded in at the end.”
“You cook?”
“Mhmm. And I make the best carbonara.”
“According to who?”
“According to me. And I’m a very reliable source.”
You smiled again. “Very humble, too.”
“Absolutely. So, what about you? What do you do when you’re not busy keeping pilots from crashing into each other?”
You surprised yourself by answering. You told him about the pottery class you barely had time for on weekends, how you were trying to teach yourself guitar but could only play three chords and a more or less decent version of ‘Wonderwall’. You admitted to watch trash reality TV while folding laundry, and how your poor balcony basil plant had died three times and counting despite your best efforts.
It just... flowed. And it felt good. Comforting, even.
You found yourself sharing more than you meant to, your voice softer than usual in the quiet of the tower, like the distance between you made it easier to be honest.
You hadn’t realized until now how much you’d come to like hearing his voice. Not the cocky, smug tone he usually used on open frequency—but this version. Soff and warm in a way that felt almost intimate. Like he actually cared about your answer. Like he actually saw you, even from thirty thousand feet away.
You were quiet for a moment, then asked, “Why did you become a pilot?”
A breath passed. Maybe two.
“I had a little sister. She died when she was twelve—leukemia.” He paused, and you could hear the slight hitch in his breathing. “She was obsessed with those National Geographic documentaries, always making plans about all the places she wanted to see—the Andes in Peru, hiking the Highlands in Scotland, and seeing the Northern Lights in Iceland. She had this whole notebook full of destinations she wanted to visit, with pictures cut out from magazines.”
You didn’t move, afraid even a shift might break the moment.
“She never left Japan. Never even got on a plane. But the day before she died, she made me promise I’d see the world for her. That I’d go to all the places and tell her about them.” Another shaky breath. “So I became a pilot. And every flight, every city, every sunset high above the clouds—she’s with me. I take pictures for her. Collect postcards.” His laugh barely held. “Probably sounds crazy.”
“It doesn’t sound crazy at all.” You sat up straighter in your chair and rolled your sleeves down, suddenly feeling the night air’s chill. “So the postcards from Zurich…”
“I brought one for her, and one for you. I thought... maybe you’d like it too.”
“Flight 447,” you said softly, unsure what else to do with the weight in your chest.
“She would’ve liked you,” he added. “She always said the most important people are the ones who make you feel like home—even when you’re thirty thousand feet in the air, circling your home airport at in the middle of the night because you cannot land.”
You were silent for a while, unable to find words.
“Control? Can I ask you something else?”
“…Yeah.”
“Would you like to go out with me?”
You didn’t say anything at first. Didn’t even breathe at first, hand hovering near the console, but instead of replying, you slowly set your headset down and stood—legs unsteady. You crossed the small space behind your chair, ran a hand through your hair, tried to get your lungs to work again.
You weren’t ready. Not for this. Not for him sounding that sincere. He was still up there, circling in the dark, waiting for something you weren’t sure you could give. You braced your hands on the edge of the desk, heart pounding, and finally lowered yourself back into the chair. Slipped the headset on again.
“I…” you began, but the rest of the sentence never came. Your throat tightened too much.
“You don’t have to answer now. Just think about it, okay?”
Then Kai’s voice cut through your main frequency. “Control Seven, runway’s clear for your holding traffic.”
You switched back to the private frequency, your voice steadier than you felt.
“Flight 447, you’re cleared for approach, runway 24L. Wind 180 at 5 knots.”
“Roger, cleared for approach runway 24L.”
You hesitated, your finger trembling slightly on the radio button, then softly, “Land safe, Satoru.”
Silence stretched between you, each moment an unbearable weight as you waited for him to speak, with only the soft static of the frequency for company. When his voice finally came back, it was barely above a whisper.
“You’re so unfair, Control. How am I supposed to sleep now that I’ve finally heard you say my name like that?”
Your chest tightened, a fragile tenderness settling in your chest, and you closed your eyes, lost in the sudden intimacy of the moment.
“See you on the ground, Control… and sleep easy tonight.”
── ⟢ ·⸝⸝
After that night, everything changed.
What had once been the most frustrating part of your job had quietly become the part you looked forward to most. You told yourself it was just the routine, the familiarity. A comforting voice between the chaos. But when Flight 447’s call sign popped up on your radar, your chest would do that stupid flutter before your brain could stop it. And the professional distance you’d worked so hard to maintain began crumbling piece by fragile piece.
“Tower, this is Flight 447 requesting vectors, and good morning to my favorite controller.”
You didn’t even try to hide your smile anymore. “Good morning, Captain. Turn left heading 180, descend and maintain 4,000.”
“How’s that terrible tower coffee treating you today?”
“Still tastes like mud. But it’s keeping me awake.”
“You really need someone to bring you proper coffee sometime.”
“Flight 447, contact Approach on 119.7.”
“Will do, beautiful. Save me a cup of that mud, will you?”
You caught yourself still smiling after he’d switched frequencies.
Your colleagues noticed the change immediately. Maki would glance over with that knowing grin the second his call sign blinked onto your screen. Sometimes she didn’t even say anything—just raised her eyebrows and took a dramatically loud sip of her green tea.
Even Ijichi who was usually so quiet and reserved, seemed to soften. Now, he’d offer a small, genuinely happy smile when Satoru’s voice came through the speakers, like a younger brother observing something inevitable unfold.
The conversations with Satoru grew longer, more personal. He’d tell you about the cities he flew to—the morning mist over Prague’s cobblestone streets, the way the late afternoon sunlight painted the Alps during his approach to Munich, the bustling markets in Vienna that smelled like roasted chestnuts and warm strudel.
“There’s this little bakery in Prague,” he said once. “Sells cinnamon sugar spirals on a stick that taste like sugar bread. I picked some up for you and will drop them by your gate when I land, though they might be a bit smushed from the flight, but I swear they’re really good.”
You imagined him standing there, maybe still in his uniform, coffee in one hand and some pastry in the other, sunlight filtering through narrow European streets. You wished you could’ve been there with him.
One Tuesday evening, he came on frequency a few minutes early. “I saw the Northern Lights last night for the first time,” he said, skipping all pretense of small talk. “Over Helsinki. It looked incredible. I took about a hundred photos, even though they don’t do it justice, but… I tried.”
“Your sister would’ve loved that.”
“Yeah. She would have.” His voice grew soft. “I wish you could have seen them too. With me.”
You hadn’t planned on any of this. You didn’t know where it was going. But every word felt a little easier than the last. Like you were building something one flight at a time, stitched together from shared late night conversations, shared silences, and a voice that had somehow made its way under your skin. And you hadn’t even seen his face.
At some point, the flirting had stopped feeling like a game. You weren’t sure when the shift happened, only that it had. One day you were rolling your eyes at his compliments, and the next… you caught yourself smiling before he even switched on the mic.
He’d compliment your voice and your hair he’d never even seen, and you’d toss something sharp right back at his ego. He’d ask about your day like it mattered, and you’d ask how the clouds looked up there in the sky.
Somewhere between the banter and clearance codes, you stopped resisting the warmth that bloomed in your chest every time he called you beautiful. Stopped pretending it didn’t matter. Stopped pretending you didn’t wait for his call sign, or feel the flutter in your stomach when he said your call sign like it was something he’d been waiting all day to say.
“You sound tired today,” he said one afternoon, somewhere over the East China Sea, his voice laced with concern.
You stifled a yawn. “Double shift. Someone called in sick.”
“That’s the third time this month. You need to take better care of yourself.”
“I’m fine.”
“When’s the last time you took a day off? And I mean not just sleeping in because you worked late, but actually doing something for yourself?”
You paused, thought about it, and realized you couldn’t remember.
“That settles it. When I get back from the Zagreb route next week, we’re going somewhere. Somewhere with decent coffee and food that doesn’t come from a vending machine.”
“Is that a request or a demand, Captain?”
“It’s a promise.”
Late night conversations on the private frequency became your favorite kind of bad habit. You told yourself you weren’t abusing the system—you just happened to monitor 121.9 a little more closely on nights when you knew he was in the air.
When the tower thinned out to near silence, leaving only the hum of the monitors, and his overnight flights aligned perfectly with your shifts, you always found a reason to switch channels.
“Can’t sleep up there?” you’d ask when his voice came through the static.
“Autopilot’s handling the boring parts. Thought I’d check on my favorite insomniac instead.”
“I’m not an insomniac,” you’d say, leaning into the console, exhausted but smiling. “I’m working.”
“It’s 3 AM. You should be in bed, curled up with a blanket and binge some Netflix.”
“Someone’s gotta guide the pretty pilots through the night sky.”
He never missed a beat. “Just one pretty pilot in particular, I hope. Otherwise I might get jealous.”
And you let him win these little exchanges. Because the truth was, the static of 121.9 had quietly become where you truly felt yourself. A place where your voice softened, where the walls came down, where you weren’t Control Seven—you were just you. Tired, overcaffeinated, sometimes frustrated with everything—but somehow still able to breathe easier when his voice filled your headset.
You didn’t have a name for what was growing between you—but it was there. Steady. Constant. Cruising at altitude and waiting for the moment one of you was brave enough to land.
Those conversations could last hours—him circling above the Pacific while you guided other aircraft, both of you stealing moments between official duties to talk about everything and nothing. He’d tell you about passengers he’d met, you’d share stories about the quirky new controller in the tower. He’d describe the view from his cockpit, you’d explain what the radar looked like from your perspective.
“Do you ever wonder what it would be like if we’d met differently?” he asked one night.
“How do you mean?”
“If I wasn’t a pilot, and you weren’t up in a tower. If we just... bumped into each other at a grocery store or something.”
“Would you have still talked my ear off about arctic birds?”
“Probably.” He laughed. “Though I might have started with the weather like a normal person.”
“I don’t think you know how to be normal, Captain.”
You found yourself looking forward to his flights. When Flight 447 appeared on your radar, it was like a switch flipped on inside your chest. And when his route changed and he wasn’t there you caught yourself glancing at the flight board more than necessary. If his flight was delayed by weather or mechanical issues, you’d feel it settle heavy in your chest like stones until his call sign appeared on your screen.
“Miss me?” he’d tease whenever your shifts missed each other and the silence stretched too long.
“You wish.”
“I do, actually. Horribly.”
You rolled your eyes, even though he couldn’t see it. “The frequency’s been blessedly quiet without you. You wouldn’t believe how efficiently I can work without your constant interruptions.”
“Liar. You were bored as hell.”
“Flight 447, I’m transferring you to Approach before your big ego causes your plane to crash.”
“Don’t you think it’s a little to late for that, Control? It’s this big since you said my name that one time.”
You groaned, pressing your palm to your forehead, but you were smiling. Always smiling. And he knew it. You both did. And pretending otherwise had started to feel pointless.
“…I missed you.”
You leaned forward, arms crossed on the edge of your console, and hunched your shoulders, trying to shake off the shiver that traced down your spine at the sound of his voice in your ear.
“Approach is waiting, Captain.”
A few weeks had passed since that first private frequency conversation, and you still hadn’t given him a direct answer about the date. But somewhere between his stories about sunrises over the Himalayas and your chaotic work anecdotes, the question had become less about whether and more about when. Even if you didn’t have the courage to admit it yet.
“So,” he said one Thursday evening, while preparing for approach, “about that date…”
Your heart stuttered in the smallest, stupidest way.
“I know a little café in Shibuya. It’s away from the main tourist spots and makes the best matcha lattes in Tokyo. Perfect place for two hardworking colleagues to grab a coffee.”
“We are colleagues, Flight 447.”
“Colleagues who happen to enjoy each other’s company.”
“Colleagues who work together professionally.”
“Colleagues who talk on private frequencies at 2 AM about the Northern Lights and their horrible exes.” His voice carried that familiar teasing note. “Come on, what’s the worst that could happen? I promise not to talk about aircraft separation minimums the whole time.”
“The worst that could happen is that it gets complicated.”
“It’s already complicated.”
You were quiet for a moment, knowing he was right. You shifted slightly in your chair, fingers idly twirling the cable of your headset.
“Flight 447, contact Approach on 119.7.”
“The café’s called Blue Mountain,” he said before switching. “Saturday afternoon. If you’re free.”
“I’ll think about it.”
Later that night, you lay on your back in the dark, staring at the ceiling of your apartment as the last traces of twilight faded from deep purple to black outside your open window, and replayed every conversation, every laugh, every time he’d called you beautiful.
You were a grown woman. A professional. You managed emergencies, rerouted aircraft in storm systems, made decisions in mere seconds that kept hundreds of people safe every day.
And here you were. Heart in shambles over a man you’d never even seen in person.
It didn’t make sense. Pilots are arrogant. That’s a universal truth you’d learned over the years in air traffic control. They walked through airports like they owned the sky, had egos the size of their aircraft, an attention span of a goldfish when it came to relationships, and probably a different girlfriend in every city.
Satoru was a pilot.
Therefore, by the sacred logic of the universe, he was a bad idea.
You’d learned that lesson the hard way—given your heart to people who’d seemed so sure, so persistent, so convinced they wanted forever until they didn’t. Until the reality of loving someone flawed and human became too much work, too complicated, too real.
But now here was him—persistent, charming, relentless in his pursuit of something that existed only in radio waves and imagination. All he had was your voice and whatever fantasy he’d constructed around it. And fantasies, no matter how beautiful, eventually shattered when they met reality.
You didn’t know much about him. Not his favorite movie, or if he was the type to do laundry right away or leave it on a chair for three days. You didn’t know who broke his heart last, or what he looked like when he was nervous. You didn’t even know if he wore glasses or if his hair curled when it rained.
For all you knew, he talked like this to every controller on every route. Maybe you were just one more frequency he’d tuned into. A novelty. A nice voice to pass the time.
Yet you knew he brought you gifts from cities you’d never visited. You knew he worried when you worked too many hours. You knew he talked to his dead sister through postcards and photographs, and somehow let you be a part of that grief. You knew the sound of his breathing thirty thousand feet above you, and sometimes wished you could fall asleep to it.
But this wasn’t real. Whatever this was—chemistry, attraction, some strange radio wave Stockholm syndrome—it couldn’t be real. Real relationships required proximity, shared experiences, mundane Tuesday mornings and arguments over who left the bathroom light on. Not conversations between approach vectors and weather reports in the middle of the night.
He’d never seen you laugh until your sides hurt, never witnessed you cry out of frustration. He didn’t know that you were shy in crowds, that you overthought everything, that you had trust issues wrapped around your heart like scar tissue.
This was in between. A connection built in the air, not on the ground. And you were being smart by saying no. You were being practical. Responsible. You were doing what made sense.
But why did the idea of never knowing the warmth of his hand in yours make your chest ache like you were already grieving something that hadn’t even had the chance to exist?
You rolled onto your side, pulled the covers up higher, and pressed your face into the pillow.
── ⟢ ·⸝⸝
It was one of those graveyard shifts where the world felt like it had gone still. Most of the world was asleep, save for you, a few stray cargo flights, and the quiet static of Flight 447 holding steady somewhere over the ocean. And him. Always him.
You were back on private frequency. What began, as it always did, with talk of altitudes and airspeed, soon shifted to stories of cities and people he’d met in Dublin and that little bakery he’d found in Budapest, that he’s sure of you’d love.
And then he told you about his ex-girlfriend who’d left him because she couldn’t handle the distance, the loneliness of hotel rooms. He spoke of his parents, who’d always expected him to run the family’s company, and how they still didn’t understand why he’d chosen to spend his life in the sky.
You found yourself sharing more than you probably should, as you always did in these hushed moments—your failed engagement to a man who’d wanted you to quit air traffic control because it was ‘too stressful’, your complicated relationship with your mother, and how sometimes, even now, it still felt like your worth came with conditions.
“I’ve never told anyone that before,” you said softly after confessing how you’d chosen this career partly to prove you could handle something your ex-fiancé thought was too difficult for you.
“I'm glad you told me,” Satoru’s voice was soft through the headset. And despite the exhaustion, your chest gave that familiar, traitorous flutter. “I love listening to your voice, especially when you’re being honest about things that matter.”
“Satoru…” you said, without thinking—his name slipping out in a whisper that carried more weight than it should have.
“Say that again.”
“Your name?”
“Yes,” he breathed, the single word aching. “Please.”
You hesitated. Not because you didn't want to—but because speaking it aloud meant acknowledging the weight it carried.
“Satoru,” you said again, slower this time. His name felt warm on your tongue, like something meant to be spoken softly, like a confession wrapped in a name.
On the other end of the line, silence stretched long enough to make your heart stutter.
“Satoru?” you asked. “Are you there?”
“I’m here. I was just… thinking.”
“About what?”
A beat.
“About how much I want to kiss you right now.”
Your breath caught so fast it hurt. Heat flooded your face and you pulled your headset off for a moment, pressing your palms against your burning cheeks.
You stood for a second, pacing a few slow steps behind your chair, trying to shake it off, to convince yourself you hadn’t heard what you just heard. But your heart wouldn’t stop racing, a wild bird trapped in your ribs, like your body was reacting to something your mind hadn’t even begun to process, let alone given permission for.
Because part of you had desperately wanted to hear those words. And part of you didn’t know what the hell to do with them now that they were real. You stared at the headset in your lap, hesitating. Wanting. Dreading.
After a few seconds, you slipped the headset back on.
“Did I scare you with that?”
“No,” you said quietly. “It’s… it’s fine.”
“I mean it, you know. I really do want to kiss you.”
“This is insane. We’ve never even met.”
“It doesn’t feel that way to me. Feels like I’ve known you forever.”
His words settled deep, heavier than the silence that followed. Something about them felt like a confession hanging between earth and sky, between personal and professional, between safe and what if.
“Satoru…”
“I know how you take your coffee. I know how you sound when you’re tired, and what makes you laugh when you’re trying not to. I know you bite your lip when you’re concentrating—because I can hear it in your voice. And I know you put everyone else ahead of yourself even when you shouldn’t. I know enough to care. And enough to want more.” A pause. “What else do I need to know?”
“What I look like, for starters.”
“I don’t care.”
“You don’t care?”
“No, because it’s your voice I think about at night. That’s what drew me in. The rest… it never mattered.”
You sat there, heartbeat loud in your ears, not sure how to breathe, let alone how to respond.
“Say something,” he whispered. “Please.”
“I don’t know what to say.”
“Say you’ll have coffee with me. Say you’ll give me a chance to see the woman I’ve fallen for.”
Your breath caught again. “Fallen for?” you repeated, like maybe saying it aloud would help you believe it.
“Yes. Completely, hopelessly fallen for.”
Your hands lifted—without thinking, almost desperate—and pressed against the headset like you could pull his voice closer—pull him closer. Part of you wanted him to say it again. Needed to hear it, to make sure it was real. And another part wished he hadn’t said it at all. Because now it was alive between you. Irrevocable.
“I…” You stopped, swallowed, tried again. “I have to—” You panicked and switched back to the main frequency. “Ijichi? Can you take over Flight 447 for me? I need to step out for a second.”
You yanked the headset off and fled to the small restroom down the hall, slammed the lock shut, and leaned back against the door as if afraid his words might follow you in.
You turned on the faucet, splashing cold water onto your face. Droplets clung to your lashes and slid down your neck. Still, the heat in your skin wouldn’t go away, chest rising and falling too fast.
What is happening?
He couldn’t be serious. He couldn’t just… fall for your voice. That wasn’t how this worked. That wasn’t how any of this worked. You hadn’t even met him. You didn’t know what his laugh looked like when it reached his eyes. He didn’t know how you looked when you weren’t exhausted. And yet—
Yet here you were, breathless in a dim airport bathroom in the middle of the night, heart racing like you were the one who’d made the confession.
This is insane. He is a pilot. Probably talks like this to every other control tower from Berlin to Bangkok. But why—God, why—did you want to kiss him back so badly?
── ⟢ ·⸝⸝
You took a week off without telling him.
It was cruel—you knew that. But you needed time. Time to breathe. Time to think. Time to stop feeling like you were going to fly apart every time you heard his voice. But distance didn’t feel like space. It felt like ache.
You spent most of that week alone in your apartment, curled into corners of yourself you hadn’t visited in years. You rearranged your bookshelves. Watered your plants twice in one day. Cleaned your windows until they gleamed like they haven’t in years.
And still, none of it helped. You ended up lying on your back in your bed, just… thinking. Wondering if he was worried. If he noticed the silence. If he regretted saying what he did.
You replayed the conversation endlessly, like a scratched record stuck on the moment his voice had dropped, tender and fragile with something like a confession.
Completely, hopelessly fallen for.
You could still hear it. Still feel the way your lungs had stuttered.
You hadn’t meant to fall for him. But you had.
Maybe it started the moment he told you that your voice felt like coming home to him. Or maybe it was the first time he opened up about his sister, the way his voice caught halfway through the sentence, like he was still learning how to hold that grief in his mouth. Or maybe it was even before that, when he brought you chocolate from Zurich and called you special to customs agents he’d never meet again.
You wanted to kiss him then. You want to kiss him now. And that terrified you more than anything. Not because it wasn’t real, but because you’d wanted it to be real for so long without even realizing. But wanting and admitting were two different things.
So instead, you wrapped yourself in quiet and waited for the ache to fade. It didn’t. You thought it would. You thought time would create space, and space would give you clarity. But it didn’t, and the ache only grew stronger.
By day three, you caught yourself checking the flight tracking apps, wondering if he was flying the skies above you, if his voice was somewhere out there asking another controller for vectors. If he’d call them ‘beautiful’ too.
By day four, you were questioning whether radio silence was mature or just cowardly, and by day five, you were actively pacing your apartment, cursing yourself for disappearing and cursing him for making you feel this way in equal measures.
You heard the familiar drone of an aircraft passing overhead through your open window and stopped your pacing instantly, tilting your head toward the sound as it grew louder, then began to fade.
Was that him? His flight cutting through the darkness with some other controller guiding him home? Someone else’s voice in his headset? The thought made you sick.
Your phone buzzed against the kitchen counter. A text from Maki. “Your pilot boyfriend keeps asking where you are.”
You stared at the message for a long time. Not because you didn’t care, but because you didn’t know what to say. Because how could you possibly say I miss him without it sounding like you were already halfway in love. And maybe you were.
****
You returned on day six. Not because you were ready, or because the questions had answers, or your chest had stopped aching when his name passed through your thoughts, but because Tokyo’s sky was falling apart and there was no more time left to hide.
The call came at 3:42 AM—all available controllers needed immediately. Level four emergency.
You barely had time to pull on your uniform, hair still damp from the shower, as you rushed past stranded passengers sleeping on benches and gate agents with phones pressed to both ears, while overhead an urgent announcement looped in four languages.
A massive weather front had swept across the Pacific, turning Tokyo’s airspace into chaos. Delayed flights, emergency diversions, aircraft running low on fuel circling in holding patterns, waiting for safe corridors to open. But when you reached your workstation, you stopped.
Flowers.
A small, beautiful arrangement of white roses and baby’s breath in a clear glass vase.
“He sends them every day,” Maki said, appearing beside you with a stack of weather reports. “Asks if someone can place them on your desk. In case you come back.”
You couldn’t speak, only stared at the petals, watching one tremble in the air conditioning draft. Something fragile inside your chest pulled taut.
Six days.
He’d been sending flowers to an empty chair for six days.
“You okay?” Maki asked.
“I’m good,” you managed, swallowing hard. “I need to—” But there was no time.
“Tower, this is Flight 892, requesting immediate vectors around weather cell bearing 270.”
For the next three hours, there was no room left for feelings. You were too busy handling all the alternate airport requests, fuel emergencies, and missed approaches that required immediate rerouting.
“Flight 315, turn right heading 180, descend to 8,000. Moderate turbulence ahead, advise caution.”
Every call you answered felt like a life being tossed into your hands. You held on tight. You didn’t shake. At least, not on the outside.
A sudden, blinding flash from outside momentarily bleached the room, then plunged it back into deeper shadow as rain lashed heavily against the tower’s windows.
And then, between the tangle of signals and storm interference, a call sign you knew like your own name lit up your screen.
Flight 447.
“Tower, this is Flight 447 requesting vectors through weather, and—” He paused—like he’d caught the shaky breath you hadn’t meant to let slip through. “Control, is that you?”
It shouldn’t have undone you like that. But it did. Your knees went weak under your console. Relief flooded through you at the sound of his voice, alive and safe. Your throat tightened around a dozen things you wanted to say, but there was no time.
“Flight 447, turn left heading 090, descend to 6,000. There’s a gap in the storm cell at your two o’clock.”
“Roger, left 090, down to 6,000.” A beat. “It’s good to hear your voice again.”
You wanted to respond, to explain, to apologize for disappearing like a coward, but four other aircraft were calling for attention at the same time and the storm was intensifying still.
“Flight 447, be advised, severe turbulence ahead. Recommend immediate deviation right, heading 130.”
“Negative, we’re already committed to this approach. We’ll ride it—”
Then nothing. The radio snapped to static, then went silent.
You stood up so fast your chair rolled backward and bumped into the console behind you. One hand clutched the headset tighter to your ear, the other braced against your desk.
“Flight 447, come in.”
No response.
“Satoru, do you copy?”
Still nothing. Only white noise.
Lightning split the sky outside, followed by a deep, rattling roar of thunder that vibrated through the control room. But all you could hear was the terrifying silence where his voice should’ve been.
Your hand trembled as you keyed the mic. “Flight 447, please respond.”
Then, finally, cutting through the noise, “Control. I’m here. Lost comms for a moment there.”
You sank back into your chair like your legs had stopped working, the adrenaline suddenly too much to hold. You rested your forearms on the edge of the console, hands trembling slightly as you leaned in, pressing your forehead against them, trying to steady the frantic beat of your heart against your ribs.
“What’s with the silence now,” he whispered softly. “Were you worried about me, love?”
Love.
He’d never said that before. Beautiful, gorgeous, honey—but never this. Not like that. Not so soft and tender, like you’d been his love for so long that saying it was simply acknowledging what already existed, what had been waiting patiently in his chest for the right moment to slip free. And never had you been so stupidly, helplessly happy to hear a single word.
He is alive. He is safe. And he’d called you love.
“Flight 447, confirm you’re okay.”
“We’re fine. Bumpy ride, but nothing we can’t handle.”
Neither of you said anything for a moment.
“I’ve missed you.”
Your throat tightened. Six days of silence. Six days of waiting, wondering, and avoiding the thing you were most afraid to admit. Six days of white roses waiting for your return, and here he was, relieved to hear your voide again like you were something precious he’d thought he’d lost.
As if your absence had mattered.
As if he’d missed you the way you’d missed him.
“Thank you,” you said. “For the flowers.”
“You don’t have to thank me. Just… don’t go quiet on me again, okay? It’s hard to feel like I’m coming home when you’re not the one guiding me there.”
You closed your eyes, the ache blooming hot behind your ribs. Coming home. How could he say things like that so easily? How could he make you feel like you were drowning and flying at the same time with just a handful of words spoken through radio static?
And the worst part was how easily he said it—like you really were his home, his anchor point in all that vast sky. Like this thing between you wasn’t just something imagined, but something real enough to miss, something worth coming back to.
“I won’t,” you said, barely above a whisper.
“Promise?”
“I promise.”
And you meant it. Whatever had made you run, whatever fear had driven you to take that week off—it felt so stupidly irrelevant compared to the relief of knowing he was safe. Of knowing somewhere above the clouds, he’d been looking for your voice.
“See you on the ground, beautiful.”
And then the line went silent.
Your eyes stayed locked on his radar symbol, unwilling to look away, tracking his descent as if your gaze alone could guide him safely down. Your eyes drifted to the flowers beside your console, your chest tight with guilt because you’d been too much of a coward to face what you felt for him.
What was holding you back when he was right there? Wanting you, missing you enough to notice your absence, calling you love so tenderly. What was so terrifying about someone who made you feel like the most important voice in his sky?
He missed you. Wanted you. And you missed him like the sky misses his stars in daylight. Now he was descending through storm clouds, almost within reach, and you still didn’t know how to say any of it.
You watched his altitude drop.
8,000 feet.
6,000.
4,000.
Each number bringing him closer to solid ground—closer to you.
Then another violent gust tore across the runway. A sharp gasp cut through the tower, everyone suddenly stood and looked out the windows as Flight 447 broke through the storm clouds, lurching violently sideways. The plane’s wings tilted at a sickening angle, fighting against the crosswind as it dropped like a stone before catching itself.
Your heart flatlined.
“Maki, can you cover for me?” you asked, voice tight, already moving.
She looked away from the window. “What? Yeah, but—”
You were gone. Down the tower stairs, past security who barely glanced at your badge, through the restricted access door and straight into the teeth of the storm. Didn’t matter that you were soaking wet or that this was completely against protocol. All you knew was you had to see him.
Rain hit you immediately like ice, instantly soaking through your uniform, but you didn’t slow. Across the runway, Flight 447 was coming in hard. You watched it slam onto the wet asphalt—one heavy bounce, then another, the aircraft struggling to find purchase on the waterlogged asphalt before finally coming to a halt with a loud screech of brakes.
Not a crash. But rough enough to stop your breathing.
You ran faster, shoes splashing through puddles as emergency crews rushed past you toward the plane. The aircraft had stopped crooked on the runway, passenger stairs already being rolled into position as ground crew in bright orange vests hurried around the scene.
It was stupid, so stupid. You didn’t even know what he looked like. But then—
You saw him. For the first time in your life.
He stepped out of the cockpit door, tall and undeniably handsome even amidst the chaos. His hair was drenched form the rain, plastered back from his forehead, his pilot’s uniform soaked and wrinkled. He was looking around slowly, searching through the crowd with a furrowed brow and eyes the exact impossible blue you’d somehow always known they’d be. And then—
And then his gaze found yours. And everything stopped. No thunder. No wind. No roar of engines or shouts from the crew.
Your eyes met across the storm, and the world fell away. You had never seen this man before, but it didn’t feel that way. It felt like remembering. There was no question, no doubt, no moment of uncertainty—you knew it was him the same way you knew your own heartbeat.
The voice you’d fallen for belonged to this man, this beautiful and insufferable pilot who was staring at you like he’d just found something he’d been searching for his entire life.
And now he’d found you.
You ran toward him through the chaos, feet splashing through more puddles, rain streaming down your face. He moved toward you too, taking the metal steps down from the plane two at a time, his hand sliding along the wet railing.
You met in the middle of the runway, both out of breath, both drenched to the bone. Rain clung to his white lashes as he stared at you—those impossible blue eyes you’d imagined a hundred times now real, locked on your face like you were the only thing in the world. And yes, they were just as blue as a winter sky. Up close, he was somehow even more beautiful than you’d let yourself believe.
You opened your mouth, then closed it again, suddenly at a complete loss for words. “Would you like to go out with me?” you finally managed, having to raise your voice over the wind and rain.
Satoru blinked, his hair plastered against his forehead. A slow, handsome smile spread across his face.
“Yeah,” he said, voice rough with emotion. “I’d really like that.”
And then he was moving, one hand sliding around your waist while the other came up to cradle your face, thumb brushing away raindrops—or maybe tears, you couldn’t tell anymore. He pulled you closer, bridging the last inches like he’d been waiting forever to do it.
When he kissed you, it was like coming home after being lost for years. Desperate and tender, months of longing finally given form. His lips were impossibly soft against yours, warm despite the cold rain, and you could taste the storm on his mouth, feel the way his breath caught when you kissed him back.
Rain poured around you as you finally, finally kissed the voice that had become your everything.
When you broke apart, both breathless, he rested his forehead against yours. His hands trembled slightly where they held you, like he still couldn’t believe this was real.
“God, you’re so beautiful,” he whispered.
Then he was kissing you again, deeper this time, pouring months of missed chances and sleepless nights into the space between your lips. His grip tightened on your waist. Without breaking the kiss, he lifted from the ground and spun once, twice, in the pouring rain like you weighed nothing at all.
Storm clouds churned overhead and emergency crews moved around you, but it felt like you were the only two people in the world—suspended in this perfect moment between earth and sky and the the feeling of finally being found.
── ⟢ ·⸝⸝
A few weeks later.
“Careful with that,” Satoru warned as you briefly touched a panel of switches, his hand catching your wrist gently. “Unless you want to explain to the airline why we accidentally activated the emergency slides in the hangar.”
You were perched in the captain’s seat of his Boeing 777, legs tucked beneath you as you took in the array of countless instruments, screens, and controls that made up his office thirty thousand feet above the ground. The cockpit was smaller than you’d imagined, more intimate, every surface covered with buttons and displays that somehow made sense to him.
“You actually understand all of this?”
“Each and every switch, gauge, and warning light.” He leaned over you from where he stood beside the captain’s seat, his chest brushing your shoulder as he pointed to different instruments. “See this? It’s the primary flight display—shows our altitude, airspeed, heading. That’s the navigation display, weather radar here…”
You could smell his cologne, feel the warmth of his body as he leaned in closer to point out the next display. You loved watching him like this—the way he lit up when talking about his aircraft, completely absorbed in every detail with that endearing kinda nerdy side of his. But being this close to him made it hard to focus on anything he was saying when all you could think about was the way his voice rumbled low near your ear.
“And this,” he continued, reaching around you to tap a small screen, his arm caging you in against the seat, “shows exactly how beautiful my air traffic controller looks in my chair.”
You turned to find his face inches from yours. His sky blue eyes caught the gentle light like glass, impossibly clear, and for a second, you forgot how to breathe.
“That’s not what that screen shows.”
“No? Then why can’t I look away from it?”
“You’re stupid.” But you were smiling, tilting your head back against the headrest to maintain eye contact. “Show me something else.”
“Demanding little controller.” His fingers trailed along the overhead panel, flipping switches as he spoke. “These control cabin pressure, air conditioning, electrical systems…”
You sank deeper into the chair, letting his soothing voice wash over you.
“These are the autopilot controls.” His hand moved again. “This button engages the system—basically tells the plane to fly itself according to the flight plan we’ve programmed.” His finger moved to another switch. “This one controls altitude hold, and this manages our heading.”
“But here’s the most important thing.” Satoru reached toward a small compartment near the instrument panel and pulled out a photo of the two of you from that stormy night—completely drenched, kissing in the rain. It was blurry as hell and underexposed, and absolutely perfect.
“I still can’t believe Hana managed to get this shot,” you said, taking it from him. “She really thought ‘Oh, what a perfect time for a picture’ while there was literally an emergency evacuation going on.”
Satoru laughed. “But aren’t you gald she took it?”
“We look absolutely stupid.”
Your hair was plastered to your face, his uniform wrinkled and soaked, but you both looked happy. Really happy.
“You look perfect,” he said, leaning closer. “And you were so cute when you had that total meltdown thinking something happened to me.”
“I did not have a meltdown—”
“You ran across an active runway. In a storm.” He traced the edge of the photo with his finger, smiling. “My professional, composed controller lost her cool because she was worried about her pilot.”
“You’re insufferable.”
“I’m just saying—” He leaned back against the instrument panel, clearly enjoying this. “For someone who spent months pretending to hate my guts, you certainly changed your mind when you thought I might be hurt.”
“I was worried about you.”
His smile softened. “You didn’t have to.” He paused, then reached out, gently cupping your face. “No matter how rough the storm or the landing, I’m never really lost—not when I know you’re there. You always guide me home safely.”
“You’re stupid.”
“Stupidly in love, yeah,” he murmured—and then he kissed you.
What started soft and slow quickly turned heated. You pulled him closer by his tie, and he braced his hand against the seat beside your head, his tongue sliding against yours as his mouth pressed hungrily to yours.
“Controller,” Satoru said between kisses, his voice already rough. “What exactly are you starting here?”
“I’m not starting anything,” you said, even though your fingers were already working his tie loose.
“Clearly.”
You rose from the chair and tugged gently at his loosened tie and he followed without resistance. With a gentle push to his chest, you guided him down into the captain’s seat. He let himself fall back into it, eyes locked on yours. Without a word, you climbed into his lap, straddling him. His hands found your waist immediately, pulling you close as his mouth met yours again like he couldn’t stand another second apart.
“My break’s over in fifteen,” you murmured against his lips. “And the plane’s grounded for another hour. No one should be around.”
He pulled back just enough to give you a look. “Wait… did you check the maintenance schedule before coming here?”
“Maybe.”
“God,” he groaned against your mouth, his hands gliding up your back. “Do you even know what you do to me?”
“I’m just making efficient use of our time, Captain,” you whispered, rolling your hips slightly and feeling him tense beneath you. “Isn’t that what good air traffic control is about? Proper scheduling and all that?”
His laugh came out breathless, strained. “Pretty sure this isn’t in any manual I’ve read.”
“Then I guess you’ll have to improvise.” You threaded your fingers through his white hair and pulled him closer. “You’re good at handling unexpected situations, aren’t you?”
Whatever he was about to say dissolved as he caught your lips again, urgency building in the small space between your bodies. One hand slipped beneath your shirt, warm fingers tracing the curve of your lower back, while the other gripped your thigh possessively.
You started undoing the buttons of his shirt with trembling fingers, impatience bleeding into every movement. Fabric slipped from his shoulders as you pushed it off. You pressed your hands against his bare chest, feeling the rapid thud of his heartbeat under your palms and traced slowly down over his abs, earning a rough groan of his against your lips.
“Why do I get the feeling this was your plan all along?”
Satoru tugged at your shirt, easing it off your shoulders as his lips trailed along your collarbone, then down to the strap of your bra, pushing it aside to press kisses to the skin beneath.
“Says the man undressing me in his cockpit,” you managed, though your voice caught when his mouth found your neck and sucked lightly.
“I can’t believe you let me ramble about navigation systems for ten minutes straight when this was your plan.”
“You’re cute when you’re being all professional and nerdy.”
“You’re terrible.”
His hands gripped your hips, pulling you closer until you could feel him hard and pressing through his uniform. A soft sound escaped your lips before you could stop it, and his mouth crashed back onto yours, like he was trying to steal every moan before it left your lips.
“Careful. Don’t want us getting caught, right?”
You barely heard him. Your hands dropped to his belt, leather unfastening fast. It didn’t take long to push aside everything that wasn’t necessary. You were both nothing if not efficient, after all. And the last threads of restraint snapped as Satoru’s hands slid up your bare thighs, fingers hooking beneath your underwear and pulling it aside.
His head tipped back against the seat, breath catching as you moved against him. “Fuck,” he whispered, hands gripping your waist and pulling you closer as you found your rhythm together. His mouth on yours again, swallowing the soft sounds neither of you could hold back.
Surrounded by the controls and countless displays, the cockpit windows slowly fogging from your heated breathing, you couldn’t help but think about how it all started. This was where it began—thirty thousand feet above the world, suspended between earth and sky in the place where his voice had first found yours. From that very first radio call, from the moment he’d called you beautiful, it had always been leading here.
As if inevitable.
Now, with your hands mapping his skin and your name falling from his lips in soft moans, it felt like coming full circle. From air traffic control to this. From ‘Flight 447’ to ‘Satoru.’ From guiding him home to finally being home.
And that felt pretty damn good.
── ⟢ ·⸝⸝
Six months later.
“Tower, this is Flight 447 requesting permission to land and take my gorgeous girlfriend out for dinner tonight,” came the voice you loved through your headset, smooth as always despite the late hour.
You rolled your eyes, though you smiled. “Flight 447, you do realize the entire tower can hear you, right?”
“Even better. Let them all know how lucky I am.”
Around the control tower, your colleagues had long since stopped pretending to be annoyed by Satoru’s radio flirtations. Maki still teased you about how cute you both sounded over the frequency, and even Ijichi had gotten used to the intimate banter without blushing like a teenage boy who’d accidentally walked into a lingerie store.
The gifts never stopped coming. From Vilnius, he’d brought a handwritten pierogi recipe from an elderly woman he’d chatted with during his layover—and it was surprisingly good when he made it for you on the weekend. He did not lie when he told you he’s a good cook.
From Faro came a hand painted pot for the basil plant you’d surely kill again, but it didn’t matter as he’d secretly replace it in the middle of the night so you’d think you’d finally managed to keep a plant alive and see your happy smile. Seville brought oranges he’d handpicked from the city gardens, and Barcelona brought a gorgeous Picasso art book.
And, of course, every trip came with two postcards. One for you, and one for his sister. You’d started framing the ones meant for her and hanging them throughout his apartment for him.
“You know you don’t have to bring me something from every city,” you’d told him after he’d brought more expensive chocolate from Zurich.
“Let me spoil my girl,” he’d replied simply, watching you take a bite. “Besides, all you see is that boring tower all day. You deserve a little treat.”
The radio banter had only gotten worse—or better, depending on your perspective.
“Tower, Flight 447 requesting vectors to your heart.”
“Flight 447 keep it professional or I’m diverting you to Osaka.”
“Oof. Brutal. But if you send me to Osaka, you’ll never see what I brought you from Rome.”
Your colleagues had started keeping a list of his most ridiculous radio calls. ‘Flight 447 requesting visual on the prettiest controller in the hemisphere’ was Maki’s current favorite, while Ijichi still cringed about the time Satoru had asked for ‘Requesting altitude adjustment because I just fell for you—again.’
Yeah. It was absolutely cheesy.
Moving in together happened gradually, then all at once. Your clothes moved to his closet, your coffee mugs replaced all of his ugly ones in the kitchen, and suddenly your shift schedule was magnetted to his refrigerator beside his flight rotations. One day, you realized you were planning your lives around each other without ever having had the conversation.
“Your apartment’s bigger,” you’d pointed out, when you finally made it official.
“Yours has the better balcony. But mine’s closer to the airport.”
“So, your place then. But I’m bringing my good coffee maker.”
“And won’t let me see that adorable little wince you do at my terrible coffee in the morning? You’re heartless.”
But the real adjustment wasn’t space or schedules. It was learning each other’s bodies with the same intensity you’d spent months learning each other’s voices. After all, with falling in love through radio static, there was a lot of missed physical intimacy to make up for.
Some weekends you didn’t even make it out of your shared apartment, too consumed with discovering each other all over again. Your back hit the mattress with a soft thud, sheets warm beneath you as he settled over you, pressing kisses to your jaw, your neck, your collarbone like he couldn’t decide where to focus first.
“I used to fantazise about this,” he murmured between kisses.
“About what?”
“This.” His voice dropped lower, lips bruising your throat. “What you’d sound like when you weren’t trying so hard to be professional… imagining the sounds you’re making now, how you’d moan my name with that pretty voice of yours.”
You pulled him closer, lips finding his again, his tongue hot against yours.
“Yeah?”
He smiled against your mouth. “You have no idea how many nights I imagined the taste of your skin. How many times I lay awake wondering if your thighs would shake when I fucked you hard enough.”
Your breath stuttered, hands gripping his shoulders like they were the only steady thing left. “Good thing we’ve got time now to find out.”
“Yeah. And I plan on making up for all of it,” he whispered—just before his fingers slipped between your thighs, and you forgot how to speak altogether.
And you did make up for lost time. Learning that he was somehow even more affectionate and thorough in person than over the radio.
In the quiet of your bedroom, with the curtains drawn and the world hushed beyond the walls, you discovered each other slowly.
How he always shivered when you traced patterns across his abs. How you had a small scar just below your ribcage from a childhood fall that he found with his lips, kissing along your skin until you arched beneath him. How your body tensed and then melted completely when his mouth worked between your legs, drawing sounds from you that made him groan against your skin.
You learned the weight of his arm draped over you, holding you close when he was moving from behind, and how soothing it felt when his fingers traced lazy patterns on your shoulder until sleep claimed you both. Discovered that lazy morning sex, followed by his surprisingly good scrambled eggs, was the perfect way to start any day.
You spent hours like this, days even, learning the language of each other’s bodies with a thoroughness that left no inch unexplored and no fantasy unfulfilled.
“You know,” he said one evening, pulling you into his lap while you tried to review approach procedures on the couch, “I spent so many nights wondering what it would be like to touch you while you worked.”
“And now?”
“Now I get to find out what happens when I do this—” His lips found that sensitive spot on your neck, making you gasp and completely forget what you’d been reading. “While you’re trying to be all professional.”
“That’s unfair.”
“That’s what makes it fun.”
The night everything changed started like any other. Weather delays had backed up traffic for hours, leaving Satoru circling above the Pacific in a holding pattern while you worked through the endless stream of aircraft. It was past midnight, the tower hushed and dim, when you finally switched to private frequency.
“Bored up there, Captain?”
“Never bored when I’m talking to you. Though I was thinking…”
“Dangerous pastime for you.”
“We’re both stuck here for the next few hours. You, managing this beautiful chaos from your tower. Me, alone with the stars at thirty thousand feet.” His voice carried that familiar warmth that always made something flutter in your chest. “Feels like the perfect date to me.”
You ended up talking for three hours, switching between official vectors and private topics, guiding other aircraft while Satoru described the city lights below and the way clouds shimmered like winter frost in the moonlight.
“Strange how this all started, don’t you think?” you mused during a quiet moment. “Two voices falling for each other over radio frequency.”
“You’re not having second thoughts, are you?”
“No. It’s just… kind of crazy, isn’t it? All of this.”
He was silent for a beat. When he spoke again, his voice was different—nervous, almost fragile.
“Can I ask you something?”
“Of course.”
“Will you marry me?”
Your heart stopped.
“I know it’s not how this is supposed to go. I know it’s not normal. But then again, nothing about us has been. I’m thirty thousand feet in the air, you’re down there keeping the world together, and all I can think about is how much I want to spend the rest of my life with you.”
Time stretched thin in the control room as you struggled to process what he’d just asked, your heart thundering so loud you were sure he could hear it through the frequency.
“Yes,” you whispered, the word barely more than a breath as you leaned forward, elbows braced against the console. Your hands trembled as you pressed them to your face, overwhelmed by the rush of joy and disbelief.
“Yes?”
“Yes. I’ll marry you.”
He let out a heavy breath. “God, I love you. You just made me the happiest man alive. I swear, if I could pull down every star from up here and give them to you, I would.”
You blinked back tears, smiling. “Just come home safe, you idiot.”
“Always,” he said, and his voice had never sounded more sure. “Your voice guides me home, remember? It always has.”
You thought you’d mapped every corner of him after six months of living together—every habit, every sleepy morning routine, every sound he makes when he cums.
But then came the private jet revelation over scrambled eggs on a random Friday morning.
You’d known he came from money—the expensive gifts, the way he never seemed to stress about finances and had this really fancy apartment—but you hadn’t grasped the scale until he casually mentioned his father’s company owned a fleet of corporate aircraft.
“I was thinking we should take some time off and explore the world a little,” he said, like offering to fly you around the world was the same as suggesting takeout for dinner. “We could take one of the jets.”
“Wait wait wait… you have access to a private jet?”
“Technically, I have access to several.”
Your spoon slipped out of your hand and landed in your eggs.
The first time he took you somewhere—a long weekend in Kyoto for cherry blossom season—you finally understood why he’d fallen in love with flying.
Up there, suspended between heaven and earth, everything felt different. The world spread out below like a map, cities reduced to scattered lights and rivers threading silver through green landscapes. You watched his hands move over the controls, the same hands that traced gentle patterns on your skin at night, now guiding you both through layers of cloud and sky.
“So this is what you see every day?” you asked, staring out at clouds that looked close enough to touch.
“This is what I used to see.” He glanced over at you. “Now I only see you.”
It started with short weekend trips, then longer stays overseas when both your schedules allowed it. He took you everywhere you wanted to go.
Venice, he bought you both gelato and told you stories about the Murano glass blowers. Barcelona, where you got lost in Gaudi’s wild architecture and found tiny tapas bars nestled in medieval alleyways. And Iceland, where the Northern Lights painted the sky green and purple while you kissed in a natural hot spring—finally experiencing all the places he’d described to you over radio waves. But now you experienced them together.
“Your sister would have loved this,” you said Reykjavik, wrapped in his arms under the dancing aurora.
“She would have loved you,” he replied, pulling you closer in the warm water. “She always said the best adventures were the ones you shared with someone who made you feel at home.”
“Remember when you used to tell me about this place?” you asked one evening in Prague, watching him order those cinnamon sugar spirals from the same bakery he’d told you about months ago over the radio.
He handed you the warm pastry with a smile. “I remember wishing you were here when I first tried it. I used to imagine what you’d say about the cobblestones, or if you’d laugh at my terrible pronunciation when I tried to order something local.”
You took a bite, sugar melting on your tongue. “And now?”
“Now I get to see your face when you taste it for the first time.” He pulled you close, the golden hour painting everything warm around you. “Now I get to hold your hand instead of describing how the sunset looks over the Charles Bridge. I don’t have to imagine anymore.”
Each trip revealed new layers of him—and new ways to make up for all those months of being just voices to each other.
Somewhere over the Atlantic, you learned just how good he was at multitasking—okay, autopilot might have helped—his hands tangled in your hair, mouth on yours, while the stars streaked past the windows. Long afternoons in Parisian hotel rooms, rain drumming against the windows while you learned exactly how sensitive he gets when overstimulated. Sunset on private beaches in Thailand, where he discovered the sweet sounds you make when he uses three fingers instead of two.
“I used to get hard just from hearing your voice,” he admitted one night in Santorini, pushing in deep while the Aegean sparkled below your terrace.
“Just from my voice?”
“Especially when you’d get that stern controller tone. ‘Flight 447, maintain current heading.’” His breath caught as you clenched around him, fingers finding yours and intertwining where he pressed them into the mattress. “You have no idea what that did to me.”
“Show me what it did to you.”
He did, thoroughly and repeatedly, until you understood exactly how much he’d wanted you during all those professional exchanges.
The wedding happened a year later, simple and perfect in a garden overlooking Tokyo Bay. Satoru insisted on writing his own vows, and when the moment came, he pulled out a piece of paper that looked suspiciously like a flight plan.
He promised to pull down the stars for you if you ever wanted them, and you vowed to always be his voice guiding him home.
Years passed like this.
At some point, your story was known by everyone at the airport. Everyone was swooning over the perfect love story of two people who fell in love over their voices alone.
But the best parts were always the quiet moments. Morning coffee in your shared kitchen while he planned routes and you reviewed approach procedures. Afternoons when he’d surprise you at the tower with flowers and terrible jokes that made you ground and your colleagues laugh. Evenings curled up together planning the next adventure, his pilot charts spread across the coffee table next to approach manuals and takeout containers.
“Where to next?”
“Anywhere you want,” was always his answer. “As long as we’re flying together.”
And through it all, some things remained beautifully constant—the flutter in your stomach when his call sign appeared on your screen, his voice calling from the sky, yours answering from the tower, and the way he still brought you something from every city.
“Tower, this is Flight 447 requesting permission to kiss my beautiful wife once I land. And yes, I know this is a public frequency, and yes—I want everyone to hear it.”
“Flight 447, you’re the worst.”
His laugh crackled through the radio. “I love you,” he said, still completely, hopelessly in love.
And every time he landed, every time you watched his plane touch down safely on the runway, that same warmth bloomed in your chest, just like it had from the very first day. Because no matter how many flights he took, how many cities he visited, how many years passed—he always came back to you.
After all, your voice had been the one calling him home from the very beginning.
The End
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author's note — wait ! before you go ! if you enjoyed this story, i’d be forever grateful if you’d consider gifting me a few minutes of your time to participate in a research survey for my master’s thesis in psychology (if you haven't already) <3
here's the link.
it’s completely anonymous, but just a heads-up: the survey touches on nightmares and emotional wellbeing, so it may be sensitive for some. please feel free to stop at any point if it doesn’t feel right for you.
thank you for flying with insufferable pilot gojo airlines ! please make sure your heart is in the upright position before disembarking. hope this brought you as much joy to read as it brought me to write hehe. somehow i love this idea so much of pilot gojo being completely smitten over a voice alone :')) <3
and sorry that this got unexpectedly horny at the end, my apologies lol. until next time, this is your author signing off. safe travels !
ps: if you want to get notifications for future updates, you can join my taglist here.
CW: smut, p in v, angst, comfort, recreational alcohol and drug consumption, mild toji x reader, situationship choso, stoner choso. mdni. messyyyyyyy.
wc: 26k || art creds: @/einrvji || 18+
it started with his beautiful hands. his big, ringed fingers pressing into your thighs as he slid you down onto him, slow like he had nowhere else to be. like he wanted to feel every single precious inch of you.
you shouldn’t have done this. and you knew that.
but choso looked too good with his bare chest heaving as his tattoos curled across his collar bones, skin hot to the touch, his jaw tense as he watched you ride him like he’d spent years pretending he didn’t desperately need this.
like he hadn’t been your friend first, one you'd look to first when gojo made a fall flat on its face joke that left you in tears at how little laughs it got, the one who always walked you home when parties got too overwhelming and hot, the one who looked at you a second too long but never said a word about the deeper connection behind it.
you’d always told yourselves it was nothing to stress about. you ignored his lazy looks that really felt more than just a lidded stare. but now his hands were on your waist and his mouth was on your neck and everything about this felt like it was years in the making for you two.
“fuck,” he breathed, head falling back against the couch, eyes pulling up from the flood to catch yours, semi closed and hungry. “you feel so good baby.”
you laughed, high, breathless, dizzy, and rolled your hips slower just to hear the pretty sounds he made.
this was supposed to be nothing. just a night like you see in old rom com flicks. just a little too much beer and weed and his mouth on your neck and your dress sliding off in his lap.
but the way he looked at you now… like he’d never wanted anything more in his life. like forgetting this was never gonna be an option for him.
“choso,” you whispered, unsure if it was a warning or a plead for more.
he licked his lips. let his hand slip up your back to cradle your neck, gentle, grounding. “i got you,” he said low. “don’t think. just feel me y/n.”
and god, you did.
~
the next morning, your back was the first to ache. not in the 'i-slept-weird-on-a-frat-house-couch' way, but in the 'i-did-things-last-night-that-shouldn’t-have-ever-fucking-happened' way. your legs were sore, your thighs tight with that post sex ache, your arms heavy like youd just benched mike tyson's pr over and over again.
you started up at the ceiling in that wanna be girl interrupted way, head still pulsing with whatever cocktails and smoke had been floating around last night. unfamiliar posters swam in your vision. the mattress beneath you wasn’t yours, and the hoodie tangled in your legs definitely wasn’t either.
you rolled over and found him there.
choso. shirtless, inked, calmly sitting on the windowsill with the curtain half-drawn, a shittily rollled joint perched between his fingers like it belonged there more than you did in his bed.
his hair was messy. less of the usual half-up thing, and more like he’d run his hands through it a hundred times. his eyes flocked to you through the tense air, then back out the window like he hadn’t just watched you fall apart in his lap last night.
you stilled. your heart started racing, slow and sick.
'what the fuck did we do?'
the memories came back in colossal waves, sticky and bright and wayyy too much. his mouth on your neck. your dress slipping down. your knees on either side of his hips, breath mixing with smoke and rum and the sweet, dangerous sound of his voice when he said your name like it meant something.
‘fuckkk y/n. i’m gonna-‘
you sat up too quickly, the pain in your body confirming every blurry detail. choso didn’t say anything straight away, just leaned back against the wall, exhaling a soft cloud.
you slept with choso kamo.
your friend. your best friend! your stoner, inked up, vinyl-collecting, frat boy friend who you’ve known since sophomore year. the same one who always passed you the blunt first, who piggy backed you back from parties when your heels gave up, who watched you flirt with guys and never said a word.
he was your person, almost painfully so.
and now you'd crossed the line you both swore you never would.
you’d always thought he was attractive, obviously. anyone with eyes and a pulse would. he was stupid hot in a way that didn’t make any sort of sense. like he should’ve been mean or cocky, but instead he was quiet and extremely thoughtful, always just there in the background, impossibly cool without ever trying.
you never thought this would happen. because that wasn’t your dynamic. you were part of the same chaotic, messy friend group. him, you, gojo, geto, shoko, yuki, the list goes on. the rest of the walking disasters who made your college life loud and unpredictable. you and choso were a calm little pocket in the middle of all that shit. safe and familiar.
until now.
he glanced over again. his pretty face was unreadable, eyes dark, lips parted slightly like he wanted to say something but didn’t know how. the smoke curled around him like it knew all his secrets.
“yo,” he said finally, voice hoarse and quiet.
you swallowed, throat dry. “h-hey.”
he stubbed out the joint in the little ceramic tray on the windowsill and stood, the one you made him, walking over to the desk and rummaging through a drawer without looking at you. he pulled out a folded t-shirt and a pair of sweatpants and placed them on the edge of the bed.
“figured you didn’t wanna go back to your place in that dress,” he said, voice low, like he was trying not to wake something.
you pulled the blanket tighter around yourself. “hm, thanks.”
he nodded. still not meeting your eyes.
you didn’t move. neither did he. the silence stretched between you like a wire pulled tight.
then he sighed, rubbing the back of his neck, and finally looked at you. “m' sorry, y/n.” the words hit harder than you expected. your stomach flipped.
“forrrr?” you asked, even though you already knew.
his eyes dropped. “last night. i was high and… i didn’t mean for it to go that far. you didn’t seem like you regretted it or anything, but… i shouldn’t have let it happen.” you flinched. not because he was wrong, but because it was too honest. much too raw for your mind right now.
you looked down at your clammy hands, fingers curled in the blanket. “yeah. no. it was… it was a mistake.” his jaw flexed. just barely. like the word had cut deeper than he thought it would.
you didn’t mean to sound cold. you were just trying to survive the awkwardness. to box it up and shove it somewhere you wouldn’t have to look at it every time you walked into a party and saw him laughing with gojo or rolling his eyes at geto.
you both just stared at the floor for a minute. despite being the crack of dawn, down stairs in the frat it was beginning to get noisy again. this was the kind of house where nothing stayed secret for long.
“we’re not telling anyone,” you said, maybe too fast. choso looked up. “no. of course not.” you nodded quickly. “like, ever.”
“yeah. for sure.”
another second passed. you reached for the clothes and stood carefully, clutching them to your tight chest. he turned around without you asking, facing the wall, giving you space like he always did. like he still cared, somehow, even if he was trying to pretend this was nothing. you got dressed in silence. his shirt smelled like weed and his cologne. the same faint cedar and smoke you always noticed when he sat too close on the couch.
when you were done, you hesitated near the door, fingers on the knob.
“thanks,” you said quietly. you didn’t even know what you were thanking him for. the clothes? the silence? not making this worse than it already was?
“i’ll uh… see you around, cho.”
he didn’t turn around, but his voice was soft. “yeah.”
you opened the door. the hallway was warm and chaotic, sunlight spilling in through the windows, voices echoing from the kitchen. it felt like the world had gone on without you.
you stepped out, closing the door behind you.
and choso stayed inside.
~
the second the door clicked shut behind you, choso hissed through his teeth and. “holy fuck,” he muttered under his breath, voice rough, like it hurt to say it.
he ran a hand down his face, then collapsed back onto the bed like his body had finally given up. his sheets still smelled like you, your perfume, your skin, that faint trace of whatever lotion you always used. the scent hit him all at once and made his chest ache, made something low in his stomach tighten until it burned. you.
his dick twitched under the waistband of his sweats.
“f’real?” he groaned to himself, covering his face with one arm. he hated how fast his body remembered you, how it didn’t care that this was the exact opposite of what should’ve happened. he wasn’t supposed to fuck his friend. he wasn’t supposed to fuck you. and yet here he was, already hard again just thinking about the way you sounded when you moaned his name into his neck.
guilt sat heavy in his throat, thick and bitter. not because it hadn’t felt good. it felt too good, like it had cracked something open in him, but because now he couldn’t go back to pretending.
he never should’ve touched you.
but he’d wanted to for so long.
he remembered the first time he saw you, all bright eyes and big energy, standing in gojo’s kitchen with a solo cup in one hand and a rhinestone clip in your hair. you were laughing too loud and dancing in socks, and you looked unreal. like you didn’t belong in a room full of drunk frat guys, like you were somehow floating just above it all.
and he knew.
he told himself it was just a crush. that it would pass. you were his friend. you were part of the group. too close to even consider.
but then it never went away.
he started noticing every little thing you did. the way you’d lean into him when you were tipsy, whispering jokes against his shoulder. the way you’d twirl your straw in your drink when you were thinking. the way you’d defend people at parties who couldn’t defend themselves. the way you looked at him when you didn’t know he was looking back.
there’d be whole nights where the group was in full chaos, gojo yelling about some marketing project he half-plagiarized, sukuna trying to out-drink toji, yuki stealing everyone’s vapes, shoko dead asleep in the middle of the floor, and choso would be sitting in the corner, barely listening, just watching you.
always you.
last night was supposed to be harmless. that’s what he told himself when you showed up to the party wearing that dress, skin glowing under the shitty LED lights, smile a little crooked from the weed you bummed off geto. he tried not to stare. tried not to think about the way your thighs looked when you sat down next to him on the couch.
you were leaning on him more than usual. laughing softer. fingers brushing his when you passed the joint. your perfume was stronger than usual and it was making him stupid. and when you asked him to come upstairs with you to “get away from the noise,” he followed you without even pretending to hesitate.
it wasn’t supposed to go that far. not like that.
he just wanted to be alone with you. to talk. maybe kiss you, if it felt right. something slow for now.
but then your hands were under his hoodie, tugging him down on top of you, and his brain completely short-circuited. he couldn’t say no. not when you looked at him like that. not when you were whispering his name like it meant something. not when you were biting your lip and asking him if he wanted you.
he fucking did. more than anything. more than he’d ever wanted anything.
and shit, the way you moved against him, the way you felt… he hadn’t been the same since. it was like you got under his skin and started rewiring things. now all he could see was your skin, your mouth, your thighs tight around him, the way you clenched around him when you came, how you said his name like you were breaking open.
and now it was over. and you were gone. and he was supposed to forget about it. pretend it didn’t matter. pretend it wasn’t everything. he rolled onto his side, groaning softly, heart pounding under his ribs.
he shouldn’t have apologized. or maybe he should’ve said more, but he didn’t know. it was all tangled up now. he could still see the way your eyes dropped when you called it a mistake. still feel the coldness of those words. mistake. like it hadn’t meant anything.
but it did mean something. at least to him.
and now he had to carry that. carry the way you felt, the way you sounded, the way you looked curled up in his bed wearing nothing but his hoodie and sleep in your eyes. and he had to pretend it didn’t gut him. he stared up at the ceiling, jaw tight, one hand fisted in the blanket where you’d been lying just ten minutes ago.
he was so fucked.
he wanted to text geto. or maybe shoko. someone who wouldn’t judge him for hardcore crashing out. but he couldn’t, because none of them knew, and they weren’t supposed to.
you’d both said it: no one could know. not gojo, not shoko, not even nanami. not after the way everything had already gone to hell. not with how tangled your group already was. he was alone with this now. and it was killing him a little.
he’d told himself for so long that he didn’t need more than friendship. that it was better this way. that he’d rather have you in his life in some way than ruin everything by wanting too much. but now he’d had it. a piece of you. a night with you. and it wasn’t enough. not even close.
he turned his head and stared at the door.
you were just on the other side of the house. maybe slipping out the front quietly. maybe running into gojo in the kitchen and pretending like everything was normal. maybe already texting utahime about brunch later like you hadn’t just been falling apart in his bed.
he dragged his hand through his hair and let out a shaky breath. he couldn’t do this, he really couldn’t. so he just laid there, guilt and heat crawling under his skin, and let himself ache.
~
a few hours later
brunch wasn’t even your idea. it was yuki’s, which meant it came with strong coffee, sunglasses inside, and zero room for being emotionally soft.
“we’re getting drunk,” she said instead of hello, sliding into the booth next to you like she hadn’t just had to climb over utahime’s legs to do it. “none of this hangover whispering shit. i want eggs and champagne.”
“mimosas?” utahime asked, already scanning the menu.
“vodka sprite in a mug,” yuki replied. “keep the brunch theme alive.” shoko snorted into her iced coffee as she lit a cigarette, ignoring the passive-aggressive look from the waiter. “you’re so dramatic in the mornings.”
“shut up shoko.”
“don’t start with me.” it was like this every time. sorta comforting in a way only girls who knew all your baggage could be. easy and loud and so fun to hang around. or at least it was supposed to be.
you tried to lean into it, pulling your hoodie sleeves down over your hands (not choso’s hoodie, thank god) and smiling like your brain wasn’t still stuck in his bed. like you aren’t fucking reeling from last night. a pain that stung so deep you felt like throwing up. not drinking fucking mimosas.
it was fine. everything would be fine.
until shoko kicked her feet up on the booth seat across from you and went, “so are we all just pretending we haven’t been raw dogging half the city or…?”
“oh my god,” utahime said, like she was scandalized, but she was laughing.
“i mean, i’ve got a rotation,” yuki said casually, picking at her nails. “it’s mid, though. i need someone who can make me cum without making me talk about their crypto portfolio after.”
“your standards are so inspiring,” shoko muttered, deadpan. yuki just shrugged. “i have needs.”
“same,” shoko said, blowing smoke out the side of her mouth. “but mine are just dick and silence.”
“dick and silence,” you repeated, laughing behind your cup. “poetic.”
“tell me i’m wrong.”
“unfortunately, you’re not,” utahime admitted, hiding behind her menu. then yuki turned to you, grinning. “what about you? anyone on rotation?” your breath caught for half a second too long — a little hiccup of panic that made your heart stutter. you played it off with a sip of coffee and a raised brow. “what, like i’m just out here collecting bodies?”
you tried so hard to sound like you weren’t about to cry.
“you used to be,” shoko said, not mean, just observational. “you’ve been quiet lately.” you laughed. too loudly. “yeah, well. i’m tired.”
“but what about toji?” utahime asked suddenly, squinting over her mimosa. “isn’t he still around?”
and there it was, the actual reason you shouldn’t have come to brunch. toji. them. all of it.
toji fushiguro. tall, smug, and older than he should be to still be hanging around frat basements, but hot in a way that made it hard to think straight. he’d been a problem from the beginning, all hands and hungry eyes, cocky and cold and impossible to hold onto. the kind of man who didn’t ask, just took. you hooked up a few times. it was messy. dramatic. honestly? kind of hot.
and now he was part of the group. just like everyone else. you rolled your eyes and leaned back in your seat. “god, no. that’s been over.”
“shame,” shoko said. “he’s hot in that ‘ruin your life and not even say sorry’ kind of way.”
“because he is,” you muttered, and they all laughed.
“was the dick at least good?” yuki asked, tilting her head like she was taking notes. you gave a little shrug, forcing a smirk. “huge.”
“see, this is why i can’t settle down,” shoko sighed. “none of the guys i’ve fucked have ruined my life orhad massive dicks. i feel robbed.”
“that’s ‘cause you sleep with guys who drink protein shakes out of jars,” yuki said.
“they have clean insides.”
“they also cry after sex.”
“one time!”
they kept laughing, and you laughed too, pressing your nails into your thigh under the table to ground yourself.
because the truth was, yeah, toji had some good dick. and yeah, it was kind of big. and yeah, it was fun while it lasted. but it wasn’t like last night. not even close. toji never looked at you like you were soft. he never touched you like you could break. he never whispered your name like he was trying to memorize it. and now, sitting here, smiling and gossiping and trying to act like your brain wasn’t spinning… all you could think about was choso.
the way he sounded when he came. the way he kissed you like he was finally allowed to. the way his fingers trembled when he helped you into his hoodie this morning. the way he looked at you, like he didn’t want to let you go.
and here you were, talking about another man’s dick like it meant anything.
“you okay?” yuki asked suddenly, knocking her knee against yours under the table. “you went quiet.”
“yeah,” you said quickly. “just… thinking about brunch.”
“this is brunch,” shoko said.
“then i’m killing it.”
they laughed again, and the moment passed, but your throat was clammy.
you didn’t mention that you were sore. or that you hadn’t slept. or that you’d left choso’s room this morning with shaky hands and a pit in your stomach that still hadn’t gone away. you didn’t mention that every time someone said his name, your whole body felt like it was trying not to flinch. you didn’t mention how you didn’t know what the fuck you were supposed to do now.
instead, you smiled and sipped your coffee and let the conversation drift back to the safer kind of drama, who got kicked out of the bar last weekend, who sent a risky text at 3am, who ghosted who first. normal shit. but in the back of your mind, he was still there. shirtless. quiet. holding out a hoodie and not meeting your eyes when he said we should forget about this.
you weren’t sure how.
and you weren’t sure if you even wanted to.
maybe it would of done you good knowing choso was feeling the exact same damn way far across campus.
~
school felt slow this time of day. the sun was out, the grass was too green, and everything moved in a smoosh like the world was waiting to exhale. choso walked like he didn’t have anywhere to be, like time bent around him. hood up, rings glinting, blunt behind his ear even though he hadn’t lit it yet. his shirt was old and soft and smelled like weed and laundry detergent.
geto was next to him in his usual oversized jacket, hoodie strings dangling loose, one earbud in and a lazy smirk stretched across his mouth like he’d just thought of something inappropriate and wasn’t gonna share.
they looked like they hadn’t cared about anything since birth. too hot to be this detached. the kind of guys that made people nervous just by showing up. gojo trailed behind them talking a mile a minute, energy too loud for how chill the other two were. he was spinning a vape pen in his hand, sunglasses on even in the shade, already laughing at his own story.
they were cutting through the back path, half shade, half overgrown weeds and cigarette butts. they always met shiu here, dude never moved from the same damn bench. shady as hell, but he had the best weed on campus. choso wasn’t gonna argue with a good deal.
“bro, i swear to god,” gojo was saying, “nanami caught me at like, 3am trying to air-fry pizza rolls in a beer helmet. said if he sees me in the kitchen again he's beating my ass.”
“satoru, i really fucking hope he does,” geto said, voice smooth and quiet like he only spoke when he really had to.
“you’re not even surprised?.”
“no, you're that annoying.”
"bro just sybau."
choso said nothing because his mind wasn’t really here. he walked with his hands shoved in his pockets, shoulder brushing geto’s every few steps. he kept thinking about last night like it was on loop in the back of his skull, like maybe if he replayed it enough it would make some sort of sense?
you in his bed, your skin, your mouth, your pretty laugh, your voice soft in the dark saying his name like it meant something much different now.
he hadn’t smoked yet today, didn’t trust himself to get high without completely spiraling and texting you to come over again. but his brain still felt foggy as hell, like he’d just woken up in a dream he couldn’t shake.
“yo,” gojo said suddenly, elbowing him. “you even listening cho?”
choso blinked. “no.”
geto snorted.
“dickhead,” gojo grinned. “you need to loosen up. you look tense.”
“he needs to nut,” geto added, flicking his lighter open and closed just to fidget. “man’s backed up.”
“exactly,” gojo said. “you’ve been walking around like someone stole your bong.”
choso rolled his eyes, slow and exaggerated. “i’m fine.”
“nuh uh."
“he’s lying,” geto said, still not looking at him. “cho, when’s the last time you got laid?”
choso shrugged.
“nah, don’t do that,” gojo said. “don’t shrug like you’re not hot. you’re literally the blueprint. you should be drowning in pussy.”
“gross,” geto muttered, lighting his cigarette.
“am i wrong?”
choso didn’t bite, he was used to this kind of shitty banter, gojo hyping him up, geto cosigning in his own chill way, but today it felt like a spotlight. like they were pulling words out of his mouth he didn’t want to say.
“you’re tall, quiet, you’ve got those hands, the rings, the voice,”
“what voice?” choso muttered.
“that one!” gojo shouted. “god. and the tats? that's fucking lethal.”
“you need to take an 'am i gay' quiz,” geto told gojo flatly.
“whatever! im just saying man, you need to get laid,” gojo shot back at choso. “you’ve got all this tension and nowhere to put it.”
“i’m not tryna hook up with randoms.”
“why not?” geto asked, smoke curling from his mouth. “it’s not that deep.”
“not my thing.”
gojo groaned. “you could have anyone. seriously. you think people aren’t looking at you? you’re like… brooding sex in a hoodie.” choso looked at the ground. his jaw was tight. he tried to keep his expression bored, unreadable, but the inside of his chest felt like it was buzzing. buzzing with regret and longing for you. always you.
he hadn’t even meant for it to happen like that, with you. he just wanted to touch, finally. he thought it might be soft. maybe slow. maybe something that’d feel less like a mistake. but it wasn’t soft, it was heat and teeth and nails and your voice breaking apart on his name.
he wanted to do it again. fuck.
“what about y/n?” geto said lazily, like he was just throwing the name out. “you ever think about her?”
choso stopped breathing. he’d thought about you too much. too often. in too many ways that weren’t fair. not for the kind of friend he’d been to you, and not for the kind of friend you’d been to him.
you were close, always had been. the kind of close that meant late-night calls when you were crying and didn’t want to explain why. the kind of close that had you half-asleep in his lap on the couch during group movie nights, tears on your cheeks and his hoodie pulled over your knees. he’d held you through heartbreaks, through fights with your parents, through the night you found out your ex cheated and you collapsed into his chest like he was the only safe thing left.
he never asked for anything back. he never would.
you weren’t just his friend, you were everyone’s. gojo called you his “ride or die” and dragged you into chaos with that sparkle in his eye. geto said you were the only person who could out-vibe him. the three of them always kept you close. you were part of the mess, part of the house, part of the family. you got high with them on rooftops and played bartender at their parties. you were always somehow there.
and that’s what made last night so fucked up. because he was your friend. not your hookup. not your one-night thing. you trusted him. you let him see the parts of you that were fragile and afraid and oh so real. and then he touched you like he’d been starving for it, because, well, he had been.
“gross man she's like our bestest friend.” gojo interrupted chosos thoughts and rolled his eyes. “but yeah, she’s fine as hell. like stupid hot.”
“for real,” geto added, nodding. “i’d hit.” choso kept his face still, he didn’t react although he wanted to.
“yeah ew... but same,” gojo said. “she’s got that thing. you know. like she knows she’s hot but doesn’t have to try.”
“dangerous combo,” geto murmured.
“she's definitely the favourite in our little group. like a pretty little magnet.” choso’s jaw flexed. his hands were clenched in his pockets now, tight enough that his knuckles ached. “she’d ruin you,” gojo said to choso, teasing but dead serious. “you wouldn’t make it out.”
“he’d fall in love,” geto added.
‘too late. already there.’
“nah,” choso muttered, voice low.
“you wouldn’t hit?”
he shrugged, trying not to feel anything. “dunno.”
gojo laughed. “you’re a liar. you think about it. i know you do.” geto side-eyed him. “we know you do.”
he didn’t say anything. what was he supposed to say?
'yeah, i’ve been in love with her since the night we all stayed up on the roof and she fell asleep next to me in my hoodie? that i think about her when i jerk off and it fucks me up every time? that i ruined everything last night and i don’t even really regret it?'
“whatever,” gojo said, waving it off. “she’s probably not into guys like us anyway.”
“speak for yourself,” geto said, smirking.
“oh please.”
they laughed together, that stoner-lazy cadence that always made them sound like they were high on more than just weed, yet choso didn’t join in. he couldnt when his throat was dry and his chest felt so so heavy. he couldn’t stop picturing your bare legs tangled with his sheets for the life of him and it was seriously screwing up his brain chem.
shiu came into view then, perched on his usual bench looking half-dead and smug as all hell, pretty typical for him.
thank fuck.
choso was already reaching for his lighter. he needed to be somewhere else. outside his own head and far far away from the way your adorable laugh sounded. the way your eyes fell when you said goodbye earlier.
he really needed to forget, but he knew he wouldn’t, no matter how much he smoked.
shiu didn’t react too much when the three of them approached, he never really did. just sat there on that beat-up wooden bench behind the science building like he was posted up for fun, all decked out in black, a cigarette dangling from his mouth, rings stacked and sunglasses pushed into his hair.
“th’ fuck took you so long?” he asked, barely glancing up as geto ploppped onto the bench beside him.
“had to drag cho here,” gojo said, jerking a thumb toward choso. “he’s been brooding lately. more than usual.”
shiu raised a brow. “didn't know that was possible.”
choso ignored them, he didn’t sit just leaned against the wall with his arms crossed, watching smoke curl out of shiu’s mouth like he could hypnotize it. geto handed over some cash and shiu slipped a fat ziplock into his palm smooth as anything. the exchange was muscle memory.
gojo clapped his hands. “you’re the man.”
“always,” shiu said with a lazy grin.
choso stepped forward. “you got anything else?”
shiu paused. one brow lifted. “like what?”
“something heavier.”
before he could even blink, gojo spun around and grabbed chico's shoulder. “nopeee.”
choso looked at him, jaw clicking ever few seconds.
“no fucking way,” gojo said, already shaking his head. “you don’t need any of that. blunt’s one thing, cho. i’m not letting you get fucked up on some other shit.”
“you're not my fucking dad.”
“don’t care.”
geto side-eyed choso but didn’t say anything, just lit another cigarette and let the silence fill itself. shiu looked between them and shrugged, like, 'hey, not my business.' he pulled out a tiny white bag anyway, just for show.
“nah,” gojo said again, voice firmer now. “put that shit away.”
shiu chuckled, flicked ash to the side. “party police over here.”
“damn right,” gojo replied. “cho’s got enough going on in that pretty little head of his.” shiu laughed, low and amused. “you still throwing that party this weekend?”
“for sure. our house on aturday night,” gojo grinned, instantly shifting gears. “you’re invited, obviously. bring that good shit and maybe someone hot.”
“noted,” shiu said, tucking his goods away. “what’s the theme?”
“‘cops and robbers,’” geto said without looking up. “satoru even made a flyer.”
“i did not.”
“you literally drew it in class.”
“it was just for jokes!.”
choso wasnt listening, his arms were still crossed, and his head tilted back against the building. the weed in his pocket felt heavier than usual. he could feel gojo still eyeing him.
then...
“yo.”
a voice behind them that rung much deeper than any of theirs.
toji.
he emerged from around the corner like he’d been summoned by the dilf gods up above. he was toweringly tall, very broad, and dressed in comfy clothing like he’d just crawled out of someone else’s bed. sunglasses pushed up into messy hair, a smirk on his lips like he was always two seconds from ruining someone or something. (or both)
“what’s up, old man,” gojo greeted with a grin.
“fuck off,” toji said, bumping fists with him, then geto. when he got to choso, the air shifted.
they dapped up much slower than what would be seen as usual. very firm and wayy too long. not friendly.
toji’s eyes flicked over him like he knew something, and maybe he did. “you buying?” shiu asked, already pulling out more product. “you know it,” toji said, still starijg at choso. “just need a little for the weekend.”
“for our party?”
“mhm, wouldn’t miss it.”
choso stayed staring at toji, his shoulders didn’t move, didn’t drop, didn’t flinch, but his fingers twitched like he was really trying to hold something back. choso knew about you and toji, not all the yucky details, not the messy timeline, not how it started or how it eventually ended, just enough to know you used to fuck pretty often, to know toji never treated you right, but you kept going back regardless.
the mistreatment was the kind of thing literally no one talked about out loud, not even bubbly you. not even to choso, and he was the one who used to hold your hand through the hangovers and the regret. he’d always just been there, sitting on the floor outside the bathroom while you cried behind the door, walking you home from a party when you were too drunk to lie about how much it still hurt.
so yeah. he had a reason to hate the guy. but it wasnt the loud kind of hate that starts fights in kitchens, just a simmering thing that lived in his chest every time toji walked into the room like he owned it.
and now, after last night, it all felt... pretty disturbing?..
because now there was something in choso that toji could get to. something the both of them both knew. and the way toji looked at him like he’d caught the scent of a secret, made choso want to crack his knuckles straight through the guys thick jaw. he watched as toji finished up whatever conversation he was having with geto and peeled away.
“see you boys saturday.”
he turned, walked off without another word. gojo whistled. “he’s definitely gonna fuck somebody’s girlfriend.”
“again,” geto added.
choso didn’t reply.
yeah. it was gonna be a long weekend.
~
choso accented down the staircase slowly, his sleeves shoved up giving everyone a clear look at his sexy tattoos. he’d been upstairs finishing a blunt alone with his headphones on, just letting the music smooth out the nerves in his chest. he moved past people muttering soft apologies.
“yo, there he is. thought you were gonna ghost the whole thing,” sukuna said, showing a grin and slapping the seat next to him. choso flopped down on the couch beside him, his long covered legs stretched out with his head tipping back like he couldn’t even be bothered to pretend to be sober.
nanami stood in front of them with his big arms crossed, always looking like he was two seconds away from upping and leaving. “we need to talk about cleanup tomorrow. the last party, someone put a hole in the upstairs hallway.”
“wasn’t me,” sukuna said, which definitely meant it was. "wasn’t me either,” choso added lazily.
“wasn’t me!” gojo said suddenly, appearing from nowhere with a cup in each hand, one of which he immediately passed to choso. “also, what’s a hallway if not a place for holes?”
“profound,” nanami muttered, already regretting being here among these grotty simpletons. geto leaned against a wall, sipping something amber from his own flask. “i like the new decorations though. adds a lot of character. broken drywall’s very punk, y'know?.”
“reminds me of toji,” sukuna said with a smirk.
“speak of the devil,” shoko said from the hallway as she entered with yuki and utahime behind her. “he’s outside body-slamming frat guys into beer pong tables again.”
“he’s contributing in his own way,” yuki added, looking far too good in a leather jacket and combat boots for someone just here to smoke and chill. the room watched as the front door creaked open again and your voice rang out through the entryway, a bright, happy thing that always turned heads and made people feel good.
“hey! anyone alive in here or did you all pass out before ten?” you stepped in wearing something short and very pretty, hair styled just enough, makeup smudged from pre-party drinks and far too much laughter. gojo whooped the moment he saw you, immediately waving you in like the house wasn’t already wayy over capacity.
“she's finally arrived!" he said dramatically, throwing his arms open.
“shut upp,” you laughed, but let him hug you anyway. choso’s eyes found you without even trying. you were all glowy glitter and chat with your cute cheeks always flushed, lips glossy, with that little smile on your face like you had no idea what you’d done to him the night before.
you looked at him once, much too quick, for chosos liking, and then looked away. he stared almost sadly, the music and lights of the function fading away for a good hot minute. he was somewhere else, back in his car with you. the windows rolled down as cool night air brushed past the stars the only distraction.
the stereo pumping some niche indie song on the ofset station, but it was the lovely silence between you that really filled out the comfortable space. city lights disappeared behind you as you drove out to that cliff you’d found sophomore year, the one no one else but you two knew about.
“you ever think about how weird it is?” you said, voice always so pretty and soft,“like, how we’re here. just… like this. not trying to be anything but whatever we want.”
choso glanced over and almost choked at the sight of the way your hair fell loose across your face, the way your fingers tapped absentmindedly on the pink steering wheel. “mhm,” he said quietly. “i think about that a lot. how we don’t have to explain shit. how you get it without me saying anything.”
you smiled, “it’s like we’re on the same wavelength. you and me. always have been.”
“always,” choso agreed. “you’re the one person i can just be… me with. no bullshit. no trying to be someone i'm not.”
you sighed, “i don’t want to lose that.”
“you won’t,” he promised, voice low, eyes steady on yours. “not ever.”
and for a minute, nothing else mattered but the way you looked at each other in that quiet space, the trust that ran deeper than words. the kind of friendship that could have been anything if you’d let it…
then the memory broke and choso was back in the party, watching you smile too quick and look away, like a secret was hanging between you, waiting to explode and pull down absolutely everybody with you.
“everyone’s in the back room,” yuki said, nodding toward the den. “we’re about to pass the bong around if you’re down.” you were. of course you were, so you followed them, and somehow, without meaning to, ended up sliding onto the floor next to choso. your thigh brushed his. he didn’t move and nor did you.
geto lit the bowl first, inhaling deep, head tipped back like it was some sort of amazingly epic and cool performance. he passed it to shoko, who didn’t even blink before pulling twice and coughing like a chain smoker.
“fuck,” she muttered, handing it off to sukuna, who just laughed and cleared the rest of it without as much as a tick of the jaw.
“jesus,” utahime said, waving the smoke out of her face. “y’all smoke like it’s your major.”
“it basically is,” choso murmured, gojo nodded, already relighting. “facts. if i could minor in weed, i’d graduate on time.”
“you’re not graduating at all,” nanami deadpanned. yuki grinned and elbowed you playfully. “how high do you think choso is right now? like, on a scale of one to outer space.” you laughed, but it came out softer than usual. “he’s been on saturn since like… yesterday.”
choso looked over at you then. the bowl passed to geto again, sukuna lit another joint, shoko leaned her head back on yuki’s shoulder, and the room settled into that smoosh, the late-night lull. you weren’t touching anymore, but your knee was almost against his, and you could feel the warm of his skin even through the fabric of your nice jeans.
“so quietttt,” gojo teased, looking between the two of you with narrowed eyes. “not like you, y/n. what, did someone finally shut you up last night?” you kicked him in the shin “die.”
geto smirked around the joint. “bet it was toji.”
“double die,” you muttered, but you smiled when you said it, no one clocked that it was fake except for the boy sitting next to you.
.
“yo, what’d i miss?”
toji’s booming voice entered the room just as geto was mid-hit, pulling the joint from his lips with a smile. toji strolled into the room like he'd bought it, big and broad and dressed in black, sunglasses tucked into his shirt collar, a new bottle of whiskey dangling from one of his big strong hands.
“you missed me schooling these kids in life philosophy,” sukuna muttered, half-sprawled on the floor, already tipsy and grinning like a menace.
“you missed nanami threatening to leave like, six times?” gojo added.
“you missed utahime threatening to kill gojo eight times,” shoko said from the armchair, flicking ash into an empty cup.
toji just raised a brow. “sounds like i’m right on time.”
he dropped into an empty spot on the couch, way too close to where you were now trying to casually sit without making eye contact with choso.
“we should play something,” gojo said suddenly, eyes lighting up like that was never a good idea.
“what, like a board game?” nanami deadpanned.
“no,” yuki said, sitting up a little with a mischievous glint. “like drink or share.” groans. laughter. someone already grabbing the bottle of tequila from under the table.
“oh my god yes please.” sukuna said, practically rubbing his hands together. “can we actually?”
“oh brother you’re the worst with this game,” utahime dreaded.
“someone write a list of questions,” shoko said, already scrolling through her notes app. “i have like thirty saved from last time.”
“of course you do,” geto chuckled.
they arranged the group in a big loose conversation pit/circle. couches, floor cushions, wherever there was space for.
gojo went first. “nanami. drink or share: have you ever hooked up with someone in this room?”
nanami didn’t even blink. “no.”
“lameee,” sukuna muttered.
“shoko,” yuki said next. “drink or share: have you ever had a threesome?” shoko raised a brow and sipped her drink without a word. the room howled.
“i knew it!” gojo shouted, laughing so hard he spilled his beer.
“you’re all degenerates,” nanami muttered.
“you love us,” yuki grinned.
“sukuna,” utahime said sweetly. “how many people have you fucked and ghosted?”
he shrugged, then drank.
“at least own it, coward,” gojo teased.
“choso,” geto said next, voice slick with smoke. “you ever send a dick pic?”
choso leaned back lashes uttering shut. “only once.”
“was it unsolicited?” you asked with your eyes narrowing.
“nah,” he said, “they begged for it.” he side eyed you for your reaction, you almost choked on your drink.
“of course they did,” yuki said, fanning herself.
“geto,” sukuna grinned. “ever fallen for someone who only saw you as a friend?” geto tipped his head to the side like he was actually thinking about it. then he drank.
the game rolled on, getting louder, dumber, much much messier. you learned toji had once been banned from a party for punching a frat boy for calling him “daddy” unironically. gojo admitted he’d hooked up in the university library stacks, twice?. nanami revealed he’d had a secret relationship freshman year that no one had known about.
and then...
“y/n,” sukuna said, smiling like he already knew it was coming. “drink or share… who’s the last person you slept with?”
silence.
your stomach dropped. your hands tightened around your cup. you felt every pair of eyes in the room tilt toward you.
toji’s gaze was suddenly fixed on you with curiosity.
gojo made a noise like he was about to start laughing.
choso didn’t look at you. not directly. but his fingers were curled tight against his knee, and his jaw was locked.
you opened your mouth. then closed it.
you reached for your drink and knocked it back in one long burning swallow.
the room exploded.
“what?” gojo said, laughing. “wait, wait! wasn’t it toji?”
“i thought it was toji,” yuki said, glancing around. “i mean, you guys used to, right?" sukuna asked, his voice all lazy provocation, that smug look on his face like he lived to stir shit. the room buzzed with weed smoke and cups, laughter shattering off the walls until it suddenly didn’t.
toji leaned back against the wall, drink in hand, a slow smirk pulling at his mouth. “mm,” he hummed, tilting his head toward you. “we did.” his voice was casual but his eyes weren’t. they were watching you. hard. “so what’s the big secret?”
you laughed too loud and farrr to fake. your throat was extremely dry. “there is no secret,” you said quickly but your fingers tightened around your cup.
“then why’d you drink??” shoko asked, brow raised as she flicked her lighter and lit the end of the blunt sukuna passed her. “you could’ve just... said his name?"
you shrugged, but it wasn’t really that convincing. “maybe i didn’t want to boost his ego.”
toji laughed. “too late for that, sweetheart.”
choso sat still but you could feel his shoulders tense up.
inside, his head was so, so chaotic.
you didn’t say toji? you could’ve. you always used to. he remembered nights you disappeared from parties and came back with your lip gloss smudged and smooshed and toji sticking nearby. he remembered brushing off the tightness in his chest, telling himself it didn’t matter because you weren’t his, you were just friends, he had no right. but tonight, when you didn’t say toji's name, everything got so much more real in his very confused mind.
geto leaned forward, “so it’s not toji,” he said smoothly, glancing at you with a look that was way too observant for your comfort. “but you’re also not saying who. that's interesting.”
“maybe it was someone new,” yuki teased. “someone outside the circle.”
“nah,” sukuna cut in, smirking as he dragged on the blunt. “you don’t drink like that unless you’re trying to hide something.”
“damn, sukuna,” utahime said, rolling her eyes. “what are you, a human lie detector now?”
“i’m just saying!" he laughed, blowing smoke upward. “i just really fucking love this game, and shit’s weird.”
toji took a sip of his drink. “whatever,” he muttered, but his tone was tight now, not as relaxed as it was before. “was probably just some random frat guy.”
“doesn’t really feel like that,” nanami said, voice calm but thoughtful. “feels more personal.”
your stomach smooshes together uncomfortably. sugurus eyes slip like a snake towards choso, yet he didn’t say anything.
gojo, who’d been watching you this whole time, suddenly leaned back with a grin, voice bright, trying to save you from this obvious emotional turmoil. “yo! maybe it was nanami!”
everyone laughed. nanami sighed, long and very exasperated. “don’t start.”
but choso didn’t laugh because he was much too busy thinking hard about the way you’d looked a few nights ago underbeath him, around him, your hands in his hair, the way you’d gasped his name like it meant something sacred.
“maybe it’s not that deep,” you said finally, “i just didn’t feel like sharing with you assholes.”
“maybe,” toji said quietly, his eyes were locked on choso now.
“alright,” shoko said flatly, taking a long drag from her cigarette like she was clocking out of work and clocking in for drama. “can we please get back to the important stuff? who’s eating ass.”
wowww. real good save shoko.
everyone groaned and laughed at once.
“oh, come on,” shoko said, waving her hand. “like i’m the only one wondering. grow the fuck up.”
“define eating ass,” gojo said, way too quickly.
“you know exactly what it means,” utahime muttered.
“i mean, is it, like… tongue fully in there? or just a soft graze?” gojo kept going, leaning forward now like he was about to host a TED talk. “because i feel like there are layers."
“you’ve absolutely done it,” yuki accused him, pointing her drink at him.
gojo grinned, unapologetic. “of course i have. i’m a giver.”
“more like a nasty rat,” sukuna muttered.
“my god,” utahime groaned, putting her face in her hands.
the room cracked up again, laughter bouncing off the walls, drinks being passed, shoko already reaching for the bottle like she had another round locked and loaded.
“alright. next one’s real,” shoko said, leveling her gaze across the circle. “who here’s faked an orgasm?”
“oh definitely me,” utahime said instantly.
“you’d be surprised,” yuki said, sipping her drink.
“you?” shoko asked you suddenly.
your mouth opened and then closed again.
“i mean... yeah?...” you said eventually, trying to sound chill. “hasn’t everyone?”
choso suddenly stiffened a tad.
'hope she didn't fake on me.'
“choso?” gojo grinned, nudging him. “you ever been faked on?”
choso exhaled slow, smoke curling around his mouth. “really hope not.”
“of course not,” shoko muttered.
“figures,” sukuna rolled his eyes. “the emos get all the real orgasms.”
“i bet he does,” yuki said under her breath with a little smirk, eyeing him with fake scandal. “you got the lazy stroke game that ruins other men.”
choso didn’t respond he only smiled a little like he knew exactly what she meant and wasn’t giving anything away. but you saw how his fingers tapped against his thigh like he was deeply contemplating the meaning of life.
you felt yourself heating up at the mention of him in bed, the memories flooding back of just how good he had dicked you down. they really weren't wrong...
gojo butted in "nah, apparently this guy doesn't fuck around with girls."
sukuna snorted "so he's fucking with guys?"
"not what i meant?"
“alright, new one,” gojo said, leaning forward with a gleam in his eye. “if you had to fuck one person in this room, who would it be?”
“nope,” nanami said immediately. “not happening.”
“it’s theoretical!” gojo laughed.
“it’s gross,” nanami corrected. “and i’m not playing.”
“boringgg, i'm going y/n,” yuki sang.
"facts." sukuna replied.
“geto,” shoko said suddenly, completely deadpan. “he looks like he’d light candles and not speak the entire time.”
“jesus christ,” geto said, but he looked vaguely flattered.
“you?” yuki asked you, smiling innocently.
you blinked. heart thudding.
“hmmm,” you said with a smile. “i’m drinking on that one.”
a chorus of boos followed but you raised your cup anyway, tossing it back.
“now i’m very curious,” shoko said.
you shrugged, grinning. “aww too bad.”
“what about you, choso?” gojo asked, grinning like he already knew the answer.
choso stretched out his legs, leaned back, eyes half-lidded as he exhaled smoke through his nose (so sexy bruh urghhh) “not sharing.”
“cowards, the lot of you,” shoko declared.
the game rolled on an on with more gross questions many more drinks and much more laughter, but that undercurrent of tenseness never really left, every time your eyes flicked to chosos fingers all you could do was remember where they’d been. not good...
and even when everyone was laughing too loud, shouting over each other about threesomes or handcuff stories or who’d hooked up in the staff bathroom, you couldn’t stop thinking about him.
and he couldn’t stop looking at you.
“alright, alright,” shoko said, reaching for the bottle again. “i got one. choso.” he looked up slowly.
“who was the best head you’ve ever gotten?” the room whooped like it was a sports match. a few people banged on the table. gojo laughed so hard he snorted.
choso blinked once. “no comment.”
“nah, don’t cop out!” gojo called, “we need to know. this man probably ascended.”
“come on,” yuki grinned. “spill.” but choso just stood up. slow and oh so calm, not dramatic, but final.
“yo,” gojo said, half-laughing, “was it a bad question or something?”
“i’m tired,” choso said, brushing his hand through his hair, already moving toward the door. “i need air.” the room went real quiet for a sec, you didn’t move. gojo looked at geto. geto just nodded and stood, and they followed right on after him. the brotherly thing to do.
~
upstairs, choso pushed open the door to his room and stepped inside like the air burned his lungs more than any blunt or shitty vending machine cigarette could. his hand went to his temple like he was trying to massage out a bad headache as well as ground his ever racing brain. gojo and geto slipped in behind him, cautious now.
“yo,” gojo said, a little more gently. “you good?”
“no,” choso mumbled softly, rubbing the back of his neck. “fuck, man.”
geto sat on the edge of the desk. “what happened?”
...
“i slept with her.”
gojo blinked. “wait-"
“slept with who?” geto asked.
"y/n?" gojo questioned.
choso nodded once. “mhm.”
gojo’s eyes went wide, but not in a teasing way. more like he couldn’t believe it. “...when?”
“the other night,” choso muttered, dragging his hands down his face. “after the tau party.”
“holy shit...” gojo whispered.
“was it… like… planned?” geto asked carefully. choso let out a hollow laugh.
“no. it just… happened. and now everything feels fucking weird.”
gojo sat on the bed. “so that’s why you’ve been all moody.”
“i’m not moody.”
“you’re moody,” geto said, but his voice was calm, extremely understanding. “because you care.” choso didn’t respond. he just sat, shoulders slumped like it was too heavy to keep pretending.
“we were friends. that’s all we were. and now i feel like i broke something real good.”
“did you?” gojo asked.
“she said we shouldn’t tell anyone. that we should forget it.” that quieted the room.
geto sighed. “do you want to forget it?”
choso looked down. his ringed fingers twisting in the hem of his long sleeve. “no.” it came out far too fast. he dragged a hand down his face like he regretted saying it already.
but gojo didn’t laugh, geto didn’t prod. they both just looked at him, the same way they had a hundred times before. on bad nights, after worse ones, when he couldn’t say what he needed and they already knew anyway. he sighed and sank back onto the edge of the bed, arms on his knees, his pretty head hanging low.
“i can’t forget it.” quiet again.
“why's that?” geto asked softly.
choso let out a breath that sounded like it hurt.“because it wasn’t just some random hook-up,” he said finally. “it was her. and i’ve wanted her since sophomore year, man. when she showed up at kappa. remember?”
gojo snorted. “bro. yeah. she looked insane.”
choso smiled, barely. then it fell.
“i remember watching her talk to everyone that night. she was all over the place. dancing, laughing, spilling water on yuki’s shoes. but then she came and sat next to me, totally chill, like it was nothing, and handed me a capri sun from her bag.” geto raised a brow. “capri sun?”
“yeah,” choso muttered. “she said she didn’t trust the punch. she never drinks anything she didn’t pour herself. i thought that was smart.” his voice got quieter.
“she’s always been smart like that. she plays dumb at parties, but she sees everything. she remembers what you say when you’re too high to know what day it is. she always makes sure people get home safe. she used to text me every sunday asking if i ate.” he laughed to himself, bitter yet light.
“and i’d pretend it was no big deal. but no one else ever asked.” gojo looked over very quiet now, not grinning.
“i’ve been friends with her this whole time. held her hair back when she was sick. let her cry on my chest when her ex cheated. we used to lay in my bed and watch that stupid baking show she liked, the one with the british dudes?”
“yeah,” geto said. choso’s knee bounced. his fingers tapped restlessly against his thigh.
“and then she started messing with toji.” his voice darkened.
“and i hated it. every time she’d talk about how hot he was, or how he texted her at two in the morning, i’d feel like someone was sitting on my chest. and i couldn’t say anything, because we were just friends. and toji-” he stopped. jaw tightening.
“he’s always had that thing. that presence. everyone looks at him. girls want him. and she... fuck, she looked at him like that too. and i’d sit there like an idiot, telling her she deserved better, that he wasn’t gonna treat her right, while she tried to act like it didn’t matter.”
gojo leaned back on his hands. “you were in love with her.” choso didn’t answer. geto spoke up. “you still are.” choso finally looked up. his eyes were heavy. not red, not glassy but tired and raw in a way he didn’t usually let anyone but his pillow see.
“and now it’s all ruined,” he said. “we had that night. and it wasn’t supposed to go like that. i just wanted to kiss her. hold her a little. maybe? i don’t know. maybe just say it without saying it. but she looked at me like she needed it, and i couldn’t stop.” he swallowed and carefully shook his head.
“and now she won’t even look at me. won’t talk to me properly. and it’s like we’re strangers again, and i fucking hate it. i don’t even know what she’s thinking. i don’t know if she regrets it, or if she just doesn’t feel the same way, or.."
“maybe she’s scared?..” geto said. gojo nodded. “she doesn’t just hook up with people either, you know. she acts like she does, but she’s picky as hell.”
“you’re the first one she’s been with since toji,” geto added and choso stared.
“yeah,” gojo said. “she told yuki and shoko that at brunch. said she wasn’t hooking up with toji anymore. they were all shocked.”
choso’s throat tightened. “you think she feels the same?”
geto shrugged. “doesn’t matter what we think." gojo smirked. “but i do think she’s not over you.”
“she was acting weird all night,” geto added. “sat next to you even though there were other spots. didn’t say much. drank instead of telling sukuna the truth.”
“you think she didn’t want to say my name?” gojo and geto looked at each other. then back at him.
“what do you think?” gojo asked.
choso rubbed his hands over his face again. leaned back on the bed and stared at the ceiling like it might offer some answers.
“i think i need another fucking blunt.”
gojo laughed and geto smiled.
but neither of them said anything else, they just sat with him, let him be in it. let him spiral in peace. and in the room below, the party kept goin, voices, music, chaos, but in here, it was just the three of them, and choso’s heart still beating too fast over something that might already be gone..
~
meanwhile you were still in the room downstairs.
one second you were finishing your drink, and the next you were half-sunk into the cushions between sukuna and nanami, knees pulled up, eyes glazed, your head a bit too heavy from the alcs and smoke.
you didn’t know where the rest of the group had wandered, probably off getting refills, crowding the kitchen, maybe dragging someone into a dumb drinking game. but here it was quiet and mellow, and at least toji had disappeared.
safe, if you ignored the fact that sukuna kept watching you like he knew something deep and philosophical that you didn’t/couldn't understand if you tried.
“you’re real quiet all of a sudden?” he said, flicking ash into a nearby beer can.
“mm,” you hummed, noncommittal. nanami raised a brow. “you’ve had, what, four drinks?”
“five,” you corrected.
“so you’re lying and counting. noted.” you rolled your eyes, but it made you smile. they weren’t the worst company... nanami was calm and unbothered all the time with dry sarcasm and a very firm judgment, and sukuna was sukuna: an asshole, but a funny one. the kind of guy who reallyy got under your skin just because.
“so,” sukuna started, voice lazy, “about earlier...?" you groaned. “don’t.”
“whatt?” he grinned. “you’re the one who dodged the question like your life depended on it. got the whole room wondering.” nanami shook his head like he wanted absolutely no part of this shit. "sukuna...” you warned.
“c’mon, we’re all adults here. was it that bad?”
“you’re so annoying just sybau.” you muttered, tipping your head back against the cushion.
“you’re deflecting.” he leaned in a little “was it someone we knoww?”
your mouth opened to tell him to fuck off, but nothing came out. not because you didn’t want to say it, but because for the first time all night, the words just caught and sat in the back of your throat.
maybe it was how nanami turned slightly toward you with his blonde sculpted brows drawn in a small lick of... concern?.. or the way sukuna’s smirk dropped just a teensy little bit like he’d poked too hard without realizing how close he was to something blowing up in his and everyone else's.
but suddenly you weren’t laughing anymore.. you were blinking too fast, your fingers twisted in the hem of your skirt. and your chest started to ache in that stupid, awful way that told you you’d been bottling too much for too long and it all needed to come pouring out or you'd-
“it was choso.” you slapped a hand over your mouth.
nanami didn’t react much but sukuna stilled. you huffed out a weak laugh, staring at your knees. “it was choso,okay? and i wasn’t gonna say anything because we’re not like that. we weren’t supposed to be like that.” sukuna leaned back a little, eyes softening. “since when?”
“since… recently..?” you mumbled. “since too recently. i don’t even know what the hell happened. one minute we were just hanging out like always, and the next he was... he was touching me like he wantedme, and i let him.” you gulped.
“and it was good. like, really good. and that’s the biggest problem.” you looked up at them now, eyes glassy. “he’s my friend. he’s choso. i used to go to him after i hooked up with toji, for fuck’s sake. and now i can’t even look at him without remembering how he sounded, how he held me." you stopped yourself.
nanami sighed softly. “you think you ruined the friendship.”
“i know i did.”
sukuna snorted. “you didn’t ruin shit. if anything, you probably just scared him.”
you looked at him. “what the hell is that supposed to mean?”
he shrugged, flicking his lighter open and shut. “choso’s not exactly a casual kind of guy. you think he fucks his friends and moves on? he’s been lowkey obsessed with you for months. we all knew it.”
your stomach twisted. “huh?! you’re lying.”
“nah,” he said easily. “he doesn’t flirt, doesn’t chase. but you? he’d show up wherever you were. always sat next to you, lit your joints first. laughed at your dumb jokes.”
nanami nodded once, like that wasn’t news. “he talks about you more than anyone else. you stared at them both. heart pounding.
“you’re messing with me.”
“i’m not,” nanami said plainly.
“and i don’t care enough to lie,” sukuna added. you didn’t say anything for a moment. your drink sat warm and untouched on the floor beside you.
“so what do i do now?” you asked quietly.
“talk to him,” nanami said.
“or just fuck him again,” sukuna offered, earning a sharp look from nanami.
you smiled a little but it faded again way too fast.
because now it wasn’t just the guilt, the confusion, it was hope. stupid, dangerous hope that maybe choso did want you back. and you didn’t know what was worse: losing him, or getting your hopes up only to fall even harder.
“he looked at me tonight like i didn’t exist,” you whispered.
“or maybe like he couldn’t stand to look at you,” sukuna said, dragging smoke slow through his teeth.
“because he’s in over his head.”
~
upstairs, chosos blunt had gone out in his fingers again, ash floating up from the tip. geto laid beside him like he didn’t have a single bone in his body, hoodie bunched around his shoulders, socked feet kicking slowly at the air. gojo sat in the rolling chair backwards, arms crossed over the top like he was leading some kind of group therapy session and not slowly spinning back and forth.
“dudee,” the white haired male chirped, dragging the word out like he’d been holding it in for way too long. “you need to text her.”
choso didn’t open his eyes. just muttered, “shut the fuck up.”
“no,” gojo said, unbothered. “because this has gone from, like, sad-boy-joint-smoking to full-on greek tragedy. geto, back me up.”
“he’s out of it,” geto agreed calmly. “like, badly spiraling. the worst kind. the kind that ends in a really shitty mixtape.”
“i’m not out of it,” choso said, finally clipping his eyes open to glare up at them. “i just… i don’t know.”
“you don’t know if you should talk to her?” gojo asked. “you, who has known her for literal years?”
“i fucked it up,” choso muttered. “i don’t even know what i’d say. ‘sorry for rearranging your guts and then emotionally shutting down about it’?”geto snorted. “maybe start softer?..”
“jesus,” gojo groaned. “it’s not even that deep. you two were friends. you hooked up. big whoop. fix the vibes.”
"urgh i hate you."
“she looked good tonight,” gojo said suddenly, tone gentler. “like, not to make you weirder, but… you noticed, right?”
choso didn’t even pretend not to. “yeah.”
“you miss her?” geto asked, softer now too.
“like a fuckin limb,” choso admitted. “i miss her all the time. not just the… whatever. the night. i miss when we’d go on 7/11 runs at midnight just to buy slurpees. i miss watching bad horror movies and her hiding under the blanket. i miss walking her home when she was tipsy and holding her phone ‘cause her purse didn’t have space.”
gojo leaned back a little, lips pressed together. “so text her.”
choso shook his head. “it’s not that simple!. we weren’t just friends. she was… different. i’ve known her since sophomore year. before she got with toji. before she knew how to run a party like it was second nature. she used to be shy, y’know? she’d hide behind y’all at parties. then suddenly she was glowing all the time and everyone wanted her.”
“including you,” geto said.
choso nodded. “yeah. but i didn’t want to ruin anything. so i just stayed her friend. stayed close. held her when she cried over him. told her he wasn’t shit. and then… one night it just happened. it wasn’t supposed to be like that.”
gojo sat up straighter. “you keep saying that. like you regret it.”
“i don’t regret touching her,” choso said, voice lower. “i regret that i wasn’t in the right place to do it right. i wanted it to be soft. i wanted her to feel… wanted. not just fucked.”
geto blinked slowly. “you know, for a guy who barely talks, you’ve got a lot going on up there.”
“yeah,” gojo said, grinning. “and you said you weren’t spiraling.”
“you two are so fucking annoying,” choso muttered.
“and you’re in love with her,” gojo shot back. “so what now?” choso fell quiet once more. he stared at the lighter in his hand, thumb brushing over the wheel like he was thinking of relighting the blunt. he didn’t.
“you really think texting her helps?” he asked finally.
“you don’t gotta confess your love, romeo,” geto said. “just hang out. be friends again. smoke a joint. eat some shitty takeout. just… be normal.”
“she might not want to,” choso said.
“she might,” gojo countered. “especially if she’s spiraling half as hard as you are.” choso let out a slow breath, like all the weight in his chest was trying to escape through his mouth. he reached for his phone. hovered over your name. it felt weird to see it in his contacts now. like he didn’t have the right.
but he typed.
choso [1:03am]: yo. u home tmrw?
“there you go,” gojo said. “smooth.”
“god help us if she actually replies,” geto murmured. choso didn’t say anything. he just stared at the message. he didn’t unsend it. he didn’t add anything else.
"wait fuck, what if she's still downstairs right now." choso said sliding a hand down his face. gojo chuckled and patted his back. "don’t worry, sukuna texted me ages ago telling me she'd left." choso sighed, he just waited.
“you think she’ll answer?” choso asked
“yeah,” gojo said softly. “i do.”
“and if she doesn’t?” he asked.
geto shrugged. “then we roll another blunt and try again next week.”
choso almost smiled. almost. but the weight of your name in his inbox was enough to keep him grounded, it wasn’t over yet.
~
you saw the text while curled up in bed, knees tucked up to your chest, blanket pulled over your head like it could shield you from the rest of the shitty unfair terrible world.
your makeup was still a little smudged from last night, and your phone was lighting up with snaps and stories and blurry videos from the party, everyone drunk and laughing and high off whatever they could get their hands on. and then there it was. his name.
choso [1:03am]: yo. u home tmrw?
your stomach dropped. what?!
you stared at it for a really long time. you hadn’t stopped thinking about him since the second that stupid game ended and he stood up and walked out like he didn’t even care.
except maybe he did?.
this was all so confusing !
you pulled the blanket tighter and stared at the message like a crushing highschooler... it was weird, the way just his name made you feel dizzy. not in a good way, no, in a too-much-history kind of way.
and to be honest? it hurt. you thought about the old times. sophomore year. back when everything was still so so easy. when you didn’t know how he’d taste, or how he’d sound when he groaned into your mouth, or what it would feel like to wake up in his bed aching all over and pretending like nothing ever happened.
you thought about your midnight slurpee runs. him showing up outside your dorm with two energy drinks and absolutely no explanation.
lying on the floor of his room listening to his cool music with your feet pressed to his wall. falling asleep next to him on the couch at geto’s place after a long night out, his arm draped casually over your shoulder like it meant somethikg only if you wanted it to. (you did.)
he was your friend.
hell be was your best friend.
and then he kissed you. and touched you. and wrecked you in every single way and then didn’t say a word after. didn’t fight for it. didn’t even look at you at the party until he had to. like he regretted it. like you were the one who’d ruined things.
you hated that he could still make your heart race with a text that short. you resented that your thumb hovered over the reply button because no matter how mad you were no matter how humiliated or confused or heartbroken you felt, you really, really missed that stupid moron.
you missed his ridiculously lazy and bored smile. his dumb little goofy shrugs. the way he never ever ever judged you for anything, even when you were a crying, puking mess.
you missed the way he made you feel safe. even when nothing else made sense. you exhaled through your nose, phone resting against your chest for a second like the weight of it was too much. then you unlocked it again and typed.
you [1:22am]: yeah, come over whenever
you didn’t add a smiley. didn’t add anything too nice. you didn’t even know what kind of vibe you were trying to give off. cool? detached? open? you didn’t feel like any of those things. you sorta just felt weird. something open and waiting to be hurt again?
you locked your phone and threw it onto the other side of the bed, burying your face in the pillow right after.
oh my god...
~
you didn’t expect him to knock, you’d been pacing all morning incase he'd just barge in.
you checked your phone every five minutes like some pathetic love drunk loser. you’d made coffee. cleaned your desk. redid your makeup even though it wasn’t like he hadn’t seen you cry at least a dozen times before.
when you finally opened the door and saw him standing there, hoodie on, hands in his pockets, looking down at you with that calm expression… your stomach still flipped like you were eighteen and seeing him for the first time.
“yo,” he said, voice low.
“hey.”
he stepped inside politely and waited for you to shut the door before stepping in any further. this always used to feel exciting and homey.
now, it felt like a complete and utter stranger standing in your space. he floated near the door while you went to grab the coffee you’d poured for him almost thirty minutes ago. it was lukewarm now, but whatever.
you offered it to him anyway and he took it, whispering a quiet thanks. he sat down on the edge of your twin bed like it wasn’t too small for this much tension.
“you uh… you good hun?”
you nodded, sipping your coffee even though it tasted like nothing. silence stretched between you. awkward. empty. and you really fucking hated it, because it never used to be like this. never.
you and choso could sit for hours without speaking and it was never weird. you used to sit on your floor with his legs stretched across yours, high out of your minds, just passing a joint back and forth and listening to some obscure playlist he swore by. now even looking at him felt like a mistake you couldn’t take back. he finally broke the quiet. “so…” you met his eyes.
“are we good?” the words were careful. cautious. like if he said them too loud, the whole thing might crack again. you blinked. “i don’t know. are we?” he looked down into his coffee and didn’t answer.
“because i’ve been trying to figure out if i’m just overthinking all of this or if things really are fucked up between us now,” you said. “and if they are, i don’t know how to fix it. i don’t know how to get back to what we were.” choso was quiet for a minute. then he said, “it’s not like i planned for any of this to happen.”
“i didn’t either,” you said, voice tight. “but it did.”he ran a hand through his hair, the motion slow, frustrated. “hm.. i know.”
“so what now?” he didn’t look at you. “i don’t know.” you scoffed. not because it was funny. because it hurt.
“great,” you said. “cool. really helpful.”
“what do you want me to say?” he asked, finally looking at you. his face was tight with confusion and frustration, you could see the flicker of something there. guilt maybe?. or worse... apathy.
“i want you to say how you feel,” you said. “you always do this, choso. you sit there like nothing touches you, like everything just rolls off your back, and you expect everyone else to fill in the blanks.”
“i don’t know how i feel.”
“bullshit!” he flinched.
“you’re not stupid. you’ve never been emotionally dumb. so don’t act like this is suddenly much too complicated for you.”
he looked away again. took a long sip of coffee he clearly didn’t want. “it’s not complicated. it’s just… fucked.” you stared at him. “you think us sleeping together fucked everything up?” he didn’t answer. but his silence was louder than anything. your throat went tight. “right, perfect. cool.”
“it’s not like that,” he said quickly. “i just… we were friends.”
“were,” you echoed. “past tense?" he shook his head. “i didn’t mean it like that.”
“then how did you mean it?”
he pressed his thumb to the bridge of his nose like he had a headache. “i don’t know, okay? i’m trying here.” you folded your arms. “no you’re not. you’re just trying not to feel anything.” he looked up at you, and for the first time, there was a flash of something sharp in his eyes. “you think i don’t feel anything?”
“i think you bury it so deep even you forget it’s there.” you regretted it the second it came out. but you didn’t take it back. couldn’t. he stood up. slowly. like he was still debating whether or not to walk out. “maybe this was a mistake.”
you felt something cave in your chest. “you mean coming here or sleeping with me?!”
“don’t do that,” he said quietly. “don’t make it sound like it was just sex or something. you know it wasn’t.” you blinked. hard. “you’re the one acting like it ruined everything.”
“’cause it did,” he said, voice flat, like it hurt to admit. “look at us.” you wanted to scream. cry. kiss him. something.
“we used to hang out every day,” you said, voice cracking. “we used to order the same shitty takeout and watch bad movies and walk to class together hungover like dumbasses. now i can’t even look at you without feeling like i’m gonna throw up.”
his mouth twitched. not a smile. just something sharp and quiet. “yeah. me too.”you stared at him. “so what, you regret it?” he ran a hand through his hair, dragging it back out of his face. “i regret that we’re like this now. i regret that i can’t stop thinking about it. and i regret how i acted after, yeah.”
“but also how fucking bad i wanted you.” you froze.
he kept talking, almost like he hated himself for it. “i swear, you always looked so good. always. but that night? you walked in and i swear to god i forgot how to breathe. that dress. your hair. the way you sat next to me like it wasn’t a big deal. like your leg wasn’t pressed up against mine for half the night. i was high as shit and still couldn’t stop thinking about how fuckable you looked.”
your mouth dried up really fucking quick.
“i didn’t even mean to go there,” he said, shaking his head. “i was tryna be chill, like always. keep my shit together. but you were laughing at my jokes, biting your straw, leaning into me like you didn’t even know what you were doing—”
“i didn’t,” you cut in, heat rushing to your cheeks. “i wasn’t trying to—”
“i know,” he said, quick. “that’s what fucked me up.”
“you looked so good it pissed me off,” he muttered. “like, i’d spent years being your friend, right? years just keeping it cool. not touching you. not saying shit. not letting it show. and that night you made it so fucking hard not to lose it.” your throat felt tight. “so what, you blame me for how it happened?” he looked at you then. “nah. i blame myself for not being stronger than that.”
“you weren’t even supposed to be thinking about me like that.”
“you think i don’t know that?” his voice rose slightly, not angry, just frustrated. “you think i wanted this to go down like it did? i wanted to touch you, yeah. i wanted to fuck you. i wanted to see how you sounded when you moaned my name, but i didn’t want to ruin everything. i didn’t want to be here with you looking at me like i’m someone you don’t even recognize.”
you flinched. “maybe i don’t.”
that did it. something in his jaw twitched.
“cool,” he said, standing suddenly. “then i won’t bother you anymore.”
you stood too, heart racing. “that’s what you’re doing now? just walking out?”
“what do you want from me, y/n?” he turned to you, eyes dark. “you want me to say i love you or something? that i’ve been obsessed with you since sophomore year and now i don’t know how to breathe when you’re not talking to me?” you stared at him. your silence said enough.
he laughed. quiet and bitter. “yeah. didn’t think so.” you took a step forward. “don’t turn this around on me like i’m the one who broke it.”
“you didn’t break it,” he said, voice sharp now. “we both did.”
neither of you said anything for a second. just stood there, chests rising, air charged and crackling and too much. and then he was gone. again. and it felt worse this time. because this time, it really sounded like goodbye.
~
choso slammed the door behind him, his head was spinning like a storm was about to break loose. every nerve ending in his body was buzzing, too much noise in his head, too much ache in his tightly couled chest. he hated how raw everything felt, how the fight twisted in his gut like a knife he couldn’t pull out. he wasn’t about to let it break him. not tonight. definitely not like this.
he stumbled down the hall, each step heavier than the last, and after a long walk ended up outside shiu’s spot behind the science building. the place smelled like burnt leaves and cold air. choso lit a smoke, dragging deep and steady, trying to slow his racing thoughts, but it only made the ache louder. he needed something stronger. something to silence the noise.
“shiu,” he said, voice low and rough. “i need something… stronger. something to knock me the fuck out.” shiu looked him over, eyebrows raised. “you sure, man? gojo’s been watching you. he don’t want you mixing up shit.”
choso’s jaw flexed. he looked off to the side, eyes tracking the cracks in the pavement like he needed something else to focus on. something that wasn’t the way your voice had cracked or the way his chest had felt like it was caving in after he stormed out. he dragged a long, slow breath through his nose.
