[kstrucknet]

𓂃. 𝒦𝐒𝐓𝐑𝐔𝐂𝐊𝐍𝐄𝐓 : 𝒲𝐄𝐋𝐂𝐎𝐌𝐈𝐍𝐆 new members .ᐟ

1 . rules 2 . application 3 . members & affiliates 4 . events 5 . faqs

© copyright kstrucknet 2024 / 25 ( ® rights reserved to loserlvrss ) copying, translating, and duplicating is strictly prohibited.

[blue-jisungs]

⋆ ˚｡⋆౨ৎ˚ TEXTS WITH BF CHENLE 🧸ྀི

[ extras ] my awful humor :D

*ੈ✩‧₊˚ note ! I LLOVE CHENLE I LOVE CHENLE I LOVE CHENLE I LOVE CHENLE I LOVE CHENLE I LOVE CHENLE I LOVE CH

@kstrucknet 🎀 @neocity-net

masterlist <3

taglist. @l3visbby ,, @laylasbunbunny ,, @planetkiimchi ,, @mon2sunjinsuver ,, @w3bqrl ,,

@eternalgyu ,, @haecien ,, @slytherinshua ,, @bbangbies ,, @hhaechansmoless

@jvkeslvr ,, @loserlvrss

[seokminfilm]

yours ── lee seokmin

🤍 pairing, lee seokmin x reader

🤍 warnings, non-idol au, fluff, hurt/comfort, established relationship, boyfriend seokmin, mentions of thunderstorms, kissing, skinship, seokmin calls reader baby, reader calls seokmin by his nicknames, soft seokmin hours, just really fluffy

🤍 summary, you hated thunderstorms—thankfully, seokmin was just in time to comfort you.

🤍 author's note, tornado warnings are going off at the moment of writing this so...i can relate to what's happening in this fic 😭 i hate hate hate thunderstorms but we ball anyways!! this too shall pass 🙏 anyways enjoy lyrnation!

🤍 now playing, headliner (seventeen)

🤍 word count, 1.1k | for @kstrucknet, @maestro-net

as the rain beat harder on the windows of your bedroom, your body tensed up with fear as the sky lit up brightly with lighting, thunder coming soon after and shaking the ground with its intensity.

it was a saturday night, and the whole day hadn't been the best for you: not only did you mess up your chance to cook your sweet boyfriend, seokmin, a nice breakfast, but your friend had canceled her plans to visit you and you had been asked by your boss to up in ten more extra hours next week—ruining the idea you had of taking seokmin out on a date.

and now, to top it all off, thunderstorm warnings sounded off on your phone, and one was approaching your apartment.

another intense shake of your house brought you back to the present, and you felt the hair on your neck stand up as fear gripped your body. you hated thunderstorms—the loudness of it all terrified you, and your mind seemed to go to the worst places when thunder was present.

suddenly, your phone rang, and you stared down at it to see your boyfriend's contact light up the screen—seokmin was calling you, probably to make sure you were okay. you let a sigh of relief fall past your lips, picking up the call quickly.

"seokmin, hi.." you sigh out the greeting breathlessly, and seokmin sighs with the same tone you do, responding with a relieved "hey, baby."

"are you doing okay? i know the thunder's getting bad now, and i keep getting thunderstorm warnings in my notifications..." seokmin's voice has a constant hint of worry as he speaks. your heart softens, so grateful to know seokmin's worried about you just as much as you're concerned about him.

"i'm doing the best i can. the thunder isn't my favorite thing, but you know—" you pause to laugh, hoping it convinces seokmin as you fidget with the strings of seokmin's hoodie you were wearing. "i'll make it eventually. i always do."

seokmin laughs at your response, sighing again as you hear a clicking sound in the background. "don't worry, baby—i'm on my way home now. i'm sorry i had to be out so late."

"no, no, seok—don't apologize. it's okay. i'm just happy to know you're coming home. i really need you right now." you say with a wince, ears ringing after the loud bang of thunder outside. seokmin sighs, a smile behind his voice as he replies with a soft "i know. i need you too."

bidding your goodbyes after you catch up with seokmin a little bit more, you let yourself bundle up in the blankets of your massive bed, awaiting seokmin's return.

the sound of a door closing downstairs stirs you from your sleep, and you listen to the shuffling of feet and the continuous sound of rain against the glass of the windows. too sluggish to move from your position, you listen quietly to the sounds surrounding you, breathing deeply as another thunderclap sounds in the distance.

stairs creak under your boyfriend's weight as he cracks open the door to your bedroom, and you smile as you hear the shuffling around your room and smell the familiar scent of seokmin's cologne.

"hey, baby. are you awake?" seokmin asks quietly, a few feet away from you. you nod, shuffling under the covers as you push them away from your face.

"hi, baby. god, i'm so happy to be able to put my hands on you. i missed you so much," seokmin's smile is glorious as he approaches you, squatting down to his knees as he brushes your hair away from your face with his slender fingers.

"are you doing okay? do i need to get you anything?" seokmin asks softly, staring into your eyes as you shake your head, clearing your throat. "i'm doing fine. i accidentally fell asleep while waiting for you to come home—i'm sorry, min."

"baby, don't apologize. i'm glad you fell asleep—you need some rest." seokmin smiles, kissing you softly as his sharp nose bumps yours. "let me take a quick shower, and then i'll get in bed with you, yeah?"

"okay," you smile, letting seokmin cradle your face in his palm before he kisses you again, making a little 'mwah' sound when he pulls away.

"i love you," seokmin says softly, staring at you with love in his eyes as you stare back, face warming up as you stare at seokmin's handsome features. "i love you too, seokmin. thank you for everything."

"of course, baby. i'll be in bed in a few minutes." seokmin gives you one more peck on the lips before standing up and disappearing into the bathroom, the door closing behind him as you let your eyes flutter shut once again.

a creak of the bed brings you to consciousness once more, and you sigh contently as seokmin slithers in behind you, firm body pressed against yours as you allow yourself to melt into him. seokmin sighs heavily behind you, the familiar scent of his deodorant melting into the cold air of the bedroom.

"i'm here, baby," seokmin whispers tenderly, kissing your neck softly as you sigh at the contact of his soft, plush lips on your skin. "i'm glad you are, seokkie. i missed you so bad today."

"awww, i missed you more." seokmin chuckles lowly, enamored with your clingy nature as you exhale, sinking deeper into your pillow.

"how was your day?" you ask seokmin, hands falling to seokmin's arms as they wrap protectively around your waist. he sighs, shuffling under the blankets for a moment before he answers you.

"it was good. tiring, but good—i got a lot of things done today, too, so...it's good for you and me. i can stay home tomorrow." seokmin smiles against your hair as he leans his head on top of yours, and you hum happily, too comfortable to speak in this moment.

"how about you, baby? how was your day?" seokmin asks, and you sigh heavily, allowing yourself to finally vent all of your frustrations from the past day to him.

"and then, to top it all off, this awful thunderstorm." you finish your rant, out of breath as the thunder rolls outside once again. seokmin had been taking such good care of you, you had even forgotten there was still a thunderstorm going on.

"baby, i'm so sorry." seokmin sighs, tone matching yours as he runs his fingers through your hair. "that did sound like a really rough day. i wish i was here with you."

"it's okay. i have you here with me now, and it erased all the bad things that happened earlier today, so....thank you." you say, and seokmin kisses the tip of your ear, smiling against it as he nibbles at your earlobe, causing you to giggle uncontrollably.

"of course. i love you so much, baby. i'm so glad you're mine." seokmin whispers softly, tenderly kissing your neck as you start to fall asleep, smiling as you quietly reply.

"i love you too, seokmin. i'm glad i'm yours, too."

[arafilez]

AFTER YOU READ ⠀⠀ ✶ ⠀ LYC

𝗖𝗛𝒪𝗥𝗗 ──── after the letter is sent now your turn is to ignore him

❪ 情報 ❫⠀ ‘ yechan & gn!reader ⠀⠀･･･ ⠀ f2l ⠀ 658 ⠀ drabble ── pt1 ⠀ contains⠀ kissing ⠀´ ᵕ ` ⠀ library ⠀ 500 followers ⠀-⠀ req

You have avoided Yechan for a whole two days after you dumped the letter in his mailbox, knowing very well he is the one who collects them. It wasn’t very hard if you were being honest because all you had to do was rot in your room while he went about his day. You had also decided to make it easier for yourself by logging out of all your socials and keeping your phone in DND.

Your friend has proceeded to curse you over messages but you ignored her ass successfully. What you weren’t successful in thinking was you could avoid Yechan anymore. You could hear voices over your earbuds, and you knew all too well that was Yechan’s mom speaking to yours.

Maybe it’s nothing, you try to convince yourself as your feet nervously taps against the floor waiting for the voices to quieten. As soon as they do you hear footsteps coming up and that is the cue for you to start praying.

Okay how worse can it be? Maybe your mom is coming to tell you she is going out. You two are not kids, of course you won’t be left with each other.

Your door swings open, and you yelp as you see Yechan with a menacing smile on his face as he throws a shopping bag towards you. You catch it as he says, “We are assigned to go to the mart.”

“Assigned? What is this a spy mission?” you scoff as you get up to look at the boy, and he shrugs, saying, “To you it is, isn’t it?” The grin never leaves his face, making you push him as you go out. Yechan giggles as he follows you down the stairs and outside.

You are kind of thankful to him for not bringing up the letter you sent but half of your mind wishes he brings it up. You make a groaning sound but it doesn’t miss Yechan’s ears as he nudges you teasingly calling out your name.

“What?” you glare at him and finally, his yapping nature comes back as he says, “You think I’m your ideal type?” He wiggles his eyebrows as you narrow your eyes and fasten your pace to leave his ass behind.

It doesn’t do anything as he skips ahead and continues, “It’s cute, though, and I am so honoured to know that you like me.” “Stop it,” heat creeps up your face as you whine but he giggles more as he replies, “Why? Because we stopped that day?”

You know exactly what and when he is referring to- when you two stopped just before you two would kiss and you mumble, “I panicked okay, don’t tease me.” “Oh but I love to tease you and you know that,” his giggles turn into laughs as you glare at him standing on the side walk.

Your eyes lock with his and god, you swear you see the stars in the broad daylight as he laughs. A moment passes as he quietens down and says, “So when do we finish what we wanted to do in the dance floor?” If your face was hot before you are sure it will melt now as you smack his arm and he smiles holding you by your waist.

You are about to speak, but he cuts you off with a quick peck on your lips, and your breath hitches as you stare at him wide-eyed. And Yechan can swear, he has never felt in love with you more.

“Not the most rom-com kissing in the backyard,” he whispers lightly, “But we can do that later too.” His giggles come right back when you groan pushing your head to his body and reply, “You should really burn the letter.”

“Never,” he tickles your sides lightly as you jolt and look up at him, but he steals the words right out of your mouth as he plants a proper kiss this time.

( ARA'S ) ──── asjskejek okay so im so happy to be out of my writer's block lmao. idk if this req is enough or if you even remember requesting me but ig part 2 of the letter was needed

´ ᵕ ` ⠀⠀ xikers shelf ⠀navi ⠀,⠀taglist . fill this / comment / ask

@sxmnc @seomisaho @peterm4rker @tmrwsuns

@aaa-sia @haneagerr @yeosayang @hursheys

ㅤㅤ ㅤㅤ (ㅤ © arafilez ㅤ)

[loserlvrss]

𝙄'𝙇𝙇 𝙎𝙃𝙊𝙒 𝙔𝙊𝙐 𝘼𝙉𝘼𝙏𝙊𝙈𝙔 ──── 愛 k.donghyun &𝔣reader

𝒶dvertencia : suggestive content / dialogue 🍓 430 est. rela. BONEDO | all my girlies who had to take anatomy know (˶•𐃷•˶)

“What’s this?” you felt a gentle poke against your forearm. 

“Antebrachial.” you stated, feeling confident in your answer. He smiled, looking down at the flashcard and then back up to you. 

“That’s right, baby,” he shoved it behind the others, studying the words (you couldn’t see) to test you. He pointed again, this time to your fingers. “And these?”

You wiggled them playfully in his face before stating, “Digitals.” 

He hummed, “You’re good at this. You’ll do just fine on the practical, love.” 

You relished in his compliments as he got another card, this time from the middle. As he bent over to point at the back of your calf with a light touch, you started panicking, knowing you couldn’t remember the difference between sural and crural most of the time. You decided to stall. “What do I get if I get this right?” 

He looked up to you, careful to hide the answer against his chest. You knew that he knew what you were doing, but he still played along. “What do you want?”

Bringing your finger to your lips, you pondered a second, fronting like you were actually thinking about a desire, and not a response to the location on your body. Crural, sural; which was it?

“I want…a kiss!” 

“You don’t have to get it right for one of those, but if that’s your wish.” he stated while straightening his spine. “What’s the answer then?” he cocked his brow, getting awfully close to your face. 

You stuttered, “it’s, uh, it’s the–”

“Times up.” he smiled, whispering almost against your lips. You fought with a shaky breath. “What’s the answer?”

He began to lean closer, fingers now digging into your hips, flashcards still clad in one hand. You closed your eyes in anticipation, until your entire body was jolted to be against his, the shock of it causing them to open widely again. He was staring at you with hooded eyes—how could you remember anything but him at this moment? 

“Sural?”

Then, just as you thought he was going to pull away for it being a wrong answer, he laughed breathily, confirming that it was right and you were just stalling.

You couldn’t deny it. 

The kiss was light, lips moving slowly together, despite the heavy tension he built. And you giggled back against him, admitting under your breath that you really didn’t know the difference between the two regions. 

Suddenly, he pulled back, stating, “I’m bored.” 

Your head fell crooked and you huffed, wrapping your arms around his neck. “Why don’t we study some different anatomy then?” 

reblogs and feedback appreciated .ᐟ @onedoornet @kstrucknet @blossomnet @k-films @starlit-network @atzlordz @riqomi @1009high @minkilicious @nctrawberries @desssss-0 @kangtaehyunzzz taglist form

[loserlvrss]

BUT IT AIN'T : BAD ENOUGH ──ⓘ toxicity & suggestive content. NINEFIFTYSEVEN angst 🍶 エンティーム.ケイ

but we can't see all the flames around. you and I, we keep dancing to siren sounds. 𓂃. she marinated @1009high

How you kept getting into this exact situation was honestly a little baffling. Maybe it was the alcohol, or maybe it was the man whose hands knew you too well. The ones that kept you coming back without a need for a reason, that kept you sitting on the fence. 

He said he loved you, but have you ever really felt loved while not under him? 

He knew just as well as you did—maybe even better, afterall, he rewired you—you'd always give him another chance. If only he’d free you from the torment. Even if it took a hundred tries to finally end something that should've stayed dead in the first place.

You've always been his though. 

And, unsure if you ever actually loved him is something you couldn't deny anymore. Because you did—you really, really did. 

At least, you thought you did. A game of chase, circling the corners of the figure-eight that always led you back to the place that looked so much like home. 

"Are you okay?" you were focused by his lips on your neck, his tongue sending a painful shock straight to your heart. "Yn?"

It's no doubt that he physically feels good—every drag of his hands, his lips, his skin on yours—however, mentally and emotionally were a totally different narrative. He knew you, but that also meant that he knew how to play you. He knew where every weak spot in your heart was buried and how to twist the story to his every desire. He knew exactly how to mold you into someone only he could love. 

And that paralyzed you. 

You stuttered out a nod, locking eyes, and he kept going, sucking marks against your collarbones, breath heavy when yours felt shallow. His hands toyed with the hem of your shirt, pushing it up. You helped, lifting yourself briefly so he could take it off. The weight of his gaze on you felt crushing, but then his lips were back on yours, moving so gently you were almost convinced that what you’d been thinking (knowing better) was untrue. 

You almost changed your mind. 

Yudai’s movements stopped, an annoyed groan echoing. You watched him with blank eyes as he sat up on his knees. 

It was a curse disguised by a blessing to know someone so deeply. It invoked an anger to rise to your throat, clogging it. Tears also began to pool in your lash line without will, eyes trailing to the ceiling as you laid lifeless, with a heart that beat for him, skin that yearned for him. 

"What the fuck is up with you?" He asked, shaking one of the knees on either side of his torso. He bargained for your attention. "Are you gonna throw up? You look pale." 

Maybe you were. 

He was sickening. Everything he shouldn't have been made up everything he was, and that made you feel everything. He was sick to keep making you come back to him like some sort of situationship—like you hadn't actually dated him for years, like you hadn’t defended him to your mirror time and time again. 

He was nauseating…and you used to like that about him. 

Now he was a curse that you couldn’t escape, a habit you couldn’t break. You loved him, but you hated him so much it physically hurt. 

Your voice came out barely audible, lower than a whisper. “Do you actually?”

He scoffed, head being thrown back momentarily. “What now, yn?” 

You mustered up enough courage—will—to sit up, knees curling to your bare chest. “What are we doing…w-what are you doing to me, k?”

Your heart sank at his silence, arms coming to wrap around your legs. Your eyes clouded over, recalling a couple hours ago when you were standing on some random lawn, yelling nonsense at him. He pulled on your strings so well, you’d forgotten for a moment who he was, and what you two were always good at; Lying. 

The art of acting was something you mastered some time ago. And, the mastermind behind your one-man show was always the person who pretended to love you so well—but, it takes one to know one, doesn’t it? 

At some point you couldn’t even recall when you’d first met him, when your friend had introduced you, when he wasn’t like this. She always took the blame for ruining your life, but it was time you started pointing fingers back at you. It was your fault. It’s always been your fault. You let him act this way, knowing he can get away with wrapping a plastic bag around your head. 

It was suffocating you—his presence—his piercing gaze, and self-centered tendencies. 

In reality, you were no better. 

You’d always found yourself saying goodbye, just to crawl back on all fours like some sort of animal. You were lost, walking a road that had so many exits you didn’t know which was real and which was fake. He was something you worshiped, someone you felt a deep-connection to, but he wasn’t yours to begin with. He’s never been tameable and that's something you thought you had come to terms with. 

You were unsteady. Body shaking. 

He was a weed you couldn’t get rid of no matter how many times you pulled it. Its roots ran deep. He ran deep.

And you’ve never been good at keeping flowers alive. 

You hated him, but that didn’t mean your heart didn’t belong to him. He was everything you’ve ever lived and died for—everything you needed. He was so imperfectly perfect for you that he knew every way to one-up you. Every way to worm back into your brain and body. Every way to wear out his welcome.

He knew you, but would you ever really know him?

rights reserved. loserlvrss 2025. @1009high @blue-jisungs @k-films @blossomnet @lune-net @kstrucknet @starlit-network @atzlordz @minkilicious | bold could not be tagged, lmk if users changed.

[sknyuz]

open channel | w.j.h.

stepping into the haas f1 garage means more than just being good at what you do—you’ve inherited the headset once worn by your father, now the vital voice guiding their first seat driver, wen junhui, on track. junhui is sharp and distant, but your clear calls cut through the noise in a way that unsettles his perfect composure. between late-night debriefs, testing laps, and the chaos of race weekends, a quiet rhythm starts to build—something that feels dangerously close to something more.

pairing — f1 driver!wen junhui x reader

genre — part of the lights out collab by @camandemstudios, f1 au, motorsports au, haas f1, slowburn romance, romantic tension, secret(?) relationship, drama

cw — intense descriptions of racing crashes, past trauma, panic attack depiction, workplace tension, skinship, kissing, drooling, SMUT like—smut smut (unprotected sex, fingering, breeding kink?), aftercare, swearing

word count — 17k(?) this got out of hand pretty quickly

author’s note — huge thank you to cam [@highvern] and em [@gyuswhore] for inviting me to be part of the lights out! collab <333 this piece has been almost two months in the making (finished while i was down bad with the flu, rip). if you’re a regular on my blog, you know i don’t usually dive into smut—but let me tell you, this might be the smuttiest smut i’ve ever smutted in my whole writing career.

it starts with the smell of oil and burnt rubber—the same scent that clung to your dad’s hands when you were five, sitting cross-legged in the back of your kart garage, watching him scribble notes on telemetry charts.

somehow, you’re back here. not in that exact garage, but in a world that smells the same, hums the same—an ecosystem of adrenaline, high-stakes precision, and the sharp sting of carbon brake dust.

“don’t hover like that, you’ll look nervous,” comes a voice behind you. familiar, sharp, warm. laura müller, chief race engineer for haas f1, the first woman to ever claim that title, and the one who decided to take you under her wing. “stand tall. these boys smell fear.”

“not nervous,” you mutter, adjusting the headset that feels too big even though it’s custom-fit. “just… recalibrating.”

she snorts. “well, looks like my baby chick’s got the vocabulary of a senior strategist. you’ll be fine.”

you try not to look like you’re clinging to those words. because the truth is, you are nervous. new paddock. new team. same old weight on your shoulders. everyone knows whose daughter you are—the haas veteran, with his salt and pepper beard, officially retiring after two decades as the trusted race engineer for their most enigmatic driver.

wen junhui. a young but already seasoned driver—your driver now. ice prince of the paddock. untouchable on track and unreadable off it. karting since he was a kid, in f1 by eighteen, and a consistent name in the points ever since.

you haven’t seen him in person for years—not since you stopped following your dad into the garage. lately, it’s only ever been through a screen: his onboard cams, clipped comms, lap data flashing across your monitor. you’ve studied his pace, dissected his rain drives like some people watch old films.

but the cameras never got it quite right. in person, there’s a weight to him the broadcast can’t capture—shoulders squared, presence steady, the faint trace of boyish charm from years ago now sharpened into something quieter, heavier. older.

and now, you’re supposed to be his voice in the chaos.

when junhui finally walks into the garage, it’s like a shift in air pressure—quiet, sharp, certain. he scans the space, quick and efficient, until his gaze lands on you.

he takes you in for a moment—head to toe, then back to your eyes—and says, voice low but clear,

“baby chick.”

you blink. “excuse me?”

his mouth quirks, not quite a smile. “the old man’s kid. didn’t think i’d see you in here without him.”

he doesn’t linger on your face for long before someone from the crew steps up with his balaclava and helmet, pulling him into the practiced rhythm of pre-season prep. gloves handed off, visor polished, radio checks murmured around him like a well-rehearsed song. he moves through it all without fuss, but with the kind of economy you only see in people who’ve been doing this since before they could drive on the road.

you stand off to the side, watching the way he adjusts the strap under his chin without even looking, shifting his weight as someone tugs at his race suit.

laura leans toward you, her voice low but amused. “don’t just stand there like a spare part. get ready too, baby chick. you’re on comms the moment he’s out.”

“right,” you murmur, forcing your feet toward your station. the headset suddenly feels heavier when you slot it back on, the faint hiss of open channel buzzing in your ears.

by the time junhui slides into the cockpit, the garage is a flurry of last checks—engineers bent over laptops, tires already warming, mechanics crouched near the front wing. the air smells of hot rubber and faint ozone.

you flip through your notes, reminding yourself of the first lap briefing your dad drilled into you years ago: baseline warm-up, brake temps, short-shift on the first straight, steady through sector three. the words are muscle memory, but this is the first time they’ll come out in your voice.

someone gives the all-clear. laura nods to you.

you press the comm button, your voice steady—hopefully. “radio check.”

“loud and clear,” comes the reply, slightly muffled through his helmet mic.

you give him the standard pre-run report, every word clipped and precise. when you finish, there’s a brief crackle over the line, then—

“alright, baby chick,” junhui says, calm but threaded with something almost teasing. “let’s see what you’ve got.”

the engine note spikes, and he rolls out of the garage.

the first lap is meant to be gentle—gentle for an f1 car, anyway. junhui coaxes the haas through the first few corners, the tires still waking up, the steering wheel twitching in his hands as the track surface changes under him. your updates come in like clockwork: brake temps, sector times, delta comparisons. you keep your tone even, reading from the data feed without letting your breath hitch.

but in the second sector, he clips the apex cleanly and you’re there in his ear, your voice threading through the roar of the engine. it’s not loud—you’re not shouting—but it cuts through the noise the way sunlight catches on glass.

“careful on turn nine, rear right’s running a little hot,” you tell him, clear and certain.

he blinks, thrown off for just a fraction—not because of what you said, but because of how sharp it lands in his helmet, clearer than he expected. the split-second distraction is enough for him to be a touch late on the throttle. nothing major—just enough for the telemetry to flag it.

you roll straight into the next call. “good on fuel mix, you can push a bit more in the next straight.”

he’s locked in again by turn eleven, the rest of the lap flowing smooth and clean.

in the garage, you watch his sector times tick green, the live feed showing the car slicing through the track with mechanical precision. laura shoots you a look—not quite impressed, not quite surprised. ‘could be better.’ her face reads.

by the time he pulls into the pit lane, the lap counter’s ticked past a handful of clean runs. you’re still talking him through the cooldown, voice steady, making sure the tires and brakes are treated kindly on the way back in.

the car stops on the marks, jacks lift it in one smooth motion, and the helmet comes off. the cameras never quite get it right—junhui’s face is sharper in person, more grounded than the light, easy charm he shows on tv. there’s a heaviness in the way he carries himself now, like the years between the last time you saw him and this moment are sitting somewhere on his shoulders.

he steps down from the chassis, unclips his gloves, and walks straight to the monitors instead of the drinks cooler.

you swivel slightly in your chair, headset still on, and start the rundown without missing a beat.

“sector two’s solid, but turn nine’s costing you a few tenths. rear right’s cooling now, but we’ll adjust pressures before the next run. brake migration’s okay—you felt any push in turn three?”

he shakes his head, leaning one hand on the back of your chair as he glances at the screen. “felt fine. just a little late on the throttle after nine.”

“mm,” you hum, tapping in a note for laura. “we’ll tweak your entry line there.”

you run through the points the way you would with anyone—lap times, pressure tweaks, the small line change through nine. no fuss, no extra talk, just what needs fixing.

your pen pauses for a fraction of a second as he steps back, unzipping his suit halfway and grabbing a water bottle, tilting it to his lips for a slow sip. from the corner of your eye, over the clipboard in your hands, you catch the dark fabric of his undershirt clinging to his chest and shoulders, a faint sheen at his collarbone catching the lights. you swallow at the same time he does, tugging lightly at your own collar, throat dry.

you glance back down at your notes, but can’t help sneaking another look, water bottle half-empty in his hand, hair falling just past his eyebrows.

junhui catches it, of course. every driver notices, even in the corners of their vision—brow quirking just slightly, like he’s cataloguing the moment without saying a word. when laura finishes the debrief and calls out, “good job, kiddos,” he rolls his eyes at her term of endearment, half-amused. not the youngest in the garage anymore—technically, you’re still about a few years younger than the star, but he’s learned to tolerate the playful jabs from his seniors.

he’s already moving toward the lounge area where drivers grab a quick snack or a drink, maybe rinse off the sweat before the next session. you barely register him leaving until his figure rounds the corner and disappears, and only then do you blink, snapping back to your notes, heart still a little fast without even realizing why.

near the other end of the garage, jihoon, the team’s second seat driver, is sliding into his own cockpit, calm and collected. you catch a glimpse of him through the monitors as he revs the engine, the contrast between his relaxed style and junhui’s intense precision striking. jihoon gives a small wave toward the engineers, headset already on, before settling into the flow of his own laps. you notice how naturally he fits into the rhythm of the garage, a quiet, confident presence that seems to mirror—but never overshadow—junhui’s intensity.

off-season testing doesn’t have the glamour of a race weekend. the grandstands sit empty, the air stripped of the noise and spectacle that usually surround the grid. there’s no champagne, no blaring national anthems, no podium ceremony, no commentators hyping up the start lights. just the constant whine of engines pushing through lap after lap, the metallic tang of brake dust clinging to the back of your throat, and the low hum of engineers hunched over laptops, arguing over tenths of a second like they’re life or death.

the days blur together in the garage. fluorescent strips hum overhead, casting sharp light on stacks of worn tires and open toolkits. half-finished telemetry notes get scrawled across clipboards and forgotten coffee cups crowd the workstations. every run feels like both a rehearsal and a gamble—will the new setup hold, or will another variable throw the whole lap off course?

at first, junhui seemed folded into the rhythm of the team itself, answering with the bare minimum, his presence pared down to something efficient and cool, moving through the garage like another piece of machinery—efficient in his answers, distant in his demeanor, clinical in the way he treated every lap as data rather than feeling.

but after a few sessions, something shifted. junhui no longer walked straight past the engineers’ desks once he was out of the car; instead, he’d drift toward your monitor, helmet still under one arm, sweat dampening the curls that slipped loose from under his balaclava. he leaned over just enough to catch the scrolling lines of data as you spoke, eyes tracking faster than you expected from someone who usually let the numbers speak for themselves.

once, he reached past you, gloved finger tapping a dip in the graph so precise you almost laughed at how sharp his eye was.

“rear stepped out here. exit speed wasn’t there.”

you tilted your head, a little surprised. “you noticed that?”

he gave a small shrug, though he didn’t move away. “hard not to. felt like the car wanted to spin itself sideways.” he lingered by your chair, watching as your fingers flew across the keyboard, logging the note.

when you pressed enter, the adjustment slotting neatly into the chart, you felt his gaze flicker to you instead of the screen. there was the faintest curve at the corner of his mouth—not quite a smile, but not the cold mask he usually wore, either.

jihoon, sitting a few monitors down, ran his own second-seat laps, but you caught him glancing over now and then whenever junhui leaned close to check the data on your screen. he didn’t say much—just a faint hum or a muttered, “looks like you two are in sync,” when he passed behind your chair, casual, like it wasn’t a big deal.

you blinked at him, half-smiling, before turning back to your notes. junhui, for his part, let out a low, nonchalant hum as he leaned over the screen, almost as if noticing you had caught the apex perfectly—but he didn’t linger, didn’t make it obvious. it was enough, though. enough for your shoulders to settle a little straighter, your fingers moving with more certainty across the keyboard.

later, as he leaned back to grab a sip of water, jihoon murmured again from across the garage, voice just audible over the hum of engines: “you’re getting good at this, huh?”

“just doing my job,” you replied, fingers already flying over the keyboard.

jihoon shrugged, unconcerned. “sure, sure. but it shows.”

and in the corner of your vision, junhui’s hum returned softly as he adjusted his headset, casual, almost teasing—and somehow it made you feel a little more in your element.

“nicely done today,” he said, tone calm but edged with something softer. “clean calls. made it easier to stay on top of the car.”

the words were simple, almost throwaway, but they landed heavier than you expected. no one had said anything about your comms all week, not beyond laura’s quick corrections or teasing reminders. from him, though—meant or not—it sounded like something close to trust.

he was more present in the garage now, leaning over his monitor just a beat longer, catching lines in your notes you hadn’t even realized you’d written. during debriefs, he spoke up more, offering his input instead of waiting for you to lead the way. sometimes his feedback slipped into half-jokes, aimed at you with that easy, fleeting grin:

“so what’s the verdict, baby chick? do i get a passing grade?”

“don’t flatter yourself,” you shot back, though a corner of your mouth twitched. he rolled his eyes every time, gaze briefly catching yours before he shifted his attention back to the screens. it was subtle, but the kind of thing that made the long hours feel less heavy.

off-grid, baby chick stuck. he said it without thinking when he handed you a coffee in the morning.

over the past few sessions, he’d started letting it slip more often, the nickname weaving its way into even your routine debriefs, softening the edges of your tense exchanges.

one time, you were hunched over the screen, eyebrows bunched as you traced a line of data a little too closely. he leaned over, peering at the same chart.

“you’re squinting too hard, baby chick,” he said casually, voice low enough for just the two of you. “i can’t have you giving yourself a headache before the season even starts.”

you glanced up, and your chest skipped a beat. off-grid, his voice was real—no static, no headset filter—just him, leaning close enough that the warmth threaded down your spine. “…i’m fine. obviously,” you muttered, trying to sound composed, though the sudden proximity in tone made your fingers grip the edge of the clipboard tighter than intended, tensing up in a way you never did during practice laps.

sometimes, you hear the nickname when you caught him scrolling through data on a clipboard and swiped the sheet out of his hands. other times it was quiet, almost reluctant, as if he was testing how much warmth he could afford to show. and of course, you had laura to blame—she kept calling you that during debriefs, a teasing jab that had clearly lodged itself in junhui’s head. now you had three people calling you baby chick: laura, your old man, and wen junhui. stellar lineup. it slowly became a thread, tugging at the edges of the distance that had once stretched between you and the driver.

on-grid, he kept it professional, crisp and precise in his calls. but every once in a while, after a particularly smooth lap or a flawless pit entry, his voice would cut through your headset with a trace of amusement that made your chest lift just a little:

“copy that, baby chick. looks like i did my homework last night.”

you’d roll your eyes, pen scratching across the telemetry sheet like nothing had changed, but beneath it, there was that familiar flutter of satisfaction—the same way you felt watching a car slice through a corner perfectly, only this time, it wasn’t just the car. it was him, finally leaning in, finally letting the tension ease, a little laugh threading through the quiet chaos of the garage.

of course, there were bound to be bad days. in a sport built on fractions of a second, they were unavoidable. the grid thrived on pressure—drivers expected to deliver perfection every lap, while engineers are chasing solutions before the stopwatch could expose their flaws. testing was no different. some days the car sang beneath him, every sector green. other days, like this one, it fought him in every corner.

you could tell from the moment the car left the pit lane that something was off. into the first corner, the front end refused to bite, the tires skimming over the line instead of digging in. he wrestled the steering wheel through the apex, but the chassis didn’t want to follow, dragging him wider than the entry allowed. by the middle of the lap, every correction looked heavier than the last—sharp flicks of the wheel, throttle feathered in frustration. whenever he tried to accelerate out of a corner, the car felt sluggish, bleeding speed before it even had the chance to build.

the radio crackled with static and the clipped edge of his breathing, irritation bleeding through in every word. by the third lap, his tone was tight enough to make the garage fall into a sharper silence than usual. when he finally rolled back in, the hiss of the tires cooling was drowned by the sound of velcro ripping, gloves yanked off with more force than necessary.

the debrief that followed was brittle. he sat forward in his chair, answers curt and sharp, like every question was a test he didn’t have the patience to pass. you pressed for details, careful, but each response landed like a dare—short, biting, as if he was waiting for you to contradict him. before the session notes were even finished, he pushed back from the table. the scrape of his chair against the floor, the thud of the garage door closing behind him—it all seemed louder than the car had sounded on track.

laura only reached over and squeezed your shoulder, her mouth pulling into the faintest half-smile. let him stew, her look said. he’ll come back when he’s ready.

well, whatever stew laura was talking about started feeling like perpetual soup with how junhui basically avoided anyone from the team. he kept to himself all afternoon, drifting between the car and the garage wall, until one by one the engineers packed up and the garage emptied into silence. you retreated to your assigned living space near the paddock, sprawled across the small couch with the clipboard still in your lap, and figured that was that—until your phone lit up well past midnight.

your phone buzzed across the small table, the screen glowing in the dim light of the living space. unknown number. you hesitated, thumb hovering over the answer button, then pressed it.

“hello?” you said cautiously, sitting up a little straighter.

“you still awake?” the voice was low, rough around the edges with fatigue, but there was that unmistakable warmth threading through it—the kind that made the hair at the back of your neck prickle and sent a quiet rush down your spine.

you froze for half a heartbeat, heart stuttering. “…who’s this?” you asked, voice steadier than you felt, though every instinct screamed that you already knew.

“it’s junhui,” he said, quieter this time, almost like he was reluctant to admit it. “couldn’t sleep. today keeps running through my head.”

you blinked, chest tightening just a fraction, because of course you knew who it was. the words, the cadence, the weight in his tone—it could only be junhui. and somehow, even through a phone speaker, it felt like he’d stepped right into the room.

 “you mean the car that hated you all afternoon?” you asked, voice deliberately casual.

