Synopsis: Joshua walks in his lover wearing his shirt for the first time and he can't help but tease you if you would be stealing his last name next.
Smut tags: Unprotected pwp, mention of horny teenagers but nothing crazy, begging, choking, hair pulling, dry humping, thigh riding, lots of praises and dirty talk, piv, creampie, overstimulation and multiple rounds of sex.
Note: This work is a gift for the celebration of Selenophy's First Writing Anniversary! Mdni divider by @/renyanovyn and bow divider by @/cursed-carmine.
You lean against the counter of the open kitchen, engulfed in your boyfriend's shirt, its fabric brushing your skin for the first time. The blue cloth floods down to your knees, covering your shorts along the way. Joshua pads into the living room, his eyebrow arching up in amusement as he lets out an appreciative whistle.
"Wow, you stole my heart first and now you have confiscated my shirt... What's next? My last name?"
"Is that a teaser?" You twin his arched eyebrow.
He grins, pulling you closer by the hem of his own stolen t-shirt.
"Oh, absolutely. But only because someone keeps giving me such good material to work with—first my hoodies, now this?" He playfully tugs at the collar of his shirt, which engulfs you before softening into a fond smile. "Though... if we’re being honest? I wouldn’t mind sharing more than just my wardrobe."
You stay silent merely to provoke him.
"Wow. Cold as ice today, aren’t we? And here I was just about to suggest a little field trip… y’know, for research purposes." His eyes spark with mischief as he leans in slightly. "Ever seen what our last names look like side by side? Because I have—and let’s just say… it fits."
"Absolutely not, they sound weird," you rib him just to earn another kick out of him.
He feigns offense as his lips fold down in exaggeration, resting his hand on his hip.
"Rude. And here I was, thinking you loved me. Turns out it was just for the convenient shirt supply all along."
Joshua tries to hold his faux-pout for a few moments longer, but a smirk eventually wins out. Instead, he reaches forward, tugging playfully at the sleeve of the shirt that's drowning you.
"Damnit, you caught onto my endgame," you huff good-naturally.
A rumble of laughter escapes him, his smirk curving into a wider, affectionate smile. He pulls you in closer, curling his arms around you and resting his chin on the top of your head.
"You know, for someone who's supposed to be the smart one in this relationship, you're shockingly transparent." He teases gently, his fingers ruffling your hair.
"Well, enjoy the privileges while they last," you smirk.
He heaves out a mock sigh, dramatically nuzzling his face against your head.
"Oh, I plan to, don't you worry. After all—" his grip on you tightens fractionally, pulling you even closer "—I have no intention of letting you go. Ever." He murmurs, the words firm yet soft.
"When did the genre switch to horror?" You quip.
Joshua chuckles at your goofy response, leaning back slightly to look into your eyes. He imitates offense once more.
"Horror? Me? You're being dramatic." He coos melodramatically.
He leans forward again, continuing in a playful whisper. "Besides, the real horror story here is your habit of stealing all my clothes."
"No, that's a thriller," you retort.
"A thriller? Are you implying I’m a mystery? Because let me tell you—" his grin turns wicked as he leans in more, "—I don’t think there’s anything left to solve. You already stole my heart, my clothes... and now the plot twist?"
He pauses for dramatic effect before muttering: "Turns out… I never wanted it back."
"Shocker."
Joshua throws his head back with a loud, delighted laugh before pulling you into a tight hug, swaying slightly like he’s savoring the moment.
"Shocker? Nah. Just fact." He murmurs warmly in your ear. "But if we’re doing plot twists now… how about this one?"
He abruptly lifts you off the ground in one smooth motion—grinning down at your startled face as if daring you to protest. "Turns out I also plan on stealing yours forever," he coos.
"If you are going to rob it, then at least do it smoothly."
He lets out an amused huff, carefully setting you back down—but not before spinning you once just to show off. Then he leans in, hands sliding up to cradle your face with exaggeration of a theater.
"Fine. Smooth it is." His voice dips into a low octave, and a playful purr as his thumbs brush over your cheeks. "No more robbery… just graceful acquisition."
A beat passes—his eyes flicker down to yours—before he grins once more and whispers: "Still keeping the t-shirt though."
"Fine, you can keep it on credit for the ring," you loll your head, setting a condition.