“gojo doesn’t need to know,” he muttered, tone flat but tight at the edges. shiu raised an eyebrow. “that ain’t really what i asked.” choso shot him a look, eyes sharp under heavy lashes. “and i didn’t come here for a conversation.”
the silence stretched for a second, heavy and taut. a muscle jumped in choso’s cheek as he looked back down at the ground. “i just need something that’s not gonna make me feel like i’m gonna rip my fuckin’ head off. you got that or not?” shiu stayed still, watching him closely now. “look, man, if this is about a girl or some party shit...”
“don’t,” choso cut him off, voice edged in steel. “don’t make this a thing. i didn’t come here to unpack it.”
he was trying to keep cool, like always. trying to stay in that chilled-out, unfazed mode everyone knew him for, but his voice cracked slightly on the end of that last word, and he knew shiu caught it. he fucking hated how close it all was to spilling out. hated how his hands wouldn’t stop twitching at his sides. he wasn’t supposed to be this messy. not over anyone. not over you.
shiu sighed, already reaching into his jacket. “fine, man. i got something that’ll take the edge off. just don’t be dumb w' it.” choso watched him, face set, but his fingers were already digging into his pocket for cash. he shoved the bills into shiu’s hand, almost too hard. “this doesn’t leave us,” choso said. it wasn’t a request. shiu nodded slowly. “you got it.”
choso took the small container, didn’t even glance at it before stuffing it in his jacket. his mouth was tight, his gaze already turned back toward campus. “appreciate it,” he muttered, almost like an afterthought, then walked off without looking back.
he didn’t want to think about how pathetic he felt, or how badly he wanted to forget the look on your face when he walked out. he just wanted the silence. wanted everything to go still for a while.
anything but this.
~
your room was much too quiet. this quiet made your ears ring and your chest ache like your body didn’t know what to do with all of the sudden solemn silence.
you were curled up under your blanket, knees hugged to your chest, trying not to cry again. trying not to fall apart for the third time that day. but it kept hitting you in waves. the fight. his voice. the way the door sounded when it shut behind him. loud and final.
you missed him. god, you missed him.
not just the version of him that had kissed you with his hands shaking. not just the one that pressed his forehead against yours like it hurt to let go. you missed your best friend. the one who used to show up to your dorm with red bull and snacks when you were cramming for exams. the one who let you wear his hoodie for two whole weeks straight without saying a word. the one who always listened, who always got it, even when no one else did.
and now he was gone. just walked out like it didn’t mean anything. like none of it mattered.
you pressed your face into your pillow and let out a long, frustrated sound. it wasn’t fair. you didn’t ask for things to get this complicated. you didn’t mean for any of it to happen. it was supposed to be one night. one stupid, selfish, soft little night. and now everything was fucked.
you felt the tears coming back but blinked them away, he left. he didn’t even try to talk it through. he just stood there looking at you like you were too much, like he couldn’t be bothered to fight for any of it. and maybe you didn’t say the right thing. maybe you pushed him too hard. but it wasn’t supposed to end like this. not with slammed doors.
you missed feeling safe with him. and now you didn’t know if you’d ever get any of it back.
~
later that night, choso was cooped up in his room, and absolutely fucking wasted. he didn’t even know what shiu gave him, but he was gone. mumbly, heavy, head falling from side to side like he couldn’t even hold it up anymore. his fingers were slack around the half-empty baggie on the nightstand. he felt like he was underwater.
the knock on the door barely registered. he didn’t even move.
“yo,” gojo’s voice came through, followed by the door creaking open without waiting for permission. “you alive in here?” choso slowly blinked. slowly.
he turned his head just enough to see him step in, all tall and white, hair messy like he’d been out back smoking or maybe pacing in the hallway. gojo’s eyes landed on the bag, then on choso’s face. he stopped walking.
“the fuck is that?” gojo asked flatly, already moving to snatch it off the table. choso didn’t even flinch, just let it happen. “don’t worry bout' it.”
“don’t-” gojo laughed, but it wasn’t the usual loud, chaotic sound. it was short and very annoyed. “nah, don’t pull that shit. what even is this? where’d you get it?” choso didn’t answer. he dropped his head back again, staring at the ceiling, trying not to gag from the way the room tilted sideways.
“don’t tell me shiu gave you this,” gojo said, sniffing the bag like he might recognize it. “are you fucking serious?”
“not a big deal.”
“not a big deal?” gojo’s voice cracked. “bro, you’re drooling on yourself.”
“shut up,” choso muttered, wiping his mouth with his sleeve.
“nah. no, you don’t get to do that. you don’t get to act like this is nothing,” gojo snapped, pacing now. “i’ve seen this shit go left, choso. you think you’re just vibing, zoning out, but you don’t know what the fuck you’re taking. you could’ve died, dumbass.”
gojo ran a hand through his hair again, pacing harder now, feet dragging across the rug like he was trying not to explode. “you think this shit makes you deep or something? makes you, what, mysterious? tragic? nah, bro. it makes you fucking reckless.”
choso stayed quiet, slumped back against the headboard, “you know we’re not built like that. we’ve seen too many people get fucked up on the hard shit, too many people do dumb shit and not come back from it. and you?” he jabbed a finger at him, “you’re better than that. you’re smart. calm. you’re the one that’s supposed to have your shit together when we don’t.”
he dropped down onto the bed next to him with a heavy sigh, voice dropping low. “i don’t care if you’re sad. i don’t care if you’re heartbroken or guilty or fucked up over her. you don’t ever get to check out like this. you get high, fine. we all do. but you do not disappear into some sketchy shit just because life got too heavy for you to handle.”
choso still didn’t look at him. he was breathing slow as gojo leaned back, staring up disappointed at the ceiling. “you wanna crash out, fine. but not on my fucking watch.” he paused, voice going rough. “i need you, man. geto needs you. the frat needs you. don’t do that shit again. i’m so serious.”
he sat up again, finally glancing down at him, eyes sharp but not unkind. “next time you wanna drown it out, you come to me. i’ll roll for you. i’ll sit with you. i’ll talk you through it. but you don’t pull this lone wolf junkie thing. that’s not who the fuck you are.”
choso blinked slow, finally meeting his gaze. gojo just stared. “don’t make me bury you, dude.”choso dragged a hand over his face, groaning. “can we not do this right now?”
“we are doing this right now.” gojo tossed the bag across the room, out of reach. “you think i care if you’re upset about y/n? you think that justifies this?” at that, choso finally looked at him. his eyes were bloodshot and glassy, but there was a flicker of something else in there. shame... anger, hurt.
“you don’t get it,” he said quietly. “then explain it to me,” gojo shot back, folding his arms. “because from where i’m standing, you ghosted the girl you’ve been in love with since sophomore year, fucked up your whole friendship, and now you’re trying to numb it out with whatever the hell this is. that about right?” choso didn’t say anything in reply. gojo ran a hand through his hair, exhaling hard. “you think you’re the only one hurting? she’s in her dorm crying over you, bro. yuki told me. she’s a wreck. and you’re up here trying to disappear.”
“i didn’t mean for it to go like that,” choso muttered. “i just… i miss her. and everything’s fucked now.” gojo softened. just a little. enough to step forward, sit down on the edge of the bed, lean in like he actually wanted to understand.
“you wanna be with her?” choso’s jaw clenched. “i wanna have her back. i wanna make it right. but i don’t know how.”
“then sober the fuck up,” gojo said, less harsh now. “get outta your head, stop tryna erase the pain, and just talk to her. tell her the truth.” choso let his head fall into his hands. his heart was pounding, his limbs felt heavy and useless.
“i don’t wanna lose her.”
“then don’t,” gojo said. “but you will if you keep doing dumb shit like this.” choso didn’t move, didn’t answer. he just sat there breathing through the weight of it all, trying not to cry in front of him. gojo leaned back, sighed, and muttered, “i’m getting you water and food. stay the fuck here.”
and he did. not because he wanted to, but because for the first time all day, the room didn’t feel like it was spinning as harshly anymore.
choso let go of a big breath, dragging his fingers over his face like he could rub the shame out of his skin. “i didn’t mean to go that far,” he said finally, “just wanted to stop thinking for a minute.” gojo let out a short breath, half-laugh, half-sigh. “bro, you’re not the only one thinking too much. get in line.” choso shook his head. “it’s not just that. it’s her. it’s everything. i feel like an asshole.” gojo leaned back on his hands, shoulders relaxing a little. “you’re not an asshole. you’re just in love and emotionally stunted.”
choso cracked the tiniest smile. “yeah, fuck you.”
“nah, for real,” gojo said, nudging his knee. “you think we haven’t noticed? the way you look at her?”
“yeah, well,” choso whispered, rubbing his thumb along the seam of his jeans, “i fucked it up. i always fuck it up.” gojo frowned. “you didn’t fuck it up by loving her. you fucked it up by not talking to her. by pretending like it didn’t mean something.” choso looked away again, eyes glassy. “it wasn’t supposed to mean something.”
gojo tilted his head, voice softer now. “but it did. so what are you gonna do? run from her forever? numb yourself out until you forget what it felt like to be close to her?” choso didn’t answer. just stared at the floor like it held the truth he couldn’t say out loud.
gojo nudged him again. “you got a choice. keep hardcore crashing out, or man up and try and try again.” choso looked at him, slow and heavy. “and what if she doesn’t want to try again?” gojo shrugged. “then at least you tried. but you’ll hate yourself if you don’t.”
there was a long silence. just the sound of choso’s breathing, still a little unsteady, and the buzz of the fridge downstairs. then choso finally nodded, slow and defeated. “yeah. okay.” gojo gave his thigh a smack, then stood. “good. now drink some water, take a fucking shower, and get the chemicals outta your system. you smell like a dead vape.”
“you love me,” choso muttered.
“unfortunately,” gojo said, already heading for the door, “i do.”
~
groupchat “dni”
gojo [6:17 pm]: ok listen up you degenerates
gojo [6:17 pm]: we’ve all been personally invited to a very exclusive rooftop party tonight
geto [6:18 pm]: “personally invited” = you begged a sophomore with a wristband
gojo [6:18 pm]: incorrect. i flirted with a sophomore with a wristband
yuki [6:18 pm]: is this gonna be like last time when we got kicked out before the music even started
shoko [6:19 pm]: that was because sukuna tried to fight the dj over a frank ocean request
sukuna [6:19 pm]: shut up ho
nanami [6:19 pm]: respectfully i’m not coming
gojo [6:20 pm]: respectfully yes you are
gojo [6:20 pm]: i already told people my hot finance friend was coming
utahime [6:20 pm]: nanami i’ll bring edibles if you go
nanami [6:21 pm]: fine
gojo [6:21 pm]: god i love peer pressure
yuki [6:21 pm]: who else is going
shoko [6:22 pm]: i’ll come if i can bring molly
geto [6:22 pm]: you do that anyway
shoko [6:22 pm]: i like to at least ask
utahime [6:23 pm]: i’m in if nobody lets gojo near the aux
gojo [6:23 pm]: shut the fuck up my music is goated
sukuna [6:23 pm]: you exclusively play bass boosted lorde remixes
gojo [6:24 pm]: and yet you all still dance
yuki [6:24 pm]: because we're normally fucked up by then
geto [6:24 pm]: fr
you [6:25 pm]: what time?
gojo [6:25 pm]: so nice of you to join us
gojo [6:25 pm]: 10. dress code is slutty apparently
utahime [6:26 pm]: where is it
gojo [6:26 pm]: that bougie building near campus with the glass elevator. guy at the door is named dante. tell him i sent you
sukuna [6:26 pm]: dante knows you as “that guy who stole a lava lamp”
gojo [6:27 pm]: i liberated it
geto [6:27 pm]: anyone bringing alcohol or should i be the dad again
nanami [6:27 pm]: just don’t bring that fucksss artisanal whiskey shit. no one appreciates it but you
geto [6:28 pm]: it’s called having taste
gojo [6:28 pm]: bring the whiskey suguru. some of us have trauma to repress
yuki [6:28 pm]: i’ll bring vodka.
shoko [6:29 pm]: i’ll bring molly
utahime [6:29 pm]: you're actually addicted
shoko [6:29 pm]: sybau
gojo [6:30 pm]: choso, toji respond rn
choso [6:31 pm]: what
gojo [6:31 pm]: that’s not a yes
yuki [6:31 pm]: sounds like someone’s sulking again
geto [6:32 pm]: whats wrong
choso [6:32 pm]: just tired
sukuna [6:32 pm]: toji wya
gojo [6:33 pm]: someone play “creep” by radiohead
toji [6:33 pm]: it's literally my frat mf ofc im going
choso [6:33 pm]: fantastic
you [6:33 pm]: stop
gojo [6:33 pm]: 👀
shoko [6:33 pm]: oh we’re back to cryptic again. love that for us
utahime [6:34 pm]: just make sure no one dies this time
gojo [6:34 pm]: no promises
yuki [6:34 pm]: see you all at 10. i expect to see a lot of skin
gojo [6:35 pm]: we never disappoint 😛😛😛😛😄😄
gojo [7:50 pm..]: yeah cool just leave me on read idc
gojo [9:30 pm...]: i hate all of u.
seen ✔️
~
after the group chat had died down, chosos was in his room with a deep ache in his chest. he wanted to reach out, ask if you were comfortable with this whole thing, ask if you were okay with him coming along to a party after the two of you had your falling out only a few days prior. he knew you two were in bad terms but fuck, he just wanted to make sure you were okay i with it.
choso [7:04 pm]: i saw ur going tonight
choso [7:06 pm]: i won’t if you don’t want me there
choso [7:10 pm]: just say the word
you [7:17 pm]: do whatever you want
choso [7:19 pm]: ok
choso [7:19 pm]: see yhu
he groaned and flopped his phone face down into his bed. 'fucking perfect.'
~
the window’s cracked, blunt long burned out in the ashtray. chosos half-dressed, standing in front of the mirror, shirtless, jeans low on his hips, chain resting against his collarbone. he doesn’t know why he’s putting in this much effort. doesn’t know who he’s trying to be tonight. cool? unbothered? the kind of guy who can stand in the same room as you and pretend like you didn’t ruin him without even trying?
the shirt he pulls on is black, open just enough to show the ink on his chest. sleeves short, tight across the arms. tattoos peek out like they’re watching everything, curling over his ribs, his biceps, his throat, it’s hot. intentionally. he tells himself it’s for the party. definitely not for you.
he tugs a ring onto each finger. slow. deliberate. the silver’s cold. his hands aren’t. his heart’s been pounding since you texted him back.
'do whatever you want.'
not no. not don’t come. just… nothing. silence, dressed up like some sort of permission.
'do whatever you want.'
he thinks about turning around. taking off the shirt. crawling into bed and pretending none of this is real and smoking until he passes out, but he knows he won’t, because you’ll be there. and he’s too fucking weak to stay away from you any longer that he already has...
there’s a knock at the door. “don’t,” choso mutters, not loud enough to be heard yet it opens anyway.
“you look hot,” gojo says casually strutting in, choso doesn’t turn around. “you're too flattering.”
“still true,” gojo shrugs stepping inside. he’s wearing black slacks, loose button-up open too far, a silver chain dangling down his chest like a shiny invitation for whatever girl can keep up with his personality. sunglasses pushed into his hair. rings stacked. nails painted. he looks like he’s about to ruin someone’s night. he looks at choso like he’s trying to gauge whether it’s gonna be his.
“you goodd?” he asks, “we’re not doing the spiral thing again, right?”
complete and utter silence.
“’cause last time i had to stop you from snorting mystery powder from shiu, and i really don’t want a repeat of that intervention,” he adds. choso scoffs once. “you’re so over the top. abs dramatic.” he adds.
“and you’re emotionally constipated. we all have our thing.” gojo steps towards choso and leans a shoulder against the wall. he watches him in the mirror.
“you gonna talk about it or just stand here looking like a sad stripper?” choso exhales through his nose. “it’s really fine.”
“cool. love that answer. super healthy.” a beat passes. gojo drops the lollipop into the trash and wipes his hands on his pants like he’s prepping for something bigger than this.
“she’s not avoiding you because she hates you,” he says. choso doesn’t flinch. but his eyes flicker. gojo shrugs. “she’s scared. you know that.” choso looks down. presses his palms into the dresser like it might hold him up.
“yeah,” he says quietly. “well. so am i.”
“she looked at you different after it happened,” gojo says. almost soft. “not bad different. just… like it mattered.” choso stares at the floor. gojo nods once, then backs off. "come to the party. wear that shirt. smoke a little. drink a little. maybe talk to her. or don’t. just don’t disappear on me.” choso looks up. “i’m not gonna fall apart.”
“yeah,” gojo smirks. “but if you do, at least you’ll look hot doing it.” he tosses him a hoodie, something black and oversized, just in case choso changes his mind about being seen.
“let’s go, romeo,” gojo says, already walking out. choso watches him go. breathes in. breathes out. then grabs his lighter, his keys, and follows.
~
outside the party – 9:56 pm
warm night, rooftop breeze, lyrics already bleeding down the block. gojo’s parked two blocks away like it’s some elaborate strategy despite there being parks much closer by, like making people walk increases anticipation. he
in the distance they spot geto sukuna and toji in their respective slutty fits.
gojo whistles when he sees them. “look at you motherfuckers.” sukuna smirks. “took you long enough.”
geto nods at choso. “you clean up.” choso shrugs. “preciate it man.” toji glances him up and down. “tight shirt,” he says. “someone expecting attention?” choso doesn’t blink. “depends who’s looking, i guess.”
gojo claps his hands once. “jesus christ. the testosterone levels here are fucking suffocating.” geto smirks around his cigarette. “we’re waiting on anyone else?”
“nah,” gojo says. “nanami’s coming later. yuki and the girls are already inside.” toji raises a brow. “and y/n?”choso’s jaw flexes. “what about her." geto eyes him. says nothing.
gojo waves it off. “she’s inside. drinking something pink and ignoring men like her life depends on it.”
“sounds like her,” sukuna mutters.
then they walk in, five-deep, hot enough to ruin the entire vibe. and somewhere inside, you’re already trying not to look.
the boys step in like they own the night. heads turn. someone near the bar actually mutters holy fuck under their breath when they catch sight of the group.
gojo’s grinning like he knows it. geto’s already scanning the crowd, sipping from a flask. sukuna nods to someone across the room like he’s clocking future damage. toji lights his cigarette with no urgency. and choso? choso’s not looking at any of them.
he sees you before you see him. you’re by the back wall, half-lit by a string of hanging bulbs, drink in one hand, one heel hooked behind the other like you’ve never been nervous in your life. you’re laughing at something yuki said, mouth glossed and tilted just enough to make his chest hurt.
you’re wearing a cheetah print dress. short. backless. deep neckline. cinched tight at the waist with gold jewelry layered at your neck and wrists, like you weren’t just trying to look good, you came to ruin people. your legs look endless. skin glowing. hair curled and pinned behind one ear to show off that delicate line of your throat. you look expensive. dangerous. like sex in stiletto form.
and choso forgets how to breathw for a second, the music flows to a distant thump. the smoke clears. the crowd drops out. it’s just you, golden and gleaming, and him, sweaty palms, heart in his throat, standing frozen like he’s seen something holy.
you haven’t noticed him yet. you’re twirling your straw in your drink, lip caught between your teeth. the same thing you always did when you were thinking. or nervous. or trying to act like you weren’t.
gojo nudges his shoulder. “yo.”
choso doesn’t move.
gojo follows his gaze, then huffs a breath. “oh.”
you look over a second later, you feel it. his eyes. maybe the heat of them. and you see him. your expression doesn’t crack. not really. but your fingers tighten slightly around your glass. your lashes lower just a little. and you look away like it didn’t gut you to see him like that, in that tight black shirt, rings catching the light, tattoos half-visible up his throat, mouth set in something halfway between regret and want.
choso swallows. slow. jaw tight.
toji watches the exchange, smirks around his cigarette. then, in true toji fashion, he leans toward sukuna, voice just loud enough to carry. “yo,” he mutters, nodding toward you. “she looks so fuckable tonight it’s insane.” pause.
gojo’s face shifts instantly. from buzzed amusement to bro what the fuck in 0.2 seconds. sukuna snorts once, unbothered. “that dress is lethal.” toji grins. “makes me wanna do something i’d lie about later.”
and choso, choso doesn’t react at first. not visibly, he just stands there. stone-still.
his fingers twitch at his sides like he’s holding himself back from doing something really stupid. .
but the way toji said it, like you were just a body, a dress, a thing to fuck. it makes choso’s stomach turn. makes something mean start to rise in his throat.
gojo catches it first. glances at choso sideways. “hey. breathe.” choso doesn’t react.
geto, across the group, clocks the tension and sighs into his drink like he already knows how this ends. “he’s trying to get in your head,” gojo murmurs.
"ts' not working,” choso says. flat. a lie. gojo looks at him. “then why are your hands shaking.”
choso drops his gaze and fists his fingers into the hem of his hoodie. he wants to hit something. wants to grab toji by the collar and ask him if it makes him feel big to talk about you like that. if he remembers what you looked like crying in someone else’s arms after he left you on read for three days straight.
instead, he just turns. looks at you again. you’re laughing now. at something yuki said. unaware. untouched by the storm building across the room. you look radiant, and so far away.
choso exhales slow. rubs a hand down his face. gojo steps in front of him. blocks his line of sight like he’s redirecting a loaded weapon. “you’re not here to fight him,” he says. “you’re here to see her.” choso sighs. “what if she doesn’t wanna see me?” he asks.
gojo shrugs. “then drink something strong and stand in the corner like a sexy ghost. but don’t let him take up more space in her head than you already do.” choso doesn’t reply.
but when he looks back over, your eyes meet again. this time, you don’t look away. you just hold it. tense. charged. everything unsaid humming in the space between.
10:50 pm
the music’s dirtier. people are pressed together, limbs loose, inhibitions all gone. people are yelling instead of talking. laughing too hard. dancing like they don’t plan on remembering any of this. and you? you’re glowing. you’re perched on a high stool near the drinks table with yuki, shoko, and utahime gathered around you like satellites. your legs are crossed, drink in hand, jewelry catching the lights. that cheetah print dress hasn’t moved, hasn’t slipped, but it still looks like it’s barely hanging on.
your heels are off now, tossed under the table. you’re barefoot, but you somehow look more powerful that way. yuki’s halfway through a blunt, one hand in your hair, fixing a loose curl behind your ear like she owns you. shoko’s got her chin in her hand, eyes glassy, listening to you talk like she’s watching a movie.
utahime’s arguing with you about whether or not someone near the speakers is hot or just tall. you’re laughing. loud. unbothered. you’ve had just enough to feel good, not sloppy, not numb. just warm in your chest, loose in your hips, relaxed in a way you haven’t been since the last time he kissed you.
you haven’t looked at him in a while. not directly. but you can feel him. like a splinter in your spine. choso is sunken deep into a beaten leather couch across the rooftop, legs spread, one arm slung over the backrest, the other gripping a drink that’s barely touched. the lights throw shadows across his face, making him look even more like the problem he is. he hasn’t smiled once tonight. hasn’t danced. hasn’t moved from that couch in an hour. he’s just been watching. not just you. not really. he’s been watching the whole group unravel.
cataloguing all the little ways things feel out of control. gojo and geto are on either side of him, like emotionally chaotic bookends. gojo’s halfway through a dramatic retelling of how a girl asked him to do shots off her collarbone. geto is barely listening, drink in one hand, his focus drifting toward the dancefloor.
“if you sink any deeper into that couch you’re gonna become it,” gojo says, nudging choso’s shoulder.
“you’re brooding so hard you’re fucking up the feng shui,” geto adds.
choso doesn’t answer. doesn’t blink. doesn’t move. because he’s watching them now. toji and sukuna, standing way too fucking close to you. they’re leaning against the drink table now, on either side of you, like some fucked up little devil-on-each-shoulder situation.
sukuna’s got his arm resting behind you on the back of your chair, his rings brushing the back of your neck when he shifts to say something in your ear. toji’s standing in front of you, looking you up and down with zero shame, saying something that makes you roll your eyes, but you’re smiling, a little. they’re too close. too familiar. toji bends down slightly to say something low, right in your ear. his hand brushes your knee, barely there, but enough. sukuna laughs, low and slow, and tucks a stray piece of your hair behind your ear with one finger like he has the right. you don’t push them away. you don’t move. and choso sits frozen, drink heavy in his hand, chest tight. geto follows his gaze, sighs.
“jesus.”
gojo squints across the room.
“yep. there it is. spiraling has entered the building.”
choso doesn’t say a word, but his knuckles are white around the cup. his jaw’s clenched so hard it looks like it might crack.
“she’s not into them,” gojo says carefully.
choso doesn’t respond.
“she’s just beingg...” he gestures vaguely, “hot. in public. while we all suffer.”
geto watches him.
“you good, man?”
“i’m fine,” he mutters.
“you’re glaring like you wanna body slam them off the roof,” gojo says. “i mean i support it, i’m just saying. it’s noticeable.”
choso looks away. but not before he sees sukuna lean in close again, lips damn near brushing your cheek as he says something that makes you tilt your head and laugh. and something in choso’s chest goes tight. ugly. possessive. deep. he finishes the drink in one pull and tosses the cup to the floor.
“you’re not gonna fight toji,” geto warns.
“i’m not,” choso mutters.
“or sukuna.”
“i’m not.”
gojo tilts his head.
“but you want to.”
choso doesn’t answer.
meanwhile, little to choso’s knowledge, you hate every second of this.
toji’s too close. his cologne is overwhelming, his breath is hot against your cheek, and his hand keeps brushing your knee like it’s some kind of fucking game. sukuna’s behind you, practically caging you in with that smug arm slung across the back of your stool, his rings tapping the metal as he leans in to say something that smells like whiskey and smoke. you laugh at something one of them says, but it’s hollow. thin. fake as hell. because you can feel him watching. and you wish to god he’d do something.
choso’s sitting across the rooftop like some tragic movie still, legs spread, all in black, eyes dark and unreadable. he hasn’t smiled. hasn’t moved. hasn’t looked at you like he used to. and you hate it. you hate how much you want him to care. you shift away slightly when toji reaches for your hand, pretending like you’re adjusting your drink.
you laugh again when sukuna teases something at your neck, even though your skin crawls. you don’t hate them. not really. they’re just being drunk and flirty and awful in the way guys get when they’re bored and a pretty girl’s nearby. but they’re not him. and that’s the problem. because no matter how hot you look, no matter how expensive, how unbothered, how sparkly and golden and “look at me” you are tonight, the only person you want looking at you like that is him. and he’s over there acting like you’re invisible.
he doesn’t smile at you anymore. doesn’t joke. doesn’t talk to you unless someone else is around and even then it’s like pulling teeth. he used to tell you things. little things. boring things. “what song this reminds me of.” “what kind of sandwich i got.” “i saw a dog today.” shit that didn’t matter but came easy. and now? now he can’t even hold eye contact for more than three seconds. you don’t know what changed. not really. you slept together. fine. you got drunk, things got messy, bodies got too close, and you let yourself want something. let yourself believe he might actually want it too.
you woke up in his bed and thought maybe it was real. maybe this meant something. and then he just… stopped. he pulled away so fast it gave you whiplash. and now he just sits across rooms like this. like you didn’t fall asleep on his chest. like you didn’t run your fingers through his hair while he held your thigh like it grounded him. like he didn’t look at you like you meant something. you toss back the rest of your drink, throat burning. yuki side-eyes you as you slam it down on the table.
“you good?”
“yep,” you lie. utahime raises a brow.
“you look like you’re gonna launch a man off this roof.”
“just one,” you say.
shoko hums.
“he’s still staring.”
you don’t ask who. you already know. you don’t even know what you want. no. that’s a lie. you want him. the version of choso who used to lean into your space just to smell your perfume. who used to hold eye contact like it was a secret between you. who used to text you late at night about nothing just to make sure you weren’t falling asleep sad. you want before. before everything got quiet and tense and full of looks that don’t last long enough. but he’s not that version anymore. he’s just a closed-up, beautiful, miserable mess on a couch pretending you don’t exist. and you’re done pretending it doesn’t hurt.
~
1:42 am
toji’s breath is warm against your ear, words too low, too close, too intentional. you smile like it doesn’t bother you, sip your drink, and pretend you didn’t just flinch on the inside. then, the music shifts, like the party takes a breath. something dark, slow, throbbing with bass comes on, the kind of song that makes people close the distance.
hips pressed, sweat slicked, voices lost in the sound. laughter gives way to sighs. hands start wandering. lights blur. everything feels drunker, hazier, a little dangerous. you’ve lost track of your cup. lost track of toji, sukuna, even your girls. everyone’s dancing now. even the too-cool ones, the emotionally distant ones, the heartbroken ones pretending not to look over their shoulder. even choso. he’s on the edge of the crowd, near the speakers, arms loose at his sides, hips rolling low to the beat. shirt sticking to his chest. chain catching in the light. his hair’s a little messed up, half out of its tie, and there’s a glint in his eyes that wasn’t there earlier, like he finally let go of something, or gave up fighting it.
he looks stupid hot, and he hasn’t looked at you once. you’re moving too. barely. just swaying. sweat glistening at the base of your throat, breath shallow, your dress rising every time your hips shift. people brush against you, but you barely notice. and then, like gravity snaps, like the whole party shifts around the two of you, he’s in front of you. face to face. you don’t know who moved first. maybe no one did. maybe the music dragged you here. his eyes meet yours and don’t leave. not this time. he’s close. closer than he’s been in weeks. one hand half-raised like he thought about reaching for your waist but didn’t finish the thought.
he’s breathing hard. jaw tight. pupils blown wide. your mouths are inches apart. you don’t speak. you just start moving. slow. heavy. together. not grinding. not showing off. just that hypnotic, instinctive kind of swaying, like your bodies remember each other before your brains do. his hand finds your hip. not all at once. just fingers grazing, then settling tentative, almost reverent. your hand comes up to rest lightly on his chest, over that same beat you felt once with your head on his shoulder. he breathes like it hurts, your eyes flick to his mouth, his eyes flick to yours. and neither of you closes the gap.
you roll your hips to the rhythm, and he follows, barely touching, but there. every movement brushing something: the curve of your thigh, the edge of your hand, the inside of your wrist. you’re not sure who leans in first, but your foreheads almost touch. his nose skims yours. breath to breath. cheek to cheek. he smells like skin and heat and the kind of cologne that clings to sheets. and god, you missed this. not just the closeness, but the feeling. the way he never looks away.
the way his hand on your waist says things his mouth never does. the way he holds you like he might shatter you if he pulls too hard. he holds you like he might shatter you if he pulls too hard. but god, he wants to. your hips are still moving — small, controlled sways that roll you against his thigh, your stomach brushing his shirt with each beat. his hand tightens at your waist. not rough. not greedy. just… needing. like he’s memorizing the curve of you again. like if he closes his eyes, he wants to still feel this exact shape in the dark.
your hand slides up from his chest to his shoulder. fingers graze the edge of his neck. your nails skim his pulse and his breath stutters against your cheek. you don’t pull away. neither does he. your mind spirals as he guides your hips ‘this is cruel.’ this is cruel and slow and exactly what you said you wouldn’t let happen again. not like this. not with him so quiet. not with all this space between what you want and what you’re allowed to ask for.
but his hand is on your hip. his breath is at your throat. he’s looking at you like he’s afraid you’re about to disappear. and you missed this, you missed him. even like this — closed off, quiet, hurting — you missed being near him. the way he watches you like he’s not sure you’re real. the way your bodies always fit together without trying. he’s so close now you can feel the heat of his skin through his shirt. every time you shift, your thighs brush. your lips are just inches from his jaw, and the way he’s looking at your mouth. god, you shouldn’t want him like this. not again. not still. but you do. his mind is just as scattered.
‘don’t fuck this up. don’t fuck this up.’ ‘she’s right here. she’s letting you be close again. she’s swaying with you like nothing’s broken, like that night never happened, like you didn’t spend weeks convincing yourself she didn’t want you.’ ‘her hand’s on your neck. her fingers are shaking just a little. she’s looking at you like she remembers.’ and fuck, he remembers everything. your breath in his ear. your leg hooked over his waist. your voice breaking when you said his name like it meant something. he wants to say something. anything.
but it’s like his throat’s gone numb. like his body remembers how to touch you, but his mouth forgot how to tell you why. he’s always been better at wanting you in silence. but your hand is sliding to the back of his neck now. fingers curling into the roots of his hair. and he thinks, ‘maybe this is enough.’ maybe just this. your breath. your body. this impossible, unspoken thing between you. you shift forward, and his forehead touches yours, you both stop moving. just standing there, breath mingling, swaying barely in place.
your nose brushes his. your lips part like maybe, maybe, but neither of you moves. not yet. your fingers are still curled in his hair. his thumb is rubbing slow, slow circles into your waist like he doesn’t even realize he’s doing it. his other hand floats just behind your lower back, not touching, like if he does, you’ll vanish. he’s never been this close to you without kissing your cheek in a friendly gesture apart from that night. and you’ve never been this close to him without yearning for more.
your eyes flutter shut. his jaw flexes, and everything in both of you is screaming. ‘please. just say something. do something. fix this.’ but you’re both still too scared to be the one who breaks it first, so you stay there. barely not kissing. barely not breaking. still burning.
you don’t know how long you’ve been swaying with him. every second stretches, honey-slow, pulling you deeper into the space between his breath and yours. his hand is still on your hip, gentle, barely there, like he’s afraid he’ll lose you if he presses too hard, and maybe he will. your fingers are curled at the back of his neck, tangled in the roots of his hair. his forehead rests against yours, your lips close enough that one shift, one breath, would close the gap. your heartbeat is in your mouth. his breath is at your cheek. and for one fragile, terrifying second, you think: maybe this is it. maybe you’re finally going to stop hurting.
then,
“yoooo, what the fuck are you doing over here looking like a victoria’s secret ad?”
gojo’s voice cuts through the music like a knife. choso jolts, eyes snapping open like he’s come up for air too fast. you both turn just as gojo and geto descend like a pair of drunk, well-dressed hurricanes, laughing and glowing and absolutely oblivious. gojo claps a hand on choso’s back, dragging him slightly out of reach. geto’s sipping from a red cup, clearly tipsy and amused.
“dude,” gojo says, grinning. “we’ve been looking for you—oh.” he stops when he sees you. geto does too. their faces drop, the laughter bleeding out of them as they realize they’ve just stepped into something private. something sacred. something they weren’t supposed to interrupt.
choso clears his throat and steps back. the shift is immediate and jarring. his hand leaves your waist. your fingers fall from his hair. the warmth between you extinguishes like a match in water. you stare at him. he won’t meet your eyes.
“shit,” gojo mutters. “sorry. we didn’t know you guys were—”
“we weren’t,” choso says, too quickly. “it’s fine.” the words hit like a slap. you take a step back. your arms fold across your chest. you don’t know where to look, so you don’t. you just turn and walk away.
he doesn’t follow. not when you disappear into the crowd. not when you vanish near the drink table. not even when you start drinking with reckless abandon. shot after shot. sugary, awful, fluorescent drinks you don’t even taste. you laugh too loud with yuki. you squeeze shoko’s arm too hard when she asks if you’re okay. you brush off utahime’s concerned expression and throw another drink back like it’ll fix the ache in your throat.
you don’t cry. not yet.
~
thirty minutes pass. the rooftop is hotter now, air thick with heat and bodies and music that won’t let up. the lights blur at the edges of your vision, too warm, too gold, too close. your dress clings tighter than it did an hour ago, every shift of fabric against your skin feeling like friction. your earrings feel like anchors. your heels like punishment. every part of you feels overstimulated, overexposed, over it.
you’ve been sipping something pink and sweet and pointless. you stopped tasting it a while ago. it’s not about the drink. it’s about the motion. about keeping your hands busy so you don’t wring them. about putting something between your teeth so you don’t say what you actually want to scream.
because choso’s still across the room. sitting on that damn couch like the last half hour didn’t just happen. like he didn’t hold you like you were breakable. like his lips weren’t a breath from yours. like your entire chest didn’t split open when he stepped back without a word.
his head is low, elbows resting on his knees, hands clasped tight like he’s praying or punishing himself. he’s not talking. not laughing. not even drinking. he looks like he’s trying to disappear into the dark leather, like if he stays still long enough he might become furniture. he looks like a contradiction—tense but crumpled, quiet but screaming. and maybe he is. maybe in that big, locked-up head of his, he’s spiraling too.
you wonder if he’s thinking about you. you wonder if he regrets it. you wonder if he’s going to get up and fix it. he doesn’t. and you feel like you’re going to burst out of your own skin.
you’re sick of it. sick of the back and forth, the glances across crowded rooms, the way he only touches you when no one’s looking and then pretends it never happened. sick of biting your tongue, sick of swallowing every single thing you want to say because you’re afraid he’ll confirm your worst fear—that you don’t matter. sick of the silence. the pretending. the way he’s right there, ten steps away, and still feels miles out of reach. and worst of all, you’re sick of missing him when he’s right fucking there.
your stomach is tight. your chest is worse. everything inside you is buzzing, frantic, like a fire alarm that won’t shut off. you slam your cup down on the sticky plastic table so hard someone nearby flinches. the noise cuts through the beat for just a second. you don’t even apologize.
you push through the crowd, weaving between couples and swaying bodies and clouds of perfume. people talk at you, smile, reach, but it all blurs. your vision is getting hazy, but not from the alcohol. your breath is too shallow. your hands are shaking. it feels like your skin doesn’t fit right anymore, like you’ve been holding something in for too long and your body doesn’t know how to contain it.
and underneath all of that rage and heartbreak and ache is the one terrifying thing you can’t ignore anymore. you still love him, and he still hasn’t fought for you. he hears you coming before he sees you. his head lifts. his eyes widen. then your hand is around his wrist. “come on,” you say, your voice cracked and sharp. he blinks. “what?”
“get up.”
“what are you—”
“get up, choso.”
he starts to protest, your name half-formed on his lips, but then he sees it. the tears in your eyes. the ones you’re trying so hard to keep back. that familiar glassy sheen, your lashes clumping together just slightly, your jaw clenched to hold everything in. it shatters something in him.
because he remembers. he remembers when those same tears used to fall freely into his chest, when your fingers would clutch at his hoodie and you’d cry into him like the world was ending. he’d hold you through it all, whispering that it was okay, that he had you, that no one was going to hurt you.
and now he’s the one who did.
you look at him like you’re holding the whole world back behind your teeth, grief, fury, humiliation, and it makes his stomach twist. he can feel it, like guilt blooming in his throat, sour and thick and impossible to swallow. he doesn’t know how to fix it. he doesn’t know if he even has the right to try.
so he stands. quietly. without question.
you grab his hand and drag him through the crowd, and he lets you. his hand stays in yours, warm, heavy, unmoving, like he’s afraid that if he lets go, if he even breathes too wrong, you’ll disappear. that you’ll change your mind. that he won’t get the chance to explain, to do something. to be something to you again, even if it’s just the person you scream at.
people glance as you pass, some curious, some surprised, some too drunk to care. but choso doesn’t notice them. all he sees is the back of your head, your hand gripping his, your shoulders tense. all he feels is the weight of what he’s done. and the way you’re holding yourself together, barely, just to get out of here.
it breaks him.
you don’t stop until you reach the stairwell. the door clicks shut behind you, and the music dies. the world goes still. cold fluorescent lighting hums above. the stairwell smells like cigarette smoke and dust and something old. you let go of his wrist like it burned you. you step away, crossing your arms, facing the wall so you don’t have to look at him. he’s still staring. still silent.
“you don’t get to do that,” you say finally. your voice is thin, shaking. “you don’t get to hold me like that, and then pretend it didn’t mean anything the second someone looks at us.” he doesn’t move.
“you don’t get to act like i’m yours, like we didn’t—” you cut yourself off. “like that night didn’t happen. and then walk away. and say it wasn’t anything.” he opens his mouth. you shake your head.
“i heard you. you said it wasn’t. like i meant nothing.”
“i didn’t mean it like that,” he says, voice hoarse.
“then how did you mean it?” you snap. “because you haven’t looked at me in weeks. you haven’t talked to me like you used to. you used to tell me everything. even the dumb stuff. and now you just look at me like you’re scared to remember what we were.”
“i’m not scared of you,” he says. “i’m scared of me.” you go still.
“i thought you didn’t care,” he says. “you left. you didn’t say anything. i thought… i thought if it meant something to you, you would’ve stayed.” you blink hard, trying to stop the tears. “i didn’t know what to say,” you whisper. “i was scared if losing you for fucks sake.”
“i’ve been scared since the second i touched you,” he says, stepping closer. “and i’ve wanted to do it again every day since. you look up. your breath catches. he’s closer now. close enough to touch. but he doesn’t. his hands hover at his sides like he’s still waiting for permission.
“i didn’t know if i was allowed to want you anymore,” he says, quieter. “after how i left it. after how i made you feel. but i never stopped.” your eyes search his face. there’s nothing but honesty there. regret, yes. sadness. but something else too. that quiet, aching kind of love he never knew how to say out loud. “i’m tired of pretending i don’t want you,” he says. “i’m tired of pretending i didn’t fuck it all up.”
“then stop pretending,” you say. and the tears finally fall.
he moves.
his arms wrap around you and pull you in, tight, warm, grounding. you collapse into his chest like you’ve been waiting all night, maybe longer. you bury your face in his shirt and finally let go. not loudly. not dramatically. just a slow, steady unraveling of the weight you’ve been carrying since that night. his hand comes up to cradle the back of your head. he breathes into your hair.
“i’m sorry,” he whispers. “i’m so fucking sorry.” you don’t answer. you just hold him tighter. you don’t know what happens next. you don’t know what this means tomorrow. but right now, his arms are around you, and you’re not alone in the ache anymore. and for the first time in weeks, it feels like maybe everything might not be broken forever. before you two can say another word, the door slams open.
“guys,” shoko says, calmly holding a half-finished drink and a dead vape, “shut the fuck up for two seconds.” because that’s when they all see it.
you and choso. wrapped around each other. quiet. still. the stairwell humming with tension that’s not quite sadness anymore, but not exactly peace either. you’re buried in his chest, arms around him like it’s the only thing keeping you upright. choso’s chin is resting on your head, one hand cradling the back of it, the other clutched in the fabric of your jacket like he’s afraid if he lets go, you’ll vanish again. for a second, the entire group freezes like a glitch in a rom-com. then—“oh my god,” geto says, slow and dramatic, like he just witnessed a soap opera finale. “no way,” yuki breathes. “are you kidding me? now?!”
“this is so embarrassing for both of you,” sukuna deadpans, arms crossed, standing one step above everyone like the world’s most judgmental gargoyle. “wait, is this happening?” gojo hisses, turning to nanami with wide eyes. “are we witnessing a real-time emotionally repressed breakthrough? am i hallucinating? did shoko lace my drink again?” nanami just blinks. “i think we’re witnessing long-overdue emotional consequences.”
“i know choso looks like he’s about to cry,” shoko mutters, chewing gum and squinting. “that’s the same face he made when his favorite ramen place shut down.”
“choso?” toji scoffs, brow arching like he’s already got a problem. “seriously? didn’t you say you were done with this shit?” choso doesn’t move. just tightens his arms around you. you don’t move either. not until you hear gojo whisper, “should we clap?” like it’s the final scene of a school play. you lift your head slowly, blinking at the harsh stairwell lighting, and choso follows, still holding onto you, but looser now. reluctantly. everyone stares. you stare back.
then yuki breaks the silence. “so,” she says, hands on her hips, “did we just witness a breakthrough or did you two finally realize you’re in love with each other after emotionally spiraling for three months?”
“yuki,” nanami sighs, rubbing his temples. “what?” she says. “i’m just saying—it looks like growth.” you wipe your eyes with the sleeve of your jacket. “we’re… talking again.”
“gross,” sukuna says. “i liked it better when you were avoiding each other like the plague.”
“you literally bet money that they’d have a breakdown by the end of the semester,” shoko says. “yeah. and i still find it disgusting.” he bites back.
“can you all shut the fuck up?” choso mutters, voice low and lazy. “jesus fuck. it’s two a.m.”
“nope,” gojo grins. “not until you tell us everything.”
“seconded,” geto adds. “we earned this. we’ve suffered through weeks of unresolved sexual tension and emotional repression.”
“you two were being weird as hell,” utahime mutters, adjusting her coat. “you ruined the vibe of every group hang.”
“you made eye contact across a beer pong table and i thought the world was ending,” nanami deadpans.
“every single dinner party felt like a breakup scene,” yuki adds. “and now you’re just… hugging in a stairwell like we don’t all have to emotionally recover from the mess you created?”
choso exhales, slow and annoyed. “damn. y’all really have nothing better to do?”
“we’re all going the same direction anyway,” shoko shrugs. “uber bus is waiting.”
you groan into your hands as choso scratches at his temple like this is the most socially taxing thing he’s done all year, and the two of you follow the group—who are now walking down the street like a chaotic parade of unsolicited commentary.
~
on the sidewalk, 2:37 a.m.
“so what was that?” gojo asks, dramatically jumping over a curb like he’s in an early 2000s teen movie. “like… an ‘i miss you’ hug? or a ‘i finally admitted i fucked everything up’ hug?”
“it was complicated,” you mutter.
“awww,” yuki coos. “nothing like emotionally devastating closure to end a night.”
“closure,” sukuna coughs. “sure.”
“he called himself emotionally unavailable like it was a confession,” you add, rolling your eyes. “like that was supposed to be romantic.”
“it kinda was,” choso mumbles, tone lazy and unbothered. “in a mentally ill way.”
“you’re just saying that because you’re stoned,” geto says.
“maybe,” choso shrugs. “but i meant it.”
“and you,” toji cuts in, nodding toward you, “just drag him out like that in front of everyone? after all that ‘we’re just friends’ shit? come on.”
you blink. “you were watching?”
“yeah. i saw you,” toji says, voice sharp, eyes cutting. “kinda hard not to when someone’s getting manhandled out of a party.”
“wasn’t like that,” choso says coolly, not even looking at him. “it was chill.”
“looked like a fucking soap opera to me,” toji mutters.
“looked like closure to me,” yuki teases.
“closure with full body contact,” shoko says.
“you two had a whole ‘no one wants to be the first to say it’ standoff,” geto says. “like, just say you give a shit.” you and choso glance at each other.
the group gasps.
“wait- you didn’t say that either?” yuki screeches. “what the fuck were you doing in that stairwell?”
“hugging,” you mutter.
“processing,” choso says with a yawn. “you know. healing or whatever.”
“you sound like you haven’t slept since tuesday,” nanami mutters.
“probably haven’t,” choso replies, lighting a cigarette.
“i hate this,” sukuna says.
“he did say something close,” you add. “he said he didn’t know if he was allowed to want me anymore.”
the entire group groans in unison.
“that’s so emotionally tortured,” utahime mutters. “god. no wonder i thought you were both depressed.”
“we were depressed,” choso agrees. “still are. just… less now.”
“not officially,” you and choso say at the same time, then glance at each other again.
everyone groans louder.
“you people are exhausting,” shoko says. “just kiss already and let me die in peace.”
“kiss in the uber,” yuki suggests.
“yeah, traumatize the driver,” sukuna snorts.
“better than traumatizing us again,” geto adds.
you sigh. “you know what? we should’ve stayed in the stairwell.”
“you should’ve,” toji mutters. “would’ve saved us all the headache.”
“wait—choso,” gojo says suddenly, turning around mid-step, “are you gonna, like, write her a poem now?”
choso stops walking. the group turns to him.
“you better not,” sukuna warns. “i swear to god if this turns into a sadboy mixtape era.”
“not a poet,” choso shrugs. “just sad.”
“gross,” toji mutters.
now everyone waited in anticipation as the uber bus arrived.
“okay, nobody tell the driver we have eight people,” gojo whispers as the black party van pulls up. “i already told him it was five and that we’re all very small.”
“you’re six foot three,” nanami says.
“yeah but i have aura. i can make myself compact.”
“you are the least compact person i’ve ever met,” utahime snaps.
as everyone crams into the van, you end up squished between choso and shoko. he reaches for your hand without thinking. you squeeze it. the group is still talking.
“so are you guys gonna go back to someone’s place or just stare at each other until the guilt sets back in?” yuki asks.
“we haven’t figured that out,” you say.
“we haven’t figured anything out,” choso adds, leaning back with his eyes half closed. “we’re vibing.”
“figuring it out together,” gojo fake cries. “so beautiful.”
“i hate all of you,” choso mutters.
“no you don’t,” shoko says. “you love us.”
“nah.”
“you love me,” you tease.
choso looks at you, one eye squinting open. “yeah,” he says lazily. “i do.”
the van goes dead silent.
then:
“oh my fucking god,” geto yells. “we missed the actual love confession?!”
“you couldn’t wait five fucking minutes!” yuki wails.
“why would you drop that shit in a moving vehicle fuck faces,” sukuna rolls his eyes.
“we’re all gonna crash and die,” utahime mutters. “and i’m gonna be mad in the afterlife.”
gojo starts singing the titanic theme. nanami takes off his glasses. you lean your head against choso’s shoulder.
he leans his head on top of yours.
“worth it,” you whisper.
he taps your knee with two fingers.
“yeah,” he says, soft and tired. “felt right.”
and for the first time in a long time, everything feels just a little less heavy.
summary: two years had passed since you first met gojo satoru, and it was two years of having an agonizingly one-sided crush on the white-haired genius. for the most part, you were okay with keeping it down and acting like the nights you spent fantasizing about what it would be like to be his were normal. you were fine keeping it hidden until something between the two of you shifts, and you're left wondering if this crush you have on him is truly as delirious as you think.
genre: 18+, nerdjo, slow burn, angst + happy ending (duh), fluff, eventual smut (nerdjo being a munch), some mention of insecurities but nothing major
word count: 33k (oops)
note: nerdjo bu set in oxford! art credit! @to00fu
jjk masterlist
It began at one of the English department get-togethers.
Two years ago, when you felt like you had to come to every single event in the hopes of striking expeditious luck at one of them. And it’s not that you particularly disliked these events, but they weren’t the first thing you’d think of when it came to how you’d prefer to spend your free time.
The weather was just getting chilly enough where you’d rather stay in your dorm and wrap yourself in three blankets and a sweater, and the year had been dragging on long enough where you’d rather just talk about the wonders of Shakespeare and his sonnets in the confines of your next research paper and not with academics who made you feel inferior.
You had been invited weeks in advance, and yet you still found yourself dreading being here, the more it led to it, and even more when you were in the thick of it. Awkward small-talk with students you’ve seen around briefly and stiff handshakes with male professors who think that they have better places to be were just mentally taxing, and you counted the seconds until it was all over.
Thankfully, it was busy enough that you could slip into the background without many people even noticing you were there, but not so crowded that you could just slip away entirely without somebody asking where the great Dr. Howard’s research assistant had gone. And anyways, it wasn’t too horrible. You had taken to silently recounting Othello in your mind moments before everything changed.
There was a small tap on your shoulder. It startled you at first, and you looked around in your small corner to see a man waiting patiently behind you, a sheepish look on his face as you tried to gather yourself up.
“I’m sorry,” he stammered, and you blinked out of your stupor as you tried to recall in your brain if you had met him before to save yourself from the embarrassment of him having to re-introduce himself, “I didn’t mean to surprise you.”
He looked familiar. His eyes were a deep amethyst, his smile was soft and kind. His dark and shaggy hair was tied behind his head in a small bun, and his ears were adorned with multiple piercings. Although many at Oxford, especially the men, tried to appear as blank as usual, he seemed apt and content with going against the stuffy and old notions.
You must have seemed confused because the man stuttered as he introduced himself.
“I’m Suguru,” he restarted, his hand leaving his side as he extended it to shake yours, “I think we had the same English survey course last semester.”
Your confusion melted away into a wide smile as you shook his hand, his own eyes crinkling around the edges as he grinned back, letting out a breath of relief as you nodded insistently, shaking your head at your own self.
“Right, right, Suguru! I remember you!” You exclaimed, setting your cup down to the side as you watched him tuck a strand of loose hair behind his ear, “You sat a little bit in front of me, right?”
His head ducked down momentarily as he chukked, putting his hands in his pants pockets as he nodded.
“I did,” he chuckled slightly, “Right in the line of fire for when Howard needed to pick on someone.”
Your lips quirk up slightly as you nod, remembering how the professor you work for now used to terrorize your class and quiz random students on particular syllables and grammatical imperfections in the reading they were supposed to have done.
The class was small, as were most major-specific courses you were taking. Although you didn’t have many of your friends in the class, you had gotten a good sense of who was in there and who Dr. Howard preferred to pick on. Suguru, for the most part, did the reading and did his work, so he came out unscathed compared to some of the other students. He sat near the front with some of his own friends, and you had talked to him in passing a couple of times when the class as a whole would band together to compare comments on assignments. He was kind, from what you remembered, which is probably why you felt your shoulders growing less tense the more you two talked.
“That’s her style,” you say, shrugging as you fiddle with your fingers. “It took a while to get used to it,” you admit. Suguru rolls his eyes at your humility, remembering clearly just how much Dr. Howard favored you, but he doesn’t say anything as he lets you continue, “I don’t know if you’ve had Creemer yet, but he’s worse with his cold calls and isn’t half as nice.”
“I have him right now for rhetoric and grammar,” he said with a sigh, shaking his head in dismay, “He’s…sadistic, I think.”
You giggle, nodding feverishly at the statement as you recall your past couple of classes with the hellish professor, an infamous name for many English majors and someone that you try to avoid at all costs if possible.
The party, or gathering, as it said on the invitation, drones on in the background as you look around to see if anybody is looking in your direction. Most of the time, you can do what you want, but seeing that Dr. Howard had warned you before tonight that somebody from the department might want to swarm you to ask questions that you most likely didn’t have answers to, had put you on edge.
“Are you enjoying yourself?” He asked, motioning to the rest of the people with a knowing glint as you politely smile, shrugging your shoulders as your lips press tightly together. Whether it be your shy nature or how you preferred smaller crowds, it must’ve been evident on your face that you weren’t necessarily having the most amount of fun.
“I am,” you answer, wincing at the way your voice sounded warbled, “I’m trying to make the most of these opportunities, I guess.”
Suguru’s head dipped in understanding, taking a sip of his drink as he bit the inside of his cheek, leaning in slightly as he lowered his voice.
“These things drag on for a bit, though, yeah? I’m feeling my fingers prune from how long I’ve held this glass.”
You let out a sigh of relief, sharing the same sentiment as the two of you share a knowing look.
“I…I, um, I heard that Howard chose you to research with her, though, right? That’s gotta be pretty cool,” Suguru asked after a beat, bringing you back to the conversation as his head tilted slightly, and you felt heat rush to your cheeks as you swallowed. He seemed kind, not asking the question bitterly as some other people have.
You nodded again, trying to contain your smile as you leaned against the stone pillar next to you. Letting out a small hum, you swallow again, trying to scope out what sort of place he was coming from.
“It is,” you answered, biting on the inside of your cheek as you were still reeling from being selected from such a wide pool of applicants and such a rigorous interview process to work on her next paper analyzing More’s work through a modern lens, “It’s…strenous, sometimes, but I’m having a lot of fun working with her,” you fidgeted with your fingers, “So yeah, it’s pretty cool.” You say sheepishly.
Suguru smiled at your hidden enthusiasm, the tip of his boot nudging something on the ground. He went to usher you to continue before his eye caught something behind your shoulder, his eyebrows shooting upwards in surprise as his smile grew even wider, his hand raising in a wave.
“Sorry,” he apologetically muttered, and you craned your neck around to see what it was, or rather who it was that Suguru had seen, “I think my friend just arrived.”
That’s when you felt your breathing stop.
The bustling group of students and faculty members almost seemed to part theatrically for the man walking towards the two of you, but you couldn’t even blame them.
He stuck out like a sore thumb, with his icy white hair and strikingly beautiful eyes. His lengthy frame made him nearly a head taller than even the tallest man in the room, and his wide shoulders helped him wade through the bodies as he navigated to his friend. His face seemed stoic, bordering on bored, but you couldn’t help but widen your eyes in shock at seeing the most devastatingly gorgeous man to ever exist. He adjusted his glasses over the bridge of his nose, his lips moving in quiet apologies as he tried to move through the people without bumping into them.
You suddenly became hyper-aware of the fact that it had been days since you had last had a good night's sleep and that the bags under your eyes were most likely even more evident in the dim lighting of the old hall, and how your sweater was lumpy from being shoved in the back of your closet for so long. You swallow thickly as Suguru quickly excused himself as he stepped away and walked a bit away to hug the stranger, exchanging some words with each other as you stood awkwardly to the side.
You watched them silently as they talked for a little bit more before Suguru stepped away, his hand on his friend's back as he, for some horrifying reason, seemed to guide him towards where you were stiffly standing as the two of you made eye contact before you became aware of the way your eyeballs felt in your socket and how heavy your tongue was in your mouth.
When Suguru finally pulled away from the modern-day Adonis, you felt like a creeper and a loner as you wondered whether or not to leave or stand in the corner while they talked, but ever the kind person that he was, Suguru led the man by the back to where the two of you were with a wide smile on his face.
“Sorry about that,” Suguru abashedly apologized, chuckling deeply as he rubbed the back of his neck, “But this is my friend, Satoru,” he said brightly, pushing the man a little harshly towards you as you stared at him silently.
The man, Satoru, gives you a tight-lipped smile, nodding once in your direction as he looks around, looking uncomfortable and shifty. Suguru rolled his eyes, sighing deeply as he patted his friend's back.
You grinned back, swallowing the spit in your mouth as you felt him stare at you once he was done looking at the room, your cheeks heating up. You felt his eyes drift over your outfit, at your posture, and the way your hands were clasped tightly together. This stranger assessed the way you swayed slightly, awkwardly, not knowing how to fill the silence as you tapped the tip of your battered shoes on the ground. When he was done, his chin lifted again, his stare lingering on your blinking face as you glanced between him and Suguru, waiting for somebody to say something before you imploded and left with the lingering scent of your vanilla body spray.
Seeing that he was fine with checking you out, you took the time to do the same. He seemed like one of the generational students of the school, the ones whose parents and grandparents and cousins and siblings all came and went and made something important with their lives. They weren’t hard to detect, especially him, with his steamed jumper and his creased pants. His leather shoes were shining back at you, and though his hair was somewhat messy, it seemed to be classily messy, unlike what you and some other students would call freely messy.
“I force him to come to these things with me,” Suguru explained, but you could barely hear him over the rhythm of heartbeats in your ear as you tried to fly, appreciate the man a few feet in front of you, “Our friend Shoko sometimes comes, but she had things to do tonight.”
The man’s nose wrinkled ever so slightly, his brows drawing tightly together as he glanced at his friend with a look.
“I had things to do too,” he muttered, his voice deep as you felt your heart stupidly tumble at the sounds.
Suguru snorted, shaking his head as he shrugged indifferently.
“Sure,” Suguru replied sarcastically and glanced at you, his brow slightly raised at the way you had gone silent, his lips quirking slightly when he noticed the way you couldn’t stop staring at his friend, not voicing anything as his hand on Satoru’s shoulder loosened, “Just act like you want to be here for twenty minutes, yeah?”
You bit your teeth into your cheek, a finger raising slightly as you pointed to the newcomer's face.
“I like your glasses,” you said brightly, your smile gentle as you fidget with your own, watching the way his striking eyes moved over to you again, squinting slightly as his hand raised upwards, as if he had forgotten that his glasses were even there, “They frame your face really well.” Your head tilts a little as you try to place something, “Where’d you get them? If, if you don’t mind me asking. Mine is so old and dingy, and the rims are basically glued on, and I’ve only had them for a few years.”
“Erm, well, thank you,” Satoru says stiffly, not used to the direct attention and compliments, his cheeks slightly dusted with pink as Suguru watches his friend struggle for words, taking the glasses off as he turns them to the side, trying to read the logo, “These are, erm, from Cartier. But I usually wear contacts, anyway.”
You let out a startled laugh, not a stranger to hearing students at this place don expensive items, but this being the first time you’ve seen one of them bashful about it.
You nod, your smile still there, softer as you take in his slightly awkward nature and let him put the glasses back on before you continue.
“Contacts are more practical,” you agree, even though you’ve always had a phobia of things touching your eyes and would never wear contacts unless somebody forced you, shrugging as you say, “But I’ve always appreciated the look of glasses.”
Satoru gnaws on his lips, nodding quietly as Suguru starts talking about his friend's major (biochemistry, you came to find out), and how long they’ve known each other, but you could only feel your stupid feelings when Suguru stayed, his friend included, and talked with you for the rest of the evening.
That was your sophomore year.
Nearly two years passed after befriending Suguru alongside his small group. He introduced you to Shoko after that night, swearing up and down that the two of you were destined to be near each other. And we weren’t wrong, not in the slightest. You two girls bonded strangely fast, as if you were twin flames that were being fanned out. Suguru and Satoru seemed to mirror the two of you, but the group functioned as a whole, for the most part. You spent so many nights over at their dorms that you could walk around blindfolded and still find your way to the others with no issue. It was fun, it was what you had dreamt of for so long. It was something that you were fine with, more than content with, ending your university career in a couple of months.
Well, everything for the most part, you could consider it as such if it wasn’t for your debilitating and soul-crushing feelings for the stranger you met that night.
It’s been four semesters, and you still don’t think Gojo Satoru has a clue. Which, in all honesty, is for the better.
Although his stoic nature spares nobody, it feels as though you're always on the worst end of it. With his lingering stares that seem to border on questioning why you were even there whenever he sees you, to the way he grows dim and quiet around you, it feels like you’re actively attempting to hurt yourself the more you fall in love with the little things you hadn’t noticed the day prior.
Even worse, you know deep down that such feelings are most likely, under this sun and every other universe, with most certainty and heavy grief, unrequited.
But you’re fine keeping it down.
You were fine until recently.
—
“I’m debating switching majors.”
Shoko declared from the couch, her legs hanging off the side, knocking occasionally on your shoulders as you crane your neck back on the cushion form where you were seated on the ground to look at her upside down.
“To what?”
She shrugged, rubbing at her eyes as she held her neuroanatomy textbook in one hand, her phone in the other as she scrolled through the different majors Oxford offered, as if she wasn’t a semester away from graduating.
“Film?” She read out, and you snorted, rolling your eyes at the prospect of Shoko going into film, “Hm…maybe art history?”
“Gave up on the med school dream?” Suguru quips from the other side of the couch, knowing fully that Shoko was just going on another one of her tangents as she shifted slightly to shove him harshly with her socked foot.
“I’m sure your counselor wouldn’t mind,” you reply, looking at her as she glares, her eyes falling back to her phone as she peers at the screen. She looked boredly a little bit before her eyes flitted upwards slightly, squinting as she read the new notification.
“Satoru said he’s going to be here in a few minutes,” she muttered, reading the next message, “And that he wants you,” she nudged Suguru with her foot again to motion that it was him that Satoru was referencing in the text, “To move to your bed so that he can do his work on his side of the couch.”
Suguru peeked up from his doom scrolling to look at Shoko, his eyes narrowed in a glare as he let out a huff of annoyance.
“His side?”
Shoko shrugged, her knee knocking on the side of your head as you knock it back, the book you were reading resting in your hands as you listened to Suguru mutter distastefully about how this was his dorm and that Satoru had no right claiming his couch, but you heard him shuffle to his feet nonetheless.
You tried not to show any peek of interest when the infamous name was called out, but it was hard not to. It had been two grueling years of mulling over your childish crush, yet the sound of his name could still send pulses to your veins that you were sure were minor heart attacks.
Because it was Gojo Satoru. You wanted to bang your head against the coffee table just hearing it.
Truth be told, you weren’t a stranger to having crushes. It was normal, it was human. Or at least, that’s what you convinced yourself when you were sprawled out on your bed, staring blankly at the ceiling as you tried not to think about the way his fingers ever so slightly grazed your wrist when he handed you some chopsticks earlier at the restaurant.
But your crushes came few and far between, and you preferred keeping it that way. Seeing that you were too terrified to ever admit them, and the few, very few times you have, they’ve backfired horrifically, you try not to catch feelings as much as possible. But there was something about Gojo, something beyond reason, that pulled you to him.
At first, you bargained. You tried convincing yourself that it was just his appearance that was drawing you in, his suave looks that made people’s heads turn whenever he entered a room. But you have seen him at four in the morning with his old band tees (a sight that still made you swoon), with his hair crusted with glitter and his eyes pink with eyeshadow as Shoko attempted to put him in drag. Even then, he was insanely gorgeous, so you knew it had to be beyond that.
When you had finally accepted that it was a mind-numbing and life-ending crush that you were feeling towards him, you finally gave in and decided to admire the tall brute from afar. It helped that the two of you had gotten somewhat closer over the past two years, but out of everyone in the group, he was the one you talked to the least. In your defense, he didn’t have much to say to anybody, and that was just his nature. He spent most of his time studying and researching, and the other time watching, observant as other people gossiped. It wasn’t his forte, and nobody pushed him.
So you took in his quietness and his stoicism, appreciated his god-like looks and his overwhelming presence. That was fine.
What made it even worse was that he was so unattainably perfect in other ways that your crush festered into something that made you scream into your pillows and throw your balls of clothes at the wall as you wallowed in self-pity.
Everyone at this damned university was intelligent, and you had made amends with them early on. But you loved men who were smart, guys who could actually hold a page down and dissect it and make the most of it. And worst of all, Gojo Satoru was probably the most intellectual person you have ever met, and will ever meet. It seemed like his memory was photographic, his mind working twenty thousand times faster than the regular brain as he computed formulas and equations at speeds that you couldn’t fathom. He made biochemistry seem easy, something that you sometimes felt guilty for not pursuing. And sure, it didn’t help that you were on the other side with your texts about Russian classics and books diving deep into the restoration period, but even Shoko, who could rival Gojo at times, would begrudgingly admit under her breath just how stupidly genius he was.
Therefore, when you put those things together, his charming looks, his bookish self, his brooding structure, and just everything else, it made him unattainably perfect.
And that’s when you get the man you’ve been hopelessly in love with since the moment you saw him at that wretched party that wasn’t a party.
So, when Shoko read off his texts, there was good reason why she looked at the top of your head, a knowing look in her eyes as she playfully nudges you again, watching as you threw her a dark glare to just keep it down seeing that she was the only other soul who knew, despite you trying your best to hide it, about your feelings towards her other friend.
“Did you hear that Toji is graduating a semester late?” Suguru asked, leaning back against his pillows, his long legs strewn along his bed as he chewed on some gum.
You and Shoko both hummed, not looking up from your respective tasks, having found this information out weeks in advance.
Suguru groaned in annoyance, his chest vibrating with the noise as you snorted, rolling your eyes as he threw a small pillow at your head. It bounced off the side of your face, but you didn’t look up from the page you were on, too engrossed to hear the door behind you click open and heavy footsteps suddenly thudding through the dorm.
You shuffled against the couch, your back feeling stiff as you tried to get comfortable, not knowing that the man of your dreams was moving around somewhere behind you as he hung his coat up (vintage leather, something you found out as he grumbled about getting it wet when Shoko and Suguru insisted on walking in the rain once), kicked off his shoes, and slung his bag around as Shoko craned her neck to see what he was doing.
“Hey,” Shoko called out, and your eyes widened slightly when you heard a familiar voice grunt back a tired greeting, trying not to look as your ears suddenly sharpened to pick up on the sound of him pulling on his sweatshirt as he rounded the couch, standing at the opposite end as he plopped his backpack on the cushions.
You finally allowed yourself to peek over, your eyes following his figure upwards until they landed on his face, and your fists balled in frustration at how pretty he was even when he was simply existing.
Gojo sent you a small, tight-lipped and courteous nod, polite and curt as he looked between you and Shoko, glancing back at the bed where Suguru was lying, his fingers barely lifting from his phone as he gave his childhood best friend a lazy three-fingered wave.
“Why’re you here?” His blunt question was directed at Shoko, something that held no bite but mere wondering as he situated himself on the soft cushions, his large hands feeling around his bag as he opened up the zipper to get his laptop.
“I thought that it was allowed,” Shoko replied dryly, “Apologies.”
You chuckle softly, flipping the page, trying not to let his signature cologne distract you from the words in front of you.
“How was your lab?” Suguru asked, sounding monotone as his thumb swiped on the screen.
You watched as Gojo gave him a glare, his nose wrinkling, something he often did when he was frustrated but didn't want to ruin his outward appearance, and rubbed at his tired eyes. His hair was messy with goggle indents lining the upper half of his face.
“An offense to my intelligence,” Gojo grumbled, his face illuminated by the glow of his laptop as he clicked around a little bit, “I can’t believe some people have made it this far.”
You flipped another page, not fully having read the contents of the last one, but in an attempt to seem indifferent, tried to keep up with your regular reading pace as if anybody was keeping track.
Watching as he riffles through his bag again, you know, almost like clockwork, what he’s going to pull out. His routine is one that you’ve familiarized yourself with despite your best judgment, and you know that what comes next are his glasses.
Glasses are normal. You have your own pair that you only wear for lectures and outings, but forgo them for times like this because they sit a little too heavy on your nose. But his glasses are something else.
They elevate his face ever so slightly, but so much so that it makes you want to keel over and scream. They accentuate his perfect nose with the perfect crook and his freckles that sometimes sit just beneath the frames. He looks even more dashing, if that was even possible, with the way he looks up sometimes, and the lenses make his eyes seem even more blue.
He took them off for labs and put them somewhere safe. In moments like this, you were reminded of just how truly stunning this man really was.
Gojo unfolded the two prongs, holding them up to a source of light as his nose wrinkled again.
Smudges.
You watch silently as he dives back into the bag, his long fingers searching through his pockets for something you knew you always kept on hand for yourself and deep down, for him.
After a few seconds of not finding the microfiber cloth that you both silently cherished, you gave in, pulling your own bag towards you as you unzipped the smaller pocket, pulling it out stealthily and motioning for Shoko to hand it to Gojo.
He took it, his face going so far to relax momentarily as he went to clean the lenses, his head nodding once in quiet appreciation in your direction as you allowed yourself a nod in return.
Shoko looked at you with a raised brow, and you chose to hide behind your book.
“Was it Lainey?” Suguru asked, looking over at his friend, the name piquing your interest as you cast a quizzical look at Shoko, but she shrugged, watching Gojo as his expression soured. He handed you back your little cloth, muttering a thanks under his breath as his bitter gaze found Suguru, as if he was cursing him silently for bringing up the sensitive subject.
“What do you think?” He grumbled out, his right eye almost twitching as his fingers stretched out, typing something quickly as Suguru huffed out a laugh, noting how you and Shoko were both confused, and his smile only grew.
“You didn’t tell them?” Suguru asked, a gleam in his eyes as he shuffled to sit upwards, his back resting on the headboard, “Oh, this is class. Do you two know Lainey? Lainey Andrews?”
You cast a look at Shoko, your lips pursing as your eyes squinted, trying to recall the familiar name.
“The ginger?” Shoko asked, her head tilting to the side, her hair falling around her shoulder, “Pixie cut?”
Suguru nodded, his shoulders raising as your brows furrowed before your mouth slightly fell open when your head bobbed quickly, snapping as you matched the face to the name.
“Oh, Lainey!” You exclaimed, “She’s really pretty,” you added, remembering her bright green eyes and the spattered freckles that made her look like a painting, “She’s also crazy smart - she’s double majoring in bio and poli sci."
Shoko laughed softly under her breath, giving you a small look because this was somewhat typical of you to know random people, with nearly everyone on campus having had a conversation with you at some point during your four years here.
Suguru raised a brow, clicking his tongue as he pointed his phone at Gojo, seeming like he was already anticipating one of his sly comments.
“She’s also just crazy,” Gojo muttered, looking above his laptop, above his wispy lashes at you and then to Shoko, “She spent half of the lab playing with my hair.”
Your book almost fell out of your hands as Shoko sat up with a barking out a stunned laugh, your hands mirroring each other as they flew to cover your mouths in shock, and Suguru nodded again, his eyes wide as he clicked his tongue.
Another thing about Gojo? He hated being touched. Despised hugs, only suffered through quick handshakes, and shuddered at the thought of someone touching his face. You’ve seen the way he pulls back whenever someone approaches him with open arms, seen the way he tries to brush people off of him. He can tolerate Suguru and his insistent bear-hugs from time to time, can sometimes allow Shoko to swat a fly away from his face, and for some reason, doesn’t grumble whenever you try to fix his ties before events, but whenever a stranger or someone he isn’t close to attempts to touch him, he grows reclusive for the rest of the day.
“I told her to stop, too,” he adds, his big frame seeming to grow in frustration as he thinks back to it, “It was only after I had to shove her off that she got the hint. I forgot my disinfectant too, so I was just…” he shuddered, his eyes fluttering shut as he shifted uncomfortably, and you watched him let out a restrained exhale as he dropped it and went back to work.
But, after studying him for as long as you have, you know that he probably washed his hands and his face a couple of times after that. You know that he also wouldn’t feel complete without some sanitizing wipes and a good shower, so you do the closest thing to that and fish out a hand sanitizer from your bag, an item that you refused to move around without due to your own cleanly nature, which was ironically something else that you and Gojo silently shared, and passed it to him, knowing that he was probably itching till he was able to shower again.
Your friends sometimes joked that you had a Mary Poppins bag, but it came in handy for times like this.
Gojo’s ears perked up at the sound of your rumaging, his eyes almost brightening at the sight of the hand sanitizer, and you pinched it between two fingers before throwing it his way, watching as he effortlessly caught it and began spraying his large palms with the lavender scent.
“Thank you,” he mumbled again, his voice slightly losing the edge it had from before as he passed it back to you, and you smiled, nodding once before you zipped it back up.
You tried to ignore the way Shoko was staring at you.
“Lucky us that we don’t have labs, huh?” Suguru called out, throwing another tiny pillow in your direction, but this time you dodged it, moving your head down slightly so that it would miss. You huff a bit, looking over at Suguru as he shrugged, winking as he went back to his phone.
Suguru was another English major, the reason the two of you got familiar in the first place. He liked to say that the two of you balanced out Gojo and Shoko, but you just thought that it pushed you even further down the list of potential people your pathetic crush could be interested in.
There were a couple of things that you had come to terms with if you were going to crush on him. One was that you had to know in full certainty that nothing was going to come from it. You weren’t going to risk the friendship, no matter how small, by going and confessing and having everything be messy. Two, was that you weren’t going to feel, or at least try not to feel, jealous if he entertained the idea of pursuing something with someone else. And three, was that Gojo Satoru was so incredibly picky when it came to potential partners, that it might be impossible for even the most amazing people to snag a chance.
“I don’t know,” you mumbled, eyes squinting as you tried to make out what one of the characters was saying, “You didn’t have to do that project with Armie.”
Suguru hummed, his brow raising as he thought back to your shared class and the project that paired you up with people you didn’t know, Suguru getting the better end of the stick while you were stuck with someone who insisted on plugging the project prompt into a generator.
“Didn’t you report him?” Satoru asked, his eyes still trained on his work, but the question was now directed to you given the fact that he had sat in on a couple of your tirades in which you would drone on about how the boy was nearly about to graduate and still couldn’t cite sources when he, in one of his brief moments of providing comments, would reiterate to report it to the professor.
You sank into your spot, giving him a suppressed look, one where your eyes met before you shared a glimpse with Suguru. Your friend rolled his eyes from across the room, shaking his head in annoyance as Satoru looked between the two of you.
“She said that she didn’t want to ‘be a bitch’,” Suguru said, restating the words as his fingers move up and down in the air, quoting the statement you had said to him moments before you had to present the assignment in front of the class, shushing him as you pushed him away, insisting that even though you had done the entire project on your own, that it wasn’t worth the hassle to make a report with the professor and potentially have someone out for you, “I said otherwise, but she,” Suguru gave you a pointed look, “Said she’d cut my hair if I made it a ‘big deal’.”
Satoru’s eyes lingered on the side of your face, and you purposefully kept your head ducked and the book closer, so close that it was nearly touching your nose, as you tried to shield away their judging eyes in embarrassment.
“You need to stop caring about what other people think,” Shoko said as she shoved you with her knee, this time just a little bit harder because she knows you and knows what you hide in the fear of making others think something of you that wasn’t good, “I really think your professor would’ve heard your case if you made it.”
You groaned, swatting at her leg with your book as you shuffled away, backing into another corner as you tried to readjust to the new position.
“Yeah,” Suguru added, resting his phone momentarily on his chest, “I think it would help if you were more selfish.”
You rolled your eyes, shaking your head at the prospect.
“I just hate confrontation,” you murmur defensively, gnawing on your bottom lip as you flip a page, “And, plus…you have to give me some credit - at least I told him that he was being frustrating,” you say, pretending to ignore them, your eyes re-reading the same word over and over again until you were confident that they were going to drop this subject, this horse that they’ve beaten multiple times, one that ended with you assuring them that you were going to speak up more until it all looped back again to times like this.
“Speaking of confrontation, did you ever get a refund for that ticket?”
There was a beat of silence before you let out a frustrated groan when Shoko reminded you of the one task you had forgotten to do in the past couple of days, your head falling to your knees as your palms jammed into your eyes.
“No, oh my god, you’re so right,” your voice is muffled as you bookmark your page, your fists clenching at your own mistake as your eyes crack open, “Oh my god, I can’t believe I forgot to follow up on that!”
Shoko chuckled, rolling her eyes as Suguru and Satoru shared a look, them now sharing confusion as you writhe on the floor at the thought of knowing you could’ve saved a couple of bucks had you not forgotten to call up the school of drama help center for accidentally buying an extra ticket to the showing of The Beggar’s Opera. And, seeing that it was Tuesday and just days before the theatre program, one that needed funds, was about to perform, the deadline for your refund was most likely up.
“So does that mean you need me to come with you next Saturday?” Shoko offered, her lips quirking up slightly as your head shot up, nodding quickly as your hands flew to hers, shaking them feverishly.
“Would you? Would you really?” You ask, and her laughter grows, shoving you off playfully by pushing your forehead back to where you were sitting.
“I’ll see what I can do,” she says with a sigh, winking at you before she goes back to her phone, and you settle back in your seat as you gnaw on your lips, thinking back to how on earth you could have possibly messed up so bad when you so usually only buy one ticket for yourself, but you push it aside, thankful that your dearest friend was at least going to make use of it.
You, Suguru, and Shoko shared a small laugh and went on with the conversation, but you heard a low, deep noise, something only you could hear, as Suguru and Shoko returned to bickering about which major Shoko was best suited for.
The sound made you glance up briefly, looking over the pages to see Gojo still staring at you, his lashes fluttering before he snapped back to it and went back to doing his work.
Minutes turned into a few hours, and the room was filled with the occasional story and laughter, but mostly the four of you worked together on different assignments, sometimes looking up as you would recall something from the past couple of days that you were saving to tell them in person.
It seemed like everything was going smoothly until Suguru got a notification on his phone, his face lighting up as he swiveled out of his bed, jumping onto the floor as he tugged his shoes on, not explaining anything as the three of you glanced up, waiting.
“My food’s here,” he said over his shoulder, practically gleaming as he cocked his head in Shoko’s direction, “Come down with me, will you? I need some help.”
You scoff, smiling to yourself as you try to imagine just how much food he had ordered, but careful not to be too loud because you knew he would be sharing it with you all after some choice complaints were heard.
Shoko grumbles, but obliged, lifting up from the couch as she stretches, nudging you playing with the tip of her foot as she throws a pillow your way, walking towards Suguru as he holds the door open for her, the two of them calling out some brief goodbye as they head down to the lobby.
When the door clicks behind them, you’re suddenly aware of the fact that it’s only you and Satoru left, and you let your stare linger on the wall for a bit before you look away, suddenly sheepish when you catch his glance from his seat on the couch.
He clears his throat, eyes flickering from his screen to the book in your lap, the highlighters strewn around you, sticky notes sticking out from between the pages, and he points a finger at it.
“What’re you reading?”
Your brows raise slightly, and your chin ducks down to the book, and you sit up a little straighter as you place a bookmark in the middle of your page you lifting the cover, letting him read the cover as he adjusts his glasses over his eyes.
“Oh,” he says, his voice holding a lithe of acknowledgement as he slowly sets his laptop to the side, shifting slightly closer, “I’ve read this, I think.”
Your head tilts a little, lips quirking a little bit at the sides with a small smile as you look back at the cover.
“You’ve read The Norton Anthology, Volume C before?”
His mouth parts, closing it before he gapes at you, and your grin turns into a big smile, waving it away as you shake your head, shrugging at his stammering expression. He’s so cute when caught in a lie.
“I’m only kidding,” you swear, setting your book down, your knees pulled towards your chest, arms wrapping around your legs, “I’m sure you’ve had to read something like this for one of your previous classes.”
“You’re bothersome,” he murmurs, but his voice holds no bite as you let out another barking laugh, rolling your eyes as he tries not to smile, “I’m only trying to be polite.”
You purse your lips together, giving him a questioning look as he shoots you one back.
“I didn’t know politeness was in your artillery,” you quip, and he scoffs, moving his glasses upwards as he rubs at his tired eyes, resting backwards into the cushions as his legs part, and you try not to let your eyes linger on his thighs.
“I have a reserve for choice people,” he says, opening his eyes back as he looks back at you, yawning as he moves on, “How was your presentation?”
Your smile falters for a second as your stare turns questioning, chewing on your lips as it turns into something sweeter, something smitten because he’s asking about the presentation you had mentioned once in passing the last weekend you had hung out, stressing over your slides and sources, and trying to seem nonchalant as you finger traces little patterns on the floor.
“It was good,” you tell him, trying not to seem too prideful as you murmur, “My professor said it was exactly what he was looking for.”
His face shifts, no longer annoyed as you try not to appear bashful, but his teeth shine as his rosy cheeks pull upwards as he gives you one of those smiles that makes you feel warm and happy and giddy.
“Yeah?” He asks, shifting a little bit as he waved his teasingness off, rolling your eyes as you groan, nodding exaggeratedly as you go back to organizing your highlighters and pens, but he seems intent on pushing this: “Didn’t you say it was the hardest assignment of the class?”
You look up at him from above your lashes, trying not to smile again as you shrug indifferently, done with arranging your stationery based on colors as your knees knock together, throwing a pillow his way that he effortlessly catches.
“I mean, everyone told me that it was really, really hard, so-” But you’re cut off by the door swinging open, and the two of you crane your necks around to see Shoko and Suguru arguing over something irrelevant, food nestled in their hands as they close the door behind them with a slam.
They start telling you two about the delivery fee and the outrageousness that one of the containers had tipped over, but you’re still busy thinking about how Satoru remembered something so trivial, giving them quiet hums as they spread out the food on the small coffee table, and trying to act normal.
Like you have for the past two years.
—
The week passed as it usually does, with papers, readings, and assignments that needed to be completed at an unmanageable rate.
You had expected the usual and mundane things, and for the most part, that’s what came your way. Nights spent in each other's rooms as you finish up your work, spliced with moments where you would all talk, days filled with going to lectures and walking around campus till you found a quiet study spot. Things that you could predict and plan for.
For the most part.
Another thing that your little group would occasionally do was meet up at the end of the week at one of the pubs around campus, most of them serving mediocre food and somewhat better drinks, and offer you all a time to reconvene after a usually stressful couple of days.
The pub was small and quaint, but you enjoyed the warmth and laughter that muddled together to make the ambiance somewhat private. Either Suguru or Shoko would arrive there early and try to secure the usual spot at the booth near the end of the establishment, seeing that either of them didn’t have classes on Fridays, while the other three would meet up outside of Satoru’s biophysical chemistry class and walk there together.
Which is why you found yourself back on that Friday, sitting next to Shoko, settling into your seat as she clambered in after you. Suguru almost pushes Satoru in, impatient to sit down and get back to talking, and you watch as the white-haired man sits in front of you, his hands clasped together as he stares at the wood-grain of the table.
“How were classes?” Shoko finally asks, looking between you and Satoru as she takes a sip from her drink.
You sigh, shrugging as your fingers play with the bottom of your cup, the condensation slipping down as you rub at your tired eyes.
“Fine, I guess,” you say, drinking some water as you wipe at the corner of your lips, “My professor could’ve ended the class, like, twenty minutes earlier than he did.”
She nods solemnly, patting your thigh in solidarity as she passes the bowl of crisps towards you, nudging you to take one to help settle your stomach after having back-to-back classes, knowing how hangry it made you.
“Is this the professor who needs you to see a classical play?” Suguru asked, taking some of the snack as his arms crossed on top of the table, leaning in slightly as you licked some of the salt from your lips, nodding.
“Yeah,” you heave another sigh, elbowing Shoko as you continue, “Which is why I’m seeing Beggar’s Opera next week. I mean, the theatre program did a couple of Shakespeare ones earlier this semester, but…ugh, I just can’t watch another performance of Romeo and Juliet.” You murmur with a groan, resting your chin on the palm of your hand as Suguru hums in agreement.
“You don’t like Shakespeare?”
Your eyes shift over to the man in front of you who asked the question.
Your brows furrow slightly in the middle, lips pulling into a small pout as you shake your head, playing with the ring of water your drink had left as you itch your nose, trying not to focus too hard on the pretty pink color on Gojo’s cheeks because of the slightly toasty feel of the room.
“I do,” you say slugishly, “It’s just that when the only work of his that tends to be popular isn’t The Tempest, I get a little annoyed.”
Suguru snorts, shaking his head as his fingers wag at you.
“That’s not even nearly his best stuff,” he argues, and you roll your eyes, your head tilting badly in annoyance after knowing what this was going to lead to, “I can’t believe you still think that it outweighs Richard II.”
Satoru and Shoko’s eyes bounce between you and your ink-haired friend.
“I’d rather die on the hill of petty magic versus royal family drama,” You quip back, your brow slightly raised.
Suguru huffed, shaking his head in dismay as he lightly shoved your foot underneath the table, a small smile on both your faces.
“Is Tempest the one with the shipwreck?” Gojo asks, his head tilting slightly as his glasses lean on his nose bridge. You nod, grinning at the fact that someone in the group was able to identify such a classic piece of literary work.
You open your mouth to agree, but Suguru beats you to it.
“How do you know that?” He glances sideways at his friend, his brow raised in slight shock as Shoko snorts.
Gojo shrugs, his elbows resting on the table as the fabric of his sweater tightens around his arms, making him look delectable and otherworldly. You have to tear your eyes away from it before it becomes too noticeable.
“We went to the same secondary school,” Gojo argues, saying it as if it were the most obvious explanation in the world, “I paid attention…clearly more than others,” he adds under his breath, causing you to drop your hand to your mouth to hide the satisfied grin from when Suguru deflated in slight embarrassment.
“Oh, speaking of blast from the past,” Shoko shuffles, looking at her phone screen as if suddenly remembering something, “Vi’s coming back for break.”
You watch as Gojo and Suguru stop their silent bickering by messing with each other's stuff as they look up to Shoko. Suguru’s thin brow shoots upwards, his mouth turning into a surprised line as Gojo stares blankly, an unreadable expression on his face as you poke Shoko’s thigh, shaking your head in confusion.
“Who?” You murmur, your eyes squinting as Shoko looks at you, her mouth slightly dropping as she also remembers that you didn’t grow up with them.
“Vivienne March,” Suguru explains, beating someone once again to explain something because he could never hold onto a piece of information for longer than three seconds if he knows that somebody in his vicinity doesn’t know it, “She went to school with us for, what? Five, six years?” He looks between Gojo and Shoko, and they both nod, Shoko unlocking her phone as she goes to pull up the girl's instagram to show you what she looks like, “She’s his ex,” he murmurs as if secretly, pointing at his friend next to him as you feel something in your gut shift, but he clearly doesn’t tell because he leaves that point entirely.
“But I thought she preferred to stay in America till her spring semester was over?” He asks, confused, waiting for you to be done looking, as he waits for Shoko to explain it.
You take her phone gingerly, looking at the girl's account as you carefully click through her posts. You’re greeted with an aesthetic array of photos, some of her friends, some of her cat, and pretty pictures of old brick buildings and fall trees. But your eyebrows slowly move up your face when you see her.
Your thumb swipes through each post as you see her stunning hair framing her face in freshly done curls, her eyes striking and delicate as she wanders around a bookstore. Her outfits are always perfectly curated, and her makeup delicately done to accentuate her already natural beauty in a way that makes a part of you, something you tried to bury and starve, twist with envy at the effortlessness of her perfection.
“Guess she had a change of heart this year,” Shoko says, taking her phone back from your outstretched hand, turning it off as she placed it face down on the table, “She texted me this morning saying that she was ‘gonna be here for December and some of January and that she wanted to catch up.”
“You would like her,” Suguru directs his attention back at you, his words matching the genuine smile on his face, “She’s super bright and bubbly. And she’s so funny. Oh, and she's, like, insanely smart. She graduated from Cambridge when she was nineteen, and she’s doing grad school at Harvard.”
“Hmm, yeah,” Shoko hums, “I mean, she almost came here if she didn’t get the call from Harvard,” she nudges you with her shoulder, “But I don’t know how much he,” she points her eyes to Satoru, watching the way his mouth slightly parts at being called out, “Would’ve appreciated that, though.”
He scoffs, his tongue poking at his cheek as he leans in slightly, his arms crossing the table as Suguru snickers.
“I have no issue with Vivienne,” he argues, his brows pulling into a cute little frown, “She was just…”
“What?” Suguru juts in, Shoko scoffing a laugh next to you as Gojo only peers at him from the side of his eyes, “Madly in love with you? Was going to pick Oxford to be with you? And you were…what, days away from breaking up with her when she came sobbing to us that you have the emotional intelligence of a rock?”
Your eyes widen slightly, looking over at Shoko for confirmation, one she returns with a faint grin. Despite the sunken feeling in your heart, one that you often get whenever you are reminded of the fact that, unfortunately, literally everyone is also in love with Gojo Satoru, you have to control your face not to giggle at the statement.
Gojo makes a noise deep in his throat, the tips of his ears slightly pink from the added attention.
You swallow as you try to grapple with all this information. But, as always, the conversation moves on and you push everything back as you find yourself smiling once again, listening to how Suguru animatedly tells the story of how he bombed one of his essays because he forgot which citation format to use, and you try to not make it obvious how you’d peek over at Shoko now and then and see who it was that she was stalking, probably some girl from her class that she was plotting on.
The music lolls on in the background, the pub getting more packed with students and tired workers, and you find yourself content with listening to your friends tell you about their week, taking small sips from your straw as you grin and laugh as poke Shoko’s thigh whenever a cute guy, devastatingly never as cute as Gojo, walks by the table, and she, gripping your knee whenever a girl her type flashes her a look from over their shoulders.
“I think I’m wanted somewhere else at the moment,” she whispers, leaning closer to your ear as you follow her line of sight to a girl sitting at the bar, her long blonde hair thrown over her shoulder as she steals the occasional glance at your friend, “I’ll be back.”
You giggle, pushing at her to go as she swats your hand away playfully, sending you a wink as you send one back, watching her go as Suguru and Gojo watch silently, sending each other knowing looks before Shoko disappears behind the other booths.
“Well, if she’s going, might as well take this time to piss,” Suguru states, putting his hands on the wood as he hoists himself up, sending a cheeky little smile as he imitates Shoko’s sashay, “Don’t wait up.”
You roll your eyes, trying not to watch him leave as if to draw out the silence that will inevitably follow, seeing that it’s just you and Gojo remaining. Your fingers play with your empty glass as you glance back to him, sending him a small smile as you feel chagrin already seeping into your veins.
He clears his throat, his eyes darting from your face to your arms, his tongue poking his cheek as he swallows. You wonder how much he’s dreading the awkward silence that has the possibility of ensuing.
“Water?”
Your eyes squint at the sudden question, looking down to the long finger he has pointed at your glass, and you look back up at him, wondering if he was stating the obvious or if your feelings for him had made you delirious and unable to compute anything that comes out of his mouth.
“Do you want some more water?” He explains, and you feel your cheeks heat again at your blunder, “I’m going up there to get a refill anyway.”
You nod gratefully, swallowing your feelings down as you glance up at him, handing him your empty glass with ice sloshing around as your smile wobbles.
“I’d appreciate it, thank you,” your voice dips slightly as you grin stupidly the longer you look at his long lashes and his pink lips, somewhat glad that he was getting away so you could less opportunities to screw up, and you watch as his beautifully large hand wraps around the glass like it was nothing, sending you a small nod as he crouches slightly so that the overhanging light wouldn’t hit his head on the way out.
Leaving you alone, you pull out your phone, also thankful to have a little moment to yourself as you quickly try to catch up on the notifications you had gotten in the past couple of hours, as the noise around you mixes, adding a comforting ambience as you lean against the old walls, your head leaning against your fist.
You were so engrossed in your own little bubble that you didn’t notice the figure hovering near the other end of the table, only noticing the man when you looked to the side, thinking that either Suguru or Gojo was back, only for your eyes to widen in shock and surprise to be greeted with an unfamiliar face.
Letting out a small noise, adjacent to an audible gulp, you sit up straighter, looking bashfully at him as you turn your phone off, taking in his slender frame and the rectangular-framed glasses that sit wonkily on his nose as he fidgets nervously with the hem of his lumpy sweater. Ironically, having everything that Gojo has but wearing it so drastically differently that you have to snap yourself out of the comparison.
The boy's hair is slightly parted, light blonde, and his eyes framed with what seemed like brown lashes. His cheeks are dusted with light freckles, and his smile is lopsided as he scratches the back of his neck.
Cute in a schoolish way, you think.
“H-hi,” his voice is high, squeaking and wobbly as he leans on the booth, not knowing what to do with his arms as he uses the back of his hand to push his glasses upwards, “Hi, I just…”
Your head tilts slightly, curiosity filling your eyes as you give him a gentle smile, waiting patiently for him to find his words.
“I’m Kento,” he stammers after a second, scratching behind his ears as a red flush settles over his high cheeks, “I’m sitting over there,” he points to a table behind him, and your neck cranes to see a group of boys his age all staring at his back, “And I just thought-”
He opens his mouth to say something else, but pauses, his gaze drifting to something, or rather someone, coming his way, and you’re too focused on the way sweat dots at his hairline or the way he fidgets with the hem of his sweater to even notice the full glass of water sliding in front of you from the other side of the booth.
Your back straightens as your head whips to the side, eyes widening when you realize that Satoru had returned, his one drink nestled in his hand as his stare bounces between you and, who you evidently had just discovered, Kento.
Blue eyes flicker over your face, a moment's decision faltering in his mind as he slithers into not his original seat in front of you, but next to you, his large frame taking up half of your side of the both as your brows furrow in confusion, lips pulling into a tote as your eyes squint at the way he hunkers in like it was normal.
Is he okay? You try not to have your heart burst out of your chest and flip flop around on the table like a fish out of water at being in such proximity to Satoru, but you don’t even have time to think about that as the rest of your mind falters, trying to make sense of this behavior.
One of his beefy arms unravels from his side as it stretches above your head, resting atop the cushioned seats as he sighs deeply through his nose, taking a sip of his drink as if he hadn’t interrupted anything, and his chin turns over to the boy, waiting.
Kento stammers, even worse than before, as he pushes back his spiky hair with a hand, looking between you and Satoru as you blink slowly, not really knowing what to do, awkwardly lingering in your seat as you wonder if anybody’s going to talk.
“Everything alright?” Satoru asks finally, his voice slightly lower than usual, somewhat taunting but hard to tell, seeing that his face was blank, thick as it almost bounces off Kento’s skull, his cheeks turning into a bright pink as you lets out a small exhale of air, something resembling a shocked laugh at the strange and sudden shift in his behavior.
“I, uh, I,” Kento’s voice wobbles as he seizes up Satoru’s size and his overall presence, a strange look of shock and even awe as you gnaw on the inside of your cheek, not fully knowing what was going on as Kento’s head dips in embarrassment, “I’m sorry…I didn’t know, uh, that you, you were…yeah…sorry…”
His arm raises in a small wave, quickly turning on his heels, the back of his neck almost red as you blink rapidly, letting out a small huff of air as your neck almost snaps towards the man next to you, stammering as you try to find your words.
Satoru looks at you, taking another sip.
“What?”
You scoff, eyes nearly bulging out of your head as you stumble over a slew of words.
“What? W-what do you mean what?” You let out a bewildered laugh, looking across the pub at the boy and his group of friends that almost seem to be comforting him, their hands on his shoulders as he profusely shakes his head, “What the hell was that for?”
His white brows pinch in the middle, as if he doesn't understand your startlement, as if you were the one being crazy.
But you weren’t being crazy. Not in the slightest.
You brushed it off the first time Satoru scared off a guy who was talking to you. You thought it was strange, sure, how in the middle of your lively conversation of John Milton and Paradise Lost that he wandered from the other side of the room, suddenly attached to your side, his height towering over the other guy as he quieted down and scurried away. You just chalked it up to him being bored, despite how annoyed you were.
The second time, a guy was seconds away from putting his phone in your number when Satoru’s voice rang in your ears, and you watched, horrified, as he peered down at the guy's cracked phone screen, scoffing at the fact that he was listening to some stupid band he disapproved of.
Then there was the time when you were at this same pub, getting some drinks for Shoko, waiting at the counter, flirting with the guy next to you when Satoru found his way back to you, as if pulled by a magnet, and asked the guy if he always chose to talk to girls he didn’t know with a fresh hickey on his neck. (That one you weren’t mad at, more so embarrassed).
But it’s happened countless times. At the pub, at gatherings, at galas he’s invited you to as his plus one because he said nobody else could make it, at the library when he came a little too early and a guy from your class was sitting next to you, at the cafe, and at the small party he threw last year.
And if you weren’t so in love with him, you’d be madder than you were. You knew he was just being a protective and caring friend, not wanting you to get hurt, but you knew you’d have to start moving on from this debilitating crush, and he wasn’t making it any easier.
“I just asked him if everything was alright,” he explained, his tone bordering on bored as he pulls out his phone, checking the time as he angles his body slightly to look at you better, and you're somewhat aware of the fact that his arm is still somewhere above your head, “He’s the one that scurried away.”
Your mouth drops open, your palms jamming into your eye sockets as your head hits the table, banging it a couple times as you try to pull away from him, slightly angered, slightly, and very, ever so slightly, internally flustered at something you definitely should be flustered over.
“You…you scared him away!” Your voice is muffled as you groan, not caring much as you shoot him an angry and bitter look.
Satoru’s lashes flutter slightly, his pink lips pulling into a confused line as you shove his knee with your own, realizing that you were, in fact, not joking and were seriously considering the idea of giving that blubbering mess a chance.
“Are you - are you serious?” His thumb jabs in the general direction of where he had gone, “Him?”
You roll your eyes, chest heaving with a sigh as your forehead continues to rest on the cool tabletop, the tip of your nose rubbing against the varnish as you groan.
Deep down, you know that this crush of yours is fruitless and useless. It’s never going to get anywhere, and the only thing it can offer you is more hurt and rejection. You know that you are so far from his type and out of your league that he’d never see you as more than a friend, if that, but you continued to have it because it lit a fire inside of you that you sadistically enjoyed.
That being said, you would prefer, at some point, to have a romantic moment, even if fleeting, and having the man you’ve been in love with for two years chase away the only guy who’s had the balls to come up to you made you irrationally annoyed for some reason that you didn’t fully understand.
“He…he seemed nice,” you argue, your eyes closing shut as your hand shifts, and you rest your cheek on the back of it, your back bent at an angle as you look up at him from your position on the table, “And he was cute-”
Gojo cuts you off with a startled laugh, a disbelieving one as his eyebrows shoot upwards, showing more than the five emotions you usually see him with as genuine shock laces his features, and it only spurs on that angry fire inside of you as you press.
“What? What? He was cute!” Your head lifts quickly from its spot on the table as your body shifts to look at him even better than before, trying not to notice the cute wrinkle of his nose or the frosty irises of his eyes that are looking so intently at you that it could knock the air out of your lungs if you stare long enough, “And I…I don’t know, I think he wanted to talk to me!”
Gojo snorts, his arm tightening around the cushion behind you, his hand dangling off the end, his fingers dangerously close to the side of your ear as you swallow thickly.
“Well, of course, he wanted to talk to you,” his other hand pushes his glasses upwards, the veins on the back of his hand evident, “ I just can’t believe that he’s someone you’d want to entertain.”
You stutter, hurt flashing across your face as it pulls into sour bewilderment.
You’ve barely talked to Satoru for more than a couple of minutes at a time about classes or projects or annoying classmates, and you can’t believe your luck that the first conversation between the two of you that stemmed outside of those points is about this.
“What, what’s that supposed to mean?” Your voice dips slightly, embarrassed, as his own expression slightly shifts at your tone.
He pinches the bridge of his nose, clearly not expecting this to blow up in his face as it did, and he sighs, retreating to his old, composed self as he explains himself.
“Look, I have him in a couple of my classes,” he starts again, lips pulling into a thin line as he looks over his shoulder to Kento and then glances back to you, “He shows up late and never does his work and always asks to most ridiculous questions,” Satoru adds and you try not to have your lips quirk at the sudden revelation, not wanting to give in and let your foolish feeling stake the wheel and guide you to forgiving him, but it’s not use as he continues, “I just figured that…someone like that isn’t someone good for you. Even if he did just want to talk.”
Your mouth dries up, and you try not to let your head burst and remind yourself that he’s thinking about this from a friend's perspective, something kind and caring and companionly, but not in the way you would want from your crush, but Satoru is still waiting on your response so instead you swallow everything down and your lips tote, avoiding eye contact as you attempt to seem indifferent despite your outburst.
“How ridiculous are his questions?” You finally ask, peeking over at him from where your gaze had been training on the ice in your water, and you swear you see a flicker of surprise take over his gorgeous features, as though you were going crazy with the way his blankness faded momentarily and gave way to a little smile.
He sighs, this time lighter, his hand behind you shifting ever so slightly to push at the back of your head, gingerly but in a teasing way as you try not to smile a giddy smile, one that doesn’t reflect the fact that you couldn’t really care about the guy who had come up to talk to you when Satoru cared enough because he didn’t think he was good enough for you to talk to.
“Even more ridiculous than asking if adding ice to rice would help it steam up more than if you used water,” he says, picking up his drink as he nurses it over his mouth, fighting back a smug grin at the way you sputter, pushing him roughly as your cheeks heat up again for bringing up one of your late-night queries.
“Fine, fine, fine, I’ll give you this one!” You rub at your eyes, shoulders hunched, “But you have to stop scaring off every single guy that tries to talk to me! He could be a normal guy who’s going to come up, and you’re going to disapprove of him just because he wears mismatched socks or only writes in pen!”
Satoru snorted indifferently, proving your point that he didn’t seem to care.
“Writing solely in pen is psychotic behavior,” he grumbled to himself, recalling the time one of his classmates had the gall to ask you for your number before he quickly shut it down, inserting himself in the middle of the conversation until the guy gave up and left.
You groan, head dropping back onto the table as you tap it lightly, a quiet thud reverberating in your tiny corner of the room.
“One of these days you’re going to have to come to terms with the fact that the reason you shut people down is different from the reasons I shut people down.” You say, moving your arms upward so that you could set your cheek on it, looking at the empty seats in front of you instead of the man you’ve had a crush on, sputters.
“What do you mean?” His voice drops a little bit, and you angle your head to look up at him, brows pinching in the middle as you let out a little laugh, something sardonic as you shake your head to yourself.
“You…” you pause, stopping, sighing to yourself as you try to control your words before you say something you’ll regret, “You have like…perfect people coming up to you. And if you choose to reject them, that’s up to you, I get it. But last week you turned a girl down because she said that Star Wars was a waste of money,” the two of you share small laugh because you can recall just how red he got, embarrassed but peeved when somebody just offended his entire lifeline, but you continue, “It…it’s just,” you press your lips together as something in your chest clenched, “I don’t really have that luxury. I don’t have perfect guys coming up to me with little quirks, you know? There’s always something wrong with them, even if I don’t see it then. Like they don’t show up to dates or they make fun of my major, or just…only want to sleep with me, and then when they find out I don’t want that, they leave. And any of the sane ones that have small issues, you’re always there to shoot them down!”
You stop, taking in a deep breath as you try to regulate your emotions, refusing to look at him right now as you let some pent-up feelings loose, just grateful that he hasn’t left and decided to let you figure this out on your own.
“Look,” you glance at him, giving him a small smile, “I’m thankful that you care. Really, I am. But…but I just want to experience something…with someone, y’know? At least once when I’m still in university. I’m almost twenty-one, and I haven’t even had my first kiss!” Despite how embarrassing it is, it slips out, and your chees heat up as you hurry on with your ramble, “And if it has to be with something who asks stupid questions or says my name wrong on the first attempt or doesn’t know what my favorite color is, I guess I’m just gonna have to bite the bullet and take that risk. I,” you look away, back to focusing on the leather cushions in front of you as you gnaw on your lip, “I don’t really have any other option.”
Giving it a moment, you let your shoulders sink, going back to playing with the straw wrapper in front of you as you debate whether it would be better to just throw yourself out the window or risk saying something else that you’d stay awake the next couple of nights pinching yourself over.
You heard him inhale exaggeratingly, the arm behind you moving a little downwards in order to hook one of his fingers around the collar of your sweater, trying to grab your attention. You tilt your chin sideways, lips pursed, and attempt not to let his overwhelming presences budge how bitter you were feeling for some reason.
“I think,” he sighed again, gnawing on his bottom lip as he tried to formulate his thoughts, the overhead lamp casting a soft orange light over his face and it made your pitiful stomach churn with desperate want, “I think that if you’re too pessimistic.”
That get’s a dry laugh from you, and you roll your eyes at his statement. Before he’s able to say anything, he gets interrupted by Suguru rounding the corner, sliding into his seat with a wide grin, one that falls when he sees his friend has changed the seating arrangement.
“Why’d you move?”
Satoru paused, tearing his eyes away from the side of your face as he glanced at his friend, his fingers moving upwards as you tried not to look at him and make anything obvious. You hope he doesn’t bring up Kento and your little meltdown, but he seems to read your mind.
“You were bothering me too much,” he mutters, and Suguru lets out a startled scoff, throwing the hair tie around his wrist at him as Sator just flings it to the side. Suguru doesn’t push, though, and starts telling the two of you that he was held up at the bathroom entrances because a couple was having a ‘lover's spat’, his words not yours, and he just had to hear it before he left.
The rest of the night continued as it usually does.
If you could consider the uneven rhythm of your heart as normal.
—
Another week had passed, another seven days of agonizingly slow school work and duties.
It seemed like the days would flicker away at a snail-like pace until it got you to the one day of the week that you actually wished wouldn’t arrive, and would force you to stalk around the limited space of your dorm room as you think about what to wear to the theatre production that’s taking place in thirty minutes.
Your hand was on your hip, feet tapping against the floor as you looked at the two outfits you had hung on your dresser, lips pursed as your eyes moved back and forth between the one that would go better with those pair of kitten heels you thrifted with Shoko, or the dres that you rarely get to wear.
It took a couple more seconds of deciding, but you ultimately picked the more comfortable option, knowing that the university theater was always freezing, especially in October, and that a cute sweater was probably the better choice.
Thankfully, this gave you some more time to fix your hair and touch up your makeup, humming along to the music as your eye kept wandering down to your phone and then to your door, squinting as you turned it over, confused as to what was taking Shoko so long.
Instantly, your eyes widen at the plethora of messages you have from Shoko, a telltale sign that something was seriously wrong, given the fact that she never sent more than two messages at once.
shoko: pick up
shoko: girl ur literally always on ur phone wya
shoko: pls pls pls pick up
shoko: ur making me beg rn pls can u call me back
shoko: pls
You don’t have time to send her one of your stupid stickers, your fingers fumbling around as you look at the five missed calls you have from her, shaking your head in dismay at how it was possible to leave your phone alone for twenty minutes and come back to this.
It doesn’t take more than a ring before she answers on the other line.
“Are you okay?” Your voice cuts through immediately, rushed and worried, your legs bouncing as you hear some people talking in the background, and you can hear the way Shoko snaps at them to hush so that she can hear you better.
“Hi, yeah, no, no I’m fine - hey can you guys just,” she calls out again, hey annoyance dripping form her tone, some shuffling happening over the line as she moves somewhere where the noise is less, “Hey, hi, sorry for the noise,” she starts again and you just hum, eyebrows still pinches together in worry as you wait for her to continue, “I’m really sorry for spamming you, but I have some news.”
The worry on your face melts as you lean back in your seat.
“Yeah…?” you ask, but already predicting what it was that she was stressing out over telling you, but she lets out another exhale, and you could imagine her nodding wherever it was that she was at.
“I’m so sorry but I’m at work right now and,” some clattering happens in the background, the kitchen in great hustle for the Saturday evening rush it usually has at the restaurant she waitresses for, “God, Tommy just screwed everything up with our shifts and I thought he had written me as off for tonight but he wrote me as off for next Saturday and I wasn’t able to fine somebody to-”
You laugh softly, cutting off her rambling.
“‘Ko, babe, it’s fine, don’t worry about it,” you stress, leaning in slightly as you hear some silverware being unloaded, “It’s so okay, your job is so much more important than-”
“No, you’re more important than this - believe me,” she cuts you off this time, and you can see her standing hunched in the corner, gnawing on her fingernails in stress, “And I promised you I’d come with you and I can’t, and now I…I feel horrible.”
A smile creeps onto your lips, and you shake your head.
“It’s fine,” you stress, chuckling at her incoherent rambles, “I promise. The play’s going to be lengthy anyway, might as well take the time to make some money while you’re at it.”
You hear nothing except the kitchen roaring in the background for a few seconds before she sighs, clicking her tongue as she hums softly.
“You sure?”
“I’m sure,” you tell her, hearing her chuckle softly over the phone, the disappointment evident in her voice, and you didn’t want to push her over the edge despite the small flicker of disappointment of having to go alone, “I promise you’re not gonna be missing anything.”
“Look, I know it’s not the same, but I was with Suguru when I found out, and he’s said that he could-”
This time, she’s cut off, but not by you.
A knock sounds over your door.
You sigh, smiling at your friend as you slowly rise, “You guys are so sweet, but you should’ve told him I’d be fine. Really, I usually do these things by myself anyway.”
She groans at your antics, somebody calling her name from the back as she tells them that she’s almost done.
“Shit, I have to go, but promise me you’ll tell me about how tonight goes, yeah?” She sounds hurried, and you make a few steps towards your door as you snort, rolling your eyes as you unlock the brass knob, shaking your head at the thought.
“Tell you about what? Oh, like how Suguru has a horrific attention span and can’t…” You swing the door wide open, but you trail off as your mouth hangs slightly, not greeted by your black-haired and eyebrow-pierced friend,
But Satoru.
Shoko seems to have picked up on your silence as meaning that you finally understood what she was talking about, and you can barely register her sing-songy bye as she leaves, the phone in your hand lying limp as Satoru’s brow raises skeptically at your dumbfounded expression.
Damn you, Shoko Ieiri.
“Hi,” you say breathlessly, almost stupidly, as your hand falls from behind the door to your side, tilting your head a bit as Satoru just stares, hands in his pockets, and you shake back to reality, laughing apologetically as your neck prickles, “Sorry, I…I was just expecting someone else.”
His brow arches even more, and you huff out a laugh.
“Shoko just said that Suguru was coming,” you explain, stepping back from the entranceway as his mouth parts slightly.
“Right,” he nods, his hair falling gracefully in his face as you churn in your spit at the magnificent sight of him in his denim jeans and the navy sweater he was in, “I hope it’s okay that I came. Suguru couldn’t make it.”
You blink, wanting to say that you were so okay with him, but you swallow that done as you shake your head, waving his statement away.
“This is…this is fine,” You stammer to say, your smile wobbly. You hope that he can’t pick up on the way that your eyes are roaming over the way his button-up sits comfortably on his broad chest, or the way his glasses look on the bridge of his nose, “I, uh, I just have to do my mascara, so give me like,” you look at the clock behind you. Your eyes bulge at the fact that you have only five minutes left, “Two seconds and I’ll be done.”
He nods, his head tilting slightly to the side as he looks at your face and his eyes travel down your outfit. His hand raises, a finger pointed at your sweater.
“Nice sweater,” he says, something teetering on teasing, and you look down, suddenly realizing that it’s the sweater he had given you last year for your birthday, the one that you had seen months prior after walking past a vintage store and exclaimed how much you liked it, only to be stumped by the price.
Your confusion melts into a wide smile, your head still poking out from outside your door as you survey the material, not noticing the way his eyes soften just a smidge at your flighty reaction.
“Oh - right, thank you again for getting it!” You say cheerfully, an entire evening or perfection and romance already forming in your head as you try not to appear too excited, pointing back to your room as you duck away, “I’ll, uh, I’ll be back, then!”
Satoru nods, giving you a small smile as you shut the door behind you, your back hitting it as you give yourself a moment to reciprocate, curse Shoko and her blasted antics, and calm your heartbeat down long enough.
This was so fine, you tried to tell yourself,
Everything was going to be fine.
—-
The lobby of the Oxford theater was unusually packed, and you even voiced your surprise when Satoru led you in, your eyes wide as you took in all the students, some looking at the programs, others waiting in line for the bathroom.
“Damn,” you mutter, squeezing past someone as Satoru follows behind you, “I didn’t think it was going to be this busy.”
The walk here had been…fine. You had talked for most of it, which you had predicted, and with the few times Satoru would interject and give some comments on the stories you told him about your week, you feel like you told five times that amount of embarrassing and lame jokes, shutting yourself up once after wincing at how terrible it was. Satoru cracked a small smile, though, a pitiful one, most likely to keep you from shutting up the entire night.
It’s strange, just how different you act around him. In attempts to make yourself seem cooler and interesting, you wind up embarrassing yourself even more. You could have sworn that you never acted like this with Shoko or Suguru, or literally anybody else, even your old crushes, but when it came to Satoru, you seemed to lose the sense of normalcy you had come to know.
But you don’t have time to worry about that, now trying to put your attention on wondering how many of the students here are from that stupid class you’re taking right now, and even looking in the sea of bodies confirms that answer when you see some familiar faces. The concession stand in the corner, the one run by the theater department to raise some extra funds, seems to be swarmed, and your stomach grumbles instantly at the smell of buttered popcorn that wafts through the air.
“Where’re our seats?” He’s standing by you now, and you have to crane your neck slightly to look at him. You sift through your tote, pulling out your wallet and opening it to reveal the tickets tucked inside, and hand one to him while keeping the other for yourself.
“Row H,” you read out loud, “You’re seat 18, and I’m 19.”
He nods, pocketing it before he looks back out into the lobby, his eyes focusing on the wide double doors that led you into the theater, watching the ticket taker check the people’s tickets before looking back at the concessions, remembering how much you were raving on your walk here about how good the snacks were.
“Do you still want some…?” He juts his chin towards the hand-made sign that reads Beggars Snacks!
“Hm?” You look back at the table, and you let out a small laugh, “Oh, yeah, right,” you look through your wallet again, putting your ticket there for safekeeping as you glance back up at his gorgeous face, “Yeah, I’ll be back. You can go find your seat, if you want.”
Satoru opens his mouth and then shuts it, glancing at you and then the doors, and his shoulder straightens slightly.
“Right, well….right,” he murmurs, looking a little torn, his voice drowning out by the roar of sound around you two, but you’re able to make out the low grumble of his after being near him for so long, “I’ll…I’ll see you in a few.”
You smile again, giving him two thumbs up as you turn on your heel, your hands clenching in frustration at how utterly inhuman you seem to act around him, somehow making it seem like it was your first day on this planet.
Peeking over your shoulder, you watch as he leaves towards the entrance of the theater, and you duck your head down as you find your way to the large line leading up to the snacks. Coming here for the past four years has taught you to go for the popcorn, pass on the homemade cookies, and snatch up the little boxes of candy if they have them.
Checking your phone as you wait idly, you text Shoko a slew of messages cursing her and her entire bloodline for blindsiding you like this, hoping she sees them after her grueling shift and only feels worse about leaving you like this.
Keep a tab of the line as it slowly moves, you eye the clock, knowing that the show was going to start soon. It seems to dwindle a bit, as some people in front of you and behind you give and leave, deciding it wasn’t worth it, and after scrolling through your feed a little bit more, you find yourself next in line.
Glancing through the snacks, your stomach protests louder, ravenous after a day fueled on granola bars, a pathetic excuse of a yogurt bowl, and some crisps you had lying around, until you feel your hopes and dreams plummet when you see a small sign at the edge of the table that says only cash.
Fucking bullshit, you think angrily, whipping your wallet out again as you rifle through the confines, who still uses only cash? What medieval system was this? They accepted cards last time, this is entirely-
And you could complain petulantly in your head as much as you want, but your face falls as you search through for the third time, coming to the consensus that you didn’t have a lick of cash on you. The person in front of you is almost done, but your shoulders sag as you begrudgingly step away, shaking your head in dismay as you make your way to the theater entrance, flashing your ticket to the ticket taker as he lets you in with a wide smile.
The ushers point you towards aisle H, and you patiently dispute the hate still inside of you, burning. Waiting as those in front of you find their seats, and it doesn’t take long before you’re able to see a pop of hair standing high amongst the rest of the people in the audience.
You move past a couple of people talking as you move closer, almost skidding when you stop instantly, realizing that Satoru was, in fact, not alone.
From this angle, you could see the girl standing in front of him, a wide grin on her face as she laughs at something he says. Your eyes go to his face, your posture falling even more when you see the little quirk of his lips, a sign that he wasn’t necessarily hating the conversation, and the loss of the popcorn feels pointless now as your stomach churns for another reason.
It was selfish to think that you were the only person who liked Satoru, but it didn’t hurt any less when you were confronted with this fact at least once a week. You knew you couldn’t expect anything from this stupid crush, a theorem forming inside your head that you continued to fall for Gojo Satoru just because you liked the sting of knowing you had no shot with him, and seeing other girls and their gleeful smiles at the fact that you probably had a chance is what maybe hurt the most.
You weren’t ever angry at these girls, understanding them completely, even admiring the way they could flirt so effortlessly, and treated you kindly whenever you were near, but it singed a part inside of you that liked to act that you were in this small fictional bubble that you dreamt of whenever he looked your way.
Like he was right now.
Standing awkwardly to the side, at the end of the row, you sway idly in your spot, looking at the two of them and then around, wondering when the lights were going to start dimming and notify you of when the show was about to start.
You hear your name being called, a familiar cluster of syllables from his throat, and you look away from the painting on the wall to the side as you see Satoru throwing up a hand, trying to grab your attention.
When he sees you finally looking his way, he turns back to the girl, saying a few more words as she nods, her smile still soft as she glances at you, a strange look on her face as she sends you another smile, and you can’t help but return it despite the sinking feeling in your gut.
She leaves through the other end, and you mutter a few apologies as you finally make your way down to where he was standing, ducking your head down sheepishly as you fidget with the strap of your tote.
“Hey,” you say meekly, your cheeks heating as you finally get to him, “I didn’t mean to interrupt anything.”
One of his hands waved, shaking his head as he looked back to where the girl had retreated with her friends.
“You weren’t interrupting,” he tells you, and your brows furrow slightly because that was a white lie if you’ve ver heard one, “I knew her from my lab,” he he says, scratching the back of his neck as his eyes trace of your face, falling to your empty arms as they squint, the conversation with the girl suddenly feeling his head as he points, “Where’s your popcorn?”