“exactly that one,” he admitted, a breathy little laugh escaping him this time, and there was a pause heavy with exasperation. “i know the data says what went wrong, but… i can’t stop thinking about it. every lap, every corner. i feel like i ruined the whole session.”

you leaned back against the wall, softening your voice. “you didn’t ruin anything. the car was off, yes, but that’s exactly what testing is for. we figure it out, we learn. it’s not a race yet.”

there was a quiet rustle on the other end. “you sound way too calm for someone i’ve been calling ‘baby chick’ all week.”

“someone’s gotta keep your overdramatic self in check,” you shot back, smirking even though he couldn’t see you.

he let out a humorless chuckle, the sound carrying more relief than amusement. “fine, fine. but i mean it—every time i think about turn nine, i keep seeing it wrong in my head. it’s like the car betrayed me.”

you hummed, picking up the edge of your notebook. “then let’s go over it together. tell me what you felt, i’ll tell you what the data says. we’ll fix it before the next session.”

“alright, baby chick,” he said, softer this time, almost reluctant. “let’s do that.”

just like that, the tone in his voice didn’t feel empty anymore. the night might have been late, but somehow, with the faint crackle of his voice and the quiet of the living space around you, it felt like the start of something steadier—something neither of you had expected in the middle of the pre-season chaos.

by the time the season opener in bahrain rolled around, it was clear: all the off-season groundwork had paid off. you and junhui were a well-oiled machine now, the countless hours of testing, late-night debriefs, and small, teasing moments off-grid translating into something seamless on-track. even with the faint haze of jetlag hanging over the garage, there was a quiet understanding between you two that needed no words.

that morning, you shared a silent coffee in the garage, the early fluorescent lights reflecting off polished chassis and monitors. junhui leaned against the wall, hands wrapped around the warm cup, eyes on the screens but somehow aware of you without glancing. “good morning, baby chick,” he murmured, and it was both a greeting and a reminder of the rhythm you’d built together. you smirked, offering a teasing glance. “good morning. ready to ruin some lap times?”

he let out a short laugh, but it was genuine. “let’s not start exaggerating just yet.”

the first practice session—fp1—was a reality check. junhui’s lines were sharp, but the car still had its quirks after shipping, and the unfamiliar track kept him from absolute flow. sector times ticked by as he pushed the limits, and by the end of the session, he landed in 8th place—solid, but not quite the pace he wanted. you ran through the debrief calmly, pointing out small adjustments in brake bias, tire management, and entry lines.

free practice 2 was tougher. the heat was rising, the tires degrading faster than expected, and a slight misjudgment in turn four cost him dearly. he crossed the line in 11th, frustration creeping into his tone over the comms. that night, as had become a habit, his call came.

“baby chick,” he said quietly, voice tight, almost breaking through the static. “i keep replaying free practice 2. turns four and seven… i messed them up. the tire temps, the brake bias—i don’t know, i just—i can’t stop thinking about it. if we don’t fix this, i’ll be fighting the car all weekend.”

you leaned back, keeping your voice steady, soft but firm enough to cut through the tension. “hey, listen. it’s okay. we know exactly what went wrong. every lap, every sector—we’ve got it. i’ll get you running smoothly back out there. you’re not alone in this.”

a long pause stretched between you, just the quiet buzz of the line. eventually, he let out a breathy laugh, tension bleeding out slowly. “you really make it sound easy.”

“it’s not easy,” you said, smile in your voice. “but we’ll handle it—together. that’s the point. i’ve got your back.”

the conversation dragged on, hours bleeding past midnight as he ran through telemetry, notes, and imagined corrections. somewhere past 1 AM, the exhaustion hit you like a wave. your eyes fluttered shut, your head resting against the edge of the desk. soft, unsteady snores slipped into the line.

junhui froze mid-sentence, a quiet chuckle escaping him. “...did you just—?” he muttered, but his voice softened, almost reluctant. he didn’t interrupt, let the rhythm of your breathing and soft snoring fill the call. minutes passed. slowly, the tension in his shoulders eased. eventually, a yawn slipped past him too, the quiet of your sleep somehow lulling him into stillness.

when he finally realized you’d dozed off, junhui didn’t interrupt. he stayed quiet for a few more moments, a yawn escaping from his own lips as he listened to the soft rise and fall of your breathing through the line. eventually, the comm fell silent on its own, the call cutting off naturally in the middle of the night. no fanfare, no dramatic sign-off—just the lingering comfort that, in the middle of chaos, you could find stillness together, even through a late-night line and the soft, unintentional rhythm of sleep.

the next morning, the garage hummed with pre-qualifying energy, the scent of rubber and fuel already thick in the air. junhui strode in, race suit half-zipped, hair still slightly tousled from sleep, but there was a lightness to him that hadn’t been there before. laura, leaning against a workbench with a tablet in hand, caught his eye and smirked. “well, look at you. slept well, kiddo? you’re looking a bit chirpier today, aren’t ya?”

“best night in weeks,” he said lightly, stretching like he owned the room. and for a moment, you realized that whatever tension had shadowed him in the past—junhui the ice prince, unreadable and distant—had softened. the late-night debriefs hadn’t left him restless; instead, they seemed to have unburdened him, given him a quiet confidence. the storm of previous sessions felt like it had eased, and now, here he was, full of energy, grin easy and genuine, ready to tackle qualifying like he was already halfway through the weekend.

free practice 3 had gone smoothly—junhui finishing 7th, a solid base to work from, and the car feeling just responsive enough to tease better pace. you watched him stretch by the pit wall afterward, gloves loosened, helmet off, the hint of a grin breaking through the usual concentration.

before you know it, junhui is already preparing for the qualifying, tightening back the straps on his gloves back on, adjusting the wrist fasteners with meticulous care, and sliding his helmet slightly forward to check the visor’s angle. as he flexed his fingers over the wheel, he called over, just loud enough for you to hear, “ready for us, baby chick?” and you smirked, sliding your pen between your fingers.

“ready for us,” you echoed, voice firm but light, and keyed the comms as the session rolled in.

when the qualifying session began, the garage buzzed with electricity, engineers crowding around flickering timing screens, telemetry lines dancing. junhui eased into the cockpit with the smooth precision of someone who’d done this a thousand times—but there was a difference now. his movements were lighter, less rigid, a quiet confidence in every gesture. he adjusted the steering wheel, flicked the brake bias, and settled his helmet, his gaze flicking to you at the pit wall for a fleeting second—a spark, a silent tether that made your pulse skip. you gave a quick nod, lips twitching into a half-smile, and he mirrored it, a subtle quirk of his mouth before he faced the track.

your headset crackled as he rolled out, his voice low and warm through the static. “let’s make it count.” and you grinned, keying the comms with a crisp, “copy, jun. clean air, go for it.”

the chemistry between you sparked like the hum of the engine, seamless and instinctive. your calls—brake points, apexes, throttle tweaks—flowed like a dance, his responses immediate, trusting, as if your voice was part of his instincts. “push into turn three, you’ve got grip,” you said, voice steady, edged with excitement. he hummed, “got it,” and the telemetry spiked as he nailed the corner, the car singing.

through q1 and q2, junhui carved up the field, your voice threading through his helmet, sharp and steady. “beautiful, jun, keep it tight,” you murmured after a clean sector, his soft chuckle crackling back, “flattering me mid-lap, eh?” the way he said it was almost deadpan, yet his banter made your chest warm, but he clipped the next apex perfectly, feeding off your energy.

in q3, the stakes spiked, the timing screens a war of tenths. you leaned into the monitor, heart syncing with the car’s revs. “you’re flying, jun—sector one’s green, hunt that top five,” you said, voice urgent but grounding. he pushed hard, tires screaming, “commit on turn nine,” you added, and he threaded the chicane with surgical precision, exit clean and fast.

the checkered flag waved, and the screens froze: 4th place, a hard-fought slot just behind the leaders, proof of your shared rhythm. the garage erupted, but your eyes were on junhui rolling back to the pit lane, helmet tilting like he knew you were watching. “nice work, baby chick,” he said over the comms, breathless but warm, a teasing edge that tightened your chest with pride and something deeper. “couldn’t have done it without you.”

you keyed the comms, grinning. “told you we’d make it count, jun. p4’s yours—let’s get ready for tomorrow.” his laugh crackled through, soft and boyish, a private spark in the storm, the chemistry between you burning brighter than the timing screens.

and get ready you did. that night, another late-night call stretched past midnight, junhui’s voice soft but focused as you dissected telemetry, trading notes on tire wear and braking zones over the phone. his occasional teasing—“you’re gonna be thinking about working even in your sleep, baby chick”—kept the mood light, grounding you both in the rhythm you’d built.

come morning, you sat across from him in the team lounge, his trenta iced americano sweating between you, too big to finish so he decided to share, your fingers brushing as you passed the cup. you pored over data sheets, his shoulder close enough to nudge yours when he pointed out a tweak to the turn nine entry, the quiet intimacy of the moment settling like a warm hum in your chest.

race day dawned, the hungaroring pulsing with heat and anticipation. your headset buzzed to life as he rolled out, and the familiar crackle of his voice threaded through the comms. “this one’s for haas,” he said, calm but carrying that easy warmth that had replaced the old distance. and even though he said “haas,” the way he said it—the pause, the curve of his voice, the subtle weight behind it—made it feel like he really meant 'us'.

this made your chest tighten in a way that was both grounding and dizzying, and you keyed in your first updates, your tone precise, clipped, yet somehow softer than during the hectic practice sessions.

each lap was a conversation. you fed him sector times, tire temps, brake pressure nuances; he responded with micro-adjustments, apexing corners with perfect timing, modulating throttle and brake as if he were reading your voice as clearly as the track ahead. free practice 1’s habits had taught you both patience; now, in the pressure cooker of qualifying, every note from the notebook, every whispered joke from your late-night call, fell into place seamlessly.

apex after apex, exit after exit, the car seemed to flow through his hands like water. he hit the braking zones crisply, carried speed through the mid-corner weight shifts, and clipped the final kerbs with minimal correction. each lap shaved tenths of a second off the previous, the rhythm you two had built manifesting in real time.

the garage exploded, engineers shouting, fists pumping, your own voice breaking through the headset with a triumphant yell. “yes, jun! that's podium, you absolute legend!” you cried, grinning so wide it hurt, hands slamming the console in excitement. as the checkered flag waved, the timing screens froze on his best lap: 3rd place, a podium finish—just beyond the fastest two, a triumph earned from months of off-season groundwork and building a connection through data and shared fire for the motorsport between driver and engineer.

and yet, it wasn’t just the numbers. it was the way he leaned back in the cockpit, helmet tilted slightly, a small, almost repressed, but unmistakable grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. it was the way your voice had guided him, threaded through each sector, each apex, each braking point. it was the “for us” that had started over the open channel, echoing silently through headsets, now starting to come alive in every decision he made, every movement behind the wheel.

from across the garage, jihoon’s monitor blinked with his own results—8th place, racking up solid points for the team. he gave a quick fist-pump toward his engineers before letting his attention shift toward you and then to junhui for a fraction of a second. nothing more than a casual glance, but enough to register—jihoon was quietly noting the budding connection, the subtle energy building between you and junhui, even if he didn’t say a word.

parc fermé loomed ahead, officials already moving, ready to check tire temps, tools at the ready. as junhui rolled past, his gloved hand brushed yours, brief but deliberate—a grounding touch, a small acknowledgment that this was yours as much as his.

the gesture was fleeting, swallowed up by the rush of procedure, yet it left an unmistakable warmth in its wake. the rest of the garage buzzed with congratulations, engineers slapping shoulders and checking screens, but in the quiet between the clamor, you caught his eye and smiled. a simple nod, a shared acknowledgment: this—everything—was as much yours as it was his. somehow, that understanding, and your shared rhythm, had carried both of you farther than either numbers or talent could alone.

later, the podium awaited. junhui climbed the steps with that same quiet composure, his demeanor cold, almost steely—a practiced mask of the ice prince who’d long mastered the art of keeping the world at arm’s length. but as the champagne was brought to his lips, the golden liquid catching the sunlight, that exterior softened, melting away under the warmth of the moment. his eyes crinkled, a genuine smile breaking through as the applause washed over him, the crowd’s roar blending with the fizz of the spray.

even from below the podium, you felt it: the subtle warmth of triumph that had started quietly over the open channel, a spark between you that now burned bright in his gaze, as if the victory wasn’t just his, but yours together.

“junhui’s showing that the ice prince has awakened once again,” a reporter’s voice carried over the broadcast, almost blending into the crowd noise. “and what a start for haas in the opening gp of bahrain—a stellar podium finish, along with lee jihoon adding valuable points in 8th, haas has both cars in the top ten. all eyes, of course, are not only on haas’ famous ice prince, but also on the first seat's new race engineer; she comes practically descended from greatness, following in her father’s footsteps, and her dynamic with wen junhui has already become the talk of fans and paddock insiders alike, leaving them eager to see what this rising duo will bring in the races ahead.”

over the months, your voice became as much a part of junhui’s cockpit as the wheel or pedals. the way he called over the radio, calm but threaded with that half-teasing warmth, felt like a quiet acknowledgment that this—both the car and the comms—was now a shared space.

on the grid, the occasional near-slip still happened, though he tried to keep it contained. one morning, headset buzzing, he muttered mid-adjustment:

“did you see that, ba—? barely grazed that apex,” he corrected, almost too fast to register, then continued with perfect composure. you caught the hitch—a faint echo of baby chick, the nickname he’d used freely during off-season and free practice when comms were private and unbroadcasted—but here, on the grid, with the possibility of engineers, team staff, or even social media clipping it for highlights, he would try not to use it too much, maybe even gatekeeping the nickname, subtly shifting it into something innocuous. you couldn’t help a quiet smile.

you learned to read the pauses, the micro-laughs, the gentle quirks in his voice when he trusted your calls, when he let the stress of the lap fade into collaboration rather than tension. the nickname lingered like a charm; even the engineers would glance over, smirking, but junhui never acknowledged it beyond the quiet warmth in his comms.

the results reflected it too. over the course of the season, he'd cinch a handful of top-five finishes, a string of consistent points finishes just outside the podium, and even the rare 11th-place grid that could have frustrated him—he approached it with steady focus, trusting your guidance rather than letting the setback dictate the pace.

and the media noticed. suddenly, you were in the mix too, a quiet curiosity at the edge of interviews, paddock walks, and press conferences. questions aimed at junhui inevitably shifted toward you:

“how’s the dynamic with your new race engineer?”

he’d deflect, clipped and professional at first. but the subtle easing, the small smiles when he mentioned sector improvements or tire management—it didn’t go unnoticed. cameras caught it, reporters jotted notes about the ice prince showing cracks in the most endearing way: a trust that wasn’t performative, a rhythm built quietly over months.

you learned to dodge the persistent flashes and questions, offering short, calm answers, letting your presence speak as much as words. when asked, you’d mention small tweaks, sector insights, the teamwork that made those mid-pack and top-five finishes possible, never revealing more than the data allowed—but everyone could see it. junhui was speaking differently through the radio now, lighter, more human. and somewhere in that exchange, between practice laps, tire pressures, and qualifying grids, a subtle narrative formed: the untouchable driver was softening, and the quiet engineer in the background—the voice who’d guide him—was part of the reason.

before you know it, the season has leapt forward—the summer haze of hungary looming, tarmac baking under the unrelenting sun. free practice 1 had offered a slightly underwhelming result, 10th place, the car responsive but not yet singing. now, fp2 begins, and the heat is relentless, tires screaming under every corner.

junhui pushes harder than ever, chasing the perfect line, tires shrieking against the hot asphalt. the car grips through turn five, apex clipped just right, but as he rolls into turn six, the rear suddenly steps out. a flick of the wheel isn’t enough—then the car spins violently, the rear sliding wide. rubber screams as metal scrapes against the barrier, sparks flying from the undertray. the suspension groans under the impact.

for a breathless moment, everything freezes—the radio silent, the timing screens flashing red, engineers shouting over the comms, and the pit wall erupting in chaos. the car lies twisted against the barriers, tires still spinning weakly, bodywork crumpled. you can almost feel the violence of the hit reverberate through the screens.

your pulse spikes, every beat hammering in your ears. the headset buzzes faintly, but your brain catches only fragments: the red lights on the timing screen, the car crumpled against the barriers. a cold pit opens in your stomach, that familiar sinking weight you know too well—panic curling around your ribs like smoke.

“junhui? junhui, talk to me!” your voice cracks, sharp, almost breathless.

still nothing. the world narrows. the cheering from the grandstands, the flags, the chatter of engineers—all fades into a ringing hum. your fingers hover over the comms as if touching them could will him back. your throat tightens. chest rising and falling too fast.

for a heartbeat—or a thousand, you’re unsure—you’re frozen, caught between wanting to move and the panic that roots you to the spot. your mind flashes briefly to a distant crash, the echo of your own buried memory: the sudden helplessness, the sirens, the screeching metal, the way time stretches and contracts all at once. you blink, trying to shove it down, trying to tell yourself it’s different this time—but the weight presses harder. reality locks in: junhui out there alone, and your hands shake over the console, fingers hovering, useless.

and then, a voice, clipped but alive, cuts through the fog: “…need recovery, car’s off.”

the words are small, even a little strained, but alive. you sag against the console, every muscle loosening in relief and residual tension, hands slamming down as if to reset your own heartbeat.

“recovery team en route.” your voice comes out raspy, weakened from the earlier tension, ‘he’s okay. he’s okay.’ you whisper it to yourself over and over, letting the pit chaos swirl around you while your chest slowly eases, mind grasping for normalcy amid the aftershock.

after the crash, junhui is quickly escorted by the recovery and medical teams. the pit fades behind you as you pace, heart still hammering, every flicker on the timing screens a reminder of what could have gone wrong. the minutes stretch long, stretched taut with worry, until finally word comes: he’s been cleared. no serious injuries.

you move toward the usual debrief room, where the team—laura, jihoon and his own engineer—usually gathers to review data after sessions. the door swings open, and there he is. even from a few steps away, your chest clenches: his hair is tousled, cheeks flushed from the exertion and adrenaline, racing heart mirrored in the flush of his skin. the meticulous composure that defines him at the track is soft around the edges, human in a way that makes your relief nearly physical.

right as the door closes, without thinking, your arms wrap around his neck, pulling him close. the familiar scent of him, the warmth of his body, the rapid beat of his pulse against your own—it all hits at once. “oh god… junhui. you’re here,” you murmur, voice trembling.

he steadies you gently, hand brushing your back as he exhales, a shaky laugh escaping him. “i’m alright,” he says, voice low but steady. “thanks to you.”

you can’t quite register why he’d be thanking you—you weren’t even in the car, in the pit, or touching the wheel—but there’s no time to dwell. the tight knot of panic in your chest loosens just a fraction, and all that matters is that he’s here, right in front of you, flushed from adrenaline, breathing, and alive.

that night at the hotel—whole floor dedicated to haas, engineers tucked into their suites, jihoon and junhui a floor above—you’re lying in bed when your phone buzzes. you don’t even check the ID; you answer, heart already skipping.

“can you open the door for me, baby chick?” his voice is quiet, almost vulnerable, stripped of the usual crispness over the radio.

you freeze for a heartbeat, chest tightening. it’s not a quick check-in—it’s him, seeking you out. the faint echo of adrenaline still lingers in his tone, mingled with the warmth you’ve come to recognize.

slowly, you swing your legs out of bed, pressing your feet against the floor. every step toward the door feels weighted, your fingers brushing the handle as your chest hammers. you twist the knob, push, and there he is: the tousled hair, flushed cheeks, and soft pajamas make him look like he belongs here

you let him in, closing the door softly behind him. he steps closer, just a breath away, and then—almost instinctively—he pulls you against his chest. his arms wrap around you firmly, grounding, and you feel the steady thrum of his heartbeat. “thank you,” he murmurs, voice muffled against your hair. it’s different this time—softer, almost reverent. you remember him thanking you earlier at the track, and the repetition catches your attention. “junhui… why are you thanking me again?” you ask quietly, tilting your head to meet his eyes.

he exhales, a deep sigh escaping him. “when i heard you call my name over the radio back there…?  it snapped me back,” he admits, voice low but steady. “it brought me back to my senses. you—you kept me together.”

he pulls away slightly, brushing hair from your face to look at you properly. “i can’t help it… i’m sorry. i couldn’t just call you tonight,” he says, voice low, almost hesitant, like he’s admitting something he can’t let anybody else know.

junhui cups your cheek gently, thumb brushing lightly over your skin. his eyes search yours, lingering, and when his lips meet yours, it’s sudden but tender—a bubble of tension from the day finally popping. the warmth of his lips, the subtle tremor in his hands, the faint scent of the hotel room mingled with him—it all presses in, grounding you on the spot.

he presses closer, hands sliding around your waist as if to anchor both of you, and you lean into him instinctively. the soft fabric of his pajamas brushes your arms, the quiet hum of the air conditioning, the dim light spilling across the room—it all fades, leaving only the quiet warmth between you. your heartbeat seems to echo in your ears, the lingering adrenaline of the day melting into something quieter.

slowly, he guides you to the couch, still holding you close, lips brushing yours as he steadies you. his tousled hair falls slightly over his forehead, cheeks flushed from emotion rather than exertion, eyes soft and searching. the contrast of the chaos of the weekend and this intimate moment hits you—the track, the crash, the tension—they’re all gone here. only him, only you.

“you kept me together today,” he murmurs, forehead resting against yours, voice low, shaky but steady. 

your hands tighten around him. “i felt it too,” you whisper. “we’ve… been holding each other up, haven’t we?”

he nods, pressing a gentle kiss to your temple before returning to your lips. every brush of his lips, every press of his hands, carries the weight of shared fear, trust, and relief. the tension of the GP weekend, the near-crash, the long hours—it all slips away in that quiet moment. you’re in each other’s arms, letting the rhythm you’ve built over months sink in fully.

junhui pulls back just enough to rest his forehead against yours, thumb still brushing your cheek. his voice is low, careful, almost hesitant. “what about you? how did you feel back there?”

you tense slightly, caught off guard. the question isn’t accusatory—it’s tender and patient. junhui knows it wasn’t your first time seeing something like that on the track, but he also knows the weight that a crash carries, especially to you.

you swallow, eyes flicking away, trying to avoid his gaze. he doesn’t rush you. his hand lingers, warm against your skin, grounding you. “i… i don’t know,” you murmur, voice barely above a whisper, “i just… everything came back. it felt… almost familiar.”

he nods, the faintest squeeze in his palm, a silent acknowledgment of the memory stirring. surely enough, your mind drifts—suddenly, unbidden, to that day on the karting track.

you were fourteen, adrenaline and fear coiling tight, the crash violent and jarring, leaving your chest hollow with panic. junhui had been there too, older by a few years, eyes wide as he watched the metal frame bite into the tarmac, your kart crumpled, silence stretching too long. radio silence followed for years, the memory tucked away like a fragile shard you didn’t dare touch.

and now—years later—junhui at eighteen, stepping into the F1 paddock, eyes scanning the garage, telemetry screens, helmets, and suddenly landing on you. the same instinctive recognition, that echo of the past, catching in his chest. your father’s familiar call drifts through his memory: “baby chick, come on, take a look,” and the nickname makes a quiet, ghostly loop in his mind.

he had glimpsed you again in the middle of chaos, alive, steady, but that flicker—the same presence he’d feared losing years ago—tugs at something deep in him.

your father had brought you into the garage a few more times after that, letting you watch from the sidelines as junhui practiced off-season, as if trying to reassure both of you that the world hadn’t ended in that instant. but eventually, as the season started, you disappeared again—off to school, to life, leaving only echoes of that day behind.

and now, here you are, standing in front of him again, as vital and grounding as ever, his new race engineer, and the rhythm you two share ready to carry you through the weekend.

that night, you fall asleep tangled in junhui’s arms, the quiet warmth of him pressing you into the softness of the hotel sheets. the chaos of the GP weekend, the crash, the tension—it all dissolves into the rhythm of his heartbeat against yours.

when you wake, the room is empty. for a moment your chest tightens, then your phone buzzes on the nightstand. a short message, crisp but familiar:

“early start today. didn’t want to wake you. coffee waiting in the garage.”

you press your thumb against the screen, a small smile tugging at your lips. the thought of him there, patient and steady, waiting for you with a warm cup and that quiet presence, carries you through the morning, grounding you before the day even begins.

you push open the garage doors just past noon, the heat of the day already pressing against the metal walls. the coffee junhui had mentioned is already steaming on your usual seat, the mug perfectly in place. the man himself is there, race suit half-zipped and bunched at his waist, gloves laid out beside him, helmet tucked under one arm. he looks up, catching your eyes, and a small, easy smile breaks across his face.

“hey, baby chick, just woke up?” he says, voice teasing but warm, gesturing toward the seat. you grin, sliding into your usual spot. the brief exchange feels grounding, a quiet counterpoint to the chaos of the weekend.

you both lean over the data from the morning sessions. fp1 had been steady, lines mostly clean, balance improving. fp2 was messy, the crash still fresh in your mind, the adjustments necessary to stabilize the car now more urgent. you run through brake bias and suspension tweaks, discussing tire strategies—all the micro-adjustments that could turn the weekend around. junhui listens, asks questions, and offers insights of his own.

once the final discussions are settled, the car is prepped, the adjustments confirmed. the tension in the garage shifts slightly, anticipation threading the air—free practice 3 is coming up in the afternoon, and both of you are ready.

the paddock hums to life in the afternoon heat, engines warming, tires squealing as junhui slips into the cockpit. his suit is zipped tight now, gloves on, helmet settled, and he gives you a quick acknowledgement over the comms.

lap after lap, he finds rhythm, weaving through traffic, but the remnants of the earlier weekend chaos still linger. your voice threads through the headset, crisp and steady, every word guiding him—reminding him of braking points, apexes, and throttle modulation. a slight oversteer here, a minor understeer there, and he corrects instinctively, each adjustment echoing the trust you’ve built. by the end of the session, he crosses the line, timing screens confirming 9th place—not dazzling, but solid, a foundation for the push toward qualifying.

qualifying comes almost instantly, the afternoon sun hanging heavy over the paddock. junhui slices through the lap, every corner and braking zone perfectly threaded by your calls over the headset. by the end, timing screens settle: 6th place, a solid climb from free practice.

he rolls back into the garage, helmet off, hair tousled, cheeks flushed. you’re already there, rising from your usual seat, and before he can even reach the console, you pull him into your arms. he melts into the embrace, hands resting lightly on your back, forehead pressed against yours, a quiet exhale escaping both of you. for a heartbeat, the weekend chaos—the crashes, the traffic, the sweat—is forgotten.

“well excuse me,” a familiar, slightly bitter voice cuts through, and you pull back just enough to see jihoon standing there, giving you a look that says ‘move aside’ as he motions to the door behind you, leading to the lounge room, eyes narrowed. the grid steward’s decision has landed him with a penalty, moving him way back to 17th on the grid, and he’s not thrilled.

junhui’s hand lingers on your waist, grounding himself as he offers a small shrug toward jihoon, while you take a step back, letting the tension of the moment settle around the three of you.

laura clears her throat from behind you, voice clipped but not unkind. “love the… uh, camaraderie you two have built here,” she says, brow lifting slightly as she motions toward junhui’s hand still resting on your waist, “but we need to get to work—debrief, discuss improvements, all that.”

you glance at junhui, who clears his throat, gaze avoiding laura’s as he loosened his hold on you just enough to nod, and you step aside. the moment lingers only briefly before your focus shifts back to the screens of data and telemetry being displayed.

the next day rolls in quieter than you expected, lunch spread between you and junhui at one of the folding tables in the garage. you’re halfway through a sub, notebook open at your elbow, while he goes on about turn 1 like it’s a personal vendetta.

“i don’t know what it is about that turn,” he says, shaking his head, “i keep losing time on exit.”

you chew, jot a quick note, then point at the map with the tip of your pen. “you’re braking a fraction too early here. the line’s clean, but it’s killing your momentum out.”

junhui leans over, scanning your scribble, eyes narrowing in thought. “so later brake, hold the gear a little longer?”

“exactly,” you say around another bite, the taste of bread and mustard mixing with the sharp tang of strategy. “you’ll carry more speed into the straight.”

he rolls his eyes playfully, tilting his head at your half-finished sub. “do you ever stop thinking like a driver?”

you smirk without looking up, “i bet i could execute turn 1 better than ya.”

he snorts when you bring up turn 1, rolling his eyes like he’s heard that line a thousand times. “everyone and their grandma knows turn 1’s a lottery ticket,” he mutters, brushing it off.

so instead you nudge the conversation toward another section of the track—turns 10 through 13. “that whole left-right-left-right sequence,” you say, and he immediately perks up. he doesn’t need the reminder, not when every driver’s felt how easy it is to get greedy there, one wrong input sending the car unsettled. medium-high speed, constant direction changes, the kind of rhythm that only feels right when you’re threading the needle.

junhui hums, thoughtful. “when i hook that section up, it feels like flying. but if i miss the line even a little, it all unravels before i can catch it.” his tone’s casual, but you can hear the respect in it—a driver’s kind of reverence for corners that punish impatience and reward precision.

after lunch, there’s three of you now, laura strolling in after her own meal. you’re all holed up in the engineering room, telemetry glowing on the big screens while the hum of the garage leaks through the walls. laura’s got a tablet balanced in one hand, running through final checks with the calm precision you’ve come to recognize as her version of pre-race nerves. junhui’s already in his base layer, zipper tugged halfway up as he adjusts the fit across his chest, restless energy rolling off him in waves.

this is the last race before summer break—the last push before two weeks of silence, where engines go cold and everyone finally exhales. you can feel it in the air: sharper edges, heavier focus, like the whole paddock wants to wring one final result out of the season’s first half.

junhui drums his fingers against the arm of the chair, glancing between you and laura. “long run pace looked decent yesterday,” he says, voice low but steady, “but i need clean air early. stuck in traffic here, you just cook the tires.”

“then don’t get stuck,” laura quips without looking up, and the corner of his mouth quirks, but it doesn’t reach his eyes.

she finally shuts her tablet with a soft snap, standing. “i need to check in on jihoon and his engineer too. i’ll see you out there, baby chick. jun.” she nods once at both of you before slipping out the door, leaving the room just a little too quiet in her absence.

you don’t realize how close junhui’s gaze has been lingering until it pins you there, steady, like he’s waiting for you to move first. his fingers still on the armrest, then curl, and in the next moment you’re in his lap, his mouth on yours—warm, insistent, the kind of kiss that steals every last ounce of air you thought you had. his hand slides up your side, the rough drag of his thumb against your shirt sending a shiver down your spine.

“we shouldn’t,” you manage between kisses, though it doesn’t sound convincing, not with how your hands are already fisted in his race suit, tugging him closer.

junhui pulls back just enough to catch his breath, lips brushing yours when he murmurs, almost teasing, “come on. no good luck kiss?” his smile is crooked, boyish in a way that doesn’t match the sharp focus he’ll wear on track in a few hours.

your laugh slips out before you can stop it, shaky from how wrecked your composure already feels. “that’s not what this is,” you tell him, though your grip on his suit betrays you, knuckles still pressed into his chest.

“sure it isn’t,” he says, voice dipping playful, sing-song almost, but there’s heat in his eyes that doesn’t let you take it lightly. his thumb grazes under the hem of your shirt again, deliberate, and you swear he’s doing it just to watch you squirm.

“jun—” you start, meaning to warn him, to remind him that anyone could walk back through that door, but then he tilts his head and kisses you again, quick and smug this time, like he’s stolen something and knows you’ll let him.

“i’ll drive better with it,” he adds, as if it’s the most logical thing in the world. “science.”

junhui is everything but a scientist—he’s a sharp driver in formula 1 with killer instinct, sure, but the way he’s got you pressed against the workbench, mouth hot and unrelenting on yours, has you wondering if maybe he’s figured out some other kind of formula after all.

his hand is steady on your waist, tugging you closer, as if trying to prove his little theory by experimenting—your knees weak, your breath stuttering, your voice lost somewhere between half-hearted protests.

“see?” he mumbles against your lips, breath warm, cocky and boyish at once. “proof.”

and damn it, maybe your little makeout session with jun in the engineering room really is rewriting your entire understanding of science.

after that whole “science experiment,” as jun insists on calling it with that smug glint in his eye, you’re back in the garage like nothing happened. the fluorescent lights are harsher here, bouncing off carbon fiber and steel, the familiar hum of drills and chatter filling the space. but your lips still tingle, and your head’s still a little light.

junhui’s already halfway into his race suit, tugging the zipper up with that easy swagger, like he didn’t just corner you in the engineering room and kiss you breathless. he sits down, leans forward so the mechanic can check over the straps, hair mussed in a way that makes you bite the inside of your cheek.

you hover a step too close, pretending to double-check his earpiece, pretending the faint pink on your cheeks is just from the heat of the garage.

once everything’s checked and cleared, junhui leans just quick enough to pinch your cheek lightly before stepping back toward his car. the engineers give final nods, tools tucked away, monitors showing green across the board.

he slides into the cockpit like he was born to it, hands finding the wheel, body settling perfectly against the seat, helmet resting on his head as he tucks himself in under the halo. every adjustment precise, practiced, but there’s a quiet confidence now, the kind that comes from knowing both the car—and you—are steady and ready.

you can’t help the small smile tugging at your lips as you step back, watching him slot in, a perfect picture of calm before the storm.

the lights above the grid flare red, one by one, then snuff out. “lights out, let’s push, jun!” you call over the comms, voice sharp, steady, carrying just enough urgency to thread through the roar of engines.

junhui’s hands clamp the wheel, jaw tight, eyes forward. the car surges, tires biting asphalt, the grid a blur of color and movement. he eases into the first few corners, your words guiding him: “hold your line turn one, clean exit, watch sector two.”

each call is a pulse between you, threading into him as naturally as his heartbeat. apexes hit with precision, throttle modulated perfectly, brakes kissed at the right moments. the hungaroring stretches ahead, tight and punishing, but your voice keeps him centered.

over sixty laps in and cars whiz past, engines screaming, but junhui threads through the chaos with deliberate precision. “hold the line on the outside of turn six,” you call, voice steady, almost a tether for him. he tilts the car just right, tires complaining, and emerges ahead, clean.

through the following corners, he times the braking zones, clips the apexes, and swings wide only when it sets up a better exit. “inside turn nine, you’ve got room—commit,” you add. he bites the curb, carries speed, and the rival beside him drifts back, boxed out by skill and instinct.

every shift, every modulation of throttle and brake, is a conversation. you confirm his maneuvers, a small praise after each successful pass. “perfect line, jun,” you whisper through the comms. his slight hum of acknowledgment makes the tension in the cockpit a little lighter, the overtakes a little more precise.

by the time the straight opens up, he’s carved through enough positions to put himself in striking distance of the leaders, every call you make threading seamlessly with the car, the driver, and the rhythm of the race.

your voice threads through the comms, calm but urgent. “jun, car ahead, outside turn three—hold it… yes, perfect, stay with him.” tires protest, brakes squeal, but he shifts just right, and the rival drifts wide. clean. sharp. he’s alongside, taking second.

“beautiful, jun! that’s it, keep it tight!” you breathe. the podium is close. he knows he can push further.

corners rush past, each one precise, car slicing through the track. “patience… we can take this, jun, we can take this!” your words tether him, steady him when lines feel impossible, when the car threatens to chatter. for a moment it’s just you and him—every shift, every nudge of throttle, a private rhythm.

the final straight stretches ahead. sun glinting off asphalt. “jun, line’s yours—right foot steady… hold it… now, push!” your voice cracks with urgency. he leans into it, wheels gripping, heart synced to yours across the radio.

the lead car wobbles slightly. “now! go now!” you shout. he slides past, clean, nose ahead. the crowd fades. the world shrinks. just him. just the machine. just you.