A delightful laugh frees from his chest.
"Credit, huh? Sounds like you expect me to propose at some point," he teases.
Joshua's gaze shifts from gaiety to something more serious; his smile tenders more. "Don't worry, you'll get your ring. But for now—"
He tugs playfully at the collar of the 'stolen't-shirt. "I'll keep the collateral."
"You are going to keep your own shirt as collateral?" You raise a brow, huffing out an amused snicker.
He grins down at you with a lively glint in his eyes, one hand still resting at your hip as the other continues to tug gently at the collar of the oversized t-shirt.
"You're clever, y'know that? But don't try to worm your way out of this one," he warns.
Leaning in more, his voice drops back down to an indistinct murmur. "This isn't just a random t-shirt anymore. It's a symbol of your crimes... and my undeniable, irresistible allure."
He chuckles softly, his breath warm against your cheek.
"Mrs. Hong I believe I need to assist collateral valuation of this shirt," he purrs in your ear, his fingertips sneaking under the hem of your shirt, tracing circles on your abdomen as his layered insinuation is crystal clear, making your breath hitch in your throat.
The test is definitely going to be long.
Blow the bow is the free extended version as a gift for my first writing anniversary!
A jovial, throaty laugh escapes him at your reaction—his fingers still teasing under the hem of his shirt on you as he bends back just enough to catch your flustered expression.
"Oh? Did I finally manage to crack that infamous cool-girl act?" He smugly wiggles his brow, lips curving into a wicked grin. "Took me long enough... but damn if it wasn't worth the wait."
A beat passes before he tugs you flush against him again, nose brushing yours playfully. "Still wanna talk about collateral valuations?" He asks in a goading manner.
"You are crazy. Who asks for their own shirt as collateral?" You scoff, though a fading snicker lingers in your tone.
He laughs again, shrugging nonchalantly as his fingers continue their lazy, maddening circles against your skin.
"An opportunist, that's who," he grins foxily.
One eyebrow of his arches in challenge, his smile only widening at your flushed state and the hitch in your breath.
"Besides..." He pauses as he draws closer, his voice pitching to a teasing whisper. "You look damn good in my clothes." He leans in more, "and much better off with them."
"Hey!" you retort, red blossoming on your cheeks.
Your reaction makes him grin more, and he holds your hips closer. He advances, and the little space between you nearly vanishes.
"Aww, now look who's blushing," he coos.
Joshua gently tucks a loose strand of hair behind your ear—trailing his fingers along your jawline and down your neck before continuing. "You're cute when you blush, y'know... and even cuter than that when you're flustered. And I'm just getting started."
He lets out a breathless chuckle, his hands sliding up to cradle your face once more—thumbs brushing over the heat in your cheeks as he grins down at you.
"Oh no. Now she remembers?" His voice drips with playful arrogance. "Guess I’ll have to double down on my criminal activities then."
A beat passes before his expression softens into something warmer, and more genuine. His forehead presses lightly against yours—his next words are barely above a whisper:
"Lucky for you? I don’t plan on stopping anytime soon," he purrs.
His fingers skim across the side of your neck, tracing over the flutter of your pulse—a small sigh escaping him as he leans in a little more, his breath warm and steady against your skin.
"Besides..." he mutters, his teasing tone making a comeback that always makes you give in, "there's no point trying to stop me, not when you're so damn cute when you're all worked up."
His hands slide back to your hips, pulling you snug against him. "Like you are right now."
He effortlessly picks you up, making you sit on the countertop. "So are you up to being an accomplice, Mrs. Hong?" He smugly arches an eyebrow.
"To-be Mrs. Hong," you correct him.
His lips curves up, and his eyes sparkle as he adjusts your position on the counter—his hands slide from your hips to your thighs, gently parting them so he can get closer by stepping between them.
"To-be Mrs. Hong, huh?"
Joshua laughs softly as he leans in, brushing a feather-light kiss over your lips before murmuring against them, "I like the sound of that."
His digits continue their teasing journey up and down your thighs, his thumbs tracing small circles on the sensitive inner skin as he leans in again. This time his kiss is more insistent—deeper, and hungrier.
