summary: you are the bane of lord jeong’s existence and the object of all his desires.
genre: fluff, angst, smut
warnings: enemies to lovers trope (kind of), fuckboy!jaehyun, arranged marriage trope, jaehyun is down bad, pussy eating, fingering, loss of virginity
release date: february 25, 2026
this fic is already released for early access to the $5 tier on my patreon, which you can access here!
Your mother acts as if afternoon tea with Doyoung equates to an audience with the king.
She dresses you in a gown she brings out for special occasions and has your handmaidens spray perfume on you until you are drowning in the floral scent. When she accompanies you to the tea parlor, she lists out your annoying habits that you should try to avoid.
You were not made aware that you possessed so many.
“And the way you look at him, darling, it is extremely unflattering. He can tell you hate him by the way you desire to burn him alive with your gaze. Stare at him with conviction. Make his loins stir from one simple glance at you.”
You pinch the bridge of your nose. “Mother, I shall say that I find this advice to be highly unhelpful.”
She growls at you. “You are nearly four and twenty without a single acceptance for a suitor’s hand in marriage. You shall adhere to any advice I am willing to offer you.”
Doyoung helps take out your chair like a gentleman, and you thank him while your mother sits one table behind you, eavesdropping on your conversation.
He cuts straight to the chase. “What traits do you envision for your future husband to possess?”
Your grip tightens around your teacup. You wonder what to say to ward him off, to get him to move onto the next lady.
“A man who will let me maintain my own hobbies and interests. I want to have children on my own time, not on the timeline my husband sets for me,” you answer, knowing that it is not the typical response a lady of your breeding is supposed to say. You are supposed to submit to your husband’s preferences instead of prioritizing your own. “I ask that he respects my wishes and swears his loyalty to me. I will not, in any circumstances, marry a rake.”
“This one is all bark and no bite, Doyoung. I would not take her threats to heart.”
You clench your jaw when Jaehyun approaches your table with a wide smirk on his face. He appears to be dressed for tea as well, but you see no partner by his side to accompany him. He must be here simply to intervene in your meeting with Doyoung.
“Lord Jeong,” you greet in clear distaste. “I was not aware you had been frequenting tea parlors as of late.”
“Ah, you must not be enlightened of my many passions then,” he replies with a cheeky smile. You resist the urge to slap it off of his face. “The madam who runs this shop has a fond affection for me. I always like to drop by and grab a free pastry.”
“How kind of you to take from the hard work of the common people at no charge,” you challenge with the tilt of your head.
Doyoung clears his throat when he senses the tension between you and Jaehyun rising with every scathing remark. You glance back to see your mother staring at you in abhorrence, and you quickly straighten your posture and adjust your tone.
“I apologize, Lord Jeong. I have been enjoying my time with Lord Kim. I am certain you have somewhere else you need to be.”
Jaehyun, to your chagrin, pulls up a chair. “Actually, my schedule is wide open for the day. I would love to join you.”
Doyoung stares at you, wordlessly asking if this is normal behavior, but you are too pissed off to respond. If Jaehyun wanted to cause a scene, he could have done so when you are not trying to prove to your mother that you still care about searching for a husband.
Your fingernails dig into the corner of the table and you lean forward to hiss at Jaehyun.
“Are you positive you have nowhere else to be?”
He smiles. “Absolutely. Now, catch me up on what you two were discussing. I would love to throw my hat into the conversation.”
Evidently, you and Doyoung have yet to be on the same wavelength for what you should and should not bring up in front of Jaehyun.
“I was asking her what she looks for in her future spouse.”
Jaehyun turns to you with a smirk. “Oh, is that so? Well, please, do not silence yourself on my behalf. I would love to hear the answer.”
“I already gave it to him,” you say in exasperation. “Maybe we should turn the tables on you. What does a rake like Jeong Jaehyun look for in a wife? Likely one that easily spreads her legs?”
You hear a gasp from behind you, and you know it is your mother’s shock at your candor. But you shall not allow Jaehyun to get the better of you and humiliate you in front of Doyoung. You hardly care if this statement will earn you a reputation for your crass nature.
The corner of Jaehyun’s lips twitches in amusement, only fueling fire to your flame.
“I would like for my wife to challenge me. It is not as fun when they comply with my every demand,” he says, and you fail to realize how the distance between you has closed in your heated spat. “I like a lady who knows how to speak up for herself, to voice her thoughts without concern for anyone else’s feelings.”
You scoff. Where in the world is Jaehyun going to find a lady like that?
“Good luck with your search, Lord Jeong. I have conviction that there is at least one lady out there who is meant to be with you.”
“I really should be going,” Doyoung says, standing and nearly toppling over the table.
You glance up at him in alarm. “Oh, I am sorry, Lord Kim. Let me just gather my things and-”
“No need, Miss. It must have slipped my mind that my mother asked for my presence back at home. I hope you enjoy the rest of your afternoon.”
He scurries out of the tea parlor as if the place had been set to flames. You stare after him with your jaw dropped, offended by his poor excuse to leave you behind.
You growl at Jaehyun. “Oh, you have seriously done it now, Jeong.”
“Come on. Do not tell me you were actually considering that man to be your husband.”
Your mother’s figure looms over you and you shyly look up to meet her judgmental gaze head on.
“I believe it is time for us to return home. We hope you have a wonderful evening, Lord Jeong.”
You’re dragged away by the crook of your arm, glaring at Jaehyun while your mother dishes out the biggest scolding you have ever received in your life.
want to read the rest of this fic now? access the $5 tier on my patreon here!
Sure, it was a little creepy when a number addressed to you turned up at the end of your shift. And no, you were sure as hell not stupid enough to text said number without considering its consequences. But curiosity was one rather overwhelming emotion… maybe a ‘hi’ wouldn’t hurt… right?
pairing: bio-med major!na jaemin x nursing major!reader
genre: social media au, strangers-to-friends-to-lovers, secret admirer au, fluff, crack, some written parts
status: ongoing ! (18.01.2025)
warnings: attempted humour (pls tell me if it's working thanks), some characters have chronic lowercase use, kms jokes, dirty jokes, me and fake LOL knowledge, will add more to this as I go!
[playlist] Daydreamin' - Ariana Grande | R.E.M. - Ariana Grande | Mahika - Adie | About Last Night.. - Yel | Comin’ Through - Hojean | Maybe We Could Be a Thing - Jesse Barrera | Used to Me - Luke Chiang | Buttons - Lyn Lapid | While You Were Sleeping - Laufey | She Smiled - Day6
profiles one | profiles two
one. I was baited wasn’t I?
two.
an: a taglist will be made if requested! I haven’t made an SMAU since 2020 so pls bear with me 😭 decided to make this bc it helped my writer’s block and it was also pretty fun to make—so disclaimer: this was for fun and meant purely for enjoyment and probably not the most jaw dropping, complex smau you’ll ever read lmao,, but I still put effort into it so it’s nothing half-assed. It’s been sitting and rotting in my docs since october and it would hurt me to not share it,,, so PLEASE ENJOY!
pairing: ferrari driver!yoon jeonghan x journalist!reader
chapter wc: 20.6K (dont look at me)genre: humor, fluff, angst, smut (?)
au: f1 au (i am sorry i am a nerd abt this) rating: m (MINORS DNI)warnings: SLOOOOOW BURN. mentions of injuries, car crashes // eventual smut.
PREQUELS: would highly recommend reading On the Record and Off the Record to gain some context into the relationship! This fic starts directly after the end of Off the Record
summary: jeonghan's not used to someone who pushes his buttons as easily as you do, and you're not used to someone who challenges you as quickly as he does. maybe it's time to go full throttle, both on and off the track.
a/n: this one is gonna be long. buckle in. this is dedicated to kae
@ylangelegy , who was the one who pushed me to write this in the first place, and also graciously beta read this // this is also dedicated to alta @haologram , who watched me lose my mind over this for so long and gave me so much love and support as i wrote this. // huge thanks to lola @monamipencil and haneul @chanranghaeys for beta-reading and giving me their thoughts, especially about when things were too technical // and finally, an ENORMOUS thank you to jupiter @cheolism for the banner!
read part 2 here! <3
FORMULA 1 ROLEX AUSTRALIAN GRAND PRIX 2024
Track: Melbourne Grand Prix Circuit
The Australian Grand Prix had come to an end, but the buzz from the race still lingered in the air. The paddock had started to quiet down, though the echo of cheers and the scent of champagne were still fresh. Jeonghan stood at the edge of the pit lane, watching as the last of the mechanics began to clean up, the high of the win beginning to settle into a low hum of satisfaction.
His fingers absentmindedly brushed over his helmet, the familiar weight grounding him after the chaos of the race. But his mind wasn’t on the mechanics or the trophy waiting for him. No, it was on you.
You had walked away with that smug grin of yours, and even now, hours later, the image of you—cool, collected, and far too clever for your own good—lingered in his thoughts. The way you’d turned the tables on him, effortlessly making him feel like the one caught off guard. For once, it hadn’t been about the race or the rumors swirling around his personal life—it had been about you and the way you knew how to press all his buttons without breaking a sweat.
"Dammit," he muttered under his breath, a grin creeping onto his face despite himself. "I should’ve asked her to dinner."
But there was no time for that now. The press was waiting. The fans, too. He needed to play the role of the cool, collected champion for the cameras, the last thing he needed was another round of gossip, another round of teasing from the people who loved to stir the pot. And yet, the thought of you, the way you’d made him feel a mix of frustration and something else entirely, was almost too tempting to ignore.
The crew cheered as he finally made his way back to the motorhome, the world still swirling in a whirlwind of victory and flashing cameras. But inside, it was quieter. More personal.
"Jeonghan!" His manager greeted him with a smile, the kind of smile that signaled the end of a long race and the beginning of yet another whirlwind of interviews, photos, and meetings. But Jeonghan only half-listened as his manager spoke, his mind flickering back to the conversation earlier.
"You sure know how to keep things interesting, don't you?" His manager chuckled, noticing the distraction in his eyes. "The headlines are still buzzing. You planning on setting the record straight anytime soon?"
Jeonghan chuckled under his breath, running a hand through his messy hair. "Let them talk," he muttered, flashing a grin. "It’s part of the game."
But that wasn’t what was on his mind. It was you. The way you’d baited him, just enough to make him feel the heat of the moment. He had never been this distracted by anyone—or anything—before.
"You have a minute?" a voice interrupted his thoughts, pulling him back to the present. It was his publicist, holding a phone in one hand, the other gesturing toward the press conference set up for him in the next room.
Jeonghan looked at her, then glanced over his shoulder as if expecting to see you again. But you were gone, just like that. He gave a small sigh, almost imperceptible to anyone watching.
"Yeah, yeah. Let’s do this," he muttered, before stepping forward. Jeonghan’s footsteps echoed through the motorhome hallway, the thrum of victory still running through his veins, but his mind was elsewhere. He couldn’t shake the way you’d looked at him—those piercing eyes, full of challenge. He'd seen that expression before, but this time felt different. You weren’t just some reporter stirring up a bit of drama—you were someone who knew exactly how to get under his skin.
His publicist was waiting outside the press room, ready to brief him on the upcoming interviews and meetings. "You’ve got a full schedule, Jeonghan," she said, giving him the rundown with practiced precision. But Jeonghan barely heard her, his mind still distracted by the way you’d turned the tables.
"Hey," he cut in, slowing to a stop in front of her. "What do you know about Y/N?" he asked, his tone casual but with an edge of curiosity that hadn’t been there a moment ago.
The publicist blinked in surprise, and beside her, his manager gave a short laugh. "Y/N? You mean the reporter?" the manager asked, voice dripping with amusement. "The one you’ve had run-ins with over the past couple of seasons?"
Jeonghan raised an eyebrow, glancing between the two of them. "Run-ins?" he repeated, his lips curling into a small, knowing smirk. "What exactly are you implying?"
The publicist shrugged, exchanging a look with the manager. "She’s been covering F1 for a while, pretty sharp with her articles," she said, keeping her voice neutral. "Some of them have definitely gotten attention, especially that one a few weeks ago... the one about you and the whole ‘mysterious love life’ thing." Her eyes flicked to his manager, who made a face at the mention of that piece.
Jeonghan sighed, running a hand through his hair. He’d tried to forget about that article, but your earlier conversation (read as: challenge) had baffled him. "I shouldn’t have said anything," he muttered, more to himself than anyone else. "But you know she always gets a rise out of me, don’t you?"
The manager snickered. "Oh, we know. It’s not every day we get to watch you struggle to keep your cool. She’s got a way with words, that one." He winked. "But hey, I get it. She’s a great reporter—sharp, clever—and always knows where to find the juiciest stories. You just might want to be a little more careful with what you say around her next time."
Jeonghan smirked. "Careful? Since when have I ever been careful?"
His publicist gave a pointed look, clearly not impressed. "That’s not the problem, Jeonghan. It’s that you tend to forget she knows exactly what buttons to push."
Jeonghan chuckled, his eyes glinting with a new energy. "Oh, she’s good, I’ll give her that. But I’m not so easily rattled." His mind wandered back to the way you’d smirked and walked off, leaving him standing there feeling like he'd just been served a dish of his own medicine.
"Don’t underestimate her," the manager added, half-joking. "You’ve been in this game long enough to know, no one gets a rise out of you like that without knowing exactly what they’re doing."
Jeonghan hummed thoughtfully. "I suppose you’re right. But maybe..." He trailed off, eyes narrowing as a plan started to form in his mind. "...Maybe it’s time I gave her a taste of her own medicine."
The publicist and manager exchanged a glance but didn’t say anything. They knew that look—the one Jeonghan got whenever he was plotting something, usually with a dash of mischief and just the right amount of charm to make it impossible for anyone to say no. The same charm that had gotten him into trouble more times than they cared to count.
"You’ve got your interviews now, Jeonghan," his publicist reminded him gently, pulling him back to reality. "We can revisit this later. Just keep your head in the game for now."
He nodded, though his mind was still fixated on you. "Yeah, yeah. Later."
As he entered the press room, he was immediately hit with a barrage of questions. The usual ones about his win, his performance, and his plans for the rest of the season. But even as he answered, his thoughts lingered on you and that damn article. You were always one step ahead, always stirring the pot just enough to keep things interesting. But now, it seemed you had caught his attention for real.
And maybe—just maybe—he was going to have some fun with this.
FORMULA 1 MSC CRUISES JAPANESE GRAND PRIX 2024Track: Suzuka Ciruit
The neon lights of Tokyo cast a kaleidoscope of colors on the bustling streets, the city alive with energy even late into the night. After a long day of prepping for the upcoming race, you’d decided to wind down with a quiet drink in a tucked-away bar that promised a moment’s reprieve from the chaos of the paddock.
The bar was small and intimate, the kind of place that felt like a secret only locals knew about. Jazz music hummed softly in the background, and you found a seat near the corner, ready to savor your drink in peace.
But of course, peace wasn’t in the cards tonight.
“Y/N?”
The familiar voice made you freeze mid-sip. Turning your head, you found none other than Yoon Jeonghan standing a few feet away, his face lit with mild surprise and unmistakable amusement. He wasn’t in his Ferrari team gear for once—just a sleek black jacket and jeans, looking effortlessly casual in a way that somehow made him even more irritatingly attractive.
“Jeonghan,” you replied evenly, setting your drink down. “What are you doing here?”
He shrugged, sliding onto the stool beside you without an invitation. “Same as you, I’d imagine. Taking a break from the madness.” His eyes flicked to your glass. “Whiskey? I wouldn’t have pegged you for the type.”
“And what type is that?” you asked, raising an eyebrow.
He leaned back slightly, his lips quirking into that trademark smirk. “The type who drinks whiskey alone in a bar and pretends they’re not thinking about work.”
You rolled your eyes. “Well, you’re wrong. I’m not thinking about work. I’m thinking about how nice it is to not deal with questions about lap times and tire strategies for five minutes.”
Jeonghan chuckled, signaling to the bartender for a drink. “Fair enough. Though, if memory serves, you’re usually the one asking those questions.”
“Occupational hazard,” you shot back. “And if memory serves, you’re usually the one avoiding them.”
“Touché.” He raised his glass when it arrived, a silent toast that you reluctantly mirrored with your own.
For a while, the conversation meandered through safer topics—Tokyo’s sights, the food, the insanity of race week—but there was an undercurrent of something sharper, a game of verbal ping-pong that neither of you seemed willing to let go of.
“You know,” Jeonghan said after a particularly clever jab from you about his less-than-stellar start in Australia, “I think I’ve finally figured you out.”
“Oh?” you asked, amusement dancing in your tone. “Do tell.”
“You act all cool and collected, but deep down…” He paused for dramatic effect, leaning in slightly. “…you love the chaos. You thrive on it.”
You narrowed your eyes at him, though a grin tugged at your lips. “And what about you, Mr. Reigning Champion? Aren’t you the one who said chaos is just part of the game?”
“True,” he admitted with a lazy shrug. “But I like to think I’m more strategic about it.”
“Strategic?” you echoed, incredulous. “You literally said ‘let them talk’ after crossing the finish line in Australia. That’s not strategy, Jeonghan—that’s reckless arrogance.”
He laughed, the sound low and warm, and you hated how it made your chest tighten just a little. “Maybe. But it keeps things interesting, doesn’t it?”
You didn’t respond, sipping your drink instead, determined not to give him the satisfaction of an answer.
Jeonghan tilted his head, his gaze flicking over you with a knowing glint. “This feels familiar.”
You raised an eyebrow, feigning indifference. “What does?”
“Let’s just say you have a knack for leaving me with something to think about,” he said casually, his fingers tracing the rim of his glass.
A flicker of amusement crossed your face. “Still losing sleep over it, Jeonghan?”
He leaned in, his voice dropping low, laced with mischief. “Not quite. But I’ve been wondering if you’re all talk or if you actually mean half the things you say.”
You smirked, leaning back just a little. “And what are you planning to do about it?”
He didn’t miss a beat. “Guess you’ll have to find out next time,” he said smoothly, signaling to the bartender and slipping his card onto the counter.
You frowned, catching on quickly. “Jeonghan, you don’t have to—”
“Of course I don’t,” he replied, his smirk growing as he leaned in just enough for his voice to drop, intimate and teasing. “But what kind of gentleman would I be if I didn’t treat you every now and then?”
“A terrible one,” you deadpanned, crossing your arms.
He chuckled, standing up and adjusting his jacket. “Always so quick with the comebacks.”
You tilted your head, not backing down. “And yet, here you are, still trying to keep up.”
He grinned, leaning down so his face was level with yours. “Oh, I’m not just keeping up, sweetheart. I’m leading.”
With that, he threw on his jacket, turning to leave, but not without one last playful remark. “Enjoy your night, Y/N. And next time…” He flashed a grin over his shoulder, his voice dipping lower. “Try putting that mouth of yours to better use.”
Your mouth dropped open, and you could hear his laugh as you watched him disappear into the neon-lit streets.
Damn him.
The Suzuka Circuit’s air was heavy with anticipation, the disappointment in Ferrari’s garage palpable. Jeonghan leaned against the barrier in the media pen, his crimson Ferrari suit contrasting with the growing dusk. Despite his relaxed posture, the tension radiating off him was hard to miss.
"Yoon Jeonghan," you began, stepping forward with your mic. "P11 today—your first time not making it to Q3 since your rookie season. What happened out there?"
His smile was thin, masking the fire simmering beneath. "Suzuka’s a tough circuit. I put in a solid lap, but in the end, it just wasn’t enough. A couple milliseconds make all the difference."
"Kim Mingyu of McLaren knocked you out in the dying seconds of the session," you pointed out, your tone as neutral as possible.
"Yeah, Mingyu had a great lap," he said, though his smirk betrayed a hint of frustration. "Kudos to him for that. It’s the nature of the game—sometimes you’re the one knocking others out, and sometimes you’re the one being knocked out."
You tilted your head, pressing just a little. "Ferrari’s upgrades were supposed to shine here at Suzuka. Do you think the car—or the driver—fell short today?"
His eyes met yours, sharp and knowing. "Is that your way of asking if I’m losing my edge?"
You smiled faintly. "Just doing my job, Jeonghan."
"And doing it well," he replied smoothly. "I’ll make sure to give you something better to write about tomorrow."
Yoon Jeonghan’s Q2 Knockout: A Sign of Ferrari’s Struggles or a Driver Underperforming?
Your analysis was live before the sun set over Suzuka, dissecting Jeonghan’s performance lap by lap:
"While Ferrari’s SF-24 showed promise in Q1, Jeonghan’s Q2 lap exposed cracks in execution. Hesitant braking into Spoon Corner cost him vital time, and a wide exit through Degner 2 raised questions about his confidence under high pressure. Kim Mingyu’s decisive lap in the McLaren only highlighted the contrast, leaving Ferrari fans wondering if Jeonghan can rebound from this rare stumble."
It didn’t take long for the article to ripple through the paddock—and reach its subject. The article was sharp, critical, with the same bite that you had become a household name for. And Jeonghan read every word.
He must have been an idiot to assume you would be kinder after the way he’d left you gobsmacked a few nights prior at the bar.
You had just wrapped up your interview with Mingyu, the day’s pole sitter, when Jeonghan found you.
"Got a minute?" he asked, voice deceptively light.
You glanced up, startled to find him so close, still in his Ferrari suit, his hair slightly damp from the cool-down lap.
"Something on your mind?" you replied, keeping your tone professional.
He didn’t bother with pleasantries. "That article."
You raised an eyebrow. "Specificity helps, you know."
He chuckled darkly. "The one where you ripped apart my Q2 performance like you’re a technical director." He took a step closer, and for the first time, the calm façade cracked - his smile didn’t reach his eyes. "Hesitant braking? Lack of confidence under pressure? You really think I’m losing my touch?"
"I think Suzuka demands perfection," you replied evenly. "And today, perfection wasn’t what we saw."
He let out a low laugh, shaking his head. "You love this, don’t you? Watching me stumble so you can tear me apart in print."
"Jeonghan," you said, straightening, "if you want me to write glowing reviews, give me something to work with."
"You should’ve mentioned how close I was to Mingyu’s time," he shot back.
"Close isn’t enough," you countered, coolly. "Not in this sport."
His eyes narrowed, and he stepped closer, his voice dropping to a low murmur. "Careful, sweetheart. Don’t let them think you’re this obsessed with me."
"Careful, Jeonghan," you shot back mockingly. "Sienna Hartley might not like hearing you get so worked up over me."
His hand shot out, catching your wrist before you could walk away. "Here’s an exclusive for you," he said, his voice sharp. "Me and Sienna? Not together."
You blinked, thrown off for just a moment before you schooled your expression. "Good to know. Now let go."
He released you immediately but lingered just long enough to murmur, "Don’t think this is over."
The Suzuka chaos worked in Jeonghan’s favor.
When the lights went out, Jeonghan’s start was perfect—clean, aggressive, calculated. By the first corner, he had already gained two places, capitalizing on a sluggish Alpine and threading the needle between a Williams and an AlphaTauri.
The midfield battle was fierce. Suzuka’s notorious esses demanded precision, and Jeonghan attacked them with surgical efficiency, his Ferrari responding like an extension of his own instincts. He overtook the Aston Martin of Lee Seokmin into Turn 11 with a move so bold the crowd audibly gasped.
Each pass felt like a small victory, but it wasn’t enough. The podium still felt miles away. His fingers tightened on the wheel as he navigated the sweeping Spoon Curve, catching a glimpse of the orange McLaren far ahead—Mingyu.
The memory of your post-quali interview slipped into his mind. Close isn’t enough. Not in this sport.
He exhaled sharply, forcing the thought away. Now wasn’t the time. Jeonghan approached Degner 2, the car planted firmly under him. He could feel the wear on his tires but knew he still had grip to spare. He glanced briefly at the digital display on his steering wheel, calculating the gap to the car ahead—P5, the Red Bull of Choi Seungcheol.
As he accelerated toward the Hairpin, your voice echoed in his head again. Hesitant braking. Confidence issues.
His jaw clenched. It wasn’t anger—it was something more complicated. Why did you always manage to get under his skin? He should’ve been focusing on tire wear, fuel management, or his next target, but instead, his mind betrayed him.
He thought of the way you’d smirked during the interview, how your tone had been sharp, almost daring. The way you’d walked away, leaving him with more to say.
Focus. He snapped himself back, braking perfectly into the Hairpin. The slip of attention hadn’t cost him, but it had been close. Too close.
A well-timed pit stop under a virtual safety car catapulted him to P4. He rejoined the track with fresh mediums, slicing through the field with an aggression that stunned even his team.
By Lap 40, he was staring down the rear wing of Kwon Soonyoung—his own teammate. The team’s radio lit up, the pit wall hesitating.
“Jeonghan, Soonyoung ahead on a different strategy. Keep it clean.”
He didn’t wait for a direct order. Into 130R, the fastest corner on the track, he swung to the outside. His car shuddered with the force of the maneuver, but he held his line, leaving Soonyoung no choice but to yield.
“P3, Jeonghan. You’re on the podium now. Great move.”
With only two laps to go, he was in P2, chasing Mingyu, who had a comfortable lead. Jeonghan knew catching him was impossible, but that wasn’t the point anymore. This was about proving something—to his team, the fans, and maybe even to you.
The Ferrari hummed beneath him, a symphony of power and precision. Every turn, every braking zone, every shift felt like redemption. When he crossed the line in P2, the roar of the crowd was deafening, but all he could hear was his own heartbeat.
The media room was packed, buzzing with questions for the podium finishers. You started with Mingyu, still glowing from his dominant victory.
“Kim Mingyu,” you began, “another win for McLaren. How does it feel to catch up to Jeonghan in the driver’s championship?”
Mingyu smiled, leaning into the mic. “It feels incredible. The car was perfect today, and the team did an amazing job. Credit to everyone back at the factory.”
Before you could move on to the next question, Jeonghan interjected from his spot.
“Must feel nice to start up front and stay there,” he quipped, his tone light but pointed.
Mingyu grinned, unfazed. “You would know, Jeonghan. But you kept me looking over my shoulder the whole time.”
The room chuckled, and you shot Jeonghan a warning glance, which he ignored entirely.
Later, when a question was directed at Jeonghan about his race recovery, his response was pointed. "Oh, you know. I’m pretty good at managing tire degradation. And I had a lot of people doubting me on this track specifically, so I had to prove them wrong too."
His gaze locked on yours as he delivered the last line, and the meaning wasn’t lost on you—or anyone else in the room.
Jeonghan barely made it three steps out of the press conference room before Soonyoung intercepted him, leaning casually against a stack of Pirelli tires like he had all the time in the world. The amusement on his face set Jeonghan’s internal alarms blaring.
“What the hell was that about?” Soonyoung asked, arms crossed in mock authority.
Jeonghan blinked, expertly schooling his expression into one of pure confusion. “What was what about?” he replied, his tone dripping with innocence.
“Oh, don’t even try to play dumb with me, Jeonghan. I know you too well.” Soonyoung’s grin widened as he stepped closer, his voice dropping conspiratorially. “You were doing something during that press conference. I’ve never seen you look that smug unless you’re—”
“I was answering questions,” Jeonghan interrupted smoothly, plucking a water bottle from the cooler without breaking his stride. He unscrewed the cap with deliberate calm, taking a slow sip. “That’s what press conferences are for, in case you forgot.”
Soonyoung squinted at him, unconvinced. “Right. And here I thought press conferences were for you to pretend you’re unbothered while delivering backhanded digs at Kim Mingyu.”
Jeonghan barely managed to keep a straight face, though he felt the tiniest flicker of pride. He had been particularly good with his barbs today. Still, there was no way he was admitting that. “Don’t project, Soonyoung,” he drawled. “Not everyone uses media day as therapy.”
Before Soonyoung could retort, a new voice joined the conversation.
“I know what it was,” said Kim Sunwoo, strolling up with the unshakable confidence of someone who didn’t yet understand how much trouble he was about to cause. The young mechanic had a smirk plastered on his face, the kind that made Jeonghan instinctively want to flee.
“You know what?” Jeonghan asked warily, his eyes narrowing.
“That look you had during the Q&A,” Sunwoo continued, leaning casually against a tool chest. “You were staring at her, man. Like, full-on laser focus. It’s like you were trying to send her a message.”
Jeonghan’s grip on the water bottle tightened. He felt his ears heat up but refused to let it show. “I was answering her question,” he said evenly. “It’s called eye contact. You should try it sometime—people like that sort of thing.”
But Sunwoo wasn’t done. “And don’t think we didn’t notice you getting all flustered when Mingyu’s name came up,” he added, his smirk widening.
“Flustered?” Jeonghan repeated, letting out a short, incredulous laugh. “Right. That’s definitely the word I’d use to describe me.”
“Come on, dude.” Sunwoo shrugged, undeterred. “Admit it. You’ve got a crush.”
The words hit like a sucker punch. Jeonghan froze mid-sip, choking slightly as the water went down the wrong way. He coughed, spluttering as Sunwoo and Soonyoung erupted into laughter.
“Alright,” Jeonghan said sharply once he’d recovered, pointing a finger at Sunwoo. “You’ve been spending too much time on TikTok. Get back to work before I have you polishing rims for the rest of the season.”
But Sunwoo only grinned wider, completely unbothered. “Jeonghan’s in loooove,” he teased, drawing out the word in a sing-song voice.
“I said that’s enough,” Jeonghan snapped, the slight pink tinge creeping up his neck completely betraying his forced composure. “Shouldn’t you be tuning an engine or something useful?”
Soonyoung, meanwhile, was doubled over laughing, clearly enjoying himself far too much. When he finally straightened, he clapped Jeonghan on the back. “Hey, don’t worry about it, man. If you need advice, just let me know. I’m great with women.”
Jeonghan groaned, brushing him off. “The day I take advice from you, Soonyoung, is the day I retire. He shoved past them toward his motorhome, muttering under his breath. “Insufferable. Both of you.”
But even as he slammed the door behind him, Jeonghan couldn’t stop the echo of Sunwoo’s words from rattling around in his head.
You’ve got a crush.
He scoffed aloud, shaking his head. “Ridiculous,” he muttered, tossing the water bottle onto the couch. But as he sank down beside it, arms crossed and jaw tight, he couldn’t quite stop himself from wondering.
Jeonghan didn’t want to be here.
The club pulsed with energy, a humid swirl of bodies pressing too close, the bass reverberating in his chest like a persistent headache. Strobe lights sliced through the haze, and the air smelled faintly of spilled drinks and cheap cologne. Somewhere in the chaos, Soonyoung had disappeared, leaving Jeonghan to fend for himself.
He’d been ready to make his exit the moment they walked in, but Soonyoung had insisted. “You need to loosen up, Jeonghan. Let the adrenaline from the race wear off. Have a drink, maybe dance.”Jeonghan had scoffed at the idea, knowing full well that his reason for not wanting to stay wasn’t exhaustion.
No, it was you.
Even when you weren’t in the room, you lingered in his mind like the ghost of a song he couldn’t stop humming. The podium had been a nice distraction. But now, surrounded by the chatter of strangers and the clinking of glasses, his thoughts drifted back to the press conference and the pointed, teasing look you’d given him when he spoke.
And then there was Mingyu—always Mingyu—whose name you’d said with just a little too much warmth. Jeonghan had pretended not to notice, but it had been impossible to ignore.
Shaking his head, Jeonghan pushed through the crowd, determined to leave. He had almost made it to the exit when someone collided into him, hard enough to send him stumbling forward.
“Whoa—watch it!” a voice slurred, sharp with irritation but unmistakably familiar.
He turned, already scowling, but the expression froze on his face when he saw you.
“Jeonghan?” you said, blinking up at him, your voice teetering between surprise and amusement. Your cheeks were flushed, lips curling into a slow smile as you adjusted your grip on the drink in your hand.
“You?” he blurted, his composure slipping for a fraction of a second.
“What are you—?” you started, only to trail off as a giggle bubbled out of you. Shaking your head like you were trying to clear it, you added, “Wow. Small world, huh?”
“I guess so,” Jeonghan said, his tone carefully even, though his gaze lingered on the way the dim light caught the sheen of your hair, the curve of your smile. His eyes dropped to your drink, then back to your face. “Are you drunk?”
“No,” you said, far too quickly, before adding with a sheepish laugh, “Okay, maybe. Just a little.”
The corners of his mouth twitched, threatening to curve into a smile. “Sure looks like it.”
You waved him off with a dramatic flourish, nearly spilling your drink in the process. “What are you doing here? Aren’t you supposed to be... I don’t know, brooding on a podium somewhere?”
He tilted his head, pretending to be affronted. “I don’t brood. And besides, this is a celebration.”
“Oh, right,” you said, stepping closer. Your gaze softened, and your voice dropped just enough to make the words feel like they were meant for him alone. “The big comeback.”
“Lots of doubters, huh?” you added, the slight slur in your voice doing nothing to dull the edge of your words.
Jeonghan blinked, caught off guard, before a chuckle escaped him. “Well, your article did the talking for you.”
For a moment, you just stared at him, your eyes a little too bright, your smile a little too slow. “What a way to get my attention, pretty boy.”
His breath caught, his carefully built façade cracking for just a second. “You think I’m pretty?”
Your lips parted, but before you could answer, a hand landed firmly on your shoulder.
“There you are!”
Jeonghan looked up to see one of your friends glaring at him as they steadied you. “I leave you alone for five minutes, and you’re... what? Flirting with Yoon Jeonghan now?”
“Not flirting,” you protested weakly, though your lopsided smile said otherwise.
Your friend wasn’t convinced, nor were they interested in his response. They tugged you into the crowd with an apologetic glance over their shoulder. “Sorry about her—she’s had a night.”
Jeonghan stayed rooted in place, his gaze following your retreating figure. His lips curved into a faint smile as your words replayed in his mind.
“What a way to get my attention,” he murmured to himself, shaking his head.
And yet, as he stood there, the thought struck him that maybe you’d already gotten his.
FORMULA 1 GRAND PRIX DE MONACO 2024Track: Circuit de Monaco
The paddock at Monaco was alive with its usual glitz and glamour, the unmistakable hum of anticipation hanging thick in the air. Cameras flashed, team personnel buzzed around, and the harbor glistened under the sun. Monaco, the crown jewel of the F1 calendar, had a way of amplifying everything—victories felt sweeter, defeats more crushing, and the stakes impossibly higher.
Jeonghan, fresh off securing pole position, had his usual air of nonchalance, but the glow of triumph was undeniable. The fans chanted his name; the cameras adored him. Yet as he stepped off the podium erected for the post-qualifying festivities, his sharp eyes caught sight of something—someone—that brought him up short.
You.
You were standing just beyond the throng of journalists, your press badge gleaming under the midday sun. It had been weeks since he’d last seen you, weeks since your sharp quips and piercing questions had filled the air between you like sparks on dry wood.
Those weeks had been… odd, to say the least. You’d been reassigned to cover Formula E, a shift Jeonghan had learned about only after noticing your absence at the paddock in China. He had played it cool, pretending it didn’t matter, but he had found himself seeking out your byline anyway—reading articles that had nothing to do with him or F1, just to feel the rhythm of your words.
Even the searing critiques you usually aimed at him had been sorely missed. It was maddening, really, how much quieter the world had felt without your fire.
Now, here you were again, back in the fray of Formula 1, as though no time had passed. Jeonghan’s expression remained casual, but his stride toward you was deliberate, cutting through the chaos of the paddock.
When he stopped in front of you, his smirk was already in place, a shield against the strange, unwelcome flutter of relief in his chest. “Where’ve you been?” he asked, tilting his head with practiced ease.
You looked up from your notebook, arching a brow at him. “Missed me, Jeonghan?”
“Yes,” he said simply.
The word landed between you like a drop of rain on hot asphalt, its simplicity taking you aback. Your lips parted slightly, caught off guard, and Jeonghan couldn’t help but notice how the sharpness in your gaze softened for a fraction of a second.
But then, as quickly as the moment arrived, he leaned in, his smirk deepening. “Someone had to keep the paddock interesting.”
You rolled your eyes, recovering your composure. “I see the Monaco air hasn’t done anything for your humility.”
“And I see Formula E hasn’t dulled your wit,” he shot back, stepping closer so the noise of the paddock faded slightly.
You shook your head, but there was a hint of a smile tugging at the corners of your lips. “You’ve done not too bad these past few races, huh?”
The comment was offhand, tossed in almost as a formality, but it hit Jeonghan harder than he expected. Compliments—genuine ones—were rare from you, and they stirred something unexpected in him.
Jeonghan blinked, the smirk faltering for just a second before he quickly replaced it with mock arrogance. “Not too bad?” he echoed, feigning offense. “I dominated in China, held my ground in Miami, and destroyed Emilia Romagna. Give me some credit here.”
For all his ego, Jeonghan knew he wasn’t wrong. He’d won China by a jaw-dropping 22.3-second margin, Mingyu so far behind that Jeonghan had time to deliver an entire thank-you speech over the radio before the McLaren driver even crossed the checkered flag. In Miami, even a grueling five-second stop-go penalty hadn’t stopped him; he finished P2 (behind Kim Mingyu, annoyingly) and picked up the extra point for the fastest lap, earning him Driver of the Day. And in Emilia Romagna, he was the clear favorite from the moment the race weekend began. The Tifosi were relentless, their cheers in the grandstands so deafening that Jeonghan could barely hear his engineer’s voice over the radio.
When he crossed the finish line first, the sea of red under the podium roared with such thunderous applause that his ears rang for hours afterward. In just three races, Jeonghan had cemented himself as the best contender for the 2024 World Champion.
And yet, somehow, it wasn’t as sweet without you there to write about it.
“Alright,” you said, meeting his gaze head-on. “You’ve been exceptional.”
The word struck like a sucker punch. For once, Jeonghan didn’t have a clever retort.
"Congrats on pole, Jeonghan," you said, your voice cool but sincere, offering him a small smile. It made his heart skip a beat.
Jeonghan’s lips twitched, amusement flickering in his eyes. "You called me exceptional."
You glanced up at him, closing your notebook with a flick of your wrist. The corner of your mouth quirked into a smirk. "Yes. Now, thoughts on pole?"
He's silent for so long that you politely clear your throat, hoping to cut through the sudden stillness. "Maybe this should be my headline for the day, Jeonghan. Monaco's Maze Leaves Golden Boy Spinning Out."
It's like someone doused him with ice water. His easy, sun-soaked posture stiffens, and the small smirk he'd been wearing evaporates.
You're still a journalist. He forgets that sometimes.
"Why do you do that?" he mutters, voice edged with something unfamiliar—disappointment, maybe.
You blink, caught off guard by the abrupt change in tone. “Do what?”
“That.” He gestures vaguely between you and the notebook tucked in your hand. The lenses of his sunglasses catch the sunlight, but there’s no mistaking the intensity behind them. His gaze pierces, searching for something in your expression. “Bringing the shitty headlines into every conversation."
You arch a brow, tucking the notebook closer to your chest as if shielding it from his line of sight. “Shitty? You mean accurate, Jeonghan.”
His jaw tightens, a subtle movement, but enough to draw your attention. There’s a faint crease forming between his brows now, and you realize it’s not your usual back-and-forth banter. “You know what I mean,” he mutters, voice low and barely audible over the hum of the paddock—the distant rumble of engines, the echo of voices, the clinking of tools in nearby garages.
For a moment, you’re at a loss. Jeonghan doesn’t let things like this bother him—or, at least, he’s always been good at pretending they don’t. His whole brand is carefree charm, a perpetual smirk, and the confidence of someone who knows he’ll always be the center of attention. This feels different.
“You’re upset about a headline?” you ask, genuinely curious now.
“It’s not about the headline.” His tone sharpens, but he stops himself, jaw clenching like he’s swallowing something bitter. He takes a slow, deliberate breath, his fingers brushing over the brim of his cap. When he speaks again, his voice is softer, tinged with something almost vulnerable. “It’s about how you never let up, even when it’s me.”
The admission lands heavily between you, unexpected and disarming.
You shift uncomfortably under the weight of his words, the way they seem to strip away the professional distance you’ve been clinging to. “Why should I?” you counter, keeping your voice steady despite the flicker of doubt creeping in. “You’re just another driver, Jeonghan.”
His laugh is short and humorless, cutting through the charged air between you. “Right. Just another driver.”
There’s something about the way he says it—low, almost resigned—that catches you off guard. The bitterness in his tone isn’t theatrical; it’s real, raw, and so at odds with the image he projects to the world.
You glance at him, searching for the Jeonghan you’re used to—the one who shrugs off criticism with a knowing grin, who always has a teasing retort ready. But for once, he’s not hiding behind a smirk or a cocky quip. He looks tired, the weight of his words pulling at the edges of his carefully maintained charm.
“Jeonghan,” you begin, unsure of what you’re even trying to say.
But he shakes his head, cutting you off before you can find the right words. “Forget it.”
He takes a step back, and it feels like a gulf opening between you. The mask of indifference slips back into place with practiced ease, but you’ve already seen the cracks. “You’ve got your job to do,” he says, his tone clipped and distant. “Make sure you spell my name right in that next ‘shitty headline.’”
You hate the way your chest tightens at his words, hate the instinctive urge to reach out and stop him as he turns to walk away, his figure retreating into the chaotic swirl of the paddock.
But you don’t.
Instead, you grip your notebook tighter, the edges digging into your palm as if the physical discomfort might drown out the ache building in your chest. The buzz of your phone in your pocket snaps you out of the moment. Grateful for the distraction, you pull it out to see a text from your editor: Post-qualifying article. Deadline: 6 PM.
Just another driver.
The words echo hollowly in your mind, unconvincing and painfully untrue.
Because the truth is, Jeonghan has never been just anything to you.
And that’s exactly why this is so damn complicated.
Jeonghan spends the night refreshing his Twitter feed.
He’s not sure what he’s waiting for, honestly.
Maybe it’s the rush of validation that comes from a clever reply, or the sting of criticism that reminds him he’s still human under the helmet. Or maybe it’s something else entirely—something he doesn’t want to name. The applause of the crowd is long gone, and the adrenaline from securing pole position hours earlier has settled into a restless hum. His phone feels heavier in his hand as he scrolls, tapping at random links and skimming comments that veer between praise and criticism.
The article finally pops up, your name bold and unmistakable at the top. His stomach tightens, a sensation he’ll never admit to anyone, least of all you.
He clicks it immediately.
The headline strikes first:
Kim Mingyu’s Risky Qualifying Lap Keeps Rivals on Edge
For a moment, he freezes, his eyes scanning the words again to make sure he didn’t misread.
Mingyu?
Confusion knots his brow as he scrolls down. The opening paragraph is a glowing analysis of Mingyu’s audacious lap—a near miss in the second sector, a masterful recovery in the final corners. The kind of detailed, evocative writing that Jeonghan knows you reserve for stories you care about.
Then, buried halfway through, he finds his name:
“Jeonghan, true to form, delivered a flawless lap to secure pole position. His consistency and precision were unmatched, placing him at the front of the grid for tomorrow’s race.”
That’s it.
No breakdown of his sector times, no mention of the deft control it took to navigate the tight Monaco corners under immense pressure. Just a single, clinical acknowledgment, overshadowed by Mingyu’s second-place drama.
Jeonghan stares at the screen, his thumb hovering over the refresh button. He doesn’t know what he was expecting—a parade in words? A headline with his name front and center?
It’s ridiculous, he tells himself. Pole position speaks for itself. It doesn’t need a poetic article to back it up.
But that doesn’t stop the irritation bubbling under his skin.
He tosses his phone onto the bed with a sigh, running a hand through his hair. His hotel room feels quieter than it should, the distant hum of the city barely seeping through the windows.
He can’t shake the feeling that you’re making a point. That this is your way of reminding him that while he might be the golden boy on the track, he doesn’t get special treatment in your world.
Not in your writing. Not from you.
It’s infuriating.
And yet, a part of him—one he’s unwilling to examine too closely—wants to know why you didn’t write more about him. Wants to know what he’d have to do to make you look at him the way you clearly look at Mingyu.
Not just another driver.
But the one worth writing about.
The morning of the Monaco Grand Prix dawned with the soft hum of engines filling the paddock and the gleaming streets of Monte Carlo radiating under a cloudless sky. Jeonghan arrived early, his customary calm masking the roiling anticipation beneath. Pole position was his—secured with a lap so clinical it had left his rivals chasing shadows. Yet, the sharp sting of your article still lingered, buried beneath layers of pride and annoyance.
By mid-morning, the paddock buzzed with tension. The Monaco circuit—narrow, unforgiving, and relentlessly demanding—left no room for error. Victory here wasn’t just about speed; it was about precision, strategy, and an unwavering mental edge. Jeonghan knew that all too well.
As he suited up, the familiar ritual steadied his thoughts. Helmet, gloves, fireproofs—each piece transformed him into the driver everyone expected him to be. His engineer’s voice crackled over the comms. “Focus on the start, Jeonghan. Turn One is everything.”
He gave a curt nod, stepping into the car. The roar of the crowd was muffled as the cockpit enveloped him. Lights on the dashboard blinked in sequence, a visual metronome syncing with his heartbeat.
The engine roars to life beneath Jeonghan as he settles into the cockpit, the familiar hum of the Monaco Grand Prix vibrating through the seat, up his spine, and into his very bones. His focus sharpens like a blade, the heat of the sun seeping through his visor, but he’s not thinking about the sweat trickling down his neck or the weight of the helmet that obscures his field of vision. He’s thinking of the laps he’s put in, of the sacrifice, the years of work that led him here, to this very moment, pole position in Monaco.
He has no illusions about the challenge ahead. This track has always favored the one at the front, especially when that one is someone as methodical and precise as Jeonghan. It’s not often that the pole sitter falters here. But that’s not what has his stomach in knots. It’s not the track or the other drivers. It’s you. The thought of your words, your perspective, your gaze.
What if this win isn’t enough? What if I’m still just another driver to you?
His grip tightens on the steering wheel, and for a moment, he considers the possibility of failing, of cruising through the race without the sharp, passionate energy that has always pushed him. What if he doesn’t even get the headline he’s chasing? What if all this effort amounts to nothing more than another expected victory, no deeper praise, no recognition?
He blinks, pushing the thought away. He can’t afford distractions. He’s here to win—nothing else matters.
The lights blink, one by one, before finally turning off, and he’s off, the car surging forward into the narrow streets of Monaco, engines screaming in unison. His concentration narrows, the noise of the crowd fading into the background. The first few laps are a blur of tactical moves, maintaining the lead, setting the pace. Behind him, Mingyu is close—too close—but Jeonghan has enough room, enough air to breathe.
The laps tick by, the gaps between drivers stretching and shrinking like the ebb and flow of a tide. In Monaco, you can’t make mistakes. The barriers are close enough to bite, and one slip-up could send everything into chaos. Jeonghan doesn’t think of that, though. He doesn’t think of the press, of his reputation, of the words hanging in the back of his mind.
What he thinks about is the win. The pure, simple joy of crossing that finish line first. He wants to feel the weight of the moment, of the accomplishment, and more than anything, he wants to look up and see you there—see that your words reflect the magnitude of this victory.
He holds the lead through the race, but it’s a quiet victory, one he can feel in his bones but doesn’t fully experience. The lap times are consistent, but nothing spectacular happens. No drama, no surprise overtake, no breathtaking maneuver.
It’s a clean, controlled victory—exactly what everyone expects from the driver in pole position.
By the time the checkered flag waves, Jeonghan crosses the line in first. The crowd erupts in cheers, but Jeonghan doesn’t feel the same rush of emotion. The thrill is absent, replaced instead by a deep, gnawing sense of doubt.
The win is his, but it feels like it’s already slipping away from his grasp.
In the post-race briefing, he sits with his team, nodding as they discuss tire strategies, pit stops, and the things that went right. But his eyes keep drifting to the back of the room, to where you stand, clipboard in hand, scribbling notes with focused intent. Every time he tries to catch your gaze, to make eye contact, you look away, as if determined to keep your distance.
It stings more than it should.
Jeonghan leans back in his seat, the weight of his helmet resting against his neck, the pressure of your indifference pressing down on him. He wants to reach out, wants to tell you that this win—this clean, controlled, expected win—deserves something more. But he stays silent, twisting the words in his mind, unable to voice the insecurity that’s suddenly consuming him.
The press conference follows the briefing, a whirlwind of questions, cameras, and flashing lights. The room is full of journalists, all clamoring for soundbites, all eager to discuss the expected result—Jeonghan, pole position, and now, victory. But Jeonghan doesn’t care about the usual congratulatory remarks. He’s waiting for something more. Something real.
When the article finally drops, hours later, he barely waits before pulling it up on his phone. He knows what it’s going to say, but still, the disappointment claws at his chest as he reads the headline.
Jeonghan Dominates Monaco: Pole Position Translates to Victory
His stomach twists, and he exhales sharply, trying to ignore the hollow feeling that spreads through him. It’s everything he expected—a result that leaves no room for admiration, no room for praise. Just the simple, obvious statement that he did what everyone expected him to do. The race was clean, flawless even, but there’s no depth to the words, no recognition of what it takes to win here, at Monaco, the most challenging track in the world.
The thought gnaws at him.
It’s not enough.
The press conference continues, the cameras flashing, but Jeonghan’s mind is far from the words he’s being asked to repeat. He’s not thinking about the team’s success, about the strategies that worked, or even about the crowd's cheers. His eyes find you across the room once again, but this time, you don't look away. Your gaze is fixed on something—anything—but not on him.
He can’t help but wonder if it’s because you don’t see him as more than just another driver. Just another one of the usual suspects who gets a win when it’s expected. He’s fighting for something more—something beyond the surface. But for now, it seems like that’s something he’ll never get from you.
He’s won Monaco. But in that moment, the victory feels like the hollowest thing in the world.
FORMULA 1 AWS GRAND PRIX DU CANADA 2024Track: Circuit Gilles Villeneuve
The Canadian Grand Prix feels like a blur. The rain starts as a light drizzle, but by the time the race begins, it’s pouring, transforming the circuit into a slippery mess. The slick track glistens under the flood of water, making the circuit treacherous, a spinning wheel of danger. The air is thick with the scent of wet asphalt, and there’s an ominous tension in the paddock, a murmur that hangs in the atmosphere as if everyone knows something bad is about to happen.
You catch sight of Jeonghan on the grid. He’s staring straight ahead, hands clasped behind his back, his posture perfect, like the picture of composure. But you can see it in his eyes—something flickers there, a mix of tension and determination. His car, finely tuned for dry conditions, isn’t built for this. The engineers have done what they can, adjusting the setup, but there’s only so much they can do when the weather turns so violently. You know this track—the Circuit Gilles Villeneuve—is not forgiving, and for someone like Jeonghan, a precision driver who thrives when everything falls into place, this is the worst-case scenario. He’s trying to keep his focus, but you can see the strain on his face, the pressure mounting with every passing moment.
The starting lights go out, and the cars roar off the grid, their engines screaming in defiance of the rain. Jeonghan’s car is sluggish in the first few laps. You see him fighting with the wheel, struggling to keep the car in line, each turn a reminder that the odds are stacked against him. The rain is only getting heavier, and the car, built for speed in perfect conditions, is no longer responsive, no longer the finely-tuned machine he’s so accustomed to. It’s like he’s driving a different car altogether.
As the laps tick by, the race feels like a slow-motion disaster, unfolding before your eyes. Jeonghan’s always been skilled in the wet, but this is different—this is more than just rain. This is a mechanical mismatch, an impossible task to overcome. You watch him push, trying to find any way to make up time, but it’s clear he’s just not able to. The car slides wide through the corners, the back end kicking out as he struggles to maintain control. His frustration is palpable, his jaw clenched, his hands gripping the wheel with white-knuckled intensity.
And then, it happens.
The rear end of Jeonghan’s car breaks loose as he enters Turn 6, and for a moment, it’s a dance of power and precision, a flick of the wheel, an attempt to save it. But it’s futile. The car loses traction, and before you can even process it, he’s in the barriers. The sound of impact is like a gut punch, a sickening crunch that sends a wave of dread through you. The crowd's collective gasp is drowned out by the static crackle of his radio.
“Jeonghan, do you copy?” The voice of his engineer is urgent, panicked, but there’s no mistaking the defeat in it when the response comes through. Jeonghan’s voice is clipped, emotion stripped away in favor of the cold reality.
“I’m out. Car’s done.”
The message is simple, the weight of it crashing down on you. The race is over. Lap 30. The dream, the chance to prove himself in a season that’s been anything but easy, has slipped away, drowned by the rain.
You feel like you’ve been punched in the gut. It’s a loss for Jeonghan, but it feels like a loss for you too. Not because of the race itself, but because of the frustration you saw in his face. The disappointment. The feeling of helplessness. It’s all there, and it hits you harder than you expect.
He doesn’t speak to anyone after. He doesn’t go to the media pen, doesn’t stand in front of the cameras for the obligatory interview. There’s no deflection, no distractions. He’s just... gone. You barely see him in the paddock. He doesn’t even go to the Ferrari garage to debrief with his team. He disappears into the background, like he’s trying to erase himself from the scene altogether, retreating into the shadows, avoiding the world that’s waiting to cast its judgment.
And you? You stay away too. The press room feels suffocating, the questions ringing in your ears as you try to focus. You write your piece, a cold, sharp report about the race and Jeonghan’s crash, a clinical dissection of what went wrong. But something feels hollow as you type. The words don’t flow the way they used to. They’re just words, strung together to meet the deadline, to give the readers what they want. It’s not about the story anymore. It’s not about the race. It’s about the loss.
You can’t shake the image of Jeonghan crashing out, of his frustration written in every line of his face, every motion of his hands. You can’t forget the way he looked when he climbed out of the car, shoulders slumped, as if the weight of the world had suddenly fallen onto him. His eyes are distant, like he’s already checked out, retreating into himself. It’s a look you’ve seen before, but it’s sharper now, more pronounced. He’s carrying something, a burden that you don’t understand, a burden you’re not sure you can even help him carry.
But all you can do is write. And even that doesn’t feel like enough.
FORMULA 1 ARAMCO GRAN PREMIO DE ESPAÑA 2024
Track: Circuit de Barcelona-Catalunya
The Spanish Grand Prix feels different from the moment you step out of the car, the heat oppressive, the air thick with anticipation and the inevitable tension of the weekend. The usual rhythm of the paddock is off-kilter, heightened by the suffocating summer heat, the burning sun beating down on every exposed surface. The heat is more than just physical; it's palpable in the way the drivers move, in the clipped tones of the engineers, in the quiet buzz of conversation that flickers out like static.
But even through the sticky, heavy air, the tension feels electric—charged, ready to snap. The circuit is a challenge in itself, and the drivers know it. There’s no room for error here—just wide, hot tarmac and the constant pressure of chasing that perfect lap.
You’ve done your best to avoid Jeonghan, kept a comfortable distance as much as possible. But there’s something about the way he carries himself now—an edge that wasn't there before. It’s sharp, biting, and yet there’s an underlying vulnerability that makes everything harder to ignore.
When qualifying results flash up, you’re caught off-guard. Soonyoung is on pole, Mingyu in second, and Jeonghan… Jeonghan is in third.
Jeonghan strides into the paddock after qualifying, his face carefully composed, but there’s a look in his eyes—something sharp, something that makes you hesitate. You haven’t spoken in days, not since Canada, not since he shut you out. You’ve been avoiding him, and he’s been avoiding you, but you both know the silence can’t last forever.
You’re standing near the media area when he approaches, and for a moment, it feels like the world holds its breath. The slight tilt of his head, the way his gaze flicks over your shoulder, pretending not to care, but you see through it.
"Don't do this," he says, his voice tight, but it's not the playful teasing you’ve grown used to. It’s something darker. Something tired.
"Don’t do what?" you snap, your patience running thin. "Pretend everything’s fine?"
His jaw clenches, eyes narrowing. "You’ve been avoiding me. Why? Because of Canada?"