“yes, jun! that’s it, you did it—hold it, hold it!” your heartbeat matches the engine, pulse hammering, hands tight on the console. every second, every word, every quiet trust—it’s yours too.

he crosses the line, victorious. the checkered flag waves. you’re still alive in his headset, jolting up from your seat and letting out a victorious roar along with the rest of the garage. “unreal, jun… unbelievable. first place to follow us into summer break... you owned that.”

then, soft, a grin in his voice. “i knew that good-luck charm would come in handy.” and you laugh, breathless, and it’s just a little moment shared between the two of you—before the podium, before the crowd, before everything.

everything’s a blur. the roar of the crowd, flashes of cameras, faces cheering—but you barely catch a proper glimpse of jun until he’s already on the podium, the sunlight catching the gold on his trophy.

during the post-podium photo op with the rest of the haas team, he moves almost instinctively, one arm around the trophy, the other sliding around your waist, steady. the cameras click and the lenses glare, but you notice the way he glances at you before anyone else, a quiet acknowledgment in the middle of the chaos.

the trophy is heavy in his hand, but he values you more. you—the voice that threaded through every lap, the calm in the storm, the reason he kept his head when the car spun, the reason he found the rhythm again. in this moment, gold doesn’t compare. you’re the victory he’s proudest of.

back at the haas motorhome, he pulls you aside into an empty lounge room and presses a quick kiss to your temple, a small, private gesture before the team gets back together to celebrate some more. the world snaps around him, but in that glance, that touch, it’s clear—you were the reason for all this.

fast forward to that night—you finally retreat into your hotel room and nearly collapse into bed, exhaustion clawing at every muscle. but before you even hit the sheets, something catches your eye. a coat bag sits there, neatly placed, a small card resting gently atop it.

you pick it up, fingers brushing the edges. the handwriting is unmistakable. “picked this out just for you—thought it might come in handy tonight.”

inside, a dress. crimson, elegant, refined—the kind of luxury piece you’d only imagine seeing in a glossy magazine. every curve, every seam, deliberate. every fold made to fit you. you can almost hear junhui’s voice in your head, the quiet pride in sending you off like this.

the celebration—the yacht party marking the start of summer break—flashes through your mind. you’d almost forgotten, buried in the aftermath of the hungarian gp. tonight, the hungaroring’s chaos gives way to something lighter, a chance to breathe, to celebrate, and to step into the summer glow—dressed not just in crimson, but in a piece picked by him, for you.

you flip the card over. in smaller, almost scribbled letters, junhui’s handwriting trails across the back:

“careful. you might outshine the trophy, baby chick. wear it like you mean it.”

you can’t help the small laugh that escapes, the warmth curling in your chest. even from a distance, even in this little gesture, he’s somehow making you feel like the most important part of all of it.

you spread out the dress on the bed, fingers brushing over the smooth crimson fabric. the evening light from the window catches the subtle sheen, and your pulse quickens. makeup comes next—soft but defining, a careful sweep of shadow, a hint of liner, lips kissed with a shade that echoes the dress.

finally, you slip into it. the fabric hugs your form in all the right places, the color striking, the cut elegant and refined. you spin once, testing the sway, and it’s perfect—every detail, every fold, every shimmer in the light.

the yacht hums with life—soft golden lights strung overhead, music weaving through laughter and chatter, the scent of sea salt mingling with fine hors d’oeuvres. in the center, the three podium trophies gleam, catching reflections from every angle, a silent reminder of the day’s triumph.

and then your eyes find junhui, standing near the trophies, sharp in a burgundy suit, darker than your crimson dress but just enough to echo it. he catches your gaze almost instantly, a small, teasing smile tugging at his lips, and you can’t help but feel like you’ve stepped into a moment meant only for the two of you amidst the bustle of the celebration.

he’s talking with norris, gesturing subtly toward you, his hand resting at the small of your back as he introduces you. “couldn’t have done it without her,” he says softly, pride threading through the words.

norris smiles, leaning slightly as he nods in acknowledgment. “absolutely, a solid race engineer keeps the driver’s mind clear out there. i can see why he trusts you so much.” he pauses, then chuckles lightly. his gaze wanders over to some of the people from his team waving him over, “well, i’ll leave you two to it—sounds like you’re the real secret weapon behind this podium.”

junhui leans closer, guiding you gently away from the cluster of people. “you came at the perfect time,” he murmurs, voice low enough that only you can hear. “earlier… couldn’t even turn around without half the paddock in my space. i’m glad you’re here, baby chick.”

his lips brush the side of your face in a soft, fleeting kiss, a seemingly casual greeting, along with the friendly handshakes and hellos you both exchange with the rest of the crowd. to everyone else, you’re just part of the celebration—but between the two of you, it's subtle affection, maybe even intimacy.

you and junhui weave through the yacht together, a quiet pair amid the shimmer of lights and music. glasses are raised and clinked here and there—champagne catching the glow of the evening, a toast to haas’ triumph over the weekend, jihoon even cinching a solid 10th place from seventeenth on the grid, to jun’s own podium finish on top, and to the relentless work of every engineer and driver.

“to haas,” junhui announces, his fingers brushing yours as you lift your glasses together, voice low but steady.

“to surviving hungary in one piece,” you reply with a grin, and he chuckles, eyes sparkling under the warm lighting.

each toast, each shared sip, is a small celebration not just of the results on track but of the rhythm you’ve built together—the quiet trust threading through every lap. between the laughter, the music, and the murmurs of congratulations from the paddock elite, there’s a private, steady pulse running between the two of you.

you finish your drinks, catching his gaze. he nudges you gently, playful but intimate, and you let him guide you across the yacht, a silent partner in celebration, a tether to the calm amid the yacht’s glittering chaos.

you slip away from the main throng, following junhui to a quieter corner of the yacht. the lights here are softer, muted, the clinking of glasses and murmurs of conversation fading into the background. in your hands, a flute of champagne—maybe your sixth, maybe your eighth, you can’t quite remember; the weekend’s triumphs and chaos have blended into a blissful haze.

jun’s hand snakes around your waist, anchoring you gently. you let out a quiet giggle, raising your glass to hide your flushed cheeks, the warmth from his proximity settling into you.

he tips his glass against yours, the soft clink ringing a little louder in the quiet corner you’ve both stolen away to. the bass of the party hums faintly in the background, muffled by the walls and water beyond, but here it’s just the two of you, champagne fizzing and cheeks warm. his arm settles heavier at your waist, fingers pressing gently, not letting you float too far away.

“you know,” junhui starts, voice lower now, touched with that kind of honesty he doesn’t really hand out in the garage, “i never thought you’d end up here.“ his smile crooks, almost self-deprecating, eyes flicking down at your flushed face.“back then, you were just… hiding behind your dad and laura like a little chick. wouldn’t even look me in the eye.“

you huff, trying to bury your grin behind the rim of your glass. “i wasn’t that shy.“

“you were“’ he insists, laughing softly. “always trailing two steps behind, clutching the data sheets like they’d save your life. i used to wonder how long you’d last in the paddock.“ his thumb traces a slow line at your side, steady even as your pulse skitters. “but look at you now. radioing me through practice, keeping the whole team sharp, drinking me under the table tonight…“ he glances down at your glass, at the way your hand shakes just slightly, “—maybe not that last part.“

you swat at him, nearly spilling champagne, and he catches your wrist with an easy reflex, fingers warm against your skin. for a moment the teasing fades, his eyes catching yours in the soft glow of the yacht’s side lights. “i didn’t think,“ he says quieter this time, “that the girl who couldn’t even meet my eyes would be the one i can’t seem to stop looking at now.“

your laugh slips out, light and embarrassed, and you try to hide your flushed cheeks by taking a sip of champagne, the bubbles fizzing against your lips. his hand has already found its place at your waist though, steady and grounding, keeping you close no matter how much you try to shrink from the weight of his words.

“back then…” jun trails, his gaze drifting, softer now. “i thought i’d never see you again. when you stopped karting, after…” he takes a breath, the words catching on memory.

your smile falters, the hazy blur of champagne clearing just enough for the sting to settle in your chest. “right… you were also there,” you murmur, almost to yourself, but jun hears it. his hand moves, thumb brushing against your side, a subtle anchor. “i was,” he confirms quietly. “i know how it must feel for you. seeing me out there, seeing a bad crash like that again. it must bring everything back.” his gaze lingers on yours, steady, gentle. “all the more reason for me to do better. to push myself not to make mistakes.” a pause, so intimate it makes your breath catch. “for you.”

the lights and sequins and music of the party feel far away now. it’s just him, the champagne going warm in your hand, and the weight of his promise sitting between you both.

he leans in just enough that you feel the brush of his hair near your temple, voice pitched low so it feels like he’s letting you in on something just between the two of you. a tiny, crooked grin at the corner of his mouth as he murmurs—

“what do you say we get out of here, baby chick, hm?”

your forehead stays pressed against his, the steady weight of his gaze holding you there until your chest feels too tight, too warm, like your whole body’s gone loose and jelly-soft under it. the hum of the party fades somewhere behind you, laughter and clinking glasses muffled like they belong to another world.

your lips part before you even think about it, a quiet, almost broken, “yeah…” slipping out.

and that’s all he needs. jun’s grin deepens, satisfied but not smug, and in the next breath his coat is already around your shoulders, his hand resting firm at your back as he guides you toward the exit of the yacht, already mapping it out in a split second—like the decision was always his to make, and you’ve just given him the final key.

the city’s neon pulse flickers through the suite’s tall windows, a faint hum fading into the background. inside, it’s just you and junhui, the air thick with victory’s afterglow and something heavier, unspoken. he stands close, his presence filling the room like the low growl of an engine before lights out. his fingers move to his shirt, unbuttoning it with slow, deliberate flicks, the fabric parting to reveal the faint sheen of sweat still clinging to his collarbone from the hungarian heat. his eyes lock on you, sharp and steady, like he’s mapping a circuit, every glance tracing your edges with the precision he brings to a braking zone.

you reach for your own clothes, fingers brushing the luxury fabric of the crimson dress—his dress, the one he chose, left waiting with that scribbled note. but before you can tug it free, his hand lands on your shoulder, firm yet gentle, steadying you. “let me,” he murmurs, voice low, rough from the day but warm, a command wrapped in care. his fingers slide to the lacing at your back, undoing it with the same focus he uses to hit an apex, the dress loosening under his touch, a silent promise that he’s the one guiding this moment, just as he guides the car through a dangerous turn.

his hand finds your waist, fingers firm, guiding you with the ease of a driver hitting an apex just right. the crimson dress slides from your shoulders, pooling at your hips. it’s no accident he picked it, every seam and curve a quiet claim, a way of saying you’re mine without saying a word. his fingers brush the fabric as it falls, deliberate, like he’s savoring the moment he dressed you in his colors, the crimson a mirror to the fire he carries on the grid.

“easy,” he murmurs, voice rough from the day but warm, cutting through the quiet like a clean gear shift. his lips find your neck, then lower, tracing the curve of your chest. his tongue flicks out, a teasing swirl around your nipple, and you gasp, a soft sound that makes his grip tighten, pulling you closer. it’s the same focus he brings to the track—every reaction noted, every shiver cataloged, like he’s learning a circuit corner by corner. he’s not just touching you; he’s mapping you, memorizing every line with the care he takes to nail a chicane.

you feel him through his dress pants, hard against your thigh, a quiet insistence that matches the coiled energy he holds before a bold overtake. your hand slides to his chest, fingers brushing the open shirt, feeling the rapid pulse beneath his skin, syncing with yours like a perfectly timed lap. he pulls back, eyes searching, a silent check-in like he’s waiting for your signal to commit to the next turn.

“you good?” he asks, voice barely a whisper, but it lands heavy, grounding you in the moment.

“yeah,” you breathe, fingers curling into the back of his neck, pulling him into a kiss—slow, hungry, the faint champagne taste fading into something rawer, deeper. his tongue brushes yours, deliberate, savoring each moment. his hand slides lower, easing the crimson dress off completely, fingers tracing the curve of your hip where the fabric had clung, his claim now bare against your skin.

you shift, thigh pressing against the firm line of him, and he lets out a low groan, muffled against your neck. his teeth graze your pulse, a soft nip that pulls a shaky breath from you, and you tug his hair, earning a hum that vibrates through your skin. it’s the control he wields in the cockpit—quiet, precise, ready to snap when the moment calls for it.

“jun…” your voice is half plea, half question, and his lips curve against your skin, like he’s already read your next move. his hand slides to your lower back, anchoring you, and you feel the heat of him, the promise held back by the thinnest thread of restraint.

“tell me what you want, baby chick,” he says, voice low, teasing but heavy with intent, the nickname lands soft, stripped of the garage’s playful edge, now a private tether between you.

his laugh is a breath, warm and rough, and he guides you back against the bed, the mattress dipping under your weight. his hands move with purpose—sliding along your sides, brushing your skin, mapping every curve like he’s chasing pole position. the dress is gone, his shirt discarded, and his chest presses warm against yours. his eyes rake over you, dark and intent, like he’s studying a circuit he’s determined to dominate.

“beautiful,” he says, quiet and raw, like he’s seeing you anew despite the months of shared laps and late-night calls. his lips find yours again, deeper, more urgent, and the distance between you dissolves. his hand slides down, fingers brushing the inside of your thigh, and you shiver, pressing closer, feeling the heat through the thin fabric still between you. his mouth trails back to your chest, tongue circling with that relentless focus.

his fingers glide up your thigh, teasing, light as a whisper, but there’s purpose in every brush, like he’s savoring the way your skin prickles under his touch. the room feels heavy, the city’s hum a faint pulse beyond the windows, drowned by the heat sparking between you. your breath catches as his hand drifts lower, hovering just above where you’re already aching, pulse hammering. junhui’s eyes lock on yours, dark, searching, a flicker of hunger that makes your stomach twist.

“still good?” he murmurs, voice low, softened by the way he’s watching you, thumb grazing the sensitive skin of your inner thigh. it’s a question—but it’s loaded, daring you to give in.

“y-yeah,” you breathe, voice shaky, barely holding together as his fingers slip lower, parting you with a gentle, teasing touch that’s almost too much. he’s watching every move—your lips parting, your eyes fluttering shut, the way your fingers claw into the sheets like they’re your lifeline.

he finds you, slick and warm, and a low hum rumbles from his throat, almost a growl. “fuck, you’re soaked,” he says, voice thick, and the words hit like a spark, making you shiver. his fingers trace circles, light at first, then firmer, each motion pulling a soft whimper from you as your hips shift, chasing him.

he presses a finger inside, curling deep, and your body tenses, a sharp gasp escaping as he hits that spot that sends fire through you. “found it,” he says, voice low, a hint of smugness laced within, and he does it again, stroking just right until you’re arching into him, desperate for more. “jun…” you moan, voice cracking, and your hand flies to his wrist, gripping tight, not to stop him but to anchor yourself as the pleasure spikes, overwhelming.

he’s quick—his other hand catches your wrist, pinning it to the bed, firm but gentle, his grip a warm cage. “easy, baby chick,” he murmurs, voice a low command, thick with want. “let me take care of you.” you try to nod, but it’s a mess, your breath coming in short, ragged gasps as his fingers move, curling, stroking, a second joining the first, stretching you just enough to make your head spin.

“mmh… f-feels so good,” you manage, voice a broken, needy mess, words spilling between moans as your hips rock against his hand, chasing the heat coiling tight in your core. you’re unraveling, a whimpering, trembling wreck, and he knows it—his eyes darken, a smug little smile tugging at his lips as he watches you fall apart.

“fuck, look at you,” he says, voice rough, thumb brushing your clit in tight, relentless circles that make your vision blur. “so fucking pretty like this.” his fingers curl deeper, hitting that spot again, and you cry out, thighs trembling, a desperate, “jun—please,” tumbling from your lips. you’re not even sure what you’re begging for, just more, just him, the edge so close it’s dizzying.

“i’ve got you,” he whispers, leaning closer, lips brushing your ear, breath hot against your skin. his fingers don’t stop, relentless, stroking that spot until your whole body shakes, pleasure coiling tighter, sharper. “fuck, i’ve been wanting to do this so badly, you have no idea,” he murmurs, voice cracking with a raw, desperate edge that makes your chest ache. his other hand moves to his belt, the leather slipping free with a soft clink, fingers deft as he undoes the button, then the zipper, the sound sharp in the quiet room. he tugs his underwear down just enough, freeing himself, his cock already throbbing, glistening with a sheen of precum, a testament to how much he’s been holding back, how much he’s needed you.

his fingers stay curled inside you, unmoving now, a steady pressure that keeps you teetering on the edge but denies you release. you buck your hips, desperate, trying to grind against his hand, but he holds firm, keeping you pinned, his grip on your wrist tightening just enough to ground you. “not yet,” he says, voice low, dominant but trembling with want, like he’s fighting to keep control. all those hurried kisses in the debrief room, sneaking around when laura steps out, avoiding the media like the plague—“shit, it’s been killing me too, baby chick. i need to feel you.”

you whimper, a broken, needy sound, your body trembling as his fingers stay still, buried deep, the pleasure sharp but just out of reach. “jun, please,” you gasp, voice slurred, a moaning mess, hips twitching uselessly against his unmoving hand. he leans closer, lips grazing your ear again, and you can feel the heat of him, the slight tremor in his breath. “relax, baby,” he murmurs, voice thick, commanding, but laced with that same desperation that’s got him leaking, aching for you. “let me feel you. let go.”

he pulls his fingers out, slick with your juices, and brings them to his mouth, eyes locked on yours as he tastes you, a low groan rumbling from his throat. “tastes so good,” he murmurs, voice thick with need, and you whimper at the sudden emptiness, your body aching for something to fill you again. but he’s already moving, arms wrapping around your thighs, fingers gripping tight as he drags you closer, the rough pull making your breath hitch. one hand grips his cock, lining himself up at your entrance, the tip brushing against you, teasing, while his other hand keeps your thigh angled, holding you open for him.

“holy shit,” he breathes, voice shaking as he guides himself in, slow, agonizing, every inch stretching you, your walls clenching tight around him. he bottoms out, fully seated, and pauses, eyes squeezed shut, a low, guttural “fuck” slipping from his lips as he feels you grip him. one hand moves to your waist, steadying you, anchoring himself, while the other stays on your thigh, fingers digging into your skin as he starts to move, slow but deep, each thrust deliberate, like he’s savoring every second inside you. “you’re so fucking perfect,” he groans, voice raw, desperate, his hips rolling with a rhythm that’s desperate with need, like he’s been starving for this, for you.

your hands claw at his shoulders, nails digging in as the pleasure builds, each thrust hitting deep, sending sparks through your core. “jun… more,” you gasp, voice trembling, needy, your hips rocking up to meet him, chasing the intensity. “please—harder.” the words spill out, raw and desperate, and his eyes snap to yours, dark and wild, like you’ve just flipped a switch.

“fuck, you want it rough?” he rasps, a strained chuckle, almost a growl, escaping his lips, his grip on your waist tightening as he pulls back, then slams into you, harder this time, the force making you cry out, a broken moan that echoes in the quiet room. “like that, baby?” he asks, but he doesn’t wait for an answer, “you like it that much, huh?” he teases, almost breathless, his thrusts picking up speed, each one deeper, faster, the slap of skin against skin filling the air. your thighs tremble, his hand still gripping one to keep you angled just right, his cock driving into you with a relentless rhythm that has you unraveling—a whimpering, moaning mess beneath him.

“n-need you… jun, please, don’t stop,” you beg, voice slurred, your head tipping back as the pleasure coils tighter, your body shaking with every thrust. his hand on your waist slides up, fingers splaying across your stomach, grounding you even as he pounds into you, each movement pushing you closer to the edge. “so good, so fucking good,” you moan, words tumbling out, incoherent, your nails raking down his back as you try to hold on.

“shit, you’re driving me insane,” he groans, voice thick with desperation, his hips snapping faster, harder, the heat of him filling you, stretching you, making your walls clench tighter around him. “been wanting you like this forever,” he murmurs, leaning down, lips crashing into yours, messy and hungry, swallowing your moans as he fucks you deeper, the bed creaking under the force of it. his grip on your thigh tightens, almost bruising, but it only makes you want him more.

you kiss back pathetically, sloppy and desperate, practically drooling as you moan into his mouth, the taste of him mixing with the heat of your need. he grunts against you, low and rough, his groans vibrating through the kiss, each sound a testament to how much he’s losing himself in you. “fuck, i’m close,” he pants, voice strained, hips snapping harder, faster, his cock throbbing inside you, pushing you right to the brink.

“i-i am too,” you stammer, voice a broken mess, your thighs locking around his hips, pulling him deeper, refusing to let him go. “jun, please—fill me up,” you beg, words raw, shameless, a desperate plea for him to give you everything. “need you… need you inside me.” your voice is a filthy, trembling whisper, and it hits him hard—his eyes darken, a low, guttural groan spilling from his lips as he drives into you, harder, deeper, like he’s been waiting for you to ask, to want him just as badly.

“fuck, you’re perfect,” he growls, voice thick with need as he sings you praises, his thrusts relentless now, each one sending you spiraling, your moans louder, messier, your body arching into him as the pleasure builds to a breaking point. “gonna give you what you want, baby,” he groans into your mouth, breathing hot and heavy.

the heat between you explodes, raw and messy, your body shuddering as the climax hits, a wave of white-hot pleasure that has you screaming his name, a broken, “jun—fuck!” ripping from your throat. your walls clamp down around him, pulsing, milking him as you come undone, thighs trembling, nails biting into his shoulders, drool slipping from the corner of your mouth as you moan into his, sloppy and unhinged. he groans back, a deep, desperate sound, his hips stuttering as he chases his own release, your filthy plea—fill me up—echoing in his head. “shit, you’re so fucking good,” he gasps, voice cracking, and with one final, deep thrust, he spills inside you, hot and thick, filling you just like you begged, his cock throbbing as he unloads, each pulse drawing a low, guttural moan from his throat. he practically collapses onto you, barely holding himself up, his body trembling as his hands find your hair, fingers slipping between the tangled, sweaty strands, cradling your head close. his other hand slides beneath your waist, pulling you flush against him, like he needs every inch of you pressed to his skin.

you’re a trembling, sweaty mess beneath him, gasping, body shaking with aftershocks, your thighs still locked around him, keeping him buried deep as you both ride it out. his hands grip you tight, one tangled in your hair, the other bruising your waist, like he’s afraid to let go, afraid you’ll slip away. your moans mix with his, a filthy, incoherent symphony of pleasure, lips brushing, tongues sloppy, the taste of him and you and the heat of it all blending into something overwhelming. “shh, baby, i’ve got you,” he murmurs, voice soft now, soothing, his lips trailing gentle kisses along your jaw, your cheek, as you whimper, still twitching beneath him, oversensitive and dazed. “you did so good, so fucking good,” he whispers, his breath warm against your skin, his fingers stroking through your hair, grounding you as the pleasure ebbs into a warm, hazy glow.

you’re barely conscious, body limp and heavy with bliss, your eyes fluttering shut as you sink into the sheets, a soft, sated hum escaping your lips. “jun…” you murmur, voice a sleepy, slurred whisper, his name falling out like a quiet prayer as you drift, too blissed out to stay awake. he stays there, pressed against you, his own breathing slowing, his lips brushing your forehead as he soothes you through the afterglow, whispering sweet nothings that lull you deeper into that hazy, dreamlike state.

sometime later—minutes, maybe hours, you’re too far gone to tell—he shifts, carefully pulling out, his touch gentle as he untangles himself from you. you stir faintly, another soft call of his name slipping from your lips, but you don’t wake, just nuzzle deeper into the pillow, body limp and sated. he moves quietly, grabbing a clean, damp towel from the bathroom, his touch tender as he cleans you up, wiping away the sticky mess between your thighs with careful, reverent strokes. he dresses you in one of his oversized branded shirts, the fabric soft and smelling faintly of him, enveloping you like a warm embrace. his fingers linger on your skin as he pulls the shirt over your head, smoothing it down with a gentleness that makes your heart ache even in your half-asleep state.

“sleep, baby chick,” he whispers, pressing a soft kiss to your temple, his hands still cradling you, one in your hair, the other resting lightly against your back. he tucks you against him, pulling the covers over you both, his warmth wrapping around you like a cocoon. you don’t wake, but you shift closer, instinctively curling into his chest, a faint smile curving your lips as his arms tighten around you, protective and adoring, as the world fades into the quiet intimacy of the night—a stark contrast to how it all began hours ago, under the glittering lights of the yacht, the clink of champagne glasses, and the electric buzz of the crowd, all fading now into this private, tender moment where it’s just you and him, wrapped in each other, the rest of the world a distant memory.

the morning light filters through the heavy curtains, soft and golden, casting lazy streaks across the tangled sheets. you stir, body heavy with the lingering ache of last night, the memory of junhui’s touch still warm on your skin. his oversized branded shirt clings to you, the fabric soft and faintly scented with his cologne, a quiet reminder of how he’d dressed you so carefully after you drifted to sleep, spent and sated from the intensity of it all. you shift, feeling the dull soreness between your thighs, a flush creeping up your cheeks as the vivid images replay—his fingers, his lips, the way he’d filled you, the messy, desperate heat that had consumed you both.

you blink slowly, eyes adjusting to the room, and realize you’re alone in the bed. the space beside you is still warm, the sheets rumpled where he’d been, and you hear the faint rustle of paper bags and the soft clink of dishes from the penthouse kitchen down the hall. the scent of something savory—soy sauce, sesame, maybe congee with century eggs—drifts through the air, grounding you in the present. your heart does a soft flip, knowing he’s out there, already moving through the morning with that quiet care he’d shown you after everything last night.

you swing your legs over the side of the bed, wincing slightly at the tenderness, and pad barefoot across the cool hardwood floor. his shirt hangs loose on you, grazing your thighs, and you tug at the hem, feeling a mix of shy and giddy as you make your way toward the kitchen. the penthouse is quiet now, the chaos of last night’s yacht party—the pulsing music, the clinking glasses, the hum of voices under the starlit deck—fading into a distant memory. this morning is a soft, intimate pause in his high-speed world, just you and him.

in the kitchen, junhui stands at the counter, his back to you, hair tousled and catching the morning light. he’s in a loose t-shirt and sweatpants, unpacking delivery bags from a Chinese restaurant, the counter a spread of takeout containers—cardboard and foil, some still steaming, others neatly stacked. he’s reheating a bowl of congee in the microwave, the soft hum of the appliance mixing with the rustle of bags as he sets out a plate of fluffy baozi and a small pot of tea, the aroma of jasmine curling into the air. he turns, catching sight of you, and his face softens into a grin, eyes crinkling with that familiar warmth that makes your chest ache.

“morning, baby chick,” he says, voice low and a little rough from sleep, but there’s a tenderness there that makes your heart stutter. “summer break, baby—no race weekend to worry about next week, just you and me, off the grid.” his words are soft but deliberate, a promise wrapped in that easy, confident tone, and the thought of uninterrupted time with him sends a warm flutter through you. “you sleep okay?”

you nod, stepping closer, feeling the pull of him like gravity. “yeah,” you murmur, voice soft, still a little shy from the intensity of last night. “you?”

“better than ever,” he says, his grin widening as he sets a takeout container down and closes the distance between you. his hands find your hips, gentle but sure, pulling you against him. “you look good in my shirt,” he adds, eyes flicking down to the way the fabric skims your thighs, a spark of heat flickering in his gaze. “makes me wanna keep you here all summer, just like this.”

you flush, ducking your head, but he tilts your chin up with a finger, his touch feather-light. “none of that,” he murmurs, leaning down to press a soft, lingering kiss to your lips. it’s slow, sweet, a contrast to the hungry, sloppy kisses from last night, but it still sends a shiver through you, your hands finding his chest, fingers curling into his shirt.

“you didn’t have to order all this,” you say, glancing at the spread of takeout containers, your voice a little shaky from the warmth of his closeness. “but it smells amazing.”

“had to take care of my girl,” he says, simple, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. his hands slide up your sides, one slipping into your hair, fingers threading through the strands still messy from sleep and last night’s fervor. “you feeling okay? after… you know.” his voice drops, a touch of concern mixing with the heat in his eyes, and you know he’s thinking about the way he’d fucked you into the mattress, relentless and desperate.

you nod, cheeks burning. “a little sore,” you admit, voice quiet, “but… good. really good.” you bite your lip, and his gaze tracks the movement, his thumb brushing across your jaw.

“good,” he echoes, voice low, a little smug but softened by the way he’s looking at you, like you’re the only thing that matters. “why don’t we stay here in hungary for a couple more days, yeah?” he says, his voice soft but with a playful edge, his fingers tightening slightly on your hip. “no rush to leave, no one to bother us. just you and me, baby chick, holed up in this penthouse.” the idea of lingering in this bubble with him, away from the world, makes your heart race, and you nod, a shy smile tugging at your lips.

he guides you to the table, pulling out a chair for you with a gentle nudge. “sit. eat. i’m not letting you out of here until you’re fed.” you laugh, soft and airy, settling into the chair as he slides a bowl of reheated congee toward you, flecked with green onions and slivers of century egg, alongside a plate of baozi, their dough soft and steaming. he sits across from you, but his hand finds yours on the table, fingers lacing together like it’s second nature. you eat in comfortable silence for a moment, the clink of spoons and the hum of the city outside the only sounds, until your phone buzzes on the counter, a sharp vibration that cuts through the quiet.

you ignore it for now, though, the situation—you and junhui—at hand is your priority as of the moment. “so… us,” you start, voice soft, a little hesitant as you set your spoon down, your fingers tightening around his, trying to anchor yourself amidst the chaos. “what are we, jun? after last night…” you trail off, heart pounding, unsure how to define the shift, the way his touch feels like it’s claimed you, the way his eyes hold you like you’re his whole world.

his gaze lifts up to meet your own, eyes softening, the teasing edge gone for a moment. “you’re mine, baby chick,” he says, voice low but certain, his thumb brushing over your knuckles. “and i’m yours. no games, no labels we don’t need—just us, like this, for as long as you want.” he leans across the table, his other hand cupping your cheek, and the sincerity in his gaze makes your breath catch. “i’ve been wanting you for too long to let this be anything less.”

you smile, shy but warm, the weight of his words settling over you like a blanket, a shield against the storm of notifications still buzzing on your phone. “i want that too,” you murmur, voice barely above a whisper, and he exhales, like he’d been holding his breath, his grin returning, softer but no less bright.

“good,” he says, softer this time, and he leans across the table to kiss you again, a quick, warm press of his lips that feels like a promise. “because i’m not done with you yet, baby chick. we’ve got all summer to figure out what else you like.” his voice is teasing, but there’s a heat there, a spark that makes your stomach flip.

but your attention is snapped back to your phone, you glance over, but before you can reach for it, another notification pings, then another, and suddenly it’s a frenzy of buzzing, the screen lighting up with a flood of messages. your stomach twists, a flicker of unease creeping in as you stand and grab the phone.

the notifications are from the haas team group chat—your colleagues, engineers, even the PR team, sending links to articles with messages like, “have you seen this?” and “you two are trending!” your heart skips as you open one, the headline blaring: “F1’s New Power Couple? Haas Driver and Engineer Spark Romance Rumors.” the article gushes about you and junhui, an on-grid romance between a driver and an engineer, calling it a “surprise love story” with photos from the yacht last night—stolen glances, his hand on your waist, the two of you slipping away into the night. some comments are cute, fans swooning over the idea of an “engineer-driver love story,” but others are brutal, questioning your professionalism, calling you a “walking HR nightmare,” speculating about drama if you break up, claiming you’ll drag jun down with you, tainting his focus on the grid.

before you can even process the words, your phone rings, the screen flashing laura’s name—the team manager herself. your stomach drops, and you glance at jun, who’s watching you now, his brow furrowed with concern. “everything okay?” he asks, voice low, his hand reaching over the counter, squeezing yours gently. you can’t answer, your thumb hesitantly hovering over the phone as you press accept, laura’s voice already crackling through the speaker, sharp and urgent, pulling you out of the soft, intimate bubble of the morning and into the storm of the outside world.

to be continued.

congratulations, you’ve crossed the finish line with a podium-worthy read, completing this story in record time !!! what a ride !! thank you so much for racing through this with me, it means the world to have written such a fun fic in another fandom i take part in. and also get this: while i was doing some last-minute edits on this fic, BOTHHH haas drivers scored points at the dutch GP, and hadjar snagged a podium >0< !! i barely ever write smut but this one had me typing at like almost 100wpm lmao… it was a total doozy to get through, but i swear i had the most fun writing it. also, quick apology in advance for any mistakes or holes in the f1 technicalities/references—i promise i tried my best lol. hope you guys enjoy it as much as i did !!

𐔌 . ⋮ taglist .ᐟ seventeen ֹ ₊ ꒱ @kstrucknet | @ateez-atiny380 @alien0n3arth @cuppasunu @dhaliaa1211 @seokminfilm @babilou-pov @crowneve @callisrecords @triciawritesstuff @sopitadearvejas @slytherinshua @chronicfic @xh01bri @d4ily-s-nsh1ne @snowflakemoon3 @bbangbies @kibtsuji @dahlia-blossom @dhaliaa1211 @symphonies-of-poenies @judesbae @rivercattail @reiofsuns2001

[blue-jisungs]

COLOURS : brown

— a series of short letters sent to kevin, who’s colorblind.

[ extras ! ] @kstrucknet , @deoboyznet + word count 172

hellour, kebi

you probably thought that last letter would be... well, the last letter. you know, purple is the last color in the rainbow. but i decided i have to tell you something about brown. 

why? brown is such a boring color, right? it reminds people of something casual, old, ordinary. 

do you know a person who likes brown color? yeah, neither do i... well except me. 

i could say i like it because of the teddy bears that you have bought for me, book covers on our shelves, brown m&m's, coffee or those vintage buildings on our street.

but the truth be told… it's my favorite color because of you. your beautiful, chocolate (ebony even) eyes that always melt me. that sparks of joy every time you get excited about something. 

also because of your soft, brown, fluffy hair. the hair that smell like heaven and feel even more heavenly. as weird as it sounds. but i know you loved how i played with your hair. 

i love you, kevin.

PREV ... NEXT

back to event m.list / main m.list / main tbz m.list

tbz tl @bbangbies ,, @slytherinshua ,, @jvkeslvr ,, @loserlvrss

[seokminfilm]

hands 🪄 lee seokmin

🤍 pairing, lee seokmin x reader

🤍 warnings, non-idol au, fluff, established relationship, boyfriend seokmin, kissing, skinship, suggestive if you squint (seokmin moans from having his fingertips kissed but nothing more), reader is in love with seokmin's hands, whiny seokmin, seokmin calls reader baby, reader calls seokmin his nicknames (seok, minnie)

🤍 summary, your boyfriend had such pretty hands.

🤍 author's note, this fic came from that one comment my mom made on a inside svt video with seokmin in it ("even his hands are well manicured") 😭 sigh even my mom realizes how dreamy seokmin is jfsjkdsfjkflsd anyways i'll stop goodbye 🚶

🤍 now playing, oh my! (seventeen)

🤍 word count, 532 | for @kstrucknet, @maestro-net

"you have such pretty hands, seok." you suddenly say, fingers running over seokmin's soft knuckles.

the two of you sat on the couch, seokmin's eyes currently trained on the movie playing on the tv in front of him. he chuckled at something said in the scene, and then turned his attention to you, face in a confused expression as he apologizes. "i'm sorry baby, i didn't hear you. what did you say?"

giggling softly, you peck seokmin's cheek, eliciting a smile from him as you repeat yourself. "your hands─they're very pretty."

and they were very pretty─seokmin's soft hands had stayed wrapped around yours the whole movie, and you couldn't help but glance down at his warm grip, studying his slender fingers and the way they softly pressed against your skin. you wanted to kiss them, if you were being truthful: you wanted to kiss seokmin's fingertips really badly, pressing soft, tiny kisses to each finger.

"awww, thank you, baby," seokmin's not paying attention to the movie anymore, watching you play with his fingers, twisting the promise ring on his middle finger as you watch it glisten in the television's light.

"i want to kiss them." you say again, and seokmin flushes red, chuckling as his voice mixes with the television. "you want to what?"

"i wanna kiss your fingertips, min." the tiny whine in your voice and sparkles in your eyes nearly makes seokmin lose his mind right there, and he sighs, shaking his head as he nods.