You can't help but melt against him, your arms sliding around his neck as you press yourself flush against his body. The edge of the countertop is digging into the back of your thighs, but it's the last thing on your mind right now—not when his lips are on yours and his hands are all over you, leaving trails of heat in their wake. You can feel the way his heart is pounding, matching yours beat for beat, as he pulls you even closer—his touch both gentle and hungry at once.
He breaks the kiss with a stifled gasp, burying his face in the crook of your neck and inhaling deeply. His hands grip your thighs, fingers digging in just a little as he tries to catch his breath.
"You have no idea what you do to me." His voice is hoarse and rough, his words punctuated by hot, ragged breaths against your skin. He presses a line of kisses up the side of your neck, pausing at the sensitive spot under your ear to murmur:
"You drive me insane." He pants against your lips.
"I could ride you insane if you insist," you offer raunchily, not knowing where you mustered up that courage from.
He chokes on a laugh—half shocked, half absurdly delighted—as his grip tightens around your thighs. His pupils are blown wide when he pulls back just enough to meet your gaze.
"Oh? Now who’s the criminal mastermind?" He stretches a smug grin; his voice laced with pure sinful amusement, fingers digging in as he leans closer again—lips brushing yours with every word: "Because I am absolutely insisting."
A beat passes before his hands slide up to cup under your knees, hiking them higher around his waist as he grins against your mouth. "Better make good on that threat then."
"Don't forget to give five stars and leave a sexy review," you wink.
Joshua lets out a sharp bark of laughter, pulling away just enough to look at you with a mixture of disbelief and hilarity.
"You're unbelievable, you know that? Even now... you still manage to make me laugh."
He pauses, his gaze roving over you with a new intensity—hot, almost feral. His hands slide back up to your hips, gripping them tightly and pulling you close to the edge of the counter—closer to him.
"But believe me... the only review I'm interested in is the look on your face when I take you apart."
Your breath hitches at his dirty words, a fresh wave of heat pools low in your stomach as he presses against you again. You can feel the evidence of his desire—rock hard against your thigh, and it sends a current of shivers down your spine. You tangle your fingers in his hair, pulling his head down to claim his lips in a hungry kiss as you wrap your legs around his waist.
He moans into the kiss, his hands gripping your thighs as he grinds against you—his whole body taut with need. He presses your back further against the counter.
He captures your mouth again, his tongue demanding entrance as he deepens the kiss—his hips moving in a slow, deliberate rhythm against yours. He breaks the kiss only to trail his lips down your neck, biting and sucking at the sensitive skin. "Is this the kind of attention you wanted?" He asks, panting.
"Maybe you could make me see those stars of the review," you drawl raunchy with a wink.
His eyes glint with lust at your words, pupils blown wide with desire. "Oh, you want stars, huh? I'm gonna make you see galaxies." He grips your thighs harder and spreads them apart, rubbing his denim clad thigh against your crotch.
Joshua captures your mouth again in a bruising kiss, biting your bottom lip hard enough to draw blood. He sucks on your tongue, swallowing your moans as he continues to grind against you with his thigh, applying pressure right where you need it most.
He pulls back just enough to look at you—your lips swollen and wet from the kiss. He sees your eyes glazed over with lust—and it nearly undoes him. "You like that? My thigh rubbing against your pussy?"
The only reply you manage to give is a breathy exhale.
He swallows hard as he watches your face closely. Your silent response tells him everything he needs to know—your body arching slightly, inviting more contact. He presses his denim-covered thigh harder against your core, applying subtle pressure right where he knows you're sensitive. "So fucking pretty," he praises.
Your fingers curl around his arm, contemplating between pulling him closer or away from the sheer amount of pressure.
He loves seeing you like this—completely undone by something so simple. He continues the steady pressure against your core, knowing the rough denim must be driving you crazy. "You're getting so wet through your shorts... I can feel it," he murmurs against your mouth.
He presses his thigh harder against you, creating delicious friction right against your clit. "Want me to stop?" He asks even though he knows the answer—your hips are moving subtly against him now, seeking more pressure.
"No!" you protest with a scratchy wail.
Joshua smirks against your lips, knowing he has you right where he wants you. "Good girl," he coos and continues the steady pressure, his hand moving to grip your hip roughly as he pulls you down harder against his thigh. "You're getting off on my thigh, aren't you?"