You blink. The question hits harder than you expect, and you struggle to keep your composure. “You expect me to just forget what happened? You were fine after the crash, Jeonghan. You didn’t even bother with the press. I can’t just pretend that wasn’t... anything.”
The words come out sharper than you intend, and for a split second, you regret it. You see the way his shoulders stiffen, the brief flicker of pain in his eyes before he masks it with that carefully constructed indifference.
"Maybe I didn’t want to deal with your harsh words," he snaps, taking a step closer. “Maybe I’m tired of being the perfect driver for you, the one who’s supposed to be good enough to meet your standards. But I’m not—am I?"
Your chest tightens at the accusation, at the sudden rawness in his voice. "You think I’m too harsh? You think I’m just waiting for you to be perfect all the time?" You laugh, bitter and self-deprecating. "That’s what this is about? You crashing out wasn’t because of me. I write the truth, Jeonghan. And maybe the truth is you didn’t have the car for that race. It was out of your control."
His expression darkens, and you see that familiar flash of anger—one you’ve seen more times than you care to admit. "No," he hisses, taking another step toward you. "The truth is, you're so wrapped up in your narratives, you forget that I’m human. You forget that I have feelings too, and that maybe... maybe I wanted to do this for myself, not for some headline or some article. But you... you don’t see me that way, do you? You see me as another story, another fucking headline to dissect. Just another driver."
His words cut deeper than anything else could, and the final crack in your restraint breaks wide open. You can feel the heat rising in your chest, the tightness in your throat, the way your breath hitches.
“You want me to treat you differently?” you bite back, furious, stepping into his space. “You want me to hold your hand and tell you it’s okay every time you fail? Because you’re so tired of being just another driver? Well, you know what, Jeonghan? I am tired. I’m tired of trying to keep this professional, of pretending that I’m not watching the same guy who couldn’t even handle his own crash. You don’t get to demand better treatment from me when you can’t even handle the heat.”
For a moment, neither of you move, and the silence is thick, charged with the weight of your words.
He stares at you, eyes dark, chest rising and falling with ragged breaths. You’re both too close now, caught in this space where words are weapons, and you’re both bleeding out.
Finally, Jeonghan turns away, his expression unreadable, but you can see the tightness in his back, the way his jaw works, like he’s holding something back. "Maybe you should stop writing about me altogether," he mutters, his voice rough, before stalking off, leaving you standing there, heart pounding and chest aching.
For a moment, you stand frozen, caught between regret and relief, between the anger that still simmers beneath your skin and the sudden emptiness that creeps in now that he's gone.
The moment Jeonghan storms off, leaving you standing there with a surge of anger and a pounding heart, you don't realize someone’s been listening. But someone has. The faint click of a camera, barely audible over the sound of your pulse, is enough to make you pause. You turn, instinctively, to see a familiar face from the gossip side of the paddock. It's Soojin, a reporter known for getting the juiciest bits of drama and twisting them into scandalous headlines. She’s got a camera in one hand, her phone in the other, furiously typing something into it with a smirk that sends an uncomfortable ripple through your gut.
Before you can say anything, she’s already gone, blending back into the throng of people milling around the paddock, her steps quick and sure. The damage has been done. You know it, and the prickling sensation in the pit of your stomach tells you that it’s about to get a lot worse.
By the time you’ve made it back to the media center, the storm has already hit. Your Twitter feed is flooded with the words “Trouble in Paradise?”, and the accompanying photos. The images are damning—Jeonghan’s angry face, red with emotion, and your own flushed, furious expression, both of you screaming at each other in the middle of the paddock. There’s no context, no explanation, just the raw emotion, raw enough to sell.
The headline isn’t even what stings. It’s the comments that follow. Speculation, assumptions, and a flood of opinions. Some call it a lover’s quarrel, some assume the worst, but most seem content to paint the picture of two people on the verge of breaking. It’s not just your name that gets dragged through the mud; it’s Jeonghan’s too. Both of you, caught in a perfect storm of emotions and bad timing. The last thing either of you needs.
You try to shut it out, but it’s impossible. The text messages from your editor come through, asking for a statement. Your phone rings with calls from the PR team, from your colleagues, and even from your friends, who all seem to know about the situation before you’ve even had a chance to process it yourself.
And then, just when you think it couldn’t get worse, the email comes. It’s from Ferrari’s PR team, and it’s almost too professional to be true:
Dear Y/N,
In light of the recent events surrounding your interactions with Mr. Yoon Jeonghan, we would like to offer you full access to the Ferrari garage for the remainder of the season. This will provide you with the opportunity to write an in-depth feature on the team, showcasing the work and dedication that goes into each race weekend. We believe this move will allow for a clearer perspective on the situation and help ensure that your reporting reflects the true nature of the team and its drivers.
We look forward to your continued coverage.
Best regards,
Ferrari PR Team
It’s a calculated move—a distraction, a chance to smooth things over. And you know it. The message is clear: everything must look fine. Everything must be fixed, packaged neatly for the media and the fans to consume. You’re a pawn in a much bigger game, and they’re making sure you play along.
At first, you think about refusing. You think about how everything feels so wrong right now. About how the image of you and Jeonghan, caught in the heat of an argument, is being used to feed the frenzy. But the PR team doesn’t leave room for argument. You know that declining would only escalate things further, make them harder to fix.
So, you agree.
The access starts almost immediately. They give you a full tour of the Ferrari garage, show you the inner workings of the team, introduce you to the engineers, the strategists, the pit crew. You’re given permission to write about the team’s strategy, their behind-the-scenes preparation, but there’s always a sense that you're being watched—every move, every word.
You can’t help but notice Jeonghan’s absence. Every time you walk through the garage, he’s not there. The driver who once greeted you with a cocky smile and a teasing remark, the one who always found a way to make you laugh, is nowhere to be found. It’s like he’s vanished, swallowed by the thick wall of Ferrari’s PR machine.
It’s as if nothing is real anymore. The false smiles, the calculated interviews, the way the drivers exchange glances with a rehearsed ease. The more you observe, the more you realize how much of this world is a performance, a show put on for the audience, with no room for anything real. It all feels like it’s slipping through your fingers, leaving you with nothing but an empty, fragile façade.
Still, you’re expected to keep writing, to deliver the polished pieces the team expects. You’re supposed to put the headline “TROUBLE IN PARADISE?” behind you and focus on the carefully constructed narrative. So, you do. For now.
But even as you walk the pits, breathing in the scent of burnt rubber and sweat, there’s a quiet ache in the back of your mind. The truth is, you don’t know how much longer you can keep pretending that everything is fine.
Not when you still feel Jeonghan’s words hanging in the air between you, like the remnants of a storm that’s yet to pass. Not when you still want, with everything in you, to be able to fix it.
And maybe that’s the problem.
The crash happens so quickly, so violently, that it almost feels unreal. One moment, the tell-tale red of Jeonghan’s car is cutting through the circuit with his signature precision. The next, it’s a twisted mess of metal and rubber, skidding off the track, his car spinning wildly as Lee Seokmin’s Aston Martin clips him just before the tight corner at Turn 14. You watch it all unfold from the pit wall, your heart stopping for a brief second as the sound of the crash echoes through the air.
There’s a collective gasp from the crew around you, followed by the frantic chatter of engineers and strategists, trying to process what just happened. You can see the smoke rising from the wreckage, and your breath catches when the marshals begin to swarm the car, signaling that Jeonghan is still inside.
The radio crackles to life, but Jeonghan’s voice doesn’t come through. For a second, it feels like time slows down. The pit wall is a blur of motion, but you’re frozen, eyes locked on the track, praying for him to be okay.
Then, finally, the confirmation comes: “Jeonghan is out of the car. He's fine. We'll move him to the medical center.”
A wave of relief washes over you, but it’s short-lived. The weight of the crash—his crash—still hangs in the air, and it’s clear from the looks of the Ferrari crew that no one knows exactly what went wrong. The tension in the paddock is palpable, and as you’re given full access to the debriefing room afterward, the atmosphere is thick with unspoken frustration.
Jeonghan walks in with that same seething expression he had after the crash, and the room goes silent. His eyes are red-rimmed, his jaw clenched, the kind of anger that’s so deep it can’t be shaken by anything or anyone. His usual confident swagger is replaced by a taut, barely contained rage that makes it hard for anyone to even breathe in his presence. His voice, when he speaks, is sharp, cutting through the room like a knife.
“You think this is a joke?” he snaps, looking at his team with a glare so intense it’s almost suffocating. His fists are balled at his sides, his shoulders tense with barely controlled fury.
The debriefing begins, but it’s clear that no one knows how to handle him. His coach tries to keep things calm, but Jeonghan's sharp words only make the tension worse. The rest of the team sits in silence, unsure of what to say, how to fix the situation. His eyes never leave the table, his posture rigid, as though every part of him is fighting the urge to storm out.
The meeting goes in circles—strategies discussed, what went wrong, how to move forward—but nothing seems to land. Jeonghan doesn’t want to hear it. He doesn’t want to listen to anyone right now. His frustration is palpable, and it’s clear this crash, this failure, has broken something inside of him.
When he finally stands, his chair scraping harshly against the floor, there’s an air of finality to it. Without another word, he storms out, leaving a tense silence in his wake. No one dares to speak, knowing that anything they say would be pointless. The door slams shut, and the meeting disbands soon after.
But you don’t leave. You don’t really have anywhere to go. Not yet.
You make your way to the Ferrari canteen, your footsteps echoing in the empty corridors. It’s one of those rare moments when you’re not chasing a headline, not following the usual routine, and the monotony of it all feels like a relief. You order two beers without thinking. You don’t need two, but for some reason, it feels right. Maybe it’s the adrenaline still coursing through your veins from the crash, or maybe it’s just the weight of everything—the pressure, the disappointment, the simmering frustration with Jeonghan that you haven’t had the chance to process yet. The beers are cold, the glass bottles slick with condensation, and when you walk outside to the grandstands, you find him.
Jeonghan is sitting alone, his back against the metal railing, the crowd long gone. The air is warm, the kind of summer heat that clings to your skin and makes everything feel a little heavier. His eyes are closed, his head tipped back as he stares at the sky, and for a moment, you wonder if he even notices you approaching.
Without saying a word, you sit beside him, the soft crunch of your shoes against the gravel the only sound in the stillness. You don’t offer him a drink immediately. Instead, you hold the bottles in your hands, feeling the chill seep into your palms, letting the silence stretch between you.
Finally, after what feels like an eternity, you hand him one of the beers. He doesn’t look at you, but you catch the faintest shift in his posture, a soft hum of acknowledgement as he accepts it, cracking the cap with a quick twist.
“Jeonghan,” you say, breaking the silence, your voice quieter than you expect it to be. He doesn’t respond immediately, his eyes still fixed on the horizon. You take a sip of your own beer, the bitter taste grounding you in the moment. You can feel the tension that’s been building between you both, the weight of the unspoken words, but for now, you can’t bring yourself to make him speak.
Then he does. “Full access, huh?” His voice is rough, the teasing edge to his words gone, replaced by something heavier. The bitterness is unmistakable. “You must be thrilled, getting to see me crash out in front of the entire team.”
You almost choke on your beer. You can’t tell if he’s being sarcastic or genuinely hurt, but it stings regardless.
“I’m not,” you say quickly, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand. You wish he would look at you, but he’s staring straight ahead, his jaw still tight, muscles still coiled like a spring. "I don’t want that, Jeonghan. What don’t you get?"
“No?” He tilts his head slightly, but his gaze stays fixed. “I would think Miss Scathing Articles would relish the chance to tear me down again.”
A sharp retort sat on your tongue, but you swallowed it. There was no point. Instead, you looked away, focusing on the distant horizon where the racetrack lay, bathed in the golden light of the setting sun. "I don’t," you said quietly. "I’m not interested in tearing you down. I never have been."
Jeonghan’s laugh was hollow, almost like a scoff. "Color me surprised."
A beat passed between you both, the air thick with unspoken words. You took a sip of your beer, now lukewarm and slightly flat, but it didn’t matter. Neither of you had the luxury of pretending everything was fine anymore.
He finally turns to you, his eyes meeting yours; there’s something in the way he looks at you—raw, vulnerable, almost like he’s waiting for the punchline of some cruel joke.
“I’m sorry,” you say after a long silence, your voice softer this time, barely above a whisper. You’re not sure if he hears you, but he looks at you with an expression that makes you feel like you’ve just stepped into a minefield.
He doesn’t say anything right away. Instead, he exhales a long breath, rubbing his forehead with his fingers as though the weight of it all is finally catching up to him. The tension between you hangs heavy in the warm summer air, the quiet hum of distant cicadas filling the space where words should be. Jeonghan takes another sip of his beer, the bottle pressed lightly against his lips as though it might cool the heat simmering under his skin. He looks tired—no, more than tired. Worn down. The type of exhaustion that no amount of sleep could fix.
“You don’t have to apologize,” he says finally, the words coming out uneven, almost like they’re foreign on his tongue. His voice is softer now, missing the sharp edges that had cut into you moments before. “You were just doing your job.”
“Jeonghan,” you start, but he holds up a hand, silencing you.
“No, really.” He forces a thin smile, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. It’s the kind of expression you’ve seen him use in press conferences—a shield, practiced and perfect. “You’re here because Ferrari told you to be. Because someone thought it’d be a great PR move. You don’t owe me anything beyond that.”
The words sting, even though you know they shouldn’t. He’s not wrong. This isn’t your world, not really. But you can’t help the knot tightening in your chest as you watch him retreat into himself, the walls going up before your eyes.
“I’m not here because they told me to be,” you say quietly, your voice steady despite the lump in your throat. “I’m here because I wanted to be. Because I saw the crash, Jeonghan, and I—” You stop, swallowing hard as the memory flashes behind your eyes again. The twisted metal, the plume of smoke, the moment you thought—
“I was scared,” you admit, your voice cracking slightly. “Not as a journalist. Not as someone with a job to do. As someone who—” Jeonghan’s gaze snaps to you, his eyes narrowing slightly, but there’s something vulnerable there, too, something unguarded.
You don't finish the sentence.
Jeonghan watches you closely now, his beer suspended mid-air, forgotten. The sharpness in his gaze softens, replaced by something else—curiosity, maybe, or an unease he doesn’t quite know how to address.
The air between you feels heavy, suffocating in its quiet. You can still hear the faint echoes of the crash in your mind, the awful screech of metal against asphalt, the split-second horror of thinking you’d just seen him—
He sets the bottle down with a soft clink against the railing, breaking the spell.
“Scared, huh?” His voice is quieter now, and there’s a touch of disbelief, as though he’s trying to decide whether to accept your words or dismiss them.
You nod, throat tightening as you try to push through the lump that’s settled there. “Terrified,” you admit, the word feeling foreign and vulnerable on your tongue. “Not because of what I’d have to write, but because I thought—” You bite down on the rest of the sentence, unwilling to say it aloud.
Jeonghan exhales, long and slow, his shoulders relaxing slightly as he leans back against the railing. “I’m fine,” he says eventually, the words flat and unconvincing. He glances at you, his lips pressing into a faintly wry smile. “A little bruised. A little pissed. But I’m fine.”
It’s not enough to untangle the knot in your chest, but it’s a start. You nod, not trusting yourself to say anything else.
He finishes his beer in a few swallows, the motion oddly decisive, before standing and brushing off his pants. For a moment, you think he’s about to leave without another word, the tension between you both left unresolved.
But then he turns, holding out a hand toward you. His expression is unreadable, but there’s a faint curve to his lips that feels almost... playful.
“Friends?” he asks, tilting his head slightly, his hair falling into his eyes. “If you’re going to be hanging around the garage all season, might as well, y’know?”
You blink at him, taken aback. The man who’d stormed out of the debriefing room in a fit of rage, who’d spat barbs at you moments ago, now stood here offering a truce like it was the easiest thing in the world.
“Friends,” you echo, narrowing your eyes as you take his hand. It’s warm, his grip firm but not overbearing, and for a fleeting second, you wonder if this is another performance—an act to keep you at arm’s length.
But when he pulls you to your feet, there’s something genuine in his expression, something almost relieved.
“You better not make me regret this,” he says, letting go of your hand as he shoves his now-empty beer bottle into your other one. “And don’t think this means you’re off the hook for the shit you wrote.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” you mutter, rolling your eyes as he smirks.
For the first time all day, the knot in your chest loosens just slightly. You follow him back toward the paddock, your steps lighter than they’ve been in weeks.
And for now, that’s enough.
FORMULA 1 QATAR AIRWAYS AUSTRIAN GRAND PRIX 2024Track: Red Bull Ring
The Red Bull Ring stretches out before you like a postcard of precision. Nestled in the Austrian hills, the track gleams under the soft morning sun, its curves and straights inviting the first roar of engines. The garage is alive with motion—engineers bent over laptops, mechanics tightening bolts, and the hum of anticipation that comes with any race weekend.
You step into the Ferrari garage, an interloper in a sea of red. Jeonghan’s car gleams in its designated spot, pristine and ready, as though it hadn’t been a crumpled wreck just a week ago. The team works around it like a well-oiled machine, barely sparing you a glance. You’re supposed to be here, technically, but that doesn’t stop the slight twinge of unease as you find a quiet corner near the monitors.
“Back again?”
The voice is unmistakable, light and teasing. You turn, and there he is: Yoon Jeonghan in his fireproofs, the sleeves tied around his waist, his white undershirt faintly clinging to his frame. He looks every bit the picture of calm, like he hasn’t spent the past few days fielding press questions about his crash.
“Didn’t think you’d miss the chance to watch me run into someone,” he adds, smirking as he adjusts his gloves.
You raise an eyebrow. “Is this your way of saying you’re aiming for Aston Martin?”
He laughs, a real laugh this time, and it’s startling how much it changes the air around you. “Not today. But I’ll keep you updated if Seokmin starts driving like a rookie again.”
“Careful, Jeonghan,” you shoot back, crossing your arms. “I might put that in my next article.”
He leans casually against the wall, his dark eyes scanning your face with an intensity that’s become familiar in the past few weeks. But there’s no edge to it today, no armor. Just him, relaxed and—for once—almost easygoing.
“You’re not as scary as you think you are,” he says after a beat, his voice low enough that the hum of the garage nearly drowns it out.
You roll your eyes, but you can’t stop the grin that creeps onto your face. “And you’re not as charming as you think you are.”
He tilts his head, considering this like it’s the most interesting thing he’s heard all day. “Fair. But you’re still here, aren’t you?”
“Purely professional,” you quip, ignoring the way his smirk grows.
Before he can reply, the engineer by the monitors calls him over, gesturing to the screen. Jeonghan holds up a finger, signaling for a moment, then turns back to you.
“Stay out of trouble, yeah?” His voice is lighter now, teasing but not in the way that cuts. It feels natural, like banter between...well, maybe not quite friends. Not yet. But something close.
You shrug, watching as he walks toward his team, the confidence in his stride unmistakable. The tension that had lingered after the crash feels like it’s finally begun to dissolve, replaced by something steadier. Not quite trust, but something adjacent.
As you settle into the corner, notebook in hand, you can’t help but glance at him every so often. On the surface, it’s just another practice session, another day at the track. But for the first time in weeks, it feels like something close to normal.
FORMULA 1 QATAR AIRWAYS BRITISH GRAND PRIX 2024Track: Silverstone Circuit
Silverstone roars to life under a blazing sun, the grandstands filled to capacity with fans waving flags and wearing team colors. The overcast sky has burned off, leaving the track shimmering under the summer sun. It’s one of the biggest stages of the season, and Jeonghan delivers a masterclass in qualifying, the finely tuned Ferrari underneath him responding to every input like an extension of himself. The sharp smell of rubber and fuel lingers in the air, mingling with the adrenaline coursing through his veins.
He’s back.
The final lap times on the leaderboard tell the story: pole position. Ferrari’s garage is electric with celebration, engineers clapping each other on the back, a cheer rising when Jeonghan steps into the swarm of red. His team surrounds him, hands gripping his shoulders, voices shouting praise over the din.
He grins, wide and unguarded, the weight of the last few weeks lifting ever so slightly. Spain and Canada had shaken him, but this—this feels like a reckoning. Proof that the mistakes and setbacks weren’t the whole story.
“Perfect lap, Jeonghan,” his engineer says, beaming as he hands him a water bottle.
He nods in acknowledgment, taking a swig, his heart still racing as he glances around the paddock. The sun is high now, glinting off the sleek curves of the cars lined up in parc fermé. Jeonghan’s gaze sweeps over the crowd, soaking in the energy—until he sees you.
You’re standing just outside the McLaren garage, the vibrant orange of their branding a stark contrast to the reds and blacks of his world. You’re leaning against a barrier, the breeze tugging at your hair as you laugh at something Mingyu says. Your face is so open, so full of light, that it’s almost magnetic.
Mingyu gestures animatedly, clearly in the middle of some ridiculous story, his grin as wide as the Cheshire Cat’s. You throw your head back with a laugh, and Jeonghan feels a tightness in his chest he can’t quite place.
The joy that had filled him moments ago flickers.
Why does it bother him?
The thought lingers as he watches you, his water bottle dangling forgotten in his hand. Jeonghan isn’t used to this kind of gnawing discomfort. He’s competitive, sure, but this is something else entirely.
Jealousy.
The sun is lower in the sky when he finds you, his long strides purposeful as he weaves through the paddock. The golden hour light makes everything seem softer, but Jeonghan’s mood is anything but. His thoughts from earlier have been simmering, the warmth of victory eclipsed by a frustration he can’t shake.
You’re leaning against a railing, scrolling on your phone when he approaches.
“Shouldn’t you be in the Ferrari garage?” he says, his tone sharper than he intends.
You blink up at him, startled. “I was just catching up with Mingyu.”
Jeonghan crosses his arms, his brow furrowing. “Funny. I thought you were doing a full-access piece on Ferrari, not McLaren.”
There’s something in his voice—an edge that sets your teeth on edge. “I am,” you reply slowly, standing up straighter. “What’s this about?”
He steps closer, his eyes narrowing. “Is that why your articles about Mingyu are always glowing? What, are you sleeping with him?”
The accusation is like a slap, cutting through the air with a harshness that leaves you stunned.
Your expression shifts, disbelief giving way to anger. “Are you serious right now?”
Jeonghan doesn’t respond immediately, his jaw tight. The regret in his eyes is fleeting, buried under the weight of his own misplaced frustration.
“You don’t get to talk to me like that,” you snap, your voice trembling with fury. “It’s always one step forward, two steps back with you, Jeonghan.”
His lips part as if to reply, but you don’t wait for him to dig himself deeper. You storm off, your footsteps echoing against the paddock floor. The sting of his words lingers, but so does the look on his face as you walk away.
Jeonghan stands there, watching you go, the tension in his shoulders giving way to a sinking feeling in his stomach. He knows he’s crossed a line, and the weight of his own stupidity settles heavily over him.
The knock on your hotel room door comes before sunrise, soft but insistent. You groan, burying your face in your pillow before dragging yourself to the door.
When you open it, the hallway is empty. But at your feet sits a bouquet wrapped in crisp white paper, tied with a simple satin ribbon.
Roses. Soft blush pink, their petals perfectly unfurled, paired with delicate sprigs of baby’s breath.
The arrangement is beautiful, almost heartbreakingly so, the kind of bouquet that feels like a story in itself. You crouch to pick it up, your fingers brushing over the velvety petals. The faint, sweet scent of roses fills the air, mixing with the crisp morning chill that seeps into the hallway.
Nestled among the flowers is a small envelope.
You pull it out, your thumb brushing over the edge of the paper as you open it. Inside, scrawled in a slightly messy hand that’s unmistakably Jeonghan’s, are two simple words:
I’m sorry.
You glance down the hallway instinctively, half-expecting to see him lingering in the shadows. But it’s empty, as silent as it was before you opened the door.
You stand there for a moment longer, the bouquet in your arms and the note trembling slightly in your fingers. The apology feels heavier than the flowers, weighted by the memory of his words from yesterday.
He didn’t need to apologize like this, you think. He could have texted, could have mumbled something in passing when you inevitably crossed paths today. But instead, he’d gone to the trouble of figuring out your favorite flowers—roses and baby’s breath, a detail you don’t even remember telling him.
The realization stirs something in you, softening the edges of your anger.
The roses sit on the desk as you get ready for the day, the baby’s breath adding a delicate touch to the arrangement. The card leans against the vase, its two-word apology a quiet presence in the room.
Somewhere in the city, Silverstone is waking up, the air already buzzing with anticipation for the race. But here, in the stillness of your hotel room, you take a moment to breathe, to let the gesture sink in.
Jeonghan’s voice echoes faintly in your mind, the memory of yesterday’s confrontation still fresh. And yet, as you glance at the roses again, the sting of his words begins to dull, replaced by something softer, something not yet ready to be named.
The pre-race buzz was electric. The roar of engines echoed faintly in the distance, a constant backdrop to the paddock’s chaotic rhythm. Mechanics zipped between garages, reporters hustled to get last-minute quotes, and fans outside the barricades chanted their favorite drivers’ names. Amid all this, your footsteps fell heavy against the asphalt, your target in sight: Yoon Jeonghan.
There he was, leaning against the nose of his red Ferrari, his race suit a striking flash of scarlet that caught the sunlight and made him look annoyingly pristine for someone who had caused you so much grief. He was chatting with an engineer, that easy, charming smile plastered on his face like he hadn’t thrown baseless accusations your way less than 24 hours ago.
You marched toward him, purpose sharpening your steps. The bouquet from this morning was still vivid in your mind—blush pink roses, soft and elegant, their delicate petals almost glowing against the green of the baby’s breath, a stark contrast to the seething frustration you still carried. And the note—just two infuriatingly simple words—burned in your pocket, a reminder of the apology you hadn’t quite accepted yet.
“Jeonghan,” you called, your voice cutting through the low hum of conversation around you.
He glanced up, his casual demeanor faltering for a split second when he saw you. Then, like a switch had flipped, his smile returned. “Oh, hey.”
You stopped a foot away, crossing your arms tightly over your chest. “How did you know my favorite flowers?”
His lips quirked into a faint smirk, and he leaned ever so slightly against the car, as if the conversation were a game he’d already won. “Oh good, they got delivered to the right room.”
“Jeonghan,” you said, your tone sharper now, “don’t deflect.”
“Deflect what?” He tilted his head, his eyes sparkling with that infuriating glint of mischief that made you want to throttle him and laugh in equal measure.
“JEONGHAN.” The snap in your voice turned a few heads nearby, but you didn’t care.
He sighed dramatically, dragging a hand through his hair. “Fine. A certain papaya-colored birdie told me.”
Your eyes narrowed. “Papaya-colored birdie... Mingyu?”
Jeonghan hesitated, his grin faltering for just a moment. You saw the gears turning in his head, calculating whether to deflect again or come clean.
“Spit it out, Yoon Jeonghan,” you said, stepping closer, “or I’ll never write a single kind thing about you for the rest of your life.”
His mouth twitched, caught between amusement and resignation. Finally, he shrugged, his voice almost too casual. “Childhood friends, eh? You and Mingyu? That explains yesterday.”
You blinked, thrown by the abrupt shift in topic. “Don’t change the subject,” you snapped, though his words tugged at something in the back of your mind. “You really went to Kim Mingyu for help? After accusing me of—”
“I might have... aggressively encouraged Mingyu to spill everything he knew about you,” Jeonghan admitted, looking entirely too pleased with himself.
You raised a brow. “Aggressively encouraged?”
“Fine,” he said with a huff. “I threatened to steal his steering wheel from the McLaren garage if he didn’t talk.”
Despite your irritation, a snort escaped you. “And he just handed over my life story, huh?”
Jeonghan crossed his arms, mirroring your stance. “What can I say? He’s surprisingly chatty when he thinks you’re in trouble. Very protective, that one.”
You clenched your jaw, the pieces clicking into place. “So, that’s why you jumped to conclusions yesterday. You thought—”
He cut you off, his voice uncharacteristically serious. “I know. I was out of line. That’s what the flowers were for.”
For a moment, the noise of the paddock seemed to fade. The wind carried the faint scent of burning rubber, and the distant cheers of fans reached your ears like a muted hum. Jeonghan’s expression softened, the teasing glint in his eyes replaced by something quieter, almost vulnerable.
“For what it’s worth,” he added, his tone lower now, “I really am sorry.”
You exhaled slowly, the weight of the last day lifting slightly from your chest. “You’re lucky I like roses.”
“I know,” he replied, his grin returning, lighter this time, almost boyish. “Good taste, huh?”
“Good recovery, at least,” you muttered, your lips twitching despite yourself.
Jeonghan’s laughter followed you as you turned and walked away, the sound less grating than it had been the day before. It wasn’t forgiveness—not yet—but it felt like a start.
FORMULA 1 HUNGARIAN GRAND PRIX 2024Track: Hungaroring
The Hungarian Grand Prix paddock was buzzing, but you could tell something was off. The sound of chatter and engines felt like distant echoes as you stood by the garage, watching Jeonghan’s Ferrari pull back into its stall after a less-than-stellar FP1. The car’s engine quieted as the mechanics immediately went to work, inspecting it. But it wasn’t the car that caught your attention—it was Jeonghan himself.
He was unusually quiet, his usual cocky confidence buried beneath the furrow of his brow as he stripped off his helmet and gloves. His gaze was focused on the car, but it was clear his mind wasn’t in the garage. He seemed... distant, almost frustrated. The others in the team were busy talking strategy, discussing the data, but Jeonghan barely spoke up during the debriefing. It was strange.
The team finished up, but you noticed Jeonghan lingered near the back, hands on his hips, staring at his car like it had personally betrayed him. It wasn’t like him to be this quiet, especially not after a session where he was so used to being in control. You could practically feel the weight of his thoughts from where you stood.
You didn’t want to be intrusive, but you couldn’t ignore it—something was wrong.
You walked over, careful not to disturb the mechanics who were still busy at work. "Jeonghan," you called softly, stepping beside him. He turned to you, but his eyes didn’t quite meet yours. They were focused on something distant, like he was seeing the track or the car but not really seeing them.
“Everything okay?” you asked, trying to keep the concern out of your voice, but it slipped through anyway. “You’ve been quiet since the debriefing.”
He gave a half-smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “I’m fine.”
You weren’t buying it. You had known Jeonghan long enough to recognize the way he carried his frustration. It wasn’t the kind of thing that could be hidden behind a casual smile, no matter how practiced.
“You sure? You know you don’t have to be okay all the time, right?” you pressed, stepping a little closer. The air around you felt heavy, charged with unspoken words.
Jeonghan exhaled sharply, his fingers digging into his gloves before he slowly pulled them off. He seemed to be gathering himself before speaking. “I hate it,” he muttered, and his voice had a rawness to it that caught you off guard. “Not being perfect. I... I can’t stand it.”
“Not being perfect?” you echoed, surprised. Jeonghan, the ever-cocky, confident driver, admitting that?
He looked up at you then, his eyes intense, as though he was searching for something in your gaze. “Yeah. I know it sounds stupid,” he said with a wry laugh that lacked its usual humor. “But it’s who I am. I’m a perfectionist, always have been. Every little mistake... it sticks with me. I can’t just move on. I think about it. Constantly.”
You watched him, absorbing his words, the vulnerability in his tone feeling like a crack in his otherwise polished exterior. Jeonghan, always so composed on the surface, always teasing and joking, was admitting something deeper now—something more personal.
“Is that why you were so quiet during the debriefing?” you asked, keeping your voice soft.
“Yeah,” he muttered, his gaze flicking to the car again. “I know I didn’t have the best session, but it feels like... like I failed. Like I’m not doing my job right. I could’ve done better.” His jaw clenched as if he were angry at himself.
The silence that fell between you was thick, almost suffocating, and you could feel the tension radiating off him. You hadn’t seen him like this before—not with this level of self-doubt.
“You’re not failing,” you said, your voice firm. “You’re allowed to have bad sessions. Hell, everyone has bad days. But that doesn’t mean you’re failing. It’s just a part of it.”
Jeonghan glanced over at you, his lips curving into a small, grateful smile. “You really believe that?”
“Yeah, I do,” you said, nodding. “I mean... it’s not all about being perfect. Sometimes it’s the mistakes that push you to be better.”
Jeonghan looked down at his hands, still clutching the gloves, and you could see the gears turning in his mind. “I know. But it doesn’t make it any easier.”
“I get it,” you said, crossing your arms and leaning against the side of the garage. “But you’ve got a whole team behind you. And we all know what you’re capable of. You’ll get there. It’s just one session.”
He finally met your gaze, his eyes softening. “Thanks.”
There was a long pause, the sound of distant chatter and the hum of the paddock filling the silence. You were so used to Jeonghan’s teasing and cocky attitude that this quieter, more introspective side of him felt like a different person altogether. And maybe it was—it was the side that wasn’t the driver who fought for every fraction of a second on the track, the side that just wanted to be good enough.
“It’s not stupid, you know,” you added quietly. “Caring about being good at what you do isn’t stupid. It’s just... exhausting sometimes.”
Jeonghan laughed lightly, the sound a bit more genuine this time. “You have no idea. But I’m getting better at... handling it. I think.”
You smiled at him, feeling a strange sense of relief wash over you. There was still that hint of unease in his posture, the tightness in his shoulders, but for the first time all day, he seemed a little more at ease with himself.
As you turned to leave, you shot him one last look. “Just don’t be so hard on yourself next time, okay?”
“I’ll try,” he said, a faint smile tugging at his lips. And for a moment, you almost believed him.
The stands were eerily quiet now, a stark contrast to the roar of the crowd just hours earlier. You wandered through the empty paddock, your steps unhurried as the hum of the night settled around you. Somewhere in the distance, you could hear the faint clatter of the Ferrari team packing up, but Jeonghan wasn’t with them.
You’d seen him after the race, his jaw tight as he climbed out of the car. Finishing P5 wasn’t bad by any measure, but it wasn’t what he wanted. And with Mingyu overtaking him in the Driver’s Championship by just twenty points, it was clear Jeonghan had taken it as a personal blow. His disappointment hung around him like a shadow.
It wasn’t hard to guess where he’d gone.
Sure enough, when you climbed up into the grandstands, there he was. Sitting alone in the middle row, still in his Ferrari race suit, unzipped to the waist to reveal his black base layer. His hair was tousled from the helmet, his posture slouched, shoulders hunched as though the weight of the day hadn’t yet left him. Beside him were two bottles of beer, one already open and resting loosely in his hand.
You approached quietly, but Jeonghan didn’t flinch. He didn’t even turn around when you reached him, your feet crunching softly against the debris of the crowd—discarded programs, empty wrappers, and forgotten flags. He must’ve known it was you, though. He always seemed to know.
“Mind if I join you?” you asked, your voice breaking the stillness.
He finally glanced up, his expression unreadable. “It’s a free grandstand,” he muttered, gesturing to the empty seats around him.
You slid into the seat next to him, the cool metal chilling through your clothes. Jeonghan’s gaze returned to the track ahead, where the floodlights illuminated the ghost of the race. He took a sip of his beer, silent.
For a while, neither of you spoke. The quiet stretched, but it didn’t feel uncomfortable—just heavy. You could feel the frustration radiating off him, the bitterness that came with being so close but not close enough.
“You should drink this before it gets warm,” he said suddenly, pushing the unopened beer toward you.
You picked it up, twisting off the cap with a small smile. “Thanks. Not exactly the post-race celebration you were hoping for, huh?”
He huffed a humorless laugh. “Not exactly.”
The silence fell again, but this time you weren’t willing to let it linger. You turned to him, watching the way his fingers tapped restlessly against the neck of the bottle. “You’re still in the fight, you know,” you said gently.
Jeonghan’s lips quirked, but it wasn’t a smile. “Doesn’t feel like it.”
“Well, you are,” you insisted. “Three points. That’s nothing. You’ve come back from worse.”
He didn’t respond immediately. Instead, he tilted his head back, looking up at the dark sky above the track. “You don’t get it,” he said finally, his voice quieter now. “It’s not just about the points. It’s about everything. The mistakes, the pressure... the expectations. It’s like... like I have to prove that I deserve to be here. Every single time.”
“You do deserve to be here,” you said firmly, the conviction in your voice enough to make him turn to you. “You wouldn’t be in that seat if you didn’t. You’re one of the best drivers on the grid, Jeonghan. Everyone knows it. Even Mingyu. Especially Mingyu.”
Jeonghan scoffed, a flicker of a smile breaking through his stormy expression. “Bet he’s loving this right now.”
“Maybe,” you said, leaning back against the seat. “But knowing Mingyu, he’s probably already plotting ways to rub it in at the next race.”
That earned a laugh, small but real, and the sound was enough to make you smile too.
“You’re good at this,” he said after a moment, his tone softer now. “Talking me off the ledge.”
“Someone has to,” you replied with a shrug. “And honestly? I don’t think you give yourself enough credit. One race doesn’t define you, Jeonghan. You’re not just a number on the leaderboard.”
He looked at you then, his gaze lingering. There was something in his expression—gratitude, maybe, or something deeper, something you couldn’t quite name. “Thanks,” he said simply, the word weighted with more than just appreciation.
You clinked your bottle against his. “Anytime.”
The two of you sat there for a while longer, the weight of the day slowly lifting as the quiet of the night wrapped around you. It wasn’t much, but it was enough—for now. And as Jeonghan leaned back in his seat, his lips curving into the faintest of smiles, you knew he’d be okay. Eventually.
You took another sip of your beer, the chill of the bottle grounding you as Jeonghan’s earlier tension began to melt away. The ghost of a smile still lingered on his lips, and for the first time since you’d climbed up to find him, his shoulders seemed lighter.
“So,” he said, breaking the quiet, his voice tinged with a familiar mischievousness, “what’s your headline going to be this week?”
You raised an eyebrow, scoffing softly as you bumped his shoulder with your own. “You’ll see it when you see it, Yoon Jeonghan. No spoilers.”
His chuckle was low and warm, a sound that felt like the first crack of sunlight after a storm. “Should I be worried?”
“Always,” you replied, the corners of your lips quirking upward. “But maybe not too much this time.”
He gave you a curious look, his expression halfway between wary and amused, but he didn’t press. Instead, he leaned back, his gaze drifting back to the track. The night was calm now, the weight of the day’s disappointment tucked into the folds of shared silence.
The headline hit Monday morning, and Jeonghan had to admit, you’d delivered once again.
Ferrari Falters in Hungary: Yoon Jeonghan's Fight for the Title Tightens
The article was incisive, as sharp as he’d expected. You broke down his struggles in FP1, critiqued his race strategy, and even called out the overtaking move that cost him crucial points. It was the kind of detailed, no-nonsense analysis you were known for, and Jeonghan read every word with a mix of frustration and admiration.
But at the bottom, tucked beneath the last paragraph, there was a footnote—barely noticeable unless you were looking for it.
“Despite Hungary’s setback, Yoon Jeonghan remains one of the most popular and formidable contenders for the championship. With only twenty points separating him from the lead, Belgium offers a more than fair chance for the Ferrari star to close the gap and reclaim his momentum.”
Jeonghan blinked, then read it again, a slow smile tugging at his lips. He leaned back in his chair, the paper still in hand, and shook his head.
“Subtle,” he muttered, though his tone was anything but annoyed. It was gratitude, warmth, and a flicker of hope all wrapped together in a single word.
He might have faltered in Hungary, but you’d reminded him—the season wasn’t even half over. And maybe, just maybe, he wasn’t fighting alone.
FORMULA 1 ROLEX BELGIAN GRAND PRIX 2024Track: Circuit de Spa-Francorchamps
The weekend at Spa began like a dream.
The legendary Circuit de Spa-Francorchamps was a driver’s haven and a monster in equal measure. The longest track on the calendar, its 7 kilometers of asphalt wound through the lush forests of the Ardennes, combining high-speed straights, sweeping corners, and the unpredictable challenges of its microclimate. The iconic Eau Rouge and Raidillon dared drivers to go flat out, while the downhill plunge into Pouhon tested their courage and precision. It was a place where skill separated the good from the great.
Jeonghan thrived on its challenge.
FP1 and FP2 were his playgrounds, his Ferrari gliding through corners like it was made for this circuit alone. The car was responsive and balanced, every adjustment in setup shaving precious milliseconds off his laps. Jeonghan pushed it to its limits, feeling every bump and curve beneath him as if Spa’s asphalt were an extension of himself.
By the time he returned to the garage, his name was at the top of the timesheets, and his team wore expressions of pride and relief. Engineers crowded around him during the debrief, their excitement palpable. Even Mingyu wandered over to toss a mockingly impressed, “Don’t get used to it, Yoon,” in his direction.
Jeonghan, basking in the buzz of dominance, had only winked.
But then came the penalty.
A breach in power unit regulations—an unavoidable technicality that slapped him with a grid penalty. It was frustratingly bureaucratic, a punishment that felt out of his control and yet deeply personal. His pole position was stripped away, and he was relegated to P10.
In the Ferrari garage, Jeonghan leaned against the back wall, arms crossed, the weight of his helmet heavy in his hand. The rhythmic hum of power tools and bursts of chatter around him did little to soothe his simmering frustration.
It wasn’t just the penalty—it was the sting of perfection slipping through his fingers, a weekend that had started flawlessly now teetering on the edge of disappointment.
He glanced up, ready to bury himself in the chaos of the paddock, and froze.
You were there, leaning casually against the pit wall, chatting with one of the mechanics. The glow of the overhead lights caught in your hair, and despite the whirlwind of activity, you were a picture of calm. Your hands moved as you spoke, animated yet confident, the faintest flicker of a smirk playing on your lips.
His gaze lingered.
It hit him—a memory of your words from Hungary, your unwavering belief cloaked in sharp wit: “A more than fair chance to close the gap.”
For the first time since the penalty, the gap didn’t feel insurmountable.
He didn’t realize he’d been staring until you caught his eye. Your brows rose, and you tilted your head in mock curiosity before excusing yourself from the mechanic and walking toward him.
“You okay?” you asked, your voice laced with a note of amusement and something softer underneath.
Jeonghan shrugged, plastering on his signature cocky grin. “Since when are you worried about me?”
Your lips twitched in a barely concealed smile. “Oh, I’m not worried. Just curious. I wanted to see how Ferrari’s golden boy handles a little adversity.”
His grin faltered for the briefest moment before sharpening again. “Keep watching,” he said, leaning in slightly, his voice dropping just enough to send a shiver down your spine. “I might surprise you.”
You tilted your chin, your expression a blend of challenge and intrigue. “Don’t disappoint me then.”
The way you said it—like you meant it—sparked something fierce in him.
As you turned to leave, the faint scent of your perfume lingered in the air, anchoring him to the moment. Jeonghan watched you disappear into the paddock, your confident stride a sharp contrast to his brooding, and for the first time that day, a smirk tugged at his lips.
It wasn’t over yet. Not by a long shot.
P10 to P1.
It was the kind of race drivers dreamed of—the kind that earned its place in highlight reels for years to come.
The chaos began even before the lights went out. Rain had threatened all morning, dark clouds heavy over the Ardennes, but it held off just long enough to keep everyone guessing. Jeonghan sat in his Ferrari on the grid, surrounded by cars that had no business being ahead of him. He’d spent every second since the penalty recalibrating his mindset, shifting his frustration into fuel.
As the lights went out, his singular focus kicked in.
Turn 1, La Source: Jeonghan dived inside, threading through a gap that barely existed. The radio crackled with his engineer’s voice, commending his clean move, but he barely registered it. Eau Rouge and Raidillon loomed ahead, their uphill sweep demanding precision, bravery, and trust in his car.
He took the corners flat out.
By Lap 5, Jeonghan was in P7. His mind churned as he studied the cars ahead, each one a problem to solve. Every braking point, every shift in weight through the curves—it all required perfect execution.
But then came the rain.
It began as a drizzle at Pouhon, the light sheen on the track turning treacherous by the next sector. Jeonghan’s grip on the wheel tightened as he adjusted his lines, feeling for every ounce of traction.
“Box this lap for inters,” his engineer instructed.
“No,” Jeonghan replied, his voice steady. He could feel it—the balance of risk and reward. He stayed out one lap longer, the gamble paying off as he overtook two cars struggling on the wrong tires. When he finally pitted, the stop was flawless.
By Lap 20, the red flag came out, the rain too heavy for safety. Jeonghan sat in the pit lane during the suspension, helmet off, sweat beading his brow. His thoughts wandered for the first time since the race began.
Your words came back to him.
"Jeonghan’s perfectionism is both his weapon and his curse. When he is at his best, he’s untouchable. But the question remains: can he handle the pressure when the odds aren’t in his favor?"
His jaw tightened. You were right—about the pressure, about the way he held himself to standards so high they sometimes crushed him. But you’d also written something else.
"A more than fair chance to close the gap."
He wasn’t sure why, but that sentence anchored him.
When the race restarted, Jeonghan was a man possessed.
Sector by sector, he clawed his way through the field, each overtake cleaner and bolder than the last. At Blanchimont, he overtook Soonyoung in a move that was half instinct, half calculated risk. His engineer’s voice came over the radio in a disbelieving laugh: “Mate, you’re insane!”
By the final lap, he was leading. The roar of the crowd blended with the steady beat of his heart as he crossed the finish line, victory his once more.
The pit lane was a blur of celebration. His team engulfed him in a sea of red, their cheers drowning out even the din of Spa’s loyal fans. Soonyoung appeared out of nowhere, throwing an arm around Jeonghan’s shoulders.
“Winning in Spa from P10? You better believe I’m buying the first round,” Soonyoung declared, grinning despite his P2 finish.
Jeonghan laughed, the sound ragged and raw from effort, but his mind wasn’t entirely in the moment.
Later, in the quiet of the motorhome, when the adrenaline had settled and exhaustion was creeping in, Jeonghan pulled out his phone. His thumb hovered over the search bar before typing your name.
The article was already live.
His breath caught as he read your headline:
From P10 to Perfection: Yoon Jeonghan’s Masterclass at Spa
It was glowing, but in your unmistakable style—balanced, sharp, and honest. You praised his overtakes, his strategy, and his ability to rise under pressure. Your writing was like poetry, an ode to his resilience, his precision in the rain, his ability to claw victory from the jaws of defeat. But what caught him off guard was the final line.
"With the championship fight closer than ever, it’s not a question of if Jeonghan will close the gap. It’s a question of when."
Jeonghan read it three times, his chest tight with something that felt almost like pride.
For the first time in weeks, he allowed himself to believe them.
The bass thrummed low and heavy, a pulse that seemed to reverberate straight through the packed room.
Jeonghan leaned against the bar, his drink in hand, his racing suit long since replaced by a fitted black shirt with the top buttons undone. The sleeves were rolled just enough to expose his forearms, the dark fabric clinging to his frame in a way that effortlessly commanded attention. Around him, the club buzzed with post-race energy—drivers, engineers, and team members alike reveling in the victory and chaos of the day.
Soonyoung was next to him, buzzing with his usual infectious energy. Jeonghan caught snippets of his teammate’s banter, but his mind was elsewhere.
“God, Jeonghan, if you stare any harder, she’s going to spontaneously combust,” Soonyoung teased, sipping his drink with a knowing smirk.
Jeonghan blinked, startled. “What?”
Soonyoung rolled his eyes, nodding toward the dance floor. “Her. You’ve been staring at her like she’s a particularly tricky apex all night.”
Jeonghan followed his gaze.
There you were, dancing with a group of Ferrari engineers, the colored lights spilling across your frame, making your skin glow. You laughed at something one of them said, your head tilting back, your hair swaying with every movement. Jeonghan’s grip on his glass tightened.
“You’re hopeless,” Soonyoung said, clapping him on the shoulder. “Just go talk to her. Or better yet, dance with her. God knows you’ll make everyone else jealous.”
Jeonghan scoffed, setting his empty glass down on the bar with a sharp clink. “You’re imagining things.”
“Sure, and you just happened to spend the past ten minutes glaring at the poor guy she’s dancing with.”
Jeonghan shot him a warning glance, but Soonyoung only grinned wider.
“Look, you’ve already won at Spa,” he added, leaning closer. “Might as well take another victory tonight.”
Jeonghan shook his head, but the heat in his chest betrayed him. He cast one last glance at you before downing the rest of his drink and pushing off the bar.
The crowd was a blur of movement, bodies packed tightly together under the pulsing lights, but Jeonghan moved with purpose. He found you easily, your energy magnetic even in the chaos.
The beat shifted as he approached, slowing to something deeper, sultrier. He stepped in behind you, close enough to feel the warmth radiating from your skin.
“Enjoying yourself?” he murmured, his voice low and warm against your ear.
You turned slightly, glancing at him over your shoulder. Your lips curved into a teasing smile, your eyes dancing in the dim light. “Jeonghan. Didn’t think you were the clubbing type.”
He smirked, his hand brushing lightly against your waist. “I make exceptions for special occasions.”
You arched a brow, leaning back into him just enough to blur the line between teasing and inviting. “Special occasions, huh? Like winning at Spa?”
“Something like that,” he said, his voice a touch quieter now. His fingers rested lightly on your waist, the heat of his touch sending a shiver up your spine.
You turned to face him fully, your hands drifting up to rest on his shoulders, playful and almost casual. “So? What’s it like being untouchable?”
He chuckled softly, his gaze flicking from your eyes to your lips and back again. “You’d know,” he said smoothly, “if you were paying attention during my races instead of writing snarky articles.”
You laughed, a soft, melodious sound that made his chest tighten. “I did pay attention,” you countered, leaning in slightly, your lips barely a breath away from his ear. “You were alright, I guess.”
“Alright?” he repeated, feigning offense. “You called it a masterclass. Don’t think I didn’t read your article.”
Your grin widened, the fire in your eyes matching the teasing edge in your tone. “Oh, that? Don’t let it go to your head, Yoon. I still expect a proper interview.”
His hands shifted to your hips, grounding you against him as he swayed slightly to the beat, his voice dropping to a husky murmur. “Careful. Keep talking like that, and I might start thinking you actually like me.”
“And if I did?” you teased back, your voice soft but no less challenging.
For a moment, the world around you fell away. The music, the lights, the press of the crowd—it all faded as the space between you closed. Jeonghan’s eyes lingered on your lips, his heart pounding in a way that had nothing to do with the adrenaline of racing.
Then, just as you tilted your head, leaning closer—
“JEONGHAN!”
The moment shattered.
Sunwoo’s voice boomed over the music as he appeared out of nowhere, the mechanic’s grin wide and oblivious. “Bro, come on! You can flirt later! Dance with me!”
Jeonghan groaned, his head dropping to your shoulder as your laughter spilled over him like warm sunlight.
“This isn’t over,” he muttered, just loud enough for you to hear.
You pulled back, still laughing, and met his gaze with a wink. “I’ll hold you to that.”
FORMULA 1 HEINEKEN DUTCH GRAND PRIX 2024Track: Zandvoort
The paddock at Zandvoort was always one of Jeonghan’s favorites. The smell of fresh sea air mixed with the unmistakable tang of fuel and rubber, while the orange-clad crowd painted the stands in a fiery glow. Jeonghan didn’t even mind the noise—something about the Netherlands had a way of energizing him.
He was walking back from the driver’s parade when he spotted you outside the Ferrari hospitality tent, a coffee in hand, your eyes scanning the throng of people with practiced ease. The crisp breeze tugged at your hair, and Jeonghan slowed his pace, his lips curling into a familiar smirk.
You glanced up just in time to catch him staring. “Don’t you have a race to focus on?”
“Don’t you have an article to write?” he shot back, his voice smooth as ever.
“I’m multitasking,” you replied, raising your coffee in a mock toast.
Jeonghan stepped closer, close enough that the conversation felt private despite the bustling paddock around you. “Let me guess,” he said, crossing his arms, “today’s headline is, ‘Ferrari Driver Jeonghan Looks Extra Handsome Under Dutch Sunlight.’”
You snorted, barely suppressing a laugh. “Oh, please. I was thinking more along the lines of, ‘Can Ferrari’s Yoon Jeonghan Deliver After Spa Masterclass?’”
“Flattering,” he mused, tilting his head. “I thought you’d save the sarcasm for the post-race write-up.”
“I aim to keep you humble,” you said with a shrug, though the playful glint in your eyes gave you away.
Jeonghan leaned in slightly, his voice dropping just enough to send a thrill down your spine. “Careful. You’re starting to sound like a fan.”
You opened your mouth to retort, but before you could get a word in—
“Jeonghan!”
A voice cut through the tension like a knife. You both turned to see Soonyoung jogging up, waving enthusiastically. “There you are! We’re late for the strategy briefing!”
Jeonghan sighed, the corners of his mouth twitching as he glanced back at you. “Guess we’ll have to finish this later.”
You grinned, your eyes dancing with amusement. “Don’t let me keep you from your briefing, Ferrari’s golden boy.”
Jeonghan’s smirk deepened. “I’ll see you after I win.”
He walked off, Soonyoung talking his ear off as you watched him go, the heat in your chest lingering far longer than it should have.
The race came and went, and though Jeonghan didn’t win—Mingyu’s dominance at Zandvoort was almost an inevitability—he still managed to bring home a solid podium finish.
Later, back at the hospitality suite, you found yourself standing near the balcony, staring out at the ocean waves in the distance.
“Not bad for a day’s work,” came a familiar voice behind you.
You turned to find Jeonghan leaning casually against the doorway, his hair still damp from the post-race shower. He’d swapped his racing suit for a simple white shirt and jeans, but somehow, he still looked like he belonged on the cover of a magazine.
“Not bad,” you admitted. “Though I was expecting a win. Should I change the headline to ‘Close, but Not Quite’?”
Jeonghan’s laugh was low and smooth as he closed the distance between you. “I think you’re just trying to rile me up.”
You tilted your head, feigning innocence. “Is it working?”
He stepped closer, close enough that you could see the faint freckle on his cheekbone, the way his lashes caught the light. “You tell me.”
The air between you crackled, your banter giving way to something heavier, something unspoken. For a moment, it felt like the world had narrowed down to just the two of you.
“Jeonghan!”
The door slammed open, and Mingyu’s booming voice shattered the moment.
Both of you jumped, turning to see the taller driver grinning sheepishly. “Uh, sorry. Team dinner’s starting soon, and they’re waiting for you.”
Jeonghan’s jaw tightened, but he plastered on an easy smile. “Of course they are.”
Mingyu left as quickly as he’d come, leaving you and Jeonghan alone again.
“Do people just have radar for this?” Jeonghan muttered, raking a hand through his hair.
You laughed, the tension easing slightly. “Maybe it’s the universe telling you to focus on racing.”
He stepped closer again, his voice dropping to a murmur. “Or maybe it’s telling me I’ll just have to try harder.”
Your pulse quickened, but before you could respond, the sound of footsteps echoed in the hallway.
Jeonghan sighed dramatically, stepping back with a rueful smile. “Guess I’ll have to settle for third interruptions.”
You smirked, folding your arms. “You’re consistent, at least.”
“Don’t forget it,” he said with a wink, his voice smooth as ever as he walked away.
And just like that, you were left alone, the waves crashing in the distance as you wondered how long this game of cat and mouse could last.
another lil a/n: full throttle is probably one of my favorite things i've EVER written and i am so proud of myself for getting this out of my head and onto the page.
pairing: ferrari driver!yoon jeonghan x journalist!reader
chapter wc: 16.7K (dont look at me)genre: humor, fluff, angst, smut (?)
au: f1 au (i am sorry i am a nerd abt this) rating: m (MINORS DNI)warnings: SLOW BURNNN. mentions of injuries, car crashes // unprotected sex (WRAP IT BEFORE YOU TAP IT), some nipple-play, vaguely (?) rough (?) sex, begging
PREQUELS: would highly recommend reading On the Record and Off the Record to gain some context into the relationship! This fic starts directly after the end of Off the Record
a/n: ok pt 2 here we gooooo! to kae @ylangelegy , who hasn't read the ending of this because they wanted to be surprised. i love you, im sorry, i love you // to alta @haologram , who hyped me up so much and made me feel so much better about my writing // thank you to lola @monamipencil and haneul @chanranghaeys for beta-reading! // and finally, an ENORMOUS thank you to jupiter @cheolism for the banner!
read part 1 here.