"go ahead, baby. kiss my fingertips." seokmin says the sentence with a hint of dominance, and it makes your face turn red, smiling softly as you take his hand to your lips, kissing each fingertip softly.

seokmin's lost sight of everything he should have been focusing on─a plot twist was happening on the screen right now, and he swore he could hear the coffee machine in the kitchen stopping, but couldn't bring himself to get up.

his cheeks were flaring up at your softness, reveling in the way you'd let your soft lips gently touch his manicured fingertips, and the tiny moans and sighs were proof of it. you, on the other hand, were on cloud nine─seokmin's eyes were shut as he let his head fall back in the plushness of the couch. his lips were parted in a tiny "o", and he whined a bit before you pulled away.

"your fingertips taste good." you say after a few more kisses, and seokmin sighs, face a blaring red now as he glares at you.

"i think you're saying that because i just embarrassed myself in front of you." seokmin mumbles to himself, and you chuckle, falling into his chest as you shake your head.

"no, they do taste really good! like caramel." you sigh, and seokmin chuckles, laughter spilling past his plump lips as he sighs heavily. you and him both know he was snacking on caramel popcorn before you two had started the movie─now you were just stating obvious facts to make seokmin laugh at you.

"you're such a dork, baby," he mutters, and you nod, laughing as you scrunch your nose at a kiss seokmin places on your forehead.

"your dork, yeah."

[blue-jisungs]

COLOURS : purple

— a series of short letters sent to kevin, who’s colorblind.

[ extras ! ] @kstrucknet , @deoboyznet + word count 176

hiya keb

damn i miss you. i was listening to some music the other day and beyonce came on. lately i find myself listening to her more frequently.

anyway, how are you? i really hope you're getting enough sleep. you better do or i'll tell your parents about it. 

purple is a really mysterious color. but also magical, soft and a bit nostalgic yet confident, it can symbolize pride. i love the way when you mix red paint with blue and it slightly turns into purple. probably my favorite color to watch that process. it's a really royal color, after red. just look at the details when you watch or play something medieval-royalty related (i mean... rapunzel??)

what i like about purple is that well... to be honest, i think it's a really brave color. when i see a woman (or man) wearing purple lipstick...? respect. jealousy – not the wrong type one, the "ow gosh i want to be as confident as them" one.  

so instead of becoming jealous of someone's confidence, be the confident one.

PREV ... NEXT

back to event m.list / main m.list / main tbz m.list

tbz tl @bbangbies ,, @slytherinshua ,, @jvkeslvr ,, @loserlvrss

[arafilez]

RAINDROPS AND SECOND CHANCES ㅤ — ﹙ L.MH ﹚

MAYBE putting you two on the same project ㅤ,ㅤ isn't so bad !

ㅤㅤ ᶻzㅤ( lee know x f!reader ) 𓂃 ㅤ photography major au, forced proximity ㅤ oneshotㅤ warnings n.a. ㅤ⋆ ( 1.5k ) ㅤ❟❟ㅤ library ㅤ skz shelfㅤ navi ㅤ.ㅤ 500 follower event ㅤ-ㅤ req

“This is crazy, I am not doing this,” you sigh dramatically as your friend judges you with the straw in her mouth. You look up and glare at her, how dare she not give it any importance?

She silently stirs her drink before saying, “You knew this was coming, he is just two ahead of you in the list.” You groan softly knowing how right she is but you still refute, “Well he is two before, I am supposed to partner with the one before me.”

“How convenient he dropped out right before,” she grins obviously enjoying this situation more than you can imagine. “Can you stop smiling? It isn’t funny,” you roll your eyes as she shrugs.

“All you talk about is him being cute, him staring at you and him looking hot so I think this is a great opportunity,” she giggles as you slap her arm and shush her. “You have to remember he rejected me,” you whisper as if the other people in the café are very interested about you and Minho.

“Uh correction, he said and I quote, ‘Not into those right now’, and that screams to me that he is interested but is just shy,” she winks as you make a ‘barf’ face before saying, “That is worse, technically.” Your friend scoffs at you and makes a hand gesture which you figure out- stop overthinking.

Maybe she is right, maybe you do need to do that.

She was not right. You tap your feet nervously as you wait for Minho to fix his camera for the outdoor shoot you have been given project on. You two have reached here separately and there has been nothing but silence since the past thirty minutes. The time has given you to wonder why you couldn’t have kept your mouth or rather your fingers shut a week ago when you boldly typed out the message that you like him.

You quietly arrange your equipment making up your mind that you got to suck it up and work with him. Moments later he walks in and you force yourself to not look up. You need to play this non-chalant because he promised you two would stay friends but it is easier said than done.

“Shall we start?” you jolt and then curse quietly before nodding at him and get up avoiding all possible eye contacts with him. Minho blinks before shrugging and pushing the document print out towards you. You take it as fast as you can, skimming through the details and nodding.

You breathe in and realise you can do this fast or slow and it all depends on you two so you finally say, “You can film the people while I film the nature and then we can contrast my video with your everyday life video for the final video.”

“That’s a good idea, we should start right now?” he asks and you give him a look saying, “You spent fifteen minutes fixing your camera and so did I, of course we are starting now!” Minho snickers a little and you swear you see his lip corners lift up a little but he brings the camera to his face and you focus on your work.

A few hours pass by and you are kind of relieved that the awkward atmosphere has soothed a little. You are glad that both of you are sticking to the work and that he hasn’t brought up the last week event. The only thing that is worrying you right now is the cloud forming in the sky that is telling you it is going to rain.

You look at Minho once who is still engrossed in filming so you shrug the feeling off as you resume your own work. Soon enough a ‘plop’ sound makes way to your ear and almost instantly you hear Minho curse under his breath as he taps you urgently. Without looking at him you start packing up as you hear his frantic breath trying to find a good shade.

The rain drops start becoming more frequent and you panic at the thought of saving the equipment. Suddenly a hand grabs your wrist and someone is pulling you fast as you look up to see Minho with your equipment in his other hand. The rain comes harder and he pulls you harder as you see the faint shadow of his car standing at the distance.

You watch him getting soaked as he holds an umbrella over your head but something takes over you as you snatch it from him even while running and hold it over his head.

He gets no time to argue as you two run and as soon as you reach the car you pack the equipment in the back. You push him off towards the driver’s seat as you sit down on the passenger seat. You internally cringe at the very large wet sound your clothes make as you sit down.

Minho sits down and shuts the door, the tapping of the rain against the car the only sound filling your void right now. You hear a very soft indie music playing in the radio as you two sit silently until he breaks the silence, “Are you an idiot?”

Your head whips towards him at comical speed mouth agape to argue back but suddenly your face is covered with a towel as you feel him running it over your hair. That very effectively shuts you up as you feel him slowly bring the towel down to wipe your face slowly. As soon as you feel your face dry a bit he takes the towel off you and awkwardly throws it at you mumbling, “You can do it on your own now!”

You quietly take it and before he can say anything else you reply, “For the record, I am not an idiot.” “You definitely are considering how you pushed the umbrella towards me,” he retorts and you scoff saying, “Because the camera needs more saving than I do and may I remind you that you were holding my stuff.”

He shuts up knowing he can’t give a proper reply to that argument and you quietly return to drying yourself up. Now that you two were are quiet and alone you hope he will not bring up last week at all. You hear him turn on the seat warmers and quietly murmur a ‘thank you’.

Minho looks at you worriedly and before he can stop himself he says, “Don’t catch a cold.” As soon as those words reach your ear you reply before you can stop yourself too, “Sure, now you care!”

Your eyes widen at your uncontrolled mouth as you splutter out a ‘sorry’ but he replies, “I have always cared about you.” “Yeah whatever,” you reply and he replies, “I know you saw my lingering gazes in class.”

“Yeah why? Because this girl asked you out and you said you are not interested right now,” you chuckle sarcastically at him and he looks away knowing he really has no excuse to that. He stays quiet for a while as the clatter of the heavy rain takes over again before he speaks, “If I didn’t care, I wouldn’t ask you about your semester break plans, if I didn’t care I wouldn’t ask your birthday seconds after you said you really wanted a gift on your birthday and if I didn’t care I wouldn’t be asking you out again right now.”

Your eyes widen as you try to make sense of his talk but he continues, “And I know no apology could ever be enough for this but I freaked out so hard when you asked me out because I could never imagine a girl like you liking me at all. And maybe the irrational part told me I would ruin it all by dating you so I hung onto the last thread and told you I still want to be friends. And I know it’s stupid, and it doesn’t make sense-“

“It doesn’t,” you shut him up as you speak over his rambling, “but I’m willing to take your nonsense over anyone else’s perfectly crafted world any day.” His eyes widen as he asks, “Wait, for real?”

“I mean what kind of loser keeps stealing glances in class even after rejecting the girl he likes over texts, find her right after you enter the class, and if you freak out for her getting wet it just adds icing to the cake,” you giggle as you keep looking at his poker face.

“Does this mean, you are saying yes? You will go out with me?” he asks impatiently and you tap your fingers against the dashboard saying, “Hmm, I don’t know, let me think for about sixteen hours and then reply.”

He groans but nods his head saying, “Fair enough.”

“Should I then say ‘we should be friends’ then steal glances and then ask you out a week later?” you smile, mischief gleaming in your eyes and he slams against the seat replying, “You are never letting this go are you?”

“Never,” you giggle as he narrows his eyes but a small smile plays on his lips nevertheless. You look out the window where the rain is still making patterns from the heavy downfall. Maybe rainy days aren’t so gloomy after all!

ARA'S NOTES ㅤ,ㅤ i missed writing a fcking hell lot and this is how bad my comeback is?? tsk tsk, anyways i will try to be more online (meet you in 2 months) @weird-bookworm ik okay not my best 😭

ㅤㅤ ᶻzㅤ( TAGLIST ) ㅤ𓂃ㅤ fill this or comment or ask to be added.

@haneagerr @aaa-sia @yeosayang @hursheys

@gong-fourz @weird-bookworm @seomisaho @peterm4rker

@sxmmerberries for the awesome divider as gift

ㅤㅤ (ㅤㅤ© arafilez on tumblrㅤㅤ)

[seokminfilm]

crybaby 🤍 lee seokmin

🤍 pairing, lee seokmin x reader

🤍 warnings, idol au, very short, hurt/comfort, established relationship, boyfriend seokmin, crybaby seokmin, seokmin calls reader lovie, kissing, reader calls seokmin baby boy, lowkey just really soft

🤍 summary, caratland made your soft boyfriend cry, and you did your best to comfort him without crying too.

🤍 author's note, been obsessed with caratland 2025 recently and this seokmin is one of my favorites 😭 the fluffy hat and outfit is everything LMAO also seokmin's just such a pretty crier 😞 makes me want to cry just looking at his watery eyes and reddened nose and squishy frown and UGH i'm tweaking out. gonna pour out my heart and soul into this just watch

🤍 now playing, if you leave me (seventeen)

🤍 word count, 502 | for @kstrucknet, @maestro-net

"it's okay to cry seokmin. you didn't look stupid at all." smiling at your boyfriend's wet face, you cup your palm under his cheek, wiping the tears away with your thumb.

seokmin had just come backstage from finishing the second day of caratland, and you had expected him to cry at the end─you were tearing up yourself, especially with the way all of the members were so soft with wonwoo, realizing that their time with him was coming to an end.

seokmin was one of the more uncontrollable criers of seventeen, and he proved it even now; tears were dripping down his sharp jawline as he quietly sobbed to himself, lips downturned into the meltiest frown you think you had ever seen.

"lovie, i'm sorry, i really am sorry, i─" seokmin's apologizing for the third time in the past twenty minutes, and you shake your head, moving closer to your boyfriend as you cradle him towards your chest. he clings onto your shirt like he has nothing left, and your heart melts a little more, pressing a kiss to his scalp as you sigh.

"are you crying because you're going to miss wonwoo, baby boy?" you ask softly, and seokmin nods, head still on your chest as he sniffles.

"i honestly don't know why i'm crying anymore." seokmin lifts his head up from your chest, adjusting his hat as he sighs, looking down at his hands as he plays with his team ring.

"that's okay too. you know what i think?" you inquire quietly, and seokmin looks at you, big brown eyes glossy as he shakes his head.

"i think you're crying because you miss jeonghan, you're gonna miss wonwoo, and you just love carat so much, you can't help but give them everything." you take seokmin's hand in your own, tracing his knuckles as seokmin falters a bit, eyes watering again as he nods.

"am i right?" you question, and seokmin nods again, hand going to his eyes as he gently wipes away the tears, trying to be careful of his makeup. "mhm...i think you're right, lovie."

"what should i do? i don't know if i can go on without them." seokmin sighs, and you know who he's referring to; jeonghan and wonwoo. if you were being honest, you didn't know if you could go without them either. since they were seokmin's best friends, they were yours too.

"you can go on without them, seokmin. i know you can─even though you don't want to, you're a strong person. you'll hold on for them, and they can trust you with their positions while they're gone. you'll be the man in the gap while they're absent." you pat seokmin's thigh, pressing a kiss to his tear-stained cheek as he nods.

"i will. i'll do it for carat." seokmin whispers softly, leaning his head on your shoulder as you squeeze his thigh reassuringly.

"that's my baby boy." you smile softly, pressing a kiss to seokmin's forehead as he sniffles once more, finally calming down.

[tanghuyuj]

woonhak bf texts! requested

pairing: non-idol(basically?)!woonhak x gn!reader ; genre: fluff, comfort in a way ; warnings: mention of food (boba), woonhak is sappy and a yapper (when is he not). ; @kstrucknet

maia’s note: guys i’m lowk running out of bf text ideas pls Help. i tried to fuel out creativity for this one. 3rd woonhak texts post we cheered! likes, reblogs, and feedback is always appreciated!! (esp reblogs + feedback ^^) 🧡

bf texts w/ woonhak: pt. 1 | pt. 2 (no order)

please do not copy, repost, or translate.

check out my other works!

[blue-jisungs]

COLOURS : blue

— a series of short letters sent to kevin, who’s colorblind.

[ extras ! ] @kstrucknet , @deoboyznet + word count 166

hi kev 

i'll write about blue today and i'm excited to do it because you can actually see it! well, at least some of it.

whoops, sorry, i got so happy about it that i forgot to ask how are you… well, how are you then? 

if i had to say, baby blue is my favorite shade. it reminds me so much of you. i don't know why but it's just... so soft and lovely, you know? you're my baby blue. forever. 

blue is a color of sky and sea, which makes people feel safe and calm. and also that's why it's mostly used in commercials of sea and air related things. i heard that blue makes you less hungry so you shouldn't use it as food (besides, is there any blue food?)

it's such an obvious color but a lot of people enjoy it and it's good! don't let others convince you that if something is obvious it can't bring you pleasure.

PREV ... NEXT

back to event m.list / main m.list / main tbz m.list

tbz tl @bbangbies ,, @slytherinshua ,, @jvkeslvr ,, @loserlvrss

[callisrecords]

La La Lost You

pairing: joshua x reader

genre: angst, exes au

description: Joshua's demon's stay faithful, even with you on the other side of the country.

warnings: angst, implied break-up, mentions of alcohol and cigarettes

w/c: 1k

a/n: never been to any of these places so excuse me for that 😔wrote this on a whim so it's kind of unedited and i'm sleepy asf rn sorry for any mistakes guys </3 @okiedokrie tysm for the pictures 💖💖 and thank you to mother niki for writing this song bcs sigh i cannot get this out of my head. if joshua ever sings this one day guys, trust, it's because i manifested it.

The air smells like gasoline and burnt sugar, the leftover scent of street food mixing with cigarette smoke. Someone laughs too loudly behind him, a burst of sound that fades just as quickly. The neon signs buzz. The pavement is still a little warm under his feet, still holding onto the sticky heat of the sun that’s gone below the horizon quite a few hours ago. The city of angels is alive, pulsing—and tonight—unforgiving.

Joshua looks back at his phone, the weather app opened on his screen. It’s drizzling in New York right now, but in a few minutes, it’s about to rain hard. He wonders if you’ve carried an umbrella. You’d sold your car before you left, and he doubts that you’ve bought another one. It’s unlike you to walk so much. Do you have someone to complain about your numb feet to?

In Joshua’s head, New York isn’t wild or free—it’s sharp, efficient, always moving forward. Nobody lingers, the steady drips of rainwater off the roofs of buildings are drowned out by the steady and loud—but at the same time, unbothered—stream of hustling people. The hiss of buses braking too hard, cabs honking, subways rattling below the pavement. The city is always moving, always chasing.

Joshua wonders how you could ever call it your new home.

Because LA isn’t like that. It breathes, lives in a way that doesn’t feel rushed. Light spills onto the pavement, drenching the streets in neon and warmth. The city at night is restless, but not in the way New York is—it hums, alive in a way that feels reckless and untamed. Music leaks from rooftop bars, laughter rings unfiltered and car windows roll down to the sound of some song that will never quite fade from memory. Sidewalks are packed, not with people rushing to be somewhere, but with people just existing, soaking in the moment like they have all the time in the world.

But then again, maybe he’s being too biased. He’s been to Manhattan before—with you—and it wasn’t terrible. But Malibu isn’t either.

Joshua sighs as he leans back into his car’s seat. He used to love nights like these. Going on drives, people-watching, the salty air running through your hair as you hummed to the songs on the radio before finally driving up to K-town for your favourite food. 

He shuts his eyes. He shouldn’t be thinking about this, about you.

But it’s hard not to, when the ghost of you lingers in everything he’s known. Everything that’s made him love this city. His demons run wild in the spaces between songs, in the gaps of conversations he isn’t really a part of. He can still feel the weight of you pressed against his side from those drunken 2 A.M. walks.

Joshua wonders what kind of highs you chase now. Probably not the ones that came with too little sleep and too much laughter—fueled by countless red bulls spiked with alcohol—or running barefoot across the sand, waves lapping at your feet. Maybe you’ve learned how to keep up with the world now instead. Maybe the lights there are so bright, that they soften the edges, help you forget.

The urge to call comes and goes, ebbs and flows like an inconsistent stream. Some night, it passes quickly—a fleeting little thought, your name a subtitle that he tears his eyes away from. But nights like these, it stays like an old injury that hurts when it’s cold.

He wonders if you’re hailing a cab right now, if the rain has started to streak down the glass as you watch the city blur past. If you lean your forehead against the window the way you used to, drawing invisible patterns with your fingertip before wiping them away.

Joshua doesn’t believe in ghosts, but if they exist, they must look like this: the shape of you, burned into the city you left behind. Like the echo of your laughter tangled in the wind as it rushes through the streets, the tinkling of your anklet as you walk into his bedroom, the orange tic tacs he buys, only to leave them on your unoccupied dressing table, the spoon he leaves isolated in his utensils drawer—your favourite one that no one could touch. 

His demons all wear your smile. They taunt him—with what was, what could’ve been and what will never be.

The city of angels holds onto things. It remembers voices in the walls of old apartments, laughter at the tables of hole-in-the-walls, love stories in busy crosswalks. Maybe that’s why you had to leave. Because it would never let you forget, never let you go if you didn’t escape soon enough.

Joshua thinks New York pushes, not waiting for anybody, no patience, no mercy. Maybe that’s what you wanted. To not be reminded of him in every corner of your favourite streets, to live away from the ghosts of him.

But still, he hopes it holds you tight like he used to. Like a safe place, a haven, soft arms surely locked around you, whispering promises of never letting go, steady when you feel shaky.

He wonders if you ever reach for him in your sleep, muscle memory working faster than your mind. If you ever wake up confused, expecting the weight of his arm draped over your waist, the familiar scent of his fabric softener lingering in your sheets. Has New York made you forget the way he used to tuck his face into your neck, murmuring nonsense into your skin?

Maybe you remember and choose to ignore it. It’s better than you not remembering at all, he convinces himself.

Joshua breathes out hard, shoving his car key into the slot. It shouldn’t matter. He’s the one still stuck here, in the city that keeps his ghosts well-fed. You were right to let go. Smart, even.

But his demon’s stay faithful—loyal, patient little things that wear your perfume and sit in his passenger’s seat, that hum to all your favourite songs and make him crave all your favourite dishes. They trace all his tattoos in the same order as your finger’s did on lonely nights. 

They don’t rush him, don’t fight him. They wait, just like he does.

[callisrecords]

OFF THE GRID PT.3

pairing: f1driver!scoups x ex!femreader

genre: angst, romance, exes to lovers au, childhood bestfriends / neighbours au

description: Part of the Beyond The Grid series: Four-time world champion Choi Seungcheol has spent years at the top with Ferrari, but as the 2025 season drags on, he can’t shake the feeling that he’s not quite where he used to be. The competition is catching up, his team isn't what it used to be, and for the first time, he’s starting to wonder if he’s past his prime. By the time the season winds down, he finds himself back in his hometown, which isn't quite the same either. But the hardest race was never on track, and sooner or later, he’ll have to figure out what comes next.

warnings: strong language, stressful situations, descriptions of car crashes and physical exhaustion, f1 heavy

w/c: Part 1 - 14k Part 2 - 13k Part 3- 19.5k

glossary taglist

a/n: the final installment!!! writing this fic out of all the ones I have in my series was probably the easiest and at the same time the trickiest to deal with. not just because it's an e2l but just also because of the f1 bits of it. while it's always challenging to write the race scenes, purely because most of the time i'm just spewing words and hoping they make sense while also trying to make sure that the stuff happening is stuff that actually happens, the most fun part was to put forth how one may feel shunted in their own team and what that does to a person. it’s lonely and quiet in the worst ways and sometimes you start to believe it’s your fault. that maybe you were always meant to be on the outside. writing that part felt very real and if you’ve ever felt like that, i hope this story sits with you a little. i love this one a lot and i hope you do too! please don't hesitate to reblog/comment/send an ask with your thoughts!

HOME

The cold air bites at your skin, but you barely feel it.

You sit on the porch steps, phone pressed tightly to your ear, listening to the monotonous ring of a call that you already know isn’t going to go through. It’s the fourth time you’ve tried the number your dad gave you. The fourth time it’s gone straight to voicemail.

You press the heel of your free palm to your eyes, rubbing at them. Great. Just great.

A pipe leak. In the middle of winter. Water pooling under the sink, seeping through the cabinets, creeping toward the floor faster than you know how to handle. And now, the only plumber you know isn’t even picking up. 

Really, your luck must be fucking terrible. How could this happen exactly when your parents weren’t at home?

Your head pulses with another wave of pain as you weigh your options. Do you try fixing it yourself? Do you just shut off the main water supply and deal with it later? Do you-

No.

You’re not calling Seungcheol.

You refuse. You won’t.

You grip your phone tighter, swallowing hard, trying to think. You can figure this out. You have to.

But then to your luck, or rather, the lack of it you hear the sound of tires rolling over, a door opening and slamming shut, paper bags rustling.

And before you even have to look up, you know.

Seungcheol.

You curse internally, willing him to keep walking, to go inside, to not notice the way you’re sitting here, hunched over, stress radiating from every inch of your body.

But of course, he does.

“Hey,” he calls out casually at first.

You don’t answer right away. You keep your gaze on the phone screen, like if you just focus hard enough, the plumber will just magically call you back.

But Seungcheol isn’t an idiot. And he knows you well enough to tell when something’s wrong.

The porch creaks under his weight as he steps closer. “What’s going on?”

You sigh, finally glancing up. He’s standing at the foot of the steps, a grocery bag in one hand, the other stuffed in his jacket pocket. His hair is still slightly damp from the snow, and the cold has left a faint pink tint across his skin.

You look away quickly. Not the time.

“Nothing,” you mutter, voice tight.

Seungcheol doesn’t buy it. He tilts his head slightly, glancing at the phone in your hands, to the way your grip is a little too tense.

You see the exact moment he puts the pieces together.

“…Something’s broken.”

It’s not a question.

You let out a sharp breath, rubbing your temple. “It’s fine. I’ll figure it out.”

Seungcheol exhales, setting the grocery bag down on the step. “What is it?”

You hesitate. If you tell him, he’s going to fix it.

But the alternative is letting the house flood while you sit outside, pretending you don’t need help.

You purse your lips, debating. Then, finally you answer. "Pipe’s leaking under the sink."

Seungcheol’s brows lift slightly. “Bad?”

“Water’s spreading. That bad enough?”

He glances toward the house. “Did you shut off the valve?”

Your throat dries up. You should have. You know that. You know enough to do that. But you were so fucking stressed, so caught up in trying to call the plumber, that you didn’t even think about it.

Seungcheol immediately clocks your hesitation.

His expression almost morphs into amusement. “Come on.”

You shake your head immediately. "No."

Seungcheol gives you a flat look. “You want to let it keep leaking?”

“I’ll figure it out.”

“Really?” He crosses his arms, raising an eyebrow. "With what tools?"

Your mouth opens. Then closes. Okay. Fine. Maybe you don’t have a plan.

But that doesn’t mean you need him.

Seungcheol exhales sharply, hand reaching down to loop through yours and pull you up. "Just let me do it, alright? It’ll take ten minutes."

You hesitate for a second too long, brain switching off at the way he effortlessly manages to lift you up. No, you willingly stood up. You shake your head

A moment of hesitation is all that he needs.

With a small shake of his head, Seungcheol picks up his grocery bag and walks past you, shoulder just barely grazing yours as he makes his way inside.

You hover near the kitchen island, arms crossed, watching as Seungcheol shrugs off his jacket and tosses it over a chair before crouching down in front of the sink.

The water hasn’t fully spread to the floor yet, but it’s bad enough, a slow but steady trickle pooling at the base of the cabinet, seeping into the wood.

Seungcheol clicks his tongue. "You should've shut the valve off earlier."

You bristle. "I was trying to call someone."

He doesn’t argue, just sighs loudly before rolling his sleeves up to his elbows, forearms flexing slightly as he moves.

“Where’s your wrench?” he asks, already reaching under the sink.

You blink. Right. Tools.

Your mind scrambles for an answer, but it comes up empty. You have no idea. Your dad always handled these things before. 

“I-” You hesitate, shifting on your feet.

Before you can figure out what to say, Seungcheol just sighs. Then, without looking up, he mutters 

“Still in the laundry room?”

You freeze.

He doesn’t even wait for your answer. He just pushes himself up and walks off, heading straight down the hall, like he already knows exactly where to go.

And the worst part is that he’s right.

You swallow, fingers tightening around your arms as you listen to the sound of him opening the cabinet, rummaging through old tool boxes like he’s done it a hundred times before.

Like he still remembers where everything is.

When he comes back, wrench in hand, you don’t say anything.

And neither does he.

He just crouches back down, one arm reaching under the sink, the other bracing himself against the cabinet. His shirt rides up slightly at the hem as he shifts into position, and you immediately snap your gaze to the ceiling.

A few minutes later, when he's almost done,  Seungcheol's phone rings from where he threw it onto the kitchen island. Your eyes flicker to the screen before you look away just as quickly, not catching the name.

“Who is it?” Seungcheol's voice comes out muffled from below.

“Uh, wait,” You mumble before shifting over to see the caller's name. It makes you stop, hand frozen in air for a few seconds before you shake yourself out of it. “It's someone from Aston Martin. Do you want me to bring it over to you?” You observe him as you reply, eyes sharp.

You can see Seungcheol stop for a moment too, like a kid caught stealing candy before he resumes, shaking his head slightly. “Nah, just leave it.”

No.

No, it's been way too long to let this slide again.

You fold your arms tightly over your chest, jaw tight. “Seungcheol.”

His name comes out sounding sharp from your mouth, maybe a little more than you intended, but still, stern.

Slowly, he exhales. Then, bracing a hand against the cabinet, he pushes himself up. Straightens. Stretches his shoulders. But he doesn’t look at you.

Your fingers curl against your sleeves. “What is going on with you?”

He sighs before running a hand through his hair, still refusing to meet your gaze. “It’s nothing. I don't know why they're calling either.”

“Are you done with the leak?” You point at it, already moving past him to the cabinet above the stove where you keep your kettle.

He nods, albeit a little confused before he checks, washing his hands after the water doesn't leak again.

“Okay, good.” You mutter as you start it up, preparing to make tea. This conversation is something that's been avoided for way too long. “Because you're going to sit down, drink this tea and fucking explain what you've been doing in this past one year.”

He opens his mouth to argue, but you interject before he can, “Don’t you think we deserve to know what’s going on?”

Seungcheol exhales, shoulders rising before he lets them fall. He looks like he wants to argue. Like he wants to say no, like he wants to leave, like he doesn’t owe you this conversation.

But you’re not letting him.

Not this time.

So you turn toward him, crossing your arms, eyebrows raised in challenge. "Well?"

Seungcheol sighs, rubbing his temple. But after a moment, he drags a chair back and sits.

He leans back against it, arms crossed, gaze dropping to the counter. "What do you want me to say?"

You huff, setting the cups down harder than necessary. "How about the truth?"

Seungcheol scoffs under his breath, shaking his head. "It's not that simple."

"It never is," you agree.

The silence that follows is thick, heavy, frustrating. The only sound is the quiet hum of the kettle as steam starts to rise.

You glance at him, but he’s still looking at the counter, fingers tapping lightly against his arm. Like he’s debating. Like he’s deciding how much to say.

When Seungcheol finally begins to talk, his voice is the quietest you’ve heard it in a while.

“Where do I even start? I guess it began last season itself, after I won the world championship. After COTA, I didn’t have much to fight for, other than the constructors. The team started the orders in Mexico and back then it didn’t feel like I was losing out on anything. I’d already made enough points and they wanted to make sure Jaehyun ended up P2 in the driver’s standings to help with the constructors. So I agreed.”

You nod. You remember the second half of the season in 2024. It wasn’t unlike Seungcheol to go a little easier on his teammate once he’d won, so you hadn’t thought anything was off either.

“And then into winter break,” Seungcheol continues, “One of the reasons I didn’t come back home was, yes, because it would be really awkward with us, but the team had kept me really busy too. I’d done so many tests and runs for them that you’d expect the car to come out in a way that suited my driving style a little more.”

“It wasn’t entirely off,” Seungcheol shrugs as you pour a little honey into his cup, “Just, it was quite obvious that Jaehyun was more comfortable in there than I was. Felt like the work I’d done was useless, almost. Pre-season testing too. They were a lot more proactive when it came to Jaehyun’s feedback, but I just assumed it was because he was relatively newer to the team and that they’d have to learn his preferences a little more because they already knew most of mine.”

You settle down into the chair beside him, a soft hum leaving your lips as you listen.

“And you know, for the first few races it felt like things were back to normal in the team itself. I was still qualifying better, still the first one to bring the fight. Yeah, Red Bull were insanely quick and we were—from the start—second to them, but it felt alright inside. So I let it go, thinking I was just being paranoid.”

"And then?" you prompt gently.

Seungcheol exhales, the sound barely audible over the quiet clink of your teaspoon against the ceramic rim of your cup. His fingers drum the outside of the mug.

“And then the calls started,” he says, shaking his head. “Nothing major at first. Just small things. Strategy tweaks that didn’t make sense but weren’t outright sabotage. Early pit stops that put me in traffic. Tire compounds I hadn’t preferred. I wasn’t the only one noticing it either—my race engineer, the mechanics, even some of the guys in the factory. But no one wanted to say it outright.”

Your brows furrow. “But you knew.”

Seungcheol’s lips twitch, not in amusement, but in resignation. “I had a feeling. But when you’re fighting at the front, you can’t afford to doubt. You just drive.”

You nod, thinking back to those early races. From the outside, nothing had seemed blatantly wrong. Ferrari was still Ferrari with their fast cars, quick pit stops, a strong driver lineup. And Seungcheol was still the one leading the charge. If anything, it had looked like he was comfortably holding onto his position as the team’s priority.

But now that he says it, you remember. The radio messages that had sounded just a little too forced. The hesitation before the pit wall gave him the go ahead on certain strategies. And then later, when Jaehyun’s results started coming together, how the dynamic had shifted ever so slightly.

“Monaco,” you murmur, realization settling in.

Seungcheol shakes his head. “No. Miami. By Monaco, I already knew. But it was Miami where the doubts started.”

You know what he means. That race had been his to win. Fastest all weekend, pole secured by two tenths, an aggressive but clean first stint. And yet, somehow, Jaehyun had come out ahead after the pit cycle. The team had called it an unfortunate timing issue, but Seungcheol had looked more confused than upset in the post-race interviews. Like he wasn’t sure how it had slipped through his fingers.

He rubs a hand over his face, leaning back into the chair. “That’s when I started realizing it wasn’t just paranoia.”

Your fingers tighten around your mug. “But you still let it go.”

Seungcheol lets out a short, humorless laugh. “What else could I do?” His eyes meet yours, dark and unreadable. “I drove for them, remember? They made the calls.”

“I wasn’t okay. After Monza, when you called,” He tries to sound slightly nonchalant. But you know. 

“That’s why I called,” You sigh, “Were there more problems because of that crash? Between you two?”

Seungcheol almost laughs, “You know, throughout this entire season, I don’t think we’ve actually ever argued about all this stuff. The next race weekend was shit. Both of us were absolutely blasted by the team. But most of this isn't his fault. I mean, the crash probably was, but it happens. It's not like I’ve never crashed into a teammate before. ” He admits. You can see that it takes a lot out of him to say that.

You understand. It would be so much easier to blame someone else, someone newer instead of the people who’ve been around you for so long.

“He’d be fucking stupid if he kicked and yelled and made everyone stop to treat us both the same.”

Sighing, you contemplate reaching a hand out to comfort him. Seungcheol sits with his shoulders slumped and head down, fingers fiddling with the cup in a restless way. But you stop yourself. You're listening to him to understand and to clear up things, that's it.

“So you made the decision to leave Ferrari,” You say, humming for him to continue.

“After Monza, I kind of knew, but it was Singapore where I made my decision.”

You remember that race. The tension, the buildup. The entire grid waiting to see if Haechan would clinch the title.

“It wasn’t like some big revelation,” he continues. “I think I’d already been telling myself for weeks that it was over. But that night, it just… solidified.”

His fingers tap lightly against his arm, like he’s still turning the memory over in his head. “They pitted me early. Said it was to put pressure on Red Bull, to force Haechan into an earlier stop. But I knew what it was. It was about Jaehyun. Making sure he didn’t lose time, making sure he had the advantage when it counted. That was my job now.”

Your fingers tighten around your mug.

He exhales sharply, shaking his head. “And then Haechan crossed the line, took his title, and I was standing in that media pen, listening to everyone talk about the championship fight and the future, and I realized I wasn’t part of that anymore. Not with Ferrari.”

“So I told my manager that night. Told him I wasn’t going to re-sign.”

It’s said so simply, so quietly, but you remember twenty two year old Seungcheol when he got his first Formula 1 seat. You remember twenty three year old Seungcheol when he got the Ferrari offer, his biggest dream coming true. You remember seventeen year old Seungcheol, arguing with his school teachers that, yes, racing is what he wants to do. Not school. “I’m serious about this. You can just watch, I’ll get there.”

It must have been one of the hardest decisions he’s ever made. 

But there’s just one more thing you don’t understand.

“But if not with Ferrari,” You begin cautiously, softly, “You could’ve done it with any other team. They’d be scrambling to sign you. Why’d you leave the entire thing, Cheol?”

Seungcheol slowly shake his head. “It wasn’t just about Ferrari.”

His fingers begin to drum lightly on the counter again. “I thought about signing somewhere else. It would’ve been easy—hell, my manager already had teams lined up before I even told him I wasn’t re-signing. But after Singapore… I just didn’t know if I wanted to anymore.”

Your brows furrow slightly. “Why?”

For a second, you think he won’t answer. His fingers tighten around his mug, his shoulders tensing slightly. But then he sighs, the weight of it heavy.

“Because for the first time in my life, I wasn’t sure if I still had it in me.”

His voice is quieter now, but there’s no hesitation. No bitterness. Just quiet exhaustion.

“I always knew what I was fighting for. Even in my worst seasons, even when everything felt like shit, I still wanted to be in the car. I still wanted to be in the fight. But after Singapore, I wasn’t sure if I did.” He pauses, shaking his head slightly. “Not because I don’t love it. Not because I don’t think I can still win. But because I didn’t know if I could give myself to it the way I always have.”