You whine, rubbing yourself against him more.
He watches you with lustful intent, his eyes glued to your face as you chase your pleasure against his leg. "Fuck, look at you... So fucking needy." He bites down on your lip hard, sucking on it gently before letting go. "Use my fucking leg like a good girl."
And you do—thoroughly—deliciously grind against his jeans.
His eyes nearly roll back at the sight of you riding his thigh like it's your personal sex toy—your shorts soaked through with arousal. He spreads his legs wider to give you better access while keeping one hand firmly gripping your hip to control the rhythm. "That's it. Get yourself off," he encourages you.
You're vigorously thrusting against his leg, trying to reach climax. He's never seen anything so fucking hot in his life. "Look at you. Using me like your personal toy," he drags his words raunchily as he smirks against your mouth.
You quiver out a moan, rutting against him shamelessly with no self-regard left in your system. Your lips nip at the expanse between his shoulder and neck, making him mirror out a moan of his own.
The remaining thread of his self-control snaps at the feel of your lips and teeth grazing his neck—his body shuddering with pleasure and possessiveness. "Fuck—baby—stop," he pants but doesn't pull away; his hand on your hip grips you more firmly and pulls you even closer, letting you grind harder against him.
His head falls back, giving you full access to his neck as you mark him like an animal. He loves it. His other hand leaves your hip and slides to your ass, pulling you tighter against him as he begins thrusting his thigh upwards to meet your movements.
The friction is insane—your soaked shorts rubbing against his denim thigh at a perfect angle, rubbing against your clit with every thrust upwards. He becomes extremely aroused by watching you ride his clothed thigh. His digits squeeze your ass cheeks roughly. "Come on my thigh. Get yourself off just like that," he coos between messy and tough-curling kisses.
"Fuck—fuck," you stammer as your rhythm becomes irregular with the band in your abdomen close to snapping.
He can feel you're right on the edge—your movements becoming jerky, your moans turning into desperate sounds for the building up release. He spreads his thighs wider, giving you even more friction right where you need it most. "That's it. Fuck my leg. Come for me."
Your body suddenly tenses, your eyes fluttering shut as you let out a loud moan—your orgasm crashing over you like a heightening wave of flood. He watches with bated breath as your face contorts with pleasure, your body wracking with spasms as you ride his thigh mindlessly through your orgasm.
Joshua holds you close, letting you ride out your orgasm on his thigh. The sight of you losing control is the most erotic thing he's ever seen—your face flushed, your mouth open in silent moans, your body trembling against him. He watches the rapid rise and fall of your chest—fuck—he's never been more turned on in his life.
Once your body stops trembling, he spreads your legs wider around his thigh and gently pulls your soaked shorts aside with his fingers. He rubs his denim clad thigh directly against your sensitive clit. "Good girl. Came so prettily for me," he praises, kissing your neck gently.
He can feel your juices soaking through his jeans now—your orgasm was that intense, and he loves the fact that he made you drench his cloth. He gently nips and presses kisses along your jawline and neck, letting you come down from your high. "Look at you... completely destroyed from just dry humping my leg."
"Fuck, I need you," you pant for more, your digits clawing at his belt.
His breath catches in his throat at the leaking desperation in your words—his cock throbbing painfully against his zipper. He grabs your wrists firmly but gently to stop you from unbuckling his belt. "Wait... Baby, wait." He kisses you deeply to distract you from your urgent need. "Not yet."
"Why?" you ask, whining and pouting.
He breaks the kiss to look at you—your pupils blown up, and lips painted red and swollen from his kisses as your chest heaves. You look utterly wrecked and adorable. "Because I want to savor you," he says, running his thumb along your bottom lip. "I want to make love to you slowly."
"Fuck that," you grumble as your lips fold down. "You want to make love on this counter? I say we roast it crisp."
His eyes subtly widen at your sudden, aggressive, and dirty suggestion. He swallows hard, his mind immediately picturing you bent over the counter, his length slamming into you from behind. "Jesus Christ... You're not even giving me a chance to be romantic here," he complains.
"Save that for some other time," you whine, getting more and more impatient by the minute.
Joshua looks down at you—his shirt riding up to your mid-thighs, your breasts pushed against him, your hair messy from his hands and heated kisses. He realizes arguing with a horny, post-orgasmic you is pointless, so he unbuckles his belt slowly.