FORMULA 1 PIRELLI GRAN PREMIO D’ITALIA 2024
Track: Autodromo Nazionale Monza
Monza, the Temple of Speed. The track that had seen countless legends, where every tire mark told a story of glory and heartache. The crowd—the tifosi—roared like a living entity, their chants filling the air, demanding greatness from Ferrari’s finest. It wasn’t just a race here, it was a pilgrimage. The heat of Italy in late summer mixed with the electric atmosphere of a home Grand Prix, and Jeonghan could feel it all—the energy, the expectation, the weight of a thousand eyes on him.
The Autodromo Nazionale Monza was a track built on speed, but more than that, it was a track built on history. The sweeping curves, the long straights, the iconic Parabolica that would make or break a driver—it was a place where only the brave thrived, and only the strongest survived. Jeonghan knew the stakes: it wasn’t enough to be fast, not when you were wearing Ferrari red. He had to win, not just for himself, but for the tifosi, who saw him as their golden boy. He had to deliver.
As the weekend progressed, he couldn’t escape the growing weight on his shoulders. His performance was scrutinized with every passing second. In the pits, the team’s eyes were on him, hoping for that perfect lap. The techs, the engineers, the strategists—all working in harmony, hoping that Jeonghan would be the one to pull them across the finish line, but in the back of his mind, Jeonghan kept hearing the unspoken truth: nothing less than pole would suffice. Anything less was a failure.
He felt his pulse quicken as the qualifying session wore on, his concentration laser-sharp, every move calculated. But the tire strategy wasn’t perfect, and as the final moments ticked down, the truth settled over him like a cloud of doom. He was not going to make Q3. Neither was Soonyoung. The agony of it slammed into him like a punch to the gut.
The Ferrari garage was quiet, save for the hum of the engines being powered down. Soonyoung clapped him on the shoulder, a small gesture, but Jeonghan could see the frustration in his eyes, the mirror of his own defeat. The disappointment felt like a heavy weight on Jeonghan’s chest, suffocating, and he couldn’t shake it off. He couldn’t even look at the team, let alone the tifosi waiting outside.
The mood around the paddock was tense as Jeonghan left the garage, still in his race suit. The world felt unreal, as though it were in slow motion. He couldn’t escape it. The tifosi would be waiting to cheer their heroes, but today, he hadn’t been the hero they wanted. He was just another failure in a sea of victories that had come before him. He needed to escape it, to clear his mind.
It was then, as he walked toward his motorhome, that he felt it—a small, electric connection. Your hand brushed against his.
He froze.
Your presence was like a balm, soothing the sharp sting of defeat, but it also distracted him. The familiar, intoxicating scent of your shampoo, something floral and faintly sweet, hit him like a memory, and his heart skipped a beat. That scent, mixed with the lingering tension of the day, flooded his senses. He couldn’t look at you, couldn’t form words. All he could think about was that fleeting moment—so close—and the ridiculous notion that he had never noticed how desperately he wanted to be closer to you.
You didn’t stop walking either, your movements fluid, confident. But he couldn’t help the way his eyes followed you, the way the tension built with every step.
Without a word, you both continued on, the space between you shrinking until you finally spoke. Your voice was soft, but there was an edge to it, something that told him you understood more than he let on.
“Tough luck out there,” you said, a hint of sympathy in your tone.
The words were simple, but they hit harder than he expected. His chest tightened as he swallowed. “It’s... whatever,” he muttered, trying to brush it off. He didn’t have the energy to care.
You glanced at his fist, clenched so tightly it was almost painful to watch. “Doesn’t seem like ‘whatever’ to me,” you countered, raising an eyebrow, your words cutting through the fog in his mind.
He let out a small, mirthless chuckle. “I’ll be fine,” he said, his voice more convincing than he felt. But even as he said it, he knew. He wouldn’t be fine—not until he had redeemed himself, not until he could prove to the world that he was still Ferrari’s shining star. He had to be.
But for now, there was a fleeting connection between the two of you, and it was the only thing that made his heart skip, even if just for a moment.
The race was an uphill battle from the start, as expected. Jeonghan’s starting position was far from ideal, and the track ahead was a maze of cars, each one blocking his path, each one a reminder of the high stakes. The pressure weighed on him heavily, like an invisible force that squeezed the air from his lungs. It wasn’t just about the race, it was about redemption. The tifosi—his tifosi—filled his mind with a deafening chant, a roar of expectation, as if they were willing victory into existence. The weight of their adoration and their demand for perfection followed him, a constant reminder of the legacy he carried.
But Jeonghan had never been one to back down. The track felt like an extension of himself, the tires gripping, the engine vibrating beneath him, urging him to push. Even with traffic clogging his way, he found openings. He fought for every inch of track, his movements sharp, instinctive, like a surgeon making precise cuts. Overtaking felt almost effortless—his car slipping through gaps with the grace of a dancer. He was fluid, controlled, never losing sight of the goal.
As the laps unfolded, his nerves sharpened, but so did his focus. The aggressive strategy that had been laid out for him was beginning to pay off. He was making up ground, inching forward, climbing the ladder of positions one battle at a time. The thought of the tifosi cheering, of their voices blending into one thunderous symphony, drove him. They believed in him. He had to deliver. His mind cleared. He no longer heard the roaring crowds, the whirling thoughts of doubt. All that mattered was the track, the tires, and the roar of the engine beneath him. The conditions became his advantage—he thrived in this chaos.
Through the speed-trap corners, Jeonghan carved his way through the field. The world outside the cockpit blurred into a haze, his focus narrowing into sharp precision. He saw every gap, every opportunity, and he seized them without hesitation. The rain had turned the race into a dance of risk and control, and Jeonghan was leading the waltz.
Crossing the finish line first, Jeonghan allowed himself a single moment of release. The victory wasn’t just for him—it was for Ferrari, for the tifosi, for everything that had been building in his chest since the first day he’d strapped into the car. He had done it. He had delivered.
The roar of the crowd felt like an affirmation of his own heart, beating in time with the cheers of thousands. In that moment, the weight lifted off him, replaced by an overwhelming surge of satisfaction and relief. He had proven himself once again, and it was more sweet than any victory lap could ever capture. The tifosi were wild, their cheers ringing through the air, a thunderous confirmation of what Jeonghan had already known in his heart: this was his race. This was his victory.
After the podium celebrations, the champagne-soaked cheers, and the endless barrage of media questions, Jeonghan finally managed to steal a moment of solitude. His body was spent, muscles aching, his throat raw from the adrenaline-fueled roar that had escaped him as he crossed the finish line. And yet, his mind wasn’t on the race anymore. Not on the points, not on the tifosi.
It was on you.
The fleeting brush of your hand earlier lingered like a phantom touch, a warmth that refused to fade even as the hours passed. The memory of your scent—the subtle floral notes of your shampoo—clung to him, more grounding than the overwhelming chaos of the Monza circuit.
He walked toward his motorhome, each step feeling heavier now that the adrenaline had begun to wane. The din of the paddock was fading, replaced by the rhythmic thud of his heartbeat in his ears. The glow of the overhead lights cast long shadows, and as he turned the corner, there you were. Waiting for him. Leaning casually against the side of his motorhome, your arms crossed and a knowing smirk dancing on your lips. His footsteps slowed as his eyes locked onto yours, the soft gleam of your smile both a challenge and an invitation.
“You’re late,” you teased, tilting your head in mock disapproval.
Jeonghan huffed a laugh, shaking his head as he approached. “Didn’t realize I was on a schedule.”
“You’re always on a schedule,” you shot back, your tone light but your gaze sharp. “Besides, I thought you’d be faster off track too.”
His smirk deepened as he stopped in front of you, close enough that the scent of champagne and adrenaline clung to him. “Big words for someone who’s hanging around my motorhome.”
“Big win for someone who barely made it out of Q2,” you quipped, the corner of your mouth twitching upward.
Jeonghan’s chuckle was low, almost indulgent. “Touché.”
There was a moment of silence, the din of the paddock fading into a distant hum. His eyes traced your face, noting the way your lashes cast faint shadows on your cheekbones, the way you seemed perfectly at ease under his scrutiny. That unnerved him more than he cared to admit. You’d always been too good at staying cool, keeping him on edge.
“So,” he finally said, leaning casually against the doorframe, “where’s your article? Shouldn’t it be out by now?”
You raised an eyebrow, feigning surprise. “Oh, you think I’m done? I’m holding out for an exclusive.”
Jeonghan’s grin widened, his ego soaking up your words. “An exclusive? From the tifosi’s god?”
Your laugh was soft, teasing, and it sent a warmth through his chest that rivaled the rush of the race. “Your words, not mine.”
“You want a headline that bad?” His voice dropped, his tone dipping into something darker, something that made the air between you shift.
“Maybe,” you replied, your voice steady despite the way he was looking at you now—like he was ready to devour you whole. “But you’d have to give me something worth writing about.”
It was playful, the banter you always shared, but there was something crackling beneath the surface tonight, an electricity neither of you could ignore. Jeonghan stepped closer, his presence swallowing the space between you. You shifted back instinctively, your spine meeting the cool surface of the motorhome door.
“You always have something to say, don’t you?” he murmured, his voice low, intimate.
“Someone has to keep you grounded,” you shot back, though your voice wavered slightly as his hand braced against the door beside your head, caging you in. His other hand hovered near your hip, close enough to make you hyper-aware of the heat radiating off him.
“Grounded?” he repeated, his lips curling into a slow, predatory smile. “You’re doing a great job of that.”
Your heart was pounding now, the proximity, the tension—it was overwhelming. “Jeonghan,” you started, your voice quieter, more measured, “this… this isn’t professional.”
“Fuck being professional,” he said, the words slipping out like a confession. Before you could respond, his fingers tilted your jaw, firm but not rough, guiding you to look up at him.
And then his lips were on yours, capturing them in a kiss that was as fierce as it was unrelenting. It wasn’t sweet or tentative—it was raw, all the tension and frustration that had built up between you spilling over in a single, consuming moment. His hand slid to the nape of your neck, anchoring you to him as if he was afraid you might pull away.
But you didn’t. You kissed him back with equal fervor, your hands finding the front of his race suit, clutching the material as if to steady yourself. The world around you blurred into nothing; there was only the warmth of his mouth, the taste of him, the way he kissed like he was claiming something he’d wanted for far too long.
Jeonghan’s breath hitched as he pulled back just enough to look at you, his eyes searching yours for something—confirmation, permission, anything. Whatever he found made him grin, wicked and hungry. Without a word, he reached for the door handle, pushing it open with a sharp motion. The door swung wide, and then his hands were on you again, pulling you inside.
The door clicked shut behind you, plunging you both into the dim interior of the motorhome. Jeonghan's hands were everywhere at once, tracing the curve of your waist, sliding up your back, tangling in your hair. His lips found yours again, more urgent this time, as if he couldn't bear to be separated from you for even a moment.
You stumbled backward, your legs hitting the edge of the small couch. Jeonghan followed, never breaking contact, until you were lying beneath him, the leather cool against your heated skin. His weight pressed you down, a delicious pressure that made your head spin.
"God, I've wanted this for so long," he breathed against your neck, his words punctuated by hot, open-mouthed kisses that trailed down to your collarbone.
You arched into him, your hands fumbling with the zipper of his race suit. Your fingers trembled slightly as you tugged it down and yanked off his fireproofs, revealing more of his sweat-slicked skin. Jeonghan groaned against your throat as your hands slipped inside, exploring the taut muscles of his chest and abdomen.
"How long?" you managed to ask between ragged breaths, curiosity mingling with desire.
Jeonghan lifted his head, his eyes dark and intense as they locked onto yours. "Since the first time you interviewed me," he admitted, his voice low and husky. "The way you challenged me, saw right through my bullshit... I knew I was in trouble."
The confession sent a thrill through you, and you pulled him down for another searing kiss. Your tongues danced as his hands roamed your body, pushing up your shirt to caress the soft skin beneath. You gasped into his mouth as his thumb brushed the underside of your breast.
Your fingers curled into his hair, tugging gently as you deepened the kiss. Jeonghan groaned, the sound vibrating through his chest and into yours. His hand slid lower, tracing the curve of your hip before gripping your thigh, hitching it up around his waist.
“So what you’re saying,” you whispered, grinding your clothed cunt against him. “Is that you’ve been obsessed with me as long as I have with you.”
He drops his head and groans, hot and heavy, against your throat. “You’re telling me we could have been doing this for three years?”
You pull him back to your lips by his hair, relishing the way he hisses at your touch. “If only you’d put your money where your mouth is, pretty boy.”
At that, he props himself up above you, grinning like the cat that got the canary. “I knew you called me pretty in Japan!”
You desperately claw at his shoulders in an attempt to bring his mouth back to yours. After three years of cat and mouse, you do believe you’re entitled to it. “Jeonghan, I swear to everything that is holy-”
“Say it.” His necklace hangs in front of you, glinting in the dim light of the motorhome. You have half a mind to crane your neck and take it with your teeth. But instead, you choose to stare up at him in mock confusion, fingers dancing at the nape of his neck.
“Say what?”
His answering laugh mocks you a little, and he leans down to gently bite your earlobe. When he speaks, it’s low and deep. “Say I’m pretty. I know you think it when you’re drunk.”
You shiver at the sensation of his teeth grazing your ear, heat pooling in your core. His words make you flush, remembering all the times you'd drunkenly gushed about him to your friends. You'd always been careful to keep things professional in person, but apparently some of your true feelings had slipped out.
"And how would you know what I think when I'm drunk?" you challenge, trying to regain some control.
Jeonghan chuckles, the sound vibrating against your skin. "You're not the only one with sources in the paddock, sweetheart."
The pet name sends another thrill through you. You decide to give him what he wants, if only to move things along. "Fine," you breathe, trailing your fingers down his chest. "You're pretty, Jeonghan. Gorgeous, actually. Happy now?"
His grin is triumphant as he captures your lips again, the kiss deep and consuming. "Ecstatic, darling," he murmurs against your mouth.
Your hands roam his body, tracing the lean muscles of his back, feeling them flex under your touch. Jeonghan's fingers dance along your sides, leaving trails of fire in their wake. He breaks the kiss to nip at your jaw, then your neck, drawing a soft moan from your lips.
"You know," he says between kisses, his voice low and husky, "I've imagined this so many times. On the couch in the media room, in the garage, during those long interviews..."
You gasp as he finds a particularly sensitive spot on your neck. "Is that why you always fidget so much during our talks?"
He chuckles against your skin. "Guilty as charged."
Your hands find the waistband of his fireproofs, , but as one hand curls around your jaw, the other stops you.
“You first,” he breathes, sitting back on his knees to gently urge you out of your shirt.
You lift your arms, allowing him to peel your shirt off slowly, his eyes drinking in every inch of newly exposed skin. The cool air of the motorhome raises goosebumps on your flesh, but Jeonghan's heated gaze makes you feel like you're burning up.
"Beautiful," he murmurs, his fingers tracing the lace edge of your bra. "Even better than I imagined."
You reach up to pull him back down to you, craving the warmth of his body against yours. As your lips meet again, his hands roam your sides, mapping out every curve and dip. You arch into his touch, desperate for more.
His hands brush over your clothed nipple, and you inhale sharply. The sound makes Jeonghan raise his head, a faint smirk dancing across his lips. “Sensitive, are we?” He coos, hands drawing shapes against the swell of your breasts until goosebumps erupt on your flesh.
Your breath hitches as his fingers tease you though the thin fabric of your bra. “Jeonghan,” you breathe, half-warning, half-plea.
His smirk widens as he lowers his head, pressing open-mouthed kisses along your collarbone. "Yes, sweetheart?" He murmurs against your skin. His lips trail lower, ghosting over the lacework.
You arch your back, silently begging for more. Jeonghan obliges, his tongue darting out to trace the lace edge of your bra. Your hands find his hair, fingers tangling in the soft strands as you hold him close.
With deft fingers, he reaches behind you to unclasp your bra. You lift slightly, allowing him to slide it off. His eyes darken as he takes you in. You moan wantonly, arching your back in an effort to touch you - somewhere, anywhere.
“Jeonghan, please-”
A singular finger traces the curve of your waist up to your collarbone. He hums as you squirm. “Look at you,” he murmurs. You shriek as he pinches your waist. “You act so big in the paddock, and here you are, begging for me to touch you.”
It enrages you a little, how easily he takes you apart. Hell, he’s barely even touched you and you’re already rubbing your thighs together, desperate for any amount of friction.
"Jeonghan, please," you gasp, not even sure what you're begging for. More? Less? Everything?
He lifts his head, his eyes meeting yours. The intensity in his gaze makes your breath catch. "Tell me what you want," he says, his voice low and commanding.
You swallow hard, and the heat pooling between your legs feels hot enough to burn. “Y-your-”
“My what, baby?” His words are punctuated by hot, open mouthed kisses against your collarbones. He pointedly ignores your nipples, a thought that makes you whine. “Speak up.”
“Your mouth, Jeonghan,” you finally get out, hissing when his teeth find purchase on the skin of your neck.
“Yeah? Where, baby?” His hands fit themselves against the curve of your waist. “Here?”
“N-no,” you hate it, the way Jeonghan turns you into a whimpering mess. You shiver as his hands trail up your body.
“Hm…how about…here?” His thumbs brush against the underside of your breast again, and you arch your back, desperate and aching for him.
“Higher,” you breathe, mesmerized by the way his fingers dance up your body, by the way his eyes never leave yours.
“Here, baby?” His fingers tweak an already-hard nipple, and you gasp.
“Yes, please-”
“Say I’m a good driver, sweetheart, and I’ll give you what you want.”
Your eyes snap open, narrowing at him in disbelief. Even now, with you half-naked and writhing beneath him, he can't help but tease. "You're kidding, right?"
Jeonghan's grin is wicked, his eyes gleaming with mischief. "Not at all. Come on, darling. Just a few little words."
You bite your lip, torn between your pride and your desperate need for his touch. His thumb circles your nipple lazily, sending jolts of pleasure through you. Finally, you cave. "Fine," you breathe. "You're a good driver, Jeonghan. The best, even. Now please—"
Before you can finish, his mouth is on your breast, hot and wet. You cry out, arching into him as his tongue swirls around your nipple. His hand kneads your other breast, fingers teasing your other nipple.
Your fingers tangle in his hair, holding him close as he lavishes attention on your breasts. Jeonghan's tongue and teeth work in tandem, drawing gasps and moans from your lips. The sensations are overwhelming, each touch sending sparks of pleasure through your body.
"God, Jeonghan," you breathe, your head falling back against the couch cushions.
He hums against your skin, the vibration sending another shiver through you. His free hand trails down your stomach, fingers dancing along the waistband of your pants. You lift your hips instinctively, silently begging for more.
Jeonghan lifts his head, his eyes dark with desire as they meet yours. "Tell me you want this," he says, his voice husky and low. "I need to hear you say it."
You nod frantically, your breath coming in short gasps. "Yes," you breathe, your voice filled with need. "I want this. I want you, Jeonghan."
His eyes darken further at your words, a low growl escaping his throat. In one swift motion, he unbuttons your pants and slides them down your legs, taking your underwear with them. You kick them off eagerly, now fully bare beneath him.
Jeonghan's gaze rakes over your body, hungry and appreciative. "Beautiful," he murmurs, his hands skimming up your thighs. "So fucking beautiful."
You reach for him, tugging at the fireproofs still clinging to his hips. "Your turn," you say, your voice breathy with anticipation.
He grins, standing to shuck off the rest of his clothes. Your eyes widen as he reveals himself fully, drinking in the sight of his toned body. Jeonghan's grin widened as he caught you staring. "Like what you see?" he teased, his voice low and husky.
You nod, unable to form words as your eyes roam his body. The lean muscles of his abdomen, the sharp cut of his hipbones, the impressive length of his cock standing proud against his stomach - it was all even better than you'd imagined.
He chuckles, the sound sending a shiver down your spine. "Cat got your tongue, sweetheart?"
That snapped you out of your daze. "Shut up and get back here," you growl, reaching for him.
Jeonghan obliges, lowering himself back onto the couch and covering your body with his. You gasp at the feeling of skin on skin, the heat of his body against yours. His lips find yours in a searing kiss as his hands explore every curve and dip of your body. When his fingers finally brush against your core, you gasp into his mouth, your hips bucking involuntarily.
“So wet,” he murmurs against your lips. “All for me?”
"Yes," you breathe, your hips rolling against his hand. "All for you."
Jeonghan's fingers explore your folds, teasing and mapping out every sensitive spot. When he finally slides a finger inside you, you moan loudly, your back arching off the couch. He sets a slow, torturous pace, curling his finger just right to hit that spot inside you that makes you see stars.
"More," you gasp, your hands clutching at his shoulders. "Please, Jeonghan."
He obliges, adding a second finger and increasing his pace. His thumb finds your clit, circling it in tight, precise movements that have you writhing beneath him. You can feel the tension building in your core, a coiling heat that threatens to consume you. Your hands scramble for purchase against his shoulders – you’re too drunk on lust to recognize if you’re pushing him away because it’s too much or pulling him closer because it’s not nearly enough.
"That's it, baby," Jeonghan murmurs, his voice low and encouraging. "Let go for me.”
His words push you over the edge, and you come with a cry, your body arching off the couch as waves of pleasure wash over you. Jeonghan works you through it, his fingers never stopping their relentless rhythm until you're trembling and oversensitive.
As you come down from your high, Jeonghan peppers soft kisses along your jaw and neck. "Beautiful," he murmurs against your skin. "You're so beautiful when you let go."
You're still catching your breath when you feel the hard length of him pressing against your thigh. Your hand snakes between your bodies, wrapping around his cock. Jeonghan hisses at the contact, his hips jerking involuntarily.
"Fuck," he groans, his forehead resting against yours. "You have no idea how long I've wanted this."
"Show me," you breathe, thumb brushing over the tip of his pre-cum slick cock. You relish the way he shudders against you. “Show me everything you imagined, pretty boy.”
He preens a little at your teasing words, arms shaking with the exertion of keeping himself above you. “Yeah?” he purrs, hips bucking to the tempo of your hand. “You wanna see, sweetheart?”
You barely have the time to nod before he’s sweeping his arms under your thighs and sitting back against the couch, setting you on top of him. Your wet heat is inches from his weeping cock, and you give him an experimental roll of your hips. The friction is delicious, and you bite your lips at the way his head rolls back.
You take advantage of his position and press hot kisses against his neck as he squirms below you.
“This is what you wanted, baby?” you whisper against his ear, biting gently. He shudders, one arm circling your waist and the other finding purchase in your hair. “You wanted me on top? Me in control?”
He laughs breathlessly at that, hips grinding against yours with such fervour that you almost succumb right then and there. “You might be on top, sweetheart,” he hisses as you position yourself above him, one hand circling his length. “But I’m the one in char-”
He cuts himself off with a strangled moan as you sink down until your hips are flush to his. “Hmmm?” You hum sweetly against his throat, exhaling at the sheer size of him inside you. “What was that?”
“Fuck,” he groans, throwing his head back against the couch as his hands trail down to rest on the curve of your ass. “Move, please, sweetheart.”
“Tell me how much you love my writing.” The words leave you in a rush, the sight of him panting for you almost too heady to ignore. You hadn’t planned on teasing him, but his earlier words had lit a fire in your core that would only be doused once you flipped the script on him.
His head is still on the back of the couch as he barks out a laugh. “You’re a fucking menace,” he murmurs, pinching your waist. “Now, move.”
“No.” It takes every bone in your body to stay absolutely still. You can feel him, thick and throbbing, and the thought of it makes you almost forgo this insanity to ride him into oblivion.
His eyes meet yours, and he raises his eyebrows in mock outrage. “Are you serious?” He punctuates his words by dragging a hand down your body, fingers finding your clit and pressing until you jerk away from him. It’s a futile attempt though, because his other hand is still fisted in your hair, and he uses it as leverage to hold you against him, powerless against his ministrations.
With a shaking hand, your press against his wrist until his fingers stop moving in circles around your clit. “C-come on,” you tease breathlessly, using your other hand to thread through his sweat-soaked hair and yanking until he bares his throat to you with a groan. “Play nice, pretty boy. Tell me how much you love my writing.”
He groans again as you lick a stripe up his throat, the hand in your hair loosening as his resolve weakens. “Y-you don’t play fair,” he moans, legs shaking with the exertion of keeping still, of playing your little game of cat and mouse.
“Neither do you,” you whisper, your words paired with a tweak to his nipple that has him gasping and arching his back.
“Fuck!” He cries out, curling forward until his chin rests against your ribs and he’s staring up at you. “Y-your writing is perfect.”
He’s rewarded with another gentle tug on his hair and a firm, “keep going.”
“S-so perfect and wonderful, I – fuck, baby please – read every word th-three times,” he’s almost whimpering now, looking up at you with so much desire that you decide it’s time to reward him for being so pliant, so good for you. “You-you’re the best writer in the whole paddock, fuck, yes, thank yo-”
You decide to put him out of his misery, preening at his praise, you start with an experimental grind against his hips, and watch with glee as he almost melts back against the couch. You decide to take advantage of the situation for a little while longer, rocking your hips faster as his lips find your nipple.
“Who’s in charge?” you coo, fingers gripping his hair a little tighter. He draws back to give you a quick smirk. They don’t call him the fastest on the grid for nothing – one second, you feel like you’re in complete control, and the next, he’s lifting you off of him with surprising ease. Your chest meets the couch before you can even form a single thought, and Jeonghan gathers up your wrists in one of his hands.
“You really thought,” he hisses as he re-enters your aching pussy. “You were in charge, sweetheart?”
The new angle allows him to sink even deeper inside you, drawing a low moan from your lips.
"You were saying?" he purrs, chest pressed against your back, his breath hot on your neck as he sets a punishing pace. Each thrust drives the air from your lungs, leaving you gasping and whimpering beneath him.
"You thought you could tease me like that and get away with it?" he groans, his free hand gripping your hip tightly. "Thought you could make me beg?"
You can only moan in response, overwhelmed by the sensation of him pounding into you relentlessly. The couch creaks beneath you dangerously.
"Answer me," Jeonghan demands, slowing his pace torturously.
"J-Jeonghan," you manage to stammer, your voice muffled against the cushions.
He leans over you, his chest pressed against your back as he whispers in your ear. "What was that, sweetheart? I couldn't quite hear you."
You turn your head, meeting his intense gaze over your shoulder. "Please," you whimper.
“Please what?” He demands.
"Please," you gasp, struggling to form coherent thoughts as Jeonghan's hips continue their torturously slow pace. "Please, I need more."
His low chuckle sends shivers down your spine. "More what, baby? Use your words. You’re so good with words, aren’t you?"
You whine in frustration, trying to push back against him, seeking the friction you desperately crave. But his grip on your hip is firm, holding you in place.
"Fuck me," you finally manage to choke out. "Please, Jeonghan, fuck me harder."
"There we go," he purrs, satisfaction evident in his voice. "Was that so hard?"
Before you can retort, he snaps his hips forward, burying himself to the hilt inside you. You cry out at the sudden fullness, your fingers clawing at the couch cushions.
Jeonghan sets a punishing pace, each thrust driving you further into the couch cushions. The hand not holding your wrists snakes around to find your clit, rubbing tight circles that have you seeing stars.
"Fuck, you feel so good," Jeonghan groans, his breath hot against your neck. "So tight, so perfect for me."
You moan at his words, feeling the familiar coil of heat building in your core. "J-Jeonghan," you whimper, "I'm close..."
"That's it, baby," he encourages, his fingers working faster against your clit. "Come for me. Let me feel you."
Every part of your body is on fire, from the way Jeonghan's hips press against yours to the way his fingers expertly stroke your clit.
You come with a cry, your body shaking as waves of pleasure crash over you. Your inner walls clench around him, drawing a deep groan from Jeonghan.
He doesn't slow his pace, fucking you through your orgasm and pushing you towards another. You're oversensitive, every nerve ending on fire, but the pleasure is too intense to resist.
You feel his thrusts becoming more desperate, his breathing ragged against your neck. "Come on, Jeonghan," you manage to gasp out.
"Come for me," you urge him, clenching around him deliberately.
With a guttural groan, Jeonghan's hips stutter and he comes, spilling inside you as his body shudders with release. The feeling of him pulsing within you sends you over the edge again, and you cry out, trembling beneath him.
For a long moment, the only sound in the motorhome is your combined heavy breathing. Jeonghan releases your wrists and gently pulls out, causing you both to wince at the sensitivity.
Jeonghan collapses onto the couch beside you, his body warm and solid as he pulls you into his arms. The weight of him, the feeling of his heartbeat drumming against your cheek, is grounding. You curl into his chest, letting the rise and fall of his breathing lull you into a rare moment of stillness. His fingers trace lazy patterns across your back, the movements unhurried, almost absentminded, as if he can’t bear to stop touching you just yet.
“Well,” he says finally, his voice rough and lower than usual, laced with satisfaction. “I think that was worth the wait.”
You huff a laugh, the sound barely audible over the soft thrum of life outside the motorhome. “Of course you do,” you mutter, your cheek pressed against the hard planes of his chest, which smells faintly of sweat, champagne, and something uniquely Jeonghan.
His fingers pause their tracing for a moment, as though considering his next move, before starting again, this time slower and more deliberate. “Admit it,” he murmurs, his tone teasing, though softer now, quieter, like the vulnerability from before hadn’t completely left. “You’ve been thinking about this as much as I have.”
You tilt your head up, catching the faint glow of the ceiling light reflected in his eyes. They’re darker now, warmer, but still full of that infuriating smugness. Your lips twitch in defiance as you fight the urge to smile. “What makes you so sure I was thinking about it at all?”
Jeonghan raises an eyebrow, a lock of hair falling across his forehead in a way that’s unfairly distracting. His grin is sharp and unrelenting. “You’re terrible at lying.”
“Am not,” you fire back, though your tone lacks any real conviction. The way his fingers continue their soft, languid exploration of your back doesn’t help.
“Okay,” he says, clearly enjoying himself as he leans his head back against the couch. “So when you cornered me after qualifying that one time in Japan two years ago, that wasn’t because you couldn’t stop staring at me in my race suit?”
You gape at him, your body jerking upright just enough to glare at him properly. “I cornered you because I wanted a quote, you egomaniac.” You punctuate the accusation with a half-hearted swat at his arm.
He catches your wrist easily, his grip firm but gentle, and intertwines his fingers with yours. The warmth of his hand against yours is distracting, and it takes all your willpower not to lose focus. “Oh, you got a quote, all right,” he counters, his laughter bubbling up like he’s savoring every second of your indignation. “Admit it—you’ve been counting the days.”
You roll your eyes, the movement dramatic, though the warmth blooming in your chest betrays you. “And if I was?”
Jeonghan’s grin softens at your words, the sharp edges smoothing out into something quieter, something vulnerable. He lifts a hand to your face, his fingers tucking a stray strand of hair behind your ear with a tenderness that makes your breath catch. “Then I’d say it was worth the wait,” he says, his voice lower now, more intimate.
The air between you shifts, heavier now, the teasing replaced by something else entirely. His gaze locks on yours, and for a moment, the rest of the world fades—the low hum of the paddock outside, the faint creak of the motorhome settling. All that exists is him, his hand still resting near your face, and the weight of his words hanging between you.
Your throat feels tight, and you clear it quickly, trying to shake off the spell he’s cast over you. “Don’t let it go to your head,” you mutter, shifting slightly to put some distance between you.
“Too late,” he replies with a ghost of a smirk, leaning back lazily against the couch. His arm stretches along the back of the cushions, the casual sprawl of his posture somehow making him seem even more confident. Then, with an easy grace that feels entirely unfair, he leans forward and plucks something from the coffee table. “By the way, your article? It’s still late.”
You blink at him, incredulous, before groaning and burying your face in your hands. “Now you care about professionalism?”
Jeonghan shrugs, holding out his hand as if offering you an invisible microphone, his eyes sparkling with mischief. “Exclusive with the winner of Monza? Don’t say I never gave you anything.”
You peek at him through your fingers, shaking your head with a laugh that’s half exasperation, half affection. “I hate you.”
“No, you don’t,” he counters, his voice softening again as he leans forward to press a kiss to your temple. His lips linger there, warm and reassuring, before he pulls back just enough to look at you again. “But I’ll let you pretend for a little while.”
Jeonghan’s arms tighten around you as the laughter fades into a comfortable quiet. The warmth of his hand on your back and the steady rhythm of his breathing are grounding, but your thoughts won’t stop spinning. You tilt your head up to look at him, searching his expression for something you can’t quite name.
“What?” he asks softly, his tone warm but teasing. His fingers brush over the curve of your shoulder, leaving a trail of heat in their wake.
“What… what are we now?” you ask, the words tumbling out before you can stop them. They hang in the air between you, vulnerable and raw.
Jeonghan’s gaze doesn’t waver. His thumb brushes your cheek with a tenderness that makes your chest tighten. “We’re whatever you want to be, sweetheart,” he says simply, his voice low and full of something too deep to name.
You feel your heart stutter, the weight of his words sinking into you. “Can we…” You hesitate, the vulnerability of the moment making your voice falter. “Can we take it slow?”
For a second, he just blinks at you, and then the corners of his mouth lift into that infuriatingly familiar smirk. “Take it slow? After you just made me beg?” He chuckles, the sound soft but undeniably teasing. “You’re full of surprises.”
Your face heats instantly, and you swat at his shoulder, your embarrassment overridden by his smugness. “Shut up.”
Jeonghan catches your wrist before you can retreat, his laughter fading as he shifts closer, resting his forehead against yours. “I’m kidding,” he murmurs, his voice softer now. The mischief in his eyes melts into something gentler, something that makes your breath catch. “I’ll wait as long as you want.”
You glance at him, your walls crumbling under the weight of his sincerity. “It’s just…” You trail off, trying to find the right words, the weight of reality settling in around you. “Our careers, the season… It’s a lot. I don’t want to mess this up, not with everything else happening.”
Jeonghan’s expression softens even further, the teasing flicker in his eyes replaced by understanding. “I get it,” he says quietly. His hand moves to cup your cheek, his thumb brushing lightly against your skin. “I’ve waited three years to feel this close to you. What’s forever if it means I get to do it right?”
The words hit you like a punch to the chest, equal parts devastating and beautiful. You close your eyes for a moment, letting them sink in, before leaning forward to press your lips to his—soft, brief, but full of everything you can’t quite bring yourself to say.
When you pull back, Jeonghan’s smile is softer than you’ve ever seen it, his eyes crinkling at the edges as he gazes at you like you’re the only thing in the world worth looking at.
“No pressure, though,” he adds after a beat, his teasing tone returning as his grin widens. “Unless you’re writing a follow-up article about me being the world’s most patient man.”
You groan, burying your face in his chest as he laughs, the sound rich and warm. “You’re insufferable.”
“Yeah, but you love me for it,” he counters, his hand sliding back to your hair, cradling you close.
And maybe you do. Maybe you always have.
FORMULA 1 QATAR AIRWAYS AZERBAIJAN GRAND PRIX 2024
Track: Baku City Circuit
The streets of Baku were as much a character in the race as any driver—a stunning clash of history and modernity, where medieval walls stood beside glimmering skyscrapers. The track was notorious for its tight corners and long straights, a playground of risk and reward. Jeonghan knew every inch of it like it was an old rival, one he had to best to keep his championship hopes alive.
Qualifying was tight—Jeonghan secured P2, just behind Mingyu. "He’s fast," Jeonghan muttered to you that evening, the weight of the competition clear in his voice. But there was no self-doubt, just the quiet calculation that always preceded his brilliance.
Race day was a spectacle. Jeonghan’s precision through the castle section was breathtaking, and when the opportunity came to pass Mingyu on the long straight during the final stint, he didn’t hesitate. The roar of the tifosi—echoing even in Azerbaijan—followed him as he crossed the line first. The team’s radio had erupted with cheers as Jeonghan crossed the finish line, and when you saw him after the podium ceremony, his champagne-damp hair and triumphant smile had made your heart skip a beat.
Later, after the media frenzy, Jeonghan pulls you aside. "Come on," he says with a conspiratorial grin, grabbing your hand. "You didn’t think I’d let you leave Baku without exploring, did you?"
The cobblestone streets of Baku feel like something out of a postcard. The sun is just beginning to dip below the horizon, casting a golden hue over the historic Old City. Jeonghan walks beside you, his hand occasionally brushing yours as he gestures to the buildings with a sense of wonder that’s rare to see in him.
“How do you know all this?” you ask, genuinely curious as he points out the Maiden Tower and recounts its legends with surprising accuracy.
He grins, tilting his head in that maddeningly charming way. “What, you thought I only studied race strategies? I’ve got layers, sweetheart.” He insists on taking cheesy tourist photos, including one where he pretends to be a knight defending you at the city walls.
“I could be your knight in shining armor,” he teases, holding his imaginary sword aloft.
You roll your eyes, but you can’t help the smile tugging at your lips. “You’re already Ferrari’s golden boy,” you shoot back, snapping the photo anyway. “Isn’t that enough?”
He’s good at this—whisking you away from the chaos of the paddock and making you forget, even if just for a moment, that the world is watching him.
Now, as you wander the streets of Baku, he’s more relaxed, his usual playful demeanor slipping into something softer. You pause in front of a street vendor selling intricate souvenirs, and Jeonghan picks up a small, hand-carved wooden box.
“For your desk,” he says simply, handing it to you before you can protest.
“You’re insufferable,” you mutter, but you take the gift anyway.
“Yeah, but you love me,” he teases, slinging an arm around your shoulders as the two of you continue down the street, the sound of distant music and laughter filling the warm night air.
That night, back at the hotel, Jeonghan skims your article on his phone while sprawled on the couch.
Jeonghan’s Baku Blitz: Closes the Gap to Mingyu with Stunning Victory
His smirk grows wider with every sentence. “Stunning victory, huh? You really know how to make me sound good.”
You roll your eyes, throwing a pillow at him. “It was stunning. Don’t let it go to your head.”
“Oh, it’s too late for that,” he quips, pulling you into his lap. “And don’t think I didn’t notice the little shout-out to my late-braking move. Makes me wonder how closely you’re watching me.”
“Always,” you admit softly, the truth laced between your words. His grin softens, and he leans in to press a kiss to your temple.
FORMULA 1 SINGAPORE AIRLINES SINGAPORE GRAND PRIX 2024
Track: Marina Bay Street Circuit
The Marina Bay Circuit was infamous—its oppressive heat, humidity, and unforgiving corners made it a grueling test of endurance. It was Jeonghan’s least favorite track, something he’d muttered repeatedly during practice.
In qualifying, he delivered a masterclass, securing pole position under the glowing lights that lined the circuit. "See?" he said, leaning casually against his car afterward, sweat still dripping from his brow. "Guess the heat doesn’t bother me as much as I thought." Watching him grin through post-quali interviews, drenched in sweat but radiating confidence, had you practically floating back to your hotel room.
You’ve barely ventured outside the hotel after qualifying, and he texts you cryptically to “stay put.” Now, the air conditioning hums softly as you sit cross-legged on the bed, scrolling through headlines about his performance. You’re still reading when the door swings open, and Jeonghan strides in, carrying a tray.
“Room service,” he announces with a dramatic flourish, setting it down beside you.
Your eyes widen at the sight of chocolate-covered strawberries and a chilled bottle of champagne. “What’s the occasion?”
He shrugs, popping the cork with practiced ease. “Pole position deserves a celebration. Plus…” He smirks, holding up a strawberry. “I wanted to see you smile.”
You laugh, shaking your head as he moves closer, offering the berry. But when you reach for it, he pulls it back, dragging it over your lips instead, smearing chocolate at the corner of your mouth.
“You missed a spot,” he murmurs, leaning in to kiss it away. The sweetness lingers on his lips, and before you know it, he’s pulled you into his lap, the rest of the world forgotten.
The race the next day is less triumphant. A perfectly timed pit stop keeps Jeonghan ahead of the pack for most of the race, but a late safety car allows another driver to close the gap, relegating him to P2. Still, with Mingyu out of the race, Jeonghan’s second-place finish is enough to reclaim the championship lead.
Jeonghan’s expression is unreadable when he reads your latest article:
Heat and Havoc in Singapore: Jeonghan Takes Second as Mingyu Crashes Out
“Well, at least you didn’t call me lucky,” he says finally, leaning back in his chair.
“You weren’t lucky. You earned that result,” you reply, watching his face carefully.
He hums, a hint of a smile tugging at his lips. “Still. Next time, I’d rather win outright.”
FALL BREAK: SEPT 23-OCT 17
The crisp autumn air brushes against your face as you unlock your front door, arms full of groceries. It’s been a quiet few weeks since Singapore, the space between races stretching out like an eternity. You’ve tried to enjoy the pause, but it feels strange—unnatural, even—to be so far removed from the whirlwind of Jeonghan’s life.
Your thoughts drift to him as you drop the keys on the counter. Monaco. Ferrari’s headquarters in Maranello. Both places are worlds away from your little apartment.
You’re unloading a carton of eggs when there’s a knock at the door. Confused, you glance at the clock. It’s too late for deliveries and far too early for your neighbors to come by.
When you open the door, your heart stops.
Jeonghan stands there, his frame relaxed yet somehow magnetic. He’s dressed in a simple leather jacket and jeans, his dark hair catching the golden glow of the setting sun. A bouquet of your favorite flowers is clutched in one hand, their vibrant colors almost as captivating as the smile tugging at his lips.
“Jeonghan?” you ask, blinking in disbelief. “What are you—how—”
“Miss me?” he interrupts, stepping inside before you can fully process his presence. He hands you the flowers like it’s the most natural thing in the world, leaning in to press a quick kiss against your lips.
Your breath catches, and you can only stare at him, your mind struggling to keep up.
“You live in Monaco,” you point out, still staring at him. “And work in Italy.”
“I’m aware,” he says, a hint of amusement in his tone. “You didn’t answer my question.”
“Of course, I missed you,” you murmur, your cheeks heating.
“Good.” He grins and takes your free hand, tugging you toward the door.
“Wait—where are we going?”
“Out,” he says simply.
You try to protest, gesturing to the groceries still sitting on the counter, but he’s already leading you down the hallway. His excitement is infectious, and you find yourself laughing despite your confusion.
An hour later, you’re standing at the entrance of a sprawling amusement park, the neon lights casting a kaleidoscope of colors across the evening sky.
“You’re serious?” you ask, staring at the carousel spinning lazily in the distance.
“Dead serious,” Jeonghan replies, his tone light as he hands over your ticket. “I figured you could use a night off.”
“I’m not the one traveling the world every other week,” you point out.
“Exactly,” he counters, his smile growing. “I needed to see you smile. And this seemed like a good place to start.”
The night unfolds in a blur of laughter and adrenaline. Jeonghan, surprisingly competitive, insists on winning you a giant stuffed bear at the ring toss, only to fail spectacularly—twice. You tease him mercilessly, your stomach aching from how hard you’re laughing.
When you step off the bumper cars, your cheeks are flushed, and your voice is hoarse from yelling. Jeonghan is no better, his hair sticking up in all directions after you gleefully rammed into him three times in a row.
“I think you’ve got a mean streak,” he says, pretending to nurse an invisible injury.
“Me?” you gasp, feigning innocence. “You literally tried to corner me!”
He doesn’t respond—at least, not verbally. Instead, he grabs your hand again, intertwining your fingers as he pulls you toward the Ferris wheel.
The view from the top is breathtaking. The park stretches out below you, a sea of lights and movement, while the city skyline glimmers in the distance.
Jeonghan is quiet beside you, his gaze fixed on your face instead of the view. You turn to him, suddenly aware of how close he’s sitting.
“What?” you ask softly.
“You’re happy,” he murmurs, his thumb brushing over the back of your hand. “I like seeing you like this.”
Before you can respond, he leans in, capturing your lips in a kiss that steals your breath. It’s slow and deliberate, his hand moving to cradle your jaw as the world around you seems to fall away.
When he pulls back, you’re both smiling.
“This is dangerous,” you tease, though your voice is barely above a whisper. “You’re going to make me think nothing can go wrong.”
“Maybe nothing will,” he replies, his forehead resting gently against yours.
FORMULA 1 PIRELLI UNITED STATES GRAND PRIX 2024
Track: Circuit of the Americas
Austin brought a different kind of challenge. The Circuit of the Americas was iconic for its mix of sweeping corners, elevation changes, and a crowd that rivaled the tifosi in their enthusiasm. Jeonghan thrived here, securing P1 in qualifying and delivering a flawless race to claim another victory.
"Two wins in three races," he said that evening, pulling you into his side as you walked into a cowboy-themed bar downtown. "Guess I’m on a roll."
The bar was loud, filled with locals and fans alike, but Jeonghan stood out effortlessly. His cowboy hat tilted just right, a plaid shirt unbuttoned enough to make you wonder how he managed to look like that after hours in a car.
He kept his hand in your back pocket all night, his touch a silent claim when no one was looking. Every time he leaned in to murmur something in your ear, his lips brushed your skin just enough to send a shiver down your spine.
"Save a horse, ride a cowboy," he whispered at one point, his grin wicked as he tipped his hat at you.
That was all it took. You dragged him back to the hotel, barely making it through the door before he was on you, the hat ending up on the floor somewhere between the bed and the door.
The article you write the next day earns a rare whistle of approval from Jeonghan:
Cowboy Jeonghan Rides High in Austin, Extends Championship Lead
“I think this might be your best one yet,” he says, setting the phone down as he pulls you into his lap.
“Because I complimented you, or because I called you a cowboy?”
“Both,” he answers, his lips brushing against yours. “You know how much I love it when you’re right.”
And as his hand slides to the small of your back, you can’t help but think this season isn’t just his championship—it’s yours, too.
FORMULA 1 GRAN PREMIO DE LA CIUDAD DE MÉXICO 2024
Track: Autódromo Hermanos Rodríguez
The atmosphere at the Autódromo Hermanos Rodríguez crackles with energy even hours after the race ends. The stands have mostly cleared, but the celebratory chaos of the paddock lingers. Jeonghan, fresh off another stellar performance, grins as reporters crowd around him, microphones extended like offerings. His hair is damp with sweat, his race suit tied around his waist as he leans casually against the Ferrari garage.
You watch from a distance, notebook in hand, trying not to let your gaze linger too long. He catches your eye anyway, a knowing smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. He’s been calling you his “lucky charm” ever since you started waking up in his bed on race mornings, and it’s a moniker he seems to enjoy reminding you of at every opportunity.
"Don't go too far," he says when the interviews wrap up, his voice low as he brushes past you on his way to the motorhome. The warmth of his fingertips grazing your wrist sends a jolt of electricity through you. "We’re celebrating tonight, and you’re not wriggling out of it this time."
You don’t see the ambush coming.
You’re reviewing your notes in the quiet corner of the paddock when your editor finds you. His expression is stern, almost irate, as he approaches. The celebration around you suddenly feels muffled, the weight of his presence pulling you back to reality.
"Finally," he snaps, crossing his arms. "I’ve been trying to get hold of you for days."
"Hey, sorry, it’s been hectic," you start, tucking your notebook under your arm.
He doesn’t let you finish. "Hectic? I gave you the Ferrari all-access months ago. They’re breathing down my neck about where the hell it is. Where’s the draft?"
The question lands like a punch to the gut. You open your mouth, fumbling for an answer, but he’s already barreling forward.
"And don’t think I haven’t noticed your tone shift," he continues, his voice lowering but losing none of its edge. "All this newfound niceness toward Jeonghan in your articles. What’s that about, huh? You sleeping with him or something?"
The accusation slices through you, leaving you momentarily stunned.
"That’s not—" you begin, but your voice falters.
"Spare me," he says, waving you off. "I don’t care what’s going on between you two, but I do care about the reputation of this outlet. You’ve built your career on being incisive, unbiased. So get it together, or I’ll find someone who can."
He doesn’t wait for a response, leaving you standing there as the din of the paddock swells around you. The celebration feels distant now, muffled by the blood rushing in your ears.
When Jeonghan finally finds you later that night, you’re a bundle of frayed nerves. The confrontation with your editor replays in your head like a broken record, each word cutting deeper into your carefully constructed sense of self. You sit hunched over your laptop in the corner of the media center, the fluorescent lights casting harsh shadows that match the knot in your chest.
“What, you sleeping with him or something?”
The accusation echoes, burrowing into your mind, where it tangles with your own insecurities. You’ve built your entire career on being sharp, unbiased, and unflinchingly honest. And yet, somewhere along the way, Jeonghan had slipped through your defenses. You can still hear the venom in your editor’s voice, feel the judgment in his eyes. The doubt wasn’t just his anymore—it was yours, too.
Was he right? Had you compromised everything for Jeonghan?
Your hands tremble slightly as you scroll through the notes you’ve been trying to organize for hours, but the words blur together, useless. Guilt presses against your ribs like a vice, mixing with a raw ache of something you’re too scared to name. You’re drowning in your own thoughts, and you can’t shake the feeling that you’ve let everyone down: your editor, your readers, and most of all, Jeonghan.
When he finally appears, his presence fills the doorway like a shadow cutting through the sterile light. He leans against the doorframe with a casualness you can’t match, arms crossed and head tilted slightly, his damp hair still clinging to his forehead. The sight of him, so familiar and yet suddenly so distant, sends a pang through your chest.
“Working late?” he asks, his voice low but carrying the faint edge of concern.
You look up, startled, and quickly shut your laptop as if that might erase everything weighing on you. “Just...catching up,” you say, forcing a smile that feels as flimsy as the excuse.
Jeonghan doesn’t move, his eyes scanning you with the precision of someone who knows you too well. He doesn’t buy the act—you can tell by the way his brows knit together, a subtle but telling sign of his worry.
“Catching up on what?” he asks, stepping closer, his tone light but probing.
You shrug, trying to sound casual. “Just notes. Articles. The usual.”
His gaze sharpens. “Right. And that’s why you look like you haven’t breathed in hours?”
You glance away, your fingers curling into fists on the tabletop. “I’m fine, Jeonghan. Go enjoy your win. You earned it.”
“And what, leave you like this?” He pulls out a chair and sits across from you, resting his arms on the table. “Not happening.”
The flood of emotions bubbling under your surface threatens to spill over. You want to tell him everything, but the words feel too tangled, too raw.
“I just need to get this done,” you say, your voice tight.
Jeonghan frowns, studying you more closely. "What’s going on? Did something happen?"
"Nothing," you say quickly, sidestepping him. "I just need some space tonight, okay?"
His hand brushes your arm, but you pull away, and the confusion in his eyes makes your stomach twist. "Fine," he says after a moment, his voice quieter now. "If that’s what you want."
Jeonghan wakes up to sunlight filtering through the blinds, but the bed feels empty. The cool sheets where you usually sleep tug at his attention before he fully registers the weight in his chest. Frowning, he rolls over and reaches for his phone on the nightstand, still groggy.
The screen lights up with a mess of notifications: congratulatory texts, memes from Soonyoung, and a dozen links to your latest article. He swipes through the chaos with a faint smile, already anticipating your sharp insights mingled with the familiar affection that’s always laced through your critiques.
Propping himself up against the headboard, Jeonghan opens the piece. At first, the smile lingers—he’s grown to appreciate the balance you strike between honest criticism and admiration. But the further he reads, the slower he scrolls, the words pressing into him like bruises.
His smile fades entirely by the time he reaches the paragraph describing his meltdown in Spain. The words cut too close, dragging him back to that moment in the Aston Martin garage: the oppressive silence, the rain hammering against the roof, and the suffocating realization of yet another missed opportunity.
"Jeonghan’s brilliance is undeniable, but brilliance without consistency leaves championships just out of reach."
The sentence burns itself into his mind. The carefully chosen words feel clinical, detached—so unlike you. He rereads it, hoping to find the warmth he’s come to expect, but it’s nowhere to be found.
Jeonghan tosses his phone onto the bed and stares at the ceiling, disbelief simmering into anger. This wasn’t just an article. This was personal.
The paddock is bustling, teams dismantling their motorhomes to get ready for next weekend. Jeonghan doesn’t bother changing out of his sweats before leaving his room, each step through the maze of hospitality suites and garages fueled by frustration.
When he finally reaches the media center, his chest tightens at the sight of you hunched over your laptop, headphones in, oblivious to his stormy approach. He doesn’t hesitate.
"You want to tell me what the hell that was?" His voice slices through the low hum of conversations around you.
Startled, you pull off your headphones, your eyes widening as you take him in. "Jeonghan—"
"No." He slaps his phone onto the desk in front of you, his movements sharp and deliberate. The article stares back at you, a glaring reminder of the wedge you’ve driven between you. "Don’t ‘Jeonghan’ me. What is this?"
"It’s my job," you say, standing to meet his intensity. The tremor in your voice betrays your composure. "You’ve always said you respected that about me."
"Respect?" His laugh is sharp, the kind that doesn’t reach his eyes. "You think I respect this?" He gestures to the article like it’s a living thing, something venomous and cruel. "You went for my throat."
"I didn’t go for your throat," you argue, though your voice cracks at the edges. "I wrote the truth."
"The truth?" His hands ball into fists at his sides. "You think I don’t know when you’re pulling punches? You tore me apart for no reason."
"You’ve been avoiding media days. You had a meltdown in Spain," you fire back, your tone rising as your frustration bubbles to the surface. "Those are facts, Jeonghan."
"You didn’t have to highlight them," he counters, his voice quieter but no less cutting. "You know how much this season means to me."
"And do you think this was easy for me?" you ask, tears pricking at your eyes. "Do you think I wanted to write that?"
"Then why did you?" His voice softens, the anger slipping to reveal something raw and vulnerable. "Why would you do that to me?"
"Because I had to!" The words explode out of you, breaking the fragile tension. "Because people already think I’m biased. That I’ve gone soft. That I’m compromised because of you."
The weight of your confession hangs in the air, pressing down on both of you. Jeonghan’s face shifts, the fury giving way to something heavier—hurt, confusion, disappointment.
"I never asked you to compromise anything for me," he says quietly, his voice thick. "I never would."
You look away, your gaze falling to the floor. "I know. But this isn’t just about you. It’s about my career. My integrity."
"And what about us?" he asks, his voice breaking slightly. "Where does that leave us?"
You have no answer, the words lodged in your throat. The silence stretches, broken only by the faint hum of activity outside the room.
Finally, Jeonghan exhales sharply, running a hand through his hair. "I can’t do this right now," he mutters, taking a step back. "I need...I need to get out of here."
Jeonghan finds himself at the bar later that evening, the neon lights washing over him in hazy blues and reds. The whiskey in his glass is halfway gone before Soonyoung slides onto the stool next to him, his arrival quiet but not unnoticed.
"You look like shit," Soonyoung says, his tone light despite the obvious concern in his eyes.
"Thanks," Jeonghan mutters, swirling the amber liquid in his glass.
They sit in silence for a moment before Soonyoung breaks it. "Want to talk about it?"
Jeonghan stares at his drink, the ice melting faster than he can keep up with. "I don’t know what we’re doing anymore," he admits, the words coming out heavier than he expected. "Me and her."
Soonyoung hums thoughtfully, taking a slow sip of his drink. "You two have always been complicated."
Jeonghan huffs out a humorless laugh. "That’s one way to put it."
"But," Soonyoung says, setting his glass down, "you’ve also always figured it out."
Jeonghan doesn’t respond, his thoughts a tangled mess of frustration and longing.
"You’re not going to fix it tonight," Soonyoung continues, his voice quieter now. "But if it matters—and I know it does—you’ll find a way. Just...don’t wait too long, yeah?"