“You know, for years, I thought that as long as I kept pushing, as long as I proved myself over and over again, everything else would fall into place. That it would always be enough. But somewhere along the way, it stopped feeling like it was.”

You don’t say anything.

Because what do you even say to someone who’s spent their entire life chasing something only to realize they don’t know if they still want to chase it anymore?

Seungcheol leans back slightly, glancing down at his mug. “I needed time,” he says simply. “To figure it out.”

You hesitate for a moment, watching him. He’s not looking at you, eyes still on the mug in his hands, fingers tracing the rim like he’s still lost somewhere in his own thoughts.

Then, quietly, you say, “That makes sense.”

Seungcheol glances up, like he wasn’t expecting you to say that.

You exhale, shifting slightly in your seat. “I mean… you’ve never really stopped, have you?” You tilt your head. “Since we were kids, it’s always been about the next thing. The next race, the next win, the next goal. You never let yourself slow down. Maybe—” you pause, choosing your words carefully. “Maybe it’s okay that you needed to.”

His fingers still against the mug. He doesn’t say anything, but something in his expression softens, just slightly.

“You’re allowed to figure it out, Cheol,” you say, quieter now. “Even if it takes time.”

For the first time since he started talking, he really looks at you. Like he’s trying to figure out if you actually mean it.

And when he doesn’t find doubt in your face, when all he sees is quiet understanding, something inside him loosens.

He hadn’t realized how much he needed to hear that.

It’s stupid, maybe. He’s had months to sit with this, to justify his decision to himself, to convince himself that taking a step back wasn’t weakness. That it didn’t make him any less of a driver. Any less of himself.

But it’s different, hearing it from you.

Hearing someone else say it—you say it—makes it feel real.

He exhales again, deeper this time, like something heavy has finally slipped off his shoulders. The tension in his posture eases just a little.

“Yeah,” he murmurs, voice lighter than before. “Maybe it is.”

And for the first time in a while, he almost feels like he can breathe.

You shut your laptop with a quiet sigh, leaning back into your chair to give yourself a moment before you start packing up to go home. You stretch your fingers out, rolling your wrist absentmindedly, the stiffness a reminder of how long you’ve been working.

At least you’re leaving earlier than usual today. It’s rare, but you’d wrapped up the project that had been eating up most of your time this past month—sent the final files off, double-checked every detail, and even managed to get your inbox down to something manageable. It’s a relief, a quiet kind that sits at the back of your mind, knowing that for once, you won’t have to think about work the second you step out of the office.

You take your time packing up, sliding your laptop into your bag a little more carefully than usual, making sure everything’s in place before zipping it up. The usual rush to leave isn’t there tonight; instead, you pull on your coat at a slower pace, looping your scarf around your neck as your phone vibrates on your desk.

A quick glance at the screen shows a text from Seungkwan in the group chat.

Seungkwan: jihoon and cheol are you guys free my manager just asked to sit through another client call and it’s going to take at least 45 more mins can ya’ll go pick her up i promised to but i can’t rn [16:48]

Jihoon: yeah sure [16:50]

Seungcheol: i can [16:50]

Seungcheol: oh nvm u can go then [16:51]

Jihoon: no actually i can’t  my meeting got extended too Seungcheol? [16:58]

Seungcheol: omw [17:00]

You shake your head slightly as you scroll through the chat. You could’ve taken the bus ride home, but Seungkwan had sent his car for servicing and had driven the two of you to work in your car today. He’d have fussed about it if you took the bus and, honestly, you didn’t mind the ride back. At least it’d be warmer.

You sling your bag over your shoulder and make your way out of the office. Most of people in your team are still at their desks, wrapped up in whatever they need to finish before they can call it a night, but you get a few nods and murmured goodbyes as you pass. The elevator ride down is uneventful, and by the time you step outside, the sky is a dark shade of blue with streaks of fading orange and pink clinging onto the horizon.

You don’t have to wait long before a sleek black car rolls up to the curb, headlights cutting through the dimming evening. You spot Seunghceol through the windshield before he even pulls to a full stop, one hand on the wheel, the other resting against the gear shift, fingers drumming idly. His hair falls slightly over his forehead, and he’s got that same relaxed-but-not-really posture you know so well.

The door unlocks with a quiet click, and you pull it open, slipping inside.

"Hey," you greet, settling into the passenger seat.

Seungcheol glances at you briefly before looking back at the road. "Hey. Seatbelt."

You roll your eyes but comply, the buckle clicking into place as he merges back into traffic. It’s only when you hit a red light that Seungcheol speaks again, eyes flitting over to you.

"You finished your project, right?"

You blink, turning to look at him. "How’d you know?"

He shrugs, tapping his fingers against the steering wheel. "You only leave early when you finish something big."

You press your lips together, caught off guard. He’s not wrong.

"Yeah," you say after a moment. "Finally. Feels kind of weird not having it hanging over my head anymore."

Seungcheol hums, driving forward as the light turns green. "Bet that’s nice."

"It is," you admit, nodding as you slump back into your seat. "Kind of don’t know what to do with myself now, though."

He glances at you, the corner of his mouth twitching like he’s fighting a smile. "Is that why you let me pick you up instead of just taking the bus? Needed something to fill the time?"

You scoff, nudging his arm lightly. "Shut up."

His chuckle is soft, barely audible over the low hum of the car, but you hear it anyway.

“Can we stop at a convenience store, by the way?” Seungcheol clears his throat after a few minutes of silence.

You hum in response. “Sure, you’re driving anyways.”

He nods, taking the next right turn without another word. The neon glow of the store comes into view a few minutes later, its sign flickering slightly against the darkening sky. He pulls into an empty parking spot, shifting the car into park before turning to you.

“You want anything?”

You shake your head, already reaching for your phone. “I’m good.”

Seungcheol doesn’t press, just unbuckles his seatbelt and steps out. You watch as he stretches—arms over his head, a quick shake of his shoulders—before heading inside.

A few minutes later, Seungcheol returns, a plastic bag in hand. He slides into the driver’s seat, the faint rustling of wrappers filling the car as he rummages through it. Without a word, he pulls out a bag of chips and hands it over, like it’s second nature.

You blink, looking down at the bag in your lap, then back at him.

You narrow your eyes at him as you open the bag, pulling out a chip and popping it into your mouth. “What if I didn’t want this today?”

Seungcheol hums, setting his drink down before shifting the car into reverse. “Then you’d tell me to go back inside.”

You make a face, annoyed that he knows you too well, but let it slide. Instead, as he pulls out of the parking lot, you reach into the bag again—this time, holding a chip out toward him.

Seungcheol glances at it briefly before flicking his eyes back to the road. “What?”

“You want one?”

He hesitates—just for a second. And that’s when it hits you.

Your hand hovers in the air, and for a moment, you almost pull back. But then, Seungcheol leans in just slightly, just enough.

And without a word, he takes the chip from your hand.

Neither of you say anything after that.

—

The evening is loud, the kind of easy chaos that comes with Jihoon, Seungkwan, and Seungcheol crammed into your living room, half-watching something on TV while bickering over absolutely nothing.

Seungkwan had claimed his usual spot on the couch, legs kicked up onto the coffee table despite your protests. Jihoon sat on the floor, leaning against the armrest, scrolling through his phone but still chiming in whenever Seungkwan said something particularly stupid. 

It’s normal. Stupid jokes, Seungkwan laughing too loud, Jihoon threatening to leave but never actually moving. And for a while, you let yourself fall into it, let the noise drown out the things you don’t want to think about.

But then, Jihoon stands, stretching his arms overhead. “I should go,” he says, stuffing his phone into his pocket. “Early morning tomorrow.”

Seungkwan groans dramatically but stands up too, stretching in sync with him. “Yeah, yeah. I should head out too.”

After Jihoon and Seungkwan leave, you linger by the door for a moment, listening to their voices fade as they walk down the street. When you turn back, Seungcheol is still there, getting off the couch to walk into your kitchen.

You hesitate, then exhale, shaking your head as you make your way back to the couch. The house feels different now—quieter, heavier.

You sink into your usual spot, pulling your legs up beneath you, reaching absently for the TV remote even though you’re not really paying attention. But after a few moments of silence, you can’t hold it in anymore.

“Is it just me, or do I keep running into you everywhere?” You scoff, finally turning to face him. 

Seungcheol stands behind your kitchen counter, filling a glass of water before he stops at your words. He searches your face for any signs of playfulness, but finds none. Your eyebrows are knitted, a slight scowl on your lips and your words come out sharp and almost irritated.

“What?” He asks, a little confused, “I mean, I am living next to your house. Would be weird if you didn’t see me around.”

"You know that's not what I mean." You cross your arms, getting off the sofa.

“Well, for starters. Everyone was here today, so you kind of invited me over.” Seungcheol shrugs. “I was going to leave anyway, sheesh.”

"Yeah, this time," you say. "But what about the rest? It’s like things are just happening again, like nothing’s changed. You keep showing up, and it’s not just at work or around the neighborhood, it’s—" You pause, shaking your head before scoffing. "God, I don’t know. It’s confusing."

Seungcheol only watches you, setting his cup down with an unreadable expression. 

So you continue.

“It’s been over a year, Seungcheol. And then you come back and suddenly we’re going back to whatever this was. As if that entire period of our lives didn’t even exist. We didn’t talk to each other, Cheol. Didn’t talk, didn’t check in, didn’t even pretend that we existed and now—” You huff out, shoulders dropping, “Don’t you think this is strange? That we can just pretend like nothing happened and fall back into line like this?”

Seungcheol doesn’t answer right away. He looks at you, fingers tapping idly against the counter. Then, finally, he says, "Maybe it’s not that strange."

You groan, running a hand through your hair. It seems to tick him off a little because he speaks up again.

“You were the one that said that we were best friends, and that you wouldn’t stop treating me like that because we broke up,” Seungcheol says, voice firm. “You told me that none of it would change, that we’d figure it out. And now you’re acting like it’s weird that I’m here, like I’m some stranger you keep running into instead of the person who—” He stops himself, shaking his head before he can say too much. His fingers tighten against the counter. “I’m not pretending nothing happened. But I’m not the one who changed their mind.”

“Fuck, I know!” You exclaim, a little louder than before, “God, I know and I’m sorry, okay? I thought it would be fine. I thought I could handle it but it’s not, Cheol. It’s not.” Swallowing, you hesitate. “It’s just hard, okay? Seeing you, talking to you and being around you like this just reminds me of everything and I don’t know how to act like it doesn’t hurt.”

You look up at him to gauge his reaction, but the way his jaw tightens just makes you feel worse.

“You think it wasn’t hard for me? That it still isn’t?” His voice is low, but his eyes are bright, anger slipping into them. “The difference is, I didn’t choose this. I didn’t wake up one day and decide we shouldn’t be together anymore.” He exhales, rubbing a hand over his face. “That was you.”

You throw your head back, eyes scrunching in frustration before you snap back, “Do you really think I didn’t think it over? That I didn’t even try or want this to work? I wanted it to. But it always felt like I was waiting for you, Seungcheol. Waiting for the next race to end, waiting for your next flight home, waiting for a moment that never lasted long enough before you had to leave again." You let out a sharp, humorless laugh. "And I know it wasn’t your fault—I never blamed you for any of it. But you have to see how unfair it was, too. I was the one adjusting, always making room in my life whenever you had the chance to come back, and when you left again, I was the one picking up the pieces."

Seungcheol’s jaw tightens. "You think I didn’t try? That I didn’t want more time with you?" His voice rises slightly, rough around the edges. "I missed things too, you know. I missed birthdays, I missed stupid little inside jokes, I missed you. But I tried. I called every chance I got, I stayed up even when I was dead tired just to hear your voice, I—" He cuts himself off, running a frustrated hand through his hair. "I know it wasn’t enough. But it wasn’t like I didn’t care."

"I know you cared, Seungcheol," you say, voice quieter now but strained nonetheless. "But caring wasn’t the problem. It was never just about missing each other—it was about how impossible it felt to keep up. You were gone all the time. I couldn’t call you whenever I needed to, I couldn’t just show up when things got hard. And you—you were so busy, and I didn’t want to be just another thing on your list to worry about."

Seungcheol exhales sharply, shaking his head. "That’s not fair," he mutters. "You were never just some obligation to me."

"But that’s what it felt like!" The words leave you before you can stop them, your voice cracking and your chest heaving. "Not because of you, not because of anything you did, but because of the way things were. I felt like I was trying to hold on to something that was slipping away no matter how much we wanted it to stay."

Seungcheol’s eyes darken, frustration clear in the way his fingers ball into fists at his sides. “So what, then? We just give up because it was hard?” His voice is louder now, the calm he’s tried to hold onto starting to slip away. “You think I didn’t feel like I was losing you too? You think I didn’t sit there in hotel rooms on the other side of the world, wishing I could be home with you instead?”

“Well, you weren’t home, Seungcheol!” you shoot back, eyes stinging. “And I couldn’t keep waiting for something that wasn’t going to change! I had to live my life too, I had to stop putting everything on hold for a relationship that—” You stop yourself, swallowing hard, willing your voice not to break. “That wasn’t going to work no matter how much we wanted it to.”

Seungcheol shakes his head, a bitter laugh escaping his lips. “That’s bullshit,” he mutters. “You didn’t even let me try. You made the choice for both of us.”

 “Are you serious right now? You did try, Seungcheol. We both did! But you were never going to have a life where you could just stay, and I never wanted you to give that up for me. I just—I wanted to feel like I wasn’t the only one adjusting, like I wasn’t always the one left waiting.”

His whole body goes rigid, and when he speaks next, Seungcheol’s voice is clear but scalding.

“Well, I quit,” he says, the words sharp and deliberate. His eyes bore into yours, daring you to look away. “So are you happy now?”

It hits you like a slap to the face—sharp, stinging, and almost disorienting. You blink at him, air knocked out of your lungs, stunned, mouth opening slightly but finding nothing to say.

Because this isn’t what you wanted. Not like this. Not for you. Not because of you.

But Seungcheol is still looking at you, chest rising and falling, waiting for you to say… say what? What do you even say to that?

“That is not what I said, and you know it.” Your voice is quiet but fierce when you finally reply, unyielding.

Seungcheol scoffs, running a hand over his face, but he doesn’t respond.

You shake your head, throat tightening. “I don’t want to talk to you like this.”

He laughs dryly, shaking his head as he looks away. "Right. Of course, you don’t."

You clench your jaw. "Don’t do that."

"Do what?" His gaze snaps back to yours, frustration smeared across his features. "You get to throw all of this at me, tell me how impossible it was, how you couldn’t keep up. And then the second I react, you decide you don’t want to talk anymore?"

Your hands curl into fists at your sides. "Because you’re twisting my words, Seungcheol! I never wanted you to quit. I never wanted you to throw everything away for me.” You breathe in, feeling the tears fill your eyes as Seungcheol’s figure starts swimming in your vision. You look away, quickly wiping them and willing your voice to come out calm before you continue.

“I only ever wanted to be equal, Cheol. Just equal.”

His brows furrow, the sharp edges of his anger dulling into something heavier and blunt. His lips part like he wants to argue, to fight back, but nothing comes out. Instead, his shoulders drop just slightly, like the weight of everything between you is finally settling in.

"I would’ve done more," he says finally, so quietly that you almost don’t hear it. "If you had told me, I would’ve done more."

You sigh, feeling all the fight and adrenaline draining out of you, leaving only exhaustion and regret. “I know. But I didn’t want to have to ask.”

“I’m sorry,” you say, “For not talking to you about it properly before. For not giving us a real chance to figure it out together.”

Seungcheol stands still for a few beats, looking unsure. Then, he grabs the glass he’d left full on the counter before turning around to dump it in the sink. The sound of water slinking down the drain fills the heavy atmosphere between you, and for a moment, it feels like neither of you knows what to say next.

His back is to you, shoulders rising and falling with a slow breath, and when he finally speaks, his voice is dull and subdued.

“I should go,” he murmurs, like he’s saying it more to himself than to you. Seungcheol sighs, rubbing a hand over his face before shaking his head, almost like he’s trying to shake off everything this conversation has brought up.

You don’t know what else to say, so you swallow hard and nod, even though he can’t see you. When he pushes himself out of the kitchen, you step aside. He walks slowly, almost like he doesn’t know how to act around you anymore. It’s not surprising. You’ve never felt this exhausted and on-edge around him either.

A muted, confused voice in your head, tells you to stop him before he goes. This isn’t done. Even if it is, you don’t feel like it is anyway. With the way Seungcheol hesitates, you can tell he doesn’t either. 

But you ignore it, for now. 

Seungcheol walks out of your door, closing it softly behind him. You think it’d be a little easier if he’d slammed it instead.

—

Seungcheol remembers being sixteen, sprawled next to Jihoon on the floor of your room. He can hear your dad watching the news on the TV, the loud and clear voice of the anchor cutting through the house.

“Seven-time Formula 1 world champion Lewis Hamilton has announced his retirement from the sport, shocking fans and experts alike. The Mercedes driver, widely regarded as one of the greatest of all time, confirmed in a press conference earlier today that this season would be his last."

Seungcheol barely pays attention. He’s freaked out over it already and so he idly flips through one of your textbooks, while Jihoon hums to himself, distracted with his guitar. Meanwhile, you sit straight next to him on the floor, biting on your lower lip in concentration as you try to tackle the integration worksheet your class was handed today. You twirl a yellow mechanical pencil between your fingers as you scan the page in front of you, brows furrowed. The dim yellow glow of your lamp casts soft shadows on your face, and Seungcheol finds himself staring without meaning to.

It’s nothing new—you studying, the three of you lazing around in your room, wasting away a slow evening together. But something about this moment feels different.

Your hair slips over your shoulder as you reach for another page, and for some reason, he can’t stop staring.

It’s not like he hasn’t looked at you before. You’ve been best friends since you were kids, growing up side by side, running through the same streets, bickering over stupid things only to make up a few hours later. You’ve always been there, always been you.

But right now, in this quiet moment, you look—

Pretty.

The thought creeps in so naturally that it startles him. His grip tightens on the textbook.

It’s not like he’s never thought about it before. He’s not blind. But this is different. Because it’s not just pretty, it’s you. And it feels important. Like something’s cracked open, like something’s about to change.

He quickly tears his gaze away, back to the textbook in his lap, but he doesn’t see a single word. His heartbeat is suddenly too loud in his ears, his skin warm under the collar of his hoodie.

Jihoon groans again, shoving his guitar aside. “I give up. This song is cursed.”

Seungcheol almost laughs, almost lets himself be pulled back into the moment. But then he glances at you one more time, catching the way you tuck your knee to your chest, biting your lip as you concentrate.

And just like that, he knows.

Knows that something is different now. Knows that, no matter how hard he tries, he won’t be able to unknow it.

Seungcheol remembers finally, finally telling you that he likes you. He does it on a call, early morning on a Friday in Australia. Not ideal, not how he pictured it, but the words are there, pressing against his throat, demanding to be let out.

You look so soft on the screen, eyes half-lidded from sleep, cheek pressed into your pillow. It’s late where you are, but you still picked up when he called, even though you had work in the morning. The thought makes something warm settle in his chest, until he realizes he’s been staring at you too long, silent for too long, and you’re blinking at him now, confused.

"Cheol?" your voice comes through the speaker, quiet and a little groggy.

He sighs, shaking his head softly. He should wait. He should do this in person. But waiting has never been his strong suit, and the thought of another day, another week, another month of keeping this to himself—

"I like you."

The words fall out before he can stop them, before he can overthink them.

You blink slowly, drowsiness slipping away. “You what?”

He huffs out a little nervously.

"Say it again." You stare back at him with wide eyes, your head raised to get a better view.

He doesn’t hesitate. “I like you.”

Your breath catches. He sees it, sees the way you bite your lip like you’re trying not to smile, like you knew but needed to hear it anyway.

“You’re insane,” you say, but your voice is barely above a whisper, “Come back home, Cheol.”

Seungcheol grins, relief rushing through him. He laughs, a little breathless. “I will.”

“No,” you shake your head, firmer this time. “Come home soon.”

When Seungcheol comes back to you on Monday, you’re already waiting. 

You stand near the arrivals exit, arms crossed, watching the steady stream of passengers trickle out. You spot him before he sees you—hood up, suitcase rolling behind him, duffel slung over one shoulder.

And then his gaze lifts, finds yours, and stops.

Surprise flickers across his face followed by something softer, closer to relief. He lets out a quiet laugh as he stops in front of you.

“You look exhausted,” you say, voice calm, but your fingers twitch where they rest against your arm.

His lips tilt, but you can see it now—the bags under his eyes, the exhaustion clinging to his shoulders. Still, his eyes don’t leave yours, like you’re the only thing keeping him upright.

“Didn’t think you’d be here,” he murmurs.

You shrug, glancing away for a second. “Didn’t think you’d tell me you like me over the phone.”

He laughs, softer this time. The duffel slips from his shoulder, forgotten, as he takes half a step closer. Close enough that the warmth of him seeps into the space between you, close enough that you feel the weight of his gaze settle over you.

“Missed me that much?” he teases, the corner of his mouth tugging up.

You scoff. “You wish.” But your voice lacks bite, and he sees the way you shift from one foot to the other, like you’re holding yourself back.

So he doesn’t.

Seungcheol reaches for you, one hand cupping the side of your face, the other sliding around your waist, pulling you into him. And before you can react, before you can even breathe, he kisses you.

It’s not cautious. Not nervous. Not testing the waters. It’s sure, like he’s known this is where he’s meant to be all along.

Your fingers tighten against the fabric of his hoodie, exhaling against his lips like you’ve been waiting for this too. Like all the late-night calls, the moments of hesitation, the unspoken truths were leading to this.

When he pulls back, just slightly, his forehead rests against yours, his breath warm against your lips.

Your heart stumbles, and for once, you don’t pretend to fight the smile that tugs at your lips. “Took you long enough,” you whisper.

He laughs, soft and warm, before kissing you again.

Seungcheol remembers the countless races that you’ve flown in for, without him even asking. The paddock is still buzzing when he finally steps into his motorhome, his race suit unzipped to his waist, the fireproofs underneath clinging to his skin. The adrenaline from qualifying still lingers in his veins, a familiar and electrifying hum of energy that usually takes hours to fade.

He breathes in deeply, reaching up to brush his hair out of his eyes. P3. Not bad. Not what he wanted, but not bad. Tomorrow would be the real fight.

But when he finally looks around, Seungcheol’s eyes land on you before anything else.

You’re sat on the small couch in the corner of his motorhome, one leg tucked under the other, scrolling through something on your phone. His jacket is draped over your shoulders, the red standing out starkly against your skin. Your hair is tied up loosely, like you’d done it without much thought, and there’s a half-empty water bottle on the table in front of you.

Seungcheol stops in his tracks, momentarily stunned. He calls out your name, making you perk up as you notice him.

“You flew in?” he asks, still slightly breathless.

Your lips curl up, “Yes, as you can see.”

He takes a step closer, then another, until he’s right in front of you. “You didn’t tell me.”

“It’s called a surprise, Cheol.” You raise an eyebrow, tilting your head playfully. “You’re supposed to like it.”

He lets out a scoff, shaking his head in disbelief. “Of course I do.”

You grin, setting your phone down. “P3’s not bad.”

Seungcheol hums, rubbing a hand over his nape as he exhales. “Not bad. Could’ve been better.”

“It’s always ‘could’ve been better’ with you,” you tease, nudging his knee lightly with your foot. “You’re still starting from the second row. That’s a win in my books.”

He glances at you again, still not entirely believing that you’re actually here.

“How long have you been here?”

“Landed this afternoon and came straight to the track.”

Seungcheol’s brows furrow slightly. “And you’ve just been… waiting here?”

You shrug. “I wanted to see you.”

Something about the way you say it, so simple and matter-of-fact, makes his throat dry up.

He doesn’t say anything. Just steps forward, reaching for your wrist, fingers wrapping around it gently before tugging you up onto your feet. You let him pull you in without resistance, your hands naturally finding their place against his sides.

And then he hugs you.

It’s steady and comforting—the kind of embrace that feels less like holding on and more like coming home. His arms wrap around you with quiet certainty, like this is where you’ve always belonged. He feels the way your body relaxes against his, the tension melting away, and it makes him hug you a little tighter. You breathe out softly, the sound barely audible.

“I missed you,” he murmurs.

Your arms tighten around him. “I know. Me too.”

Seungcheol thinks he remembers when it all started to go wrong too.

He remembers staring at the screen, waiting.

The call rings once, twice, three times before it cuts to voicemail. Again.

He sighs before locking his phone. It’s past 2 AM where you are, but he’d hoped—just maybe—you’d still be awake. It’s been getting really hard to deal with the timezones, especially with all the new tracks on the calendar and more added races. He hasn’t been home in over two months.

His eyes droop with exhaustion as he types out a quick message. Call me when you wake up. Miss you.

You don’t get to reply until the next day.

By then, he’s already on track, already somewhere else.

Seungcheol remembers that the first thing he does after winning is look for you.

His team is cheering, his engineers clapping him on the back, cameras flashing in his face. But none of it matters until he sees you.

But he doesn’t.

His phone buzzes in his race suit pocket. He pulls it out, fingers clumsy from the adrenaline. A message from you.

I don’t know when you’ll see this but can’t make it today Cheol. I’m so sorry. I love you.Congrats on the win!!!

He exhales slowly, staring at the words.

You’d told him just last week that things were piling up at work. That you were barely getting enough sleep, that you’d skipped lunch twice because there was too much to do.

He’d told you to take care of yourself, his voice soft but firm. And you had laughed it off. But now, reading your message, the unease settles back in.

He wants to call. Wants to hear your voice, wants to check if you’ve eaten, if you’re resting like you should be. But there are cameras on him and a team waiting to celebrate.

So instead, he just types out a reply.

Love you too. Get some rest, yeah?

Then, he puts his phone away, and forces himself to smile.

Seungcheol remembers the last time he came back home before it all ended. March of 2024. You’re in his arms, holding on tighter than usual, your fingers digging into the fabric of his hoodie.

“You’ll be back soon, right?” Your voice is quiet against his chest.

“Of course,” he says, pressing his lips to your hair. “Two weeks.”

You nod, sighing against his shoulder. “Okay.”

He should’ve kissed you longer. Should’ve told you he’d make it work, somehow. Should’ve said ‘I love you’ one more time.

Because two weeks turns into a month. A month turns into two and in the way that things go—

Seungcheol remembers the day you broke up with him too. He doubts he’ll ever forget it.

He sits on the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees, hands clasped together. His race suit is gone, replaced by a plain t-shirt and joggers, but he still looks tired. Not from the race but from everything else.

You stand near the window, arms crossed, staring at the city lights outside. You don’t know how long the two of you have been sitting in silence, but it feels like forever. Like neither of you wants to be the first to say it.

But eventually, you do.

“Cheol, I don’t think this is working.”

Seungcheol inhales sharply, looking down at his hands. He nods once, slow, like he’s known this was coming but still hoped it wouldn’t. “Yeah,” he murmurs. “I know.”

That should make it easier, but it doesn’t. It only makes your chest feel heavier.

“I love you,” he says, voice quiet but certain. “I love you so much.”

Your throat tightens. “I love you too.”

But the lack of love had never been the problem. Maybe the distance would’ve been easier if it were.

Seungcheol exhales, rubbing a hand over his face. “Is there…” He swallows, voice hoarse. “Is there anything I can do?”

You should say no. Should shake your head and leave before you change your mind. But your breath hitches, your body betraying you before your mind can catch up.

Because even now, even after everything you don’t want to leave. Maybe you never have.

And maybe Seungcheol sees it, or maybe he’s just desperate, but then he says, so quietly, his voice cracking.

“Stay.”

It’s one word. Small. Fragile. But it’s a plea that sends your heart leaping for one last time before it falls flat again.

You should walk away. You know that. But your feet won’t move. And when Seungcheol shifts slightly, when he finally reaches for you, his fingers wrapping around your wrist, you don’t pull away.

“Just tonight,” you whisper, almost like you’re convincing yourself.

Seungcheol nods slowly. “Just tonight.”

So you stay.

You let him pull you toward the bed, let him press his forehead against yours, let yourself sink into the warmth of his arms, into the quiet safety of him.

Seungcheol tries to memorise you in the last few hours that he gets. He doesn’t know if you’re pretending to be asleep or if you actually are, but he needs to remember the way you feel in his arms, the way your body curls against his like it’s instinct, like it’s habit. He presses his palm against the small of your back, feeling the steady rise and fall of your breathing, trying to sync his with yours. His fingers brush lightly over your shoulder, tracing absent patterns into your skin, committing the warmth of you to memory.

Your hair spills across the pillow, a few strands tickling his chin, and he doesn’t dare to move them away. He doesn’t want to disturb anything, doesn’t want to break the illusion that this is just another night. That when morning comes, you’ll still be here.

Seungcheol knows that in a few hours, he’ll wake up, and you won’t be here. That he’ll turn over in bed, reach for you out of habit, and find nothing but empty space.

Now, Seungcheol sits at the desk in his room. The house is quiet—too quiet. The kind that settles over you like a weighted blanket that you don’t want on you. He thinks about knocking on your door. Thinks about standing outside your house like an idiot, waiting for you to let him in. Thinks about calling you, but what would he even say?

I love you. I never stopped. I don’t know how to fix this, but I want to.

Instead, he breathes in, slow and deep, massaging his temple like he can will away the headache that is forming. He knows sleep won’t come easy tonight.

The next day, when Jihoon calls you, asking if you’ll come with him to your old school, you have half the mind to refuse. You’re still exhausted, maybe not ready to face people yet. But Jihoon doesn’t usually ask for favours and maybe a little contradictingly, you don’t want to be alone with your thoughts right now. 

So you say yes.

The sun’s begun to shine a little brighter these days, so when you walk out, locking your door behind you, the cold doesn’t bite too hard. 

Jihoon’s car is already parked by the curb, Seungkwan in the passenger seat, scrolling through his phone. He looks up when you approach, breaking into a grin.

“Well, look who decided to be social.”

You roll your eyes, pulling open the door and slipping into the back seat. “Jihoon made it sound urgent.”

Jihoon, hands on the wheel, scoffs. “You make it sound like I’m forcing you to come. You could’ve said no.”

You hum, settling into your seat. “Could’ve.”

But Jihoon doesn’t start the car. Instead, he just drums his fingers against the wheel, glancing at Seungkwan, who is still scrolling through his phone like they’re waiting for something. Or someone.

You frown. “Hello? Can we go?”

Seungkwan barely looks up. “Do you want to leave Cheol here then?”

Your stomach dips before you can stop it. “What?” You shift forwards in your seat, grabbing onto Jihoon’s headrest. “You didn’t say he was coming.”

“Why wouldn’t he?” Jihoon asks, a little perplexed.

“Did he not say anything to you?”

The boys go quiet for a good three seconds before Seungkwan turns in his seat to face you.

“Don’t lie. Did you two fight? Come on, you’re not kids anymore!” He nags, an exasperated look on his face, “What did you fight over, hmm? Him rattling around all the washed utensils? Did he spoil that stupid book you’ve been reading? Or was it—” Before Seungkwan can continue, the door on your left opens, making all three of you look that way. 

Seungcheol slides into the seat next to you, pulling the door shut behind him with a quiet click. He huffs, brushing his hair back before glancing around—first at Jihoon, then at Seungkwan, and finally at you.

And then he pauses.

Just for a second, his eyes widen slightly, like he wasn’t expecting to see you here. Like it hadn’t occurred to him that, of course, you would be here. His lips part as if to say something, but then he presses them together, looking away slowly.

“Morning,” he says, voice a little careful.

“Morning,” Seungkwan and Jihoon reply in unison.

You hesitate for a split second, but you don’t want Seungkwan and Jihoon to start poking their noses in right now, so you mumble out a small greeting too.

Jihoon exhales, twisting the key in the ignition. “Alright. Now we can go.”

The drive isn’t long, but the silence stretching between you and Seungcheol affects the two sitting up front and you know it too. Seungkwan—usually never quiet during car rides—sits a little slumped, eyes trained on the scenery outside the window. Jihoon doesn’t talk much anyways, but this early in the morning, he usually has a complaint about not picking up coffee that doesn’t come out either.

You don’t know if Seungcheol looks at you through the ten minute drive. You’re too on-edge, too awkward to even turn in his way. 

When Jihoon finally pulls up to the school, parking in the visitor’s lot, Seungkwan stretches his arms over his head. “Alright, children. Let’s go relive our glory days.”

“Glory days?” Jihoon snorts, unbuckling his seatbelt. “You mean the years you spent crying over exams and losing bets?”

Seungkwan whines in response as he gets out of the car. Jihoon sighs, shaking his head before continuing.

“I’m going to be in 11C. Think it’ll take maybe an hour? Ya’ll go do whatever, I guess.”

Jihoon leaves without much more to say, disappearing down the hall with a lazy wave of his hand. You watch him go, resisting the urge to call him back when you realize that leaves only three of you.

You turn to Seungkwan with a silent plea, hoping he’d pick up on it. He does. But he just doesn’t care.

“I think I’ll go look for Ms. Kang,” he announces, stretching his arms out. “Haven’t seen her in ages. She always liked me the best.”

“She liked you because you were a teacher’s pet,” you point out.

Seungkwan gasps, pressing a hand to his chest. “I was charming.”

You shoot him a look, unimpressed, but he only grins before waving over his shoulder. You don’t have time to reply before he’s gone, leaving you standing in the middle of the hall, painfully aware of the fact that there’s only one person left beside you.

For a moment, neither of you speak.

The school is quieter than you remember, the halls emptier now that classes are in session. Sunlight filters in through the old glass windows, casting a warm glow on the polished floors, on the familiar blue doors, on Seungcheol as he sighs softly beside you.

You steal a glance at him. He looks at home here, in a way that makes your heart ache a little.

“I didn’t think I’d ever come back here,” he murmurs, almost like he’s speaking to himself.

You nod, fingers unconsciously picking at your nails. “Me neither.”

He hums, before taking a slow step forward. “Guess we might as well look around.”

And then he’s walking ahead, and you find yourself following without a word.

The school’s gym is exactly how you remember it—high ceilings with fluorescent lights that cast a slightly harsh glow, the faint scent of sweat and polished wood lingering in the air. The basketball court is lined with scuff marks from years of games, sneakers squeaking against the surface. The walls are still adorned with the same faded banners, boasting school mottos in bold, challenging letters. The chatter and yells of students already in there make you feel sixteen again.

You watch as Seungcheol quietly makes his way to the top of the bleachers, away from all the noise. For a moment, you stand still. You don’t know what this means. But you can’t just stand here near the entrance like some weirdo, so you walk up the stairs too, before sitting down at a respectable distance from him. When you do, Seungcheol glances over at you.

Your breath catches at the way you can still see the seventeen-year-old Seungcheol in him. The way he leans back slightly, palms on his knees, eyes trained on the court in thoughtfulness. You remember when Seungcheol told you he’d found a seat in Formula 2. 

Tearing your gaze away from him, you look around. The two of you were probably sitting only a few seats to the left when he broke the news. The memory comes back to you so clearly, like it’s been waiting for the right moment to resurface. You can almost hear the way his voice had wavered just slightly when he said it out loud for the first time, the way your heart had lurched in your chest. 

You remember the way his hands fidgeted with the hem of his sports uniform. It had been the last step before the dream he’d spent his entire life chasing. And when the realization had fully settled in, you had grinned, throwing yourself at him in excitement.

Now, thirteen years later, you turn back to the Seungcheol in front of you. All the mistakes, all the dreams, all the unfinished businesses lay in the space between you two.

You shift behind, your fingers pressing against the cool concrete of the bleachers.

Seungcheol had always wanted this. This life, this dream, the career he chased relentlessly since you were kids. He was the boy who never stopped moving forward, never once looked back—not because he didn’t care, but because the only way to reach the top was to keep climbing.