The past couple of moments seem to flee too as you wring your hands awkwardly together, shooting him a tight smile as you try to appear indifferent.
“Oh, they didn’t take card,” you mumble bitterly, “And I forgot my wads of cash back in my dorm, so,” you shrug, laughing it off as you point to the seats, “But it’s fine, I…erm, wasn’t really feeling it anyway,” a lie, since that was all you could talk about, but you push past him as you sit down, setting your tote on your lap as you look at him, waiting for him to do the same.
Satoru peeks at you, his lips pressed into a thin line as he swallows, not doing anything to sit down as one of your brows moves upwards, confused about the mental turmoil that he was going through, which made him reluctant to sit.
“Everything okay?” You ask slowly, shifting your legs, wondering if he was tight for room, but he just nods, tongue poking through his rosy lips as he glances back towards the double doors as he briefly nods.
“I need to use the bathroom,” he mutters, and you nod, lips pursing in understanding as you look over your shoulders, watching as more people start taking their seats.
“Okay,” you sit back a little bit, your finger pointing behind you to where the bathrooms were, “Well, you, you should probably go, like, now. I think the shows going to start,” you say with a light chuckle and check your phone, realizing that there were only five minutes left till the lights turned off, “In a little bit.”
Satoru just nods again, saying spoke few words before he turns to leave, murmuring apologies to the people sitting down as his long legs knock their knees, and you watch him leave the aisle and go before you turn your attention back to the stage, taking the time to admire the props and the set design, trying to think back to the original story and see if it lines up with how you remembering it starting.
When the overhead lights start flickering, and Satoru isn’t back yet, you churn in your seat, looking over your shoulder every couple of seconds, hoping that he doesn’t have to navigate back in the dark.
You send him a small text saying that it was almost going to be lights out when you see his figure in the corner of your eye, watch as he nears your row with his arms full, and you squint, trying to see through the dimness to see what it was that he was holding.
The closer he gets, the more you’re able to see, and it’s only until he’s lowering himself to sit down that you make out the popcorn bag in one hand, and some boxes of sweets in the other.
He says nothing as he shoves the popcorn into your hand, settling in as he looks around the seat, trying to move the armrests up only to see that they’re stuck in place, completely oblivious to your wide-eyed stare as he lets out a big sigh, resting back as his legs spread out a little bit. He opens a box of Maltesers, adjusting his glasses as he looks at the stage.
“Want some?” He finally says, his voice low as he pushes the red box towards you, and your cheeks are almost on fire as you glance at the paper bag of popcorn in his outstretched hand.
“I…” you blink, holding onto the popcorn so that it doesn’t spill, “Here.” You dumbly give him the bag back, assuming that he had only given it to you so that he could sit down more comfortably.
Only now does he tear his eyes away from the stage, tuning out the voice over the announcements, the regular message of turning off your phones and staying quiet, as his elbow pushes your arm back to your seat.
“Can’t have corn,” he says bluntly, looking over at your startled expression, “It’s yours.”
It’s yours.
Here’s another moment you're going to mull over before another minuscule thing he does happens again, and you spend the next months thinking about that.
“Are you sure?” You whisper, already pulling your phone out to Venmo him for it, but Satoru can already tell what you're about to do as he flicks it away, as if it was repulsive to him, and you don’t have any time to argue because the curtains pull outwards and reveal the actors.
You drag a hand over your face, trying not to look over at him anymore as you begrudgingly accept the kind token, trying to relax in your seat as the show begins, a tentative finger plucking out a popcorn as you bring it to your mouth, hoping that the only person who can what the blood roaring in your ears is you.
—
Nearly a quarter in, and you start to realize just how bad an idea this was.
The play itself was great. The actors were delivering their performance in a manner that felt reminiscent ot the campy nature of the original text, and some people in the audience were keeling over with laughter in certain parts.
You found yourself with a wide smile throughout most of it, recalling some of the bits and others jogging your memory, but you were thoroughly enjoying it nonetheless. The issue was, the person next to you seemed to be despising it.
The rare couple of times you peeked over to see his reaction to a couple of things, you noticed his jaw clenched, sitting straight and uptight as his eyes never left the stage. He barely mustered up a smile during the funny portions, looking utterly depleted during the serious bits, and his hands were clasped together, fingers interwoven as he sighed, unamused.
Every time somebody would do something weird, you’d glance his way and would still see the same stone-cold expression on his face. You were aware that the play itself was over exaggerated and strange at times, but that was the whole appeal of it in the first place. But at times, you tried to view it through the lens of someone who didn’t go in-depth into literature and read the nuances of somebody like Satoru, who would rather spend their free time studying and working on their mountain of assignments, not something like this, and you felt your chest getting heavier and heavier with each second.
When it neared intermission, you could’ve sworn you had nearly melted in your seat, your popcorn done as you glanced over at Satoru when the lights finally turned back on, people around you standing up to leave or stretch.
A beat of silence passes before you clear your throat, mustering up a wobbly grin as you jab a thumb to the curtains.
“Funny, huh?”
Satoru blinks, as if coming back to, and you debate if he had been half asleep. The thought makes you sink even deeper in embarrassment.
“It’s, uh,” he ran a hand through his hair, pushing it back as he swallowed thickly, “It’s…interesting. I haven’t really seen anything like it before.”
You pause, chew on the side of your lip, rubbing at your eyes as you try to think of anything else to say. You’ve spent time with him alone, sure, but never in a situation where it felt like you had to defend yourself, your background, the whole reason why you were here in the first place, like you are now.
People bustle around the two of you, and he sits up a little straighter, pushing his shoulders back as his neck cracks a bit.
“It’s raunchy and… theatrical,” you try to explain, attempting to seem unconcerned as you fold the paper bag up and set it neatly on the ground, making a mental note to pick it up before you leave. “But I think it’s really interesting given the period it was written and how vulgar, everything is, and the characters are all super unlikable, which you don’t really see in these kinds of productions, and, well, it’s supposed to be funny and…fun, I guess,” your voice dies down, your lips almost chewed raw as you wait for a reaction, a facade of interest, a pitiful acknowledgement to what felt like your livelihood, but he just nods.
You suck in a deep breath, gaze darting around the theater as you try to look at anything else.
Noticing your sudden silence, his eyes leave the stage for a moment as they rake over your expression, see the way your lips pull into a small, worried line, the crease between your brows, something that appeared whenever you were stressed or confused. His face seemed to melt to mirror yours.
“Is there a reason why they keep calling the daughter a slut?” He finally asks, and your eyes dart back to him, and your cheeks puff, blinking slowly as you nod, embarrassed for some reason as you stammer to find words.
“It’s, erm, well, it’s in the original material, but,” your words mesh together as you try to call back on the research paper you did for this piece, your mind blanking as your cheeks heat, “But I think they keep it in because it’s supposed to be a demonstration of the degradation of women and the differentiation between men who also exhibit premarital interest in the sex…and it’s not supposed to be funny but they repeat it a lot, so you kind of become numb to the meaning of the word...” Your rambling quiets near the end as you shoot him another tense smile, wringing your hands together as your lips tremble, looking away as a last resort to save your dignity.
After spending two years with him, you’ve become familiar with his routine and what he expects from his day-to-day life. What some describe as the prodigal son, Gojo Satoru, if not with friends, is usually found in the back of the library, in his dorm, or somewhere quiet with papers strewn in front of him, with his laptop out, typing away. He sometimes goes to benefits and galas, some to attend because of his parents, others because of his biochemistry path, but his time isn’t usually spent at the theater watching vulgar plays.
That’s what you did.
And of course, you didn’t come here weekly. You had to be here for that godforsaken Literature in English class. But this was a part of you, this play, this environment, these exaggerated dialogues are what you spent your time obsessing over. The history and the meaning, and the importance of English literature and writings are your life, and having someone next to you, watching a personification of it live, felt like inviting them into a piece of your mind, even if they wouldn’t view it as such.
But to you, you who liked to overcomplicate and read into things, saw it as such, and your heart was thumping erratically when you realized that Satoru probably saw this, you, as equally insane for enjoying something like this.
And you hated how much the thought made you spiral, made you think of yourself less than when there was a possibility that this wasn’t what Satoru was thinking at all, but the slight chance, the small probability, is what stirred the trepidation in you.
“Are you enjoying it?”
His question brings you out of your mental fever, and you bite your cheek, wondering what the right answer would be. He’s watching you, waiting, and you exhale shakily, smiling poorly as you swallow back some bile.
“I, I am,” you say finally, “It’s just…I did this huge essay on this last year, and I’ve been looking for a rendition of it, but there’s only this old movie that’s so far been made, so…seeing this live is pretty cool.”
He nods, looking at your stalled expression as you keep your eyes trained on the curtains, not wanting to show your internal thoughts on your ever-so expressive face, and he tries to keep his slight confusion at bay for your suddenly reserved self.
As you try to feign indifference by going on your phone, you can watch him from the corner of your eyes, look around, and uncharacteristically fidget in his seat as he debates doing the same as you or talking some more, which, at the moment, you don’t appear content to do. But the more you try to ignore him, the more it seems like your body has a physical reaction to it, protesting your desire to keep to yourself.
“Did you do anything fun today?” You ask, putting your phone down as you scratch at the inside of your wrist. He blinks, looking a little quizzically at you before he clears his throat.
“Well, Suguru had set me up for a double date,” he explains, and you feel your chest tighten a little bit, “But…eh,” he shrugs, “I wasn’t really feeling it,” he drags a hand over his face, “If only he knew where I’d end up instead, huh?” He nudges your elbow with his, a teasing grin on his face, but blood roars in your ears upon hearing his words.
Gods, the man who despised dates and unaccounted occasions and strange meetings would rather take that over this.
You let out a little puff of air, trying to give him a smile as you feel sweat dot on the back of your neck, your palms clammy as you wring your hands together, looking down at your shoes as you try to bite back the lump in your throat.
He’d rather be anywhere else than here, your mind blares, the unspoken words ringing in the small expanse of your heart.
There’s a strange gurgle in your stomach, one that shifts sharply, and you wince. This is definitely not a part of your internal trade, and you hope that when you shift to place a hand on it to try and calm it down. You turn your phone off, pocketing it in your tote, and the sudden movement makes you jerk in pain. You sit back up, hoping that he won't notice.
But, of course, he does.
He angles his body towards you, brows cinched as your eyes twitch barely.
“Are you okay?” His voice his deep, tinged with worry, his head leaning towards you just a bit so that you can feel his minty breath fan across your warm cheek.
You wave him off, shooting him a horrifically terrible smile as you shift, your head tilting to the side as your stomach makes another alien noise.
“Yeah,” you mutter, almost like a question because even you don’t know if you’re alright, “Yeah, I just think it’s the popcorn on an empty stomach.” But even that explanation made no sense. It seems like your stomach is churning even more with each passing second, and you really wish that he couldn’t tell that every moment is a testament to your battle for control of your own body.
“Do you want some water?” He asks, looking over his shoulder to the doors, remembering that the concession stand was also selling bottled drinks, “I’ll get some-”
But your hand shoots out, gripping the fabric of his sleeve as you tug on it, shaking your head as you attempt to situate yourself back in your seat, your act going well besides the slight crack in your face at a particularly painful jab.
“No, no, it’s fine, I’m fine,” the lights flicker again above you, and you’re somewhat grateful for them, grateful hat you can’t see the obvious fear on his face at the prospect of you being sick near his very hygienic self, “The shows starting, anyway, so just,” your voice dips a little as you try to contain a groan, “Just stay.”
He goes to protest, but your hold on him is strangely tight for someone so riddled with pain, and his mouth parts to say something, but the glare you shoot him nearly shuts him up.
“Please,” you mutter, the embarrassment from several things thick in your voice as you wince, your eyes melting into something pleading as the applause begins, and his face falls for a second, but you look away, weakly clapping along with everybody else.
You feel tears prickly in your eyes.
And you hope he can’t see the shining gloss when you try to blink them back.
—
When the show ends, you’re nearly debilitated with the pain in your abdomen, and the mortification from having watched Macheath’s other wife battle it out with Polly alongside Satoru. They mix into a terrible combination, one that forces you to come back into consciousness in the middle of the theater, the bright overhead lights nearly sending you into a psychosis.
There must have been something horrifically wrong with either the popcorn or the butter they put on it, because, despite your blurry view, you can see a few people in the audience huddled up in their seats the same way as you, despite the play ending.
Satoru cleans up next to you, taking his boxes of candy and your strewn popcorn bag, and sits back up to look at you nervously.
“Are…are you sure you’re okay?” His gentle tone is one that you barely register as your hands grip onto the armrest. You can barely even muster up a hum, giving him a shaky thumbs up as your stomach gurgles again, this time, audibly.
You try to stand, but your knees wobble, and you grip onto the back of the seat as your head sways. You can feel his grip on your elbow, nearly knocking over some people's bottles beside him from how fast he stands up, and your clammy face looks upward at him, swearing that he looks like an angel with the light framing his hair.
“I,” you clamp your mouth shut, swallowing thickly as you wince, taking a few seconds before you start again, “I have to use the loo.” The declaration comes out as a whisper, an ashamed one, and you can’t look him in the face, even if his nods insistently, an arm of his wrapping around the expanse of your back as he tries to steady you
“There’s one near the concessions,” he tells you, his voice strangely considerate and temperate, head leaning down to get closer to your ear so that you could hear him better, “Do you think you can make it?”
You feel like a child, but you only nod, neck and face flaring up in embarrassment as you allow him to guide you through the aisle of people, not looking anybody in the eyes as you make it out, your legs shaking slightly. If it weren’t for him, you’re sure you would’ve toppled down in pain by now.
The walk out of the theater becomes a blur, letting him guide you towards the bathrooms with one of your hands wrapped tightly around your stomach, as if it would ease the pain, and you feel the two of you come to a stop as you stand next to the ladies' door.
His arm around you falls, and you miss its warmth. He looks crossed with different emotions as you use the wall to hold yourself up, wobbling towards the bathroom as you shoot a look over your shoulder.
“Thanks,” you whisper, your eyes widening and then shutting instantly at how much it hurts your head, “I’ll…I’ll be back.” The words slur in your mouth, and you don’t give him any time to react before you leave through the wooden door and book it to a stall.
The moments that follow afterwards are what you’d expect from a case of bad butter.
You kneel on the floor, heaving everything up, trying to be as quiet as possible so the girls in the stalls around you can’t hear, but it’s not a process that you’re particularly fond of and can feel your will to continue weakening as you leave back on the wall, your head in yours hands as you hear the toilet automatically flush.
At least getting it out of your system seems to have made the painful throbs dull down to an annoying little jab, but you feel like the bulk of the damage has already been done. Satoru was sweet enough that he’d try to never bring this up again, but you knew you’d have to live with the humiliation of this evening for a couple of months before you did something else that would top it.
You let your head tilt back and heave a gulp of air, palms jamming into your eyes as you attempt to swallow, your mouth too dry to produce any saliva. If Shoko were here, she’d at least try to make you laugh about the ridiculousness of it all. But it’s just you and Satoru, and you don’t know if you can even look at him for the next week after tonight.
Giving yourself a little more time to calm down, you heave yourself up from your position on the floor, careful not to touch the ground, and pluck your bag off the hook, miraculously throwing it on before you hunched, so as it wouldn’t touch anything too icky.
You wash and scrub your hands, feeling dirty and still a little sick as you splash some water on your face, hoping the cool water will help snap you back. The girls around you talk, some drying their hands, others touching up their makeup in the mirror. One of the girls next to you watches you through your reflection, her face pale and strands of hair wet as she splashes some water onto her face.
“Popcorn?” She asks, and your eyes find hers through the mirror, blinking slowly as your hands grip the counter.
“Yeah,” you take a deep inhale of air, sharing a small smile with her as you turn off the faucet, “Do you want some hand sanitizer?” You offer, going to reach into your tote, but she waves it off, giving you a kind smile as she continues to wash her hands, probably feeling just as bad as you were.
Giving her a small nod as you go to the paper towel dispenser, you reach around for your phone, opening it up as you quickly send a text to Shoko to update her on where you were, nothing too long, just to be safe, and tap the tip of your shoe on the ground, debating what to do next.
You could go see Satoru, probably waiting outside, and awkwardly explain that you should probably walk back, seeing how his germaphobic personality might not mesh with the fact that you had basically deposited your entire day in the theater washroom. You could also try to sneak away and hope that he was standing somewhere that granted you the option of stealth, but you quickly shook that off, quickly understanding how pathetic and childish it was.
After another moment of thought, you ball up the towel and throw it away, pushing the door open with your shoulder as you enter back into the lobby, the business having died down just a bit, and look around bravely for the man.
Spotting the pop of white near the end of the room, you take a few steps forward before you halt, stopping near a wall that offered you a little bit of insight as to what he was doing as you peeked around the corner.
2 - 0, you think sunkenly, watching the way Satoru talks to another girl, his broad shoulders shielding her from where you originally were, and that familiar ache enters your chest as you play with the hem of your sweater.
You could be sadistic when it came to your unrequited feelings; that much you had made peace with. But the universe was horrifically masochistic for the situations it thrust you into.
His face is a little more stiff than before, but still polite and kind as he cranes his neck to look at the girl. Her hair is pulled into a sleek bun, one that you always envied with how clean and precise some girls were able to make theirs, and watched how her hand lingered on his arm, something you could never get away with without his face falling into contained disgust.
It’s unfair to think this way of this stranger, you remind yourself, after all, if you had the guts, you’d try to make a move on him too.
So, in another moment of decision-making, you get your phone out again, trying to contain the little tremble in your lips as you start drafting a message to him. It’s for the best, you try to reason, telling him that you were too sick and didn’t want to give him what you had. You send another message, saying that you were going to make your way back to your dorm and that you hope he had fun, thanking him as much as you could without sounding pathetic for how much he did this evening and for coming.
You also sent him the venmo transfer for the popcorn you were going to make earlier for good measure.
Where you were presented you an easy way to slip out of the building, one of the exits a little bit behind you, as you rubbed at your tired eyes, wrapping your arms around your torso as you prepared for the cold gusts of wind that were going to hit you the moment you stepped out.
People around you were talking in muted voices, laughter ringing around your ears as you ducked your head down, hoping that this time by yourself could give you some moments of peace, even though you knew that being alone with your onslaught of thoughts was going to do the exact opposite.
This campus was always bustling on a Saturday night, so you never felt too alone as you made your way away from the theater, pulling out your headphones as you geared up your phone to listen to some music before you heard a muffled shout from behind you.
Brows furrowing and your eyes slightly shifted in confusion, you, along with some other students around you, looked to see what the sound was.
To your utter horror and stupefaction, you watch as Satoru whips his head around, as if he were looking for something, or rather someone.
You stand like a deer in headlights, hands raised mid-way to your ears to put your headphones in them as you see him check his phone and then look up again, not caring that other people were looking at him strangely as he runs a worried hand down his face, typing something furiously fast as he looks around again.
Finally, it seems like he found what he was looking for when your eyes lock, and he sends you an ice-cold, deathly glare, one that made you glance around as if it were someone behind you more deserving of such a look, but before you can do anything, he’s jogging over to where you were frozen in place.
The closer he gets, the more you can see the agitation and vexation in his microexpressions, things you’ve taken pride in before in reading, now not so much because you were on the receiving end of them.
When he comes to a halt, phone still in hand, his chest rises and falls a little fast, as if he were out of breath, and he runs another frustrated hand through his white locks as he pushes them back.
Your mouth gapes, and you suddenly remember that you were supposed to be “deathly ill” according to the text you had sent him, and try to make your breathing seem more labored, your posture more haggard, but that doesn't work as he eyes you like he knows.
“Where the hell are you going?” He snaps, and you wince slightly at his tone, and he reels, shooting you an apologetic look despite the fire burning inside of him from the way you’ve been acting this night.
“Back…back to my place,” you whisper, voice hoarse, and he hears it instantly, expression melting as he takes the time to really dissect the way your eyes are slightly bloodshot, your lips chapped, your lashes clumped with tears, and he takes a small step back, taking in a deep breath.
“No, I, shit,” he stammers, restarting, “Are you…” His voice comes out as thick and low, and you almost feel it in your bones as he pinches the bridge of his nose, trying to calm his nerves as he gives you a tilted look, “Are you okay?”
This time, he’s not asking because you were exhibiting signs of ailment, but because you had been acting like you were strangers since the moment you saw him tonight. Because your behavior was so off and unlike you, he was struggling to understand if there was something beneath the surface, something that had happened that he wasn’t aware of, that was fueling this shift.
Your eyes seem to waver as you try not to look at him, attempting a nonchalant shrug that is anything but, as you think of how to lower your voice to a deeper register to appear more sick than you really are.
“I feel sick,” you mutter, coughing feigningly as you pull on the straps of your tote upwards, as you clear your throat, trying not to feel the weight of the looks other people were giving the two of you.
A single brow of his raises, one that you know is detecting bullshit as you rub at your nose.
“I’m sure,” he finally murmurs, rolling his eyes at the obvious statement, “I think the entire lobby heard you throwing up your small intestine.” That statement alone almost makes you keel over in shame, humiliation, embarrassment, and disgrace, but he continues, “But…are you…okay? You’ve been…off…the entire night.”
And you know you can’t sidestep this landmine because you know how weird you’ve been acting this evening, knowing that your attempts to make things better have only backfired, and the past couple of hours come screaming back at you, and for some stupid, depressing reason, cause a sting of tears to prick behind your eyes.
Your bottom lip catches between your teeth as your head falls slightly, your stomach still aching, your pride and confidence bruised, and you can still smell the lingering perfume of the girl he had been talking to, another reminder that you probably didn’t smell like that perfume you had spritzed on so long ago.
“I’m okay,” you murmur, looking at the cracks on the ground, your voice shaking and wobbling and so clearly not true that you tilt your head back up to see his reaction, your face crumpling into a little wet laugh when he seems completely unmoved. Upon hearing your little giggle, his anger fades a bit, but is quickly replaced with another emotion when he hears you sniffle.
“Look, you-” he looks down at his phone to reread the text you had sent him, and his confusion seems to grow even more when he reads another notification, “Did you Venmo me?”
You nod again, weakly, and when you look up at him, you see him fighting back a startled laugh, the quiver on his face making your lips pull up into a wobbly smile, your own emotions turning into something strange as you watch him shake his head in dismay, running a stressed hand through his hair.
“Did something happen today?” He asks, not taunting, never taunting, but something you can’t place as you weakly not, a sheen over your eyes as you tug at your sleeves.
“…no,” you whisper, but the two of you know it’s far from the truth because even you can’t hide the way your lips tremble and your hands shake slightly.
He presses his lips together tightly, his jaw ticking as he takes in your sunken form, something he’s never seen before, and chews on his cheek, thinking.
Sighing deeply, he pockets his phone, not able to look at your texts anymore because they made him too nauseous, and moves to be closer to you.
“Come on,” he says after a moment's silence, “Let’s go.”
You peek over at him, your brows furrowing slightly as you huff out a breath of air, trying to contain your tears as you sniffle again. Your bottom lip trembles slightly, and your stomach still has a lingering ache, but there’s something else that’s causing you to be like this, and you don’t like whatever it is.
He’s waiting, his elbow budging yours, and so you heave a sigh, rubbing at your cheeks as you nudge him back slowly.
“Thank you, ‘Toru,” you murmur, and he pauses, his tongue caught between his teeth because you rarely call him by that nickname, rarely use it unless you really mean it, “For everything. And I’m sorry,” you peek over at him from above your lashes, looking back at the ground at your shoe so you couldn’t see his reaction, “I didn’t mean to spoil your evening like this-” But before you can say anything more he raises a hurried hand, cutting you off.
“You didn’t spoil my evening, love,” he says quickly, his tone soft and teetering on worried, the little title slipping out of his mouth like it was natural, and if you weren’t feeling like a pile of shit, you might have fixated on it more, his eyes roaming your anxious face.
But you insistently nod, your lips pressed together as if you were trying your hardest not to let out a pitiful cry in front of him.
“I-I did,” you voice cracks, and you rub at your eyes as some treacherous tears escape, and if only you could truly see the way he looks like he was breaking seeing you like this, “With you getting the popcorn and then me getting sick and then the s-stupid show,” and he winces because he knows you were enjoying the play, could hear your twinkling laugh and he hates it whenever you feel the need to shut down the things you like because you’re worried other people will judge you for doing so, “And…and I wish you had told Shoko o-or me about your date, I would have totally understood,” you try for a smile, your words choked and wobbly and if only you knew what you were doing as you ramble, “I’m just…I’m really sorry for everything." You finish with a quivering chuckle, your heart shaking like a leaf as you finally meet his eyes, hoping he can’t see the little shake in your breathing when you finally do.
He breathes in deeply, and you can hear the gears in his head turning. But you nudge his side again, wanting to leave it at that. You can feel his eyes burning into the side of your face, but you don’t want to look.
And you’re grateful that to some extent, he understands that, even if not fully. He murmurs a gentle come on, his hand gingerly wrapping around your arm as he tugs to next to him, his warmth enveloping you as he leads the way.
—
As much as you insist, the one thing he doesn’t seem to budge on is taking you back to your dorm.
You pleaded with him, begged him not to get him sick, but he wouldn’t listen. It’s almost as if he steered you towards his building, a hand hovering over your back as he led you inside and up the elevator and to his room before you could even have the ability to ditch and run away.
“If you’re going to talk, fine, but don’t think I’m insane enough to leave you alone right now.”
That alone could have sent you into a psychosis if you weren’t so worried about puking all over his bed.
With the way his germophobic and clean tendencies forbade him from going to public restrooms, you’re stunned that he’s even standing near you with everything that has happened this night. He even lent you his old band shirt and trousers from when he was going through a phase.
It was a blur as you spun around his room, rifling through his drawers for towels and soap and things he thought you might want to use in the shower. You stood awkwardly at the foot of his bed, not sitting down on the mattress because you knew how he felt about outside clothes on his sheets, and you said nothing as he handed everything to you, shooting you a shaky smile, one that was tense because you figured he was most likely worried about you staining or ruining one of his clean things. You don’t say anything as he suddenly ducks, his knees hitting the floor as he starts undoing the laces to your shoes, mumbling something about how you bending over might not be the best for your stomach.
He was lucky enough to be in one of the newer buildings, meaning that he had a personal washroom, so he just led you to it and let you know to use the shower and to call out to him if you needed anything. He even had an extra pack of toothbrushes and boxers that he hadn’t touched that he set aside for you.
You watched as he shut the door, the water roaring behind you as it began to heat up, and you silently stripped, neatly folding your clothes as you set them to the side. You took a tentative step inside his very clean shower, letting the steaming water hit you as you stood there for a couple of minutes, reflecting.
Washing your face, scrubbing roughly at the makeup and the evening away, you feel some salty tears bite at your cheek, and you don’t even know why you’re crying right now. Well, in all honesty, you do, and that’s probably what hurts the most.
You’ve never cried over Gojo Satoru before. You’ve never felt like it was so depressingly lost where you’d need to use these muscles and these feelings that you reserve for truly important things, but it felt like tonight was a confirmation and closure all in one. It felt like you slowly came to your senses, realized that despite your wishes, it was fruitless. You just weren’t the kind of girl that he could cherish, at least, not in the way you wanted him to, and you knew it would be selfish of you to ruin any chance another girl could have of him being hers.
It took you a little longer than expected, but you feel like you were slowly gaining consciousness, the reality at hand as you turned the water off, patting yourself dry with the soft towel he had provided you.
You move carefully, brushing your teeth, pulling on the clothes he left you, as you assess yourself in the fogged-up mirror. Your eyes are a little puffy, but you can just tell him from earlier. Your voice is croaky, but you’ll just bite your words back tonight until you can go back to your place in the morning and start distancing yourself from him until your feelings are choked out. It’s time you began moving on, anyway.
Braving the other side, you take a deep breath before you carefully open the door, peeking around the corner until you see him sitting on the corner of his bed, furiously typing away until he hears the creak, looking up from across the room as you sheepishly smile.
He quickly puts his phone away, standing to his feet as he rubs his hands, not knowing what to do as he buffers.
“Was, erm, was everything good?” He motions to the bathroom, and you quickly nod, walking away as the steam from behind wraps around you, your body adjusting to the shift in temperature as your eyes stray to the couch in the corner, pillows and blankets set up in a makeshift bed.
“It was great, thank you,” you say gently, “I’m sorry, again-” But he holds a hand up, cutting you off as he insistently shakes his head.
“Really, it was nothing,” he stresses, his cheeks dusted pink, his glasses discarded on his desk.
You nod again, embarrassed, and smile stiffly, pointing to the couch as you make your way over.
“Thanks for this, too,” you say, but he seems to awkwardly shuffle, his hands behind his back, looking like he wants to say something, and your brow slightly quirks at his odd reaction.
“That’s…that’s for me,” he explains, moving away from his lofted bed as he shows you the changed sheets and the new pillow case covers, what he must have been doing in the time it took for you to shower, “You can sleep here.” He pats the mattress, and you let out a disbelieving chuckle, shaking your head as you move closer to the couch, feeling like the worst person in the world.
“I couldn’t,” you stress, but he’s already moving closer to you, looking like he wants to move you away from the cushions, “I’ve already imposed enough. I’ll sleep here. It’s fine, really, I like couches.”
He opens his mouth and closes it, lips pressed into a thin line.
“You haven’t imposed,” he finally says, as if that’s all he took away from your rambles, and you sigh, pinching the bridge of your nose as you wave aside his polite nature and hold your hands up.
“If I sleep on your bed after everything, I’m never going to be able to look you in the eyes again, okay?” You put it bluntly, “So I’ll take the couch, and you’ll take your bed, and it’ll be fine. Okay?”
His tongue darts out, blinking rapidly as if he’s assessing his different options, and he looks at you, to the couch, and then to the bed. He seems like he’s torn, but he figures that the next best thing is to ignore this completely, shaking his head to himself as he moves around you to the cupboards behind your body, shuffling around until he finds what he needs.
“I’m going to wash up,” he mutters, glancing briefly at you as he pulls in his towel to his chest, his new pair of clothes, and you feel your chest tighten at the sudden dismissiveness in his tone, ad if he’s given up with you, and he makes his way to the separate room, “Make yourself comfortable.” He calls over his shoulder before he shuts the door behind him, and you give it a few seconds before you wince, falling back down onto the couch as you pull a pillow to your chest and allow yourself some time to relax before he comes back.
You allow yourself some time to look around, appreciating his tidy room and the mess-free atmosphere. You can smell the lingering scent of bergamot, and you see the warmer on his desk, a candle right under it. The wall that his desk is parallel to is littered with postcards and retro movie posters (mostly Star Wars and Star Trek). There are some polaroids he has pinned up, some with Suguru and Shoko from their years in secondary school, some photos he had taken himself with his camera. His bookshelf, which is nearly leaning over with how heavy it is, is at the end of the couch, and you shift to get a better look at the books he has on his shelf.
You’re so rarely in here, especially by yourself, so you peek around, hearing the water still running, and lift from the cushions, your eyes squinting as you move closer, trying to make out the names on the spines, your curiosity getting the better of you.
Most of the shelves are full of textbooks from previous courses he had taken; therefore, most of them are science-related. Your eyes shift across the spines, seeing some books about botany and a couple about astronomy and astrophysics, a specific interest of his despite specializing in biochemistry. Notes are jammed into the empty spaces, and you make out his cursive on some of them, smiling despite yourself when you pull some of them out, making out his quick scribble from when he was either in class or studying.
The bookshelf itself is insanely tall for no reason, tall enough that you’re sure Suguru or even Satoru, in his sprawling height, would struggle reaching to top, so you have to go onto your toes, stretching your calves as you tilt your head upwards to look at some of the higher shelves, pulling some books out by placing a finger on the top of the spine, careful not to disrupt anything as you let yourself get lost in the names.
Suddenly, in the midst of all the chemistry and biology and Latin names, something familiar catches your eye, a book that was resting on its side on the highest shelf, and you struggle but can wedge yourself up on the edge of the couch to reach it.
The Count of Monte Cristo.
Your eyes widen in spite of your heavy emotions riddling your mind, and you turn it around, reading which edition and publisher it was as you scour through the pages, seeing his little citations in blue ink in the margins. You flip through the pages, each one highlighted and marked for different reasons, similar to the way you read through a book, and you close it shut, feeling like you were somehow intruding on something private as you set it back down in its initial place on the shelf until something else caught your attention.
Familiar titles and authors all paint the top level of his bookshelf, books that have nothing to do with his major or classes or even remotely with something you think he might enjoy reading, and you almost fall as you try to get closer.
A small box at the edge of the shelf piques your interest, and your lips catch between your teeth as you put all of your focus on this task, your nimble fingers moving closer, plucking it from its spot as you hold it gingerly in the palm of your hand, looking back to the bathroom as you hear the pipes groan as he turns the water off, an alarming sound, one that meant that you didn't have a lot of time left.
The box itself is also familiar, this one for more reasons than most, because you remember this box; you gave it to him for his previous birthday. amongst other little trinkets, finding it at a flea market, and thinking he could make some use of it. The wooden grain and the carvings on it were delicate, and your hold is even more careful as you unlock the little latch, the top lifting open as you peer inside.
Your eyes adjust to the sight, something you weren’t necessarily expecting, as what you can only describe as junk littered the inside of it. A ticket stub from a movie he had seen, a dried leaf, candy wrappers, spare coins. You huff a little in disappointment, your nosey nature quelled by the contents within as you rifle around a little more, knowing you should stop and sit down and act like you saw nothing when you feel a glossy texture beneath your fingertips.
Gently, you pinch it between your pointer finger and thumb, pulling it out from beneath all rubble as you hold it closer to your face, your breath catching in your throat.
It’s a polaroid of the two of you.
You remember the night well, a couple of months ago, during the summer. The four of you and a couple of mutual friends had rented a car and had gone up to a cabin, one of the many properties Satoru’s family owned, and had spent the weekend there. Suguru had insisted on setting up a fire and eating around it, and you had huddled up next to Shoko as the night got colder. You remember the voices and the laughs and the squeals as some of the friends, people you didn’t know that well, began chasing each other, and you and Shoko watched, amused. You remember how one of the boys had been carrying a jug of water, one meant for inside, when somebody bumped into him, and he tripped, and the water came falling on you. You remember letting out a small laugh, shocked and forgiving as you assured the stranger that it was okay, shivering, nonetheless, as Shoko laughed uncontrollably.
But above all, you remember how Satoru hurried over from wherever he was, his stare worried that you were hurt, everything shifting when he saw the playful glint in your eyes, the fireplace illuminating your features in red, yellow and orange hues as you shrugged his worries off, his hands on your elbows, steadying you as Suguru took a photo of the moment, of your head thrown back in a laugh and his eyebrows pulled into an anxious line while his lips pulled into a gentle smile, the stars twinkling in the background as he steadied you to your feet.
You distantly recall hearing the click and asking Suguru about the photo, but hearing him say something along the lines of the lighting being too dark, but clearly that was a lie because you were holding the small photo in your hand, staring at it with no problem.
Before you can spend more time thinking about his junk box and what the hell this photo was doing in it, you heard some shuffling on the other side of the bathroom, the door clicking open as you scramble to put the box back, nearly tripping as you jump down, going back to where you were seated on the couch in a flash, appearing to look nonchalant as he stepped out.
You don’t let your eyes linger too long on the way his shirt stretched tightly across his chest, or the way that the water has caused the fabric to slightly stick to his arms. He shakes his hair into a towel, ringlets of water falling as he pushes his hair back. You also try not to fawn too much over his mismatched pajamas, or how his trousers have prints of lightsabers in different colors all over them.
“Hey,” he calls out gruffly, rubbing at the back of his neck as he tosses his towel into the hamper, his feet padding over to his desk as he checks the clock and then his phone for any notifications. He sighs, and your throat is dry, heart hammering in your chest as you realize a grave mistake.
In your haste to put everything back, the careful clutch you had on the photo had appeared nonexistent, and you had, for some reason, made the blunder of still holding the photograph of the two of you resting in the palm of your hand.
His back is still to you, and you swallow thickly, shuffling across the couch as you try to deposit it onto one of the nearer shelfs, hoping that if he were to see it he would think it had mistakenly fallen out or something less drastic, but his ears turn towards your movement, looking over his broad shoulders at the way you scramble to dispose of the film.
“What are…?” His eyes pierce yours, and you sheepishly snap around to look at him, your hand going behind you as you shake your head, acting confused as his head tilts to the side, jumping from your seat at the edge of the cushion to your leg, angled towards his bookshelf.
“I was just looking at your books,” you quickly state, trying to cover your ass as lips purse together to give you a knowing look, a white brow rising so high that it disappears in his hairline, one calling you out on your obvious bullshit.
“Hm,” he hums, taking a step closer to you, his skin still glowing from the shower as he makes his way to where you were sitting, towering over you as his arms cross deliciously across his chest, “Then what do you have behind you?”
You feign innocence, blinking as you shake your head, acting dumb as you shrug.
“I,” you scoff, leaning back into one of the pillows as you shrug, “I don’t have anything behind me.”
“Right,” he drawls out, his voice slightly deeper, intimidatingly so as he crouches down a little until his face is to face with you, his fingers moving to poke at your arms, twisting at an odd angle to hide behind your back, “Then you wouldn’t mind if I gave you some medicine, yeah? Something that requires both hands?”
Damn him.
You shake your head, swallowing as you shoot him a shaking smile.
“Not at all,” you stress, shifting uncomfortable as he nods, his eyes raking over your face one last time as he moves to his desk, pulling a drawer out, his medicine drawer, you deduce, and watch as he pulls out a bottle that seems to promise helping with stomach aches, and he turns it over, reading the label until he seems satisfied.
He strolls back to where you’re seated, holding the medicine bottle out towards you as he patiently waits.
You shoot him a fake smile, biting back annoyance as you shift awkwardly, wringing out a hand from underneath your body, the one that’s not holding onto the photograph, as you take the bottle from his outstretched hands. You stare at it, realizing that he’s waiting for you to open it, and if it wasn’t for the unimpressed look on his face, you’d almost wager that he was amused.
“Something wrong?” He asks, fully knowing the answer, and you shoot him a glare.
“No,” you bite back, your other hand moving slowly, careful not to crumble or tear the film as you place it under your thigh, showing him both of your hands as you twist the cap of the medicine bottle off, “See?”
He nods, still unbelieving of your little tactic, as he takes the bottle away from you. You watch as he moves to set it down on the table, assessing the situation as he moves down in one swift motion, not giving you any time to understand what was going on as he loops one hands under your knees, another across your back as he lifts you up and over his shoulders like you genuinely weighed nothing more than a sack of flour and you screamed in horror at the rudeness of everything.
“Freak!” You shout, your face looking at his muscular back as he chuckles, not seeing anything yet as you try to kick his face, “This is so degrading, put me down!” You scream, horrified and mortified as he pinches your calf that was near his chest.
“Stop squirming,” he chides, but his voice is anything but chiding as he swivels around, your body jerking sideways as your head drops, motion sickness from already feeling a little off from earlier tonight, and you weakly punch his back, groaning.
“I’m going to puke all over you,” you threaten, but he just chuckles, shaking his head as he pretends to drop you, only to catch you last minute, his chest shaking with the sound, and you go to snap at him again,
But you feel it, hear it the moment he sees the polaroid you had taken.
He goes tense, his grip on you tightening a little bit out of shock, and he’s suddenly silent. You wince, turning around, hoping he could take the hint and set you down, and he finally does, carefully setting you on the ground as he bends, picking up the photograph from where it had fallen onto the floor, and staring blankly at it.
Your hands clench, chest tightening as his eyes flicker from it to you, his face unreadable as his jaw clenches slightly.
Nobody speaks for a moment, the room suddenly as tense as it was when you first entered, and you watch as he puts the photograph face down on a random shelf, turning back to you as he sighs deeply.
“Were you…Were you going through my things?”
The question shakes you, and your mouth parts as you clamp it shut.
“N-no,” you finally say, “Well, no, not really, but I guess…I don’t…I was,” your head drops to your hands in mortification as you motion weakly to the bookshelf, “I was only looking at your books.” You mutter weakly, not even able to look at him as you keep your stare trained on the books and their titles.
“I didn’t mean to see it, but…” You trail off, thousands of emotions racing through you as you try to deny it in your mind, sadness from before, anger with yourself, and suddenly feel vexation towards him for no particular reason as your eyes snap to his, “God, why do you care? It’s just a photo! I didn’t…I didn’t mean to look, but I saw that thing I gave you, and I had thought you would’ve tossed it away by now, and I just wanted to see what you’d keep in there and…yeah, fuck, okay, I looked! I’m sorry, okay? But…I mean, you keep it as a junk box anyway, it’s not like it’s…like it’s an heirloom!” You’re trying to ration and reason and trying to justify your clearly immoral actions as you ramble again, a terrible trait of yours, as he just takes it, takes your anger and your slew of words and your hurt as you feel your eyes water for no reason again as you hug your arms to yourself.
He says nothing for another moment, his eyes dark and piercing.
And then he moves.
His arm reaches upwards, up to the shelf, up behind your head to where the box was resting on the top shelf, and he slowly brings his hand down, your heart in your throat as he nearly throws the lid open, beginning to pull everything out one by one.
“This,” he’s holding the ticket stub, “This is from tonight.”
Your hands instantly drop to your sides as the anger fades and utter confusion floods your senses.
…huh?
You had just looked at the box; how did you not notice? But you look closer at it, the date and the row and seat number nearly the same as the ticket stub you had thrown away after leaving the theater in a hurry, and your eyes flee up towards him, his chest heaving as he continues.
“This is from when we went to the beach,” he pulls out a chipped seashell, and you recognize the pattern instantly, remembering the one time the four of you had gone to the shoreline, a seashell you had picked up and thought was interesting, showing it to him before Shoko called you away, but you don’t have any time to compute that as he pulls out the next time.
“This is from the candy you gave me during a study session we had,” he pulls out a wrinkled wrapper, “This is the hair tie you left at my place and forgot,” he has a simple black elastic band sitting in the palm of his hand, but he could very much so be holding your pittering pattering heart the more he continues, his voice quivering slightly, and you’ve never heard him ramble like this, ramble like you.
“This is the leaf that was stuck in my hair that you pulled out,” he admits quietly, holding up the dried leaf from the time you had been walking next to him in the fall, the trees shaking in the wind, giggling at his white hair littered with the colorful leaves, “These are the coins you gave me because I didn’t have any change,” he’s holding up the spare sterlings you had lent him when he wanted some ice cream but forgot his card at home, and your eyes move up and down, a strange thumping sound in your ears because you feel like you’re about to faint, and he slows to a stop, his cheeks flushed and his hands shaking as his hand fills with all of the things you have given him over the past two years, things that a normal person would have thrown away or used or given back.
“This…” his lips tremble as he shuts them for a second, looking unlike the person you’ve begun to know so deeply as his fingers wrap around something, pulling out a neatly folded white napkin, unused, as he takes in a steadying breath, “This is the, erm, the napkin you lent me. From the night we first met.”
The box is empty now, but the room fills with moments in time, moments that you would cherish in the deepest parts of your mind before you went to bed, and pretended like they were fleeting and didn't matter so that you could face him bravely the next time you saw him. Moments that you thought he treated like normal moments in time that would pass and would never be remembered again, moments that you didn’t think he would…hold onto.
Not the way you did.
“It’s not…junk,” he admits thickly, “For me it’s not.”
He stops, taking in a deep breath as he pushes his hair away from his face, carefully putting everything back in the box, including the photograph, as he sets it down, turning back to face your stunned expression.
“Look, have you ever seen me without my glasses?”
You blink. Realizing that he’s waiting on you to answer, you blank before shaking your head slowly, and he nods.
“Right, right, well, I used to wear contacts. All the time. Ask Suguru o-or Shoko but…ever since you said that you like the way glasses look, I…I don’t know, I kept wearing them, hoping you’d…” he trails off, his cheeks completely red, the tips of his ears a bright pink as he ducks his head down, scratching his nape sheepishly, whispering, “Hoping you’d maybe say it again.”
Your eyes go wide, and you blink owlishly, swearing you look fish-adjacent with the way you can only give him this look on repeat as he takes your silence as an okay for him to go on a rare nervous tangent of his own.
“When I was little, my grandfather taught me how to tie his tie. He said that I should learn how to do it by myself so that I wouldn't need any help when I grow up.”
You don’t say anything, and he doesn’t get angry at your silence, but simply offers you a small, worried smile.
“I’ve gotten pretty good at it,” he confesses with a farce laugh, something empty and shaky, "But you always ask to tie them, and…I always let you. You’re the only person I feel comfortable with; the only person who it doesn’t feel like,” he shivered, wincing slightly as if his skin was prickling at the thought of other people touching him the way you do, “The only person who can touch me and I feel…okay.”
“I have a shelf of all the books you’ve talked about,” he persists, motioning upwards, and you slowly look around to where The Count of Monte Cristo was sitting, along with all the other books you’ve raved about in the past, thinking he’d only listen and give you kind comments, not knowing that he had gone home and sat down and read them all afterwards, “I stopped drinking whenever we go out together because you said you don’t really like the smell of alcohol on people’s breaths. I…” he rakes his hand through his hair again, a nervous fidget of his as he looks pleadingly at you, “I have my spot on Suguru’s couch because your spot is right next to it.”
“And our friends tell me that I’m not crazy, that…that I might have a chance,” he motions a shaking hand between the two of you, and you allow yourself this time to blink again, “But, I don’t know,” his head ducks as he chokes back some tears, and your eyes widen even more, your eyebrows up in your hair at this point because you’ve been rendered speechless, “It’s like any time I try to get closer to you, you leave or immediately want to be anywhere else or seem uncomfortable and I don’t want you to feel that way, especially because of me.”
When he looks up, his eyes are glassy, looking like a stormy ocean, and you feel tears prickle at yours, your breath lodged in your throat as you try to pinch yourself, swearing that you were in some vision, but this is real, and he’s not stopping, saying the words you’ve only dreamt of.
“I know I’m not really…the kind of person that you’d usually go for,” he explains, his voice dim, “I’m not good with literary nuances or dissecting medieval texts. I can’t read the way you read, and I’m not good with understanding people the way you do, but…I want to be. I want to be that, I want to be good for you.”
Your mouth is wide open as you gape at him, trying to make sense of the words that you could only imagine as you stared silently at him saying to you, saying them to you here. The two of you don’t say much for a second, your eyes blinking rapidly as your mind travels faster than the speed of sound, and you realize that he’s not lying or trying to make you laugh. He’s not confessing his love for another girl, but instead clutching his chest because it felt like your silence was leading up to a personal rejection, and you can barely muster up any actual words as you surge towards him, stopping his rambling as your arms wrap around his neck, knees knocking against his as your lips slam against his.
Your heart plummets as you feel him still, his arms still at his sides as his eyes widen in shock, and you feel like you’ve completely screwed things up, going to step away before his hands shoot upwards, wrapping around your waist and legs as he hoists you up, his lips moving against yours hungrily.
“You’re so…so stupid,” you mutter in between breaths, his lips parting yours, soft and gentle and fast and desperate as they chase the way you taste, wanting to savor the plushness of yours as you mewl at the way his fingers dig into your soft skin, moving you effortlessly towards his bed as the two of you smile against each other, laughing in the air as your back hits the mattress. He fidgets with his glasses, pushing them up with his middle finger, coming a little loose after everything.
“Yeah?” He murmurs, happy, giddy, his eyes bright and alive and electric as he nips at your bottom lip, his own shining with spit as he ducks down again, pressing kisses to your face, and you feel lightheaded, “Tell me how I’m stupid, baby.”
You groan, lightly hitting his chest as he chuckles lightly, his kisses moving to your cheek, across your nose, as your smile turns bright enough to power the sun for the rest of eternity if it were to die in this very moment.
“I,” you huff, your chest burning and your hands tangled in his hair, fisting his shirt as you bring him in impossibly closer, “I’ve had this…debilitating crush on you ever since I saw you,” you admit quietly, and he pauses, his sunset dusted cheeks turning into a wide grin as he huffs out a laugh and push his face away from your as you turn away in discomfiture, “And I’ve done everything to get you to notice me. I’ve embarrassed myself like, twenty times a day, hoping you’d look my way.”
Satoru raises a slender brow, and you have the urge to pull him down by the collar, pressing your lips to his as he happily obliges, his tongue poking out to tease yours as he turns to an even bigger taunting menace as he pulls away.
“I can’t stop looking at you,” he mumbles shyly, ducking down as he kisses your throat, and you shift slightly to give him more access, your breath catching in your lungs as his kisses turn into him sucking in a patch of skin, licking it over when he’s satisfied it’s going to mark. “I could barely focus on the play tonight because I kept looking over.”
You let out a giggle, curling his soft strands of hair around your finger as he glances up to see your smile, pressing a chaste kiss as if he wanted to taste the way your unabashed happiness felt.
“And I try to sound smarter whenever you’re around,” you admit, and he snorts against the skin of your cheek again, enjoying how plush and soft it was, biting it as you squeal, but it was never hard enough to hurt, just experimental, and he laughs, “And you never even acknowledged the number of times I’d bring up a science-y article I had spent the entire night analyzing just for you to ask me about my stupid book report.” You pout, and he attempts to kiss it off of you, his hands roaming the exposed skin of your waist and stomach, hot against your cold self, and he rolls his eyes.
“That’s only because I was having tiny aneurysms whenever you’d do that,” he reasons, his face morphing into something sweet and gentle and something so entirely new and…yours that you wish you could take a picture of it, “And I wanted you to know that I remembered the things you told me.”
You throw a hand over your face, not wanting him to see the gleefulness on your face, but he just wrings your hands away, slotting his long legs in between yours as he lets out another joyous laugh.
“Come on,” he insists, nudging his nose against your jaw, “How else am I stupid?”
You let out an exaggerated groan, biting your lip as you try to think through your muddled thoughts.
“You…you…you kept only the ridiculous things I gave you!” You argue, and he moves upwards slightly, giving you a pointed look, as if you were offending his lifeline or treasures, “I’ve given so many things and…” But you trail off, feeling his large hand gently wrap around your face, turning it to the side so you could see his room from his point of view.
“Look closely,” he softly urges, and your eyes trail across the walls, the shelves, the tabletops, “This room is full of you.”
And he’s right.
The postcards he has up are the ones you gave the three of them from the time you had gone to Paris with your family over the summer, picking out individual ones you thought each of them would like. Vintage telescopes and microscopes you imagined him enjoying, but never enough to actually put them up. The music box that plays the theme of A New Hope, a simple melody from his favorite movie that you had also gotten for his birthday, sits on his bedside table. The books you had found on sale about plant biology, a little thing you thought he might like, rest on top of his bookshelf.
Your bottom lip catches between your teeth, and he chuckles at your quiet reaction, dipping down to kiss you again, wanting to nudge those sounds from you, even if he has to take them like this.
“Is this why you’d scare off any guy who came up to me?” You ask, but you already know the answer, just wanting to see the look on his face as he groaned, pinching your side as you giggle at his antics.
“I thought I was being so obvious,” he murmured against your lips, his tongue roaming through your mouth as you part it slightly for him, eyes fluttering shut at the feeling, a string of spit connecting the two of you as he pulls away, “Everyone could see how badly I wanted you.”
You shrug, feeling sluggish from his movements.
“I didn’t,” you argue faintly, and he looks up, white lashes fluttering as he grins, kissing the tip of your nose as he smiles.
“Guess I didn’t either,” he whispers teasingly, “Guess we’re both stupid for that.”
You go to fight back, but you let out an embarrassing moan at the way his hands travel across your stomach, pushing your shirt upwards slightly as your back arches upwards to chase the feeling. His hands are large and travel expertly across your body, as if he’s mapped out the small things that make you squirm and the things you itch for, as if he’s spent the past two years studying you instead of his dusty textbooks, and the thought alone makes you shake with anticipation.
“Can’t believe I waited this long,” he murmurs against the skin of your stomach, kissing the plain of it as you shake with an uncontrollable giggle, “Why didn’t you say anything, hm? Did you like tormenting me like this?”
The question makes you stop.
Suddenly, everything from before comes rushing back.
It seems like it sets off alarm bells in your head, as if you had been functioning through a rose-tinted fog for the past couple of minutes, and suddenly reality hits you because…you haven’t told him for a reason. The months and months of pining after him weren’t just because you liked torturing yourself, but because of your frankly very real fears of rejection for more reasons than one.
After a second, you huff, hands clenching by your sides as you feel a surge of feelings, deep ones that you’ve choked on and tried to hide, and he notices the instant way you tense up, stopping his movements as he glances upwards at you.
“Do you want to stop?” He asks gently, tugging the hem of your (his) shirt back down to cover your stomach, and you let out a delicate laugh, a pensive look on your face as you chew worriedly on your face.
Sighing, you rub a hand down your face, sitting upright with your back resting on his headboard, and turn to look back at his desk, feeling the weight of his stare more than before as heat licks at your cheeks.
“What about…what about the others?”
The question rings through the room, bouncing off the walls, and his brows furrow in slight confusion as you still refuse to tear your eyes away from his desk, your hands resting in your lap, and he moves slowly, his large hands encompassing yours, unraveling your fingers, alleviating the tension you didn’t know was building.
“What others?” Satoru asks after a moment, unjudgmentally, tenderly, and caring, patient as you huff out another shaky laugh, shrugging your shoulders as they fall in a heavy drop, your chest rattling with the emotions you had been trying to kill off from the past two years.
You chew on the inside of your cheek, feel his fingers against yours, and your gaze flickers to his before going back to focusing on something to the side.
“This is gonna sound stupid,” you preface, but his thumb presses into the palm of your hand, a small sign that he wasn’t going to judge anything that came out of your mouth because he just showed you that he kept the first napkin you had ever given him.
“But…” you drop your head into your hands, your voice muffled as you continue, “I see the girls that come up to you. O-or your ex. Vi…right?” You peek up, and his eyes are slightly squinted, nodding slowly, as if he wants you to make your point before he says something, “And they’re just so…ugh, I don’t know…perfect? Like, they seem perfect for you. Either they’re stunning, or they’re in your major, or they’re both, or just…so different, and I feel like I’m…not…that.”
He blinks slowly, piecing this together with the fact that he asked you why you hadn’t spoken up sooner, and his lips tug upwards in a little grin, one that makes you want to roll your eyes if not for the storm brewing inside of you, and he tugs you closer, one of his hands wrapping around your waist as he drops his head onto your chest.
“I think you’ve got it backwards,” he says against you, his voice vibrating off of you, and you feel it shake you to your core, his hand moving up and down the expanse of your back as you hand unconsciously move upwards, back to his soft white locks, “Because none of those girls could measure up to my perfect girl.”
You stop, glad he can’t see the large smile on your face as you head falls backwards, thumping against the wood as your chest swells with joy, and when he looks up, his goofy grin could match yours, and you push him away by the cheek, but he just moves, kissing the palm of your hand as you laugh softly.
“You’re so stupid,” you repeat, but he knows you’re only masking the giddiness you feel as he nods against your hand, his eyes shimmering and bright as he sits up a little straighter, nearly encompassing you with his body as he leans closer, his nose nudging yours as the two of you smile against each other's lips.
“You’ve got that right,” he whispers in the small space of air between you, “I’m such a fool for you.”
You decide then that you don’t give him any more time to talk or say something else that could turn your insides to mush, so you tug him down by his neck, his lips curling upwards as they press against yours.
He seems like he’s experimenting with kissing you, as if he knows you’re learning in real time, and has no qualms taking it slow. He lets you take the lead when you want, lets you dart your tongue out slightly, and opens his mouth to welcome you in. When you get a little shyer, he takes the initiative, hands roaming around your hips, pulling you into his lap as you mewl him again. When he could tell you needed some air, he’d pull away, kissing the corners of your lips, your cheeks that he loved so much, the edge of your brows that would pull into the cutest furrows whenever you were confused, and cherished you the way he’d been aching for ever since he saw you at that stupid English department banquet.
You chase the feeling of his skin on yours, the way his fingers feel when they trace your features, the way his hands run up your arms, the way his palm cups your jaw. Your hands seem to have a mind of their own, his as well, as they drop down to the drawstring of his trousers, running up the smooth and hard skin of his abs, feeling greedy as you run a finger down his delicious v-line. You feel him shuddering beneath you, and you grin evilly, your mouth water as you untie his pants, your fingers running over the white tufts of hair of his happy trail, and your shuffle around a little bit to help him as he tugs up the hem of his old band shirt that you donned, and you almost let out a whine when they suddenly stop, lashes fluttering open to see what he was going to do next.
His forehead drops onto yours, one of his arms pulling you closer to his chest, the other still cradling your face, and you see the way his face has gone pink, a light hue that you rarely see him in.
“Just so you know, this, em, this isn’t how I wanted things to go.”
You let out a stark laugh, your hands pressing against his as your fingers curl around his hair, tilting your head slightly to the side.
“Yeah? How were things supposed to go?” You ask, trying not to sound too selfishly drunk on him as he shrugs, his lips pressing together as he divulges you in his own fantasies, things he’d only think about when it was the two of you together and he’d be wanting to confess his undying love for you while you’d be rambling on about John Milton or another one of your other favorite authors.
He looks shy, and you want to bite him, watching him gather up some of the courage you had kissed away as he takes one of your hands away from his arms, playing with your fingers as he pushes some of his tousled hair away from his face.
“Well, I was planning on telling you how crazy I am about you after this whole day I had planned out,” he starts, scratching the back of his neck as he turns a little red, “I had, erm, bought tickets to the museum you’ve been wanting to go to,” he says, his eyes flickering from your face to the side as his head drops, and you nudge it back up as he chuckles, “The one displaying the original copies of those old books you like so much.”
He swallows, taking a deep breath, and then continues.
“And I wanted it to just be us, nobody else. I would have obviously read up on all the authors on exhibit, so I wouldn’t look like a total idiot when, or if, you had come, and I’d spend the entire time sweating and hoping you couldn’t see.” You giggle, and he squeezes your hand, rubbing his thumb up and down the back of it in a soothing gesture. Your eyes drop, urging him gently to continue because you feel like you’re in a dream, and if he stops, you’re going to wake up from it.
“Afterwards, I’d take you to this restaurant I’ve heard is good,” he grins boyishly, tongue poking in between his lips, “And when we were done, I’d walk you back to your place and…tell you that I liked you then.”
You can’t stop smiling, and he can’t stop either.
“Just…just that you liked me?” you tease, humming as he shifts a little, his arms wrapping around your waist, “Not to be…selfish, or anything, but I feel like this way was so much more romantic with your little box of trinkets and your rambling.” He groans, pinching you lightly as you snicker, but he ultimately shakes his head, smoothing over the place he pinched with his soothing touch.
“No, no,” he mutters, his face determined, as if he was recounting everything he had planned to say, “I’d tell you how much I liked the way you look when you start talking about your day,” his thumb brushes across your cheek, running across the soft hair of your brows, “And how much I like the way you care about everything you do and everybody around you. I’d tell you that I really like it when you tell me about the book you just finished, and how much I admire your kind heart. I’d tell you that I…I like how wonderfully weird you are, and how I wish I could be half as interesting as you are on a regular day. I would have told you how you’re always the first person I look for when I enter a room. And…” his shoulders rise and drop as he pulls you impossibly closer, “I would have really hoped that Suguru and Shoko were right about this because I’d be…a little embarrassed if not.”
You hum, pretending to think as you twirl his white strands around your pointer finger even though you feel like you’re on fire and you can’t breathe and everything feels like it’s burning in the best way possible, try not to freak out because the guy you’ve been in love with basically just admitted the most amazing things to you, so you take a steadying breath, your head tilting as you smile.
“And what if I didn’t want you to stop?” You feel heat blossom across your lungs when you hear his breathing hitch, “After…after you’d do all of that?”
He nods, surveying his different options as his blue eyes turn into a slightly different shade, as if they were dependent upon his emotions, and his hands turn a little heavier as they roam across your stomach, up across the skin of your ribcage, and they stop right under your bra.
“Hmm, well, I would’ve have asked you what you wanted to happen next,” his smile is wicked as his face drops down to your neck, leaving wet kisses until he ends up at your collarbone, right at the neck of your shirt as you nearly whine, feeling his teeth scrape just barely over the soft skin, “What is it you want, baby? What else would you want me to do?”
Your breathing stutters, and you arch your back a little, letting his nimble fingers fiddle with the clasp of your bra, giving you enough time to turn him down, but you don’t; you want, no, need, for him to continue.
“I,” your breath lodges in your throat when he opens the clasps, helping you tug the straps down until your old ratty bra, the comfortable one that you were sure wouldn’t matter being worn tonight because you never imagined something like this happening, but he doesn’t care, setting it to the side as he wait patiently, menacingly, for you to find your words, “I’d probably ask you to…to come up.”
He groans lightly, a mix between a guttural moan and a laugh.
“Yeah?” It’s not so much a question, but a confirmation as you nod, shivering when his hands move back upwards, your chest heaving as you feel his nimble and long fingers cup your tits, his fingers running over your nipples as your head falls to his shoulders, “Then what? What would I have done after I came up?”
You go down, you want to say tauntingly, but don’t have the willpower as his thumb flicks over a nipple, and you whine.
“Eh, you’d, uh, I’d, we, would probably end up on…on my bed and I’d probably be wearing something cuter than this,” you try to say indifferently, and he rolls his eyes because you could be wearing faux feathers glued to the entirety of your body and he’d still think you were the most beautiful woman to ever exist, “And I’d probably be a little more confident telling you what I,” you gulp audibly, your cheeks heating up, “What I want, seeing that you wouldn’t have just seen me at my virtual lowest hours earlier.” And he chuckles, and it feels right, feels like this was meant to happen as his hands fall from your breasts, trailing down your stomach as you shuffle a little, moving to lie back on his pillow as he shuffles to, situating his body in between your thighs, waiting for your next command.
Satoru’s grin turns soft, like he knows what it is you want, but needs to hear you say it for him to feel okay doing the thing that’s setting him alight. His hand moves, taking yours into his again and intertwining his fingers between yours.
“… what do you want, love?” His voice is thick, and it settles deep in your bones as your head falls, squeezing his fingers as you sheepishly mutter something, and he barely hears you, nudging you to say it a little louder as you groan in embarrassment, an arm flying over your face as your head falls back, not able to look him in the eyes as you timidly whisper;
“For you, like…to do stuff,” you murmur so quietly you think that your lips barely even moved, “To…to eat me out or….or whatever.”
When he says nothing for a moment, you peek between your fingers and see his cheeks flushed, a shit-eating grin on his face as he sets his chin down on your stomach, his glasses crooked as his brow arched. He moves, gingerly tugs your arm away from your face, and sits down by your side as he presses a chaste kiss to your stomach.
“Yeah….yeah, I think I can ‘eat you out or whatever’,” he says, and you groan ever louder, flicking his forehead as he chuckles, taking your words as the sign to go, go, go, his fingers moving excruciatingly slow as they start to tug the waistband of your pants and boxers (his, again), down, looking up at you for a little assistance, and you lift your hips, allowing him to slide them down fully.
You blink, relaxing that you’re completely bare right now, but he doesn't give you any time to be self-conscious as his pupils seem to blow up with lust, hungrily eating up the way your pussy is glistening with want and need, his cheeks a fiery red as his chest moves in a large exhale, like the air had been knocked from him.
His hand raises upwards to take his glasses off, but you make a sudden movement, as if your body was functioning on autopilot, when your hands wrap around his wrist, stopping him from doing anything else.
“Don’t,” your voice is barely above a whisper, “K-keep them on.”
His white lashes flutter slightly, and he gives you one of his boyish smiles that you love so much, his teeth shining as he presses his lips to the inside of your wrist, nodding slowly as he pushes his glasses back on.
“If I knew that waiting so long for you to tell me that you liked my glasses would have been when I’m about to do this, I think I could have waited another couple of years more.” He says honestly, dropping himself down between your thighs, and your eyes flutter shut, head falling back on the pillow as you feel his warm hands slowly move up and up and up, parting you ever so slightly so he could situate himself better between them.
Your mouth parts when you feel his fingers move on the outside of your lips, collecting the slick, and you hold back a wanton moan, your hands flying up to his hair, tugging him closer. You watch as he pushes his glasses up by using his shoulder to move the frames up, and when his lips suddenly latch onto your clit you actually think you’ve gone insane.
His tongue darts out, moaning like a whore when he finally gets to taste your saccharine taste, his eyes rolling back as he parts your lips, the sound greedy as he moves a thumb to circle your clit, moving down to run his tongue selfishly up and down your pussy for his own pleasure, needing to feel you or else he was going to go mad.
“You taste,” his voice is muffled as he pants against your cunt, using a finger to move up and down the slit, “You taste sweet,” he said it like he was startled, like he had spent hours and hours studying female anatomy and how to pleasure a girl and what to do, but never could have expected this unexpected turn, to taste you and realize that you were sweeter and more delicious than any candy he’s ever eaten before, “Why do you taste so…so sweet?”
You would laugh if you weren’t so turned on, saying some jumbled-up words as he ducks down again, your fingers digging into his scalp as his thumb goes a little faster on your swollen nub, his long pointer finger rubbing at the outside of your pussy, getting ready to push it in.
When he finally does, your walls instantly clamp down on it, and you moan, not expecting the stretch, and he gives you some time to adjust. It’s not like you’re a prude, you’ve at least attempted this before, but your fingers aren’t like Gojo Satoru’s, and you feel like you could come just from this.
“Feeling good, baby?” He questions, and you hurriedly nod, hearing him chuckle.
“Yeah,” you stutter out, your teeth clenched as you feel his finger start to move out, and then your mouth falls open as he starts to slowly pump it in and out of you, a mind-bending pace that has you clenching around him, “Feels good.”
He nods, taking it as confirmation to keep going, and he switches between a finger and his tongue, darting them inside of you. He keeps his pressure on your clit, and you grow impossibly wetter when he leans down to lay a cute little kiss on it, his glasses slowly fogging up.
Gojo Satoru eats you out like you’re his last meal, like he’s been living like Tantalus for his twenty years alive, and finally, the fruit tree doesn’t move from his grasp, and he’s able to divulge like the greedy and sinful man he always has been.
Sometimes the hand that’s occupying your clit moves upwards, pulling his old shirt up and over the expanse of your torso to see your supple skin shake beneath his large palms, and he cups your tits, groaning like a slut when he feels your nipples pebble, and he pinches them between his pointer finger and thumb, twisting a little to feel you squeal, and he grins, softening his touch as he smooths it over, moving back down to your nub as if nothing happened.
You watch from hooded eyes, watch the way his eyes close, like he’s savoring your taste. You see the way he slowly ruts into the mattress, like he was getting off to this, and the thought itself makes you gush even more.
When he’s satisfied that you’ve adjusted to his one finger, he decides to slip another one in, and the size alone makes you whine, the stretch something that causes tears to dart in the corner of your eyes in delicious pain.
“Hmm,” you moan, one of your hands fisting the sheets, the other tangled in his white hair as you guide him up and down, and you can swear you feel him smiling against you, as if your reactions were a symphony to his ears, “It’s not like I really have a metric but…you’re good at this.”
Satoru chuckles, looking up at you, and the sight knocks the air out of your lungs. His cheeks are flushed, wet in the dim lighting of the room, his glasses crooked, and his hair a mess, but he looks positively radiant as his smile flashes bright.
“I hope I am,” his voice is lower than you’ve ever heard it, and it vibrates against your pussy, “I’ve been studying.”
Despite feeling lightheaded, his statement chased you to come to your senses a bit, sitting up on your elbows as you looked at him through furrowed brows.
“Studying?” You parrot, and he nods eagerly, his thumb putting pressure on your sensitive and swollen clit as your mouth falls open in a silent moan, barely able to keep your eyes open as he explains.
“Mhm,” he hums, his nose, the beautiful nose that you want to kiss all over, rubs expertly on the hood of your clit as he presses chaste, sloppy kisses to your cunt, “I read all these posts and books and papers about what the best way to eat a girl out,” his voice is hoarse, licking up and down your syrupy inner walls, his two fingers never stopping their relentless pace as something deep in your stomach begins to build up, “Brushed up on some….anatomy and the sorts.”
You let out a breathless laugh.
Because of course he had.
“You,” your mouth clamps shut when he hits the spongy part deep inside of you that makes your toes curl, your lashes fluttering against your hot cheeks, and you can’t talk correctly but make the attempt to, barely above a whisper as you mutter, “Y-you’re insane.”
He rolls his eyes, but doesn’t deny it as his thumb swirls in figure eight patterns on your clit, his pointer and middle fingers curling upwards, and you can’t really find it in yourself to chide him when he’s making you feel heavenly.
You feel like you’re unraveling at his skillful hands, and it definitely doesn’t help that whenever you have the guts to open your eyes you’re met with the view of Satoru loosing himself in your cunt, as with each second that passed, he was going just as crazy as you were, and it felt like that familiar feeling of an orgasm building, but unlike anything you’ve ever felt before.
It’s almost like he knows, because he seems to go faster, switching between licking and his fingers, and your grip on him tightens, and he moans, welcoming the sting.
“Come on,” he presses, urging, needing you to finish around him, to taste your relief on his tongue, “Come on, baby, I know you wanna come.”
You nod, sweat dotting your forehead, your chest heaving up and down with labored breaths, that knot inside of you tightening as your thighs clamp down around his head, your walls pulsing around his fingers.
It gradually builds, but that feeling suddenly snaps, and you jolt, your back arching, moving into him, his fingers never stopping, his thumb and lips on your clit, suctioning in a perfect way that sends you over the edge. You clench tightly around him, creaming, spasming as you gush, your eyes rolling back in your head as you let out the quietest but sweetest moan, and when you feel your orgasms slow to a dull pulse, you fall back onto his mattress, limp as he doesn’t stop instantly.
Instead, he lets his fingers slow down carefully, as if you’d get immediate withdrawal from the feeling of having him inside of you. He kisses your clit once, then twice, and pulls away, connected by a string of spit, slick and your cum, and when you finally have the energy to wring your eyes open, the sight of him wrecked form eating you out makes you even more wet.
You take a few moments to catch your breath, your chest heaving up and down, your hand falling away from his soft locks as it sprawls across your stomach, and you stare helplessly at the ceiling.
Blinking owlishly, you awkwardly scootch upwards until you’re resting on the back of the headboard, and you watch as he brings his fingers up to his mouth, grinning coyly as he moans at the taste of you, and if you could, you’d pinch him, but you just weakly push him with your foot, looking away abashedly.
“Nasty,” you whisper hoarsely, your voice gone, and he coos, crawling towards you, bringing his face towards yours as he nudges his nose with yours, and you’re weak, giving in as he hungrily presses his wet lips to yours.
You can taste yourself on him, and you mewl, feeling his tongue in your mouth, licking inside of you, wanting you to enjoy what he just enjoyed, and your shaking hands grip around his neck. He pulls away a little bit, biting your bottom lip before kissing it, and he rubs a loving thumb across your cheek, his eyes turning gentle as he peers at you through those ocean eyes through those stunning glasses you adore so much.
You don’t trust your voice, so instead you let your hands unravel from his nape, moving upwards towards the expensive frames, straightening them on his nose, making sure they rest correctly on his pink ears, and he watches silently, reverently, as you push him back gently by the chin, making sure that they looked right on the bridge of his nose.
“Hmm, looks better,” you whisper affectionately, kissing the tip of his nose like you’ve always wanted, and that seems to push him over the edge, quickly wrapping his arms around your midsection as he pulls you closer to him, falling back on the bed as he tugs you into his chest, his head resting in the crook of your neck.
At that moment, you feel it, and your eyes blink rapidly from their hazy state as his hard-on pressed against your thigh.
“Hey,” you murmur, poking his side, but he doesn’t seem like budging, his overwhelming heat and size covering you, his thick arms not moving from caging you to him, and you can’t even wrangle free, “‘Toru, what about you?”
He doesn’t even lift his head, just hums against the skin of your neck, his lips busy leaving hickeys all over it, ones you’re going to deeply regret in the morning but can’t seem to care right now except for the boner you’re sure is deeply uncomfortable.
“What about me?” He dreamily replies, his voice barely audible, and you roll your eyes. From this angle, you can see the way his shirt is riding up, his abs on display, the veins leading downward prominent, and his trail of white hair is calling your name.
You wedge your hand in between your bodies as you press against his cock, the movement causing him to yelp and shudder, whimpering against you as you snicker, sure that now he’s going to give you some more undivided attention.
He sits up a little bit, resting his head on his fist, his elbow on his pillow as he peers down at you, his brow slightly cocked, not looking impressed with being tormented like this after treating you so kindly by giving you the best orgasm of your life.
“Not nice,” he reprimands warmly, poking your side as you yelp, his finger much more sturdy than yours, “You’re not really supposed to grab dicks like that, y’know?”
Your cheeks heat at his choice words, and you shrug, feigning innocence as you bring his hand to yours, admiring the large size a syou play with his fingers, feeling more touchy than usual, and you’re ever so glad that he lets you.
“I’m just saying,” you mumble, flashing him a look that sends a nonexistent punch to his gut, the blood rushing south because you look ethereal like this, “Don’t you want me to…return to favor? Tit for tat?”
He chuckles, his thumb moving across your eyebrow, soothing the furrow as it moves down to rub against your cheek.
“We can do tat later,” he uses your terminology and you giggle, your lips pulling into a bright smile because you’re sitting in a post-orgasm afterglow with your crush, and that stupid theorem you had stressed over doesn’t even matter anymore because the impossible outcome is happening right now and you don’t bother with looking normal because you’re feeling anything but, “I still have a date I need to take you out on.”
You try not to gush like an idiot, your head falling into his sturdy chest, and his hand moves up and down your back, tracing stars and circles and hearts and writing his name, as if he wanted everyone to see the invisible ink that’s bleeding from his fingertips into you.
His finger hooks around your jaw, tilting your head upwards so he can see you better.
“You wanna date me?” You ask breathlessly with dizzingly joy, the question holding no weight because the two of you already know the answer, but he indulges you, his head falling to yours, forehead against yours, glasses sitting perfectly on his perfect face that’s pressing against your perfect one.
“I want to be yours,” he murmurs, vulnerability thick in his voice as your lashes flutter, “So, yeah, I want to date you.”
You giggle again, and you lift your head a little to slot your lips against his plush ones.
“I want to be yours too, Satoru,” you say, and he groans, his eyes rolling back like those were the only words he’s been dying to hear, and he lets out a victorious laugh, something happy and sickeningly sweet because the girl he’s been in love with for the past two years just so happens to love him back.
˖᯽ ݁˖· ─ WORD COUNT: 16.3k
˖᯽ ݁˖· ─ PAIRING: riize's jung sungchan x female!reader
˖᯽ ݁˖· ─ TAGS & WARNINGS: f1!au, teammate's sister!au, strangers to lovers!au, straight up fluff
˖᯽ ݁˖· ─ SYNOPSIS: incoming f1 rookie jung sungchan is focused only on one thing: get through his first season without losing his seat by the end of it. ferrari's taken a big chance on a rookie this year, and he's not about to mess that up. on the other hand, your job is to keep your brother in the good graces of fans and media and draw all attention to your brother.. . and not yourself.
˖᯽ ݁˖· ─ NOTES: the race order in this follows the 2025 calendar & there is no intentional similarities to any real-life racing events/results/incidents. this is in an ideal world, where ferrari has a good car and a competent team. we can only dream. i have a lot more planned for this couple, but wanted to get a fic out for the bday boy. watch this space!!!
happy birthday to our amazing and talented jung sungchan<3 i love you my jinsu!
꒰🏎️꒱
ROUND 01 - AUSTRALIAN GRAND PRIX
You're doing your best at keeping your face neutral as you watch executives, managers and staff buzz around you at the very edge of the garage. The phone in your tight grip sounds out the 7th ring and you grow more impatient as it continues on.
Finally, the line clicks.
"Mark, where the fuck are you?" you snap into the phone abruptly.
On the other side of the line, Mark lets out this deep, resigned sigh that has steam coming out of your ears, "Sis, chill. I'm coming back now."
You hear a shrill, high-pitched laugh in the background of the call and a whiny voice calling for your brother and you want to choke yourself out on the spot. You now know exactly where he is but you decide you'll give him the opportunity to lie to you.
"You better not be at the fuck ass Williams garage, I swear," you seethe into the phone, "40 minutes before lights out and you're not even at your own garage."
Your profanity catches the attention of the team principal walking pasts you, who shoots you an exasperated look, "Where is Mark?"
Letting out a nervous and awkward chuckle, you point to your phone, "He's coming. He's coming"
Fred just nods and makes a hurry up gesture with his hands as you bring the speaker back to your ear. You catch the tail end of Mark's rant where's he's calling you "-such a fucking bore."
"Just get here on that dumb little scooter of yours, now," your tone leaves no room for argument as you hang up and shoot Fred and the engineers a thumbs up as they look around in confusion.
Anyone would be confused if their driver suddenly went AWOL 40 minutes before the first race of the season and they're all looking at you because unfortunately, it is your job to ensure Mark is where he needs to be at all times. You didn't think telling him to be at his own team's garage before a race would be part of it though- let alone the first race of the new season.
You've always known that your brother, the social butterfly, likes to wander. And if you don't know where he is, he's probably somewhere gallivanting with Williams driver Lee Haechan. You caught some of it at the tail end of the previous season when you began feeling out your role and getting the low down from your mom who has since handed the job over to you after you graduated the summer before.
Officially, you're Mark's manager, but you're more like his manager, publicist, personal assistant, therapist, and babysitter rolled into one. Starting this season, your job is to make sure that Mark's only worry is getting into that car and driving well, which means that everything else falls on you and your stress level is at an all time high 100% of the time.
No wonder your mom had to take an early retirement.
You honestly, truly, genuinely had no idea how much work went into managing an F1 driver and you could have all the undergrad and masters degrees in communications in the world and you'd still have no idea how your mother endured it since Mark's younger karting days.
You zone out against the wall for what feels like forever, until you hear your brother's calls into the garage as he zooms in through the front on that scooter that actually makes him look quite stupid, but it gets him places faster than his feet.
"I'm here, someone tell Y/N to chill," Mark chortles and you resist the urge to throw the brick of a phone in your hand straight at his face.
"I'm gonna go to hospitality then," you breathe out deeply to calm yourself, knowing you were resolved from duties for the next hour and a half while he zooms around the track. You peer out the garage door and see it's still raining as it had been all morning and afternoon, "Good luck, Markie. Be safe out there."
Though you're residually annoyed at your brother for making you stress, the nerves you have before each race finally begin to seep in between your bones to replace that feeling. It's not even a welcome substitution, but it's a familiar feeling having watched Mark race for the better part of your life.
He reaches over to ruffle the top of your head and shoots you a gentle smile before nodding his head in the direction of the door to shoo you away.
Over the years, it's grown easier to watch Mark race, but that feeling will never go away- the one where your stomach sinks into a pit every time a competitor gets near him, the one where you hold your breath every time he dives into an overtake on a dangerous corner, the one that explodes into a ball of flames on those rare occasions he crashes and you have to find out if he's okay alongside the world. This is your first year as part of Mark's team, and with that, you know you have to travel to every race weekend with him. Before, you could only manage to get to the weekends that fit around your school schedule and exams, meaning you only had to deal with those emotions a handful of times per season, plus the occasional broadcasts you would catch if it was in the right time zone. Now, it's a new challenge of making it through every weekend without ripping all of your hair out in anxiety.
Your mind is all occupied and in tatters that you don't even register it completely when you bump into a figure and nearly trip over your own feet. A set of strong hands catch you at your shoulders to steady you, "Woah, careful."
"Oh, I'm sorry. I wasn't looking," the hallway out of the garage is narrow and you should have been looking to make way for whoever was coming.
When you finally look up, you're face-to-face with a visage you've only seen on social media posts recently, "No worries- wait, you look familiar," his eyes drop down to the pass around your neck- an all-access Ferrari pass- "Do you work for Ferrari?"
"Y/N Lee, Mark's sister and manager," you introduce yourself calmly.
"Ah, right. I'm Sungchan. Sungchan Jung," he bares his teeth in a charming smile as he fiddles with the fireproof suit pooling around his waist. Ferrari's newest driver, and a rookie at that, stands in front of you all wide-eyed and fidgeting. He's probably nervous for his first F1 race under the emblem, having only raced a couple times in the previous season as a reserve for Haas.
You laugh at him, "I know who you are. But nice to finally meet you. You'll see me around a lot this season, but probably rarely in as calm a state as right now."
Sungchan chuckles with you, "Does your version of calm involve you walking into people all dissociated?"
"My only advice to you is be nice to your manager and don't make them pull their hair our trying to get you to where you need to be," you tut at him before looking back at the garage and realising, "Which is probably exactly what you're doing. Get in there, Jung! Good luck for the race."
Sungchan tugs his lips into an appreciative smile as he ruffles the hair out of his face, "It's nice to meet you, Y/N Lee."
꒰🏎️꒱
ROUND 02 - CHINESE GRAND PRIX
You're not that familiar with the Shanghai Grand Prix grounds, having only visited it the one time in Mark's 2nd season. It's the first year in 5 years that the track returned to the calendar, so the crowd is pumping with excitement and your brother nervous in his motor home.
For most tracks, drivers could do it with their eyes closed, driving on feeling and memory built up over the years. It's comforting to know that a majority of the other drivers on the grid were also fairly recent racers with limited experience on the track.
Although the practices went okay and he was starting on the grid at P2, you could read it in his face that he was unsettled as he went through his breathing exercises in the chair. His coach had recommended him to meditate before races to keep his head clear and get his head in the game and he's followed that advice religiously ever since.
"Markie, what's wrong?" you call out softly to him.
His head lifts up to meet your gaze, "It might rain during the race. It was such a shit show with the rain last week and if I can't see anything out my visor, it's gonna be a mess again."
You know your brother was having a hard time grappling with the P3 finish after starting in pole in the first race of the season. He was coming off a driver's championship the previous season, so everyone was expecting him to keep the momentum going and win right off the bat.
"It's only the second race, Mark. The season's long, so don't get in your head about it so early on," you try to comfort him, "Plus, every driver will experience the same weather as you on the track. You just have to trust in your team, okay?"
"Speaking of team, I can't believe Sungchan is starting in P5 today," Mark clapped his hands together as the thought came to him, "Maybe we can fight for a constructor's championship this year."
The rookie already impressed the team and the public with a points finish in Australia, securing P7. Last season, Mark had nearly single-handedly led Ferrari to 3rd in the constructor's championship, but his lack of a consistent teammate had meant they couldn't get any closer to the top. There was a reason that there was a new driver in the second seat and you, along with everyone else, were hoping that he could take Ferrari to that next level again.
"I bumped into him just before the race last weekend. He seems nice," you comment casually, happy to distract your brother from his nerves, "Where did he come from? Feels like he just came out of nowhere."
"As if you followed last season diligently," Mark teases, "But he's a Ferrari junior, raced a few times as a sub last season too . He's got a hell of a lot of potential though, but I hope he doesn't get on my ass too much."
You shrug, "Some competition is nice."
"He's the youngest person on the Ferrari team right now- other than you. You guys should be friends," Mark says, "You'll see him a lot this year."
"Ha, is this also your way of saying I don't have friends here?" you tease him.
Mark rolls his eyes, "Cause you don't."
"I'm friends with Eunseok's girlfriend," you protest, offended.
"And she's never ever in the paddock because she's a doctor," Mark counters, "All I'm saying is that it's nice to have a friend on the team."
You decide to shelve his comments in the deep section of your brain reserved for things that weren't about your brother and your job as you check your watch, "It's time to go to the car now. You good?"
Mark flattens his lips together, "Always ready. Going up to hospitality? Or watching from the garage today?"
"Depends how in the way I feel in the garage today," you shrug and follow him out of his motor home. He greets the staff members that litter the path and makes small conversations with a few engineers that briefly join your walk before breaking away.
Behind him, you're tapping furiously at your phone to ensure you had absolutely everything mapped out and booked in for his post-race duties.
"Ever keep your eyes up?" Sungchan's voice isn't so familiar to you yet that you can recognise him without looking. You don't stop in your tracks as you look up and see him peering down at you.
"Mark's a busy guy, which unfortunately makes me a busy woman," you mutter, finalising something on the calendar you share with Mark before pocketing your phone, "How are you feeling for the race? Great job in qualifying."
"Yeah, I'm really happy with where I'm starting. It's gonna be tricky defending my spot from the rest of the grid but I'm excited," the expression on his face is endearing and full of passion.
"Good luck," you tell him sincerely, "I'll be watching from the garage today and cheering you on!"
Sungchan's face twists in surprise at your words, "You will?"
You give him a confused look, "You're my brother's teammate and the team would love a constructor's championship this year."
Sungchan makes an 'ah' face, "Yeah, of course. Thanks Y/N."
"Why do you look so surprised?"
He looks hesitant to answer you as his mouth opens, then closes, before it opens again, "I'm not used to people cheering for me. That's all. See ya later, Y/N."
Jung Sungchan disappears behind your brother in a wall of race engineers and tyres stacked up to the roof. You're confused by his comment briefly before your mind transports itself back to a time between the end of the last season and the start of this one when your brother had told you about his new Ferrari teammate.
Mark had been frowning at his phone, reading the comments of the post announcing Sungchan's F1 contract. There were masses of hate comments left by strangers on the internet who were so angry about this young adult getting the Ferrari seat over their favourite driver and that conversation with Mark had left such a sour taste in your mouth and a lot of sympathy for his teammate you hadn't yet met.
In a blink of an eye, you're pressed against a wall of the garage, peering up at the screens displaying the feed of the race. Evidently, you couldn't find a seat in the area, but you were too distracted by your own thoughts to trust yourself to put one foot in front of the other.
Mark was doing well as you expected. He had managed to undercut the race leader with a well-timed pit-stop and even managed to give his teammate a good tow in the process of waiting out the pitstops in front of him. The guests and staff around you were all buzzing with excitement at the prospect of the first Ferrari win of the season, but somewhere along the way when Mark had a comfortable lead, your gaze had started focusing on the letters 'JUN' on the side of the feed.
He had managed to keep his position at P5 50 laps into the 56 lap race, and he was getting closer and closer to the car ahead. With Mark seemingly securing his victory already with a 9 second gap, the garage had then started to talk about the rookie and his prospect of a higher points finish.
Sungchan was very nearly in DRS range to the car in front of him and with every turn before the detection zones, everyone held their breaths. Your routine was to tune into Mark's feed on your phone to get all the info from his team radio and the pit-wall in case there was something you'd like for him to address in his post-race interviews, but your fingers had moved by themselves to switch the feed to Sungchan's.
"Give it everything, Sungchan," his race engineer had instructed softly as he began lap 52, "Your tires will hold out until the end. Push, please."
His voice was shaky as his radio came in, "Copy."
"1.046 to Song."
In every other situation, you'd feel bad for Eunseok. You were almost friends through his sweet girlfriend, but Sungchan was your brother's teammate and you were practically a Ferrari employee. Of course you were going to cheer for the rookie.
Sungchan hadn't managed to close the gap before the first DRS detection zone, but going down the first straight, it seemed like he had just put his foot to the ground and nudged his car right up to Eunseok's. You couldn't breathe as he sent the cars full throttle into turns 14 and 15, knowing he needed to get within a second of Eunseok before turn 16.
The roar of the garage was electric the exact second that DRS was activated and Sungchan flew past the Mercedes in a handful of seconds. You let out a sigh of relief as the garage burst into applause.
In your lone earbud, Sungchan's race engineer comes in proudly, "P4. Well done, Sungchan. Keep it up and defend, okay?"
"Jung's defying all expectations," someone beside you murmurs, "I doubted him when they signed the contract, but he's proving everyone wrong."
The person they were accompanying replies something in favour of the rookie, but his words from earlier echoes back to you- I'm not used to people cheering for me.
It reminds you of Mark's early racing days when winning or getting on the podium at every race wasn't the norm. It took a lot of hard work for Mark to get on the top, but there was a point he was contemplating on giving up, but your parents had sat him down and asked him whether that would be what he truly wanted. Their support for him instead of pushing him into a more conventional and less expensive path was enough for him to keep trying, at least just for that moment. From then, Mark never looked back.
Sungchan had this expression of uncertainty when you spoke to him earlier. Maybe all he needed was someone to truly believe in him.
꒰🏎️꒱
BREAK BETWEEN ROUND 02 and 03
It certainly felt pointless to you to fly halfway across the globe from China to Italy when the next race in a week and a half was in Japan, but wherever Mark went, you followed. It's not your first time in Maranello, sure, but you've actually never been allowed to spend a lot of time at Ferrari HQ when you were just Mark's sister and not his employee.
Still, there's not much for you to do at the headquarters other than twiddle your thumbs and gaze upon the endless trophies of the past they had displayed. In the past 2 days that Mark has been doing stuff with the team, you've read pretty much every plaque describing all the moments immortalised on the canvases lining the walls. You already knew a lot about Ferrari history from dining room table conversations with your family, but now, you're definitely an expert.
The staff have been exceedingly nice over the past couple of days, always asking if you wanted a drink or a driver to take you around town, but you'd mostly just declined in your best Italian and scrolled your social media in the corner of this boujee lounge dedicated for their drivers.
You don't actually even know what Mark's doing with the team- you haven't bothered to learn all the nitty-gritty technical things related to the car and driving, saving your brain expenditure on publicity training tips to impart on your brother and organisational skills instead. It was certainly no easy task trying to communicate to all the brands that sponsored your brother and all the people reaching out to have him do this, that and the other, all while making sure his calendar was prioritised for his races and F1 commitments first.
Sure, a GQ photoshoot and spread would be good for his fame, but if Ferrari needed him at Maranello, then they'd either have to come to Mark themselves or find another driver.
"Hi Y/N," Sungchan waves at you in greeting as he enters the lounge. He's throwing back an energy drink down his throat as he takes the sofa across from you, "Still waiting for Mark?"
"I don't know when he'll be finished again. I probably should have just stayed in the hotel," you nod solemnly.
"Why did you come to Italy? You could've gone back home in your break or travelled a bit," Sungchan asks you curiously.
You shrug, "I'm Mark's employee now so I guess I have to follow him. Canada's too far for only a week's stay and Monaco is boring without Mark there. I just moved to Monaco so I don't really have that many friends there yet."
Sungchan grins, "I'm moving to Monaco soon actually. Right of passage for F1 drivers, I guess."
"Oh, you don't live there yet? Where do you live?"
He gestures out the window with his hand, "I moved here when I was 15. I've been a development driver that long. My mum came with me at first, but she went back to Korea when I turned 20."
"Oh that's so cool- do you speak Italian?" you quiz him.
"Sì, certo," Sungchan blurts proudly, "It's definitely not native level but I try my best."
"That's very impressive," you compliment, "I only know how to say yes, no and where's the toilet in Italian. It's actually only my fourth time in the country."
Sungchan looks surprised, "Really? But Mark's been a Ferrari driver for years and years."
"I've been busy with school; Canada is so far from the rest of the world. I worked whenever I was off school too," you explain to him, "My whole family came to Maranello though when Mark signed his rookie contract with the team and I came to Monza and Imola a couple years back."
"Does that mean you haven't seen much of the town?" there's a glint in his eyes as you shake your head, "Do you want a tour from a local? I'm free the rest of today."
For a moment you contemplate whether it's ethical to leave your boss hanging, but then you remember he's also your silly older brother. He definitely wouldn't mind if you ran away with Sungchan for an afternoon- he didn't even want you to come to Maranello with him to be honest.
"Would Mark mind?" Sungchan can see the gears turning in your head.
"Nah, he doesn't have time to show me around himself anyway. Are you sure though?" Sungchan holds an arm out that you grab to tug yourself up to your feet.
He points out the window, "It's a gorgeous spring day. Let's make the most of it!"
You're not sure why, but you don't hesitate to follow Sungchan out of the room and to wherever he wanted to take you. After shooting Mark a quick text, you catch up to the heels of the tall driver.
He bows and say thank you and goodbye to every staff member you come across out of the building and they all look at him with such fondness and adoration that you start to understand why they might possibly choose a rookie driver who's grown up with the team over a egotistical, over-cocky external recruit.
The Ferrari HQ actually has valet, so Sungchan walks up to the desk and greets the staff there like they're old friends before they disappear into a door behind the desk.
"Ah, of course you have a car here; you live here," you hum beside him as he leans against the glass at the front of the building.
"Mhm, they gifted it to me when I made my F1 debut last year. I have to ship it to Monaco soon, though," he cocks his head in realisation, "Or drive it 5 hours over the border. Maybe a road trip would be fun, but it's not like the car would carry anything anyway."
As soon as he says that, a sleek and expensive looking sports car with the prancing horse logo pulls up into the front. The valet steps out and hands the key over to your companion, who gestures for you to get inside. Your brother has his fair share of flashy cars, so it's not anything new to you, but you don't deny it's still cool.
Sungchan opens the passenger side door and you watch it swing up instead of out. You give him an appreciative smile before he jogs around to get behind the wheel.
"I wish I could compliment you on this car, but I don't know much about them," you say sheepishly, "I'm definitely eager to learn more as I go through the season."
He's started driving already without telling you where you were going, but you somehow find it in yourself to trust him with your life despite only having met him a handful of times.
"How come you ended up working with your brother then?" he asks.
"I have an undergrad and masters in communications, so being a PR person or manager was the natural route. My mum has been doing it for Mark for forever and she wanted to retire from it, so it kind of felt natural for me to step into her role out of college," you explain, "I know, I know- I'm a nepo baby."
Sungchan shrugs, "Mark's lucky to have family at each race then no matter what. If I was him, I'd hire my sister who's literally educated in that area with no doubt. That's definitely something I'd consider but my parents and my older brother are content in their other careers."
"I'm assuming you have a manager, but I haven't met them yet. Do you get on well?"
A soft smile adorns his face, "Yeah, Changmin's like my second dad. He's been with me for a while too, but he has a few other racers in his management. Still, he's incredible, seriously. I'd be so lost without him."
"I wish Mark would appreciate me like that. Instead, all he does is stress me out by running away with Haechan before races," you snort, "Just kidding, I know he's grateful- or he should be."
Maranello isn't that big of a place so your conversation comes to a halt after a few more minutes of Sungchan finding out more about your family and your role with Mark. He parks up on the side of the street in front of a row of shops and restaurants.
"I forgot to ask if you were hungry, actually," Sungchan looks sheepish as his two hands grip the steering wheel as he turns the car off.
You giggle at his expression, "I'm always down for Italian food- and authentic Italian food this time."
His grin is dazzling as he reaches for the car door and tells you to wait. You obey, despite not quite realising why he requested that in the split-second it took for him to reach your side of the car and open your door. Sungchan offers out a hand to help you up, knowing how difficult it was to get out of the sports car sometimes without looking silly.
"You're such a gentleman, Sungchan. Your mother's raised you well- or your past girlfriends," you tease him lightly.
He lets out a playful scoff as he denies, "Nah, I've never even had a girlfriend. Was too busy racing in my teens and I was homeschooled when I came to Italy so I didn't exactly know many Italian girls to fall at my feet. But yeah, my parents have drilled it in me and my brother to treat people well."
"Hey, you're an F1 driver now," you nudge him playfully as you follow him to an entrance of a restaurant with a brick facade, "Your life is about to be yachts, models, partying and celebrities. You're the celebrity."
He scrunches up his face adorably, "I don't know about that one, actually. Doesn't seem like the lifestyle for me."
Every moment passing with Sungchan just shows you how good of a person he seems to be. Mark may be right in trying to get the two of you to be friends.
The restaurant he takes you to is small beyond the exterior, but it has a homely vibe with the colourful, but wearing tablecloths adorning the surfaces and the soft music crooning over the speakers. Sungchan speaks in hushed, fluent Italian to the server who smiles at him like he knows him- which every person in the town probably does.
The server leads you to a table in the far corner, but it's still a good spot to not make you feel cramped. It's just cozy and just right.
Sungchan translates carefully what the server harps off about the restaurant and when they leave for you to decide, you eye the menu in hesitation. There's not a lick of English on it, which you don't expect, but you didn't buy any data to load Google Translate as you thought you'd be scrounging off hotel and HQ wifi the whole time.
"I'll go through the menu with you," Sungchan offers softly when he sees your reluctant face and plucks the laminated sheet out of your hand, "Are you allergic to anything?"
"Nope," you murmur. You're in awe of his kindness, truly. He's currently sat across the square table from you, but he picks up his chair and moves perpendicular to be able to nestle in beside you. He leaves behind his own menu to lean over and peer at your own.
You don't even realise you've frozen until he's softly saying your name, "Y/N?"
"Oh, yeah- sorry!" your cheeks flush pink after being caught out, but Sungchan doesn't take notice as he points to the starters.
Diligently, he translates every dish and the descriptions, giving his own opinions and watching your face react to each item. From his recommendation, the two of you decide on your food and he calls over the server to take your order. You weren't a big drinker and wine wasn't exactly up your alley, so you settled for soft drinks instead.
When Sungchan finishes listing the familiar food items, the server's eyes flash towards you before he says something to Sungchan. The driver, who was still sat beside you, breaks out into little giggles as you notice the tips of his ears start turning red while he curtly responds.
"What did he say to you?" you ask curiously, taking a sip from the water the server had supplied when you sat down.
Sungchan purses his lips and opens them, before he hesitates and closes them again for a second, "He just made a funny joke. It's in Italian so hard to translate."
You eye him warily, "Hm, okay."
He asks you a question to distract you into a tangent about your degree until the food comes. Unsurprisingly, it's the best Italian you've ever had and the server, despite his little English, manages to dedicate such great customer service to you that you're practically a silence away from writing poetry in their TripAdvisor reviews.
Sungchan happily details to you his life- how he got into racing, his highs and his lows in his career and his biggest dreams. The way he babbles between fork-fulls of pasta is utterly endearing that you have to stop yourself from reaching over the table and squeezing his cheeks. Still, you keep composure as he talks about his racing heroes.
When the food winds down and you're stuffed to the brim, finished off by a good helping of tiramisu, Sungchan is already behind you, ready with your jacket to slide over your arms.
"We haven't paid yet, though?" you frown at him.
The server, carrying a tray of drinks to another table, passes you at this moment, "Mr Sungchan paid. Che bella coppia! Buona serata!"
You look over at Sungchan who waves a dismissive hand at you and leads you out of the restaurant and to the car with a goodbye to the staff.
"What did he say at the end? I'm guessing he said have a good evening and bella means beautiful right?" you investigate him. The smile on the server's face was so sincere; you wished you understood what he said.
"He said what a beautiful couple," Sungchan chews the inside of his mouth bashfully, "I told him earlier that we weren't a couple, but he's just teasing."
You realise suddenly, "Ah, that must be what made you so red earlier, haha. It's fine- he's a lovely man and it's an amazing restaurant."
You both clamber into your respective sides of the car as Sungchan displays a solemn expression, "I just realised that was probably my last time there for a while since I'm moving."
"You act like the HQ for the team you drive for isn't here," you tease him, "Maybe you'll just have to learn to cook like them!"
Sungchan chortles, "As if! You can be my taste-tester in Monaco then. You'll regret giving me that idea."
You join his hearty, melodious laughs, "Okay, I'll see you in Monaco for that."
꒰🏎️꒱
ROUND 03 - JAPANESE GRAND PRIX
You were having your first difficult weekend dealing with your brother. It was so hard, in fact, that you didn't even join him for dinner after qualifying day.
A spun out Alpine during his final Q3 flying lap meant that he only qualified 6th and he certainly felt some way about it, making his feelings known to the press. Your brother isn't usually so hot-headed and irrational when it came to these things, but sometimes, things just build up and his fuse blows.
The Alpine had been driving erratically all weekend, seemingly unable to properly control the car, and it was just Mark's luck that the bright livery managed to crash into the championship leader's own red vehicle. But still, Mark should've known to keep mum- it was still early in the season anyway. You don't win championships on round 3.
But the damage was done and he had run his mouth and you were dealing with all these requests for comments from all these papers, while simultaneously trying to keep up with the comments about your brother on social media. It's tricky because you know people's opinion changes up in a snap of your fingers and a lot of people do accept that motorsports gets intense and things said in the heat of the moment both during and after a race should be taken with a pinch of salt, but at the same time, Mark has a reputation to uphold and sponsors to keep happy.
Not only was Mark subject to a hefty fine for his language over the radio and in the post-session interviews, he was also being subjected to the wrath of his little sister who's work was cut out for her.
"I said I'm sorry," Mark pleas beside you as you walk through the paddock and over to garage on race day. He stops a few times to take photos with kids and sign some caps and shirts, but he has to scuttle to keep up with your marching pace.
"You should've kept your mouth shut," you grumble, trying to keep a neutral expression for the eyes you know are watching you, "And you ruined Sungchan's qualifying too."
Mark pauses at the comment and furrows his eyebrows together, "Sungchan? Since when do you care where he qualifies?"
Mark didn't exactly crash in the altercation with the Alpine, but he was so in his head and also driving erratically that he had accidentally impeded his own teammate on the track who was on his own flying lap. Thankfully, the stewards considered the situation that happened just seconds beforehand and let him off with a warning, but Sungchan had only managed 8th in the end.
"We're friends," you snap, "Weren't you the one that suggested that?"
"Jeez, I'm just gonna stop talking," Mark sighs defeatedly at your tone.
"That would've been useful yesterday," you mutter under your breath. Your older brother shoots you an exasperated look, but you shoo him away to where he needed to go as you reached the Ferrari area.
You situate yourself in the majorly empty garage with most personnel headed to the team meeting before the race. You wave and greet the few members of staff loitering about, but for the most part, you busy yourself with the emails piling up in your inbox.
Time passes around you in the form of mechanics and engineers passing in and out like one of those movie montages and you don't know how long it's been until a hand taps you on your head to call your attention.
"No way," your mouth drops when you see your visitor, "I didn't know you were coming."
Eunseok's girlfriend returns your grin as you sweep her up in a hug. It's been a while since you've seen her- not since the season started even!
She laughs melodiously, "I didn't think I was able to come either, but I was able to swap my shift last minute so I could attend race day. Japan's not too far anyway. How've you been- do you wanna pop out and get lunch at one of the stands?"
Mark's gonna be occupied in the meeting for a good while, so you agree and link arms with your first friend you met through F1.
"What's it like doing the whole travelling to every race thing? And officially working for your brother?" she asks you. In the corner of your eyes, you spot a few people stop and snap a pic of the two of you as you peruse the paddock for food.
"It's already exhausting travelling and this is only race 3 of 24," you sigh, "And Mark pissed me off bad yesterday. Did you see what he said to the press?"
She giggles in guilt, "I did see the buzz on social media, yeah. It's okay; it happens. Remember when Eunseok crashed with Namjoon last year?"
You click your tongue, "Maybe I should get Mark his own separate PR manager? I can just do everything else as his general manager."
"Nah, he'll remember now for every time he thinks about running his mouth to the media," she reassures you, "Has the team been treating you well?"
"Duh! They're all lovely even though I'm one of the youngest," you gush, "They're don't boss me around like some might do to their driver's PA. I don't know if maybe it's cause I'm his sister too, but they've been good."
"Everyone would love you no matter what," she dismisses.
You became friends with Eunseok's girlfriend early in the previous season at a race you were both fortunate enough to attend. She'd gotten lost trying to find her way back to Mercedes' area in Saudi Arabia and you had asked if she was okay, since she looked on the verge of tears. You exchanged social media accounts and got lunch in the city centre the Friday before the Melbourne GP and the rest was history.
You didn't make it to every race of the last season as you finished up your final year of university and she was a newly qualified doctor, so it was hard to see each other often, but you kept in touch.
You both decide on a lounge set up in the paddock and take a seat away from the glass front. You order pretty quickly and the server promises to return with your food as quickly as possible.
"You know what though?" she begins with a small, tight frown, "It's gonna be hard for you to date now you have to travel so much. You're never gonna be in one place at one time."
"Psh, I'm not even thinking about dating!" your voice raises in pitch and volume in defence, "Plus, you and Eunseok make it work."
Her face contorts into this kind of pained expression, "We do, but it's hard. But we've been together a long time, so it's been a more gradual shift to the full on F1 calendar and career. I guess you should just date someone who works and travels with an F1 team. Do you want me to get Eunseok to ask around who's single?"
You bat at her arm, "I'm not trying to date, seriously. I'm busy enough as it is trying to adjust to being Mark's manager!"
"Text me when you change your mind," she rolls her eyes playfully, "Do you wanna watch the race together? Or do you have to be at the Ferrari garage?"
"I'm not actually sure on the etiquette on that, but I should probably be at Ferrari to make sure I can drag Mark away quickly with my hand covering his mouth in case he starts getting mouthy again," you sigh in annoyance, "We can catch the next race together, whenever you'll make it next."
"I'll be in Miami," she confirms happily, "We can party it up on Jungkook's boat after!"
"You mean his mega-yacht?" you snort. The Mercedes legend has a reputation for hosting the best and wildest parties on his yacht, which you were yet to experience. However, he did invite your brother once to have dinner on the yacht, catered by a Michelin-starred chef, which he graciously dragged you to despite you not knowing anyone on that vessel.
"It's mammoth," she emphasises, "Oh, I'm excited!"
When you finish eating, you drop her off to Mercedes' garage and elbow your way through the buzzing crowd to get back to Ferrari. It was less than hour before the race now, so it was getting busy both around the paddock and in the garage. You could see both Mark and Sungchan on their respective sides, floating between their car and the engineering station.
They're close to sending the car out on the grid for the reconnaissance laps, so the drivers stand out from their team in their matching fireproofs. Mark gives you a rushed, but enthusiastic wave as you settle yourself if your usual corner of the garage and you give him two thumbs up to wish him luck. Sungchan, on the other hand, spots you a few minutes later and surprises you by jogging on over to you.
You haven't spoken to him since he dropped you back off at your hotel in Maranello, but you did follow each other on Instagram a few days ago, which was instigated by him. It's been a busy weekend, so other than waving at you in passing during media day, FP sessions and before qualifying, there had been no instances of greeting each other properly.
"Hi Sungchan," you grin as he bounds on over to you, "Good luck today."
"Thanks Y/N. Haven't had the chance to say hi all weekend," he runs a free hand through his soft locks as he grips his balaclava tight in the other.
"It's been busy," you agree, "But you'll do great out there. I know Mark made it hard for you yesterday, though."
Sungchan looks over his shoulder briefly, watching Mark preside over his engineers with hands on his hips, but he just shrugs, "Part of racing and he didn't mean to. Obviously, he didn't know it was me and I would have been way less composed after a collision."
As a racer, Sungchan's been involved in more collisions, accidents and incidents than he would've liked to admit- it was part of the sport. Over the years, he's learned how to deal with them and how to pick himself up after and keep going even when it hurt or he felt guilty.
But it was his rookie season in the top flight and despite the fact that he knows it's only a matter of time before his first mistake, he's trying his best to hold it off as long as possible.
You reach out to touch his arm and he's thankful his layers are so thick that you don't feel him tense up under your grip, "You're gonna do great, Sungchan," you repeat.
His eyes, large, glossy and unreadable, peer down at you as his lips tug up at the corners, "Forza Ferrari, then. Enjoy the race. See you later?"
You don't know what later means; it could mean dinner or it could mean 4 days later in Bahrain, but you nod and send him away, in a manner and motion that you don't even do to your brother. You don't know how to describe your friendship with Sungchan, but he's quickly becoming an important character in your life, which scares you a little.
꒰🏎️꒱
ROUND 05 - SAUDI ARABIA GRAND PRIX
Whenever Mark has a difficult race, he has a routine. He doesn't have these often, thankfully, but you've sussed him out by now.
He finishes the race and thanks his engineers and team- they work so hard despite everything. He composes himself in the garage and accepts he has to do his media duties and he fibs and reassures the world that he's okay and promises to come back stronger the next weekend.
It must be hard to be a previous world champion- everyone expects you to do it again and again no matter how much the world changes around you from the drivers to the cars to the rulebooks to the tracks to the tyres and to the officials.
You know that Mark carries himself with grace through the team meetings after hard races, but then you also know that he holes up in his hotel, orders a bunch of food and goes MIA for that night once he finishes all his obligations. He doesn't need or want anyone to comfort him; he just needs some space and time.
He doesn't like it when someone rubs his back and tells him something was not his fault when it was. He doesn't like it when he's coo'd false promises and he hates it even more when people look at him in pity.
So, you don't exactly know what to do when Sungchan DNF's in his 5th F1 race in his rookie season after a Haas dives into the side of his car and takes out his wings.
You've been tuned in to his feed the past few laps and the heartbreak in his voice was evident when he finally cut through the silence.
"I'm sorry, fuck. I'm so sorry. I don't know what happened," his voice isn't altogether clear over the radio, but even still, you could hear the pain.
His engineer buzzes in, "Are you okay, Sungchan?"
"Yeah, yeah. Fuck. I'm sorry."
"You're okay, that's all that matters. We're bringing the car back, just stay there. Virtual safety car is up," his engineer tells him.
It takes at least 5 laps for the safety car period to end and what felt like a lifetime before the car and the driver arrived back at the garage. You couldn't see much of the car by way of every mechanic immediately pouncing on it for repair, but Sungchan loomed over all figures in the room.
He stayed by his team principal and race engineer's side for a while, speaking in hushed tones with eyebrows tugged together. His race suit was gathering at his waist and he was nervously running his hands through his hair.
To divert your attention, you switch back to Mark's race. From P6, he had managed to get himself up to P3 by lap 30 and was less than 2 seconds behind the silver medal position. The Ferrari garage was still locked in, vying for another win for their top driver, so the atmosphere hadn't changed too much.
You had focused so much of your attention on the screen ahead of you, that you didn't even notice when Sungchan came to your side until he taps the plastic of your red over-ear headphones.
"Sungchan, hey," you slip the device off your head, "Are you okay?"
His lips form into a pout, "It fucking sucks. Did you see it?"
You don't nod, but instead give him a tight smile, "It wasn't your fault."
"I could've done more to avoid it. Swerved, or something," he sighs dejectedly, "They're sending me to the media centre. I know Mark's still racing, but can you walk with me? I don't have anyone here with me. Changmin's away this weekend and I don't know what to fucking do-"
"Hey, hey, hey," you reach out to steady him and grab at his forearm, "I'm here with you. Don't worry. I'll come with you."
Sungchan meets your eyes properly and his glassy orbs display his every emotion. He lets out this deep, dreadful sigh from the centre of his chest as he chews at his lips and nods, "Thanks, Y/N. Can you wait here? I'm just gonna get changed out of this."
He comes back a few minutes later from his driver's room in the team shirt and matching cap, still not looking all the settled. You keep up with his pace all the way to the media centre, which isn't hard because he's dragging his feet to prolong the journey instead of his usual large strides with his long, long legs.
"What should I say to them?" he murmurs under his breath as the building comes into view. The paddock isn't busy as the race is still ongoing so there's no one coming up to him for any random reason, "I mean, I know what to say but like- Ugh, this is the worst."
You swallow hard and turn your brain onto PR manager mode, "Just try and look calm, okay? Just tell them it was a tricky situation, but that's what happens in racing. Just tell them you'll come back stronger next time. They just wanna make sure you're okay too."
Sungchan's lips are seconds away from bleeding by the way he's tugging at them with his teeth and even now, he's avoiding any eye contact with you or anybody else you pass for that matter. Just as you reach the building, you pause in your tracks to try give him a pep talk.
"Sungchan I know it sucked, but you're gonna be okay, yeah? You're an amazing, amazing driver and this was just a small mistake and accident that wasn't even your fault for the most part," you attempt to reassure him, "You're not gonna lose your seat over this and the team adore you and know that this is just something that happens. You've been doing so great the past 4 races and it's so early in the season. You've already proven yourself to the tifosi who love you and the racing world adore you too. It's gonna be okay, Sungchan. I promise."
Sungchan listens to you with an unreadable expression which melts softly as your words come to a close. By the door of the media centre, he unexpectedly pulls you in for a hug.
"Thanks, Y/N," he pulls away before you even react, "I'm so grateful you're here."
"Anytime, Sungchan."
꒰🏎️꒱
BREAK BETWEEN ROUND 05 AND 06
Your brother is eyeing you suspiciously from the couch perpendicular to the one you were sat cris-cross on. He was all squinted stares and furrowed eyebrows too as he periodically looks between the TV and then back at you.
"Why are you looking at me like that?" you huff in annoyance as you finally speak up on his 15th head turn, "Just watch the goddamn movie."
Mark decided a few hours ago that he was gonna dedicate the whole day to watching Spider-Man films, but he wasn't watching them in any particular order. You don't really know how it makes sense to watch The Amazing Spider-Man 2 and then Spider-Man: Far From Home and then Spider-Man 3, but whatever makes him happy during the break, you guess.
It's nearing dinner time, which means one thing: Lee Donghyuck is probably around the corner, just himself and his spare key to the apartment ready to devour whatever Mark plans to order in. You're not really sure why they don't live together, but you've already claimed the second room in the apartment so it's too late now.
"You keep smiling at your phone," Mark says observantly, suspiciously, "And you're wearing like, real clothes."
"God forbid your sister is happy," you grumble at his insinuation, "Am I not allowed to smile?"
"Yeah, but, like, you never smile," Mark says this like it's the most obvious thing, "Are you watching funny TikToks? Send them to me!"
Your brother is so unserious, it hurts. No one would think he's a multiple-time F1 champion.
"I'm going out for dinner," you finally tell him, your voice as steady as you can make it.
Mark's interest piques with this as he sits up straight and pauses the film, "What? With who? You don't know anyone in Monte Carlo."
"You're actually horrible. You don't think I can make friends?" you throw the pillow in your lap at him, which he dodges with his quick reflexes.
"Well, yeah. So who?" he presses on.
"It doesn't matter," you whine, regretting even telling him instead of just walking out.
"As your older brother, I'd say that it actually does matter. What if you're meeting a serial killer? Or a stalker? Or an undercover pap or journalist who's gonna infiltrate our family? Someone with bad intentions?" Mark begins to show signs of distress as he stands up and paces back and forth in front of you, "Did you meet them in Monaco? Are they from a rich family? Do they work here? How is this the first I've heard of you meeting someone here?"
Your phone buzzes in the pocket you've hid it in, signifying to you that your company for the evening has stopped driving and is presumably outside. You stand up and collect your bag from the side table, as well as your shoes by the door. You can feel Mark's eyes follow you around the apartment.
"Y/N? Y/N! Where are you going?" Mark calls over in concern. It's kinda fun to wind up your brother like this, but you decide to put him out of his misery.
"I'm going to dinner," you deadpan, unlocking the front door, "Now if you'll excuse me, Sungchan is downstairs."
You shut the door behind you, but not before you hear him exclaim in the most confused tone possible, "Sungchan? My teammate Sungchan?"
Your phone buzzes again when you get in the elevator and you check to see if its from Sungchan, but instead you're faced with capital letters and exclamation marks.
Markie: ARE YOU GUYS DATING?!!!!!!!!!!!
Markie: Y/N WHAT THE FLIPPPPPPPP ANSWER ME
You laugh, shaking your head at your dramatic brother.
Y/N: we're just friends!! you're fun to wind up
Markie: Y/N YOUR CURFEW IS 9:30PM
Y/N: in ur dreams, lol, ur not my mother. i'll be back when i wanna be back
Sungchan is dressed in black from head to toe as he leans against the passenger door on the side of the street. He's watching you exit the building in amusement, his hands in his pocket.
"Hey, Channie," you greet him enthusiastically.
"Your brother says I need to come up after I drop you home," he quirks an eyebrow at you.
"Ha, did he text you?"
Sungchan laughs a little and shakes his head, pointing upwards, "He's watching us."
Horror immediately rushes through your veins as you cock your neck back to see your brother dangling over the balcony with a smirk on his face.
"Mark! Fuck off!" he mirrors the way you flip him off.
"10:30 latest, Jung!" he calls out to your company.
"We're just friends," you shout up at him, "You never gone out for dinner with friends?"
"Not on their first day moving to the city! Why are you the first person he's seeing in Monaco?"
You grumble to Sungchan, "Sorry about him. Should we just leave?"
Sungchan chuckles at your exchange with your brother, moving to open the passenger door for you. It's the same Ferrari you rode in Maranello, so he must have road-tripped it over.
"Bye Mark!" Sungchan bids your brother a goodbye as he jogs around to the driver's side and you can see Mark still watching from the balcony as Sungchan drives you away.
You're still giggling by the first corner and Sungchan eyes you cautiously from his seat, "I know he's your brother, but I don't wanna piss off the first driver on my team. What if he has me kicked off?"
You roll your eyes playfully, "Mark would never do that. He's just joking around."
"I know, I know. Mark's one of the kindest people I've met, but you're still his little sister. The look he gave me when I looked up and realised he was there- oh, chills down my spine!" he exclaimed as he gripped the wheel tighter.
"It's not like we're dating," you state, "I don't know, maybe it's cause I've never really had male friends around him and with our parents so far away, he's trying to take on that protective role."
Sungchan goes quiet, tapping on the steering wheel, "Hm, yeah. I guess."
꒰🏎️꒱
He had previously detailed to you in Maranello that he wasn't exactly a Michelin-started chef, so instead, he took you to a 2 star restaurant whose name you couldn't even begin to pronounce despite the years of French you've taken in school.
Sungchan is sitting across from you, a knife and a fork clutched in his hand tightly.
"Sungchan, I know you said we were gonna go to a pretty fancy restaurant, but I feel severely underdressed," you look down at your pleated trousers and your pink blouse and then at the lady at the table across in a silk dress and gloves.
"Relax, we're cosplaying as mega rich today and they don't dress up that much to go out to dinner," Sungchan tries to reassure you. He's dressed pretty simple too, but not casual enough to have been denied entry at the door.
"Are our wallets cosplaying mega rich too?"
He looks at you pointedly, "Our? I'm paying, of course. And well to be honest, I got a pretty big raise going from reserve slash academy to sitting in the second seat. What else am I gonna splash my money on?"
Your cheeks flush, "If you pay it's gonna feel like a date. We should split."
He smirks subtly and a glint twinkles in his eye, "All the more reason for me to pay then."
Your food comes in small portions, but feels endless in courses. It's interesting to listen to the waiter babble on about the fancy ingredients and the elusive concept, but the dinner is made more special by your company.
Sungchan is simply nice to be with. He has wit- joking about the food and never missing a beat to banter with you- and he has a lot of charm. You're not really sure how he's never had a girlfriend before, but you know through your brother that their career takes up so much of their time and focus. Sungchan's the kind of guy that every girl would have fawned over in school, the kind of colleague all the ladies in an office would talk about and vie for, but he's here, with you, in one of Monaco's upscale restaurants.
Maybe that's saying something about your relationship with him that you haven't yet accepted has changed.
After dinner (where yes, he did end up paying), he drives the two of you down to the port and you walk shoulder to shoulder under the streetlights and between the twinkles of the yacht lights reflecting off the water.
"Have you driven here before?" you look behind you at the road, which was still busy despite the time. Monaco was truly alive in the evening.