Jeonghan nods slowly, the whiskey burning on its way down. Soonyoung’s words linger, a reminder of what he already knows but isn’t ready to face.
Not yet.
FORMULA 1 LENOVO GRANDE PRÊMIO DE SÃO PAULO 2024
Track: Autódromo José Carlos Pace
The rain is relentless in São Paulo, hammering down on the paddock and turning the atmosphere into a chaotic mess of drenched personnel and frayed nerves. Qualifying has been suspended indefinitely, the downpour rendering the track undriveable, and the mood in the Ferrari garage is grim. The asphalt glistens under the floodlights, reflecting streaks of color from team banners and sponsor logos. It feels like the world is holding its breath.
You’ve never liked rain. It has a way of amplifying what’s already simmering under the surface, and today is no exception. Your heart pounds as you weave through the maze of garages, dodging puddles and sidelong glances from team members. You know exactly where he’ll be—Jeonghan never strays far from the Ferrari setup, even when there’s nothing to do but wait.
Sure enough, there he is. Sitting on the edge of a workbench, his race suit unzipped to his waist and his damp undershirt clinging to his torso. His head is bowed, one hand gripping the edge of the bench while the other pushes wet strands of hair back from his forehead. He looks exhausted—physically, emotionally—but the moment your shoes scuff against the concrete floor, his eyes snap up to meet yours.
You’ve been blowing up his phone all week. Texts, calls, voice notes—all unanswered or met with cold, clipped replies.
"Jeonghan," you start, the sound of your voice barely carrying over the rain pelting the garage roof.
He doesn’t move. Doesn’t smile. "What are you doing here?"
The coldness in his tone sends a shiver down your spine, but you force yourself to step closer. "I could ask you the same thing."
His laugh is short, bitter. "Why are you surprised? This is where I always am."
"Don’t do that," you say, trying to keep your voice steady. "Don’t act like this is normal. You’ve been ignoring me for weeks."
"I haven’t been ignoring you," he snaps, pushing off the bench. He stands tall now, towering over you, his hands resting on his hips. "I’ve been busy."
"Busy?" You scoff, crossing your arms over your chest. "You call one-word replies busy? Jeonghan, I’ve been calling and texting nonstop, and you’ve barely said anything to me."
His jaw tightens, and for a moment, he says nothing. The silence stretches, heavy and suffocating, broken only by the distant clatter of tools being packed away. Finally, he exhales sharply, running a hand through his damp hair again.
"Maybe I’m tired," he says, his voice quieter but no less sharp. "Maybe I’m sick of pretending everything’s fine when it’s not."
Your heart twists at the admission, but you push it aside. "What’s not fine? Tell me, Jeonghan. Because I don’t understand why you’re shutting me out."
He shakes his head, a humorless smile tugging at his lips. "You don’t understand?" His voice rises, cracking with the weight of his frustration. "How could you not? You tore me apart in that article like I was just another driver. Like I meant nothing to you."
"It’s my job," you argue, but the words sound weak even to your ears.
"Your job?" he repeats, throwing his arms up. "You mean the job where you’re supposed to be unbiased? Yeah, I’ve noticed how ‘unbiased’ you’ve been lately. Especially when it comes to me."
"That’s not fair," you shoot back, taking a step closer. "You know I’ve always tried to be honest—"
"Honest?" He laughs, the sound bitter and hollow. "You call dragging my worst moments into the spotlight honest? You didn’t write about me; you dissected me. Like I was nothing more than a story."
Tears sting your eyes, but you blink them away, refusing to let him see how much his words cut. "I didn’t mean to hurt you."
"But you did," he says, his voice softening but losing none of its edge. "And now I don’t even know where we stand."
"We stand..." You falter, your throat tightening. "We stand where we’ve always stood. I care about you, Jeonghan. But this is complicated."
He steps closer, his eyes searching yours. "It doesn’t have to be. It’s only complicated because you’re making it that way."
You look away, unable to hold his gaze. "You don’t understand what this means for me. For my career. For the season."
"And what about me?" he presses, his voice breaking. "What about what this means for us?"
The weight of his words hangs between you, heavy and suffocating. You take a shaky step back, the sound of the rain growing louder in the silence. "Maybe I should go," you whisper, turning toward the garage entrance.
"Don’t," he says sharply, and before you can take another step, his hand wraps around your wrist. “Don’t walk away from me.”
You barely have time to register the movement before he’s pulling you back, his other hand cupping your face as his lips crash against yours. The rain spills into the garage, soaking you both as his kiss deepens, desperate and unyielding. His hands slide to your waist, holding you like you’re the only thing keeping him grounded.
When he finally pulls back, his forehead presses against yours, his breath warm against your skin. "I won’t give you up," he whispers, his voice raw. "But I need you to choose."
"Jeonghan..." Your voice trembles, but he cuts you off.
"You love me," he says, his hands cupping your face. "Yes or no."
You hesitate, the weight of his question pressing down on you like the storm outside.
"Come on, sweetheart," he pleads, his voice cracking. "Don’t make me beg."
"I’m scared," you admit finally, your voice breaking. "Scared of losing myself. Of losing everything I’ve worked for."
He exhales shakily, his thumb brushing against your cheek. "Are you willing to lose me to keep writing?"
"I..." The words catch in your throat, the truth slipping through your fingers. "I don’t know."
His hands drop to his sides, and he takes a step back, the distance between you like a chasm. "When you decide," he says quietly, his voice heavy with resignation, "give me a call."
The rain clears just in time for Sunday’s race, and Jeonghan is unstoppable. He weaves through the slick track with the precision and grace that made him a legend, crossing the finish line first and extending his lead in the championship.
But you’re not there to celebrate with him.
You watch from the media center, your chest tight as the cameras capture his triumphant smile. But there’s a hollowness in his expression, a flicker of something unspoken as he scans the crowd for someone who isn’t there.
The post-race interviews blur together, and even as you type up your article, the words feel lifeless. Without him beside you, the hotel room feels cold and sterile, the thrill of the race dulled by the ache in your chest.
The days leading up to the Las Vegas Grand Prix are a haze of press releases and anticipation. Jeonghan is one race away from becoming a world champion, but all you can think about is the sound of his voice, the warmth of his touch, the way he looked at you under the floodlights.
Your editor calls to praise your latest pieces, but the compliments feel hollow. The articles are polished and professional, but they lack the spark you used to feel when writing about him.
You glance at your phone, your thumb hovering over Jeonghan’s name. You haven’t called. Haven’t texted. Haven’t dared to.
Because the truth is, you’re terrified.
Terrified of losing yourself.
But even more terrified of losing him.
FORMULA 1 HEINEKEN SILVER LAS VEGAS GRAND PRIX 2024
Track: Las Vegas Strip Circuit
The sun sets over Las Vegas in a haze of neon and desert dust, the city already buzzing with anticipation for the final race of the season. But in the paddock, the air is electric for all the wrong reasons.
Jeonghan crashes out in Q3.
Your eyes are glued to the screen as Jeonghan’s car slides violently into the barriers, the sharp sound of the impact slicing through the usual hum of commentary. Gasps ripple through the room, but your stomach lurches with something deeper than professional concern.
You’re in the media center when it happens, staring at the screen as his time locks in. The commentators speculate, the other journalists start drafting headlines, but you can’t hear a word of it. Your heart is already in free fall, and you don’t breathe again until he climbs out of the car, his hands held up in frustration as he waves off the medics.
P8. A disastrous result for the race that could make—or break—his championship. It might as well be the end of the world.
The room erupts into murmurs as analysts speculate on strategy and rival team fans cheer, but you barely hear them. Your editor sidles up to your desk, his grin practically gleaming in the fluorescent light.
"Well, well," he says, leaning over your shoulder. "Looks like we’ve got our headline for tomorrow. ‘Jeonghan’s Championship Dream in Tatters.’ Perfect angle to dissect his mistakes, maybe even his cocky attitude catching up with him—"
His words fade into the background as something clicks inside you. Every fiber of your being recoils at the thought of reducing Jeonghan—your Jeonghan—to nothing more than a headline. You love writing, yes, but this? This isn’t writing. This is tearing apart the one person who matters most to you, all for clicks and ad revenue.
Without thinking, you swivel in your chair, fixing your editor with a glare so sharp it silences him mid-sentence. "This is my two weeks’ notice."
He blinks, taken aback. "Excuse me?"
"You heard me." You stand, grabbing your bag and laptop. "I’m done."
Before he can argue, you’re already out the door, leaving behind the cacophony of keyboards and camera flashes. The paddock is chaos as you weave through the throngs of team personnel and fans, your heart pounding with a mix of adrenaline and urgency.
You run.
The Ferrari garage is chaos. Engineers scramble to pack up the car, Jeonghan’s manager barks into his phone, and his publicist looks ready to faint. You push your way through it all, ignoring the glares and the shouted protests.
“He doesn’t want to see anyone right now,” Soonyoung says, stepping in front of you as you approach the motorhome.
“I don’t care,” you snap, shoving past him.
The motorhome is empty.
For a moment, you’re frozen, your chest heaving as you glance around the pristine space. The stillness only amplifies your worry. And then it hits you, like a sudden gust of wind: you know exactly where he is.
You sprint again, your heartbeat pounding louder than the chaos of the paddock behind you. The world blurs into streaks of neon lights, the hum of distant conversations, and the faint roar of engines being powered down for the night. The grandstands loom ahead, their cold metal steps stretching upward like an impossible climb. Each step burns in your legs, your breath coming in shallow gasps, but you don’t let up.
You don’t stop until you see him.
Jeonghan sits alone, halfway up the grandstands, his figure slouched as though the weight of the world is resting on his shoulders. The floodlights bathe him in a pale glow, illuminating the soft curve of his profile, his hair catching the light in strands of gold. His head is tilted back, eyes fixed on the track below as if searching for answers in the lines he couldn’t master tonight. A half-finished beer dangles loosely from his fingertips, the bottle swaying slightly with every small movement. Beside him, another bottle sits untouched, condensation pooling on the aluminum seat beneath it.
Waiting.
You take the last steps slowly, your chest tightening as your breathing evens out. Up close, his exhaustion is palpable—dark shadows under his eyes, his usual sharp features softened by an unfamiliar vulnerability.
“I knew you’d come,” he says without looking at you, breaking the silence. His voice is soft, but it carries a weight that settles heavily in your chest. He doesn’t even look at you, his gaze still fixed somewhere far ahead, lost in thought.
You hover for a moment before lowering yourself into the seat beside him. The cold aluminum seeps through your jeans, a stark contrast to the heat radiating from your own skin after the sprint. Jeonghan doesn’t move, doesn’t turn toward you, and the distance between you feels like a chasm.
“Jeonghan...” you start, your voice hesitant, but he cuts you off with a bitter laugh.
“This is what happens when my lucky charm leaves me,” he mutters, a sad smile curling at the edges of his lips. His tone is light, but it does nothing to hide the ache in his words. He takes a slow sip of his beer, the motion unhurried.
You glance at the track, the sharp turns and straightaways now cloaked in shadows. “It’s not your fault,” you say softly, your hand reaching out to brush his arm. He flinches at the contact, his muscles tense beneath your touch, but he doesn’t pull away.
“P8 doesn’t mean it’s over.”
This time, he turns to look at you, his dark eyes locking onto yours. The raw vulnerability there makes your chest tighten further. His voice is quieter now, almost fragile. “You don’t get it,” he murmurs, shaking his head as his gaze drops to the beer bottle in his hand. “This race... it’s everything. If I win, I’m a champion. If I don’t...” He trails off, his words hanging in the air between you.
“I’m scared, Y/N.” His voice cracks, and the sound is almost unbearable. “Scared of all of it. The pressure, the expectations... losing.”
You stare at him, the usually unshakable Jeonghan, the Golden Boy, the Ferrari God, unraveling before you. Your hands move without thinking, cupping his face and tilting his chin so he’s forced to meet your gaze again. His skin is warm beneath your palms, a faint flush from the alcohol—or maybe the stress—lingering across his cheeks.
“Jeonghan,” you say, your voice steady despite the storm in your chest. You press your forehead against his, your breath mingling with his as you close the distance between you. “You love me. Yes or no.”
For a moment, he doesn’t move, doesn’t breathe. And then his hands come up to grip your wrists, his touch firm but trembling. “Yes,” he whispers, the word spilling from his lips without hesitation, raw and resolute. His voice shakes, but his eyes hold yours, steady and certain despite the tears brimming there.
A soft smile tugs at your lips as you lean in, your lips brushing against his forehead in a feather-light kiss. “Good,” you whisper, the word carrying a quiet strength. “You’ll always have me.”
His grip on your wrists loosens, his expression shifting to something between confusion and hope. “But your job... your writing?”
“I’m quitting,” you say simply, letting the words hang for a moment. You watch the shock bloom across his face, his eyebrows shooting up as he sits back slightly, pulling your hands with him.
“You’re what?”
You laugh softly, brushing your thumb against his cheek as if to soothe him. “Not writing, idiot,” you tease gently. “I’m still going to write. But I’m not writing for any organization that profits off me tearing the man I love to shreds.”
His lips part, but no words come. He blinks rapidly, trying to process, and you take the opportunity to continue.
“Besides,” you add, your voice lighter now, “Sky Sports has been trying to recruit me for an on-air job for almost a year now.”
He stares at you, his gaze searching your face for any hint of doubt or regret. Finally, his voice comes, soft and uncertain. “You love me?”
The corners of your mouth lift into a playful smile, and you raise an eyebrow. “Is that what you decide to focus on?”
“Y/N,” he says again, his voice dropping to a whisper, almost desperate. His hands move to clasp yours, his fingers lacing through yours as if afraid you’ll slip away. “Do you love me?”
You answer with action, leaning in and capturing his lips in a quick, tender kiss. His breath hitches, his fingers tightening around yours. “Win tomorrow, golden boy,” you whisper, your lips brushing his as you speak. “And I’ll tell you my answer.”
For the first time that night, Jeonghan smiles—a real, genuine smile that reaches his eyes and softens the tension in his face. And in that moment, as the world fades to just the two of you under the floodlights, you know he’s already won.
Jeonghan is going to lose.
He’s sure of it.
The car feels like it’s fighting him at every turn, the tires slipping just slightly when he needs them to grip, the brakes locking up when he’s trying to conserve them for the final laps. His body aches from the sheer force of the race—the g-forces on the corners, the strain in his neck, the tension in his hands from gripping the wheel too hard.
The numbers on his dashboard blur together, his mind a muddled mess of strategies, tire temps, and sector times. He’s made up four places since the chaotic start and sits in P4 now, but every gain feels like a herculean effort. Every corner feels like it could be his last.
He slams the steering wheel in frustration as he exits another turn slower than he should, the car wobbling slightly under him. “This isn’t working,” he growls into the radio, his voice clipped and strained.
His engineer’s calm voice filters through the crackling static. “We know, Jeonghan. Stay focused. We believe in you.”
Jeonghan clenches his teeth, a biting retort forming on his tongue, but before he can spit it out, the radio crackles again.
“Your girl is here. In the garage. She’s watching.”
“What the fuck?” The words come out before he can stop them, his tone incredulous.
“Soonyoung wanted to surprise you,” his engineer explains, and Jeonghan can practically hear the grin in his voice.
His mind stutters to a halt, and for a moment, all the noise fades—the engine’s roar, the tires screeching against the asphalt, even the deafening wind rushing past his helmet. He blinks, the image of you sitting in the garage flashing in his mind, your presence there grounding him in a way nothing else can.
And then, like a light cutting through the fog, your words echo in his head. “Win tomorrow, and I’ll tell you my answer.”
His grip on the wheel tightens, his breath steadies, and something in him clicks. It’s not just the car anymore—it’s him. His mind, his body, the machine—they all fall into alignment like pieces of a puzzle.
“Copy,” he says into the radio, his voice calm now. The frustration is gone, replaced by a steely determination.
Lap 50. Jeonghan is chasing down P3, the gap shrinking corner by corner. His tires scream in protest as he takes each turn with precision, braking just a fraction later, accelerating just a fraction earlier. The car isn’t perfect, but it doesn’t need to be. He’s making it work.
As he dives into the braking zone at Turn 7, the car in front of him falters, locking up slightly. Jeonghan seizes the opportunity, darting to the inside line and slipping past with a calculated aggression that leaves no room for error.
P3.
Lap 53. The leader pack is within sight now—Mingyu in P1, his closest rival, and Seungcheol in P2, a surprising dark horse this season. The three of them have danced this dance all season, but tonight feels different. Tonight, everything is on the line.
Lap 55. Seungcheol’s car begins to falter, his tires degrading as he struggles to maintain pace. Jeonghan hovers in his slipstream, biding his time.
On the main straight, he pulls to the outside, pushing his car to its limits. The engine roars as he edges past Seungcheol, the two of them side by side into the braking zone. Jeonghan holds his line, his heart pounding as he feels the car stick.
P2.
Lap 58. Mingyu is just ahead, the gap less than a second now. Jeonghan can feel the strain in his body, his hands cramping from the sheer effort, but he doesn’t let up. Every ounce of energy he has left is poured into these final laps.
Lap 59. DRS is open, the rear wing flattening to reduce drag as Jeonghan closes the gap on the straight. Mingyu defends aggressively, forcing Jeonghan to the outside.
They enter Turn 10 side by side, the apex inches away. Jeonghan holds his breath, his tires brushing the curbs as he edges ahead. But Mingyu doesn’t back down, his car pushing right up to Jeonghan’s rear wing as they exit the turn.
Lap 60. The final lap. It’s a battle of wills now, neither of them giving an inch. Jeonghan’s heart feels like it’s about to burst, the sweat dripping down his face soaking into the padding of his helmet.
The final corner looms ahead, and Jeonghan knows this is it. Mingyu is on his inside, the two of them neck and neck as they approach the braking zone.
Jeonghan brakes just a millisecond later, his car sliding slightly as he takes the tighter line. He holds his breath, willing the car to stay steady, and then he’s through.
The checkered flag waves, the two cars crossing the line almost simultaneously.
Jeonghan’s chest heaves as he slumps back in his seat, his mind a blur of exhaustion and adrenaline. He doesn’t know if he’s won or lost—everything was too close, too fast.
The radio crackles to life, and for a moment, all he hears is chaos—shouting, cheering, voices overlapping in a cacophony of noise.
And then, cutting through it all, your voice rings out.
“YOON JEONGHAN, TWO-TIME WORLD CHAMPION!”
The words hit him like a lightning bolt, and a yell tears from his throat, loud and raw and triumphant. He punches the air, his entire body trembling with emotion as he lets out another scream, so loud he’s sure the neighboring cars can hear him.
He’s done it.
Through the static of the radio, he hears your laughter, bright and unrestrained, and it’s the only sound that matters.
Jeonghan rolls into Parc Fermé with deliberate precision, the sound of his engine fading into silence as he pulls to a stop. His hands are shaking, his knuckles pale from the grip he’s maintained for the last grueling laps. The cockpit feels stifling, and yet he lingers for a second longer, the enormity of what’s just happened crashing over him like a wave.
He’s done it.
The realization leaves him breathless. His fingers fumble with the steering wheel as he pulls it free, his movements automatic even as his mind spirals. Around him, the world is chaos. Fans scream from the stands, the floodlights of Las Vegas painting the scene in stark gold and shadows. Through the static in his earpiece, his engineer’s voice is still ringing with elation, and he hears indistinct shouting from his crew, but it all blends into a distant roar.
All Jeonghan can think about is you.
He climbs out of the car, bracing his foot on the halo as he pushes himself upright. For a brief moment, he stands tall atop the machine, his body vibrating with adrenaline. His fists shoot into the air, and he lets out a triumphant yell, a sound ripped from deep within his chest. The Ferrari crew erupts in response, a sea of red swarming toward him, shouting his name, their arms outstretched in celebration.
But Jeonghan’s eyes are already searching, scanning the barriers beyond the chaos, darting from one face to another. He’s not looking for his engineers or the cameras or even his teammates. He’s looking for you.
And then he sees you.
You’re there, pressed against the barricade, your hands gripping the edge so tightly your knuckles are white. Your face is wet—tears streaming freely—but your smile is brighter than anything he’s ever seen. It’s disbelieving, joyous, and so achingly familiar that his breath catches in his throat.
In that moment, everything else fades away. The cheers of his team, the flashing cameras, the rules about protocol—none of it exists anymore.
Jeonghan jumps down from the car, tossing the wheel to a waiting mechanic, and tears at his helmet strap. The world around him is a blur of movement and noise—his team surging forward, the cameras flashing, the announcer’s voice booming overhead—but none of it registers. His helmet comes off with a sharp tug, his hair sticking to his forehead with sweat as he grips the sleek surface in one hand and bolts toward you.
He’s moving before he realizes it, his boots pounding against the pavement as he cuts through the throng of people. The barricade draws closer, and the sight of you—your tear-streaked cheeks, your trembling shoulders—grounds him in a way nothing else could.
When he reaches you, he doesn’t stop.
His hands find you immediately. One curls around your neck, his palm warm and steady against your skin, while the other cups your face, his thumb brushing away the tears tracing paths down your cheek. His chest is still heaving, his breath ragged from the exertion of the race, but his touch is impossibly tender.
Your lips part, and your voice comes out in a trembling whisper, just loud enough for him to hear over the chaos. “Congratulations, pretty boy.”
It’s like the world holds its breath. For one fleeting second, it’s just the two of you. The noise of the paddock fades, the flashing lights dim, and all that remains is the quiet intimacy of your words.
Jeonghan’s lips curve into a smile so pure, so unrestrained, that it feels like sunlight breaking through a storm. “You love me,” he murmurs, his voice low and reverent. His forehead dips to rest against yours, his breath warm against your skin. “Yes or—”
You don’t let him finish.
Your arms shoot out, locking around his neck as you pull him down into a kiss. It’s desperate and dizzying, a culmination of everything left unsaid. Jeonghan freezes for the briefest of moments, his eyes widening, before melting into you entirely. His lips move against yours, soft but insistent, and the hand on your neck slides up to thread through your hair, holding you close as if you might disappear.
“Yes,” you whisper against his mouth, your voice breaking. Your hands fist in the front of his race suit, anchoring yourself as you press your forehead to his. “Yes. I love you.”
The barriers around you tremble as the Ferrari crew erupts in celebration, their cheers deafening. Jeonghan barely registers it. His fist shoots into the air, his lips still brushing against yours as he laughs—a sound full of pure, unrestrained joy.
“You’re my lucky charm,” he murmurs, his voice shaking with a mix of awe and certainty.
And when you smile back at him, it’s brighter than the floodlights, warmer than the victory.
EPILOGUE
FORMULA 1 ROLEX AUSTRALIAN GRAND PRIX 2024Track: Albert Park Grand Prix Circuit
The air at Albert Park hums with the kind of energy that only a new season can bring. The stands are packed, a sea of flags waving for drivers and teams, and the scent of freshly cut grass mingles with the faint tang of engine oil. It’s not quite spring yet, but the Melbourne sun still beats down relentlessly, leaving Jeonghan’s fireproofs clinging uncomfortably to his skin as he strides out of the Ferrari garage.
His mind buzzes with the aftermath of qualifying—P2 isn’t pole, but it’s close enough to feel like a promise. Yet, beneath the satisfaction, there’s the familiar tug of nerves that always follows a strong start. Tomorrow is what counts.
His publicist catches up to him, clipboard in hand. “Sky Sports first,” she says, her tone clipped but not unkind.
Jeonghan barely suppresses a groan, already knowing what awaits him. He doesn’t mind media—not entirely—but right now, his thoughts are miles away from answering questions about his out lap or tire degradation.
He rounds the corner into the media pen, where cameras are trained on bright logos and polished smiles. But his eyes find you immediately, waiting just behind the barricade, a microphone in hand, your hair catching the golden glow of the late afternoon sun.
You’re a vision.
He slows as he approaches, his publicist muttering instructions he doesn’t bother to hear. Your eyes catch his, and a secret smile spreads across your lips. He mirrors it, his heart lifting in a way that has nothing to do with his qualifying position.
Jeonghan leans against the barricade, his hands braced on the metal. It’s casual, nonchalant—a stark contrast to the spark simmering beneath the surface. As the questions begin, his fingers shift, brushing yours. The touch is featherlight, a soft sweep of skin against skin, but it’s enough to make his chest tighten.
The lanyard around your neck gleams in the sunlight, a stark reminder of how much had changed—and how much hadn’t. You’re still you.
And you’re wearing it.
The chain glints faintly against your skin, the two charms catching the light with each movement. One is the microphone, delicate and detailed, perfectly crafted. The other is his initial: J. Small, simple, yet undeniably his.
(You’d teased him endlessly when he gave it to you at Christmas. “Modest as always, aren’t you?” you’d laughed.
“Of course,” he’d replied, his voice low and teasing as he leaned into your hair. “One charm for your new job, because I’m so proud of you. And one for me, because I’m so amazing.”
“Two-time world champion,” you’d corrected, poking his ribs.
“Two-time world champion,” he’d agreed with a grin, pulling you into his arms.)
“Jeonghan,” you greet, a secret smile tugging at your lips.
The sound of his name on your lips—professional but laced with affection—sends a warmth through him that he doesn’t bother to hide. “Y/N,” he replies, his tone light but his eyes heavy with meaning.
The interview begins, your questions sharp and to the point. Jeonghan answers with his usual ease, the confidence that had earned him his titles. But he’s distracted, his focus flickering between your voice and the way your thumb absently brushes the microphone charm as you speak.
“You’re awfully cheerful for someone who only managed P2,” you tease, tilting your head slightly.
He leans closer, the faintest smirk tugging at his lips. “Just keeping it interesting. Wouldn’t want to win everything too easily.”
You roll your eyes, but the soft laugh that escapes you betrays your amusement.
The banter continues, each exchange laced with an undercurrent of warmth that only the two of you can fully understand. To anyone watching, it’s just another driver and journalist sharing a lighthearted moment. But to Jeonghan, it’s everything.
When the cameras finally cut, the energy between you shifts. He leans over the barricade without hesitation, his hands curling around the edge for balance as he dips his head toward you.
The first kiss is quick, a soft press of lips that feels like a punctuation mark to the conversation.
The second is slower, more deliberate, as if he’s savoring the fact that he can do this now.
The third lingers, his lips brushing yours with a tenderness that makes your breath catch.
“Jeonghan,” you murmur, glancing around with a mix of amusement and exasperation. But your grin is wide, and your cheeks are flushed, and he knows you’re not annoyed in the slightest.
“I love you,” he whispers, his voice so low it barely reaches you. His eyes are soft, his expression open in a way that’s reserved only for you.
Your hand finds his wrist, your fingers curling gently around it. “I love you too,” you reply, your voice steady, your gaze unyielding.
For a moment, the world around you fades—the bustling media pen, the hum of conversations, the clicking cameras. All that exists is the space between you, filled with unspoken promises and the quiet certainty of what comes next.
And as Jeonghan straightens, reluctantly stepping back into the whirlwind of his world, he knows he’s carrying a part of you with him—just as you carry a part of him. Always.
a/n: and that, was full throttle. i cannot express to any of you how proud i am of myself for finishing this. i think i spent more time deleting things on this doc than i did writing it and somehow, i fucking love the way this turned out. alta, kae, if you're reading this - thank you. from the bottom of my heart. this story would have never happened had it not been for the two of you motivating me to get this out of my head and onto a doc. you both inspire me every day and i am lucky that i had you on my side for this one.
this is the one art form I genuinely just cannot get my brain to accept as real. I’ve watched sped-up videos of it being done, read about it, seen in-progress marble statues and I still just can’t get it to sink in or stick. My mind doesn’t want to believe that any person has ever been able to start with a big block and break little bits off of it until it looks like a finely detailed person. At some point it has no recognizable shape and they still know where and how deep they should take a chip out of it that’ll still be the right decision 50,000 fucking chips later?!?
summary : you and johnny’s relationship told in your birthday posts over the years
pairing : johnny suh x gn!reader
genre/s : one-shot smau, non-idol au, pure fluff
*note : pics are not chronologically accurate + likes are a lil all over the place but let me have this i thought it would be cute and i reordered the pics after writing hahaha
from reese, with love <3
feel free to guess at which bday post they started being together hehe anyways, happy johnny day!! johnny was my bias when i first got into nct and he’s still my bias to this day! he is so dear to me, he deserves the world and i hope he had the best day.
thank you for reading, i’d love to know what you think! hope you’re doing well and taking care :)
the last thing you expected when you volunteered at your city’s local animal shelter is to meet the hottest cat person in the world. now if only he’d just adopt one of them so you’d stop ogling him every time he drops by.
★ FEATURING; wonwoo x reader
★ WORD COUNT; 25.4k words
★ TAGS; meet cute, strangers to lovers, pining, discourse abt being an idol as a career, mild angst, smut
★ NOTES; it's finally done!! and it turned out to be the longest oneshot i've written ever T T i reaaally didn't mean it to become this long but i got overly self-indulgent so here we are :3c also psa that this story features a handful of other characters from the series, so if you find them familiar that's totally on purpose HEH
this is part of the doting on you! series.
★ SMUT TAGS; unprotected sex, service top wonwoo, praise kink, voice kink, first time together, fingering, creampie, ofc they're grossly in love
P.S. i reserve the right to refuse to add you to my taglist if you don't have any age indicators in your profile :^)
There are a handful of things that a college student can do with their free time. Studying, hanging out with friends, and maybe even picking up a hobby of sorts. You, on the other hand, use up all the hours you’re not spending on your undergrad thesis or sleeping the day away at an animal shelter just a few minutes away from your apartment.
Your friends constantly wonder how you’re still able to maintain a remarkable GPA with a part-time job that’s starting to look full-time, but you just laugh their questions off for the most part—saying that other people have got it worse than you, but can still perform leagues better academically.
You also tell them that most of your motivation comes from all the unadopted animals from the shelter. You started as a volunteer just to kill time on weekends when you’re free, but even if you knew better than to get attached to all those adorable faces, you eventually found yourself on the employee roster anyways.
Now you’re rushing to finish your degree so you can get a neat sugar mommy job that’ll let you afford to adopt everyone that’s been stuck in the shelter for nearly a year or more.
Okay, maybe not everyone because you’re no fool with a savior complex. But just enough to give a few furry friends a new home, right?
“Don’t look now,” your coworker, Mina whispers conspiratorially while you’re in the middle of snacking in the break room, “but that cutie you’ve been crushing on just walked inside. He’s checking out the cats out in the playroom as usual.”
Right. Apart from your altruistic dream of adopting as many animals as your financial capabilities can allow, there’s another reason you’re always looking forward to your shifts at the shelter. A reason that you’re a bit too embarrassed to let your friends know about.
You nearly choke on a potato chip when Mina informs you of the news and she immediately breaks into a fit of laughter. Glaring at her, you compose yourself with a long gulp of water before saying, “I do not have a crush on him.”
“Sure,” she plays along. “If you consider making googly eyes at the guy every time he drops by as ‘not having a crush on him’, then I’ll concur.”
“I hate you.”
“No you don’t, sweetheart. Now get out there and sweet talk him into taking one of the kittens home! Pretty sure he wants one if he’s been showing up as much as he did for the last two months.”
While you would’ve argued that the so-called cutie you’ve been crushing on could just like seeing the cats play around in his free time, you don’t really have much energy to play mental gymnastics with Mina. You’ve had a long day of revisions and other nonsense materials you have to submit for your majors, so you’ll let this one slide.
Your workplace is as bleak as every other shelter you’ve seen a few times in your life. Gray walls, concrete floors, and steel cages stacked on top of each other. It looks more like a prison than anything, really, but it’s the staff and those kind-hearted souls who rehome animals that have long been abandoned that give the entire place some life.
While Mister Cutie That You’ve Been Quote-Unquote Crushing On doesn’t exactly fall into either of those categories, you like to think he still leaves the building just a touch more colorful once he walks out of the front door.
Speaking of color, he’s wearing a loose, dark green shirt that falls just below his elbows. Cutie—as you’ve deigned to call him not because you think he’s cute but because you’re yet to get his name—has one palm flattened across the viewing glass of the playroom. He’s wearing his usual black face mask today, but from the way his eyes glint behind his glasses, you’re just going to assume he’s having a good time just by watching the cats frolic inside.
“You’re here pretty late,” you state nonchalantly before standing a few feet away from him.
“Is that so strange?” he murmurs with a chuckle, surprisingly not startled with your sudden entrance before glancing your way. “I always show up here at this hour, don’t I?”
God. No matter how many times you hear his voice, you just can’t get over how deep it is. But before any of your thoughts could show on your face, you get talking.
“True. You’ve sparked a debate among the volunteers about your line of work, actually.” Not exactly. You’re not sure if any of the volunteers have even seen this guy, since they mostly work day shifts. “Anyway, are you just here to check ‘em out or am I finally going to hand you the adoption papers?”
His eyes crinkle a bit before he shifts his gaze towards the playroom again. Most of the older cats have already been put back in their respective cages. All that’s left inside are the kittens with way too much energy to spare. The director, A.K.A., your boss, believes that it’s best to tire them out first before settling them into individual enclosures for the night. Keeps the place nice and quiet for the evening shift fellows like yourself.
“Not yet, sadly,” Cutie says with a sigh before pointing at a small black kitten huddled up in a corner. “That one’s new, isn’t it? I don’t think I’ve seen him around before.”
“Her,” you correct. “Her name’s Hani. She’s a stray that someone from the university I’m attending brought in last week. It was pretty ugly, actually. Poor thing got into an accident and was bleeding everywhere. Good thing our usual vet was paying a visit when they came here.”
“Oh? That’s a relief then. No wonder she’s got a little limp every time she walks around,” he observes with a saddened tone. “But I digress. You mentioned you were attending university?”
…Okay, why’d the topic of interest suddenly shift to you?
But since it’s a harmless enough question, you reply with, “Yeah. The one that’s just a few blocks away. It’s kinda why the person who found Hani brought her here instead of a vet clinic. The nearest one’s like half an hour away.”
“Good call, good call.” He nods with a look of understanding. “I hope someone comes and adopts her. She deserves all the love she can get. Well, everyone here does of course.”
You flash him a conniving smile, raising your brows a few times. “You could give that to her.”
Cutie shakes his head with another low-pitched laugh. “As much as I’d love to, my…living conditions won’t be suitable for her at all. Or any of the other animals for the matter.”
“Hm?” You stare at him curiously. “Your landlord doesn’t allow pets or something?”
“Mmm… Not exactly.”
The conversation pretty much ends there. Cutie excuses himself—saying that someone is waiting for him at home. You don’t know why your heart deflates a little at the very real possibility that he has a significant other. Then again, if you’re this whipped when you haven’t even seen his face, you could only imagine how easy it would be for him to settle down with someone who has.
Either way, it’s none of your business. And correction: you’re not whipped. Just…hyper aware of his presence every time he stops by.
Despite the fact that you’re dead-set on filing this strange fascination you have for the guy, however…
“Wait!”
Cutie turns around to face you with an inquisitive look. “Yes?”
You swallow thickly, deciding to just bite the bullet before your nerves get the best of you. “What’s your name? I can’t keep calling you Cu—I mean, Glasses Guy in my head whenever you pay us a visit.”
He blinks for a few seconds, obviously nonplussed by your forwardness but you don’t think your pride can take it anymore if you had to refer to him as—
“You can call me Woo,” he says warmly and you can almost see the smile that stretches behind that black face mask.
Shit. Did your heart just stutter?
“Mister Woo—”
“Just Woo is fine.”
“Okay, Woo,” you start, kind of liking the way that something that’s obviously a nickname rolls off the tongue, “just let me know if you ever want to take Hani home. We’re open twenty four-seven, as you already know.”
He nods. “Sure thing. Is it okay if I can get your number for that?”
Now you have to fight the urge to scowl at him after he’s been so nice to you all night—and every other night he’s dropped by.
This guy isn’t flirting with you. He said it himself—someone’s waiting for him at home. Plus, he’s expressed consistent interest in adopting a kitten for himself a handful of times before. Maybe he just connected with Hani on a level that’s above the others. Enough to ask for your number since the possibility of him bringing one of these angels home is becoming more and more real.
Yeah, that’s definitely the reason!
So you give it to him—hastily scrawled behind an old flier gathering dust in one of the drawers on the front desk. It’s way too big to write just yours and the shelter’s contact details on, but the other calling cards are nowhere in sight. You’ll have to ask Mina if she’s seen them once—
“Thanks. I’ll keep in touch,” Woo tells you while folding the sheet of paper into a sleek black Louis Vuitton wallet.
Wait a minute.
Before you can even seriously ponder about what job he’s got to be able to afford that, Woo is already out of the door—heading into the evening streets without once looking back.
“Gosh, I swear that guy’s an idol in disguise or something.”
That’s the first thing that Mina tells you when you find her doing a few rounds among the sleeping dogs in the far back. You haven’t even spoken a single word about your most recent exchange.
“What makes you think that?”
“He just exudes idol vibes, y’know? Shows up here when the place is deserted. Always acts subtle and inconspicuous. Oh and not to mention how hot he looks even with a face mask on! He could be that one idol your little sister is crazy about.”
You roll your eyes at her odd ways of deduction. “Mina, I’ve seen enough of Haewon’s Mingyu merch to last a lifetime and Woo definitely does not look like him.”
“Oh?” Your coworker perks up with a mischievous smile. “You finally got his name, huh?”
God. This is going to be a long shift.
The next time you see Woo is, surprisingly, not at an ungodly hour in the shelter.
Well, it’s still at an ungodly hour, but the change in venue is a little baffling. You were up all night studying (read: cramming) for a major exam that you’ll take at eight in the morning the next day. When you were finally at your wit’s end, you decidedly hauled yourself away from your laptop and fluttered off to the only twenty four-hour coffee shop in the neighborhood.
You don’t usually frequent this place because you’ve tasted their shitty americanos firsthand, but you’re not in the mood to grind some beans yourself and you’re much too stubborn to drink anything instant—convinced the powdered concoction would only make you sleepier.
So here you are, in line for an espresso because you’ve decided to give them the benefit of the doubt that maybe not everything on the menu tastes less than it’s worth. With how many other students are pulling all-nighters here, that should be testament enough that they tolerate the place’s drinks enough to linger.
But, to your horror, when you’re right in front of the graveyard shift barista, he informs you that wireless payments have been temporarily disabled and that they’re only accepting cash up front. You make a show of patting down the pockets of your hoodie to check for your wallet even if you know damn well that you left it back at your apartment on purpose. Just when you’re about to resign yourself to buying shitty instant coffee at a Seven Eleven instead, the person behind you in line clears his throat.
“Uh, I can pay for her drink.”
You don’t think you’ve ever whipped your head around to check for a person’s identity faster than you did at that moment. It’s not that you’re particularly obsessed with the low timber of his voice or anything, but you’d recognize the way the shelter’s late night regular speaks in a goddamn heartbeat.
“Woo?” you scowl as he maneuvers himself to the front of the line, bringing out that same Louis Vuitton wallet you were ogling the last time you saw him.
He pulls out a few banknotes and places them on top of the counter with what you think is a smile behind his mask. “Couple that with four iced americanos please.”
You purposely hold your tongue about your personal vendetta against that particular drink as the barista nods, punching in Woo’s order and asking for a name. Just when you thought he’d say the same one he’d given when you’d asked, however—
“Soonyoung. Oh, and I’ll get those drinks to go, please.”
Your gaze is on him the entire time as the two of you shuffle to the end of the counter to wait for your drinks. Woo is doing a pretty okay job at playing it cool despite the fact that he lied about the names on his orders. Or maybe he lied when he told you his name was Woo.
Either way, does it matter? It’s not strange for people to make up fake names for baristas to write on their coffees—Mina does it all the time. But something about the idea that the man standing in front of you doesn’t look like a Soonyoung bothers you more than it should. It makes you wonder what his actual name is and if it’s weird to ask when he already gave you one to address him with—
“Didn’t think I’d see you here,” he suddenly says and you nearly have a heart attack.
“Uh,” you start somewhat dumbly, before finally getting a hold of your brain. “I live around the area. Thought I could use a drink if I didn’t want to sleep through my lecture notes.”
He lets out a low chuckle and at that moment, you let yourself observe him a little more closely. His hair is hidden behind a black beanie which he expertly paired with an equally black parka that’s zipped up all the way. He’s wearing a different pair of glasses today—one with thick, black frames—and you’re starting to get an idea of what his favorite color might be.
“Is that why I haven’t seen you at the shelter these days?” he wonders. “Every time I dropped by last week, you weren’t on shift.”
Oh. Shit, he’s been visiting still? And he was looking for you?
“Yup, I needed to take a few days off because if I wanna graduate, I’ve got to keep myself from failing any of my majors,” you explain as briefly as you can—not wanting to go into detail about GPA requirements and your thesis. “How about you? Why’re you out and about at this hour, Soonyoung?”
It’s kind of adorable, how the tips of his ears flush pink at your words. “Soonyoung’s one of my friends. I actually went out tonight because I lost a bet and had to buy four of us coffee.”
You’re not sure how and why you feel a wave of relief wash over you, so instead, you brush the feeling aside before leaning against the counter. “Lost a bet about what, pray tell?”
Woo is quiet for a while, as if contemplating if he should unveil his losses to someone who’s virtually still a stranger before letting out a defeated sigh.
“Mario Kart.”
The snort you let out draws a few curious stares from other customers sitting near the counter and you force out an apology that’s underscored with a hiccup of laughter. Woo doesn’t seem at all offended by your reaction though. In fact, he seems even amused by it.
Not ten seconds later, the barista calls out his—rather, Soonyoung’s name and he hands you your drink while he carries a takeout package in his other hand. You try not to think too much about the way his fingers brush against yours when he gives it to you, thanking him despite the obvious redness settling across your cheeks.
“I actually meant to text you last week but I didn’t know if you were comfortable with it,” Woo admits as he opens the door to the coffee shop for you—thanking him as you step out of the air conditioned space and into the humid evening air. “I wanted to ask about the adoption requirements at the shelter.”
Part of you is a little skeptical about his explanation because… If he’s been dropping by your workplace as often as he claimed last week, then he could’ve just asked the other staff about the details. Why wait until he meets you again to bring it up?
But of course, you’re way too polite to ask that to his face.
“I don’t mind you texting me about that or…anything, really,” you say, turning up the flap on the lid of your espresso before taking a small sip. Bearable. “It’s not like I’m too busy to respond to you. Well, I kinda am, but I can spare a few minutes.”
Woo nods with a soft laugh. “Okay. I’ll just get into detail via text later. I gotta bring these coffees back or they’ll chew me out for the rest of the night for being late. Oh, but do you need someone to walk home with you?”
The idea of having your not-work crush escorting you home flusters you more than it should and when you take another sip of your drink, it nearly goes down the wrong hole. Woo pats your back in comforting fashion when you sputter from your coffee, tears stinging your eyes as you attempt to breathe like a normal person. Fuck, you must look so fucking weird right now.
“I-I, um, sorry about that.” You cough into your fist, laughing uneasily as you grip your drink a little too tightly. “No, it’s fine. I only live a few blocks away.”
Now that you mention it, does that mean Woo is the same? If he’s out here in this specific neighborhood at this specific hour, that would only mean he lives in the area, or is at least staying for the meantime, right? But before you could get swept up by your own curiosity, you immediately sweep any and all ideas under the rug.
“Oh, that’s—that’s good to know.”
He sounds disappointed. Why does he sound disappointed?
“So I guess this is goodbye? ” you start.
Woo nods briskly. “Yup. I’ll keep in touch.”
You chuckle. “That’s what you said last time.”
Whoa. Were you propositioning him or something? Sometimes, it baffles you how one minute, you’re choking on a cup of coffee—several shades embarrassed—and the next, you’re practically daring him to text you like he said he would.
“And I’ll make good on that as soon as time permits.” Woo shakes his head with a laugh. “It was nice seeing you again, though. Good luck with your exams.”
You can’t help the way your cheeks heat up yet again at the thought of him having remembered that you mentioned your exams. “Thanks. I think I need all the luck I can get.”
When Woo turns to look at you through those thick-rimmed glasses, you almost wish you could see the smile that’s undoubtedly spreading behind that pesky mask of his.
“I’ll be happy to give it to you every time then.”
Today was probably the shittiest day of the week.
Not only did you spectacularly flunk the exam you took this morning whilst running on less than two hours of sleep, but your thesis adviser emailed you about several concerns regarding the latest version of your manuscript. Needless to say, you spent a good chunk of your day holed up in the university library, consulting new reference materials to back up your data since the ones you used were much too outdated for your adviser’s liking.
It should’ve been something you’d consider a walk in the park, given the many revisions that have preceded this one, but it just so happens that you’ve got three more exams to worry about for the remainder of the week. Meaning, you had to squeeze in a few minutes of studying in between editing your newest draft and telling yourself that maybe it wouldn’t be too bad if you got held back for one semester before graduating.
You’ve been so caught up with your piling academic responsibilities that you’ve barely looked at your phone. You only deigned to dig it out of the deepest pit of your backpack when you got a little hungry and wondered if they still let food delivery guys past the school gates. To your surprise, you’re greeted with a few text messages that you immediately feel horrible for not replying to the moment they were delivered.
Unknown Number [10:45]: So about those adoption requirements…
Unknown Number [11:33]: Oh. Sorry, I forgot to introduce myself. It’s Woo.
Ignoring the fact that you’re obviously famished, you hastily type in a response after marking down Woo’s number with a black cat emoji right next to his name. It takes a moment because you’re so shaky, you end up suffering from a few typos here and there.
Me [13:10]: hey! sorry i was a bit busy and i just saw these…
Me [13:10]: what do you wanna know? i’m on a self-imposed lunch break rn
Woo 🐈⬛ [13:15]: No worries, I figured you got a long day ahead. Hope lunch is good at least.
Me [13:16]: actually, i haven’t ordered anything yet ‘cause time got away from me but Anyways
Me [13:16]: you wanted details abt the adoption process?
Woo 🐈⬛ [13:18]: What? You haven't eaten yet?
Me [13:18]: yeah, but it’s no big deal. i could just have some food delivered.
Woo 🐈⬛ [13:19]: Well, I’m out right now. I could just buy some food for you and drop it off.
Your eyes practically bulge out of their sockets when you read each word of Woo’s text message. Is he being serious right now? The guy just paid for your coffee last night—a coffee that you forgot to pay back because of how surprising the circumstances were. Now he’s offering to buy you lunch?
Me [13:20]: you really don’t have to, i swear!! i’ve still got a few discount vouchers in baenim
Woo 🐈⬛ [13:22]: I insist. I’ve got my bike with me anyway.
Me [13:22]: bike? like, a bicycle?
Woo 🐈⬛ [13:23]: Mmm. Close. Anyway, what food do you want?
Now what the hell does that mean?
Part of you feels like you should be freaked out with how…kind he’s being to you. The world is full of weirdos who play the nice guy just to do something despicable to you in the end. Yet another part of you—a less reasonable one, admittedly—insists that Woo is nothing like that, despite the fact that you barely know the guy.
Then again, you’re tired, stressed out, and barely slept a wink last night. If the hot guy you’ve been quote-unquote crushing on is offering to buy you food, where’s the harm in accepting?
Me [13:25]: fine. i could use some yangnyeom chicken and tteokbokki.
Woo 🐈⬛ [13:26]: Nice. I know a good place.
Woo 🐈⬛ [13:27]: I’ll head out in a few, so just text me the address.
Right after sending your university’s pin location to Woo, you start to consider the chance of him being some sort of serial stalker. Could he be biding his time, trying to let your guard down and easing personal information out of you so he could do something nefarious when he gets you alone? Fuck. Maybe it’s a good idea you didn’t let him walk you home yesterday…
But despite the very real possibility of Woo being someone with bad intentions regardless of how nice he is, you see no problem in meeting him at the school gates when he arrives with your food. In fact, you don’t even feel apprehensive of him in spite of all the ideas you conjured in your head over the past hour.
Me [14:15]: where are you?
Woo 🐈⬛ [14:16]: Parked by the curb in front of a bookstore. You can’t miss me.
Me [14:16]: i don’t even know what you Look like today, genius
Woo 🐈⬛ [14:17]: I told you, I’ve got my bike with me. I don’t see anyone else looking the same way within a twenty meter radius.
You have to fight the urge to roll your eyes. For someone you deemed as ‘nice’, he can get pretty mouthy if he wants to.
You head to the general direction of the bookstore that Woo was talking about as you try to ignore your growling stomach. Given that the lunch rush is more or less over, the usual crowd of pedestrians has considerably thinned out and it makes it easier for you to scan the vicinity for any bike-wielding impromptu delivery guys.
However, the only person that does stand out to you is some dude wearing a black leather jacket, chilling next to an expensive looking motorcycle as he taps away on his phone with a matching pair of leather gloves and everything. His face is obscured by a black helmet and you would’ve let your gaze go past him had it not been for a sudden realization that hits you right there.
Bike? Like, a bicycle?
Mmm. Close.
“Woo!”
Of course the leather jacket-clad, expensive motorcycle-wielding man looks up at the sound of his name being called from across the street. The visor of his helmet is drawn all the way up and you could see that he isn’t wearing his glasses for good reason. He seems to perk up at the sight of you before grabbing something from the trunk of his motorcycle and jogging to meet you where you stood.
You’ve seen him sporting a spectrum of comfortable outfits during his late night visits, but this is the first time you’ve witnessed Woo looking as dapper as he is now.
“Late lunch delivery?”
You don’t even try to hide the way you roll your eyes as you accept the paper bag he hands to you. “Thanks. How much do I owe you now? You already got me coffee and now lunch.”
He shakes his head and you find it a little ridiculous, considering he’s still wearing that huge helmet of his. “It’s on me. It’s the least I could do to repay you for being so accommodating.”
“Woo, I haven’t done shit for you ‘cause you’re yet to properly talk to me about the adoption process. What on earth are you talking about?”
“But you will do shit for me when we do talk about it. I’m just repaying the favor in advance,” he rebuts cheekily before pulling back the sleeve of his jacket to check for the time. “Though as much as I want to do that now, I need to catch a flight in a few hours.”
That makes your expression morph into disbelief. “You need to catch a what?”
“A flight. Gotta head to Japan for a few days,” Woo tells you nonchalantly, as if heading to Japan for a few days is something people do on a regular basis. “Can you make sure no one else takes Hani home before I can settle everything on my end?”
You tell yourself that you’ve got time to mull over what this guy does for a living some other time. Clearing your throat, you manage an awkward smile. “Um, yeah, sure thing. You’re really attached to her, aren’t you?”
“You can say that again,” he laughs softly. “She kinda reminds me of myself from a long time ago… But anyway, I’ve gotta go. Tell me what you think about the chicken when you’re done with it?”
You nod. “I’ll be as brutally honest with my review as possible.”
“Just the way I like it,” Woo replies, eyes crinkling with amusement.
When you head back to the library, the person you were sharing a table with looked after your stuff for you while you were gone. You thank her profusely before settling back into your seat, grabbing the takeout packages from the paper bag that Woo personally delivered to you.
Before you can start wolfing down the delectable-smelling chicken he brought, however, you notice a cute sticky note plastered on the lid—a doodle of a cat with glasses and a speech bubble that says you can do it~ scribbled on the corner.
Don’t overwork yourself. It’s been ages since my last exam, but I know how hard it can be. Make sure to eat properly so you can absorb all the info you need.
When your head bangs against one of the many wooden tables in the library, the person seated at the far end stares at you with a concerned look. You can’t muster the energy to assure her that everything’s alright, though because…
That quote-unquote crush of yours?
It’s starting to become a little too real.
You’re in the middle of throwing out old files from the back room archive when Mina peeks her head into the doorway and says, “You’ve got a visitor again.”
One glance at the old wall clock hung above the steel cabinets tells you that it’s midnight, but you know for one that this mystery visitor isn’t Woo this time around.
You’ve been keeping in touch with him through Kakao, since you can’t exactly afford to send international text messages to Japan and your new friend(?) has been keeping you posted about his shenanigans for the past week. He hasn’t replied to your last message from over three hours ago and you’re not so delusional to think he got on a plane back to Korea and is suddenly here to surprise you.
When you see who it is, though, your heart warms just a little.
“Why haven’t you been texting me back?” Haewon, your sister who’s two years younger, gets up from the seats lined up across the walls of the lobby. “I missed you!”
You shake your head before pulling her into a hug. “I missed you, she says. But you’re really just looking for someone to show you around the city again, aren’t you?”
“Hey, missing you and needing a chaperone aren’t mutually exclusive,” she huffs and you notice that she’s in full fangirl gear again—a lightstick hanging off a strap slung across her shoulder, a windbreaker with her favorite boyband’s logo sewn on the front pocket, and of course, a photocard of Mingyu dangling from her little handbag.
Despite the fact that she’s also in college, Haewon chose to stay in your hometown in Jeju to pursue her studies there instead. The first few months since you left were the hardest—so unused to not having your little sister go on and on and on about how much she loves SEVENTEEN. But you’ve also come to appreciate the peace and quiet that living alone in Seoul affords you.
Besides, with how much money she’s raised for being one of the more well-known event organizers in her fandom, Haewon can pretty much come visit you in Seoul whenever she feels like it.
“I’m guessing your thirteen boyfriends have a thing going on?” you ask before glancing over at the playroom to make sure there aren’t any kittens left inside.
Haewon nods enthusiastically. “Yup, they’re having a mini fanmeet outside their company building in a few days—”
“In a few days?” you parrot before gesturing for her to follow you in the break room so you can get changed. “What’re you doing out here all dressed up then?”
Your little sister rolls her eyes. “Unnie, I’m not some weirdo who wears their merch on a regular night for no reason. I came from this little cupsleeve event for Wonwoo’s birthday. Things ran a little late because we had to help clean up at the café.”
While you’re not well-versed in fandom jargon, you have learned a few terms from Haewon here and there. Plus, she already took you to a cupsleeve event for another member’s birthday once. You’re not really sure who it was because the only one you do consistently remember is Mingyu—your sister’s ultimate bias, apparently.
“What made you stop by then?” you wonder as you exchanged your work uniform for a loose shirt. “You didn’t tell me you were coming in advance. I could’ve fetched you from the airport.”
“I did tell you in advance.” She pouts. “But you said you were busy working on your manuscript when I did, so it must’ve slipped your mind.”
Oh. Okay, now you feel bad. “Sorry. I’ll make it up to you this weekend with dinner?”
Haewon whines. “Unnie, their fanmeet is on Saturday and I leave on Sunday.”
“So? How long is that going to be anyway?”
“Uh, all day?”
You sigh. “Fine. How about you crash in my place tonight and we can rewatch Hometown Cha Cha Cha while stuffing our faces with ramen?”
“Deal.”
After timing out for the evening, you say goodbye to Mina, who’s just waiting up for your other coworkers who’ll cover the next shift. Haewon talks your ear off about what happened in the event she attended as you both walked back to your apartment and, while only some of the things she’s saying makes sense to you, it’s nice to be in your little sister’s company again.
“Oh, by the way, here.”
You stare at her curiously as she rummages through her bag, handing you a photocard enclosed in a dainty-looking toploader.
“What’s this for?” you ask.
“You told me back then that Wonwoo was your type,” Haewon explains with a grin. “So I did my best in one of the parlor games and won that extremely in-demand photocard just for you.”
You scan the piece of idol merchandise in your hands for a few minutes more—staring at Wonwoo’s face as if waiting for him to speak. You never really understood the appeal of collecting photocards. As long as it makes Haewon happy, you won’t bat an eyelash.
But now she’s giving you one to keep for yourself and the more you stare at the idol printed on the sturdy paper, the more you think that you’ve seen him somewhere.