He watches your face as he slowly unbuttons his pants and pulls out his rock hard length. You lick your lips unconsciously at the sight—your hands reaching out to grab it immediately. He slaps your hand away gently. "Patience," he reminds sternly.
"Tch," you sulk instantly.
He chortles at your adorable impatience, his cock throbbing at the sight of you practically begging for it. "You're like a cat in heat right now," he smiles and wraps his hand around his shaft slowly, giving it a few steady pumps.
He lifts you up suddenly—your legs automatically wrap around his waist. He presses you further back on the icy surface of the counter, his length nestled between your thighs but not entering you yet. "Alright, alright. We'll do it your way," he gives in and begins grinding against you roughly, mimicking sex.
"This is not my way—"
"Shut up," he interrupts your complaint by kissing you deeply, his hips thrusting harder against your core. You moan into his mouth, and he smiles against your lips. "You want me to fuck you right here on this counter? Is that what you're saying?"
"Yes, yes!"
"Fuck, I love horny you," he groans, reaching down to part your lips and positions his head at your entrance. "You're not even letting me put on a condom," he complains.
He knows he should probably stop and put on protection—but oh fuck, the idea of being inside you bare is tempting enough to throw caution out of the window. You're so wet that he slides right against your slit easily without entering. "Baby. We need a condom," he reminds you.
Joshua watches your face—your eyes glazed over with lust, your mouth open and breathless. He knows you're not thinking straight, and neither is he. He tests your wetness again—his length sliding easily against your folds. No condom. He decides quickly.
He pushes his hips forward abruptly—his thick head popping inside you instantly unprotected. You both groan loudly at the feeling—him at the tightness and warmth of your walls wrapped around his length, and you at the sudden fullness. "Fuck... So tight," he groans again. He slowly starts a steady rhythm, getting used to the bare feeling.
Joshua grabs your legs and throws them over his shoulders—giving him deeper access. His hips pound into you roughly, his balls slapping against your ass with each thrust. He's bare inside you—fucking you raw on the kitchen counter like an animal. "Is this what you wanted?" He asks with a low grumble.
"Yeah—fuck—just right there!"
His lips curves up at your desperate plea—his thrusts picking up pace. His hips rub your sweet spot deliciously—his bare length feeling every inch of your tight gummy walls. He pulls out almost completely before slamming back in—making you yelp loudly.
Joshua wraps his digits around your throat firmly—not squeezing but keeping you in place as he fucks you barbarously. He leans down to bite your nipple through the shirt—making you scream his name. "Louder," he demands as his hips snap against yours relentlessly.
He feels your pussy starting to flutter around his length—your orgasm approaching quickly. He wraps his free hand around your waist to hold you in place as he starts jackhammering into you—his pelvis hitting your clit with every thrust. "You're getting close. C'mon baby, spill on my dick." He growls against your neck, his teeth sinking into your skin.
Your moans fill the kitchen as you come undone—your pussy clamping down on his bare length like a vice. His hips keep pounding into you through your orgasm, drawing it out until you're a sobbing mess beneath him. "Good girl," he praises, slowing down his thrusts to gentle circles against your G-spot.
Joshua watches you shatter apart beneath him—your eyes rolling back, your legs trembling, your hands scrabbling for purchase on the counter. Your walls milking his bare cock relentlessly. "Fuck. So close." He pants as the bare sensations overwhelm him. "I'm gonna come inside you," he warns.
He slams into you one last time—his bare length pulsing and releasing deep inside your unprotected pussy. His semen coats your insides, mixing with your own juices. He stays buried inside you as his hips twitch slightly as he finishes emptying his load.
He stays buried inside you for a long while—his softening length still nestled deep in your painted walls. He presses his forehead against yours as both of you pant heavily. "We just had unprotected sex," he says, making you laugh weakly.
"Fuck it," you pant out.
"We just did," he points out.
You both share a silent look, then burst into laughter.
He pulls out gently—both of you look down at the mess he's left behind. His semen leaks out of you, running down your thighs. He watches this with a lustful yet impressed smirk—proud of his handiwork. "We really fucked."
"Filling me up on the counter. What a chief," your lips curve up.