"Mhm, it's on the F2 and F3 calendar so I've done it a good few times. It's a really difficult race if you're not in pole, but I enjoy it," Sungchan reminisces, "I won it last year in F2."
"You just had to add that, didn't you?" you tease him by bumping your shoulder against his.
Sungchan chuckles melodiously, "I don't get to say that about many places to many people. And this year will probably taint my memory and feeling of the race, so gotta enjoy it while I can."
"Hey, you should really back yourself more. You're a good driver; you wouldn't be in a Ferrari seat if you weren't. Who knows- you could repeat it again!" you were chant in a motivating tone.
A soft smile decorates Sungchan's face as he sighs happily, "You know, I really appreciated you telling me you were cheering for me in China. Even if you support me because I'm your brother's teammate and you feel like you have to, it was nice of you to support me. It was kind of hard at the start of the season since no one thought I'd be able to perform well or deliver at all, so your support made me really happy."
Your heart swells, "I cheer for you because you deserve it and I believe in you. Even if at the start, it was because of that, it certainly isn't now. You're such a good person, Sungchan- I'll always support you."
He's trying to hide his blush from you as the breeze pushes the two of you along the harbour, "Even if I beat your brother one day?"
"He's already got some championships," you dismiss casually, "I hope I'm there for your first F1 win."
"Might be a while, so don't hold your breath."
"Sungchan! I just said you have to back yourself," you whine at him and punctuate, "Believe. In. Your. Self."
"Okay, fine. I'll win a race soon, just so I know that you'll be there watching," Sungchan rolls his eyes playfully, "I'll dedicate my win to you."
"Ha! As if."
"What, can't I dedicate a win to a friend?" he says the final word with some kind of disdain that you check his face- all scrunched up and cute.
"Why'd you say it like that?" you prod teasingly.
Sungchan glances quickly at you to find you already looking at him, so he turns away as his ears go red, "Stop!" he whines.
"Stop what?"
"I know I'm being obvious," Sungchan murmurs shyly, "Being friends for now is good, but you know, in the future-"
"In the future, what?"
Sungchan stops in his tracks to stomp his feet adorably, "Y/N, you're doing this on purpose!" his face is heated up like a tomato while you double over in laughter, "Don't make me say it."
"Say what?"
Sungchan huffs and rolls his eyes, refusing to speak and instead grabs your hand to keep the two of you walking despite being the one to stop.
"You're fun to tease, just like my brother," you're still laughing and he's still holding your hand, softly, gently.
"You're a menace," he utters with a smile on his face, "I hate that I like it."
"I like your company too, Sungchan," you giggle, pressing your arm against him, your entwined hands squishing between the two of you, "You're not the only one."
Sungchan looks at you, a content expression on his handsome features, "Good. That's good."
꒰🏎️꒱
ROUND 06 - MIAMI GRAND PRIX
No matter the outcome of the race, there was one sure thing about the Miami Grand Prix since it started running- and that was the fact that Jungkook will always, without fail, host the best party of the entire year that's second to none in your brother's opinion. Mark invited you to come in the previous years, but the Miami GP always fell around the season of deadlines and you weren't sure about partying with people that you haven't met the majority of.
Of course, tonight's going to be packed with strangers too, but you're hoping the occasional familiar face will help you settle in and feel more comfortable. If all else fails, you're sticking with Eunseok's girlfriend.
With another win for your brother in the bag and a slew of interviews later, you were finally clocking off and being chauffeured from the hotel to the dock. You're hoping and praying to the gods that Mark doesn't do anything at the party that would amount to more work for you, such as cleaning up after his messes in the press, but even if he decides to get a little wilder to celebrate his win, he told you that Jungkook's security for the party is absolutely second to none- completely iron clad. There was nothing illegal happening on the boat, of course, but the drivers and their acquaintances deserve a little privacy here and there to act freely.
"No groupies, no fans, no one that can't be trusted," Mark tells you again in the car, "So go crazy. Not that anyone's gonna be paying attention to you, but just in case you get close to any drivers tonight."
You shove his side and he snarls at you, "I didn't even say a name! You can get it on with Mingyu from Mercedes for all I care- well actually, don't do that, but, y'know."
Mark stops his train of thought when you give him a death stare and diverts the topic onto what he thought about the race. You stand off to the side for so many of his interviews, but it's always hard to listen because of all the noise on the track. He's blabbering about the safety car and the situation that happened halfway through the race when Eunseok's girlfriend texts you that they've made it onto the yacht.
"- and I know Donghyuck is my best friend, but I swear he lives to get under my skin on the tract," Marks tuts in annoyance beside you, "Raced wheel-to-wheel with me instead of letting me pass when he was a pit stop behind me anyway. Prick."
"I'm sure he's just vying for entertainment in the midfield. That's just how he is," you hum along, "Who's that driver who retired but was a pain in the ass to everyone for his own entertainment?"
"Oh, Jeonghan? I don't know why McLaren kept him so long. Amazing driver but was always on the verge of a race ban with his penalty points," Mark chuckles in remembrance, "The grid's a bit more calm this year with so many rookies from last season and this season; no one's taking insane risks yet."
"Good. I hate seeing crashes," you counter, "Sungchan was so sad in Saudi Arabia after his crash."
Mark's face contorts into constipation from holding back from teasing you, but it slips his lips as he coos in a high-pitch tone, "Oooo, Sungchan. How was loverboy after the race anyway? I didn't get to see him since we had separate meetings today."
You resist the urge to snap at him and breathe in and out deeply, "I haven't seen him either. I was with you, remember?"
"Oh yeah. Then let's congratulate him properly for his second P4 finish! So insane!" Mark claps happily, doing a little dance in his seat. Because of Sungchan's good performances, they were steadily fighting for the top spot of the Constructor's Championship. You had managed to send Sungchan a congratulatory text, but other than the rushed 'thank you!!' and 'see you soon!:)' he was able to send you because he was whisked away by his team, you hadn't spoken to him.
The car pulls up to the dock and you momentarily marvel at the flashy, jaw-dropping yachts before Mark drags you to the direction of the brightest and loudest boat of the line up.
"C'mon, if we're late they'll actually just leave," Mark murmurs under his breath. It's all sights he's used to so he doesn't realise you're trying to take in the surroundings, but you forgive him for the sole fact that because he was the winner of the race, Jungkook gave him rights to skip the queue of people trying to get on the boat.
Haechan gives the two of you the stink-eye and the bird as he waits for security to get through everyone.
Jungkook is deep in host-duties as you step on the boat following an extensive search. He daps up Mark and congratulates him on the win before turning to you, "Y/N, right? It's good to see you again!"
"Thank you for letting me come. I've heard lots of things about your Miami parties," you greet him pleasantly.
"Mark's been talking about inviting you for years, so I'm glad you could make it. Haven't seen you much in the paddock this season yet," Jungkook cocks his head.
"I'm always hiding in the Ferrari garage. I don't really know anyone to mingle in the paddock with," you tell him.
His face lights up, "Well then tonight is the perfect opportunity to meet the people that frequent the paddock! Mostly drivers, their partners and their entourage on the boat tonight. And if you're single, my party's matchmake'd a good handful of couples," his lid drops into a wink as he smirks.
"Trying to set my sister up right in front of me," Mark sighs in defeat beside you, "We'll see you around, Kook. Have to go find the other Ferrari."
"Tell him that overtake he did on me at Turn 11 was downright dirty, but incredible," Jungkook kisses his teeth as the memory from a few hours earlier surfaces, "I must have missed him coming aboard."
Mark drags you further afield into the boat, thanking everyone briefly that shouted congratulations his way, but he's steadfast on his journey. With such an exclusive guest list, the boat isn't too cramped yet despite being lively in nature so early in the night. You easily find Eunseok and his girlfriend towards the bow of the ship, delighting you to find her waiting with a drink in hand for you.
"Sorry, didn't get the race winner a drink," she says sheepishly at Mark who waves her off, "But congratulations."
Eunseok parrots the same sentiment to your brother.
"Thank you guys and don't worry- there's plenty of time for drinks," he smiles, "Have you guys seen Sungchan?"
You previously told Eunseok's girlfriend that you were hanging out with Sungchan a lot and enjoying his company and her mouth had dropped in shock that she didn't think to put the two of you together despite him driving for Ferrari as he was also Eunseok's best friend on the grid. You'd identified they were close with the stories Sungchan would tell you about his karting days and junior career, but you wanted to wait to see if there was even anything to say to your friend to not make it a big deal.
"He came on with us but I think Taeyong dragged him away. I told him to come back here now," Eunseok flashes his phone at you to their texts. Mark just hums and leaves quickly, saying that he'll come back again later in the night after making sure you'd be okay with the company.
His girlfriend hooks her arm around yours and clinks your drinks together in a cheers, "We're finally having a night out together since we first met. Let's go crazy!"
"I don't know if crazy is the right word. I don't wanna fall off the edge of the boat!" you squawk as you cast your eyes overboard to the steep drop down into the treacherous ocean.
"Please, your loverboy would never let that happen. He won't be able to take his eyes off you tonight regardless," she rolls her eyes playfully and bats at the tassels coming off your dress.
"No, you look so good," you squeeze her arm.
Eunseok scoffs in front of the two of you, "Get a room, geez!"
"Watch your back," you stick your tongue out at him teasingly as his girlfriend giggles beside you.
Eunseok opens his mouth to reply, but then his eye catches on something behind you that makes him smirk.
"Y/N, you're here. Finally," you feel her arm slip away from yours as you hear that familiar, deep and comforting voice behind you through the buzz of the party.
Sungchan is dressed in a full-black outfit complete with a leather jacker over his shoulders, perfectly matching your black dress.
Your arms reach up instinctively around his neck to pull him into a hug, while his hands find home on the exposed skin on the small of your back, setting your nerves on fire in the way they linger there.
"Congratulations on P4 again. You're amazing. I'm so proud of you," you whisper up to his ear.
"Thank you. That really means a lot from you," his voice is soft and appreciative, as he rubs the area cut out from the back of your dress, "And you look so incredible tonight."
You pull away, already knowing your cheeks are red, but his hands stretch and stay clasped around your waist for a beat too long. You don't even question it, not even when he releases one hand, but keeps a hold onto your waist and pulls you by his side.
Eunseok and his girlfriend's eyebrows are raised in amusement when you finally remember their existence, but they don't say anything and just sip their drink instead.
"Where'd you go?" Eunseok asks your companion, who was radiating all his body heat to you even in the gusty Miami breeze.
"Taeyong was introducing me to his team," Sungchan says off-handedly, "What are you guys drinking?"
"Mojitos," you tell him, showing him the cup in your hand and bringing it up to his lip, "Want some?"
Sungchan hums in agreement, capturing your straw with his plump lips, "Mhm, that's good. Let's get more when you finish."
"You two are gross," Eunseok grumbles, but the two of you cock your head in confusion at him. He just bats away at you and turns to his girlfriend, "Babe, let's go mingle and leave these two alone."
His girlfriend agrees instantly, dropping you a not-so-subtle wink as she's whisked away into the crowd. It leaves you alone with Sungchan, him watching the party as you become all too aware of his hand still around your waist.
"Someone's touchy tonight," you murmur softly, not accusatory.
He doesn't let go, but looks down at you with that fond look on his face, "Is that okay?"
Your heart thumps in your chest, "Mhm, yeah."
"Good."
Later on in the night, you found yourself in the lounge inside of the boat where it was lit up by lamps, but people weren't any less drunk. A group was playing card games around you, but you were tucked up against Sungchan's side, trying to sober up a little bit after you both had too many cocktails. There was no reason for Jungkook to have over 20 enticing cocktails on the menu, seriously!
After a bit of dancing once the mega-yacht started sailing and there was no exit until you docked back, you were winding down inside.
"You doing okay?" he whispers down to you after his turn in the game passed.
Your fingers clutched at the fabric of his black button up, leather jacket long gone, "Yeah. I'm comfy, don't worry."
"Tell me if you wanna go get some air, mhm?" he pats your head sweetly. Across the room, on another sprawling couch, Eunseok's girlfriend wiggles her eyebrows at you.
From the outside, it's obvious you and Sungchan are more than friends. There's no denying it, even between the both of you. At least you hoped you were reading the situation right. But you hadn't really tiptoed past that line that cemented being beyond friends- it feels like you're just waiting for the time or moment to come.
There's a commotion and a clash across the room as a door swings open, letting in a a whiff of fresher air and then slams closed.
"Fuck, I'm so drunk. Can I sit down?" your brother, who you definitely forgot existed, stumbles into the room.
"There's no space," Haechan groans, "Sit on the floor."
"Noooo, I need to collapse on this couch right now. Y/N, just sit on your boyfriend's lap," Mark whines impatiently, pointing at the two of you. The whole room practically ceases all noise, everyone turning their head to look at you.
"Mark, I'm gonna throw you overboard," you grit your teeth at him.
Sungchan just laughs deeply beside you as he looks over, "Y/N, it's fine. Your brother looks like he needs to sit down. You mind?"
Hesitantly, you get up from your very comfy position and Sungchan shuffles over to get under you. You make no move to sit, so he hooks his arm around your waist and pulls you down onto him, making you giggle nervously.
"Tell me if I'm too heavy," you twist your head to look at him, surprising yourself with the close distance down to his face.
You don't know if your eyes deceive you, but his eyes flicker down to your lips for just a split second before he shakes his head, "You're as light as a feather. Have you seen my muscles?"
You choke back a scoff and swat at him, but he squeezes his arms around your midriff instead to make you laugh.
"Anyway, how are you feeling? Still wasted?" his own words slur ever so slightly as you deny his question.
"Tipsy, but not as bad as earlier," your head still feels heavy on your neck, lolling to one side, but everything seems a bit clearer with every second that passes, "Our first time getting drunk together!"
Sungchan fights back the cheesy smile that threatens to take over once he heard the word 'our' come from your lips. He could definitely get used to that.
"Okay, good. Keep drinking your water, mhm?" he hums, nodding over to the table crowded with cards, cocktail glasses and bottles of beer, sodas and water.
"You're acting like my parent. Even Mark's not this vigilant," you jut your chin over to your brother, who is sprawled on the end of the plush couch, moments away from slipping off but sitting without a care in the world. His eyes are scrunched together tightly, trying to block out the light and you just know he's concentrating on stopping the room from spinning.
"Your brother just won so I guess he can get drunk off his ass. Therefore, I gotta make sure you make it off the boat in one, pretty piece," he humphs behind you.
You twist your body, "He didn't put you on babysitting duty, did he?"
Sungchan chortles, "Of course not. And he doesn't have to. I wanna take care of you."
"Oh," you relax in his hold, "Okay. Thanks Channie."
"You're gonna be at lunch tomorrow, right?" he moves topics quickly, but it doesn't slip past you the way he leans forward so his lips are pretty much pressed and moving against the bare skin of your shoulder.
You freeze in the moment and melt when he murmurs your name against your skin to get your attention again.
"Oh, yeah. With Eunseok and his girlfriend? Of course. Gosh, we've both been so busy this weekend- I had to ask her to tell you all the details," you sigh deeply, "How do we work for the same team and barely see each other sometimes? Well, it's cause you're a big shot formula one driver and I have to be following around my brother and make sure he doesn't do anything stupid, which is highly likely at any given moment-"
"Definitely still tipsy. You're so talkative when you're tipsy," he's found out this fact about you over the course of the night, "But it's okay. As long as you'll be there tomorrow."
"Sungchan! Hey!" a face that's distantly familiar appears above you. Lee Taeyong smiles down at the two of you, a bottle in hand, "This must be your girlfriend. I had no idea."
"Girlfriend?" you cock your head at him, "I'm Lee Y/N. Mark's sister." You point at your brother, who is now curled up into a ball as Haechan looms over him, snapping pictures on his phone.
Kim Jungwoo apparates beside his McLaren teammate, swinging an arm around his shoulder, "He's such an idiot. I told him Sungchan had a girl. Nice to meet you officially, Y/N."
You've heard lots of good things about the pair as they're pretty close to your brother, but you had never properly met them until now.
"I'm sorry- I didn't know for sure," Taeyong pouts.
Behind you, Sungchan is tense. You can feel it in the way his grip tightens.
"Huh?"
Your face must have displayed the epitome of confusion as Taeyong looks at you apologetically, "My cousin thought Sungchan was cute and I thought he was single so I dragged him to introduce them at the start of the night. I would have never done that if I knew, Y/N. I don't mean to disrespect you at all. Thanks for introducing my cousin to Theo though, Sungchan. I think she thinks he's even cuter than you!"
Your perplexity only triples as Taeyong goes on and you nervously turn around to your companion who gives you a sheepish look.
"It's alright, guys. We're gonna go outside now, though, if you wanna take my seat," Sungchan taps on your hip to get you to stand up. Wordlessly, but still confused, you follow his command. The two McLaren drivers beam at you as they wave goodbye and you don't even realise that Sungchan is holding your hand all the way to the deck until he stops and separates your hands to brush his through his hair.
"What just happened?" you laugh incredulously, "I am so confused right now. Did I get more drunk? Did I hallucinate that?"
Sungchan's lips tug into a guilty smile, "Taeyong tried to set me up with his cousin. I didn't wanna lead her on or anything so I said I wasn't available. Theo from Haas walked past at that moment so I introduced him instead."
"Oh," your mouth flattens at the idea of Sungchan being set up with someone, but then your heart explodes into butterflies, "Yeah, it probably did look like I was your girlfriend sat on your lap like that."
"Good. I don't want anyone getting the wrong idea about me again," Sungchan's voice drops low as he leans against the rails of the ship. His eyes are dark, his lids fluttering slowly in his slightly tipsy state.
It's getting windier and colder as the night goes on and the sound of the sea crashing on itself seems to intensify as silence occupies the space between you.
"Sungchan?" you look up at him to find him already staring down at you, something unreadable in his large eyes.
"Yeah?"
"You're not as drunk either now, are you?" you ask quietly.
"Nope. My head's crystal clear, promise," he utters truthfully.
"Okay."
A breeze runs through your figures and you shake at the coolness. Sungchan frowns and pulls you to his body, wrapping you up in a hug, "Shit, let's go find my jacket and find somewhere else inside. You're gonna freeze out here."
Hesitantly, you wrap your arms around him, letting his body heat migrate to you, "Yeah, let's. But for now, you're pretty warm."
Sungchan drops his chin on top of your head, "Then let's stay like this for a bit longer, mhm?"
You pull your head back to meet his eyes, "Sungchan?"
"Yes, Y/N?" he says again, expression fond.
"I heard kissing is a really efficient way to warm up."
Sungchan's face doesn't even display surprise as he smirks cheekily, "Oh really? Maybe we should try that out."
"Yeah, it's really cold."
Even in your heels, you still have to reach up on your tiptoes to meet his face halfway, steadily pressing your lips against his as his hands come up to cup your flushed cheeks.
His lips sets your body ablaze as he moves his mouth slowly, but desperately against yours. You melt into his touch as you deepen the kiss with every beat and the way you feel him yearn against you is so delicious. It feels like you've been waiting for this for so long- because you have- and it's even better than anything you could have conjured up in your imagination as relief floods your body to finally be so close to him.
"Y/N," he practically pleads as you both come up for air.
Your eyes sparkle in the moonlight as you pull him in for another kiss, never wanting this moment to end, "Sungchan, I'm still cold."
"Let me fix that. Can't let my girl be cold," he smiles against your lips.
꒰🏎️꒱
ROUND 07 - EMILIA-ROMAGNA GRAND PRIX
You've been lucky to attend a few Italian races while your brother's been racing for Ferrari. Other than racing in Canada, they're Mark's favourite races due to the passionate support of the tifosi- the roar of the crowd, the sea of red, the banners and the flags. Monza and Imola are staples in the calendar for your family to attend, so you're already used to cameras on you in the paddock. So far, you've asked to be kept off the screen as much as possible since you were now technically Ferrari staff, but if your family was around, you knew you'd end up on the broadcast for reactions.
Your family arrives only a couple of hours before lights out at Imola, choosing to skip the build-up days to extend their vacation for as long as possible. The calendar was going into a triple-header, so your family was excited to see three races in a span of just over two weeks.
"Is Mark driving you insane yet?" your mother snorts as she settles beside you in the Ferrari garage.
"You know it," you half-joke, knowing she's the one person who'd understand what you're going through, "At least you can relax, eomma."
"I know it's tricky sometimes, but I just wanna make sure that Mark has family around and he can take care of you too," your mother smiles softly. With the way the sport worked, drivers were constantly being sent around the world week on week and it could get isolating from your family sometimes, not being able to be still for a while. You wouldn't have it any other way, really.
"How's Monaco?" your dad asks from your other side. He's got a camera around his neck, ready for sightseeing once he's out of the garage. Your dad's hoping for a Mark victory to be able to capture all the love of the tifosi through his lens.
"I've barely seen any of it. After this race, this next week will probably be the longest I'll have been in the city since I moved there," you tell them honestly, "I've made a couple of friends."
"Friends? Y/N's got a boyfriend!" your elder brother sing-songs from behind you.
If there weren't so many people around, you would have turned around and pounced on Jinhyung.
"Y/N, he's coming to dinner tonight, right?" your dad's tone turns serious.
You groan, "Yes he is, but please do not be embarrassing or try to scare him. You'll probably see him briefly in a second."
"No promises," your dad pulls you into an affectionate side hug, "You'll forever be my little girl, Y/N. And he's the first boyfriend we're ever meeting!"
"Acting like Donghyuck's not practically your son's boyfriend," you jeer at them.
Right on time, you see two figures round the front of the garage. It's a funny picture- your middle brother with his arms slung around the shoulder of your almost-boyfriend despite the height difference. Mark's adorning a smirk, amused at the gravity of the situation, meanwhile Sungchan looks like he's three seconds away from combusting.
He meets your eyes and you try to give him a comforting smile.
"Eomma, appa, hyung, this is Sungchan. My teammate," Mark punctuates his final word, staring at you teasingly.
Sungchan waves nervously, bowing to them in greeting, "Hi! It's nice to finally meet you. I hope you enjoy the race."
"Aren't you so handsome! And tall!" your mother coo's. You're sure they've seen each other in passing before, either at Maranello or the races Sungchan substituted for previously, but it's their first time meeting officially.
You watch fondly as his cheeks tint pink and he begins to fiddle with the material of the fireproofs bunched up around his waist.
"And you've been such a good driver this season. You're very talented- definitely rookie of the year," your father compliments.
"How are you balancing being a Ferrari rookie AND dealing with both of these Lee's?" your eldest brother exclaims, "You deserve an award for that."
"You're the worst one!" you jeer at your brother and then swat away at your family, "Mark and Sungchan have a race to get to!"
You hug your brother good luck with your family following suit and you can sense Sungchan's eyes following you when you pull away from Mark, not knowing whether it was appropriate to approach you in front of your family.
His body relaxes in relief when you open your arms wide for him to slot himself into. You reach up on your toes and stop at his ear, "Good luck, Sungchan. I believe in you."
A hand squeezes at your waist in gratitude, "Thank you. See you after the race, baby."
꒰🏎️꒱
ROUND 08 - MONACO GRAND PRIX
There's a few moments in your life that you can still visualise and feel the nerves and tension of that situation to this day.
The bubbling in your stomach, the way the room and the people in it started to blur, the pounding of your heart against your chest- you were feeling all of it now and to an intensity you didn't even feel before walking the stage for your college graduation, nor walking into the hardest exam of your life.
You can feel your mother's hand in between your own tightly enclasped hands that are resting in your chin in a prayer. Every so often, you bring yourself back to consciousness and remind yourself to breathe.
Coming into Sunday, you were already very, very, very nervous and anxious. It was rare to find your brother qualifying outside of the front row, but some traffic impeding his Q3 flying lap and a set up that just wasn't completely optimised for the day had him in P4 coming into Sunday. Mark was optimistic - he had a good lead in the championship - so he was in a good mood before the race.
The biggest thing that made you nervous wasn't related to your brother - it was the fact Sungchan qualified in P3 ahead of him.
And was running the race with 3 laps to go in P1.
Monaco was one of Sungchan's favourite tracks in the world with the hairpin bends and incredible scenery. It's not a sentiment shared by everyone- it's hard to overtake, whoever qualifies first usually wind, blah, blah, blah. But Monaco remains one of the most prestigious races in all of motorsports and those who can survive and come out on top will go down in the history books.
Sure, the F1 world will say that there was luck involved if this does turn out to be the Ferrari rookie's first F1 win- a crash between P1 of Red Bull's Juyeon and P2 of Mercedes' Yeonjun was how Sungchan found himself leading the grand prix - but it was important to capitalise on what you were dealt with. It would've been so easy for Sungchan to panic and start to make mistakes, but he kept his cool and locked in.
"3 laps to go. Mark is still 4.3 seconds behind. Let's go to the end, Sungchan," his race engineer's voice is shaking over the speaker.
The atmosphere in the garage is nothing like you've ever experienced. Mark winning is just another race to them (not that it's any less exciting) so they have their routines and they know what to do.
Having watched each of Sungchan's races during his rookie season, you knew his first podium, let alone his first win, was just a matter of time, but to do it in Monaco? Only 8 races in? When the whole motorsports world was doubting him coming into the season? That was impressive.
"C'mon," you grit your teeth together and plea under your breath, eyes glued to the screens in the garage, "C'mon, c'mon, c'mon."
On the other side of you, Sungchan's mother crumples herself even deeper into Sungchan's father's chest. His brother is rubbing his hands together frantically in prayer. If there was a race to win for Sungchan, it was probably this one.
"Last lap, Sungchan. Give it everything," his engineer encourages softly as the car passes the starting grid for his final lap.
He makes the first turn gracefully and charges down the Beau Rivage. Behind him, the red of Mark's car appears in the distance, but he sweeps past Casino and reaches the part where your breath hitches and your heart stops beating. It's so terrifying watching the car come to such a slow speed all of a sudden as he whips the car around the hairpin of turn 6.
There's too many cars in the tunnel for you to let out your breath, but thankfully, they all move over expertly as they get lapped. You see the nerves getting to Sungchan as he grips his wheel even tighter trying to focus through the Nouvelle Chicane, but you blink and he's already at the Swimming Pool, moving at a blistering speed.
"Oh my God," Sungchan's mother starts crying the very second that Sungchan makes it safely past the very last turn and there's only a few seconds before he's barrelling through the finish line as winner of the 2025 Monaco Grand Prix.
You don't know what happens after. There was a lot of hugs from everyone around you. Then your brother points out that you're crying- even as much as you were when Mark won his first F1 race all of those years ago.
His family, who you met a few days ago, sweeps you up in a hug and you're all blabbering incoherently at each other.
Your headphones get knocked about, but they remain on your head long enough to hear his melodious, proud and exhausted screams as his engineer and team principal congratulates him on his win. Sungchan's voice cracks in gratitude over the radio as he thanks the team and all you want to do is pull him into the tightest hug and tell him how proud you are of him.
"Come, let's see them!" one of the Ferarri mechanics beckons over in the general direction.
You let go of his mother's hand, "Tell him I'm proud too!"
His mother gasps and gives you a pointed look, "No! You tell him. You have to come with us."
"I shouldn't. Your family deserves to celebrate this," you say hesitantly, reaching up to swipe your tears away.
His brother drops his arm around your shoulder and begins to drag you out of the garage, "You have to come for your brother anyway. The second Sungchan sees you there, he's gonna be so happy. He wants you there."
Your entire body is shaking as you watch from behind the engineers and the mechanics the cars pull into Parc Ferme. Sungchan clambers out of the car and when he stands on top of it and raises his arm in victory, your heart swells in pride.
The team are screaming, hyping him up as he runs over and when he jumps, they receive him with cries and congratulations. As he takes his helmet off, the team part in the middle and usher his family, and you, towards the barrier. You stand back in respect, watching Sungchan cry into his mother's neck and then into his Father's and brother's. When they move aside to reveal you, Sungchan's grin grows even wider.
"Come here," he calls over to you desperately.
In a flash, you're hooking your arms around his neck, being lifted off the ground as he tries to squeeze your body against his as best he could with the metal barrier between you.
"I'm so proud of you, Sungchan. You're an F1 winner. You just won the Monaco Grand Prix! Again!" you sob into him.
His breath is hot on your ear, "You're my lucky charm. Thank you for being by my side, Y/N."
When your feet reach the ground again and you pull away, you're taken by surprise when Sungchan's glove-covered hands come up to your cheek and then his mouth presses against yours faithfully. Your lips move against his in the cacophony of the Ferrari team's whistles and yelps, as well as the cheering of the supporters in the stands and presumably, of the millions of people at home watching.
The world quickly drowns out around you and all you can focus on is the sweet taste of him on your lips and the way his being and his soul envelops you in this blanket of warmth and light. And you know in that moment that you could do this forever.
a/n: thank you thank you thank you for reading. find my masterlist here & all likes, comments, reblogs and feedback are so, so appreciated <3
⨭ genre; college!au, childhood best friends to lovers, fluff, minor angst like its there if u squint
⨭ pairing; tsukishima kei x fem!reader
⨭ word count; 17.3k
⨭ description; when you convince your best friend into being the male lead of your film project, you don't expect for it to make you question your whole relationship.
⨭ warnings; profanity, alcohol, smoking
⨭ a/n; this has been in the works for quite a while now and it is defff the longest fic ive ever written (not saying will ever write yet bc who knows), but i think i like it. i am a sucker for best friends to lovers, ESPECIALLY childhood best friends to lovers, so i hope u guys like it :)
song i listened to writing this: 'being your friend' by katherine li
one.
The universe has a top-tier sadism kink, and its living proof is Tsukishima Kei.
You know this to be a fact because 1) aside from his bachelor of science in anthropology, he’s pursuing a PhD in sarcasm and uses his learnings primarily to eviscerate your self-esteem, 2) The Umbrella Academy doesn’t come out with another season for another few months so your life choices have become the pinnacle of his entertainment, and 3) despite being your Bestie™ of twelve years, he still makes you beg for his benevolence, even if he does have the annoying habit of showing up when you need him most.
It’s deeply unfortunate that he’s all you’ve got, universe be damned.
“Name your price. Cake? Head? Money? C’mon, just tell me what you want!”
Tsukishima peers at you over his laptop with disdain, the blue glow of his pirated PDF of The Communist Manifesto reflected in his glasses as he squints at you. His lips are pursed in annoyance, face scrunched up as he seemingly contemplates whether to put himself out of his misery or squash you to little smithereens. “What I want is for you to go away.”
True love, honestly. The golden standard for kindness and affection. A picturesque image of camaraderie. Lo and behold, everyone, your best friend.
“Oh my god, Kei, please,” you whine, hands clasped together as you look up at him through batted lashes. He doesn’t even flinch, looking completely unimpressed—how pretentious of him. “I’ll literally pay you whatever you want.”
The blond rolls his eyes, looking back down at his laptop screen as he briskly retorts, “I’m not a prostitute, idiot. You can’t pay me to star in your stupid movie.”
He ignores the several judgmental stares that turn in your direction at his response. You, on the other hand, are praying the library’s studious occupants don’t assume you’re a pimp preying on broke college students.
In all honesty, you probably should’ve chosen a less populated spot than the library’s first floor seats in front of Crow’s Coffee, especially if you actually had any intentions to get work done. But with just a few months left until the end of second semester, you have way too many dining dollars left and not enough places to spend them; in this capitalist world, you refuse to let more money simply be pocketed by the greedy hands of the school. It’s how you managed to tempt Tsukishima out of the comfort of his apartment in the first place—with promises of free coffee and shortcake, courtesy of your four-star meal plan.
“Technically, that’s a pornstar,” Yamaguchi supplies unhelpfully from his spot buried amongst stacks of math and science textbooks. He’s the only one of you who’s effectively completing his assignments because he won’t pass his classes unless he’s in constant fight-or-flight mode (you thank every deity you can think of that you weren’t born to be a STEM girlie). “You know you’ve got the time to, Tsukki.”
“Yeah, but I don’t want to,” he shrugs. You promptly deliver a swift kick to his shins. “Ow—well, now I really don’t want to.”
“Be honest, do you hate me?” you sniff dramatically, letting your head hit the table with a soft thud; Yamaguchi pats your head tantalizingly, as if you’re a fuckin’ child, and you want to scream at them both.
“Yes,” Tsukishima snorts, not even bothering to glance up. “It’s your own fault for being a film major.”
You shoot him a glare, but no threats come to mind because he’s sadly right.
Being a film major is basically being in a perpetual state of begging: begging your friends to star in your work, begging your professors for an extension because your lead decided to quit the night before shooting, and begging your parents for forgiveness because they didn’t send you to college to become a “professional movie watcher.”
Sure, you get to watch artsy film-bro movies for homework, but you also spend half your time pulling all-nighters to finish scripts and survive solely off a diet of Shin Ramyun and its complimentary mushroom flakes. Tsukishima likes to tell you how you reek of constant desperation; you concur because no one has a real penchant for the arts these days. In a world where everyone dreams of being the next Spielberg, nothing is truly original, and you’re just barely holding on with the kind of boundless optimism that can only be fueled by sheer willpower.
So here you are, offering bribes of cake, coffee, and cold hard cash, trying to convince your best friend—who has the emotional range of a teaspoon and the patience of a sleep-deprived toddler—to star in your magnum opus so you can pass the semester. You’d ask Yamaguchi, but he’s got civil engineering exams and an actual promising future to worry about. Meanwhile, your future, desperation and all, hinges on whether Tsukishima will stop being a pain in the ass for ten minutes and agree to be your leading man.
Luckily, because you’ve been #pairbonded for twelve years, you know exactly what buttons to push. You let out a sorrowful sigh, before loudly declaring, “Fine. I’ll just ask Shoyo then.”
That does it. Tsukishima’s jaw twitches, his fingers pausing over the keyboard; you know him too well because the mere thought of the red-head starring in your movie is enough to make Tsukishima reconsider his stance. You never did understand their beef, but Yamaguchi tells you that they’re just inverse idiots, which seems pretty likely considering they’re actually both easily provoked and highly competitive. He looks up from his laptop, irritation flashing in his eyes. “Absolutely not,” he says flatly, closing the lid of his computer with a decisive click.
Yamaguchi snickers, clearly sensing victory in the air. You, on the other hand, suppress your triumphant smile and put on your best wounded-puppy look. “But he’s so eager to help,” you say, your voice dripping with faux innocence. “He’ll do anything for me.”
There’s a moment of silence as Tsukishima contemplates this. His fingers drum lightly on the table, a sign that he’s weighing his options. And then finally, he lets out a long, suffering exhale, head rolled back in exasperation. “Fine. I’ll do it. But I swear to God, if this film ruins my life, I’m holding you personally responsible.”
“You already hold me personally responsible for most things,” you chirp, practically beaming with delight. “But thank you, Kei! You’re the best.”
Yamaguchi looks up from his mountain of textbooks with a bemused smile. “That was a quick turnaround. You’re like a married couple.”
“Only in spirit, ‘Dashi,” you purr, blowing him a playful kiss. The freckled boy pretends to catch your kiss and presses it to his cheek in a dramatic gesture; no wonder he’s your favorite. He really is such a sweetie.
“Stop encouraging her,” Tsukishima groans, pushing himself up from the table. “And stop saying things like that. People might believe you.”
“Wow, not you denying our love,” you scoff, sticking your tongue out at him. “I want a divorce.”
The blond ignores your threat. “I need air. Bye, Tadashi.”
He gives you an unimpressed but telling look, so you roll your eyes and promptly start packing up your things, shoving notebooks and pens into your bag haphazardly. The last things you do are run over to give your beloved ‘Dashi a light squeeze goodbye, swipe your laptop and Owala into your arms (because you are a broke college student who cannot afford to get a new laptop and your New Years’ Resolution is to be more hydrated), and skip to catch up with your friend, already halfway out the door. The evening air is a refreshing change from the stuffy library you’ve been in for hours; you’re sure if you had any free hands right now you’d bend over and grab a handful of grass, just for the sake of it.
‘Tis is the life of a film major, you guess. You’re bitchless with a capital ‘B’ and spend the other half of your time with your equally bitchless friends. And all they do is abuse your dining dollars and mock your miseries in life, so honestly, it’s a good thing you’re in school to write and produce rom coms. You can live vicariously through them, at least.
But whatever. Pathetic love life aside, right now, Kei has agreed, and you’re already one step closer to a successful final project.
two.
The walk home with Tsukishima is as comfortable as ever, the silence between you two punctuated by the soft crunch of gravel under your shoes and the distant hum of campus life winding down for the night. He doesn’t pull his headphones on, but he also doesn’t start up a conversation; being alone with him is simply being able to exist.
He’s walked you home everyday since the beginning of middle school, when his mom found out he hadn’t waited that day and you had walked home alone in the dark. From your bedroom window in the house next door, directly mirroring his, you had overhead her lecturing both him and Akiteru about the importance of manners—and to Kei’s credit, he’s dutifully picked you up after your classes and chores ever since, even if he grumbles the whole way home. For some reason, this habit carried over when you, him, and Tadashi committed to the same university, even if it meant standing outside a frat house at two in the morning because you got too fucked up to walk home on your own. You puked out half your stomach on his sweatpants, and he’d made you do his laundry for a month as punishment, but he still waits patiently at the café by frat row every time you get coerced to go out by your roommates.
As you reach your dorm building, Tsukishima steps aside, holding the door open for you; you roll your eyes, but a smile tugs at your lips. “Such a gentleman, Kei. What would I do without you?”
He smirks, letting the door swing closed behind him as you head towards the elevator. “Probably get kidnapped or something. You’re too trusting.”
“The only person I’d let kidnap me,” you say dreamily, pressing the button for your floor with a dramatic swoop. “is Oikawa.”
You’re only half joking because Oikawa Tooru, the president of Sigma Epsilon Iota (SEI), is in fact extremely pretty and volunteered to be in your film last semester. You later found out that it was because he’s an astronomy major and thus felt compelled to star in your movie (which, yes, was titled Stars); he convinced you to spend many extra weeks in After Effects making sure the sky imagery looked ‘as perfect as him.’ He’d actually been a really good sport about learning his lines and cues, but you’re pretty sure neither you nor your 2014 Macbook Air would survive that experience again.
“Right, fall for the guy who does keg stands at every party,” he drawls, his tone laced with sarcasm. “Smart.”
You huff and stick your tongue out at him, earning yourself a half-shrug and an amused snort. The elevator ride is brief, and soon you’re at your door, fumbling with your keys; as always, Tsukishima stops and stands to the side, waiting for you to invite him in, because again, manners. You turn to him with a playful grin. “You know, you don’t have to stand there like a sentinel every time. You can come in.”
He raises an eyebrow. “Is that an invitation?”
You laugh, pushing the door open and gesturing dramatically. “Oh, please, come in. Make yourself at home.”
Not that you had to tell him that. He slouched past you and kicked off his shoes as soon as you gave him the cue. He’s honestly just as relaxed here as in his own studio, already stretching and making himself comfortable on the couch with your favorite decorative pillow tucked under his head.
You two have settled into a pretty comfortable routine. It’s a Friday night, so chances are that he’ll yank out his phone, scroll through his email. You’ll put something on the TV and he’ll critique it through mouthfuls of popcorn, only to have it ruin his appetite for whatever you end up ordering for dinner; later, if he’s tired enough, he’ll give up on the thirty minute drive home and collapse next to you in your Twin XL. It’s a mess of limbs and limited space, but you two manage—you always have. Your suitemates, Yukie and Kaori, have already texted that they’re bringing home Chinese takeout for four, so you decide against your usual snacks because your twig of a best friend needs actual sustenance.
Swinging by your room to drop off your bag and laptop, you take a pit stop in the kitchen on the way back to pluck two bottles of soju from the fridge. You toss him one; he catches it neatly and observes the flavor with scrutiny.
“You hate strawberry,” he points out. “Why are you drinking this?”
You shrug, walking over to plop down on the couch by him. “Because it’s your favorite.”
His head is right up against your thigh because he’s too tall to fit on your shitty university furniture, even with his legs half-dangling off the armrest. You click through Netflix, nursing your drink with a slight pout until you make the executive decision to put on The Bachelor.
“Trying to prove you can love both me and Oikawa at the same time?” Tsukishima comments, watching the screen as he pops open the cap of his bottle. He’s referring to Ben telling both Lauren and JoJo he loved them in season 20; you lowkey love the series and he highkey loves the drama. There’s just something about people finding their supposed soulmates after knowing each other for like a month that really makes life entertaining.
“Don’t ever compare me to Ben,” you frown, because you think he was a massive asshole for doing that to JoJo and then not even picking her in the end. These bitches really be throwing each other under the bus. “You’re so mean to me.”
“You just bribed me with strawberry soju.”
“It’s not bribery if it’s out of love. Plus, I can tolerate it for one night,” you roll your eyes, taking a sip of the drink. “So, you wanna know what the film’s about or not?”
He looks at you over the rim of his bottle, eyebrow raised. “Do I have a choice?”
“Not really,” you grin, patting his head affectionately. “Okay, so, the film. It’s a romantic short about the progression of a college relationship. Like, from the first meeting to the final stages of being together. It’s dreamy, very aesthetic—y’know, all those soft hues and hazy shots. A smoking scene thrown in there somewhere.”
“Sounds like every other indie film ever made.”
“Shut up. This one’s different,” you insist, lightly tugging on a strand of his hair. “It’s got a great cast—Yachi’s playing the female lead.”
He nods, seemingly interested. “Yachi, huh? What’s my role, then?”
“The male lead, obviously,” you say, not even bothering to look away from the screen. The opening credits have just finished and you’re instantly sucked into the magical world of Malta; God, what you would do to be there right now instead of in your overpriced residence complex.
“Oh, great. Falling in love. My specialty,” he deadpans, taking another swig of his drink. “What do I have to do?”
You hum absentmindedly. “Learn the lines, cues, whatever. Yachi said she’s free tomorrow, so maybe we can get coffee with her in the afternoon and run through the working script?”
Tsukishima groans. “We already have to get started?”
“Yeah, there’s a lot to do,” you retort, giving him a gentle punch on the shoulder. He frowns up at you disapprovingly, and you mockingly frown back. “Get over it. You’re my main star.”
He shakes his head as you both watch the girls line up in knight costumes to compete in the episode’s extra-time competition. Modern television is truly unreal. “Why did I agree to this?”
“Because you love me.”
You flick your eyes from the TV to him, gauging his reaction. He’s rolling his eyes, of course, but the small smile and faint blush creeping up his cheeks tells you everything you need to know.
three.
The prior night, your suitemates eventually came home with the promised takeout; Kaori even brought home boba orders courtesy of her friend Bokuto closing shift at the campus Broba Tea, so it’s safe to say you have the best roommates ever.
Turnabout is fair play, so you and Tsukishima agreed to clean up—therefore, even after your suitemates retreated to their rooms, you two lingered behind in the living room, sorting away recyclables and compost into their respective places and watching your favorites get eliminated. Friday nights like this are nice: just you and your best friend, making three-pointers with empty soju bottles into the blue plastic bin. Even after you finished the season’s finale, you put on some nature documentary (courtesy of his Disney+ subscription, which he exclusively uses for National Geographic like a fuckin’ weirdo) and argued about which ugly fish looked more like each other the whole hour and forty minutes. You must’ve crashed no earlier than one A.M., but the specifics are hazy: you don’t actually remember falling asleep.
So the miserable blaring from your phone right now is truly, in short, cruel. Apparently, you forgot to turn off your alarm for your usual Friday 11 A.M. lecture last night, because you’re currently being rudely awoken at a completely unnecessary time on a Saturday morning. Groaning, you slap around the bed until your fingers find your phone, silencing the alarm. As you roll over, you find yourself face-to-face with Tsukishima, who’s occupying the other half of your twin XL bed, looking every bit as disgruntled as you feel. His hair is a mess, and there’s a faint crease on his cheek from your pillowcase; his arm is slung loosely over your waist as he grumbles and tries to hide his face from the light. He must’ve carried you to your bed after you dozed off on the couch.
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” he mutters. His voice is hoarse with sleep. “Why do you set alarms on days you don’t have class?”
“I forgot to turn it off,” you mumble back, burying your face in your pillow. “Sorry for waking you up.”
He sighs, rolling over onto his side and squinting at you as he makes out the hazy figure of your silhouette through his shitty impaired vision. “Move over. Your greedy ass is hogging all the space.”
Ah yes. Truly, a dreamboat. You roll your eyes, but scooch closer to the wall nonetheless; his grip tightens slightly around the curve of your back as you make space, and you can’t help but smile into your pillowcase. Despite his grumpy demeanor, there’s a warmth to his presence that you’ve grown to appreciate over time.
“Better?” you ask, your voice muffled by your cotton pillow.
“A little,” he grumbles. He shifts closer, his body warmth seeping through the thin fabric of your pajamas.
You lay there in comfortable silence for a few moments, listening to the quiet sounds of the morning outside and the soft rhythm of his breathing. Your head kinda hurts; you haven’t woken up this early on a Saturday in forever. Maybe in another life, you’re born as one of those matcha latte girls who get up at 6A.M. for a run and have their lives sorted out by noon, but in this one, you love procrastinating and Netflix far too much to have yourself in order like that. Truly, you run off caffeine and spite and Google Calendar reminders—and as if on cue, your phone buzzes with a reminder about the meeting with Yachi.
Tsukishima, recognizing the sound of the notification, leans over and hands you the device to read, giving you a minute before he asks, his voice soft to match the stillness of the room, “So, what’s on the agenda for today?”
“Crow’s with Yachi at one,” you murmur back. Normally, you’d be giddy to meet with your beloved angel of a friend (you would literally give Yachi your whole life), but truthfully, you don’t really want to get out of bed. Kei’s fingers, lightly tracing patterns on your back as he processes the information, feel so comforting and warm. You’re tempted to cancel and spend the day here, in bed, with him, but you know just as well as he does that you can’t.
“Right,” Tsukishima sighs. “Guess we should get up soon, then.”
“Mmm, in a bit,” you reply, savoring the warmth of the moment. “Just a few more minutes.”
He doesn’t argue, instead allowing the silence to stretch on comfortably. But eventually, it does slow. “We should get going, or we’ll end up being late,” he says, though he makes no move to get up.
You groan in response, but you know he’s right.
“Fine,” you mumble, reluctantly sitting up. The room is still dim, the curtains drawn, and you glance over at Tsukishima, who’s also making an effort to get up; he grabs his glasses, neatly folded on your nightstand, and puts them on, blinking back into consciousness. He looks far too composed for someone who’s just gotten up, but of course he would be.
What a lovely, familiar sight. You hope this, these Saturday mornings with him, never end.
***
The campus is slowly waking up, students milling about, heading to the library or the better of the two dining halls, the one that serves freshly-made waffles on Saturdays. The other one only serves the world’s runniest scrambled eggs that’s held together with the most plasticky cheese, so even if it’s a ten minute walk further, it’s worth it.
You secure a table near the window; the dining hall overlooks the square and you like watching the way people narrowly dodge the campus seal. It’s a superstition that you won’t graduate if you step on it—and especially now, in the second semester when everyone gets pretty desperate, you gotta respect the grind. Tsukishima has already gone to order at the counter with your dining card, so you’re left alone to ponder about your impending project; you go over the working script in your head, running the lines and dialogue over and over.
Your thoughts are interrupted when he returns with a tray loaded with waffles, two matching cups of coffee, and an extra serving of fruit for you—because he claims you need to eat healthier. You think he should eat more, period, but whatever.
“Wow, I’m impressed. Fruit? Did you find it hard to carry all this food without your arms falling off?” you tease, as he takes his seat across from you.
He rolls his eyes, picking up his fork. “Someone has to make sure you get at least one vitamin today.”
You stick your tongue out at him and dig into your waffles because you never wake up early enough on a Saturday to actually have them often.
“When we finish eating, I need to go back and get my laptop,” you announce over a mouthful of waffle, ignoring the disgusted look Tsukishima gives you. “And then we’ll head to the library.”
“I am begging you to chew with your mouth shut,” he groans, throwing a well-aimed napkin at your face. You catch it with a dramatic flourish and quickly dab at your mouth, before you ball it and toss the napkin back at him; he ducks violently, almost knocking over his cup of coffee. You fight the urge to laugh at him and instead stab your fork into a piece of cantaloupe.
“You need to eat,” you declare, promptly sticking the fruit in his direction.
His eyebrows arch slightly as he glares at the fork held out toward him, but after a beat of silence, he leans forward and bites off the melon with a grumble. “Happy now?”
“Ecstatic,” you beam, popping a grape into your own mouth. “So, Crow’s at one. We can read for like, an hour? And then you’re free to go home and do whatever you do.”
“Study.”
“So boring,” you sigh. “Don’t you have any friends, Kei?”
He scoffs, sawing off another meticulous square of waffle. “I have you. That’s enough socializing for a lifetime.”
“Lucky me, I guess,” you roll your eyes.
He smirks in response, taking a sip of his coffee. “Yeah, lucky you.”
four.
After breakfast, you head back to your dorm to grab your things. Tsukishima scrolls through his phone, making an occasional snide comment about whatever nonsense he comes across on Twitter. You pack your bag with your notebook, laptop, and a few pens—desperation fuels organization, and you can’t afford to leave anything behind.
The walk to the library is filled with light-hearted banter, and soon enough, you spot Yachi waving at you from a corner table. She’s already got her laptop out, a notebook filled with neat handwriting open next to her, and you skip up to the table.
“Hi baby girl,” you coo lovingly as you give your friend a hug. Tsukishima gives Yachi a polite nod before sliding into the seat across from her, leaving you to fill the middle one. “Thanks for meeting us before your shift.”
“Of course! I’m really excited about this project,” Yachi beams, her cheeks slightly pink from your affectionate greeting. “I’ve been reading over the script and it’s just so lovely. I can’t wait to get started.”
And this, everyone, is why you adore Yachi Hitoka with your whole heart. You would actually dropkick your best friend off the face of the earth for her, and that is not an exaggeration.
Tsukishima sighs, reaching into your bag to pull out your laptop; he settles it on the desk and pries it open for you. “Let’s get started.”
His impatience makes you roll your eyes, but nonetheless, you click to the latest draft of the script and slide it over for your Blondes™ to see. “Here’s what I’ve got so far,” you say, pointing at the section still titled SCENE 1 DARFGT :P from when you wrote the first six pages over the course of an all-nighter. “The first scene sets the tone for our whole film, and I’m thinking of having it outside the library, so get used to this café.”
“As if we don’t already spend half our time here,” Tsukishima deadpans, but he leans closer to the screen anyway. You watch the way both of them take in the script, their gazes fixed on the document as they read through the lines.
He looks visibly relieved as he scrolls through the very short document; it’s a mess of director and action notes because you have a very specific vision in your head that you want to execute. “It doesn’t have much dialogue because I want it to be focused on the little details that show your initial connection,” you say as they near the end of the script. “Y’know, body language. The way you look at each other. Your expressions.”
Momentarily, you pause to read their reactions; you’re minorly concerned because acting is actually the hardest part of the job, even if memorizing dialogue does suck. Thankfully, Yachi’s eyes visibly light up, and she chirps cheerily, “I love that! It feels very natural and genuine; I think that’s beautiful.”
Her reassurance makes you kick your feet like Sofia the First because she says it in a way that feels completely real.
Tsukishima, on the other hand, does not acknowledge this statement: he’s too busy raising his stupid eyebrow and smirking as he reads scene four. He drags his finger over the screen, where the line reads Interior - Dorm Room - Night. “Okay, first of all, very original,” he snorts. “But second, you volunteered my place without asking me? How very presumptuous of you.”
“Well, I have roommates,” you say, really emphasizing that last word because you want him to feel as stupid as he looks smirking like that (he looks very annoyingly pretty with his cat-like simper). You know he doesn’t actually care about the usage of his studio: he just loves seizing the opportunity to mock you.
Your internal irritation clearly goes ignored by him, because he just grins as he continues to blissfully dissect your script. “And ‘they kiss passionately’? Really going for the heartstrings, aren’t you?”
“It’s called intimacy, Kei. It’s a crucial part of developing the relationship on screen.”
Yachi, ever the peacekeeper, nods eagerly. “I think it’s really sweet. It’s important to show the depth of their connection. The close-ups will make it feel very personal.”
“Sure, whatever you say,” Tsukishima says, raising an eyebrow, his expression still amused. He gestures to the next few pages—blank sans the text DJEJSJSJDJ PAIN, because again, you spend a lot of time writing during deranged all-nighters. “But what’s with the cut to black right after? Did you run out of ideas?”
You bite your lip. “I haven’t finished the ending yet. I want to see how you two portray the characters and their chemistry before I decide how it concludes. It’s not just about the script; it’s about the emotions you both bring to the roles.”
“You mean you’re winging it.”
“Creatively winging it, yes,” you roll your eyes. “It’s a work in progress, and I trust you two to help bring it to life.”
Tsukishima rolls his eyes, but there’s a hint of a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Alright, I’ll give you that. But if I have to make out with Yachi and you cut it short, I’m going to hold it against you.”
Yachi blushes, but she’s smiling too. “I’m sure it’ll be great. We can practice and make sure it looks natural.”
“Thanks, guys,” you beam at them both, grateful for their willingness to dive into your project.
As antsy as you were, the film’s got a lot going for it—Yachi is a sweet, earnest cutie pie and Tsukishima is… well, him, so their contrast will hopefully make for compelling cinema. And the word compelling is honestly enough—those three syllables are truly music to a film major’s ears.
***
By the time you finish at Crow’s, the sun has already dipped below the horizon, casting a dusky glow over the campus. Tsukishima predictably gets ready to walk you home; he shoves his hand in his jacket’s pocket and tries to look nonchalant, so obviously you tell him he looks stupid, to which he promptly flips you off. Rude. Some people just don’t know how to appreciate honesty.
Yachi’s already headed off to her shift at the café, so you two are left alone, navigating past other tables to the library doors. The evening air is cool, a welcome contrast to the warmth of the crowded café; you walk in companionable silence for a while, the only sounds being the rustling leaves and the distant chatter of other students.
He walks you to your gate, and you’re honestly about to just head inside, but you pause in your tracks because he deserves to hear it twice.
“Kei,” you say softly, breaking the silence. “Thanks again. It really means a lot to me.”
He looks at you, his expression unreadable. “I know. That’s why I’m doing it.”
You blink up at him, momentarily thrown off by his directness. Tsukishima isn’t the type to say things he doesn’t mean—he’s never been one for flattery or unnecessary kindness. And yet, there’s something about the way he says it, the quiet certainty in his voice, that makes your heart do something stupid in your chest.
Tsukishima Kei cares about you. No matter how much he pretends otherwise, you know he’ll be there for you when you need it most. If twelve years have taught you anything, it’s that he’ll do it reluctantly, begrudgingly, but he’ll be there for you.
He always has.
five.
The first day of filming is, somehow, going smoothly.
You’re not sure if you should be suspicious of this. Typically, film shoots involve at least three things going horribly wrong within the first twenty minutes. A mic cutting out. A location suddenly getting overrun with people. A key actor arriving late because they forgot their costume at home.
But today? Today, things are working. The morning light is perfect, the sound equipment is cooperating, and most importantly, Tsukishima and Yachi are actually… really good together.
Which is a huge relief, because you were honestly half-convinced you’d have to wrangle the emotional chemistry out of Tsukishima with sheer force. But watching them run through the first scene on the bench outside the library, you realize you don’t have to do much at all.
He’s relaxed, leaning back with an elbow draped over the back of the bench, his eyes sharp and calculating as Yachi speaks; she’s perfect for the blushing, hesitant-but-artistic old soul character you want to portray and he takes to his role just as quickly. There’s something natural about the way they interact—the slight hesitations, the way he looks at her before speaking, the subtle smirk that plays at his lips when she nervously tucks her hair behind her ear.
It’s not forced. It’s not awkward. It’s just real.
You bite your lip, watching through the camera screen as Yachi delivers her next line, her voice soft, a little unsure. Tsukishima’s response is barely above a murmur, but it carries, even in the open air. The way he’s looking at her—that’s what makes it work. It’s the kind of gaze that makes people believe in love stories.
Holy shit. This might actually be good.
“Cut!” you call, your voice a little breathless as you lower the camera. Yachi blinks up at you, a little startled, before breaking into a smile.
“Was that okay?” she asks, a hint of uncertainty in her tone.
“More than okay,” you say, grinning as you step over to them. “You guys are killing it.”
Yachi lets out a relieved laugh, cheeks pink. “Oh, thank god. I was worried I looked weird.”
“Nope. You look like the perfect indie film love interest.” You pat her on the shoulder before glancing at Tsukishima, who raises an eyebrow at you.
“What?” he drawls.
“You’re actually trying.”
He scoffs. “Yeah, because I’m not going to embarrass myself on camera.”
“Right,” you deadpan, smirking. “Nothing to do with the fact that you two have, like, the easiest natural chemistry I’ve ever seen.”
Tsukishima rolls his eyes, but you catch the way his jaw ticks slightly before he stands up, stretching. “Are we done here? Or are you going to keep talking?”
Impatient idiot. You snort and go to collect your camera and sound system, and together, you all head off to film scene two.
***
The second scene of the day takes place in the small, naturally-lit art studio on campus. It’s not often used, especially not on the weekends, now that the university’s built the big fancy modern art building in the north campus, but it’s perfect for this scene. You wanted something intimate, somewhere that made the world feel smaller, quieter, to parallel the deep intimacy of a relationship (wow, look at you talking like a true film bro). A space where the characters could be alone, even if they weren’t saying much.
Tsukishima sits at the table, his hands idly flipping through a sketchbook that’s just a prop, though you think it suits him weirdly well. Yachi’s holding a paintbrush, standing near the window, looking at a half-finished canvas, the soft glow from outside catching the strands of her blonde hair just right.
“Alright,” you say, stepping back behind the camera. “Tsukishima, this scene is mostly you watching her. Yachi, I want you to look like you’re lost in thought. You’re thinking about something big, but you’re not sure if you want to say it.”
Yachi nods, exhaling as she settles into place. Tsukishima just leans on his elbow, glancing at her through his glasses, waiting.
You call action. And for a moment, the room changes. It’s not just a studio anymore. It’s a quiet, suspended moment in time.
Tsukishima watches Yachi, and you can’t look away. The way his gaze lingers, not quite analyzing, not quite soft, but something in between. The way Yachi’s fingers trace the edge of the painting, distracted, unaware of the way he’s looking at her. The way they look so perfectly together, like halves of a whole, like something that’s meant to be.
It’s... breathtaking.
You swallow, suddenly feeling warm.
They’re good. Too good.
“Cut,” you say softly, your own voice sounding a little distant.
Tsukishima looks up at you immediately, brows slightly furrowed, like he’s searching for something in your expression. Yachi, however, simply exhales a breath of relief, breaking into a small laugh. “That felt really real,” she says, beaming.
“It was really real,” you admit, trying to shake the weird feeling creeping up your spine.
Wow, honestly. They must be some of the best actors you’ve ever met. If you didn’t know better, you would think they were actually in love.
six.
The blinking cursor on your laptop is mocking you.
It’s a tiny, relentless metronome ticking away the seconds, reminding you of your failure to move forward. You glare at the half-finished sentence on the screen, fingers hovering over the keyboard, willing your brain to conjure anything—literally anything—that makes sense.
You had an ending in mind—of course you did. The perfect, soft, cinematic conclusion to your film. A final shot drenched in golden light, delicate and lingering, like a whisper against a bruise. The kind of scene that settles into the chest like an old song or a half-remembered dream, stirring something deep and unshakable. The culmination of all those quiet, electric moments between your leads, woven together into something fragile and honest.
Except every single draft you’ve attempted so far? Complete garbage.
You groan and throw yourself back against your chair, rubbing your hands over your face in frustration. Why does this feel impossible? You should’ve known writing the ending would be the hardest part. You’re always better at beginnings—openings are easy. Openings are full of possibilities. But endings?
Endings mean making a choice.
And right now, you have no fucking idea what choice to make.
As if on cue, summoned by your misery, your door swings open without warning, and Yukie strides in like she owns the place. Which, to be fair, she practically does—she and Kaori have an open invitation to barge in at any time, and they use that privilege liberally.
“Please tell me you’re taking a break from that thing,” she says, nodding toward your laptop as she flops onto your bed. “You’ve been staring at it like it’s personally offended you.”
“It has personally offended me,” you mutter back, head caught between your hands, visibly in distress. “I’ve rewritten it like five times, and it still feels wrong.”
Yukie hums, but her attention drifts toward your open script document, skimming the words with the sharp, practiced gaze of someone who enjoys knowing things before you tell her. A beat later, her eyebrows shoot up.
“I still can’t believe you’re letting Yachi and Tsukishima film together,” she says, lips curving in a smirk.
You glance at her, confused. “Uh, yeah? They’re the leads? Kind of an important part of the whole thing?”
She rolls onto her side, propping herself up on one elbow, expression downright mischievous. “No, I mean… you don’t think it’s a little risky?”
You blink. “Risky how? Like existentially?”
Yukie snorts. “No, dumbass. I mean, don’t you think it’s easy for co-stars to catch feelings for each other? Like hello? Zendaya and Tom Holland broke the Spiderman-MJ curse cause of it.”
“Oh c’mon,” you scoff immediately. “Kei and Yachi? Please. He’s the human equivalent of a hazard sign, and she’s literally an angel.”
“And opposites attract,” Yukie sing-songs, wiggling her eyebrows like she’s just cracked some grand conspiracy.
“Not like that. It’s literally just acting.”
Yukie tilts her head, looking entirely too entertained by your dismissiveness. “You say that, but it’s not uncommon. You spend enough time pretending to love someone, and eventually, it stops feeling like pretending.”
You open your mouth to retort—but for some reason, your brain short-circuits. The words are there. They’re on the tip of your tongue. But they won’t come out. Because now you’re thinking about it.
Tsukishima and Yachi. Together.
It’s ridiculous, obviously. Tsukishima is sarcastic and emotionally constipated, and Yachi is sweet and nervous and actually respects people’s feelings. They make sense on screen, sure—chemistry is chemistry, and that’s what acting is for. But in real life? You can’t even picture it. Matter-of-fact, you shouldn’t even be picturing it.
And yet, something uneasy churns in your stomach, and you shift in your seat, suddenly feeling uncomfortable in your own skin. No, this is stupid. You’re overthinking. Yukie’s just stirring up unnecessary drama because that’s what she does when she’s bored.
“It’s fine,” you say, voice forcibly even. “They’re just acting. Besides, you really think Tsukishima of all people would catch feelings for someone just because of a film?”
“Mmm.” Yukie hums, neither agreeing nor disagreeing. “You say that, but you’re weirdly defensive about it.”
“I’m not defensive,” you snap, too fast, too sharp. A mistake.
Yukie’s smirk deepens, and you hate her for it. She swings her legs off the bed, stretching like a cat. “When you’re done pretending you’re not in denial, dinner’s ready,” she chirps, sauntering toward the door.
You roll your eyes. Classic Yukie. Your roommates are simultaneously your greatest strength and your worst influence; they know you inside and out, and unfortunately, that means they never let you run from your own feelings. They’ve been convinced for years that you’re in love with your best friend, which is laughable. Delusional, even.
And yet.
The thought lingers longer than it should, trailing after you like a shadow as you trudge to set for the first day of filming.
You tell yourself it’s just curiosity when you glance Tsukishima’s way. Just morbid fascination when you catch the way his gaze lingers on Yachi between takes. Just professional interest when you watch how his sharp, unimpressed scowl softens—barely, just a fraction—when she nervously stumbles over a line, and he mutters a quiet correction, his voice steadier than you expect.
It’s just good acting, you reason. Nothing more.
Because Tsukishima is your best friend. And that’s all he’s ever been, all he’s ever going to be. You tell yourself that, over and over and over again, trying to make it feel like the truth. But for some reason, despite all your effort, it doesn’t, and it bothers you in a way that it wouldn’t bother friends that are purely just platonic.
seven.
“You look like shit.”
You rub your eyes, very conscious of the fact that you’re sporting dark eye bags and a goofy-ass fit. Your hoodie is three sizes too big, your sweatpants have a suspicious stain on them from an unknown source, and your hair looks… actually, you don’t even want to talk about it because it really is that bad. You blink up at Tsukishima, who has somehow managed to find you after your afternoon lecture, looking disgustingly well-rested and put-together as always.
“Thanks,” you deadpan, shouldering your bag. “Great to see you too, Kei.”
Tsukishima rolls his eyes but doesn’t move out of your way. Instead, he tilts his head slightly, studying you with that keen, observational gaze of his. “Seriously. Are you okay?”
You pause, thrown off by his genuine concern—normally, he’d just mock you and move on, but there’s a sharpness to his tone today, like he actually cares. Maybe it’s because you’ve barely been outside in the last few days, much less seen him and Yamaguchi. Now that you’ve made it through over half of the film’s scenes, you’ve already started editing it together (arguably the worst part of being a self-produced film student: the excessive time spent with Adobe Creative Cloud). You hesitate, then sigh. “Just tired. I’ve been working nonstop, and I still haven’t figured out the ending.”
He lets out a long-suffering sigh, crossing his arms. “Why do you always do this to yourself?”
“I thrive under pressure.”
“You thrive off caffeine and bad decisions.”
“Same thing,” you mutter, rubbing your temples. “Look, I’ll figure it out. Eventually.”
Tsukishima doesn’t look convinced, but instead of pressing further, he reaches into his pocket and pulls out his car keys, holding them up with a lazy shake. “C’mon.”
You blink. “Huh?”
“You clearly need a break. Let’s go.”
You frown at him, confused. “Go where?”
“Does it matter?” he counters, raising an eyebrow. “I swear to god, if you go back to your dorm and stare at your screen for another five hours, you’re gonna lose whatever brain cells you have left.”
You open your mouth to argue, but you know he’s right. Your brain is fried, your eyes are starting to blur from staring at a screen all night, and you could really use some air. So, with a dramatic groan, you give in. “Fine. But if you take me somewhere boring, I’m jumping out of the car.”
“Noted,” he says dryly, shoving his keys back in his pocket before turning on his heel. “Now move it.”
***
The drive is familiar, comfortable. You don’t even ask where he’s taking you because, honestly, he’s right: it doesn’t matter. Being in his car like this feels natural, like muscle memory.
You remember when he first got his license, the first of you three to do so. Akiteru had gifted him a car to use once he did, an old but functional, clean and simple one, much like him. At the time, it had felt like the biggest deal—suddenly, Tsukishima had a ticket to freedom, and by extension, so did you and Yamaguchi.
You can still picture those early drives vividly: the three of you packed into the car, Yamaguchi in the passenger seat nervously checking the map while you sprawled in the back, shouting ridiculous directions just to mess with Tsukishima. He always acted like he hated it, threatening to pull over and leave you on the curb, but he never actually did.
There were the late-night drives to nowhere, just because none of you wanted to go home yet. The ice cream runs in the middle of winter, sitting in the parking lot with the heater cranked up as you argued over movie rankings. The way Tsukishima always kept one hand on the wheel, the other fidgeting with the volume knob, adjusting it up or down depending on whether he was feeling indulgent or annoyed by whatever you were blasting through the speakers.
You remember one time, when a storm had rolled in suddenly and you got caught out in the rain on the way back from a late study session; he’d picked you up after you spam-called him seven times. Tsukishima pulled up to the curb in front of your house, the wipers barely keeping up with the downpour, but for some reason, instead of rushing out of the storm into your apartment, you’d just sat there for a while, listening to the steady rhythm of the rain against the car roof. He hadn’t told you to get out, hadn’t asked why you were lingering. He just turned up the music, leaned back, and let you stay.
The cityscape blurs past the windows as the car hums beneath you, the low rumble of the engine mixing with the sound of the playlist Tsukishima has quietly playing in the background. You recognize the song instantly—it’s from one of your old shared playlists, one you made together back in your first year of high school.
You glance at him, but he keeps his eyes on the road, one hand on the wheel, the other resting lazily against the gearshift. His sweater is vintage, made of a gorgeous dark green wool that you had been ecstatic to find when you first took him to your favorite thrift store back home; it looks good contrasted with his blond hair and fair skin. His usual stoic expression is softer in the evening glow, illuminated by the street lamps lining the road.
God. Have his eyes always been able to capture the city lights like that?
***
Tsukishima drives for what feels like forever, but when he finally pulls over, it’s basically where you started: an empty parking lot, outside of your favorite convenience store because they’re open late and always stock freshly-made to-go onigiri. It’s owned by a sweet old woman, so double points; you two have been coming here since the start of your freshman year.
He throws the car in park and gives you a look. “You coming?”
You sigh dramatically but unbuckle your seatbelt, stepping out into the cool night air. The store’s neon sign hums quietly, casting a soft glow over the pavement.
As soon as you step inside, the familiar scent of warm rice and miso greets you, and you immediately relax. Tsukishima heads straight for the onigiri section, while you linger near the drinks, debating between a matcha latte and a cappuccino.
“You’re getting the matcha,” Tsukishima calls over his shoulder, barely even looking up.
You roll your eyes but grab it anyway, because yeah, he’s right. You join him at the counter, where he’s already placed two onigiri on the register—one salmon, one tuna mayo.
“You know my order,” you say, amused.
He shrugs, handing over his card to pay before you can argue. “You never change it.”
The words are casual, offhanded, but something about them settles deep in your chest. You look at him, at the way he’s effortlessly familiar with your habits, your preferences, your life.
And for some reason, that makes your stomach twist.
eight.
You tear into your onigiri, letting the familiar taste of salmon and warm rice settle on your tongue. The quiet hum of the city surrounds you both as you sit on the hood of Tsukishima’s car, drinks resting beside you. The neon glow of the convenience store sign flickers in the periphery, casting long, gentle shadows over the pavement; the night is cool but not biting, the breeze rustling the stray napkins you’d forgotten beside you.
The conversation flows lazily, touching on everything and nothing at once—complaints about professors, Yamaguchi’s latest doomed tutoring attempts with Hinata, Tsukishima’s upcoming project on primate evolution that he absolutely does not care about. It’s easy, the way it always is, but there’s a weight pressing against your ribs, something you can’t quite name.
Then it slows. After a beat, you sigh, staring out at the dim glow of the streetlights. “I think I might change the ending.”
Tsukishima shifts beside you, glancing at you briefly before turning back toward the night sky. You don’t even have to specify: he knows what you’re talking about. “Yeah?”
“I wanted a happy one,” you admit, your fingers picking at a loose thread on your hoodie. “But I don’t know if it fits. Every version I write feels fake. Too neat. Too… easy.”
He’s quiet for a moment, taking a slow sip of his drink before shrugging. “Then don’t force it. If it’s not working, make it ambiguous.”
You scoff, shaking your head. “It’s not that simple.”
“It is,” he argues, stretching his long legs out in front of him. “People like things that feel real. If you’re struggling this much, maybe that’s your answer.”
You chew on his words, considering. Maybe he’s right. Maybe an open-ended conclusion is the answer—letting things linger, unresolved but full of possibility. But something about that unsettles you, like leaving something unfinished, like waiting for something that never comes.
And then, it clicks: how to leave it ambiguous without being unfinished.
You exhale, pressing your phone’s power button and watching the screen light up, a blank notes app staring back at you. Your fingers hover over the keyboard before you start typing, the inspiration finally clicking into place. You can already see the scene in your mind—the way the light will filter in, the subtle expressions, the carefully chosen silence between words.
Tsukishima watches you with mild amusement, his lips quirking up just slightly. “Are you seriously writing right now?”
“Shut up,” you mumble, furiously typing. “You said something smart for once, and now I have to take advantage of it.”
He snorts. “You wouldn’t survive without me.”
You roll your eyes, but deep down, you know he’s right. The thought lingers, unspoken. How many times has he done this? Pulled you out of your own head before you spiraled, pushed you to do better, reminded you—without ever really saying it—that you aren’t alone?
The words on your screen blur slightly. Maybe it’s just the neon lights. Maybe it’s something else.
Then, softer, almost offhand, he says, “You know, if it’s really bothering you this much, maybe it’s because you want it to mean something.”
Your fingers still over your screen. The words sit heavy in the air, pressing down on you with a weight you can’t quite place. You look up at him, but he’s already turned back toward the city, his expression unreadable.
nine.
You think that you need a distraction. A long walk, or a snack, maybe. Or better yet, what you actually really want: a frontal lobotomy.
Instead, you have filming.
Which is, honestly, the opposite of helpful when your current goal is to shove all of your weird, unwelcome, inexplicable feelings into the deepest recesses of your mind. It’s awful, but now that you’ve started to see your best friend in a whole new light, it’s really all you can think about. Therefore, you cope as you always have: running from your problems. You’ve been distant the last few days. You’re responding less, cancelling on your weekly study sessions, sprinting out of your lectures before he can catch up to you. You’ve even been ghosting Yamaguchi out of proximity.
But you can’t do that today. Because today, you’re shooting one of the final sequences—the rooftop scene. The one drenched in soft intimacy, lingering glances, and unsaid words thickening the air between them. The one where Tsukishima and Yachi have to act like they exist in their own world, where nothing and no one else matters.
You try not to think about it too hard.
The rooftop set is perfect. The city sprawls beneath them, lights flickering like stars, a mirror to the actual night sky above. Yachi’s already in position, sitting at the edge, her posture relaxed but poised. Tsukishima is beside her, long legs stretched out, hands lazily resting on his lap. The camera is set up, framing them beautifully against the endless stretch of buildings and sky.
You call action, and for a while, it’s fine.
Yachi takes a slow drag of the cigarette (a prop one—she refuses to even come close to tainting her lungs), the smoke curling up between them. Her voice is soft, contemplative, as she delivers her lines. Tsukishima exhales smoke into the night, his face not particularly expressive but not detached. He’s… engaged. Focused. Too focused. There’s something in the way he looks at her that makes your chest tight, even though you know, know, it’s just acting.
Still, the words he says don’t feel like lines. Not when his voice dips just slightly, not when his eyes linger on her face.
“Maybe,” he says, his tone quieter than rehearsals, “but some moments leave imprints on our souls. They’ll last forever in our hearts.”
The air shifts.
Yachi leans her head on his shoulder. The city hums below them. The scene is exactly as you envisioned it, the kind of moment that pulls people in, that makes an audience believe.
And yet, it feels like you can’t breathe.
The worst part is that it isn’t even that bad—no, you get through the scene just fine. No one else notices the way your stomach churns, or the way your hands tighten around the back of the director’s chair. No one notices that the words aren’t just dialogue in your head anymore, that they feel… wrong, out of place, too much.
It isn’t until Tsukishima reaches out, without prompting, without direction, and brushes a loose strand of hair out of Yachi’s face that you realize you actually feel sick.
It’s not scripted.
The camera catches it perfectly, a soft, natural movement. The kind of instinctive touch that makes a scene feel real. Your breath stutters in your chest. And then, as if that wasn’t enough, he leans in slightly, pressing the briefest kiss to her forehead before pulling back, the ghost of a smile on his lips.
Not in the script.
Not in the goddamn script.
“Cut,” you say, too quickly, your voice tighter than you mean it to be. You clear your throat, forcing a neutral expression onto your face when both of them glance toward you. “That was—good. Really natural.”
Yachi beams, a little shy but pleased. “It felt nice, actually. He made it really easy to stay in the moment.”
You swallow down whatever the hell it is that rises up in you at that.
Tsukishima doesn’t say anything. He just watches you, sharp and unreadable.
Your fingers curl into your palm. “I think we’re done for tonight,” you announce, forcing a yawn into your voice like exhaustion is the reason you need to leave so badly. “I’ve got a migraine coming on, and we still have to film the passion scene this weekend.”
Yachi nods easily, already stretching out her legs, but Tsukishima’s expression darkens slightly.
“You sure?” he asks, low enough that only you hear it.
You nod quickly, avoiding his gaze. “Yeah. Just need sleep.”
He stands, brushing invisible dust from his jeans, and you know what’s coming before he even says it. “I’ll walk you back.”
“No!” you panic, waving your hands wildly. “Kaori’s picking me up.”
It’s a lie, an obvious one, but you don’t care. You grab your bag and sling it over your shoulder before he can question it. “I’ll see you guys later.”
Then you leave, practically sprinting out, before he can say anything else. Before you have to deal with whatever the hell this is, whatever it means.
Because if you stop to think about it, even for a second, you’re pretty sure you’ll break.
ten.
Midway through your most recent homework assignment (dissecting the art behind the glorious film Cars—the best Disney movie out there, fight with the wall), your phone vibrates against your nightstand. The screen flashes the text message that’s popped up, but you don’t even need to check to know who it is: it’s a notification that you already know you don’t want to see.
(11:12 PM)
kei :P: are you avoiding me?
You stare at the text, thumb hovering over the keyboard, your mind spinning with an answer that won’t sound like a complete lie. The problem is, you are avoiding him. You’ve been practically stonewalling him, dashing away inconspicuously whenever you know he’ll be nearby, and it’s getting obvious. He knows it. There’s no use pretending otherwise, but the idea of confronting it—confronting him—makes something anxious curl in your gut.
You sigh, flopping onto your bed, one arm draped over your eyes as you try to gather your thoughts. Your fingers type out a response before you can overthink it.
(11:15 PM)
y/n: no?
y/n: i’m j busy lately u know that
The three dots appear, then disappear. Reappear, then disappear again. He’s debating his response, and for some reason, that is terrifying. Then it buzzes.
(11:21 PM)
kei :P: right.
It’s short. Barely anything at all. But you know him, and you know exactly what that one-word response means. He doesn’t believe you. He’s letting it go for now, but he isn’t letting it go entirely. The thought unsettles you more than you want to admit.
Your room feels suffocating suddenly, like it’s pressing in on you. You glance around, searching for something—anything—to keep your mind occupied, but all you find are pieces of him.
Tsukishima had helped you move in, so he has a fundamental part in the whole place already, but when you look even closer, he’s really in the details. There’s the framed picture on your desk from your high school graduation, his hand resting lazily on your shoulder as Yamaguchi beams from besides you. There’s a hoodie draped over your desk chair, long since stolen from his closet during a late night out that never got returned. There’s a battered copy of Normal People by Sally Rooney tucked into your bookshelf, its pages creased and worn from the way he always mindlessly flipped through it when he came over.
It never seemed evident until now, when you’re trying so hard not to think about him, to not let him occupy a space that he’s so clearly always kept filled, but now that you see it, it’s simple: Kei has been a part of your life for as long as you can possibly remember. He’s always been there, from the very moment your family moved into the house next door to him when you were seven. He’s in your daily routine. If you turned on your phone right now, it’d open to a picture of you three; if you were to open Spotify, you’ll find your blend at the very top of your pinned playlists.
He’s everywhere. He’s everything. Tsukishima Kei is worn into your very bones, into every single cell, written into every little part of your being.
Your fingers tighten around your phone, and for a moment, you consider texting him back. Saying something real. Something honest.
Your gaze flickers to your desk, to the script sitting on top of a stack of notebooks. The ending you rewrote stares back at you, the words bold and final.
Scene 6
Exterior - Rooftop - Sunset
Yachi returns to the rooftop, now alone. She sits on the edge, looking out at the city. The sun sets, casting a warm glow over everything. She takes out a cigarette and lights it, inhaling deeply.
Cut to: Tsukishima, walking through the city streets, the sunset reflecting in his eyes. He pauses, looking up at the rooftop where Yachi is sitting.
The screen fades to black.
Text on screen: “We’ll be there at the end of the world, together as the stars go out.”
The moment your professor read it, she called it striking. Said it felt honest. That the ache in the words felt real, like someone had lived it.
But you didn’t just write it. You felt it.
Because if the world were ending, if the stars were truly burning out—there’s no question where you’d be. Who you’d be with.
And yet, here you are, running.
You inhale sharply, pressing the heels of your hands against your eyes.
With the weight of twelve years of friendship comes the obligation to not let it go to waste: you are terrified of what a confession could do. You can’t even imagine what a world without Kei looks like; you would honestly rather die than lose him. And well… admitting your feelings could very well mean losing him.
Then again, you could very well lose him too if you keep ignoring him and running away. You just need to come up with some way to either 1) get over your feelings, or 2) explain to your best friend that you’ve suddenly started having inexplicable dreams about him and feeling the urge to kiss him.
You mean, how hard could it really be?
eleven.
Evidently, very difficult.
You’re standing outside the door of Tsukishima’s flat for the first time in days, feeling like you might actually throw up. You have the horrible urge to cancel. Maybe you should turn around. Maybe you should fake food poisoning. Maybe you should suddenly develop an urgent need to flee the country.
But no. You can’t do that. This is your film, your project, your fucking grade on the line. You can’t just run away forever.
So you’re here. And you take a deep breath before you knock, because your heart is hammering like you just ran across campus, and it only picks up when the door swings open.
And then he’s there too—Tsukishima, standing in the doorway of his apartment, hair still damp from a shower, hoodie hanging loose on his frame. His glasses slide down his nose just slightly, and for a second, he just looks at you, eyes scanning your face, your posture, like he’s already found something off about you.
“You’re early,” he says, stepping aside to let you in.
You nod, stepping over the threshold, hyperaware of the way the air inside feels different—warm, his, thick with something you don’t have the words for.
“Wanted to set up before Yachi gets here.” Your voice is steady, detached, the way it should be.
It’s not a lie, not entirely, but it’s not the truth either. The truth is sitting in the space between you, glaring and heavy, pressing in like the weight of an oncoming storm.
He hums in response but doesn’t say anything else. Tsukishima doesn’t move, doesn’t drop his gaze. His arms are crossed, his posture lazy, but there’s something pointed about the way he’s looking at you—sharp, analyzing, like he’s cataloging every tell, every avoidance, every reason why you’re standing here instead of texting some excuse from the safety of your dorm.
You drop your bag near the couch and move to set up your camera, your hands moving automatically as you avoid his gaze. The apartment smells like him—coffee and citrus, faintly like that stupid expensive detergent he swears isn’t a luxury purchase but definitely is. The scent is so him, so familiar, that it makes your stomach flip.
And then he speaks.
“What’s going on with you?”
You freeze.
It’s not accusatory, not sharp, just… careful. Measured. Like he’s trying to get an answer without pushing too hard. Which, honestly, is worse than if he had just called you out directly.
You force yourself to keep your hands steady, adjusting the camera’s angle. “Nothing. Just busy.”
His eyes narrow slightly. “Bullshit.”
Your stomach twists. The air in the room shifts, thickens.
He’s always been quick. Always been able to pick apart your bullshit before you even finish spinning it, before you can even convince yourself it’s real. And now, with those gold-flecked eyes trained on you, burning through every excuse you try to build between you… well, you’re drowning.
His voice is steady, but edged with something dangerous. “I don’t know what your problem is, but if you think I haven’t noticed, you’re dumber than I thought.”
Your breath hitches in your chest.
For a second, you want to tell him. Everything. The thoughts, the jealousy, the confusion that’s been clawing at your throat for weeks. You hate that he knows you this well, that he can see through you so easily. You hate that he’s giving you that look, the one that says I’m waiting for the truth, waiting for you to finally be honest, and you hate, hate, that you don’t know what to say.
But then, the door swings open. Yachi steps in, breathless and smiling. “Sorry I’m late!”
The moment shatters.
You exhale, stepping back, forcing a smile as you greet her, ignoring the way Tsukishima is still watching you. He goes still, expression unreadable. And then—just like that—his face smooths out, his posture relaxes, his hands sink into his hoodie pocket like nothing happened at all.
“Let’s get this over with,” he mutters.
You nod too quickly. “Yeah. Let’s start.”
If you want to make it through a whole scene of them making out for three minutes, you have to stop looking at your best friend. His amber eyes, under his layer of concern, confusion, and annoyance, are filled with hurt, and your stomach feels like it’s being ripped out, torn to fucking shreds, to see him like that.
So you avert your gaze, stubbornly keeping your eyes on Yachi and your camera, and set up to film the scene.
***
The camera is steady. Your breathing, however, is not.
The apartment is dimly lit, the soft hum of music playing through the speaker, some indie song with melancholic chords that you once added to the shared playlist, long before this—before all of this—became something unbearable. It filters into the space like a ghost of a memory, like something familiar that you can’t quite place.
Yachi sits on the edge of Tsukishima’s bed, her hands folded neatly in her lap, waiting for direction, waiting for him. Tsukishima stands in front of her, tall and composed, his fingers flexing at his sides like he’s testing the weight of the scene before stepping into it. His shoulders are loose, his stance easy, his face unreadable. Too unreadable.
Too casual.
Like he’s trying to make it look effortless.
Like he’s making it look effortless for you.
Your grip tightens around the camera. The frame is perfect—low lighting casting long shadows, the soft golden glow from the bedside lamp catching on strands of Yachi’s hair, the curve of Tsukishima’s jaw. It’s intimate. Close. Exactly what you wanted.
It should be fine. This should be fine.
The scene is simple.
Close-ups of hands, of fingers grazing over fabric. Of a breath caught in the space between them. Of a moment stretched too thin, heavy with something unsaid.
And then, they kiss.
Your stomach lurches.
It’s instinct—the way your body reacts, the way something tightens in your chest like a vice, the way your nails press into your palm where you grip the camera. You tell yourself to look at the screen, at the framing, at the way their silhouettes fit together like pieces of a puzzle.
But you’re not looking at the shot.
You’re looking at him.
The way his head tilts slightly, the angle just right. The way his hand ghosts over the small of Yachi’s back before settling, fingers barely pressing into fabric. The way he moves slow, deliberate, like every part of him has been designed for this moment, like he’s meant to be here, kissing her, making it look real.
Making it feel real.
Your fingers tighten around the camera, but you don’t move.
The shot is perfect.
Tsukishima is slow, careful. One hand cups Yachi’s jaw, his thumb brushing lightly across her cheekbone, his other resting against her waist, anchoring her in place. He leans in, the motion seamless, practiced, lips pressing against hers with just enough pressure to make it believable.
Your chest feels like it’s caving in.
It’s nothing. It’s just a film. It doesn’t matter. He doesn’t care.
But you do.
The words sit at the back of your throat like acid, thick and burning, because this is what you wanted—this is what you asked for—and yet you can’t seem to convince yourself that you’re okay with it.
You should be focusing on the technicalities. On the way the lighting frames them, on the way the movement aligns with your vision, on the way Yachi’s fingers twitch against his hoodie like she’s nervous, like she’s fully immersed in the moment.
But all you can focus on is him.
The way his eyelashes flutter for half a second before he closes his eyes.
The slow exhale against Yachi’s lips.
The way his grip shifts against her waist—just slightly, just barely, like he’s grounding himself. Like he’s steadying his breath, like he’s trying to remember it’s acting.
Something inside you twists, sharp and visceral, something so wrong it makes your stomach ache.
Your fingers are shaking.
And then, the worst part: Tsukishima tilts his head further, deepening the kiss.
Your breath catches.
It’s instinctive, automatic, the way your entire body tenses. You barely realize what you’re doing until the words leave your lips, unbidden, a little too fast, a little too urgent.
“Cut.”
The word slices through the air like a blade.
Tsukishima pulls back immediately, blinking, like something had momentarily snapped.
Yachi exhales, touching her lips, a little dazed, but then she laughs, easy and light. “That felt really natural.”
Natural.
The word rings in your ears, cold and foreign, something heavy and nauseating settling in your stomach.
Natural.
You feel like you’re going to throw up.
Tsukishima is still looking at you. Not at Yachi, but at you.
His expression isn’t unreadable anymore. It’s something else—something darker, something searching, something sharp enough to make your skin burn under the weight of it.
You swallow, forcing your voice into something neutral. “Yeah. That was good. Really… natural.”
Yachi grins, stretching her arms. “I have to run—I promised Hinata I’d help him study tonight.”
You nod too quickly. “Yeah, yeah, of course. Go ahead.”
She gathers her things, slings her bag over her shoulder, completely unaware that the air in the room is thick with something else, something unspoken, something unraveling.
The door clicks shut.
You inhale.
You should leave too, right now. You should grab your bag, make up some excuse, and go.
But before you can even think about moving, a hand wraps around your wrist, and drags you back in.
twelve.
The door clicks shut behind Yachi, but the weight in your chest doesn’t lift. If anything, it gets heavier, pressing against your ribs like an iron hand squeezing the air out of your lungs. You force yourself to breathe, force yourself to move, force yourself to not think about the way Tsukishima had looked at her, had touched her, had—
A hand wraps around your wrist.
You freeze.
Tsukishima tugs, firm but not rough, pulling you back before you can escape.
Your heart stutters.
“What the hell is going on with you?” His voice is low, controlled, but there’s something underneath it—frustration, confusion, anger.
You try to twist your arm away, but he doesn’t let go. His fingers tighten slightly, not enough to hurt, just enough to anchor you, to keep you here. You force yourself to look at him, to meet the sharp, burning gaze that’s demanding answers.
You swallow. “Nothing.”
His jaw clenches. “Try again.”
“Tsukishima—”
“No.” His voice cuts through the air, low and unyielding. “You’ve been acting weird for weeks. Avoiding me. Lying to me. Looking at me like I fucking killed your dog or something. Not even calling me Kei anymore. And then tonight—” He breaks off, exhaling sharply through his nose. His grip on your wrist doesn’t loosen. “What is your problem?”
The words sting, sharp and cutting, but the worst part is that he’s right. He’s right.
And you’re tired.
Tired of pretending it doesn’t bother you. Tired of biting your tongue. Tired of shoving down every ugly, twisting, unbearable feeling that claws at your throat.
So, suddenly, recklessly, you snap. “You! You’re my fucking problem!”
The words burst out of you like they’ve been waiting, desperate to escape, and suddenly, there’s no going back.
Tsukishima’s eyes widen—just slightly, just enough for you to see the flicker of shock before his expression hardens again.
“What?” His voice is sharp, almost mocking, like he’s daring you to say it again, to spell it out for him.
You rip your wrist from his grip, shoving him back a step. Your hands are shaking. Your heart is pounding.
“You don’t get it, do you?” The words come fast, breathless. “Do you even see what you look like? How easy this is for you?” Your voice wavers, thick with something too sharp to be just frustration. “How you can just— just kiss her like it’s nothing?”
His brow furrows. “It was a scene.”
“That’s not the fucking point!”
You shove him again, hands pressing against his chest, but he barely moves.
“I had to watch you,” you spit, voice cracking at the edges. “Watch you hold her like that. Watch you look at her like that. And I hated it, Tsukishima. I hated it.”
Something shifts in the air between you.
The anger is still there, but beneath it—something else. Something fragile and aching and real.
Tsukishima doesn’t speak. His lips part slightly, but no words come.
He’s staring at you, his expression unreadable, but his eyes—God, his eyes.
You inhale, shaking, your hands balled into fists. “I don’t know when it happened, or how, or if I’m just an idiot who took too long to figure it out, but I—” Your breath stutters. Your throat feels tight. Fuck, you shouldn’t be saying this. You shouldn’t be saying this.
But you do.
Because it’s too late.
Because there’s no running now.
“I love you.”
The words drop between you like stones in water, sinking deep, sending ripples through everything.
Silence.
You can hear your heartbeat in your ears, erratic and deafening.
Tsukishima stares at you. Gaping. Frozen.
Like the world just tilted on its very axis. Like the entire sky is tumbling down, like gravity is the sole thing keeping him on the ground.
And then you panic.
“I—I didn’t mean—” Your voice shakes, your fingers twitch, you need to fix this, you need to take it back before you lose him, before you ruin everything—
But then he moves.
Fast.
His hands are on your face before you can breathe, fingers threading into your hair, tilting your head back.
And then he kisses you.
It’s not careful. Not controlled. Not measured, the way he was with Yachi.
This is something else entirely.
This is desperate. This is frantic. This is a storm breaking after years of tension, of longing, of something building between you that neither of you had the courage to name.
His lips crash against yours, stealing the air from your lungs, pulling a sound from the back of your throat that’s more relief than surprise. He kisses you like he’s been holding himself back for too long, like the second he let himself move, he couldn’t stop.
Like he’s been waiting.
Like he’s always wanted this.
The heat of his body devours you, swallowing you whole, pulling you under like a riptide you don’t want to escape. His hands slide down, fingers spreading against your waist, gripping tight like he’s afraid you’ll slip through his grasp. He tugs you forward, flush against him, so close there’s no space left, no room for doubt, no hesitation—only him, only this, only the way he’s holding you like he never intends to let go.
His mouth moves against yours with intent, deliberate and thorough, a silent demand, a confession with no words, just the press of his lips and the desperate, aching pull of his hands. He’s tasting, memorizing, mapping out every gasp, every shiver, every fragile part of you that has ever been his without either of you realizing it.
You make a sound against his lips, something caught between a sigh and a plea, and that’s all it takes—his grip tightens, his fingers pressing into your skin like he’s learning you by touch, like he needs you closer, closer, closer.
You melt into him. You break into him.
There is no hesitation when your hands reach for him, twisting in the fabric of his hoodie, clutching it like a lifeline, because you are terrified he’ll stop, that this will disappear, that he’ll come to his senses and—
But he doesn’t.
Because when you part, just barely, just enough to let air slip between you, Tsukishima chases after you.
His lips find yours again, softer this time, reverent, like he needs to remind himself that you’re real. That this is real.
That you’re not running anymore.
His forehead rests against yours, his breath uneven, warm, fanning over your lips in slow exhales. He doesn’t speak for a long moment, just lets the silence stretch, heavy and fragile and trembling with meaning.
Then, his voice—low, hoarse, something wrecked and beautiful.
“Say it again.”
Your heart stutters, something sharp and sweet twisting in your chest.
He pulls back just enough to look at you, amber eyes burning, raw with something you’ve never seen before, something almost pleading.
Your fingers loosen against his hoodie, but you don’t let go. “What?”
His thumb brushes over your cheek, his jaw tight, his gaze steady, searching yours for something unspoken.
“Say it again,” he murmurs, quieter this time.
Your throat is dry. Your world has shrunk to the space between you, to the way his hands still hold you, to the weight of his gaze pressing into you like an answer he already knows but needs to hear anyway.
You swallow once, then again. Then, soft but steady, you let it slip. “I love you.”
The way he exhales, sharp and shaky, is enough to undo you completely.
And then he kisses you again.
Slower this time. Deep. Intentional. Like he’s taking his time, like he wants to make sure you understand.
This isn’t a mistake. This isn’t something he can write off as an impulse, something fleeting or meaningless or careless. This is him. This is him choosing you.
He kisses you like he’s learning you, like he’s memorizing the way your breath hitches when he moves a certain way, the way your hands tremble when they slide up to cup his jaw, the way you—God, the way you kiss him back like he’s the only thing that’s ever mattered.
Like you love him, and you’ve always loved him.
Like he loves you, and he’s always loved you.
And maybe it’s too much, too late, too terrifying, but when you pull apart, he still doesn’t let go.
His fingers linger against your jaw, his thumb brushing over your lower lip, swollen from his kiss.
His voice is rough when he finally speaks.
“You’re a fucking idiot,” he snorts.
You laugh, breathless, and it comes out half-shaky, half-dazed. “Excuse me?”
He shakes his head, his lips curving slightly—soft, unbearably fond, annoyingly smug—but his eyes stay serious, stay warm.
“I love you too,” he says, just like that, like it’s simple. Like it’s easy.
And for once, it is.
thirteen.
You wake up in a panic.
Your heart is a drum in your chest, erratic, wild, out of sync with the soft pre-dawn quiet of your dorm room. The weight of last night presses down on you all at once—the argument, the confession, the way Tsukishima kissed you like he’d been waiting, like he meant it, like he wasn’t going to let you take it back.
You squeeze your eyes shut, inhale sharply through your nose. It doesn’t help. The air is too thick, your limbs too restless, your thoughts too loud.
What the fuck did you do?
You sit up, shoving the blankets off you like they’re suffocating you. Your hair is a mess, the hoodie you slept in (not yours—his, fuck) twisted around you uncomfortably, but you don’t bother fixing it. The digital clock on your nightstand blinks 6:04 AM, and outside, the world is just beginning to wake.
You should be asleep.
You should be anything but this.
Blindly, you reach for your phone, thumb swiping over the screen to unlock it. The notifications hit you like a brick.
— 17 missed calls
— 3 new voicemails
— kei :P: pick up your phone
— kei :P: are you serious right now
— kei :P: we’re not doing this
— kei :P: text me back
Your stomach lurches.
Your fingers twitch over the screen, hovering, hesitating, and then—fuck—you lock the phone and throw it onto your desk like it burned you.
You can’t deal with this right now.
Not now, not when you’re still caught in the aftermath of what happened, not when the ghost of his lips still lingers on your skin.
You need a distraction.
You push yourself up from the bed, dragging your feet to your desk, where your laptop sits untouched from the night before. The screen glows as it wakes, casting a pale blue light over your desk. You click open Premiere Pro, fingers moving on autopilot, pulling up the final cut of your film.
Something to ground you. Something to keep you from spiraling.
The editing timeline stretches before you, a mess of layered clips and audio tracks. The cursor blinks, waiting. You set it to the last scene you worked on—the rooftop scene, Yachi and Tsukishima against the night sky, the cigarette smoke curling between them like something ephemeral, fleeting.
You press play.
The footage unfolds in perfect clarity.
Yachi sits on the ledge, her fingers wrapped loosely around the cigarette, her expression thoughtful. Tsukishima is beside her, arms draped over his knees, his profile sharp against the neon haze of the city below.
She turns to him, voice soft, hesitant. “Do you think it’ll last?”
There’s a pause.
Then—his response.
“As long as we exist, it will.”
You exhale sharply, the words hitting you harder than they should.
The scene plays through, Yachi taking a slow drag of the cigarette before exhaling toward the sky, the glow of the embers casting flickering light over her features. Tsukishima doesn’t look at her. His eyes stay forward, locked on something distant, something unseen.
Your fingers twitch over the keyboard, and without thinking, you hit the spacebar.
The scene rewinds.
You play it again.
“Do you think it’ll last?”
“As long as we exist, it will.”
A lump forms in your throat.
You rewind it again.
Again.
Again.
You don’t know why you keep watching it, why the words keep lodging themselves deeper and deeper into your chest.
Maybe because it doesn’t sound like acting. Maybe because you remember the way he said it, the way he delivered the line so effortlessly, so quietly, like it wasn’t a scripted moment but something real.
Maybe because it reminds you of last night.
The way he kissed you, the way his hands held you firm, like he was afraid you’d vanish if he let go. The way he told you, Say it again, like he couldn’t believe it, like he needed to hear it over and over to make it real. The way he looked at you when you did. The way you let yourself believe, just for a second, that everything you wanted wasn’t impossible.
Your breath hitches, sudden and sharp, and then— you’re crying.
It’s not dramatic. There’s no sobbing, no wretched gasps for air.
Just silent tears, slipping down your cheeks, slow and unrelenting, as the weight of it all crashes into you.
Because you love him. Because you’ve always loved him. Because you can’t remember a time of your life where you didn’t, and because you can’t imagine a time where you don’t.
And you’re terrified.
You don’t know how long you sit there, shoulders curled in, fingers gripping the edge of your desk like you need to physically hold yourself together.
The sun creeps through the window, light spilling over your room in soft golds and oranges. Outside, the campus hums to life—doors opening, footsteps in the hallway, distant laughter.
You should move. You should do something.
Instead, you hit play one more time.
“Do you think it’ll last?”
“As long as we exist, it will.”
The tears keep falling, and you don’t know why you’re crying anymore: whether it’s because you believe it, or because you don’t.
fourteen.
Your hands are shaking as you pull up your contacts list.
It’s barely past 6:30 AM, the sky still tinged with the last remnants of dawn, but you can’t stay here. The weight of your realization—your love for Tsukishima—is suffocating, curling around your ribs like something clawed and desperate, something that refuses to let go.
You need to talk to someone, and there’s only one person who will actually pick up at this hour. So you press the call button and wait.
The phone rings once. Twice. Three times.
Then, a groggy voice, scratchy with sleep but undeniably familiar.
“This better be good, or I swear—”
“I need you.”
A beat of silence.
Then, rustling sheets. A sigh. And finally.
“Where?”
***
The tiny café is quiet, still waking up alongside the rest of campus. The smell of freshly brewed coffee lingers in the air, mingling with the scent of vanilla and warm pastries. Sunlight filters through the floor-to-ceiling windows, casting golden rectangles onto the worn wooden floors.
You sit in your usual booth, hands wrapped around a steaming cup of tea, though you haven’t taken a single sip.
You barely register the sound of the door swinging open before a familiar figure drops into the seat across from you, yawning into his hoodie sleeve.
“You look horrible.”
You huff out a weak laugh, your throat still tight from earlier. “Good morning to you too, ‘Dashi.”
Yamaguchi stretches his arms overhead before slumping against the seat, blinking at you with the exhaustion of a man who has spent way too many nights buried under physics equations. He eyes you carefully, then his gaze flicks to the untouched tea in your hands.
“You called me before seven in the morning,” he says, running a hand through his messy hair. “Which means either the apocalypse is happening, or you did something monumentally stupid.”
You drag a hand down your face. “Both.”
His lips quirk up slightly. “Alright. Start talking.”
You open your mouth, but—where do you even start?
The confession? The kiss? The fact that you spent half the night crying over your laptop, replaying Tsukishima’s voice like some deranged, lovesick film major cliché?
Your hands tighten around your cup. “It’s about Kei.”
Yamaguchi doesn’t even blink. “Figured.”
You exhale, shaky and uneven. “I—I don’t know what to do.”
He leans forward slightly, forearms resting against the table, his expression turning serious. “Okay. Take it from the top.”
So you do. You tell him everything.
About the jealousy—the awful, gut-wrenching feeling that took root in your chest the second you saw Tsukishima kiss Yachi, the way it spiraled into something uncontrollable, something you couldn’t suppress.
About the fight—the way Tsukishima saw right through you, called you out, made you snap. The way you finally admitted the truth you’d been running from for so long.
And then, the kiss. The way he grabbed you, the way he pulled you in, the way he kissed you like he was starving, like he’d been waiting for this just as long as you had.
And the way, afterwards, you panicked.
The silence stretches when you finally stop talking. You can’t bring yourself to meet Yamaguchi’s eyes.
“I left,” you whisper, shame curling in your chest. “I—I freaked out and left. And now I don’t know what to do.”
Yamaguchi doesn’t respond immediately. Instead, he reaches for his coffee, takes a slow sip, and then sets it down with a soft thunk. Then—finally—he speaks.
“You’re a fucking idiot.”
Your head jerks up. “Excuse me?”
He sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose like you’ve personally caused him actual, physical pain. “This is literally the worst case of mutual pining I’ve ever seen.”
“Mutual—?”
“Yes,” Yamaguchi says, exasperated. “Are you seriously telling me you didn’t realize he’s been in love with you since we were, like, fifteen?”
You choke on air. “What?”
He gives you a flat look. “Oh, come on. You think he just puts up with people like that? Have you met Kei? He barely tolerates most human interaction, but you? You’re different.”
Your stomach sinks.
Yamaguchi leans back against the booth, studying you carefully. His voice is quieter when he says, “Now he’s waiting for you.”
And suddenly, it all comes rushing back.
Like that summer when you were fourteen, sprawled on the grass in his backyard, swatting mosquitoes away while he read some ridiculous philosophy book he’d scoffed at but couldn’t put down. You had called him pretentious, poked fun at his stupid little annotations, and then—just when he was about to snap back—he had looked at you. Really looked at you. And for a moment, you couldn’t breathe.
Or the time in high school when he stayed up with you, sitting outside your house at two in the fucking morning, just because you had a nightmare and didn’t want to be alone. He didn’t say anything about it, didn’t mock you for it, didn’t act like it was a big deal. He just let you talk about stupid shit until you weren’t shaking anymore.
Then there was college. The night he drove across town just because you were too drunk to make it back to your dorm. The way he let you ramble about some stupid movie you had watched for class while he carried you—actually carried you—up the stairs because your legs had stopped working.
And then, of course, last night.
The way he kissed you like he had been holding himself back for years.
The way he whispered, Say it again, like he needed to hear it more than anything.
The way you had run.
Because maybe, deep down, you always knew.
Yamaguchi watches you, then exhales through his nose, shaking his head. “You love him.”
It’s not a question.
It's a fact.
And you know that, of course. You’ve always known that. But hearing it out loud—having someone else say it, no doubt, no hesitation—it does something to you.
Your fingers tighten around your cup.
“I love him,” you admit, voice barely above a whisper. “I love him, and I’m scared.”
Yamaguchi hums, tapping his fingers against the rim of his coffee cup. “Why?”
“Because if this goes wrong, I lose him,” you say, staring down at the caramel liquid in your cup.
He tilts his head. “And if it goes right?”
You swallow.
That’s the terrifying part.
If it goes right—if you actually let yourself believe in this, in him… then everything changes. You can never get it back.
But then again, if you don’t, you’ll never move forward.
Yamaguchi leans forward, voice softer now. “Look, I get it. Kei is… a lot. He’s a pain in the ass. But you don’t have to be afraid of this. Not with him.”
You swallow hard. Your thumb hovers over his name on your phone. But you don’t call him.
Not yet.
Instead, you look at Yamaguchi, heart hammering, voice barely steady.
“What do I do?”
He smiles, small and knowing.
“Go to him.”
fifteen.
Your heart is pounding.
Your pulse is an erratic drumbeat in your ears, your breath uneven as you stand outside Tsukishima’s apartment at 7 AM like an absolute psychopath. The hallway is empty, most of the residents still asleep, because normal people do not show up at their best friend’s door at the crack of dawn after confessing their feelings, running away, and then ghosting them for a whole night.
But here you are.
You raise a fist to knock. Pause. Lower it.
Your mind runs through every possible thing that could go wrong. What if he’s still asleep? What if he’s awake, but he’s pissed? What if you just turn around and pretend this never happened and never speak to him again and maybe flee the country?
But no. No more running. You’re done with that.
You exhale sharply, grit your teeth, and knock.
There’s no response at first.
Then, a very loud, very irritated groan.
Footsteps. A thud as something (probably his knee) collides with something else (probably his desk), followed by a mumbled string of very colorful expletives.
And then, the door swings open.
Tsukishima is standing there, half-asleep and thoroughly unamused.
He’s not wearing his glasses, which is so much worse, because without them, he looks—soft. His blond hair is a complete mess, sticking up in every direction, and he’s wearing that stupid old hoodie that’s two sizes too big, the one you’ve definitely stolen at some point but returned because it stopped smelling like him. His sweatpants are loose around his hips, and his expression is pure murder as he squints at you.
“…The fuck?” His voice is rough from sleep. “It’s seven in the morning.”
You should probably say something. You should probably apologize. You should probably explain why you’ve lost your goddamn mind and decided to show up here like some dramatic main character in an early 2000s rom-com.
But instead, you go on your tiptoes, yank down him by his hoodie, and kiss him.
It happens fast, and at first, he completely freezes.
Like full-body shutdown. His entire frame locks up, his hands hovering uncertainly, breath caught in his throat.
For one horrifying moment, you think you’ve made a mistake.
But then… then his hands find your waist. And suddenly, he’s kissing you back.
It’s slow at first, tentative, like he’s still processing this, still trying to believe it’s real. But then his fingers tighten against your skin, pulling you closer, and you can feel the exact moment he gives in.
The exact moment he stops thinking.
And God, you feel it everywhere.
The heat of him, the slow, deliberate press of his lips, the quiet, shaky exhale against your mouth before he tilts his head and deepens the kiss. He’s warm, solid, real, and for the first time in weeks, your head isn’t a tangled mess of doubt and fear.
For the first time, everything makes sense.
You pull away first, breathless, heart hammering.
His hands linger on your waist. He keeps his face close to yours, just centimeters away, and when he finally opens his eyes, they’re dark with something you’ve never seen before. Something raw. Something completely, utterly unguarded.
You swallow hard. “I—”
His thumb brushes over your hip, the smallest, barest movement.
You inhale sharply. “I’m sorry.”
Tsukishima doesn’t move. He just watches you, eyes sharp, unreadable. “For what?”
“For—” You hesitate. Your fingers tighten against the fabric of his hoodie. “For running. For taking so long to figure this out. For—”
He sighs, but there’s no real annoyance in it. His gaze softens—just slightly, just enough.
“You’re a dumbass,” he mutters.
You let out a breathless laugh. “I know.”
A pause. Then, he asks, “Do you wanna go for a walk?”
You blink up at him, caught off guard. “A walk?”
“Yeah.” Tsukishima shrugs, stepping back, rubbing a hand over the back of his neck.
You raise an eyebrow. “Are you gonna walk me back to my dorm? Because I literally just dragged myself here for nothing if that’s the case.”
He rolls his eyes. “No, dumbass. I just—” He exhales, shoving his hands into his hoodie pocket. “Just wanna walk somewhere.”
Your lips twitch. “…How romantic of you.”
He scoffs. “Shut up.”
But he doesn’t deny it.
The air is crisp, the early morning quiet—the kind of stillness that only exists before the rest of the world wakes up.
You walk side by side, the distance between you not much, but enough. For a while, neither of you speak.
“I meant it.”
You glance at him. “Huh?”
Tsukishima doesn’t look at you. His gaze is fixed ahead, his hands still tucked into his hoodie, his jaw set. But his voice—low, certain—doesn’t waver.
“I meant it,” he repeats. “When I told you to say it again.”
Your breath catches. He keeps walking, staring straight ahead like this isn’t some life-altering confession, like he’s just casually commenting on the weather. But his hands are tensed inside his hoodie pocket. His shoulders are tight.
You swallow. “Kei…”
“I don’t like a lot of people,” he says bluntly. “I barely tolerate most people. But you—”
He stops walking. You stop too.
Finally, he turns to you, and God—his eyes. They burn, golden in the morning light, open and completely unguarded.
“You make me feel like I belong in a movie.”
Your breath stutters.
He exhales, shaking his head, voice quieter now. “And I fucking hate movies.”
A laugh bubbles up your throat, sudden and unexpected, and you can’t stop smiling.
He rolls his eyes. “Don’t make it a thing.”
“Oh, I’m absolutely making it a thing,” you tease, nudging him with your shoulder. “My grumpy, six-foot-four, emotionally constipated best friend just confessed he’s been hopelessly in love with me for years.”
His ears go pink. “I didn’t say that.”
“You did.”
“Shut up.”
You grin. “Make me.”
A pause. Then, he does.
This time, the kiss is gentler. No urgency, no desperation—just warmth. Just him. And as his hands settle against your waist, as your fingers curl into the fabric of his hoodie, as his lips move against yours with something quieter, steadier, you realize something very, very important.
For the first time in a long, long time—you’re exactly where you’re supposed to be.
With him.
But then, the moment stretches, and a thought occurs to you. An extremely essential thought.
You pull back slightly, blinking up at him. Tsukishima frowns. “What.”
You open your mouth. Close it. Then, after a beat, you blurt out, “So… does this mean we’re dating?”
His eyes flicker with something unreadable—half amusement, half exasperation. He doesn’t answer right away. Instead, his thumb brushes absently along your waist, his grip shifting slightly, like he’s still getting used to the fact that he’s touching you.
Then, flatly, he says, “I don’t know. Do you plan on kissing other people?”
“No?” You reply, your nose scrunching.
“Then yeah.”
You stare. “That’s it?”
“That’s it.”
You gape at him. “Kei, you are the most unromantic—”
But then something flickers across your mind, something bigger, heavier. A thought that makes your stomach tighten, your fingers twitch against his hoodie.
You inhale. “Hey,” you say, softer this time. “How long?”
He watches you. “How long what?”
You swallow hard. “How long have you loved me?”
A pause. A long pause.
Tsukishima doesn’t flinch, doesn’t look away. But there’s something in his expression that shifts—something softer, quieter. His fingers tighten just slightly at your waist. And then, voice low, steady, like it’s the simplest thing in the world, he sighs.
“I can’t remember when I didn’t.”
Your heart stops. Your breath catches, your fingers clench around his hoodie, and God—what are you supposed to say to that? Because there’s no hesitation, no uncertainty. Just him. Just this. Just the reality of a love so deeply ingrained in the both of you that it has no beginning and no end.
You exhale—shaky, breathless. “You suck at romance, you know that?”
He rolls his eyes. “And yet, you’re still standing here.”
You laugh, bright and full, and before you can think about it, before you can overanalyze, you’re kissing him again.
It’s easier this time.
Because now, you’re sure.
And maybe the universe really does have a thing for sadism, because somehow, against all logic, it made him your person. The same Tsukishima Kei who laughs at your mistakes and misfortunes, who calls you out for your delusions and idiocy, who makes fun of your collection of Smiskis and love of reality TV. But at the same time, this Tsukishima Kei would do anything for you, even if you have to beg and beg. This Tsukishima Kei has held you through the worst days of your life, has seen you at your lowest moments and stayed, has waited for you for years to see him the way he has always seen you.
And you think, feeling his hands tighten at your waist and his lips linger against yours like he’s memorising the feeling, that maybe, just maybe, the universe got this one right.
⨭ closing notes; i adore tsukishima kei so much. tbh i rly struggled w this work bc i had this concept fleshed out for so long and j cldnt execute it the way i wanted, but thank u to @kinaskorner for beta reading and for the reassurance <3 i hope u guys love this too!! if u made it to the end of this super long fic lol then thank u sm and i hope u have the loveliest day
⨭ descriptions; as much as you love romcoms, you're a realist and recognise just how illogical true love is—unfortunately for you, fate has other plans.
⨭ warnings; profanity
⨭ a/n; my 2025 motto has been to just write and not worry too much about perfectionism, so here's my mess of an oikawa fic. it's acc unreal i have finished three fics in a week's time lol who knows how long this creative streak will last but wtv. in the meantime, enjoy :)
song i listened to writing this: 'plot twist' by niki
one.
During your four-hour layover in SFO, you decide that 4AM flights are only slightly less inconvenient than paying full price for a flight at noon. Because right now, it’s honestly just eerie: San Francisco International Airport (full-government name because you fear this might actually be where you die) is completely empty, largely dark, and very, very desolate.
You sigh and glance around the lounge, which is dimly lit and suspiciously quiet except for the distant hum of a floor polisher somewhere beyond the gates. Every shop is shuttered, every PA announcement echoes into nothing, and the only signs of life are a few overworked employees slumped behind their counters; you’re the only one at your gate, your phone charging via one of the blue-light towers, headphones blasting at maximum volume. You’re trying to drown out the unnerving feeling in your chest with Gracie Abrams and SZA—it’s not working in the slightest, actually making you increasingly wary of your vulnerability.
But whatever. You’re a #brokecollegestudent, so obviously you’re willing to risk your life for a good deal.
Honestly, you should really be asleep. That was the plan, after all: you had it all mapped out—get here, find a quiet corner, conk out, wake up only when it’s absolutely necessary. Instead, your brain is running on fumes and bad decisions, vibrating horribly in your skull because you’re an idiot and didn’t realize how paranoid you get when you’re sleep deprived.
You groan, stretching your legs out in front of you. “Kill me,” you mutter under your breath.
“First time traveling?” a voice pipes up, obnoxiously chipper for the time of night.
You freeze mid-stretch. You are not alone.
Slowly, you turn toward the source of the voice.
Sprawled across the lounge chair opposite you, looking for all the world like he belongs here, is a guy—tall, lean but broad-shouldered, stupidly good-looking even under the sickly fluorescent lights. Tousled brown hair, sweatpants and a zip-up hoodie that are clearly designer but worn like he doesn’t give a damn. His legs are stretched out like he owns the entire damn lounge, and he’s got this lazy, almost smug smirk on his face, like he’s enjoying whatever show you’re unknowingly putting on.
You narrow your eyes. “Excuse me?”
He gestures vaguely at you, at your very obvious state of suffering. “You look like you’re miserable right now.”
“I am,” you say. “What’s it to you?”
“Nothing,” he shrugs, then tilts his head. “Just figured misery loves company.”
Your brain is still catching up to the fact that this man—a stranger, an audacious one at that—has just decided to start a conversation with you, unprompted, in the middle of an empty airport. You eye him cautiously. “You do realize there are approximately four million other places to sit, right?”
He grins. “Yeah, but none of them have you.”
You blink. “Are you flirting with me?”
“Depends.” His smirk widens. “Is it working?”
“No.”
“Damn,” he says, without an ounce of actual disappointment. “Guess I’ll have to try harder.”
You scoff, shaking your head as you glance away. God. Of all the people to be stuck in airport limbo with, you had to get the charming, insufferable kind. The kind that probably coasts through life on natural athletic ability and the kind of face that gets him out of parking tickets. The kind that’s entirely too comfortable stretching out in a public lounge like it’s his personal living room.
He’s watching you, you realise. Like he’s waiting for something.
“What?” you sigh.
“You didn’t answer my question,” he says.
“I don’t remember you asking one.”
The corner of his mouth twitches like you’ve just mildly amused him. “First time traveling?” he repeats.
You roll your eyes. “No. Just first time being stuck in an airport at an hour when no one should be conscious.”
“Ah,” he says, leaning back in his chair. “A rookie mistake. 4AM flights are a scam.”
You snort. “And yet, here you are.”
“Touché.”
You take another glance at him, this time really looking. Something about him tugs at your memory, like a song you’ve heard before but can’t place. The messy hair, the easy confidence, the way he’s practically radiating I’m used to being the center of attention energy.
Then, in a flash, it hits you.
“Oh,” you say, recognition clicking into place. “Wait—you’re Oikawa.”
His eyebrows lift slightly, a flicker of interest crossing his face. “You know me?”
“You’re that volleyball guy,” you say, pointing vaguely at him. “The one who’s, like… unnecessarily famous.”
Oikawa grins. “Unnecessarily?”
“I mean, it’s volleyball,” you deadpan. “I didn’t even know people could be famous for that.”
His expression morphs into something between offense and wounded pride. “Ouch. I think I might actually cry.”
“Please do,” you say. “It’ll entertain me.”
He clutches his chest theatrically. “You’re ruthless.”
“I’m tired,” you promptly correct. “And delirious. And currently stuck in an airport with a man who’s trying to convince me he’s a big deal.”
Oikawa scoffs, but there’s something amused in his gaze, like he’s enjoying this. “You’re not a fan of sports?”
“Not really,” you shrug half-heartedly, looking back down at your beat-up Filas. You’re not lying; even so, you’ve seen his games on TV before (you watch the Olympics after all—you’re not a total basket case). He’s a flirt, a player with double meaning, and you would really rather avoid getting involved with anything complicated. “I’ve never been into jocks.”
“Never been into jocks,” he echoes, shaking his head. “And here I thought I could be your Peter Kavinsky.”
“No, thank you. I would never write you a love letter.”
Oikawa laughs at that—an actual laugh, not just the smug little chuckle you’ve gotten so far. It’s rich and warm, and you hate the way it makes your stomach flip just slightly. Who even are you right now? This whole situation is so unbelievable that it makes you more confident.
You cross your arms, looking him up and down. “So what’s your excuse?”
“For what?”
“For subjecting yourself to this hellscape of a layover,” you say, gesturing at the ghost town of a terminal around you.
He sighs, dragging a hand through his already messy hair. “Came back to visit some old teammates in California. Now I’m heading home.”
“Japan?”
“Bingo.”
Your brain is slow, groggy, and running on fumes, but something about that answer sticks. “Wait,” you say, frowning. “What flight are you on?”