Then again, Haewon has been talking about these boys since they debuted years ago. The familiarity must’ve stemmed from those numerous fancams and music show performances that she forced you to sit down and watch with her.
“You better take care of him, okay?” Haewon pouts. “If I see him suddenly being sold for a high price, I’m never going to let you live it down.”
“I barely know how the market for this works, so you don’t have to worry about that,” you chuckle before carefully sliding the toploader inside your own bag. “So what ramen are we eating? Shin Ramyun or something else?”
Me [21:17]: btw, when are you coming back again?
Me [21:20]: someone was asking about hani earlier and i feel like you’ve gotta come back here to assert your dominance.
Woo 🐈⬛ [02:35]: Shit, sorry. I forgot about the time.
Woo 🐈⬛ [02:35]: My friends and I had a birthday celebration at the izakaya near our hotel. It’s been a while since we got to unwind like this.
Woo 🐈⬛ [02:36]: Anyway, who’s the funny guy who thought he could have my cat?
Me [02:38]: wow. YOUR cat? 🤨🤨🤨
Woo 🐈⬛ [02:40]: You’re still awake?
Me [02:40]: yeah, my little sister is in seoul and we’re binging our favorite drama
Me [02:41]: how about you? why are You still awake?
Woo 🐈⬛ [02:45]: Taking care of drunk friends. Remember Soonyoung?
Me [02:45]: what about him?
Woo 🐈⬛ [02:47]: Pleading for forgiveness in the toilet while he retches his guts out.
Me [02:47]: huh. some birthday party. who’s the celebrant anyway?
Woo 🐈⬛ [02:47]: Me.
“Whoa. You okay?” Haewon asks when you suddenly lurch forward on the couch, choking on the ramen you were in the middle of slurping.
You thank your sister when she offers you a glass of water and you gulp it down to soothe the burning sensation in your throat. “It’s fine. I just received a surprising text is all.”
“From a boyfriend?” she teases.
You scowl. “No. From a friend. Just a friend.”
“Boo. But you’ll tell me once you land yourself your very own Hong Dusik, right?”
The look on your face only worsens at the reference she’s made to the drama that’s still playing on screen. “I’d actually rather die than have someone like Dusik as a boyfriend. If the whole enemies to lovers thing works with Hyejin, it really won't with me.”
“True, you’ve always been a mellow lover,” Haewon agrees and you roll your eyes. “That’s why Wonwoo would be perfect for you~”
“I think me landing a Hong Dusik-esque boyfriend is more likely than me getting together with a world famous idol but okay.”
You’re momentarily distracted from your conversation when your phone vibrates in your lap again, and— Fuck.
You forgot to reply to Woo.
Woo 🐈⬛ [02:55]: Fell asleep on me already?
Me [02:56]: no, no. sorry. my sister was just talking to me.
Me [02:56]: anyway, it’s your BIRTHDAY?
Woo 🐈⬛ [02:57]: Hahaha, yes. It’s been a while since I could sit down and actually celebrate it with my friends.
Me [02:58]: is that why you went all the way to japan? for a little birthday getaway?
Woo 🐈⬛ [02:58]: Hm… something like that
Me [03:00]: i’ll give you hani’s adoption papers as a gift
Me [03:01]: that or you let ME treat YOU to something nice for a change
Woo 🐈⬛ [03:05]: Well, I’ll be back in Korea this Saturday, but won’t be free until late at night.
Me [03:05]: back to regular programming, huh?
Me [03:06]: we can celebrate later if you’re busy, you know.
Woo 🐈⬛ [03:07]: It’s okay. I wanted to spend time with you anyways.
“You sure that’s just a friend you’re talking to?” Haewon asks with an unimpressed stare as you choke on your instant noodles for the second time. “The only way I’d react like that to a text is if my friend told me one of our professors is fucking his TA despite being married. If that’s the case, you gotta let me in on the juicy details.”
You make a face at her. “Isn’t that way too specific?”
“Isn’t that way too specific?” Haewon mocks. “Whatever you’ve got going on with this friend of yours, promise I’ll be the first to know once you make it official?”
“Haewon!”
For the sake of your own sanity, you only reply to Woo’s message once you’re tucked in bed and Haewon is comfortably dozing on the couch in the living room. She’s a heavy sleeper that passes out quickly after a long day, so you don’t feel particularly worried about your little sister barging into your room when you type out a response.
Me [03:43]: gotcha. just meet me at the shelter after your thing.
Me [03:45]: happy birthday, woo.
You don’t wait for him to type out a reply anymore—eyes drooping into slumber as you let the screen of your phone fade into sleep mode.
Unbeknownst to you, a man who just finished putting his intoxicated friends to bed an ocean away stares at your chat history with a fond smile, heart racing just a few beats faster at the prospect of what awaits him at home.
You’re just about done cleaning up the big dog kennels when Woo drops by on a bright Saturday morning.
The sound of his deep ‘hello’ nearly made you drop all the cleaning utensils you were about to put away. When you turn around to confirm that the shelter’s nighttime regular has indeed switched things up and decided to visit during daylight hours, you’re too busy scowling at him to mind the fact that you’re all gross and sweaty from all the hard labor.
Sure, you texted him about taking up a day shift today, but you definitely didn’t expect him to visit when he just got back to Korea a few hours ago.
Surprisingly, Woo isn’t donned in all black this time around. He’s wearing a gray pullover with some muddled text you can’t quite read with the hood pulled all the way up, concealing the white cap resting on top of his head. Of course, his signature face mask is still in between you and his no doubt handsome countenance, but you’ll take what you can get.
“What’re you doing here?” you ask, a bit breathless before you notice that takeout bag he’s setting down on one of the empty tables. “I thought you’re not gonna be free until tonight.”
“Thought you could use another lunch fix,” he says nonchalantly. “Well that and I wanted to personally give you some cool trinkets from Japan.”
The sentiment makes your heart stir a little, but you end up voicing out a dry laugh before stuffing the shelter’s cleaning paraphernalia inside the broom closet. “Keep doing all these nice things and I’ll start thinking you’re in love with me.”
Woo laughs but does absolutely nothing to deny the allegations.
“Here.” Your brows arch a little when he fishes something from the pocket of his hoodie, handing it to you. “I wasn’t sure which one you’d like so I just got all of them.”
You’re a bit reluctant to receive his gift in your current state—dirty hands, dirty clothes, dirty everything—but Woo doesn’t seem to mind when he drops a small plastic package full of…
“Kitties!” You coo out loud at the assortment of colorful enamel pins inside before gawking at him. “Seriously, Woo, you’re way too nice to me. I’m starting to feel indebted.”
He shakes his head with an adorable laugh. “It’s nothing. I swear. They just reminded me of you when my friends and I passed this one booth at a festival.”
Shit. They reminded him of you?
“So are you finally going to sit down and talk to me about adopting Hani or are you gonna keep skirting around again, mister?” You place a hand on your hip, pointing an accusatory finger in his direction as you tuck his gift safely in the back pocket of your jeans.
“Surprise, I actually came here to do just that. I still have an hour free before I have to go to work,” Woo admits and him mentioning work taps in on your innate curiosity about what he does for a living. “But your coworker said something about rounding up the dogs and putting them back in the kennel?”
Oh. Shit.
As if on cue, Mina—along with a few on shift volunteers—emerge down the hall, all of their hands gripping several leashes as an army of dogs fills the hallway with excited and agitated barking alike.
“Are we good to go?” Mina yells over the noise.
Trying not to look too disappointed that your time with Woo has been cut short, you give Mina a thumbs up before striding off to meet them halfway. You take it upon yourself to take a few of the dogs off one of the volunteers’ hands and he looks at you with withering relief when you do.
“Yep. Everything’s as fresh as a daisy now,” you inform them. “Hope these guys didn’t make too big of a mess up in the front though. That would mean Kino’s turn for cleaning duty came a little early.”
“Hey!” The volunteer in question complains. “I’ve got a date later, noona. Don’t go saying weird stuff like that.”
You’re just about to tease him a little more but you suddenly feel the force of a couple of former strays tugging you forward disappear. That’s when you notice that Woo made his way to your side, guiding the dogs silently as he helps lead the first of them to the kennel.
“Oh, you don’t have to,” you insist but your friend(?) merely shakes his head.
“It’s no big deal,” Woo reassures.
It doesn’t help that this particular hallway is a little cramped. You’re practically standing arm to arm as you all make it to the end. You can practically smell the expensive cologne wafting from his clothes amidst the scent of dog fur that’s starting to permeate the air. When Woo lets out another soft laugh when one of the dogs he has on a leash licks his hand, you know it’s over for you.
It takes about half an hour to settle all fifteen big dogs into their respective cages and by the time it’s over, you’re convinced that you need a shower now more than ever. As Mina and the rest of the volunteers head back to the reception room, you decide to take a break and help yourself to the takeout that Woo personally delivered yet again.
“Thanks for your help. Cleaning day is really one of the toughest days of the month. Especially when we have to clean up the big dog kennels,” you sigh before plopping into an empty seat in the break room.
“Don’t mention it,” he says and you find yourself imagining a smile behind his mask yet again. “I actually have a dog at home, too, so I would now. But she’s definitely more tame than these guys.”
That makes you pause. “Is that why you’re beating around the bush so much about adopting Hani? You think she won’t get along with your dog?”
He hums a little before stuffing his hands in the pockets of his hoodie. “That’s one of the reasons, yes.”
“Well, you won’t know unless you try,” you huff as you unseal the takeout package—the delectable scent of yangnyeom chicken pervading your senses. “Anyway, you’re going to sign the papers this time, right? Right?”
You have a feeling that you’ve finally got him cornered, but before Woo can even formulate a response, a ringtone that definitely isn’t yours starts going off inside the break room.
Your friend(????) answers it with a wistful sigh.
It’s so quiet that you can vaguely make out the voice at the other end of the line saying, “Hyung. Everyone’s looking for you. Where are you?”
You try not to stare at Woo as he takes the call out of pure decency—distracting yourself with your food. But you can’t help but listen in when their conversation is the only thing you can hear at the moment.
“Yeah, I’ll be there soon. Tell everyone I’m sorry for the hold up, Mingyu.”
The moment that name leaves Woo’s mouth, you freeze mid-chew. Did he say Mingyu? Like…the idol that Haewon is downright obsessed with? No… It was probably just someone with the same name. It is pretty common, after all.
When he ends the call, you flash him a tight-lipped smile that manages to conceal your momentary surprise. “Rain check?”
“Rain check,” Woo sighs in agreement.
You nod. “It’s okay. The more you keep delaying Hani’s adoption, the more presents I get from you.”
“And you’re absolutely right about that,” he humors you before reaching out to ruffle your hair. You haven’t even recovered from that little gesture he just did when he asks, “Hope our plans for later are still up though?”
Woo must’ve caught the look on your face with the way he retracts the hand that was just on top of your head to snicker into his palm. “Don’t tell me you forgot. We were supposed to celebrate my birthday, remember?”
Curse you and your habit of making plans at ass o’clock in the morning. You always forget them!
“Uh, it kinda slipped my mind?” you admit sheepishly as you pick at your food. “I ended up going for a day shift ‘cause I have to see my sister off at the airport tomorrow.”
He nods in earnest and it kind of makes you feel bad about your short term memory. “It’s alright. I’ll just drop by some other time to get the paperwork over with. I’ve disturbed you enough as it is.”
“No, it’s fine!”
Your sudden outburst makes Woo look up at you with a confused stare. “Hm?”
“I-I can still meet up with you later,” you stammer and you have to force yourself not to bury your face in your hands out of sheer embarrassment. Pull yourself together, damn. “If you’re not too tired from your plans for the day, of course.”
He mentioned something about having to go to work, and while you can’t imagine what sort of work has to be urgently done on a Saturday, you’ll still respect his time.
Woo blinks for a few seconds, as if still digesting what you just said before his eyes disappear behind his glasses with a soft chuckle. Your brows cinch together, not getting what’s so funny.
“Noted. I’ll come pick you up here later, still? If you’re not comfortable with sharing your address with me yet.”
He’s so thoughtful, you might actually give him all your personal details at this point. But at the end of the day you’re actually a person with a head full of common sense, so you answer him with, “Sure thing. Thanks for going out of your way to come hang out despite how busy you are.”
“No, thank you for always putting up with me,” Woo insists with a shake of his head. “I swear I’m not hassling you with this whole adoption thing on purpose. There’s just…a lot of things to consider on my end. I hope you understand.”
You wave away his concerns with a laugh. “Just keep getting me more of this chicken and we’ll call it quits.”
“You’ve got yourself a deal.”
When Woo sees himself out of the break room, you fumble for the plastic package in the back of your jeans—taking one of the adorable black cat enamels before pinning it in the front pocket of your uniform. You can’t help the smile that creeps up your face when you see your reflection on the small mirror sitting on the table.
How could you be this down bad for someone whose entire face you’ve never even seen before?
Haewon 🪷 [17:20]: Are you suuure you don’t wanna come to the fan meet?
Haewon 🪷 [17:21]: I’ve still got a few extra passes :3c you’d get to see wonwoo in the flesh!
Me [17:30]: why do you want to set me up with wonwoo so badly
Haewon 🪷 [17:31]: Bc we’re sisters? And it’d be cool if we stanned MinWon together?
Me [17:32]: …not even gonna ask you to elaborate on that
Haewon 🪷 [18:00]: Unnie ㅠㅠ
Me [18:00]: why? what’s wrong, hae?
Haewon 🪷[ 18:05]: Mingyu looks sooooo much better than I remember
Haewon 🪷[18:06]: The girlfriend allegations must be true
Haewon 🪷 [18:06]: Only a man in love can smile like that!
Me [18:07]: or: a man who relies on fanservice to get paid?
Haewon 🪷[ 18:08]: RUDE!!!!
Haewon 🪷 [18:08]: Here’s a pic of Wonwoo to shut you up
Haewon 🪷 [18:09]: [Sent an attachment]
Me [18:10]: idk if i should find the fact that you think some kpop guy affects me in any capacity amusing or concerning
Haewon 🪷 [18:11]: !!!! Take that back wtf?? Wonwoo isn’t just ‘some kpop guy’?????
Me [18:10]: sure he isn’t.
Haewon 🪷 [19:45]: Good news!!
Me [19:45]: you’re finally going to get off my back about the whole wonwoo thing?
Haewon 🪷 [19:46]: No ^_^ My Monday final got canceled so I can stay in Seoul for a day more!
Haewon 🪷 [19:46]: Aka you don’t have to wake up early to drag your ass to the airport w me
Me [19:47]: oh. that’s cool. what’re your plans for tomorrow then?
Haewon 🪷 [19:48]: Gonna attend the pre-recording for a music show :3
Me [19:50]: …Haewon i swear to god if you ask me to do what you’re about to ask me to do
Haewon 🪷 [19:50]: Come with me pretty pleaaaase?
Haewon 🪷 [19:51]: I’m using my adorable dongsaeng powers to get you to agree
Me [19:55]: there’s no talking my way out of this, is there?
Haewon 🪷 [19:55]: Nope <3
Me [19:56]: fine. just text me the details. i need to go out soon.
Haewon 🪷 [19:56]: HEHE have fun !!
You weren’t lying when you texted Haewon that you had to go out soon. You agreed that you’d meet up with Woo for his post-birthday celebration at 9 P.M. Hell, you even called a local bakery to have a personalized cake made for pick-up before you head over to the rendezvous point. Everything was already set right from the start.
But then you ended up falling asleep while scrolling through Twitter and now the clock reads 10:45 P.M., and you’re rushing to pull on a ratty sweater instead of the cute outfit you planned for the night as you rush out of your apartment.
Me [10:47]: FUCK IM SORRY
Me [10:47]: i was SUPPOSED to take a five minute nap but i didn’t realize how tired i was
Me [10:48]: are you still up to hang out? i totally get it if not though.
You immediately stuff your phone in the pocket of your jeans—not even bothering to glance at Woo’s reply when it vibrates with a text notification. Your conscience is much too guild-ridden to read any sort of reassurance he’d undoubtedly give to you despite how long you’ve made him wait.
Two hours, jeez. You’d be furious if someone was that late on you.
When you arrive at the shelter after doing a couple of quick detours, you’re panting like you just won first place in a marathon. Needless to say, it’s a pitiful sight to behold when Woo is leaning across his motorcycle—looking much too attractive in that stupid leather jacket of his.
“Is this what the kids call fashionably late these days?” he chuckles.
If you weren’t so apologetic, you would’ve rolled your eyes so instead, you give him a crumpled paper bag with a smile that borders on overcompensating.
“Happy birthday?”
Woo looks like he was just about to say something until a quiet mewl interrupts him midway. You gaze at him with a puzzled look until he stifles a soft laugh, pulling the lapel of his jacket open to reveal—
“Hani?” You scowl.
The black kitten is tucked away snugly in the inner pocket of Woo’s jacket—nearly blending in with the leather. It’s almost as if two pairs of big yellow eyes are staring at you from a void.
“Finally got the papers over with when you fell asleep on me,” Woo chuckles before scratching behind her ears. “So I guess it wasn’t so bad that you made me wait for two hours.”
“Hey, I said I was sorry!”
“Yes, and I heard you,” he insists before peering inside the paper bag you gave him. “What’s this?”
“No peeking until we get to your good old thinking spot,” you scold, smacking his hand away.
A hand that you just noticed is also clad in a leather glove.
He shakes his head playfully before putting his arms up in surrender. “For someone who’s two hours late, you’re pretty demanding.”
“Woo!”
During his last few days in Japan, Woo told you about his favorite thinking spot that’s specifically located beneath Hannam Bridge. There’s an old watchtower that was built before the bridge even existed. I go there when I want to clear my head.
When he said he wanted to bring you there for his belated birthday bash, the ghastly possibility of him turning out to be a serial killer luring you to your doom crossed your mind for half a second before you ended up agreeing anyway.
Now here you are, drowning in the musk of his cologne as you press your cheek against the fabric of his jacket. He’s definitely going past the speed limit with how sharply the wind sings in your ears, but instead of complaining about it, you tighten your arms around his torso—letting the warmth of his body seep into yours.
“It’s not so scary if you don’t think about it too much,” you hear him shout from the front. “Look to your right! This is why I’ve always liked doing late night rides!”
Easy for him to say. He’s brave enough to harbor a kitten inside his jacket and a person who’s never ridden a motorcycle before at a hundred kilometers per hour! But despite how terrified you are of falling off his bike, you do as he says anyways.
When you tilt your gaze in the direction of the Han River, you’re immediately greeted by the dazzling lights that glimmer across the water. You haven’t been to the districts on the other side of the river, but you think you’re content with getting to see them from afar.
With the roar of an engine ringing in your ears. With the summer evening breeze whipping past your face.
With your arms around someone who’s slowly but surely leaving his mark in your life.
“Are you sure this is legal?”
Your companion glances behind him as he makes his way to the aforementioned watch tower—a knapsack full of god-knows-what slung around his shoulder while he carries the paper bag with your “gift” in his free hand. “I’ve never seen a single ‘No Trespassing' sign since I’ve started going here ages ago, so probably.”
“Probably?” you parrot and Hani, who you’ve deigned to carry in your arms after that grueling motorcycle ride, meows as if she’s just as incredulous as you are. “So it’s still possible for us to get arrested?”
“Yeah, but what’s life without a little risk?”
Unbelievable.
Yet, despite the common sense you were oh-so proud of this morning, you still follow him up the winding steps of the watchtower, which is hardly even a watchtower given that it’s a few meters beneath the widest bridge in the city. Woo wasn’t lying about his strange description of it after all.
“Well, here we are,” he announces when the two of you reach the platform on the very top. The edges are lined with metal rails that are beginning to rust with age, but seem sturdy enough to grant you some sense of security—no matter how sparse. “I’ll just set this up. You can go enjoy the view if you want.”
Woo doesn’t even let you get a word in before he unzips his bag and brings out a checkered picnic blanket. He gently lays it across the dusty concrete, smoothing out the fabric before fishing some more stuff inside his gym-bag-turned-picnic-basket. You keep yourself from making any snide comments about his choice of venue because despite the unorthodox location, you actually get why he’d find it peaceful here.
It’s far enough from the freeway that the sound of vehicles rushing through the night can barely reach your ears. If you listen closely enough, you can even hear the water flowing below much more clearly. You close your eyes to get a better feel of the place—imagining a six-foot something guy leaning across the rusty railings as he watches the city lights sparkle across the Han River.
“There we go.”
You startle when you feel Woo’s warm, leather-clad hand on your shoulder—prompting you to turn around and see his handiwork. In the middle of the picnic blanket is something that looks suspiciously like a portable emergency light. How he got his hands on something like that, you’re not entirely sure, so you decide to focus on the other details instead.
Like the two unopened bottles of soju right next to a take-out package of your favorite yangnyeom chicken.
“Didn’t we agree that I was treating you to something this time around?” you grumble as you absentmindedly stroke Hani’s fur.
“We did, but then you overslept and—”
“Okay, fine! Point taken!”
Woo snickers as he hands you the paper bag you brought for the trip. It looks even worse than it was when you ran all the way to the shelter and you can only hope the package inside isn’t completely ruined.
You decide to let Hani down inside the gym bag that Woo left unzipped. Surprisingly, the newly adopted kitten makes a home out of it quickly—curling up into a ball as her tail swishes every now and again. Cute.
“Don’t judge, okay?” You breathe out nervously as you take the plastic container out of the bag. “I had a legit cake custom-made and everything but…yeah. Overslept.”
When Woo doesn’t respond a second too long, your gaze nervously rivets to his face to parse for a reaction. Was he disappointed? Should you have gotten a different design?
The moment you see the dazzled look in his eyes, however, you realize that isn’t the case.
He receives the little cupcake with open arms when you give it to him. It’s chocolate topped with bad fondant icing art, but you didn’t really have a choice. When you spotted it in the convenience store earlier, you grabbed the one that looked most like a kitten and dipped. It’s nice to know that he might actually like it after all.
“Oh and uh, sorry, but I couldn’t bring any candles for you to blow,” you add sheepishly. “You can just make a wish and pretend.”
Woo’s gaze drifts to you for a moment before his eyes crinkle with laughter. “I don’t really have to do that though. My wish has already come true.”
Huh?
To your chagrin, he doesn’t elaborate. Instead, Woo invites you to sit on the picnic blanket—carefully removing his boots so he wouldn’t track dirt all over the food and you follow suit.
You fill the silence with your goings-on for the rest of the day and how exactly you ended up dozing off and he’s kind enough to listen to every word. However, when you ask if he wants to do a toast, he shakes his head.
“I need to drive you back, remember?”
You shoot him a dirty look. “So you took me all the way out here just so I can have two bottles of soju all to myself while you sit there and listen to me talk about my day?”
“...Yes?”
Men are so fucking infuriating sometimes, you can hardly believe it.
“Nope.” You firmly shake your head—plucking the bottle opener he set down on the blanket to pop the caps off. “You’re drinking with me. Just quit driving past the speed limit so we won’t die in a freak accident.”
You immediately notice the stiffness in his shoulders as you shove the bottle of soju in his hands and part of you feels kind of bad for being pushy. For a moment, you allow yourself to scrutinize him for a bit longer. What could possibly be deterring him from drinking after going out of his way to do all this?
That’s when you realize he still has his mask on.
Does he…have issues about people seeing his face?
That would definitely explain why he hasn’t once taken it off in all the times you’ve met him so far. With that in mind, you promptly decide to tell him that okay, he doesn’t have to if he really doesn’t want to, but then Woo is already reaching up to peel the blasted face mask off.
Your chest seizes with panic, hands flying in front of you to keep him from doing something against his will. But the effort is futile because it only takes a second for him to remove and…
Fuck.
Cue the choir of angels because goddamn does this man look like heaven.
Woo shifts somewhat uncomfortably under your stare, as if he’s waiting for you to blow up all over his face or something. But you’re much too mesmerized by too many things to form any sort of response right away.
The sharp cut of his jaw. The gentle curve of his Cupid’s bow. The tinge of red spreading across his cheeks.
“I can’t believe you’ve been gatekeeping yourself from me all this time,” you whisper with a strained laugh—purposely peeling your gaze away for the sake of your own sanity. “I knew you were hot, but…God. I hate you.”
“You…don’t recognize me?”
The question brings you out of your feelings for a moment, making you glance at him with a questioning stare. “Am I supposed to?”
Woo gapes at the question like he didn’t expect that to be your response before shaking his head vigorously.
“N-No. Anyway, you said I was hot but you hate me?”
You narrow your eyes at him before taking your first swig of soju. “Don’t start getting all cocky with me, mister! I’ve got eyes and I can’t help that you’re objectively attractive. Just stating facts here.”
When Woo smiles for the first time without the figurative cockblock that is his signature black face mask and honestly? If you died right now, you’d die happily.
The night presses on in a haze of soju, spicy chicken, and the occasional visit from Hani who uses either of your laps as her personal bed for about five minutes before switching to the other person.
This is the longest you’ve been with Woo and you’re starting to realize that he isn’t much of a talker, which you completely understand. You can’t imagine someone who’s hell-bent on keeping what he looks like a secret for so long being a chatterbox.
“Oh, but you mentioned something to me at the shelter one time,” you pipe up before scooping a forkful of chicken into your mouth.
“Yeah? What is it?” Woo asks softly as he pets Hani’s back.
Feeling just a little bit tipsy from the alcohol, you try not to stare too hard at his handsome face or the way his lip curls at the edges with a tiny smile when Hani purrs from his touch.
“You said Hani reminded you of yourself from before,” you whisper as your gaze drifts to his leather-gloved hands. “Is it okay to ask what you meant by that?”
The sound of the river flowing beneath the watchtower fills your ears as you bask in the silence. It’s a pretty personal question. You’d totally get it if he decides not to answer, but you’re much too curious to keep yourself from asking.
“Well, I wasn’t a stray or anything, but there was a time in my life that I felt so…aimless. I lost someone near and dear to me, and I didn’t know how to deal with it for a very long time.”
Hearing the earnest ring of Woo’s voice, you force yourself to snap out of your subtle inebriation—scooting a little bit closer to him on the blanket to make sure you catch every word.
“I didn’t get into a life-threatening accident like this one did either, but…” He trails off for a moment, stroking the scar that you know runs along Hani’s sternum but has long healed with his fingers.
“I managed to get back on track when the people around me showed me their support. They didn’t leave even if all I wanted was to be left alone. If it weren’t for them, it might’ve taken me even longer to move past what happened. Worse, I might not have moved past it at all.
“When I saw Hani that day, she looked scared of all the other cats. Like she wasn’t ready to let anyone get close to her just yet.” Woo breathes deeply before taking a small sip from his bottle. “I guess I was the same way, too. Healing isn’t linear. Sometimes, when I think I’m all better, one day, I just spiral back to where I started in the next one. That’s…kind of where you fit into the picture, actually.”
The brief pause in his story makes you blink at him, surprised. “Me?”
He nods. “You used to feed the strays in your neighborhood, right? You even had a schedule and everything.”
“That was months ago,” you mutter. “You mean you already knew me back then? Because of that?”
“I…actually live in that area, too.” He clears his throat, that familiar blush settling across his cheeks once again. “I often saw you feeding the strays because that’s usually the time I got back from the cemetery. One day, things got a bit too much and I kind of…broke down in the park instead of just doing that at home.”
He says it like he’s embarrassed and now that he mentioned it, you vaguely remember consoling a stranger during your days before volunteering at the shelter. You don’t recall much of it though—just the memory of awkwardly patting his back before sending him off feeling just a bit better because you saw him smile a little.
Other than that, you’re drawing blanks.
“How exactly did I help you, though? If you don’t mind me asking.”
“I wouldn’t say you helped me or anything, but…” Woo pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose while slyly avoiding your eyes. “I distinctly remember you saying something like—”
Hey, it’s just a bad day. Or a bad week. Or a bad month. I don’t know. But it’s not a bad life. It’ll get better soon. I promise.
Fuck. Maybe you do remember.
“It didn’t really mean much to me at the time. Honestly, it kind of pissed me off at first,” Woo admits with a guilty chuckle before taking another sip. “But you were right. Sometimes, things got worse. Other times, it got better. But one day, I realized that I got to a point where it doesn’t hurt as much anymore.
“I’m not usually this open about my problems, but I learned overtime that talking about them makes them less taxing to deal with. Almost like I’m just talking about the weather, you know?” He smiles softly and you swear your heart melts at the sight of it. “And…I also don’t want to be closed off from others anymore. Back then, I mostly just kept everything to myself—bottling it all up until it was just unbearable.”
“Now you’re here spilling your guts out to some random college senior,” you snicker before taking another swig of your soju. You pout when you realize the bottle’s all empty before placing it back on the picnic blanket. “That’s some character development.”
“It really is.”
The silence sets once more and your eyes wander off to the city so close yet so far away. The lights from the skyscrapers glimmer like stars across the calm waters of the Han River and you like to think it compensates for the fact that the sky is blocked out by the bridge stretched far and wide above you.
This isn’t how you imagined your first stargazing date would be like, but it’s a good start.
Although, the moment the idea crosses your mind, you’re quick to jolt at your own thoughts.
This isn’t a date. You’re just celebrating his birthday together. Alone. On a picnic blanket. With one of the loveliest sceneries you’ve laid your eyes on. In a place where he claims that he never once showed to anyone else.
“Hey, is this—”
Your breath hitches in your throat when you turn to look at Woo—only to find his face mere inches from yours.
“What?” he whispers and despite the fact that you’re wearing a sweater, you feel goosebumps rise across the skin of your shoulders.
“Uh.” Fuck. “Is this a date?”
His mouth curves into a smile that you can’t quite get a read on. “It can be what you want it to be.”
“Okay,” you breathe out, suddenly feeling hot all over as his eyes flicker to your lips. “Just so you know, I don’t kiss on the first date.”
When Woo laughs again, it’s a deep-seated noise that makes your insides tingle with an indescribable feeling. You don’t really want to give it a name.
“Okay,” he repeats before pressing his forehead against yours. “We can have our first date next time then.”
Of course the sly fucker dives in for a kiss anyway.
“H-Hey,” you whisper in between, trying not to get too distracted with how plump his lips are as you keep holding him still by his broad shoulders. “You’re going to end up crushing Hani if you d-don’t cut it out!”
Woo sighs against your lips before pulling away regretfully. For a moment, he stares at the sleepy kitten on his lap, gazing around cluelessly after being roused from slumber. His expression softens for a moment as he scoops her up with both hands, settling her down in the comfort of his gym bag. She lets out a satisfied mewl before curling into a ball once more.
“Better?”
You’re not sure if he’s asking you or the cat, but…
“Better,” you whisper before fisting the lapels of his jacket and crushing your lips with his.
You don’t know where you’re pulling all this pent-up frustration from. During the very brief period that you’ve gotten closer to Woo, your general opinion about him never really deviated from he’s cute and he’s hot. Nothing more, nothing less.
Yet here you are, gasping into his mouth as he flattens his tongue against yours. A strong arm hooks around your waist, pressing your bodies infinitesimally closer and your skin is slowly hitting a fever pitch beneath your clothes. Something wild and all-consuming burns in your veins and you channel it into a moan that makes his grip on you grow tighter.
You don’t know how exactly you wound up on top of his lap—knees planted on either side of his hips as he continues devouring you with no intention of leaving anything behind. You can feel the expensive material of his leather gloves when his fingers graze along the hem of your sweater. Your skin tingles like every nerve ending has been set alight and if you weren’t already rendered dizzy by his intoxicating cologne, you’re in for a ride with each second his touch hikes further up your torso.
Woo sighs against your lips before pulling away momentarily—eyes aflame before he removes his fogged up glasses with one hand, tossing them somewhat carelessly on the picnic blanket.
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
Why was that so hot?
You’re too stunned to even draw a breath as he stares you down without the constant partition of his glasses. Has his gaze always been this sharp? Have those eyes always been transfixed on you?
“This…This wasn’t part of the plan, if you’re wondering.” Woo croons out the words huskily. Like an afterthought he only considered out of concern for you. Cute. “I swear I didn’t have any ulterior motives when—”
You giggle, before pressing a kiss on his nose. Woo’s eyes widen just a fraction.
“What made you cave then?”
The way his Adam’s apple bobs has no right to be that alluring, but it pulls you in anyway. “You looked really cute tonight.”
“Is that all?”
“Um, I thought it was sweet that you still got me a cupcake after you overslept?”
You groan, forehead bumping into the crook of his neck. Jesus Christ, he smells so fucking good. “How long are you going to hold that over my head for?”
You feel the vibrations of his laughter humming against your connected chests and your heart swells as Woo wraps his arms around your frame—pulling you into a firm embrace as the heat that engulfed the both of you slowly simmered into the cool evening air. You can feel him tracing idle shapes along your shoulder blades and the small of your back, and it does nothing to keep you from melting into his touch.
It’s so strange how easily you gave into him. You’ve formally known Woo for about three months and became legitimate friends(?) for less than three weeks. If you told Haewon about this whirlwind romance of yours, she’d hit you upside the head and tell you you’re being way too hasty for a man.
But if it’s a man with a black kitten taking a nap in his gym bag while he kisses you senseless underneath one of Seoul’s busiest freeways, you suppose you can make an exception.
“We should go,” Woo murmurs softly. “You’ve still got to accompany your sister to the airport right?”
“Mmm. Nope. She’s staying a day longer,” you inform him with the same quiet tone, letting your fingers trail up to his hair so you can toy with the strands in your fingertips. “But I do have some more edits to get over with in my final manuscript, so…yeah. We should go.”
Despite wanting nothing but to stay there in Woo’s little safe haven, the two of you manage to miraculously peel yourselves away from each other. Your face is hot the entire time you helped clean up his little picnic setup. When he shuts off the portable emergency light, you squint as you parse your way through the darkness.
You kind of end up tripping on air like a complete idiot, but before you can tumble off the rails and into the river, Woo catches you by the waist—not so different from how he held you ten minutes prior.
“Careful,” he mutters as he lets you go and you can’t help but silently mourn the loss of his touch again. “I don’t want to be accused of being a murderer.”
You snicker as he gently scoops Hani out of the gym bag and back into the spacious compartment in the lapel of his leather jacket. For a sleepy kitten, she’s surprisingly compliant. “I actually thought all this time you were some sort of serial killer trying to lure me to my doom.”
“You thought that but you came with me anyway?”
“Why not? You’re hot.”
That night, you let Woo drive you back home now that he’s more or less beaten the serial killer allegations. You tell him that he doesn’t have to walk you to your apartment, but he insists—saying that he can afford to leave Hani on his bike for a few minutes.
Of course, it ends up with another heated makeout session against your front door. This time, those stupid leather-clad fingers hike high enough on your back to toy with the clasp of your bra while his other hand remains tangled in your hair to pull you impossibly closer.
“I have to go,” he rasps before swiping his tongue along his bottom lip—giving you a sudden itch to sink your teeth into it. “But you’re making it really hard to leave.”
He’s making it really hard to tell him to go home, too, but as much as you want to kiss the night away, you still have some of your wits about you.
You chuckle as you reluctantly extract his wandering hands away from your body. Woo sighs in surrender with a nearly inaudible laugh.
“You already bent my I don’t kiss on the first date rule, genius,” you remind him breathlessly. “Don’t push your luck just yet until we’ve had that so-called first date next time.”
He grins. “So there’s going to be a next time?”
Deciding to keep him on his toes, you bat your eyelashes coquettishly at him. “Only if you want to.”
Woo leans in to press his lips against the corner of your mouth—trying his best to suppress the grin on his face.
“I’ll hold you to it then.”
Despite having lived in Seoul for four years and having a hardcore fangirl for a sister, today’s the first time you’ll be attending the pre-recording session for a music show.
Needless to say, you feel like an outsider amongst the fans armed with all sorts of idol merchandise and dressed in the prettiest outfits. Haewon managed to mooch a lightstick off one of her friends for you to use, but despite the fact that you know not a single soul would give two shits about you here, the alienating sensation remains.
“Hey, don’t be too nervous,” your little sister chortles as the marshals usher the crowd into the studio. “All you gotta do is wave that lightstick to the beat. You’ll blend right in, I promise.”
You crack her a nervous smile. Oh, the things you do to make Haewon happy.
It’s a little bit of a blur from there. You squeeze past the throng of fans while simultaneously trying not to lose your sister in the crowd. Some of the staff are handing out photocards that you hear are exclusively given away at this specific broadcast and were worth hundreds of thousands of won. You’re not sure which member Haewon got for you, but knowing your little sister, she must’ve snagged one of Wonwoo’s.
When the two of you are settled in your seats, you take the time to admire the set. You never imagined idol music show stages being this massive in person. In fact, you never really spared an active thought about them. Most of the info you do know about these kinds of things are secondhand accounts from Haewon from all the times she’s been to several broadcasting studios across the city.
“Did you bring the PC I got you last time?” she asks before taking out the broadcast ones out of their plastic package.
You shake your head. “Sorry. That Wonwoo’s sitting in a different bag.”
“Well, at least you haven’t sold him,” your little sister laughs before handing you one of the cards in her hands. “I told the staff to give us Mingyu and Wonwoo, but they gave me Hoshi and Wonwoo. It’s okay though, ‘cause Hoshi’s my bias wrecker anyway.”
Ah. More fandom jargon that you’re just now hearing about.
Just as the staff is starting to do the final preparations on stage, you decide to check out the broadcast PC that Haewon just gave to you. When your eyes land on Wonwoo’s face, however, you suddenly feel your blood freeze in your veins.
You…don’t recognize me?
One of the staff members announces that the boys will be out shortly to begin the pre-recording session but the words are all but muted in your ears.
Because how the hell can you focus on anything else when the face of the man who drove you back home last night—the man who kissed you until you were lightheaded—is plastered on a photocard that could be exchanged for an entire fortune?
This can’t be right, you muse with a scowl—fishing your phone out of your bag as your trembling fingers make haste to open your messaging app. He can’t be the same guy.
Woo 🐈⬛ [09:35]: Good morning, I hope you got enough rest!
Woo 🐈⬛ [09:36]: I have a schedule later this morning so I might be MIA
Me [09:40]: it’s cool. i just woke up actually hahaha
Me [09:40]: i also don’t mind! i’m heading out with my sister in a while too
Me [09:41]: have fun at work(?)
Woo 🐈⬛ [09:45]: Haha I will :) Have fun with your sister!
With a deep breath, you lock your phone just as the lights start to dim and the crowd cheers their hearts out. Haewon urges you to turn on your lightstick and the part of the studio that’s filled to the brim with an audience is lit up with hundreds of dazzling lights.
You would’ve appreciated the sight if only a certain someone didn’t play you for a fucking fool.
Just as promised, the boys that your little sister has been crazy about since their debut all fill the stage gradually. Some of them greet the fans with wide grins and silly little gestures. The others are a little more reserved with their greetings—all shy smiles and reserved movements.
Like Wonwoo, for example.
After several years of only knowing Mingyu thanks to Haewon, this is the first time you were able to pick out another one of them on stage with ease. Why wouldn’t you be able to recognize him?
He had you pressed up against your front door only a few hours ago.
It all made sense now. The affinity for keeping a face mask on. The late night visits. The fact that he seems to make an exorbitant amount of money from a job he doesn’t want to disclose.
Woo is Wonwoo from SEVENTEEN.
And he somehow forgot to let you know over the course of your time together.
You try to keep down the frustration that burns in your throat, making you feel like the roof of your mouth is stuffed with cotton. It’s much easier to mask your feelings once the performers all get into position and the music starts. The loud beat blaring from the speakers coupled with the well-practiced fanchants from the audience easily overpower the sound of your hitched breathing. Even Haewon was too engrossed with the performance to notice your distress.
Still, there’s not much you can do about it now. Especially when Wonwoo’s the one who starts up the first verse of their newest song.
He looks so…different from the gentle giant you’ve come to know over the past few weeks. There’s a dangerous look in his eyes that you know is all for show, but it makes your spine tingle at the sight of it nonetheless. The words to the song are raspily sung into the mic and if you weren’t convinced that he and Woo aren’t the same person, you most certainly are now.
After all, it’s his fucking voice that got you so down bad in the first place.
Once his part is done, Wonwoo quickly heads over to the next formation—a complete professional by heart. He belts out each dance move with such perfect precision and you wouldn’t expect any less from an idol who’s spent years honing his talents. But despite how awe-struck you are to see this side of him in person, it just wasn’t enough to completely erase the feeling that you’ve been betrayed.
It stings even more when the song ends and the studio is filled with deafening screams from the audience yet again. For once, Wonwoo’s stoic expression cracks with a handsome grin as he and the rest of his bandmates huddle together and exchange high fives.
That person on stage is both the man you caught feelings for and a stranger at the same time. He easily smiles at the fans the same way he would smile at you, but the difference between Woo and Wonwoo is that only one of them is willing to show this part of his life to the rest of the world.
Did he not trust you enough? Did he think you’d act like some crazy fan if he told you the truth?
You love Haewon. You love your little sister more than anything in the world, but you can’t pretend that things are okay when the man who kept you in the dark is standing right in front of you, clueless of the revelation that occurred to you just now.
“Where are you going?” Haewon calls out when you make your way out of the rows of seats—earning yourself a collection of glares from the other fans in the vicinity. “Unnie, hey!”
The last thing you want to do is ditch her for something you promised you’d see through until the end but you’re just so fucking done. You don’t want to see Wonwoo right now. Or hear him and his stupidly perfect voice through the studio’s sound system.
Right now, you just…want to be alone.
About two weeks after you stormed out of the first and last music show pre-recording you’ll ever attend in your life, things have more or less mellowed out. Sort of.
You’ve been taking fewer and fewer shifts at the shelter as graduation draws ever-so near. But aside from wanting to focus on getting your academic backlogs over with, you also wanted to stay away from the one place that Woo—or should you say Wonwoo—can easily find you and subsequently corner you to talk. Because you don’t want to talk to someone who’s basically been lying to your face the entire time you’ve been friends.
Well, you suppose if you really don’t want to hear even a peep out of him, you should’ve blocked his number altogether. But that’s not really the case.
Your phone buzzes while you’re in the middle of signing off adoption papers to a couple who wanted to adopt one of the shelter cats. You thought it was pretty adorable of them to make that decision since having a pet together is almost as good as having a kid together after all.
Thinking it was from your adviser, you snuck a glance towards the notifications in your homescreen. But when you see a familiar emoji plastered on the sender’s nickname, you’re quick to put it face down on the wooden desk.
Woo 🐈⬛ [09:35]: Good morning. Are you at the shelter today? Can I speak to you?
How he has it in him to keep texting you as if you haven’t given him nothing but radio silence for the past two weeks, you’re not sure. Wonwoo must’ve sensed that something was amiss the moment you stopped replying to him altogether, but he never tried to pester you about what was wrong. Instead, he simply continued sending all those messages to check in on you despite the fact that it’s almost as if he’s talking to a wall.
Well, it’s not like you have time to entertain him now anyways.
“Are you sure she doesn’t have a name yet?” One of your clients—the boyfriend—asks as he smooths down his newly adopted Maine Coon’s fur.
The girlfriend rolls her eyes. “You heard the nice shelter lady, Vern. This one just wouldn’t respond to any name they tried to give her.”
You agree with a half-hearted laugh, trying your best to ignore the guilt that’s perpetually swelling in your heart the longer you ignore Wonwoo’s pleas. “Yup. Our director said she’s got a bit of an attitude, but I think she just has high standards.”
Vern the Boyfriend makes a funny face at that. “So you’re saying that she doesn’t like the names she’s been given so far?”
“Mhmm. We tried Cupcake, Winter, Princess, and Lily, but she liked none of those. Try naming her something fancy. ”
“Chairman Meow?”
“Vern.”
“What? You gotta admit it’s funny, Sohee.”
Sohee the Girlfriend rolls her eyes. “Yes, but it’s an overused pun now! Think of something else.”
“Hmm. How about…Milana?”
“Is that because Seokmin wouldn’t shut up about his trip to Milan?”
“Ugh, yeah. Two months later and he still won’t stop talking about—”
“The gorgonzola he had for dinner the night before he flew back to Korea. I know. You won’t stop talking about it either.”
“Hey, Seokmin-hyung pays great attention to detail when it comes to food. You can’t help but want it, too.”
As you observe the friendly banter between the couple, you can’t help the smile that spreads across your face. You don’t come across two people who complement each other as well as they do, and from the curious glint in their newly adopted cat’s eyes, you think she likes being in their company as well.
“Fine, let’s test it out first,” Sohee huffs before scratching behind the Maine Coon’s ears. “We’re going to call you Milana. Does that sound good to you?”
When the cat nuzzles her hand with a pleased meow, Sohee and Vern turn to glance at each other at the same time—two matching smiles plastered on their faces.
God. You can only wish to have what they do.
Once the rest of the documents have been finalized, you and Mina—who just got back from updating the vaccination records for all the animals in the shelter—see your most recent clients off. Vern the Boyfriend, Sohee the Girlfriend, and Milana the Child are off to the streets to start the next chapter of their lives or whatever.
When the door to the front entrance clicks shut, you let out the longest, deepest sigh known to mankind. Your coworker stifles a laugh.
“Looks like someone’s jealous,” Mina comments.
You whine. “How could I not be jealous of that? They’re so in love, it’s sickening. They even got a kid together!”
“You know, you could easily have that too if you just stopped avoiding—”
“Oh, look at the time!” You interrupt her a little too theatrically, stomping off to the direction of the break room. “Gotta go meet my thesis adviser. Kino and the other volunteers should show up in the next hour, though!”
You don’t catch the frustrated look on Mina’s face as you make a hasty retreat, but it doesn’t make you any less guilty about trying to skirt around the topic every chance you get. Mina’s always had your back during these past two weeks. Though you never told her why you’re avoiding your not-so-quote-unquote crush like the plague, she’d always come up with excuses and alibis to throw him off your trail.
Which, coincidentally, happens again just as you’re changing out of your uniform.
“I don’t suppose you’re looking for a sibling for Hani?” you hear Mina sigh from outside.
The person she’s talking to laughs softly. “No. I think you know why I’m here again.”
God. That fucking voice.
“Well, again, she’s not here,” your coworker bluffs. “And uh, word of advice, I get that you’re hot shit and all, but if you keep trying to bother my friend who, for some reason, doesn’t want anything to do with you, I might have to call the authorities.”
Whoa, whoa, whoa. Wait a second.
That’s a little too different from the typical ‘oh I’m sure she’ll come around one of these days’ spiel that Mina always feeds to Wonwoo every time he visits. Sure, you’re not yet ready to face him yet after everything that’s happened, but it’s not like you want him thrown in jail—
“Uh, right. I get it,” he says awkwardly, clearing his throat in the process. “It’s just that she hasn’t spoken to me in days and I’m a little worried—”
“That’s clearly a sign for you to back off, buddy.” You can almost see Mina with her arms crossed, rolling her eyes. “I’ve been keeping myself from saying anything about it, but I’ve always found it strange how often you visit a goddamn animal shelter. And now that she’s clearly avoiding you, you’re still trying to corner her? Are you a stalker or something?”
Fuck. This isn’t how the conversation is supposed to go!
Mina’s job is to just politely drive Wonwoo away so you can slip out of the building without having to talk to him. But your coworker must’ve misinterpreted your persistent reluctance to meet him as genuine fear and…while you’re glad you have a friend who looks out for you like that, she’s going about all of this the wrong way!
Wonwoo doesn’t speak for a long time and your heart squeezes at the notion that he’s been called all those harsh words when all he wanted to do was talk to you. You didn’t even give him any reasons as to why you suddenly decided to cut him off. But instead of marching out there to face him and clear the air yourself…
You stay hidden in the break room like a fucking coward.
“I understand why you’d assume that, but I don’t have any ill intentions—”
“That's exactly what a guy with ill intentions would say,” Mina scoffs. “Do both of us a favor and just leave, yeah? And stop trying to contact her when she obviously wants nothing to do with you anymore.”
The silence hangs thick from outside and despite being in the break room, you swear you can almost choke on it yourself.
You’re not sure what expression Wonwoo is wearing. Actually, you don’t even know him well enough to know those kinds of things. The most you’ve seen of his face was during that quiet night you spent together two weeks ago and you’ve severed contact with him all because of something that he probably could have explained if only you gave him the chance to.
“Okay,” he whispers so softly, you almost don’t catch it. “Thanks for your time.”
Fortunately, Mina doesn’t try to add any more fuel to the fire. All you hear is the sound of retreating footsteps and the sound of the front door clicking shut.
It’s only when your coworker pokes her head inside the break room that you realize you’ve been holding your breath.
“He’s gone now,” she murmurs with a comforting smile. “And if he doesn’t stop bothering you even after that, I’ll raise the complaint to the director himself. I’m sure he can pull some legal strings to keep that guy out of the area for good.”
You find it kind of ironic that a few minutes ago, Mina was teasing you about him and now things have escalated into restraining order territory. But you can’t really blame her for it.
Especially when you’ve done nothing to clear up the misunderstanding.
“Right. Thanks, Mina.” You manage a thin smile, fingers absentmindedly drifting to the black cat enamel you still pinned to your uniform’s chest pocket.
“I really appreciate it.”
Haewon 🪷 [10:30]: Unnie hiii
Haewon 🪷 [10:33]: Can you call me as soon as you read this? Xoxo
You get to check Haewon’s message three hours late because finally, finally you’ve managed to defend your thesis after innumerable sleepless nights and neverending changes to your manuscript draft. Your panelists and advisers had nothing but praises to sing about your work—even going as far as to promise that your paper will definitely be published in the next volume of the academic journal you’d been secretly hoping it’ll get selected for.
It’s still surreal that the only thing you’ve got left on your university to-do list is to attend the commencement rites scheduled in three weeks’ time. Four grueling years have really just gone by in a flash.
After enjoying one of your last lunch breaks in the quad with some old classmates who’ve also conquered the figurative beast that is their undergrad thesis, you excuse yourself for a while to give your little sister a ring. Haewon picks up on the second ring.
“About time you called,” she huffs. “I thought you were sleeping in the day again.”
You shake your head with a laugh despite the fact that she can’t see the gesture. “No more sleeping in the day for me ‘cause I’m graduating.”
Haewon gasps—loud enough to create static across the line. “Really? Oh my god. That’s good news then! Mom and dad were actually getting worried about you, you know? You’ve been throwing yourself into that stupid thesis of yours for a month now.”
It takes a while for you to formulate a response, something akin to guilt creeping into your heart at the prospect of worrying your parents sick. But then again, what’s done is done. You can catch up on the several hours of sleep and countless brain cells you’ve lost trying to make your final manuscript actually make sense.
“It’s all good now,” you reassure. “All you guys have to do now is fly over to Seoul for my graduation and I can pack my bags and go back to the countryside as soon as I can.”
You half-expect Haewon to laugh off your haste to travel back to your hometown and say something about how you’re better off in the city than this old dump.
But you’re met with silence instead.
“Um,” she starts nervously after a few moments. “I know most of the stuff that’s been stressing you out is gone now, but… Are you sure you’re okay?”
The question makes you swallow thickly. “Of course. Why wouldn’t I be?”
“Unnie, I’m your sister,” Haewon says a-matter-of-factly and you can almost picture her scowling at you. “We both know you’ve been acting really weird ever since the pre-recording. I couldn’t pester you about it ‘cause I had to go back home the next day. And I didn’t want to bother you while you were finishing up your thesis.
“So now that all those obstacles are out of the way, do you mind telling me what’s wrong?”
The sound of the other students milling around the quad rings in your ears as you process Haewon’s words. When you take a deep breath, the exhale is accompanied by defeated laughter.
You’re an idiot to think you could ever escape your little sister’s scrutiny.
“I know you’re going to give me shit if I say it’s nothing you should worry about—”
“You’re right,” she interjects. “I will give you shit.”
“—but it really is nothing you should worry about,” you continue anyway, toying with the hem of your sweater with a wistful sigh. “Long story short, it’s…boy problems. Boy problems that I’ve ignored long enough that they just went away all on their own.”
At the other line, Haewon makes a strangled noise as if that’s not the answer she was expecting. “Come again?”
“Yeah, Hae. Your big sister actually has boy problems,” you chortle. “Weird, right?”
“Yes and you didn’t even bother telling me about it at all?!” She crows angrily. “You have to give me the gist or I’m hanging up and booking the next flight to Seoul.”
For a moment, you hesitate and give yourself a moment to think about what you can and can’t tell Haewon over a phone call when she’s a whole plane ride away from you.
She absolutely cannot know that the boy in question is Wonwoo. You’ll probably spend more time trying to convince her that what you’re saying is true than avoiding a pity party. So instead, you tell her:
“Well, this boy and I had…something good going for us, I think. I like him, you know—really, really like him. But then one day, I found out that he’s been keeping this important thing about himself from me.” A sigh. “Like, I know some stuff is none of my business, but it’s so easy for him to let others know about that…that thing, yet somehow he never bothered to tell me. I couldn’t help but feel like he didn’t trust me enough.”
Surprisingly, Haewon lets out a hum of understanding. “Yeah, that’s kind of a dick move on his part. Did you confront him about it?”
You find yourself tongue-tied for a moment—a bit embarrassed to admit to your little sister that you chose the coward’s way out of this.
“Um, that’s the thing. I kind of ghosted him when I found out,” you tell her sheepishly. “I don’t think he knows the reason why I suddenly just dipped to this day. Haven’t spoken to him in…two months.”
“Uh-huh. So all this time, you’ve been burying your guilt in schoolwork. Is that it?”
The straightforward tone catches you off guard for a second. “That’s not—”
“Unnie,” Haewon calls out firmly, making you close your mouth. “Again, I’m your sister. I know things about you that others don’t—things that you don’t either, probably. And trust me when I say this, but you are not the confrontational type. Don’t worry though because it’s perfectly fine to avoid the things you don’t want to deal with. Especially if you’re dealing with a person that’s more trouble than they’re worth.
“But…you said that you really, really like him. Present tense.” She pauses briefly, as if letting you digest what she’s saying a little better. “If the circumstances were even slightly different, I would’ve cheered you on for ghosting someone who hasn’t been one hundred percent honest with you because, duh? Deserved. But from the way you’ve been coping with what happened, I can’t help but think that avoiding him like this isn’t what you wanted to do at all.”
Haewon’s words flow from the speaker and lance straight through your heart, and you start to wonder when she started sounding so reliable. You’re used to looking out for her even with the distance separating you. But ironically, it’s in your last year of college that your sister effortlessly dissected the dilemma that’s been plaguing you for weeks.
“Look, I think you’ll feel much better about all this if you just talk to him,” she continues when you don’t utter a word in response. “Not that I’m siding with some semi-lying jerk, but maybe he had his reasons for hiding…whatever he was hiding from you? If he gives you a bullshit excuse, then at least the ghosting will finally be justified, right?”
Her frankness makes you snort. “I guess.”
“Good. Now hang up and call him now.”
“...What?”
“You heard me.”
“Haewon, I can’t just call him out of nowhere after ignoring him for so long.”
“Pfft. Of course you can! If he doesn’t answer, then that still justifies the ghosting because he obviously doesn’t want you enough. Men like that don’t deserve you, unnie.”
“...Fine. Point taken.”
You end the call after Haewon makes you swear to keep her posted about the situation and your love life in general from now on. Sighing, you reluctantly scroll through your messaging app—finding a conversation that’s long been buried by more recent texts from other people after he sent his final messages to you.
Woo 🐈⬛ [02:35]: It’s been three weeks since you last replied. Hope you’re doing okay.
Woo 🐈⬛ [02:36]: Mina told me that you wanted nothing to do with me anymore but I really don’t understand why because…aren’t we good? Didn’t we have something back there? Or was I just reading you wrong the whole time?
Woo 🐈⬛ [02:55]: Either way, she was right about one thing at least. I’ve probably made you uncomfortable with my texts. Kind of pathetic now that I think about it.