And yet, here he is, sitting beside you in a school gym, watching a bunch of kids play basketball like he has nowhere else to be.

The thought unsettles you.

You want to ask. Want to say, And what now, Seungcheol? Where do you go from here?

But you don’t.

Instead, you clear your throat, leaning back into the seat like it’ll smooth over the tension from last night’s argument.

Seungcheol drums his fingers against his knee, his gaze steady on the court below. “Feels smaller now,” he murmurs, almost absentmindedly.

You hum, glancing around the gym. “Well, you were always made for bigger things.”

You don’t mean for it to sound like a reminder of everything that’s already happened, but maybe it is. Maybe it always will be. Seungcheol doesn’t respond right away, just breathes out slowly, his fingers curling into his palm.

When he speaks again, his voice is quiet. “I got an offer from Aston Martin,” He says, finally looking up at you. “For 2027. I don’t think I’ll take it.”

You can’t do anything but nod, slowly. It’s not relief, not exactly. Because you know him. You know how much he loves this, how racing is such a big part of him. And if there’s one thing about Seungcheol, it’s that he doesn’t just walk away from the things he loves that easily.

When you don’t say anything, he turns away before muttering, “Do you ever think about how it would’ve been if I never left? If I never started racing in the first place?”

You pause, taken aback. “No.”

Seungcheol shakes his head, a small, bitter smile on his lips when he glances at you, “No? Really?”

“No,” You assert again, “Because you were always going to leave. You were made for something bigger than all this—this mediocrity and this small-town life. This was never going to be enough for you and I’ve always known that, Cheol. Everyone does.”

Seungcheol looks like he wants to retort, but you continue speaking.

“And I never wanted it to be enough for you. Racing, that adrenaline, that feeling of winning—that is your sun, Seungcheol. You will forever revolve around it.  I can’t take that away from you and I have never wanted to.” You emphasize, looking into his eyes and hoping, pleading that he understands what you mean, “But I can’t leave with you either. I can’t live my life on flights and airports just to be with you, Seungcheol. My work, my life is equally as important to me. I have always, always loved you, but I can’t live like that.”

Seungcheol shakes his head, his voice coming out with an edge of desperation when he speaks. “I never wanted you to do any of that. I never wanted you to give up anything for me.”

“How else was it supposed to work, Cheol?” You let out softly, “It wasn’t like you were in a position where you could just get up and come on a whim either.”

He doesn’t reply, but you see the way his figure slumps slightly. You hate all the exhaustion that you’ve been feeling around each other lately. What are you even doing this for? You force yourself to think about what you want from this, from him.

Even though you don’t dare to admit it, you know. It’s always been the same answer. You want him. And it’s stupid. It’s so, so stupid. You’re the one who decided that it wasn’t going to work.

But what if it had? 

The thought lingers in your head. But there’s no point in thinking about that now. Even if Seungcheol still loves you, even if you decide to try again, what reassurance do the two of you have that it won’t end in the same way? 

You don’t even think about Seungcheol rejecting Aston’s offer. You know that it’s only him trying to convince himself. He will agree to it and you want him to. But what will it mean for the two of you?

—

Seungcheol doesn’t realize how much time has passed until he unlocks his phone to listen to a different playlist. His sleeves are rolled up, hands slightly dusty, and the room smells like old cardboard boxes.

He’d only planned to put away the clothes piled up on the chair in the corner of his room, but one thing leads to another and now he sits cross-legged on the floor of his room, with his closet half-emptied out. The floor is littered with old clothes, forgotten magazines and other things that he once thought he might need again.

Seungcheol grunts as he gets up, his numb legs making him stumble a little as he walks over to the last drawer in his closet. Just clean out this one and we’ll be done, he thinks, sliding it open and reaching in.

There’s a bunch of ticket stubs from concerts, two used passports, filled to the brim with stamps, worn because of years of constant travelling, and a bunch of receipts and paper clippings that Seungcheol should probably throw away. There’s one of his first career wins, some from his championships and some from his debut. He smiles with slight fondness before letting them drop onto the trash pile on the floor. Noticing one more, he tries to pull it out from the depths of the drawer only to realize that there’s something on top of it.

Seungcheol shoves his hand in further, but when his fingers touch the box, he freezes.

He knows what it is before he even pulls it out. He knows because he never threw it away. Never even considered it. Just stuffed it into the back of the drawer and left it there, like hiding it could make it mean any less.

His hand tightens around the edges of the box as he slowly walks back to the edge of his bed. The velvet is slightly worn now, its shine being dimmed by time and neglect, but it still feels just as heavy as it did the first time he held it. He knows he probably shouldn’t, but Seungcheol flips it open anyways.

The ring is exactly how he left it. Silver, simple, but deliberate. Something he picked out after months of indecision, after staring at a dozen options and thinking, No, not that one. Not yet. Until he found this—the one he could picture on your hand, the one that felt right.

Seungcheol runs his thumb over the navy blue, velvet lining.

It’s been over a year since he’d meant to give it to you. He had meant to ask. He’d meant for so many things to happen that never did.

Seungcheol had a plan. A future. A moment he thought would belong to you two for the rest of your lives. Now, he just sits, staring at something that never got the chance to be what it was supposed to be. 

He closes the box shut quickly, setting it onto his bed and shaking his head like it’ll push away the image of your hand with the ring on.

Seungcheol swallows hard. He doesn’t know how long he sits there, staring at it, caught between regret and mourning before his gaze finally shifts to the notebook on his desk.

For the first time in a long time, there’s no hesitation in his movements as he gets up from his bed with the box in hand and walks over to the desk. He keeps it, right next to his laptop, before grabbing the first pen he sees.

Hey. So.

I should’ve said this a long time ago. But I didn’t, and I’m sorry for that.

And I don’t know if it makes any difference now, if any of this still matters and if you’ll even finish reading this letter. Maybe you’ll see my handwriting on this, sigh and put it away. Wouldn’t be surprised if you threw it away, either.But if you’re still here and reading this, then I need you to know something.

I found the ring today. While cleaning my closet, I found it buried under old ticket stubs and some rubbish paper, stuffed into the back of my closet, untouched for over a year. I don’t know why I kept it. I don’t know why I never got rid of it. 

I had this entire plan to ask you once the season was over, during the winter break in 2024. I thought about it for months. Where I’d do it, what I’d say, whether you’d laugh at me for being so nervous. I had imagined a hundred different versions of it in my head—sometimes in a place that meant something to us, sometimes when you least expected it, sometimes in the middle of some ordinary moment, because you always made the ordinary feel like more. But well, by the time we reached December, we weren’t the same anymore.

I’m sorry if hearing this makes you uncomfortable, but when I found it today, it still felt like it belonged to you.

It’s strange, the things you think you’ve moved past, the things you tell yourself you’ve let go of. You move forward, you keep busy, you fill your days with schedules and noise and people who don’t look at you the way you used to. You convince yourself that you’re okay. That it’s just life. That this is how things were meant to be.

And then you find something like this—something small, something tangible, something that holds the weight of everything you never said—and it knocks the air out of you.

I used to think that no matter how many flights I had to take, no matter how many nights we spent apart, no matter how much we had to bend to fit into each other’s lives, we would make it. That as long as we loved each other, we could find a way.

But you knew better, didn’t you?

You always saw things more clearly than I did. You knew that love alone wasn’t going to be enough to hold us together, not when I kept asking you to meet me in the middle without realizing my middle was always shifting. Not when I couldn’t give you the things you needed and I swear—it was not because I didn’t want to, but because I didn’t know how to.

I should have told you that I never let you go without a fight because I wanted to. I walked away because I thought it was the only way we’d both get what we deserved. You always told me I never knew how to slow down. I used to laugh it off, but maybe you were right. Maybe I only realized it too late.

You deserved someone who could put you first. Someone who wouldn’t spend half the year in different countries, someone who didn’t come home exhausted and drained, someone who wasn’t constantly pushing you to adjust to his life without knowing how to meet you halfway.

And I don’t even know what I deserved. But I know what I wanted. I know what I still want.

You.

It’s always been you.

And I know that isn’t fair. It isn’t fair for me to say this now, after all this time, after we tried and tried and still fell apart anyway. But the truth is, I never stopped trying. Even when I convinced myself I had. Even when I told myself I was doing the right thing by staying away. So forgive me for being selfish.

I think about you more than I should. I think about you when I land in a city I know you’d love, when I hear a song that reminds me of you, when I open my phone and my first instinct is still to tell you something before I remember I can’t.

So here’s what I need you to know—what I should have told you then, what I should have promised you when I still had the chance.I won’t ask you to adjust to me anymore. I won’t ask you to bend, to compromise, to give up parts of your life just to fit into mine. I won’t expect you to be the one making all the sacrifices, the one who has to keep up with the way my life moves. If we try again—if you let me have this chance—I promise I will learn how to meet you where you are.

And if you’ve reached here, but still don’t think this is worth it, I won’t try to change your mind. I won’t ask you for something you don’t want to give. But if there’s still a part of you that trusts me, that thinks this could work, then tell me. I won’t ask for anything more than that. Because I don’t want to let this slip away without knowing if there’s still something left to hold on to.

I can’t promise that things will be perfect, that we won’t have to figure things out as we go. But I can promise that I’ll try. That I won’t let the things that pulled us apart be the same things that keep us from trying again. I don’t know where this leaves us. But if there’s something still left here, I want to figure it out with you.

Lastly, I did not write this letter because I was too scared or not sincere enough to say this to your face. I wrote it because I needed to get it right, because if I tried to say all of this out loud, I don’t know if it would come out the way I wanted it to. Maybe I’d fumble my words, maybe I’d get caught up in everything I’m feeling and forget half of what I need to say. But this is everything, exactly as I mean it.

I’m sorry, I love you.

Seungcheol.

You read the letter once, twice, thrice, sitting down on the floor of your room. 

The first time, it doesn’t fully sink in. The second time, your eyes catch on certain words—the ring, I never stopped trying, I love you. By the third, you realize your fingers are gripping the pages too tightly, creasing the paper in places you shouldn’t.

You inhale, slow and shaky.

You should have expected this—you don’t know why, but you should have. Seungcheol was never the kind of person to leave things half-finished. He always had something to say, always had one more thing left in him, and now, even after everything, even after all this time, he’s still here. Still reaching for you in the only way he knows how.

The truth is—you believe him.

You believe that every word on this page is real, that he isn’t saying this just to pull you back into something fleeting. You believe that when he says he’ll meet you where you are, he means it. That when he asks if there’s still something left to hold on to, he’s not asking out of desperation—he’s asking because he’s ready to try.

And you trust him. 

The thought doesn’t surprise you much. You always have. Even when things fell apart, even when you told yourself it was better this way, even when you tried to move forward without looking back.

But now?

Now, he’s standing at the other end of the bridge, waiting. And for the first time in a long time, you don’t feel like you’re the only one crossing it.

Your hands tremble slightly as you fold the letter along its creases. You stare at it for a little longer as if the words might change. As if you haven’t already memorized them.

But nothing changes. And deep down, you know—you don’t need to read it again. You already have your answer.

You inhale sharply, then push yourself up from the floor, legs stiff from sitting too long. Your head feels heavy, maybe from the lack of sleep, or from the toll this has been taking on you. But as you grab your keys from the kitchen counter downstairs, you realize you feel lighter than you have in a very, very long time. You’re sick of being uncertain, of hesitating.

So you open the door, step outside, and let yourself believe.

—

Seungcheol hears the knock, quiet but firm.

It’s late—too late for visitors. Still, he moves.

When he opens the door, he doesn’t know what he was expecting, but it’s you and for a moment, he’s surprised that you’re already here.

You stand there, breathing a little hard, arms wrapped around yourself like you only just realized how cold it is. No jacket, no hoodie, nothing but the clothes you must’ve been wearing at home. Like you didn’t even think before coming here.

And in your hand, his letter.

Neither of you speak.

Your fingers press into the paper, grip just tight enough to crumple it. The porch light flickers slightly, your eyes flitting to it quickly, before they settle back on him.

Seungcheol holds his breath and steps aside wordlessy to let you in.

You step inside without a word, the warmth of his house settling over you the moment the door clicks shut behind you. It should be a relief after the bite of the cold, but it isn’t—it barely registers.

Because Seungcheol is right there.

Close enough that you can hear his breathing, see the way his fingers flex slightly at his sides like he doesn’t know what to do with them. He doesn’t say anything—not yet. He just watches you, gaze flickering from your face to the letter still clutched in your hand.

For a moment, neither of you move.

The silence isn’t unfamiliar. You’ve had silences like this before, the kind that stretched between phone calls, between airports, between too many things left unsaid. But this one is different. This one is hopeful—you can sense it.

Your fingers tighten slightly around the letter before you finally hold it out to him.

“I read it,” you say, your voice quieter than you expected.

Seungcheol swallows, his throat bobbing as he glances at the paper, then back at you.

He doesn’t ask what you think or demand an answer. He just waits. It’s something new, this patience of his, and it makes your heart twist in your chest. Your fingers finally let the letter slip from your grasp, setting it down beside you without looking away from him.

"You meant all of it?" Your voice is quieter than you expect, calmer than you feel.

Seungcheol swallows, his throat bobbing slightly. “Yeah,” he says, “I meant all of it.”

You nod, shifting slightly on your feet. The warmth of his house is pressing into your skin now, but it’s not the heat from the room that’s making your heart spike—it’s him. It always has been. It’s the way he’s looking at you, careful but so open, like he’s letting you see everything without saying a single word.

And the truth is, you already know.

You’ve always known.

The realization settles over you, sinks its teeth into your skin, and for once, you let it.

You step forward, closing the space between the two of you, hesitating only for a split second before reaching for him, locking your hands behind his back. It’s instinct more than anything else, something your body remembers even if your heart has spent so long pretending to forget.

Seungcheol stiffens—you can feel it. But before you can pull away, his arms come up to encircle your waist, warm and familiar. 

You don’t know how long you stay like that, but it’s long enough for the tension to slip from your body, for his hand to smooth over the curve of your back, for the ache in your chest to settle into something more subdued. His heartbeat is steady beneath your ear, his breath fanning against the side of your face as he holds you like he’s afraid to let go.

And then, slowly, carefully, you pull back just enough to look at him.

His arms stay where they are, his hands settling lightly at your waist like he’s afraid to let go.

His gaze flickers down, just briefly, before finding yours again.

You lean in first, but Seungcheol’s quick to meet you down, half-way.

He reacts immediately, like he’d been waiting for this—for you. His hands tighten on your waist, his breath stuttering for just a moment before he kisses you back, like he’s trying to make up for every second he lost.

His fingers slide up to cup your face, tilting your head just right, pulling you closer. You let him, let yourself get lost in it, in him, in the way he still kisses you like he knows you, like he’s never forgotten what you like, what makes you sigh against his lips, what makes you grip onto him just a little tighter.

And then, slowly, the urgency fades.

His thumb brushes against your cheek, your fingers relax where they’ve been fisted in his shirt, and for a moment, all you can hear is the quiet sound of your breathing mixing in the space between you.

When you finally pull back, it isn’t all at once. Your lips part, but your foreheads stay pressed together, noses barely grazing. Seungcheol exhales slowly, like he’s grounding himself.

Your fingers loosen where they’d been clutching his shirt, but instead of pulling away completely, his hand finds yours. You let his fingers slip and tighten between yours, a small, relieved sigh leaving your lips.

Eventually, Seungcheol leans back slightly, but he doesn’t let go.

He exhales, then nods toward the couch. “C’mere.”

You glance at it before looking at him again. He probably sees a sliver of hesitation, but it’s not because you don’t want to. Rather because it feels surreal, too easy after everything. But then his fingers squeeze yours, just barely, and it’s enough.

So you go.

You settle beside him, not pressed together, not too far apart—just close enough. His thumb brushes over your knuckles, slow and absentminded, like it’s second nature. It is, you suppose. It’s surprisingly easy to slip back into old habits after trying so long to ignore and forget them.

“You’re freezing,” Seungcheol murmurs after a beat, squeezing your hand lightly.

You hum, shifting a little to get comfortable. “I kind of didn’t think too much after I read the letter and just, well, came.”

Your gaze flickers to the coffee table, where a motorsport magazine sits at the top of a messy stack. The cover is creased, the pages slightly bent from being flipped through too often.

“You’ve been keeping up?” you ask.

Seungcheol follows your gaze before sighing, almost guiltily. “I tried not to.” He pauses before slowly wrapping an arm around your shoulders. “Didn’t really work.”

You know how it feels. You never stopped watching his races either, even when you tried so hard to convince yourself that it was possible.

“Have you decided yet?”

He doesn’t pretend not to know what you mean. He breathes in deeply, tilting his head back against the couch.

“I told myself I wouldn’t take it.” Seungcheol says it with a sense of fake surety. He may believe it now. 

But sometimes you know him better than he knows himself. You know that Seungcheol has always had that fire in him. The burn to win, to be bigger, better. That ambition that you once respected, still do, but the same one that’s torn the two of you apart. The worst thing is that it is not something that can be dampened out. You can see it in his eyes, even now. His body is on a break, but you know that Aston offer has been running in his mind. Once you get addicted to that adrenaline, to that feeling of being the fastest person in the world, you can’t ever let it go. And Seungcheol isn’t anywhere close to being done. You know it.

And it hurts. Just a little, because you know he is about to leave again. Even before he’s made his decision, you know. But you have always loved Seungcheol and racing has been a part of his life almost as long as you have. You cannot take that away from him. You won’t. He belongs there, on track, in a car, fighting for his dreams and proving his worth.

You can only hope that he belongs here too, beside you on his couch, fingers running through your hair as he hums an old song under his breath.

But it’s about time you take that leap of faith again, and something tells you that you won’t fall down and scrape your knees this time.

The first time Seungkwan notices that something’s off, it’s on the late night coffee run that he drags the two of you to. 

Initially, he’d only meant to call you since you’re the only one who’d even come. So it surprises him to see Seungcheol behind you when you open your front door. Seungkwan doesn’t think much of it. Maybe he’s just here to give you something, or help you with something. Maybe there was a bug in your room and you yelled for him to come over and kill it. You do that sometimes. 

What other logical explanation would you have for him to be in your house past 10?

So thus, Mister Muscle ends up coming with you two, too.

In the convenience store, the cashier barely raises his head to look up at you guys, the glass door swinging shut behind you. Seungkwan heads straight for the coffee dispenser, mind running through all the tasks that he needs to complete before this week ends. File that report, write an email regarding missing documents from the 5th floor. Ask for an increase in vacation days. He needs to fix that printer tomorrow morning.

He notices you and Seungcheol move in sync without a word, making your way to the refrigerated drinks. He doesn’t follow immediately, and only watches for a few seconds as you pick out different drinks.

The store’s window seats are empty, so you slide into one, Seungkwan and Seungcheol taking the spots beside you. The glass reflects the neon signs outside, a soft glow spilling onto the counter in front of you.

Seungkwan tears open a protein bar, already mid-rant about something, while you set your drink down with a quiet thud, a mildly disgusted expression on your face.

Without a word, you reach for Seungcheol’s bottle instead.

You take it from his hand, twist the cap, and drink.

Seungcheol doesn’t react. Like it’s nothing, he just picks up your iced tea and takes a sip, barely glancing your way.

Seungkwan stops mid-chew.

Since when did you two start getting along so well? 

As the two of you look at him, expecting him to continue his rant, he convinces himself that it’s for the better anyway. At least some things are coming back to normal.

The second time, Seungkwan’s too sleepy to care at first.

He breathes out as he steps outside, barely awake, iced coffee in his hands but not doing much yet. His morning routine is automatic—walk out, wave to you, go to work. No thinking required.

But today, when he looks up toward your driveway, Seungcheol is there.

Seungkwan blinks, rubbing his eyes like maybe he’s still dreaming. But no, you’re definitely there, your metal water bottle in hand, listening to Seungcheol say something with that too-casual, too-familiar ease.

Seungkwan slows his steps.

You shift your bag higher up your shoulder. Seungcheol tilts his head slightly. 

Maybe Seungkwan’s still sleepy and bleary eyed, because for a second he swears he sees Seungcheol lean down to you. He also thinks you don’t move away either.

What was that?

And then it’s gone.

By the time Seungkwan gets close enough, you’re stepping back, tucking your keys into your pocket, like nothing just happened.

Seungcheol shakes his head, stretches his arms overhead like he’s just waking up, and steps away from the car when you finally notice him.

Seungkwan thinks you wave a little over-enthusiastically at 8 in the morning. Maybe you just slept well.

The third time, it’s at Jihoon’s house, just a casual hangout. The man had been isolating himself in his studio all week, and Seungkwan had thought that it was about time he came out of his hibernation.

Seungkwan sits cross-legged on the floor, next to the coffee table, searching for movies to play tonight. But when he looks up at you, his eyes narrow in on the way you and Seungcheol sit, way too close to each other when there’s so much space around you two.

It’s not even the way your legs bump every few minutes, or the quiet conversations you have that seem just a little too easy for two people who supposedly haven’t been together in a year.

Seungkwan finally begins to understand when he catches Seungcheol reaching for your hand. It’s so casual and normal that he doesn’t even think anything of it at first. It’s only when you glance up at him, after he fixes the bracelet on your hand that’s about to fall off, that he realizes.

It’s not a surprised glance, not a startled reaction, just a look that lingers. Like this isn’t the first time, like it won’t be the last.

And then, you smile.

It’s small, just barely there, but undeniably fond. Soft around the edges in a way that doesn’t belong to people still figuring things out.

And Seungcheol smiles back.

Seungkwan’s jaw drops slightly before he forces himself to tear his gaze away, feeling like he’s intruded on something very personal to them. He turns to look at Jihoon beside him, who only shakes his head, a small grin on his face.

“You knew?” Seungkwan asks, incredulously.

Jihoon doesn’t even look at him. “It really wasn’t that hard to figure out. Maybe you’re just a little dense.”

Seungkwan glares at him before turning his attention to you.

“Are you two back together again?”

“Yeah.” The answer comes out instantly, almost nonchalantly too. No hesitation, no second-guessing, just the simple truth, spoken like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

Seungkwan blinks.

Jihoon huffs out a quiet laugh beside him, shaking his head like he saw this coming from a mile away.

He’s spent weeks piecing things together—watching, observing, feeling like he’s uncovering the fact that you two are starting to act lovey-dovey again—only to find out that you two have actually been back together this whole damn time?

He sighs sharply, rolling his eyes at the couple before turning to Jihoon again.

“So this is why you didn’t tell me.” Seungkwan swats his shoulder, “Pay up.”

Jihoon only sighs loudly, reaching into his pocket to pull out a neatly folded bill before wordlessly handing it over.

Seungkwan snatches it and shoves it into his own pocket.

“Thank you,” he says, voice smug.

You blink. “Wait—what?”

Seungkwan hums, crossing his arms pettily before leaning back into the sofa. “We bet on how long it would take you two to get back together.”

Your mouth falls open. “You bet on us?”

“Of course we did,” Jihoon mutters.

Seungcheol tilts his head, amused. “How long did you say?”

“Three months,” Jihoon answers.

Seungkwan scoffs, smug. “I said two.”

You fold your arms. “Wow. Love the faith you guys had in us.”

Jihoon shrugs. “You’re both kind of predictable.”

—

The house is quiet, the kitchen warm with the scent of food as you move around it together. It’s late, but neither of you are in a hurry.

Seungcheol stands behind you, arms locked at your waist. His breath on your neck makes you squirm a little, a small laugh leaving your lips. You twist in his grip, just enough to face him, and suddenly, you’re close.

Too close—the kind where your noses brush, soft and fleeting, as he tilts his head slightly.

Your breath catches for half a second, but Seungcheol just smiles, his arms pulling you in a little more. “What?” he murmurs, voice low, teasing.

“You’re so annoying,” you mutter, nudging your nose against his in retaliation. “Can you just let me grab the plates in peace?”

He laughs—a warm, hearty sound—his forehead pressing lightly against yours. “I don’t really think you mind.”

Your fingers find their way around his neck before you even think about it, elbows resting lightly against his shoulders. Seungcheol hums and for a second, you think he’s about to kiss you when—

The front door unlocks.

Your stomach drops. Seungcheol’s arms fall away instantly, the warmth of his touch lingering even as you take a hurried step back.

“Oh.”

Your mom stands in the doorway, suitcase in hand, her brows lifting slightly as she takes in the sight of you both.

“Oh,” you echo, your voice a little too high, a little too fast.

Your dad steps in behind her, glancing up just in time to see the two of you standing too close, looking entirely too guilty. He blinks, his gaze shifting between you and Seungcheol, expression unreadable.

Then, slowly, he nods. “Huh.”

Seungcheol clears his throat, visibly struggling for words, one hand awkwardly scratching the back of his neck while the other hangs uselessly at his side.

You, on the other hand, want the earth to swallow you whole.

“Welcome back!” you blurt out, voice strained. “You’re early!”

Your mom eyes you suspiciously before turning to Seungcheol. “Yes, well, we caught an early flight. Didn’t realize you’d be here too, sweetheart.”

Seungcheol, to his credit, doesn’t completely crumble under pressure. He musters up a sheepish smile. “Just—uh—helping out.”

Your mom’s expression softens almost immediately, her eyes flickering between the two of you before she exhales, a small, knowing smile forming on her lips.

“Oh, sweetheart,” she murmurs, setting her suitcase down. “It’s good to see you both like this again.”

Your breath catches slightly, throat tightening at the gentle relief in her voice. Beside you, Seungcheol shifts, his shoulders relaxing,

Your father doesn’t say much. He only claps Seungcheol on the shoulder as he moves past you two with the suitcases. But as he walks ahead, his voice drifts back to you, muttering under his breath.

“Who was it that said two months? Was it Jihoon or Seungkwan? Gotta pay them now, damn it…”

Seungcheol freezes. You blink.

What?

Your mom sighs, following after him like this is a normal conversation. “You can just be happy for them, you know.”

“I am happy,” your dad grumbles. “I just thought I had more time before I had to hand over the money. Those silly boys roped me into their bet.”

Seungcheol presses his lips together, struggling to hold back a laugh.

“Why has everyone been betting on us?” You exclaim, throwing your hands up as you turn to your father.

“Because it’s only ever been a matter of time when it comes to you two,” He sighs, shaking his head at the two of you as he disappears into his room.

You gape at his exiting figure, before dragging a palm over your face. “This is fucking insane.”

Seungcheol almost snorts, stepping away when you try to swat him.

Seungcheol is stretched out on the couch, one arm tucked behind his head, the other holding his phone at an angle. You’re sitting on the floor in front of the coffee table, skimming through something on your laptop, barely paying attention to anything beyond the soft hum of the heater and the occasional click of your keyboard.

It isn’t until the familiar sound of engines fills the quiet that you glance up.

His phone screen reflects off his face, but from this angle, you can’t see what he’s watching.

“Has testing begun?” You question, standing up to walk over to him.

Seungcheol grunts a little as he pushes himself up to make space for you, holding his phone out so that you can see too. He nods as you sit beside him, leaning into you as his eyes stay fixed on the screen.

You watch him, a little carefully. Seungcheol’s brows are furrowed in concentration and his eyes flick across, analyzing, checking. His fingers tighten around his phone slightly, his jaw set in focus. Every so often, his thumb taps idly against the side of the device, a habit he’s never really shaken. His eyes flicker across the screen, sharp and intent, following the cars as if he’s trying to place himself back in the cockpit.

You hum softly, resting your chin against your knee. “You’re still keeping up with everything?”

Seungcheol exhales through his nose, finally leaning back against the couch. “Not really,” he says, but the way he doesn’t look at you makes it feel like a lie.

You don’t push, just let the moment pass as another driver’s onboard appears on screen.

“That car looks good,” he mutters, nodding toward one of them on screen. “Stable through the high-speed corners, barely any correction on exit.”

You blink, glancing at the timing bar. “Williams?”

He scoffs. “Yeah. But you can’t trust anything yet.”

“Sandbagging?” you guess.

“Mhm.” Seungcheol nods. “The bigger teams always run heavy in testing, low power mode. You won’t know their real pace until the first race.”

You glance back at the screen, watching as another car rolls into frame—this time, a deep green, with a small rake of aero sensors still attached to the side.

You hesitate for only a second before saying, “What do you think about them?”

Seungcheol doesn’t react immediately. He watches for a few more seconds, his expression unreadable, before he breathes in deeply.

“You never know,” he murmurs. “It’s just testing.”

He doesn’t say anything else.

Neither do you.

Instead, you think of the meeting you had yesterday, the offer sitting in your inbox—marked as important.

—

You don’t expect to see Seungcheol outside at 8 A.M. when you close your front door behind you and make your way to the driveway to go to work.

But there he is—standing by his driveway, shaking out his damp hair, dressed in a hoodie unzipped over a sweat-soaked shirt. There’s a duffel bag slung over his shoulder, his gym shoes still on, like he just got back.

Your fingers pause over your keys. It’s early. Not too early for you, but early enough that he shouldn’t be up unless he had somewhere to be.

Seungcheol spots you almost immediately. His face shifts into something easy, something warm, as he steps closer.

“Morning,” he says, his voice still a little rough from the cold air.

You glance at him. “You’ve been out?”

He hums, nodding as he adjusts the strap of his bag. “Yeah. Gym.”

Your brows furrow slightly. “At this hour?”

Seungcheol grins, leaning in to press a quick, fleeting kiss to your lips before you can say anything else. But when he pulls back, you’re still looking at him, eyes narrowed.

“How long have you been up?”

He sighs like he already knows what’s coming, before tilting his head slightly. “Four?”

Your stare sharpens. “Seungcheol.”

He laughs, stepping back slightly, like he knows he’s caught. “What? I couldn’t sleep.”

You cross your arms, watching as he shifts his weight from one foot to another, fingers tapping absently against his duffel bag. He doesn’t look tired, but he doesn’t look at ease either. His body is still holding onto that restlessness that he hasn’t figured out how to shake.

“You’re working out a lot,” you say finally, voice careful.

Seungcheol shrugs. “It’s just habit.”

You watch the way his gaze shifts slightly, the way his shoulders tense.

And maybe you shouldn’t say it—at least, not yet. But the words slip out anyway.

“You aren’t used to not prepping hard around this time, are you?”

For the first time, his expression falters just slightly.

It’s quick—so quick that if you weren’t watching him this closely, you might have missed it. But it’s there. That brief flicker of something in his eyes, something unsure, something lost.

He exhales, looking away for half a second. “Yeah.”

You nod, watching him straighten up.

“But not this year,” you murmur.

Seungcheol tries brushing it off like it’s nothing. “Nope.”

There’s a beat of silence.

Then, carefully, you tilt your head. “And you’re okay with that?”

He doesn’t reply right away. It gives you the answer you needed. 

Deciding to put him out of his misery, you pipe up again, “Do you have any plans today?”

He laughs a little at that, “Yep. Busy schedule. I need to rot in bed, get out of my room, roam around the kitchen and go back in again until my girlfriend decides to come back home.”

You smile softly, before stepping closer, reaching up to fix a stray strand of hair sticking to his forehead. He stills for half a second before leaning into the touch, eyes flickering down to yours.

“I’ll see you when I get back, Cheol. I have something to talk to you about.” You admit as you step back.

He nods slowly, before motioning for you to get into your car. “Sure, I’ll see you then. Have fun at work!”

You shake your head as you shut the car door, putting on a sour expression. It makes him laugh, so you guess that’s half the mission accomplished for today.

—

You’re sitting cross-legged on your bed when Seungcheol walks in, hair still damp from a shower, hoodie sleeves pushed up to his elbows. He doesn’t say anything at first, just leans against the doorframe, watching you with a smile.

“You never knock,” you mutter without looking up.

“You never lock your door,” he counters, stepping inside like he belongs there.

You huff out a small breath, shaking your head as he settles onto the bed beside you. He stretches his legs out, arms propped behind him, fingers tapping lightly against your blankets. He’s comfortable, always is when he’s here, but there’s something knowing in his gaze, like he’s been waiting for you to speak first.

Seungcheol tilts his head. “You look like you’re overthinking.”

You press your lips together before sighing. “Maybe.”

He hums. “Want to tell me what’s up, or should I start guessing?”

You hesitate, picking absently at a loose thread on your sleeve. No point in dragging it out.

“I got a job offer,” you say.

His brows lift slightly. “Yeah?”

You nod. “It’s in the UK.”

Seungcheol doesn’t react right away. His fingers still against the bed, but there’s no visible surprise—just a slow, careful inhale as he absorbs it.

“That’s big,” he says after a moment. His voice is steady, even. “A good one?”

You nod again. “Better position, bigger projects.”

He watches you for a second longer. “And?”

You sigh, leaning back against the headboard. “And… I don’t know.”

Seungcheol adjusts his position so he’s facing you fully now. “You don’t know what?”

“If I should take it,” you admit.

He tilts his head. “Do you want to?”

You hesitate, the words catching somewhere in your throat. Because it’s not that simple, is it?

Seungcheol must notice because he doesn’t say anything right away—just waits, gaze unwavering.

“It’s not just moving—it’s starting over. A new city, a new routine. Everything changes.” You pause. “Including us.”

Something flickers in his expression, but it’s gone too fast for you to catch.

Instead, he exhales, nodding. “Yeah, that makes sense.”

You blink at him. “You’re not going to tell me I’m overthinking?”

He huffs a quiet laugh. “No. I mean, you are overthinking, but it’s a big decision. You should take your time.”

You purse your lips. “And what if I don’t know what the right choice is?”

Seungcheol tilts his head, considering. “Then you think about what scares you more—taking it, or not taking it.”

His words sink in slowly.

You chew on your lip. “What if both scare me?”

He smiles, just slightly. “Then you take the one that moves you forward.”

For a moment, you just look at him.

“You always make things sound so easy.”

Seungcheol sighs, lips quirking. “That’s because it is.”

You shake your head, but there’s a warmth in your chest, the feeling of being sure and unsure at the same time.

After a few moments of silence, carefully, you say, “It’s funny, though.”

He raises an eyebrow. “What is?”

“How things happen at the right time,” you murmur, eyes flickering to his. “Me getting this now. And you with the—” You cut yourself off, shrugging slightly.

“The what?” Seungcheol asks, casually. Too casually.

You sigh, slumping down onto the bed, beside him. “Come on, Cheol. Aston Martin. They're based there too. How long are you going to make them wait?”

He runs a hand through his hair, “This isn’t the same thing.”

“Is it not?” You hum, waiting, still patient.

“No. This is different. You got an actual offer.”

You raise an eyebrow. “And what did Aston give you? A suggestion?”

Seungcheol huffs, shaking his head. “It’s not that simple.”

“Why not?”

Seungcheol shuts his eyes close, breathing in deep. You know he doesn’t want to have this conversation now, but it hurts you to see him like this.

So you mutter, a little softer now, “How long are you going to pretend like you aren’t thinking about it?”

His gaze flicks to you at that, caught.

Seungcheol looks away. “It’s not about thinking about it. It’s about—” He stops, running a hand over his face. “It’s about if I even should.”

You’re not too surprised, but hearing it from him takes you aback for a second. Still, you don’t waver. “And what’s stopping you?”

“I don’t know,” He mumbles, quietly.

“Then try and figure it out, Cheol.” You say, still looking at him.

Seungcheol keeps quiet for a long minute before he sighs, a little reluctant. “What if I come back and I’m not good enough anymore?”

You shift closer, reaching out ,your hand settling over his. “Seungcheol.”

He doesn’t look up immediately, but he doesn’t pull away either.

“You know what I think?” you murmur.

His thumb brushes over your knuckles absentmindedly. “What?”

You squeeze his hand. “I think if you didn’t believe you could still do it, you wouldn’t be struggling with this so much.”

Seungcheol’s breathing comes out slower this time.

“You’ve been restless, working out like you’re still in pre-season,” you continue. “You follow testing, you analyze race strategy even when you pretend you’re just watching for fun.” You pause. “You’ve been waiting for someone to tell you to go back. But the only person who can make that choice is you.”