Oikawa glances at you, like he knows exactly what you’re about to realize. “4:00AM to Haneda.”
You stare at him. “No.”
His grin is almost devious. “Yes.”
Your stomach drops.
Fourteen hours. Fourteen whole hours, stuck on a flight. With him.
Oikawa watches the realization dawn on your face, and for the first time since he sat down, he looks genuinely entertained.
“Well,” he says, stretching his arms over his head. “Looks like you’re stuck with me.”
You are going to lose your goddamn mind.
two.
For all your romcom consumption, you never stopped to consider what you would do if coincidence and chance conspired against you in that manner. You figured if fate was ever going to meddle in your love life, it would be in an incessantly normal way—maybe a slow-burn situation with a coworker, or a friend-of-a-friend you never noticed until one fateful night.
Not… this.
Not staring at seat 14A like it’s a death sentence, because your boarding pass is crumpled in your fist, because of course when you finally find your row, Oikawa Tooru is already lounging in 14B, looking far too pleased with himself.
He glances up as you approach, then breaks into the most shit-eating grin you’ve ever fucking seen.
“Well, well, well,” he drawls, leaning back like he just won the lottery. “Fancy seeing you here.”
You stop dead in the aisle, refusing to believe what your own two eyes are telling you.
“Are you following me?” you blurt, because there is absolutely no way the universe would do this to you.
Oikawa, ever the dramatist, clutches his chest. “Sweetheart, if I wanted to follow you, I’d at least be more subtle.”
“Show me your ticket.”
He raises an eyebrow but pulls out his boarding pass with a flourish anyway. You squint to read the text, half-hoping that you would find some spelling error that could place either of you somewhere else. But nope: his ticket reads 14B in big, bold letters, right next to Oikawa Tooru and Gate 11.
You exhale slowly, pressing your fingers to your temple. Jesus fuck. He manifested this, with his snarky commentary and all about being stuck with him; you would say that you’re gonna kill him for this, but evidently, karma is real and terrifying.
Oikawa, meanwhile, is having the time of his life.
“What are the odds?” he muses, tucking the ticket back into his hoodie pocket. “Out of all the seats on this flight, I get to sit next to you.”
“This is a nightmare,” you mutter.
“Nightmares are scary,” he says. “I’m a delight.”
You glare at him and shove your bag into the overhead bin with slightly more force than necessary. He watches, thoroughly entertained, as you lower yourself into your seat like you’re walking into a trap.
The cabin fills with the usual pre-flight chaos—flight attendants directing traffic, the hum of passengers settling in, the occasional thud of an overhead bin slamming shut. You try to focus on that, on anything other than the man currently making himself comfortable in the seat beside you.
Maybe if you ignore him, he’ll get bored.
Oikawa leans an elbow on the armrest between you, tilting his head slightly. “So,” he says. “What’s your in-flight entertainment plan?”
“My what?”
“You know, what’s gonna keep you occupied for the next fourteen hours?” He gestures vaguely to your bag. “Movies? Reading? Soul-searching?”
“Sleeping,” you say immediately. “It’s four AM. Like a normal person.”
Oikawa tilts his head, considering. “See, I would believe you, but you already look wide awake.”
You scowl at him. Because unfortunately, he’s right—your body is so far past exhaustion that sleep is a distant, unattainable dream. You sigh and shift in your seat, pressing yourself closer to the window.
He grins, victorious. “You should talk to me instead.”
You let out an actual laugh—short, sharp, disbelieving. “Why the hell would I do that?”
“Because I’m fun.”
“You’re insufferable.”
“Same thing.”
You shoot him a flat look. “I don’t like you.”
“And yet, you still haven’t put your headphones in,” he points out.
Damn it. You hate that he’s right. Again.
You huff, finally fishing your headphones from your bag and shoving them into your ears with exaggerated finality. Then, just for good measure, you turn to the window and squeeze your eyes shut.
Oikawa doesn’t say anything else. For about thirty seconds. Then, right as the plane begins to taxi down the runway, you hear him say, way too smugly for your liking, “you’re gonna talk to me eventually.”
You pretend to be asleep. You can feel him watching you, like he’s waiting for you to crack, like he knows something you don’t.
Ugh. This is gonna be a long flight.
three.
By hour three of the flight, you’ve come to realise that Oikawa has a surprising love for the classics.
Trust: you weren’t actively trying to notice his choice of in-air films, but your periphery and conscience betray you, and you become acutely aware as your seatmate cycles through The Proposal and Crazy Stupid Love (two objectively incredible films). He cues 10 Things I Hate About You next, which is probably your favorite movie of all time; you adore said movie so much that, despite all of your previous complaints and window-seat protests, you eventually lean into the seat rest separating you two and watch along.
Not openly, obviously. Not in any way that would give Oikawa the satisfaction of knowing he’s captured your attention. You angle your face toward the window, feign a vague disinterest, and sneak quick glances when you think he’s not looking.
Spoiler: he notices immediately.
“You know you could just watch with me,” Oikawa says, not even bothering to take his eyes off the screen. “You’re not exactly subtle.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you say flatly, keeping your gaze stubbornly trained on the clouds outside.
“Uh-huh.” He shifts in his seat, casually turning the screen toward you. “C’mon, if you’re gonna steal glances, at least commit.”
“I wasn’t stealing anything,” you huff, but it’s weak, and you both know it.
Oikawa smirks, and—against your better judgment—you give in, finally glancing at his screen properly to watch Kat Stratford dancing drunkenly on a table. He offers you one of his earbuds, which you take very, very tentatively. You would be deeply unhappy about the proximity if your love of Hypnotize didn’t trump it.
You sigh, leaning your cheek against your palm. “This movie is so good.”
“Right?” Oikawa grins, clearly pleased with himself. “Pretty bold of you to call me insufferable when you clearly have taste.”
You narrow your eyes at him. “What does that mean?”
“It means you love this movie, I love this movie—therefore, you and I have more in common than you’d like to admit.”
You scoff, but there’s no real bite to it. “Liking 10 Things I Hate About You is just basic human decency.”
Oikawa presses a hand to his chest, mock-flattered. “Oh, so now you’re calling me decent?”
“No, I’m calling the movie decent. You’re a fluke.”
He gasps dramatically, then shakes his head, muttering something about how you wound him. But his smile lingers as the film plays on, and maybe—just a little bit—you don’t find his presence as unbearable anymore. He’s too distracted watching Joseph Gordon-Levitt pine to be truly annoying.
Somewhere between the next few scenes, you relax completely, not even pretending to look away anymore. You’re leaning in slightly now, watching the moment where Patrick buys Kat a guitar, and it takes an embarrassingly long time for you to realize that Oikawa’s staring at you instead of the screen.
You blink. “What?”
He tilts his head, amused. “You’re, like… really into this.”
You scoff, flicking your gaze back to the movie. “I just appreciate good cinema.”
“Oh, so you’re a romcom person.”
You hesitate—because there’s something about the way he says it, a sort of curiosity that feels deeper than just casual conversation. It could be interpreted as judgmental, but somehow, the way he says it doesn’t seem to be. Still, you brush it off, nodding begrudgingly. “Yeah. So?”
Oikawa hums, glancing back at the screen as if weighing his words. Then, without looking at you, he says, “Do you think this stuff actually happens?”
“What, grand romantic gestures?”
“Yeah. Stuff like this. The running through the airport thing. The whole public love confession in front of the entire school thing. Do you think it’s real?”
You consider it for a moment, shifting in your seat. “I think… I think people want it to be real,” you admit, watching as Patrick and Kat kiss in the movie’s final scene. “Like, deep down, even the most cynical people kind of want to believe that this kind of thing could happen to them.”
Oikawa doesn’t respond right away. He just watches you, his expression unreadable.
Then he asks, voice softer this time, “And do you?”
The question settles in your chest, heavier than it should be. Do you believe in grand gestures? In someone showing up unannounced at your door, confessing their feelings in the pouring rain? In someone looking at you like you’re the only thing in the world worth fighting for?
If you’re being honest, you’re a hopeless romantic at heart. It’s why you love the genre so much—because despite all your cynicism, despite every realist take you’ve ever had, a part of you still wants to believe in love that lasts. You just don’t think it’s likely. People fall out of love with each other. Feelings fade. Real life is rarely as cinematic as the movies make it seem.
You exhale, suddenly too aware of the way Oikawa’s watching you, like he sees right through you.
“I think it’s… nice in movies,” you say carefully. “But in real life, people just disappoint you. It’s not worth taking the chance and getting hurt.”
Oikawa studies you for a long moment, his expression unreadable. Then, to your utter surprise, he smiles—small and knowing, the kind that makes your stomach do something weird.
“Well,” he murmurs, leaning back in his seat, “maybe you just haven’t met the right person yet.”
Your breath catches. You hate the way your heart stumbles over itself, just for a second.
You force yourself to roll your eyes, turning back toward the window. “Gross,” you mutter, hoping he doesn’t hear the slight waver in your voice.
Oikawa just chuckles, hitting play on When Harry Met Sally.
“Talk to me when we hit the part where Meg Ryan fakes an orgasm,” he says, stretching his arms behind his head. “Then we’ll really see where you stand on romance.”
You shake your head, biting back a reluctant smile.
And as the flight drags on, you realize—with a sinking feeling—that you don’t actually mind sitting next to Oikawa Tooru as much as you thought you did.
Oh God. That can’t be good.
four.
Halfway through the scene where Harry and Sally are in flight, you decide, after much internal conflict, that you’ll allow yourself to like Oikawa for this flight and this flight alone. It’s harmless. A temporary indulgence. You can enjoy the anonymity, let yourself sink into the moment, and then disappear once the plane lands. Maybe you’ll see his Olympic gameplay on TV one day, mention it offhandedly to whoever you’re with at the time, and then promptly forget about him.
Because here’s the thing: if you let yourself, you could probably fall for people pretty easily. You keep your guards up because it’s safer, but you imagine that love is like getting sucked into a black hole—you either fall forever, or you hit the ground so hard it shatters you. And if there’s one thing you know about yourself, it’s your tendency to self-sabotage: you don’t remember a single relationship you’ve had where you didn’t walk away first. You really would prefer to keep your romantic fantasies in fiction; it hurts less.
You never realized that Oikawa could share this conviction.
He doesn’t say anything when you shift slightly toward him, resting your arm on the seat rest between you. He doesn’t comment when you fully give in, watching When Harry Met Sally with him like it’s something you’ve been doing forever. He just lets it happen—like he expected it, like he knew you’d cave.
You don’t like that. But you do like the movie.
The scene in the airport plays, Sally meticulously laying out her travel quirks—I like the aisle seat, so I can stretch my legs. I don’t like to eat between meals, but I always want something sweet after dinner. You smile to yourself. You’ve always loved the specificity of it: how she knows exactly what she likes, how she doesn’t compromise on it.
“I feel like dating you would be exhausting,” Oikawa muses abruptly, arms crossed over his chest.
You tear your gaze away from the screen just long enough to give him a withering look. “Excuse me?”
He gestures vaguely in your direction. “You’re too—” He pauses, searching for the right word. “Particular.”
You scoff. “And you’re not?”
“Not in the same way.” He shifts slightly, smirking. “You’d analyze me to death. Pick apart every little thing I do.”
You raise an eyebrow. “You say that like you wouldn’t be a terror to date.”
Oikawa grins, looking entirely too pleased with himself. “Thinking about dating me, are we?”
“I’m thinking about how insufferable you’d be,” you correct, turning back toward the screen.
“Mm. You sure?”
You shoot him a look.
He sighs, dramatic as ever. “Shame. I’d be great at it.”
You snort. “Doubt that.”
His smirk widens. “That sounded a lot like a challenge.”
“It’s not.”
“I think it is.”
“Oikawa.”
He chuckles, finally turning back to the movie, and for some reason, you feel yourself relax again. The teasing is easier now, lighter. You don’t hate it.
And, despite yourself, you sneak another glance at him before looking back at the screen.
The movie plays on. Harry and Sally are walking through Central Park in the fall, debating the age-old question of whether men and women can be just friends. You know every word of this scene, could probably recite it in your sleep.
“I love this part,” you say, before you can stop yourself.
Oikawa glances at you, intrigued. “Why?”
“It’s just—” You pause, searching for the right words. “It’s the conversation. The way they both believe so deeply in their own side of things. And they’re both right, in different ways.”
Oikawa hums, tilting his head. “So, which one are you?”
You blink. “What do you mean?”
“Do you think men and women can just be friends?”
You hesitate. You’ve thought about it before, obviously—you’ve had guy friends, you’ve had moments where those friendships blurred at the edges, where you wondered if they were really as platonic as you claimed.
“I think it depends,” you decide finally. “Some people can. Some people can’t.”
Oikawa watches you for a beat, his expression unreadable. “And what about us?”
Your breath falters; the question feels heavier than it should. You force yourself to scoff. “We’re not even friends.”
He laughs, and you hate how warm the sound is. “Cold.”
You shift in your seat, trying to ignore the way your stomach flips. “I just mean we met, like, five hours ago.”
“Five very meaningful hours,” he says, nodding seriously.
You shake your head, turning back to the screen—just in time for the diner scene.
“Oh, here we go,” Oikawa murmurs.
You grin. “Cinematic excellence.”
Sally fakes an orgasm, loud and unashamed, right in the middle of Katz’s Deli. You try not to look at Oikawa as you laugh, but his presence is suddenly overwhelming, like you can feel him beside you even without looking.
“She’s got a point, you know,” he says.
“What?” You glance at him.
He gestures to the screen. “Half of dating is just making people think you’re having a good time.”
You scoff. “That’s your dating experience, maybe.”
Oikawa raises an eyebrow. “Oh?”
“You’re a playboy.”
He groans. “I knew you were going to say that.”
“Because it’s true.”
“It’s outdated,” he argues. “Was I kind of a flirt in high school? Sure. But I grew out of that.”
You snort. “Did you?”
Oikawa turns to you, expression softer now. “I did,” he says, and you don’t know why, but the look in his eyes and the way his voice wavers make you believe him.
There’s something almost sad about it, how under his layers of bravado and grandiosity, he seems just the slightest bit lonely. You don’t say anything. You just watch him, the way his jaw tenses slightly, the way his fingers drum absentmindedly against the armrest.
“I don’t know,” he continues, voice quieter. “Never really met someone who gets me like that.”
You hesitate. Then, before you can think better of it, you mumble, “I get that.”
Oikawa looks at you. Something shifts between you. Not huge, not dramatic—but something.
You clear your throat, turning back to the screen. “The best part of this movie is the ending, anyway.”
He watches you for a second longer, then smiles slightly. “Yeah?”
“Yeah,” you say, watching as Harry races through the streets on New Year’s Eve, heart in his throat, words spilling out in a desperate confession. “Because he realizes it’s real.”
Oikawa hums. “And you don’t think real love is like that?”
You hesitate. You really don’t want to answer that question, not right now. So instead, you shrug. “Like I said, it’s nice in movies.”
Oikawa doesn’t push. But as the credits roll, he glances at you one last time, something unreadable in his gaze. He’s not entirely convinced by your answer, and you both know it, even if he isn’t saying it aloud.
five.
Oikawa’s phone password is his own name, which is a fun fact you discover as your flight nears hour ten.
You don’t even mean to find out—really, you don’t. He dozes off halfway through Crazy Rich Asians, phone balanced precariously on his knee, screen still lit up from whatever mindless scrolling he’d been doing before sleep claimed him. He’s slumped in his seat, arms crossed, mouth slightly open in a way that would be embarrassing if he were anyone else. But he’s Oikawa, and people like him have a way of looking effortless even in sleep.
The moment the phone slips, it’s like slow motion. It free-falls, landing with a soft thud on the armrest between you. Oikawa startles awake, lashes fluttering, hands fumbling to catch it a second too late. His fingers curl around the device, flipping it over with bleary concern, only for the screen to glare back at him—locked.
And that’s when you see it.
You don’t mean to. It’s just…right there. The exact moment his fingers trace out the unlock pattern, it clicks into place, predictable in a way that makes you snort.
“Oikawa.”
He turns toward you, still shaking off the drowsiness. “Huh?”
“Your password,” you say, fighting a smirk. “You really chose Oikawa?”
He yawns, unbothered. “And?”
“And that’s… so predictable.”
He stretches, spine arching lazily before he slouches back down, as if the conversation itself is something he can’t be bothered to put effort into. “Predictable or genius? You tell me.”
“Predictable,” you say immediately. “What if someone tries to hack you? Your name is the first thing people would guess.”
Oikawa grins. “Exactly. It’s so obvious that no one would actually think I’d use it.”
You scoff, shaking your head. “I bet all your passwords are just variations of your own name.”
He makes a noise of vague offense, rubbing a hand over his face. “That’s an outrageous accusation,” he says, clearly lying.
You narrow your eyes. “Your Netflix account—Oikawa123.”
He lets out a small, amused breath. “No comment.”
“Instagram? KingOikawa.”
“Hey, now—”
“Banking password?” You pause, then shake your head. “No, don’t answer that. I don’t even want to know.”
He chuckles, tipping his head back against the seat. “You’re awfully interested in my passwords, aren’t you?”
You roll your eyes. “I’m interested in the fact that you’re a narcissist.”
“And yet,” he muses, smirking at you, “you’re the one paying so much attention to me.”
Your lips part, an immediate retort on the tip of your tongue—but nothing comes out. Because damn it, he’s right.
Somewhere between hour one and hour ten, between watching him cycle through romcoms and pretending not to care, between brushing shoulders and arguing about the best scene in 10 Things I Hate About You, between the countless small moments where his presence started feeling less like an inconvenience and more like something else entirely—you started paying attention. And he knows it.
You let out a slow breath and turn toward the window. “I hate you.”
Oikawa laughs softly. “No, you don’t.”
You don’t respond. You’re too tired to lie.
***
At hour eleven, your seat neighbor learns something about you, too. It’s not even because you tell him, but because he notices.
The plane has dimmed its lights, casting everything in muted shades of blue and gray. The hum of the engine is steady, a low vibration beneath your feet. Most of the passengers have settled into varying stages of half-sleep—some curled against their window seats, others with neck pillows wedged awkwardly under their chins.
You, on the other hand, remain awake.
You lean against the window, knees drawn up slightly, arms folded. Your gaze is unfocused, staring out at the endless stretch of dark, empty sky. Exhaustion clings to you, but sleep never comes easy—not on planes, not in cars, not anywhere that isn’t familiar.
Oikawa shifts beside you, the rustle of fabric breaking the silence. Then, softly, he asks, “you don’t sleep well on planes, do you?”
You blink, a little surprised. “What?”
He nods at you. “You’ve been sitting like that for a while now. You look exhausted, but you’re still awake.”
You hesitate, because he’s right. You’ve never been good at this—at shutting your brain off, at forcing comfort where it doesn’t exist. Your body stays tense, your thoughts wired for worst-case scenarios, always preparing for turbulence that might never come.
“It’s fine,” you say, voice quieter than before. “I’ll sleep when I land.”
Oikawa watches you for a moment, then, without a word, grabs his hoodie from his lap and balls it up into something vaguely pillow-shaped.
“Here,” he says, placing it between you.
You frown at it. “What?”
“You’ll be more comfortable,” he says simply. “Try it.”
Your gaze flickers to his, searching for the inevitable teasing remark, the smugness, the gotcha. But for once, it’s not there. Just an easy, offhanded kindness.
You swallow. “You don’t have to—”
“I know,” he says, cutting you off before you can argue. “Just take it.”
After a moment of hesitation, you do.
And when you finally let yourself lean into it, letting the exhaustion settle into your bones, you hear him murmur—softer, barely audible— “See? Told you I’d be good at this.”
Because you’re actually significantly more comfortable and way too tired to argue, you just snuggle into the fabric and ignore your thumping heart.
***
At hour twelve, you wake up to warmth.
It’s subtle at first, just a gradual shift from the hazy quiet of sleep to the soft awareness of something unfamiliar. You’re warm, comfortable in a way you shouldn’t be, your head still heavy with lingering exhaustion.
Then, slowly, the details start to register.
The weight pressed lightly against your shoulder. The faint scent of something clean and familiar—fabric softener, maybe, or whatever detergent Oikawa uses. The steady rise and fall of breath, slow and even.
Your pulse stutters.
He’s leaned into you, his head resting lightly against your shoulder, body angled just slightly in your direction. His breathing is deep and even, completely at ease. At some point in the last hour, he must have drifted off.
And instead of moving away—you stayed. Your brain short-circuits. You should move. You should definitely move. But you don’t.
Instead, you sit there, utterly still, heart pounding with something you don’t want to name. Because this—this—is not how Oikawa looks on TV.
The Oikawa you’ve seen in interviews is all sharp angles and practiced charm, leaning into the cameras with a knowing smirk, effortlessly collecting attention like it’s his birthright. The Oikawa on the court is even sharper—brilliant and untouchable, playing with a confidence that borders on arrogance, eyes burning with something that makes it impossible to look away. Even after a game, drenched in sweat and exhaustion, he still performs—laughing, winking at the reporters, throwing casual remarks over his shoulder like he knows the whole world is watching.
But right now?
Right now, he’s none of those things.
His expression is unguarded, free of the practiced ease he wears like armor. His brow is smooth, his lips parted slightly, his breathing soft and steady. There’s no smirk, no carefully placed bravado—just quiet, unconscious stillness.
And it unsettles you. Because this is real.
This is not Oikawa under stadium lights or Oikawa playing to the cameras. This is just him, asleep against your shoulder, completely unaware of the effect he’s having on you.
And maybe that’s what makes it worse.
You exhale slowly, careful not to move too much, not to wake him. Your gaze drifts downward before you can stop yourself, just enough to see the way his hand has fallen between you, palm up, fingers lightly curled. For a second, just a second, you have the insane urge to reach out.
You don’t. Of course, you don’t. But the thought lingers, settling somewhere deep in your chest, unwelcome and impossible to ignore.
You turn your head toward the window, watching the faint glow of city lights far below, hoping the view will quiet whatever this feeling is.
It doesn’t. And still—you don’t wake him.
For some reason, you let him stay.
six.
There’s approximately one hour left before your plane is due to land, and you’re beginning to realize that you don’t actually want it to end.
Maybe it’s the absurdity of the whole situation, or maybe it’s because of your sleep-deprived delusions, but you like Oikawa. You don’t want to—really, you don’t. It would be infinitely easier if he were just another stranger you made small talk with before forgetting the moment you stepped off the plane. But no. He had to be annoying and charming and stupidly perceptive. He had to watch romcoms like he actually gives a damn about them. He had to see through you, easily and effortlessly, as if he simply understood you.
And now, because the universe is cruel and loves to humiliate you personally, you’re sitting here in the final stretch of this flight, hyper-aware of every single second ticking down, not wanting it to be over.
Oikawa doesn’t seem to share your existential crisis. He’s been quiet for the last twenty minutes, scrolling lazily through his phone, one elbow propped against the armrest between you. Every so often, he glances up at the in-flight map, watching as the little airplane icon inches closer to Tokyo.
You hate that it makes your stomach sink.
You shift in your seat, pressing your temple against the cool window, staring out at the early morning sky. You wonder if this is how romcom characters feel in that inevitable third-act moment, when they realize they’ve accidentally gone and caught feelings. When they recognize, with dawning horror, that the person they were supposed to be indifferent to has somehow carved their way into their life.
The difference, of course, is that those characters always get a happy ending.
You don’t know what you get.
The PA system crackles overhead. A flight attendant reminds everyone to prepare for descent. Around you, there’s the familiar rustle of people adjusting in their seats, pulling out jackets, stretching the stiffness from their limbs.
Oikawa shifts beside you, adjusting his hoodie. “Almost there,” he murmurs.
You hum, noncommittal. You think he’s going to leave it at that, but then he glances at you, eyes sharp despite the sleep still clinging to his edges. He tilts his head slightly, like he’s studying you. “You okay?”
Your grip tightens on the armrest. He notices too much. You should’ve known that he would see it—the way you’re staring too long at the window, the way you haven’t snapped at him in a while.
You force yourself to scoff. “Why wouldn’t I be?”
Oikawa smirks like he knows something you don’t. “No reason.”
You hate that. You hate how easy he makes it look, the whole watching-you-like-you’re-a-puzzle-he’s-figuring-out thing. You hate that part of you wants him to keep looking.
You exhale slowly, turning back toward the window. The seatbelt light dings on. The plane begins its slow descent, the city below coming into sharper focus.
It’s almost over.
***
Airports are supposed to be soulless places. That’s what you tell yourself, at least, as you walk through the terminal—bleary-eyed, exhausted, your carry-on digging into your shoulder. Your brain is already working on a plan: get your bag, get through customs, forget Oikawa Tooru exists.
That plan lasts approximately five seconds before you hear it.
A cheer. Loud, unmistakable, coming from somewhere near Arrivals. You glance over, along with half the airport, and that’s when you see them.
A couple, standing in the middle of the terminal like a goddamn movie scene. One of them—tall, dark-haired, a duffel slung over his shoulder—is staring at the other like he can’t quite believe she’s real. The girl—small, blonde, practically vibrating—throws her arms around his neck and kisses him so dramatically that the people around them actually applaud.
You blink. “What the fuck.”
Oikawa appears at your side, hands in his hoodie pockets, watching the scene unfold. You can feel him glance at you, the smirk already forming.
“Well,” he says, voice smug, “would you look at that.”
You roll your eyes. “Don’t.”
“Don’t what?”
“You know what.”
He hums, still watching the couple, who have now dissolved into an absolute mess of forehead kisses and whispered I missed yous. It’s excessive. It’s dramatic.
It’s also… kind of nice.
You hate that you think that.
Oikawa stretches, tilting his head toward you. “So?”
You frown. “So, what?”
His smirk widens. “Do you believe in it yet?”
Your heart does something stupid. Because the question—it’s not just a callback to your in-flight debate. It’s not just him poking fun at your skepticism. It’s softer than that. More curious. Hopeful, even.
Do you believe in grand gestures? Do you believe in love that doesn’t disappoint? Do you believe in something real?
The answer forms before you can stop it.
“…I think I’m starting to.”
Oikawa stills. Just for a second. Then, slowly, his grin shifts into something real.
You exhale, turning back toward the baggage claim, but before you can walk away, something stops you. Maybe it’s the exhaustion. Maybe it’s the high of stepping off a fourteen-hour flight and still feeling wired.
Or maybe it’s just him.
Before you can second-guess yourself, you reach for his hoodie pocket.
Oikawa blinks. “Uh—”
You pull out his phone, type in his password, and create a new contact in his list. You quickly type in your number, and pause for a second, considering, then—just to be an ass—save your name as oikawa hater. Then you hand it back to him.
Oikawa takes it, glancing between you and the screen, lips curling into something almost incredulous.
“Wow,” he says, shaking his head. “I’m actually speechless.”
“A first for you, I’m sure.”
He huffs out a laugh, eyes flickering back to his phone. He stares at your contact name for a second too long, like he’s memorizing it. Like he wants to. And then he locks his screen, tucks it back into his hoodie, and glances at you—grinning, smug, a little bit victorious.
“So,” he muses, as the baggage carousel hums to life. “Do I get to keep my title as your Peter Kavinsky now?”
You roll your eyes, biting back a smile. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves.”
“You like me,” he says in a sing-song voice. “What happened to love only being good in movies?”
And maybe it’s just your imagination. Maybe it’s the jet lag, or the weird 6AM haze of existing between time zones. But as you step toward baggage claim, you swear—just for a second—Oikawa looks at you like the answer to that question might matter more than anything else.
Honestly, nothing is confirmed. He might never text you, or even if he does, who knows if you two would even make it past the first date. The world could end tomorrow, or he could completely forget about you, the way you thought he would. There’s always the chance that you’ll get hurt anyway. But he deserves to hear it. You, against all odds, want him to know.
So you turn, meet his eyes, and say, completely honestly, “Maybe you’re worth taking a chance on.”
⨭ closing; i wrote this instead of paying attention in my lecture lol i don't really know how i feel about this one yet but here's to hoping it'll grow on me when i'm not so tired from a long day of uni classes </3 let me know yalls thoughts but pls don't be mean :') thank u and love u all
joshua hong breaks your heart three and a half times before you can even reach nineteen, and yet you can’t stop loving him with the pieces that remain.
i. the first time ; when you meet
the story of you and joshua starts at the beginning, which sounds pretty redundant, but it’s the beginning in more may than one. the beginning of friendship — the beginning of freshman year — the beginning of something bigger than two fourteen year olds can imagine.
it starts, as you say, at the onset of freshman year. you’re nervous — extra nervous because these kids went to the same middle school, and you’re the stranger, the outsider, the transfer student who nobody knows yet. it’s obvious in the way they talk to each other; gossipping about unfamiliar names, inside jokes only they understand.
and so homeroom begins with ice breakers, and it turns out that you and someone named joshua hong have the same favourite colour and you both like horror movies, and that’s enough for you to think to yourself, that one. i want to be friends with that one.
for a moment, it seems like that sentiment is mirrored. when lunch is called, and you’re stuck in the corner of the canteen, eating lunch alone, joshua hong appears to your side, holding his tray. he smiles at you first, and when he speaks, he speaks softly; you like him instantly, especially when he gets your name right first try, and talks to you about the horror movies you like.
unfortunately, your conversation lasts about five minutes; it’s interrupted by joshua’s actual friends, waving from another table, yelling for him to come join their arm wrestling competition, and someone wants his chocolate milk, and, and, and — because of course, joshua is popular.
he’s also incredibly polite, for a fourteen year old boy, looking between you and his table, eyes torn, mouth twisting. but you make the decision for him; you stuff the last of your food in your mouth — it tastes like cardboard — and you gesture for him to leave, saying, through a dry mouthful, “i’m done anyway, go ahead!”
he leaves then, sending an apologetic smile you pretend not to see. you won’t be pitied, not even by popular guys with nice smiles. but when you walk out the cafeteria, as alone as you were when you walked into it, your silly, young little heart does break a little.
and then it’s glued back together by clumsy fingers the next day. joshua’s in the cafeteria before you, and this time, he waves you over to his table, patting the seat next to him. he introduces you to his friends, who are nice and sweet and funny, and you do like them, you just like joshua that extra little bit more.
ii. the second time ; when you fall, suddenly, completely, absolutely.
by the time junior year rolls around, you and joshua are joined at the hip.
you do everything together. you’re at his house more than your own; his mom calls you the second child she never had; your mom calls him by his nickname; you know his deepest darkest secret, and he knows yours; he’s your favourite person in the world, and as teenagers are apt to do, you’d never willingly tell him such a thing.
“you’re disgusting,” you tell him, whenever he belches, unashamed, on your couch after a horror movie marathon. “you’re the worst!” when he tickles you within an inch of your life, rolling onto the floor with you in a mad tangle of limbs and giggling. “i hate you,” with a smile on your face, when he teases you about a crush or pinches your nose a little too hard.
“you love me,” is always his response — easy, carefree, and the l-word rolls off his tongue so confidently, sometimes you wonder how he does it. but you do love him. as a friend, of course, and nothing more, despite what other people say. at school, people think you’re together — people pull you aside in the locker room, giggling like they’re in on your secret (“so, you like like him, right?”) and nobody believes you guys when you deny it.
“it’s not like that,” you find yourself saying over and over, until it feels like the words are tattooed on your tongue. “he’s just josh, you know?” and he is. he’s just your joshua. nothing more, nothing less, he’s just your person — your best friend.
you manage to convince yourself as well, with those repetitive words, until one day, you find out you can’t.
it’s a sunday, and so of course, he’s singing sunday morning as the two of you stroll down to the park, hands stuffed in your respective pockets. it’s late september, but the dregs of summer are lingering longer this year, and the two of you are drinking them up before autumn rolls around, and strips the greenery bare.
“your obsession with that song needs to be studied,” you say, and it comes easily because you haven’t realised yet.
“your brain needs to be studied,” is his quick retort, as you guys make it to your usual spot.
it’s nothing special, this spot — to an outsider, at least. it’s a crumbling wall to the side of the park, that overlooks a pond (an ugly, swampy looking pond, but a pond nonetheless).
to you and joshua, the deteriorating wall is your Place, with a capital p, because that’s how important it’s become to the two of you. it’s simply. a little bit ugly, but who cares, when you have your whole life stretching in front of you, a wall to sit on, and a best friend to argue over the red gummies with?
“there are five red gummies,” he pronounces, peering inside the pack. “i call dibs on the third!”
“what?” your voice raises automatically. “absolutely not. you had the third one last time.”
“last time there were six!”
“that’s so not fair!” you poke his rib, scowling. “we’ll split it. for justice.”
joshua sighs, long and reluctant, but nods, setting the packet between you — but moments later, when you’ve spiralled down a tangent of cursing out your physics teacher, he swipes down on the third, stuffing it in his mouth with a triumphant, guiltless grin before you can even say stop.
“you’re evil,” you say, slow and shocked, narrowing your eyes at him. “you’re actually fucking evil!”
“sorry,” he says, without the slightest hint of remorse.
“i hate you.” and again, you’re smiling — and so is he, throwing his head back to laugh (because the thought of you hating him is so ridiculous that he has to laugh), and his darn eyes catch the afternoon sunlight at just the right angle, twin pools of honey brown, and you’re drowning in them; and his laughter sounds like music, and his hair’s blowing back in the breeze, and the lines of his face are lighting up golden; and oh, fuck, you’ve forgotten how to breathe.
“you love me,” he says, normally, casually, his ordinary response, but it feels like he’s plucked the sentence straight out your mind, where it had been nothing more than a half-formed sentiment you’d pushed into the corner.
cheeseballs, you think to yourself, breathless, stomach sinking, eyes wide. i think he’s right.
i think i love him, your fifteen year old self thinks, and then your fifteen year old self’s heart breaks.
it’s more painful than the first time. much more.
iii. the third time ; when he leaves (because you push him out the door)
the third time is not like the others. you can’t pinpoint a specific moment; it happens gradually. less of a shattering — more of a slow crushing, like joshua is pressing down on the centre of your chest, slow, heavy, and completely unaware of how blood is spurting from the cracks of your heart.
because he doesn’t know — of course he doesn’t know. and he can’t know now, now that the two of you, as a unit, have become past tense.
you can barely call himself your friend anymore, and it’s entirely your fault.
not even a month after that fateful day in junior year, joshua had gotten himself a girlfriend. and she wasn’t mean and you couldn’t hate her even if you wanted to, she was the sweetest person alive, and had no problem with you; but still, that step did mean other things, like backing off joshua a little. there was another priority in his life now.
they only lasted three months, but it felt significant. it felt like a sign — he’s not yours, he can never be yours, and so even after emily benson and joshua broke up, you kept your distance. then he joined the football team, with seungcheol and mingyu and those guys, and you joined the photography club with wonwoo and seokmin and those guys, and there was suddenly this divide. a line drawn; you were the artist.
because joshua did try, and he definitely tried more than you. he’d invite you over to his house for movie marathons, and you’d decline. he’d wave at you from across the football pitch, and you’d pretend not to see.
you only see his mom in the supermarket now. she still hugs you, calls you her other child. you don’t know what to say to her.
it is, technically, your own fault. self-preservation instincts; because being around joshua hurt like a bitch after that sunday. there was an ache in your heart you’d somehow not noticed for two years, but now that you’d noticed it once, it was there always, a permanent throbbing pain in your chest.
you think of it as losing your heart; you’d given it to joshua without even realising, and he hasn’t realised either. and so the hot, slippery organ is left in his hands, and you don’t know how to get it back.
senior year comes, and it’s clear to everyone that there is no longer a you and joshua. sometimes you get questions about it; “did you guys fight?”, “what even happened? was it emily?”, “did he cheat on you?”, and you answer them all wearily with a smiling front.
just drifted apart, i guess, you always say, paired with a nonchalant shrug, like it doesn’t kill you a little every time you see him.
you wonder what he says, when they ask him. if they even ask him at all.
iii.v half broken, half mended
joshua shows up at your house.
it’s the night before graduation, and if it were a movie, it would be raining when he knocks on your door — but it’s still warm, there’s still faint sunlight behind him, and he’s panting slightly on your doorstep, eyes wide with something you don’t have the time to read before he’s rushing out words, garbled with speed.
you’ve just woken from a nap, and you don’t understand a word he’s saying; you hear a whole lot of “we” and “friends” and before he can get any further, you raise a hand to stop him.
“what — what are you talking about, shua?” you question genuinely, rubbing your sleepy eyes as though this is some sort of twisted dream.
joshua lets out a breath on your doorstep; he looks harried, panicked, like if he doesn’t say everything he needs to, he’s going to explode. but he holds back, inhaling, exhaling, suddenly short of breath at the sight of you, up close after what feels like forever.
“where did you go?” he says finally, and you can hear fifteen year old shua in there, a crack in his voice, emotion leaking into it.
you know what he means, you know exactly what he means, and you don’t have an answer for him. “i didn’t go anywhere,” you reply, voice small. you don’t look at him, because both of you know it’s a lie.
“you did,” he repeats needlessly. “it felt like you left me.”
you don’t have anything to say, and so you stay silent. there are birds chirping, you realise absently, somewhere behind him.
“was there a reason?” his words are growing quicker now, spilling out of him like they’re overflowing; and maybe they are, maybe he’s kept them locked up just as long as you have. “there must have been a reason — you need to tell me, i deserve to know. don’t i?”
his voice is tinged with a sort of raw desperation that pulls at your heart, because no matter how hard you try to convince yourself otherwise, he’s still your shua, he’s still your person, and you can never hate him.
he deserves to know, and you’re too cowardly to tell him.
joshua waits. (he’s always been the more patient out of you two.) “you won’t tell me,” he realises finally, stepping back just once. “god. fuck. i don’t even know why i came.”
he turns, and you blurt three words that halt him in his tracks. you see the way he freezes on the spot, and so you repeat them again, just so he can be sure.
“i love you,” you say, softly, but he hears you. he hears you and turns around, and his pretty doe eyes are round with confusion.
you don’t realise you’re crying until he wipes away the few that have spilled oit the corners of your eyes; he does it delicately, with hands that tremble a little. they’re unfamiliar in their familiarity, those hands, and the feel of them makes you close your eyes.
both of you are breathing shakily. like you’re on the cusp of something new; something bigger.
“how long?” he asks quietly, hands trailing down to cup your cheeks.
you don’t open your eyes when you speak your next words, pouring from your mouth into the space between you. “since we were fifteen.”
joshua’s quiet for a moment, and when you open your eyes, there’s a ghost of a smile playing on his lips, and the ghost of tears filling his eyes. “haha,” he whispers, leaning closer, “i win.” his lips brush against yours, so light and feathery it could barely be called a kiss.
he pulls back, forehead against yours, and smiles, properly this time. “since fourteen,” he says, and it feels like your heart is mended and broken at the same time.
an / typed this out in an hour of feverish inspiration. idk. 💪
Two months after your breakup, you’re tucking away the last traces of Jihoon, the boy you loved for the sweetest two years of your life.
⇢ pairing. lee jihoon x reader
⇢ genre. angst, fluff. exes!au, but also: strangers2lovers, college!au, literature/history student reader, music production/literature student jihoon, (eventual) producer!jihoon and grad student reader
⇢ word count. approx. 6k
⇢ warnings. alcohol consumption, lots of flashbacks. each section has a link to a poem or song — you don't need to read or listen to understand (but i do especially recommend the poems). the lines i've quoted are the most relevant anyway. author's note at the end!
NOW | The art of losing isn’t hard to master;
You find his book buried in a box at the back of your closet.
It’s dog-eared and dusty, the cover curling at the edges. Mary Oliver’s Dream Work — the same copy Jihoon lent you during your second semester of senior year, back when literature classes were your whole world and Jihoon was nothing more than the boy who always sat one chair too far away.
You almost miss it. You’re sorting through your wardrobe, half-listening to the hum of the fan in your near-empty apartment, folding sweaters you don’t wear anymore, in between half-hearted glances at the clock. You’ve been doing everything slowly lately. Like if you move too quickly, the rest of it — all the unfinished things — will come tumbling down.
When your hand brushes the worn spine, your breath catches. It feels like finding a matchbook in a drawer you thought you emptied: useless, but still faintly dangerous.
You pull it free and brush your thumb across the cover. A sticky note clings to the inside, the ink slightly smudged but still legible: You already know Wild Geese, obviously. Try Dogfish and The Journey too. — Jihoon.
You read it twice before closing the book again, brush your finger over the ink one more time. The loop of his “y” and the vowels he squashes together. Let it rest against your thigh as the fan ticks through another slow rotation overhead.
And just like that, you’re back in that classroom.
THEN | I wanted the past to go away, I wanted / to leave it, like another country;
Poetry and its forms, Professor Kang.
Jihoon sits one seat over and a row down — always just far enough that you can’t speak without leaning forward, but close enough that you can catch the way he twirls his pen between his fingers, or chews the inside of his cheek when he’s thinking. Chin tucked into the collar of his hoodie. Shoulders hunched. Eyes always on the page.
He never raises his hand. Never speaks during discussion. But his notebooks are a battlefield — furious graphite slashing through the notes he disagrees with, cramped side-notes curling down the page like smoke. He annotates like he’s keeping score. Like he’s waiting for someone to say the wrong thing, just so he can write the right one in the margin.
The day you hear him speak for the first time, the class has just limped its way through a lukewarm discussion on Sappho. The professor skips half the fragments and bungles his way through the rest. Jihoon looks up once, right at the end — briefly, almost like it’s a mistake — and mutters, under his breath, “That was garbage.”
You laugh. Loudly — too loudly.
Jihoon’s head whips around. He blinks at you, startled. You blink back.
Then, slowly, unexpectedly, he smiles. Small, like a secret.
You wait until after class to catch up with him. “You didn’t like the lecture?”
He doesn’t stop walking, just casts you a look that’s more amused than annoyed. “Not Sappho’s fault. The professor skipped the best fragment.”
You tilt your head. “Oh? Which one’s that?”
He pauses. “The one about the moon and the stars. Fragment 34.”
You smile. “I know that one.”
He smiles back. “I figured you would.”
That’s the first conversation. You think about it for a week. Rerun it in your head. Rehearse what you might say next time, in case there is a next time.
There is.
The second time happens in the library. You find him — or rather, he finds you, entirely by accident. You’re hidden between the poetry shelves, seated cross-legged on the floor with a small stack of books beside you. Jihoon rounds the corner, underlining something in a clean paperback you don’t recognize.
He almost bumps straight into you — too absorbed in his book to notice you at first. He stops short, blinking down in surprise, and then his eyes widen just slightly when he realizes who it is. A beat passes. Then he smiles, slow, genuine, a little crooked at the edges like it catches him off guard.
Like he hadn’t expected to see you here, but now that he has, he’s glad.
There’s a flicker of something else in his expression, too — something quietly pleased, like the world’s done him a small favor. He doesn’t say anything at first, just shifts the paperback under one arm and slides down beside you without asking, like this had been planned. Like the two of you were always meant to end up here, shoulder to shoulder, tucked between Shakespeare’s sonnets and Shelley’s anthologies.
Your lips lift before you can stop them.
“You’re the only person I know who annotates library books like they belong to him,” you say, after a few moments.
He doesn’t look up. “This one’s mine.”
You glance over. The title catches your eye. Dream Work. “Mary Oliver?”
Jihoon hums in affirmation, still underlining, his pen moving carefully between the lines. “Don’t sound so surprised.”
“I wasn’t,” you say, and it’s mostly true. “I just didn’t have you pegged as someone who read nature poetry in his spare time.”
He snorts softly. “Everyone reads Wild Geese at some point. It’s basically a rite of passage.”
You smile, tilting your head as you watch the curve of his handwriting. “And the rest of her work?”
“She wrote like she meant it,” he says, in that steady, warm voice. “Like she was asking you to follow her into the woods and come back changed.”
Something quiet blooms in your chest at that. You don’t say anything, but Jihoon glances over and seems to catch it anyway, offering you the faintest of smiles. He taps his pen lightly against the open page.
“This one’s for you, then.”
You blink. “What?”
He rips a sticky note off your stack, scribbles something hasty, and presses it to the inside of the cover. Then he slides the book over to you, letting it rest over your textbook.
You look at him instead of the book. “You carry around annotated poetry collections just in case you run into someone in a library who might need them?”
He shrugs. “It’s barely annotated right now. Just a couple of them.” He flashes you an unexpected smile — “There’s nothing deep. I can’t give you a piece of my soul just yet.”
You trace the edge of the sticky note with your thumb. “You didn’t even know what I liked.”
“I had guesses,” Jihoon says, and for the first time, he meets your eyes head on — sharp, curious, a little too knowing. “You don’t read just for school.” He nods to the pile of books around you, and then reaches out to brush his hand over your battered copy of The Waves.
Instinctively, you reach for it, and then laugh at yourself. “That definitely has a piece of my soul in it,” you say, fingering the dog-eared pages. “Maybe even two pieces.”
Jihoon smiles — it’s the quietest thing — and returns to his underlining.
Later, you read The Journey tucked into a booth at the back of your favorite café. You read Dogfish twice, once before class and once just after, alone on the grass behind the library with the wind tugging at your sleeves. When you close the book, you keep your hand pressed to the cover like it might still be warm.
“Mostly, I want to be kind.”
In the margin, written in his slanted hand, a note to himself: Harder than it looks, isn’t it?
NOW | Time does not bring relief; you all have lied
You blink, and the memory dissolves like mist.
Dust swirls in the sunlight spilling through the window. You’re still cross-legged on the floor, knees stiff, a cardigan half-folded in your lap, Jihoon’s book resting heavy in your hands like it knows what it’s doing to you. Weighed down with more than just paper.
Again, you run your thumb along the spine.
You shouldn’t have forgotten about this. Should’ve noticed it sooner, should’ve rescued it from the back of your closet with its curled edges, its yellowed pages, and the sticky note still clinging quietly to the back cover. Should’ve placed it back into his hands, alongside all the other traces that remain in your space.
It’s been two months since you and Jihoon fell quietly, reluctantly, out of each other’s lives. In the corner of your guest bedroom, a cardboard box — its seams straining, its flaps not quite closed — holds the last of his things. Only it was Yuna who had filled it for you, a week after the break-up, carefully collecting whatever was undoubtedly his, tucking it away so all you needed to do was hand over an impersonal brown box.
Of course, there was no real way for her to know that this was his, not yours.
It’s been two months without a word. And yet, this book feels like a piece of him. A snapshot of what you were, once — younger. Less cautious. poised on the cusp of a love that lasted two years — a love that you thought would last much, much longer.
You set the book aside carefully, your hands glancing over his handwriting, just one more time — it’s unmistakable. Thick. Scrawled. Careless in a way he never was when he spoke: the only messy thing about him.
THEN | you are twisting toward me, / and the years that make up the majority of my life
“Your writing’s messier than I expected,” you say. You’re sitting across from Jihoon at the cramped study table, textbooks and notebooks sprawled between you, mountains of paper.
Jihoon glances up, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “You can read it, right?”
Your joint paper is due in two weeks, something on the similarities and differences of form among the Romantic poets. You both want the grade, but neither of you expected it to feel like this: heads bent over the same page, notes merging into the other’s.
The first study session is tentative, a dance of questions and answers. Jihoon is quiet, but precise, speaks with conviction; you’re more hesitant, but bold enough to challenge him. Between discussions of meter and metaphor, you share coffee, your elbows brushing, neither of you pulling away.
Over the following days, the library becomes your refuge. You argue over Blake’s prophetic style and Wordsworth’s pastoral ideals. You read aloud to each other, voices low and hesitant but growing more confident. The paper becomes less about the grade and more about the quiet moments in between — the study dates that stretch into dinners, the conversations that drift past poetry and into life.
Slowly, you realize the distance between you is shrinking, thread by thread, word by word.
You learn that Jihoon is a music production major, but minors in literature. That he has a soft spot for poetry, but he thinks it’s very different to lyrics. That he has a younger sister, parents who work long hours, but try their best. That he has an unlikely group of friends, chaos personified, he calls them, but it’s with the fondest smile you’ve ever seen him wear.
You learn, too, that actually, he’s a little bit famous — he’s been selling music to people for a while. That he hasn’t really made any big household names (yet, you tell him), but he’s produced for names you recognise, all the same.
Jihoon learns that you’re a double major, literature and history. He smiles when you tell him that, says it suits you. He hears about your sister who lives abroad, your quiet weekend routines, and tells you that you have a habit of fiddling with your rings when you’re deep in thought.
Your last study session falls on a slow Friday evening in the library, sun dipping behind the windows, casting long golden shadows across the table. You’re tucked into your usual corner, cross-legged, a half-empty iced coffee sweating onto a pile of notes. Jihoon sits across from you, scribbling something in the margins of his printout.
You’ve already gone over the draft twice. There’s not much left to fix.
“So,” you say, stretching your arms over your head with a quiet sigh. “What happens when we actually submit this thing? Do we have to pretend we don’t know each other again?”
Jihoon glances up, amused. “You planning on ignoring me in lectures?”
“I was thinking of politely avoiding eye contact.”
He chuckles under his breath, taps his pen against the table. “Awkward nods across the room. Pretending we didn’t spend two weeks dissecting Keats together.”
You smile too, suddenly a little too aware of the quiet between you. “It’s been nice,” you say, a little more softly. “Getting to know you outside of class.”
Jihoon toys with the edge of his notebook, fingers lingering on the spiral binding. “Me neither. I thought we’d get it done, maybe exchange a few emails, call it a day, but this was… better. Even if you do think Blake is better than Wordsworth.”
“Not this again,” you groan, fixing him with a reproachful look. “We agreed to not bring up the Williams anymore, Jihoon. It’s too much for us.”
A smile pulls at his mouth. “You’re right. I don’t think I can go back to ignoring you after all that.”
Jihoon’s gaze flicks away, like he’s steadying himself. He fidgets with the corner of his notebook — something you’ve started to recognize as a tell. His voice is even, but the edges are uncertain.
“I was, uh — thinking,” he says, eyes fixed on the spiral binding. “Since we’re not meeting to study anymore... maybe we could still hang out. But like — not for school.”
You tilt your head. “Like friends?”
He huffs out a breath, and finally looks at you again. His ears are pink, you notice, his cheekbones dusted the same shade. “No. Yes. I mean — like a date. But I don’t m— ”
“Yes,” you say, too quickly.
Jihoon blinks.
You laugh, sheepish, a little warm in the face. “Sorry. You didn’t finish. But yes. I’d like that — dinner, I mean. As not friends.”
Jihoon grins, shy and crooked, and the look on his face is worth everything.
NOW | Like a wave that crashed and melted on the shore
The laundry hums steadily in the background — a warm, domestic sound that fills the apartment with a kind of low, living silence. You’d shovelled the rest of your clothes that lingered in your closet into the washing machine, and as you wait, you cradle your phone between your shoulder and cheek, folding socks into mismatched pairs on the bed.
“I just don’t think I’m cut out for another round of personal statements,” you say, chucking a T-shirt into the growing stack. “How am I supposed to sound smart, humble, and hard-working all at once?”
On the other end of the line, Yuna snorts, tossing her hair. “Just lie like the rest of us.”
“I’m serious. I rewrote one sentence five times today and then stared at a wall for half an hour.”
“That’s the spirit,” she says dryly. “You’re already living the PhD lifestyle.”
You smile faintly, brushing your knuckles against your temple. “Do you think it’s stupid to even apply? I don’t know if I have the energy to be broke and stressed for five more years. I haven't even finished my Master's.”
“I think you’re one of the smartest people I know.” She pauses. “Also one of the most dramatic.”
You laugh under your breath, swinging open the washing machine. “Okay, fair.”
There’s a rustle as you reach into the laundry basket again. Your fingers brush something thicker: knit, soft, too large. Everything in the machine has been buried in your closet for a while, but it still doesn’t feel like yours. You pause, tug it free.
You hold it up. Not yours.
It's a sweater. Charcoal gray, sleeves slightly stretched, collar frayed at one edge.
Your stomach dips. Definitely not yours.
“Hey,” Yuna says, leaning back into frame with narrowed eyes, holding her own laundered socks with one hand. “You still with me?”
“Yeah,” you murmur, folding the sweater slowly, more carefully than necessary. “I just found something I didn’t know I still had.” You keep it out of frame, but it’s pretty obvious that you’ve found something of Jihoon’s, even if she doesn’t know what specifically.
There’s a beat of quiet. Then, gently: “You okay?”
You swallow, press your palm against the wool, and muster up a smile. “Yeah. I will be.”
Once she’s hung up, you can’t help it — you catch a whiff of fresh pine from the folded fabric, and tears prick at your eyes.
THEN | I look / at you and I would rather look at you than all the portraits in the world
The night air is cool against your flushed cheeks as you and Jihoon step out of Soonyoung’s house, the laughter and music still buzzing faintly behind you. The little get-together had been warm and loud, but now it’s just the two of you, waiting for the last bus home under the dim yellow streetlights.
You’re a little tipsy, words slurring in the best way — loose and light — while Jihoon stays perfectly steady, sober as always. He watches you with a soft smile, says something quiet about the way your eyes catch the streetlight, and steadies you when you wobble slightly after turning on your heel to beam at him.
“I’m cold,” you mumble, hugging your arms around yourself.
Without a word, Jihoon slips off his charcoal gray sweater and drapes it over your shoulders. It’s warm, familiar; smells just like him, soft and fresh. You look at him, eyes wide, and he just shrugs. “You’re the one who forgot to bring a jacket.”
He’s feigning aloofness — it doesn’t work as well when he’s already slipping his hand into yours.
You laugh softly and lean your head toward him, catching your breath in the quiet lull before the bus rumbles up. On the ride home, you curl into his side, the steady rhythm of the wheels lulling you closer to sleep. Your head finds his shoulder easily, and Jihoon just caresses your hand in soothing circles with his thumb. Keeps his gaze on the window, careful not to disturb you.
When the bus stops near your building, he gently nudges you awake. You blink, dazed, and he offers his arm, guiding you through down the street, into the elevator — nodding as you talk incessantly, adding in a dry comment every now and then. At your door, you fumble with your keys, too busy gesticulating with one hand as you speak; Jihoon gently takes them from you, nodding to show he’s still listening as he unlocks the door for you.
You step into your apartment, turn around to see him linger in your hallway. “You’ve never been inside before,” you remember.
“No,” he agrees, quietly. He tilts his head to the side, smiling when you look at him with a question in your eyes. “Not tonight, baby,” he answers, even softer. “You’re still a little drunk.”
You lean against the doorframe, half-pouting — he darts forward as though to steady you, but realises a beat later that you’re not falling anywhere.
“Parting is such sweet sorrow,” you say mournfully, but your lips twitch ever so slightly. (He called you baby. He’s done it a few times now, but it still makes your stomach swoop.)
You’ve been on five dates with Jihoon. It doesn’t sound like a lot, but you’ve never been so sure of something — of someone — in your life.
You smile, but don’t deny it, leaning forward to rest your forehead against his shoulder. His hand comes up to cup the back of your head, the other slipping around your waist to allow you to fall into a hug.
Then, almost too quietly, muffled by his T-shirt, boldened by the remnants of the alcohol, you speak. “Jihoon?”
“Hm?”
“Are you my boyfriend now?”
You hear his heartbeat quicken the slightest bit. Feel his chest rise with a quiet huff of a laugh. “If you’ll have me,” he says finally, lips brushing your temple. “It’s rotten work.”
You return the quote automatically. “Not to me. Not if it’s you.”
NOW | But you miss something that you can’t place and you can’t deny it
The kettle hums softly, not yet boiling, and the apartment is quiet in that particular way only your own home gets — soft, lived-in silence.
You move through the motions automatically. Mug, tea bag, half a spoon of sugar. The familiar rhythm steadies you. It’s been a long day — too much reading, too many tabs open on your laptop. Too many figurative skeletons in your literal closet.
You reach up to the cabinet. Most of your mugs are piled in the dishwasher, so you tiptoe to reach the ones at the back, hand already outstretched toward your usual last-resort mug, but then your fingers brush against something else. Something heavier.
You pause.
It’s the green mug. Deep forest green with a chipped handle and a slightly uneven rim. You’d found it years ago in a secondhand shop, part of a mismatched set you never really paid much attention to — but Jihoon had chosen it the first time he came over. And after that, without fail, it was always the one he reached for. It wasn’t his, technically, but it was the one you always steeped tea in when he messaged you he was coming over.
It wasn’t his, but it became his.
You take it down slowly, cradling it in both hands. Today feels like a joke, almost. Three things, back-to-back: three harsh reminders that while his name was never on the lease, Jihoon had made a home in your home — in your life.
You should give it to him. With all the other things you haven’t returned yet.
There’s still a faint tea ring at the bottom, like it had been rinsed in a hurry last time. You must not have noticed, two months ago, when everything ended and you shoved it at the back of the cupboard. Or maybe you did, and didn’t care.
You set it beside yours on the counter, side by side like they always used to be. And then you just stand there, waiting for the water to boil, trying not to cry at the sight of an empty green mug.
THEN | Almost children, we lay asleep in love, listening to the rain.
The rain traces shaky lines down the windows, turning city lights into shimmering trails. Inside, your apartment glows warmly against the blue-black of the late night, a small world of your own.
Jihoon is hunched over his laptop at your kitchen table, wearing a baggy black hoodie, the one he’s tugged at all evening as he tweaks a song that’s been tying him up in creative knots. You’d been working across from him in silence, overwhelmed with readings for your first year of your MA, until you’d decided that you’d had enough, getting up to making some tea.
It’s been a year since you and Jihoon got together. You’re well into the first year of your master’s, and Jihoon — well, Jihoon is thriving. His music has blown up, particularly after producing a hit song for an idol group, and his calendar’s filled up faster than either of you expected. Sessions with artists, meetings with A&R reps, collaborations that kept him bouncing between studios — it’s a rush, a mess, it’s his dream come true.
When you step into his sight again, mug in hand, his headphones drop temporarily around his neck. The steam spirals up in a thin wisp, and you watch it for a moment, wondering if you’re disturbing him, interrupting some kind of delicate artist process. But when he glances up and meets your gaze, something in his expression eases, a softness creeping in.
“Thought you could use something warm,” you say quietly, setting the mug down near his notebook.
He lets his fingertips linger against the mug’s side, the warmth slowly seeping into his skin. “Thank you.” His voice is gravelly from hours of wrestling with something just out of reach in his imagination.
He drops his headphones back over his ears, then tilts them down to hang around his neck. “Actually, I — I wanted you to hear something I’ve been working on.” His tone falters just a little, cheeks flushing a pretty shade of pink.
You nod, trying to quell your eagerness. It’s rare that your boyfriend shows you things when they’re raw and unpolished like this. Jihoon is too much of a perfectionist to bare anything less than incredible to the world. Your favourite days are when you’re the exception.
He clicks a few keys and something soft and gentle spills from his laptop’s speakers — the notes grow, fold into each other, fade away. You hear his voice after a few moments, too, sweet and smooth, close to the mic.
When it ends, you straighten up, meet his eyes with a surprised, almost breathless smile. “You wrote lyrics.”
He flushes deeper. “I’ve been trying it out these days. Like you suggested.” He looks away, then back at you. “You make the words easier.”
Jihoon drops his gaze to his laptop, then tilts the track’s tab just a bit, letting you see its title in the corner of the media player — and again, your breath catches.
It’s your name.
NOW | A pity. We were such a good / And loving invention.
The mug of cooled tea sits forgotten on the counter as you make your way down the hallway. The floors creak beneath your feet, almost like a gentle protest — a small affirmation that you’re really not supposed to be doing this.
But you do it anyway.
You kneel at the side of your mattress, reach underneath, and tug forward a small wooden box you haven’t opened in months. Your stomach drops, a nervous swoop, a rush of dread so icy that it feels a little like vertigo. You know this is a bad idea. That whatever’s inside will dredge up so much.
Still, with careful fingers and an uneasy sigh, you ease the box’s lid up. Inside, a stack of letters, their envelopes worn, the ink slightly faded.
All from Jihoon. All addressed to you.
For a moment, you simply stare at his handwriting, at the carefully creased folds and then, reluctantly, you reach in and lift the first envelope, turning it over in your hands.
The seal is already broken. The past is there, waiting for you to let it back in.
Morbid curiosity, maybe some kind of emotional sadism, or something less dramatic — lingering, aching care — drives you to reach in. Your fingertips linger over the texture, the fold lines, the faint ink blots. Without thinking, you let your eyes dart across a few of the letters, drinking in Jihoon's words like you've been starved for them.
“...Did you eat? Did you remember to drink something warm? I’m worried you’re wearing yourself down.”
“Happy birthday, baby. I know you said no gifts, but I also know you know I was going to get you things anyway, right?”
“It’s our 500 day anniversary already. It’s kind of ironic, though… I was thinking about something Rumi said: ‘Love is not a matter of counting the days, but making the days count.’ So maybe we shouldn’t be counting at all — and yet here I am, marking this anniversary in big, bold numbers. I guess that’s just human, isn’t it?
I think what I want more than anything is to make whatever time we do have matter. To fill it with something we’ll remember, even when the calendar runs forward without us noticing.
Happy 500th day, baby. Let’s keep going for a long time.
THEN | Know it's for the better
The restaurant is nearly empty by the time you realise he’s not going to show up.
The plate of food in front of you cooled a long time ago; the rich sauce congealing, the steam gone. The wine in your glass is nearly finished, sip by sip, a nervous habit you fell into while glancing at your phone, then at the clock. He said he’d be there by 7:30.
It’s 8:45 when you pay the bill, reluctantly adding a small tip for the server who kept your water glass filled and tried not to make you feel ridiculous sitting there all by yourself. Your phone feels heavy in your pocket — heavy with messages you shouldn’t need to send: Where are you? Are you okay? Did something come up?
When he finds you a few hours later, you’re already home, a stack of articles for your thesis growing alongside you — a mess of notes, highlighters, and printed-out journals that you can’t bring yourself to focus on. The moment you hear his key in the lock, something tightens in your stomach: you weren’t expecting him to come to yours after forgetting about you all day.
Jihoon stands in the doorway, dripping rainwater from his hair and his jacket, the thunder a distant growl outside. His grip falters briefly on the doorknob before he lets it ease closed, turning the lock quietly.
He finds you there, cross-legged on the floor, your pen resting limply in your hand. He sets his wet shoes side by side against the wall and crosses the room, pausing a few feet away, unsure whether closing the distance is a kindness or a violation.
The silence between you is thick — not hostile, but heavy — a pressure you feel in your ribs, a rawness you can’t mask.
He clears his throat softly, then lets a shaky breath seep out. “Baby,” he begins, stops, starts again. “I’m sorry. I was writing lyrics in the studio, and a deadline got pushed back so I got carried away, and I just — it's not an excuse. I'm sorry.”
The words hang there, faltering, not enough — not nearly enough — to make up for the loneliness you felt in that restaurant. Or a month ago, when he was in Japan and fell asleep on your first call in weeks. Or all the nights you fell asleep with your phone pressed to your pillow, wondering if a text might come, if he might remember to say he’s thinking of you.
You think the worst part is that you can’t even blame him. That you can’t even point fingers when you tell him this isn’t working anymore, that you can’t keep going like this.
“I’m not angry at you,” you say, and there are tears slipping down your cheeks, and Jihoon looks so pained that he can’t brush them away. “I’m fucking proud of you. I don’t want to hold you back by always making you wonder if you’re failing me in some way.”
He draws in a shaky breath, and for the first time since you’ve known him, you see tears glimmer in Jihoon’s eyes. “That’s not — I don’t want you to feel that I’m choosing something else over us. Because I’m not. I wouldn’t—”
“I know you wouldn’t.” You hesitate. “That’s why I’m doing it.”
“That’s not fair.” His voice breaks, barely above a whisper. “Baby.”
You swallow thickly, around the acidic taste in your mouth, the swollen painful lump in your throat. “Yes,” you agree softly. “I know.”
NOW | I know what my heart is like / Since your love died
A lot of things can change in two months.
You’re two months closer to deadlines for PhD applications. Two months closer to finishing your MA, to turning in your thesis and figuring out whatever comes after.
Two months further from Jihoon.
The days have a way of adding up — a page turning quietly while you’re not looking. The routines you fell into alongside him over two years: texting first thing in the morning, calling just before falling asleep, sending each other photos of whatever small thing made you think, “He’d like this” — have slowly been overtaken by silence, by space.
Some nights, you lie in your mattress, staring up at the ceiling, wondering what he’s thinking, where he is, whether he’s staying up wrestling a new song into submission, or if he’s gone to bed hours before with a heart as heavy as your own. The corner of your phone glows in the dark — a text thread you’re afraid to delete but that you’re not brave enough to restart. The messages you exchanged in happier days remain there, a digital reminder of something you’re not sure you’ll ever feel again.
You miss arguing over books, letting the margins fill up with your notes and his, listening to him hum quietly as he cooked in your kitchen — a noise you hadn’t noticed until it was gone. You miss the way his face glowed just a little when you walked into a room, like he’d been holding his breath until you arrived. You miss his head in your lap, reading Rilke to you. You miss the midnight conversations that stretched until your eyelids grew heavy.
You miss him.
Two months isn’t enough to change that.
THEN | Just know any love I gave you's forever yours to keep
The clock glows 12:32 on the nightstand — a small pool of gold against the deep-blue shadows that wrap around you both. The sheets are a mess, a riot of cotton and warmth. Jihoon lies on his side, propped up by a stack of pillows, a paperback resting precariously against his thigh. His glasses are slipping down his nose; his lashes droops a little more with each blink.
His fingers trace the worn spine of The Waves, your heavily annotated copy, edges softened by time and countless readings. The same one you held the day you spoke in the library. His eyes flick from the pages to your face, searching for some unspoken meaning behind the notes in the margins — words underlined with care, questions scribbled in the corners.
“It’s a beautiful book,” he says, softly. “I don’t think I get it, though. Not completely.”
That makes you laugh a little, a sleepy, amused huff. “Neither do I, really.” You feel your smile soften, a little more tender around the edges. “There’s one part, though, that reminds me of you.”
“Yeah?” He lifts his head from the book, looks at you expectantly.
Your voice is nothing more than a whisper: “'And the poem, I think, is only your voice speaking.’”
NOW | I still think of you with roses / Spilling all over your abdomen /Your poetry and my abandon
You put the book and the sweater in the box of Jihoon’s stuff, letting them join all the other clothes and books he left behind. You dither for a moment, and then you put the mug in the box too. It’s not like you’ll use it, anyhow.
The letters are still in a haphazard pile on your bed — when you return to gather them, you pause for a moment. Every single one ends the same:
With all my love,
Jihoon.
You tie the letters with a ribbon, and put them back under your bed.
And then you dig your phone up from the sheets, glance at the peeling cardboard box that holds every other tangible reminder you have left of him. With one hand, you scroll through your phone to a contact name you still haven’t changed — Jihoon 🤍— and hover over the call button, the weight of everything caught between you and the screen.
But my words become stained with your love / You occupy everything, you occupy everything
⇢ author's note. yes i wrote another exes au with lots of flashbacks and an open ending i am FULLY aware. trust me. i can't help it.
ANYWAY. this took way longer than expected bc it was not meant to be more than 2k words. however. here we are. i think there's so MUCH i have to say about this fic, just because of all the poetry i linked in here, and i don't think anybody wants to hear all that. but trust me guys there's a reason for Everything in here.
also, in case anybody is confused by the ending — we end with reader debating whether or not to call jihoon. it is entirely up to you where they go from there — does she return his stuff and never see him again? does he have her blocked?? do they (gasp) kiss and make up??? do they undergo a twisted series of events and end up robbing a bank??? the world will never know. (this is me trying to say there is 99.9% chance there won't be a part 2. sorry.) but as always i would love to hear what u guys think!
lightly proofread, i did NOT sleep to write this lmao.
word count: 7.2k
inspired by the aot edition from @rynfiles, pls check them out!!
Heeseung 이희승
def a smooth ass talker, so charismatic
such a heartthrob
would be a fan favorite at first
an OG and would partner up with whoever he wants
also prob have a kiss by the end of the first episode
knows he’s hot and would honestly use that to his advantage to get to know everyone, esp in early days
genuinely so funny and would be one of the guys that gets along well with both the boys and girls
however, he would be a lil bit of a fuckboy, but he would feel so bad about it after watching the show back at the end.
being a libra, hee is naturally (and sometimes unintentionally) very flirty to the point where a girl might think she is being led on. even if he’s just trying to be nice.
cue one of the girls saying, “idk like heeseung and i just seem to have a good connection.”
10 minutes later he’s tonguing down another girl.
so him and his first pairing would just end in a pretty messy situation
fans start to not fw him
he would be in couples and stay throughout the whole show just because he’s good tv.
he’d be on the chopping block a few times but would somehow the producers would find something to save him (rob cough cough)
fans love to hate him
but wouldn’t truly fall head over heels until about week 3 and really hit it off with a girl. no one else matters to him at that point
you’d be a bombshell (duh)
but by the time casa amor comes around and he wants to close things off, the girls would be gone by that point
he’d be fuming
but then when the casa girls come, he’d be like ‘nah, i miss my girl’
but his head would be slightly turned by one of them
maybe a kiss or two, heavy petting unfortunately
but then when the girls are sent the video of what the boys have been doing…
best believe heeseung would get his ass handed to him at the recoupling
wouldn’t be able to look at you, once he sees the look in your eyes was when it hit him.
he wouldn’t bring anyone back though!!
you would put a pillow between them
fans kinda hate him at this point, like bro is public enemy #1
but he would do anything to win you back
i’m talking on HIS KNEES, yearning !!
a clip on tiktok would go viral of him for that
“if i have to show you why you’re the one for me, i’ll do it again. over and over again until you want me. i don’t care what it takes. i can’t let you go.”
fans would swoon, then hate themselves for liking him again (real asf)
kordell and serena coded as far as the casa situation
days of nice gestures until you felt you wanted him to stop
he would (try to) make you breakfast and bring it up to the beauty room; giving you a kiss on the side of your head as he left. saying “i know you like your eggs scrambled and your coffee light and sweet”
it would prob taste terrible it’s the thought that counts
the girls would giggle after he got far enough from the door, but you didn’t pay much mind
making you cheese toasties in the middle of the day when he “just so happens” to hear that you’re hungry.
after days of groveling, you cave when he enlists jay and jake to help him make your favorite food for candlelit dinner by the beach.
“i know i fucked up, i know that i hurt you badly. but please, if you give me this chance to prove that i’m not just some asshole, i will be the best boyfriend you’ve ever had.”
“boyfriend?”
“boyfriend.”
would have the hideaway for the night
would def make use of the toys in there
can see y’all being in the final 4
final date is horseback riding and dinner at one of the luxury resorts in fiji
his finale speech would send twitter in a spiral
“i came in here not expecting anything from this, just a fun time. just a free vacation and beautiful women. i seriously thought that i was on my way out because i had burnt all of my bridges. but when you showed up, i just—” sighs, trying not to let himself get choked up. “I knew you were so out of my league. even now you are, i felt like a guy like me didn’t deserve a woman like you. you’re not scared to call me out on my bullshit, you make me laugh, you made me earn you. despite all of the bullshit i put you through, you extended grace and there’s nothing more i could ask for from you and that will be the last time i ever ask you to extend me that much. but that look in your eye told me everything that i needed to know. watching that clip of you cry in the girl’s arms during movie night was all that i needed to know that i will never in my life, do anything to make someone i love feel like that ever again. you’re it for me, and no matter what happens tonight, win or lose; i’m a winner because I get to walk out with you.”
“love?”
“love.”
would have the whole villa in TEARS
reformed fuckboy™ + the queen who tamed him = they don’t even need to win
runners-up!!
Jay 박종성
the most chill one there tbh
og and would pair with who he liked
but they would burn out not from drama, but they realized there was a lack of chemistry
wouldn’t stir much drama but WOULD PULL for sure
he knew what he signed up for of course but is more of slow burner
he doesn’t like to entertain someone he isn’t interested in if he knew there was someone else he might like more
if his heart isn’t in it, he’s not gonna waste your time or his own
so he’d just be honest and the girls would love him for that
grows close with a lot of them and even offers advice when needed
blunt, but transparent and the fans like him
such a breath of fresh air from all of the weird, sneaky boys
the type that you would def know if he liked you
would somehow end up making out with one of the bombshells in soul ties, they couple up
the chef™
is always the one helping out with dinner
the girls always ask him to make them something because they know he’d never say no
isn’t the life of the party but is never a buzz kill
knows how to have fun and will always be there to have a good laugh.
would fizzle out with that bombshell
“you’re cool and so gorgeous. i just don’t feel anything deeper and i’m sorry.”
bombshell would be understanding not take it personally, she’s more into heeseung anyway lmao
kinda goes on aimlessly
would end up kissing one of the og girls (you) during a challenge in week 2 and holy shit
he liked it a lot more than he’d expect
wouldn’t know how to handle it and would feel like shit
i mean it’s only week 2 but weeks here feel like months
so technically, everyone’s been dating for 2 months !!
would talk to jake and would eventually just approach you about it. better to live with no regrets
“hey, can i pull you for a chat?” he says to you as you’re lounging on one of the day beds.
“of course,” you stood up and he ruffled your hair with a smile as y’all walked to one of the swinging benches.
“so remember when we kissed earlier? in the challenge?”
“yeah? i’m sure i’d remember who i kissed.”
oh…he liked this girl for real now
your own couple wouldn’t be too solid either seeing as it was so early but not
still wanted to be respectful though !!
nonetheless you end up recoupling and that guy gets sent home
sad to see a friend of his go home but very happy that he could love on his girl openly now
so head over heels, still makes the girls food because he’s a gentleman
but he brings you full on meals!! steaks, ribs, chicken (fried, baked, grilled, doesn’t matter !!! your wish is his command) the most they were getting out of him was a cheese toastie, they’ll be lucky if they get a piece of meat on it
you would def have a ‘my man, my man’ attitude after that which he lowkey loved
the girls made jokes about how they lost their personal chef and would start hassling their men to cook for them
you left a note on your mirror for him before you dipped for casa.
“i’m not the best at goodbyes, but i didn’t want to leave without saying something. thank you for being so good to me, for being real with me, and for making me feel like i matter here. i know things aren’t always easy to say, but i’m happy with you. i hope you’re doing okay while i’m gone, and i’ll be thinking about you. can’t wait to come back to you.
p.s. the food’s not the same without you here.”
then left a kiss in his favorite lipstick of yours on the mirror next to the note
he was irritated at no goodbye but tried to maintain some sort of sanity
after all the guys all filed out of the beauty room, he kissed the mark you left on the mirror and considered that his parting kiss
grab the note to put it in his pocket and keep by his bed to look at
he also saw you left the lipstick right on the vanity so he took that too
TWITTER WOULD SPIRAL !!!
the casa girls came and they came with the heat let me tell you
but he didn’t give in no no no
though he WAS tempted
he was chatting by the firepit with one of the casa girls and she leaned in to kiss him
he ALMOST fumbled
but he was solid, the plastic component of your lipstick in his back pocket a reminder of who was gonna be waiting for him on the other side
gently shoots the girl down for giving her the wrong impression, “i’m sorry if it seemed like anything else but i miss my girl and i just don’t think kisses outside of challenges are appropriate.”
very respectful
but the girl does not take too kindly to it
he doesn’t care because he likes you
he’s not trippin because like…can she fight? lmao
makes it back to the villa in one piece !!
is running back to you
fidgeting at the firepit because didn’t want to stand there to wait for y’all to officially full on be a couple again
kissing you down when he gets to you
making everyone hold their hearts at the cuteness
closes off with you that night and are the first ones to get in the hideaway !!
everyone voted you guys to go
you wore this amazing baby blue lingerie and he almost lost it
he put you in them fuzzy pink handcuffs that night
everything is smooth sailing
in the final 4
final date is dinner on a yacht then jet skiing on the sunset
then at the finale he would also give a speech that is so cute but so him!!
“i’m not good at words but that’s not an excuse to give a subpar speech because you deserve more than that. you have been so solid and wonderful through this whole experience. i never expected after 2 weeks it’d be me and you but i’m glad we got to harvest a friendship first.” He blushed, looking away from you as you laughed and gave him his time to simmer down. “i’d fall in love with you in any universe. the same way how i’d cook you anything you’d ask me to because you simply deserve it. you deserve to be treated like royalty and you know with me, i’m gonna deliver. you don’t have to lift a finger. you don’t have to worry about anything. not money, not my loyalty, my honesty. you came here to get the man you deserve and i’m here to give you that, baby.” would lift your hand to kiss it as he asked, “will you let me be your boyfriend?”
twitter meltdown—simple as that.
the producers picked good men this season…
y’all won and split—well actually, he gave you all of the prize money !!
every. last. dime.
there’s nothing other to describe him as perfect—he was patient, didn’t hoe around, had intentions and pursued you when it mattered the most.
ofc he’s the fan favorite and y’all are talked about online for forever as one of the best couples to come out of love island
Jake 심재윤
one of the sweetest guys there like seriously
cinnamon roll™
another og
it’s physically impossible to hate him
fans are swooning because they’ve never seen this many hot guys on love island at once
especially when all of them are heartthrobs and have so much potential
jakey is so beloved by the guys because he’s just…a bro
BUT HE GIVES GREAT ADVICE and is pretty chill
also knows how to have fun and is usually the one (besides heeseung) to like initiate a game or something fun to do
the villa can get boring when y’all are just sitting around all day
as for the girls, he gets along very well
he knows he’s good-looking but he doesn’t do too much
that accent gets them
very humble
all of the girls have wanted a piece of him at one point and quite frankly none of them were his type ???
“hey…bro…” he’d say to them, as he sat down with them during chats
so the girls just stayed his friend and didn’t want to embarrass themselves further
went through a depressive period for a few weeks
coupling with girls just to stay alive
until a bombshell, you,—came in.
he legit had all of the guys come to the firepit so he could tell them you were off limits
they listened, except for one
that bastard
some drama arose as there was gonna be a recoupling that sent one of the guys home
this only further incentivized jake to pursue you harder
“hey, can i steal you for chat?” he approaches you as you sat in the kitchen talking to the other guy
he didn’t feel bad, as you said “of course,” he made sure to give the guy a sly look as he placed his arm around your waist as you followed him up to soul ties.
fans loved him even more now: “ok jakey going after what he wants!!!!” “nah ngl if a cinnamon roll looked at me like that i’d self eliminate fr lmao” “well he said she was off limits *shrug emoji*” “he can’t even be mad at jake like he hasn’t had not one connection the whole time. let him get the girl he wants !!”
he knew he couldn’t sit on his ass and wait for you to come naturally
as he got to know you, he realized you were like him
a hot geek!!
you loved math and science just like him
you were always correcting people
and somehow you loved the same shows and movies
it’s like you’re him, just the girl version!!
needless to say, he falls fast and hard
he knew how to cook pretty well, so he would make you breakfast every morning
hot chocolate, with big marshmallows and a waffle
all made from scratch of course!! he took some pointers from jay ;)
the other guy continued to pursue you, to which he encouraged you
he knew what he was there for but who was he to limit you to one connection?
“i’m here for you and i know what i want. but i’m also never gonna tell you to put me above you; if you feel you want to explore then go handle that.” he told you as you settled in between his legs, back against his chest on one of the daybeds. you had your eyes shut as you leaned your head on his shoulder as gently caressed your leg with one hand and your arm with another. relishing in the serenity of the feeling and the waves crashing against each other.
this is right when you knew you weren’t going anywhere
fans also ate this up: “i just need someone to hold me like jake holds her and i’ll be ok, i promise” “i would let him do the most unspeakable things to me, Lord forgive me” “just give me 3 minutes.”
was some part of him anxious as hell? absolutely, but he meant what he said
it was up to you, either way someone was going home
so when you got a text later that afternoon, you read it aloud to everyone (basically screaming it but it’s ok)
“it’s almost decision time! you must decide where your heart lies. tonight, you will choose who you want to couple up with, and one guy will be sent home. solve for x and see where you end up! #toobadsosad #makingupforlosttime #gotmyanglesonyou”
you flustered at the reminders of the conversations you and jake were having
but it was funny nonetheless
that night at the firepit, you had never see jake so distraught
he spaced out which he like never does but now it was time for you to make your choice
you stood up in your heels, almost shaking but maintaining composure
“i would like to couple up with this boy because he has been so amazing and consistent since my time here.” jake listened to you intently as you spoke, hopefully trying to pick up on something that could indicate that you’d pick him.
“we also get along really well and i feel that in the short time that i’ve been here, we’ve been able to get on pretty well. i know that if we have a chance to further this connection, then something great will be able to come from it.”
ok, he was getting hopeful
“we bond over so many things, and i feel like we mirror each other. people say that it’s hard to be with someone that’s just like you. however, studies show that 89% of couples share the same values and similarities, making them successful and at a lower rate of divorce.”
your fellow islanders laughed at your random, yet endearing factoid
jake just tilted his head as he stared at you lovingly, “that’s my girl,” he whispered to himself
“so the boy i’d like to couple up with is…”
fingers crossed
surprise. “jake.” you said with a bright smile on your face.
jake wanted to run to you and kiss you until his last dying breath
BUT he had some sort of couth
he dapped up the guy that he was standing by, he didn’t want to because he felt he was an asshole but still. respect.
then he walked over to you with the brightest smile in the world and hugged you so tight you almost complained but you let him have his moment. “you’re so amazing, baby. you’re mine now,” his whispered into your ear. the mic just barely picked it up.
he pulled back and gave you the gentlest kiss you’ve felt in your life, that you barely even felt
viral moment
it was hard to watch the guy pack his stuff
yes, he knows that he got you now but after coming to his senses in a way, the guy just wanted to find love the same way they all did
they ended up having a conversation before he left and they squashed the beef
later that night, you and jake showered together
made sure to lock the door, there was like 8 other bathrooms in this big ass house
the others could use another one
BUT it was nothing freaky deaky
just gentle, intimate
you detangled and washed his hair for him
granted it was very hard to keep his hands off of you
just this perfect body in front of him in this big ass shower where he had ample room to do what he wanted
but he kept it cute, only letting his hands slide south when you let him
but a little kiss didn’t hurt
his hand wrapped around your neck as pulled you to cover his lips with yours. the familiar taste of your lips sending jolts through his body. he groaned at the sensation as you followed. “should’ve done this at the firepit, right in front of that bastard. that way he would’ve known you were really mine all along.”
he left a lil hickey
nothing too crazy
y’all def did it in the bed with everybody there that night though
casa amor rolls around
y’all are doing good even before then
challenges were fun, vibes were on point!!
but just like the others, you bounce without a word. but you also left a note just like heeseung’s girl
“hi jakey !! i’m gonna be gone for a while but not to worry. distance makes the heart grow fonder. i trust you, and i hope you honor me while i’m away because i will do the same for you <3 p.s. i sprayed my perfume on our bed so if a bitch even tries to lie there she’ll be getting a piece of me. hugs and kisses xoxo !!”
he audibly laughed at your note, some tears threatening to escape him but quickly sucked it up
he missed you already, his baby
his little einstein
he tucked the note in his pocket for safe keeping
remember what i said before, the casa girls are coming in hot!!
and jake being the fun—and nice—guy he is, makes the girls feel welcome
until one of them pulls him for chat and he accepts
she came onto and him for some reason something came over him
to this day he can’t put his finger on if it was the excitement of a new face after seeing the same ones every single day for, what felt like, forever
or just lack of self control
maybe both
but he fucks her
when the guys found out they were jarred
even heeseung, the resident fuckboy™ wasn’t that wild
needless to say, jake has never felt more disgusted with himself
the support he amassed over the last few goes down the drain as this was one of the biggest twists of the season
i said hee became public enemy #1 before but no, jake was hated BAD!!!
fans were hurt themselves: “bro i feel so bad for y/n, she was everything and more and he just shit on her, fuck jake” “i really don’t believe in love anymore, this is wild” “imagine going thru ALL THAT with a girl that was made for you just to hook up with a random casa girl bc of a ‘minor slip up’ what a loser”
going back to the villa was…a journey to say the least
but when he got back you were smiling
hard
like…you couldn’t wait to see him
him, along with the boys were confused as they all thought that you’d seen what happened due to heeseung just getting heat
but no
you seemed to know nothing
and jake just played along, he didn’t bring anyone back and neither did you
“hello, my einstein,” he hugged you as he spun you around before gently placing you back on the wooden deck of the firepit.
the silence amongst the boys was deafening, there were already tensions due to heeseung’s situation, but the girls still tried to be happy for you and cheer you on. them clearly being oblivious to what really went down.
a few days passed and jake carried along as normal as he could, still consulting jay about this hole in chest called guilt that he couldn’t shake. he had to tell you.
until sunghoon’s girl got a text, she beckoned all of them to front
“islanders, it’s time for movie night! watch some exclusive clips from your time in the villa and casa amor! grab your seats and watch some dirty truths be unveiled. #nosecretshere #lightscameradrama”
everyone looked at each other with unsure looks, the boys getting glared and cold stares left and right.
you felt terrible, “i feel so bad, i know [heeseung’s girl] went through so much the last few days. i’d hate for her to have to almost relive it, you know?” you said to jake, to which he hugged you with a small ‘yeah’
everyone gathered around and it was time to pick which “movie” y’all wanted to watch
they chose ‘experiment gone wrong’
and that was when you saw it
jake tonguing down this girl, which stung, but ok this was during a challenge so nothing crazy
the next clip cut to them talking at the firepit and he was just giggling it up
then they kissed
which was more than enough to make your heart feel like it smashed into a million pieces
then the next clip was of them making out on yours and his shared bed
then he covered both of them with the comforter as the camera moved to a new angle where they threw their clothes onto the floor from beneath the sheets
then on the outside on the firepit right where they were, laid the note you left for him before you left
then it faded to black
the silence was deafening
the girl’s right by you sat in shock as you were all equally.
the first to break the silence was jungwon’s girl “so y’all knew?”
the boys were all looking down in shame
silence. crickets.
you wanted so badly to say something but your voice simply wouldn’t allow you
you just remember breaking down into jungwon’s girl’s arms as she rested her hand on your head, stroking your head to give you some consolation as the rest of the girl’s cursed them out.
jake just sat there, tears in his eyes as croaked out, “i didn’t mean to—”
“what didn’t mean to do what? she trusted you, we all did! y’all are some grimy ass people for not even letting one of us know. like you didn’t have to tell her. at least one of us and we could’ve done something!”
“jake you are such a piece of shit”
“i know,” he whimpered, leaning back into the couch
“if you’re capable of keeping some shit like that from her then you’re capable of anything.”
he knew what the girls were saying was true to some–well, a huge extent. but he wasn’t looking at them.
he was looking at you break down over something that he did out of pure tactlessness
the producers didn’t let you get up until the clips were done being shown but as soon as they were done, you sped walked right inside
knowing jake was hot on your tail
before you can ever get past even the middle of the yard space he catches up you
“y/n please,” he says, pleading. “i can explain,”
you looked at him, with nothing but pure pain and desolation, “explain what? your dick just somehow slipped inside her on accident?”
he shook his head, “baby—”
that was when you snapped, yelling at for the first time ever. “no! you lost the privilege to call me that! i’m nothing to you, do you hear me? nothing! you are a sick and twisted individual. nevermind the hooking up thing because a part of me expected it. men will be men, but for you to have days to tell me and you let me find out along with everyone else?”
“please, can we just talk about this somewhere else?” his voice cracked as he began to sob, not caring if all of your peers were watching
“you’re such a con artist, you made me believe you. made me believe that everything was fine and dandy between us and that i was like the one for you—”
“but you are, you are—” he grabbed his hair, pulling it from stress and frustration. “gosh, you are! i just fucked up—”
“i gave you my body, jake. does that not mean anything to you?”
he sobbed loudly, not even caring how he looked anymore. “yes! it means everything just please understand me!” he grabbed your shoulders to hopefully make you listen. “i fucked up. i know i’m a shitty person for doing that and i know i’m even shittier than lying to you like this and keeping you in the dark. but please trust me when i say that it was a mistake and will never happen again.”
“you’ve shown me who you are, jake. i’m taking it for what it is. you’ve made your choice and it wasn’t me.” you said, cold and distant
choking back sobs as he tries to reach for you again. “y/n, please. i’m begging you. don’t do this. i’ll do anything. i’ll make it right, just give me a chance.”
“fuck you, jake.”
jungwon’s girl ends up sleeping with you outside that night
jake cries himself to sleep, even though he could barely do that
the next day you were more angry than hurt
when he brought you breakfast, you threw it out the window right in front of face
you’re like 60% sure bits of the eggs ended up in the pool
everytime he tried to talk to you, you ignored him
if he asked to pull you for a chat while you speaking to someone, you continued talking as if he wasn’t standing there, literally begging you for a conversation
he was vapor to you and it wasn’t fun being like this but he needed to be punished
until one recoupling, he decides to self-eliminate
this rippled shock throughout the villa, even you
during his final speech, “i felt like i came here to find a connection. i did, and regardless of how it turned out, i’m so grateful for the time that i did get with that person. i know i did the most…distasteful things but i also know that forgiveness comes with time and it shouldn’t be on your terms.” he looked at you with longing eyes, “y/n, i love you,”
the L word in love island is like…unheard of almost like oh my god ??/?/?/ so your stomach was in knots
“and i will do anything to see you happy, baby, always. if that means being free from me than i’ll do it and i will let you have the experience you so rightfully deserve, so…that’s why i’d like to go home. i got what i came here for.”
there were definitely tears from everyone in the villa
jake had been everyone’s best friend so to see him go was hard
you and him exchanged longing glances and a gentle nod before he walked out and the ‘loves me not’ sign flashes
you ended up leaving the following week
you just wandered about aimlessly
bombshells came but none of them compared to jake
you were eliminated and was actually glad to go home and see your family after all these months
definitely sad because at this point, you spent so much time and gotten along well with everyone that they considered you an og at this point
but you left with your chest held high
but as soon as you got your phone back you saw you sat at a good 2M followers on instagram, which was like 1,999,900 million more than you came in here with.
you took a look at your dm’s and saw a familiar face text you:
“hey gorgeous,
i know you probably won’t see this for a while, but i couldn’t just leave things unsaid. i’ve spent so much time thinking about everything, and i know there’s no excuse for what i did. i messed up, badly. i hurt you, and i’ll never be able to fully fix that, no matter how much i wish i could. but i need you to know that i’m truly sorry. not just for what i did, but for letting you down in ways that went beyond just that moment.
i was selfish. i let my insecurities and confusion get the better of me, and in doing so, i betrayed your trust. i lied to you, and i let you believe things were okay when they weren’t. the worst part is, i knew better. i knew what i was doing was wrong, but i still did it. i don’t expect forgiveness from you, not after what i did, but i hope you can eventually find it in yourself to heal from this.
you deserve someone who values you and respects you, someone who sees you for who you truly are, not just in the moments when things are easy. i failed you in that regard. i let you down in front of everyone, and i’m sorry for that. but i want you to know that i will always think of you, and no matter what happens, you’ll always be important to me.
i don’t know if you’ll ever want to talk to me again, and honestly, i wouldn’t blame you if you didn’t. i’m not asking for forgiveness, and i’m not asking for anything except that you take care of yourself, y/n. you deserve the world. and i’ll keep working on becoming someone better, even if it’s too late for us.
i hope that wherever you are, you’re finding peace and happiness. i’ll be here if you ever want to reach out, but i understand if you need time or if you don’t ever want to. just know i’m thinking of you, and i’ll always be rooting for you. i wouldn’t change a thing if it meant i got to experience the beauty that is you.
take care of yourself. you were more than everything to me. i love you einstein.
your jakey <3
ok that felt like a gut punch
you sat there, on your bed wondering your next move
then you got to typing
Sunghoon 박성훈
he’s for sure a bombshell
one of the bombshells that comes in the blind kissing challenges to confuse all of the girls
he’s had his eye on you for a while
so when he gets to kiss you, he’s more than prepared to rock your world
he takes his time with you as he runs a gentle finger down your lips to the valley of your breasts as he pulls you closer by your hips
then he pulled you in so your lips could meet his and it was up from there
everyone was so confused
“jake?” “nah that's not him”
“heeseung?” “nah he’s not as aggressive”
the boys were in complete shock, some of there were dying laughing
others bitter because he was kissing their girls lmaooo
when the girls took their blindfolds off, they were screaming in shock
you laughed something serious!!
but when you got a look at sunghoon, you were also very shook
he was…scarily beautiful, like he almost made you feel insecure lmao
but he couldn’t stop looking at you
you and the girls congregated after that to discuss details
“yo, he’s hot as fuck” “he’s gorgeous” “y’all don’t even know what to do with all that”
the fans were thrown. they were gagged.
TWITTER WAS SCREAMINGGG “#needthat”
the guys all whispered about him, impressed that he came in with such a bang
others, whose couples weren’t so steady in their couples were worried
but they saw how he kissed you
he wanted you
during the challenge where america weighs in on what they feel about them
he gets voted to be like the biggest fuckboy
which again, makes heeseung laugh because he was that was his thing™
everyone even voted him too, so to hear america’s thoughts made the girls think the world knew something they didn’t
but back to sunghoon
his feelings were a little hurt
he wasn’t sure if it was the way he looked that gave people that impression
but he never kissed any girls outside of challenges so it didn’t make much sense
sure he had his fun outside of the villa
but he knew that he was going to be on national television, so he did try to dial it back
you were very turned off by this
you admitted in the confessionals, “i’ve had my fair share of fuckboys. i even knew by coming here that i wasn’t exempt from them! so to be real, i’m not shocked. i mean look at him. i’d be hurt if he wasn’t sharing the fun with other people.”
he’s annoyed by it but doesn’t let it phase him
now onto you guys
at this point, you’re pretty solid in your original connection
sunghoon didn’t really gaf lmao
he was a bombshell, he wasn’t supposed to be peaceful
he had a talk with your connection in front of the guys
“i’m sorry but i’m here to step on toes and i really don’t care if you don’t like that. i’m not here to make friends.”
your connection nodded with a ‘challenge accepted’ type of smile
so let the games begin
he pursued you down
a solid week and a half of him and your partner fighting for you
until heeseung is bored one night and wants to play a game: truth or dare
“y/n, truth or dare”
now you knew better than to accept a dare from any of these hooligans, “truth.”
“do you think your connection is solid enough to survive me being here?” he leans forward, resting his head on his hands with a smile
wow
so you didn’t have anything to say
you literally plead the fifth
and that caused some drama and needless to say, you and your partner argued that night
“so, one guy just comes around and all of a sudden i’m not enough for you?”
“i never said that, you’re just insecure and plus it’s not that serious. this is love island. i came here for me, who are you to hinder me from my experience?”
he slept outside that night
sunghoon slept with a smile on his that night
the next morning, he asked around what you liked for breakfast and brought it to you while you were doing your makeup
you thanked him politely, not liking him for basically prophesying your couple’s misfortune
he knew what happened and was capitalizing off of it
fans easily saw this and thought the same, not entirely liking sunghoon and calling him a little bit of weirdo
“he’s hot but something about bro seems sketchy” “is he a witch or sumn??? does bro have crystals and sage in his suitcase??? wtf is going on” “i agree with the discourse but why am i kinda eating this up tho”
you were chatting with jay’s girl and then he pulls you for a chat, to which you agreed reluctantly “sure”
y’all went to the chairs by the beach. he sat on one and you sat across from him
“so? rough night?”
“do you have a problem with me?”
“no. i just want you.”
“you’re so weird, i mean i appreciate that you’re trying to be nice to me in your own sick way. but i don’t play games.”
he smiled, “i’m not playing with you, though. i just held up a mirror.”
“you’re serious?”
“think about it, i didn’t do anything. i just asked you one question and he did the rest.”
you resigned
ok he was right, i mean
your partner was bugging out because he was threatened by another man
“obviously i’ll leave you alone if you want me to but it won’t exactly help your situation.”
“you some type of mind reader or something?”
“i don’t need to read minds. i just need to pay attention. and i’ve been watching for a while. what i’m seeing isn’t really about me, it’s about what you’re not saying.”
fuck it
you stood up and walked toward to him as you straddled his hips
he smiled gently as he wrapped his arms around your waist, pulling you closer. and yours around his neck as you kissed officially
some of your fellow islanders were eavesdropping and and watching from behind the deck and they silently cheered
as you pulled back, “did i say enough?”
biting his lip, he nodded as he rested his hand on the back of your head. “yeah,” the other head rubbed your thighs on either side of him.
you pulled away from the kiss and the tension lingered but he kept his grip on your thigh. as if he was scared you’d pull away.
“what are you thinking, pretty girl?” his voice took on a new tone. that sarcastic, patronizing inflection long gone.
“i think you knew exactly what you were doing.” you laughed
he smiled, your laugh actually giving him butterflies “maybe,” the head that rested on your head moved to your cheek as he stroked it gently. “just want to make you feel wanted,”
your connection ended up getting eliminated at recoupling (womp womp)
since sunghoon came late, casa was only a week later
a part of him was excited to explore more options
you didn’t leave a note, which kinda stung
but there wasn’t anything to do about it so he just continued as normal
he kissed a few girls, brought one back :(
definitely pissed you off!!
lowkey he got your frustration but it’s only been a week!!
“it’s not like we’re married or anything, i’m just tryna explore my options.”
to which you understood, didn’t make the embarrassment any easier
you were so mad you didn’t bring a guy back either
fans felt validated that their suspicions were right “see??? i knew i wasn’t buggin. he’s a hoe.” “i get that it’s been a week but he could’ve been a little nicer about it like damn” “the audacity to chase her and put her other connection at risk when he could’ve just kept it cool?? he just wanted screen time fr” “this sounds crazy but not even heeseung is this bad” “he wants to be heeseung sooo baddd LMFAOO”
not hated, but not liked either
y’all fizzle out and he partners with the casa girl
summary: jake sim’s got a new roommate. and he hates it. he hates you. until one random wednesday afternoon, you look at him with those eyes, and suddenly he’s noticing things he definitely shouldn’t. now jake’s stuck trying to ignore the fact that his least favorite person is somehow making his heart beat faster. he didn’t sign up for this. but hey, neither did you.
genre: fluff | enemies to lovers
characters: jake x f!reader
words: 15.3k
warnings: curse words, kissing i guess
a/n: based on in this economy's jake! our fav hater is back!
“Well,” he sighed dramatically, hand over his heart. “There she goes. The only decent roommate I’ve ever had. The only one who cleaned the hair out of the drain without me having to beg. Who made late-night ramen taste like a Michelin-star meal. Who laughed at my jokes, told me when my shirt was inside out, and didn’t steal my shampoo.”
His best friend rolled her eyes, already halfway up the porch steps with her bag. “Jake, we’re literally 30 minutes away. You’re going to see me every other day.”
Jake turned to Heeseung with a sunny smile. “Well…take good care of her, yeah?”
“I do take care of her,” Heeseung said, voice flat, eyes sharp.
She snorted. “I’m not being shipped off to war, Jake.”
Jungwon—boba in hand, sunglasses on, posture far too relaxed for someone witnessing emotional carnage—finally spoke.
“Alright, drama club,” he called. “Wrap it up. People are starting to stare. Mostly me. And I’m starting to lose interest.”
Jake turned to him with a deep sigh. “What’s even the point of going home? The apartment is going to feel empty.”
Jungwon raised an eyebrow. “You do realize I still live there, right?”
Jake waved a dismissive hand. “Yeah, but you don’t count. You don’t talk to me. You just throw protein bars at my head and call it a meal.”
“And yet somehow, you’ve survived,” Jungwon deadpanned, like Jake was some tragic survivor of mild inconvenience. “Anyway. You got to live with your best friend. Now I get to live with mine.”
Jake froze mid-chew, narrowing his eyes. “…Wait. Wasn’t that hypothetical?”
Jungwon didn’t even look up from his phone. “No? I meant what I said. She’s moving in today.”
“She? You mean to tell me… I’m coming home to a stranger? A female stranger?”
“She’s not a stranger to me,” Jungwon said with an infuriating shrug. “Anyway. She’s chill. You’ll love her. I think.”
Jake pointed accusingly at Jungwon. “I swear if she does something annoying, I’ll—”
“You’ll do what?” Jungwon said, already walking away. “Write her a strongly worded Post-It? Sue her?”
“Ugh. First, I lose my best friend to my annoying boss now…now this? I’m going home!” he yelled, heading for his Uber. “But before I do…Heeseung,” Jake called out.
Heeseung took a slow sip of his coffee. “That’s Mr. Lee to you.”
“Yeah, I’m not calling you that when we’re off the clock and you look like a walking beige napkin.”
“This is Gucci,” Heeseung said flatly, glancing down at his designer shirt—then at Jake’s outfit. “And whatever you’re wearing is…”
Jake sneered. “Is a gift. From your girlfriend.”
“Oh. Then I love them,” Heeseung said sweetly, turning to kiss her on the lips without breaking eye contact.
Jake recoiled. “Tell your boyfriend to back off.”
“Tell your ex-roommate to get a grip.”
Jake narrowed his eyes. “I hope your new place has ants.”
And then... standing there on Heeseung’s stupidly spotless porch, watching them disappear into their stupid new house (because of course Heeseung could just casually buy a house like he was adding a new hoodie to cart), Jake squinted thoughtfully at the disgustingly perfect front yard.
Jake’s eye twitched. God, he hated rich people. To be specific, he hated Heeseung. Stealing his roommate and his best friend, just like that. Selfish bastard.
But then — just by the edge of the driveway — movement.
Tiny. Crawling. Full of untapped petty potential. Jake’s lips slowly curled into a grin.
“Well, well, well,” he murmured to absolutely no one, crouching down like a villain in sweatpants.
“Nature provides.”
Cut to twenty minutes later:
Jake crouched like a criminal in Heeseung’s yard with a plastic cup. Scooping ants off the sidewalk like he was foraging for revenge. Whispering to himself like a lunatic.
“This is what betrayal gets you, Heeseung. You bitch.”
By the time he had an entire squad of confused ants swirling around in the cup like unwilling accomplices, Jake stood up, dusted his hands off, and jogged across the lawn.
He rang the doorbell.
Once.
Twice.
Three times — annoying, spaced out, just to be a menace.
Finally — the door yanked open.
Heeseung stood there, deadpan, already exhausted. In socks. Mug of tea in hand.
“What.”
Jake grinned, wide, sweet, feral. “Miss me?”
Heeseung blinked at him like he regretted every life choice that led to knowing Jake Sim.
“Didn’t you leave with Jungwon?”
“I was going to but…”
And then — without missing a beat — Jake yeeted the entire cup of ants straight through the doorway.
Heeseung’s eyes tracked it mid-air.
The cup landed with a hollow little plunk on the entryway floor — ants scattering like their Uber just arrived.
Heeseung stared.
“What—” Heeseung’s eye twitched. “Did you just—”
“Nature says hi.” Jake whispered.
And then?
Jake ran. Full sprint.
Cackling like an absolute child as Heeseung’s voice exploded behind him —
“WHAT THE HELL IS WRONG WITH YOU?!”
Jake was already halfway down the street, gleefully texting Jungwon like a war general reporting a win.
jake: bro i did smth
jungwon: what did you do
jake: nothing much. Had fun w nature tho…lol
jungwon: wait a min…did u throw ants in their fucking house
jake: yea lol i can still hear heeseung yelling
jungwon: take a vid?
jake: i’ll snap u LOOOL
—-
It wasn’t that Jake hated new people. Well—okay. Maybe he did. A little. Just a bit.
Sure, he looked friendly — floppy hair, easy grin, that dangerously smooth voice that could charm strangers and confuse baristas into giving him extra whipped cream without asking. But deep down?
Jake Sim was a man powered entirely by routine, caffeine, and emotional damage.
At work? Immaculate. Precise. Heeseung’s best guy on every project. The guy you could trust to fix your mess without asking questions.
At home? At home, Jake Sim was powered by rage, Doritos, and spite-fuelled midnight snacking.
And nothing — nothing — disrupted that fragile ecosystem quite like a stranger invading his living space.
Jake sighed and glanced at Jungwon, who sat curled on the couch, no emotion on his face.
“You’re sure she’ll like me?” Jake asked, leaning back like he genuinely needed reassurance.
Jungwon didn’t even glance up from his phone. “Maybe she will. Maybe she won’t. I’m betting my money on the latter.”
Jake grinned, ego inflating instantly. “But I’m charming. I’m handsome. I ooze sex appeal.”
Jungwon finally looked up. Blinked. Paused.
“You’re… okay.”
Jake stared. “Okay?”
Jungwon shrugged, unbothered. “You’re like store-brand charming.”
Jake squinted. “The hell does that even mean?”
“Looks the same. Works okay. Nobody’s writing home about it.” Jungwon deadpanned. “But yeah, sure. Reliable in a pinch.”
Jake clutched his chest like he’d just been stabbed with a plastic spoon. “I am premium charming.”
Jungwon sipped his drink. “You’re aisle seven, bottom shelf, on sale for $2.99.”
Jake looked genuinely offended. “Wow.”
“Look,” he said flatly, “she’s moving in tomorrow whether you like it or not. So dust yourself off… and for the love of God, take down that thing you call art.”
He pointed lazily at The Painting. The painting that Jake did during his “I’m unemployed and spiraling” era. His “maybe I’m just like Van Gogh” phase. A little stressed, a little depressed, and unfortunately — very creative.
Except he wasn’t.
Because if Jungwon was being brutally honest (and he always was), Jake’s 36 by 36 inch masterpiece was…
A giant, aggressively well-shaded dick.
Like, museum-level shading. Art school tragedy. Anatomically correct in ways that made Jungwon genuinely concerned for Jake’s mental health.
“It’s abstract,” Jake had insisted once, dead serious.
“It’s a dick,” Jungwon had replied, dead inside.
“To you,” Jake had said, like he was Picasso defending himself in court. “To me it represents manhood. The transition from child to man.”
Jungwon stared at him. Stared at the cursed, hauntingly well-shaded disaster on the wall. Stared back at him.
"Just take it down by tonight, you moron." he muttered, already walking back to his room. "Because I am not explaining to a grown ass woman why there’s a three-foot dick staring her dead in the eyes while she’s just trying to eat her cereal."
—-
You balanced a box against your hip, car keys jingling in one hand, your phone wedged between your shoulder and ear as you stepped into the apartment for the very first time.
“You couldn’t skip one class?” you muttered into the phone, nudging the door closed behind you with your foot. “Just one? I am literally dragging my entire life through this hallway alone right now.”
Jungwon’s voice crackled on the other end. “And I am literally about to ace my quiz on post-colonial literature. We all have battles we can’t pick.”
You rolled your eyes so hard it was a miracle they didn’t fall out. “I hope your professor forgets your name and ends up giving you the biggest F in history.”
“Trait—”
Jungwon cut you off with a yawn. “Anyway, key’s under the mat. Room in the back is yours. Make yourself at home. Don’t fight Jake. Love you.”
You paused mid-step. “Who?”
“Bye!” he said, then hung up like a man with no conscience.
You stared at your phone. “What do you mean ‘don’t fight Jake’?! Who’s Jake?!”
No answer. Just the echo of betrayal.
You let out a long sigh and took in your surroundings. The apartment was… livable. Clean-ish. A little too beige. Smelled like something between cologne and aggressively microwaved noodles. Classic boy territory.
Still balancing your box, you headed toward the back, where you assumed your room would be. The hallway split into two doors. One was cracked open slightly, revealing a glimpse of a desk.
You knocked once, half-hearted and awkward, and pushed the door open.
And then everything happened at once.
Music. Blasting.
Eyes. Wide.
Box. Dropped.
You screamed.
Because standing dead center in the room was a guy in nothing but boxers, aggressively dancing to Bruno Mars like he was auditioning for a boyband.
He jumped like he'd been tasered, yanked an earbud out, and yelped, “WHAT THE HELL?! WHO THE HELL ARE YOU?!”
“WHY ARE YOU NAKED?!” you echoed back, slapping a hand over your eyes.
“I’M NOT NAKED!”
“YOU’RE LIKE 80% NAKED!”
He grabbed a throw pillow off his bed and held it over himself like it could protect either of you from this moment. “What are you even doing in my room?!”
“Jungwon said the room in the back is mine!”
“This is my room!”
“Then label your damn doors next time!”
“You’re supposed to knock!”
“I did knock!”
“Then you wait for a response, smartass!”
“Are you serious right now?! How was I supposed to know you’d be air-humping the universe like a deranged psycho?!”
“That was choreography!”
You both stared at each other, panting like you’d just come out of battle. You took a long breath, picked up your box again, and hissed, “You must be Jake.”
His eyes narrowed. “And you must be the replacement.”
“Well,” he said, tossing the pillow onto the bed and grabbing a pair of sweats, “we’re off to a great start.”
If first impressions were anything to go by, this was going to be war.
And unfortunately, the battlefield was your new living room.
—-
You wiped your palms on your jeans, jaw still tight as you grabbed another box from the small pile by the front door. This one was heavier—textbooks, probably. Just as you turned around to haul it outside, you slammed straight into a very firm, very warm, very fully clothed chest.
You looked up. Jake.
Now dressed in a hoodie and joggers, hair slightly damp like he’d just showered the shame off. Unfortunately, he still looked obnoxiously good. Annoyingly taller than you. And, somehow, smug—which should be illegal after whatever happened earlier.
He blinked down at you. “Need help?”
You opened your mouth to say something—anything—but he held up a hand.
“Unless…” He squinted dramatically. “You’re about to peep on me again, then I—”
“Peep at you?!” you hissed. “I walked into what I thought was my room and got assaulted by a hip thrust.”
He shrugged. “I was in the moment.”
“Are you always this delusional?”
Jake leaned against the doorframe like this wasn’t already a disaster. “You really can’t admit it, huh?”
“Admit what?”
“That you enjoyed the view.”
Your jaw dropped. “Oh my God.”
“Don’t worry,” he added, all faux-gentle. “Not everyone can handle the Full Jake Sim Experience.”
You narrowed your eyes. “You know, Jungwon warned me about you.”
Jake’s grin kicked up, cocky. “Let me guess — ‘Jake’s a little dramatic, but give it time and you’ll fall for the charm.’”
“Actually,” you said dryly, “it was ‘don’t engage, it only encourages him.’”
“That’s slander,” he declared.
“That’s advice,” you corrected. “Good advice.”
—
Jungwon slid his bag off his shoulder, grinning from ear to ear. “I’m home!” he called out, voice echoing through the apartment as he kicked the door shut behind him.
Finally. After years of joking about it, he was officially living with his best friend.
Jungwon knew the odds were low that you and Jake would hit it off immediately.
You were... you. Stubborn. Easily irritated. Quietly unhinged. But also — annoyingly kind. Thoughtful in that backhanded, "made you ramen but insulted you while doing it" kind of way.
You’d survive Jake.
Hell, maybe Jake needed to survive you.
He strolled down the hallway, humming as he knocked lightly on your door. “Yo. You alive in there?”
No answer.
He tried again. Still nothing. With a shrug, he walked over to Jake’s door and gave it a push. Open. Empty.
“Jake?”
Then, from the depths of the apartment, came shouting.
Jungwon blinked. Tilted his head. The bathroom. He padded toward the noise—and regretted it immediately.
“I was here first!” you snapped.
“No, I was here first!” Jake shot back, voice bouncing off the tiled walls.
“I had my towel in here! That’s bathroom code!” You yelled.
“There is no such thing as bathroom code, you freak!”
“Let me in! I’m going out and I have to pee!”
“Looking like that?” You sneered at Jake whose smile faded.
A long pause.
“…What’s that supposed to mean?”
You offered a polite smile. “Oh, nothing. I just thought you cared about how you dressed. But hey—good for you. You’re braver than most of the people I know!”
Jungwon closed his eyes. Rested his head against the wall. Inhaled slowly.
This was his life now.
—-
Jake sat slouched at the edge of the table, a half-spilled bowl of kimchi stew in front of him, aggressively chomping like it had personally wronged him.
Across from him, Heeseung and his girlfriend were mid–honeymoon phase nonsense—feeding each other dumplings, whispering like the rest of the room didn’t exist, giggling over god knows what as if Jake wasn’t having a full-blown emotional breakdown one seat over.
“She color-codes the pantry,” Jake snapped, waving his chopsticks like a weapon. “I left one bag of chips—one!—and she reorganized the entire cabinet. Who’s even looking in there, huh? The Pantry Police?”
“Oh—oh, and get this,” Jake ranted, mouth still half-full of kimchi. “She sends me photos of the sink. With captions. ‘This is your plate, Jake. I know it’s yours because it has your little cartoon fork on it. Like—what?! How does she even know I have cartoon forks?! Who memorizes someone’s cutlery?’”
He flailed a hand like he was being victimized.
His best friend didn’t even blink. “The real question is why you’re still using forks with tiny bears on them.”
“That’s not the point!”
“You ever thought of, I don’t know…” Heeseung finally looked up, lips shiny from dumpling sauce. “Being a better roommate instead of…an ass?”
“I’m not being an ass!” Jake protested — loud enough to startle the next table and wild enough to knock over the soy sauce dish. He scrambled to fix it with a sad napkin, still grumbling under his breath like he was the victim here.
“She’s just—she’s too clean, okay? Like robot clean. Psycho neat. I leave one hoodie on the couch and next thing I know, it’s folded, labelled, and put away neatly.”
“It just sounds like you’re being an ass to her,” she said.
“Yeah, let’s unpack that.”
Jake squinted. “Unpack what?”
“You know.” Heeseung leaned back, annoyingly relaxed. “Why are you all…angsty and weird about her?”
“Because!” Jake snapped. Jake glared. At them. At the table. At the ceiling.
Heeseung raised an eyebrow. “Because?”
Then he exploded, “…Because she freaking pisses me off, that’s why!”
The table went silent.
“That’s crazy. Sounds a lot like flirting to me.”
—-
You threw yourself onto the couch with the kind of rage that could only come from enduring Jake Sim for more than ten minutes. Jungwon sat across from you, calmly chewing on dried squid like he wasn’t witnessing a breakdown.
“He leaves his stupid fucking hoodie on the couch,” you exploded, hands flailing like you were directing traffic in hell. “Like we live in a prison bunk. Like there’s no other surface in the entire apartment for his crusty-ass clothes except the exact spot I want to sit.”
Jungwon nodded slowly. Unbothered. A man built for surviving your storms.
You inhaled sharply. But oh — you were not done.
“And don’t even get me started on the pantry.” You threw a hand toward the kitchen like it personally betrayed you.
“He messed up my color-coded snack shelf. My system, Jungwon.” He raised a brow. Brave. Curious. Foolish.
“What system?”
You blinked. Offended. “My Oreos go beside the dark chocolate. That’s balance. That’s harmony. That’s civilisation. That’s how society should be.”
“But noooo—” you went on, fully deranged now, “Jake Sim, chaotic neutral in sweatpants, decides to put my Oreos between the shrimp chips and the ramen cups like he’s staging a fucking rebellion.”
“So what I’m hearing is…” he drawled, “you think about Jake... a lot.”
“Shut the hell up.”
He ignored you completely. “God, you two act like toddlers.”
“It’s not my fault,” you whined. “He’s making living here hard.”
Like breathing was fine until Jake Sim walked into the room with his stupid smug face and stupid loud voice and stupid boy smell that was weirdly clean for someone who acted like a feral animal.
“You’re not exactly a ray of sunshine to him either,” he pointed out.
“That’s only because…” you muttered.
“Because?”
“Because he’s loud and smug and he–he leaves wet towels on the bathroom floor and–”
“Because?”
“BECAUSE HE FREAKING PISSES ME OFF, THAT’S WHY!”
The room went quiet. Jungwon stared at you. You stared at Jungwon.
And then he went back to chewing his squid, completely unfazed. “Yeah,” he mumbled, “you’re definitely in love with him.”
—-
It was nearly midnight, and the apartment was quiet except for the occasional sharp screech from the horror movie playing on the TV. The lights were off, the only glow coming from the screen casting quick shadows across the room. You were curled up on the couch, blanket over your shoulders, a bowl of popcorn balanced in your lap, gripping a pillow more out of nerves than comfort — heart jumping at every sudden sound.
Jungwon was long gone—fast asleep behind his locked door like a man who knew better.
The apartment was dark. Too dark. The only light came from the TV, flickering ominously across your face as the horror movie reached its cursed little climax.
On screen, the main character was creeping down some nightmare hallway — flickering lights, suspicious footsteps, a soundtrack practically begging something to kill them. You squinted, peeking nervously between your fingers.
“Don’t open the door,” you whispered to the screen, your voice tight. “Don’t open the door, you idiot—”
On screen, the character opened the door.
You sucked in a breath, ready for the inevitable jumpscare.
And then—
“Boo.”
You didn’t even think.
You screamed at the top of your lungs. The bowl of popcorn went airborne. Your fist met something very real, very solid, and very human.
Crack.
“OW—WHAT THE FU—”
You turned mid-panic to find Jake Sim, doubled over and holding his nose, blinking like he’d just been hit by a truck.
Your jaw dropped. “OH MY GOD—JAKE?!”
He groaned loudly. “Did you just punch me?!”
“YOU SNUCK UP ON ME!”
“DO I LOOK LIKE THE FUCKING DEMON?!”
Jake pulled his hand back and stared at the red streak now smeared across his palm.
“Is that—” you gasped, eyes wide, “OH MY GOD, ARE YOU BLEEDING?”
“Yes!” Jake hissed, clutching his nose. “My face is leaking! My nose is leaking because you decided to square up with me like this was Mortal Kombat!”
You scrambled to grab tissues, knocking over a cushion and somehow stepping on your own foot in the process. “I didn’t mean to! It was a reflex! Who sneaks up on someone during a horror movie? You’re lucky I didn’t stab you.”
Jake flopped onto the couch like a man deeply wronged. “You need a warning label.”
“You need common sense.”
“You need to stop throwing hands like you’re in an underground fight club.”
You shoved the wad of tissues at him, dropping onto the couch beside him with a dramatic sigh. “Drama queen.”
“Violent rat.”
The two of you sat there, breathing hard. Popcorn crunched quietly under your sock. The horror movie still played in the background — completely forgotten.
Ten minutes later, you were sitting cross-legged on the floor in front of him, chewing your lip. Jake sat slouched on the couch, ice pack pressed to his face, still sulking like you’d ruined his modelling career.
“Are you okay?” you asked, cautiously.
Jake didn’t look at you. “Physically or emotionally?”
You squinted. “...Both?”
“Physically, my nose is fighting for its life. Emotionally? I’ve seen things.”
You rolled your eyes. “Oh my god, you’re so dramatic.”
He gave you a look over the ice pack. “I googled it. I’m allowed to be dramatic.”
You snorted. “Let me see.”
“What, so you can break it again?”
Still, when you leaned in, Jake let you push his hand away.
Carefully, you touched the bridge of his nose, brows furrowed in focus. Up close like this, you were quiet for once — way too close, way too serious, and way too pretty for his peace of mind.
“It’s not broken,” you muttered, inspecting him closely. “Tragically.”
Jake huffed a laugh under his breath. “Bet you’re disappointed.”
“A little,” you admitted.
Your hand brushed his cheek as you pulled away and Jake’s brain short-circuited for a solid second.