Woo 🐈⬛ [03:01]: I’m sorry for constantly bothering you like this. It’s just that…I want to know what went wrong.
Woo 🐈⬛ [03:05]: It’s getting harder for me to sleep at night knowing I fucked up something that could’ve been the start of something nice. I was already planning our first date, you know?
Woo 🐈⬛ [03:10]: Fuck. Now it just sounds like I’m gaslighting haha.
Woo 🐈⬛ [03:17]: Maybe I am. Maybe I’m not. I don’t even know anymore.
Woo 🐈⬛ [04:25]: What I do know is that I miss you. So much.
Woo 🐈⬛ [10:05]: Uh. Sorry about all of that. I had a few drinks and…you know how it goes.
Woo 🐈⬛ [10:12]: I’ll stop texting you for real now.
Woo 🐈⬛ [10:15]: I hope your studies go well. Thank you for being part of my life, no matter how short our time together was.
Fuck.
This is going to be much more difficult than you thought.
You don’t really blame yourself when it takes you a few days to decide whether or not you should call Wonwoo. The choice has been weighing on you like a cloud above your head and you had to decline several invites to go out from your friends because you simply cannot sit still, knowing that you have to do something about…whatever’s going on with the two of you.
Part of you insists on just leaving it as it is. Wonwoo is an idol that’s almost a decade into his career and you’re much too certain that he’s met enough people in his life to deem the loss of your company specifically a big deal. He has his members, his fans, and anything else a person could ever want.
So what if some college senior he doesn’t even know that well just ghosted him out of nowhere?
But even with that logic, you still end up holding your breath before pressing the call button one Tuesday afternoon.
There are a total of five attempts made and all five lead you straight to voicemail—each instance making your heart grow heavier and heavier once the prerecorded message comes to an end. You secretly fear that he must’ve blocked your number altogether. Why wouldn’t he after you’ve wasted his time as much as you did?
Others would’ve considered this as a sign to just give up. The universe is basically telling you that the brief time you shared together would yield nothing more. Wonwoo has his own career to worry about and as do you, now that you’re finally going to be ejected from university and into the life of an unemployed fresh grad. You’re better off not chasing after the things you’ve purposely run away from in the first place.
So why on earth are you looking up the exact address of his company building, making the long commute for the slim chance of running into him against all odds?
The security around the area might look lax but you can spot the assortment of security guards stationed both inside and outside of the company building pretty easily. Given the nature of the business they’re running, it would make sense that they’d put up all possible countermeasures against people who might try to inconvenience their artists in any way.
Not wanting to be branded as a crazed fan, you decide to keep your distance—purposely lingering outside the shopping center just across the street as you brainstorm how exactly you’re going to meet up with Wonwoo.
But as the minutes ticked past, your sense of reason is starting to overpower your desire to clear things up with him. For one, you don’t even know what his schedule looks like. How can you be so sure that he’ll even be there today? Worse, would Wonwoo even want to speak with you after everything? Despite having kept the fact that he’s an idol a secret to you all this time, he has all the right to refuse speaking with you when you never even gave him a chance to explain himself.
The noise of the busy district fades in the background as your eyes fall to Wonwoo’s final text message. You haven’t even thought of texting him since you considered reaching out. But with the fact that your earlier phone calls didn’t go through, you don’t think you can bear seeing your apologetic messages get denied in the very real chance that he’s blacklisted your number altogether.
God. You feel so pathetic.
“Hey, it’s you!”
You immediately blanche at the feeling of someone placing a hand on your shoulder—turning around to see who it is only to be met with the sight of two familiar faces.
“Oh,” you voice out somewhat dumbly. “Miss…Sohee? And Vern?”
The couple who adopted a cat from the shelter flashes you pretty smiles, the two of them carrying grocery bags in each arm. Sohee perks up when you recognize them. “Yup! I didn’t expect to see the nice shelter lady around these parts. What brings you here?”
“Just…stuff.” The laugh you spare them is a little too forced, but if they notice, they don’t comment on it. “How about you guys? How has Milana been?”
“Feels right at home in either of our apartments,” Vern chuckles. “You were right about her having high standards. We always end up doing our grocery shopping here instead of the supermarket near my place ‘cause Lana refuses to eat any of the cheap cat food being sold there.”
Sohee sighs in agreement. “Mhmm. You wouldn’t even think she was a rescue with how high maintenance she is, but we’re idiots that dote on her all the time. It’s just a good thing we work right across the street from here.”
Feeling endeared with how much they spoil their new child aside, the latter part of Sohee’s statement catches your attention for a moment. “Sorry? You work right across the street?”
The moment the words leave your lips, the charming smiles on their faces falter before the couple before you share a look. A brief moment of telepathic communication must’ve occurred between the both of them, as if wordlessly discussing whether they should respond, but in the end Sohee relents.
“Yeah. Vern and I work at HYBE,” she chuckles. “I’m actually surprised you don’t recognize him, since he’s—”
“A very loyal employee that the nice shelter lady can’t possibly recognize,” Vern interjects with a cough into his fist and the immediate reaction makes it easier to put two and two together.
He’s an idol. One hundred percent an idol.
Deciding to play along, you offer up a nod in understanding. “I see. Guess you guys are heading back for the day?”
“Yep. We had one of the other members—uh, I mean, one of our friends look after Milana while we had our grocery run,” Vern explains not-so-smoothly.
“As much as we’d like to stay and chat for a while longer, our baby kind of needs us,” Sohee tells you with an apologetic look. “I hope things at the shelter are running smoothly! We’ve seen how dedicated you guys are to taking care of those poor animals.”
You nod. “Of course. I’ll see you guys around?”
“Anytime!”
You and the beautiful couple exchange quaint bows in farewell before the two of them start walking away. But with each footstep that they take further and further away from you, the itch to run after them and ask what you’ve been dying to when they said they both worked at HYBE grows all the more unbearable.
Cut it out, you mentally hiss at yourself. You can’t bother other people about your issues with Wonwoo. That’s just a whole new low.
You should’ve just gone the opposite direction when the conversation ended. You should’ve just directed yourself to the nearest bus stop back to your apartment—buried all of this in the past where it belongs.
But it’s as if your body has a mind of its own. The next thing you know, you’re sprinting towards Sohee and Vern before they could cross the next intersection—surprising the couple with your sudden re-entry.
“Did you need something?” Sohee asks, accommodating and confused all at once.
Now or never.
“Yes, actually,” you dole out breathlessly, pursing your lips before adding:
“Do you guys know where Wonwoo is?”
Out of all the ways you thought this day could turn out, you never would’ve imagined being in the backseat of one of HYBE’s music producers—breezing through the city’s freeway as she interrogates you about just how exactly you know Jeon Wonwoo.
“So you’re the reason he’s being so off lately,” Sohee chuckles before switching lanes. “Wonwoo’s always been the quiet type, but sometimes you can just tell when there’s a lot on his mind. Isn’t that right, Vernon?”
Vernon, who you come to realize is part of the same group as Wonwoo, glances at you from the rearview mirror with a shake of his head. “I can vouch. Wonwoo-hyung’s been working on sharing stuff with us, but of course there’s still some things he’d like to keep to himself.”
I also don’t want to be closed off from others anymore. Back then, I mostly just kept everything to myself—bottling it all up until it was just unbearable.
Great. Now you feel twice as horrible.
“Honestly, I was kind of scared that you guys would think I’m a sasaeng,” you admit with a dry laugh before settling further into the car’s plush upholstery.
“While we have no reason not to think that with all the weirdos popping up these days,” Sohee starts before her lips curve into a smile, “it just so happens that Soonyoung also can’t keep his mouth shut about Wonwoo’s little crush.”
That makes your face heat up a little. “Soonyoung like…Wonwoo’s friend?”
“You might know him better as Hoshi,” Vernon explains.
Hoshi, Hoshi, Hoshi…
You snap your fingers once you figure it out. “Yeah. He’s my sister’s bias wrecker.”
“Now we learn that your sister is a fan, too? Huh. Small world.”
“Anyway,” Sohee interjects. “The reason why we believed your explanation was because Soonyoung described Wonwoo’s crush as an animal lover. He’s not so much of a blabbermouth that he gave us more details aside from that, but Vernon here told me about how Wonwoo always comes late to their unit meetings because he keeps making all these detours first.”
Vernon stifles a laugh. “I actually found out about the shelter because Coups-hyung insisted that we follow him around to figure out where he’s been going. It didn’t occur to me at the time that his animal lover crush and the nice shelter lady could be the same person.”
At this point, you can honestly get used to being called a nice shelter lady. But that aside, you can’t help but flush even further at all the things being revealed to you right now.
It’s…a lot to unpack.
First, Wonwoo has a crush on you? A complete nobody? Then again, from how often he’s been seeking you out before things went to shit, you could infer that he’s at least a little bit interested from how he kept going out of his way to see you. He’s even late to meetings because of his little visits. This so-called crush was quite obvious, you just don’t like how flustered hearing it out loud makes you feel.
“But then Wonwoo-hyung just started showing up on time to our meetings during our comeback promotions,” Vernon continues. “We were glad we didn’t have to keep waiting for him to start, but…we also noticed that he’s been kind of down lately. The first time it happened, I assumed it was just an off day for him, though now that we met you like this, that’s definitely not the case.”
Wonwoo’s been feeling down? Because of you?
If the roles were reversed, you can say that you’d feel the same if he just stopped talking to you when you thought you were already growing closer. It doesn’t help that the last time you were together, you shared far too many kisses that mere friends should indulge each other with.
You sigh, leaning your head against the headrest.
You’re such an idiot. A selfish, inconsiderate—
“Well, here we are.”
When the car pulls over, you don’t even realize that Sohee already left the freeway and drove into one of the roads overlooking the Han River. You can barely keep yourself from choking on your own breath when you spot a very familiar motorcycle parked in front of the vehicle. It doesn’t help that Sohee pulled over a certain spot underneath the elevated highway that you’re very much certain you’ve already been to once before.
“Hyung doesn’t know that we know about this place. He never brings anyone else here,” Vernon informs you with a small smile. “From the look on your face, we can assume that he’s already brought you here though, right?”
You can’t even deny it at this point. “Yeah…”
Sohee moves to unlock the doors before glancing behind the driver’s seat with an encouraging look. “Well, how about you clear things upso we can start going on double dates and stuff.”
“Sohee,” her boyfriend groans.
“What? I think it’d be a great idea.” She pouts. “We can even rope Nari and Mingyu into tagging along. Then it’ll be a triple date.”
“What she means to say is,” Vernon cuts in before Sohee can get another word out. “No pressure. You go sort out the stuff you need to with Wonwoo-hyung. I’m sure the two of you can make the best decision for each other once you get to talk properly.”
The best decision, huh…
Your new friends watch you with wordless encouragement as you open the door to your left, letting out a long-winded breath so you wouldn’t be too psyched out by the circumstances. You thank them both with a subtle nod as you gather enough courage to see the person you’ve been longing to meet again for a while now.
Now or never, you repeat to yourself before finally stepping out of the car.
Wonwoo’s thinking spot looks much different in the day than it does at night.
You had a pretty hard time navigating the short terrain from the road to the old, weathered steps of the watchtower because of the lack of proper illumination. If it weren’t for Wonwoo guiding you the entire time, you would’ve face planted into the pebbled pathway on the first few steps.
The sun is already setting when you make it to your destination—red orange rays splintering through the high rise buildings on the other side of the river bank. It’s not difficult to spot Wonwoo’s tall figure leaning across the rusty railing of the watchtower, a gentle smile gracing his handsome face as he plays with the growing kitten in his arms.
He doesn’t notice you at the foot of the concrete steps right away, too engrossed with playing with Hani to take in the rest of his surroundings. But the longer you watch them from afar, the more your chest twists with guilt.
All this time, you never really thought about how Wonwoo must’ve been faring since you ghosted him. You merely assumed that he’d still be living his best life despite what happened between the two of you. The thought that he’ll still be better off without you in his life spurred you on to solely focus on the things you’ve got going on your end. You didn’t consider just how your actions would affect him. Not even once.
But now, despite having such an adorable cat to keep him company, it isn’t hard to tell that he’s not in the most stellar of moods.
It’s not like you’ve seen Wonwoo smile a lot when you still knew him as Woo—no thanks to his silly little face masks. But you always liked how his eyes crinkled behind his glasses whenever you said something he finds funny or amusing. The easygoing body language he always seemed to have around you.
There’s none of that now.
“Wonwoo.”
He visibly stiffens at the sound of someone calling his name. Cautiously, Wonwoo tucks Hani closer to his chest—glancing around for anyone who could have infiltrated his safe haven.
When his eyes land on you, you can almost hear his breath hitch from where you’re standing.
Seeing no indication that he doesn’t want you here, you swallow the lump in your throat before climbing up the stairs. Each step you take is familiar yet foreign at the same time and you can hear your heart pounding in your ears the closer you get to him. The startled expression on Wonwoo’s face doesn’t falter even when you’re mere feet in front of him on top of the watchtower—like he’s having a hard time grasping your existence.
Hani, however, doesn’t seem all that fazed. The black kitten mewls in delight at the sight of you, squirming around in Wonwoo’s arms, which seems to snap her owner out of his stupor.
His throat bobs. “You know my name.”
You laugh softly. “It isn’t hard to figure it out when you’re as famous as you are.”
Silence permeates the air by the riverside as Wonwoo processes the words you just told him. He sucks in a breath through his teeth, hands absentmindedly running across Hani’s fur.
“So that’s why,” he chuckles with a shake of his head. “I should’ve known…”
You mirror the gesture somewhat vigorously, your throat closing up from all the things you want to say. He doesn’t deserve to be left hanging all because of that stupid reason alone. He doesn’t deserve those hurtful words from Mina.
Most of all, he doesn’t deserve to feel this shitty all because you were too much of a coward to communicate with him.
“I’m sorry.”
He startles at your apology—obviously not expecting that to be the first thing you say to him after two months of radio silence. “W-Why are you sorry? I should be—”
“It was unfair of me to just ghost you like that when you haven’t explained yourself,” you murmur, tucking your hands behind your back as you stare down at your shoes in shame. “I’m sure you had your reasons for not telling me right away, but… I selfishly thought you didn’t trust me enough to let me know.”
“No,” he quickly clarifies. “It’s not like that at all. I trust you—so much.”
“I know,” you sigh. “It took me a while, but I realized that along the way. The last time we were here, you entrusted me with the story of how you coped with losing someone. You entrusted me with your thoughts, your feelings, your secrets. And I took all that for granted because you didn’t tell me you were an idol.”
Wonwoo falls silent for only a moment as if considering what words to say next. Hani seems to sense his distress, cuddling up to his chest in an attempt to soothe him. He notices what she’s doing right away and Wonwoo scratches behind her ears with a breathless chuckle.
“If it’s any consolation, I didn’t plan on hiding it forever. I knew you would find out eventually—just not as soon as you did,” he murmurs. “It was also unfair of me to take advantage of the fact that you didn’t know me as Wonwoo. But…I wanted to keep my career out of the equation first because it’s nice being treated like a normal person. You never put me on a pedestal or looked at me like I was some sort of god.
“You treated me like I was human.”
This time, you’re the one who’s at a loss for words.
Having Haewon as a sister, you have this preconceived notion about idols where they have the world in the palm of their hands. You thought for the longest time that all they had to do was go up the stage to sing and dance and look beautiful and the rest will follow.
Hearing Wonwoo tell you this easily subverted all those assumptions.
You’ve never been good at telling people the things they need to hear. That’s Haewon’s area of expertise, not yours. So instead of offering up any words of comfort, you quickly close the distance that’s been keeping you apart to throw your arms around his broad shoulders.
Wonwoo freezes up when you pull him into a hug and he loathes the fact that he can’t even reciprocate it given that he has his hands full. It’s kind of adorable how careful you’re being to make sure you don’t accidentally squish Hani between your bodies.
Suddenly, all that heaviness that’s been lingering in his heart for weeks dissipates in a flash. Wonwoo relishes in the feeling of your warmth seeping into his, resting his forehead on your shoulder as he holds back his emotions.
“Can we start over again?” you murmur. “We still haven’t had our first date, right?”
When you feel the sound of his laughter rumbling in his chest, you can’t help the goosebumps that rise across your skin. “Wow. I didn’t expect you to forgive me that fast.”
Pulling away for a moment, you shoot him a dirty look. “Jeon Wonwoo, are you saying I’m easy?”
“Not at all.” Wonwoo grins and you can barely look at him without recoiling at how good he looks.
His hair has grown much longer than you remember and seeing the smile that oh-so easily hooked you in deeper than you already were, you already know that you can’t ever hope to put up a fight.
Not when he’s so love-of-your-life-shaped.
“Since we’re at the point of catching up, I’m actually graduating in three weeks.”
Wonwoo sharply turns to look at you with a scowl as he puts Hani in a little cat backpack he got for her. “Three weeks? Shit… I think we’re going to have a concert at that time.”
You wave away his concern with a smile. “I didn’t mean I was expecting you to show up at the venue, doofus. Can’t have any weird rumors about you going around by attending my graduation.”
“Rumors about what?” he challenges.
“You know.”
“I actually don’t.”
“We just made up ten minutes ago, Do you really want me to bail on you again?”
“Hey, I just thought that if you ever want to spark some dating rumors, we can make it happen any time.”
“We’re not even dating!”
“Not yet.”
“What?”
“It’s just like you said—I still owe you that first date, don’t I?”
“...Have I told you that you’re insufferable?”
“I’m actually surprised you didn’t start calling me that when I kept visiting the shelter too often to be considered normal.”
“That reminds me, why were you visiting the shelter so much?”
When Wonwoo hands you Hani’s cat backpack, you take it as an invitation to hitch a ride on his motorcycle. After all, it would be uncomfortable to have it sitting between the two of you. However, he takes you completely by surprise by answering you with:
“I like you. That’s why.”
It takes you about five whole seconds to recover from what he just said but it’s five seconds too late because Wonwoo is already chuckling to himself as if he deserves to have the last laugh.
“You’re lucky that I like you too,” you mumble as you carefully hop on his ride—sitting comfortably behind him while making sure Hani is strapped securely behind you. “If I didn’t, Mina would’ve made our boss file a restraining order against you.”
Wonwoo hands you a spare helmet before putting on his own, laughing again as he clicks the lock in place. “Dating rumors and stalking rumors? Being with you sounds like such a big hassle now.”
“Are we going on that first date or not?!”
Two months after graduating and four weeks into officially dating Jeon Wonwoo, you find out the real reason he was taking so damn long to make up his mind about adopting Hani.
The landlord doesn’t prohibit pets—he loves them, actually.
His dog, Seol, is a little shy, but she gets along with Hani just fine.
But then his old roommate, Mingyu, dropped by to visit Wonwoo’s apartment one day, sneezing all over the place like it’s pollen season. Except the pollen in question is cat fur and it just so happens that he didn’t bring any of his allergy meds for the trip.
“As much as I want to cuddle on the couch catching up on the Marvel Cinematic Universe with you guys, I gotta go,” Mingyu explains while blowing his nose into a tissue. “I’ll die if I spend even a second longer here.”
Wonwoo throws a piece of popcorn at him. “Didn’t you say that you’re going on a date with Nari?”
“Oh. That, too.”
“If she finds out that you just remembered as an afterthought, she’s going to kill you,” you tease while shoving a handful of your movie snacks into your mouth. “At least, that’s what I’d do if Wonwoo did the same thing.”
“Oh, she will. That’s why neither of you are going to tattle on me,” the beefy idol huffs before tossing the soiled tissue in the trash bin. “Anyway, Wonwoo-hyung, you should totally keep in touch with this pet sitter that Seungcheol-hyung discovered recently. A bunch of other artists leave their pets with her whenever they have tight schedules.”
Your boyfriend merely looks at him with an unimpressed look. “Are you saying that just so I can leave Hani there when you come over to play video games with me?”
“Yes.”
Mingyu leaves shortly after receiving a phone call from his girlfriend, Nari, who sounded nothing short of furious when she asked where on earth he is and why he’s late for their date again. Wonwoo tells you that his best friend has a thing for pissing off Nari just so he has an excuse to do grand gestures for her without his girlfriend complaining about it. You tell him that he should start doing the same too.
“By the way, you’re flying back to Jeju for a while, right?” Wonwoo asks once the credits start rolling in the film playing on his TV—the loose grip he has around your waist tightening ever-so slightly.
You shift your weight on the couch to cuddle closer to him. “Yeah. I haven’t seen my parents and Haewon since I graduated. Plus, I don’t have to start working until next month, so I can afford a last-minute getaway.”
He nods. “I still think it’s funny you haven’t told your sister about me. Are you ashamed of me or something?”
“Quit saying weird stuff, Jeon Wonwoo,” you huff before hitting him in the chest. Damn those firm pecs. “I just want to see the look on her face when she finds out I’m dating the person she ships with Mingyu for fun.”
“And I still can’t believe my future sister-in-law is a Gyuldaengie.”
You try not to think about how he said Haewon is his future in-law. You really do.
Once the last of the end credits pans on-screen, the bonus scene at the end of every Marvel movie starts playing and you can’t help but snort when Eddy gets snapped back to his own universe before he can even pay off his tab to the bartender. Just when you’re about to ask Wonwoo if he wants to watch the next movie, you realize he’s had his eyes on you the entire time.
“What?” you laugh.
“Nothing,” he whispers. “I just thought you were really pretty.”
“Wonwoo, you tell me that every thirty minutes. Don’t you get tired of it?”
You yelp when he abruptly pulls you onto his lap, steadying you by the hips so you wouldn’t accidentally topple to the floor. He flashes you a lazy grin as he traces circles along the curve of your thighs and you can barely suppress a groan when you look down at him.
He might look like some otherworldly creature every time he kills it on stage, but you love this Wonwoo just the same—dressed down with his glasses sitting all crooked on the bridge of his nose, hair falling across his eyes.
“Never,” he says simply.
There’s something oddly sensual about the way he says it and at that moment, you catch on to the half-lidded look in his eyes. You gulp, gaze instinctively wandering around his apartment to look for Hani and Seol, who you spot dozing next to each other in the kitchen.
Now that you’re sure none of the kids are watching, you let out a defeated sigh before lacing your arms around his neck and leaning down to kiss him.
Wonwoo is a guy you caved and kissed before the first date, so it’s pretty natural for the two of you to fall into this degree of intimacy every now and again. His effect on you is especially lethal whenever you spend several days apart because of the nature of his career.
But even if you’re yet to cross that line with your boyfriend, the possibility of it finally coming into fruition becomes more and more real every time his hot tongue slides against yours.
“Won…woo—” you gasp when you feel his cold fingers sneak up your shirt, hands firmly grabbing your waist to keep you in place.
Your boyfriend chuckles and the low vibrations that come from his chest shoot straight to your core. “I know tonight was supposed to be movie night, but you’re making it really hard to keep my hands off of you.”
“That’s what you say all the time,” you groan as he takes your bottom lip between his teeth and tugs. Fuck. “Always blaming me for your lack of self-control.”
“I can’t help it when you’re so fucking beautiful,” he murmurs against your lips before tugging you back down for another heated kiss.
You’ve fooled around with Wonwoo a handful of times and during said times, you’ve gotten an idea of how…into it he gets when pleasuring you. It’s almost as if he delights in seeing you come undone for him even if it’s just with his mouth and fingers.
It’s during those moments that you can’t help but imagine how he would be once the two of you finally take things all the way. But for all your teasing about how he has questionable self-control, Wonwoo has done nothing but respect the boundaries you’ve clearly set when you started dating.
“Fuck,” he rasps when he pulls away briefly, resting his head against the cushions of the sofa as he closes his eyes. “Baby, we’ve gotta stop or else I might just cave and fuck you.”
You simper. “You’re the one who started this.”
“Yeah, and that’s why I’m putting a stop to it before I end up doing something you don’t like!”
You shift around on his lap for a moment and Wonwoo is convinced that you’ll give him some reprieve and get off of him before he loses his mind. But then he realizes you’re grinding your hips against the hard-on he’s sporting in his sweats.
Chuckling to yourself, you pull him by the front of his shirt—pressing a chaste kiss on the corner of his mouth before leaning into his ear to whisper:
“What if I want you to fuck me, Woo?”
The deep growl that resonates in his throat sounds so fucking hot, you can feel a gush of slick surge between your thighs. He doesn’t say a word—merely opting to keep his hard stare on yours as he wraps your legs around his waist. You immediately get the gist and hold on tight to him as he carries you out of the living room and into his bedroom.
“I’m giving you a chance to back out again, sweetheart,” he sighs as he kicks the door shut behind him. “Think you can handle it when I get serious about fucking you until you can’t walk?”
The mental image he conjures in your head has you mewling in his arms, prompting you to pepper his neck with sloppy kisses as he gropes your ass like it’s always belonged to him.
“Think you can actually make good on that though?” you challenge with a soft chuckle, grazing your teeth just below his collarbone. You won’t bite—knowing that his stylists will give him hell for it if he shows up to work with hickeys. “We both know you like to talk big sometimes.”
Wonwoo breathes out a condescending chuckle before gently easing you on top of the mattress. You didn’t think it was possible, but you swear you get even wetter when he takes off his glasses and licks his lips at the sight of you.
“Oh, baby, you’re in for a fucking ride.”
That’s how you find yourself with your back pressed against Wonwoo’s insanely sculpted chest—both your mouth and pussy stuffed with his thick fingers as he works you open enough to take his cock. He slides those thick digits in and out of your wet channel, making sure you get used to the stretch all while he muffles your noises at the same time.
Normally, he likes hearing you get whiney and desperate for him, but there’s a charm to seeing you slobber all over his fingers as you clench up around the ones buried in your pussy.
“Fuck, baby. So goddamn tight for me,” he whispers huskily in your ear and the sound of his rough voice layered with the lewd squelch of your cunt makes your insides tingle. “Been thinking about having this pretty pussy all to myself for a while now. You gonna let me have it now, baby? Let me wreck you on my cock?”
Wonwoo easily has the hottest voice you’ve ever heard in your entire life. While you often think about how you can fall asleep happily just listening to him talk about anything under the sun, it’s an entirely different story when he’s spouting all this filth into your ear as he prepares you for an overdue dicking down.
“Yes, please—” You sob pathetically when he takes his fingers out of your mouth, curling your arm behind you so you can blindly grab his hair and mend your lips into a messy kiss. “Wonwoo, I need you so bad.”
“Desperate little thing,” your boyfriend chuckles before withdrawing his fingers from your needy hole. The loss has you writhing in his lap, one hand shooting out to keep him where you want him but Wonwoo coos into your ear as if to pacify you. “Shhh, baby, I need you to come first before I fuck you. You’ll be good for me and let me make you come, right?”
Shit. Who are you to refuse when he propositions you like that?
“I need an answer, sweetheart.”
“I’ll be good,” you gasp almost immediately as your boyfriend starts parting your pussy lips with the hand that was muffling your cute noises. “I’ll be so good for you, please just—”
“Just what, baby?” Wonwoo teases and you nearly cry.
“M-Make me come on your fingers…”
He hums, slick fingers gliding along your slit. “Not if you don’t say—”
“Please,” you whimper before grinding your pussy against his hand. “Wonwoo, I wanna come. Wanna come so bad. Want you to stuff me full of your cock. Want you to—”
It’s almost like he tapped in on every single nerve ending in your body when his dexterous fingers find your clit—rubbing the puffy bud in fast, tight circles as you start twitching in his arms. Wonwoo lets out another evil laugh as he forcibly pries your legs apart. The firmness of his grip leaves you no choice but to thrash around as he builds your orgasm from the ground up, trailing wet kisses along the column of your throat as he teases an orgasm out of you with the sound of his voice coupled with his sinful ministrations.
“So wet and ready for me. Have you thought about taking me inside this sweet little pussy? Do you think you can even fit me when you’re this tight?” he breathes into your ear and you don’t even have the dignity to bite down your moans anymore. “You’re so close, sweetheart. Let yourself go and I’ll give you what you want. I’ll blow your pretty back out over and over until you’re sick of me.”
Never, you want to tell him. I’ll never get sick of you, stupid Wonwoo.
Funnily enough, that silent jab at him is quickly followed by a mind-numbing release. It washes over you like a storm surging into a calm shore—overloading every cell in your body with pleasure until the only thing that comes out of your mouth is a broken rendition of your lover’s name.
Wonwoo talks you through your high because he knows you’ve got a thing for his voice. Knows just how much tighter you get when he whispers filthy words with a sultry sweet tone.
And when he growls, “Good fucking girl,” into your ear, you’re convinced he just made you come again while still riding the waves of your first orgasm.
For all his vigor, Wonwoo is surprisingly patient with you as you recover from what he just put you through. He plants brief kisses all over your neck and face until your breathing finally evens out and you stop seeing stars in the seams of your vision. Your boyfriend offers up a gentle smile when you finally come to—leaning in to kiss your nose.
“You still want more?” he whispers, exercising enough restraint to be revered despite the fact that you can feel his hard, leaking cock pressed against the small of your back.
A soft, somewhat weak laugh makes its way past your lips as you turn around to peck his lips. Wonwoo smiles against your mouth and you can’t help but do the same.
Then, you issue another challenge.
“Do your worst.”
You’re grateful now more than ever that Wonwoo is the easiest person to talk to in the entire world. You can practically count the things that he wouldn’t want to discuss with you on one hand alone.
In other words, you’ve already had the necessary conversations about sex, should you ever have it with him in the future (A.K.A., right now). Wonwoo knows you’ve been on birth control ever since you moved to Seoul all those years ago. He knows that you get yourself tested at least once every month if you can and assures you that he does the same.
On the other hand, you’re well aware that your boyfriend has a thing for coming inside, and now that you’ve gone this far with him, you’ll gladly let Wonwoo make his fantasies a reality.
He only agreed to it once you promised to tell him whenever you feel like he’s going too far or if he’s doing something you don’t like. You swear you would’ve married him on the spot, if it weren’t for that tiny voice in your head that suspiciously sounds like Haewon telling you off for losing it over a man who’s doing the bare minimum.
With those measures in place, you feel safe enough to let Wonwoo press your face down onto the mattress as his free hand grips your ass—fucking into your tight cunt as he tries (and fails) to keep himself from being too rough with you.
He really, really wanted to be gentle, considering it’s your first time to lie together like this. But your unfiltered reactions do nothing but test both his patience and self-control in more ways than one. All his plans on making love to you in good old missionary have been tossed out of the window now that you’ve given him the green light to actually fuck you until you can’t walk.
“Wonwoo,” you moan, fists curling into the sheets as he cants his hips deeper and deeper—the head of his cock hitting spots your own fingers could never hope to reach. “S-So fucking good…”
“Yeah?” he breathes raspily before leaning down to press his chest against your back, wanting to engulf you in the heat of his body until it’s all you’ll ever know. “My pretty baby loves my cock that much? You want me to fuck you all the time now?”
“Uh huh.” You nod before letting out a high pitched keen when he amps up the speed of his thrusts—slamming his hips harder against your ass.
Wonwoo thinks he could really get used to the sight of your pretty pussy sucking him in like this. You’re so greedy—clamping down on him as tightly as you do as you moan his name like it’s the only word in your vocabulary. But how could you not when each vein that runs along the underside of his perfect cock drags so deliciously across your velvet walls? When his balls—hot and heavy and full of enough cum to fill you to the brim—keep clapping against your pussy with each powerful thrust?
It’s the first time that you got to get a taste of what your boyfriend is capable of in bed and you can only imagine every instance that will follow once all’s said and done.
When he feels your walls start to spasm around his length every now and again, Wonwoo presses a sloppy kiss across the cut of your jaw—a hand sliding between your thighs so he can find that little bundle of nerves that made you fall apart only several minutes ago. Your reaction is immediate—crying and squirming below him even when you’re helpless against his massive frame pressing you down into the bed.
“I’m so close, baby,” he groans into your ear, holding out for as long as he can just so he can feel the sensation of you coming around his cock. “You’re almost there, too, aren’t you? My good girl—taking my dick like it’s always been yours. Can you come with me? You can do that for me, right, sweetheart?”
The fondness in his voice strings you even further apart and you’re nothing but a mess of pleasure and delirium as Wonwoo continues his assault on your poor, abused clit. He knows just the right amount of pressure to use and manages to time his thrusts with each delicious pass on that oversensitive bud.
It’s all over before you know it.
You let out a long-winded moan that will definitely earn him a couple of noise complaints from the neighbors but Wonwoo doesn’t have it in him to fucking care at the moment. Not when your walls are clamping down so tightly around his cock—making each stroke all the more tantalizing as your pussy milks him for everything he’s got to give you.
You mindlessly babble a string of I love yous against the sheets, a trail of drool dripping onto the mattress as Wonwoo fucks into you with heightened ferocity. He catches every single word you say and he tilts your head to the side so he can kiss you. Your boyfriend forces your tongue into a dance with his own until his hips stutter and stop—white hot emission surging into your cunt in thick spurts that he hopes would stay inside you for days if he can help himself.
You’re a mess—face painted with a fucked out expression as your pussy leaks with a mixture of yours and Wonwoo’s cum. The mere sight of it is almost enough to make him hard again, but he tells himself that he can take you up on marathon sex next time.
For now, he just wants to clean you up and tuck you back into bed.
“Woo?”
He turns to face you with a questioning look. Your boyfriend just finished with your mandatory aftercare session and is in the middle of making the bed comfortable enough for some post-sex cuddles. “Hmm?”
“You’re still free next week right?” you ask, drawing silly shapes on his chest with your finger once he finally lays down next to you.
“Yeah. I don’t have any major schedules until…” He pauses before conjuring up an imaginary calendar in his mind. “Next month. Why?”
Despite all the debauchery you’ve subjected each other to in a single night, your face still flushes as you consider what you’re about to ask him. Wonwoo smiles at that. Cute.
“How do you feel about flying to Jeju with me so I can introduce you to my family?” you ask shyly, gulping with a nervous laugh. “I totally get it if your management won’t allow it though. It’s hard to keep the media off your back when you’re so famous and—”
He doesn’t do this often, but Wonwoo shuts you up with a firm kiss.
“What are you talking about?” he murmurs, caressing your face tenderly. “Of course I want to meet them.”
When your eyes light up at his confirmation, Wonwoo swears that he couldn’t be more in love.
Me [11:23]: hae, i’ve got good news~
Haewon 🪷 [11:24]: You’re bringing Mingyu with you to Jeju so we can get married?
Me [11:26]: very funny
Me [11:26]: not to spoil your delusions or anything but i’m bringing my boyfriend
Haewon 🪷 [11:30]: Omg…
Haewon 🪷 [11:30]: Rudeness aside, is it the same guy from before?
Me [11:31]: yep
Haewon 🪷 [11:32]: AAAAAAAAA
Haewon 🪷 [11:32]: I can’t wait to meet him!
Haewon 🪷 [11:34]: He better be treating you right or I’ll drop kick him off Jusangjeollidae
Me [11:40]: you’ve already met him though~
Haewon 🪷 [11:41]: ?
Haewon 🪷 [11:45]: Unnie, what do you mean…
Haewon 🪷 [12:32]: Hey!!!!
⟢ end notes: if you've made it til the end, congrats! this is the last of the doting on you! series (for now~) and i really hope you enjoyed reading through it as much as i enjoyed writing it!! special thanks to all the friends that read through this for me T T i wouldn't have done it without any of you ueueue
and to everyone that has been patiently waiting for me to put up the last installment for the series, thank you for waiting <3 i hope you guys continue to support me with my future work as well!
Warnings: accidental nudity, hospital visit, mention of masturbation, use of pet names, breast/nipple play, clitoral stimulation, unprotected sex, bulge kink, sexual asphyxiation, breeding kink, creampie, oral sex (male receiving), brief mention of pregnancy
Synopsis: The older brother of the boy you babysit is an enigma, in every sense of the word- and you’re determined to figure him out.
[this work was based off a request by @antoniorhinothethird - thank you for requesting!]
18+. Mdni!
•
The idea of babysitting isn’t some brilliant proposal you conjured up in a day- but it’s not exactly a choice, either. The idea isn’t even yours, in fact, the advertisements you published on the colorful inquiry site at your mother’s behest. But “college courses are virtual these days” and “you’ll be a mother at some point in your life,” according to her. So two months into the semester, you’ll now spend the majority of your time in a new place you’ll call home, just 30 minutes out at the Lee Household.
The Lee household is considerably larger than you’d originally anticipated it to be, spanning a sizable amount of grassland and standing nobly tall at 2 stories high. The exterior of the flashy home is surrounded by paved gravel driveways, lining the neat rows of bushels and vines that surround the off-white architectural build. Giant glass windows reflect sunlight in nearly every room of the house, with the exception of the dimly-lit library on the second floor, which flaunts colossal cherry wooden bookshelves that line the walls and cover most of the smaller windows.
“Joon is usually very mellow in the daytime,” Mrs. Lee tells you as she walks you through a tour of the garden. “You’ll only have to worry about his feeding schedules, which I’ve already written and posted on the refrigerator.”
She pivots in front of you, stopping for a moment and gesturing to the stone fountain by the rose bushes. “Do you like it? It was a gift from my husband. When he’s not running the furniture business, he works in restoration a lot. This was his first project.”
“Wow,” you say, your lips parted at the sight of the koi fish and the cascading waterfall from its lips. “It’s very beautiful.”
Mrs. Lee smiles at you in response, turning on her heel and continuing to the iron gates in the front.
“Do you have any other questions?” She asks, clasping her hands together and shooting you a saccharine smile. She’s intimating, not because of her personality, which you quickly clock as rather warm and inviting. But rather, because she’s so elegant, her navy silk dress perfectly complementing the chunky pearl earrings she wears, making her look like a character from an old film. You’re not sure you’ve ever crossed paths with such an interesting woman before.
“I think that covers everything,” you say finally, giving her a small bow. “I’ll be sure to provide updates throughout the day.”
“Oh, no need,” she says quickly. “Unless it’s an emergency, l know you’ll have your hands full doing your work while watching Joon. Feel free to just give us a little summary when we’re home for the evening.”
She shoots you a little wink when she finishes speaking, clasping her hands together again and smiling down at you.
“We’ll see you tomorrow for your first day!” She exclaims warmly, opening gate doors as you make your exit out of the garden. When you begin down the paved road, Mrs. Lee suddenly gasps, calling out to you again in a frantic manner.
“Oh! Y/n, wait please!” She calls, pulling the skirt of her dress up to her ankles to jog over to where you’re standing.
“My other son will be home from school in the afternoon tomorrow. Don’t be alarmed if you hear him moving about the house. He’ll just keep to himself.”
You ponder the words for a moment, a little frustrated when you realize there will be two kids in the household instead of one, like she’d previously mentioned. But you just nod and smile at her, seeing yourself out of the driveway once again and beginning the journey back home to prepare for your first day here tomorrow.
*
This castle-at-end-of-the-road is eerily quiet when no one’s home, a once lively sight of rose bushes and marble statues appearing like something out of a horror movie when you’re by yourself. At every corner you turn, your brain runs rampant with paranoia, placing shadowy figures and silhouettes of people where there are none- except for when you’re in the presence of Joon.
At just a year old, Joon is considered one of the cutest ages, only being able to babble incoherent noises and flail his little hands around when he wants something. His closet is full of matching neutral tones, per his mother’s styling, and his sparse black hair is combed neatly to one side.
Mrs. Lee is right about him- he doesn’t cry. Nor does he ever make a fuss, really. He simply sits quietly, in the comfort of his crib, or his high chair, and he curiously peers at the world around him. You’re certain he’s taken a liking to you already, judging at how he smiles when you spoon-feed him mashed carrots and mimic airplane noises. And he only cries briefly once in the day, stopping almost immediately when you put him down for his nap.
This may be an easier gig than you thought.
While Joon naps, you take the opportunity to get some work done in the library, settling comfortably on the velvet armchair in the corner and running through a few of your online class assignments for the week.
Although you’ll be babysitting here for the next few weeks, you’re also completing your final year at university this year, your last semester being completely remote. Which gives you time to take on the babysitting task as a side hustle, and hopefully save enough money to travel a bit after university like you’ve always dreamt of.
At half past noon, Joon is still peacefully asleep in his crib where you’ve left him, the ambient sound of waves echoing softly from his baby monitor as little snores emit from his curled lips. He looks like an angel when he sleeps, and you can’t help but feel your heart swell to twice its size at the sight of him.
The gentle breeze of the October wind travels through the open windows of the library, sending chills up your spine when you sit down to work again. You get up from where you’re sitting on the armchair to latch the windows shut, making sure to lock them, before turning around to take your seat again- quickly startled by the figure standing in the doorway.
“Jesus,” you yelp, one hand clutching your chest in fear as you nearly drop your laptop.
The figure- or man, rather, says nothing, scanning the room like he’s searching for something, before turning on his heel and exiting the room once again.
He’s tall, with a slim yet muscular build, honey tanned skin complementing his chocolate brown tresses. He’s also dressed rather casually in a pair of light-wash jeans and a black top, a black leather jacket thrown over his broad shoulders and left unzipped.
“Sorry, did you need something?” You call out, perplexed by his demeanor. You can’t remember if the Lees warned you of potential visitors, but you’re suddenly panicked for Joon, remembering you left his door open.
“Nope,” the man calls out over his shoulder, not turning around to face you. And then you see it- a black backpack, slung over one shoulder and seemingly filled to the brim with textbooks.
Their other son.
This must be the son Mrs. Lee warned you would be making appearances in the afternoon. But you had assumed him to be much younger, especially considering he’s definitely old enough to be watching over his own brother.
Before you can gather your thoughts to introduce yourself, he’s gone again, disappearing down the hall the same way he so mysteriously appeared. And you wonder, briefly, how he can be so much colder than his own mother.
*
The first day of your new job is a success. When Mrs. Lee returns home for the evening, she pays you in cash, true to her traditional style, and sends you home with a tin of shortbread cookies as another ‘thank you’, though she’s already voiced it a million times. But the second day is rougher than the first, reminding you of why babysitting isn’t always an easy task despite what it may seem.
Joon is particularly antsy today, flailing his arms around when you try to spoon feed him and whining relentlessly when you pick him up. He needs several diaper changes in just your first few hours of working, and when you finally do get him clean, he’s a crying, screaming mess.
Fortunately, he still goes down for his nap at noon, which means you have a narrow window of time to complete your work for the day and get freshened up. The windows in the library are propped wide open again, a cold breeze coming through as you settle in your new favorite spot and open your laptop.
There are a myriad of assignments to complete today, and you’re briefly panicked that you won’t be able to complete the necessary few pieces if Joon suddenly wakes again. But still, you try, skimming through textbooks and typing away as much as you can to make steady progress. And at the hour mark, Joon begins to cry. Rather he wails, loudly, from the other room, startling you when you’re already in deep concentration working through a practice quiz.
You make your way down the hallway and to the right, where Joon’s room is, approaching the crib and catching a glimpse of his anguished state. His face is a robust shade of red as he wails loudly, bubbles of saliva forming at his nostrils and his eyes squeezed shut. You guide him out of the crib and into the safety of your arms, shushing him gently and rocking him back and forth the way Mrs. Lee taught you. And Joon calms instantly, hiccuping through tears as he locks his gaze on yours and fists at strands of your hair.
“That’s okay,” you coo at him, grazing your finger along his chin and cleaning some of the drool that dribbles from the corners of his lips. “I’m here. Look at you! You’re okay,” you continue, giggling at him when his quivering lips pull into a small smile. He softens in your arms, smiling and babbling with hushed sounds, clutching tightly on strands of your hair as you balance him in your arms.
“You want to come do some work?” You ask, nodding your head as if to coax an answer out of him. “That’s a good baby, huh? Let’s go do some work.”
And you travel back to the library with Joon in your arms, giving him gentle pats on his back as you hoist him tighter into your embrace and balance your laptop with one arm.
When you’re starting on your last task of the evening, you’re interrupted again today by Mrs. Lee’s eldest son, who pokes his head in the doorway and observes as you coo down at Joon’s sleeping figure while working on your computer with one hand.
“Do you want me to take him?” You hear from the doorway, and you crane your neck to look where he’s standing, his hands shoved in his pockets and his backpack slung lazily over one arm.
“I’m okay,” you respond, typing out a word with one hand. He furrows his eyebrows at your failed attempt, approaching you and reaching out his arms to take Joon from your embrace.
“You can’t work like this,” he says, as he peacefully transfers Joon to his own arms. “He won’t wake up if I put him back, I promise.”
“Thanks,” you reply, taking note of his features now that he’s at a closer proximity to you for the first time. He has large round eyes, and long eyelashes that make even you jealous. His nose bridge is sharp and straight, and when he chuckles softly at Joon, you notice his skewed front teeth, ones that make his smile seem sweeter- softer.
As he begins out the doorway, you try to think of what to say to him, not wanting to have another awkward run-in with him like your last one. But nothing comes to mind that won’t be just as awkward as the encounter itself, and you settle on painful silence once again.
As you unlock your laptop, continuing on to your last assignment, you hear the faint noise of Mrs. Lee’s elder son putting Joon back to sleep.
Except he sounds different than he has during your two previous encounters. He’s laughing, babbling, even cooing at Joon as he puts him back to sleep. And though you really shouldn’t intrude, you make your way to the doorway again, where you peer down the hall to listen in on the endearing noises he makes.
“Are you sleepy?” He asks, his voice two octaves higher than usual. “Let’s sleep now, okay? No, you can’t have my shirt. That’s mine, remember? Let’s have good dreams now. I love you!”
You hear Joon giggling from the end of the corridor and you smile to yourself, wholly moved by the tender little moment he shares with his baby brother. He might not be his full-time caregiver, but he certainly knows what he’s doing. As you stay pondering his behavior for a moment, you don’t even notice when he exits the room again, turning to watch you standing around the doorway. Your ear is still leaned into the corridor, clearly having listened in on the private moment.
“Sorry,” you say quickly, straightening your posture, a wave of embarrassment quickly washing over you. “I was making sure Joon got to bed okay.”
He just nods once, looking you over briefly before meeting your gaze again.
“Minho,” he then practically mutters, averting your gaze as he waits for you to speak.
It’s his name, you realize, barely even having registered what he said to you. He’s telling you his name.
“Y/n,” you respond quickly, giving him a small bow and smiling nervously.
And Minho says nothing, pivoting on his heel to exit the corridor and disappear all over again.
*
For two weeks, your job runs smoothly, no glaring problems or hangups. Joon remains fond of you, obedient at mealtimes and when he’s put to bed. And the system of completing your college coursework goes smoothly, being able to get through several assignments a day while Joon takes his afternoon nap. If anything, you might be more productive than you were before this job, despite balancing it between university.
It’s an overcast Tuesday afternoon, and you’ve spent most of your day working in Joon’s nursery on the rocking chair next to his crib. He’s been a little fussy today, but you find that he calms down a little at the repetitive clicking noises of your laptop keyboard. Once you’ve confirmed he’s asleep, little snores emitting from his lips, you gather your belongings and sneak away to the library again. Only this time, it’s not vacant.
Minho sits in your usual spot today, his legs propped up on the footrest in front of him and a book in his lap. He doesn’t even notice you in the doorway, strands of hair hanging loosely in front of his face as he scans the page of his book. He also looks significantly more casual than other days you’ve seen him around, wearing a plain black t-shirt and gray sweats, a pair of round wireframe glasses resting on the bridge of his nose.
He feels your gaze on him, shuffling about suddenly and closing his book.
“Sorry,” Minho says. “I was just… reading.”
He realizes how awkward he sounds, verbally conveying his actions to you like this, but he’s too caught off guard to form a more coherent string of words.
“It’s okay,” you say politely, setting your bag down on the floor and occupying the chair across from him.
“What book?” You ask, cocking your head at the small red novel he clutches in his lap.
“Hm? Oh, uh… it’s Love and Limerence. By Dorothy Tennov.”
You nod in response, studying the cherub painted on the cover, wielding a bow and arrow.
“Big romance fan?”
“No,” Minho says, chuckling at your words. “It’s a required read for my class.”
“How neat,” you reply. “What class requires romance novels these days?”
“My philosophy course,” Minho says, running the pads of his fingers over the raised text on the cover. “The psychology of emotion.”
“PHIL 105,” you say, knowing very well the course he speaks of.
“Yeah- you’ve taken it?”
“No, but I had a friend who did in freshman year. I’m in my last semester now- my remaining classes are virtual, though.”
“It’s my last semester, too,” Minho says with a little smile, fiddling with the lobe of his ear as he talks.
“Well best of luck to you in the final stretch,” you reply, shooting him a small smile back. “I hope it all goes smoothly.”
Minho gives a half nod, and then furrows his eyebrows together, like he’s just remembered something.
“I’ll get out of your hair,” he says suddenly, sitting up and gathering his belongings.
“Oh, I really don’t mind-”
“Catch you later,” He interrupts with a nervous tone, almost jogging out of the library and back down the corridor.
And just like the first day you met him, you maintain the same idea of him- he’s such an enigma. Appearing in and out of the household, not one to voice his thoughts or his opinions, no eagerness to know the stranger sitting in his house watching over his baby brother. But somehow, like the rest of the household, you can’t help but have a lingering curiosity for Minho, too.
*
“My husband and I might be late getting back today,” Mrs. Lee says one morning as you feed Joon his breakfast. His tongue dodges the plastic spoon, dribbling mashed food out from the corners of his lips and laughing when you go to dab his face clean with a napkin.
“That’s alright,” you reply, loading up the spoon with more food. “I can wait until you’ve arrived.”
“You will?” Mrs. Lee asks, a kind of sparkle in her eyes as she speaks. “That would mean the world to us. It’s just that my husband has an auction to attend today. And sometimes these events run longer than they’re meant to.”
“No problem at all,” you say, smiling at her as you turn your attention back to Joon. “Joon and I will just hang out a little longer today. Isn’t that right?”
He babbles something in response, a string of saliva trailing from his lips, and Mrs. Lee laughs at the sight.
“He’s really taken a liking to you!”
As she fixes Joon’s hair, Minho enters the kitchen, dressed for the day with his backpack already slung over his shoulder.
“Minho,” his mother says in a scolding tone. “No gum for breakfast. Have a fruit.”
“Can’t,” he replies curtly. “My philosophy exam is today.”
“What does that have to do with depriving yourself of food?”
“It’s bad luck to eat before an exam,” Minho retorts, coming around the granite island to kiss her on the cheek. “Besides,” Minho continues. “I’m ditching my second class, so I’ll be home a little earlier.”
When he turns around, his gaze meets yours, and he instantly stiffens.
His gaze turns cold again, his hands shoving in his jacket pockets as he says nothing to you. He just bows, once, and then turns to exit like he’s suddenly in some rush.
“Bye,” he calls out, and you’re not even sure who he’s addressing it to at this point.
“I should get going, too,” Mrs. Lee says to you. “I’ll call you when we leave the event tonight. And please, feel free to make yourself comfortable after Joon gets put to bed. There’s cash on the table if you want to order something for dinner, and extra blankets are in the upstairs closet if you get sleepy.”
“Thank you,” you say to Mrs. Lee as she gathers her car keys and handbag. And the house is quiet again when you’re all alone, with the exception of Joon’s heavy breathing as he stares at you curiously.
“It’s like a mansion here,” you say to your best friend as you balance Joon in your arms and crane your neck on your shoulder to hold the phone against your ear. “Mrs. Lee is so nice. I thought she’d be stuck up or something, but she’s like a second mother.”
“You hit the jackpot,” your friend voices on the other end of the line. “Any idea how long they need you around?”
“Not sure,” you reply, wiping the granite counter with a rag as you finish up the dishes. “Probably until their son is done with the semester.”
“Son?” She says excitedly. “Is he cute?”
“Please,” you echo, rolling your eyes. “His looks mean nothing considering he doesn’t say a word.”
“What do you mean?”
“Exactly that. He just doesn’t talk. We go to the same university and it’s like pulling teeth trying to figure out something as simple as what his major is. I think he despises having me around.”
“I mean, to be fair, I wouldn’t love someone in my space 24/7. It’s probably a territorial thing.”
“He’s not a cat,” you respond, laughing lightly. “He’s a grown man. I just get the feeling he doesn’t like me.”
“Well I highly doubt that,” she says, and you can hear her shuffling about on her end of the line.
“Hey, I have to go,” she chimes in. “But I’ll talk to you later. Good luck with baby Joon and the cat man.”
“Thanks,” you reply, chuckling to yourself.
As you hang up the phone, you turn around to gather the last of the dishes, stopping in your tracks when you’re met with Minho himself.
He’s standing in the kitchen, popping a bubble of gum with his teeth, his gaze locked coldly on yours as he observes the place.
That’s right- he did say he would be home a bit earlier after his exam today. Was he standing there for the entirety of your conversation? You can’t recall how long the phone call lasted, or even the specifics of what you said. But you do know it certainly wasn’t good.
“Hi,” you say nervously, scanning his expression for a hint of what he’s thinking. But he provides you none, kicking off his boots and making his way up the stairs again.
The guilt is still eating away at you two hours later- Minho hasn’t descended the staircase once since the incident, and you can hardly focus on your school work at the thought of what he’s thinking of you.
Here you are, complaining about him seeming “cold” or “off”- the whole time you’re the one talking about him behind his back and stirring up drama. If he hated you before, he definitely despises you now. And if he's as close with his mother as he seemed this morning, you could be out of a job by tomorrow.
In reluctant steps, you ascend the wooden staircase, clutching a small mug of coffee and a stack of buttered toast. You remember Minho saying he’d have breakfast after his exam, a task he wasn’t able to complete due to your impolite conversation earlier. And while you’re not even sure he’s going to give you the time of day anymore, it’s worth a shot to try.
At the top of the staircase, you realize you’re unsure of which room even belongs to Minho. There are rows of doors down the corridor, which you peer into, looking for any sign of him.
A closet, another closet, the laundry room… it feels like a futile task at this point- not to mention, the sinking feeling that you’re intruding, poking into every room in the house like this.
But at the end of the hallway, just across the staircase from Joon’s room, lies one more closed door you haven’t tried yet, and you’re sure this one has to be his.
With a deep breath, you balance the mug of coffee on the plate you’re carrying, bringing your free hand up to knock, just once.
No answer.
You pause for a moment, debating whether to just leave and drop the idea of an apology altogether. But you don’t, instead forcing yourself to knock once more this time, a little harder than the first.
And after muffled sounds of shuffling about, the door finally opens again, Minho standing with a confused expression on his face. He has a pair of earphones in, one side pulled out to hear you, his glasses sat on his face and a number of textbooks on the bed behind him.
“Is Joon okay?” He asks, looking down the hall in panic as you meet his gaze.
“What? Oh! Yes, he’s fine. He’s sleeping.”
“Oh. What are you…”
“I… made you some breakfast. I know you didn’t have any before your exam this morning. And no, gum isn’t a breakfast food.” You chuckle lightly as you hold the items out to him, and Minho looks down at them, blinking a few times before speaking.
“Oh. Uh, thanks. You didn’t have to do that.”
“It’s no problem. Should I leave them with you?”
“Oh, you can put them on the desk over there,” Minho replies, and it’s then that you notice his hands are full with papers. He steps aside to let you in, gesturing to the desk with a piece of paper, and you oblige, clearing the space of a few scattered items and setting down his breakfast.
When you turn around to look at the place, your lips part in awe at the sight of the grandiosity of it. Minho’s room has bigger windows than any of the others you’ve seen, concave around a crescent-shaped seating area that boasts tall ceilings and large glass windows. There are books lining the floors, the desk space and even the window sills, many of them left bookmarked or lying open where they sit.
His giant wooden bed frame is almost hidden behind a hanging curtain, and his desk is nearly inhabitable at the amount of university paraphernalia that lives on its surface.
“Wow,” you say, craning your neck to look around the room. “It’s really nice in here.”