His jaw tightens slightly, like he knows you’re right but doesn’t want to admit it.

“I’m not saying it’ll be easy,” you add. “But I know you, Seungcheol. And you don’t walk away from things unless you know you’re done. And you know that you aren’t done with this. Are you?”

Finally, he looks at you.

Seungcheol’s throat bobs as he swallows. His fingers curl into the blankets, and when he finally exhales, it’s slow. Careful.

“No,” he says quietly.

You nod, like you knew this answer was coming. Because you did.

His fingers tighten around yours.

“I know,” he murmurs, voice quieter now. “I think I’ve always known.”

You smile, just slightly. “So what’s stopping you?”

Seungcheol exhales, but this time, he doesn’t answer right away.

Instead, his thumb brushes over your knuckles, slow, thoughtful. His gaze flickers downward. And when he finally speaks, his voice is quieter—more hesitant than before.

“…What about us?”

Your breath catches slightly, because you hadn’t expected him to ask that first.

He lifts his gaze back to yours, eyes searching. “If I do this,” he murmurs, “I’m going to be gone all the time again. I’ll be at the factory, traveling for races, testing. If I go back… I don’t want things to fall apart again.”

The words settle heavily between you.

Because he’s right.

If he does this, it’ll be different from before—but in some ways, it’ll be the same. He’ll be just as busy, maybe even more. And after everything you’ve been through, he’s scared that history will repeat itself.

You inhale slowly, squeezing his hand. “You’re thinking too far ahead,”

Seungcheol huffs out a quiet laugh. “Someone has to.”

You tilt your head. “Why do you always assume the worst?”

“I’m trying to be realistic.”

You pause, then gently, “Then be realistic about this, too. I don’t think we’re the same people we were back then, Cheol.”

His expression softens, but he doesn’t interrupt.

“We already lost each other once,” you continue. “We know what it feels like. And I don’t think either of us wants to go through that again.”

Seungcheol swallows. “No,” he says quietly. “We don’t.”

You nod, voice softer now. “Then we won’t.”

Seungcheol exhales slowly, then sits up straighter, rubbing the back of his neck. For a moment, he just presses his palms against his knees, staring at the floor like he’s letting it all settle in. Then, with a slow breath, he nods.

You watch as he reaches for his phone, turning it over in his hands. His fingers hover over the screen for a second before he glances at you, something steadier in his gaze now.

“I should probably stop putting this off.”

You nod, lips curling slightly. “Yeah.”

He exhales, tapping at the screen, and just before he brings the phone to his ear, he glances at you one last time.

And this time, there’s no hesitation.

BAHRAIN, PRE-SEASON TESTING, DAY-1

February 25th, 2027

“CHOI SEUNGCHEOL RETURNS TO FORMULA 1 WITH ASTON MARTIN—SET TO WORK WITH ADRIAN NEWEY.”

After months of speculation, four-time world champion Seungcheol Choi is officially returning to Formula 1 with Aston Martin, marking one of the most highly anticipated comebacks in the sport’s recent history.

The Korean driver, who departed with Ferrari and stepped away from F1 following the 2025 season, will be rejoining the grid just as Aston Martin embarks on a new era of technical leadership under Adrian Newey. With Newey’s expertise in car development and Choi’s proven track record, expectations are already high for the team’s future.

“I’m excited for this next chapter,” Choi said in a statement. “Aston Martin has shown incredible ambition, and with Adrian on board, I have no doubt that we can build something special.”

His return raises questions about the competitive landscape of F1 moving forward, with Aston Martin aiming to challenge the front-runners in 2027. With pre-season testing in Bahrain starting today, all eyes will be on Choi as he steps back into the cockpit for the first time in over a year.

The Bahraini air is dry as usual, the morning sun bright across the paddock as the first day of testing begins. The garages are alive with movement—engineers making final checks, mechanics making last minute changes, cameras capturing every detail.

And at the center of it all, Seungcheol stands in Aston Martin’s green.

The suit fits like it always has. The gloves slide on without hesitation. When he pulls the balaclava over his head, it feels like no time has passed at all.

But it has.

He knows it. Everyone here knows it.

He breathes slowly as he steps toward the AMR27, sleek under the artificial lights of the garage. 

Seokmin crouches beside him, grinning like he’s been waiting for this day just as much as Seungcheol has.

“Well,” Seokmin says, knocking on his helmet lightly. “You look good in green.”

Seungcheol snorts, shaking his head. “Better than red?”

Seokmin hums, pretending to think about it. “The red was iconic. Give it some time.”

Seungcheol laughs, the sound being muffled by his helmet.

A familiar voice crackles through his earpiece.

“Alright, Cheol, let’s get you out there.”

Seungcheol glances at his steering wheel, a small smile pulling at his lips. He knew this was happening, but still—it feels surreal to hear his old Ferrari race engineer, still here, still speaking to him over the radio. Adjusting to a new team has been challenging, but this makes it a little bit easier.

And then, his gaze shifts past the mechanics, past the flashing screens, toward the edge of the garage to where you’re standing—arms crossed, standing just outside the blur of engineers, watching him like you always have.

This is right.

This is where he’s supposed to be.

You tilt your head slightly, smiling just enough for him to catch it. It’s small, barely there, but he knows what it means.

Seungcheol lifts a gloved hand, throwing you a thumbs up. It makes you smile a little wider.

Seungcheol rolls the car out of the garage and into the end of the pit lane, engine idling as he waits for the session to go green.

To his left, the Red Bull pulls up.

Seungcheol glances over just as Haechan does the same. Two time world champion now. Let’s see if we can keep up.

Without hesitation, Haechan lifts a hand and gives him a small wave.

Simple and casual. A ‘Welcome back.’

The light flicks green.

Seungcheol exhales, nods once and pulls out onto the track.

tagging: @sojuxxi @the-vena-cava @cl41rsblog @coupsma @stupendouschildnerd @selenethings @yawnozone @syluslittlecrows @angelarin @ceruissleeping @smiileflower @minjiech @stwrlightt @archivistworld @livelaughloveseventeen @exomew @starshuas @fancypeacepersona @znzlii @gyuguys @luxmoonlight @reiofsuns2001 @blckorchidd @teddybeartaetae @ddeulgiabs-blog @kookiedesi

[callisrecords]

OFF THE GRID PT.2

pairing: f1driver!scoups x ex!femreader

genre: angst, romance, exes to lovers au, childhood bestfriends / neighbours au

description:

Part of the Beyond The Grid series

Four-time world champion Choi Seungcheol has spent years at the top with Ferrari, but as the 2025 season drags on, he can’t shake the feeling that he’s not quite where he used to be. The competition is catching up, his team isn't what it used to be, and for the first time, he’s starting to wonder if he’s past his prime. By the time the season winds down, he finds himself back in his hometown, which isn't quite the same either. But the hardest race was never on track, and sooner or later, he’ll have to figure out what comes next.

warnings: strong language, stressful situations, descriptions of car crashes and physical exhaustion, f1 heavy

w/c: Part 1 - 14k Part 2 - 13k Part 3 - 19.5k

glossary taglist

a/n: please don't hesitate to comment / reblog / leave an ask w your thoughts !! hope y'all like this too <3

HOME

You walk down to your driveway, car keys jangling around your finger. Across the street, you see Seungkwan nearly colliding with his own front door as he stumbles outside, yelling a rushed goodbye over his shoulder. His bag is half open, a half-eaten apple in one hand, keys barely hanging onto his fingers. It’s a mess, but a familiar one.

You scoff, shaking your head before calling out to him. “Hey! Why are you still here? Didn’t you say you had an early meeting today?”

He grumbles before biting into his apple. He takes a minute to swallow it while he throws his bag in the back seat of his car before he turns to you. 

“Do you really have to shove it in my face? I’m already late, stop bothering me!”

“You look like you’ll crash into the next tree you see,” You roll your eyes, “Do you need me to drop you off?”

Seungkwan shakes his head and is about to say something when a car pulls into the driveway next to yours. You turn towards it, getting ready to wish Seungcheol’s dad a good morning. Seungkwan probably waits for him to get out of the car too, seeing that he hasn’t driven off yet and stands next to his opened door.

“Good morning, uncle!” Both of you greet him at the same time, making him chuckle. He waves at the two of you before looking back into his car’s window.

“How come you were out driving so early?” You ask him as you wipe some of the snow left on your windscreen wiper. He lets out a sigh, tapping the roof of the car before turning to you.

“Had to pick a certain someone up from the airport.”

The car door opens, and Seungcheol steps out, stretching his arms over his head with a quiet sigh. His hair is a little messy, like he’s just woken up or spent too long resting against the window. He adjusts the strap of his bag over his shoulder, blinking against the cold morning air. For a second, he pauses, glancing around the neighborhood like he’s reacquainting himself with it.

“What the actual fuck.” Seungkwan huffs out in disbelief, making Seungcheol snap out of his daze. He turns towards the voice to see the younger boy standing, one leg inside his car and one out, jaw hanging down. His gaze shifts towards you who’s equally surprised yet a little better at hiding it.

“I really need to get to work because I am criminally late for that meeting but I will talk to you later, Cheol.” He blinks before shutting the door.

Seungcheol’s dad pushes him towards you as Seungkwan turns his car on and drives off, not before yelling a warning for Seungcheol to fucking stay or I’ll find you. Seungcheol stumbles a little before coming to a stop in front of you.

You don’t know what to say to him, honestly. It hasn’t been long since the news of him leaving was announced, and right now as you look at him, it’s the only thing on your head. But you doubt he’d want you to ask about that, so you settle for something else.

“How come you’re here?”

He narrows his eyes at you, “Well, it’s my house. Why wouldn’t I be here?”

You roll your eyes, “Gee, thanks. Thought it was mine.”

“It should be,” His dad huffs as he pulls out a suitcase from the boot, “You’re here more than him. It’s like you’re our child.”

Seungcheol scoffs, scooting over to his dad to take the bags from his hand, “I’ll keep them myself.”

His dad gives him a look but lets go of the suitcase, clapping a hand over Seungcheol’s shoulder before heading inside. The front door swings shut behind him, leaving just the two of you standing there in the cold.

Seungcheol shifts one of his bag higher up his shoulder, eyes flicking toward you before he exhales, watching the cloud of his breath disappear into the air. “You’re up early.”

“No I’m not,” You raise your eyebrows, “I usually have work around this time.”

“I know that,” He rolls his eyes, “I was just trying to make conversation, but whatever, I guess.”

“Why are you back so soon?” You ask, kicking snow at his suitcase. It makes him hiss in annoyance. You try to hide the way your lips curve up.

“I don’t have much to do, so I thought I’d grace this town with my presence.”

“Sure.” You hum, “Well, I’m off.” 

Seungcheol almost stops you. Do you want me to drive you there? The words sit on his tongue, ready to jump out any moment. But he holds it in.

Instead, he watches as you step toward your car, keys twirling around your finger. You don’t hesitate, don’t turn back, just reach for the door handle like this is nothing, like he hasn’t been gone, like this isn’t the first time you’ve stood in front of each other in months.

You pull the door open and pause, just for a moment. “I’ll see you later, Cheol.”

And then you’re gone, leaving him standing there, hands tightening around the handle of his suitcase. He stands there for a second too long, the cold air creeping into his jacket, before finally turning toward the house.

The front door creaks when he pushes it open. It always has. The house smells the same too,faint traces of his mother’s morning tea, the sharp bite of the winter air sneaking in through the open window. Nothing’s changed.

His dad is already in the kitchen, rummaging through the fridge like he has something more important to do than acknowledge his son who just came home. His mom isn’t here, probably out running errands. Seungcheol’s brother, nowhere in sight.

Fine. He drags his suitcase over the tiles, the wheels thudding over the uneven floorboards. He should take it upstairs, put everything away, but instead, he stops at the couch.

The blanket draped over the armrest isn’t any of theirs. The corner of the right armrest, dented from years of picking at it, welcomes him, and before he can think too much about the person who owns this spot, he sighs, dropping his bag beside the couch before collapsing onto it, leaning his head back against the cushions. For a second, he closes his eyes. He knows he won’t sleep, but God, that flight was exhausting.

His dad clears his throat, finally speaking, “You hungry?”

It’s a simple question, but Seungcheol can sense the hesitation in it. The elephant in the room hasn’t been addressed yet, and honestly, he doesn’t feel like talking about it right now. So he ignores it.

“No, thanks. I’m good.”

“You ate on the flight?”

“Yeah,” He breathes out, kicking his legs up onto the sofa, “Was shit, but I’m full anyways.”

His dad hums in response, “Mum’s next door. Went to give something, but she’ll be back in a few minutes. You can go freshen up.”

Seungcheol nods and then realizes that his dad’s probably not looking his way right now, “Fine. I’ll go in a second.”

He leans back against the couch. The blanket still smells faintly of you.

—

Seungcheol spends most of the day drifting between the couch and his room, ignoring the unopened suitcase by the door, ignoring his phone, ignoring the weight of being home again.

It’s only when the sun has set, the house quieter than before, that there’s a knock at his door, soft, but firm, before it creaks open.

His mom steps inside, hands on her hips. "Are you planning to hide in here all night?"

He mumbles, rolling onto his side. "Not hiding."

"Mhm." She doesn’t sound convinced.

She takes a few steps in, eyeing the room. It looks almost exactly the same as when he left it. Same shelves, same framed photos, same forgotten belongings that no one had the heart to pack away. But there are little changes, things he wouldn’t have noticed before. A new lamp on the nightstand. An extra blanket folded at the foot of his bed.

"You should’ve told me you were coming.”

He lets out a quiet breath, turning his head toward her. "Didn’t think I needed to send out a press release."

She scoffs. "Maybe not, but at least let your mother know before you already arrive at the airport.” She studies him for a second, tilting her head. "Have you been eating properly?"

"Here we go," he groans, running a hand down his face.

"I’m serious, Cheol!" She moves to sit at the edge of his bed, reaching out to brush his hair back like she used to when he was younger. "You’ve lost weight."

"I haven’t," he grumbles, but she’s already pinching his cheek like he’s sixteen again.

"See? You’re all skin and bones. Do they not feed you? Must I argue with Seokmin to give you a diet that doesn’t consist of eating nothing"

"Not this again," he mumbles, trying to pull away, “Ma, I eat what I’m supposed to eat. I’m an athlete, come on. I’m fit.”

She exhales dramatically, shaking her head. "You get a little older and suddenly think you don’t need your mom fussing over you anymore. Unbelievable."

"Yes, well, I’m thirty and-"

"You need to eat properly, sleep more, and stop frowning so much. Look at those dark circles-"

Seungcheol groans, flopping back onto his bed. "Okay, okay, I get it! I’ll eat. I’ll sleep. Happy?"

His mom chuckles, patting his leg. "I’ll be happy when you actually do it."

He grumbles before turning away from her, making her pinch his side. Seungcheol protests with a loud yelp, but if feels nice to be here, to have someone fawning over him. He’s missed this comfort.

She sighs, softer this time. "It’s good to have you home."

He hesitates for a second before nodding. "Yeah," he says, even though he’s not sure if he means it.

Before she can pick something else to tease him about, a faint flicker of light flashes against the wall.

Then another.

His mom glances toward the window, then back at him, lips twitching. "Looks like someone’s waiting for you."

Seungcheol groans, rubbing a hand over his face before turning toward the window. He already knows what he’s going to see.

"Of course they are," he mutters.

She chuckles, standing up. "Some things never change."

"They should," he mumbles, but he still gets up anyway, shoving his hands into his hoodie pocket as he heads for the door.

His mom follows him out into the hallway, watching as he makes his way downstairs. "Be nice to them, Cheol."

He pauses on the last step, glancing back at her. "I am nice."

She raises an eyebrow.

He scoffs. "I can be nice."

She snorts, waving him off. "Hurry up before they blind the whole street. And ask them if they want to come over for dinner!"

Seungcheol shakes his head, a small smile on his face as he opens the front door, stepping out onto his porch.

“Look. It’s the king. The lion. He’s decided to grace us with his presence.” Seungkwan announces. Seungcheol sees you trying to suppress the laugh bubbling through your throat and rolls his eyes as he crosses the road, hands in his pocket, stepping onto Seungkwan’s lawn.

Seungkwan gasps dramatically, “Wow. My timing was so perfect. I literally mowed the lawn yesterday, so now Your Highness, thou can place thy sacred feet on it.”

“How about my sacred feet kick you in the face.” Seungcheol hisses, kicking his foot up. Seungkwan dodges, but it makes him laugh anyways.

You shake your head, lips twitching as you glance away, while Seungcheol just exhales, shoving his hands deeper into his pockets. "You done?"

"Not even close," Seungkwan says, tossing his flashlight into the air before catching it again. "I mean, I get it. Who wouldn’t want to trade this boring town for the glitz and glamour of Monaco, Milan, Maranello-" His tone turns pointed on the last word, eyebrows raising ever so slightly.

Seungcheol shifts, rocking back on his heels. "It’s not like I haven’t been back."

Seungkwan scoffs. "Oh, yeah, the wedding. A whole weekend of your presence. How generous."

“Oh yes, I should’ve skipped the race that I was supposed to drive in and spend time with you, since you missed me so much.”

The latter rolls his eyes, “Okay. What about the last winter break?”

Seungcheol stills at that. His glance flickers over to you, but you’ve already been looking away, hands stuffed in your jacket’s pockets as you stare at the floor, silently kicking Seungkwan’s shoes.

“Come on. Can you stop battering me already? My mum’s invited the two of you for dinner. Where’s Jihoon?” He clears his throat, frowning at Seungkwan.

You pipe up at his mention, “He’s on a business trip, probably coming back in a day or two.”

Seungkwan nods before punching Seungcheol’s shoulder playfully, “You said your mum’s invited us to dinner? I’m free.” He looks at you.

You stare back at him, glaring daggers before looking at Seungcheol, a little unsure. You’ve never hesitated to hang around at his parents’ house despite the history between you two, because you’ve known them your whole lives and because they’d convinced you that breaking up with their son did not make you any less of the daughter they never had. But with Seungcheol there, it’s different. He might not want you to be around. You’d understand.

Instead, he simply shrugs, “Are you just going to stand here? Don’t think you’re very busy either.”

You nod, making Seungkwan loop his arm into yours before he drags you across the road. You hear the little laugh Seungcheol lets out as he jogs up behind you two.

“Just so you know, I was here last night too.” Seungkwan sticks his tongue out, “Pretending to ask you was just an act. At this point, the rest of us are more familiar faces here than you are.”

“I don’t return for one year and suddenly all traces of me have apparently been erased.”

“Hell yeah, you’re quite replaceable, you know?”

Seungkwan says it playfully. He doesn’t mean it, Seungcheol knows he doesn’t. But it still hits a sore spot. His grip on the house keys slackens, just for a second, unnoticeable to anyone but him.

“Have you come home just to sit in your room all day and laze around?” Seungho asks as he leans against Seungcheol's opened door. 

“Leave me alone.” Seungcheol sighs, facing away from him, eyes glued to his phone.

“Man, you're going to fucking rot in here. Get out.” 

Seungcheol doesn’t even look up from his phone. “I am out.”

Seungho scoffs from the doorway. “Right. Sitting in a dark room all day like some washed-up, retired athlete totally counts.”

Seungcheol finally turns his head, glaring. “You’re so encouraging.”

His brother doesn’t even blink. “Not my job to encourage you. Just here to remind you that you look like shit.”

Seungcheol sighs, tossing his phone onto the bed beside him. “And you’re doing a great job. Can I rot in peace now?”

Seungho doesn’t respond right away. He just leans against the doorframe, arms crossed, eyes studying him.

"You know," he says after a moment, voice quieter now, "Mom and Dad are actually worried."

Seungcheol exhales, rubbing his face. “They don’t need to be.”

“Well, they are.” Seungho tilts his head. “And so am I. I literally came here as soon as I got off work.”

Seungcheol looks up at him then, eyebrows furrowed. Seungho isn’t usually like this. He’s blunt, sure. Always has been. But he doesn’t usually say things like that.

Seungho sighs, running a hand over his face. “Look, I get it. This is a lot. But you’re acting like your entire life just…ended. Like there’s nothing left.”

Seungcheol clenches his jaw, looking away.

Seungho doesn’t stop. “You’ve barely left your room. You won’t even talk to anyone. And if I didn’t know any better, I’d say you want to disappear.”

Seungcheol exhales sharply through his nose. "Well, good news, I already did.”

Seungho scoffs. “You think locking yourself in here is going to help?”

Seungcheol presses the heels of his hands into his eyes, shoulders tense. “I don’t know. I just—” He cuts himself off, shaking his head. “Listen, I don’t want to talk about this right now.”

Seungho clicks his tongue, staring at him for a second. Then, finally, he mutters something and pushes off the doorframe. Seungcheol hears his footsteps down the stairs and closes his eyes again, sinking deeper into his pillow.

The palm of your hands burn from the heat as you place the paper bag down on the kitchen counter. Seungcheol’s mom peeps into it, shaking her head with a smile.

“Mum said she made too much. She saw Seungho’s car in the driveway and thought she’ll send some over since both the boys are here,” You giggle as she ruffles your hair.

“Well, she always makes too much, doesn’t she?”

“Don’t tell her I told you this, but I’m pretty sure your kids were just an excuse,” You lean in closer, “She definitely made more because she knows it’s your favourite.”

It makes her laugh out loud, clapping your shoulder affectionately before she takes the boxes out, blowing at the tips of her fingers after setting it down. As she moves around the kitchen, you notice the small sigh she lets out, a quiet, tired thing, like something’s been sitting on her chest all day.

You tilt your head. “You okay, Auntie?”

She pauses, before plastering a smile back on her face. “Oh, it’s nothing.”

You don’t buy it.

“Come on,” you say, leaning against the counter. “What’s wrong?”

She huffs out a laugh, but then, instead of brushing it off, she glances toward the staircase, voice softening.

“It’s Seungcheol.”

Your breath stills for a moment.

“He’s barely left his room since he got back,” she continues, wiping her hands on a dish towel. “Won’t go out, won’t talk to anyone, just sits up there all day doing God knows what.”

You swallow. “…He’s been like that the whole time?”

She nods, lips pressing together. “His dad and Seungho have tried, but you know how he is.” A pause. Then, gently, “Maybe he just needs the right person to talk to him.”

You stare at her, a pleading look on your face. You knew this was going to happen. You knew the moment you stepped into this house that his mom would ask you this. And still, hearing it makes you want to run right back out.

You bite your lip, shaking your head as she walks around to stand next to you, both hands on your shoulders, “Auntie, please, no-”

“Honey, he’ll listen to you. You don’t have to talk to him too much. Just try to bring him out. Please?” She pouts, tilting her head at you.

You look away from her, knowing that if you don’t, you’ll end up agreeing. It’s futile anyway because it’s like you’ve already agreed by just coming here.

“He might not even want to talk to me,” You argue weakly.

“Oh!” She waves, dismissing the thought, “You’re still his best friend. He’ll still care about what you say.”

There’s every reason to say no. It’s going to be awkward, difficult, and messy. You don’t know what you’re supposed to say to him. It was easiest at the wedding because you didn’t think you’d have to be around him for more than a few hours. It was easier that night because Seungkwan was there to fill in the gaps between you two. What will you do now?

But there’s another part of you, the part that has known Seungcheol your whole life, that has spent years learning every stubborn, impossible part of him, that knows he won’t come out of this on his own.

And so, after a long pause, you nod.

"Alright," you murmur. "I’ll try."

She squeezes your hand in thanks, offering a small, grateful smile before turning back to the food.

You push off the counter, inhaling deeply as you make your way toward the stairs.

This is going to be a mistake.

But you climb the steps anyway.

The hallway is quiet. His door is shut. You lift your hand to knock, and pause. What if he really doesn’t want to see you? What if he tells you to leave?

You shake the thought away and finally knock.

"Cheol?"

Silence.

You wait for a few more seconds before gently pushing the door open.

He’s lying on his bed, blanket pulled over his head, face turned away.

"Your mom told me to come up," you say, stepping inside. "She wanted me to check if you’re still alive."

Seungcheol voice comes out muffled. "Unfortunately."

You don’t laugh. You don’t even roll your eyes. Instead, you cross your arms.

"Come on. Get up."

He groans. "Not now."

"Yes, now."

"Why?"

You reach for the switchboard to turn on the lights. "Because if you don’t, your mom is going to start guilt tripping me instead."

Seungcheol peeks at you from under his arm. “Sucks for you, then.”

You don’t move. "Seungcheol."

He knows that tone.

And yet, he still tries. “Just let me-”

"No." Your voice is firmer now, something final in it. "You’ve been sitting in here for days. If you don’t want to talk, fine. But you need to move. I don’t care if we just sit outside. We’re leaving."

He exhales, staring at the ceiling for a moment before finally sitting up, pressing the heels of his hands into his eyes. "Where are we even supposed to go?"

You tilt your head. "Just put on your clothes and come out.”

Somehow, that works.

He groans as he stands, reaching for the jacket in reach. He doesn’t feel like going out. But he also doesn’t feel like fighting you.

You turn away from him, pulling out your phone to send a message to Seungkwan and Jihoon. 

“I’m going back home to find my scarf,” You tell him, still typing away on your screen, “It’ll take just a minute so wait outside.”

Seungcheol sighs, “Just take one of mine.” 

You whip your head towards him, eyes narrowing, to which he replies. “I don’t want to be out any longer than needed.”

You hesitate for a second, still holding your phone, before slipping it into your pocket.

“Fine,” you mutter, stepping past him.

Seungcheol doesn’t say anything, just sighs as you brush past his shoulder and into his room.

The room feels lived in but distant, like someone occupying a space they don’t expect to stay in for long. A jacket is draped carelessly over the chair in the corner, his suitcase still half-zipped by the door. On the desk, a set of keys, a crumpled receipt, and an old water bottle sit untouched, like he came back, but never really settled in. 

You shake your head, hoping he notices and cleans up. You haven’t been in this room since… Since after you two broke up. 

Your eyes drift toward the chair in the corner, the one you used to curl up in whenever you came over and he was too busy doing something else.

It’s stupid, how comfortable this still feels. Like no time has passed. Like everything is still the same.

You push the thought away and head for his closet, fingers brushing over the hanging jackets before grabbing the first scarf you see. It’s only when you pull it around your neck that you realize that it was yours. Memories flicker, piecing themselves together. A winter evening, a half-hearted argument, him tugging the scarf from around your neck with some teasing remark before stuffing it into his jacket.

"You’re always forgetting your stuff anyway," he’d said, grinning as he walked ahead.

But you never got it back. You don’t even remember when you stopped looking for it.

Yet, somehow, he had it all along.

Seungcheol is already leaning against the banister, hands tucked into his hoodie pocket. When he glances up, his gaze stays on your for a few seconds, like he knows exactly what you just realized.

The cold nips at your skin the second you step outside.

Seungcheol exhales sharply, shoving his hands deep into his hoodie pockets as he follows you down the steps. 

For a while, neither of you say anything. Your footsteps crunch softly against the thin layer of snow coating the pavement, the air crisp and quiet.

Eventually, Seungcheol sighs. "So where are we actually going?"

"Nowhere far," you say simply.

He doesn’t push, just breathes out, tilting his head back slightly as he walks beside you. The silence between you is less heavy than before, but not quite comfortable either.

When the playground finally comes into view, you hear the soft creak of the swings in the distance, the last few kids of the evening still chasing each other across the grass. The sky is turning shades of deep blue, the early winter sunset settling over the town.

Seungcheol slows his steps, eyes narrowing.

"Seriously?"

You step onto the curb, turning to face him. "You got a better idea?"

He looks at the park, then at you, then back at the park again before scoffing.

“…God, we really are just lingering at this point, huh?”

You snort, brushing snow off a wooden bench before plopping down. "Just sit down."

Seungcheol exhales, shaking his head. "This is pathetic. We’re like jobless thirty year olds who look like we’re avoiding our real world responsibilities.."

“Speak for yourself, I have a job,” You frown as he sits down next to you.

Seungcheol huffs after a few seconds of silence, “Why are you here? I mean, this must be uncomfortable. I’ll let my mom know that-”

“That what?” You interrupt him, but he flinches in a way that makes you think you came out snappier than you meant to.

“I don’t know,” He shrugs defensively, “We broke up, but we’re here now pretending like nothing happened.”

“Well, you quit your job and the one thing you’ve spent your entire life doing and we’re here pretending like that didn’t happen either,” You snap now, “What do you want me to do Cheol? Ignore you and pretend like you haven’t been my best friend for my entire life?”

“Can we not do this now?” He sighs, rubbing his hands over his face. “I just thought—”

You tilt your head, voice quieter now. “Oh, so you’re okay with talking about our breakup, but not something that’s literally changed the course of your life?”

Seungcheol shakes his head. “That’s not-” He stops himself, jaw tightening.

You don’t push.

Because you could. You could press him, ask him why he won’t talk about it, why he can sit here and acknowledge that you left him but won’t say a word about how he left racing. But you don’t.

Instead, you sigh, rolling your shoulders back. “Alright, fine. No more talking about feelings. You want to discuss the economy instead?”

He scoffs, his expression caught between amusement and frustration. “Shut up.”

You shrug. “You don’t want to talk about anything real, so I figured we’d pivot to stocks or whatever.”

Seungcheol huffs, shaking his head as he leans back against the bench. “I hate you.”

You hum, “You can avoid stuff, but lying is a new low.”

And before Seungcheol can respond, a voice cuts in.

“Are you guys seriously arguing at a children’s playground?”

The two of you turn to see Seungkwan and Jihoon standing behind you, the younger with his hands on his hips, thoroughly unimpressed.

You groan, rubbing your temples. “Seungkwan.”

Jihoon sighs, already tired. “Can we go now?”

Seungcheol blinks, shifting where he sits. “Go where?”

Seungkwan raises a dramatic eyebrow. “To the supermarket.”

Seungcheol stares at him. Then at Jihoon. Then back at Seungkwan.

“…Why?”

Jihoon exhales sharply. “Because I just got back home and my fridge is literally empty.”

Seungcheol’s expression barely changes. “And that’s my problem because…?”

Seungkwan smacks the back of his head.

"Ow—"

"Because we’re functioning adults who need food to survive, and you need some fresh air and some normalcy in your life, dumbass.”

Seungcheol glares, rubbing the spot where he got hit. "You say that like you function."

Seungkwan gasps dramatically. "How dare you."

Jihoon pinches the bridge of his nose. “Oh my God, just get up before I starve to death.”

—

It starts the second you step inside.

Seungkwan grabs your arm, Jihoon immediately makes a beeline for the produce section, and Seungcheol ends up pushing the shopping cart.

He stares down at it, hands gripping the handle. “Why am I the one doing this?”

Seungkwan breezes past him, dropping in a family-sized bag of chips. “Because you’re the tallest. Cart-pushing is a tall person’s job.”

Seungcheol squints. “That’s literally not how that works.”

Jihoon, standing by the vegetables, doesn’t even look up. “It does now.”

You snicker as you step past Seungcheol, tossing a pack of instant noodles into the cart.

His eyes flick to you, unimpressed. “And you’re contributing to my suffering.”

“I don’t make the rules,” you hum.

Seungkwan immediately points. “Yes, you do.”

You wave him off, reaching for something on the shelf. Seungcheol watches as—without thinking— you pick up a box of his favorite cereal and toss it into the cart.

Then, like your brain just registered what you did, your hand twitches slightly.

You don’t take it out.

Seungcheol exhales, looking away before he can think too much about it. “Jihoon, hurry up, you’re taking this way too seriously.”

Jihoon doesn’t appreciate that comment as he inspects the head of lettuce that he’s holding

“It’s called being an adult, Seungcheol.” He puts the lettuce back, reaching for another one. “Maybe you should try it sometime.”

Seungcheol scowls. “You say that like I don’t literally pay taxes—”

Jihoon holds up a finger, “You’ve been living in Monaco recently, man. Don’t know about that.”

Seungkwan grabs the cart and dramatically swerves it away. “Okay! We’re splitting up. Jihoon, you get your boring groceries. Cheol, you stay here and mope. We-” He gestures between you and himself. “-are getting snacks.”

Seungcheol watches as Seungkwan drags you away, leaving him with Jihoon, who is now very aggressively examining a bell pepper.

“I hate my life,” Seungcheol mutters, rolling the cart forward.

Jihoon hums. “Yeah? You think this bell pepper cares?”

Seungcheol sighs, rolling the cart forward as Jihoon picks up another vegetable.

“You’re seriously overthinking this,” Seungcheol mutters, watching as Jihoon turns a tomato over in his hand, eyes narrowed in intense concentration.

Jihoon doesn’t respond immediately. He places the tomato back, fingers tapping against the cart’s handle as he walks a little further down the aisle. “And you’re seriously underthinking everything.”

Seungcheol furrows his eyebrows. “Is this about the groceries, or is this about something else?”

Jihoon hums, inspecting a bag of onions before dropping them into the cart. “You tell me.”

Seungcheol grips the handle of the cart a little tighter, jaw tightening. “If this is your way of saying I should start talking about things, you should know by now that it’s not gonna happen in the middle of a supermarket in the fucking vegetable aisle.”

Jihoon finally turns to look at him. “When is it gonna happen, then?”

Seungcheol doesn’t answer.

Jihoon sighs, pushing his sleeves up. “Look, I’m not gonna sit here and lecture you like some after school special. But I know you, Cheol. And you know me. So let’s skip the part where you act like you’re fine, and I pretend to believe you.”

Seungcheol rolls the cart forward, not meeting Jihoon’s eyes. “It’s not that deep.”

Jihoon laughs under his breath, shaking his head. “Right. Not that deep.” He gestures vaguely. “You’re just home, doing nothing, avoiding everyone, and pretending like leaving Ferrari and your career was just some casual decision you made overnight.”

Seungcheol’s grip on the cart tightens. “You know it wasn’t.”

Jihoon watches him for a second, then sighs. “I’m not trying to piss you off.”

“You’re not,” Seungcheol mutters, but he doesn’t sound convincing.

Jihoon doesn’t call him out on it. Instead, he picks up a bunch of bananas, inspecting them for a second before tossing them into the cart.

“You don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to,” Jihoon says, voice a little quieter now. “But don’t expect people to pretend it’s not happening, either.”

Seungcheol exhales, tilting his head back.

For a second, he just stares at the ceiling. At the blinding, stark white, boring supermarket lights, at nothing in particular.

Then, finally, he mutters, “I don’t expect anything.”

Jihoon watches him for a moment longer, then shrugs. “Good.”

And just like that, he grabs the cart and starts pushing it forward like the conversation never happened.

Seungcheol lingers for a second before following him without another word.

When he gets the message from Seokmin, Seungcheol tries hard. He tries really, really hard to not care. To just swipe away the notification, to switch his phone off and go outside. But Seungcheol’s own mind is his jail, his actions his chains, and he unlocks his phone to open Twitter. He still follows the Ferrari account, thinks it might be too harsh to unfollow them already, so the tweet is the first thing on his time line.

“Welcoming in a new era of Scuderia Ferrari, we are glad to announce that Kim Jungwoo will be driving with us in 2026!”

Attached to it is a visualiser of Jungwoo—who was previously a driver at Sauber—donning the Ferrari suit.

Seungcheol doesn’t know how long he’s been staring at his screen when a follow up message from Seokmin pops up. He clicks on it by mistake and is instantly hit with a bunch of messages asking how he is. How does he reply to this news? If he said he didn’t care, Seokmin would see right through him. If he admitted to being surprised, it would be too honest. So instead, Seungcheol leaves him on read.

He gets up, shoving his phone into his hoodie’s pocket. He should probably go out for some air. It’s a Sunday morning, and even though it’s still December, the sun shines a little brighter today, and the cold bites a little less. It’s pleasant. Maybe he’ll just catch some sunlight outside in his backyard. 

Seungcheol walks out of the back door, still lost in his thoughts.

The red suit, the new ‘era’. Even though he chose this, it stings. It feels like they’re erasing his presence. The rational part of his mind reminds him that this announcement has actually come late. That any other team would’ve found a replacement as soon as they could’ve. That Seungcheol leaving actually did leave them stranded for a while. 