“Okay, you’re fine. Still got your stupid face. The world can rest easy.”
He grinned lazily. “Worried about me?”
You scoffed. “I’m worried you’ll bleed all over the couch.”
You got up to leave.
“Where are you going?”
“To make you tea.”
Jake blinked. That shut him up fast.
“Chamomile?” he asked hopefully.
You groaned from the kitchen. “Isn’t that the only tea you drink?”
Silence.
Then Jake — deadpan, smug — called out, “Weird how you know that.”
You rolled your eyes. Hard. “Weird how you only drink the saddest tea on earth like an old timey British person.”
Jake snorted. “Says the girl who labels her instant noodles like they’re priceless artifacts.”
“At least I don’t treat chamomile like a personality trait.”
“At least I have a personality,” Jake shot back. “Yours starts and ends with passive-aggressive Post-Its.”
You yanked open the cupboard. “Maybe if you read them, we wouldn’t be here.”
“Maybe if you punched fewer people we wouldn’t be here.”
There was a beat.
You grabbed a mug, muttering under your breath, “Should’ve punched harder.”
Jake, from the couch, still icing his nose, let out a scoff of disbelief.
“And yet,” he said flatly, “here you are. Making tea for me.”
You slammed the kettle down louder than necessary. “Because if I don’t, you’ll bleed out and haunt me out of spite.”
Jake leaned back, smug despite the tissue stuffed up his nose.
“Oh, don’t worry,” he called out. “If I do die and end up haunting you, I’m definitely hiding your stupid label maker first.”
—-
The next morning, sunlight trickled through the blinds, soft and golden. The apartment was quiet. Jungwon had already disappeared for his 8 a.m. class like the punctual little overachiever he was.
Which left you here.
In the kitchen.
Making the most humiliating thing of your life:
“I’m sorry I punched your nose” scrambled eggs.
This wasn’t because you liked Jake Sim. God, no. This wasn’t softness. This wasn’t kindness.
This was guilt.
Stupid, irritating, nose-bleeding guilt.
Because yeah — maybe he shouldn’t have snuck up on you like the human embodiment of a jumpscare. But also... maybe you shouldn’t have decked him like you were trying out for MMA.
Maybe.
Unfortunately, despite being fully committed to hating Jake Sim with your entire soul... you also had a functioning moral compass.
It wasn’t supposed to happen like this.
Jake padded out of his room half-asleep, hoodie sliding off one shoulder, hair a disaster, still mentally in dreamland — following the smell of butter like a man possessed.
But then he saw you.
And whatever was left of his morning brain just... stopped.
There you were. Standing by the stove — hair pulled back messily like you hadn’t even tried, barefoot, apron cinched around your waist, that stupid little dress swaying just slightly as you moved.
It was... weird.
Soft, almost. Domestic.
Like he’d walked into someone else’s life.
You were humming to yourself, lazily stirring scrambled eggs — completely unaware that Jake had frozen in the doorway like an idiot.
And he didn’t move.
Didn’t speak.
Didn’t even breathe.
Because it hit him — quietly, without warning — that you were pretty.
Not just yeah, okay, she’s kinda cute when she’s not yelling at me pretty.
But actually pretty.
So pretty it knocked the rest of his words clean out of his head.
Which explained why he didn’t notice the sharp corner of the kitchen counter directly in front of him.
WHAM.
His toe slammed into the sharp corner of the kitchen counter.
“Fuck,” he whispered, staggering back like he’d been shot.
You jumped, whipping around. “Oh, you’re awake.”
Jake blinked down at you from the other side of the kitchen, still cradling his busted toe like it was your fault. His hoodie was sliding off one shoulder, hair an absolute mess, socks mismatched.
Meanwhile, you?
Hair tied up like it was nothing. That stupid little dress swishing around your knees. Making breakfast.
It was almost offensive, really.
Jake narrowed his eyes. \Why did you look... annoyingly good this morning? Since when? Since when were you this pretty?
Damn, maybe you gave him a concussion.
You caught him staring.
“What?” you snapped, holding up the plate like it was a peace treaty you immediately regretted.
He blinked, snapped out of it. “What’s this?”
“Scrambled eggs. For you.”
“Pity eggs?”
You rolled your eyes. “Consider it hush money so I don’t have to keep looking at your tragic nose bruise.”
Jake hesitated. Then took the plate — fingers brushing yours just long enough to send something stupid and sparky down his spine.
Shut up, spine.
He cleared his throat. “You didn’t poison these, right?”
“Only emotionally,” you deadpanned. “Just like I do everything.”
Jake snorted under his breath — a sound halfway between disbelief and reluctant amusement.
But then, as you sat across from him, watching him eat like you weren’t the one responsible for his new villain origin story, you shifted awkwardly.
And Jake noticed.
Hard not to, when you were never this quiet.
“Look…” you started, voice forced like you were fighting every bit of your pride. “I was talking to Jungwon, and… maybe I’ve been giving you a hard time.”
Jake paused mid-chew.
Maybe?
Maybe?
“...You broke my face.”
You glared. “It’s not broken.”
He gestured wildly. “It could be. You’re not a doctor”
You exhaled sharply. “I’m just saying... maybe we could be, like, civil.”
“Are you sure you didn’t poison—”
“I didn’t fucking poison them, you rat.” Jake just stared at you, smug.
You cleared your throat, adjusting your tone like you hadn’t just threatened him with breakfast. “What I meant to say was… no. I didn’t poison them. If that’s what you were worried about.”
Jake watched you from the corner of his eye — the way your dress moved, the way your ponytail swayed.
“I just feel bad, okay?” you huffed, glaring at his very tragic, very dramatic face. “That big-ass bruise on your nose’s making eye contact with me.”
Jake froze. Instantly concerned.
“...Bruise?” he echoed, voice tight.
“Yeah.”
Like a man possessed, he snatched his phone off the counter, flipped to the front camera—
And the noise he made?
Somewhere between a gasp, a dying bird, and a full-on crime scene.
“Oh my god,” he whispered, horrified. “You ruined my face.”
You blinked. “I—”
“My beautiful fucking face!”
You winced. “That’s… a little dramatic.”
Jake spun around like you’d personally ended his modeling career, shoving the phone in your face. “Do you see this?! How am I supposed to show up to work tomorrow looking like I got body slammed by Dwayne Fucking Johnson?!”
You snorted. “You literally work in tech.”
“That’s not the point!”
“I’m pretty sure it is the point,” you deadpanned. “You’re not an idol, Jake. I’m sure the CEOs will survive your mildly distressed nose.”
Jake let out a pained groan, like you just didn’t understand the gravity of his suffering. “I have a presentation tomorrow!”
You raised a brow. “Okay... and?”
“A huge one!” he cried. “Multiple CEOs. Investors from all over the country. I’m supposed to look like I have my life together. Not like I got mauled by a vending machine!”
You shrugged, zero sympathy left in your body. “Can’t your boss… what’s his name again… Hee...Heesoo do it?”
“It’s Heeseung,” Jake bit out. “And he’s in Japan for a business trip.”
“Get someone else to do it.”
“I am someone else!” he exploded, pacing now like his nose was about to file a lawsuit.
A beat of silence.
You tilted your head slowly, casually, a little too calm for his liking.
“…What if I did it?”
“...What.”
“I could present it for you,” you said, crossing your arms, your smile inching into dangerous territory. “You wear a mask, pretend you’re sick. Cough a few times for realism. I’ll read your script. Boom. Problem solved.”
You turned back around, all casual, all dangerous. “Your pitch. I could do it.”
He blinked. Once. Twice.
“Yeah, uh, no offense, Broadway, but the presentation is about app technology. Not jazz hands.”
You shrugged. “Fake it till you make it. Plus, I’m excellent at pretending I know things. Ask any of my professors.”
Jake stared at you.
Like you had absolutely lost your mind.
“You,” he said flatly, “want to stand in front of a room full of multi-millionaire investors... and pretend to know shit about app tech.”
You grinned. “Exactly.”
“That is—hands down—the worst idea I’ve ever heard.”
“Thank you.”
“And also,” Jake added slowly, like it pained him to admit, “possibly... my only option.”
You shot finger guns at him.
You grinned like the menace you were. “Come on, Jake Sim. Admit it. You need me.”
“Fine,” he ground out. Like the word physically hurt coming out of his mouth. “But you’re getting a crash course in app tech in two hours. No complaining.”
You shrugged, breezy, unbothered. “Sounds painfully boring. Can’t wait.”
—-
The next day, Jake had already bolted out of the apartment like his hair was on fire while shouting, “The investors are here and they brought their lawyers! I gotta g–” and then he left.
Meanwhile, you?
You were still in the bathroom, casually putting on lip balm like you had all the time in the world. Because if you were about to scam your way through a tech presentation with nothing but sheer confidence and delusion — you were damn sure going to look like someone who belonged on a Forbes list.
Or, well... the clearance rack at H&M’s attempt at one.
Were you terrified of tech investors? Absolutely.
Were you about to march in there, smile pretty, and pretend you understood whatever the hell Jake had been mumbling about for the past 24 hours? Also absolutely.
Because if there was one thing you were good at — it was faking shit.
(And pissing Jake off. But that was practically a sport at this point.)
You strutted into Jake’s workplace like you owned the building. Or were seconds away from committing tax fraud in it. Either way — heels clicking, head high, shoulders squared like you’d been bred in the wild on sarcasm and petty confidence.
The lobby was ridiculous. Floor-to-ceiling glass. Air that smelled like imported lemons and old money. A giant, abstract sculpture near the entrance that looked suspiciously like regret and cost more than your entire education.
Upstairs, Jake checked his watch for what had to be the fiftieth time.
You’re late. 5 minutes late.
His shirt collar felt like it was conspiring to choke him, and the mask he wore (to hide the bruise you gave him) felt less like protection and more like a visual reminder that he’d been punched in the face by you.
The elevator dinged. Jake didn’t even look up at first—he was too busy internally screaming about font sizes and silently mouthing his pitch like a deranged TED Talk speaker. But then the room shifted. The air changed. Like the universe hit slow-mo.
His gaze lifted. And there you were. Jake looked up. And promptly forgot how to function. Because there you were. Walking out of the elevator like you were starring in his worst nightmare — and maybe his daydream too. He wasn’t sure anymore.
Soft curls. Glossy lips. That dress. That damn dress — classy, simple, hugging you like it was personally invested in his suffering. The type of dress that shouldn’t have been this illegal in a workplace setting but was, somehow, devastatingly so.
Jake forgot how to breathe.
Because here was the thing about Jake Sim:
He’d seen you in every possible unflattering state known to mankind.
Screaming about printer ink like it committed tax fraud against you. Hair up in a bun so chaotic it looked like it had survived a natural disaster. Wearing the same hoodie for three days straight — his hoodie, he’d realized once, which only annoyed him more — eyes wild with caffeine and vengeance at 3AM because Spotify ads kept interrupting your study playlist.
And still — still — Jake had always kinda thought you were...pretty.
Annoyingly pretty.
The worst kind.
The kind of pretty that snuck up on you mid-argument or when you were mid-rant about detergent prices. The kind of pretty that didn’t need fixing or dressing up. Just...you.
But today? Today was different. You weren’t just pretty. You were dangerous.
His jaw clenched so hard he swore he heard a crack. He couldn’t look away. Couldn’t blink. Couldn’t even think.
It was like the floor had disappeared beneath him and someone had swapped out his organs with static. His heart had ditched the beat and gone straight to drum solo. His brain, normally quick, charming, obnoxiously cocky? Dead.
“You made it,” Jake said — and immediately regretted it, because holy shit, was that his voice? High. Cracked. Betrayed him completely like puberty had just swung back around for one last revenge tour.
“Yeah, well,” you hummed, throwing him a look and gesturing vaguely to the black mask covering the evidence of your sucker punch, “figured I owed you.”
Jake nodded. Or at least he thought he did. Hard to tell.
He decided to stay silent. Because God knows what would happen if he opened his mouth again? God help him — a full-blown Ed Sheeran love song might just crawl out.
So he didn’t. He just...stood there. Standing at the podium, you looked...ridiculous. Ridiculously good.
Like you didn’t just belong here — like you ran the place. Like you were here to pitch an app or recruit followers for a cult — and honestly? Jake wasn’t even sure which one. All he knew was… he’d probably sign up either way. No questions asked. No dignity left.
"Well, good morning, everyone,” you began, and even you were surprised by how calm you sounded.
Jake stood in the back, blinking at you like he’d never seen you before. You were charismatic. Smart. A little terrifying. And you had the entire room hanging on your every word.
Somewhere between “LinkedIn is dead” and “our algorithm is based on actual passions, not titles,” Jake realized something horrifying. You weren’t just pretending to be good at this. You were good at this. Confident. Sharp. Effortless.
His chest swelled — with what felt suspiciously like pride — until reality smacked him upside the head. This was the same girl who, just last night, sat cross-legged on his floor, staring blankly at his laptop and asked, with full sincerity:
"Wait… what does AI even stand for?"
Jake was still smiling like an idiot.
God, he hated to admit it — but you killed that presentation. Clean. Sharp. Smooth in a way that made him kind of want to brag about it like he trained you personally (he didn’t — he barely survived explaining what an API was to you without passing out).
A few came up to shake your hand — small talk, praise, the usual empty corporate fluff. Except no one really asked you questions. Not the tough ones, at least.
Right up until he caught movement at the edge of his vision.
Two guys. Tall. Sleek. Expensive haircuts that probably cost more than Jake’s entire outfit. Hovering. Too close. He squinted. Because they weren’t walking toward him. Nope.
They were walking toward you.
Grinning. Hovering. Talking with their hands like they were about to pitch you a deal or — god forbid — flirt. His eyes narrowed. You were still reeling from the high of the presentation, packing up your notes when a smooth voice cut through the air beside you.
“I haven’t seen you around before,” said Blondie. "Mr. Sim never mentioned someone so young... and pretty working in the App Tech department."
“Oh, uh, I’m new,” you said, hoping you didn’t sound as awkward as you felt. “Just joined.”
Blondie smiled, clearly not buying it. “New and already giving such an impressive presentation. I’d love to hear more about the algorithm sometime… maybe over dinner?”
You blinked again. Algorithm? Was that on Slide 7?
Before you could even form a response, a voice cut in like an unexpected thunderstorm.
“She’s booked.”
You turned just in time to see Jake—Jake—swoop into the scene like a knight in wrinkled business casual. His jaw was tight, eyes practically shooting daggers. And that mask? Somehow, it made him look even hotter. You were definitely going to need therapy to figure out why anger made him so ridiculously attractive. That was something for a professional to unpack.
“She’s what?” Blondie asked, blinking.
“Taken,” Jake said, his voice like cold steel. “I’m with her.”
Blondie’s eyes widened like he’d just been slapped with a fish. “Oh! I didn’t realize—”
Jake grabbed your hand and brought it up to his lips with a quick peck, way too casual for the situation. “Anyway,” Jake said, as if it was the most natural thing in the world, “thanks for admiring my girlfriend. I, too, find her absolutely breathtaking.”
Blondie and his friend, practically evaporated under the weight of the awkwardness. They muttered quick goodbyes and slunk off, leaving you standing there, completely stunned.
“Girlfriend?” You stared at Jake, still holding your hand in his like it was the most normal thing in the world.
Jake leaned down slightly, his voice soft but pointed. “You’re welcome for saving you from that finance bro disaster. You looked like you were about to faint.”
“I was not,” you shot back, still flustered.
“You squeaked.” Jake smirked, his lips curling up in that annoying, irresistibly smug way of his. Your heart skipped a beat, but you shoved it down. He was being a jerk.
You crossed your arms, still confused by the whole situation. “You’re so weird. Why the hell would you do that?”
Jake shrugged casually, as if the whole thing had been no big deal. “Someone had to save you. I’m not letting some guy with a bad haircut flirt with you in front of me. It’s... inconvenient.”
"Inconvenient?" You stared at him, baffled. "What are you even—"
And then, like a slap to the face, it hit you.
He was jealous.
“No way,” you muttered, half-laughing. “Are you… actually jealous right now?”
Jake’s face flushed slightly, but he smirked, all smooth and defensive. "No, I just—"
You interrupted him, holding up your hand. "You are! Oh my god, you are jealous."
His eyes flickered briefly, like he was calculating his next move. “I am not. You're... imagining things.”
You leaned back slightly, giving him a teasing, incredulous look. “Right, because you not letting some guy get too close is just a totally normal response for someone you fucking despise.”
Jake paused, then looked at you with that intense, quiet stare, his expression unreadable for a moment. You felt a flicker of something in your chest, but before you could process it, he said, in a voice softer than you expected, “I don’t despise you.”
—
Jake sat across from you at the tiny grill table, doing his best to act like he didn't care that you were wearing what could only be described as the world's most unassuming dress. It wasn’t even remotely textbook "sexy." No slits, no plunging neckline, just a simple, casual thing that barely clung to you. Yet, somehow, you made it look like flawless.
You were just grilling meat, for crying out loud. Nothing remotely provocative about it. And yet, there Jake was, trying—and failing—to pretend he wasn’t completely losing his mind over it.
Then, disaster struck.
Jake’s grip on his chopsticks tightened, nearly snapping them in half. He could feel a vein pulsing in his temple. He didn't even realize he was glaring until the waiter noticed. And that’s when he realized something was very, very wrong with him.
You turned to Jake, blinking innocently. “Are you okay? You look like you’re about to pass out.”
“Me?” Jake laughed, but it was the kind of laugh that wasn’t even remotely convincing. “Totally fine. Just making sure you’re not about to, y'know, set the whole table on fire.”
He shrugged off his jacket and—without thinking—slung it over your shoulders like his life depended on it.
“You look cold,” Jake muttered, trying to sound casual, but the effort was absolutely wasted.
“I’m sitting in front of an actual fire,” you pointed out, obviously not buying the excuse.
“Just take it,” he said through gritted teeth. He could feel his brain glitching as his fingers brushed against yours for half a second.
“You’re acting weird,” you muttered, clearly starting to suspect something was off. “Did you hit your head again today or…?”
“Just wear the damn thing.”
“Why?” you asked slowly, suspicious. “I’m not even cold.”
“It’s not for warmth,” he snapped, his voice tight with frustration.
You narrowed your eyes, not letting him off the hook. “So what’s it for?”
Jake leaned forward, dropping his voice to a near whisper like he was plotting a heist. “It’s... you're over there looking all... attractive, and the waiter’s looking at you like he wants to take you home. And I—” He paused and muttered, “I’m the one who invited you here, okay? So technically, you’re my dinner guest. And I just feel like you shouldn’t be—”
“Did you just call me attractive?”
Jake froze. For a split second, his mind went completely blank. He’d said it without even thinking, and now that the words were out there, the whole table seemed to get a little bit warmer, a little bit more suffocating.
“Uh—” He fumbled, trying to backpedal. “No! I didn’t—what I meant was—” He cleared his throat, awkwardly adjusting in his seat.
You stared at him, eyes wide. “Jake... you’re an awfully jealous person today.”
He froze. Blinked. And then launched into a performance so bad it was almost impressive. “Jealous? Me? Oh my god, that’s so cute. That’s actually hilarious. I’m not jealous. You? Of you? Pfft. I just... look, I just think it’s unhygienic for strangers to salivate this close to raw meat, alright?”
He avoided your gaze and took a big gulp of his drink, probably hoping it would give him some answers. “Also, that guy was undressing you with his eyes.”
You gave him a flat look, raising an eyebrow. "And your solution to a perv is to throw a jacket over me like I’m some fragile piece of art in a museum?”
Jake kept his cool, eyes still avoiding yours. “I could go beat him up if you want,” he offered, not-so-casually.
You snorted, leaning back in your chair, slipping your hands into the sleeves of the jacket he’d thrown over you. “You're an idiot.”
—-
The next time Jake found himself questioning the entire fabric of his reality, it was in the kitchen of your shared apartment.
A totally normal evening.
Except not really.
Because you were sitting across from him in nothing but an oversized T-shirt and a smile, and Jake was experiencing what scientists might classify as a complete psychological collapse.
He wasn’t even sure what the hell the conversation was about. Jungwon was laughing about something, maybe a dumb meme or a cursed group chat screenshot, and you were giggling so hard you smacked Jungwon’s arm and nearly knocked over your drink.
Jake didn’t laugh. Jake stared.
Because every time you moved, your stupidly oversized shirt rode up a little, and your bare legs—the ones he absolutely should not be noticing—taunted him like they were sent from hell specifically to test his willpower.
He hated it.
No, actually—he hated you. Yes. That was the correct narrative. He hated the way you always left passive-aggressive sticky notes on his leftovers ("These are MINE. I will KNOW if you eat one. By you I mean JAKE SIM."). He hated you when you reorganized his entire snack drawer by vibe. (“The spicy chips are angry. They go in the red bin.” What did that even MEAN?)
He hated that you chewed ice. That you used a ten-step skincare routine that monopolized the bathroom for thirty minutes every morning. That you once referred to him as “the reason I believe in selective mutism.”
And yet… he was currently staring at your thighs like they held the secret to inner peace.
Jake looked away, clenching his jaw. What the hell was happening to him? Was this a stroke? Had you poisoned his food?
The next time he went absolutely bonkers was a few days later. He had to pee.
He pushed the door open without knocking, because this was his house and he had…welll…he had the rights.
And then.
He saw you.
Half-naked.
In your bra and underwear, bent slightly over the sink, drying your shirt with a hairdryer.
His brain short-circuited like someone had poured water directly into his skull.
His gaze dropped—just for half a second, a reflex—and immediately locked on your bare legs, and oh god, he hated himself. He spun around so fast he almost slammed into the door.
“OH MY GOD—SORRY!” Jake yelped, one hand covering his eyes like he’d been hit with a solar flare. “You—why—WHAT—why didn’t you lock the door?!”
You blinked at him in the mirror and chuckled, totally unfazed. “Oh shit. I forgot to lock it.”
“What is wrong with you?!”
“Me? You walked in,” you pointed out.
“You left it unlocked!”
“You could’ve knocked!”
“I shouldn’t have to knock in my own apartment! What are you doing half-naked drying your shirt in here?!”
“I spilled soda on myself.” You replied, nonchalant.
“I’M THE VICTIM HERE,” Jake yelled dramatically, still not turning around. “I just wanted to pee and now I’ve seen your underwear! I’ll never recover from this!”
You laughed again, breathless. “Relax. It’s just a body. You’ve seen legs before.”
A long beat of silence passed.
Jake slowly turned his head just enough to peek at the wall. “Are you, um...decent now?”
“Yeah,” you said, tugging your damp shirt back over your head. “Crisis averted. You can resume your regularly scheduled hate.”
Jake turned around cautiously. You were grinning, cheeks slightly pink, shirt clinging a little, hair a mess—and somehow, it was worse. Way worse. Because even like this, maybe especially like this, you looked unfairly adorable.
He stared at you for one second too long.
“Jake,” you said, raising an eyebrow, “are you...blushing?”
“No,” he snapped immediately, brushing past you with all the grace of a man running from his feelings. “Now get out, I need to pee.”
As he shut the door behind him, you called out, “You’re welcome for the free show, by the way.”
Jake groaned.
Out loud.
Into the void.
He was never going to recover.
—-
It all started with what Jake would later refer to—dramatically and with full PTSD—as The Saturday Incident.
He had spent the entire day in bed, pretending to do work, but actually doing what could best be described as “vague laptop clicking” and “aggressively avoiding you.”
You were out in the living room, probably plotting new ways to rearrange the furniture or alphabetize the spices by vibe again. He wasn’t going to risk interaction. Not when his heart had started doing these strange, erratic flips every time you were near. It was disorienting, this fluttering sensation that kept taking him by surprise. Honestly, he didn’t appreciate it. Didn’t appreciate whatever the hell was happening in his chest, because he'd never felt like this before.
The thought crossed his mind—maybe he should go see a doctor for a cardiogram. Heeseung had laughed in his face when he mentioned it, as if the idea of it being a medical issue was the funniest thing he'd ever heard. Jake didn’t get what was so funny, though. All he knew was that every time you entered the room, his heart seemed to forget how to behave, and he wasn’t sure that was something anyone could just laugh off.
So he stayed hidden.
Until there was a knock.
“Jake?” Your voice came through the door—soft, almost... sweet?
He stared at the door like it had personally betrayed him.
“Jake?” you called again, this time with a tone that made his brain short-circuit just a little. He sighed like a man being forced into labor and got up, preparing for whatever minor chaos you were about to deliver.
He opened the door.
And immediately wished he hadn’t.
There you stood. In a dress—a glittery, stupidly pretty dress he had never seen before. The tag was still dangling from it, and for some reason, that made it worse. Like you were a gift waiting to be unwrapped and oh no what the hell, brain, stop right there.
His mouth went dry.
His knees? Unreliable.
You were—unfortunately—gorgeous.
“Can you help me?” you asked, turning around.
And that’s when he saw it. Your bare back.
Jake died a little. Right there in the doorway. He whispered, barely audible: “F-fuck.”
“Huh?” you looked over your shoulder.
“I said—sure! Sure, totally, yep,” he said, voice cracking like a 13-year-old boy seeing shoulders for the first time.
He reached for the zipper like it was made of lava. His fingers brushed your skin and he physically flinched.
“You busy with work?” you asked casually, like this wasn’t slowly killing him.
“Yeah. Working. Doing... business things. Graphs.” Nailed it. “Are you, uh, going out?” He zipped faster, praying for this moment to end and also never end, confusingly.
“Nope.” You turned back around, smiling. “I just got this dress and wanted to see if it fit.”
Jake stared at you like he was watching the heavens open. “Oh,” he said dumbly.
“Besides, I was bored.” You laughed, brushing past him like this was your room, and plopped yourself onto his bed like it was no big deal.
Jake blinked. “You can’t just—don’t just walk into my room!”
“What? You hiding something?”
“Yes!” he said, voice a little too high. “I mean—maybe. You don’t know my life.”
You narrowed your eyes. “Let me guess. Secret stash of R-rated movies?”
“What?! No!”
“Love letters? Hidden shrine of an ex?”
“Oh my god.”
“Wait—you have love letters?”
“I don’t have any! Why are you like this?!”
You grinned. “Hard to believe. You’re, like, suspiciously single.”
Jake scoffed. “Suspiciously?”
“Yeah. You’re cute in a grumpy, emotionally constipated way.”
He blinked. “Did you just call me cute?”
“I mean, when you’re not yelling about laundry socks and acting like you’ve never heard of coasters.”
Jake’s face flushed. His lips twitched. A smile was fighting its way out, and he hated that you were winning. “You’re so annoying.”
“I’m a delight.”
“You’re hell personified.”
“And you,” you said, leaning back onto his bed, “are blushing.”
“I am not.”
“Jake,” you said, eyes twinkling, “your ears are red.”
He turned away, running a hand through his hair in frustration. “Okay, but—hold on. Why are you in my room anyway? All dressed up, all dolled up, all pretty.”
You raised an eyebrow, a smirk tugging at the corner of your lips. “Was that a compliment?”
“No.”
“You just listed three compliments,” you pointed out, your voice teasing.
“They weren’t compliments.”
“They sure seem like it.”
He stared at you—your ridiculous sparkle dress, your smug little smirk, the fact that you looked entirely too comfortable lying on his bed like you belonged there—and felt his heart do a full-body sigh.
Oh no.
Oh no.
He was in trouble.
Because he didn’t hate you at all.
—-
Jake had one goal tonight: get snacks, avoid feelings, don’t die.
He’d nearly made it to the kitchen—eyes forward, brain reciting his grocery list like a prayer—when he heard your voice.
“Jake?”
He froze like someone had hit pause on his life.
There you were, curled up on the couch with a blanket around your legs and a bowl of popcorn in your lap, looking... cozy. Cute. Normal. Like you weren’t the cause of 99% of his internal screaming today.
“Yeah?” he called over his shoulder, already bracing for disaster.
“Come watch this with me.”
Jake turned halfway, one hand still on the fridge. “What? No. Why would I wanna–”
You pouted. And he hated—hated—how fast his resolve crumbled at the sight of it.
“C’mon. Please? I’m lonely,” you said. “Jungwon’s not back for another hour.”
Jake audibly swallowed, “F–fine.”
Still, he sighed and walked over like a man approaching a guillotine.
He sat on the very edge of the couch, as far from you as possible. Like you might spontaneously explode and take him with you.
You blinked at him. “Why the fuck are you sitting miles away from me? I’m not gonna eat you.”
Jake’s ears went red so fast it was almost impressive. “I’m—just giving you space.”
You threw a popcorn kernel at him. “What, do I have cooties now?”
“No!” he blurted, then immediately regretted sounding like a panicked fifth grader. “I just thought—I mean, I don’t want to make you uncomfortable.”
You tilted your head, amused. “I thought we were pass our enemy phase and in the ‘I-only-hate-you-when-it’s-convenient-phase.”
His heart stopped.
Jake stared at you.
“We are! I just–”
You shook your head and patted the seat next to you. “Come on. You're so dramatic. Sit like a normal person.”
Jake, against his better judgment and every self-preservation instinct, scooted closer. A little. Then a little more.
You tossed the blanket over his lap like it was the most natural thing in the world. “There. See? Not so scary.”
He sat stiffly under the blanket like it was radioactive, absolutely convinced he was going to die. His arm accidentally brushed yours and his brain lit up.
You leaned in slightly, focused on the screen.
Jake leaned back slightly, focused on not passing out.
And somewhere between the opening credits and the second kernel of popcorn you tossed at him “for flinching like a grandma,” Jake realized something horrifying.
He didn’t hate you.
At all.
And worse?
Instead, it was the absolute opposite. Maybe he liked you.
(Or had the biggest stinking fucking crush on you.)
Either way, these feelings were huge. And scary.
—-
Jake was fine.
Totally. Absolutely. 100% fine.
So what if he maybe thought about the way your shoulder brushed his during the movie? Or the fact that your laugh made his chest do weird twisty things? So what if you looked really cute in that dumb glittery dress and then even cuter in sweats and a bun with popcorn crumbs on your shirt?
He was fine.
No, he was lying. He was not.
Because Jake Sim didn’t do feelings.
Feelings were for wimps. For poets. For people with acoustic guitars and questionable Spotify Wrapped playlists. For people like Heeseung.
Not him.
Jake Sim was immune. Built different. Untouchable. Feelings? He left those at the door with his dignity and expired loyalty card points.
Which is why he was currently, aggressively, avoiding you like you were radioactive.
You walked into the kitchen? He walked out.
You tried to start a conversation? “I’m busy.” (He wasn’t.)
You reached for the chips? “Take it yourself.” (They were on the top shelf. You couldn’t reach. He still left.)
You asked if he wanted to hang out? “No thanks. Be alone. Bitch.” (He did not mean that. At all. And also whispered it when you were already out of earshot, afraid he’d hurt your feelings.)
He was strong. He was cold. He was emotionless steel wrapped in flannel.
Until—
“Jake?” you called from the hallway.
He glanced up from pretending to type on his laptop. “What?”
“Do you wanna go to the store with me? We’re all out of eggs.”
And like the absolute fraud he was, Jake—emotionless, avoidant, emotionally repressed Jake Sim—paused for 0.0000001 seconds before nodding.
“Yeah. Let me grab my shoes.”
Traitor.
He followed you out like a puppy who just got asked if he wanted a treat.
As you walked side by side through the aisles, Jake pushed the shopping cart like he was starring in the most generic romcom montage of all time, trying not to let his arm bump yours again because every time it did, his brain felt like it had just short-circuited.
But it was fine.
Totally fine.
He was definitely not thinking about holding your hand in the snack aisle.
Definitely not wondering if you'd let him try one of your gummies, even though he could buy his own.
Definitely not wondering if this was what it would feel like to be yours.
He wasn’t. He wasn’t thinking about any of that.
Nope.
Totally normal. Totally platonic.
He was so screwed.
It all started in the canned goods aisle. And honestly? Jake should’ve known the canned goods aisle brought nothing but bad luck. It happened in third grade when he tripped over his shoelace and fell into a container of perfectly aligned canned soups. It happened when he was trying to grab some mushroom soup for Jungwon when he was sick and ended up dropping the can right on his pinky toe, fracturing it.
And it’s happening again now.
You were just standing there, trying to decide between tomato basil and cream of mushroom, looking entirely too cute for someone who was making soup decisions. Meanwhile, Jake, trying to pretend he wasn’t watching you, was already making a mental list of things he could buy—anything to distract himself from his growing awareness that his brain was short-circuiting.
“Hey,” the guy said. “This might sound crazy, but... are you single?”
Jake turned his head so slowly you’d think someone had insulted his ancestors.
He was standing a few feet away, comparing granola bar sugar contents like a responsible adult, and now he was staring at this random man like he’d just asked to marry you in front of a priest.
You didn’t even seem fazed. You turned your head slightly, giving the guy the most nonchalant look, probably silently wondering if this guy had any idea how little he cared about his question.
Jake could feel the nerve in his temple twitch. The air between you and the guy became suffocating. Jake's hands flexed, holding onto the cart like it might need a good shove.
The guy, oblivious to the thunderstorm brewing a few feet away, “Just thought that you’re really cute, and I figured I’d ask.”
You blinked. “Oh! That’s—um—”
“She’s not,” Jake snapped, suddenly right there, standing next to you like he’d teleported in through sheer fury. “She’s very not single. Taken. Off the market. Do not pass go, do not collect $200.”
The guy blinked, taken aback. “Oh... are you two—”
“Together?” Jake interrupted, smiling like it physically hurt him. “Yeah. I’m her boyfriend.”
You glanced at him, his eyes glinting with that smirk of his. And then it hit you—he was playing this way too well. A little too well. You turned back to the guy, giving a dramatic gasp.
“Oh my God,” you said, suddenly faking an epiphany. “Babe, I didn’t even realize he was flirting. I was too busy thinking about how your hair looks so good today.”
Jake twitched.
You leaned into him with an exaggerated sigh, grabbing his hand like you were in some overly dramatic rom-com. “I’m so sorry. I’ll try to pay more attention when people are flirting with me. Would that be okay with you, my Jakey-wakey? My Jakey-kins? My love machine?”
Jake nearly choked on his own spit. “Okay. That’s enough.”
But you were on a roll. You turned to the stranger, practically glowing. “Isn’t he so cute when he’s protective? Ugh, he gets so territorial over me. It’s like his thing. Next thing I know, he’ll start growling and peeing in the aisles to mark me like his territory.”
Jake made a strangled sound, clearly regretting everything. “Please stop.”
You ignored him, fully leaning into the bit. “Honestly, I’m just waiting for him to pick out a leash for me next, y’know? Just to make sure everyone knows I’m his property.”
Jake made a strangled sound. “Please stop.”
You pressed your cheek to his shoulder. “Should we kiss?” You smiled, putting your arms around his shoulder.
And then, in what could only be described as a full-blown panic move, Jake spun around and ran.
Like, actually ran.
Through the snack aisle, dodging bags of chips and disgruntled shoppers, past the sample table, and out the store doors. It was as if he'd spotted an actual threat. You stared after him, holding his dignity in one hand and a can of soup in the other.
The stranger who had been casually eyeing you looked even more confused now, as if he’d witnessed a scene from a badly written TV sitcom.
You shrugged, trying to cover for the man who was now two aisles away, “My boyfriend can be a little bit crazy,” you muttered, laughing awkwardly as you began walking toward the door. You dropped the soup can on his foot. “See you!”
And without waiting for a response, you bolted out of the store after him.
“JAKE SIM, I’LL KILL YOU!” you yelled across the parking lot.
You found him pacing next to his car like a madman who’d just come to terms with the fact that he’d let his emotions spiral in public. His hands were in his hair, tugging like he was trying to physically yank his frustration out of his brain.
You marched up to him, heat rising in your chest, and the nerve to confront him. “Hey! You made me look like an idiot!”
Jake turned to face you, eyes wide, clearly surprised that you were actually following him. “You made yourself look like that!” he snapped, a slight edge in his voice.
“Oh, I wouldn’t have to if you stopped acting like my boyfriend around any man who approaches me!” You felt your hands on your hips, standing your ground like you were the queen of this absurd conversation.
Jake’s face froze, his brows furrowing in frustration. “You want freaks like him to approach you?”
“No?” you shot back. “But I’m perfectly capable of turning them down on my own.”
“I was just—” he began, floundering for a reason that was not his own mess.
“Was just what? Why do you keep doing this? Acting all weirdly jealous and protective!” you interrupted, genuinely curious now.
Jake exhaled, turning slowly, like the weight of this conversation was about to implode on him. His voice softened, his eyes wide, clearly caught off guard by your determination. “Because…” he started, his voice lower than usual, the words stumbling out like he was wrestling with a secret.
“Because what?”
He didn’t answer.
Just stood there—hands clenched, jaw tight, breath sharp.
Then suddenly—he dropped his arms like they weighed a ton. Like he couldn’t hold it in anymore. He ran a hand through his hair, pacing a single, desperate step before spinning back around to face you.
“BECAUSE!” Jake shouted, his voice louder than he intended. Your eyes snapped open wide, caught completely off guard.
Jake kept going—words spilling, frantic. “Because I don’t know what this is—whatever the hell you’ve done to me—but I can’t think straight. I can’t breathe when you look at me like that and I haven’t felt like this ever and it’s—it’s messing me up.”
His hands went to his temples. “Like fuck…I think I might need therapy. Like, actual therapy. Because of you.”
The air between you cracked—silence stretching heavy and tight.
You stared at him, voice soft now. “I– did I do something wrong?”
Jake dropped his hands, chest rising and falling like he’d just run a marathon. His face twisted, like he hated even having feelings, like letting them out was burning him from the inside.
Then—quieter. Broken.
“No,” he said. “Fuck, no. Quite the opposite.”
You stood frozen. “What?”
He stepped closer, eyes wild, voice raw.
“I don’t know what the fuck is happening to me, okay?” Jake snapped. His voice cracked, raw and strained like it had been clawing at his throat for days.
“You walk into a room and suddenly I can’t think straight. I forget how to function. I forget what I’m doing. It’s like my entire brain short-circuits just because you looked in my direction.” He raked a hand through his hair, pacing in a tight circle like he was trying to outrun his own thoughts.
“You drive me crazy. You laugh at things that aren’t funny, and you talk like the world’s ending if you don’t say it all right now, and you never let anything go—ever—and it’s infuriating. It’s exhausting. You’re exhausting!”
He turned, pointing at you like you were the cause of every malfunction in his soul.
“I shouldn’t care if you’re cold. I shouldn’t want to punch every guy who looks at you for longer than five seconds. I shouldn’t feel like I’m being electrocuted every time you accidentally touch me. That’s not normal. That’s not me. I’m Jake fucking Sim for crying out loud!”
He paused, chest rising and falling, eyes burning into yours.
“I don’t even like people! I liked hating you! I was good at hating you! And now I can’t sleep and I can’t think and all I do is wonder what you’re doing and if you’re thinking about me too and I—”
He broke off, swallowing hard.
Then softer, hoarse:
“I don’t know what this is. But I think I’m losing my goddamn mind over you.”
You stood there. Blinking. Heart somewhere near your ankles.
Jake had just... exploded. Confessed? Kinda? In the most Jake way possible—by yelling about how much he hated that he didn’t hate you.
“…Okay,” you said slowly, like someone trying to defuse a bomb with zero training. “So, like... just to clarify… you’re not mad at me. You’re mad because you like me?”
Jake stared at you like he couldn’t believe that was your takeaway. Like you’d just handed him a banana when he asked for a pen.
“I just—like, not to make this about me,” you continued, hands half-lifted like you were talking to a wild raccoon, “but that was a lot of yelling and you kinda sounded like you were about to fight me and propose in the same breath.”
He groaned, dragging his hands down his face. “Oh my god.”
You bit your lip. “So... um. Do you wanna kiss me or punch drywall? I just need to know what stage of emotional collapse we’re currently at.”
A beat.
“Like... if I lean in, am I getting kissed or concussed?”
He looked like he was seriously considering both.
You tried to smile. “I mean… thanks? For the mental breakdown, I think?”
He just blinked—still breathing like he’d sprinted through a breakup, a confession, and a public meltdown all in one afternoon.
Like he hadn’t decided yet whether to kiss you, cry, or walk into traffic.
Then, softer, you glanced up at him. Still unsure. Still trying to play it cool despite the fact that your heart was definitely trying to beat its way out of your chest.
“Like… I mean, I totally get why this would frustrate you,” you said, nodding seriously, like you were a therapist delivering a diagnosis. “Totally understandable. If I was going through what you were going through, maybe I’d be a little insane too. With, you know, healthier coping mechanisms, sure.”
Jake groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “You’re talking too much. Do you like me or not?”
You blinked. “Wow. Okay. No trigger warning?”
“I’m at my limit.” Jake sighed.
“Yeah,” you said. “That’s… kind of obvious. You’re, like, one sentence away from combusting.”
Jake pointed at you like he couldn’t believe what was happening. “I—God, this is so embarrassing. Let’s just pretend this didn’t happen.”
“I didn’t say I didn’t like you,” you muttered, looking away.
“You’re saying a whole lot of nothing,” he snapped.
You threw your hands up. “Well, I’m sorry I don’t have a perfectly rehearsed monologue ready! Some of us don’t process our feelings through public tantrums!”
Jake narrowed his eyes, “I yelled because I was panicking!”
“Well maybe don’t yell at someone who likes you, Jake!”
“You didn’t even say you liked me!”
“I was getting there!”
“You were stalling!”
“I was awkward!” you shrieked, pointing right back at him.
Jake threw his hands in the air. “Why are you the one acting like you just confessed your undying love through a full-blown breakdown?!”
A beat.
Silence.
Your faces? Bright red. Breathing like you just finished a cage match.
Then you exploded.
“FINE. YES. I LIKE YOU TOO, YOU PSYCHO!”
Jake froze. “You what now?”
You looked away, furious with yourself. “You heard me. I’m not repeating it. Take the win and choke on it.”
“That was the worst love confession I’ve ever received.”
You glared at him. “It wasn’t supposed to be one!”
“Well, it was horrible.”
“Yeah? Yours wasn’t exactly sonnet material either.”
You stared at each other. Still angry. Still flushed. Still… weirdly too close.
And somehow, despite all the yelling, all the sniping—
There was that thing in the air again. That pull.
Jake blinked. “...So are we dating now or what?”
You groaned. “Not like this, the fuck”
—-
The silence in the apartment was deafening.
Not literal silence—the kettle was whistling like it was being paid to, and someone’s phone was playing a YouTube video just loud enough to be irritating. But the emotional silence? The thick, suffocating, “we confessed our feelings and now we don’t know how to human anymore” kind of silence? Yeah, the two of you were losing it.
You were standing in the kitchen, arms folded, staring at the toaster like it had personally wronged you. Jake was sitting on the couch, holding a mug he wasn’t even drinking from, eyes glued to the television pretending to be absorbed.
Neither of you spoke.
The toaster clicked. You jumped like you’d been shot.
The two of you glanced at each other. You blinked at him. He blinked back.
Then immediately looked away, sipping his mug. The wrong end of the mug.
You narrowed your eyes. “You’re drinking from the side with the tag still in it.”
“I like the taste of paper sometimes,” he said without looking at you.
You tried. “So... uh, did you sleep okay?”
Jake nodded way too fast. “Yeah. Great. You?”
“Fine.”
“Cool.”
You stared at each other for another five seconds.
Then, at the exact same time:
“So, what are you—”
“Do you want—”
Silence again.
You turned back to the counter, flustered. “This is so weird.”
Jake exhaled sharply. “You think?”
You glanced at him. “Well, I’m not used to openly... liking you or being I guess civil.”
“You’ve done a great job hiding it,” he muttered.
You smirked, falling back on habit. “Well, I am cuter when I’m emotionally unavailable.”
“I think it’s scarier when you’re emotionally available.”
You turned, arms folded. “So what, you prefer when I threaten you with kitchen utensils?”
Jake shrugged, leaning against the counter like he wasn’t seconds away from combusting. “At least I knew where I stood.”
And that? That shut you up real quick.
Because you both knew—you’d just entered new, terrifying, heart-melty territory.
And neither of you had a clue what the hell to do next.
—-
There was a sock on the floor.
A sock. On the floor.
His sock.
White. Crumpled. Mocking you from the hallway.
Something inside you snapped.
“SIM JAEYUN!” you shrieked, the kind of full-volume yell that summoned the fury of every past version of you who’d ever tripped over that man’s laundry.
Jake’s door opened slowly, like even it was afraid of you. He peeked out. Hair messy. Shirt hanging loose. Clueless. Hot. You hated him.
“...Yeah?”
“HOW MANY TIMES HAVE I TOLD YOU TO PICK UP YOUR SOCKS—”
“I—”
“You what? This isn’t the first fucking time–”
“Ah, fuck it.”
You didn’t get to finish.
Jake stepped out. Two fast, easy strides.
And he kissed you.
Hard.
His hand found the back of your neck, fingers pressing gently yet desperately, as if he’d been aching for this moment, pulling you closer with a sense of urgency that couldn’t be ignored. Without hesitation, his lips met yours—no gentleness, no grace—just raw, impulsive need.
The hallway blurred.
You gasped against his lips, and he swallowed the sound whole. His other hand gripped your waist, pulling you flush against him, like he needed your body to make sense of the chaos in his head. The kiss was hot and heavy, all teeth and tongue and emotion that neither of you had known what to do with until now.
Your hands clenched around the fabric of his t-shirt, pulling him even closer, as if you were trying to tear the tension from his chest and claim it for yourself. Jake’s groan vibrated against your lips—low, desperate, and filled with something completely unrestrained. His hands dug into your waist, his grip tightening as if he couldn’t get enough of you. And then, with a sudden shift, he moved—forward, desperate, no longer willing to hold back.
In one swift, breathless motion, Jake pressed you against the wall, his body caging you in with just enough force to knock the air from your lungs. His hand gently cradled your jaw while the other slid down to catch your wrist, his fingers locking with yours as if the touch was a lifeline, something he couldn’t let go of even if he tried.
You gasped, the back of your head colliding softly with the wall, and Jake swallowed the sound, deepening the kiss like he was trying to consume you whole. The kiss turned hotter, more frantic—lips pulling, chasing, moving with an intensity that had been building for weeks and was now unleashed all at once.
Then, you squeezed his hand. Hard. Your body trembled with the force of it, like you needed something to hold onto before you lost yourself. And Jake felt it—felt the desperation in your touch. Without hesitation, he squeezed back, his thumb brushing over yours as he refused to let go.
For half a second, his forehead rested against yours, both of you gasping for air, and neither of you willing to pull away.
You blinked up at him, your mind still spinning from the kiss, disoriented.
“…I’ll pick it up,” you whispered, your voice softer than you intended. “The socks.”
You bent down, still avoiding his gaze, grabbing the sock off the floor. “Just... just put it nicely next time.”
You turned and walked back into your room, your legs unsteady as if they could no longer hold you together.
Jake stood in the hallway, frozen, his heart racing, his mind completely blank. He gripped the wall beside him like it was the only thing keeping him from collapsing. He hadn’t meant for this to happen. But it did. And now, he had no idea what to do with it.
—-
Jake hadn’t screamed your name like that since the glitter explosion 2 months back.
“WHERE’S MY RED FOLDER?!” he bellowed.
Before you could even think of a way out of this—or how to hide under the floorboards—Jake barged into your room. Hair still wet from the shower. His shirt hanging half-buttoned, like he’d walked straight out of a webtoon. Fuck, he was sexy. Not the time though because you were sure you were about to get beaten up.
He slammed the door open so hard that it bounced back off the wall with a sickening thud.
You gave him a nervous smile, your best attempt at pretending you weren’t about to die. “Don’t be mad…”
Jake’s voice dropped to a dangerous growl. “What did you do?”
“I… might’ve thought it was old,” you said, wincing at the honesty in your voice. “So I kinda... threw it away?”
Jake’s body went rigid. His eyes narrowed in disbelief.
“You what?!”
“I—” You stammered, hands raised defensively. “I swear it looked all crumply, all old and–and–and ruined!”
Jake stepped forward, eyes burning with anger. You could feel the heat of his fury radiating off of him—jaw clenched, fists tight by his sides, like he was about to explode. You knew this look. It was like he was one wrong move away from detonating.
And just when you thought the situation couldn’t get worse, you did the only thing you could think of.
You threw yourself at him.
Your hands grabbed his shirt, and before he could even get a word out, you yanked him down, your lips slamming into his with the force of a thousand thunderstorms. It was hard, urgent—so intense, so sudden, that it instantly shut him up.
Jake froze for a split second, like you’d short-circuited his brain, and then, just like that—he kissed you back. No hesitation. No holding back. You were already moving, pushing him backwards, your arms locked around his neck, drawing him closer, deeper. His lips tasted like desperation, like need, and it was all consuming.
You kissed him with everything you had, no holding back. No gentleness. Just the kind of hunger that had been building up between you two for far too long. Your lips moved together, fast, messy, and you felt him press into you, desperate to keep up. Every part of you wanted him—wanted him to feel the frustration, the desire, the rage that had been bubbling under the surface for weeks.
Jake groaned into your mouth, his grip on your waist tightening. You kissed him harder, faster, pressing him back against the wall until he was pinned, his breath ragged as you both gasped for air.
His hands found your thighs and, without a word, you jumped. Legs wrapping around his waist, you felt him catch you effortlessly, your bodies moving as one.
Then, with a sharp turn, he slammed you against the nearest wall, his lips never leaving yours. The kiss was relentless, like he was starving, like he needed to make you feel every part of him, every inch of his desire. His grip on your waist was bruising, possessive, and you responded in kind, tugging at his hair, pulling him closer.
Your mouths collided, chasing each other, moving too fast, too clumsily.
Jake pulled back only when you both couldn’t breathe anymore. Your foreheads rested together, breaths uneven, eyes wild and hungry.
He looked you over once, placed you back down on the floor, his expression unreadable, and then muttered, “...I’ll just rewrite it.”
And before you could process it, before you could say a word, he was gone. Leaving you breathless, in your own room, utterly wrecked—staring at the spot where he'd just completely destroyed every last bit of control you had.
—-
You were standing in the kitchen, Jake was at the sink, and the tension was so thick you could practically slice it with a knife.
“I don’t understand why you would move the dishes,” Jake snapped, gesturing like you’d committed an actual war crime. “I have a system.”
“You have no system,” you shot back, holding a spatula like a sword. “You just shove stuff in and pray the dishwasher works it out like divine intervention.”
“It does work it out!”
“Really? Because last week you melted a Tupperware lid onto a knife.”
“That was ONE TIME—”
You threw the dish towel down. “You’re such a control freak.”
Jake turned, dripping wet hands mid-air. “You alphabetized the seasoning rack. By aesthetic. I had to Google what "sage green" looked like.”
You huffed. “It’s about visual peace, Jake!”
He took a step closer. “You know what’s not peaceful? Living with a freak who organizes our spices!”
You stepped toward him, eyes locked, breathing hard. “Well you know what’s not sexy? Whining about spice jars!”
“Funny,” Jake growled, now chest to chest with you, “because I still want to kiss you right now.”
You both froze.
You were both holding something—him, a mug. You, a spatula. Neither of you blinked.
Then—at the exact same time—you both dropped them.
Clatter.
And lunged.
You collided in the middle of the kitchen, your mouths crashing together, the kiss so intense and fiery it felt like it could set the room on fire. His hands gripped your waist, pulling you into him like he couldn’t get close enough. You fisted your hands in his shirt, yanking him even closer, until there was nothing between you but shared breaths and weeks of pent-up frustration.
His kiss was desperate, furious, like he hated how much he wanted it, and yet couldn’t stop. Your lips moved together, teeth clashing, and you met his passion with equal intensity—biting his lip, tilting your head, the quiet sigh you let out making him groan into your mouth.
You were both angry, breathless, and so far gone you didn’t even care.
When you finally pulled apart, your noses brushing, your lips swollen and tingling, you both just stared at each other. Your hearts pounded.
Then, at the exact same time, you both asked, “...Are we boyfriend and girlfriend or what?”
There was a moment of silence, and then Jake pressed a kiss to your cheek, then your jaw, and then your neck, before pulling back with that signature smirk.
“Yeah,” he said softly. “I think we are.”
You grabbed the front of his shirt, yanked him back down, and kissed him again.
“Good. Now shut up and kiss me.”
Jake groaned into your mouth, his hands sliding to your back, pulling you even closer.
“God, I’m so in love with you, it’s actually disgusting,” he muttered, his voice full of both frustration and affection.
And for once, you couldn’t agree more.
—---
It was your first official date.
Like—an actual, real, human-first-date. No yelling. No post-argument makeouts. Just food. Chairs. Maybe eye contact if you were feeling brave.
You’d been dating for three days.
Which, so far, had consisted of:
Yelling at each other.
Making out.
Rolling your eyes at each other.
Making out again.
Repeat steps 1–4.
Three days of chaotic tension. Of brushing shoulders in the hallway and pretending it didn’t set your whole body on fire. Of accidentally calling him “babe” and then gaslighting him into thinking he misheard you. Of Jungwon asking the two of you to shut up and stop arguing in the middle of the night. You weren’t arguing.
Three days of sharing the sink like civilized people, brushing your teeth side by side, totally normal, totally casual—totally not internally spiraling over the fact that your former arch-nemesis was now your boyfriend.
And then there were the quiet moments.
Like this morning, when you walked into the kitchen to find him already making coffee. He handed you a mug—black, just the way you liked it—and pretended he didn’t notice the way your fingers brushed.
You stared at it.
“What?” he said, avoiding eye contact. “I’m not a monster.”
You took a sip. “So you’re being nice to me now?”
Jake shrugged. “Don’t get used to it. I just don’t want to date someone who’s chronically dehydrated.”
You raised an eyebrow. “You’re worried about my water intake while you eat chips for breakfast.”
“Those chips had lime on them,” he said. “That’s vitamin C.”
Still, later that day, he also handed you a granola bar before you left the house. No comment. Just tossed it at your head with alarming accuracy and walked away.
And that was your boyfriend.
You, of course, were no better.
Like last night, when you walked past his room and saw him still hunched over his desk, blue light glowing off his face, glasses crooked, typing like he was trying to physically punch a thesis into existence.
You didn’t say anything.
Just stood there in the doorway for a second, watching the way his brows were furrowed in that hyper-focused, very-stupid, very-Jake way.
Then you glanced at the time.
No dishes in the sink.
Nothing in the trash.
He hadn’t eaten all day.
You scowled, muttered something about “men and their lack of survival instincts,” and turned straight into the kitchen.
Fifteen minutes later, you dropped a steaming bowl of his favorite ramen next to his laptop without saying a word.
Jake blinked up at you. “Did you—?”
You didn’t look at him. “Don’t pass out. It’ll be annoying to carry your unconscious body.”
Then you left.
Fast.
Too fast for him to say thank you. Too fast for him to see the way your lips twitched just slightly at the corners.
And then…
The next day, you were minding your business, scrolling on your phone, sprawled on the couch like the world owed you peace, when Jake casually walked in and dropped himself beside you—close, but not too close.
He cleared his throat once. Then again. Dramatically.
You glanced at him. “Are you dying?”
“Not today,” he said. Then added, without looking at you, “Wanna hang out tonight?”
You blinked. “Out where?”
He shrugged. “I dunno. Somewhere with food. Lighting. Chairs. That’s usually what dates have, right?”
Your eyes narrowed. “Was that you asking me out?”
Jake didn’t flinch. Just sipped his drink. “Depends. You gonna say yes?”
You stared at him for a long beat.
He stared at the wall like it was the most fascinating thing he’d ever seen.
Then, you smirked. “Only if you promise not to talk about tech stuff the whole time.”
Jake raised an eyebrow, lips twitching into a grin. “If you’re lucky, I’ll limit myself to only mentioning API twice before dessert.”
You squinted. “You’re really bad at this whole romance thing, aren’t you?”
He grinned back, impossibly confident. “And yet, here you are. Saying yes anyway.”
You rolled your eyes, your lips threatening to betray you with a smile. “Yeah, well, I make questionable decisions sometimes.”
Jake nudged your knee with his, grinning like he’d just won a gold medal. “You’re about to make another one. I’m picking you up at seven.”
You crossed your arms, trying to look unimpressed. “We live together.”
Jake leaned back, completely unbothered. “So? I can’t be romantic?”
You didn’t argue.
God help you.
You were kind of excited.
—-
This was your first date.
And you were spiraling.
You had changed your outfit three times. Reapplied your lip balm five. Stood in front of the mirror giving yourself a pep talk like you were about to go on national television.
Jake was downstairs.
Wearing cologne and Jake never wore cologne.
When you finally met him outside, Jake blinked at you like you'd just materialized from a dream. His eyes widened, then quickly darted away, as if he could avoid the full force of your impact.
“You clean up okay,” you teased, trying not to smile too wide.
He opened his mouth, clearly trying to recover, but it came out wrong. “You look... pretty.” He froze, his face turning a shade of red that should’ve been illegal. Then he scrambled, “I mean, uh, shitty.”
“I heard you the first time, Jake,” you said, tapping his face lightly, almost affectionately. “So do you.”
—-
“Stop stealing my fries.”
“I’m not stealing. I’m redistributing.”
“Stop that! It’s not my fault I ordered curly fries and you got regular fries.”
“And I regret it. Let me live.”
You were about to launch into a full rant about Food Boundaries when your foot brushed his under the table. Then his knee. Then his thigh.
Neither of you moved.
And then—like gravity just snapped—you were both leaning over the table. French fries abandoned. Eyes locked. Breaths syncing. Heat crawling up your neck.
Jake reached out, brushed a hair from your cheek, his fingers lingering just a second too long.
You stared at his lips. He stared at yours.
Oh, you were so going to kiss in this grimy diner booth, and it was going to be beautiful and stupid and you didn’t even care.
And then—
“Well, well, well.”
You both froze.
Standing next to the table, milkshake in hand, eyes wide with the smuggest expression on Earth: Jungwon.
Jake sat up like someone just caught him cheating on a test.
You blinked. “Jungwon! Hi! What a surprise!”
Jungwon glanced between the two of you. The blushing. The weird knee situation. The shared fries. The vibes.
He sighed, long and dramatic.
Then took a sip of his milkshake and said—
“Fuck. Now I gotta move out.”
And with that, he turned and walked away.
Jake looked stunned. You stared after Jungwon in horror.
“Do you think he’s gonna tell everyone?” you whispered.
At that exact moment, both your phones buzzed in unison—a notification from Jungwon’s Instagram, tagging both you and Jake.
“That answers our question.” Jake replied.
You looked at him.
He looked at you.
And under the flickering diner lights, knees still touching under the table, Jake reached across and laced his fingers through yours.He glanced at your intertwined hands, then at your face.
“God. I think I actually really like you.” he muttered, like it physically pained him.
You didn’t even blink.
“I hope the fuck you do. I’m literally your girlfriend.”
Jake groaned, slumping back into the booth like you just personally ruined him.
synopsis. After yet another romantic disappointment in the form of one Jake Sim, you go to the well you’ve always believed to grant wishes and ask for your one and true love to appear. That night, you go to sleep in your bed but wake up in a strange house. When you head downstairs, you find a man washing the dishes and telling you your favorite meal is waiting on the table for you. You’ve spent hours glaring at the back of that head, you could recognize it anywhere—it belongs to none other than Park Jongseong, your high school sworn enemy... and future husband, or so it seems.
genre+warnings. high school au, the type of e2l where they never really hated each other to begin with, they act like they're academic rivals even though they're not particularly academically gifted, jay has a thing about german the language, sunoo and kazuha besties, heeseung is a loser, jake and sunghoon are assholes sorry, ive liz is german, 02z get into a white-boy locker-room fight, attempts at banter etc, they're a little bit silly
word count. 26.6k
a/n. had the idea for this listening to fast forward by somi LAST SUMMER... and only wrote it this summer and only posting it now <3 i hope u guys enjoy reading this as much as i enjoyed writing it !!!!! jay is an absolute cutie here pls love him as much as i do.... as always let me know what u think and remember to vote for @zreamy president in the upcoming elections, shes the only one i trust to beta-read and hence to run a country <3 no it doesnt matter that shes scottish put this woman in the white house
There is only one thorn on the otherwise immaculate rose that is your life.
Every morning, you wake up feeling refreshed from eight hours of restful sleep. You go downstairs to the kitchen, a boiling cup of milky Earl Grey tea already waiting for you, and eat breakfast with your brother Jinwoo and father. Your mom dashes in, placing a kiss on your and Jinwoo’s foreheads, and on your dad’s lips, saying she’s late for work but will see you in the evening. “Have fun at school,” she bids every morning without fail. Your dad teaches Korean Literature at your school, so the three of you drive there together. He watches amusedly as you and Jinwoo bicker light-heartedly on the way there—even in the pits of his puberty, you and your brother get along like two peas in a pod. He still tells you about everything he learns at school and fills you in on the drama in his class, up-to-date with everything even though he pretends not to be interested.
You’re always one of the first to arrive at school, so you scroll through your feed or finish up some homework as you wait for your classmates to file in. Your friends circle your table and you chat about the last episode of the show you’ve been watching until the bell rings and they leave you for their assigned seat.
Class starts with your teacher handing out the math tests you took last week. “Jay and Y/N, great job, keep it up,” he says as he walks past you and the boy in front of you, and hands you your paper. Relief floods your body as you take in the bright red 82 in the top right-hand corner—not the best of the class, but enough for you to be satisfied.
Good friends, good grades—nothing extraordinary, but it’s a life you dare say any high school senior would want.
There’s just that one thing. The thorn in your side that won’t stop poking.
You glare at it as it whips around in its seat and takes a peek at the grade on your paper before you get to snatch it away from view. It only gives you three seconds to rejoice over your grade.
“Aw, Y/N. Good effort! Maybe you’ll do better next time!” Jongseong coos, holding up his test for you to see and glare even harder at. 85. Not that big of a difference, but it makes you want to punch the faux sympathetic pout off of his face.
You’re about to spit something just as petty back at him, but someone whispers your name, and you turn your head in their direction. Beside you, Jake is smiling at you as he asks what grade you got. Your attention is swiftly taken off of Jongseong, whom you don’t even notice dramatically rolling his eyes, huffing in annoyance, and turning around.
“82,” you whisper back, holding up your paper for Jake to see. His friendly, absurdly handsome smile makes your ears burn. “You?”
The corners of his lips fall down into a sad pout—the kind that makes your heart melt rather than gets on your nerves like someone else. “68,” he says. Leans in over the gap between your tables. Your heart jumps uncontrollably around your rib cage. “Do you wanna go over it together during the break? I think I need some help.”
One-on-one time with Jake Sim? You don’t need to be asked twice. You nod silently, almost mesmerized by Jake as his grin widens. He leans back in his chair. “Perfect. I’ll see you in the library, then.”
“Library, yeah,” you echo dumbly, but thankfully, your teacher tells you to all quiet down and starts the lesson.
You’re antsy all throughout the rest of your morning classes and lunch break, so nervous that you barely manage to finish your yogurt. Of course, your friends, Sunoo and Kazuha, have a field day with this, and even you can’t help but laugh along as they jump between reassuring you that it’ll be fine, slapping your shoulders with excitement and making fun of your uncharacteristic quietness.
Jake arrives at the library five minutes after you, looking around the room before he finds you at the big round table in the back of the library. Your brain is too riddled with anxiety for you to make more small talk than “Hey,” “Hey,” “How was your lunch?” “Good, yours?” “Good.” And so you just jump straight into it.
You’ve only had a couple minutes of quiet explanation on your part and heavy nodding on Jake’s when Jay appears at the entrance of the library. He spots you and Jake immediately, and without any hesitation whatsoever heads towards you and sits down at your table, right across from the two of you.
“Hey, Jay,” Jake greets in a friendly manner, but Jay only responds with a nod of his head.
“Oh, don’t mind me,” he says when he notices you glaring. “I won’t bother you.”
As if he could be anything other than a bother, you think, but courteously keep to yourself. The childish rivalry you and Jongseong have got going on has no business spoiling a rare hour of alone time you get with Jake. As you go over the exercises he had the most trouble with on the test with you, your eyes often drift over to Jongseong as if to check on him—you’re cautious like he’s a spider in the corner of the room that might spring on you at any moment.
And indeed, the moment your gaze leaves him for more than a minute as you explain an intricate theorem to Jake, he’s out of sight, and panic shoots through you. Where the hell has he suddenly gone off to? you wonder, but not for long.
“There’s a much easier way to do this, really,” says a voice from behind you, and of course, it’s none other than Jongseong himself, quite literally butting his way into your tutoring session. Right between you and Jake, he bends over and rests his elbows on the table, taking Jake’s pencil from him and describing the theorem in a way that isn’t that much simpler. Your eyes shoot bullets into the side of his face while he, unbothered, explains this and that to Jake, who glances at you a couple of times but otherwise does not seem so perturbed by the sudden change of tutor. Either Jongseong doesn’t notice your glare or doesn’t care, because he doesn’t budge.
Just when they’re done with the exercise and you think you’ll get Jake to yourself again, another voice appears from behind, a much higher, girlier one. You notice the hand on Jake’s shoulder first, until slowly, your eyes drift to the face—you recognize Yunjin, head of the cheerleading squad, and she’s smiling at you, a smile that at once tries to cover and betrays her surprise at seeing you and Jake together. She doesn’t acknowledge you any more than that, gaze going back to “Jakey,” asking him if he wants to head to class together. You check the time—five minutes before the first bell rings. What do they need so much time getting to class for? It’s not like any room in this school is more than a three-minute walk away.
But Jake doesn’t even look back at you, just says “Sure!” with far too much enthusiasm for your taste as he packs his stuff. “Thanks, you two,” he says, looking at Jay first, then at you. You think his eyes linger on you for a second, but just like that, he’s gone, him and Yunjin walking side-by-side.
You watch them leave—they look good together, the cheerleading captain and the soccer team’s star. The white Vans she’s wearing have a bunch of red love hearts on them that look drawn on, and you think, Of course, Jake is the type to date someone cute, someone fun, someone who would draw on their shoes. Not someone like you, whose idea of a good Friday night is lighting up a scented candle and reading your favorite novel for the nth time. When they’ve left the library, you slump in your seat, crumpling the sheet of paper you had drawn a bunch of graphs and formulae on to make things clearer for Jake. Jay awkwardly clears his throat and finally returns to his seat, looking at you with his lips pressed in a tight line.
“Y/N?” he asks tentatively, and the sound is too much to bear, so you pack your things and head to your next class early, too. Your mind is racing with a million thoughts a minute—who is that girl to Jake, how come you’ve never seen them together before, how come he was so eager to leave with her, what was that smile she gave you about? In the fifty-five minutes of your biology class, which you uncharacteristically don’t pay any attention to, you’ve convinced yourself that they are crazy in love and that none of Jake’s actions or words towards you had ever meant anything, that you’d liked him so much you’d dreamt up the possibility of his liking you back, too.
Your next lesson starts—the smile Jake gives you as he walks into History is so bright, it dissipates any clouds hanging over your head. You do believe in male-female friendships, but despite yourself, you can’t help but think that anyone in a relationship wouldn’t give someone else such a perfect, warm smile. It just wouldn’t be right. And so, you reason with yourself that simply walking to a class together didn’t mean two people were a couple.
For an hour, you stare at the back of Jake’s head, and although you do eventually come to the more sensible conclusion that a smile may just be a smile, you also think it's unlikely that he and Yunjin would be a thing. If they were, why would they hide it? Jake is so nice, you wouldn’t be surprised if he’d exaggerated his enthusiasm upon seeing her. You’re sure you still have your chances. He even says see you tomorrow when class is over and slips out of the room to go to soccer practice.
You feel like you’re walking on cloud 9 as you head from History to your next class—but when you remember that the next class is German, your mood drops significantly. Because the universe has it out for you, you and Jay are two of just ten students in your year taking German as your second foreign language option, everyone else having gone for either French, Japanese or Spanish. Your reasoning for it is that your dad has had an obsession with Germany since his year abroad in Bavaria, and twelve-year-old you had wanted to make him happy. Eighteen-year-old you regrets it slightly, but at least now your dad is ecstatic every time you tell him in German that the dinner he made was really tasty. Why Jongseong decided to take it beats you—he’s probably just insane.
But because you don’t really know anyone else in the class, and because it’s your last period of the day, you have no friends to run off with once the lesson is over, and he gets to bother you all the way from the classroom door to the staff parking lot.
You’ve barely finished bidding Auf Wiedersehen to your teacher and Jongseong is already harassing you. “So, I didn’t take you as the type to be into guys like Jake Sim.” He says Jake’s name with such disdain, like he thinks he’s so much better than him, or like he hates him. It confuses you just as much as it annoys you; Jongseong didn’t seem to have a problem with Jake earlier at the library.
“And that’s your business, because…?”
You don’t look at Jongseong, who’s quickened his pace to keep up with yours, but you can feel the smirk on his face. It’s insufferable. “Oh, it’s none of my business. I’m just surprised, is all. You guys are so… I don’t know, different.”
You scoff. “If you think I’m not good enough for someone like Jake, I’d rather you tell me straight up, Jongseong. Or actually,” you say, looking up at him with a dry smile. “Keep it to yourself and leave me alone.”
He looks offended by your words, and it only adds to your already immense annoyance—he’s the one who just insulted you, so why is he looking at you with those stupid furrowed eyebrows?
“I never said that.”
“You didn’t need to.”
“No, Y/N.” He grabs your wrist and makes you face him, your stomach flipping in surprise that you quickly cover up. When he releases you, you cross your arms over your chest and wait for him to speak, keeping your eyes trained on a spot behind him. “I don’t think he’s too good for you.”
This makes you look at him. You have to admit, your curiosity is piqued. Not like Jongseong to say anything even vaguely in your favor. “He’s just…” He sighs, searches for the right word. “Well, he’s just a bit of a dick, isn’t he?”
You freeze for a second. You’re so taken aback, your scoff comes out more as a laugh—Park Jongseong, king supreme of all dicks at this school, just called Jake Sim a dick?
“I’m sorry?”
He sighs again, as though you’re the unreasonable one. “He’s so… smug. A wannabe class clown and thinks he’s the shit because he’s on the soccer team. Have you seen the way he swaggers around school?”
You look at him with fake sympathy. “Jong, are you jealous?”
“Pfft. No way. I just think it’s a shame you keep going after these dudes who are not even worth your time, or whatever, so yeah…” he says, voice trailing off and looking down at his feet as he speaks. Hands in pockets and blank expression on his face, you can tell he’s trying to look cool, but the way he’s avoiding your gaze is a dead give-away. Even his ears have turned red. Jongseong is having one of those shy moments he has when he’s trying to be nice to you. Clearly, a simple act of kindness towards you is so hard for him that it radically changes the way he behaves.
Like when you were fifteen and you just couldn’t get this stupid art project right, so he stayed behind for three hours after school with you, helping you draw and paint and cut and glue.
Like when you were sixteen and your grandma just passed away, making you miss a week of school, and without a word, barely looking at you, he gave you a stack of handwritten notes of all the lessons you missed. To this day, you’re not sure how he did it—you weren’t in the same class that year.
Like when you were seventeen and Park Sunghoon rejected you in the middle of a crowded hallway. You’d run off to the girls’ bathroom to cry it out, but Jongseong quickly found you and spent the entire period cursing Sunghoon out instead of being in English, like you were both meant to be. He was uncharacteristically nice to you for a few days after that, never starting an argument for no reason or interrupting you when you spoke. When you snapped at him, telling him it only made you feel worse that he treated you differently, he smiled and told you how stupid you looked when you cried. It made you laugh more than it should’ve.
Like now, when he suddenly decides that Jake Sim is also a wrong choice for you. “Him and Sunghoon are good friends, you know that?” he says. “Birds of a feather, and all…”
So you know that Jongseong is not all bad. He has his redeeming qualities. He can even be nice sometimes, when he so wishes. But those moments are so few and far between that when he returns to his usual insufferable self, you wonder if you’d dreamt it all up. Which is why you can’t quite take him seriously right now. You roll your eyes and resume walking towards the parking lot, but of course, he continues to follow you. “Why do you even care who I go after?”
“I don’t-”
“You clearly do, otherwise you wouldn’t be bothering me like this.”
“Well, if all your attention is taken up by that douche, who am I going to go up against?”
“That’s what you’re worried about? That I stop arguing with you?” you say, disbelief clear in your voice.
“I’m offended, Y/N,” he starts, his sarcastic tone making you roll your eyes again. “That our little rivalry matters so little to you.”
“We’re not even the top students of our class, for God’s sake, we’re not fighting over anything.”
“I’ve actually got the best grades in German, thanks very much.”
“Whatever. I wouldn’t call it a rivalry so much as a mutual dislike of each other, because one of us woke up one day and decided to start going against everything the other said.”
“At least you’re self-aware.”
The exit to the parking lot now appears to you like the gates of heaven. You don’t even bother replying to him, thinking that he’ll just leave you alone now that you’re here. But as you step outside, he places himself in front of you and blocks your path, arms splayed out, eyes wide like he’s just seen a ghost.
“What are you-”
“Have you done the German homework for tomorrow?”
The sudden change of subject gives you whiplash. “What? No, Miss Schumacher assigned it just now-”
“Well, given your tendency for getting the word order all wrong, I can already tell you you’re not gonna have fun with it-”
You pinch the nose of your bridge, trying to calm yourself down before you lose what’s remaining of your mind. “Jongseong, were you actually dropped on the head as a baby? Go away. My dad’s gonna be here any second.” You try to walk around him, but he steps in front of you again. You peer up at him, undisguised annoyance in your eyes. Where are your dad and brother when you need them?
“I’m just saying, you’ll probably need help with it-”
“I won’t. And if I do, I’ll just use Google. Now get out of my way,” you say, and manage to duck under one of his arms.
Then you see it.
Well, actually, it takes you a second to understand what it is you’re seeing. At first, you think it’s one of those horny couples thinking they’re being really discreet by going to the staff parking lot to make out, when in reality they could be caught by any one at any time. They’re just far enough that when you do a double take, you realize that you do know the back of that head; that fluffy mop of brown hair. You sit behind it every History period, next to it every Maths and English period.
The girl is up against the wall, and you can’t really see her, what with her and Jake’s tongues being down each other’s throat and his body blocking her from your view, his hands on her hips, her arms around his shoulders. All the works. She’s wearing a cheerleader uniform, so she could be any of twenty girls—but you’re pretty sure only one of them wears a pair of white Vans with red love hearts on them.
Your heart sinks to your stomach.
You’re frozen in place when a whistle rings in the distance, and Jake and Yunjin separate, giggling to each other as they jog to wherever the sound came from. The sports field, probably. It’s Monday; the cheerleaders and the soccer team share the field for their practice.
Jake spots you and Jongseong staring at them. He waves quickly, awkwardly at you, still smiling even when surprise coats his features. Yunjin tugs on his hand and just like that, they’re gone.
“Y/N-”
Jay’s voice fades in the background. You want to get away from this situation as quickly as possible—it’s embarrassing enough seeing the guy you like and thought you had a chance with kissing a girl that is arguably much more on his level than you are, but having Jongseong of all people not only witness it, but try to protect you from it, God knows why, makes it impossibly mortifying. You speed-walk to your dad’s car, huffing as you plop in your seat and slamming the door behind you. Your brother is already sitting in the passenger seat, and you don’t even argue with him about it. When you only give single-word replies to his questions, he shrugs and returns to playing Clash of Clans on his phone.
The moment you get home, you fish a five cent coin from your purse, change into mud boots and grab your dog’s leash. Desperate times call for desperate measures.
After half-an-hour of trudging through leaves and soft ground, muddy from many a rainy November night, you and Pablo, your massive, fluffy airhead of a German Shepherd, find yourselves at the well in the middle of the forest. Ever since you were little, you have attributed magic powers to the well—not that anyone told you any sort of myth about it, but you remember reading a story about a magic well and decided that your well would be magical, too. You’ve never wanted to abuse its powers, so you’ve used your wishes conscientiously: things like getting a certain present at Christmas (when you were nine and the most important thing ever was getting the Monster High doll you wanted) or not stuttering during your presentation in class (when you really didn’t want to embarrass yourself in front of Park Sunghoon and his cool friends). Every wish you’ve made has come true. Whenever a faint voice of reason tells you that it’s because you always ask for very realistic things, you squash it and continue to believe in the well.
Because today, you’re not asking for something realistic.
Today, you’re asking the well to show you the way to love.
You’ve grown up watching The Notebook and Pride & Prejudice. Your parents are high school sweethearts who are still, twenty-five years later, happily married. You devour romance novels and binge-watch Asian dramas, the more unrealistic and romantic, the better. You are convinced that soulmates exist, that love always finds a way, that it is there for anyone to see. That it can take form in a childhood friend, an archnemesis, a total stranger.
But for some reason, it hasn’t shown itself to you yet, no matter how valiantly you’ve looked.
You’re absolutely sick and tired of it. It is Jake kissing another girl, it’s Sunghoon leading you on for months and then rejecting you in front of everyone, it’s your ex-boyfriend-who-shall-not-be-named, your first love and first heartbreak, dumping you after a year and getting with the girl he had told you not to worry about a week later. At a party a few months later, he’d said, word for word, “At least I didn’t cheat on you.”
Coin lodged between your hands, you interlace your fingers and press your palms closely together, eyes screwed shut in desperation. “Hey,” you start simply, because you and the well are good friends. “It’s been a while since I’ve asked for anything, so I hope you can indulge me… This is gonna sound so cliché, but I’m really tired of getting fucked over by boys — excuse my French — and I just wanna meet the person who’s right for me, you know? Mom’s always reminding me that I’m only eighteen, and that I’ve got plenty of time to meet someone, but I just feel like if I don’t find someone now, I never will. And if I get fucked over again — sorry — I’ll just lose hope and write off men for the rest of my life. So help a girl out, will you? I’ll leave it to you how you wanna go about it, but… just show me that there’s someone out there. Please.”
When you open your eyes, you need a few seconds to adjust to the darkness. You toss the coin in the well. It doesn’t make a sound as it hits the bottom, as if it has been absorbed within the old brick walls. You know better than to question it—the well works in mysterious ways.
You’re quiet that entire evening, making up an excuse of a tiring day at school when your parents ask. Really, you’re just thinking about your wish, whether it’ll work, what might happen. You half-ass your homework—Jay was right, the German exercises throw you into a bout of despair, so you quickly close your textbook and bury yourself in your sheets, falling asleep hours earlier than you usually would.
--
For some reason, the first thing you notice when you wake up is that it’s still dark outside. It must be the middle of the night, you think. It takes you a few seconds to realize that you’re in a completely strange room.
Instead of your floral-patterned sheets, you find yourself covered by delicate silk sheets that your parents would never agree to buy you, no matter how adamantly you argued for the benefits of silk for your skin. If skincare experts online had convinced you of one thing, it was that silk would do wonders for your obstinate acne. You slide out of bed and find a pair of slippers on the floor, as if waiting for you. Even the pajamas you’re wearing are fancier, more grown up than the ones you have at home, a set composed of a pinstriped button-up and shorts. You look around, for some reason more surprised and curious than panicked. You could’ve been kidnapped, for all you know, but all you care about right now is this room. Rather than the pink and white walls that have surrounded you since childhood, covered with pictures of you and your friends, postcards of artwork bought at museums, and posters of your favorite movies, the walls here are beige and mostly bare, except for a painting of Japanese cherry blossoms above the bed and a family portrait on the opposite wall, above a wooden chest of drawers.
The family portrait. A woman, a man, and what you can only assume are their children. They look like twins—two girls. Can’t be older than three years old. Out of the four faces, you recognize two of them. You recognize them far too well. One of them is yours, of course. You look slightly older, by a decade, maybe? You’re glad to know that you won’t fall off after twenty-five, like much of social media has led you to believe.
The other face you recognize immediately, too, but it takes you a few seconds to truly believe it.
It belongs to none other than Park Jongseong.
A dry chuckle falls from your throat, as if someone has just made a very insulting joke at your expense and you have to pretend you find it funny. The well has a very odd sense of humor, you think. It’s probably just a prank, a magic-induced nightmare before the real thing. Except this already feels real, disorientingly so. The fabric on your skin, the picture, the room. It all feels too real, more tangible than any dream you’ve ever had.
You take a step closer towards the picture, as if looking at it harder will make Jongseong’s face fade into that of another man, the real man that will become your husband and father of your children. But alas, his features remain the same, frozen in time by the photographer’s camera. He, too, looks older—and not only does he not fall off after twenty-five, he becomes all the more handsome for it.
Is this how you find out that Jongseong was handsome all along? You stare at it until the familiar face becomes practically unrecognizable, like repeating a word so much it stops feeling like one. The straight nose, the almond-shaped eyes that seem to have softened overtime, whereas his jaw has remained as sharp as ever. Have his eyebrows always framed his face so perfectly? Has that dimple always been there?
You look around again, and the bright numbers on the bedside alarm clock catches your attention. They read 9:57 p.m., but it’s the date that makes your stomach sink—today is still the 18th of November, but ten years later. You stare at the clock, at the unfamiliar number, a date so far into the future you can’t wrap your head around it. You could barely envision life after high school.
Downstairs, the sudden clang of pots and the sound of a tap running manage to rip your gaze away from the alarm clock. An overwhelming curiosity tells you to follow the noise. This is all a dream, so there are no consequences if you explore a bit more, right?
You’ve never been in this house before, and you have no idea where your feet are taking you until you find yourself in the kitchen. It’s the only lit room in the house, and you’re creepily standing in the dark under a wide archway that connects the kitchen to what looks like the dining room. A man has his back to you, washing dishes and putting them out to dry on a rack next to the sink. He’s wearing a white cotton sweater, one that you feel you recognise without ever having seen before, and a brown apron is tied around his neck and waist.
The first thing you think to yourself is Oh, his haircut hasn’t changed. In almost every class you share with him, Jongseong has made it a point to sit either next to you or right in front of you, so you’ve spent a lot of time glaring at the back of his head. You wouldn’t be surprised if he started developing two eye-shaped bald spots there. His hair is still short and spiky at the back and on the sides, longer on the top. When he lets it grow too long, it sometimes covers his eyes, and he obnoxiously keeps having to push it back like a heartthrob in an 80s movie.
Something like a memory flashes through your mind, blurry like those images you aren’t sure came from a dream or from real life. Your surroundings are unclear, but Jay’s face is nestled against your neck, your hand in his hair. You can feel the softness of the close shave against your palm as clearly as if you were touching it right now. You ask him why he’s always kept it that way, and he replies that it’s simple to maintain. Then in classic Jay fashion, he adds, “And it makes me look awesome.”
Another memory, a clearer one, this time—this definitely happened. It’s halfway through sophomore year, a random Tuesday, and Jay walks in, holding his head high and looking smugly around himself. The bastard got a new haircut. Long gone, his messy, unorganized flop of black hair that looked like it didn’t know what it was doing; hello, sleek undercut. It accentuates all of his best features, which is terrible news for you. You had never even thought of Jongseong as someone having “best” features, but now they’re being thrown in your face. His nose. His jawline. His smile.
It ruins your day, and a few after that. You can’t quite put it into words when your friends ask what’s wrong at lunch—or rather, you don’t wanna face the humiliation of uttering something along the lines of “Park Jongseong looks good with his new haircut, and it’s bothering me.”
Here, it’s a familiar sight in an unfamiliar environment, the back of his head. Without really thinking, you take a step forward. Jongseong starts at the sound of your slippers against the marble floor tiles, but his face relaxes into a smile when he sees you.
“Oh, it’s just you, honey. I thought you were sleeping.”
Just you. As if the two of you being in the same kitchen is normal. You guess it must be, to this version of Jongseong. To him, you’re not the annoying girl he strives to best in every class—you’re honey.
“I was,” you say, walking around the kitchen island to join him by the sink. Something in you needs to look at him, really look at him, maybe pinch yourself or pinch him to be sure you’re not going crazy. Maybe you caught wafts of some ancient algae that lives in the well and made you hallucinate?
“I left a plate out for you in case you woke up. Made your favorite. The girls weren’t so happy, seeing as it’s the third time this month,” he says with the special kind of smile reserved for parents talking about their children. The girls. A mention so casual, so obvious, your heart hurts. “But I think I got it really right this time,” he continues. “Honestly, it might even be better than the original.”
He goes back to washing the dishes and you watch the sponge in his hands as it scrubs away tomato sauce, the soap as it runs from the plates into the sink. A knot forms in your stomach, something like a deep sadness that overwhelms you all of a sudden, and tears form in your eyes, threatening to fall any second.
When you haven’t budged in almost a minute, Jongseong starts to say, in an intimate, almost worried voice, “Aren’t you going to eat, honey?” but when he sees your wet eyes, the tremble in your lower lip, he shuts the water immediately and dries his hands. With his thumbs, he wipes away the tears that have started falling from your eyes. “What’s wrong?” he whispers.
You can’t reconcile the man in front of you with the image you have of the boy that torments you in every class you share. You can’t reconcile the genuine concern in his voice with the snarky tone you’re met with every day. And yet, they respond to the same name, their features are identical, if not for the years that separate them, the stress of adulthood on one and the carefreeness of youth on the other.
Your body reacts automatically to the soft touch—never in a million years would you let the Jongseong you know come near you like this, but here, nothing feels more natural than his hands on your face, your shoulders, your hair, as though they’re just as much his as they are yours. You realize the emotion in your stomach is not sadness—tears fall, but you’re not sad. You’ve never felt as home as you do now, and if one thing romantic novels have taught you, is that this must be love.
You look up at the man in front of you, eyebrows furrowed as you search his face for confirmation or some sort of an answer. There’s a tremble in your voice when you speak next. “I just… I think I love you, Jongseong.”
He chuckles. “Well, we established that a while ago, didn’t we? What with getting married and having kids. But I’m glad you still feel that way.”
The mention of marriage and children doesn’t faze you nearly as much as it should. You’ve only got one thing on your mind. “Do you love me too?”
You expect him to laugh—not out of cruelty, but because the answer is so obvious, it almost doesn’t deserve to be answered seriously. Like when your brother asks if he can have one more of your cookies and you tell him you’ll cut his hand off. Sometimes you think it’s easier to be sarcastic than be unabashedly nice to someone. Especially with Jongseong, whom you don’t expect kindness or patience from, you wait for him to stay something like, “No, that’s why I’ve stayed with you these eight years.”
So when instead, he says, “More than anything on this Earth,” voice low and vulnerable, tears flow even harder.
“Sorry, it’s probably just my period,” you say through sobs, although you have no idea where in her menstrual cycle this version of you is.
Jongseong chuckles again, pressing a kiss to your forehead. “You do get emotional around this time.” And you cry more, because you can’t believe someone other than your mother knows you so well that they know what your period symptoms are.
Rubbing soothing circles against your back and whispering soft words in your ear, he holds you for as long as you need to calm down. When you finally do, he tells you to go sit on the couch, that he’ll finish up the dishes then heat and bring your food for you. You think you’ve got your emotions under control, but the moment you bite the pasta, cooked to perfection with the most succulent tomato sauce you’ve ever had, sweet with a little kick of spice and a generous amount of parmesan cheese, tears start to fall again as if you had an endless stock of water behind your eyes.
“This is so good,” you mumble.
Jongseong smiles, his gaze full of affection miraculously directed at you as he tucks away strands of your hair so they don’t get in your eyes or in your food. “I’m glad, baby.”
You react to the nickname viscerally, words tumbling out of your mouth before you can even understand them. “You haven’t called me that in ages.” You widen your eyes at yourself, wondering how this was something you even knew. But when you look at Jongseong, all he does is smile more.
“You’re right, I haven’t. I guess I was reminded of college. You cried all the time back then. As much as it pained me, I can’t say I wasn’t happy to be the one you always came to for comfort.”
You haven’t been through college yet, so you should be unable to tell whether this truly happened or not—and yet, the memories of the body you’re in all confirm what Jongseong just said. But it feels impossible—going to university with him, letting yourself be vulnerable enough with him to not only cry in front of him but let him comfort you. Whatever could have happened in the years between the present you know and your time at university for things to change so drastically?
But before you can make sense of any of it, Jongseong speaks again. “Why? Do you like it when I call you baby?”
Your stomach flips. Heat rises to your face at his words, the tone with which he said them, the things he was alluding to—you know that having children means you’d popped your cherry at some point, that you’d had sex with Jongseong specifically, but to be confronted with the fact was something else.
“Maybe,” you mumble, and proceed to stuff your mouth with pasta so that you can’t incriminate yourself further.
He puts on a recent movie, something you should arguably be paying attention to, since you’re literally getting a glimpse into the future of cinema—you could steal the idea, go back to your present and sell it for an outrageous price.
But Jongseong’s presence next to you makes it impossible to concentrate on anything but him. The warmth emanating from him, the scent of his perfume envelop you, give you a sense of just how real this all is—despite how comfortable being with him like this feels, you’re still not convinced you’re not just in an unsettlingly vivid dream. You take one of his hands in yours, examining each finger, turning his hand over, tracing the lines of his palm, smoothing your thumb over his nails—it’s an undeniably human hand. Warm against yours, slightly rough. He’s started using hand cream, you think, all these winters when his dry hands would crack because of the cold coming up to your mind, teenage Jongseong’s hard refusal to wear any sort of cream to protect himself. Memories bob up to the surface: fixing his cracked hands up with a plaster, your tear falling on his hand, the both of you in your school uniforms in what looks like the school infirmary; awkwardly gifting him some hand cream the Christmas of that year, not looking at him as you hand him the small package. Saying, “It’s a waste of plasters for something that could be fixed so easily.” Him treating you to warm, spicy tteokbokki because he felt bad for not having gotten you anything, even though this was the first time either of you had ever given the other one a present.
As your fingers trail up from his hand to his forearm, his shoulder, his jawline, more memories flood your mind. Clumsy first kisses; squabbles of the kind you were already used to; lazy mornings in bed; hours spent in your kitchen or his, before you shared one, cooking dinner together; the way you felt when he proposed, a feeling so intense remembering it is almost unbearable now. Your eyes and fingers examine his face in detail—even though you’ve seen him almost every day since the start of high school, this feels like the first time you really perceive him. The delicate bow of his lips, the strong nose, the softness in his eyes when he looks at you. Your heart beats uncontrollably as you hold each other’s gazes, but you feel inexplicably relaxed at the same time, two nearly opposing realities fighting each other inside of you—one in which you and Jongseong regarding each other with such affection is unthinkable, the other in which it is daily routine.
“Movie not to your taste?” he asks, voice gentle, breaking you out of your stupor.
“Hm?”
He nods towards the TV screen. “I see you’re not paying much attention.”
“No. I have… things on my mind.”
He raises an eyebrow, a smirk slowly growing on his lips. “Yeah?” You think your heart might actually flatline when he brings you in closer to his chest, and, face buried in your hair, says, “You know, I’ve been thinking that the twins might want a younger sibling to play with soon enough…”
You’re not sure whether he actually wants a third child or if this is weird dirty talk that apparently turns parents on—all you know is that this is something future you will deal with, not high school senior you.
You whip up your head at him, eyes wide in panic that he mirrors immediately. “Or—or not. Later. Later?” You nod fervently, and the worry dissipates from his handsome features. “Okay, later,” he whispers, kissing the top of your head before returning his attention to the movie.
A couple hours later, you’re laying in bed in the dark together—you can tell Jongseong is falling asleep by the regularity of his breathing and his stillness, but you’re wide awake. You don’t know how you’ve managed to spend all this time with him, acting like the wife he knows and loves, without imploding. But suddenly, the idea of waking up in your childhood bed, surrounded by your pink-and-white walls, going downstairs to be greeted by your brother and parents, sends a wave of panic through you. You haven’t felt this comfortable in a long time—Jongseong’s arm draped over your waist, the fact that you could reach over and feel his skin against your palm if you wanted. You don’t want to go back to a time where you hate him. In fact, you don’t know if you could hate him after this.
“Jongseong?” you say softly, the syllables unfamiliar on your tongue, even though the name rings brusquely through your head for the best part of every day.
It takes a few seconds, but he reacts eventually. “Hm? Did you just call me Jongseong?” he murmurs sleepily, as if you’d just called him Robert or Christopher and not the name his own parents gave him.
“Yeah.”
He chuckles. “Now that’s something you haven’t called me in ages. Makes me feel like you’re mad at me,” he says, turning over and burying his face in the crook of your neck. His hair tickles your skin, and one of your hands comes up reflexively to feel the softness of his close shave.
“...Jong?” you try.
“That’s a step up, but not quite what I want,” he mumbles.
You’re silent for a few moments. “Honey,” you say tentatively, voice a mere whisper.
“That’s better.” You can hear the smile in his voice.
“Will you be here in the morning?”
“Mh-hm. It’s Saturday tomorrow.”
“No,” you say, feeling out of breath. “I mean, will you be here?”
You’re aware you’re not making much sense—and yet, Jongseong needs no further explanation. “Of course, baby,” he starts, voice soothing. “I’ll be here tomorrow, and the day after that, and every day afterwards. ‘Til death do us part, remember?”
You let out a shaky breath. “Okay.”
“I love you, Y/N.”
“I love you, too,” you find yourself saying, and, more importantly, meaning. It’s the last thing either of you says before falling asleep.
--
Tears are streaming down your face when you wake up the next day. When you open your eyes, pink and white obnoxiously stare back at you. The clock reads 7:12, just three minutes before your alarm goes off, and unfortunately for high school you, the night hasn’t given in to Saturday morning—it’s Tuesday, and you have to go to school and act as if you hadn’t just had the weirdest, most realistic dream of your life. You don’t even get a weekend to shake this weird feeling in your stomach off, you’re going to have to face Park Jongseong full force. At least, this will become your friends’ favorite bit for the foreseeable future.
They’re already sitting in the classroom when you get there, animatedly chatting to each other. You plop down in your seat in front of them, and when they see the sullen look on your face, ask you what’s wrong.
“Did you wake up during the night to play Hay Day again?” Kazuha asks, eyebrows knotted with genuine worry.
“I’m not that person anymore,” you reply. “No, I just had a really weird dream. More like a nightmare, really. It feels like I didn’t get any sleep.”
“What was it about?” Sunoo asks.
Your eyes dart back-and-forth between the two of them as you brace yourself for their reactions. Not wanting anyone else to overhear, you lean in conspiratorially. They mirror you. “I was married to Park Jongseong,” you whisper. As expected, they burst into laughter immediately, and you lean back in your seat, crossing your arms in annoyance. “It’s not funny.”
“It’s very funny,” Kazuha retorts. “It’s ironic, even, considering how much you hate the guy.”
“Exactly!”
“But I guess even you know how ridiculous it is that you hate him, if your brain is able to imagine yourself being married to him,” Sunoo adds, shrugging. “It’s a good reminder that you’re literally the only person in this school with a vendetta against him.”
Kazuha nods energetically. “He picked up a pen for me, once. He’s a nice guy.”
You look around the room in panic. “Keep it down, will you?” you hush, despite the fact that no one is paying any attention to the three of you. You sigh, resolving yourself to telling them the entire truth. “But guys, I’m scared. I think this might be a sign.”
Their eyebrows perk up. “A sign that your hatred of him has actually been disguising a crush this entire time?” Sunoo asks, feigning innocence.
“No—what? Where did you get that idea?”
“Nowhere. Go on.”
“Whatever. Come here,” you say, gesturing for them to huddle again. “It’s the well.”
“Oh my God, Y/N, you’ve actually lost it,” Kazuha says, fascinated by your stupidity.
“I’m not going to tolerate any well slander, this is serious. I just wanted it to reassure me that there was someone out there for me. And then I had that stupid dream.”
Kazuha and Sunoo exchange a look like they’re parents trying to announce to their daughter that she’s adopted. “Y/N…” Sunoo starts.
“This is crazy. Like, love philters and writing Park Sunghoon’s name a hundred times are one thing, this is…”
“Crazy,” Sunoo said, nodding along. “This is crazy. There’s no other word for it. Your eighteen years of boyfriendlessness have finally caught up to you.”
“You guys don’t get it. What about that time I asked it to give me a good grade on our Literature exam and I literally came first out of our class? Or when I told it I missed Jung Hae-in and his military discharge announcement came the next day?” you say, aware that the look in your eyes is only confirming their suspicions—but you need someone to believe you, or at the very least understand you.
“One, you’re a good student. Two, that was pure coincidence,” Sunoo explains.
“But girl, if you want to marry Jay, that’s fine. You’ve got our blessing,” Kazuha says, shrugging.
“Yeah. He picked up her pen, once,” Sunoo adds.
“And you know, you guys clearly have some sort of chemistry.”
You scoff. “If you think that him refuting my every word and finding every opportunity to make fun of me, then yeah, I guess you could say we have chemistry.”
“You guys have banter,” Kazuha says as if it’s obvious.
“Oh, please. Banter is cute. I want to kill him every time he opens his mouth.”
Your friends both roll their eyes. “While I understand that most men are better off staying quiet—no offense, Sunoo—”
“None taken.”
“You have to admit Jay is not nearly as insufferable as you make him out to be,” Kazuha says.
“Are you kidding me? He’s always acting like a child. Rubbing it in my face when he gets a better grade, trying to start arguments for no reason, sucking up to teachers, stealing my erasers, for God’s sake, you’d think he’s twelve. I know that I’m not on the majority's side, but I seriously cannot understand how other people tolerate him at all.”
Sunoo sighs. “Because he’s nice to everyone. He never hesitates to help people, he’s even funny, sometimes, and—well, look at him.” He nods his head towards the door, and when you turn around, Jongseong is indeed walking in the classroom. “He’s not a bad-looking boy.”
“Gosh, Sunoo, maybe you should marry him,” Kazuha says, but since you laid your eyes on Jongseong, you’ve stopped listening.
You feel weird. You look at him, and you feel weird. It’s the same feeling you had during your sleep last night, a feeling that paralyzes you from head to toe, that starts in your stomach and spreads to your entire body, weighs you down in your chair.
“Hey, guys,” he greets simply, and his voice wraps itself around your heart and squeezes. You can’t do anything but watch him as he takes his seat next to you, plopping his bag on the table and taking his notebook out. He looks at you, watches you watching him, then swivels around in his chair.
“What’s wrong with her?” he asks your friends.
“She had a dream that she m—”
“Do not finish that sentence, Zuha, if you want to live to see another day.”
“Yes, ma’am,” she replies, a satisfied little smile on her lips.
Despite yourself, you’re still staring at Jongseong, trying to figure out what the hell these emotions are that are raging up a storm inside of you. Instead of ignoring you, he turns to face you, resting his elbow on the table and his chin in his palm as he stares back at you, smirking. “What’s up, Y/N? Has it finally dawned on you how devastatingly handsome I am?” he asks, and you frown, because he’s not so far off from the truth.
“Please, kids, it’s 9 a.m., don’t flirt right in front of us,” Sunoo says, despair in his voice.
“She’s the one who started it,” Jongseong replies, still looking at you, his smirk growing.
For some reason, this startles you out of your trance, and you look away from him like you’ve been burned, preoccupying yourself instead with your notes for this class. “In your dreams, Jongseong,” you mumble.
“More like in yours,” Kazuha says, her and Sunoo giggling.
“Zuha!” you exclaim. Jongseong looks at you with raised eyebrows, and with his infuriating capacity to put two and two together, you’re scared he’s figured out what she meant, but you’re literally saved by your teacher who walks in at that moment and starts the class.
The second the bell rings to signify the end of the class, you hurriedly pack your things and mutter an excuse about needing the bathroom, trying to get as far away as possible from the boy whose all-too familiar scent had messed with your thoughts all class, whose every brush of his arm against yours had made your heart race uncontrollably.
--
It hadn’t just been a dream. It couldn’t have been.
Just like there was no doubt the 28-year-old Jongseong from last night had once been the annoying boy you knew, the 18-year-old Jongseong was sure to one day become the husband of your dreams. A devoted partner and father, his presence comforting, his good looks indeed devastating, unwavering.
There was no mistake to be made. The well had worked its magic.
Whether you liked it or not, you would end up marrying Park Jongseong. You, of all people; him, of all people.
Was there already something of your future husband in the boy that snickered when you mixed up your genders in German class, or would he one day spring out of nowhere? Apparently, you’d be around to find out.
But for now, how to act around him? It felt unfair that you were privy to this knowledge of your shared future while he was ignorant of it. Blissfully, perhaps. You couldn’t imagine that he would rejoice much at this news.
Your mind is somewhere else the entire day. At lunch, your other friends try to get the thing that’s obviously bothering you out of you, but Kazuha and Sunoo are there to tell them not to bother. You’d needed to tell someone about it, but you don’t want the entire school to know about your marital premonitions. The two knuckleheads you call your best friends are already doing a good enough job teasing you about it—”There’s your husband, Y/N,” when Jongseong walks past; “So have you thought of baby names? Kayleigh and Mackayleigh, perhaps?” unsolicited, during Physics. You turn around to check on the culprit — because yes, Jongseong is the culprit here, you, a mere a victim — and when he notices you staring, nods at you as if to say, What’s your problem?, trying to look threatening in his white lab coat that’s three sizes too big and protective goggles.
It doesn’t help that Jongseong has a way of hovering around you. Even in classes in which your teachers assigned the seats for you, he’s never far from your seat. The two of you sit next to each other in German, your last class every Monday, Tuesday and Thursday. But today, the seat next to you is empty—what would’ve been a cause for celebration just yesterday is now a source of worry. You’d seen him just two hours ago in your previous class together, so where the hell was he now? He’s lucky that your teacher is an old German lady who always spends the first ten minutes of the lesson rambling about something in dialectal German no one understands but nods along to anyway. When he walks into the room, five minutes late, she just says, “Hallo, Jay,” and continues with her story. It’s about her first school trip to Berlin when she was fifteen and the country was still divided. You think.
He winks at you when he takes his seat and you roll your eyes. You pretend to listen to your teacher for thirty seconds, then hit him gently with your elbow. “Where were you?” you ask without looking at him.
He doesn’t answer immediately, probably surprised you initiated a non-hostile conversation with him for once. “I was just hanging out with my friends, something you clearly wouldn’t understand.”
And your friends wondered why you hated him?
“Still having imaginary friends at eighteen is really concerning, Jongseong. You should see someone about it.”
When you glance at him, he’s already looking right at you, smiling. You’ve never felt so conscious of your side profile.
“Why? Were you worried?” he whispers, kicking your foot with his.
You look at him, horrified—where the hell had he gotten that idea? How was he so spot-on? You scoff, trying to diffuse the tension inside yourself. “No.”
He kicks your foot again. “I was five minutes late and you started to worry?”
“No. Stop.”
“I didn’t know you cared about me so much, Y/N.”
This time, you give him a harsh look, one that lets him know you really mean your words—“Stop it.” Finally, he relents, getting the assigned homework out now that the teacher has actually started the lesson. Your face softens—he looks hurt. Guilt tugs at your heartstrings.
Despite what you might say, you like the way things are with Jongseong. If some people always need to be crushing on someone, you always need to have someone you perceive as an enemy—it was Na Jaemin in elementary school, because he’d once made fun of your incapability to climb the monkey bars; Shin Ryujin, in middle school, for kissing your crush during a game of spin-the-bottle at your own birthday party; Park Jongseong, since freshman year, for simply existing. Your reasons for disliking him are trivial, you’ll admit. You weren’t sure you could even place a finger on what had first triggered your disdain towards him—one too many awful jokes, one too many times raising his hand in class and rattling off a perfect answer, then looking around himself proudly, one too many roars of laughter heard throughout the entire cafeteria. The fact that no one else seemed to be bothered by him only added to your aggravation. He just got on your nerves, and it seemed that you openly showing your dislike of him — him, who was so used to being loved by everyone around him, pampered by his family, praised by his teachers, popular among his peers — was enough to make him dislike you, too. So, after a few failed attempts at trying to be your friend, because Jongseong was unable to not be friends with everyone he met, he didn’t simply give up.
If he couldn’t be your friend, then fine, he’d be your enemy.
At least, that’s how it appears to you, still now. It’s never gone dangerously far, but if there’s an opening to tease you or get on your nerves, he’ll do it. Not passing you the ball during soccer, or conversely, only aiming for you during dodgeball, not sharing his textbook with you when you forgot it unless you beg, loudly clearing his throat when you speak in class. And, lately, pouring salt on your wounds in the form of reminding you how impossible you and Jake Sim are. His motto must be if there’s a will, there’s a way. And when it comes to making your life hell, his will is infinite.
Everything is upside-down now. The question of how your relationship can possibly go from this to that obsesses you. It feels like you’re more capable of sharing a funeral, dying at each others’ hands, than a wedding.
“Jong, your textbook.”
He squints at you. “Funny how I’m Jongseong when you hate me, Jong when you need a textbook,” he says, sliding his book closer to himself.
“It’s not my fault your name is a mouthful,” you retort, trying to pull it back to the middle of the table, but he’s quicker than you.
“Then maybe you should call me Jay, like everyone else on Earth.”
“Where’s the fun in that? Now give it here. Please?” you ask, mustering your best smile. Any other teacher would’ve scolded the two of you by now, but Ms. Schumacher is peacefully going on about the importance of word order and punctuation in the German sentence, oblivious to her two students bickering in the back row. Jongseong usually never sits at the back of the classroom—only here.
He gives in, smiling back, but there’s something behind it, something that tells you nothing good is brewing in his brain. “Only because you’re so pretty.”
Normally, this kind of remark would’ve warranted a slap on the arm or an array of insults, but if today is anything, it is not normal. You look at him like you’ve been stung, visions of your not-dream coming to you in flashes like you’re the titular character on That’s So Raven—the affection in your husband’s eyes, the kindness in his words, the sincerity in his smile. Again, you’re left to wonder if this man is already taking root inside of the boy next to you, if Jongseong’s future capacity to love you presently exists in his heart.
Does your future capacity to love him already exist in your heart?
You watch as his smirk softens into a grin, your flusteredness and lack of a response clearly amusing him, then as he circles the exercises Ms. Schumacher is assigning for the lesson. She seems to have forgotten there was homework due—Jongseong will be sure to remind her of it quickly.
He kicks your foot again, tells you to focus. His ears have turned red.
You wonder if those capacities haven’t existed from the start.
--
As much as you love a good friends-to-lovers story, characters hiding their feelings out of fear of ruining the friendship have never failed to frustrate you — just tell her, you dummy, it’s obvious she likes you too — and yet, you’ve never related more than now.
Whatever it is that you and Jongseong have, you don’t want to lose it. It adds entertainment to your otherwise average life.
“Good thing she didn’t pick on you while we went over the homework, ‘cause you clearly put zero effort in. And I wouldn’t have helped you, even if you’d asked, by the way.”
You hum absent-mindedly as you put your notebook and pencil holder in your bag. Are you sure that these are even your feelings in the first place? Just because the well put a silly idea in your head doesn’t mean you have to believe it like it’s scripture. If what you saw is real, then it will happen in its own time. Things don’t have to start changing right this instant.
“Gosh, Y/N, what’s up with you today? You’re so boring,” Jongseong continues, following you out of the classroom.
“Just tired,” you reply. Wouldn’t it be unnatural if you were to radically alter the way you behave with Jongseong? Love should come about organically. Sure, his presence has always provoked some kind of reaction within you, but that’s usually been annoyance. Whether he’s stealing the fifth eraser you’ve bought that month or running on the soccer field, beads of sweat running down his temples, hair sticking out everywhere, victoriously smiling when his team scores—you’re annoyed. Whether he’s sticking up his hand higher than yours or going to the school dance with Ahn Yujin—you’re annoyed. When you learned that she’d been his neighbor since infancy and that she had a boyfriend, who went to another school and only trusted Jongseong to take her to the dance, you were still annoyed—this time at yourself for feeling even the tiniest bit relieved that nothing was going on between them.
And this — his quick steps trying to keep up with yours, his dumb story about yogurt coming out of Heeseung’s nose today at lunch when they were laughing too hard — yes, you’re still annoyed. But you realize you’re not annoyed at him.
You’re annoyed at how he makes you feel.
“Y/N?” he says, but you’re too deep in your thoughts, only vaguely registering the sound until he repeats it, louder this time, and grabs your hand, making you abruptly stop walking. “Are you sure everything’s okay?” he asks with genuine concern in his voice. “You’re barely listening to me. I mean, it’s not like you usually really do, but you’d have told me to get lost, like, five minutes ago now…”
He chuckles self-deprecatingly, but despite his words, you’re focusing on something else yet again. His hand on yours, his loose hold on your fingers. Your brain is yelling at you—hold his hand, hug him. It’s like there are still traces of the 28-year-old version of you you visited yesterday, urging you to behave like her and not 18-year-old you.
So, the well had let you know that you need not look much further to find what you wanted. Here it is, in the form of a boy you have convinced yourself you hated, and hated you, and yet, he’s holding your hand, asking you if you’re okay, worry knotting his eyebrows together.
Hold his hand. Hug him. Instead, you retract your hand, let it fall limply by your side. Jongseong’s eyebrows shoot up.
He’s so close, the supposed love of your life. You don’t know how to reach out to him.
For now, you smile. “Get lost, Jong.”
--
you guys
how the hell do i act around jongseong now that i know our fates are romantically intertwined
kazuha i think not treating him like the number one public enemy would be a good start
you so what… be nice to him?
how do i do that
sunoo oh my god
y/n when she has to treat another person like a regular human being
you he’s not just another person!
sunoo okayyyyy i see you little miss repressed feelings
you i hate u
kazuha just don’t roll your eyes at everything he says anymore
and don’t start arguments for no reason
you he’s the one who starts them…
but okay i’ll try
--
“Let’s pair up for the reading analysis today. You can stay with your deskmate or pick a partner, I don’t mind as long as you get the work done. I’m talking about you, Chaewon and Yuri. This is English class, not a gossip session.”
The second your English teacher has finished speaking, Jongseong swivels in his chair. “Let’s partner up, Y/N?”
“What about me?” Jake asks, eyes darting back-and-forth between the two of you.
“You can partner up with Minju,” Jongseong replies, pointing to the girl he’s usually seated next to. “Look. You guys will be great together. Say hi, Minju.” Minju waves shyly at Jake, braces on display as she smiles ecstatically. It’s not everyday that she gets to talk to one of the most popular guys in school.
Jake reluctantly switches seats with him, glancing back at you and Jongseong who just grins at him, fake friendliness plastered on his lips, until he turns around again. Your new partner’s smile softens and reaches his eyes when he looks at you. “Hi.”
You have to look away—you feel your face burn under his gaze. “Hi, Jong.”
He tilts his head. “What? Do you hate me so much that you can’t even look at me now?” he asks, and you can’t tell whether he’s joking or genuine.
You frown. “I don’t hate you.”
“Oh? That’s a recent development.”
“I guess,” you mumble after a few seconds. Is it really? You suddenly can’t remember if you ever really hated him, or if you’d exaggerated your own feelings.
His smile widens. “Well, good. I mean, you were going to have to realize at some point that I really am funny, smart, endearing, handsome-”
“Back to hating.”
“Let’s start the assignment.”
You agree on reading the passage first, but you realize halfway through that not a single word has been absorbed. “Hey. Why did you switch seats with him?” you ask, whispering so as not to be overheard.
Jongseong shrugs. “I thought you wouldn’t want to work with him, considering…”
“Right.” You’re silent again, but only for a bit. “What’s it to you?” you mumble.
He scoffs. “Sorry for trying to be considerate.”
“That’s not—”
“Let’s just focus on this.”
His sudden coldness vexes you. You know you should let it go — don’t start arguments for no reason, and all that — and you know it’s childish, but you can’t help yourself. You have certain reflexes you’re not particularly proud of when it comes to one Park Jongseong. “Let’s just focus on this,” you repeat, mocking his grumbling tone of voice and shaking your head like a puppet.
He glares at you. “Can you not act like a toddler for once?”
“Can you not be a dick for once?” you bite back.
“Y/N, Jongseong, I’m sure you’re having a fascinating conversation on the use of chiaroscuro in the text?” your teacher asks, a look of warning on his face.
“Yes, sir,” you reply, embarrassed.
“Yes, so much chiaroscuro,” Jongseong mumbles, resting his cheek on his knuckles. When the teacher has turned away, he kicks your foot. “See, you’re getting us in trouble.”
“Do you even know what chiaroscuro is?”
He hesitates. “That’s not the problem here. You are.”
“Well, maybe if you didn’t-”
“Y/N, Jay, final warning.”
“Sorry,” you both say at the same time. With one last glare at each other, you finally get to work.
So your plan to start getting along with Jongseong isn’t in full-force yet. On the drive back home that afternoon, you reassure yourself that these things take time. When the moment is right, the two of you will grow closer.
--
But increasingly, it feels as though the right moment will never come.
Two months have passed since your visit to the well, and things between you and Jongseong have not changed. Not really, at least.
You still bicker like cat and dog — it goes without saying that you’re the cute puppy and he’s the heartless cat — and he gets as much on your nerves as ever, especially now that you know that the potential to be nice to you, to love you, even, exists somewhere inside him. Somewhere deeply hidden perhaps, but somewhere nonetheless. Of course, after telling yourself that what must come will come of its own accord, you haven’t done much to change the dynamic between the two of you. But if you used to see your retaliations against him as necessary to your survival, you now find some sort of enjoyment in them—some might call it Stockholm Syndrome, you perceive it as a step in the right direction. You’ve followed one of Kazuha’s pieces of advice: you don’t roll your eyes at him anymore, simply because you don’t feel the need to. You argue with him with a smile on your face, his attempts at insulting or annoying you have started to make you laugh.
He doesn’t say anything but seems to gladly welcome this change. If you get a lower grade than him on a test, he doesn’t try to stick the knife in further, but genuinely offers to go over it with you later. If you give in after two hours of tearing your hair out over a German exercise and text him for help, he doesn’t make fun of you. If he says something particularly arrogant or makes a really bad joke, all you need to do is give him a look, and he’ll mumble an apology.
Could it have been like this the entire time? you wonder, watching him across the schoolyard as he and Heeseung hunt for Pokémon. Just a couple months ago, you would’ve scrunched your nose at the sight, making fun of him for his childish interests. Now, you notice the way he laughs, audible all the way to where you sit with Kazuha and Sunoo, the way he jumps excitedly and points at things only he and his friend see, and all you feel is endearment.
“Look at you, look at that,” Sunoo says as he hits you on the forehead with his metal spoon, startling you. He tuts. “You’ve got love dripping from your eyes, sweetie.”
“Sunoo, that’s disgusting.”
“Love? I know.”
“No, your spoon. Your saliva’s all over that,” you say, and all he does is eat another mouthful of his yogurt while staring wide-eyed right at you. When you look back at Jongseong, he’s high-fiving Heeseung. You wonder which creature he’s caught now. In the library yesterday, he spent thirty minutes showing you every single one he had captured so far instead of revising for the upcoming Physics test.
“Yeah, we know you’d like someone else’s saliva more,” Kazuha chimes in, and the two of them snort.
“It’s not like that,” you say, biting into an apple slice.
“Oh yeah? What’s it like, then?” Kazuha asks.
“We’re… becoming friends,” you say, but you’re not sure who you’re trying to convince more.
“Y/N, I’ve had to watch the two of you giggling to yourselves in the library one too many times to believe you’re friends. I know your homework’s not that funny,” Sunoo argues.
“Friends can giggle with each other!” you exclaim, but your friends are inflexible.
“I would tell you to get yourself together if you giggled at me like that,” he says.
“I saw you twirl your hair the other day,” Kazuha adds.
“I never—When?!”
She shrugs. “The other day.”
You deflate, crushed under your friends’ accusations. “I wouldn’t twirl my hair…” you mumble. You decide to busy yourself with your apple slices, not even bothering to find out what Kazuha and Sunoo start snickering and elbowing each other about.
“Hey,” a familiar voice greets, making you look up. Jongseong smiles at you and steals an apple slice from your tupperware as he sits down next to you, Heeseung across from him.
“Hi, Jong,” you say, sitting up straighter. You offer a piece of fruit to Heeseung but he declines, saying he doesn’t like apples without peanut butter.
In front of you, your friends exchange a look, and you’re immediately terrified of what they’ll do next. Leaning in, they place their elbows on the table, and Kazuha starts them off. “Jay, you and Y/N know each other pretty well, right?”
Jongseong glances at you, eyes wide. “Uh, sure.”
“Have you ever noticed her, say, twirling her hair?” Sunoo asks, tilting his head innocently at the poor boy by your side.
You’ve never seen him look so confused. “Um, yeah, she does that when she’s concentrating on something, sometimes…”
They lean back. “Huh,” Kazuha says, studying Jongseong’s face.
“Interesting. Very interesting,” Sunoo says, slowly nodding.
You glare at your friends. “See, that’s different,” you tell them. “I was concentrating on something, not doing… whatever you guys had in mind.”
Jongseong looks at you. “What did they have in mind?”
You answer before either of them can dig your grave any deeper. “Nothing. It’s nothing. We were just having a stupid conversation.” You muster your most convincing smile, and the subject is finally dropped.
No one says anything for a few moments, until Heeseung decides to speak up: “You should’ve seen Jay earlier, Y/N. He caught this super rare version of Pikachu earlier, it was awesome.”
“Dude…” Jongseong murmurs.
“What?” Heeseung asks, his enthusiasm quickly dissolving into confusion. Jongseong just shakes his head. Thankfully for all of you, the bell rings then, and you head to class. The three of them walk in front of you while you and Jongseong fall back a step.
“Why were you guys sitting outside? It’s freezing today,” he asks you. Walking side-by-side like this, you can’t help but notice the inches he has over you, the broadness of his shoulders in comparison to yours.
“They turned the heat way too high in the cafeteria, so we came outside for some fresh air,” you explain. He’s right, the air is chilly today—it’s a few days into December, and the temperatures have been accordingly low.
“Aren’t you cold?”
Your heart skips a beat. One of the side effects of not being at each other’s throat anymore was that you got more and more often to be privy to this side of Jongseong—attentive, considerate, kind. What you once thought were his moral attempts at not being so mean to you all the time, you found out was actually his real nature. He wasn’t a prick who was sometimes nice, he was a nice person who turned into a prick with you. Whether the fault lay on him or you was another debate.
“No, I’m alright,” you say, but your body decides to betray you and makes you sneeze three times in a row.
“Bless you,” Jongseong says, laughing. “Here.” You try to stop him, pushing his hands away, but he takes his gloves off and forces them in your palms.
“I’m going to be inside for the next four hours, Jong, I’ll be fine. Keep them.”
“No, it’s okay. Just so you can warm up quicker.”
You eventually give in, putting the gloves over your hands, laughing at the extra fabric that hangs off the tip of your fingers. But when you look at Jongseong’s now-bare hands, something catches your attention. Stopping in the hallway, you grab one of them, examining the cuts on his knuckles. “You need to wear hand cream, Jong, your hands are too chapped.”
He lets you turn his hand over, smooth over his skin, do the same thing with his other hand. “Men don’t wear hand cream,” he says, a grin on his lips.
You burst out laughing. “I think that’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard you say.”
“Seriously, though, I don’t like the way it feels. Too sticky.”