“Thanks,” Minho says awkwardly, toying with a loose hem on his pants.
“You really like reading,” you comment, taking note of the books he has lying around. When you say this, Minho seems to stiffen a bit, shutting some of the books and lining them on their spines along his shelves.
“Yeah,” he mutters, dropping a few books and kicking them away from him.
You nod at him, pursing your lips, well aware that you’re in the midst of yet another awkward interaction with him, but wanting to fulfill the reason you came up here all the same.
“Listen,” you begin. “I wanted to apologize. I don’t know how much you heard of that, but I assume it was enough to be hurt by it. And you’re justified in being hurt. It was totally uncalled for of me to say those things- and sure, you might be a quiet person. But that doesn’t make it okay for me to go around airing it out like it’s my business. In fact I shouldn’t even be on my phone on the job. I’m here to watch your brother, and I get paid for that service, and it’s completely unprofessional-”
“It’s cool,” Minho says, an unchanging expression on his face.
“Oh, um… I mean, if you want to fire me I totally understand.”
Minho chuckles softly, and then shakes his head. “I’m not going to fire you. I am quiet. It’s cool. Really.”
“I mean, I totally get that-”
“Unless you want to be fired?” He inquires with a half-smile, and you chuckle softly in response.
“I really don’t. I love watching your brother.”
“Good,” he replies. “Then we’re all good.”
And although you want to say something else to him, you don’t, feeling as though you should be satisfied with the state of the conversation. You apologized, he forgave you, and you haven’t lost your job. And he’s still quiet, but that’s just who he is.
When Joon wakes from his afternoon nap, it’s nearly 3pm. He’s a crying mess when he’s up again, flailing his arms around to beg for a bottle, which you promptly prepare for him after a diaper change.
With Joon in your arms, you get some chores around the house finished, including vacuuming the rugs, dusting off the furniture and tidying Joon’s toys that are usually scattered about his nursery.
Doing chores wasn’t an agreement between you and Mrs. Lee- in fact, she usually urges you to focus on your schoolwork and take breaks when you’re not caring for Joon. But you want to, feeling compelled to take care of the space as much as you care for Joon. Although tensions are still somewhat present between you and Minho, the Lee household feels comfortable to you by this point, almost like a second home now.
After chores, the library calls out to you again, evening beginning to fall over the neighborhood and painting the sky with vibrant hues of an autumnal sunset.
The windows are still rolled open from earlier, and your velvet couch looks particularly inviting at this hour, beams of sunset setting it aglow and luring you to choose a book from the cherry wood shelves around you.
So you do, selecting a children’s book about animals, comfortably sprawling out on the chair with Joon in your arms. He eyes the book curiously, spreading his short, chubby fingers over the cover and tapping repeatedly, as if asking you to read to him.
And you do, setting the book on your knee to angle the pages toward him, as you begin to vocalize the choppy sentences to him.
“A is for apple, hanging from a tree,” you say, caressing his stubby fingers as he pouts in focus. “B is for buzzing bumblebee.”
Joon’s lips curl into a smile, making his best attempt to clap as you point out the colorful images to him.
“C is for crab, walking in the sand… D is for dolphin, swimming toward the land!”
Joon laughs hysterically now, clapping his little hands and rocking back and forth in your lap. You laugh, too, at his darling reaction, and give him a little kiss on the head as he fiddles with the cover of the book.
It’s moments like this that reaffirm the notion for you that this job was the right idea, after all. You’re inexplicably happy alongside him like this, seeing the world through his eyes and rediscovering things you would otherwise take for granted, like silly picture books or doing chores with him in your arms. You feel so protective of him, eager to make his mom proud and provide a safe, nurturing environment for him as his babysitter- not because you’re paid to do it, but because he now holds a special place in your heart.
The sound of someone clearing their throat startles you from the doorway, and you look up to find Minho standing there, an amused smirk tugging at his lips.
“Did you… want something to eat? I was going to order takeout, unless you wanted something else.”
“Sure,” you reply, propping Joon up a little closer to your chest. “Anything’s fine with me.”
“I’ll get Chinese, then,” Minho says nodding. He averts your gaze a little, but you can tell he’s just a little awkward when he’s face-to-face with you like this. And perhaps your best friend is right- perhaps it’s not unusual of him to feel territorial over his household. After all, you are here almost every hour of the day, making yourself comfortable in almost every room, tending to the chores here and eating food from their kitchen. You suppose you would be irritated at the thought of it, too.
As Minho leaves to place an order, you take Joon back to the nursery, where you gently put him to sleep for the evening and program his baby monitor to play calm ocean noises again. It’s like clockwork- he’s out like a light, and the minute he leaves your arms, you’re exhausted, too. The stress of watching over him while balancing your school work might finally be getting to you now- you’re undoubtedly tired, your limbs aching from sauntering about this big house all day with Joon in your arms. And although you’re on a good track, you can hardly remember which assignment pertains to each of your classes these days.
When Minho returns almost an hour later, he holds a thin plastic bag in hand, his other one clutching a fistful of cutlery and two plates. He gives you a small nod when he enters the library, and you put away your laptop to join him on the floor in front of the coffee table.
For a moment, he says nothing as he prepares a plate for you, sliding a cup of wonton soup toward you and dividing portions of chow mein and tofu with wooden chopsticks.
You watch as he breaks a spring roll in half, holding both sides up and comparing to make sure they’re even.
“You’re very precise,” you say with a soft laugh, and a breathy chuckle emits from his lips, too.
“I’m trying to make sure it’s even.”
“However you cut it is fine,” you respond, pleasantly surprised at how polite he is.
When he’s finished dividing your portions, he slides a plate to you, setting a plastic fork down on the napkin beside you and ushering to the food.
“Enjoy,” he says, shooting you a small smile.
And the two of you eat in silence, the room quiet, aside from the sounds of slurping soup present between you two. Although it’s quiet, it feels comfortable, having him keep you company like this. It’s a change of pace from your usual days babysitting in the Lee household.
“How is your school work?” Minho interrupts your thoughts, and you’re momentarily taken aback by him initiating the conversation first.
“It’s good,” you respond, poking at the vegetables on your plate with a chopstick. “It’s on my own time, so I mostly just have to make sure I’m staying on track. But I’m finding it easy to get through despite watching Joon in the daytime.”
Minho nods in response, keeping his gaze set on the bowl of soup in front of him.
“How did your exam go?” you ask, and Minho cocks his head a little. “I got full marks,” he responds after a moment of silence.
“That’s great! I guess you were right about skipping breakfast having something to do with your academic success, then.”
And Minho laughs for the first time- not a chuckle or a giggle, but a laugh, holding one hand up to his mouth as he does. His laugh is gentle and melodic, filling the room around him with its sound, and you can’t help but laugh, too.
“I suppose,” he responds. “I also go nowhere without those philosophy books, so I have them memorized like the back of my hand.”
“Philosophy major?” you voice back, and Minho nods.
“So Love and Limerence is like second nature to you at this point.”
Minho gets a little awkward at this, his smile fading a little as he pokes around his chow mein. “Yeah,” he says quietly. “You could say that.”
And fearing you’ve somehow offended him, you change the subject again.
“Well I’m a business major,” you chime in. “So we don’t get interesting reads at all. And I’m not lugging around a six-pound textbook about returns on investments in my backpack.”
He laughs again, and you feel satisfied at the motion. Making him laugh feels like an exciting feat, like you’ve succeeded at something after trying so hard to. And considering how hard you’ve been trying to break down his walls these days, maybe it is an exciting feat, getting to know the stranger you’ve been sharing a home with for one month now.
“Business is a great field,” Minho says, slurping down the remainder of his soup. “Your parents must be really proud of the direction you’re headed.”
You shrug in response. “They’re indifferent. I don’t have a great relationship with them. They mostly just want me out of their hair once I graduate.”
“You have any post-college plans?” Minho inquires.
“I finished an internship before this whole babysitting gig, actually. I want to travel a bit after graduation, and then I’ll really settle down for the whole 9-5 working life.”
“Where are you hoping to travel to?”
There’s a glint in Minho’s eyes as he presses you for answers, like he’s genuinely interested in what you have to say. It makes you feel all warm inside- not many people usually care what you’re up to these days, your family trying their hardest to send you away to work another job and your most of your friends having drifted apart when you began university. Even the friends you do have are more distant these days, considering their classes are still in person, and you don’t have a need to be back on campus anymore. It’s a bit of a lonely life you lead, so being here beside Minho feels different, but pleasant.
“I’m not sure,” you say with a smile. “I’m not really sure where I belong yet.”
“Hey, I don’t know where I belong, either,” Minho echoes. “So that makes two of us.”
When the two of you are finished with dinner, Minho takes your plates downstairs, despite you offering, and you’re briefly left alone in the library. It’s much later than usual now, nearing 9:00, when you’re usually home by 7. The house also has a different vibe to it this hour, many of the rooms feeling much dimmer despite the same lamps being on, and the corridors feeling much quieter and more haunting. You feel a wave of sleepiness wash over you, and though you don’t want to be asleep when Mrs. Lee arrives, you can’t help but shut your eyes for a few minutes. You can still make out the shape of the bookshelves behind your heavy eyelashes, trying your best not to close your eyes completely, but your mind has already wandered off to slumber, and inevitably, your body follows shortly after.
You’re somewhere between sleep and consciousness when you feel Minho enter the room once again, looming over you like he wants to ask you something. But he says nothing- instead, he unfolds a knit blanket above you, sprawling it out over your legs and pulling it up to your torso. And you hadn’t realized how cold you were before he did, because you’re almost instantly with a wave of warmth and comfort over your listless body.
It feels almost uncharacteristic or Minho to carry out an action this polite- but as he takes his seat across from you, watching as you doze off peacefully, you think he may finally be coming around to you.
*
“I’m ditching my second class again today,” Minho announces the next morning at breakfast. He doesn’t eat much, you notice, as he bites into a single apple and hoists his backpack further up his shoulders.
“I’ll be home a bit earlier,” he then continues, eyeing you a little, and you give him a little nod.
“Then help with lunch,” Mrs. Lee says, gathering her own briefcase for work. “Y/n shouldn’t do it all by herself when you’re here.”
“Oh, it’s no worry at all,” you quickly chime in, not wanting to be the reason Minho refutes his mother’s words. “It’s what I’m here to do, after all.”
“No worries,” Minho says back to you. “I’ll be home around noon and we can prepare something together.”
For some reason, your heart flutters a little at the implication of doing something alongside Minho- something so planned and seemingly intimate. You normally just take the days as they come, so having a commitment hanging over your head like this is a little nerve-racking. And in all your worrying, you don’t respond to Minho, realizing only as he’s exiting the house with his apple in hand.
“I might be late again today,” Mrs. Lee turns to you, snapping you out of your trance. “But Minho can stay for the remainder of the time. I’ll still pay you the full amount like I did yesterday-”
“I’m happy to stay again,” you reply to her. “Like I said, it’s what I’m here to do.”
She smiles in return, clasping her hands and gesturing to the food on the table.
“I can’t get Minho to eat for the life of me, but help yourself to whatever you’d like. And thank you again, for staying.”
You’re reading to Joon in the living room when Minho arrives home from school. He kicks off his shoes dramatically, tossing his bag on the floor and breathing out a heavy sigh while you thumb through the pages of a new picture book.
“Hi,” Minho says first, his expression remaining stoic and unchanging.
“Hey,” you reply, hoisting Joon a little further up in your arms. “How was school?”
“Terrible,” he responds, making his way around the granite island to collect another apple.
“Why’s that?”
“Professor Kim,” he says curtly, polishing the apple on his button down shirt before taking a generous bite. “A three hour lecture on a Friday really wasn’t a smart choice. ”
You chuckle a little to yourself, adjusting your position on the floor and trying to balance Joon in your embrace. Minho takes notice of your struggle, abandoning his apple on the counter to come take Joon from your arms.
“Thanks,” you say, dusting off your legs as you stand again. “I’m going to get started on something for Joon to eat if you want to wait around. Unless you’re sticking to this exclusively-apple diet.”
Minho chuckles to himself and shakes his head. “I’ll help. We don’t have much prepared right now and I really need to go grocery shopping.” He secures Joon in his high chair, cocking his head toward the fridge.
“Could you just grab his orange juice? It should be the blue bottle on the right.”
And you comply with his request, promptly locating the blue sippy cup and handing it to Minho.
“Thank you,” he says, setting it down on the white tray in front of Joon and twisting it open. “This should be enough to hold him off until we can whip something up with the few ingredients we have. I want to do something with those sweet potatoes, they’re reaching the end of their time.”
Joon is a little fussy as he reaches for his sippy cup, flailing his arms around and sliding the cup across the tray to the edge. The cap seems to loosen as he does, tilting dangerously to one side.
“I got it,” you say to Minho, as you approach Joon. You retrieve the cup from the edge of the tray, twisting off the cap again to secure it properly. And as you do, Joon lets out a particularly loud yelp, knocking his hand toward you and letting the bottle fall off the tray entirely.
As you realize what’s happening, you bring two hands up to push it away from you, but you’re too late- the entirety of the bottle’s contents are spilt onto your shirt, completely soaking you and dripping onto the floor with loud, wet noises.
Minho doesn’t see what happened, but he turns around at the sound of your loud gasp, his eyes widening at the sight of you. Even your hair’s gotten wet, stringy pieces falling into your face, damp with the tangy scent of orange juice and dripping down your shirt. His mind races with guilty thoughts, feeling as though he should have stayed watching Joon, being the one to have been caught in the crossfire of his tantrum instead. Joon’s always fussy before meals- he knows this very well. As his mind races with the urgency to grab a towel, a rag- something, his eyes graze to your t-shirt, and he practically freezes.
Your thin white t-shirt is soaked like the rest of you, painting a clear outline of your black bra as the cold contents drip down your chest and torso. The see-through fabric sticks to your body like a cellophane wrapping, outlining every inch of you, every curve and every raised goosebump as you shudder at the sensation. Minho’s eyes remain locked on your dampened breasts for an embarrassing amount of time, taking careful note of the way your hardened nipples practically protrude through the thin white fabric, almost appearing increasingly noticeable with every passing second. The delicate curves of your stomach are accentuated with your skin-tight shirt, even your navel now visible.
A shake of your hands finally snaps him out of his trance, and you wrap your arms around yourself in a futile effort to cover yourself.
“I’m sorry,” you utter to him, at a loss for words at the notion of being so exposed to him. And Minho is quick to shake his head, now scrambling for a towel.
“Don’t apologize,” he says, pulling a towel off the oven handle and sliding it to you. “Here, use this and I’ll go get a larger towel from upstairs and a change of clothes.”
You want to deny the offer, feeling shameful for having already intruded this much on the Lee household and still needing more from them. But as you look down at your t-shirt, you know you don’t have a choice, the fabric now feeling cold and uncomfortable as it sticks to your flesh.
“Thanks,” you say to him, giving a small nod and not moving your hands from your chest.
And Minho retreats upstairs quickly, trying his best to avert his gaze as you remain in the kitchen.
As Joon babbles incoherently next to you, you can’t help but feel stupid, a sense of shame and embarrassment replacing the excitement you had to be preparing lunch alongside Minho for the afternoon. You’re in disbelief he’s practically seen you half naked like this, and you feel inadequate at not being able to stop Joon from committing the incident in the first place. As you run your hands up and down the raised goosebumps on your arms, you do your best to hold back tears, hoping Minho won’t think less of you for being caught in such a humiliating accident.
Minho is gone for a little while, and you blot at the wet patches on your shirt as you wait, Joon now laughing at your messy state. You can’t help but laugh a little, too, admittedly amused at what a disaster the afternoon has been- and you haven’t even begun the cooking part of it yet.
When he returns, he tosses you a large white bath towel and a gray t-shirt, still keeping his gaze on the floor instead of on yours.
“Here,” he says simply, his veiny arm scratching the back of his head. “I can also get a sweater if you’re cold.”
As you observe the t-shirt, you realize it’s one of his, not one of Mrs. Lee’s. For some reason, you’d assumed Minho would opt for a woman’s clothes as your change, but the t-shirt has clearly been pulled from his closet, and you blush a little at the idea of wearing his clothes.
“This is fine,” you reply, wrapping the bath towel around your body and excusing yourself to the bathroom.
You peel the sticky clothes off your body, crumpling them into a pile and changing into Minho’s t-shirt. It’s a bit large on you, but it’s much more comfortable, hanging loosely off your body and covering every bit of you that was previously exposed. His shirt smells like him, too, a pleasant scent of laundry detergent and his musky cologne.
When you exit the bathroom, you gesture to the change of clothes, your wet crumpled clothes balled in your hand. “I kinda look like you now,” you say, and Minho chuckles.
“You can keep it,” he responds, giving you another once-over and nodding shyly. “It looks better on you, anyway.”
He holds his hand out to you for the wet clothes, which he kindly takes from you to put in the wash. As he does, you go to the fridge to retrieve more orange juice for Joon- except there is none. You desperately search for milk, orange juice- any form of a snack that will keep him busy until his mealtime. But the kitchen is void of anything he can consume, and you begin to panic a little, knowing Joon hasn’t eaten in a good while now.
“That was the last of his orange juice,” you say to Minho when he returns. “And there’s not much else for him to snack on.”
Minho searches the kitchen too, digging through cabinets and moving around jars in the fridge to check for expiration dates. But he quickly realizes you’re right- the fridge is even more sparse than he’d assumed it to be.
“I guess we’ll have to make a trip to the store, then. How do you feel about strapping him into a car seat?”
“I’ve never done it,” you reply nervously.
“I can show you,” Minho says, grabbing his keys off the kitchen counter and spinning them around his index finger. “We can do it together.”
*
The nearest grocery store is just 20 minutes out from the Lee household. Minho drives a fancy black SUV, and he guides you through how to strap Joon into his car seat, which you carry out with no issues. He drives with one hand on the steering wheel, the other resting casually on the center console as you chat with him about your university courses. For the first time, you notice how Minho seems much more comfortable around you now, cracking jokes occasionally and smiling at your stories about your afternoons alone with Joon. When Joon chimes in from the back seat with his excited babbling, you and Minho babble equally in response, sharing laughter at the ridiculous exchanges among the three of you.
You opt to carry Joon inside the grocery store while Minho walks alongside you, checking off a list he routinely uses to stock up on all of Joon’s favorite foods. And the atmosphere around you is homely, instilling the same sense of comfort in you as your afternoons alone with Joon. One that reminds you why you’re doing this job in the first place- you feel respected here, like your efforts don’t go unnoticed, and like you belong. It fills the lonely void inside of you with the sounds of Joon’s laughter, Minho’s tales of his classes and the trivial tasks of grocery store runs and learning to maneuver a baby car seat.
“I think that’s it,” Minho says as he checks the list one last time. “Milk, juice, bread…” he reads the items one by one again, and then nods affirmatively when he’s ensured they’re in the basket.
“That’s it,” he repeats, shooting you a small smile. “Let’s go pay.”
An older cashier gestures you to her lane at the registers, beginning to scan your items as Minho places them down on the conveyor belt. And then she gives a little wave to Joon, who curiously stares back at her.
“What a beautiful baby,” she says, pausing from scanning with a jar of mashed carrots in her hand.
Joon smiles in response, a trickle of drool escaping his lips.
“And what a beautiful family,” she continues, looking back and forth between you and Minho. “It’s not easy being young parents, but I can tell the two of you are doing a fine job at it.”
“Oh,” you say, chuckling lightly. “We’re not-”
“Thank you,” Minho interrupts, placing an arm around your waist and pulling you a little closer to him.
“We don’t get told that very often.”
You almost freeze at the contact, butterflies erupting in your stomach as he keeps his hand on the small of your back. This woman thinks the two of you are a couple- and worse, Minho is playing along with it. You can’t figure out why he’d entertain such a blatant lie, but you don’t interrupt him either, curious to see where he’s taking this little bit.
“People can be so unfair,” the cashier replies, shaking her head. “As long as the child is cared for, your status shouldn’t matter.”
“Exactly,” Minho replies, throwing his hand in the air like she’s making a point that pertains to him. “You know, when we got married, everyone told us it would never work. And now look at us- our child just turned 1 and we’re already making plans for a second honeymoon.”
“That’s amazing!” The woman says, clasping her hand over her heart like she’s touched by the bogus story.
“It is, isn’t it honey?” Minho says, turning to you.
Thoughts swirl your mind about this performance he’s putting on, but you’re undoubtedly entertained by the whole thing, stifling laughter as you nod in response.
“It is amazing,” you say finally. “We eloped and had a shotgun wedding- booked it to Italy right after and now we’re thinking of taking the little one to Paris for a real ceremony.”
The older woman removes her glasses now, wiping her eyes and shaking her head in disbelief. You can’t help but feel bad for her, seeing how easily she’s falling for your blatant lies, but Minho shows no remorse, grinning ear to ear and keeping his hand on the small of your back.
“Well I’ll tell you what,” the woman says, putting her glasses back on and shifting her eyes around the store.
“Since you guys just made my day, I’m going to provide you with our senior discount. It’s not everyday I see a young couple so beautiful raising such a darling little child.”
“Oh, you really don’t-” you start to say, and Minho interrupts you before you can finish.
“That would mean the world to us,” he says in an exaggerated voice, giving the cashier a little bow. “It would help us out a ton.”
You want to protest, to slap Minho in his pretty little face and ask what the hell he thinks he’s doing lying for a discount like this, but you’re afraid the cashier will see right through your whole stunt and reprimand both of you. So you just nod and let Minho take the lead again.
“Thank you,” you echo back to her,” holding Joon’s stubby little fingers as the woman types a lengthy code into the computer.
And Minho smiles at you, shooting you a little wink as he gathers boxes of cereal and jars of food in his arms.
“What was that?” You practically yell as you exit the store, balancing Joon in one arm and a bag of groceries in another. “You totally lied to her.”
“I didn’t lie,” Minho says. “I told her a different reality.”
“That is literally what a lie is,” you echo back to him, securing Joon in his car seat and lining grocery bags on the floor. Minho slides into the driver's seat again, putting his keys in the ignition but not yet starting the car as he waits for you to get in, too.
“I mean, that was like a 10% discount,” you continue, huffing frustratedly as you wait for him to speak. “How is that worth telling someone a whole list of lies?”
“You know, there’s this really cool theory called the anthropic principle,” Minho begins, looking straight ahead through the windshield. “Suggests the existence of a multitude of universes.”
“What?”
“So,” he continues. “Philosophically speaking, maybe in one of those we're married, and we have a child, and our honeymoon was in Italy.”
You stay quiet for a moment, pondering his words, completely unsure of if he’s flirting with you or teasing you right now.
“And maybe,” he chimes in again. “In one of them, we robbed the store and killed the cashier. And in another, we don’t even know each other.”
“What are you getting at?” You say, narrowing your eyes in confusion.
“It’s not lying,” Minho says with a smile as he finally starts up the car. “We just told her about a different reality.”
“So it’s lying,” you say with a smile, unable to hold back the giggle that escapes your lips.
“A little,” he finally says. “But it was fun, right?”
And you start to say no, but you can’t get the words out, aware you’ll be lying twice today if you do.
Minho takes your silence as confirmation, a grin plastered on his face as he rests one arm behind your headrest to pull out of the parking lot. And you can’t help but smile, too, the spontaneous thrill of lying to the cashier admittedly being some of the most fun you’ve had all week. And the conclusion stands- Minho’s a little odd. But he’s great company.
*
Mrs. Lee is late again tonight, the second hand on the clock ticking in slow intervals as it nears 10pm. You yawn for the umpteenth time tonight, exhausted from having done so much today, wanting nothing more than to sleep in the comfort of your own bed at home and mentally recharge for another day of this tomorrow. But you’ve promised to wait for her, always eager to wait it out until the last second, because Mrs. Lee always expresses her sincerest gratitude when you wait for her.
“Sorry, she’s really late today,” Minho says as he lowers the volume on the television. You completed a few more chores around the house after dinner while Minho powered through his schoolwork, putting Joon to bed before settling on the sofa and watching old cartoon reruns. Now you’ve been in and out of sleep for the better part of an hour, Minho remaining close by watching infomercials again, peering at your tired figure and feeling guilty that you’ve been here so long.
“It’s okay,” you reply quietly, letting out another yawn. You cross your arms over yourself, still dressed comfortably in Minho’s t-shirt, and do your best to keep your gaze on the television.
Tonight Minho is stuck on an infomercial for artificial plants, the dull narration lulling you to sleep even further as he checks the time on his watch and glances nervously at the front door.
Minho cranes his neck at your figure again, not missing the way gray bags hang heavy below your eyes, your lashes half-lidded as you feign sleep and force your gaze onto the infomercial.
“Don’t you have an early exam tomorrow?” You say to Minho, another yawn escaping your lips as you speak. “Don’t wait up on my account. You should get some sleep.”
Minho shuts off the television, standing up from where he’s sitting and dusting off his pants.
“I’ll take you home,” he announces, fishing around on the table for his car keys.
“It’s okay,” you reply, not wanting to inconvenience him anymore than you already have today. “I can walk to the bus stop.”
“You’re not walking,” Minho retorts, scoffing as you sit up and rub your tired eyes with the back of your hand. “It’s pitch black outside.”
“It’s fine,” you say, gathering your book bag and rushing to put your shoes on. It’s a race between the two of you now, Minho scrambling to locate his car keys while you get ready to leave for the evening.
“It’s really not a problem- where are my keys?” Minho mutters to himself, patting the pockets on his jacket and rearranging stacks of papers on the coffee table.
“I’m fine, really.”
“No, I’ll drive you,” Minho says, still tossing aside the mess he’s made to locate his keys.
“I’ll walk,” you reiterate again, and Minho finally exhales frustratedly.
“Then I’ll walk with you,” he finally announces, ditching the car keys altogether and stopping to look at you. He looks tired, too, evident bags under his eyes and his hair tousled from running his hands through it frustratedly.
“Minho, I really don’t want to burden you-”
“It’s not a burden.”
As he speaks, you hear Joon’s baby monitor alerting you that he’s awake for the evening, wailing loudly when he realizes that he’s alone. It’s perfect timing, too, Minho already having planned to wake him up so he can walk you back.
“Wait here,” Minho says to you as he begins toward the stairs. “I’ll get his harness.”
The dim street lights illuminate the dark paved roads, a crisp chill in the air as you walk alongside Minho with your hands in your pockets.
Joon sits comfortably in his harness against Minho’s chest, curiously taking in the atmosphere around him as you walk in silence to your bus stop. It’s not a long walk, only 20 minutes from Minho’s, but you feel admittedly much safer with Minho by your side, his and Joon’s presence feeling homely even at this hour. For nearly the entirety of the walk, the two of you say nothing, too tired to engage in conversation, but still comfortable in the presence of each other, and not needing to say anything. Joon babbles saliva every now and then, Minho bringing a finger up to wipe his chin, and the only other sounds are that of crickets and the gentle sway of the trees.
“This is me,” you say to Minho when you reach the familiar blue bench of your stop.
You sit on one side of the bench, slinging your book bag over beside you and crossing your legs. And to your surprise, Minho occupies the other side, one hand resting gently on the back of Joon’s head while the other pats his back gently.
“You don’t have to wait,” you tell Minho quickly, and he just shakes his head silently in response.
The silence between you remains, Joon toying with the collar of Minho’s shirt as you wait for the bus. There’s so much you want to ask Minho, so much you still want to find out from him. You’re well aware that you haven’t quite figured him out yet, but you’re undoubtedly sure that he is a nice guy, after all. From lending you his t-shirt, waiting up for you on late nights, even walking you to your bus stop and waiting for the bus with you. You think briefly back to his little joke at the grocery store, smiling to yourself when you remember he’d chosen to pretend you were a married couple for no other reason than to make you laugh after having had such a rough day. And his innate fascination with looking at everything through a philosophical lens, the passion for his favorite subject so robustly present wherever he goes.
“What’s that theory again?” You ask Minho as your thoughts verbalize amidst the silence.
“Hm?”
“The one about the universe.”
“The anthropic principle?” He questions, and you hum in response.
“Yeah, that one. Do you think there are like, a million versions of us right now, just…sitting here?”
“Sure,” Minho replies. “But the conditions would have to be just right.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, the theory states that conditions have to be just right for us to coexist in the universe we’re in right now. It’s sort of like a coincidence that this one evolved so that we could thrive in it. So there might be other versions of us, just not as definitive. We might be rocks, or bugs. Or maybe there’s a more advanced version, where we’re still on our honeymoon in Italy.”
“Or the one where we killed that cashier,” you chime in.
“Exactly,” Minho replies, a small smile tugging at his lips.
You ponder his words for a moment.
“Do they all follow the same timeline?” You ask him.
“What do you mean?”
“Do they all last forever? What if we got divorced? Would we part ways in every universe?”
Minho stays quiet for a moment, thinking back to the philosophical theories tucked in the back of his mind.
“I don’t know,” he finally replies. “I’d like to think some versions have a happy ending, but maybe some of them don’t.”
As silence falls over you again, your bus finally turns the corner, making its way down the street toward your stop.
“That’s me,” you say, getting up and gathering your belongings again.
Minho stands up, too, saying nothing as the bus finally halts in front of you, the brakes screeching to a stop with the loud exhaust of the doors as they open.
“Thanks,” you say to Minho before getting on. “For walking me.”
“It’s no problem,” he replies, shooting you a tired smile.
Minho watches as you board the bus, taking your seat toward the back. He scans the aisles momentarily, making sure you’re sat somewhere safe, away from anyone he might deem sketchy at this hour. And when he feels confident you’ll make it home okay, he brings Joon’s hand up in front of him, giving you a little wave as he watches you smile back through the tinted windows, sending him off with a wave back.
*
From then on, things shift between the two of you. Minho is a constant, always offering to walk you home on late nights to engage in discussions about your university work or his favorite theories. When he’s home early from his classes, the two of you enjoy cooking for Joon together, making trips to the grocery store where the cashiers are now fully convinced you’re a married couple. On late nights, the two of you often engage in lighthearted philosophical debates while you wait for Mrs. Lee to get home for the evening. When he’s walking you home for the night, doing homework alongside you or just passing by, Minho indulges you in all his favorite philosophical questions, and you entertain them, using the opportunity to get a better glimpse into his mind and how he thinks.
It’s exactly this that tears down Minho’s walls, you find- he, in all his philosophically-educated glory, sharing his perspective while you poke holes in his arguments and reach a conclusion together. Sometimes you’ll reach a stalemate, the argument fizzling out with no clear answer. And sometimes he can change your mind almost instantly, the arguments leaving his lips like second nature, always quick to persuade you in the opposite direction and provide clear reasoning. He’s very skilled at his work, and you quickly realize why he’s so passionate about philosophy in the first place.
It’s not something Minho’s used to yet- having a companion like this, one who actually cares about anything he has to say. Someone to come home to, somebody to bask in the simplicities of life with and affirm that he’s not completely incapable of making real human connections. And admittedly, maybe he loves playing house with you, coming home to your home-cooked meals and caring for the baby together.
Maybe this version of the universe deems you a babysitter, and he, just an outcast. But sometimes Minho swears he can see different versions where you’re so much more than that to each other.
In late November, you take your first week off, leaving on a small family trip to a city just a few hours out to go see extended family.
You tell Minho of your little excursion the week prior, and he pretends to be disheartened, but you know deep down he must be relieved to have some space to himself again. Of course you’re not able to watch Joon, and Mrs. Lee has a friend watch him in your absence, but you’re surprised at how much you miss the Lee household when you’re not there. The trip to the city is filled with repetitive questions from family about your major, your internship, your potential salary in an entry-level position and general university questions. And yet all you catch yourself thinking about is Joon, and Mrs. Lee and especially Minho.
You wonder what he’s doing in the comfort of his grand room all by himself, surrounded by books and tall windows. Minho once told you that he can go a whole day without talking when he’s not having philosophical debates with you over coffee. You wonder if he’s talked today, or if he attended his classes or how his exam on Tuesday went. Thoughts of him plague your mind every waking second- whether Minho would like a certain food, if Minho would agree with this statement, even what the people around you would think if you dragged him along and played house with him like you do back home. In this version of the universe, maybe he’s reading a book or watching a movie, but in another, he could be right here, telling his string of lies to your extended family.
On the last day of your family vacation, you find yourself in an old bookstore, and all you can think about is Minho. He’d love it here, you think, grazing your fingertips along the old cracked spines and yellowing pages. And as you scan through the philosophy section, several of the books already piquing your interest, you spot it.
The small familiar crimson book, just barely larger than your hand, delicate to the touch and painted with the same Cupid depiction as the one you know so well. A first edition copy of Dorothy Tennov’s Love and Limerence. You can’t help but smile to yourself, scanning the book’s contents briefly before closing it again and bringing it up to the counter. It’s not like you’re trying to worsen this little developing crush you have on Minho, but he seems to be everywhere you go- and candidly, you just want to have him figured out.
*
When you return to the Lee household from your vacation, the atmosphere is calm, sunbeams shining through the large glass windows and illuminating the house with a romantic glow. Joon eats his breakfast well, downing his orange juice and causing you little trouble throughout the day. And Minho arrives just after 3, his backpack slung over his shoulder and a book in hand.
Your heart beats erratically to see him again, trying your best to avert his gaze as he enters through the front door and kicks off his shoes. When he makes his way through the kitchen, you attempt to look busy, wiping down the counters with a kitchen rag and balancing Joon in your arms.
“Hi,” Minho says, a little shyly as you keep your eyesight on the granite counter below you.
“Hey,” you respond, pretending like you hadn’t noticed him enter the room, when in reality, you’ve been well aware of his arrival since he parked his car out front.
“How was your trip?” Minho asks, setting down his backpack and loosening the collar of his sweater.
He’s dressed for the chilly weather outside, a simple black knit sweater paired with blue jeans.
“It was good,” you reply, folding the rag with one hand and setting it aside. “I kinda missed it here.”
Minho smiles at you nervously, toying with the hem of his sweater as he hears you speak.
“It was pretty quiet without you here. I think Joon missed you.”
“Did he?” You question excitedly, poking at Joon with your finger and cooing at him. “Is that right? You missed me?” And Joon giggles excitedly, smiling between the two of you.
When the room falls quiet again, Minho clears his throat like he wants to say something, but he doesn’t, instead keeping his gaze fixed on yours. The room is teeming with awkward tension between the two of you, two hearts clouded in desire to act on this conflicting emotion of fleeting lust and a mutual understanding of each other, but neither one of you say anything, letting it die with your silence and circle your minds aimlessly again.
“I got you something,” you say suddenly, and Minho’s heart quickens a little.
“Me?” He questions, pointing to himself as if you need clarity of who he speaks of.
“Yes, you. It’s in my bag upstairs.”
And you begin your ascent to the staircase, motioning for Minho to follow you as you bring Joon with you.
“Close your eyes,” you tell Minho when you‘ve entered the library again.
“Should I be scared?” He asks, a soft chuckle escaping his lips.
“Close them!” You exclaim, and he finally puts his hands out in front of him, shutting his eyes, a big grin plastered on his face. You place the book in Minho’s palms gently, making sure to position it so that the cover is facing him properly.
“Now open.”
When Minho opens his eyes again, he doesn’t even need to read the words before knowing what it is. He’s immediately familiar with the first edition of Dorothy Tennov’s Love and Limerence he holds in his hands, uniquely characterized by the contrasting art style to his, and the much older, yellowing pages.
“My book,” Minho says, biting his lip as he holds back a bigger smile, one that will most definitely point to the incriminating fact that he’s smitten.
“Your book,” you echo, leaning on the wall across from him. “It’s a first edition. The bookkeeper said they’re pretty rare to come by.”
“You didn’t have to-”
“Don’t worry about it,” you reply, fixing Joon’s hair and averting Minho’s gaze. You’re afraid if you make eye contact with him, this whole nonchalant front will crumble down in front of you, because you’re embarrassingly smitten with him, too.
“Thank you,” Minho says, thumbing the raised gold-foiled cover outline of Cupid. “I’ll go put it with the rest of them.”
And he disappears down the corridor, his book tucked in the endeared clutch of his hands.
While Minho adds his book to the rest of his collection, you put Joon down for his nap, gently placing him on the soft blanket in his crib and adjusting the baby monitor. He blinks up at you a few times, his lips pulling into a shaky smile as his lashes finally flutter shut and a wave of sleepiness washes over him. You exit the room quietly, closing the door just halfway like you always do, and then make your way down the corridor to Minho’s room. The door is left ajar, but you hear him shuffling about, and you enter after giving a gentle knock.
Minho seems startled at this, jumping up from where he’s standing, in front of his bookshelf with Love and Limerence held open in the palms of his hands. He shuts it quickly, shoving it on the top with another stack of books, and then almost shields his bookshelf as he turns to face you.
“I didn't hear you come in,” he says, nervously shifting his eyes to more stacks of books on his window sill and nightstand.
“I put Joon down for his nap,” you reply, cocking an eyebrow as he stands there awkwardly. “Is… everything okay?”
“Yes,” he says quickly, blinking nervously when he sees you peer over his torso at the bookshelf.
“Where’d you put it?”
“Can’t remember,” Minho says, a breathy chuckle emitting from his lips as he tries his best to avoid talking about it. But you catch on- and you’re certainly not going to let him evade the subject.
“What are you hiding?” You finally ask, eyeing him with a small smile. Minho’s face drops a little, sighing once as he steps aside and grants you full visibility of his bookshelf. There’s nothing out of the ordinary- books of all colors and sizes lined neatly on the shelves, some of them left open or bookmarked. A good amount of them appear to be philosophy books, which doesn’t come as a surprise to you.
“It’s just your books,” you say flatly, and Minho scratches the back of his head before he speaks again.
“Love and Limerence isn’t a required read for university.” He says in a low voice.
“Oh,” you reply, unsure of why it should really matter to you.
“None of them are,” he continues. “It’s just my personal… collection. Of romance novels.”
And then you finally understand.
Minho- the stoic, otherwise quiet being, in all his philosophical studiousness and awkwardness, is a sucker for romance. Once the cogs begin turning in your head, they don’t stop, everything about him now making a little more sense to you. Why he stays locked up in his little tower all day reading book after book, why he’s so hopeful when he speaks of the human condition and of love, why he loves taking care of people so much. He’s just a big softie underneath it all.
“There’s nothing weird about that,” you chime in. “In fact, it’s really cool.”
“Yeah right,” he retorts.
“I’m dead serious. I’ve never met someone with so many copies of Thorns and Roses before.”
Minho shakes his head, moving to sit on his bed with his palms tucked under his legs. His gaze remains locked on the floor, an expression of shame still visible on his face. And when you see him exhale deeply, like he’s been nervously holding his breath all this time, you feel bad for him. If there’s anything you’ve learned about him since meeting him, it’s that he’s really a bit of a dork. You’re not sure you’ve ever seen him look so vulnerable before.
“Which one’s your favorite?” You ask, skimming your finger along the neat row of spines.
He shrugs. “Pride and Prejudice, maybe. But these days it’s Love and Limerence.”
Minho’s voice is trembling, just above a whisper as he reads off his list of favorite novels to you. And you chuckle softly in reply, pulling the little red book out of its respective home on the shelf and tossing it to him.
“Read me your favorite passage.”
He furrows his brows a little, like he thinks you might be making fun of him. But when you take a seat next to him on the bed, wide-eyed and gesturing to the book in his hands, he realizes you’re genuinely asking him to.
“Go on,” you say, gesturing to the book once more.
Minho opens the book to the middle, flipping through yellowing pages with small font. Most of the pages are littered generously with blue sticky notes, Minho’s messy handwriting annotating all his favorite passages. When he finds the page he’s searching for, he eyes you cautiously, as if waiting for permission to begin reading. And with a deep breath, he begins, his voice shaking a little as he finds his footing.
“Now by these presents let me assure you that you are not only in my heart, but my veins, this morning. I turn from you half abashed--yet you haunt me, and some look, word or touch thrills through my whole frame--yes, at the very moment when I am labouring to think of something, if not somebody else.”
At the last words, his gaze meets yours again, eyelashes trembling as he waits for your reaction. He waits for you to laugh, or to dismiss the words, or leave altogether. But you just stare back at him, your heart beating erratically at the poetry he utters, completely in awe with him.
He feels otherworldly at this distance, this intricate fascination with love and human connection. The way his brown tresses fall loosely in front of his big eyes as he speaks, his plump lips pulling into a nervous smile to reveal the row of skewed teeth you find a home in every time. He’s like the passage reads- thrilling your whole frame, consuming you whole and filling your mind with thoughts of him, and his poetry and his kind demeanor. You find yourself a little closer to him, your eyes darting to his lips and then back to his curious eyes, fantasies of him running rampant in your mind.
And Minho keeps his gaze locked on yours, too, leaning in a little closer to you, the book closing on its own as his hand slips away from holding it open and onto the bed beside you. The implications are there, the atmosphere around you heavy with desire and uncertainty, and just as you wield the courage to bring your lips a little closer to his, you’re promptly interrupted.
“Minho-ah!” A voice calls from downstairs. You quickly clock it as Mrs. Lee’s, who must be home early from work.
“I’m home early!” She calls again, confirming your theory, her footsteps getting louder as she makes her way up the stairs.
You sit up promptly, smoothing down your shirt and standing to bow when Mrs. Lee pokes her head in the doorway. Minho stands up too, making the whole situation look unbearably obvious, and you pray she can’t tell what’s going on between the two of you.
“Y/n,” she says with a warm smile. “I’m sorry I forgot to tell you I would be home a little earlier today. Joon has a doctor’s appointment.”
“No worries at all!” You voice back, bowing again as she smiles. “I was actually going to leave early today. I have a bit of a headache.”
“Oh, do you want a cup of tea?” She asks, heavy concern present in her voice.
“No thanks, I think I just need some sleep.”
You turn to Minho, who’s standing with his hands in his pockets, looking a little disappointed as you give him a small bow.
“Take care,” you say to him, pivoting to head back to the library and gather your things.
Minho hears his mom see you out of the front door, chatting briefly with you about your trip and sending you off with a little wave.
He shuts his bedroom door and locks it, sprawling out on the duvet of his bed and running his hands over the book still beside him.
He’s not sure what happened- whether you were about to kiss him, or whether it was just wishful thinking. But every way he interprets the encounter, Minho swears he can feel your yearning for him, too. Is he crazy to think you might feel the same? Maybe he, too, finds it laboring to think of something- if not, someone else, besides you.
*
Joon is a particularly picky eater in afternoons, making a big fuss of foods he usually devours in the mornings and evenings. He skillfully dodges every spoon, every bite and feigns his interest in even his favorite snacks and desserts. And while you’re usually patient with him, today you’re frustrated, having mentally scolded yourself several times since yesterday’s events.
A part of you wants to ditch all of this, reminding yourself that you’re here to work a job, not lust after the son of the person who hired you. But the other part of you can’t help but imagine how things would be different if you just let yourself fall gracefully into him- he’s so much more than a fleeting thought to you. You want to understand him, having challenged yourself to figuring him out from the moment you came across him. But maybe you want him to understand you, too. You want him to understand that you feel at home whenever he’s around, his philosophical discussions and this game of house you play making you feel like you belong here. You want him to understand that although you know he feels like an outcast, none of his odd quirks matter to you when he’s reading his favorite love stories across from you in the library, catching glimpses of you when he thinks you’re not looking. And that maybe this universe conditioned itself just right so that you took up this job and crossed paths- and that has to mean something bigger.
There’s nothing different about the afternoon following yesterday’s, except for you spending a considerable amount of time on your hair and makeup, the anticipation bubbling inside you at the idea of seeing Minho again. You have no definitive plan, no script of how it’s going to go when he arrives from school. But you also know there’s something in your throat that wants so desperately to get out, and you won’t let it. As Joon toys with the cereal in his bowl, he looks up at you with big, curious eyes, and you wonder what he’s thinking, if anything. He doesn't know anything beyond the simple tasks of eating and sleeping, living with the comfortable knowledge that he’s being cared for. And although it seems much easier, you can’t help but sympathize. What a gift it is to feel- what a gift it is to carry emotions so deeply they eat away at you like this.
You’re infatuated with Minho- that fact stands true. And whether or not it benefits you to do anything about it, you’re determined to do something with all of this feeling, lest it slips through your fingers like he almost did.
You don’t hear Minho come home when he does, busy in the garden tending to Mrs. Lee’s plants when the usual alert of his car pulling into the driveway passes you by. So when he wanders the corridors searching everywhere for you, you don’t take notice.
Minho’s desperate, hoping to ask you to stay just a little bit longer tonight, having also had the epiphany that he’s completely fallen for you, too. And what he hopes to do with it, he’s unsure- but he does know that every romance novel on his shelf would refute the idea of letting this feeling dissipate. Kiss her, tell her, do something. Anything.
He strides down the halls with purpose and vigor, a nervous smile pulling at his face at the thought of seeing you again. It’s all he’s thought about today, having had just two hours of sleep as he sorted out what to say to you. And while he’s not well-versed in the practice of confessing his love, he feels his whole life has been devoted to the very purpose of being here and finding you. The debates you share, midnight walks to the bus stop, the book- he’d be a fool not to reciprocate what you yearn for. And when he doesn’t find you, Minho feels the familiar pit of worry form in his stomach. He’s not accounted for a change of plans, or even what might happen if you reject his admission. He wants to believe so badly that the answer is yes, risking everything just to say something.
20 minutes after he’s been home, Minho receives a phone call, answering in a rush while he checks the upstairs rooms for you.
“Hello?”
“It’s Sujin from class,” the phone at the other end says plainly. “I’m here for our project.”
And Minho freezes, remembering very well that he has a project due very soon, and his partner is here tonight to work on it with him. He sighs heavily into the line at the change in plans, knowing he’ll have to bottle his emotions another day and act on them tomorrow when he can get you alone.
“Oh, right,” Minho responds, making his way to the stairs and jogging down them. “The door should be unlocked.”
He stuffs his phone in his back pocket, making his way to the door to meet Sujin, and as he passes the sliding door to the backyard, he finally sees you. Knelt on the ground in a white sundress, your hands tainted with soil as you tend to the tomato plants and hum to yourself. Minho smiles at the sight of you, the urge to tell you right now stronger than ever. But before he can call out to you, Sujin’s already made her way inside, peering curiously around the place and clutching her purse in hand.
“Wow,” she says, chuckling lightly. “You didn’t tell me you were rich.”
Minho scratches the back of his head awkwardly as she grazes a marble sculpture with her fingers. His eyes remain on you through the glass door, transfixed by the way you tuck your hair behind your ears and pat your dress as you stand up again. Sujin takes note of Minho’s evident distraction, briefly glancing out the window and back to him.
“Where are we working?” She asks, pursing her lips together.
“We can work upstairs,” Minho explains, as you finally make your way inside.
At first you’re confused at the sight, Minho looming over a girl much prettier than you, her long hair styled neatly over one shoulder and a matching formal two-piece hugging her curves beautifully. And then as you see her begin up the stairs in the direction of Minho’s room, you finally understand.
Of course there’s another woman.
Of course there was a catch to all of this, because why else would things condition themselves so perfectly that you’d win him over?
And suddenly everything feels pointless- confessing to him, feeling any ounce of emotion regarding all of this, even working this job. He has a girlfriend, and she’s much prettier than you are. And he's trailing behind her after giving you a shy nod, likely embarrassed at the fact that you’ll be here tending to his household while he fucks her in his upstairs bedroom.
You can’t help but think that perhaps something got lost in translation, because Minho evidently never liked you, and unless this version of the universe magically conditions to work in your favor just once, it’s going to remain that way.
*
When the tears begin to prick at the corners of your eyes, they don’t stop. You can’t feed Joon without hiccuping through a hot rush of tears that fall from your cheeks onto his tray below him. Joon seems to sense something is wrong, pausing the task of dodging his food to observe the way your face contorts as you wipe your eyes with the back of your hand. And when you do stop to look at him, all you can see is Minho, his eyes and lips resembling exactly that of his elder brother’s.
The chores feel like a futile task now, and you let them sit there for the remainder of the evening you’re working for. In fact, the only thing you do complete is the task of getting Joon to bed when the sun begins to set, marching carefully upstairs to not interrupt Minho’s time with his girlfriend. And the word makes you sick, to think that he’s been stringing you along all while having a girlfriend- a fact he so conveniently left out.
Joon goes down without a fuss, and when he’s finally asleep, you escape the confines of the second story to lock yourself in the downstairs living room and complete your school work. How much of that is spent crying instead, you can’t quite remember.
It’s just after 9 when Sujin leaves for the evening, but you’re not awake to take notice when she does. You wake to the familiar sound of infomercials playing quietly on the television in front of you, Minho sitting on the floor in front of the sofa you occupy. His head hangs as he holds a book in his lap, probably some cheesy romance he projects onto him and his girlfriend, and his thin wireframe glasses rest on the bridge of his nose.
The dull narration on the television advertises jewelry tonight, and you let out a sigh as you feel your swollen eyes adjust to the bright screen in front of you. At this, Minho turns around, giving you a sheepish smile as you try to shut your eyes again. But it’s too late- he’s already seen you awake for the evening.
“Hi,” Minho says for the first time today, bookmarking his page and lowering the volume on the television. “She’s late again today, but I saved you some takeout.”
“I’m not hungry,” you reply quickly, sitting up and reaching for your bag. “In fact, I need to go home.”
“Oh, sure,” Minho replies, a little hurt at your rushed tone. “I can walk you-”
“No need,” you say to him, pulling on your sneakers and doing everything in your power to avert his gaze. He furrows his brows a little, knowing you never reject his offers to walk you home.
“Is everything-”
“Fine. I just need to get home,” you reiterate, finally sitting down and smoothing down your wrinkled dress.
Every part of him is annoying you right now, your mind teeming with the reminder that you’ve been wasting your time trying to know him better while he’s been entertaining a whole girlfriend these past few months.
“Y/n, wait,” Minho calls, still intent on telling you tonight, while the feelings remain stronger than ever. But you’ve already crossed the room to the front door, where you avert his gaze so he won’t see you begin to cry again.
“Bye,” you call to him, not even looking back before you’re turning the knob and seeing yourself out. “Tell Mrs. Lee it was an emergency.”
And he wants to ask if it was, but he can’t, staring at your rushed figure jogging down the street as you distance yourself from him before he can string you along any further.
*
Thus begins the game of avoidance.
It starts through keeping your conversations with Minho as short as possible, not engaging him when he tells you about theories he’s studied this week or what his days on campus were like. When he asks about your day, you give him one-word responses, muttering a simple “fine” before turning your attention to Joon again.
When Minho asks to go to the grocery store, you pretend you have a headache- for three days straight. So he makes the trips solo, balancing bags on one arm and telling you about how the cashiers have begun to ask where his pretend wife’s been. You give him no reaction, nodding as you feed Joon his dinner and glance at the clock for the umpteeth time, desperate to get away from him.
And the mystery woman remains, marching into the Lee household in afternoons like she owns the place, already having memorized the path to Minho’s room as she makes her way up the stairs and doesn’t acknowledge you. She’s beautiful everyday that she’s here, short skirts and long ponytails you can’t seem to look away from. And she’s even more hypnotic when she’s in the presence of Minho, the two of them as a couple certainly a sight for sore eyes. If they were a married couple, you’d reckon they'd be much more distinguished than you and Minho would.
“Do you want a coffee?” Minho peers into the library one night to ask you. You keep your gaze locked on the computer in front of you, trying your best to keep your guard up as he waits for a response.
“No, thank you,” you say coldly, continuing to work on your essay.
When he realizes you’re not going to say anything else, Minho enters the room reluctantly, his hands shoved in his pockets as he leans against the doorframe and gives you a once-over. You say nothing, still, holding back your emotions so as not to cause a scene. And Minho can tell something’s wrong in the way that you shift your eyes to him briefly and shake your head as if scolding yourself for doing so.
“Did I do something?” Minho finally asks, his voice a little shaky.
“No,” you say quickly, skimming the same sentence on your laptop screen over and over again.
“Are you… sure?”
“Yes, I’m sure.”
He fiddles with a loose thread in the pocket of his pants, keeping his gaze on the floor and thinking about your differing behavior toward him the past week.
“We just haven’t talked much. And you never really leave here anymore. I wanted to make sure I didn’t overstep any boundaries-”
“Overstep?” You interrupt, scanning your eyes over the screen of your computer. “There’s nothing to overstep. I get paid to watch your brother, not hang out with you.”
You feel guilty the minute the words leave your mouth, but you feel even worse knowing he’s just been stringing you along with a girlfriend this whole time. The atmosphere feels akin to when you first met him, awkward and cold, and with tensions high like this, you don’t feel at home in the Lee household anymore.
“Sorry,” Minho says, nodding. “You’re right. I guess I’m overstepping by asking.”
You only look up at him when he leaves, his shoulders sagging as he leaves you alone once again- only this time, you have a feeling he’s going to stop making an attempt to rekindle things anymore.
And you’re right- Minho stops trying entirely. There are no more offers to walk you home, no philosophical debates over coffee or grocery store trips where you act as a married couple. You’re still covered in knit blankets when you fall asleep accidentally on the couch, but Minho doesn’t stick around watching his infomercials to wait up for you anymore. And he still saves you his takeout when he orders, but he leaves it neatly packaged for you in the fridge instead of bringing it up to you like he used to.
You’ve gone from a mutual infatuation for each other to complete strangers once again. The house feels lonely and cold like it once did, your only real human interaction occurring in the few minutes you have with Mrs. Lee at the start and end of the day.
Minho doesn’t talk to you at all, locking himself away in his room like he did when you first started caring for Joon. And when you see him in passing at late hours of the night, he looks indifferent, sagging his shoulders as he averts your gaze with a book in hand and disappears down the corridors again. At some point, you begin to see his girlfriend less- in fact, his stoic composure makes you wonder if something’s happened between them. But as time goes on, you start to realize this is less about his girlfriend- and more about you.
What a gift it is to feel- but also what a curse. To let something consume you so entirely you can barely breathe without it. It’s laboring to think of anything else, of anyone else besides Minho and what he means to you. And as you replay your last interaction in your head for the nth time this evening, you think back to the day you started here. You knew the fundamentals of caring for a baby, having trained just enough to land a job doing it. All you wanted was to be liked by Mrs. Lee, and by baby Joon- and by extension, Minho. This household quickly became someplace you felt like you actually belonged in. But your purpose here has completely diverted from its original path, having prioritized Minho’s complexities and his feelings toward you above what you were hired here to do. You’ve experienced a roller coaster of emotions trying to understand him, and just when you thought you’d cracked him, you realized his heart belongs to someone else. So with the comfortable knowledge in mind that perhaps the universe isn’t, in fact, conditioned for you to mean anything more to him than just a babysitter, you understand it’s time to stop forcing any other version of it.
*
There’s nothing particularly out of the ordinary two weeks into your avoidance of Minho.
You still haven’t talked, he still keeps his distance and you get paid to perform the job you’re here to do. But one afternoon before Minho’s even home from school, Joon refuses to eat. It starts with a tantrum he throws at breakfast time, which you consider typical as he knocks his cereal onto the floor and waves his hands around restlessly. You can only spoon feed him a couple spoons of yogurt before he’s put down for his afternoon nap. And when you wake him for his post-nap meal, he’s just as fussy. He seems to be bothered by something, crying loudly as you offer him different snacks and try your best to calm him down. But nothing seems to work, and when he begins refusing his bottles late into the afternoon, you start to panic.