Jungwoo. Jungwoo. Why would they replace him with… Jungwoo? 

It’s not like he’s a bad driver, Seungcheol reminds himself. His talent was being wasted as a reserve.

It’s just that Jungwoo wouldn’t have been the first person he thought of. He feels a little bad for thinking that the man wouldn’t have been Ferrari’s first choice either. But Jungwoo has always been a nice guy to be around. The team will have it a little easier this year without two drivers constantly fighting each other on track, all the time.

A muffled thud against his chest makes Seungcheol snap out of his daze. He looks down, seeing the white remnants of snow before looking up again. His first thought is Seungkwan, but the boy’s house is too far for him to aim so accurately. His eyes slowly move towards your backyard, separated only by a picket fence.

“What are you thinking so hard about, man?” You squint at him, “Not a very common sight.”

“Hey,” Seungcheol greets before bending down. It makes you yell in defence.

“Don’t! Please!” You squeal, running away from the fence, “Cheol, I have a cold.”

“Oh come on,” He rolls his eyes, “Excuses.”

“No, seriously.” You nod, stepping closer to show him, “My nose is red, see! From all the blowing.”

“Really?” Seungcheol asks, walking over to you.

You nod again, sticking your face over the fence so that he can see.

He bends down to your level, leaning in to observe. And then he gasps.

Seungcheol doesn’t usually gasp, you realize. Not unironically, anyway. But you’re too slow to move away before he drops a small snowball onto your face.

You stumble behind, spluttering to get the snow off your nose and mouth. You hear Seungcheol laugh, bright and loud and for a second you have half the heart to deck him in the face. But it hits you that you haven’t heard him laugh like this in ages, so you hold it in and splutter a little more.

But just as soon as he realizes it, he stops, drawing his lips back into a straight line.

You narrow your eyes at him, “What was that?”

“What?”

“Why are you suddenly frowning again?”

He shakes his head, telling you to let it go but you don’t. “Come on, just tell me, it’s not going to kill you.”

Seungcheol stalls for a second. He could tell you. You’d understand, and it isn’t something that he’s very, very deeply upset by. He knows he’ll get over it in some time. So before he can second-guess himself, he opens his mouth.

“It’s nothing really,” He shrugs, shifting weight from one foot to another, “Ferrari’s getting Kim Jungwoo to drive for them from next year.”

“Oh.” You nod slowly, an understanding expression flashing over your face. He waits, wondering if you’ll say something else. When you don’t, he speaks again.

“Did you already see the news?”

“Nah,” you purse your lips, kicking the snow around absentmindedly, “After it was announced that you were leaving, I kind of unfollowed them on all my social media. Not much reason to know what’s going on with them anymore, is there?”

Seungcheol hates that what you said makes him smile. It’s good to know that the only reason you kept up with the team was him. He tries to keep a blank face. “Huh.”

You snort. “Honestly, I don’t know why I even followed them in the first place. They’re so unserious.”

Seungcheol raises an eyebrow. “Oh?”

She shrugs, leaning against the fence. “Come on, you know what I mean. Always making the worst strategy calls, acting like they have their shit together, and then screwing you over, like, five laps into the race.”

He shakes his head, “That’s not-”

“Ok. Explain Brazil 2024, then.”

It makes him groan, hand coming up to cover his face, “Can we not talk about that. God.”

“Like? Who the hell puts intermediates on a drying track? God, imagine spending years dealing with that.”

Seungcheol rolls his eyes. "Yeah, imagine."

And somehow, just like that, he finds himself slipping into it, this old, familiar rhythm. Complaining about Ferrari like it's just another bad joke between them. It’s easy.

Too easy.

"Honestly, I should’ve known they were hopeless when they let you sit in the pit box for ten minutes at Silverstone with no tires ready," you muse, shaking your head. "Like. Be so fucking for real."

Seungcheol is about to laugh when he realises.

His ex is standing here, bitching about his old team the way best friends complain about their friend’s shitty ex.

And the irony of it fucking knocks the wind out of him.

He pushes the thought away before glancing at you again. “Have you always disliked Ferrari? I thought you liked them.”

You scoff, shaking your head, “No, not really. I just had a favourite driver.”

And fuck.

That shouldn’t get to him, but it does.

Without thinking, he mumbles, “Yeah? Don’t have one anymore, do you?”

You still, gaze flying up to his face. “It depends. Are you going back?”

Seungcheol holds your stare for a few seconds before looking away, bringing his hand up to brush his nose. He pretends to sniffle, to fill the silence. But you wait. It’s about time he answers anyways. It’s been more than two weeks. None of you know what’s going on with him.

“Cheol.” Your tone sounds a bit stern now, and it makes his turn further away from you, “Cheol, look at me.”

He begrudgingly faces you, glancing at your face for a second before looking down at his shoes.

“Are you going back?”

He doesn’t reply instantly. You didn’t expect him to anyway, but when he does, it only confirms what you’ve been suspecting all along. 

“No,” He sighs, “Not for this season, no.”

“Okay,” You nod, “You’re just taking a break. Not retiring.”

He nods too, swallowing hard before looking up at the sky, “Sun’s out today. Don’t you have anything better to do?”

You roll your eyes, “Just say you want me gone.”

Seungcheol shrugs, “Assume whatever you want.”

“Alright then,” You hum, turning around, towards your house to leave when you remember. “Did Seungkwan tell you, by the way?”

“What?” He’s looking at you.

“He was wondering if we’d like to visit this rooftop bar on New Year’s Eve. I think it’s opened recently.”

His shoulders drop visibly. He’s trying to put on the exhausted act, you know. 

“I don’t know, I don’t feel like celebrating anything right now and-”

“Okay, I’m sorry, I should’ve phrased this better.” you interrupt him, “He’s already reserved a table for the four of us and wanted me to inform you.”

Seungcheol scoffs, “Then why’d you say it like that?”

“Just wanted to make it seem like you had the option to decline, sorry.” You yell over your shoulder as you skip up to your porch. “Guess I’ll see you day after, then.”

The door swings shut behind you.

Seungcheol exhales, shoving his hands into his pockets as he kicks lightly at the snow.

“Guess so.”

The bar is warm, buzzing with life. On second thought, coming here in the midst of winter was probably not the best decision, but the heat from the alcohol and the many radiators around the place make up for the cold. The low hum of conversation weaves through the clinking of glasses and the occasional burst of laughter from a nearby table. The four of you have been here for a while now, tucked into a corner booth, half-empty plates in front of you and the remnants of shared appetizers pushed to the side.

Seungkwan, already three drinks deep, leans back against the booth with a dramatic sigh. "Man, I love this place. Good food, good company—" He points a fry at Jihoon. "Except for you."

Jihoon, unbothered, spears a piece of chicken with his fork. "Good."

You snicker into your glass. "Couldn’t even make it ten minutes into the meal before fighting, huh?"

Seungcheol exhales, shaking his head as he pushes his sleeves up. "It was inevitable."

Seungkwan groans. "Oh my God, listen, I’m just saying, I don’t understand why you’re like this. We’re here to have a good time, and you’re sitting there like a- like a-" He waves his hands, searching for the right words.

Jihoon deadpans, "Like a what, Seungkwan?"

"A fun-hating, emotionally repressed, grumpy old man."

Jihoon hums, chewing. "And yet, here you are, still inviting me places."

Seungkwan gasps. "Because I pity you."

Seungcheol, who has been stirring the ice in his glass with his straw, shakes his head. "You two have issues."

Seungkwan scoffs when you nod along, “Hey, you two have issues too!”

It makes you snap at him playfully, “At least we’re still amicable about it!”

Seungkwan continues, “Okay, then. Only ‘Mr. I won’t fucking talk about my emotions’ does.”

Seungcheol stiffens. He recovers quickly, taking a slow sip of his drink, but you catch it.

Jihoon does too. "Seungkwan."

"What?" Seungkwan blinks, setting his drink down. "I’m just saying-" He stops when Jihoon elbows him under the table. His lips purse, eyes darting to you, then back to Seungcheol. "Fine. New topic."

You exhale, trying to ease the sudden tension. "Yeah, let’s maybe talk about literally anything else."

Seungkwan, still slightly flustered, snaps his fingers. "Okay. Resolutions. Everyone, go."

Jihoon rolls his eyes. "I’m not doing this."

Seungkwan ignores him. "I’ll start. I am manifesting a rich, hot, emotionally available woman into my life. Preferably earning like seven figures. I can be her house-husband if she wants."

Seungcheol snorts. "Good luck with that."

"Don’t be jealous just because my standards are higher than yours."

Jihoon hums, “I know you mean to insult him, but don’t you think it’s more insulting to her?” He waves his fork in your direction, “I mean, they literally dated for what, like three years? And they’d been crushing on each other for literally half their lives.”

Seungcheol narrows his eyes. "You guys are literally bullying me at my first social event in weeks."

Seungkwan pats his shoulder. "Welcome back, buddy."

You smile, watching them banter. This feels normal. Almost like it used to be before everything changed. Before Seungcheol’s entire world flipped upside down. Before yours did too.

You glance at him. He isn’t saying anything, just stirring his drink again, gaze slightly distant.

"Cheol?"

He looks up.

You tilt your head. "Resolutions?"

He holds your stare for a second before he exhales, leaning back into his seat. "I don’t know," he mutters. "Haven’t thought about it."

Seungkwan clicks his tongue. "Think your next career should be in PR, honestly."

Seungcheol shrugs. "Don’t have anything I want to manifest into my life, I guess."

Jihoon, still picking at his food, speaks without looking up. "Or maybe you just don’t know what you want yet."

Seungcheol stills.

No one says anything for a moment.

You watch him carefully. He’s good at hiding things, good at pretending he’s unbothered, but you know him better than that.

The silence stretches, too long, too heavy.

So you break it.

"Well, I’ve got a resolution for you."

Seungcheol raises an eyebrow. "Oh?"

You nod, leaning forward. "Go outside more. See the sun. Maybe even touch some grass."

Jihoon hides a smirk behind his drink.

Seungkwan points. "Ohhh, she got you there."

Seungcheol rolls his eyes but exhales, his shoulders easing up. "Wow, thanks. Really helpful."

"Anytime." You grin.

Jihoon, now slightly more invested, sighs. "Fine. If we’re actually doing this-" He sets his fork down. "I guess my resolution is to sleep more."

Seungkwan stares. "That’s your resolution? That’s so boring."

"It’s realistic."

Seungcheol hums, tilting his glass slightly. "Yeah. Maybe I’ll add that one to my list too."

Seungkwan gives him a look. "Right. Because you totally need more excuses to lie in bed all day." He turns to you.

“What about you, my favourite person in the room?”

You hum, rolling your glass between your fingers as you think. "I guess… just figuring things out."

Seungkwan tilts his head. "Figuring what out?"

You hesitate. "Life. What I want from it."

For a second, no one speaks. Jihoon glances at you briefly, then looks away. Seungkwan, for all his dramatics, stays quiet, watching you with something like understanding.

Seungcheol’s gaze lingers the longest.

It’s not an obvious thing, not something anyone else would catch. But you feel it. The weight of his stare. The way his fingers drum against his glass, like he’s stopping himself from saying something.

Finally, Seungkwan exhales, breaking the moment before it stretches too long. "Damn. That was deep."

You snort, shaking your head. "You asked."

Seungcheol lets out a quiet breath, tipping his glass slightly before setting it down. "Figuring things out, huh?"

You glance at him, but his expression is unreadable.

Jihoon shifts in his seat, crossing his arms. "Makes sense. We’re not exactly eighteen anymore."

"Thank God for that," Seungkwan mutters, before perking up suddenly. "Oh! Speaking of—what’s the first thing you guys wanna do next year? Like, the second it turns midnight?"

You tilt your head. "I don’t know?"

Seungcheol lets out a quiet laugh, and something about it settles warm in your chest.

Seungkwan dramatically shakes his head. "Boring. Jihoon?"

Jihoon shrugs. "Go home."

Seungkwan glares. "Why do I even ask you guys things?"

Before anyone can reply, the TV volume rises slightly, and the sound of the New Year’s Eve broadcast pulls your attention. One minute.

The countdown hums in the air, anticipation bubbling in the spaces between laughter and half-finished drinks. From up here, the city stretches endlessly, a thousand tiny lights flickering.

Ten.

Seungkwan wobbles slightly, the telltale sign of one too many cocktails. He grabs your arm, eyes twinkling.

Nine.

"Guys," he slurs, "New Year’s tradition. Come here."

Eight.

Jihoon exhales sharply, rubbing his temples. "Whatever it is, don’t."

Seven.

"You didn’t even let me finish!"

Six.

"No," Jihoon repeats.

Five.

Seungkwan is already moving, ignoring Jihoon completely. He leans in and smacks a kiss onto your cheek, holding your face in both hands as you laugh and return the favor.

Four.

Then, Seungcheol’s name slips past Seungkwan’s lips.

Three.

Seungcheol finally looks over, his gaze breaking away from the skyline. You see the exact moment he realizes what’s about to happen.

Two.

"Don’t you fucking-"

One.

Seungkwan grabs him by the shoulders, dramatically pressing a sloppy, exaggerated kiss to his cheek. Seungcheol jerks back like he’s been physically attacked, wiping his face aggressively.

Zero.

Jihoon tries to escape, but he’s not fast enough. Seungkwan catches him by the collar and yanks him back in, completing the set. Jihoon lets out a noise that’s half a groan, half a plea for mercy.

Fireworks explode in the sky, casting everything in bursts of color, reflecting off glass, off city windows, off Seungcheol’s skin.

And when you turn back toward him, he’s already looking at you.

Something heavy settles in your chest.

Because this…this moment, this night, this space between you. It’s familiar. Too familiar.

New Year’s Eve used to mean something different. It used to mean his hand finding yours before the countdown even finished, his smiling lips pressing against yours, just as the first firework lit the sky.

It used to mean you and him, always.

And now, it means this.

Seungcheol swallows. His fingers twitch slightly at his sides, his gaze flickering lower for a second too long, too telling.

For a moment, you wonder.

If things were different, if things hadn’t changed, he would’ve been kissing you instead.

And God, wouldn’t everything be so much easier?.

The world feels softer around the edges, your pulse too loud in your ears, and you wonder if he hears it too.

Seungcheol exhales, blinking like he’s trying to shake something off. And then just like that, the moment passes.

Seungkwan sighs dramatically, swaying where he stands. “God, I love you guys.” He throws his arms around both you and Seungcheol, completely ruining the moment.

Jihoon, still rubbing his cheek aggressively, mutters, “I hate all of you.”

You don’t laugh.

Instead, you break the silence first. “Happy New Year, Cheol.”

Seungcheol looks at you again. Something unreadable flickers in his eyes, something you can’t name. Something you don’t dare to. But it’s the new year, girl. You better start figuring your life out.

He exhales. “Yeah,” he murmurs. "Happy New Year."

The driveway is full of movement. Suitcases rolling, car doors slamming, voices overlapping as their parents double check everything for the tenth time. Seungho leans against the car—the designated driver for the airport run— arms crossed, looking thoroughly unbothered by the chaos.

“Are we done?” he calls, watching the four parents shuffle through their bags. “Or do you want to unpack and repack one more time just to be sure?”

His mother slaps his hand playfully, still making him flinch as she walks past him.

You drag the last suitcase down from your house, stumbling over the lawn, onto Seungcheol’s driveway where your parents wait. But before you can lift it into the car, Seungcheol steps in. “Just leave it here,” he says, nodding toward the side. “I’ll keep it.”

You blink. “Why?”

Seungcheol jerks his chin toward the trunk. “There’s no space left. Just leave it, I’ll figure it out.”

You glance at the car’s boot, suitcases jammed together in a precarious puzzle. He’s right. Trying to squeeze in another bag would probably end with someone’s luggage flying out on the highway.

Before you can respond, he’s already reaching for another suitcase, lifting it effortlessly into place. His arms flex under his t-shirt, veins prominent along his forearms as he shifts the weight. You look away before your gaze can linger.

When everything is put in and all the last checks are done, Seungcheol’s dad walks up to him, clapping a hand over his shoulder. “Take care of things while we’re gone, yeah?”

He nods, shoving his hands into his pockets.

Your mom’s voice comes out muffled as she keeps her handbag inside the car, “Take care of each other, okay?”

His mom nods, a knowing smile tugging at her lips. “And try not to fight.”

It’s such a simple remark, one that could easily be brushed off as something parents would say to any two people left alone for a while. But the way they say it, the way their voices dip just slightly. You don’t really like it. Feels like they’re intentionally teasing the two of you.

You open your mouth to protest, but Seungho honks the horn impatiently. “Do you guys want me to book another flight for tomorrow, or are we leaving now?”

Your mom reminds you to throw out the milk tomorrow as she gets into the car and closes the door shut. Last minute reminders and goodbyes are thrown at the two of you before the car finally pulls out of the driveway.

You watch your dad wave from the window, making you smile as you wave back. You stand with Seungcheol in silence until you see the car disappear around a turn.

He sighs, a fond expression on his face before he turns to you, “Well. I’m still shocked with the fact that no one’s sent in a noise complaint about us by now.”

“They’re used to it, I guess,” You snort. “Hey, remember the last time they left us alone?”

Seungcheol lets out a short laugh, shaking his head. “How could I forget? You almost burned the kitchen down.”

You scoff. “Excuse me? We almost burned the kitchen down.”

He gives you a pointed look. “You put an entire metal pot in the microwave.”

“And you watched me do it,” you fire back.

Seungcheol groans, rubbing his temples. “I was a little distracted, alright?”

You huff out in disbelief. “By what?”

“I don’t know? You were the one with your hands up my shirt-” Seungcheol clamps his lips shut as soon as the words escape him, his mouth running faster than his brain.

Fuck fuck fuck fuck FUCK. Why would you say that, you buffoon?

You blink at him, an awkward sound leaving your mouth. He looks like he’s about to strangle himself to death any time now, so you try to push down the colour rising to your cheeks and decide to take him out of his misery.

“Yeah, well, whatever,” You roll your eyes, but it doesn’t come off as dismissive as you intend for it to. If anything, it almost sounds like you’re agreeing with him.

Seungcheol notices too. His eyes flicker, like he’s not sure whether to be alarmed or relieved.

The awkwardness settles heavy in the space between you, which Seungcheol should’ve definitely not opened up.

He clears his throat, rubbing the back of his neck. “Right. Uh. Anyway.”

“Yeah.” You nod, a little too quickly.

Seconds pass, then a few more.

And then, deciding this is definitely getting too weird, you spin on your heel. “I’m going inside.”

“Good call,” Seungcheol mutters, dragging a hand down his face as you walk off.

Great. Fantastic. Just what he needed to begin the three weeks without your parents.

—

You step into your room and shut the door behind you, exhaling sharply.

What the fuck was that?

You press your hands to your face, as if somehow, somehow, that will help erase the last five minutes from existence. But your brain is already working against you, replaying the moment in crystal clear detail.

I don’t know? You were the one with your hands up my shirt—

You groan, dragging your palms down your face. Why would he say that? No. Actually, why would he say it like that? Like it was just a casual, normal fact? Like it was something that could be thrown into the conversation without completely derailing your entire sense of self?

And then—oh, because it wasn’t already bad enough—you had to go and agree with him.

You groan again, louder this time, flopping onto your bed before immediately sitting up again. No, you can’t sit still. You need to move, shake this weird, unbearable feeling out of your body.

It’s fine, you tell yourself. This is fine. It’s just Seungcheol. You’ve said worse in front of him, he’s said worse in front of you. It is not a big deal.

Except it feels like a big deal. And no matter how hard you try, you can’t quite ignore the way your skin feels a little too warm, or how your mind keeps circling back to the fact that, for just a second, he looked like he was waiting for you to say something else.

You take a deep breath, fanning your face with your hands, and march toward the window to pull the curtains closed.

And that’s when you see him.

Standing in his own room, directly across from yours, also mid-freakout.

Seungcheol’s hands are in his hair, mouth moving like he’s talking to himself. He paces around his room and then, as he turns, his eyes land on you.

Both of you freeze.

The silence stretches. Neither of you move.

Then, at the same time, you both panic.

Seungcheol immediately grabs his phone and stares at it like it holds the meaning of life, screen dark and completely off. You, on the other hand, take the only logical course of action. You very slowly reach for the curtains and pull them shut.

Nope. Not dealing with this.

Behind the fabric, you stand there for a moment, gripping the edges so tightly that you think you might pull the curtains down. Outside, you hear a muffled “Fuck.”

Yeah. Exactly.

Your hands are still gripping the curtains when your phone buzzes.

You don’t even need to check to know who it is.

Seungcheol:

you saw nothing.

[16:25]

A disbelieving scoff escapes you before you can stop it. Like hell you saw nothing.

Your fingers hover over the keyboard, debating whether to respond or pretend you’re already asleep. But then, another buzz.

Seungcheol:

You… didn’t right?

You looked just as surprised.

[16:25]

You roll your eyes and push the curtains open just enough to peek out. Seungcheol is still in his room, still looking thoroughly distressed, one hand on his hip and the other rubbing at his jaw. When he sees you looking, his eyes widen comically.

You narrow your eyes and type back.

You:

Oh I saw EVERYTHING.

[16:26]

Across the window, Seungcheol visibly groans. Your phone vibrates again.

Seungcheol:

okay but honestly what the fuck was that.

[16:26]

“You were the one that said it, idiot.” You call out to him, an edge of irritation in your voice as you whip the curtains open completely.

Seungcheol has the audacity to open his windows as he scoffs, “Well, you replied to that in a very weird way.”

You open your mouth to argue, but you have nothing to say, really. You could’ve ignored him, or just thrown a weird look, or called him an idiot. But no. Your stupid mind went Yeah, well, whatever.

You glare at him through the window. “Maybe I was just too stunned to think straight.”

Seungcheol runs a hand through his hair. “Yeah. And I wasn’t thinking. There. Done.”

“Like you ever do, come on,” You throw your hands up in the air, “Really, what was the need to even say that in the first place?”

Seungcheol looks offended as he points at you, “You were the one who fucking put that metal pot in there. You were also the one who was getting handsy, not me!”

You let out a strangled sound, nearly slamming your hands against the windowsill. “You probably enjoyed it then, shut up! That was three years ago, Cheol.”

“And yet, here we are!” He waves between the two of you. “Still dealing with the consequences!”

You stare at him, chest heaving. Seungcheol stares back, just as fired up.

Then, at the same time, you both inhale deeply before breathing out.

“three weeks,” you mutter. “three weeks without our parents.”

Seungcheol nods, looking grim. “We might not survive.”

Another pause. Then, without another word, you both shut your windows.

Two days in and Seungcheol hasn’t bumped into you, thankfully. To be fair, he hasn’t actually stepped out of the house, so there’s not many ways to see you. Unless, of course, through your windows. But your curtains haven’t opened up since that day and while it makes him cringe at himself everytime he sees the soft blue fabric through your window, it also amuses him. Your room must be a little depressing by now, with not much sunlight or air coming inside. He wonders how long you can go.

Right now, Seungcheol’s dragged himself off the couch and into the kitchen to cook something up for dinner. After digging a little into one of the cabinets, he settles on a pack of rigatoni. Shrugging to himself as he sets the pasta aside, Seungcheol moves around the kitchen, pulling out the rest of the ingredients. A can of tomatoes, a head of garlic, some olive oil. He checks the fridge next, grabbing a wedge of parmesan and a pack of butter, setting them onto the counter in a neat row.

If there’s anything he’s learnt from spending all those months in Maranello for Ferrari, it’s how to cook Italian food. In the beginning, Seungcheol remembers thinking how much of a hassle it was to go to Italy all the time. Most of the other teams had their bases in England, which meant that for most drivers, home and work weren’t too far apart. But for him, every return to Ferrari meant another flight to Maranello, another stretch of weeks spent in a place that never quite felt like home.

But food was easy. Food was routine. It was something he could rely on, even when everything else felt uncertain. Late nights at the factory meant post-midnight plates of pasta, thrown together with whatever was left in the kitchen. Pre-season training meant strict meals, but the off-season? That meant sitting down for a proper dinner, watching as the mechanics argued over which trattoria had the best carbonara. Somewhere along the way, he’d started paying attention.

So now, as he stands in his kitchen, setting up to cook, he almost functions on autopilot. He pulls out the ingredients one by one, the process easy, familiar. Olive oil first, then garlic, then tomatoes. The butter sits on the counter to soften while he grates the parmesan directly onto a plate, the fine shavings piling up neatly.

The water on the stove is boiling now, but before he reaches for the pasta, he moves to the counter where he usually keeps the basil. His hand goes straight for the small ceramic pot near the spice rack, expecting to pluck a few leaves from the bunch.

But when he looks inside, it’s empty.

He frowns. Checks around the counter, glancing near the sink, even peeking inside the paper bag of groceries he never put away. Nothing.

He could do without it. The sauce would still turn out fine. But knowing it was supposed to be there would bother him the entire time. He glances at the clock. 10:15 PM. It’s not too late, but late enough that he feels lazy to drive over to the grocery store.

Just make it without basil, He tries to convince himself, sighing as he walks back to the stove. It’s fine. The sauce will be fine.

And yet, for some reason, his body refuses to continue. He knows exactly how this will go. He’ll finish cooking, plate it up, sit down, and take one bite before getting annoyed at himself for skipping the basil.

Seungcheol’s fingers tap against the counter, slightly restless. He could just finish cooking. He should.

Or, a small part of his mind pipes up. Or you could just shoot her a text and ask if she had some.

Seungcheol shakes his head, huffing out a small laugh. No way.

Not like we have another choice. Unless you want to go buy some.

He stares at the stove for another long second, arms crossed over his chest. The water keeps boiling, steam rising steadily, like it’s waiting for him to make up his mind.

It’s just basil.

Seungcheol huffs, dragging a hand down his face before finally pulling his phone out of his pocket. His thumb hovers over your contact name, debating.

Then, before he can overthink it, he types out a message and presses send, locking his phone and setting it face down on the counter.

And then he waits.

You see the message immediately, blinking as the words register in your head. Basil? Out of all the things he could’ve texted you for.

For a second, you debate leaving him on read. Your bed is comfortable and you were probably only a few minutes away from falling asleep. But you sigh, pushing yourself off the bed before sluggishly moving to your kitchen.

When he opens the door after two knocks, you’re standing there, hand stuffed into your hoodie pocket, eyes flicking toward the ground like you’re not sure why you’re here either. In your free hand, a small bunch of basil.

"You owe me," you mutter, holding it out.

Seungcheol huffs out a laugh, shaking his head as he takes it. "Yeah, yeah. Come inside before you freeze."

You hesitate for a second—just a second—but then you step past him, kicking your shoes off at the entrance as he closes the door behind you.

The kitchen is warm, the scent of garlic and tomatoes filling the air.. You lean against the counter, arms loosely crossed, watching as Seungcheol moves around like this is second nature to him.

It’s easy to fall into this, watching him cook, letting the quiet stretch between you. The way he moves, the unhurried rhythm of it all, is strangely familiar. Like this isn’t the first time. Like it won’t be the last.

You watch as he picks up the basil, rolling a few leaves between his fingers before tearing them over the pan. His movements are steady, practiced.

“Well,” you say eventually, tilting your head, “guess your time in Ferrari was fruitful after all.”

Seungcheol huffs, raising an eyebrow as he stirs the sauce. “Yeah?”

“At least you learned how to cook.”

He scoffs, shaking his head. “Right. Spent years fighting for championships, but I guess this is my real achievement.”

You smile a little. “It’s not nothing.”

He hums. His voice is a little softer when he agrees, “No, it’s not, I suppose.”

You watch the steam rise from the pot, twisting into the air, before speaking again. “You know… you used to be really bad at this.”

Seungcheol lets out a small laugh, shaking his head. “I wasn’t that bad.”

“You were,” you insist, amused. “You didn’t measure anything. You used to dump in way too much garlic and just hope for the best.”

He presses his lips together, looking down at the counter like he’s holding back a grin. “And you used to complain the whole time.”

“I had to,” you say, “Otherwise, you wouldn’t have learned. But to be fair, I wasn’t that great either.”

Seungcheol glances at you then, gaze undeniably soft. But instead of saying anything, he just shakes his head, stirring the sauce like this conversation isn’t stirring something else up entirely.

You exhale, tapping your fingers against the counter. “I used to think about it, you know.”

“Think about what?”

You shake your head, letting out a small laugh. “Who’d do the cooking.”

He pauses, glancing at you again.

You shrug, “We were both pretty bad at it back then. I used to wonder if we’d ever get better or if we’d just end up eating terrible food forever.”

Seungcheol blinks at you before scoffing, shaking his head. “Wow. That’s what you were worried about?”

You laugh lightly. “I mean, it was a real concern.”

He huffs, crossing his arms over his chest. “And? What did you decide?”

“I figured one of us would have to learn eventually,” you say, flicking a stray basil leaf across the counter. “Guess I was right.”

Seungcheol rolls his eyes, but there’s a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. He turns back to the stove, stirring the sauce one last time before lowering the heat.

“Well,” he mutters, “you still haven’t seen how it tastes.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Is that an invitation?”

He doesn’t look at you, but you catch the way his fingers drum quietly against the counter, the way his jaw tenses like he’s debating something.

Then, finally, he sighs. “I wouldn’t make you bring me something and then just make you leave without tasting it.”

You shift against the counter, watching as he reaches for a pair of plates. A pair.

“Alright,” you say lightly. “Don’t screw it up, then.”

Seungcheol snorts, shaking his head as he grabs the ladle.

“No promises.”

Seungcheol twirls his fork slowly through his pasta, gaze flicking toward you between bites. “So,” he says after a moment, “what’s everyone else been up to?”

You glance up. “Everyone?”

He nods, leaning back slightly. “Yeah. I know what Seungkwan and Jihoon are up to, but what about the others? It’s been a while.”

You pause, thinking. “Well… Hyerin got fired.”

Seungcheol stops, fork mid-air, eyebrows lifting slightly. “Fired?”

“Mhm,” you hum, spearing a piece of pasta. “She got into an argument with a customer and called him an dumbfuck or something.”

Seungcheol lets out a quiet laugh, shaking his head. “That doesn’t surprise me.”

“It shouldn’t,” you say, smiling faintly. “But what should surprise you is that the customer just so happened to be the owner's brother.”

His fork clinks softly against his plate. He blinks at you once, then exhales, rubbing a hand down his face. “You’re kidding.”

“I wish,” you murmur, shaking your head. “She had no idea who he was, and by the time she found out, it was too late. He complained, and she was fired the next day.”

Seungcheol huffs a laugh, tilting his head slightly. “I bet she doesn’t regret it.”

You shrug. “Not even a little. She said she hated the job anyway. She works at a bookstore now, says it’s peaceful.”

“Figures.” He takes another slow bite, chewing as he watches you. “Didn’t she always hate dealing with people?”

You nod in agreement, twirling your fork absently as you think. For a moment, it’s almost easy to forget how much time has passed.

Seungcheol leans forward slightly, resting his elbow on the counter. “What about Daehwan?”

Your lips press together. “Still an idiot.”

His mouth twitches. “That bad?”

You sigh, setting your fork down. “Worse, actually. You remember how he used to do those ridiculous stunts?”

Seungcheol nods, “Hard to forget.”

“Well, now he does them online. He started filming them, and somehow, he has an actual following.”

Seungcheol walks over to his fridge, pulling out a drink. You notice how he slides your favourite one towards you. “…Are you telling me Daehwan is famous?”

“Unfortunately,” you mutter, rubbing your temple. “Last month, he tried to skateboard down the town’s library’s stairs, and the video got over a million views.”

Seungcheol stares at you for a moment before shaking his head, laughing quietly. “That’s ridiculous.”

“You’re telling me.” You take another bite, shaking your head as you chew. “And, of course, he hasn’t changed at all. Still does everything last minute, still never thinks things through. I swear, one of these days, he’s going to get himself seriously hurt.”

Seungcheol hums. “He’s lucky, though.”

You tilt your head. “What?”

A faint smile plays on his lips, but there’s something thoughtful in the way he exhales. “Not everyone gets to stay the same.”

You hesitate, your fingers tightening around your fork.

Seungcheol doesn’t elaborate. He just shakes his head slightly, reaching for his drink. “Anyway,” he says, voice lighter now, “who else?”

You let out a slow breath, deciding to let it go. “Jiwon’s engaged.”

That gets his attention. His brows raise slightly as he sets his glass back down. “Really?”

“Mhm.” You nod. “Her fiancé proposed in Jeju. On a boat.”

Seungcheol scoffs, leaning back in his chair. “Of course he did.”

You smile. “She called me after and talked for forty-five minutes about how seasick she got.”

Seungcheol huffs a quiet laugh, shaking his head. “Sounds like her.”

You push a piece of bell pepper to the edge of your plate, barely paying attention as you continue talking. Seungcheol absentmindedly reaches over with his fork and takes it.

You pause mid-sentence, watching as he eats it like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

For a second, your brain stutters. Because it is.

Because he’s done this before, so many times that it’s instinctive now, something he probably doesn’t even think about. He never liked bell peppers much either, but back when you were together, he always ate the ones you picked out, saying it was “a waste to leave them.”

When you go back home to your room, climbing under your covers, you see the faint light from Seungcheol’s room fall onto your wall. 

What were you thinking, really? Pretending like everything would be fine if you just acted like you always did in front of him. You’d been his best friend before his girlfriend, yes. But you realize now that it doesn’t make anything easier. Pretending you could sit across from him, talk to him, let him be a part of your life again without it meaning anything. You’d hoped and convinced yourself—in the fifteen minute car ride to work, the day he came back—that it would be easy. None of this is, you know now. Maybe you've always known.

Maybe he had made it easier for you by not coming back last winter, even if he didn’t intend to do it. There’s no part of your life he wasn’t in. No part of you that wasn’t shaped, in some way, by him.

And now he’s here again, living across from you, eating across from you, seeing you almost every day like this is normal. You press the heel of your palm against your eyes, exhaling shakily. You were supposed to be okay. 

You left him. You were supposed to be okay. You told yourself you did the right thing, that there was no other choice, that this was what needed to happen. So why does it still feel like you lost something?

He did have a point. You didn’t have to act like everything was fine. That whatever happened between you two didn’t exist. Maybe you really should have ignored him. Maybe that would make this easier. But Seungcheol remembers. You remember. It’s only been a little over a year. Did you just need more time away from each other? Maybe if he’d never come back, then you’d finally have enough time to forget him.

You had convinced yourself that distance was enough. That if you just stayed away long enough, if he stayed away long enough, the weight of him would eventually fade.

But he’ll never truly leave you and you know it. Because the moment he sits across from you, the moment he speaks to you like nothing’s changed, the moment he reaches across the table and takes something off your plate like he always used to, it’ll all come back. The familiarity, the ache, the unbearable knowing that he still fits into your life in ways you thought you’d outgrown.

Your body betrays you, months of restraint splintering apart as a sob slips past your lips before you can stop it. You press a hand over your mouth, but it doesn’t help. Your shoulders shake beneath the weight of it, your lungs constrict, and for the first time since he came back, you let yourself break.

You don’t think he even realizes what he’s doing to you.

You don’t think he knows that with every little thing he does, he’s unraveling everything you’ve spent the past year trying to stitch back together.

You squeeze your eyes shut, exhaling shakily. It’s not like you can suddenly ignore him and start acting different now.

Maybe tomorrow, it’ll hurt less.

Maybe tomorrow, you’ll be able to look at him and feel nothing.

Maybe tomorrow, you’ll finally believe it.

tagging: @sojuxxi @fancypeacepersona @stupendouschildnerd @reiofsuns2001 @archivistworld @teddybeartaetae @selenethings @angelarin @gyuguys @starshuas @coupsma @the-vena-cava @smiileflower @minjiech @luxmoonlight @kookiedesi @znzlii @syluslittlecrows @blckorchidd @yawnozone @exomew @ceruissleeping