“You just need to get a quick-absorption one.” Then, you make the terrible mistake of looking up from his hand and meeting his eyes—you gasp silently, his gaze and soft smile transporting you right back to that night, the images of 28-year-old and 18-year-old Jongseong mixing into each other, becoming indistinct from each other. Your gaze drifts down to his lips — chapped, too, when they’re usually plumper, rosier — and his hand, still in yours, balls into a fist. The second bell rings and you both take a step back, eyes meeting again for a brief moment before looking down at the floor. With uncharacteristically shy, embarrassed words of parting, you make your separate ways to your next classes.
“That was beautiful, Y/N,” Sunoo says, waiting for you by the door, and you walk past him without so much as a glance.
“I don’t wanna talk about it.”
--
sunoo jay and y/n almost kissed earlier
kazuha WHAAAAT
you KIM SUNOO.
kazuha WHEN?????
sunoo right before class after the lunch break
y/n was sooo embarrassed afterwards lol
you we did NOT almost kiss you’re talking out of your ass
kazuha i can’t believe i missed this fml
you YOU DIDNT MISS ANYTHING
NOTHING HAPPENED
sunoo be serious u guys we’re standing inches apart
you were*
and no we weren’t
sunoo oh stfu it was autocorrect
i saw it w my own eyes y/n… you WERE literally holding his hand and staring into those beautiful eyes of his
kazuha sunoo…?
sunoo what
can’t a man acknowledge another man’s objective attractiveness
if i was y/n i would’ve folded the moment i saw him
you literally one of the first times he talked to me was to make fun of my handwriting
sunoo yeah he’s on his tsundere shit i fw it
you …
sunoo anyways zuha you shouldve seen it when the bell rang they practically leaped away from each other
and u didnt know what to do w yourselves afterwards likeeee
it was so obvi what you both were thinking of
kazuha cuuuute
you i resent these accusations.
sunoo istg if u dont kiss him next time i will
kazuha ???
you SUNOO?
sunoo WHAT
--
Something happens a few days before the start of winter break.
Ms. Schumacher is absent, gone off to Germany to visit her family there—she has enough seniority in the school that they let her abandon her responsibilities as a teacher once in a while. A week is too short a period of time for them to bother finding a substitute. It’s usually your last class of the day, but you have to wait around for your dad to be done working, so while most of your classmates have gone home early, you sit with about six other people in the unsupervised study room, absent-mindedly jotting down tid-bits of dialogue for your new story idea, too preoccupied with Jongseong’s absence to really pay attention to anything else. It’s fifteen minutes after the hour, but he’s nowhere to be found, although you know for a fact that he takes those weird Molecular Gastronomy cooking classes your Chemistry teacher offers for extra credit every Thursday after school, so he should be here. And anyways, if he’d gone home, he would’ve texted you something like, Have fun sitting around for an hour, I’m gonna go do awesome stuff with Heeseung, even if awesome stuff meant playing Mario Kart or drinking Sprite and holding a two-person burping contest.
You’re so engrossed in your own thoughts that you pay no mind to the sudden ding of a phone in the room, followed by some gasps and heated whispers. The exchanged words go through one ear and out the other—There was a fight? In the locker rooms? It must be bad if they were sent to the nurse before the principal… Huh? Over who? So he took both of them on? Damn, I didn’t know Jay got like that. He seems so well-behaved.
Your head whips up at the mention of your friend’s name. “Jay? Did something happen to him?” you ask out loud, the whispers dying down immediately as everybody stares at you.
Gaeul, who was in your class last year, is the only one who answers you. Holding up and waving her phone, she says, “They say he got into a fight.”
Jongseong? A fight? It sounds like a practical joke. He admitted to you he once started crying watching Heeseung playing Call of Duty, it was so violent. You shake your head. “He-he did? With who?”
Gaeul and the girl next to her exchange a concerned, almost guilty look. “Jake and Sunghoon.” The crease between your eyebrows deepened. You don’t need to ask anything else before she adds, “They’re at the nurse’s station. It sounds pretty bad…”
That’s enough for you to leap out of your chair and run to the nurse’s station. It seems the news has spread impossibly quickly among your year group—even Kazuha and Sunoo are already blowing your phone, asking you if you’ve heard, if you know how Jay is. You ignore them, reminding yourself to text them back later, until one message from Sunoo in particular catches your attention: It apparently started because Sunghoon said something about you, Y/N. They’re saying Jay got angry.
The nurse is busy on the phone when you get there, her back to the entrance, so you’re able to slip in unnoticed. You head to the adjoining room where the beds are, all three of them taken—you walk by Sunghoon first, his arms crossed over his chest and pointedly not looking at you, then by Jake, who calls out your name. You glare at him and pull on the white plastic curtain that separates his bed from Jongseong’s. They’re already going to hear you, you don’t need them seeing you on top of that.
Jongseong sits up with a grunt when you appear at the end of his bed. The sight of him makes your stomach flip, and not in a good way, for once—his left eye is swollen and circled by a deep purple bruise, shiny with ointment, there’s a cut on his cheek, his lower lip is busted, his right hand is wrapped in bandages. “Oh my God,” you whisper as you help him up, voice breaking. He stares at his hands, jaw locking when you gently place one palm on his good hand, the other on the side of his face, moving it this way and that so you can take a better look at his injuries. He winces, and you let go, resting your hand on his shoulder instead. “What the hell got into you?” you whisper vehemently, unable to decide if you’re worried or angry or both as tears form in your eyes.
He tries to shrug, but even that seems to hurt. “Don’t shrug, Jongseong, tell me what happened.”
“I’m Jongseong again now?” he says, attempting a smile, but only one corner of his lips rises.
You sigh. Even in this state, he has to be a smart-ass. “You’re Jong when I need a textbook, Jongseong when you get into stupid fights,” you reply, and he smiles wider but immediately winces, hand coming up to the cut on his lip. You notice that his hand is still riddled with cracks, and whether they’re due to their dryness or to this fight doesn’t matter—”Wait here,” you say, and go rummage through some drawers for plasters. “She forgot some spots.” You feel Jongseong’s eyes on your face as you patch him up to the best of your abilities.
“I don’t want to tell you what happened. I’ll do the job of hating these idiots for the both of us, so don’t concern yourself with them,” he says, apparently not caring that the idiots in question can hear his every word.
He keeps his promise—you never hear another word from him about the cause of the fight.
Later, you find out through other means, namely Sunoo’s questionably remarkable ability to unearth any and all gossip, that in the locker rooms after Phys Ed, someone had started Jake on the topic of Yunjin, who had been recently revealed as his girlfriend. They’d apparently kept it secret because it was just fooling around at first, and only later had gotten serious enough for them to parade around the school as the couple.
It had been an unremarkable conversation until Jake said, “You guys know Y/N from our class? She saw us in the staff parking lot once, and I was sure we’d be busted then. But she didn’t tell anyone.” And just like that, the conversation turned to you, someone who was usually never a topic among these boys, jocks, soccer players, “the kind of people who peak in high school and still have a superiority complex at forty,” as Sunoo describes them.
He has a harder time explaining what happened next, can’t quite look you in the eye as he recounts what was said. “So, this is what they say, apparently someone said that you used to be obsessed with Sunghoon, then with Jake, and Sunghoon said you… Well, he said you were pathetic, that asshole, and that you had been so easy to lead on, then Jake joined in, saying the same things, basically, how funny it was seeing you so obviously in love with him when he would never give you a chance…” He looks at you worriedly, but you tell him to go on. “And so that’s when Jay got up and just straight-up punched Jake in the face. And while Jake was trying to figure out what happened, Jay punched Sunghoon, and then they both got on him, pushing him, but when he wouldn’t stop throwing punches, they started fighting, too. I think they all got some good ones in before the other boys were able to break them apart and the P.E. teacher arrived…”
But that would be later. Now, sitting with Jongseong in the nurse’s station, tears falling onto the plasters you place on his hand, nothing matters but him. You don’t need the details—he’s hurt, he got hurt over you, you feel as though every cut on his body may well have been done by your own hand. You’ve never felt so guilty for something you didn’t do. Your voice trembles when you speak; you’re unable to look at him, at his busted eye. “I just don’t want you to get hurt for me.”
Without missing a beat, he says, “What else would I get hurt for?”
You can only meet his eyes for a split second. Even like this, he manages to look at you with the same softness that has haunted you since the night you met 28-year-old Jongseong, that has rendered all thoughts of anything other than him meaningless since the day your gaze drifted down to his lips just weeks ago. “Jong…” is all you can mutter as you look down at your hands holding each others’, your lips trembling.
He raises his bandaged hand, still not used to his dominant side being ineffective for now, then lowers it when he realizes. Clumsily, he pats your hair with his left hand. “Don’t cry, please…”
Jake’s head pops out from behind the curtain. “Y/N, I’m really sorry—”
“Not right now, man,” Jay quickly interrupts. Jake pathetically disappears behind the curtain again.
“Just promise me you won’t do this again.”
“Y/N…”
“Promise me,” you say, more demanding this time, sticking out your pinky finger. Jay, hesitant, looks between your outstretched finger and your face a few times, but eventually gives in.
The nurse, upon coming to check on the boys, catches you with Jongseong and chases you out immediately. You sulk back to study hall, where everyone’s head perks up the moment you walk in. “They’re okay,” you reassure vaguely, and unenthusiastically answer their many questions. It’s only a few minutes until the bell rings, and you’re free to go then.
--
jong so… guess who got a five-day suspension
you you idiot
what did your parents say?
jong they’re not happy
i have to do all the household chores for a month
you boo-hoo
jong not sure why i came here thinking i’d get some comfort…
you …
are you feeling better?
jong a little bit
the nurse gave us some really strong painkillers
but
i’m okay
because
there’s a pretty girl that’s going to drop off the homework for me after school every day :)
you oh
did you ask chaewon to do that?
jong um
no
i was talking about you
..if that’s okay
you haha i know i just wanted you to say it straight up
jong ykw maybe i should just ask chaewon
you i’ll see you tomorrow jong!!
jong :)
see you tomorrow pretty
--
The months that separate your return to school and graduation come and go in the blink of an eye. Jongseong can’t come to school the last day before the holidays or the first four days after, and he’s grounded in-between. Things change bit by bit with every day you visit him—To give him the homework, you tell his parents, although there isn’t much to do when the semester isn’t in full swing, and you could’ve easily sent him pictures. The first time, you spend more time scouring the pictures and trinkets in his room than actually talking to him, and awkwardly give him a half-hug when he tells you he won’t be able to hang out at all during the break before practically running out of his house, your heart beating a thousand miles a minute from the innocent contact. By the fourth time, you lie together on his bed and talk about your plans for college, your hands sitting centimeters apart on the navy sheets. You haven’t dared touch his hand since that day in the nurse’s station.
You’re window-shopping with Kazuha when you spot the hand cream you had seen yourself gifting Jongseong in your well-given vision. Buying it is one thing, actually giving it to him is another, an awkward, stuttery situation in which the wrapping done by the store employee suddenly seems over-the-top and out-of-place. But Jongseong seems to like it—it’s the last day of his suspension, his black eye is now a yellow-ish color, he can smile without risking splitting his lip in two. He applies it immediately, tells you he’ll make sure to wear it every day until the end of winter. You find yourself wishing there was something you could give him for every season so he wouldn’t go a day without thinking of you. When you leave, he bashfully thanks you for making sure he doesn’t fall behind and says he’s excited to see you at school the next day. You hardly know what to do with yourself, so you squeak out a “me too” and slip out the door.
His first day back is a Friday. It starts with Mathematics, a class in which you sit by each other. You remember the first week of classes when Kazuha and Sunoo had ran to sit with each other, expressly because they knew that if he saw you were sitting alone, he’d take the seat next to you, just to better torment you all year. You’d resented it then; it couldn’t make you happier now. Your body is humming with nervous energy, your foot tapping relentlessly against the tiled floor. When he appears in the doorframe, you wave at him as if he’d forgotten his seat in three weeks of absence. His elbow brushes against yours as he sits down.
Between the two of you, friendship blossoms over these months. To the detriment of everyone around you, you continue to bicker as you always have, but it’s now clearly done out of habit, out of affection, even, than out of actual dislike of each other. He and Heeseung slowly integrate your small group of three, and before you know it, it feels as though there have always been five of you. Together, you welcome spring.
In January, to thank you for helping him to pick out his mom’s birthday present, Jongseong treats you to some tteokbokki, which you said you’d been craving all week. He orders the spiciest one, then has to take a sip of water between every bite. You laugh at his teary eyes and red face while you devour the bright red rice cakes easily.
In February, he makes a show of giving you and Kazuha and Heeseung and Sunoo some homemade chocolates, saying it’s a friend thing. You find out that evening that the others each have five in their box—there are twenty in yours. It’s one of the things that makes you second guess what sort of feelings he has for you. For years, you’ve been convinced he harbored strong feelings of disdain for you; now, he seems to enjoy your friendship. You’re scared to read too much into anything, because if Jongseong is well-liked throughout school, it’s for a reason: he’s nice. To everyone. Even to you, too, nowadays. But if nice is giving five chocolates, what is giving twenty?
A sudden realization hits you in March—Jongseong appears at your door, drenched from the rain, a bag of your favorite snacks in hand. “You weren’t at school today. I had to find out you were sick from Kazuha,” he says as if she was a random classmate of yours and not your best friend, as if he should be the first to know about these kinds of things. Your mom rushes him in, finds him so charming in the five minutes they converse that she decides he should stay over for dinner, and as you watch him laughing with her, you think, I haven’t thought of 28-year-old Jongseong in ages. I’ve only thought of you. And although you can trace the start of your feelings to that dream-like experience you had, you can now say with confidence that it’s not the only reason for them.
College application results come out in April, right on his birthday. The five of you celebrate together at an American-style diner, gorging yourselves on crispy bacon and chocolate chip pancakes. Kazuha is going back to Japan, almost a decade after moving to South Korea—”I’m gonna miss you guys, but I miss takoyaki and my grandma more right now.” Heeseung has been accepted into the Engineering department at the country’s top university. You, Sunoo and Jongseong are all heading to the same place: you for Screenwriting, which you’ve known since you were one of the winners of the scholarship contest last October, Sunoo for Communications, whatever that is, and Jongseong for European History and Literature with a minor in German, that freak. It’s a good university, and it’s not far from home. The way Jongseong tells you about his acceptance sticks with you: he doesn’t say, They accepted me, too, or, I’m going to the same university as you. He says, We’ll be together.
May is filled with afternoons at the park when you should all be studying for exams. Your mom keeps asking when she’s going to see “that wonderful boy” again. Your friendship with Jongseong has given him new ways of teasing you—after four years of near-kleptomaniac tendencies, he’s finally stopped stealing your erasers and has instead started to let his gaze linger on your face, to call you pretty when you least expect it, to tuck your hair behind your ear. You hate it most when he asks you whether there’s something from your romance novels or movies that you want him to recreate. “Is there a field big enough nearby that I can walk through at the break of dawn, Mister Darcy-style?” he’ll say, or “I’ve always wanted to try that upside-down kiss from Spider-Man. It’s a classic, really.”
Summer comes early in June. You need to bring a two-liter water bottle and a hand fan to your exams, and you’ve never felt such relief as when it was all over. After endless pictures with your parents and siblings, just your parents, just your siblings, then Kazuha and Sunoo, together, then separately, then with Heeseung and Jongseong as well, Kazuha forces you and Jongseong together, watching with a smile as he shyly wraps an arm around your waist and you awkwardly throw up a peace sign. It’s your first picture of just the two of you.
In July, you and Jongseong unlock a new first: saying goodbye. He’s leaving to stay with his American family as he does every summer. You show up at his house the day before at four p.m. “to help him pack,” you say, but it’s Jongseong, and he finished packing two days ago. So instead, you sit on his desk chair, he on his bed, and you fight back tears. “You’re coming back, right?” you ask, like he’s leaving to go to war and not Seattle. Amusement and affection flicker in his eyes. “Of course I am. I wouldn’t throw four more years of being a pain in your ass away, would I?” he says, and you smile, because you know it’s going to be much more than four years.
But he doesn’t just leave you with a few nice words. Avoiding your gaze, he hands you an envelope. Inside is a single ticket, a two-month membership for your city’s arthouse cinema that you can only go to when they have student deals or when your parents have had enough of your begging. You can’t even begin to imagine how much this must’ve cost. “Jong…” you murmur, in awe at the thin slip of paper between your hands. “This is incredible. Thank you so much.”
Jongseong looks down at his feet, fighting a smile as he kicks the invisible rocks that obviously litter the floor of his bedroom. “I thought you’d get bored without me around, so, that way you can entertain yourself, I guess… And if you run into any film bros next year, you’ll have seen as many pretentious movies as them.”
You burst into laughter then, and, without thinking, wrap your arms around his neck, thanking him over and over again. It takes him a second, but he wraps his arms around your waist and says it’s no big deal.
As you walk down the path from your house, he calls out your name. “Don’t be a stranger,” he says.
You smile. “Never.”
So, he’s not here for summer. Kazuha is working in her parents’ ramen restaurant to make some money before leaving, even Heeseung leaves two weeks into July for Seoul to visit some relatives there and get accustomed to life in the big city. You only get to laze around with Sunoo, but even he eventually leaves for his grandparents’ house by the sea, making you promise you’ll come visit him at some point, otherwise he’ll “die of boredom.”
It’s August now, and your brain and body alike buzz with restlessness. You go to the cinema almost every day, making the best of your subscription. If you’re not going around your house looking for spider webs with your vacuum cleaner, you’re riding random bus lines and discovering parts of your town you’ve never set foot in before. If you’re not making your way through your never-ending pile of unread books, you’re creating your own stories, finally taking the time to properly outline and draft the one-line ideas you’ve had sitting in your Notes app, preparing yourself for the start of your degree. Your mind is taken up with love stories. From Romeo & Juliet to Dirty Dancing to Book Lovers, you can’t get enough of the genre. You become particularly obsessed with stories involving time travel, rewatching After Time and Lovely Runner like they contain some precious knowledge. By the end of the month, you’ve turned your life into an eight-episode TV series—a desperate girl makes a wish on a star only to discover she is fated to marry the one boy she hates most. You know you’d watch that. You send Sunoo and Kazuha the pilot, and after calling you insane numerous times but also heaping on praises, Sunoo says this: lol your going through jay withdrawals.
It shakes you so much you’re not even compelled to message back you’re*.
But he’s not wrong. The more you let yourself admit it, the more you realize how true it is: you miss Jongseong. You text once in a while, you’ve even stayed up late talking on the phone a couple of times, but you miss him, his corporeal form, having his gaze on you, having the possibility but never the courage to touch him. Every day, there’s something you want to tell him about. The cats huddling around a young neighborhood kid as he pours milk into a bowl, the clearance sale at your local library, most books for one buck only, the actor from an 90s Hong Kong film you swear has the exact same smile as him. You don’t want to bother him, so you write letters instead. Some you send, some you don’t—the ones you keep hidden in your drawer usually hint too obviously at your feelings for him. Some of them don’t just hint and contain lines of your declarations: I miss you, everything I see reminds me of you, I want to check that your bruises have healed completely even though the last trace of them faded months ago. You keep these letters a secret, even from Sunoo and Kazuha, who would never let you live down such woebegone, down bad behavior.
You do it because it feels good, getting all of your feelings out on paper. You’re a romantic at heart, so you’re prone to over-exaggeration when it comes to things like these—but everything that you write remains based in truth. You’d started with a postcard of your hometown, jokingly writing, Don’t forget where you came from. How is it over there? and he’d actually replied with a postcard of his own, filling it from top to bottom. You easily went from these small postcards to multiple pages of stream-of-consciousness-like writing. You think it’s the most romantic thing you’ve ever done—although you’re not sure he feels the same way, considering he still writes to the German pen pal Ms. Schumacher had assigned him in your first year of high school. No one else’s correspondence had lasted more than four months because she’d immediately forgotten to make sure you kept in touch regularly.
I ran into Jake Sim at the city library, you write one day. You’ve replied to everything in his latest letter, so you’re now catching him up on your recent adventures. He was checking out some books about Linguistics, of all things—he bought me bubble tea afterwards and told me that the injury he got last April was actually a relief. Did you know his father was a big name in soccer here? Apparently, he never wanted to be a soccer player that badly, and he wants to do Linguistics and Social Anthropology, who would’ve guessed it. He’s like Troy Bolton if High School Musical was about Humanities and not singing. Anyways, you probably don’t want me to go on and on about him, so I won’t, but we did talk about that fight you guys had back in December. He apologized for it, to you and me both, although he didn’t go into much detail — Sunoo is still the only one who’s had the balls to tell me exactly what happened, and he wasn’t even there! — and I was reticent at first, but he seemed genuine. He said he didn’t even hang out with Sunghoon or Yunjin or any of those people anymore, that it was only out of convenience really, and that he hopes starting university will be like turning over a new leaf. Well, he could be full of shit, who knows. As I sat there listening to him I wondered what it was I used to see in him. He’s nice enough, but we only spoke about him for the entire hour. He asked me no questions that weren’t “and you?” so it was a bit exhausting.
But it got me thinking about your fight again. Reflecting on it now, I can say that it was a turning point for me in my perception of you.
You look at your words, smiling to yourself—this is one of the times where you find yourself erring from the topic at hand, instead indulging in sappiness and nostalgia. You write about how your opinion of Jongseong has changed over these months, how it wasn’t seeing him as your husband in all those years that had really shaken things up, but rather that day in the nurse’s station, the frightening colors around his eye, his attitude like it was natural that he would get hurt like this for you. You write, Have I been wrong about you this whole time? I thought you harbored the same negative feelings towards me as I had you since the moment you’d laid eyes on me, but all of a sudden, here you were, bloody, bandaged hand holding mine. Even with your busted eye, you looked like an angel next to all that white in the nurse’s station. I’ll never forget your words that day. Would you really not get hurt for anything else, Jong?
“I’m going to the Post Office for a package soon, Y/N. Are you done with your letter?” your mom calls from the staircase landing.
“Give me five minutes!” you call back.
You forage through your drawer for a new sheet of paper and re-write your letter, making sure to leave any compromising parts out and fold both letters into neat squares—one that will cross the seas and reach Jongseong, one that will live out its days in the darkness of your crowded drawer. You’ve run out of envelopes, so you go look for one in your parents’ office. Your mom calls out your name again, impatient to leave — if she sends her package off before twelve p.m., it will get to the receiver tomorrow, and she’s hell-bent on getting perfect five-star Vinted reviews — so you hurriedly put your letter in the envelope, close it, stamp it, and write Jongseong’s name and address on the back. The other letter you absent-mindedly throw in your drawer with the dozens of other letters in which you’d crossed the line.
--
A few weeks later, like an apparition, Jongseong stands before you again.
He’s tanner from months under the Washington sun, from afternoons spent at his family’s lake house, on their boat. His hair is slightly shorter and suits him even better; you don’t recognize any of the clothes he wears. He grumbles as his mother goes back-and-forth between hugging him, staring at him worriedly and reminding him to call at least twice a week while his father unpacks the trunk. “I’ll only be a thirty-minute train ride away, Mom,” he says.
He’s still Jong.
You moved in yesterday, and you’re now waiting for your new roommate, who, after five minutes of deliberating whether she should bring a jacket or not and finally decided against it, changed her mind the minute she stepped outside.
It’s been two months since you last saw him. Shortly after sending your letter, you’d gone to stay with Sunoo’s grandparents for a week, just a day before he was set to come back from Seattle. Amid packing and other preparations, you haven’t had time to see each other. Is it okay if I respond to your letter in person? I think I’ll be too busy these two coming weeks, he texted you. You replied that it wasn’t a problem, you told him which dorm you’d been assigned and found out his was the one next door.
When he notices you staring, he does a double-take. You wave at him, and even from this distance, you see the blush that creeps up his neck and takes over his face as he shyly waves back. You’ve never seen him like this—he’s always been either arrogant or friendly, never… flustered. He makes a motion as if to say, I’ll text you, and heads inside the building with his parents and all of his luggage.
Indeed, he texts you some hours later while you’re sharing a piece of strawberry and matcha cake with your roommate Liz, whom you find out is half-German—Jongseong and your dad would probably love her for that simple fact. Some of the first things she’d asked you were what your astrological signs were and whether you wanted her to pull tarot cards for you when she was all done setting up her side of the room. Between that and her dyed blonde hair, you’d felt comfortable telling her all about Jongseong, the well and your dream. Unlike your skeptical and sarcastic friends, she’d nodded along to your every word, a serious expression on her face. “A sign from the universe,” she’d called it, and she gasped in excitement when his name appeared on your screen.
He sends you a link to a freshers’ week event, some potted plant sale happening on the main campus square, and asks if you’re free to go with him tomorrow. I need something to liven up that depressing room, he writes.
So that’s how you find yourselves among green plants of all shapes and sizes, searching for one that’s both low-maintenance and appealing to the eye. You’re glad that you have something to actually do—if you were just sitting at a café and having a conversation, you’re not sure you’d be able to stand the awkwardness. You’d chalked up his behavior on the day of his move-in to nerves, or to surprise upon seeing you so unexpectedly. But apparently, it wasn’t a one-time thing. He keeps clearing his throat as if he were sick with some cold, won’t look into your eyes for more than split seconds at a time, and in complete opposition to his usual confident, deliberate speech, talks in a quick and disorderly manner. And he’s either really caught a cold, or his ears have just permanently turned red. You ask him if something’s wrong a couple times, but he violently shakes his head, says, “No, what could be wrong?” then looks at you as if you might tell him what’s wrong.
When you’re alone again, you wonder what on earth could have happened over the summer that could make him change his behavior with you so radically. Did something happen in Seattle? Maybe he met someone there and doesn’t know how to tell you. Maybe you went overboard with your letters, he doesn’t want to be friends anymore, he wants to let you down easy but doesn’t know how to tell you. Or maybe—maybe you got impossibly pretty during those two months, and absence does make the heart grow fonder, as they say, and every thought you have about him, he has about you, but he doesn’t know how to tell you.
In any case, he’s hiding something.
The theory that he might want to stop being friends soon falls flat—the invitations to other freshers’ events keep coming, be it free wine & pizza taster sessions from the Wine Society, karaoke nights with the Taylor Swift Society or a shark movie marathon with the Bad Film Society, and he never turns you down when you tell him there’s something you want to visit in this new city of yours, even when the thing you want to visit in question is a bakery you have to queue in front of at seven a.m. if you want to get a pain au chocolat. In your defense, they turn out to be the best ones you and Jongseong have ever tried—although, to be fair, neither of you has been to France.
Things progressively return to normal. He’s able to make eye contact for more than three seconds again, he listens carefully and laughs along when you tell him about your week by the sea with Sunoo, he fills you in on what Heeseung’s been up to. One thing remains different, however—when you throw quips at him, he usually would’ve delighted in coming up with a better, wittier response, but now, he’ll roll his eyes at best, look at you amusedly and stay silent at worst. “Won’t you even entertain me?” you ask him once, to which he replies that you’re doing a good job entertaining yourself as is.
Instead, he becomes more earnest. As per usual you badger him with questions like Aren’t I so pretty right now? or Isn’t my outfit so cute today? to get a reaction out of him, and if during your high school days he’d either fake a puking sound or look you up and down and grumble I guess, he now smiles and simply says Yes, you are, Yes, it is. It seems impossible to keep track of his attitude: one day, he’s one thing, the next, he’s another person entirely.
It annoys you. You take his changing demeanor to mean that now that he’s a college student, he won’t indulge in your childish squabbles anymore, as though he was above all of that now, when just three months ago he was stalking your parents’ Facebooks to find unfavorable photos of you from when you were thirteen and using them as reaction pictures in your friends’ group chat. You think of your graduation day, of the box he’d given you, all done up in wrapper paper and a bow—he had filled it with every eraser he’d stolen from you over the years, he’d even gone so far as to date every single one of them, from the second of October freshman year to the twenty-eighth of November of your senior year. You didn’t count them, but there had to be at least a hundred. At the time, you’d just thought it was funny—but what if the gesture had meant something deeper than you’d realized? What if he was marking the end of something with that box? No more playing around, we’re adults now. But classes have barely started, you don’t know your way to the off-campus library, you aren’t a different person to who you were just weeks or even months earlier. Why is he acting like he is? You look at him, and you see the boy whose fault it was you had to buy a new eraser every week—who knows how many books you could’ve bought with that money. But when he turns to look at you, too, and your eyes meet, you’re suddenly assailed with the memories of that night, the kind eyes, the soft smile.
Does his future capacity to love me already exist in his heart?
Your heartbeat speeds up and you have to look away.
--
From your letters, it seems to be much hotter back home than in Seattle—you talk of sunburns, of afternoons spent inside with the fan on maximum speed, of ice melting instantly and watering down your Coke Zeros, whereas Jay can walk around the city pleasantly and needs to bring a jacket if he’ll be out until late after sundown. And yet, as he reads your latest letter, his skin prickles feverishly, from the top of his head to the tip of his toes. He’d excitedly torn the envelope open the second it arrived in the mail, heart thumping as he counted the pages, at least three more than usual — he was always happy that you wanted to talk to him at all, so the fact that you had this much to tell him sent him over the moon — but he would have never expected what was awaiting him inside.
With a smile on his face, he read your replies to the questions he’d asked you last time, your reactions to everything he told you about, the live Mariners game, the lake house, the rides on the boat. He imagined you as you sat at your desk in your room he’d only seen once, when you’d held a small party for your birthday and he, having arrived first, was honored with a tour of your house. He imagined your smile, the way you played with your hair when you focused on something, wondered whether you pondered every word before you wrote it down as he did or whether you poured your thoughts out onto the page without hesitation. His smile faltered when Jake Sim’s name appeared in your neat handwriting, but he was relieved to find out your description of him now was miles away from the one at the start of the school year.
Then you start writing about him. Him, Park Jongseong, and your words startle him so much, it’s like he’d forgotten he was the recipient of this letter in the first place.
But it got me thinking about your fight again. Reflecting on it now, I can say that it was a turning point for me in my perception of you.
He’s been lying comfortably in his bed, but he sits up the moment his eyes take in these words. If there is one topic the two of you have practically never broached, it’s this exactly: your relationship, the changes it’s gone through this past year. Except for a few mentions made in jest here and there, you’ve always conveniently ignored the fact that not so long ago, you were at each other’s throats. At least, you were at his throat, and Jay let you be, let you think the hatred went both ways, when in reality all he wanted was to keep you close one way or another. To him, anything was better than indifference.
But here you are, writing about how you feel about him, not in hints, not in jokes, but actually telling him black and white what goes through your head when you think of him—in other words, everything he’s been dying to know ever since he met you and especially ever since you started warming up to him a few months ago.
I have never told you about that night because I know it’ll just be more fodder for you to endlessly tease me, and I haven’t even mentioned it in these letters that I write and don’t send. Sometimes I debate the ethics of it—if I know something about our futures, isn’t it right that you know, too? But then again, I still hesitate whether what happened was real or not. As with anything, the more time passes, the more I forget about it. What kind of cheese you’d put on the pasta, the movie that played in the background, whether the stairs were carpeted or wooded—these details have evaded me by now. All I clearly remember is your face and how I felt, seeing it then, seeing it the next day at school, ten years younger, the same exact person in what felt like a different universe. As much as I tried to deny it, I know now that it was no coincidence—I was talking about it with Sunoo and he said that sometimes, we want something so badly, we conjure it up for ourselves. He’s not always a dimwit. And he’s right, the kind of love I felt from you in that dream — or not-dream — I’ve yearned for it ever since I first watched Pride & Prejudice, the 2005 film to be precise, when I was ten. But with you? That was what I couldn’t believe at first. I don’t think I need to explain why—you were there, I think you knew how I felt about you for over three years, it’s not like I tried to hide it.
Then you turned up and the sight of you was enough to bring back all the feelings from that dream. You must’ve wondered why my behavior with you switched so suddenly—well, a glimpse into marital bliss is sometimes enough for a girl to make some changes in her life. Yet I valiantly tried to convince myself that any flutter of my heart around you was due to this stupid dream, to a version of you my brain had conjured up because it was starved for affection, and you happened to be at the forefront of my mind, even if not for the right reasons. But it was no use. I had entertained the possibility that this future was really mine, and I couldn’t go back to seeing you as the boy who annoyed the living daylights out of me.
But Jong, if you weren’t you, I would’ve been confused for a week and then I would’ve gotten over it. I stayed confused for a while, and everything you did only served to confuse me further. I started to notice you more, to see you for who you were and not for the idea I had constructed of you in my head, I stopped taking note of only the things that reinforced this idea. And that changed everything.
Let’s get it out of the way: as much as I hate to admit it because it proves you right, I saw that you are indeed devastatingly handsome. It devastates me every time I have to look at that stupid, wonderful face of yours. And if aging is something you’re worried about, don’t be. I’ve seen you at 28, and let’s just say that your jaw somehow only gets more chiseled. I’ve realized that you don’t just participate in class to be a prick — except for when you contradict me in Literature, I know you only do that to piss me off, and yes, it works — but that you actually care about what we learn and that you don’t want the teacher to feel like they’re talking to a classroom full of students made out of bricks. I’ve also realized that you didn’t specifically pick German to be the one subject where you must beat me at all costs, you just actually really like German, even if I’m still undetermined as to why. And I can finally admit to myself—you are funny. Sometimes. There were so many times I had to stop myself from laughing at one of your idiotic puns because I could not bear to give you the satisfaction. That feeling when the worst person you know makes a funny joke, and all that. And as much as I’ve mocked you for it, I do actually like your laugh. I like that you’re only loud when you laugh, or sneeze, or get excited over something. You don’t scream, you don’t get angry, and I think that’s a lot for a boy fresh out of puberty. Or for any boy, really.
But above all, you’re kind, Jong. I think it’s the best thing about you. I think it’s the best thing anyone can be. I see it in your patience with Heeseung when he starts one of his rants better reserved for Reddit than real life, I see it in the way you took Sunoo and Kazuha in stride, even though they’re a bit rough around the edges sometimes, I see it in the way you guide the freshmen at the start of every year, when all anyone does is complain about them, I see it in the gentleness with which you let down the girls who confess to you, even the more persistent ones. I used to think they were crazy, but I understand them more than ever now. I also used to think that all those kindnesses meant that the ones you occasionally showed me meant nothing more than that—occasional kindnesses. You were just a nice guy, occasionally so to me. But you sort of ratted yourself out when you gave me those twenty chocolates for Valentine’s.
Or, really, what made things clearer was that fight in December. I guess I was wrong—you do get angry. I remember a thought I had at the time: just when I think I know you, you do something to shake it all up. You punched two of the star soccer players of our school in the face because they said some mean, unimportant things about me. Thinking about it now, I still don’t understand it. Was it another one of your acts of kindness?
And then I thought of those other times you helped me out. Do you remember them—the art project, the handwritten notes after my grandma passed away, you tearing Park Sunghoon a new one in the girls’ bathroom. I’m sure there are many more that I’ve dismissed simply because I did not want to see you in any other light than the one I’d decided to shine on you.
Maybe I’m rewriting the past here, but I’ve been thinking about something lately. The theme today seems to be honesty, so I’ll lay myself bare and tell you something I haven’t told anyone yet, not even myself. The more I write, the more I become aware of its truth. I like you, Jong. I think I have for a long time, longer than either of us thinks. Maybe that’s why I kept buying erasers.
I don’t have the best memory — I suspect iron deficiency, it runs in my mom’s side of the family — but I do remember this. The first time I saw you. I haven’t noticed your face changing in real time, but I’m sure I’d laugh at how much of a baby you looked back then. Although I didn’t fare much better, I’m sure. Well, you’re the one that has all these embarrassing pictures of me, you freak, so I’m sure you could tell me. Moving on…
I found you really cute. You were chatting to the person next to you, maybe it was Heeseung, I didn’t look properly—I only looked at you. Don’t laugh at me. It was the first day of high school, there was a nervous energy in the air, but you seemed happy to be there. You know I don’t have hordes of friends like you do, I don’t walk through life with people naturally gravitating towards me. I’m okay with it now, but it was something I struggled with back then. Kazuha, Sunoo and I have had each other since our elementary days, and I never needed more than that—but fifteen is the prime age for comparison, and as the weeks passed and we got used to being high schoolers, I listened to everyone sing your praises, I watched as you talked with all of our classmates, even our teachers, like you were old friends. But we sat next to each other in a couple of classes, and you wouldn't talk to me outside of partnered work. I, who wanted to be easily charmed by you like everyone else was, who thought maybe you’d help me come out of my shell. But it felt like sitting next to me was torture to you, like the boy whom I watched speak with ease to everyone else disappeared when I was around. And so — and I’m not proud of this — every smart remark in class, every joke that had the entire class roaring, every high five you gave out in the hallway, I started to despise them. And by association, I started to despise you. After that, it was easy to find fault in everything you did, my contempt was only enhanced by everyone’s admiration. But I’m not alone here. It went both ways, didn’t it? I don’t think you liked that I didn’t like you and openly showed it, so used to being everyone’s favorite person you were. I remember how you showily tried to be nice to me after that, maybe you just wanted another friend, but I didn’t let you. I don’t blame us for how we acted, only for taking so long to get our heads out of our asses.
(I have to say, I also have a thing for hating people. Remind me to tell you about Na Jaemin and Shin Ryujin one of these days.)
Anyways, I think it’s because I had liked you so much at first that I could then seemingly hate you so much. But I never hated you, Jong, not really. I’m sorry if I gave you that impression. Can I take it all back now?
Now that we’re entering university soon, I can’t help but look back on high school. This is what I want to know, but I’m not sure I’ll ever have the courage to ask you, because if your answer is the one I suspect, I don’t know how I’ll handle all the regret in my heart.
Have I been wrong about you this whole time? I thought you harbored the same negative feelings towards me as I had you since the moment you’d laid eyes on me, but all of a sudden, here you were, bloody, bandaged hand holding mine. Even with your busted eye, you looked like an angel next to all that white in the nurse’s station. I’ll never forget your words that day. Would you really not get hurt for anything else, Jong?
Your letter abruptly ends here, no concluding remarks, no wishing him a fun time in Seattle and looking forward to his next letter, no sign-off. It was as if someone cut you off before you could say everything you wanted, but then why send him this seemingly unfinished letter? It is all the more bizarre since your letters are usually meticulous: you write on every other line, it looks like you take your time with every single letter, the only disturbance in your otherwise perfect handwriting is your going back-and-forth between cursive and script s’s. But this particular letter looks rushed, your lines are sloppy, some words need to be read a few times over to be understood. What kind of state had you been in, writing these words? Jay’s heart swells, thinking that you were as moved writing as he was reading. He even looks through your letter again, wishing to find a tear stain somewhere, but there are none. Maybe he’s been watching too many of these romantic period dramas you always go on about.
He has to pace his room when he’s done reading your letter, but he feels trapped inside these four walls, so he dashes outside, saying that he’s getting some air when his relatives ask him where he’s off to in such a rush, and walks around the block five times. When he’s back in his room, he rereads your letter, eyes taking in each and every word slowly and carefully, making sure he doesn’t misread anything.
You like him. You, Y/N, like him, Jongseong, it’s a fact, it’s real, you said so yourself, you went into quite some detail about it, he can’t believe it, but it’s real, it’s written right there on the page, if anyone dares tell him he’s fooling himself, he can prove them wrong, you’re the one who said it.
The smile doesn’t leave his lips for the rest of the day, he can barely eat, he’s already full of happiness. He reads your words over and over before falling asleep, committing them to memory, dreaming about them, about you.
You. How should he respond to this? Are you even expecting a response? You seem to know he’s not impartial to you, either, although that’s an understatement.
In the following days, the thought that you hadn’t meant to send him this letter nags at him. The abrupt ending, the absence of your usual Love, Y/N. The fact that this had come out of left field—none of your previous letters had even a romantic undertone, no matter how he tried in his own to hint at his missing you, the most reference to seeing each other again you would give him was It’ll be better to show you this in real life. The act of sending letters itself didn’t feel very platonic, but you never went there, so he didn’t, either. He had secretly yearned to have you this close all these years, he would never forgive himself if he ended up chasing you away now with his over-eagerness.
You had landed on something very real in your letter: I don’t think you liked that I didn’t like you and openly showed it, so used to being everyone’s favorite person you were. I remember how you showily tried to be nice to me after that, maybe you just wanted another friend, but I didn’t let you. He cursed his fifteen-year-old self, that idiot who couldn’t even speak to a girl no matter how much he wanted to, just because she was so pretty, he was afraid of saying something stupid and messing it up before it even had a chance to start.
On days when you’d had particularly nasty or petty arguments — it could get pretty bad, at the start, before you both started maturing and realized how ridiculous you were, especially with your classmates telling you to keep it classy — he’d stay up all night, wondering why you hated him so much in the first place, what on Earth he could’ve done to warrant such vitriol. Now, finally, he knew, and he could only resent the fact that no one had invented time machines yet, so he could nip his useless ego in the bud; so he could tell younger Jay not to take it personally, that you had your reasons for disliking him, that even if you hadn’t, the world won’t end if someone doesn’t like him like everyone usually does.
Because, he hates to admit, that was what had done it for Jay. He couldn’t stand that someone — not just someone, but one of the prettiest girls he’d ever seen, a girl he’d been hyping himself up to talk to every day, but never found the courage to — didn’t immediately fall for his charms. And not just that, but even showed just how much she disliked him. You looked him up-and-down with disdain, made disgusted faces at his jokes, rolled your eyes when he spoke up in class. It made him burn with anger, but he also weirdly enjoyed it—at least, you were paying attention to him. So, he amped it up. Talked louder, laughed louder, hovered around you. He even stole your erasers, wrote the date on which he’d taken them, kept them in a box on his desk that he looked at every time he studied at home. He aimed to beat you in every class you shared, even though neither of you cared that much about grades—the annoyed look on your face when he boasted about the two points he’d gotten over you was enough satisfaction.
All in all, he behaved like a child, and you reciprocated in like.
Until you didn’t.
It was a random Tuesday when something in your attitude towards him shifted. It wasn’t a complete 180, but he noticed everything about you, so even a slight change of your tone was obvious to him. You started using your nickname for him more often than his full name—he never told you, but of course he loved that you didn’t call him Jay like everyone else, that you had your own way of addressing him. It was a sign to him that the two of you had something special, even if it was on the opposite end of the spectrum of what he wanted with you.
He again spent sleepless nights wondering what had caused this change: was it something he had done, or something within you? It was a welcome change, that much was sure, but he was initially too confused to take it in stride. He’d long made peace with the fact that he’d never have you the way he really wanted, so he was fine with whatever this was—but now, you were changing, your interactions were tinged with something like shyness, the distance between you felt greater than ever. He tried to keep up his smart-ass appearances around you, but you only indulged in your old habits once in a while, as though you had grown tired of arguing with him, even of giving him the time of day.
So he resolved himself to adapting his behavior to yours. If you stared at him intently like his face was a puzzle you were trying to solve, he let you, rested his head on his palm and smiled as he stared back at you. Finally, he had an excuse to look at you without you threatening to punch him or saying a picture would last longer. He knew they did, he’d had to resort to scrolling through Sunoo’s and Kazuha’s Instagrams to find any photos of you. Yours was private and at the time, you would’ve probably cursed him out if he’d sent a follow request. If you seemed too annoyed or upset over something, he’d leave you alone, he’d do something nice to let you know you didn’t need to have your guards up at all times around him. If you seemed to silently call for a truce of hostilities, he easily complied.
Then, after a few weeks, your petty arguments resumed, but those too were different—if before they felt filled with real disdain and irritation, they now seemed to be a comfortable habit to fall back on, almost like a fun hobby. Those, too, Jay readily welcomed.
And so things changed in a direction Jay had never thought would one day be possible. You gave him no explanations, nor did he ask for any, and soon he stopped losing sleep over the why’s and the how’s and simply let himself enjoy the fact that you now had the semblance of a friendship, that he could compliment you and pass it off as amical teasing, that he could learn things about you like what you spent your weekends doing, what your relationship with your family was like, whether you were a dog or cat person, whether you wanted to visit his farm in Stardew Valley.
Unsurprisingly, this only enhanced his already pathetically strong feelings for you. He worried over how to make sure this wasn’t some sort of 30-day friendship trial you had wanted to test out. He reveled in the fact that his top university of choice was the one you had already been accepted to. He now knew what it felt like to have you smile at him, smile because of him, and he never wanted again to live in a world where this was not a daily occurrence.
He now sort of has an answer—your letter doesn’t make it very clear, it makes him think again that you really had not meant to send it, but you seem to have had a dream. A dream of him, 28-year-old him, to be precise, of your life together—he’s not sure. At this point in time, he doesn’t care much, either. Whether it was a dream or a real vision of the future that you had, all that matters is that it allowed you to see him in a new light, a light which he had hoped for years would one day appear to you, and it had changed things. And now, you liked him.
You said so yourself.
He’s at a loss for words. He can’t concentrate for long enough to put all his thoughts in order, he can’t make himself calm down and write his feelings down. He has to pack to go home, once he’s home, he’ll have to pack for university. But it’s only two weeks from now to the day you meet again, and it’ll be better to say what he wants to say in person, anyway.
Is it okay if I respond to your letter in person? I think I’ll be too busy these two coming weeks, he texts you.
And then those two weeks pass like two seconds and you’re there, a few meters away from him. All the speeches he’d prepared in his head, from grand declarations of love to laid-back admittances of Yeah, I like you too, you’re cool, I guess, they all vanish from his head. For fourteen days he’s been going through scenarios upon scenarios of your reunion, what you’d look like, what he’d say, how you’d react. But now that he can actually see you, now that he would just have to walk a few steps if he wanted to touch you, hug you, kiss you — hoping that was something you wanted to do — he freezes. He forgets how his body works, the part in his brain that’s meant to manage language ability fails him. HIs mom calls him over, urging him into his new dorm building, and all he can do is wave back at you like an idiot.
When finally he musters the courage to text you, what he hopes will be the day that starts your romantic relationship turns into the day Park Jongseong realizes how much of a loser he is. For the first hour, he can’t look at you, he can’t get through a sentence without stuttering out half of his words, he runs out of things to say in record time. All he can think of is how easy it’d be to grab one of your hands, hold it in his and walk around this stupid potted plant sale as if the two of you were two halves of a whole. He doesn’t even want a potted plant, his roommate already has five, he just wanted an excuse to see you. He steals glances at you when you’re looking elsewhere, and he notices everything about you tenfold now that he can, now that caring about you doesn’t need to be in vain any longer. He tells himself that he just needs to calm down a bit, even when you have the confirmation that the person you’re about to confess to already likes you, revealing your feelings to someone is always nerve-wracking, the two of you haven’t seen in each other in a while, he’ll talk to you once his heart gets out of his throat.
But you’re acting normal. Suspiciously so. You’re acting like you never told him you liked him, like nothing has changed between you. He rereads your letter the second he gets back to his dorm. He’s not crazy, it’s written right there, I like you, Jong. I think I have for a long time, longer than either of us thinks. He knows the words by heart now, but he checks them anyway. So why are you acting like you never said anything? Had you really not meant to send that letter? Did Jay actually intrude on your private thoughts by reading words that had never meant to be seen by another soul?
You continue to behave as you usually would around him, but if he couldn’t go back to vicious bickering when things changed the first time, he can’t go back to friendly bickering now that things — for him — have changed a second time. He doesn’t even want friendly to be in your shared vocabulary anymore.
So he stops giving in. If you make fun of him, he just stands there with an unimpressed if amused look on his face. If you pedantically correct him on something, he just nods his head and accepts it. He can tell you’re bothered by it, but he needs to show you that he doesn’t want to go on being just friends with you—he wants to compliment you without having to pass it off as teasing, he wants to stare at you with hearts in his eyes without having to look away when you catch him, he wants to spend every waking second of every day with you, he wants to hold your hand, hold you.
He could wait for things to change slowly again, but why wait when he could help things along?
--
It’s nine p.m. on a Saturday and you’re sneaking Jongseong into your dorm. Liz is away for the weekend, gone back home to celebrate her aunt’s birthday, so you have the room to yourselves. It took some convincing to get him to come — What if we get caught coming in, What if your T.A. sees us, What if I get reported to campus police — and so when your verbal reassurances failed to work, you resorted to blinking up at him through your lashes and that did the trick.
Jongseong was in many ways unlike any other man you’d ever met; in some other ways, he was the exact same.
Plastic bag of the tteokbokki you’d asked for in hand, he looks around the deserted hallways like someone might jump out of nowhere and beat him to a pulp at any given moment. At this time of the week, everyone’s out partying or holed up in their dorms, presumably either to rest or because of a lack of friends so early on in the semester. You grab his free hand and hurry him along to the elevator—once inside, it takes you a few seconds before you realize you’re still holding it, and you retract your hand quickly while he just smiles.
You settle yourselves on the floor—comfort is not worth getting gochujang sauce on your white sheets. You sit criss-cross in front of each other, the food between the two of you, and catch up on your first week of class in-between bites of spicy, gooey rice cakes and fish cakes. You wonder, if one day you and Jongseong are no longer friends, how long you will keep associating tteokbokki with him.
When you tell him that you and Jake share a class, Introduction to Film Studies, he gives you a look. “What’s that face for?” you ask.
“Did you guys sit next to each other?”
You chuckle. “Of course. We only knew each other in that room, it would’ve been weird not to.”
He continues to stare at you. After a while, he muses, “You’re not…?”
You halt in your tracks, rice cake at the end of your plastic fork hanging in the air, halfway between the container and your mouth. “Whatever you’re thinking, the answer is no.” Still in love with him, interested in him again, you don’t know the exact details of Jongseong’s thought process, all you know is he has nothing to worry about—if it’s something he worries about.
When a smile slowly grows on his lips and he nods, saying, “Okay, good,” you let yourself think it might be.
Later, you’re ten minutes into a senseless blockbuster movie when he suddenly pauses it. It snaps you out of a trance—his hand was awfully close to yours, so is his shoulder, his thigh, his knee, everything, really, and you haven’t been able to concentrate on anything but the warmth radiating off his skin and the intensity with which you crave to feel it intentionally rather than accidentally. When he speaks, there’s something serious in his tone that makes you nervous. “Y/N,” he says as he turns to you, and now his face is awfully close, too. There’s still many centimeters separating you, but in this tiny, barely lit-up room, he feels closer than ever before. “Do you remember when I said I’d reply to your letter in real life?”
You tilt your head. “Yeah, that was ages ago.”
“Well, I thought I’d do it now.”
“Now?”
He takes a deep, shaky breath. “Now.”
And then those safe centimeters suddenly disappear, and Jongseong’s lips are on yours. It’s a brief, chaste kiss, so quick you wonder if it even happened when he leans back again.
“I like you, too,” he says, and your heart stops.
“W-what?” is all you can say back, eyes wide like he’s just admitted to killing someone rather than reciprocating your feelings.
His confident facade quickly crumbles. “God, this was so much cooler in my head, I-I’m sorry.” He pulls something out of his sweatpants pocket, pages folded over and over into a tiny square. As he unfolds them, you recognize your paper, your handwriting—but what do your letters have anything to do with him kissing you, of all things? “I don’t think you meant to send this. But I’m glad you did.”
He hands you the pages and your eyes skim over the words, not detecting anything out of the ordinary, until—But it got me thinking about your fight again. Reflecting on it now, I can say that it was a turning point for me in my perception of you. You remember this line, because you had made sure to strike it and everything that came afterward out when you rewrote the letter that you would actually send Jongseong. So how was he giving you this?
“I-How do you have this?” you ask, voice trembling. You feel as though your heart overflows with all kinds of emotions, and so your eyes follow, tears staining your lower lashes.
But Jongseong is not one to let you hide things from him. “Hey, no, it’s okay,” he says, warm hands coming to cup your face. “Look at me.” You have no choice but to oblige—his gaze is somehow both soft and stern, a mix of concern and determination. “Did you mean what you wrote in here?” You nod. “Then everything’s okay. You don’t know how happy I was reading this.”
The tension in your body slowly starts to fade. “Really?”
“Really. I cherish every single word in there.”
“Really?” you repeat, and he chuckles.
“Really.”
Your heartbeat speeds up as you gaze into his eyes, as you let yourself bask in the affection and endearment you find there. You can’t quite comprehend what’s happening. The letter, the kiss, his confession, your inadvertent confession, it’s all a mess in your head; so sudden, but such a long time coming at the same time. You never imagined that things would change so quickly—less than a year ago, you thought Jongseong was the most irritating person on this planet. After meeting his 28-year-old self, you thought it’d take ages for the two of you to be on such good terms. But now, just a week into your first semester of university, belly full of tteokbokki and Sprite, you like each other enough not only to be in the same room without hurling insults at each other but to actually be smiling at each other, willingly at that.
Your eyes drift down to his lips, just like in the hallway all those months ago, and the words slip out before you can stop them. They’re a mere whisper—”Kiss me again.”
Jongseong doesn’t need to be told twice. Still cupping your face, he bridges the gap between the two of you again, and this time, when your lips meet, they don’t come apart so quickly. It’s your first kiss, and it’s nothing short of magical, better than any romance novel could’ve prepared you for. His lips are warm and soft against yours, moving slowly, gingerly; as if he’s scared to take any wrong step, he lets you control the pace, follows every tilt of your head this way and that. It’s a relief that he seems to know as little about this as you do—his hands haven’t moved from your face, yours are on his knees, all you can do is focus on the movement of your lips, to think of anything else at the same time would be overwhelming.
“I’ve liked you from the start,” he suddenly says, face still so close you can feel his breath on your lips as he speaks.
“Hm?” you hum, body reeling from the kiss.
“I’ve liked you from the start,” he repeats, grinning—he looks relieved, like he’s been waiting to say these words for a long time. “I can’t believe this is happening after all these years. Or at all, really.”
“I think I did, too.”
“Yeah, you mentioned that in your letter.”
Your eyes widen and you bury your face in your hands as Jongseong laughs. “You’re never going to let me live that down, are you?” you mumble.
He smooths over your hair with one hand, brings your face back up with the other. “Don’t worry. I won’t ever make you regret this.”
Your brain and heart are too all over the place for you to come up with a coherent answer, so you lean in and reconnect your lips to his. It’s already becoming your favorite sensation, feeling him smile into the kiss, threading your fingers in his soft hair.
Time passes delicately like this, the two of you on your single bed, in the sheets that you bought three weeks ago. A lot of it is spent kissing and learning how to fall into each other’s rhythm, but you also spend hours talking, comparing situations and how you’d experienced them. You thought his occasional acts of kindness were done out of guilt, evidence that he did have some morals; he was trying to show he cared about you. He thought you’d despised him from the moment you saw him; you reiterate in more detail than your letter what really happened, you say you wish you knew then what you know now.
“But I never hated you, Jong. I think I wanted to believe that I did, but I never actually did.”
“You glared at me everytime I walked past like I killed a member of your family.”
You groan, ashamed of yourself. “I did, didn’t I?”
“You did,” he says, chuckling, placing a kiss on your forehead. His arms are around you, your head rests atop his heart—you’ve never felt more comfortable in your life. “But it’s okay. We’re here now, and I don’t want us to have any regrets about high school. We had a good time, didn’t we?”
You tilt your head up to look at him. “I’m sure you did, stealing all my erasers.”
He lets out a hearty laugh. Clearly, he’s very proud of his feat. “Hey, I gave all of them back.”
“And what am I going to do with a hundred erasers, Jong?” you ask, laughing too, pecking his cheek aggressively—your way of punishing him for a grave deed.
“Keep them as a token of my love for you,” he says, and your breath falters at the mention of that word. “In fifty years, it’ll be a sign that I’ve liked you since the beginning, I just had a funny way of showing it.”
“Fifty years, huh?”
He grins. “Fifty, a hundred, whatever. You’re not getting rid of me.”
“I wasn’t planning to.”
You’re both smiling so wide, you can barely manage a kiss. He trails kisses from your lips to your ear. Holding you close, he whispers, “It’s always been you, Y/N. Always and only you.”
There may be thorns on the otherwise immaculate rose that is your life, but Park Jongseong was never one of them—all along, he was a bud waiting to bloom.
--
The more time passes, the more you wonder whether that night you had seen in your vision will ever come. There’s been evenings similar to it—crashing the minute you came home from a long day on set, telling yourself you’d take a fifteen-minute power nap only to wake up three hours later and coming downstairs to find your husband cooking dinner, cleaning the kitchen, taking care of your son or simply watching TV, but waiting for you, always waiting for you. He seems as happy now watching you come down the stairs as he was then finding your face among all the students flocking out of lecture halls.
The details are blurry now, but many small things seem to be different from what you’d seen. He still tries to recreate your favorite meal, but it’s not pasta all'arrabbiata, it’s laksa, because your first date as an official couple was to a Malaysian restaurant, not an Italian one. He’s still the best father you know, but you have one son, not twin girls—although that offer to “give him a younger sibling to play with” is always on the table. Even the house you live in is different from the one in your dream, which has now become nothing more than a funny anecdote you share with people when they ask you the story of how you and Jongseong met.
You think of Sunoo’s words from all those years ago: Sometimes, we want something so badly, we conjure it up for ourselves. Had 18-year-old you been in such denial over her feelings for Jongseong that she’d had to convince herself a magical well had bestowed a crazy dream upon her to admit that, yes, there was something there, something other than childish hatred?
It doesn’t matter anymore. Months pass without you thinking about that well, anyway.
Tonight, you come home late from work after having had to do last-minute changes to the script for your current project, a movie that starts shooting in a few days. Jongseong texted you that he was going to bed an hour or so again, so you’re greeted by a plate of japchae covered in film paper. The post-it note stuck to it reads, I’m afraid of the repercussions of too much curry consumption on our son, so no laksa tonight my love. Hope you like it. Come to bed quick. You were starving a second ago, but you decide food can wait—other things can’t.
You tiptoe up the stairs and into your son’s room, breathing in the scent of his hair and placing a kiss there. His hair is still worryingly sparse, but if he’s anything like his dad, it’ll come in a bit later than the other kids. You always thought babies with a full head of hair were freaky, anyway. He doesn’t budge a bit, sleeping like a log—his dad is another story, shuffling in bed the moment you step into your shared bedroom. He opens his arms wide, a silent invitation.
“You’re home,” he says as you attach yourself to his body, your leg hiked up over his, your face buried in the crook of his neck, your thumb caressing the start of stubble on his cheeks.
pairing chwe hansol x fem!bestfriend!reader
about fluff | 1.1k words | best friends to lovers
summary hansol always has that look in his eyes
warnings written in lowercase, mentions of alcohol consumption, another girl talking to hansol, and calling reader "y/n"
note i should be writing my midterm paper but i saw a tiktok of vernon staring at people when they talk and so here we are
masterlist ౨ৎ likes and reblogs are appreciated!
CLUBS WEREN’T USUALLY YOUR VIBE.
the bass, the crowd, the sticky floors—all of it was fine in small doses, but not something you often sought out.
still, when seungcheol proposed a night out to have fun before the days got colder, and hansol turned to you with that soft, coaxing smile and said, “you’re coming, right?”—your resistance caved in a heartbeat.
that’s how you ended up here, sandwiched in a booth with the boys at a lounge-style club with neon lights painting everything in shades of violet and gold. the music thumped through your chest, and the alcohol caused you to flush slightly red.
hansol had been sitting next to you the whole night—his thigh brushing yours, his arm lazily slung across the back of the booth behind you. you had spent the last hour laughing at chan’s dramatic reenactment of junhui trying to flirt in three languages, and every time you laughed, hansol smiled like you were the only one he could hear.
“i’m getting us another round,” hansol said suddenly, sliding out of the booth. “same for you?”
you nodded, your fingers brushing his as you handed him your empty glass. “yeah, thanks, sol.”
hansol smiled at you, then his signature look—eyes soft like you were something to memorize. soon he disappeared into the crowd.
you waited.
minutes passed. you watched the booth shift around you—soonyoung pulling jihoon and minghao to dance, seokmin whining about his lost jacket, and wonwoo trying to stop jeonghan from stealing his drink. everyone else already at the dance floor. it was a normal night out with your best friends.
but still no sign of hansol.
curious, you stood and scanned the bar. and that’s when you saw him.
leaning against the counter, two drinks in hand, talking to a girl. she had long, sleek hair, one hand twirling around the straw in her glass, the other tucked flirtatiously under her chin. and hansol… he was smiling.
that look. the one he always gave you. warm. intent. like he was listening with his whole soul.
but this time, it wasn’t for you.
you stomach twisted.
you forced yourself back into the booth and sat in silence, pretending to check your phone. the laughter around you felt like static, but little aches behind your ribs grew heavier with each second.
“you good?” jeonghan slid into the seat beside you with a fresh drink after failed attempts to take wonwoo’s.
you offered a tight smile. “yeah, just a little tired.”
jeonghan was smarter than that. you were having fun until hansol left, sitting quietly ever since. so, jeonghan followed your previous gaze.
to hansol.
to the girl.
and then right back to you.
a smirk tugged at the corner of his lips. “it’s hansol.”
your heart jumped. “what?”
he leaned in, whispering low. “you look upset. like someone just walked off with the last piece of your favorite cake.”
you scoffed. “it’s not like that. it’s really nothing.”
jeonghan raised a brow, clearly not buying it. “mm. sure.” you hated how your best friend could read you so well.
you stood abruptly, waving jeonghan off with your hands. “i’m heading home. i’ll see everyone next time, okay?”
jeonghan asked, voice gentler now, “want me to tell him?”
you shook your head. “no, he looks like he’s having a good time.”
you slipped out the exit, letting the cool night air hit your cheeks. you didn’t know if it was the drinks or just your heart pulling you downward, but your chest ached.
then—“y/n!”
you turned around in the direction of the club.
hansol jogged toward you, the club lights casting a faint halo behind him. “why are you leaving already? you were fine when i left.”
yoon jeonghan will so be hearing from you tomorrow.
you looked away. “it’s nothing. i’m just tired. you should head back inside, you seemed busy.”
your best friend frowned. “y/n. come on. you think i wouldn’t notice if something’s off?”
you didn’t answer.
hansol sighed, stepping closer. “okay, then i’m walking you home.”
you blinked. “sol, you don’t have to—”
“i want to,” he said firmly.
you walked in silence for a while. the streets were quiet, the night air slightly cold. it should have been a peaceful walk home, but your thoughts churned.
you glanced at him. “so… who was the girl?”
hansol looked over, confused. “what girl?”
“the one you were talking to at the bar.”
he blinked, then laughed softly. “oh her? she was asking about mingyu.”
“what?” you stopped walking and he followed your actions.
hansol shrugged. “she wanted to know if mingyu was single. apparently, they were meeting eyes the whole night and she saw us sitting in the same booth, so she assumed i knew him.”
you stared at the pavement. “oh.”
hansol‘s voice was calmer. “wait, were you jealous?”
your head snapped up and your heart stuttered.
you opened your mouth—but no words came.
he smiled, almost to himself. “y/n…”
“yes?” you mumbled.
you turned, only to find him looking at you with that expression again—the one you thought was only reserved for you.
“you’re so blind,” he said softly.
you swallowed. “what does that mean?”
hansol took a step closer to you.
“i’ve looked at you like this for years,” he murmured. “everyone’s told me—the guys tease me all the time. jeonghan says i look at you like you’re the answer to a question i’ve been asking my whole life.”
your breath hitched. “what?”
“you kept brushing it off, so i thought i just needed to wait. like if i stayed close, maybe one day you’d finally see me.”
hansol added quietly. “so, do you see me now?”
you couldn’t speak, shocked.
“god, i’m in love with you, y/n,” he said, voice trembling slightly. “i don’t know when it started—maybe when you dragged me through that rainstorm because you wanted ramen, or when you fell asleep on my shoulder during movie night, or maybe from the first time i met you. but i love you.”
the world tilted slightly. chwe hansol has loved you this whole time.
you let out a shaky breath. “sol, i’m in love with you, too.”
hansol’s eyes widened—then softened, impossibly more than before.
and just like that, the space between you disappeared. he leaned in slowly as if asking without words, and when your hand found his shirt and pulled him closer, that was answer enough.
his lips brushed against yours—warm, tender, unhurried. like the world wasn’t rushing like it never would again.
you pulled back just enough to whisper, “so, you really do look at me like you’re in love.”
⨭ genre; college!au, frat!au, enemies to lovers!trope (sort of)
⨭ pairing; miya atsumu x f!reader
⨭ word count; 16.4k
⨭ descriptions; you're convinced that miya atsumu is the world's biggest fuckboy asshole, and yet, when the iota nu alpha (ina)'s exec board and your sorority's exec board go on winter break together, you come to prove that there really is a thin line between hate and something else.
⨭ warnings; alcohol, profanity, sexual innuendos, LOTS of dick jokes
⨭ a/n; i have been FIENDING to write frat boy! & fuckboy!atsumu bro so here's the 'tsumu redemption story lmfao i am very proud of coming up w greek letter versions of the hq teams. hope u love seeing a fuckboy conversion story as much as i do mwah :)
song i listened to writing this: 'tsunami' by niki
one.
Winter break should have been perfect.
Here’s what should have happened: (1) you, your sorority’s executive board, and an obsessive amount of luggage for a two week break all pile into Mao’s sexy black Jeep; (2) drive six and a half hours up to the cute, girly AirBnB you rented for this; (3) sleep in until 1 PM every day and wake up in the softest sheets ever; (4) spend the whole winter break snowboarding down black diamonds and drinking mimosas in the hot tub. You even treated yourself to a shopping spree in preparation for it; four sets of pink bikinis and matching silk pajamas for the girls had put a significant dent in your bank balance but who cares because it was meant for your perfect winter break.
It could’ve been perfect. It should’ve been perfect.
But here you are instead, the day after finals on what could have been a lovely end to the first half of your junior year but instead is the start of an imminently torturous two weeks, standing at the curb of your university apartment building, shivering your absolute fucking ass off in just a hoodie because Aran’s rental car was delayed an hour for pick up. All your favorite winter wear is already packed into the massive duffel bag by your feet, stuffed to the absolute brim with just one of your new bikinis (since apparently, you had to do bonding activities now), plain pajama sets (the girls worried the others would feel left out), and everything you could ever need to commit a murder and get away with it.
Your planned victim? Atsumu Miya, the official worst human being on Earth.
This belief is confirmed by the blue 2012 Hyundai you’ve been waiting on finally rolling up, and the back door popping open to reveal Atsumu, sprawled across the three seats as if he owns the place. He looks as if he plans on you feeding him grapes and massaging his feet during the ride there; you want to punch him in the jaw. His eyes flick up, lazily scanning you from head to toe with a smirk that could infuriate a saint.
“Awh, look who’s here to grace us with her presence,” he drawls, not bothering to move an inch. “So princess, ready to fall in love with me yet?”
You grit your teeth, forcing a smile that’s more a baring of teeth. Mentally, you scratch out human—because he’s actually closer to a demon.
“In your fantasies,” you scoff, heaving your duffel bag into the trunk with more force than necessary. The trunk is a struggle to close because it’s already overflowing with way more baggage than is needed for a winter break trip.
He chuckles, an irritating sound that grates on your last nerve. “Oh, I have plenty of those, babe. You’re just usually not wearin’ clothes in ‘em.”
Yep, it’s confirmed. You’re going to kill Atsumu.
Unfortunately, Yui Michimiya, the sorority president and apparently shotgun, rolls down the window before you get the opportunity to strangle him right then and there. “Y/N, get in the car, we have to go! Mao and them are already on their way there.”
You sputter. “I’m stuck in the back with him? Are you kidding?”
“Aran is driving the first three hours, and then I’m switching with him. We don’t have time for this.”
“What, so I not only have to share my winter break with the fucking foxes, but now I’m backseat? Why didn’t you just let me go with the other girls, Yui?” you whine. You know you’re being childish, but you don’t care. This is practically a matter of life or death (albeit not yours—for Atsumu).
Yui’s eyes dart between you and Atsumu, her lips pressed into a thin line as she navigates the tension with the ease of a seasoned diplomat. “Look, I know you two have your... differences, but we’ve got a schedule to keep. It’s a long drive, and we can’t afford to start late. You two both need to just suck it up, okay? It’s just a few hours.”
You glance at Atsumu, who’s now sporting a grin that suggests he’s already won whatever game he thinks you’re playing. The prospect of spending hours confined in a car with him makes your skin crawl, but with a resigned sigh, you grab the rest of your gear and slide into the backseat. The door slams shut, sealing your fate. You’re already sad for your future self.
Atsumu shifts, making a show of spreading out even more, his smirk never faltering. “Are ya feelin’ cozy, sweetheart?” he teases, nudging you with his knees as his legs open so far he’s past the empty center console.
“Your tiny dick does not need that much room. Now get your legs away from mine before I chop them off and throw them in the woods behind our cabin.”
“Wow, princess, didn’t think 8 inches was tiny in your book. Or should I say size queen?”
This is officially the worst winter break of your life.
When Chizuru, the sorority secretary, had first proposed the idea of sharing your annual break retreat with a fraternity executive board, you thought she was joking. And then when Mao, the internal vice president, said it was a lovely plan so that both parties could have bigger facilities and more funds, you begged for it to be any other fraternity. And then finally, when Yui officially confirmed that your retreat would be a joint trip with Iota Nu Alpha (INA)’s five executive members, you actually lost your mind.
Because Iota Nu Alpha, while being a generally very respectable fraternity with a decent national establishment and well-regarded chapter on your campus, contains a particular flaw: a certain external vice president who is the actual devil and goes by the earthling name of Atsumu Miya.
The truth is that you’re not a very violent person—you don’t even knowingly kill bugs, much less go on mental tangents fantasizing about someone’s downfall. Before freshman year of college, you wouldn’t have ever believed that you’d be on the verge of homicidal rage just from the sound of someone’s voice.
But Atsumu truly is a special case because he has an innate talent for bringing out the worst in you. Every smirk, every condescending comment, every casual brush of his arm against yours feels like a deliberate provocation, and it has ever since you first met him in a frat basement during your freshman year. Deciding he was nothing but bad news, you had tried to distance yourself from him, but somehow, he continues to be pulled back in everywhere: from being chemistry lab partners in your freshman spring to being paired during the Greek life matchups to being forced to take him to your sophomore sorority formal because your initial date ghosted last minute, for some reason, the universe hates you and you literally cannot escape him.
Atsumu Miya spends half his time flirting with you and the other half pissing you off; he’s a thorn in your side that simply will not budge. He’s evidently already made it his mission to ruin your break before it’s even started, so that’s just reason #13092 of why he is in fact the bane of your existence.
The car pulls away from the curb, and Aran, INA’s secretary, adjusts the rearview mirror to glance back at the two of you. “Let’s try to keep it civil, alright? We’ve got a long road ahead of us.”
Atsumu snickers and you roll your eyes, keeping your gaze trained on what’s outside the window. The cityscape blurs past, a mix of buildings and holiday lights from tourist spots in the area.
If you had been in Mao’s car right now, accompanied by her and two tolerable members of the fraternity, you’d probably be excited, chattering on and on about all the fun you were going to have. But now, the only thing you can think about is how to survive the next few hours—and then the next two weeks—without throttling the blonde asshole sitting next to you.
“Y’know, princess,” Atsumu says after a few minutes of blessed quiet, “Ain’t it funny how ya swore in freshman year you’re never speakin’ to me again? And yet here we are.”
You don’t bother looking at him, your voice dripping with sarcasm. “Oh, hilarious. It’s the comedy of the century how you’ve become an inescapable part of my college life. What’s next? Are you planning to haunt my dreams too?”
Atsumu’s grin widens, undeterred by your sarcasm. “Are ya sayin’ you wanna sleep with me? Awh, at least buy me dinner first.”
“Fuck you.”
“I mean, as ya wish. Or I can fuck you, I don’t mind changin’ up positions.”
You glare at him, but the intensity of your anger is somewhat mitigated by the fact that you’re squished in the backseat, your knees almost touching his. Yui and Aran exchange a glance in the front, clearly relieved that the bickering hasn’t escalated to physical violence—yet.
You think they shouldn’t be relieved yet. With the way Atsumu is currently simpering at you, it won’t be long before you act on your deep urge to punch him.
two.
The first few hours of the drive pass. You try to ignore Atsumu as much as possible, staring out the window and counting the trees as they whip by; still, he keeps saying stupid things and making you acknowledge them because they’re just that stupid. He just has the miraculous ability to pull you out of your head and whenever he speaks, he becomes all you can think about (because you’re so enraged by his audacity). Occasionally, you catch snippets of Yui and Aran’s conversation, but their voices are low, and you’re too wrapped up in your own thoughts and debates to pay much attention.
And then you notice the snow outside. You’re far enough outside of Tokyo now where the weather has begun to change; it is so incredibly beautiful to see the snowflakes flying down gently as the car flies past the snow-dusted neighborhoods and you can’t help but press your forehead against the cool glass, fascinated. You haven’t seen snowfall this hard in so long, and you are enthralled by it. It’s like the universe itself is trying to soften your mood, scattering diamonds across the landscape to distract you from the simmering tension inside the car. Even Atsumu seems momentarily quiet, his usual remarks on pause as he gazes out his own window.
The serene moment, however, is shattered when Aran suddenly pipes up, “We’re going to make a quick stop in Sendai. Need to stretch our legs and maybe grab some snacks. Anyone need anything specific?”
The car pulls into a convenience store parking lot, and the group disbands for a brief respite from the confined space: Aran goes to refill the tank, Atsumu and Yui head inside the store, and you trail behind in the lot. You step out, taking in the crisp, cold air, feeling it sting your lungs—a welcome pain compared to the annoyance of dealing with Atsumu. Still, you’ve made it this far; you refuse to allow his presence to deter you from enjoying the snow.
The break is brief, and soon everyone is piling back into the car, arms laden with snacks and drinks. Atsumu tosses you a pack of peach gummies with a smug look. “Don’t say I never do anything nice for ya.”
You raise an eyebrow at him. “Thanks?” you say, but it comes out more like a question; you’re struck by the gesture but even more so by the fact that he in fact had gotten your favorite candy. “How’d you know I liked these?”
“Oh, I just got them ‘cause they’re peaches. And I like your ass.”
Ah, there he goes, opening his big mouth and ruining everything.
His smirk widens, and he shifts closer, his shoulder brushing against yours. “Y’know, if yer cold, they say body heat is the best way to stay warm. Maybe we should try—”
You shove him away. “Keep your theories to yourself. I’m not interested.” You’re frowning again, staring outside the window with a refreshed intensity.
It’s infuriating how he does nice things as if he cares about you when he’s really just the world’s biggest fuckboy. He is pretty and he knows it, so it’s not some random mistake that he spends half his time charming girls into dropping their panties. In a fraternity already known for being Man Sluts™, he really does stand out as the biggest one of all because everywhere Miya Atsumu goes, broken hearts inevitably follow.
He grins as if your hostility is just another game for him to win—because he’s an instigator, he doesn’t let up. “C’mon, we’re stuck together anyway. Might as well get close, babe.” His tone is mocking, and you can feel his eyes on you even with your gaze fixed firmly out the window.
“Don’t call me that.”
“Why? ‘Cause ya know ya like it?”
“Because I have a name, Atsumu,” you snap, plugging in your earbuds and turning up your music loud enough to drown out everything and everyone (and especially Atsumu) around you.
Yui and Aran sigh. They had been the only ones to agree to take you two, and even their patience is wearing thin. The rest of the drive to the AirBnB continues in a similarly miserable pattern—moments of near silence punctuated by Atsumu’s insufferable comments and your equally sharp retorts. By the time you arrive, everyone’s a little cranky except Atsumu, as obnoxiously cheery as ever.
The sole saving grace is that the cabin is just as charming as you’d hoped.
With the INA’s additional funds, the AirBnB is significantly nicer than any you’ve stayed at before. Nestled in a small clearing, it’s a picturesque retreat with smoke gently curling from the chimney and warm lights glowing from the windows: altogether, it’s a two-story, wood-paneled beauty that looks like it was plucked straight from a Christmas postcard. The surrounding forest is peaceful, there’s a gorgeously still lake just past the trees, and the snow-covered opening glistens under the setting sun as the car finally comes to a slow in the stone-lined parking space.
You step out of the car, stretching your legs and taking a deep breath; the thin snow sinks under your sneakers as you retrieve your duffel bag from the trunk. Atsumu, of course, makes a show of grabbing his own luggage with exaggerated effort, smirking at you as he hefts a comically oversized yellow suitcase over his shoulder.
“Need any help, princess?” he asks, his tone dripping with mock concern.
“I got it, thanks,” you reply curtly, not bothering to mask your irritation. You start towards the cabin, eager to claim your room and escape the tension of the car ride.
Inside is even cozier than it looked from the outside. The living room has a large stone fireplace, plush leather couches, and a comforting red-brick aesthetic; the kitchen is spacious and modern, with a large island perfect for group meals. The centerpiece of the house is the tall Christmas tree in the center, already adorned with twinkling lights and ornaments; there are no gifts under the tree yet, however, because Chizuru has made one of the ongoing activities for the trip to sneakily buy or make everyone else a gift. They’ll show up, little by little, over the break, but you imagine by the time Christmas actually rolls around, it’ll be overflowing.
Mao and Kita, the two other drivers, have both arrived with their cohorts, so the cabin is officially full of life. Both the fraternity e-board and sorority e-board are exploring the amenities; you know from the listing that there’s a game room and hot tub somewhere, so you’re sure they’re seeking those out.
You, however, are focused on something else. You’re too busy looking for the room Chizuru has assigned you, praying to every god you know that you aren’t placed near the human embodiment of a rash.
When you find your room, you drop your bag at your feet and sigh peacefully. It’s a single on the short end of the hallway, with a queen-sized bed and a lovely balcony that overlooks the snowy forest. There’s only one other room on this end, and what are the chances of that being—
“Oi, princess, I guess we’re neighbors!” Atsumu whoops, walking towards you from down the hall, waving dramatically and now lugging two suitcases, his obnoxious yellow one and an identical one in gray.
Apparently a hundred percent. The world does in fact hate you, and you’re sure now that this is definitely going to be the worst winter break you’ve ever had.
three.
It turns out that not only is Atsumu loud when you’re awake, but he’s loud when you’re trying to sleep too.
The walls of the cabin are remarkably thin for the whole aesthetic being wood-planks and brick, so much of your first night is spent with your pillow pressed over your head, trying desperately to drown out the loud conversations echoing from next door. The Miya twins are sharing the double room next to you, and despite your best attempts to muffle them, apparently Atsumu speaks at the volume of a F9 fighter jet, because you can hear every time he laughs.
When you see the clock tick past 1 AM and they still haven’t stopped talking, you are done.
You give up on the idea of them shutting up on their own, and you need sleep—you’re an absolute terror without it. So you do the only thing you can think to do: get up out of bed, march yourself over there, bang on the door and demand them to please, for the love of God, shut the fuck up.
You bang on the door with more force than you intended, each knock echoing down the hallway (you’re thankful the other rooms are on the opposite end). After a few seconds that feel like forever, the noise inside finally ceases, and the door swings open.
There stands Osamu, wearing nothing but a pair of gray boxers with a simultaneously perplexed and annoyed expression on his face. He looks like he’s been pulled from the midst of the most intense discussion of his life—his hair disheveled, a hint of confusion flickering across his features as he registers who’s on the other side of the door.
“What’s so important thatcha gotta bang down our door at one in the mornin’?” he asks, his tone more curious than irritated.
Despite the cold creeping in around your slippers, you feel a flush spread across your cheeks—and it’s unfortunately not from the chill. It’s hard not to notice his well-defined muscles and the way his boxers sit so nicely on his hips; all the INA boys are sculpted like art and it’s part of why they’re such a popular fraternity on campus. Still, regardless of how hot he may be, your exhaustion and frustration are quick to overshadow any hint of attraction.
“So you do know it’s one AM! In case you two didn’t know, most normal people are trying to sleep at this hour,” you snap, trying not to look at how the dim hallway light casts shadows across his abs. It’s honestly a shame that this is the bane of your existence and his grayscale clone you’re talking about. “Including me, and I can’t do that with the Miyas recreating a live studio audience next door.”
Osamu’s expression softens a bit, actually looking slightly apologetic, and he leans against the door frame, crossing his arms. “Ah, sorry ‘bout that. Guess we got carried away.”
Behind him, you catch a glimpse of Atsumu, just as minimally clad, who has now paused in the midst of grabbing a snack from their cluttered table. He truly is cursed to be a demon trapped inside a beautiful body.
He raises an eyebrow, his gaze flicking between you and his brother, licking his lips before he teases, “Ya know, princess, you could always join us. M’bed’s got room for two.”
Osamu glances back at his twin, rolling his eyes slightly before returning his attention to you. “Bro, seriously?” He sighs, but you can see the hint of a smirk playing on his lips as well.
“No thanks,” you mutter, crossing your arms and standing your ground, determined not to let Atsumu’s pointed commentary distract you from your mission. “Don’t need your help cuddling me to sleep. Just shut up, please.”
Atsumu strides over to the door to stand next to his brother, grinning as he eyes you up and down. “C’mon, babe. We’re just havin’ a bit of fun. What’s a few more minutes, ey? Besides, you look cute in yer bunny slippers.”
“I hate you. And I told you to stop calling me stupid nicknames,” you huff. In your initial moment of rage, you forgot you’re standing there in just your fluffy slippers and polka-dot pajama set. “Just be quiet so I can sleep.”
Osamu chuckles, clearly amused, but still he takes a step back and drags Atsumu with him. “Alright, alright, we’ll keep it down, promise. Ain’t our intention to keep a pretty girl like you up all night—unless, of course, that’s what you’re aimin’ for.”
The joke sends a wave of heat across your face, but you manage a quick, “Shut up,” before turning on your heel and heading back to your room. As you walk away, you hear the soft thud of the door closing and the remnants of their now blessedly muffled voices.
Back in your own room, you climb back into bed, pull the covers up to your chin, and stare at the ceiling, willing your heartbeat to calm down. “Stupid Miyas,” you mutter to yourself, rolling over and burying your face in your pillow.
It’s going to be a long night.
***
The next morning, Mao is the first to point out your dark circles.
It had been a struggle to wake up this morning, given how you had hardly slept; when your phone, blasting a cheery Ohayo, Ohayo! alarm, obnoxiously alerted you to start the day, you almost threw it across the room. You are bleary-eyed and extremely grumpy, so when she gasps at your appearance over breakfast, you are quick to react.
“I look exhausted because I am, Mao,” you snark back, rubbing at your temples in an attempt to ward off the impending headache. It doesn’t work. “Thanks to the Miya twins and their late-night comedy show, I barely got any sleep.”
You feel bad for snapping at your best friend—after all, she had only been concerned. But thankfully, she doesn’t seem to take any offense to your tone; she just sympathetically nods and slides a steaming cup of coffee your way. “Well, hopefully, today will be less noisy. Maybe the activities will tire them out.”
You doubt it, but you’ll take whatever peace you can get.
***
The morning actually passes relatively uneventfully because Aran and Chizuru, as the secretaries, have put together a tight itinerary that’s meant to keep you all moving. From a group hike to tubing to a stop at the holiday market to ending the night with board games, they have everything fleshed out.
But somehow, Atsumu still manages to find every opportunity to get under your skin. From bumping into you “accidentally” during the hike to stealing your pink tube right at the top of the slide to buying the stall’s last Mt. Iwate snow globe you had been eyeing, by the end of the day, you are practically stomping into the cabin. You are seething for an opportunity to execute revenge.
Said opportunity makes itself present when the group gathers around the large dining table for Pictionary after dinner. Chizuru draws names from a hat to decide teams, and you end up paired with Osamu—you can’t help but feel a twinge of satisfaction at your partner. Osamu is focused and competitive, just like you, and despite his contribution to the teasing and noise last night, you know he’s just as enthusiastic about beating his brother as you are.
The game starts off lightheartedly, with everyone laughing and shouting guesses as each pair takes turns drawing. When it’s Osamu’s turn, he pulls a card and starts sketching quickly; he draws a round shape with spiky hair and you squint, confused.
“Um… a pineapple… a sun?” you guess tentatively, but Osamu shakes his head and continues, his hand moving frantically to add more details—a few lines here, a few there. “A duck?”
Osamu keeps drawing and you keep futilely guessing, until finally, he adds two distinctive eyebrows and a stupid grin that you’d recognize anywhere. The lightbulb finally clicks on in your mind; really, you can’t believe it took you this long.
You blurt out, “An asshole!”
The room falls silent for a beat before everyone (excluding Atsumu, of course) erupts into boisterous laughter. Even Kita is smiling—and you don’t think you’ve ever seen him express real emotion. Osamu’s face positively lights up, and he gives you an enthusiastic high five.
Atsumu, though momentarily stunned, quickly retorts, “Oi! I’m right here, ya know!”
Chizuru, being game coordinator, tries to maintain some semblance of order. She coughs into her hand, trying not to laugh, as she says, “Technically, she’s not wrong based on the drawing, but let’s stick to the actual prompts, please.”
Osamu all but wipes a tear from his eye. “Alright, alright,” he says, holding up the little card that says in all caps, [ YELLOW ].
“The fuck? How’s me even relate to that?” Atsumu scoffs.
Osamu shrugs mock-innocently, but the shit-eating grin on his face gives him away. “I dunno, jus’ came to mind. Maybe it’s yer hair.”
Yui giggles beside Atsumu, who is glaring daggers at his twin. “Well, at least you’re… memorable,” she says, patting her partner on the shoulder.
“Yeah, memorable for being an ass,” you retort, trying to suppress your own laughter.
The game moves on, even as the laughter continues; despite Atsumu’s ongoing and constant attempts to throw you off, you and Osamu manage to rack up a respectable number of points. And you do so again and again, even when Atsumu declares a team rematch in the form of Codenames and Uno; the camaraderie with Osamu comes shockingly naturally and by the time you have finished playing rematches with all the available games in the rec room, you are practically in sync.
Osamu is easy to work with. You two work together to get on Atsumu’s nerves and you can tell the blonde is boiling. He competes with Osamu at an intensity you haven’t even seen before from him—you chalk it up to sibling rivalry, though you wouldn’t know for sure.
Then, when your team is declared as the official overall second place (after Kita and Aran—who would’ve guessed), Osamu scoops you up into a brief hug; your feet come six inches off the ground and you gasp at the unexpected embrace. A blush spreads across your cheeks when he settles you down because Yui and Chizuru are squealing so loud you think the rest of the sorority can probably hear it from Tokyo, 543.5 kilometers away. You don’t even have it in you to make eye contact with the bemused younger Miya twin, so you keep your eyes steadfast on the ground. His arm is residually slung around your shoulders; he leans much of his weight against you when he does.
You’re okay with it though. Osamu’s arms are just as toned and yummy as they look.
four.
Over the next week, you find yourself getting to know the gray-haired Miya more and more. He makes breakfast for everyone in the mornings without fail, and you’re an early bird, so more often than not, you two end up alone in the kitchen before the light has fully woken up the cabin.
Osamu is thoughtful, considerate—he’s so naturally comforting and sincere, down to his smallest movements. He listens more than he talks. He makes people feel heard. He takes care of the people around him. He doesn’t flirt with you or provoke you or leave you breathless. He is nice.
You think that you like him.
One morning, Osamu is telling you a story about learning to cook because at twelve years old Atsumu almost burnt down the kitchen while trying to make eggs, when Atsumu (further proof he really is a demon because he was summoned on cue, Beetlejuice-style) groggily stumbles into the room in the humble pursuit of coffee.
He blinks, registering what he’s seeing, his eyes flickering between you and his twin confusedly. “Why’re ya here?” he asks, sounding almost accusatory. “Why’re you canoodlin’ at seven in the mornin’?”
You snort. “We are not canoodling,” you mock, resting your head in your palm, leaning on the kitchen island. “Osamu’s just telling me about the time you almost burned down your house.”
Atsumu’s head snaps at an insane speed to look at his brother, a boyish look of embarrassment and betrayal all over his face. “‘Samu, what’re ya spillin’ that for?” he whines. This action makes you smile even more: the mental picture of little Atsumu setting off smoke alarms while Osamu calmly puts out the flames behind him only becomes more vivid when you imagine Atsumu pouting and in tears. It mitigates his irritating personality, even if just by a bit.
Osamu, noticing his twin’s flustered state, gives a nonchalant shrug. “Just sharin’ some childhood memories,” he replies smoothly, a glint of mischief in his eyes that you don’t catch.
Atsumu narrows his eyes at his brother but doesn’t say anything, instead turning his attention to the coffee pot. As Osamu adds more and more silly details and your conversation continues, Atsumu’s demeanor… shifts. The embarrassment fades, replaced by a subtle, tightening jawline, his eyes darting between you and his brother; he looks irritated. Is he really that mad at having his childhood mishaps dragged into the light?
The thought of him as a kid is actually kinda cute, though you suspect that if you told him this, Atsumu’s ego would inflate so large he’d float into outer space.
“Really, ‘Tsumu, it was like you were tryna to summon a fire spirit with that stove,” Osamu teases, slicing fresh strawberries with a chef’s finesse. He shoots you a playful wink. “Had’ta save our house from becoming a pile of ash. Ma’ almost killed us both!”
Atsumu huffs, pouring himself a cup of coffee, the steam swirling between you. “Cut it out, ‘Samu. Don’t need ya makin’ her think I was a total menace as a kid,” he shoots back, his tone playful yet strained.
You laugh at their banter. “Well, you’re still one now, so I don’t know,” you smirk, leaning towards Atsumu. “Maybe Osamu’s just the better brother.”
Atsumu shoots a playful glare at his brother, but when his gaze falls back on you, it lingers just a bit longer than necessary. “Just in the kitchen,” he mutters, but there’s a noticeable edge to his voice. He grabs an extra mug from the cabinet, setting both it and a little container of cream cups and sugar packets down in front of you before pouring you a fresh cup. “The usual?”
“Mhm,” you hum absentmindedly; it doesn’t quite click that Atsumu knows your coffee order by heart. “It’s nice you guys always had each other growing up, huh? I mean, you’re lucky you’ve got Osamu around to keep you out of trouble,” you tease.
As Atsumu locates some cinnamon sticks and mixes your coffee, his expression hardens. “Yea, lucky me,” he says, his tone dry. He slides the cup toward you with a careful nudge. “‘Samu’s the saint and the hero, always has been.”
Osamu chuckles from his spot by the counter. “Oi, you ain’t gotta sell yerself short, ‘Tsumu. You got your moments... they’re just hidden very, very deep,” His voice is light, but you sense an underlying seriousness that suggests he’s proud of his twin more than he lets on.
Atsumu rolls his eyes, leaning against the counter and sipping his coffee, eyes trained on watching you stir yours. “Can’t ya ‘ave told some of those magical stories to her then? Had to keep it on ma failures?”
You eye him over the mug, playful. “I mean… you tell me plenty about your moments. I like hearing about your weaknesses.”
A sly smirk creeps onto Osamu’s face. “Oh, don’t cha worry your pretty head. I’ve got lotsa stories ‘bout ‘Tsumu,” he says, placing a hand on your shoulder, the touch light but enough to make you aware of his presence.
Glancing up at Osamu in your surprise, you happen to miss the way Atsumu’s jaw clenches, his grip on his coffee cup tightening until his knuckles turn white. You happen to miss the way his frown settles deeper on his face. Above all, you happen to miss the way his glare at Osamu darkens with annoyance, with something that burns with more than just sibling rivalry, and the way Osamu grins right back.
five.
“I think I like Osamu.”
Mao squints at you from her spot at the foot of your bed, peering up momentarily from her debate on which pair of pants to wear. “Girl what? Wrong Miya.”
“I knew you were gonna say that!” you groan into your hands. You had called your best friend over for the primary purpose of helping you pick out your outfit for the activities today (a walk through Morioka and hitting up a food market for dinner), but honestly, you’re starting to regret it. It really would’ve been easier to have just spun a wheel or something, because Mao has not been helpful in anything besides causing you more agony. “You watch too many k-dramas. I hate Atsumu!”
“Bitch, please,” Mao scoffs. Like a true friend, she does not tolerate any of your bullshit and says things as they are, blunt and completely honest. And like a truer fake friend, she’s been #TeamAtsumu since day one because she’s convinced that the Universe constantly bringing you together is the real life equivalent of Our Beloved Summer (but in college). “Hate is such a strong word. You don’t hate him. What you guys have is sexual tension.”
You want to let out a visceral scream. “That is not true. He’s just…”
“‘Stupidly pretty and gets on your nerves’, yeah yeah, I know,” Mao finishes your sentence with a shit-eating grin. “Have you ever considered just riding his dick to get the feelings out?”
Glaring at her does nothing besides make her smile grow even bigger.
“I’m not going to ride his dick because even if I tried, I wouldn’t be able to find it. Y’know he keeps saying he packs eight? As if he would have both an eight-pack and eight inches. The universe wouldn’t do that. Atsumu’s gotta be nerfed somehow, right?” you ramble, half annoyed and half trying to stop imagining him naked.
“I can see the rated X thoughts in your head, lovebug.”
“Whatever. How did we even get to this? The point is that Osamu’s nice to me. Super respectful. Why wouldn’t I like him?”
Mao shrugs. “Yeah, he’s a sweetie. But like… I don’t know. I don’t think he’s right for you.”
“You suck. Who do you think you are?” you glower.
“I’m your fucking twin flame, give me my respect,” she snorts, not getting a reply because you both know she’s right. She then holds up two pairs of jeans—one dark-wash, one light-wash, but otherwise virtually identical—and stares them down like her life depends on it. “But anyway. Just don’t think you’re meant for a nice guy, y’know? In fact, I think Atsumu makes you better.”
You gape at her, in utter disbelief she could even say those words out loud. “Be so fuckin’ serious. Better? He, like, thrives off my rage.”
“Right, and you thrive off competition,” she replies boredly, tossing the light-wash pair over her shoulder and standing to wiggle the other on. “I’m telling you, Atsumu gets under your skin in a way no one else can–”
“You’re getting real close,” you interrupt, earning yourself a pointed look.
“Shut up. As I was saying, Atsumu gets under your skin, challenges you, and that lights a fire under your ass. Makes you wanna prove him wrong, prove yourself right. And that’s what makes you better. Makes you both better.”
“It’s like you want me to be miserable.”
She snorts. “Of course not. I’m just saying, for someone so hellbent on hating Atsumu, you sure spend a lot of time talking about him. I mean, really, do you even hear yourself?” She spins around, both to show you the fit and to mock you with little hand gestures. “‘I hate Atsumu, Atsumu this, Atsumu that, Atsumu, Atsumu, Atsumu.’ It’s like you have a little shrine dedicated to him in your mind.”
“You’re delusional,” you mutter, even though you know her words have at least some truth in them. “I don’t care about him.”
What a lie. It’s a lie and both of you know it, because Mao squints at you, hands on her hips. “Look, all I’m saying is, you can try to sell me on Osamu all you want—he’s nice, he’s sweet, he respects you, blah blah blah. But are you sure it’s him you actually like?”
You freeze, her question slicing through your defenses like a knife. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
She turns to face you, arms crossed and one eyebrow raised like she’s ready to dismantle you piece by piece. “I mean, are you into Osamu? Or do you just like the idea of him because it’s easier than dealing with whatever weird, messy thing you’ve got going on with his brother?”
You blink at her, completely thrown off balance. “That’s—that’s ridiculous.”
“Is it?” she fires back, her tone casual but sharp. “I’ve known you long enough to know when you’re running from something.”
“I—” You open your mouth to argue, but the words die on your tongue. You’re not sure what to say because, annoyingly, she’s not entirely wrong. She never really is.
You’re truly blessed in this world because you and Mao were random suitemates who coincidentally rushed the same sorority freshman year and have been inseparable ever since. She’s the IVP to your EVP, the peanut butter to your jelly, the Starfire to your Raven, and your real mothafuckin’ OG because she’s been there for you through literally everything. Right now, however, it means she has the ability to brutally call you out like she can read your mind with X-Ray vision, straight down to your thinly veiled thoughts about Atsumu’s abs.
Mao gives you a knowing look, pulling her phone from her pocket to check the time, a helpful reminder that you in fact do have things to do today besides sit around and mope.
She dusts off her outfit one last time, before heading towards the door. “Look, think about it. You clearly don’t not care about him. And c’mon, lovebug. All these ‘random’ run-ins since then? Not so random when you think about it. The Chem partners, maybe. But you two at formal? Matching during blind dating two years in a row? The universe isn’t subtle, babe.”
You are hating this call out. It’s such an accurate read that you feel annoyed that she’s able to just put it in the world like this when you have spent the last two years trying to choke it down. The truth in Mao’s words sting; you can’t even argue because every random encounter with Atsumu feels less like coincidence and more like the cosmos relishing in your anguish.
“Why did it have to be him?” you mutter, more to yourself than to Mao. “Why’d the universe pick him of all people?”
Mao snorts. “Because he’s an idiot, just like you. You’re probably the only two people in the world who could pull off two and a half years of weird, messed up pining.”
You roll your eyes, but finally, you allow yourself a small smile; Mao really is the only one who can simultaneously call you out for everything you’ve been trying to ignore but also make you feel seen in ways that no one else can. It’s the brutal honesty, the tough love that she delivers without sugarcoating it, that makes you value her words even when they sting.
“Fine, maybe you have a point,” you admit begrudgingly, much to her thrill—which you promptly kill by waggling your finger in her face. “I do care about him. But Osamu’s really sweet to me and… I dunno. I promise I’ll think about it.”
“And that’s all I’m asking for, babygirl. If you do actually like Osamu, I’ll support you—I mean, he’s hot and makes fire pancakes,” Mao shrugs nonchalantly. “But when you end up with Atsumu, I’m gonna tell you I told you so.”
You scowl at her. “I said I’d think about it. That does not mean I’m going to suddenly start confessing my undying love for Atsumu.”
“I don’t expect that!” Mao says, faux innocence dripping from her voice. “Because I already know you will next time you drunk make-out with him at a kickback.”
She’s instantly hit in the head with a pillow (the first thing throwable you could reach), cackling boisterously like she’s told the funniest joke in the world. That’s it. It’s official. As of this moment, you are officially confirming it: it’s time to find a new best friend.
six.
It’s the perfect night to unwind.
It’s been a long enough day of playing tourist. The rest of the fraternity and sorority boards finished several cases of beer and a handle of Tito’s over dinner, so they’ve long retreated into their rooms; you’re the sole person still lingering awake. All things considered, you’ve been high-strung all week (worsened now—thanks Mao!), so even if you were to try, you probably couldn’t sleep anyway. So you opt for the best relaxation method you’ve got at the moment: breaking in the good ‘ol hot tub.
It’s a decent size and takes up almost all of the back veranda, sans a small patio space—under the open sky, the air is chilly and you can see the snow-covered landscape extending for what feels like miles. The setting is so calm, so beautiful and something right now feels so immaculately undisturbed, it really is the perfect night. You have donned your favorite bikini, turned on the jets, and set the water to the hottest setting; your eyes are fluttering shut in an attempt to find some peace. The sound of the water bubbles and cracks around you, and you can feel your muscles start to ease.
This is exactly what you wanted from your winter break: a chance to loosen up.
But good things aren’t meant to last, and especially not when the very premise of this vacation is to make sure you can never catch a break, because the tranquility is quickly disrupted by the sounds of footsteps crunching across the wood-paneled porch. You pry open your eyes to find Atsumu approaching the hot tub, a huge smirk spread across his face. He’s wearing dark blue board shorts and carries a towel slung casually over his shoulder; without waiting for an invitation, he dips a toe into the water, then with a satisfied nod, slips in across from you.
The universe hates you, clearly.
“Fancy seein’ ya here, princess,” he teases, the warm water swirling around as he settles in.
You roll your eyes, trying to avoid the flutter in your chest that starts up again seeing him. “Can’t you find someone else to bother?”
“Aw, c’mon, don’t be like that. Just thought it’d be nice to join ya. The night’s too pretty to spend alone,” he says, flashing a stunning grin that you suspect has melted many hearts before yours. A pompous, arrogant fuckboy to his core.
“Well, you’ve seen the night, you can leave now.”
Atsumu chuckles, unfazed. “Nah, I think I’ma stay. Matter-a-fact, why don’t I get reeeaaall close…” he trails off, inching closer to your side.
You splash him with your hand in prompt retaliation. He laughs, dodging the splash as if he’d anticipated it all along—probably because Atsumu thrives on your attention and revels in your irritation.
“You’re so annoying.”
“One of my most charmin’ qualities, ey?” he smirks.
“No.”
“Well you’re still here, so… at least a part of ya definitely likes it,” he says, his eyebrows doing an absurd dance that pulls an involuntary smile from you. “See? Yer even smilin’! I got the great and stoic princess to smile! I can die happy now.”
As much as Atsumu infuriates you, your lips truly do betray you: you suppose he can be funny… sometimes. “Then please, do us all a favor and die.”
“Awh, but then who’ll keep ya company?” he simpers, sickeningly sweet.
“I’ll call Osamu down here to join me.”
Atsumu’s face falls. “Ya kiddin’? ‘Samu’ll bore ya half to death. He ain’t hold a candle to my glitterin’ personality.”
You snort. “We have plenty of conversations in the mornings when you’re not even awake.”
“Right, right. Ya mean your conversations ‘bout me?” Atsumu says challengingly.
The argument you were about to make fades away as it hits you—he’s kind of right. Most of your chats with Osamu do end up circling back to him. This realization irks you because it suggests one of two things: your growing interest in Osamu is just a misplaced fixation on his brother, or you do think about Atsumu far more than you’d care to admit.
Either and both implications are terrible.
You scowl, “Shut up. I don’t need you to spice things up.”
His eyes light up, and you prepare yourself because he’s clearly just come up with a terrible idea. “Oi, wanna really make things interesting?”
“What?”
“Let’s play truth or dare,” Atsumu suggests, his eyes glinting with mischief.
“Are you kidding? No.”
“C’mon,” he pouts exaggeratedly, his lower lip comically jut out. “We’ll have fun. Unless you’re scared or somethin’.”
Your eyes narrow. “I’m not scared. I just don’t want to play your dumbass game.”
“Scared, you’re definitely scared,” he taunts, leaning back and crossing his arms behind his head, clearly settling in for the long haul. “Afraid I’ll make ya fall for me? Afraid ya can’t handle it?”
You glare at him. He’s obviously provoking you, but God, is it frustratingly difficult not to rise to the bait when he’s giving you that smug, self-serving look. “Ugh, fine. Whatever. I don’t care.”
Atsumu’s grin widens; he looks so infuriatingly triumphant. “Great. So truth or dare, princess?”
Considering your choices, you pause for a moment before sighing. “Truth.”
You expect something insincere or flirty, maybe a dumb innuendo he’s definitely practiced before on countless other girls. You’re prepared to be pissed off by whatever he’s got to say, because Atsumu is a man of many talents, the best of which is making you mad.
Then he just asks, “What’s yer secret talent?”
“A secret talent?” you echo; you’re caught off-guard by the lack of underlying implications.
“Yea, somethin’ you can do that ya haven’t told anyone ‘bout,” Atsumu clarifies, leaning in with genuine curiosity.
You contemplate momentarily, before you let out a slow, deep sigh. At the end of the day, it’s an innocent enough question; you suppose that since you know so many embarrassing stories about Atsumu (again, courtesy of Osamu), it’s only fair you tell him something embarrassing about you.
“If you make fun of me, I will actually kill you,” you mutter, though the threat carries no real weight when your face is as flushed as it is. “But um… I know a bunch of magic tricks. Like cards and stuff.”
“Honest?” Atsumu’s eyes practically pop out of their sockets—it seems a bit overdramatic, but he prods further, as if genuinely fascinated by this tidbit of information you’ve just shared with him. “Why’d ya learn? Will ya show me?”
Your cheeks burn hotter. “I um… I wanted to be a magician when I was little. I even tried to convince my parents to get me a bunny, but they said it’d be cruel to just keep it in my hat,” you admit, your voice small under the intense scrutiny of his gaze. He bursts into laughter at this revelation, and you find yourself oddly proud of it. “And I dunno. Maybe? If you get me a deck of cards, I guess I could—but no one else can know, okay? You gotta keep it a secret just for us.”
Atsumu’s face widens until he positively beams. “Deal! I’ll get ya a deck of cards,” he declares, already plotting where to find one. “Neva woulda expected that from you, princess. That’s amazin’! Can’t wait to see what ya got.”
You roll your eyes, but you can’t even fake annoyance when Atsumu’s excitement is so damn contagious. By no means had you expected him to react like that, but it does make the game more bearable and you more at ease. “Fine, but remember, not a word to anyone.”
“Cross ma heart,” he replies, drawing an exaggerated ‘X’ over his chest with his finger. He leans back, his face alight with glee at his newfound secret. “Alright, alright, yer turn. Ask me.”
“Well, truth or dare?”
“Truth.”
Pouting, you think carefully about your question before shrugging half-heartedly. “I don’t really know what to ask you. If you could only eat one thing for the rest of your life, what would it be?”
“Pussy,” Atsumu says wistfully, his eyes dreamy.
You shoot him a look. “You must like getting splashed.”
“Only if it’s by your pretty p–” His sentence cuts off because you in fact have begun to thrash around in the water, kicking wild waves in his direction. Atsumu raises his arms in mock surrender, laughing even as he wipes the water from his face. “Alright, alright, just messin’ with ya, swear! For real though. If I hadta pick just one thing, it’d just be ‘Samu’s onigiri. He’s got magic in ‘is hands, honest.”
Catching your breath, you can’t help but chuckle, your arms crossed as you float in the shallows of the tub. “That’s surprisingly wholesome of you, admitting Osamu’s the better cook. You're proud deep down, huh?”
He shrugs, but the corners of his mouth turn up. “Yea, sadly gotta give ‘Samu that one. But don’t go spreadin’ that ‘round, don’t want him gettin’ a big head.”
“Your secret’s safe with me,” you promise, mocking his same theatrical ‘X’, feeling the tension ease slightly between you two. Squaring your shoulders, you nod. “Alright, your turn. Dare.”
The word barely leaves your mouth before Atsumu’s expression brightens. He leans closer, his voice dropping to say conspiratorially, “Call me a nickname ‘til the game ends.”
You snort. “I already do, dumbass. I’m princess, you’re dumbass. That’s just the way it goes.”
“No!” Atsumu whines, scooting closer to your side of the tub. “Call me something cute. Like honey or pumpkin or–”
“I’ll call you babe and that’s the most you’ll get,” you interrupt warningly, and obediently, he stops talking, nodding away like an oversized bobble head with a stupidly cute smile on his face—honestly, his simplemindedness is impressive.
“So, babe–” you pause to wince at the nickname, unfamiliar and strange but not necessarily bad on your tongue. “–truth or dare?”
He licks his lips before he answers, which involuntarily draws your gaze to them; you shift your stare up to his warm brown eyes instead.
Under the sky, Atsumu’s eyes seem to collect the very stars above. And when he’s looking at you like that, you have a flash in your chest, and you think that either A) you’re having a heart attack, or the much worse option, B) you definitely don’t not care about him.
seven.
You and Atsumu have managed to play this stupid game for hours.
And you know this for two reasons: first because you two have already made it two-and-a-half times around the cycle of 1) getting out of the tub with pruney toes, 2) settling on the patio couches, and 3) complaining of cold and getting back in the tub.
Second: you’ve exhausted all small-talk options and resigned into the deep shit—deep shit being increasingly stupid stories and dumb dares. You’ve sprinted to the end of the yard and admitted your deep fear of squirrels, Atsumu has belted Perfect by One Direction and confessed that he once replaced Osamu’s protein powder with flour, and neither of you can remember the last time you’ve laughed so hard. It’s strange: by the time you’re asking Atsumu his next truth, your cheeks hurt from smiling and conversation comes more than easily.
“Okay, okay, what’s the dumbest thing that you’ve ever done to impress someone?” you ask, nudging his side a little with your foot.
You’re nestled into the opposite ends of the same couch, the firepit fully ablaze beside you (Atsumu struggled for twenty minutes to get it alight). The couch isn’t quite long enough for you both to extend fully even while sitting up, so your legs have ended up slotted between his and your heel is now resting comfortably on his thigh; he’s fiddling mindlessly with your anklet as he grumbles, “As if ‘Samu ain’t already told ya all my stories.”
But he pauses momentarily to think anyway. When he’s apparently decided on what to tell you, he averts his gaze from yours with sheepish eyes. “One year, for my ma’s birthday, I wanted ta get this real pretty flower from the top of a tree cause ‘Samu made her a fancy schmancy breakfast. Ended up fallin’ and breakin’ my arm, didn’t even get the flower either. Ma told me it was okay, but I bawled the whole way home from the ER cause I wanted her to have a nice gift.”
“You’re joking! Over a flower?” you gasp out, even as Atsumu’s face scrunches up, halfway between embarrassment and amusement—your stomach hurts with every breath you take, but you can’t stop your laughter.
“Oi, it was a real nice flower!” he defends, the hint of a smile tugging at his lips despite the bashful story. “‘Nd ‘Samu was actin’ all high-n-mighty with his eggs benedict or whatever. I had to do something.”
The image of a young Atsumu, just as determined and headstrong even back then, a boy who would climb a tree for his mother, who would risk everything to make her smile, who cried because he wanted to do something nice for her, warms you more than the hot tub ever could.
“Well, babe, if it makes you feel better, I think the effort was sweet,” you pause, savoring the pink on his cheeks at both the pet name and your response. “Stupid, but really sweet.”
“Shaddup, it’s yer turn. Truth or dare?” he asks, still pouting.
Midway through your consideration on what to pick, you get distracted by the way the firelight crackles and casts flickering shadows across Atsumu’s face. His eyes are always beautiful, but right now, they glow like pools of honey and amber. His hair is fluffy and tousled and damp from the tub and he’s wearing just his swimsuit, sans the towel thrown hazardously around his shoulders. You swear to yourself to never tell him, but you want to commit this image of him to memory forever, pretty and human and yours alone.
Atsumu smirks, the rosy tint on his cheeks deepening as he catches you staring. “What’s the matter? See somethin’ ya like?” he teases, his voice dripping with playful mischief as he leans in a little closer, clearly enjoying the effect he has on you. “Yer gonna drool starin’ like that.”
“Fuck off, I was not staring,” you lie blatantly, flushed at his calling you out. “I was just thinking about what to say.”
“Cause I stole your breath away?”
You glare at him. “About whether to say truth or dare, dumbass.”
“Don’t call me dumbass! Call me babe,” he whines. “‘nd ya still ain’t picked.”
“Fine, truth.”
“Then admit the truth that you can’t resist me.”
“Oh my god,” you huff, crossing your arms across your chest; truly, he ruins his natural beauty by opening his mouth. “Ask me a question I can answer, please.”
Atsumu chuckles, a low, rich sound that sends shivers down your spine. “Fine, fine. I’ll letcha keep your pride,” he grins, his eyes twinkling in the firelight as he contemplates the perfect question to unravel you a bit more. “Fine. Why d’ya hate me so much anyway?”
You blink, caught completely off guard by Atsumu’s question. Of all the things he could have asked, this wasn’t what you were expecting.
“Why do I hate you so much?” you echo, stalling for time, though your voice wavers ever so slightly.
“Yeah,” he says, leaning in slightly, the firelight casting shadows across his face. There’s a flicker of something unreadable in his expression—something serious, something that makes your chest feel uncomfortably tight. “C’mon, princess, spill it. You’ve called me an idiot, a dumbass, and everythin’ in between. Gotta be somethin’ behind it, right?”
He’s teasing, but his voice is softer now, his usual bravado dimmed. And suddenly, it doesn’t feel like a game anymore.
Your first instinct is to brush him off, to joke, to deflect—because isn’t that what the two of you always do? But this time, for reasons you don’t entirely understand, you hesitate.
“I…” You glance down at your hands, fiddling with the hem of your towel, anything to avoid the weight of his gaze. “I mean… hate is a strong word.”
He leans back slightly, but the intensity in his eyes doesn’t waver. “Yeah? Then what’s all the name-callin’ and eye-rollin’ about?”
You groan, burying your face in your hands. “Because you’re annoying! You’re cocky, you’re loud, and you always find a way to get under my skin.” You pause, lowering your hands to glance at him, and there’s an odd mix of frustration and amusement in your tone as you continue. “But... somehow, you make everything fun. Even when I don’t want to have fun.”
His lips twitch, but he doesn’t interrupt.
“And I dunno…” You swallow, the words sticking in your throat. “It’s just that you’re... you’re so…” You trail off, waving your hands in a vague gesture, struggling to articulate what you mean without outright admitting that he’s charming, or handsome, or kind in ways you’re only just starting to notice.
Atsumu, of course, seizes the opportunity. “So irresistible?” he offers with a grin, though his voice is quiet, almost cautious.
You shoot him a glare, but there’s no real heat behind it. “So infuriating,” you snap, but the small, wobbly smile tugging at your lips betrays you.
For a moment, neither of you says anything. The fire crackles softly beside you, filling the silence, and you can’t quite bring yourself to look away from him. His usual cocky grin has softened into something warmer, something that makes your stomach flip in a way you’d rather not think about.
Atsumu tilts his head, watching you with an expression that feels far too tender for your liking, his voice softer than you’ve ever heard it. “Y’know, princess… I think you might like me.”
The words hang in the air, heavy and dangerous, and you force out a scoff, shaking your head as you pull your legs away from his and sit up straighter, putting some much-needed distance between you. “You’re delusional, babe,” you mutter, ignoring the way your heart stumbles over itself.
But as you turn your gaze to the fire and refuse to meet his eyes, you already know you’re lying—to him, and to yourself.
eight.
A year ago, on the night of your sophomore formal, your date ghosted you last-minute with only a “can’t make it” text to explain.
You freaked out, panic-scrolled through your contacts list for who still didn’t have a date, and, after a few additional minutes of hyperventilating and really talking yourself into it, spam-called Atsumu. You hadn’t expected him to actually say yes.
He showed up at your door just in time, dressed in his nicest suit and his blonde hair combed neatly, armed with your favorite flowers just-because. And you’d told him then that he didn’t have to do this for you, that this didn’t make you two friends, that this didn’t mean anything at all—neither the dance to him nor him to you.
But he had just smiled, that crooked, heartbreaking smile of his, and said, “Sure, sure, princess. Ain’t like I had anythin’ better to do, right?” And when he took your hand to lead you out, his touch was gentle, careful, as if he was afraid you might break if he held on too tight. At the end of the night, you had kissed him on the cheek to say thank you, and when you pulled away, he had that softness in his eyes, a mix of bravery and hope and something else you couldn’t quite place. It’s a look that’s haunted you since last winter, something that lingers in every new guy you kiss in nasty frat houses or meet on Hinge, because no one else quite looks at you like that.
And that’s terrifying. Because last night, he looked at you the exact same way, fiddling with your anklet and admitting his most vulnerable secrets, undoing your own understanding of him and his character and upending all the reasons you hate him.
***
The next day, you are actively avoiding thinking about Atsumu, and as the afternoon fades into a soft, early evening, you find yourself in the kitchen helping Osamu prepare for dinner. Everyone’s already returned from the day trip to Morioka and are now spread throughout the cabin, recovering before eating and the planned game night after.
The quietude of the tasks are meditative, the rhythmic peeling of potatoes matching the gentle bubbling of the curry on the stove. Osamu moves around with an effortless grace, his movements methodical and precise and deliberate; he operates so seamlessly that his presence is both comforting and slightly unnerving. Despite only being here for a little over a week, it’s like he already knows the kitchen by heart, so much so that you find yourself wondering if perhaps he is too perfect, too polished.
The room is filled with the smells of cooking and the occasional clink of utensils against bowls, a domestic symphony that should be comforting.
But it’s just… not.
“Ya need any help with those?” His voice snaps you from your thoughts and you vehemently shake your head.
“Don’t worry about me, I’ve got this,” you reply, though your hands continue their steady work and he ends up reaching over and taking one from the pile anyway. You watch him out of the corner of your eye, noting the way his brows furrow slightly as he focuses on his task.
The conversation flows easily enough. It meanders on safe topics, the kind that fill the air but leave little impact; you talk about college, the upcoming events for the week, and the movies Chizuru picked for the night. It’s not particularly energetic or enthusiastic, especially now that you’re acutely avoiding mentioning Atsumu (all while cursing the blonde for pointing out last night the uncomfortable fact that, yes, in fact your conversations with Osamu are always easier when Atsumu’s the topic), but it is continuous and ongoing and maybe that will do.
“Ever thought about opening your own restaurant?” you ask, clinging to a thread of conversation that might spark more interest.
Osamu’s reaction is a simple mild chuckle, a sound that lacks any real depth.
“‘Tsumu thinks I should too,” he responds without looking up from his knifework. “Maybe one day, when things settle down a bit.”
You nod, but the response doesn’t satisfy you. It’s sensible, reasonable—just like everything about Osamu. But where’s the challenge, the playful banter that Atsumu always brought into even the simplest interactions? The thought of Atsumu’s teasing, his infectious laughter, and the way he could turn even a mundane moment into a playful challenge makes you ache with a sudden intensity.
You miss him.
The realization comes unbidden, a silent whisper amid the clatter of the kitchen. It’s a missing piece that makes Osamu’s perfect attentiveness seem somehow incomplete. You wrap your arms around yourself, feeling a chill that has nothing to do with the evening air seeping through the slightly ajar kitchen window.
The rest of the evening passes in a blur. You help with cooking the rice, taste test with laughter and light conversation, but beneath it all is a current of dissonance. It’s not long before you’re wiping your hands on your apron and excusing yourself to get changed before dinner, and quietly slip upstairs.
They say ignorance is bliss, and last night is proof. The conversation you just had with Osamu is nothing out of the ordinary, not at all different from the mornings you’ve spent together over the last week. And even now, it’s not that you don’t like Osamu, because you do. He’s good, he’s kind. He’s the kind of guy your parents would be proud of you for being with, a sort of stable and calm and reliable that’s everything you ever wanted. That’s everything you thought you ever wanted.
Somehow right now, it feels slightly hollow.
As you step into your room, you let out a long sigh. Glancing at your phone, you briefly entertain the idea of texting Atsumu. You want to scream at him for ruining your developing feelings for his twin, blame him for destroying the tiny hint of stability you had for the week. But you don’t do that, mostly because that would be stupid to blame him for, but also because you think that if you see him right now, you might make a stupid decision you’ll end up regretting.
nine.
Thanks to Chizuru’s insistence (it’s Christmas Eve, you have to!), you are convinced into joining tonight’s games of trivia and Jeopardy despite your misanthropy. Curse her and her supreme begging skills. You had been hoping to avoid the twins as much as humanly possible.
Atsumu, sitting opposite you, kicks your foot. “Are ya good, princess?” he whispers when you look at him and raise your eyebrow. Aran, leading tonight, is saying something about Jeopardy rules, but it goes unheard, because the blonde in front of you continues, “Penny for your thoughts please.”
“You don’t have a penny,” you whisper back. “Pay me for my thoughts, dumbass.”
“What kinda guy d’ya take me for?” Atsumu mock-scoffs back. “A prostitute?”
Despite all the thoughts swirling in your mind, his stupid grin distracts you from them and you end up rolling your eyes, feeling the hint of a smile pull at your lips. “Maybe. You’re already kinda a fuckboy.”