Mrs. Lee isn’t home for a few hours, you’re unsure of when Minho gets home and you don’t have any way of getting to a hospital right now. The guilt and the fear eat away at you as Joon cries loudly, his face turning a bright shade of red as snot dribbles from his nose onto his shirt. He must be hungry, and clearly uncomfortable by something, only you’re entirely unsure what. His pacifier doesn’t calm him, nor does his favorite stuffed animal or his favorite television program. When his crying reaches the 10-minute mark, you feel hopeless, well prepared to drag him onto the bus to the nearest hospital yourself, fully convinced you’re going to lose your job. And as you begin to cry, too, the front door opens, Minho walking in with his backpack clutched casually in one hand and his car keys in the other. His girlfriend is with him this time, her head hanging as she uses her phone, completely oblivious to the atmosphere around her.
“Minho,” you call helplessly from the kitchen, and his head snaps instantly to look at you. Your eyes are nearly bloodshot from crying, your sleeves drenched in tears from wiping your eyes and your voice shaky as you speak. It’s the first time you’ve said his name in weeks, you realize, feeling your heart race as you call for him.
“What happened?” Minho asks when he turns the corner, throwing off his backpack and approaching a very fussy Joon.
“He won’t eat,” you reply through hiccups, wiping your tears with the sleeve of your sweater again. “I’ve tried everything. He won’t stop crying.”
Minho takes Joon in his arms, rocking him gently back and forth, to no avail; Joon starts crying even harder now, dribbling snot onto Minho’s sweatshirt and hitting his chest repeatedly.
“I’ll have to take him to the clinic,” Minho says in a rushed tone, fishing his car keys out of his pocket and making his way toward the door.
His girlfriend finally turns the corner into the kitchen, putting down her cellphone and huffing frustratedly.
“What’s going on?”
“Sorry,” Minho replies, shoving past her with Joon in his arms. “I have to go. We can work on our project another time.”
Your heart drops at the words- project. Project, as in a project for his university. With a classmate.
You want to cry more now, for being so stupidly angry with him over nothing, but you still have to help Minho take Joon to the clinic. Sujin doesn’t protest, quick to exit without so much as a goodbye as Minho scrambles to fetch Joon’s car seat.
“I’ll get him in the car seat,” you say, pulling your sneakers on as he balances Joon in his arms.
“You’re coming?”
“Of course I’m coming,” you scoff, already taking Joon from his arms and ushering him outside. “Go start the car.”
*
“Lee?” A nurse calls, holding a clipboard close to her chest as she scans the waiting room.
You and Minho both stand up, Minho balancing Joon in his arms as the nurse gestures you to the door.
“Please, follow me.”
Both of you walk side-by-side down the corridor as she double-checks papers on her clipboard, making a sharp right and leading you into a private room.
Minho sets Joon down on the examination table, holding his arms to steady him, and you stand beside him as you wait for the doctor.
“She’s just reviewing the results,” the nurse says, referring to the x-rays Joon took earlier. “She’ll be in shortly to discuss them.”
Minho nods silently as the nurse leaves the room, leaving the two of you alone once again. You say nothing, unsure of how to break the awkward silence as Minho wipes a string of drool from Joon’s mouth and avoids eye contact with you.
You feel awkward, embarrassed and so, so stupid, for having treated Minho like absolute scum because you assumed the worst of him. It breaks you to see him avert your gaze like this, treating you the same way he did when you first crossed paths. He has his guard completely up again, and you’re not sure he’s ever going to let it down around you. As you lose yourself in doubtful thoughts, the door opens, Joon’s doctor sauntering inside and wiping her hands with the strong scent of hand sanitizer.
“Hi there,” she says cheerfully, giving you both a warm smile. “Are we here for baby Joon today?”
“Yes,” you both say in unison, and she laughs a little.
“You two are very synced. They say it happens in the first year of marriage.”
“We’re not married,” Minho chimes in quickly, and you turn to look at him, feeling a pit in your stomach all over again.
“No?” She questions. “My apologies. Is mom here today?”
“I’m just his babysitter,” you say quietly. “This is his brother.”
“I see,” the doctor says, eyeing you both. “Well you may notice I’m fairly calm, and that’s because there’s no terrible news I have to share. Baby Joon is just suffering from a little mucus buildup. He’s probably feeling the impaction, and the discomfort has caused a loss of appetite.”
You feel a weight off your shoulders instantly, relieved that this isn’t a more serious matter. He’s going to be fine, you think to yourself. He’s going to be his normal self as soon as this is over.
“… Just be sure to use a syringe to drain the mucus a couple times per day, and make sure he gets plenty of sleep.”
As the doctor writes Joon a prescription for his saline syringe, you catch Minho’s gaze briefly, shooting him a relieved look. He gives you a small nod in response, as if to say he’s glad you came along. And he is, he just can’t say it out loud.
*
“I think he’s finally sleeping,” Minho says, patting Joon’s back gently as he stands up from his chair. The two of you have been sat in the library for nearly two hours since getting back home, in complete silence as you read your books and wait for Joon to fall asleep. You take breaks every now and then to drain Joon’s mucus, alternating roles between holding his face still and using the syringe on him. And when he’s finally comfortable again, he dozes back off to sleep, little snores escaping his lips.
Minho leaves the room to put Joon to bed, and while he’s gone, you take the opportunity to pack your stuff and prepare to leave for the night. You feel guilty, not having said much to Minho this evening, especially with the newfound knowledge that this mystery woman was just a partner for his project. But you’re not sure what to say, well aware that he’s probably already decided you hate him, and there’s not much else you can do to fix things.
“He’s down,” Minho says as he re-enters the library.
“That’s good,” you reply with a solemn smile, packing your laptop in your bag and slinging it over your shoulder.
“I should get going.”
“Do you… need me to walk you?” Minho asks a little shyly, and although the offer is tempting, you shake your head no.
“I’ll be fine. It’s really not as unsafe as you’d think.”
Minho just nods, understanding that you still don’t want to be close to him. And he gives you a little bow, before he exits the room and makes his way up the stairs to his own.
As you begin to leave, an object left on the chair across from you catches your eye.
It’s Minho’s book- the first edition copy of Love and Limerence you gifted him. You take the small book in your hands, scanning its contents briefly and examining the pages. He’s already annotated several of them, despite having read the book numerous times now, and you can’t help but smile at his scribbled notes circling all his favorite quotes and underlining them twice. You know it’s valuable to him, despite coming from somebody he probably despises right now, but you decide to take it up to him anyway, not wanting him to lose it.
When you’re outside his door, you give a small knock as it’s left ajar, and Minho hums in response.
You enter quietly, holding the book out to him and shooting him a small smile.
“You left this downstairs,” you say, and Minho reaches for it quickly, embarrassed you might’ve seen some of his annotations.
“Thanks,” he replies, setting it back on his bookshelf of romance novels.
He takes a seat on the edge of his bed, patting the spot next to him, and you join him at a comfortable distance as he keeps his gaze on the hardwood floor.
For a moment, no one says anything. And then he sighs deeply, before finally speaking.
“I’m sorry. If I made you uncomfortable.”
“You didn’t,” you’re quick to reply.
“I clearly did,” Minho retorts. “And I know I’m quiet, and I kind of shut myself off from the rest of the world. But I never meant for it to affect you.”
“It didn’t affect me,” you reiterate.
He scoffs lightly in response.
“Why won’t you just say it? You haven’t talked to me in weeks. You don’t even look at me. I clearly did something to push you away.”
You don’t reply immediately, pondering what to say. And ultimately, you let your emotions speak for themselves.
“I was jealous.”
“Of what?”
“Of the girl. The one who’s been here almost every night.”
“Sujin?”
“Look, I don’t know, okay? I don’t know who she is or what she is to you-”
“My project partner,” Minho interrupts. “One who hates my guts.”
“Project partner,” you continue. “It doesn’t matter who she is- I like you, Minho,” you finally emphasize, turning to meet his gaze. His lips are parted in shock, his eyebrows furrowed as he hears you speak.
“I’m fucking infatuated with you, and it drives me crazy. I can’t go on vacation without seeing you in the books at the stores, I can’t sleep at night without your stupid theories replaying in my head. And I jump to the worst possible conclusions when you’re even near another girl. I’m going crazy trying to be liked by you- trying to look at everything through the lens of your romance theories or your book quotes, or whatever. But it’s so scary to like someone this much.”
Minho says nothing for a minute, collecting his thoughts as you let go of the breath you’ve been holding. He’s not used to people liking him- let alone being this intrigued by him. And especially when it’s in the form of reciprocation, from the one person he’s infatuated with, too.
“Why is it scary?” Minho questions, facing you now, his eyes darting briefly over your lips and then back up to your worried gaze.
“Because I’m here for a job. I’m not supposed to be feeling all this. You’re not supposed to be part of this.”
“How do you know that?” Minho retorts, leaning in a little closer to you now.
“I just…”
“You’re allowed to feel, y/n. You’re allowed to want this.”
And before you can protest his words, his lips are on yours, kissing you passionately like he’s pacifying the arguments before they can come to fruition. Your heart beats erratically in your chest, your mind racing with a million thoughts about what you’re doing, and what this whole thing even implies, but you shut them out with the rest of your concerns, pressing your thighs together as he brings two hands to your face and cups your chin gently. His lips work against yours so beautifully, so effortlessly, like the two of you have done this several times before. And maybe you have, in all his alternate universe theories- on your honeymoon, on the run from the police- right here in the comfort of his grand bedroom, his hands snaking up to pull off your cardigan as you tug desperately at the fabric of his t-shirt. Minho says nothing between passionate kisses, afraid if he talks you might realize what’s happening and leave. But you won’t leave, especially not when you’ve been dreaming of this, too.
When your cardigan is off, Minho moves a little closer to you on the bed, letting one hand guide itself onto your waist and trace the gentle curve of your body there. He’s delicate with his movements, careful not to startle you with his touches, but he’s also admittedly thought about this for weeks. The thought of you confessing was never something that crossed his mind- he was so sure he’d driven you away after that night. Never in his wildest fantasies had Minho considered the possibility that you were this smitten with him, too. But he did have thoughts of your lips on his, thoughts of your hands intertwined with his and ungodly visions of you under him, right here in his bed. Visions of his mouth on your breasts after you’d accidentally exposed yourself to him in the kitchen and he was forced to give attention to the massive erection that grew in his pants. And after you’d gifted him his favorite book, attentive to the details he’d indulged you in which he never otherwise shared with people, visions of making love to you ran rampant in his mind, filling you up over and over again with remnants of him as a form of saying I’m infatuated with you, too.
Minho’s kisses become needier as your words replay in his head, darting his tongue out to dance against yours with the sounds of exchanging saliva present between your plump, eager lips. He pushes you back gently so that you’re now lying on his pillow, the angle so intimate, the view of his room from here like something you’re not supposed to see. The ceilings appear even larger when you’re flat against his bed, the curtains that drape over his bedpost seemingly miles high.
Minho’s kisses trail down to your neck now, eagerly peppering your flesh in wet kisses as your hands reach up to tangle in his hair, holding him closer to you and letting him graze his lips wherever he desires. You can’t help but feel guilty having him all over you like this when you remember how you’ve treated him these past couple months- criticizing his tendencies to be quiet, intruding on his space and pushing him away because of a girl you’d assumed to be his girlfriend. But you also know most of it has been because you want him to mean more to you- perhaps you’ve just been trying to change things so that in this version of the universe, he’s not just an enigma to you. You want all of this- his lips on yours, his body pressed into you and to give yourself completely to him.
“Just so we’re clear,” Minho says suddenly, pulling away from you to hold eye contact with you. “I’m crazy about you, too. I really like you.”
And you can’t help but smile back in response, pulling him in again to press his lips on yours. He smiles into the kiss, too, satisfied you’re both on the same page. And although your now eager movements imply something more is about to happen, you don’t have to verbalize anything, his fingers snaking up your shirt serving as answer enough.
“Is this okay?” Minho asks, grazing your flesh with his big hands as he toys with the hem of your shirt.
You nod in response, sitting up a little and completing the task of pulling it off over your head and discarding it beside you. You waste no time on your bra, either, reaching around to unclasp it and rid yourself of the fabric without him having to ask. His eyes widen again at the sight, having remembered every curve of your body since that incident in the kitchen. But now in front of him again, he feels his cock swell in his pants, desperate to act on the urge. In nimble movements, his hand cups the mound of your breast, kneading it gently and sighing at the sensation of your soft skin against his. His mouth finds yours again, indulging you in a slow, passionate kiss, and then he trails down until he meets his hand at the mound of your breast, pressing a chaste kiss to your flesh before finally latching his lips around your nipple.
He starts with gentle kisses while your nipple rests between his lips, a string of saliva dribbling down to coat your hardened bud. And then he takes it between his lips with more force, beginning a gentle sucking motion as he gives your other nipple attention with his free hand, circling the tip with his thumb in tender movements.
You sigh beneath him, the sensation sending a shiver up your core, your nipples hardening even more in his touch, now eager for him to give your soaking core some attention. But he takes his time stimulating you, moving to your other breast to take your nipple in his mouth and leave a trail of saliva. Your body shivers when the cool air grazes your wet nipples as he pulls away, and he meets your lips again to kiss you passionately.
While he kisses you, your hands now toy with the hem of his shirt too, signifying for him to take it off. And Minho reciprocates with a little nod, finally pulling his shirt over his head and revealing his bare chest to you. It’s a marvelous sight to see more of his honey-tanned skin, his toned muscles and his broad pectorals practically begging for you to touch them. And just above his stomach, a horizontal pale pink scar, one that he eyes momentarily and then gives you a shy shrug.
You run your fingers along the scar briefly, tracing it in its entirety and bringing your hand up to caress his face.
“I didn’t think I could be any more attracted to you,” you say to him sheepishly, tracing the scar again. “You look like the poetry you’re so obsessed with.”
Minho feels an involuntary smile pulling at his face as he leans in to kiss you again, this time intent on giving himself fully to you the way you deserve.
Your kisses both grow hungrier, needier, as your bodies tangle into each other, and Minho loops a finger into the hem of your panties, tugging them down so that he has access to your sopping cunt. As your hands tangle further into his soft brown hair, his finger traces down the length of your stomach, dipping into every curve and over every inch of flesh he only got a brief sight of. And when he finds your mound, you arch up into him, parting your legs slightly to give him access. Minho doesn’t waste another second, attaching the pads of his fingers to your clit and working you in circular motions as he kisses you. Little gasps escape your mouth as he does, breathing heavily into his kisses and grinding your core closer to him as he quickens his pace, smearing your arousal around your aching clit and circling two fingers around to massage you gently. His cock is now fully erect against his abdomen, prodding into your upper thigh as he trails his kisses down your neck again, but he’s patient, forgiving with his movements, eager to pleasure you first.
As his kisses graze your neck, you tug his boxers over his cock, pulling them down so you’re equal parts undressed. Minho winces a little at the sensation, a bead of precum already dripping down the head of his cock, and you feel yourself clench around nothing at just the sight of him hard for you.
When he takes note of your anticipation, he glances down at his own erection, locking his gaze with yours again as if to confirm again that this is okay. You nod in response, reaching your hands around to loop them behind his neck and pull him a little closer. And then your gaze falls to his cock again, waiting for him to make the next move.
The two of you say nothing as Minho’s hand finds the base of his cock, pumping himself gently before leaning in to kiss you. He lets himself hover closer over you, until his cock is kissing your entrance in the same gentle, wet movements as your lips. You lift your leg up slightly to grant him access, and then in gentle movements as your eyes remain shut, you feel him push his tip inside of you, stretching you out around his girth and causing you to gasp. He’s bigger than you anticipated, even the dripping arousal of your cunt having trouble taking him wholly. But he brings his fingers down to your clit again, massaging you slowly to ease the pain. And it works, your body relaxing around him as he pulls back a little and thrusts in again, this time pushing further until he’s completely bottomed out inside of you. You let out a fervent moan at the sensation, his cock pulsating inside of you as he holds it there, feeling every inch of you clench around him and take him so well now. And then with a gentle kiss to your lips, he begins to move, his hips pulling back slowly to thrust back inside of you.
You feel so full of him, having him exactly as you’d always imagined him- circling your thoughts, hovering over you and finally inside of you, his cock brushing against your cervix so delicately with every thrust. Your labored breaths become one as you pant into each other’s mouths with overwhelming pleasure. Minho steadies himself with one hand on the mattress beside you, quickening his pace a little as he feels his cock twitch inside of you in response to a particularly pornographic moan of yours.
“Fuck,” he breathes, shutting his eyes as he continues to slip in and out of your soaking cunt. “You’re so full of me, aren’t you?”
He brings his lips to your neck again, nibbling the flesh between his teeth and letting it bruise as you moan beneath him.
“I’ve thought about you everyday,” you respond, angling his lips to yours again as he fucks you. “I’ve thought about this so many times.”
“Yeah?” Minho says with a satisfied smile, working circles back onto your clit.
“Yes,” you breathe back, toying with his hair as your arms wrap around his neck. “I wanted you to fuck me like the characters in your romance novels.”
Minho feels his cock twitch again, wincing and slowing his pace so as not to finish just yet.
“I can’t help it,” you whimper underneath him. “I think about you all the time. I think about you fucking me all the time.”
Minho intertwines his hand with yours, pressing it down on your abdomen and letting yourself feel when his bulge fills you up at every thrust, the motion visible beneath your palms.
“Feel that, baby?” He asks between kisses to your drooly lips. “Feel how good I fuck you? Is this what you imagined?”
You gasp at the sensation once you feel it, the bulge of his cock protruding against your palm with every pump inside of you. You nod breathlessly, almost unable to reply to his words now.
“I imagined it, too,” he says, picking up his pace now. “You don’t know how badly I wanted to bend you over the couch and fuck you right there the moment I met you.”
He groans a little as you clench around him and moan in response.
“Minho,” you say breathlessly, not missing the way his cock twitches inside of you once again. “Will you finish inside of me?”
He pauses for a moment, scanning your expression for a sign of whether or not you’re being serious.
“Please,” you beg, as if reading his thoughts. “I’m on birth control. Just want to feel your seed inside of me.”
He shuts his eyes briefly as you wrap your legs around his waist and pull him in a little closer.
“Are you sure it’s okay?” Minho asks, locking his gaze on yours again. “I want to, but I want you to be sure about it.”
“I’m sure,” you say quickly, the last syllable hitching in the back of your throat as he hits a particularly sensitive spot. “Please, just wanna feel you fill me up.”
He thrusts harder into you now, the room teeming with the squelching noises of your pussy taking him so effortlessly.
“You like it when we play house like this, huh?” He says, wrapping a hand gently around your throat. “You like imagining me as your husband, don’t you? Fucking you like we’re married?”
And it doesn’t take you more than a second to think before you’re nodding desperately at his words. You do love it, this sense of belonging when you’re in the Lee household. But you also get aroused at this second life you lead alongside him, caring for the baby like it’s one of yours and being fucked by Minho when no one else is around to hear your lewd moans.
“Yes,” you reply, your response muffled by his grasp on your throat. “You make such a good dad.”
“We’d make such good parents,” he emphasizes, kissing you breathlessly. “What do you say I fuck a baby into you and we find out for real?”
You feel yourself contract around his girth at the words, not having considered it seriously, but turned on at the idea of carrying a child just for him.
“Is that what you want?” Minho asks, nearing his orgasm as he thrusts even faster into you now, panting into your mouth above you.
“Yes,” you reply with a whimper. “Want you to fill me up so bad.”
“Yeah?” He cuts you off, pressing your abdomen harder with his hand. “I’m gonna cum, baby. Want you to feel it.”
Your senses hone in on the feeling of your palm over his bulge, pulsating rhythmically as he nears his orgasm.
“I’m cumming, fuck, I’m gonna finish,” Minho says, shutting his eyes in pleasure as he moves at his fastest pace now, his grip around your throat holding you steady as you lose yourself underneath him. He’s never finished inside someone before, but he has no intention of pulling out now, the conversation of impregnating you sending him over the edge as he reaches the cusp of his release.
You contract around his breathlessly now, eager to take his load, never having taken someone’s either, but desperate for Minho to be your first.
And with a few more harsh thrusts, Minho’s cock twitches once inside of you, finally letting out a generous load of his cum inside of you, the gush of his release filling you up so fully, the warm sensation of his milky white release thrusting deep inside of your pussy as he fucks the rest into you.
He feels his head spin, his eyes shutting instinctively at the sensation as he lets go fully inside of you, no urgency to pull out or stave off his release like he usually has to. And it takes a while before he’s begun to soften again, the knowledge of giving you his cum almost rousing him again and lengthening the period of his release inside of you. Minho already knows he’s going to be addicted to finishing inside of you from here on out- and he doesn’t want it any other way.
The warm feeling is all it takes for you to finish in mere seconds, contracting around him as he fucks you through his orgasm, your release mixing with his and dribbling down the side of your thighs as he begins to slow down. Minho doesn’t pull out immediately, instead caressing your face to gauge your reaction as he softens inside of you.
“Was it okay?” Minho queries, tucking sweaty strands of hair behind your ears and loosening his grasp on your throat.
“It was more than okay,” you say breathlessly, tears pricking the corners of your eyes as he smiles down at you. “I feel so full of you.”
Minho kisses you sweetly, rubbing his thumb along your hand soothingly as he pulls out of you, a string of his cum connecting to you still and dribbling onto the sheets as he rolls over to lay on his side.
For a moment, the two of you say nothing, your chests rising and falling as you catch your breath and ponder the day’s events. It’s not what you expected was going to happen when you saw yourself up to his room again, but it is what you’d hoped would happen eventually. And the atmosphere feels much lighter around you now, completely void of the lingering sexual and emotional tension that’s plagued you for so long.
“Minho?” you say quietly.
“Yeah?”
“Philosophically speaking, how many versions of us do you think are lying next to each other like this, right now?”
Minho thinks over your words for a moment, and then he chuckles lightly.
“Well if the universe was conditioned right, I’d hope for an infinite amount. But considering how long it took us to get here in this version, I’d say just one.”
And he sits up, leaning in for another kiss as two fingers tuck his arousal further into you, holding his release inside of your still-sensitive body.
*
“Have some bacon, honey,” Mrs. Lee says to you as she scrambles to get her things together for the day. “I made a lot, so help yourself.”
“Thanks,” you reply, strapping Joon into his high chair and smoothing down your skirt.
Ever since that evening, you and Minho have been inseparable. The two of you wait until Mrs. Lee is gone for the morning, desperately grabbing at each other and giggling between kisses until Minho has to leave for his classes. And when he returns, it’s much of the same, the two of you helping put Joon down for his afternoon nap before escaping up to his bedroom and making love until Joon wakes again.
Minho is completely and utterly obsessed with you, the same way you are with him, but you both know this game of house you play can’t go on forever. Mostly because you feel the guilt eating away at you day by day, every waking minute you’re tending to your duties as a babysitter or conversing with Mrs. Lee. It’s hard to be in the same room as Minho when she’s around, the urge to just confess even more present when she attempts to facilitate conversation between the two of you and you’re forced to act like he’s still a mystery.
But you have him more figured out than you ever have before, memorizing the freckles on his body like the back of your hand, reciting his favorite quotes like prayers and replaying the melodic giggles that escape his lips. You don’t want to be apart from him, but the point still stands- it’s scary to like someone this much. He consumes you more than he ever has before, filling every waking second of your life with remnants of him. You love when he reads romantic philosophical theories to you, or when he cooks you and Joon dinner after a long day. But you feel guilty when you’re alone with Joon again, hoping he can’t somehow tell that you’re only thinking of his brother when you’re preparing his bottles or feeding him. You hope Mrs. Lee doesn’t notice when your hair is a little too tousled to have just been from a nap, or the time you had to cross your legs to keep Minho’s release inside of you when the two of you had finished just in time for her to make it home. It’s selfish, and it’s unfair. And with no sign of this fling stopping anytime soon, you don’t see any other option to be fit.
“I’m leaving,” Mrs. Lee finally says, grabbing her car keys off the kitchen table and pulling her heels on. “Make sure to get Joon his medicine!”
The two of you watch as she shuts the front door behind her, and then you wait until her car starts, holding your breath as she pulls out of the driveway and begins down the street in what feels like an agonizing amount of time.
The minute she’s gone, Minho turns to you again, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear as you lean back against the counter.
“Morning,” he says with a shy smile. He wastes no time leaning in for a romantic kiss, which you reciprocate, wrapping your arms around his neck and smiling into him.
When he pulls away, the two of you say nothing, holding each other in a comfortable embrace as he rubs little circles into the small of your back.
“I guess it’s just mom and dad home right now,” he says, pressing a chaste kiss to your neck. “I’ll ditch class right now if you want me to fill you up again.”
And his offer is tempting as he presses his erection into you, working more kisses down the nape of your neck and trailing his hands up your skirt.
“No,” you finally say, pushing him away and collecting your thoughts. “You need to get to class. I have a lot of stuff to do. I’m working, in case you forgot.”
“Okay, okay,” Minho says, holding his hands up in surrender. “I digress.”
He pulls back to caress your face with a visible smirk as your eyes graze his thighs, so beautifully sculpted under the fabric of his jeans. You’re not sure you’ve ever been so sinfully tempted by somebody before, like Eve to the apple, like a moth to a flame- he’s intoxicating, but you know you shouldn’t be indulging this while you’re here to fulfill your role as a babysitter.
“You should go,” you say to him, swallowing nervously as his hands trace the outline of your lips.
“Yeah,” Minho replies, a hint of disappointment present in his voice.
And without another word, he gathers his car keys off the table, sending you off with a little wave as he disappears for the day.
You may have Minho mostly figured out now- his fascination with romance and philosophy, his soft interior under the stoic exterior he presents everyone else with, his astounding levels of emotional intelligence and unwavering kindness for the people he loves. But now that things have become a little more complicated between the two of you, you fear all of this will come to an end as fortuitously as it all began.
The reality is, this isn’t one of Minho’s romance novels- you’re both real people, with emotions and convictions and reservations. And though you want this fleeting thing to last forever, you’re well aware that things don’t work that way, especially when you’re just a babysitter at the end of it all. Sure, Minho sees you as much more than that- but you were hired to be here in the Lee household, paid to fulfill your role here, and once this comes to an end, your relationship with Minho likely will, too.
… and thus, the decision to quit your job isn’t one you take lightly. It succeeds hours of thinking, weighing your options and planning out exactly what you’re going to tell Mrs. Lee when she asks why you’re leaving so suddenly. You want to do another internship, you decide on telling her, hoping she doesn’t poke enough holes to get the truth out of you- “I think far too much about your eldest son and it’s eating me alive.”
*
All day long, you try your best to shut Minho out of your thoughts, focusing on your online courses and caring for Joon like you used to. But it feels futile, this task of pretending things are the way they used to be. They’re not- you’re sneaking behind Mrs. Lee’s back and hooking up with her eldest son. When all’s said and done, you’ll be right back in your own home, with your parents desperate to send you elsewhere once again, and your own life to tend to. This double life you romanticize isn’t real, nor is it attainable anymore.
Your phone call with Mrs. Lee to announce your decision doesn’t set anything in stone yet, her words urging you to speak with her later this week when she has some free time. But you know once you do speak with her, you’ll only have a few evenings left with Minho until this is all over. And you don’t have the heart to tell him just yet, but if things go anything the way they did when you first brought it up to him, you know he’s going to be heartbroken.
When Minho arrives home that evening, he can already sense something is wrong. You’re sat in the garden, where you typically don’t go, your legs crossed neatly over one of the sunlounger chairs as you let your thoughts consume you. Mrs. Lee’s koi fish fountain stands nobly in front of you, a robust stream of water trickling from its lips and into the concrete bowl below. You’re mesmerized by it as you always are, the steady sound of water coupled with the birds chirping in the sunny greenery around you as peaceful as ever.
“Hey,” Minho says, sliding open the screen door and stepping outside to meet you.
“Hi,” you reply, holding a hand up over you to shield your eyes from the sun. You’d forgotten how divine he looked today, his white button up now folded up at the sleeves and exposing his veiny forearms to you.
“How was your day?” Minho asks, pressing a small kiss to your temple as he occupies the spot beside you and stares at the fountain.
“Okay,” you respond, though you’re lying through your teeth. “Joon went down about an hour ago.”
Minho nods, and then he furrows his brows together as he speaks again.
“Why are you out here?”
You shrug in response, keeping short with your words as he pushes you for answers. And you want to tell him it’s because you made the most painful decision to call Mrs. Lee and forfeit all of this, but you know it’ll only hurt more, so you divert from the truth.
“It was stuffy inside,” you voice back, shooting him a small smile.
Minho seems to relax beside you, his shoulders sagging a little as he takes notice of your calm demeanor. He doesn’t have reason to believe anything’s wrong, judging by the way you converse so casually.
“You want me to cook you something?” Minho asks, placing his palm up next to you, and you let your hand intertwine with his.
“Will you read to me?” You ask, eager to indulge in your favorite activity alongside him.
“I can read to you,” Minho echoes back, pressing a chaste kiss to the back of your hand. “Which book?”
You’re both in the cozy atmosphere of the library later that evening, Minho sat on his favorite velvet armchair as you occupy a spot in his lap with his arms wrapped around you. The book is positioned in front of him so you can both see, his fingers holding open the thin pages as the poetry leaves his lips, pausing in between lines to press kisses to the crook of your neck when he’s reminded of you in his favorite characters.
And you hold back tears in the moment, wanting so badly to tell Minho that you’ll be letting go of all of this, running back to the monotony of your old life, one where Minho doesn’t exist and you don’t have to balance the complicated feelings of liking someone to this degree. But you bite back your words, careful not to ruin the intimate moment you share while he loves you in an ignorant state of bliss.
“The pleasures of love are always in proportion to the fear,” Minho begins a new chapter, grazing your neck with his lips.
He trails a bit lower to graze your shoulder now, pressing a small trail of kisses as he pauses his reading. You giggle softly in response, feeling his fingers find the strap of your tank top to pull it down your shoulder so he can pepper kisses there, too.
“Minho,” you say softly, writhing in his embrace as he tickles every inch of your skin with his kisses, now shutting the book and setting it on the arm of the chair.
“Can’t help it,” Minho responds, shutting his eyes as he snakes his hands up the back of your tank top. “You look so beautiful right now.”
As you adjust in his lap, you can feel he’s now rock-hard in his jeans below you, his thighs flexing underneath you as he wraps two hands around your waist and runs them up and down your sides. You take the hint, turning around in his lap to face him, and let your arms wrap around his neck to steady yourself.
“What are you thinking about?” Minho asks, bringing his lips to yours as he feels his hardened cock graze against the fabric of his jeans, eager to pleasure you.
You want to express your fears, your doubts, to tell him the truth about what you spoke about on the phone with Mrs. Lee earlier today. But you can’t, not when he looks so tantalizing in front of you like this, his bulge perfectly outlined in his tight jeans and his veiny arms flexing below the fabric of his collared button-up. You’ve been roused for him since he left in the morning, his offer swirling your mind coupled with his appearance, like something out of a wet dream.
“You,” you voice back, whimpering pathetically into another kiss and rocking your hips gently over him so that he’s practically whimpering for you, too.
Neither of you have to say much, knowing already where the evening is headed, as you unzip his pants and palm his erection through the fabric of his boxers. Minho watches as you slide off his lap, dropping to your knees in front of him and tugging the fabric of his jeans. He complies with your urges, pulling them down to his knees and freeing his erection from his boxers, exhaling deeply as the cool breeze of the room grazes his leaking tip.
Without a second to waste, you take him in your mouth, letting your saliva coat his shaft as you kiss his tip tenderly and then guide him down your throat, the base of his cock just barely meeting your lips as you struggle to take him fully. Minho groans at the contact, bucking his hips off the chair to guide himself further into you, feeling his cock twitch when you gag a little at the contact. You stay like that for a good while, bobbing your head in rhythmic motions up and down his hardened length, your saliva allowing you to graze his shaft with ease.
Minho’s thighs contract desperately below him, trying his best to stave off the orgasm he’s been longing for since the moment he saw you this morning. His hands find your hair, pulling your locks into a makeshift ponytail and gasping as you take him a bit deeper now, pulling back again to pepper the tip of his wettened cock in drooly kisses.
“Fuck,” Minho breathes out, clutching the arm of the chair so desperately. “Baby, stop, I don’t want to finish yet,”
And you release him with a gentle pop, knowing exactly what it is he wants so badly. You never deny it, sitting back up again to position yourself over his cock you intertwine his hands with yours. He uses one hand to tug your panties to the side, and then in one swift motion, you guide his cock inside of you, sliding down the slick of his length and bottoming out with ease. You take him so well now, always able to adjust to his girth instantly as your cunt is always dripping in anticipation when he’s near.
Minho’s hand moves to push your tank top up, taking a nipple in his mouth and sucking harshly as you begin to bounce on him with gentle movements. The room fills with sounds of panting, sucking and desperate moans as his cock fills you fully with every thrust, brushing against your cervix as he moves to your other nipple and kneads your breast desperately.
“What was that quote again?” You ask in labored breaths as he comes back up to kiss your lips.
“The pleasures of love,” he begins, breathlessly working his lips against yours as you clench around his length. “Are always in proportion to the fear.”
Minho feels his cock twitch inside of you, always nearing his finish much faster when you make him recite all his favorite quotes and book excerpts to you.
Except this one speaks much louder to you, directly aligning with your present-day emotions, circling your mind relentlessly as he fills you. Maybe this is what his book speaks of- the pleasures of love, being filled so fully and lovingly by Minho, two pieces of one whole like you’re both made for this, to make love into the late hours of the night while he recites poetry to you.
And all of this in proportion to the fear- this constant fear that he’s just a fleeting entity, that you’re both naive to play house like this and pretend it’s anything more. The fear present while you’re sneaking behind Mrs. Lee’s back, letting him fuck you like he’s married to you and indulge you in all of his deepest secrets, as though you’re the only one allowed to know him this intimately.
The love and fear and indeed in proportion to one another- you love him as much as you’re afraid of loving him.
“I love you,” you say suddenly, bringing him in for another kiss before he can respond. But the way his kisses work against yours, hungry and passionate, there’s not a hint of reluctance in his response when he pulls away to speak again.
“I love you,” Minho breathes back, working his kisses against yours as his cock pulsates inside of you, desperate for release. “And I hope every version of the universe is conditioned for us to be right here.”
You smile into him, slowing your movements as you feel him contract inside of you, and then his thighs flex as he finally finishes inside of you, shooting hot white ropes of his cum into your still-clenching cunt, his release already beginning to dribble back down his length as he feels you slow down over him.
You bring a hand between the two of you, gathering his cum on the pads of your fingers to circle your clit in gentle movements, stimulating yourself to your release, too, as you contract desperately around him and breathe labored kisses back into his mouth. Your juices mix with his as you catch your breath, keeping him inside of you as your chest rises and falls with gentle movements. But the two of you say nothing, pressing your lips together to indulge in more passionate kisses for the few minutes you have left before Mrs. Lee makes it home for the evening.
*
The garden is particularly beautiful the next afternoon, teeming with the sounds of birds chirping and trees swaying in the gentle autumn breeze. Mrs. Lee let you know she’d be home a little earlier to have a chat about your decision to leave, and when Joon is put down for his afternoon nap, you receive the call that she’s in the garden waiting for you. You enter hesitantly, worried Minho might catch you and question what you’re doing out here. But he’s not home from school yet, you remind yourself, glancing around the tall grass and neat rows of potted plants for Mrs. Lee.
“Y/n!” A voice calls from one of the patio chairs. “Come, sit!”
Mrs. Lee sits with her back facing you, a large white sun hat atop her neatly styled hair and complementing her matching white jumpsuit. Her gaze remains locked on the koi fountain you’re always transfixed by, too.
“Hi Mrs. Lee,” you say, giving her a small bow as you take the seat next to her. “It’s a pleasure to see you again.”
She nods with a smile. “So good to see you when we have a little more time. I’m sorry I’m always such a mess in the mornings.”
You shake your head quickly, brushing off her words. “Not at all! It’s always nice to greet the family before I start my day.”
She just smiles in response, turning to nod at you, and then she turns back to the fountain.
“I was a little surprised when you called the other day. I hope things are going okay.”
“They are,” you interrupt quickly. “They absolutely are. Joon is so pleasant, and the job is great. I really love it here.”
“I hope everything at home is okay,” she moves on to say, and you quickly reassure her.
“Yes, everything is fine! Everyone is doing great.”
“I understand,” Mrs. Lee says, eyeing the ground before turning to face you now. “You’ve done so much for us, I’d be lying if I said I’m not going to miss having you around here in the mornings.”
You shoot her a sympathetic look, feeling a pit form in your stomach, too. You feel the same, probably tenfold, at the idea of leaving behind the household you’ve called home for so many days.
“I’m going to miss it here, too.”
“And I know Joon is going to be heartbroken,” Mrs. Lee says with a chuckle.
You chuckle too, giving her an understanding nod.
She pauses briefly, furrowing her brows together, before continuing her speech.
“You’re such a bright young woman, and I know you’re destined to do amazing things. If there’s a way I can help in this transition, please don’t hesitate to let me know, okay?”
You nod at her words, and watch as she smooths down her top before standing up. She seems to wait for a moment, as if hoping for you to say something, and when you don’t, she begins to make her way back inside.
“Well, I’ll let you go for the evening. Thank you again, for everything. And you have my phone number if-”
“Mrs. Lee?” You call out suddenly, catching her before she can get much further. She turns around at the worry present in your voice, her face shifting into that of concern.
Without having to voice anything else, Mrs. Lee sits down again, waiting for you to continue. But you can’t, your heart beating wildly in your chest at the thought of even bringing up the topic of Minho. I’m in love with your son, you want to say to her. I’m so in love with Minho and I hope you understand I don’t have a choice but to leave this all behind me.
“You know,” Mrs. Lee interrupts your thoughts, breaking the silence that fills the air. “This koi fountain was my first gift from Mr. Lee.”
You nod at her, remembering when she introduced it to you on your first day here.
“We weren’t married yet. It was his first restoration project, and my dad hated him. So he had a lot of trouble getting it over to me.”
You chuckle lightly, amused at her story which seems to calm you down a little.
“Luckily his parents adored me,” she continues. “And they offered to house it in their backyard until we married. For the 15 years we dated, my koi fish lived in their garden. And when we did marry, they rented a big truck to help haul it over. It was such a project! But it’s my favorite part of the garden.”
You shoot her a saccharine smile, well endeared at the way she speaks of Mr. Lee. You can tell she’s in love with him, even this many years later.
“Sometimes I wondered why they would do something so nice for me. But as I grew closer to them, I learned not to question what was meant for me. They loved me, as did Mr. Lee. And I wasn’t going to run from any of that, no matter what I felt I deserved.”
Your head snaps in her direction at her last words, realizing how they apply to you. But she doesn’t know about Minho- at least not to your knowledge, or Minho’s. She gives you a sheepish smile as you furrow your brows, and then she takes your hand in hers, giving it a little squeeze.
“I hope you won't run from what you deserve, either.”
You nod a little bit at her words, finally understanding the weight of them, and then you look back at her with a confused expression.
“Mrs. Lee, are you talking about…”
“Minho?” She finally says, with a warm smile. She takes your other hand in hers, too, tilting her face to yours so that she’s making proper eye contact as she speaks.
“I had wondered why he was so happy these days. Minho’s always been a bit of an outcast. But I haven’t seen this spark in him since he started his obsession with all those romance novels and philosophy studies of his.”
You chuckle lightly, a weight off your shoulders as she finally speaks of what circles your mind so heavily.
“But how did you…”
“I knew it when I saw it,” she says. “I knew it, because he had the same look in his eyes as when I met his father.”
You feel your heart swell in your chest, your shoulders relaxing as she continues to speak.
“He speaks of you like poetry,” she tells you. “And for that alone, I’m thankful for you. Now what you choose to do is your decision- but I hope you know you will always have a home here with us. Not just as a babysitter, but as family.”
When Mrs. Lee finishes her speech, she gives your hands a little squeeze, smiling at you and back at the koi fish fountain. It feels much more sentimental to you even now, the beautiful waterfall that cascades serving as a reminder of its permanent restoration rooted in the infatuation Mr. Lee had for Mrs. Lee. And watching it stand so beautifully like it did all those years ago, you’re reminded that love can be a lasting thing, no matter the circumstances. The universe can condition itself to make things last, affirming the philosophical notions Minho’s always told you. And that perhaps you do deserve this, a sense of belonging here in the Lee household, right here alongside Mrs. Lee and Minho, and even baby Joon.
As you watch the fountain together, the sound of the sliding door makes itself known behind you, and you turn around to find Minho entering the garden, baby Joon sitting comfortably in his arms as he makes his way over.
“Hi,” Minho says, coming around to give Mrs. Lee a kiss on her cheek. “What’s going on here?”
He looks visibly worried, his eyes darting back and forth between you and Mrs. Lee, as if to silently ask you what she’s told you.
But Mrs. Lee just smiles at him, as she gets up from where she’s sitting and smooths down her jumpsuit.
“We were just having a girl chat. I’ll leave you two alone.”
And she disappears behind the screen door again, shooting you a little wink as she does, her anecdote circling your mind, still.
“What happened?” Minho asks, settling down next to you and balancing baby Joon on his knee. Joon fists at the fabric of his shirt, babbling incoherently as you smile down at him.
“Nothing,” you say, leaning in to press a quick kiss to his lips. You refrain from saying anything about leaving, not wanting to interrupt the tender moment you share with Minho and Joon in the sunlight of the garden.
“You have a really cool mom,” you settle on saying, smiling at Minho as he chuckles softly in response.
*
The afternoon sun beams through the glass windows of the library as you lie comfortably in Minho’s lap, his book positioned in front of you as he presses a small kiss to the back of your hand before turning the page.
Outside, the birds chirp songs of early spring, the steady stream of Mrs. Lee’s koi fountain audible as you peer down at the garden.
Mr. and Mrs. Lee sit in the tall grass, fiddling with a box of tools as Mr. Lee repairs a new project for Mrs. Lee. This one’s a much larger fountain, one he’d told you would take several months, perhaps even years. But Mrs. Lee sits beside him, relishing in stories of his restoration process and laughing with him as he works. You can’t help but smile at the sight, her stories about him playing in your mind whenever you catch a glimpse of them together.
“Do you think they could be us in another universe?” You ask Minho, turning to face him as he peers out the window, too.
“I hope so,” he says with a smile.
You settle closer to him in his lap, pressing a small kiss to his hand as he continues reading.
“And think not that you can direct the course of love, for love, if it finds you worthy, directs your course.”
At his words, you hear baby Joon cry out, having woken from his afternoon nap.
“I’ll get him,” Minho says, shutting the book and setting it aside to go tend to the baby.
And as you peer back out the window, the sound of Mr. and Mrs. Lee’s laughter filling your ears, baby Joon’s voice calling to you, Minho’s philosophy book perched on the chair beside you and the sun beams shining their light through the windows, you know that this is belonging, this is love.
warnings and notes. written in tagalog and english. explicit smut in all 3 parts! AGAIN hindi ko na iisa-isahin here, sa masterlist, ang tags. i'll put it sa actual na post so pls read it before u proceed >< i have so much expectations with how this will turn out bcs it was supposed to be an 8 parts series but lost spark with it so HAHSHHHAHA HERE WE GO !! i also think the banner is a little too big but jeno's handsome as hell there. xoxo, sha.
genre: nct dreams fav insecurities on other people, fluff, angst if u squint and shake, suggestive? nonidol!dreamies but not specified tbh
note: i dont think there are any cws... i thought this would be a cute idea. none of these are things that i think people should be insecure about but rather things ive personally been insecure about and things that other people have mentioned make them insecure if that makes sense haha, lmk what you think, if i wrote something that sounds weird or could be taken the wrong way please let me know, not proofread
mark... stretch marks. thinks stretch marks are so cool, like actually thinks they're so hot. likes to trace them when you both watch a movie together, its so second nature to him. when you told him you didn't like them he was kinda lost. he's like 'what, dude you look like a painting." likes them especially when they're deep/dark but doesn't care where they are, likes them when you have them in places only you and him can see as well since it makes it more personal. heart eyes for you always and isn't corny about it, he makes you feel so hot about yourself deserved. encourages wearing whatever you want regardless of if it shows the marks because he'll always be there to hype you up. also likes that his name is in the name LOL
renjun... noses/side profiles. ADORES big noses and unique side profiles. tells you its a challenge for him to draw because he HAS to perfect you on paper. can't stop looking at you. traces his fingers on your nose all the time and loves when it's cold out and the tip of it gets all pink and reddish hehe. compares you to paintings all the time, its in his nature. once he meets you, he goes on a mission to try and perfect drawing your side profile even before you guys began dating. even going as far as to sit next to you in lectures just to be able to sneak glances at you LOL. nose pecks and boops all the time
jeno... plus sized people. TO ME i feel like plus size people are the joy of his life. hates when you're an adult and people either infantilize or sexualize you for being plus sized because like damn... it gets on his nerves lol. never thought it was that big of a deal other than the fact that he thinks you're a god among humans. just finds you so gorgeous and you're such a beautifully stark contrast from what he looks like, that its such a good balance in a sense of like everyone wants what they cant have, yknow? just loves feeling how smooth/curvy and soft you are??? he's obsessed with everything about you to be honest. never makes you feel fetishized or weird. #1 defender. takes couple pics by standing behind you and placing his palm on your lower stomach YALL KNOW WHAT IM TALKIN ABBTTT
haechan... crooked teeth. OH MY GOD thinks its literally the cutest thing ever. he didn't know you didn't like your smile until he caught on to how much you would cover your face whenever he would make you laugh. he would make it a point one day to tell extra jokes and catch you smiling so he could grip your wrists and pull your hands away from his face. takes this as an opportunity to GUSH about how much he loves the way you look when you smile and how cute your teeth are and how much you remind him of a bunny, or a certain animal hehe. WHEN YOU SMILE INTO KISSES?? he loses his mind. likes to pull up the corners of your lips whenever he's a bit sad because he claims seeing your pearly whites will recharge him haha
jaemin... round faces. GOSH, oh gosh he is obsessed. always pokes your cheeks and runs his thumbs on your cheekbones whenever he holds your face in his hands. likes it when you put on a lot of blush because it excentuates your face shape. LOOVES when you smile and your cheekbones lift up sm and you look so glowy yknow?? cheek pincher and squisher. oh my god i've said this before but he thinks you look so adorable when you wake up all puffy because it makes your cheeks and face 10x more round and soft. likes pulling your cheeks and taking off guard pics with your eyes shut tight, hand reaching for his to make him stop. does that thing where he sucks your cheeks with his mouth LMAOOO. you are his soft angel baby
chenle... acne. it doesn't matter where the acne is, he never minds it or makes you feel bad about it. likes helping you with your skincare and putting cute pimple patches on any marks or blemishes. he has acne too im sure so it's nice to be human, yknow. never understands why its an insecurity to you because he thinks its the least important thing about you. always tells you how having acne never makes you any less pretty. always encourages you to wear tank tops or clothes that may show body acne because he thinks it doesn't matter. and not in a bad way like he would never ever dismiss anything that would upset you, i think he would just try and make it a point that some acne is never gonna change how attractive you are to him. shoulder kisses always
jisung... thick thighs. ON MY SUNG THICK THIGH ADGENDAAA he loves them sm. likes playing with them like silly putty. doesn't matter if you have big thighs but hip dips, wide hips, flat butt, big butt, like he does not care he just loves your lower body in general lol. can get suggestive with it once you get closer in your relationship but also just likes poking and playing with the fat and skin on your upper thighs for funzies. runs his hands on your butt but so genuinely innocently lol. you are his best pillow. likes laying in between them while you do things. head on your stomach with your legs on either side of his head, runs shapes on the outer part of them with his fingers. knows how when he squeezes your legs with rings on, you jump from the cold metal, he thinks its funny lol
༎ຶ‿༎ຶ omg y'all- the way I SOBBED SKAJJSSJ this made me feel so validated and happy. I never really liked some of my features but this made me feel so happy
A reminder that everyone, you are all beautiful and gorgeous..we just forget that sometimes.
SUMMARY. after a photo of him and his co-star makes the headlines, jeno finds himself in a complicated situation with percy kim, his castmate who seems to have some resentment towards him.
[ or alternatively: maybe percy needs to stop holding grudges against her co-star, and maybe jeno needs to study his lines instead of his fake girlfriend. ]
summary. jeong jaehyun really loves basketball. but also, he’s terribly in love with his childhood best friend of seventeen years, you.
pairing. basketball captain! jaehyun x fem! childhood best friend reader
genre. basketball captain! au, college! au, childhood best friends-to-lovers! au, slow burn, mutual pining, angst with fluff
word count. 18,746
warnings/tags. cursing, drinking, a few angsty moments of quarrelling :(, mentions of food, dual-pov, many many taylor swift references (especially from the lover album!!!) bc i am insane, a few of the other nct members make a cameo in this!
(long) a/n. did i expect the word count? no. i did not… but i’ll never let the jaehyun bolton agenda die down, so i’m immortalising it through my writing. i also don’t know how i’m able to churn out this many words but have trouble coming up with the title… but i thought it would be fitting! (my google doc title is literally “jaehyun bolton” …) this has bits and pieces of high school musical, the summer i turned pretty, and dear. m in it <3 don’t usually capitalise my works because it’s a bit of a hassle (i write on both mobile and laptop) but since this is a long fic i tried capitalising it… hopefully there aren’t many errors lol. sorry for the long a/n but as always i hope you enjoy this~ pls lmk ur thoughts and if i missed out any warnings!!
–♡–
“You coming to my game tomorrow?” Jaehyun asked, eyes not leaving his screen.
Clad in a black hoodie, the Computer Science major had been working on his assignment for the past three hours. Cigarettes After Sex record on loop, it’s occasionally accompanied by his rapid, and sometimes, aggressive keyboard typing. Mumbles of apology follow after he thinks he’s being too disruptive, but you don’t pay any mind to it.
You were on Jaehyun’s bed, begrudgingly watching your lecture that you’d missed on Monday because you slept through your alarm that morning. Alarms, to be exact. Your eyelids already felt heavy from listening to your professor drone on about how rain is formed. No offence to him, but you were simply taking this Geography module to clear your general education credits.
Jaehyun’s voice shook you awake, even if it’s just by a little bit. Taking out one of your earbuds even though you’d already paused the video, you looked through the mental image of your calendar that you have in your head to see if you had anything planned for the next day, but nothing came to mind.
“Probably,” you shrugged.
You’ve never been one to miss any of his games, so you most likely cleared your schedule for it already. Besides, it’s not like you could bring yourself to not watch his games in the first place, especially not when your childhood best friend slash neighbour is the star player of the school. Not forgetting that he’s also the captain of the basketball team who has led them to victory after victory through the years.
Being in his life for more than a decade, you wanted nothing more than to be a part of every chapter of Jaehyun’s life, just as how he’s been there for yours.
SUMMARY. after a photo of him and his co-star makes the headlines, jeno finds himself in a complicated situation with percy kim, his castmate who seems to have some resentment towards him.
[ or alternatively: maybe percy needs to stop holding grudges against her co-star, and maybe jeno needs to study his lines instead of his fake girlfriend. ]
SUMMARY. after a photo of him and his co-star makes the headlines, jeno finds himself in a complicated situation with percy kim, his castmate who seems to have some resentment towards him.
[ or alternatively: maybe percy needs to stop holding grudges against her co-star, and maybe jeno needs to study his lines instead of his fake girlfriend. ]
15. DRAG YOU RIGHT DOWN | prev / masterlist / next
NOTE. the bottom by gracie abrams is /the/ jercy song 🫶🏼 kung napapansin nyo kung pano at kailan nag-iiba typing formats nila u get a cookie 🍪 HAHAHAHHAHA ALSO there’s a typo in the video yung “attitude” nagkaron d sa dulo pasensya na HAHAHAHAHA
SUMMARY. after a photo of him and his co-star makes the headlines, jeno finds himself in a complicated situation with percy kim, his castmate who seems to have some resentment towards him.
[ or alternatively: maybe percy needs to stop holding grudges against her co-star, and maybe jeno needs to study his lines instead of his fake girlfriend. ]
ako'y nagbabalik po upang magcontribute sa drabble fluff dept with this bf!chenle as toyoing jowa na ka-vc mo tas nagbabye ka agad after nya magbabye HAHHAHAHAH
"di mo ko pipigilan?😡"
—🌙
TAWABG TAWA KO SA LIVE NIYA NA YAN AHAHSHSHDH NAPAKACUTE KASI
"babye na, aalis na 'ko" asar ni chenle, akala mo naman totoong aalis nga siya kaya nagbabye ka rin. bigla namang nagbago ang mood nito at sabing "LAH INUUTO LANG KITA? DI MO TALAGA KO PIPIGILAN NA PUMUNTA KILA JENO?"
"eh parang gusto mo rin naman talaga pumunta eh, edi hahayaan kita. alangan pigilan kita?" sagot mo naman, "lele, wait tumatawag si mama, ibababa ko muna"
"IBABABA MO TALAGA?"
"anong gusto mo isali natin dito si mama?"
"BABYE NA TALAGA?"
dahil ayaw nga tumigil ng boyfriend mo, sinagot mo ang tawag ng nanay mo at automatically naman itong nagjoin sa call niyong dalawa. "gagi nagjjoke lang ako eh, hi po tita"
"hi chenle anak, kumusta ka?"
"okay lang po tita, ayaw po kasi ko payagan umalis ni y/n ngayon kaya po nilalambing ko lang"
"KAPAL NAMAN NG FACE MO CHENLE! PINAYAGAN KAYA KITA IKAW LANG 'TONG AYAW IBABA 'YUNG TAWAG!"
nauulol ako kay johnny simula nung naglive siya nang barefaced 😭 nababaliw ako kakaisip ano feeling ng may kayakap na jani after such a long day tas makikinig siya sa kwento mo habang nakaunan ka sa dibdib niya??? BRAINROT MALALA
ARGRHDHDHB naiiyak na ko 😔 kapag nakikita ko si johnny na niyayakap ‘yung members, iniisip ko ano kayang pakiramdam kasI ANG WARM WARM NIYA YUMAKAP NSSHHSHSH
natagpuan mo si johnny na nasa sofa, nakataas ang paa sa center table at tanging tv lang ang umiilaw sa buong apartment niyo. hinayaan mong bumagsak ang bitbit mong bag sa sahig at dumiretso sa kandungan niya para yumakap, alam na alam ni johnny na kapag ganito, mahaba ang araw mo sa med school. “pagod?” tanong niya habang inaayos ang posisyon niyo, lalo ka niyang dinikit sa dibdib niya at hinahaplos ang likod mo. “tell me about it, last day ng finals mo ngayon, di ‘ba?”
“mhmm,” matipid mong sagot, pumikit ka habang inaamoy ang pabango niya sa suot niyang hoodie. “bobong bobo ako kanina sa neuro, parang nawala lahat ng pinag-aralan ko kagabi at last week...” tumigil ka sa pagsasalita ng ilang segudo, pinapakinggan ang tibok ng puso niya. “ambilis ng tibok ng puso mo,”
“hmm, it feels nice having you here eh. i missed you,” sagot niya, “bakit future doc? may explanation ka ba sa nararamdaman ko?”
natawa ka at tumango, pinapakinggan pa rin ang tibok ng puso niya. “when the adrenal medulla in our brain releases catecholamines, epinephrine and norepinephrine are hormones, in simple terms: adrenaline and noradrenaline are released in our bloodstream. nagt-trigger ‘yun sa puso mo na tumibok ng mas mabilis than the normal heartbeat. maybe you feel that way whenever you see me.”
“wala akong nagets, but you sound so intelligent so... ang talino mo mahal ko” natawa ka sa sinabi niya’t hinampas ng marahan ang dibdib niya. “at least kapag naging doktor ka na, pwede na ‘kong magpacheck up sa’yo”
“hindi kita pwede maging pasyente,” sagot mo, “lalandiin mo ‘ko habang nagtatrabaho ako, baka mawalan pa ‘ko ng lisensya”