“Don’tcha worry then, ‘cause you’re still ma favorite client,” he grins back.
And you let yourself smile too.
***
The sorority ends up winning because Mao is a history major and there are no noticeable questions about agriculture or Sigmund Freud or business management or the average expenditure of calories (Kita, Suna, Osamu, and Atsumu respectively—the boys lowkey all study odd shit now that you think about it) that could allow the frat board to gain an upper hand. For the first time ever, you thank Mao for reciting her textbooks out loud to study, because now all of you are forced to have a comprehensive knowledge of war dates and Confucious.
The prize for winning, however, is a Certificate of Extraordinary Intelligence in Useless Facts, so Mao has officially launched herself into a very long declaration that history is not useless, so you don’t know if there was really a winner in the end.
It’s not in the itinerary for the night, but when Yui looks out the window and points out the clear sky, everyone is quick to agree to step outside for a “breath of fresh air.” Everyone meaning everyone but Kita, who is off to pack because he’s leaving at midnight to go stay with his family nearby. Though it would be Kita to have family in the little northern sector of Iwate: you could just see him living in a town of 50 one day, leading the calm, remote village life. You’ve never been close to the president of INA, but you guess he probably deserves to live a simple farm life because the foxes absolutely owe it to him for keeping the organization together.
The crisp night wind nips at your cheeks as you leave the cabin’s warmth, but after sitting around the table for so long you feel only invigorated by the chill; it really is the perfect night because the whole sky is just a tapestry of twinkling stars. The porch light casts a gentle glow, and the snow glistens under the moonlight, gorgeous and serene.
Without warning, Atsumu scoops up a handful of snow and lobs it at Osamu, who dodges just in time, causing the snowball to hit the cabin door with a soft thud. The playful challenge is met with enthusiasm, and within moments, everyone is gathering ammunition.
You’re bending down to scoop up your own snow when suddenly the shock of the cold against your warm skin causes you to let out a yelp. You spin around, eyes blazing, to find Atsumu standing there with a triumphant smirk on his face; his hand still holds some of the evidence, though most of it has been so rudely shoved down your back.
“You jerk!” you yell, shrieking and jumping up and down, trying to shake the ice from the back of your sweater. Your tone is of annoyance, but it’s hard to stay truly mad when the whole scene is so ridiculously fun.
Atsumu is already backing away, a wild, teasing grin plastered across his face, his eyes sparkling with mischief under the moonlit night. “C’mon, princess, don’t tell me ya can’t handle a lil’ snow!” he taunts, his laughter echoing around the snowy clearing.
As if you’d let Atsumu just get away with that. So naturally, you scoop up as much snow as you can in your cold, red hands and take off sprinting after him, screaming, “Oh, you’re dead!”
The thrill of the pursuit drives away any lingering annoyance from last night; you barely even register the way your heart pounds with adrenaline and cheeks flush from the cold. The laughter of the others fades into the background as your focus narrows down to the gleeful figure darting just ahead of you.
Atsumu is fast, sure, but your determination is faster, and the freshly fallen snow slows him down just enough for you to gain ground. With a determined yell, you launch your armful of snow at his back, hitting him squarely between the shoulder blades; the impact makes him stumble forward with a playful groan. “Alright, alright, I give!” he laughs when he spins to face you, raising his hands in mock defeat.
Just as you think you’ve won, just as you start laughing triumphantly and let your guard down, he’s charging back at you. You try to sidestep, but the slippery ground betrays you, and you both end up tumbling into a soft snowdrift. The world whirls into a blur of white and laughter as you wrestle in the snow, trying to pin each other down. Atsumu manages to get the upper hand briefly, pinning your wrists gently above your head with a victorious grin. His breath comes in visible puffs in the cold air, his face inches from yours, eyes sparkling with mischief and something warmer.
“You’re such a child!” you shout, breathless from both the cold and the exertion.
“You love it,” he retorts, a smug grin plastered across his face despite the snow sticking to his hair and clothes.
You roll and wrangle and as you do, Atsumu manages to push more snow down the back of your shirt, making you squeal and squirm. “Atsumu!” you shriek, half-annoyed, half-panting, mostly all laughing. Your hands are freezing, but you keep trying to shove snow into his face in retaliation until you finally manage to squish his face with a clump of snow. The rest of the group watches, cheering at your antics, thoroughly entertained by the display, but their voices go unregistered to both of you as you both fall back, exhausted and satisfied and covered in snow, looking up at the starry sky.
As the laughter subsides and the rapid heartbeat begins to slow, you and Atsumu lie sprawled in the snow, the cold forgotten for a moment. The serene silence that falls over both of you is a rare kind of peace, something that feels close to perfect. You can see Atsumu’s chest rise and fall with each breath, his eyes reflecting the twinkling stars above, and there’s something unspoken in the way he looks at you—something that makes you feel softer, lighter, like you’re floating on air.
You want to say something sarcastic. You want to throw more snow into his face and tell him he looks stupid. You want to be mean to him and you want him to flirt with you so you can tell him to fuck off. He’s the bane of your existence. He riles you up and makes you angrier than most other people ever could. It’s so much easier to argue with him. It’s so much easier to hate him.
But you don’t. So you just lie there and take it in.
ten.
The moment gets stolen by a voice.
“Oi, lovebirds, everyone’s headin’ in! You two plannin’ on makin’ snow angels all night, or do ya wanna join the rest of us by the fire?” Osamu calls out.
Atsumu glares in the voice’s direction, his brow creasing. The peaceful moment shatters like thin ice underfoot, and you can practically hear the crack because it’s visible in how his gaze shifts from the stars above to his brother and the tension in his grip that wasn’t there before. “Can’t ya see we’re havin’ a moment here?” he snaps back, the words almost biting through the frigid air.
Osamu, unbothered by the snap, just chuckles and strolls over, offering a hand to help you up. “Yeah, yeah, yer playin’ in the snow like a couple of kids. Let’s get inside, yer gonna catch cold.” His concern is sincere, his tone sweet. You accept the hand with a smile; when you stand fully up, Osamu wraps his arm around your shoulders and leans in close enough to mumble, “Yui told me that ya get sick easy. Got worried, hope ya ain’t too mad at me for snatchin’ ya away.”
His close presence is warmth cutting through your chill and you subconsciously lean into him. “Oh, thank you,” you say softly; he sounds so genuine. “You’re really considerate. It’s just At-”
You turn around to find Atsumu pushing himself up, brushing snow from his hair. He had been watching your quiet exchange with close eyes, and now that you really look at him again, his expression is briefly unfamiliar. It’s just for a brief second—a moment so quick it was gone in an instant—but you could have sworn it was a gaze tighter, darker, than you have ever seen from him before and it makes you shiver. It’s quick to be replaced by his usual grin when he notices your concerned expression, though, as if he’s trying to placate you. As if he doesn’t want you to know how he’s feeling.
The snowball fight had been playful, a rare truce in your usual war of words with Atsumu, and now he seems reluctant to let that end. Still, his tone is light, or at least lighter than before, laced with a hint of forced cheerfulness, when he assures you, “S’okay, princess. Let’s get inside.”
But the sharpness in his eyes betrays his words. And as if to keep pushing him, to keep jamming his finger straight into the bruise, Osamu’s arm slips downwards to hover around your waist—it’s so delicate that you wouldn’t have noticed the shift in position if not for the way his hold ever so slightly tightens to pull you closer.
Atsumu’s smile fades into something heavier and his hands clench into tight fists by his side and there’s a look that crosses his features, something filled with irritation; there’s a palpable tension between the two brothers that makes you nervous. Still, Osamu just smiles like he’s completely oblivious, cheerily saying, “Yeah, don’tcha worry, ‘Sumu. Just tryna keep our princess warm.”
Our princess. The words are loaded. Osamu isn’t just being kind; he’s provoking him. He’s pushing his brother, trying to see just how far Atsumu’ll let him go, trying to drive a reaction out of him.
There’s an undeniable undercurrent of something more in the air.
Atsumu, witnessing this, locks his jaw, his good-natured facade struggling to mask the surge of emotions that seem to whirl behind his eyes. And yet, he stops. He doesn’t say anything, even though it seemed as though he would, even though when you met his eyes there was that terrifying darkness from before. Atsumu just turns on his heel and starts marching back towards the cabin.
And for some reason you can’t quite comprehend, you feel your heart sink.
eleven.
It’s significantly quieter that night.
Atsumu hadn’t shown up to dinner, nor did he join everyone to watch Elf in the living room. Chizuru and Aran had expressed concern, offering to go upstairs and check on him, but Osamu had assured them all that Atsumu was fine and just worn out from the day and that had seemed to placate them. You tried to trust his word too, but even as the film plays and Osamu drapes his arm onto the couch behind you and Yui nudges you and wiggles her brow at the closeness and you try to convince yourself that you’re fine, you can’t help the awful feeling of dread you have in the pit of your stomach.
It doesn’t go away even when the movie ends and you retreat upstairs to shower and get to bed; it doesn’t go away even when you settle into the softness of your sheets and turn out the lights; it doesn’t go away even when the only illumination in the room comes from your phone as you stalk your Instagram homepage trying to distract your mind. You almost want to hear Atsumu’s overwhelmingly loud and obnoxious laughter from the next room; you want to know that he’s okay, and you don’t really even understand why. You’ve spent the last two years being an Atsumu Hater™ and here you are anyway, your heart racing.
But just as you’re about to surrender to the warmth of your blankets, your ears pick up the muffled but unmistakable timbre of raised voices from the room next door.
The Miya twins.
You sit up in bed, heart pounding. You can’t make out the words through the wall, but the low rumble of Osamu’s voice and the sharper, heated tone of Atsumu’s are unmistakable. You hesitate for a moment, caught between pressing your ear against the wall to catch more of the conversation or trying to ignore it altogether. But then Atsumu’s voice cuts through clearly, loud and raw with frustration:
“Why’re ya doin’ this, Samu? Seriously, what the hell?”
You freeze.
There’s a pause. Osamu’s voice comes next, calmer but with a sharp edge that makes the air in your room feel heavy. “Doin’ what, exactly? Bein’ nice? Spendin’ time with her? ‘Cause last I checked, you’re the one who’s been actin’ like she don’t exist unless it’s to get under her skin.”
You hear the sound of something—maybe a chair or a bed frame—scraping against the floor. Atsumu’s voice comes back, even louder. “Don’t gimme that crap! You know what I’m talkin’ about! You’ve been all over her this whole week, like you’re tryin’ to... to—”
“To what, Tsumu?” Osamu cuts in, his tone sharp enough to make you flinch even from the other side of the wall. “To do what you won’t? You’ve had two years to say somethin’, to do anythin’, but all you’ve done is act like a damn idiot around her. And now you’re mad at me ‘cause I actually treat her like a person?”
Your chest tightens. You press your hands against your mouth to stifle the sharp inhale that escapes you. Are they... talking about you?
There’s a heavy silence. For a moment, you think maybe it’s over, but then Atsumu speaks again, quieter this time, almost hesitant. “It’s not like that...”
“Oh, isn’t it?” Osamu snaps. “If it’s not like that, then why are you so pissed off, huh? If you don’t care about her, why’s it eatin’ at ya every time I so much as look at her?”
You can practically hear the smirk in his voice now, though it’s tinged with something more serious. “Admit it, Tsumu. You like her. Hell, you’ve probably liked her for years, but you’re too chicken to do anything about it. So don’t come at me like I’m the bad guy when all I’m doin’ is fillin’ the space you left wide open.”
Your heart is pounding so loud you’re surprised they can’t hear it through the wall.
“I—” Atsumu starts, but his voice falters. He sounds... small. Defeated. “I don’t—”
“Yeah? Then prove it,” Osamu interrupts. “If you really don’t care, I’ll back off. But if you do? If you actually want a chance with her? Then grow up and ask her out before it’s too late.”
Another beat of silence stretches between them, so tense and thick it feels like the walls of your room might crack under the weight of it. Then there’s the sound of footsteps—heavy, frustrated—and the slam of a door.
Your mind is racing. You sit there frozen for what feels like hours, trying to piece together what you’ve just heard, what it all means, and why your heart feels like it might break free of your chest.
You glance at the door to your room, wondering if Atsumu’s stormed off to his, or if—
A knock. A soft, hesitant knock at your door.
Your breath catches.
twelve.
The knock comes again, a little louder this time, but you don’t move. You press your face into the pillow, hold your breath, and will your heartbeat to calm down. He waits for a moment, long enough that you can almost picture him standing just outside your door, shifting on his feet and second-guessing himself.
Finally, there’s a sigh, barely audible through the door. The sound makes your chest ache.
But then the floor creaks softly as he steps away, and the silence that follows feels louder than anything he could have said.
You stay like that for a long time, staring into the darkness of your room as the words from the argument next door replay in your head on an endless loop. You don’t know how to feel, or even what to feel, but one thing is certain—you’re not going to get any sleep tonight.
***
The next morning, the sound of laughter and the warm scent of cinnamon pull you from your restless slumber. It’s Christmas morning.
You drag yourself out of bed, trying to shake the unease still settled in your chest, and join everyone downstairs. The living room is alive with energy—Chizuru and Yui are wearing matching pajamas and passing out mugs of hot cocoa, Aran is fiddling with the Bluetooth speaker to get a holiday playlist going, and Osamu is helping himself to the tray of cookies on the coffee table, ignoring Chizuru’s scolding about “ruining the aesthetic before everyone’s here.”
But even with all the warmth and chatter, the absence is glaring.
Atsumu is nowhere to be seen.
You try not to let it bother you. He’s probably just sleeping in. Or avoiding you after last night. You’re not sure which thought twists your stomach more.
The morning rolls on, and soon everyone gathers for the gift exchange. Laughter fills the air as ribbons are untied, wrapping paper is torn apart, and heartfelt thank-yous are exchanged. Yui squeals over the skincare set Kita picked out for her, and Aran grins ear-to-ear at the custom jersey Chizuru ordered. Even Osamu looks pleased with the knife set you picked out for him, ruffling your hair as he thanks you.
But as the last gifts are unwrapped, you realize something’s missing.
Everyone else has given you something, no matter how small—a book from Chizuru, earrings from Yui, a scarf from Suna—but Atsumu’s name is noticeably absent.
You don’t say anything, but you feel the knot of disappointment settle in your chest. Maybe it’s silly to care so much. Maybe it’s selfish. But after the week you’ve had, after all the bickering, the teasing, and everything you heard last night, you thought...
You thought he’d at least try.
***
The rest of the day passes in a blur of food and laughter, but you can’t shake the hollow feeling that lingers in the back of your mind. That night, you retreat to your room early, needing the quiet to sort through your thoughts.
You’re not expecting the knock.
It’s soft at first, like he’s testing whether you’ll even respond. You hesitate, wondering if you should ignore it again like last night. But then it comes again, more insistent.
“Hey,” Atsumu’s voice calls softly through the door. “You awake?”
You don’t answer, but you also don’t move.
A pause. Then: “I know you’re probably mad at me or somethin’, but... I wanna show ya somethin’. Come on, get up. Please.”
There’s something in his voice that makes your stomach flip—nervousness, maybe, or the slightest tinge of vulnerability.
When you still don’t reply, he tries again. “There’s... there’s somethin’ I wanna say, but it’ll be easier if ya just come with me. I’ll be out back. Meet me at the hot tub if you wanna.”
His footsteps retreat, leaving you alone in the quiet.
For a moment, you just sit there, staring at the door and debating whether to follow him or let the silence stay.
But curiosity—and maybe something else—wins out. You pull yourself from the bed, slide on your slippers, and head downstairs.
thirteen.
The night air is crisp, biting against your skin as you step out onto the pool deck. The stars above are sharp pinpricks in the deep velvet sky, their light barely competing with the soft glow of the string lights strung along the edge of the fence.
Your heart pounds as you glance around, unsure of what you’re expecting. And then you see him.
Atsumu is sitting by the edge of the hot tub, his legs dipped into the warm water, hands fidgeting in his lap. The tension in his shoulders eases the moment his eyes meet yours, and he lights up in a way that makes your chest ache. He stands quickly, his movements awkward but eager, like he’s been waiting for hours just for this moment.
“You came,” he says softly, his voice carrying over the gentle hum of the water.
You nod, stepping closer, unsure what to say. There’s a nervous energy between you now, not the usual teasing or bickering, but something fragile and unspoken.
He gestures toward the edge of the hot tub. You hesitate for only a moment before moving to sit beside him, the warmth of the bubbling water chasing away the chill in the air. Neither of you speak at first, the silence thick but not uncomfortable.
When you glance at him, you notice his hands are no longer fidgeting. Instead, they rest on his knees, tense, like he’s holding himself back.
The quiet stretches on, and you don’t know whether it’s you or him who breaks it first. But then he moves—slowly, carefully—and cups your face with his hands.
You can’t breathe. You can’t even comprehend anything but his large, warm hands gentle around your face. His thumbs brush softly against your cheeks, and his eyes meet yours with an intensity that makes your chest tighten. He doesn’t say a word, but he doesn’t need to. The way he looks at you—steady and unguarded—says it all.
And in that moment, you’re reminded of everything.
The way he looked at you during truth or dare, his gaze flickering with something almost too heavy to hold. The way he showed up for you, always, even when you tried to convince you both that it didn’t mean anything. The way he looked at you that very first night you met him, in the dim, crowded, musty basement of the frat house, when your heart had betrayed you by skipping a beat the very moment his golden eyes landed on you. He has never looked more beautiful; he has never seemed more human.
You love him. Oh god.
You love him.
Atsumu hesitates, leaning in slightly but stopping just short, his breath warm against your skin. He pauses, like he’s waiting for your permission, or maybe just bracing himself for the possibility that you’ll pull away.
Against all odds, you kiss him first.
The moment your lips meet, he lets out a small, almost startled sound before kissing you back. His hands slide to the sides of your neck, steady and sure, while his lips move against yours like he’s been imagining this for years. He holds you like he’s terrified that this isn’t real, like if he lets go then you’ll disappear. Your fingers knot in his t-shirt, his hand gets lost in your hair, you are breathless in every way but you don’t care because if he wanted to steal the air straight from your lungs you would let him.
When you finally part, his forehead rests against yours, his breath warm against your skin, both of you quiet as the world seems to settle into a kind of peace. For a moment, he just looks at you, his expression so tender and full of awe that you wonder if he’s committing this moment to memory. And then he grins—a smile so wide and full of boyish delight that it makes your heart skip a beat.
“So you do like me,” he teases, his voice warm, his thumb brushing against your cheek.
You snort. “Nah, I change my mind. I hate you.”
He rolls his eyes because he knows you’re bluffing, and just kisses you again.
The two of you sit there for a while longer, wrapped up in each other and the quiet intimacy of the night. But then you remember something, a question that’s been gnawing at the back of your mind all day.
“Atsumu?”
“Hmm?” he hums, still holding you close, his fingers absently tracing small circles against your skin.
“Why didn’t you get me a Christmas gift?”
He freezes for a moment, blinking at you like he’s just remembered something. “Oh, crap.”
“What?” you ask, laughing at the sudden panic in his face.
“That’s what I came here for,” he mutters, more to himself than to you, before quickly standing and rummaging through the pocket of his hoodie. He pulls out a small, folded cloth pouch, holding it carefully in his hands like it’s something precious.
“I’ve had this for years,” he says, his voice soft, almost hesitant, as he sits back down beside you. “And I didn’t know if I should give it to ya. Or if it was even the right time. But... I guess it is now.”
He opens the pouch and carefully empties its contents into his hand.
You stare, halting as you take in what’s inside:
A small square of paper with the element “Au” drawn on it, the edges worn like it’s been folded and unfolded a thousand times. “From freshman year chem,” he explains softly, a faint smile tugging at his lips. “You were the only one who laughed when I joked that it stood for Atsumu instead of gold.”
A torn scrap of notebook paper with your name written on it in messy handwriting. “Greek match,” he says, chuckling quietly. “I wrote it down when they paired us up. Figured it’d be my one excuse to talk to ya.”
A dried, pressed petal from a rose. “Semi-formal,” he murmurs. “You were wearin’ that red dress, and I was an idiot who thought bringin’ roses was a good idea. You said they were beautiful, but you... you were somethin’ else entirely.”
There’s other little things, little bits and pieces from the two years you’ve known each other, little reminders that you can barely remember a time where he wasn’t in your life. Atsumu has been a part of your routine since the day he met you. You lived eighteen years without knowing him, but you can’t imagine living without him anymore.
And then, as if you weren’t touched enough, he passes you another small wrapped item. You gently peel back the paper to find the Mt. Iwate snow globe he had bought before you could last week.
As you cradle the snow globe in your hands, the memory of that day comes rushing back—Atsumu’s smug grin as he held up the very item you’d been planning to buy, the gleam of satisfaction in his golden eyes when you’d glared at him. You’d been so furious, so determined to outmatch him for the rest of the trip, but now, holding the snow globe in your hands, all you can feel is an overwhelming warmth.
“You…” Your voice falters as you run your thumb over the cool glass, watching the tiny flakes swirl around the miniature Mt. Iwate. “You bought this for me?”
He shrugs, a sheepish smile tugging at his lips. “Felt bad for bein’ an ass that day. But ya stormed off before I could give it to ya, and then… I guess I kept it, hopin’ one day it’d mean more.”
You blink at him, at the boy sitting beside you, nervously scratching the back of his neck. The boy who had spent two years teasing and frustrating you, yet somehow still managed to worm his way into your heart. The boy who’d quietly kept a snow globe and a collection of mementos, waiting for the right moment to share them with you.
“Atsumu…” Your voice is soft, almost fragile, as you set the snow globe down and turn to face him fully. “This is—” You pause, searching for the right words. “You didn’t have to do any of this.”
“I know,” he says quickly, his gaze dropping to the water, then back to you. “But I wanted to. You’re… important to me, y’know? And I don’t always show it the right way, but—”
“You don’t have to explain,” you interrupt, your heart swelling at the vulnerability in his voice. “I get it. I do.”
His eyes search yours, his expression caught somewhere between relief and disbelief. For a moment, the two of you just sit there, the night air heavy with unsaid things. Then you reach for his hand, threading your fingers through his, and his breath catches audibly.
“You’re not as bad as you think you are,” you tease lightly, trying to ease the tension, though your voice wavers with the weight of everything unspoken.
“Yeah?” His grin is lopsided, nervous, but the spark of playfulness in his eyes is unmistakable. “Don’t get used to me bein’ this sweet, though. Still gotta keep you on your toes.”
You laugh softly, leaning your head against his shoulder, your fingers still tangled with his. “I wouldn’t expect anything less.”
For a while, you sit in companionable silence, the bubbling of the hot tub and the distant chirping of crickets filling the air. You watch as the snow globe sits on the edge of the tub, the flakes settling gently at the base. Somehow, it feels like everything—your bickering, his teasing, the hesitant steps toward this moment—has led to this: an unspoken understanding that this, whatever it is between you, is real.
Finally, Atsumu breaks the silence. “So… was that the right gift?” He nudges your shoulder lightly, his tone casual but his eyes searching.
You pretend to think, your lips twitching into a smirk. “Hmm… It’s alright, I guess.”
His jaw drops in mock offense, his free hand flying to his chest. “Alright? Do you know how much thought I put into that?”
You grin, squeezing his hand. “It’s perfect, Atsumu.”
His expression softens, and for a moment, he just looks at you, his golden eyes warm and steady. “Good,” he murmurs, his voice low. “Because you’re kinda perfect to me, too.”
And just like that, he has you all over again—breathless, flustered, and hopelessly in love. You lean up and kiss him, slow and soft, and when you pull back, his boyish grin is so bright it almost hurts to look at.
“Alright, enough mushy stuff,” you say, standing up and stretching, though your heart is still racing. “I’m freezing, and I need to head back inside before I turn into an icicle.”
Atsumu groans dramatically but follows your lead, climbing out of the hot tub and grabbing the snow globe for you. He drapes his hoodie around your shoulders as you head back toward the cabin, the warmth of it—and him—chasing away the cold.
As you walk, side by side, you realize something: revenge had been the last thing on your mind tonight. Because somehow, Atsumu had managed to do what he always did—get under your skin and make himself impossible to hate. And for once, you weren’t going to fight it.
Tomorrow, you might bicker again. He might steal your favorite mug, or you might prank him during breakfast. But tonight, under the glow of the stars and the string lights, you let yourself fall a little deeper, knowing he’d be there to catch you.
⨭ closing; i love this one sm honestly. i lowkey even drew out the room plan of the cabin in case ur curious, which looks like this:
btw all the sorority girls mentioned are actually the girls' karasuno team lol; i'm trying rly hard to keep these stories all in the same universe but there are so few girls in the hq universe and even less in high school </3 wld it be confusing if i started reusing kiyoko and yachi as y/n's besties it wld be so much easier on me :')
vote down below or maybe offer some suggestions for other ways to work around the lack of girl besties/roommates/etc (ie. maybe age change!older/younger sisters??)
⨭ genre; fluff, childhood best friends!trope, valentine’s day special!
⨭ pairing; kuroo tetsuro x fem!reader
⨭ word count; 18.5k
⨭ description; kuroo suggests a “palentine’s day” when you both admit to being adults with no sense of a love life on valentine’s. that being said, obviously he becomes yours.
⨭ a/n; guys i made this over the course of like one day. it's literally NOT proofread at all (i am not sober rn and will do so tomorrow morning) so if ur early, deal with it. jk thank u so much for reading my bullshit on ur valentine's if ur reading this also check out 'in full bloom' aka pt 1 of my valentines gift to tumblr
edit; gave up on proofreading so if u find any mistakes. well
song i listened to writing this: 'pretty in pink' by lostboycrow
one.
JFK stands for ‘John F. Kennedy’ International Airport, but as you wait in the masses outside the pick-up zone, you can’t help thinking that it should really stand for ‘Just Fucking Kill’ yourself.
You tend to avoid the airport as much as humanly possible since TSA agents are evil and you always get lost, but today, you’re forced to be here: Kuroo’s flight lands in ten minutes, and he whined so much about the cost of an Uber to your apartment that you finally gave in and agreed to pick him up yourself.
Predictably, you’re already regretting it.
The arrivals area is a literal zoo: people standing way too close, aggressively waving handmade signs that say things like Welcome home, Papa! and Jorge & Melissa 4Ever!, and a seemingly endless stream of passengers getting on and off flights. A man in a suit shoves past you, nearly smacking you in the face with the obscenely large bouquet of roses he’s carrying, and an elderly woman parks herself directly in front of you with a luggage cart, as if she has no idea that you exist. Meanwhile, Kuroo is nowhere in sight.
Leaning back against a pillar, you sigh and clutch your coat tighter around yourself, because despite being a major international airport, JFK still hasn’t figured out how to keep the cold air from blasting in through the automatic doors. The little icon next to Kuroo’s flight says baggage claim, which means you probably have another fifteen minutes before he actually appears—maybe more, if he’s being slow (which he always is).
You pull up your messages.
(3:27 PM)
y/n: hurry up
tetsu: awh, miss me? 😘
y/n: keep it up and i’m leaving without u
Shoving your hands back into your coat pockets does little to restore warmth, and the irritation building in your chest isn’t helping. You should’ve just let him suffer through the Uber surge pricing. He deserves it: you’re already letting him crash at your place for the week, rent-free.
Your phone buzzes again.
(3:32 PM)
tetsu: omw. don’t leave me 🥺
tetsu: remember when u were a baby and followed me everywhere?
You scoff, choosing not to dignify that text with a response.
What a bitch. It’s been years since you last saw him, ever since you moved to NYC for your PhD and he stayed in Japan to work for the JVA, but some things never change: he’s still the same guy who kept you humble your whole childhood, who was your older brother’s—and by extension, yours—sole and only friend, who was the coolest person you knew as a kid because he was in second grade and you were still a kindergartener. You grew out of it by the time you both hit middle school (though he, unfortunately, never grew out of reminding you).
And now he’s here, in your city for a full two weeks as he promotes some upcoming tournament. You guys call semi-regularly, but it really is different when he’s here in real life and in person, because you can no longer just hang up when he starts to get annoying.
That’s when a pair of arms suddenly loop around your waist.
A startled jolt runs through you, heart seizing in your chest before the familiar scent of his overpriced department store cologne registers. Funny how smells bring back memories; he’s been using the same Armani Acqua Di Gio bottle since your undergrad years (you’re both shocked and impressed that he hasn’t finished it yet). His arms squeeze lightly, then drop away.
“Hi, babyface,” he coos, smirking.
Spinning around, you glare at him for still clinging to that dumbass childhood nickname—he overheard your parents call you that literally once, and has insisted on it ever since. He’s probably the sole person left in the world who refers to you that way, but whatever—you’ll tolerate it for two weeks.
Kuroo stands there, dragging a comically oversized suitcase behind him. Honestly, he doesn’t look all that different from the last time you saw him, three years ago when he and Kenma sent you off at Haneda Airport. He’s still got the same stupidly tall frame, same messy bedhead that somehow makes him look effortlessly cool instead of disheveled and gross, like it should.
But he’s older now. More… grown up. His face is leaner, more refined, his dark eyes crinkling at the corners when he smirks, as smug as always. It’s not that he’s annoyingly attractive, you tell yourself: his confidence is just so in-your-face, it’s impossible not to notice.
“Took you long enough,” you huff, crossing your arms.
He holds up a paper cup from some overpriced coffee joint inside the airport. “In my defense, I needed this. Been up since three in the morning.”
“Oh, poor you.” You roll your eyes. “Let’s just go. I’m sick of this crowd.”
“You Kozumes are all the same,” he grins, but when you turn to lead the way, he swings an arm around your shoulders with easy familiarity, guiding you through the herd of people clamoring for their reunions. The crush of bodies is suffocating—someone smacks into your elbow with a backpack, and you shoot them a dirty look. Kuroo just laughs and steers you closer to him, like he’s shielding you from a crowd of middle schoolers who haven’t learned personal space.
“Where’re you parked?” he asks, glancing around. The overhead speakers crackle as an announcement for a flight to Chicago booms through the terminal.
“Garage 4,” you say, just loud enough to be heard over the noise. “It’s, like, a mile from here, so get ready to hike.”
“Sounds like fun,” he drawls. “Can’t wait.”
A scoff slips out, but the tug at the corner of your mouth betrays you—there’s something about him that makes you nostalgic for days when running around after him and your brother was your favorite activity. You guess old habits die hard; he still reaches back when you fall behind, still makes sure you’re not lost in the crowd.
When you finally reach the elevator, the two of you squeeze in with half a dozen other travelers plus an extremely disgruntled-looking airport employee. Kuroo tries to maneuver his luggage behind him without bumping everyone’s ankles, which, of course, is a losing battle.
“Sorry,” you mutter to the group while jabbing the button for the garage level.
The elevator lurches upward. From the corner of your eye, you catch Kuroo’s sideways grin.
“What’re you staring at?” you ask after a moment, realizing his gaze is fixed on you.
His lips twitch. “You. I haven’t seen you in forever, remember? Trying to see what’s changed.”
You resist the urge to smack him because this space is way too cramped for violence. “What’s changed is that I have zero tolerance for your bullshit now.”
He lets out a loud laugh, drawing a few curious glances from the other passengers that should make him feel more embarrassed than it does. “Sure, you do,” he murmurs, leaning in. “That’s why you came to pick me up, right?”
“I should’ve let you take the subway. You’re lucky I’m so kind and benevolent.”
Unfazed, he grins. “I’m very lucky,” he agrees, voice dropping an octave that sends a weird heat through your cheeks.
Thankfully, the elevator dings and the doors slide open, saving you from having to come up with a retort.
Stepping into the parking garage, the cold air slams into you instantly—JFK has no business being this miserable in February. Tucking your chin deeper into your coat, you exhale sharply and brace yourself against the wind.
Kuroo whistles low under his breath, dragging his suitcase along the pavement with a clatter. “Damn. This city really doesn’t give a shit about warmth, huh?”
“Welcome to New York,” you deadpan. “Now shut up and walk faster before I lose feeling in my fingers.”
He chuckles, shoving one hand into his coat pocket while gripping his suitcase handle with the other. You can hear the low hum of an airplane overhead, the distant honking of taxis below, the way his footsteps fall in sync with yours. It’s strange—how easily he slots back in, like no time has passed at all.
Your car is parked at the far end of the lot, tucked between an SUV and a sedan that’s way too close to the line. “There,” you say, pointing.
Kuroo groans. “You weren’t kidding about the hike.”
You ignore him, fishing your keys from your pocket as you approach the driver’s side. “Just get in, princess. Your chariot awaits.”
He snorts but doesn’t argue, tossing his suitcase into the trunk before sliding into the passenger seat. The moment you settle in behind the wheel, you blast the heater, letting the warmth seep back into your body. Kuroo exhales in exaggerated pleasure.
“Ah, yes,” he sighs, holding his hands up to the vents. “This is the hospitality I deserve.”
You shoot him a look as you adjust the side mirrors. “Buckle your seatbelt. I wanna go.”
“So eager to get me home already? At least buy me dinner first.”
“Get out.”
Kuroo smirks, clicking his seatbelt into place. “Not a chance—you’re stuck with me now, babyface.”
And you just sigh and kick your car into gear, promptly backing up and heading out of the maze of a parking lot, because even if you were to argue, it would be a lie. You’ve been stuck with him for almost two decades, and whether for better or for worse (definitely for worse), you don’t see that changing anytime soon.
two.
Your apartment building’s leasing office has plastered pink and red hearts on just about every open space in the hallway, so it’s safe to say that you’re slightly annoyed as you lug Kuroo’s freakishly huge suitcase to the door of your flat. The wheels squeak in protest, and you’re 99% sure you hear something clanking around inside—like maybe he’s sneaking free weights in there, or some equally ridiculous item you’re going to have to store somewhere in your already-cramped closet.
“Seriously,” you grumble, pausing to readjust your grip, “what did you pack? An entire gym? A small car? Did you kidnap Bokuto or something?”
Kuroo, trailing behind you with his coffee cup that’s somehow still not finished yet, lets out an overdramatic groan. “Oh, come on. I need my suits, my shoes, and, of course, my extremely heavy hair-care products. Gotta keep this—” he gestures at the bedhead that somehow counts as a hairstyle for him “—looking flawless for the cameras.”
“You’re insufferable,” you say.
“It’s okay,” Kuroo replies, stepping around a giant pink heart taped to the floor. “You love me anyway.”
You roll your eyes, key in hand as you finally reach your door. Jamming the key into the lock and wriggling it furiously, you mutter, “I can’t believe I’m letting you stay with me. Your fancy JVA job couldn’t get you a hotel?”
“They could, but the Marriott doesn’t have you,” he says proudly as you drag the suitcase over the threshold and inside your apartment, propping the door open with your hip. “I’d rather stay with my darling friend in her little one-bedroom place on the Upper East Side.”
You fight the urge to roll your eyes again—half because you’re exhausted, half because your heart is doing that annoying stutter-step in your chest, and you really don’t want to analyze why. Instead, you drop your keys on the small side table by the door and flick on the overhead light.
“Make yourself at home,” you say, and the words come out more begrudging than you intend. Despite this, he kicks off his shoes very casually, setting his half-empty coffee on your kitchen counter and taking a quick scan of the place. Inside, your apartment is as cozy as ever—small, but comfortable, and the warmth from your radiator is a welcome contrast to the drafty hallway. You drop the suitcase in the living area, exhaling with relief.
He smirks, reaching out to flick one of the pink paper hearts taped to your kitchen cabinet. “Didn’t know you were such a fan of love.”
“The leasing office gets way too into seasonal themes. They gave us all these cut-out hearts to tape up, like we’re in grade school,” you scoff, crossing your arms. “I figured it was better to play along than have them slip passive-aggressive notes under my door.”
“Ah, yes, the joys of city living,” he intones. He peels one heart off the cabinet and sticks it onto his own chest like a ridiculous badge. How appropriate.
“The bathroom’s down the hall to the right. Towels are in the cabinet.” You pause momentarily, considering. “Do you think you can fit on the couch?”
Kuroo regards the couch in question—lumpy cushions, old springs, barely big enough for someone your size—then flicks his eyes to you, expression dry as if to say obviously not. In truth, you aren’t totally surprised. He’s always been freakishly tall, and the piece of furniture doubling as your “guest bed” is basically a glorified loveseat.
“Uh,” you say, slightly distracted as you take in the way his broad shoulders fill your kitchen, “maybe if you sleep diagonally, you could?”
He gives you a slow, sarcastic clap. “Wow, babyface. Thank you for that helpful geometry lesson.”
Your cheeks warm, partly in annoyance and partly because something about him looking so large in your space sets your nerves on edge. “Well, then I don’t know what to tell you,” you mumble. “Unless you wanna sleep standing up against the wall.”
Kuroo crosses his arms over his chest, raising an eyebrow. “That’s not exactly comfortable, either.”
You throw up your hands. “Then what do you expect me to do? I only have a full-sized bed in my room, and that’s barely big enough for—” You stop yourself, but it’s too late. You can practically see the grin forming on his lips.
“Oh?” He shifts his weight, the corners of his mouth tilting upward. “I don’t mind sharing. We used to all the time.”
You open your mouth to retort, but no sound comes out. You can’t deny that a part of you has already considered this possibility. Sure, you’ve known him forever, but the last time you shared a bed, Kenma was also there, and you were eleven-years-old having a sleepover because you were all way too invested in Monsters, Inc.—very different from sharing a bed with him now.
“Tetsu,” you start, forcing yourself to sound composed, “my bed is also a tight squeeze. There’s no guarantee we’ll both fit comfortably.”
Kuroo shrugs, shoving his hands into his pockets. “I’m not picky. I can do my best to take up minimal space.”
You snort. “You? Minimizing anything? Please.”
He laughs, and the rich sound echoes in your small living area. “I’m not that tall.”
“Pretty close,” you counter. “But fine.” You exhale, feeling the weight of two weeks’ worth of future awkwardness settle on your shoulders. “If you promise not to kick me in your sleep, you can share the bed.”
He smiles with infuriating smugness, like he’s won some big debate or secured a massive deal. “Noted. No kicking, no thrashing. I can be a good boy when I need to.”
At that, you turn away and take a sip of your water, because if you let yourself stare at him any longer, you’ll start overthinking everything (you already are). Like how you’re going to handle waking up next to him. Or how it’ll feel if one of you accidentally rolls over onto the other in the middle of the night.
“Go shower. You reek,” you say instead, tersely and very much avoiding eye contact.
Kuroo salutes you with two fingers. “Yes, ma’am.” He starts unzipping his massive suitcase, rummaging around for clothes. When he locates what looks like sleepwear, he straightens and tosses them over one arm. “I’ll be quick. Don’t fall asleep before I get back.”
“Yeah, sure,” you say, heart still fluttering at the reality of what you’ve just agreed to.
You’re about to share a bed with your old friend—your insufferable old friend, who shows up with enough luggage to stock a small department store, calls you babyface, and then makes your heartbeat skip whenever he so much as looks at you a certain way.
So in other words, you think you’re probably fucked.
three.
He emerges from the bathroom a little while later, hair damp, wearing a rumpled t-shirt and basketball shorts that show off way too much of his long legs. You pretend you don’t notice. In the meantime, you’ve perched on the edge of your bed—both of your bed, you remind yourself, trying not to linger on that detail—flipping through your phone for the best takeout options.
“You hungry?” you ask, keeping your voice casual. “I’m too tired to cook.”
Kuroo sets his towel on the back of a chair and rubs at his damp hair a final time. “Absolutely. I owe you for picking me up anyway. Let me buy dinner.”
“Deal,” you say, pulling up a nearby Mexican joint’s online menu—you can almost taste the cilantro and lime already. “I vote burritos. Guac and chips on the side. Whaddya think?”
He moves to sit beside you on the mattress, leaning in to read the menu on your phone. Your shoulders nearly brush, and you feel a flicker of awareness at the close proximity.
“Let’s do it,” he says. “I’m a sucker for a good burrito. Extra beans, though, or it’s not worth it.”
You snort, tapping in your order. “Fine. But don’t complain if you regret it later.”
He laughs proudly. “I have no regrets. Order some chips and salsa, too.”
You roll your eyes, but you’re smiling as you finalize your selections on the app. “Fried plantains or no? They have them here.”
“Absolutely. Throw ‘em in.”
Satisfied, you place the order. “Alright, burritos en route. They said it’ll be here in about twenty-five minutes.”
Kuroo drops onto his back for a moment, groaning dramatically into one of your pillows. “I might not last that long.”
“Quit being dramatic or I’ll eat your half when it arrives.”
He pops back up, smirking. “You’d miss me if I starved to death.”
“Sure,” you say dryly, setting your phone aside and hugging your knees to your chest, getting comfortable. “Anyway, what’s been up with you lately? Aside from the glorious JVA life. You haven’t actually told me much.”
Kuroo shifts, propping himself up on one elbow, humming nonchalantly. “Mostly traveling, setting up events. Lately it’s been a lot of PR for an upcoming international tournament—making sponsor deals, meeting with potential partners, that sort of thing. It’s never-ending.”
“Sounds exhausting,” you say, and mean it. “But you seem to thrive on that chaos.”
He smiles. “I like keeping busy, yeah. What about you? Kenma mentioned something about you publishing an article in a big journal.”
A self-conscious warmth settles in your chest. “It’s not that big,” you insist. “Just a decent academic journal. But yeah, I’m pretty proud. Trying to balance that with my research duties and teaching labs at university is… a lot.”
He bumps your shoulder gently with his own. “Still, that’s impressive. Your parents must be bragging left and right.”
You exhale, a small smile tugging at your lips. “They are. Kenma, too, apparently.”
“He’s proud,” Kuroo confirms, then yawns. “Man, I’m wiped. But I gotta stay conscious long enough to demolish this burrito.”
As if on cue, there’s a buzz from your phone. You glance down to see a delivery notification: Your order is arriving soon.
“Perfect,” you murmur. “I’ll grab it in a minute. Might as well eat in here—it’s more comfortable than the couch.”
He grins, reaching to grab his wallet from his bag and handing you a few twenty-dollar bills. “I’m not opposed to an in-bed picnic.”
A few minutes later, you’re answering the knock at your door. Your hallway briefly fills with the mouthwatering scent of fresh tortillas and spices; you’re only realising now that this is practically the only thing you’ve had all day. Once you pay the delivery person, you lug the paper bag back to the bedroom. Kuroo shifts to sit cross-legged, making space for the containers between you.
“Dig in,” he says, his eyes gleaming with anticipation.
You unwrap your burrito, steam curling upward, and suddenly you’re reminded of all those nights you spent eating junk food with him and Kenma back in Tokyo—late-night convenience store runs, microwaved meals shared on the couch while you watched random movies. It feels oddly nostalgic; you almost want to put on Shrek 2 (the best one) just for the sake of it.
“Mm,” you manage around a mouthful of seasoned rice and beans. “That’s gas.”
Kuroo tears into his own burrito, letting out a satisfied hum. “New York burritos aren’t half bad. Who knew?”
You smirk. “They’re still not exactly authentic, but they’re decent. We have some good Mexican places nearby—if you stick around long enough, I’ll take you to this hole-in-the-wall joint in Queens that’s even better.”
He perks up. “You sure know how to show a guy a good time.” Then he gestures at one of the pink hearts still taped to your wall. “Speaking of good times, we got Valentine’s Day coming up, right?”
You pause, taking a sip of your soda to stall, humming. “Yeah, next week. Not exactly my favorite holiday.”
“You doing anything?” he asks, fishing out a chip to scoop some guacamole.
You shrug, eyes fixed on your burrito. “No. I’m, uh… single. So it’ll just be another Tuesday for me. Maybe a glass of wine and some Netflix.”
He nods slowly, as if absorbing that information. “Right. Me too, actually. Single, I mean.”
You hazard a glance at him. “Really? I figured you’d have someone lined up,” you tease, trying to keep your tone light. “You’re always bragging about how charming you are.”
He snorts, looking faintly amused. “No takers at the moment, guess I gotta step up my game.” Then he sets his burrito down, brushing stray bits of rice from his fingers. “Honestly, though, I’m not looking to date just anybody. I’m picky.”
The confession sends a flicker of warmth through you. Don’t read into it, you warn yourself. “Well, guess that means we’ll both be alone on V-Day.”
Kuroo’s face brightens with an idea. “Doesn’t have to be alone-alone. We should hang out! Watch a movie, go ice-skating, corny shit like that. We’re in New York City, after all.”
Your stomach does a little flip, and you hope he can’t see the sudden rush of heat in your cheeks. “You want to hang out with me on Valentine’s Day?”
He shrugs, looking casual, but there’s a softness in his eyes. “Why not? Better than moping around separately. We can do the whole anti-Valentine’s vibe. Or, y’know, a Palentine’s Day.”
“Palentine’s Day,” you echo, rolling the phrase around. Part of you wants to jump at the chance, but you’re also cautious—because this is Kuroo. Kuroo, who’s seen you when you were still climbing into Kenma’s bed every time you had a nightmare. Kuroo, who carried you home on his back when you twisted your ankle playing tag at the park. Kuroo, who knows about every embarrassing photo of you in your entire house and is featured in practically half of them.
Kuroo, who was your first childhood crush, who took you to your senior year formal, who still makes your heart stutter like no one else.
Jesus fuck.
“Sure,” you say at last, trying to sound nonchalant. “That could be fun. As long as you’re not too busy with your JVA stuff.”
He offers a crooked grin, the one that always makes your pulse pick up. “I’ll make time. Promise.”
A comfortable silence settles between you, broken only by the sound of wrappers crinkling and the hum of traffic outside. You focus on your burrito, but every so often, you peek at him from the corner of your eye—how his long lashes cast faint shadows on his cheekbones, how he smirks just before taking another bite.
When you finally polish off the last of your dinner, you exhale in satisfaction, leaning back against the headboard. Kuroo does the same, patting his stomach. “That really hit the spot,” he says. “Might have to get seconds tomorrow.”
“We can’t keep eating like this,” you tease, crumpling up your napkin. “We’ll both end up broke, living off takeout.”
He shrugs one shoulder. “Worse ways to go, babyface.”
You give him a mock glare, but you can’t hide your faint grin. Babyface. Somehow, it doesn’t annoy you the way it used to. Maybe it’s the nostalgia, you think, or maybe you’re just too used to it by now.
“Anyway,” he adds, glancing at the clock on his phone, “you ready to crash? ‘Cause I’m about to pass out any second.”
A twinge of nervous excitement flutters in your chest. You’d momentarily forgotten the whole bed situation. You clear your throat, stacking up the empty takeout containers so you can toss them. “Yeah, I guess so. Let’s clean this up, then… bed.”
He nods, stretching his arms overhead. His shirt lifts slightly, revealing a sliver of toned abdomen, and you quickly look away, pretending to focus on tidying up. Two weeks, you remind yourself. He’ll only be here for two weeks, and then things go back to normal—whatever normal means when it comes to the two of you.
But for now, as you glance up to see him smiling at you—fond, amused, and something else you can’t quite name—you have the strangest feeling that nothing about this trip will be normal. And you’re not sure if that terrifies you or thrills you.
Considering it’s Kuroo, the answer is probably both.
four.
As it turns out, Kuroo lied about being a supposed ‘good boy’, because he grabs just about everything in his sleep, including your comforter, your pillow, and you.
The first thing you notice upon waking is that your arm is asleep—completely, pins-and-needles numb. The second thing you notice is that it’s probably because Kuroo is draped all over you like an overgrown cat: one arm slung across your waist, a leg hooking over yours, and his face half-buried in the pillow you share.
It’s still early. The faint gray glow of dawn filters through your curtains, and the radiator in the corner hisses quietly, pushing lukewarm air into the room. You try to move—gently, so you don’t jostle him too much—but his grip tightens reflexively, pulling you closer.
Your pulse hammers a little faster. Not exactly the start to the morning you pictured when you offered to share a bed. Hesitantly, you lay there, blinking sleep from your eyes as you let the situation sink in. On one hand, he’s so much warmer than the drafty air swirling around you. On the other… well, this is Kuroo.
He shifts in his sleep, mumbling something unintelligible. You can’t help noticing how his dark hair flops forward onto his forehead, or how his breathing sounds steady, almost comforting against your ear. A little flutter stirs in your chest, and you decide it’s definitely the awkwardness. Or maybe hunger. Definitely not anything else.
You inch your free arm over to nudge him carefully in the side. “Hey,” you whisper, cringing at how scratchy your morning voice sounds, “mind letting me breathe?”
He stirs again, blinking blearily. When he opens his eyes, for a split second, he looks adorably confused—like he’s forgotten where he is. Then the realization dawns, and a slow, smug grin spreads across his face.
“Mornin’,” he drawls, voice husky from sleep. And he still doesn’t move his arm.
You clear your throat, refusing to let your face heat up too obviously. “Care to explain why you’re suffocating me?”
“Am I?” he says, sounding wholly unrepentant. “Sorry, babyface. Didn’t realize you were so delicate.”
Rolling your eyes, you lift your numb arm and give him another nudge. “At least release my limbs so I can feel them again.”
He finally relents, scooting back a few inches but still remaining obnoxiously close, the mattress dipping under his weight. You sit up, wincing at the twinge in your shoulder, and rub at the pins-and-needles sensation. Meanwhile, Kuroo stretches luxuriously, arms overhead, shirt riding up just a fraction.
“Not a bad night’s sleep,” he remarks, yawning. “This bed’s cozier than it looks.”
“No thanks to you,” you grumble, swinging your legs over the side of the bed. Despite your best efforts to stay composed, you can’t quite suppress a tiny shiver at the morning chill. “Next time, keep your limbs to yourself.”
“Hey, it’s not my fault you make a great pillow,” he counters, smirking.
Before you can toss a pillow at him in retaliation, your phone buzzes on the nightstand. You reach over, scanning the screen: a news alert and an email from your department. With a sigh, you set it aside for now.
You flick your gaze back to him, noticing how the sunlight is slowly brightening the angles of his face. “What’s your schedule like today?” you ask, if only to give yourself something normal to focus on.
He scrubs a hand through his sleep-mussed hair—somehow, it still looks frustratingly cool—and shrugs. “Meeting at noon with the local organizers. Press conference in the late afternoon. After that, I’m free.”
“Alright,” you say, pushing yourself off the bed. “I have a lab to teach at eleven, so I’ll be gone most of the morning and early afternoon. I’ll give you a spare key in case you need to step out while I’m gone—just don’t get lost.”
“Aw, you’re giving me a key to your place?” His grin turns positively wolfish. “This relationship is moving so fast.”
You scowl, but the corners of your mouth twitch. “Shut up,” you say, grabbing a sweatshirt from a nearby chair and tugging it on. “I’ll make coffee, then we can figure out breakfast.”
Behind you, you hear the creak of the bed as Kuroo stands. “Coffee sounds great,” he says, padding after you. “But only if you have the good stuff. None of that cheap instant brand.”
He catches up to you in the hallway, and for a moment, you’re hyper aware of how tall he is, how his eyes are still a bit sleepy, how your bedhead probably resembles a hedgehog. Yet, there’s a comforting ease in the way he fits into your space—like he’s been here a hundred times before, even though it’s been years since you last lived in the same city.
You toss him a lazy glare over your shoulder. “You’re lucky I still have some leftover beans from when Kenma visited. Otherwise, you’d be stuck with the dreaded instant.”
Kuroo feigns a dramatic shudder, but his grin stays easy. As you flick on the kitchen lights, he leans against the counter, crossing his arms over his chest. It strikes you again how right he looks here, in your cramped little kitchen, sporting wrinkled sleep clothes and bed hair you’d tease him about if he didn’t look so… comfortable.
“By the way,” he says, voice lower, still thick with morning grogginess. “Thanks for letting me crash here. And, y’know… for not kicking me out of bed for being grabby.”
“Don’t get used to it,” you say, ignoring the warmth creeping into your cheeks as you fill the kettle with water. “Tonight, you stick to your side, got it?”
“Scout’s honor.” He raises three fingers in a mock salute, the picture of insincerity.
You roll your eyes and turn on the stove, waiting for the water to boil. He shuffles a little closer, peering at the kettle. He’s definitely invading your personal space again, but maybe you’re starting to get used to it, if the jump in your heartbeat is anything to go by.
It’s a strange, domestic moment: you, still half-asleep, and Kuroo, leaning in with his arms caging you in, braced on the kitchen counter, with the faint hum of traffic outside. Despite the tingle in your arm and the slight ache in your stiff neck, you realize you don’t hate the idea of waking up like this. For once, you’re not quite as alone in the big city, you justify to yourself.
He meets your gaze, one brow raised. “What’re you thinking about?”
“Nothing,” you say quickly, dropping your eyes to the kettle. “Just that the coffee needs to hurry up or I’m gonna be late.”
He chuckles, the soft rumble filling the space. “Sure, sure.”
But he doesn’t push, just stays close enough that you can feel the warmth radiating off him. And for now—just this once—you decide to let it be.
five.
Kuroo looks unfairly good in a suit.
You realise this while you’re curled up on your couch, half-watching the new season of Single’s Inferno on your TV and half-dozing off with a bowl of stale popcorn balanced on your lap. The door swings open without so much as a warning knock—typical—and then there he is, in all his post-press-conference glory: crisp blazer, tailored trousers, tie loosened just enough to give off a casual but effortlessly hot vibe.
Your stomach does a funny little flip. It’s probably the stale popcorn.
“Hey,” he says, shutting the door behind him with a nudge of his shoulder. “You look cozy.”
“I am cozy,” you huff, wriggling deeper into your throw blanket. You drop a piece of popcorn into your mouth and make a face when it crunches unpleasantly. “You look… fancy.”
He glances down at his outfit, as if he’s just remembered it exists. “Right. Forgot I was still wearing this.” A small smirk crosses his face. “Didn’t want to keep the fans waiting, so I came straight from the conference.”
You roll your eyes. “I’m sure your admirers really appreciated that.”
“Jealous?” he teases, toeing off his polished dress shoes. His shirt collar gapes slightly as he unbuttons the top, revealing a sliver of skin at his throat. Annoyingly distracting, even after all these years.
You pointedly look back at the TV, where two contestants are locked in a tense conversation about who picked whom for a date. “Not even remotely.”
“Ouch,” he says, sounding mock-offended. “And here I was, about to tell you that I saved you some fancy hors d’oeuvres from the event. But if you’re not interested—”
You sit up immediately, dislodging your popcorn bowl. “Wait. Real food?”
Kuroo snickers, pulling a napkin-wrapped bundle from his pocket. He tosses it onto the coffee table with a flourish. “Straight from the VIP section. Mini sliders and some kind of salmon tartare thing.”
You snatch it up without hesitation, peeling back the napkin to inspect the offerings. “See, this is why I tolerate you.”
“Tolerate?” He feigns a dramatic gasp. “Babyface, we’ve been through too much for that kind of slander.”
You grunt, already stuffing a mini slider into your mouth. “I don’t know. If I remember correctly, you used to tie my shoelaces together and push me into Kenma just to watch me trip.”
Kuroo grins, unbothered. “Building character.”
“Being an ass.”
“Tomato, tomahto,” he singsongs, shrugging out of his blazer. As he drapes it over the back of the couch and rolls up his sleeves, you glance at him from the corner of your eye, trying not to be obvious about it.
Because it’s unfair, really. He’s always been annoyingly attractive, but there’s something different about seeing him like this—sleeves rolled up to his forearms, tie loose, like he’s caught between polished professionalism and the boy you used to know.
Kuroo flops down next to you, stretching out his long legs. “You know,” he muses, “you’re getting a little too comfortable trash-talking your own husband.”
You freeze mid-chew. “Excuse me?”
His smirk widens. “Our wedding? First grade? Ring any bells?”
You roll your eyes, but your stomach flutters treacherously. “Oh my god, not this again.”
“Oh, yes, this again.” He props his chin on his hand, clearly reveling in your reaction. “It was a beautiful ceremony. You wore that little yellow dress with the flowers on it, I looked dashing in my Spider-Man t-shirt, and Kenma officiated with a Pokémon book instead of a Bible. Very classy.”
You scoff, tossing a balled-up napkin at him. “It was a fake wedding.”
“That’s not what you said at the time,” he counters, smug. “You said we’d be married forever.”
You glare at him, but warmth is creeping into your cheeks. “I was six.”
“And yet,” he hums, leaning back against the couch, “you still haven’t divorced me.”
You want to argue. You really do. But the memory of that afternoon—standing in your backyard, clutching a dandelion bouquet while Kuroo grinned at you with all the unearned confidence of an eight-year-old—unfolds so vividly in your mind that you go momentarily speechless.
It’s stupid how much of that day you remember. How he laced his fingers with yours, grinning like he had just won something. How Kenma droned through a “ceremony” while barely looking up from his Game Boy. How, when it was over, Kuroo had squeezed your hand and whispered, Guess that means you’re stuck with me now, huh?
He’d been right, even if you both did eventually grow up and start dating around. And yet, as you sit here—knees almost touching on your too-small couch, the memory of that dandelion bouquet and his smug, gap-toothed grin dangling in the air—you realize there’s a piece of you that never truly left that backyard.
You swallow the last bit of the mini-slider, hoping it’ll ground you. “So,” you say, feigning a dismissive shrug, “we grew up. We definitely child-broke-up.”
Kuroo’s dark eyes glint with amusement as he shifts his weight, the couch cushions dipping under his long frame. “Mm, I don’t recall signing any annulment papers. Actually, I can’t recall you ever giving me back my ring.” He holds up his left hand to wriggle his empty ring finger. “I guess I should’ve at least invested in a proper Band-Aid ring for you.”
You make a face, ignoring how your heart lurches at the implied you he keeps tossing out, like he’s reminding you this is your story—both of yours. “Band-Aid ring, huh? How romantic. You really know how to woo a girl.”
“You always did love Pokémon bandages. Remember how you insisted on Bulbasaur for every scrape?” There’s an unmistakable fondness in his tone, and you wonder if he’s indulging in the same wave of nostalgia that’s been drowning you since you let him through the door.
Trying not to give yourself away, you tilt your head, pretending to examine him. “I see your memory is as annoyingly perfect as ever.”
He flashes a grin. “I have an eye for important details—like your shoe size, your favorite weird pizza topping combo, and the fact that you still haven’t actually denied liking me.”
You snort, heat creeping up your neck. “In your dreams, Tetsu. Where do you get off assuming things, anyway?”
He spreads his hands, tie swaying lightly at his chest. “Can you blame me? You did let me crash at your place. You drove all the way to JFK in rush-hour traffic just to pick me up. If that’s not love, I’m not sure what is.”
You open your mouth to argue but close it again when you realize you’ve got nothing. Yes, you did pick him up. Yes, you did offer him half your bed. And yes, some traitorous part of you is glad he’s here, sprawled out in your living room, reminding you of all the reasons you used to practically worship him when you were a kid.
“You’re insufferable,” you say finally, in a voice so soft it barely carries any bite.
Kuroo chuckles, shifting so he’s angled toward you—elbow braced on the back of the couch, one long leg tucked underneath the other. “Goes both ways, babyface. You’ve always driven me insane.”
The word always lingers in the space between you.
You try to distract yourself by flicking the TV volume higher, but the dating show is a blur. “So how was the press conference?” you ask, setting the empty napkin aside. “Any major breakthroughs? More sponsors falling for your cheesy grin?”
His responding laugh is short, a bit self-conscious. “You know how it is: they ask the same questions—how the tournament’s being organized, who our top competitors are. I say the same rehearsed lines. Then I shake some hands and get out.”
“Bet you loved the attention, though,” you tease, nudging his ankle with your foot.
“Of course,” he deadpans, “you know me too well.”
A quiet pause descends as you both sink further into the cushions. The overhead lamp is dim, casting long shadows on the walls. It feels intimate—too intimate, almost. A far cry from the raucous energy of the press conference he must’ve attended.
“Do you…” You’re not sure why you’re hesitating. Maybe it’s the sudden vulnerability creeping in at the edges of your rib cage. “Do you ever miss being a kid? Everything felt simpler back then.”
His gaze settles on you, something soft reflecting in his eyes. “Yeah. A lot, actually.” He reaches out—hesitates for a second—then pokes the side of your thigh. “But I’m glad some things haven’t changed.”
Your breath catches. “Like what?”
A beat. Then: “Like you still call me out on my bullshit. You’ll still eat half my food if given the chance. You still follow your own weird rules—like never paying for Netflix because you say you can mooch off Kenma forever.” He grins. “And you still look at me the same way. Even if you won’t admit it.”
He doesn’t elaborate further, and you’re too caught off guard to pry. Look at him the same way—what does that mean, exactly? You’re suddenly hyperaware of how close he is, how he’s studying you in the dim light, how the old tether between you two has always refused to snap, no matter how hard you tried to ignore it.
“Anyway,” he says, shifting back with a little exhale, “got any more of that stale popcorn? I’m starving.”
You clear your throat, trying not to sound frazzled. “Go for it, but don’t complain when it tastes like cardboard.”
He leans over, snagging the bowl from the couch cushion and taking a bite. “Mmm, delicious cardboard.”
His faux-enthusiasm makes you roll your eyes—again. But there’s a familiar warmth curling in your stomach, almost like relief that this little moment is yours to share. Like you’ve both come home, just for a second, to the world you used to know.
You let the show drone on in the background while the two of you work through the stale popcorn in comfortable silence. Every now and then, one of you drops a sarcastic remark or a joke about the contestants on-screen. But beneath the banter, there’s something else stirring—a question you’re not sure either of you is ready to ask.
For now, you settle for glancing sideways at him, at the way his profile looks against the glow of the TV. You let yourself wonder, just briefly, what it would mean to take that childhood promise seriously again. And though you push the thought away almost as quickly as it comes, there’s no denying the giddy little thrill that runs through you when you realize Kuroo might be thinking the exact same thing.
six.
Three days later, it’s the weekend, and you’re free of labs and classes. So obviously, that’s the night Kuroo manages to wheedle you into going to one of his PR parties—with obviously, a Valentine’s theme because the entity in the sky hates you.
“I still can’t believe I agreed to this,” you say in slight disbelief as you wait in the lobby of your apartment for your Lyft. You’re just the slightest bit wine tipsy already and are stumbling a tad bit on your three-inch heels. Kuroo stabilises you with an arm, pulling you into him.
“You’re such a lightweight,” he says, amused.
You scowl at him, nudging your heel against the toe of his polished dress shoe. “Says the guy who made me do a round of shots before we even left.”
Kuroo lifts his free hand in mock surrender, though the grin playing on his lips betrays zero remorse. “Hey, I never forced anything. You’re the one who decided it’d be a good idea to keep up with me.”
“You can probably metabolize alcohol through sheer arrogance alone,” you mutter, leaning into him a bit more when your heel wobbles on the slick tile. The building’s lobby has a floor so shiny you can see your own reflection. You catch sight of how red your cheeks look—definitely from the wine.
He snorts, sliding his arm more securely around your waist. “Arrogance is a powerful superpower.”
Before you can retort, the Lyft driver texts that they’ve arrived, and you and Kuroo shuffle through the lobby’s sliding doors. The crisp February air slaps you in the face, clearing some of the pinot-fueled haze from your head.
“God,” you hiss, crossing your arms over your chest as you walk up to the waiting car. “Why does it feel like it’s negative a thousand degrees out here?”
Kuroo hums sympathetically, tugging you close so you can huddle in his warmth. “Isn’t it romantic? Attending a Valentine’s party in frigid weather, half-tipsy, with your beloved husband—”
You jab him in the ribs. “Do. Not. Start.”
“Ow.” He laughs, not sounding at all wounded, and opens the car door for you. “Alright, princess, let’s get you warmed up.”
You slide into the backseat, tucking your purse by your feet. Kuroo follows, closing the door. The car smells faintly of peppermint and some floral air freshener, and the driver has a local pop station on low volume.
“Party tonight, huh?” the driver says, catching a glimpse of your outfits in the rearview mirror. “Happy early Valentine’s Day.”
You force a polite smile. “Yeah, it’s a work thing for… him.” You gesture vaguely at Kuroo, who’s already fiddling with the seatbelt.
Kuroo pipes up, flashing an easy grin. “She’s being modest. She’s the star of the show.”
You give him a side-eye, but your stomach flips a little at how casually he includes you in his world. “I’m definitely just background noise. He’s the big fancy PR guy.”
He drapes an arm across the back of the seat, leaning in with that smug energy you always pretend to hate. “C’mon, babyface, we both know you’re the real highlight.”
The driver chuckles to himself at your banter and pulls out onto the main road.
The city lights blur by, and despite the wine, you’re keyed-up enough to notice just how close Kuroo is. His thigh presses against yours as the car bumps over a pothole, and you catch his scent—still that overpriced cologne. You almost tease him for using the same brand since undergrad, but some part of you likes the familiarity too much to make fun of it.
Kuroo scrolls through his phone—likely checking last-minute details for the event—and you let your gaze wander. You wonder what you’re walking into: a Valentine’s-themed volleyball PR party probably means pink cocktails, goofy heart-shaped decorations, and sponsors angling to chat up Kuroo for new deals.
You sigh softly, leaning back into the seat. At least you’re not teaching labs tomorrow.
Feeling your eyes on him, Kuroo pockets his phone and glances over. “You okay?” he asks, voice quieter so the driver can’t overhear. “Too tipsy?”
“Barely,” you lie. “I’m fine.”
He studies you for a moment, then nods. “If you get overwhelmed or bored, just say the word, and I’ll whisk you out of there.”
Your heart does that unfortunate flip again. “I won’t hold you back from schmoozing with your sponsors,” you say, trying to sound casual.
Kuroo just shrugs. “Eh. The only person I really need to impress is right here.”
He grins when you roll your eyes for the millionth time, but there’s a note of sincerity in his gaze that makes your pulse stutter uncontrollably (and feeling less and less like it’s the wine).
seven.
The Lyft pulls up to a sleek downtown hotel with a bright red banner above the entrance: Welcome, Pre-Valentine’s Volleyball Gala! The curbside is abuzz with people stepping out of taxis and rideshares, all dressed in varying degrees of fancy.
You thank the driver and step out. Immediately, the cold hits you again, but Kuroo’s hand is there, steady at your back. Together, you make your way through the glass doors into the lobby, which is decked out in pink and red balloons. You spot a heart-shaped ice sculpture near the reception desk and suppress a grimace.
“This is… a lot,” you say under your breath, scanning the crowd. Everyone seems to be brandishing name tags and sipping champagne. A table off to the side offers color-coded wristbands for something—“Single,” “Taken,” “Open to Networking,” and so on.
Kuroo leans in close, lips by your ear so you can hear him over the lounge music. “Brace yourself, babyface. Corporate Valentine’s chic in full force.”
You can’t help a snort. “Don’t call me babyface in front of everyone,” you hiss, trying not to look self-conscious.
He smirks. “Fine. Mrs. Kuroo it is.”
You elbow him gently in the ribs, and he lets out a playful “Ow!” just as a man in a suit rushes over to greet you.
“Kuroo, hey!” The guy beams and extends a hand. “Glad you could make it. We’ve got the sponsors over by the bar, and the press is setting up in the lounge area.”
“Thanks, Daichi,” Kuroo replies smoothly, shaking the man’s hand. “I’ll swing by and say hello in a minute. Oh—this is my plus-one.”
The man’s smile widens. “Great to meet you!” He doesn’t even blink at the slightly flustered expression on your face, just hands you both event badges. “We’re color-coded, so choose whichever suits your mood. And enjoy the party!”
You glance at the bands in your hand: pink for “Single,” purple for “Open to Collaboration,” red for “Taken.” There are even gold ones for “VIP.”
“Seriously?” you mutter, turning to Kuroo. “This is next-level marketing cheese.”
He laughs, plucking a gold band from a nearby tray and snapping it onto his wrist. “I’m definitely VIP, babe. No shame.”
Rolling your eyes, you settle for a purple one—“Open to Collaboration” seems neutral enough, right? You have no intention of wearing the pink “Single” band all night.
Kuroo’s gaze flicks to it, and you catch a slight smirk before he ushers you forward into the main ballroom.
Which, by the way, is massive: vaulted ceilings, floating heart-shaped lanterns, a champagne fountain at the center. You can practically smell the wealth. A DJ in the corner is playing some inoffensive house music that somehow fits the glittery vibe.
“Wow,” you breathe. “They really didn’t hold back.”
“Volleyball PR events rarely do,” Kuroo says, threading his fingers through yours before you can process it. It’s casual and familiar, like he’s done this a thousand times, but your heart jumps all the same. “Let’s grab a drink, yeah?”
He guides you toward the open bar. A bartender in a bright red bow tie greets you with a grin, asking for your orders.
“Champagne for me,” Kuroo says, then glances down at you. “And for my lovely companion…?”
You pause. “Champagne’s fine. Might as well fit the theme.”
As the bartender works his magic, you turn to Kuroo. “So, what’s the plan? Do we mingle for half an hour and then dip? I’m not sure how long I can stand being reminded that Valentine’s Day is literally next week.”
Kuroo’s eyebrow quirks. “Aren’t we hanging out anyway? We promised each other a palentine’s date—remember?”
You feel your cheeks warm. “I remember. Just… these decorations are overkill.”
He hands you a champagne flute, then raises his own in a mock toast. “To corporate romance,” he says with a smirk.
You clink glasses, taking a sip. The fizzy sweetness bursts across your tongue, and you can’t help but think it tastes like anticipation—like something is about to happen tonight that neither of you saw coming. Then you convince yourself that it’s just the alcohol.
Over the next twenty minutes, you watch as Kuroo does his job—he introduces you to a cluster of sponsors, some old teammates, and a few local sports reporters. He’s charismatic in that effortless way he’s always been: breezing through small talk, sprinkling in jokes, and deflecting every flirty comment from others with easy charm.
You mostly hover by his side, alternately sipping champagne and trying not to feel out of place in your heels. Every so often, his fingers brush your elbow or settle low on your back, like he’s silently telling you: You’re not alone here.
It’s strangely reassuring—even if you can’t quite decide what it means.
Eventually, the crowd disperses into smaller clusters, and you manage to snag a moment of relative quiet near the pink-lit fountain in the center of the room.
“You okay?” Kuroo asks again, tucking a stray strand of your hair behind your ear. “Not too bored?”
You shake your head. “I’m fine. It’s actually kinda funny watching you switch between your used-car-salesman voice and your normal voice.”
He snorts. “You want me to hit them with the real me? That might be too much for these delicate souls.”
“I can handle it,” you say, surprising even yourself with your boldness—maybe it’s the champagne.
Kuroo’s gaze flickers, something mischievous in his eyes. “Oh, I know you can handle me, babyface. You’ve done it since you were six, right?”
Your heart skips. He just won’t let you live that childhood wedding down. And, annoyingly, you don’t really mind.
“Stop it,” you say, but there’s no heat in your voice. “Anyway, what’s next on the agenda? Are you supposed to give a speech or something?”
He rakes a hand through his hair, making it even more disheveled. “Nah, not tonight. Just an appearance—shake some hands, charm some sponsors.” He shrugs, then lowers his voice. “We could slip out soon, if you want. Go somewhere else—somewhere less… pink.”
The offer sits in the air between you. You can’t help wondering what exactly he’s proposing. Drinks at a quieter bar? A late-night walk under the city lights? Going back to your apartment to continue that half-finished bottle of wine?
You muster a casual tone. “I’m not opposed. But won’t your absence be noticed?”
“I showed up, I mingled,” he says, brushing off your concern. “That’s enough for them.”
He flashes that signature grin—so easy, so Kuroo—and a flutter of nostalgia collides with the champagne buzz in your bloodstream. You think about how this night started: you, tipsy in your lobby, letting him steady you on your heels. You think about Valentine’s Day looming, and how all of this might be leading to something (which, you’re still trying to figure out if it’s good or bad).
“Alright,” you say, taking another sip from your glass. “One more round of goodbyes, then we escape.”
Kuroo’s eyes linger on you, almost thoughtful. “Deal.”
He downs the rest of his champagne and sets the empty flute on a nearby tray, offering you his arm. The little gesture makes you laugh under your breath; he’s always half-joking, half-serious. But you slip your hand into the crook of his elbow all the same, taking advantage of the moment—you grin.
He is your date tonight, after all.
eight.
You two end up at a 99cent pizza shop.
It’s one of those shitty ones, where the lights blink every other second and are open 24/7 and catering exclusively to drunk people. You order a pepperoni slice (which is $1.50, absolutely criminal), Kuroo gets a slice with mushrooms and peppers like a weirdo, and a ten-piece garlic knots because you’re both absolute whores for shitty food.
The cashier barely looks up as you pass over a crumpled bill, his expression one of pure indifference. It’s the kind of place where no one gives a shit if you waltz in wearing a ballgown or, in Kuroo’s case, an untucked dress shirt and a loosened tie that screams former professionalism turned reckless abandon.
Kuroo nudges your shoulder as he grabs the tray of food. “Find us a seat, babyface.”
You glance around. The booths are occupied by a mix of exhausted bar-hoppers, students pulling all-nighters with greasy paper plates in front of them, and one guy hunched over, presumably contemplating his life choices. Classic New York.
You settle for a two-seater in the back corner, mostly because it’s the only spot that doesn’t look like it’ll give you tetanus. Kuroo sets the tray down between you, sliding into the seat across from you with that ridiculous, smug expression that hasn’t left his face all night.
“You’re staring,” you say flatly, reaching for a garlic knot.
He props his chin on his hand, unbothered. “You look cute.”
Your hand freezes mid-air. “What?”
Kuroo, the absolute bastard, takes a slow bite of his pizza like he didn’t just casually drop a grenade into your bloodstream. “I said, you look cute.” He gestures vaguely at you with his slice. “All dressed up in a shitty pizza joint. Very Serena van der Woodsen in Gossip Girl vibes.”
You recover quickly, snorting as you take a bite of your garlic knot. “You did not just compare me to Serena van der Woodsen.”
“Hey, I know my pop culture references.” He leans forward, resting his elbows on the table. “But seriously. I like this look on you.”
The warmth in your chest spreads far too quickly. You shove it down with a bite of pizza. “If you’re trying to butter me up, it’s not gonna work.”
Kuroo smirks. “You sure? It worked when we were kids.”
You shoot him a look. “I was six. You bribed me with strawberry Pocky.”
“And you fell for it every time,” he says, grinning. “You were so easy to manipulate.”
You kick him lightly under the table, but there’s no real venom behind it. He just chuckles and takes another bite of his pizza, chewing thoughtfully before glancing at you again.
“So,” he says after a moment. “What was the verdict on tonight? Was it as painful as you thought?”
You hesitate, twirling the crust of your pizza between your fingers. The thing is, you actually had fun. Not just tolerable, get-through-it-and-leave fun, but actual, laughing-with-Kuroo-in-the-middle-of-a-stuffy-corporate-party fun. The realization makes your stomach flip.
“It was fine,” you say, playing it cool. “Drinks were good. Company was tolerable.”
Kuroo barks out a laugh. “Tolerable? Damn, I’ll take it.”
You roll your eyes, but the way he’s looking at you—so easy, so damn fond—makes it hard to breathe for a second.
You clear your throat, glancing down at your plate. “Anyway, it was nice to see you in work mode. You actually seemed like a functional adult.”
You snort. “I imagine so. Having to use, like, three brain cells at a time.”
“It’s really pushing my limits,” he says with an obnoxious frown.
The conversation drifts into easy territory—inside jokes, exaggerated retellings of childhood disasters, a debate about whether New York pizza is actually better than Tokyo’s (you say yes, he remains stubbornly neutral). It feels natural, like slipping into an old sweater that still fits perfectly despite the years.
At some point, he reaches across the table, swiping a garlic knot straight off your plate.
“Hey,” you protest, swatting at his hand too late.
Kuroo just smirks, popping the whole thing into his mouth. “Possession is nine-tenths of the law, babyface.”
“Possession is going to be me slapping you in the face if you steal another one.”
“Violence,” he muses, chewing. “That’s how you treat your childhood husband?”
Your face heats. “Tetsu.”
He winks. “Relax. I’ll buy you more next time.”
Next time.
The words hang there for a second longer than necessary. He says it like it’s a given, like this—you and him, nights like this—is a thing that should keep happening.
And the stupidest part? You don’t hate the idea… not even a little bit.
You pick up another garlic knot, breaking eye contact like that’ll do anything to slow your heartbeat. “You better buy me more.”
Kuroo just leans back, watching you like he already knows something you don’t, and you are slightly terrified of whatever that implies.
nine.
Monday night, after you get home from an excruciating day of labwork (like… you entered at 6 AM and left the next day at 2 AM—you’re really going through it these days), Kuroo is already changed and in his pajamas, reading a book and playing a vinyl you bought when you went through your #artsy stage. He looks up with a smile from his spot sprawled across your couch as you come in, drop your keys on the side table, and promptly collapse on the floor.
“I’m so tired,” you wail, fake sniffling, slumped against the wall. Kuroo looked momentarily alarmed until your pleading; he lets out an exhale that’s vaguely close to a laugh when he realises you’re just being dramatic.
“Welcome home,” he says, his smile practically audible in his voice. “Take it you had a long few day… days.”
You sigh, nodding, wobbling over to the couch and plopping on top of him. You’re so tired you don’t even care about the proximity—you want to lie down, right now. “Yeah. But I think I’ve discovered something pretty interesting, so I’m hoping I can get into Neuron this time around.”
“You’ll get it,” Kuroo says completely calmly, sounding insanely confident in you. He doesn’t even look away from his book—just lifts his arms enough to let you put your head on his chest, and then resting them against your shoulder blades. “Smartest girl I know.”
“...Shut up,” you mutter, burying your face into his t-shirt to hide your embarrassment.
You let out a weary groan, face still hidden in Kuroo’s t-shirt, and he just chuckles under his breath, shifting slightly so you can get more comfortable. His hand finds its way into your hair, fingers raking through it in a surprisingly soothing motion—like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
“Can’t believe you’re still awake,” he remarks, eyes darting back to his book. “Look like you’re about to pass out any second.”
“Very astute observation,” you mumble into the soft cotton. “Nothing gets past you.”
He snorts, lightly tapping your shoulder in retribution before turning a page. “Hey, just looking out for my genius scientist here. Big day tomorrow, right?”
Your face scrunches up in confusion. “Big day? I mean, I guess I have more lab stuff…”
Kuroo tilts his head, arching an eyebrow at you like you’ve said something ridiculous. “Not that,” he says, exasperated. “Valentine’s Day, babyface. Remember?”
Your heart does a quick, uncomfortable skip. Valentine’s—not Palentine’s. The difference lands in your head like a small explosion, especially considering you’ve both been referring to it as Palentine’s up ‘til now.
“O-oh,” you stammer eloquently, trying to recover. “Right. Valentine’s. Sure.”
He watches you carefully, eyes gleaming with amusement as he gently closes his book. “You didn’t forget our plans, did you?”
Plans. Right. He invited you for something—ice skating or a movie, or maybe both. You’d said yes in that flustered, I’m-pretending-this-is-just-a-friendly-thing way. But the way he’s saying it now, with that particular lilt in his voice, has your mind racing.
You force yourself to sit up slightly, though you don’t leave the comfort of lying half-on-top of him. “I—uh. I didn’t forget. I guess I’m just… used to calling it Palentine’s.”
Kuroo smirks, brushing a thumb across your cheek with casual familiarity. “Oh, right. My bad. I must’ve slipped.”
Slipped, he says, which makes your pulse do an annoying little flutter.
“I mean, it’s not like it matters,” you continue quickly, your words tripping over themselves. “We’re just hanging out—like always. Whether we call it Valentine’s or Palentine’s or ‘Tuesday’… right?”
He hums in response—low in his throat, almost thoughtful—while his hand drifts from your hair to the back of your neck in a comforting weight. “Sure,” he says, a bit too lightly to be casual. “Whatever you wanna call it.”
The tone in his voice suggests that maybe it does matter, that maybe—just maybe—he doesn’t want to hide behind the ‘Palentine’s’ façade anymore.
A moment of silence settles between you, broken only by the faint crackle of your old vinyl spinning and the ever-present traffic outside. Your nerves feel strung tight as a bitch, and you wonder if he can sense how tense you’ve suddenly gone.
“Anyway,” he says, clearly trying to alleviate some of the awkwardness, “I was thinking we could do something painfully cliché tomorrow. Romantic comedy marathon, maybe. Or that ice-skating idea. Hot chocolate, the works.”
You glance up at him, meeting his gaze. “That sounds… nice.” You fidget with a loose thread on his t-shirt, trying not to overthink every micro-expression on his face. “You sure you won’t be busy with, like, sponsor stuff, or—”
Kuroo rolls his eyes, but there’s a smile tugging at his lips. “Are you kidding? I’d rather be with you—binging Netflix, falling on my face on the rink—than stuck in another press conference.” He gives a lazy shrug, but his eyes don’t leave yours. “Besides, I’m all yours tomorrow.”
I’m all yours.
There’s that pesky little flutter in your chest again, ramping up several notches. You wonder if he can feel your heart pounding where you’re still sprawled half-across his torso. Possibly. Probably.
“That’s… good,” you manage, trying not to think too hard about the myriad ways Valentine’s could be interpreted. Trying not to let the prospect of him wanting more—maybe wanting you—send you into a full-blown panic. Because a teeny, traitorous part of you is really hoping that’s what it means.
“Now,” he says, clearly sensing the rabbit hole your mind might be running down. “It’s past midnight, and you’ve had, what, negative hours of sleep?”
“That’s not even physically possible,” you argue, though your eyelids suddenly feel very heavy.
“Sure it is,” he counters, wrapping an arm more snugly around your waist as he tugs a throw blanket from the back of the couch. “I’m pretty sure you’re living proof. C’mon. Let’s just crash right here for a bit.”
You don’t have the energy to protest, and honestly? The idea of dozing off to the low hum of the vinyl, warm against Kuroo’s chest, is downright tempting. Besides, you’ll have to drag yourself to bed eventually—but for now, this cozy bubble is enough.
“Fine,” you mumble, feeling your limbs already going slack. “But if I drool on you, it’s your own fault for not kicking me off.”
He laughs quietly, letting the book he was reading slip onto the coffee table. “I’ll live. I’ve survived worse. Like the time you threw up all over me after that carnival ride in middle school.”
You grumble something incoherent in protest, too exhausted to muster a real comeback. The corners of his mouth twitch in amusement, and he shifts just enough to angle you more comfortably against him.
As your eyes flutter shut, you can’t stop replaying the word Valentine’s in your head. Tomorrow. Kuroo said it so easily, like it was obvious. Like it was a given that you wouldn’t just be celebrating as friends or old childhood buddies. Warmth pools in your chest, a mix of excitement and nerves. Maybe you’ll just have to see how tomorrow plays out—maybe you’ll finally figure out if this… thing you’ve been dancing around for so long is actually real.
Because if there’s one thing you are sure about, it’s that Kuroo has always had a way of turning your world on its axis. And this time, you really hope he doesn’t stop at Palentine’s.
ten.
You wake up to the smell of french toast.
Which, honestly, you lowkey don’t love nearly as much as waffles. But you aren’t going to be picky after your crash out last night.
You stumble into the kitchen, vaguely rubbing your eyes with the sleeve of your hoodie, blinking away the sleep to read the Eevee alarm clock Kenma bought you when you moved in. 12:19PM. Honestly not your worst: once, during finals season in your undergrad years, you pulled a three-day all-nighter and passed out for sixteen straight hours after. Kuroo had to practically drag you out of your dorm room after that one; he and Kenma basically froze your phone with the amount of texts they sent in a futile attempt to wake you up.
Kuroo’s back is to you as he stands at the stove, his compression shirt accentuating his muscle definition. He looks straight up like a model you’d see at the mall in a Calvin Klein billboard, and it makes you flush as you remember he said Valentine’s last night. He senses you without even turning around—he, without even bothering to look up, says, “Mornin’, babyface. Do you want strawberries or whipped cream?”
“You doubt me. Both,” you snort, stepping closer. Despite your attempt at nonchalance, your stomach flips when you get closer and can see just how freakishly good he looks in that stupid ass shirt. The memory of him casually calling it Valentine’s still sizzles in the back of your mind.
Kuroo casts you a brief over-the-shoulder grin. “Both it is, princess.” He deftly flips a slice of french toast on the pan, the sweet, eggy aroma curling toward your nose. “Hope you’re hungry. I got a little carried away.”
“Oh, I’m starving,” you say, eyeing the small stack of bread slices he’s already prepared on a plate. “Seriously, I might eat all of this. If you don’t move fast, you won’t get any.”
He chuckles, dropping another piece of bread into the batter. “Noted. I’ll keep that in mind while I guard my breakfast with my life.”
You open the fridge for the strawberries, and sure enough, there’s also a can of whipped cream on the shelf—Kuroo came prepared. “I can’t believe you actually planned this,” you mutter under your breath, rifling around. “Is this your way of bribing me to be your Valentine?”
He pretends to think about it. “Might be. If it works, I’ll make waffles next time, too.”
You huff a laugh, grateful your face is still hidden in the fridge so he can’t see the fond smile spreading across your lips. Might be. It’s clear he’s leaning full-throttle into the idea of spending this entire Valentine’s Day with you. The thought warms you more than you want to admit.
Sliding the carton of strawberries onto the counter, you catch him drizzling a bit of honey on the toast. “Fancy,” you tease, dragging out the syllable.
Kuroo shrugs one shoulder. “Hey, can’t help being an overachiever. Besides…” He flips off the stove burner and slides the last slice of french toast onto the plate, stacking it neatly. “I missed this.”
You glance up, curiosity and something else tangling in your chest. “This? Cooking breakfast?”
He sets the spatula aside, turns around, and leans against the counter. “Cooking breakfast for you,” he clarifies, pausing as if testing how you’ll react. “Y’know, we used to hang out all the time—before you left for New York. I guess it just reminded me of those days. Late nights, lazy mornings, that sort of thing.”
Your cheeks warm at his candidness. “We still hung out a bit after we graduated,” you offer, though you know it was never the same once you’d moved halfway across the globe for grad school.
Kuroo nods, his hand lingering on the handle of the frying pan as if he needs something to ground himself. “Yeah, but once you officially moved here? We both got busy. Kenma did his whole streaming empire thing, I jumped into work. And you were—”
“Neck-deep in studies,” you finish for him, remembering those endless days in the lab, how you’d chug energy drinks and blink against fluorescent lights until your eyes burned.
Kuroo taps the counter with his knuckles, a soft exhale escaping him. “Uh-huh. And Kenma and I, well… we kinda promised each other we wouldn’t make a big deal about how much we missed you.” He flashes a small, wry grin. “Figured you already had enough to worry about without dealing with our whining.”
You pause, strawberries in hand, staring at him. “Wait. You both made that promise?”
He nods, and for once, you catch the hint of sheepishness in his expression. “We might have texted constantly about how weird it was without you around,” he admits, chuckling under his breath. “But we agreed to keep it low-key so you could focus on your research. Didn’t want you feeling guilty if you started missing home too much.”
Your chest tightens. “I—God, that’s so stupid of you guys.”
He arches an amused eyebrow. “Stupid?”
“I would have been fine!” you insist, though a pang of fondness (and maybe regret) flickers through you. “Yeah, I’d have been sad, but I would’ve rather known. Going months without hearing from you two sometimes was way worse.”
He huffs a laugh, pushing off the counter to move closer. “Yeah, guess in hindsight, it wasn’t the best plan. But we were, what, twenty? Twenty-one? And mostly worried you’d drop out of grad school to come home if we made you feel bad.”
“Drop out?” You roll your eyes. “Please, as if I’d ever let you be that important.”
Kuroo tosses you a smirk, but there’s a gratefulness in his gaze. “Hey, I’m plenty important. Just not more important than a doctorate in neuroscience.”
“Damn straight,” you retort, but your heart is pounding too hard for sarcasm to land with its usual punch. He missed you. More than that—he and Kenma both actively hid how much they missed you, just so you wouldn’t feel sad or guilty. That’s… an annoying level of sweet.
Before you can dwell on it, he gestures to the french toast. “Anyway, let’s eat? Unless you’d rather stand here and get all sentimental.”
“Shut up,” you mutter, but your tone is more flustered than harsh. “Give me the plate.”
He hands it over with a dramatic bow, then grabs the strawberries and whipped cream to set on the table. You both sit across from each other, and he insists on adding the toppings to your serving, swirling an absurd amount of whipped cream atop each slice.
“Seriously,” you scold, swatting his wrist when he won’t stop pressing the nozzle, “we don’t need that much foam sugar.”
He just laughs. “Oh, come on, babyface. Live a little.”
“Hmm,” you reply, biting the inside of your cheek to hide your grin. “Fine. But if I get a sugar crash in like two hours, you’re dealing with the aftermath.”
He mock-salutes you. “Yes, ma’am.”
It’s a small, silly moment, but something in the easy way you banter—especially right after that confession about how hard it was when you left—makes your chest swell with warmth. Perhaps it’s just the Valentine’s vibe that has your mind spinning in circles, but you can’t help wondering what he’s getting at here.
You try a bite, letting the sweetness and cinnamon melt on your tongue. “Damn,” you mumble through a mouthful, “this is actually pretty good.”
“Pretty good?” He sets a hand against his heart in mock offense. “I slaved away in the kitchen—”
“What, for like ten minutes?” you interrupt, snickering. “Yep, truly backbreaking labor.”
He pretends to wipe away a tear. “Your gratitude is overwhelming.”
Despite the teasing, he looks satisfied when you reach for another slice. You don’t miss how his eyes follow the movement, nor how his gaze lingers on your face, like he’s taking mental snapshots of you enjoying the meal. It’s disconcertingly tender—especially for a guy who’s teased you your entire life.
Eventually, when you’ve both eaten more than enough, you lean back in your chair, hand resting on your full stomach. “All right, Chef Kuroo. That was acceptable. Now what’s the plan for the rest of Valentine’s Day, hmm?”
He clears his throat, fiddling with a piece of crust on his plate. “Well, we could go ice skating later—like we talked about. If you’re still up for it. Or we could do that rom-com marathon and eat a bunch of store-bought chocolate. Or both.”
“That’s… definitely an option,” you say slowly, feeling a little thrill ripple through you at how nonchalant you’re trying to be. “Which one first?”
He meets your eyes, a hint of a smirk curving his lips. “Why not flip a coin?”
You snort, standing up and collecting the dishes. “No way. I have the worst luck with coin tosses.”
“Then I’ll rig it so you win.” Kuroo grins, pushing back his chair to follow you to the sink.
“And you call me the overachiever,” you toss over your shoulder, cranking on the faucet. You start rinsing plates, the soap suds foaming around your fingers.
“Mm,” he murmurs, stepping up behind you. “At least let me help.”
He crowds in, reaching to take the plate from your hand. You don’t protest—mostly because your entire body goes rigid at the realization of how close he’s standing. His chin practically brushes your temple, and you can feel the warmth radiating off him in waves.
For a moment, neither of you moves. The only sound is the running water, the faint drip of the faucet, and the thud of your own heartbeat in your ears. You can’t help the way your breath catches.
“You okay?” he asks quietly, noticing your sudden stillness.
“Yeah,” you manage, forcing yourself to relax. “Just spacing out.”
His lips twitch into a small, understanding smile. “Same here.” Then, with a deft motion, he takes the plate from you and resumes scrubbing, shoulders barely an inch from yours in your cramped kitchen.
This shouldn’t feel so charged, right? He’s just helping you do dishes. But everything with Kuroo feels different this morning—like there’s some invisible line you both keep brushing against, neither one wanting to take the leap but both too invested to step back.
When the last plate is clean, he sets it on the drying rack, shuts off the water, and dries his hands with a dishrag. “So,” he says, turning to you. “Breakfast? Check. Next item on the Valentine’s agenda?”
You roll your eyes—can’t believe you’re actually calling it Valentine’s now, you think, but you don’t correct him. Instead, you tilt your head, as if deep in thought. “Well, you did promise me cheesy romance, so maybe we do the rom-com marathon first and ice skating afterward, if we still have time.”
His grin is immediate. “Sounds perfect.” He turns and saunters toward your living room, tossing the dishrag onto the counter. “I’ll pick the first movie?”
You’re about to agree when you suddenly remember—he said he’d rig the coin toss. So you raise an eyebrow. “Wait, how do I know you’re not just rigging this in your favor?”
Kuroo snorts, grabbing the TV remote. “Hey, I’m giving you exactly what you want, babyface. I call that your favor.”
You roll your eyes for the millionth time, but you can’t keep the small smile off your face as you follow him into the living room. For the first time in a long while, you feel light—like maybe the missing piece of your life that you left behind in Tokyo is right here, making you french toast and joking about Valentine’s Day.
eleven.
You easily binge Netflix’s Love Is In The Air recommendations for several hours, to the point where, by the time that you wrap up The Kissing Booth 3, the sun has already started to set. Outside your fourth floor apartment, you have a relatively unobstructed view of the way the sky melds into a blend of purples and blues, casting shadows and making your living room’s lighting feel even warmer.
Somehow (you say, knowing full well that you climbed into this position with full intentions of doing so) you end up curled up in Kuroo’s arms, one of your legs draped over his thigh while his arm wraps snugly around your shoulders. His other hand lazily scrolls through the Netflix homepage, searching for the next rom-com victim. You barely pay attention, though—too busy noticing how ridiculously warm he is, how easy it is to fit against him, and how the dark colors of the setting sun outside look so damn pretty.
Finally, after a half-hearted scroll through the Looking For The One category, you decide: “I’m hungry. Let’s get sushi.”
He perks up, setting down the remote. “Now you’re speaking my language. Which place should we order from?”
“There’s this little spot a few blocks away that does really fresh rolls,” you say, grabbing your phone from the cushion beside you. “They deliver in like fifteen minutes, too.”
Kuroo nods, giving you a light squeeze. “Cool. Just let me know how much I owe you. Or consider it your Valentine’s gift to me, I guess.” He snickers.
You roll your eyes at the terrible suggestion, pulling up the menu on your phone. “I’ve got it, I’m feeling generous. Plus, this place is kinda special to me anyway.”
He raises an eyebrow. “Special? Because the sushi’s that good?”
You shift, trying to type your order without meeting his eyes. “Uhh… well, an ex brought me here once. That was back in like, grad school.”
Kuroo’s hand stills against your arm. “Excuse me?” he says, feigning dramatic outrage. “I can’t believe you’d talk about your sordid affairs on Valentine’s Day, babyface. You wound me.”
You snort, giving him a playful shove that doesn’t move him even an inch. “Relax, it was ages ago. It’s not like it was a big deal. I mostly liked him because he kinda looked like—” You stop mid-sentence, eyes widening.
“Kinda looked like… what?” Kuroo parrots, amused suspicion lighting up his features. “Finish that sentence.”
You clamp your mouth shut and tap furiously on your phone screen instead. “Nothing. Just forget it.”
His eyes narrow. “Oh, no no no, you don’t get to drop that bomb and then pretend it never happened. Spill.”
“It’s none of your business,” you reply swiftly, your cheeks burning. “And for the record, it’s definitely not what you’re thinking.”
He sets his jaw, locking you in place by tightening the arm wrapped around you. “Alright, guess I’ll have to guess. Let’s see—you liked him because he kinda looked like…” He pauses, tapping a finger to his chin in exaggerated thought. “Me?”
“Oh my god, no,” you say, maybe a bit too quickly. “That’d be weird, Tetsu. You’re—well, you’re you.”
Something fleetingly vulnerable flashes across his face. He frowns a little, brow knitting. “Do you really think so?” His tone goes quiet, serious in a way that has your stomach dropping.
Your pulse stutters. “Wait, no, I didn’t mean—” You flail, phone clattering onto the cushion as you try to find his gaze. “I just—look, it’s not weird. Of course I—I mean, you know I—” You exhale shakily, feeling your words tumble over themselves. “I like you, Tetsu. Please don’t be upset.”
There’s a beat of tense silence… and then Kuroo bursts out laughing. Actual, stomach-jostling laughter. His fingers pinch the bridge of his nose as he struggles to compose himself, and you realize, with rapidly boiling annoyance, that he’s been messing with you.
“You jerk!” you sputter, smacking him on the arm. “That wasn’t funny! I thought I actually hurt your feelings.”
He just grins, easily absorbing your weak swats. “Aw, sorry, babyface. You should’ve seen your face, though.”
Your cheeks feel molten. “I hate you sometimes, you know?”
“Mm-hmm,” he drawls, pulling you back against him, his palm smoothing over your shoulder. “But the good news is, now I know you do like me. And that some of your exes looked like me, which is a really nice ego boost.”
You groan, burying your face against his chest. “Shut up.”
He keeps talking anyway, voice taking on a more pensive note. “I mean, it’s not like I can judge. I think about you whenever I meet someone new.”
Slowly, you lift your head, eyebrows knitting. “What do you mean?”
He shrugs one shoulder, as if it’s no big deal. “Just, like, whenever I go on a date, I find myself comparing them to you. They’re never as funny or as smart, or I wonder if they’d get along with Kenma the way you obviously do… that kind of thing.”
You stare at him, mouth slightly open. “Tetsu…” You’re not sure how to respond to that confession. Warmth and a spike of adrenaline rush through you, and you can only open and close your mouth in silence.
At your speechlessness, Kuroo just laughs, scrunching his nose in amusement. “Aw, come on. It’s not that shocking, is it?”
“Uh,” you manage, blinking. “I—uh.”
Your brain is short-circuiting, so you do the only thing that makes sense in your frazzled state: you announce, “I’m gonna go pee.”
“What?” He snorts. “Really? That’s your best response to my heartfelt confession?”
“You think I chose this response?” you squeak, scrambling to your feet. Your cheeks feel like they could combust. “I don’t control your unfiltered romantic drivel, and you don’t control my bladder, okay?”
Kuroo just shakes his head in disbelief, though his eyes gleam with delight. “I’m not stopping you, babyface. Go pee. The sushi’ll be here in a few minutes anyway.”
You nod, fleeing the scene for the bathroom, heart pounding in your ears. Even as you slam the door behind you, you can hear him chuckling softly in the living room.
Leaning against the bathroom door, you take a steadying breath. He compares everyone to you. You literally admitted you like him, too. And he’s laughing, because this is all apparently just… normal. Suddenly, the entire dynamic shifts—like everything you’ve both been dancing around for so long is right there, out in the open, and you’re not quite sure what to do next.
Well, you do know one thing: you really do need to pee.
“Okay,” you mutter, “priorities.”
And as you step toward the toilet, part of you wonders how to keep your composure once you walk back out to him—because from here on out, there’s no more pretending you don’t both feel something real.
twelve.
After peeing and washing your hands with your favorite bougie ass soap (Christmas gift from your boss; you could never afford it at department store rates), you whip out your phone and call Kenma. You know it’s 8 AM over there, so there’s a good chance you’ll be waking up your brother, but you don’t care because you need his objective opinion right now.
It takes until the third call, but on the fourth ring, he finally picks up.
“What?” he mumbles groggily. “I was sleeping.”
“Sorry, but I don’t care. Give me some good advice right now,” you hiss into your phone, pacing back and forth in front of your shower like a maniac.
You hear fabric rustling, followed by a prolonged yawn. “Fine. I bet it has to do with Kuro.”
You freeze, biting down on your lip. “...Maybe.”
“Ugh,” Kenma sighs. “I literally can’t believe you’re calling me about him at eight in the morning.”
“It’s not that early, y’know.”
He grumbles something incoherent under his breath, then says more clearly, “So what’s the crisis? I’m not sure how many brain cells I have at this hour.”
You rub your forehead, letting out a strangled groan. “Kenma, is it weird if I kinda—I don’t know—wanna make out with him? Like, a lot? Maybe not just make out—maybe, like, really make out—” You shake your head vigorously, cheeks flaming. “But is that weird?”
There’s silence on the other end for a long moment. Then Kenma’s voice, flat as ever: “That’s my sister and my best friend you’re talking about. Gross. But also not really weird. Because I literally officiated your wedding in second grade, remember? You two are basically old news.”
You squeeze your eyes shut, your free hand clenching at your side. “Oh my God, not you too. Kuroo keeps bringing it up, and now you’re enabling him. When did that wedding even become a real memory to everyone but me?”
“Uh, it’s always been a memory. You wore a yellow dress, he had a Spider-Man t-shirt, I was reading from a Pokémon handbook.” He yawns. “I was, like, seven, but I still remember, because Kuro wouldn’t shut up about it. And apparently, still won’t.”
“Yeah, well,” you huff, pacing faster. “He mentions it daily, I swear, and it’s driving me insane—like, I get it, we had a pretend wedding when we were literal children. Does he have to bring it up every chance he gets?”
Kenma’s voice goes deadpan. “He brings it up because he likes you, dumbass.”
Your pacing halts so abruptly you almost trip over the bathroom mat. “...Oh.”
A beat passes; the only sound is your heart thudding in your ears.
“Yeah,” Kenma continues, dry as day-old toast. “He’s liked you forever. You’ve liked him forever. You’re both idiots. Congrats.”
You gawk at the phone, mind spinning. “Wait—he—he’s always…? Does everyone know this except me?”
Kenma yawns again, unperturbed. “Probably. I mean, we weren’t exactly subtle growing up. Dad used to tell me he was more worried about you running off with Tetsu than, like, your middle school crushes.”
You gape. “Seriously?”
“Mhm.” You hear the faint click of a laptop or a Switch—knowing Kenma, he’s probably opening up a game to pass the time. “Anyway, is that all you needed to ask? Because I’d like to get at least another hour of sleep.”
You groan, but you can’t quell the swirl of hope rising in your chest. “This is… surreal. He just told me earlier—like, not directly, but he basically said he thinks about me whenever he meets someone new. And I might’ve implied I like him too—oh God, Kenma, what do I do?”
He’s quiet for a moment, presumably considering. “Make out with him. I don’t know. You literally said that’s what you want to do.”
“That’s it? That’s your profound, brotherly wisdom?”
“What else do you want me to say?” he drones. “You both already know you like each other. This was the most obvious outcome in the world. Just do your thing, get it out of your system. Or get married again if you want. Could be a nice full-circle moment.”
You let out a mortified noise, pressing your forehead to the cool tile of your bathroom wall. “You’re—urgh, never mind. Thanks, Kenma.”
“Yeah, yeah,” he mutters. “Tell Kuro he owes me five bucks for something… I’ll think of a reason later. Bye.”
Before you can protest, he hangs up, leaving you with your phone still pressed to your ear. You stare at the blank screen, a mix of exasperation and relief swirling through your chest.
He likes you. You like him. You’re idiots—Kenma’s words, not yours. And apparently, neither of you has been hiding it as well as you thought.
You inhale slowly, trying to calm your racing heart. Then you square your shoulders. “Okay,” you say to yourself, “I can do this. Just… go out there and act normal. Or as normal as possible while wanting to jump his bones. Easy.”
With that pep talk, you push off the wall, open the bathroom door, and step into the hallway, with completely unfounded confidence in yourself.
thirteen.
That confidence goes straight out the window because as soon as you walk back, you are caught off-guard by Kuroo standing in the middle of your living room, hands behind his back and wearing the guiltiest expression you’ve ever seen, obviously hiding something from your view. You’re scared, and immediately a little suspicious.
“What are you doing?” you ask warily, taking very slow, careful steps toward him. “What is that?”
He ignores the question entirely, instead breaking into a triumphant grin. “Babyface,” he declares, “I have a Valentine’s Day gift for you.”
All the tension in your shoulders uncoils in one quick moment of relief. “Oh.” You snort, rolling your eyes. “Okay, this should be good. What is it—a frog? A cricket? Remember when you gave me that cricket in fourth grade?”
Kuroo stifles a laugh, as if recalling the memory of your horrified shriek when you opened a tiny shoebox to find a chirping insect. “I was trying to teach you about biology. You always liked science-y stuff,” he defends. “Besides, a cricket is romantic if you think about it long enough.”
“Oh my god,” you groan, pinching the bridge of your nose. “Please don’t tell me that’s what’s behind your back right now.”
He steps forward, eyes warm with mirth. “I promise. This is way better.”
He produces a small, flat object from behind him—a rectangular folder, sealed by a thin, glossy cover. At first, you’re genuinely perplexed. It’s too big to be a normal card, and there’s no way it’s a book, unless it’s some custom print job. The corners are crisp, the material looks like maybe photo paper. Curiosity coaxes you closer.
Catching your confusion, Kuroo grins wider. “Look inside.”
With a hint of skepticism, you slip your fingers under the cover, peeling it back. Inside is a high-quality color print—like a medical scan or something from a research article. Black-and-gray cross-sections and bright neon highlights fill your vision, and as you blink, trying to parse the image, your mouth goes dry. You recognize the shape of a human brain from an fMRI scan: swirling patterns in vivid oranges and reds indicating activated regions.
“Is this… an fMRI?” you breathe, your hand trembling slightly as you lift the print to the light. Definitely an fMRI, your trained eye confirms—distinct slices, certain labeling, the faint text from the imaging software. “Tetsu, why the hell are you giving me…?”
He shifts, almost shy, scratching the back of his neck. “I asked one of the JVA’s partnered sports med facilities to do a little favor for me.” A pause. “A small, borderline unethical favor.”
Your eyes dart back to the vibrant splotches. “The nucleus accumbens,” you whisper, tapping a bright orange blob near the center. “And the hippocampus. They’re… lit up.” You draw in a sharp breath. “These areas activate when you’re—”
“—experiencing motivation, reward, or strong emotional attachment,” he finishes gently, voice hushed. “Like, for instance, thinking about someone you love.”
Your heart stutters so violently you nearly drop the print. “So, you—this is… from your brain?” you manage, your throat suddenly tight.
Kuroo nods, looking almost bashful, which is a jarring contrast to his usual smug confidence. “They scanned me while I was, uh… focusing on a particular mental image.” He glances away, expression uncharacteristically shy. “I figured you’d like the hard data. You being a scientist and all.”
You force yourself to swallow past the dryness in your mouth. “You’re telling me you literally got an fMRI done while thinking about… someone?” Your voice trembles on the last word, and you can’t quite meet his eye.
He exhales a quick laugh. “Uh-huh. Didn’t take long. I just, you know, had to fill out some forms, promise it was for a PR stunt about brain health or something. Then I, well, closed my eyes and pictured—”
“Who?” you interrupt, not even caring that you sound breathless. You’re clutching the fMRI print so hard you can feel the edges biting into your fingertips.
Kuroo’s grin turns downright sheepish, and he tucks a stray lock of hair behind your ear. “Take a wild guess, babyface.”
Heat floods your cheeks, your mind flashing back to all the data you’ve read about how the nucleus accumbens is heavily involved in romantic love, addiction, reward. All those nights you taught undergrads about dopaminergic pathways and the hippocampus’s role in forming new memories—specifically, emotional memories.
“You… you were thinking about me?” you ask, voice scarcely above a whisper.
The sheepishness melts into something warmer. “Yeah,” he admits, gaze holding yours. “Obviously.”
For a moment, your living room goes silent—no hum of traffic or whir of appliances registers in your ears, just the thud-thud-thud of your heart as you stare at the bright orange smears on the print. He was literally focusing on you, flooding his mind with thoughts of you, enough to trigger all these hallmark signs of love and emotional resonance in his brain.
“You—” you start, but your voice is shaky. You take a breath, dropping your eyes to the image again. “This is probably the strangest and most… scientifically romantic thing anyone’s ever given me.”
He clears his throat, stepping closer. “I hoped you’d see it that way. I know you’re not into the typical Valentine’s gifts—flowers and cheesy cards. So I thought, you know… I’d show you proof.” He shrugs, but there’s an earnestness in his eyes that makes your chest tighten. “Real, measurable proof that you’re always in my head.”
Overcome, you tear your gaze from the print to search his face, half expecting him to burst into laughter and say it’s another joke. But there’s no sign of teasing. He’s dead serious, a bit vulnerable, and it reminds you painfully of how you’ve known him forever—how under all the arrogance and jokes, he’s always worn his heart right there on his sleeve.
“I—” You can’t find the words, so instead, you lean forward, pressing your forehead gently against his shoulder. The fMRI print stays clutched in your hand at your side, but the rest of you rests against him, trying to steady your breathing.
Kuroo’s arms come up, enveloping you. You feel the softness of his shirt and the warmth of his body, and it’s equal parts comforting and electrifying. “So,” he says softly, voice rumbling through your hair, “was this too much?”
You lift your head, meeting his gaze. “No,” you say, the corners of your mouth tilting up in a shaky smile. “It’s just… a lot to take in.” You let out a small laugh, one that wobbles on the edge of tears. “You literally went out of your way to prove you’re thinking about me with actual neuroscience data. How am I supposed to top that?”
He grins, the tension in his shoulders easing. “You don’t have to. Maybe just trust me when I say you’re stuck in my head, yeah?”
A breathless little chuckle escapes you. “Yeah,” you whisper. “I… can do that.”
For a second, the two of you just stand there, pressed together, the overhead light casting a soft glow on the fMRI print you still clutch in your trembling hand. Then Kuroo’s voice breaks the silence:
“Hey,” he murmurs, “since we’re on the subject of your super-scientific interest in my reward pathways… maybe we can do a little experiment?”
Your brow arches, a half-laugh catching in your throat. “An experiment, huh?”
“Mhm.” He carefully closes his hand around your wrist—the one holding the print—guiding it so you can set it gently on the coffee table nearby. Then he slides his fingers under your chin, tilting your face up to his. “I wanna see if I can spike some more activity in that region. Because I’m definitely thinking about you right now.”
Your heart stutters. The last time he teased you about wanting to test something, you were six years old, and he was coaxing you into believing that tying your shoelaces together would make you run faster. This, though? Vastly different stakes.
Still, your lips twitch into a wry smile. “Just… kissing me won’t show up on an fMRI unless you, I don’t know, plan on hooking up electrodes or something.”
He smirks, fingers trailing up to brush the line of your jaw. “Nah, no fancy medical tech needed. I just want an empirical result—like, say, a moan or a heartbeat spike.”
A shiver runs through you, and you swear you can feel your pulse jump beneath his hand. “You’re such a nerd,” you whisper, lips quirking. “But sure. For science.”
He laughs softly, the sound warm and easy, like the last golden light of sunset spilling through half-open blinds. Then, before you can think too much about it, he closes the distance, tilting his head just slightly as his lips brush against yours in a kiss that is warm, lingering, and unhurried. It steals your breath, not in the way a storm might, but like a tide gently pulling you under, enveloping you in something deep and inevitable.
The taste of him is familiar yet new all at once—there’s the faint trace of the sushi from earlier, or maybe just the memory of it, mingling with something sweeter, something unmistakably him. His fingers ghost along your waist, their presence featherlight but grounding, like a silent promise that he’s here, he’s real. And when he pulls you closer, his body pressing flush against yours, you feel it—the way your heart flutters wildly against your ribs, the way warmth spreads through your chest like a sunrise breaking over the horizon.
For a moment, the world holds its breath. Everything fades away—the hum of the city beyond the window, the soft glow of the overhead lights, even the thoughts that usually crowd your mind. There is only this: the way his lips move with quiet reverence, the quiet hitch in your breath as your fingers curl instinctively into the fabric of his shirt, the subtle shift of his body as he deepens the kiss just enough to make your pulse race.
And then, suddenly, you realize—you don’t need a machine or a calculation to tell you how you feel. The answer is already written in the way your entire chest hums, in the way your skin tingles where he touches you, in the way something inside you feels like it’s come alive, like a supernova has replaced your heart.
God, the astrophysics department should be studying this instead.
When he finally pulls back—foreheads brushing, breath mingling—he searches your eyes, his own half-lidded with affection. “So,” he murmurs, “did I succeed in lighting up your hippocampus?”
Your laugh comes out a little breathless. “If you keep that up,” you say, pressing a palm to his chest, “you might just rewire my entire brain.”
He grins, leaning in again to drop a quick peck at the corner of your mouth. “Good. Then I’ll have all the data I need.”
You wrap your arms around his neck, pulling him in for another lingering kiss, feeling the warmth of his smile against your lips. In the back of your mind, you’re distantly aware that your own reward pathways might be exploding, nucleus accumbens glowing neon, hippocampus forging brand-new memories like a bonfire. And for the first time in a long time, you’re okay with letting the feelings have free rein.
Because sometimes, science can capture how people feel, but it can’t fully capture why. And right now, with Kuroo’s arms around you and that precious fMRI print still waiting on the coffee table, you think you’ve finally found your “why” in the easiest, most obvious place of all:
He loves you, and you love him back.
fourteen.
Three hundred and sixty-four days later, Kuroo is helping you move into a new apartment. In Tokyo. Because Columbia offered you the chance to do an exchange with the University of Tokyo before the end of your doctorate studies. For two entire years, slicing open human brains and figuring out what’s going on beneath, because your article published in Neuron made the cover page and you got a fat and juicy grant from the school. Two entire years of being close enough to hear your parents bragging about you in person again, and to have shitty takeout dinner with Kenma after his video game streams but before his corporate mojo.
And two entire years of getting to live with your boyfriend. Kuroo, your very wonderful boyfriend who you love more than life itself and who you want to be buried with one day. The Kuroo who was the first person you liked at six years old and is still who you like at twenty-six. The Kuroo who you have successfully managed an international relationship with because you’ve already went three years apart without the spark dying. Still, you’re absolutely beaming as you carry in boxes and boxes of clothes, because you always love getting to be with him, in person and in real life, and now you get to every single day.
You can’t hang up on him when he gets annoying anymore, but it’s worth it when he makes you breakfast daily and reaches for you in his sleep.
You heave another box into the apartment—this one filled with mismatched mugs you’ve collected from half a dozen coffee shops—and set it down with a groan. Kuroo flashes you a grin from across the living room, one hand resting casually on his hip as he surveys the chaos of half-unpacked boxes and hastily labeled luggage.
“You brought an entire suitcase just for shoes,” he points out, amused.
“Hey,” you protest, wiping sweat off your forehead with the back of your hand, “if I’m living here for two years, I’m not just gonna live in sneakers.”
He ambles over and nudges the box with his foot. “I guess that’s fair—though I’m not carrying that one up another flight of stairs if we end up moving again. You’ll have to bribe Kenma for help.”
You roll your eyes, but a laugh slips free. “Fine, fine. Now, major question: where are we putting our bed?”
He waggles his eyebrows, eyes bright with mischief. “We?” he echoes, as if you haven’t been living together for all of thirty minutes. “I’m pretty sure I get ultimate bed placement rights, given my extensive experience in interior design.”
“Oh, sure, because black-cat-themed t-shirts and old gym hoodies scream ‘interior design mogul.’”
He smirks. “Hey, I’ve got taste.” With that, he gestures expansively toward the center of a wall in the room you’d marked for the bed, where the largest patch of light from the window splashes onto the floor. “I say we put the bed there. We’ll get a queen, obviously.”
You raise an eyebrow. “A queen? As if you’re actually gonna stay on your side.”
His grin turns lazy. “Exactly. I can find you in the expanse.”
“And you wonder why I think you’re annoying.” You toss him a mock exasperated look, which only earns you another chuckle.
“You still chose to live with me,” he points out, that devilish glint in his eyes returning, “because you’re stuck with me, right here.”
“Lucky me,” you tease, while your heart still does that stupid flutter thing at the thought of waking up next to him every day.
He walks over and presses a quick kiss to your forehead. It’s such a simple, tender gesture that you can’t help the smile that spreads across your face.
“Speaking of tomorrow,” you say, turning back to break down an empty cardboard box, “it’s Valentine’s Day. Any big plans, or are we just, y’know, gonna eat convenience store chocolates while finishing the bed frame?”
Kuroo shrugs, far too casually for someone who’s obviously up to something. “Mmm, I might have a surprise,” he says.
You roll your eyes. “Of course you do. You and your surprises. Is it expensive, by chance?”
His brows lift in feigned innocence. “Depends if you consider a diamond ring expensive.”
You almost drop the box, now flattened and very, very large. “A what now?”
He smirks, crossing his arms over his chest. “You heard me.”
He’s kidding. He has to be fucking kidding, right now. He did not spend a small fortune on a rock for your finger.
“Fucking return that,” you blurt instantly, your heart skipping not one but multiple beats. “That’s so expensive. Why would you do that?”
“Well, if I’m gonna get my future wife a ring, I’m gonna make it an investment,” Kuroo replies with an ease that makes your chest tighten all over again.
“Wait—what the… Are you—are you serious?”
He leans closer, lips tilting in a secretive smile. “I guess you’ll find out tomorrow.”
Your mind whirls, half in shock, half in outright giddy disbelief. You’re suddenly hyperaware of everything: his calm breathing, the faint noises from the street outside, the way the newly painted walls catch the late afternoon light.
“Are you messing with me?” you finally manage.
“Wouldn’t you like to know,” he says, and then taps the tip of your nose affectionately. “But trust me, you’ll like it.”
It’s maddening and wonderful all at once, and you can’t help but wonder how on earth you got lucky enough to stumble into a future that looks a whole lot like happiness—especially if it involves a ring.
But for now, you tamp down the frantic beating of your heart and glance at the corner of the room. “Right,” you say, clearing your throat. “Queen bed. Got it.”
He laughs. “We’ll get the perfect one tomorrow. After all, we have at least two years of me latching onto you in my sleep, and then… maybe forever.”
And you roll your eyes, but you know what’ll happen tomorrow. Because of course you’re going to say yes. Because Kuroo Tetsuro has been the love of your life since you were a kid marrying him with dandelions, and because in every version of your imagined future, he’s still there, standing across from you at the aisle, regardless of if it’s a Band-Aid or an engagement ring he’s putting on your finger. Because he still makes every reward center in your brain light up (and because you’re putting that fMRI in your office at the university).
Honestly, love is a system of chemical reactions. Scanners and artificial intelligence will probably take over the world sooner or later, and the scientific community is getting better and better at understanding the whys. You can measure the dopamine flooding your brain, track the firing of mirror neurons, and map out which regions of your cortex light up at the sound of his laugh. But still, science is flawed, because all the scanning techniques in the world can’t replicate the soft, certain rhythm of his heartbeat under your palm, or the way his eyes crinkle in tender amusement when he looks at you.
In this moment, your hippocampus diligently encodes every detail: the slight scuff on the floor, the teasing quirk of his lips, the warm press of his shoulder against yours. The memory crystallizes, even before tomorrow’s promise fully forms, because you already know the answer. You always have.
When you finally pull your gaze away, the last rays of sunlight spill over the spot where you’ll put your new bed—the place you’ll fall asleep entangled in each other’s arms, night after night. You picture the days ahead: lazy mornings that begin with his sleepy kisses, evenings spent side by side, peeling back the layers of the human mind and finding new depths in each other all the while.
And as your heart thrums with a rhythm that science can’t quite pin down—something that defies clean categorization in textbooks—you realize that in this bright, messy, glorious future, every neuron in your body is wired just for him.
And if that’s not proof enough of love, you’re not sure what is.
⨭ closing notes; i love being able to write bc i can create purely self indulgent things like this. i'm a neuroscientist and my bday is nov 14 (exactly 9 months after valentine's day) and im from nyc so this one really has a lil kick to it. did u notice i made it perfectly 14 chapters cause feb 14 lol i rly used my brain for that one. anyway happy day of love!! whether ur celebrating or not, please know i love u all <3