Joshua chuckles and swats your ass playfully. "Shut up. You loved every second of it," he points out, grabbing some paper towels and starts cleaning you up gently—wiping away the evidence of their unprotected encounter.
As he's cleaning you up, he can't help but notice how natural this feels—how right it feels to be taking care of you after fucking you senseless on his kitchen counter. He throws the paper towels away and pulls you into his arms, resting his chin on top of your head.
"I'm glad I'm not the only one who's completely fucked up right now," he murmurs softly, holding you tighter against him. His hand gently rubs your back in soothing circles. "Because, holy shit. We just had bare countertop sex like two horny teens."
"Well, horny teens don't stop at round one. They keep the show going," you drawl raunchily, your fingertip trailing down his navel.
His body tightens as your digits travel lower. He knows you're right—hormonal teens would keep going until they were completely spent. He captures your hand and brings it to his lips, sucking on your fingertip. "Is that an invitation?" He hums against your skin.
"Would you accept it?" you counter back cockily, arching an eyebrow.
Joshua releases your finger with a pop and grins wolfishly. "Abso-fucking-lutely," he lifts you up suddenly, making you yelp and wrap your legs around his waist once again. He pads towards the bedroom with you in his arms. "Round two it is then."
He doesn't get to make it to the bed as you start peppering kisses against his neck and grinding against him—and suddenly he's pressing you against the wall next to the bedroom door, lifting your leg over his hip. "Fuck being gentle," he grumbles.
He slams his hard length back into your still-dripping and swollen pussy without a warning. You both groan loudly—your foreheads pressing against each other's as he begins rutting against the wall like an animal. "This is what you wanted, right? Fucking like horny teenagers?" He asks in a lower octave.
"Yeah, wild and rough," you agree, heaving out.
Your words make him go feral as he begins pounding into you savagely against the wall—his hips snapping forward violently. Your tits bounce with each thrust, and he leans down to bite one roughly through his shirt that you're still wearing. "Fuck, you're still so damn tight," he groans.
He starts mauling your tits with his mouth—biting, sucking, marking them through the fabric. His cock hits your cervix with every brutal thrust—making you scream in intense, painful pleasure. "Look at you, taking my big dick so well," he praises gruffly, reaching down to swat your ass hard.
You yelp.
Joshua slaps your ass again—loving the way it jiggles and turns beet red from his palm. He wraps your legs tighter around his waist and starts lifting you up and down on his cock—using the wall for leverage to fuck you even deeper and harder. "Hold onto me, baby."
You wrap your arms around his neck tightly—your nails digging into his shoulders as he continues to pound into you relentlessly. His balls slap against your ass with each thrust—making a wet slapping sound. "We're gonna fuck the fucking."
His dirty talking and rough handling send you over the edge quickly. You come undone around him immediately—your pussy squelching and contracting on his length as you climax loudly. He grunts in satisfaction—loving how wet and noisy you are when you come. "That's it," he coos.
His hips keep fucking you through your orgasm—drawing it out until you're a sobbing, panting mess against the wall. He pulls out suddenly—his cock glistening with your juices and his own semen from earlier. "Turn around," he orders roughly, spinning you around violently.
He presses your cheek against the wall—your ass sticking out. He runs his hands over your bruised hips and slapped ass cheeks possessively. "Damnit, you look like a sin in my shirt," he groans and thrusts back into you abruptly—making your tits slap against the wall.
Joshua spreads your cheeks apart and pulls out almost all the way before slamming back in—his balls hitting your swollen lips with each forceful thrust. He leans forward, pressing his chest against your back and wrapping his arms under your thighs to pull your legs back and spread you wider.
You're completely opened up and helpless against the wall—completely at his mercy as he uses you ruthlessly for his pleasure. Your pussy is dripping and messy from both orgasms that his cock makes sloppy sounds as he fucks into you.
You moan, mewl and scratch against the wall from sheer pleasure.
Joshua notices your legs trembling and hears your desperate mewls—knowing you're completely overwhelmed by his rough handling. He spreads your cheeks wider and starts fucking you at a brutal pace—his hips slapping loudly against your ass. "Take it," he grunts.
Your pussy makes the lewdest noises as he pounds into your walls barbarously—your juices coating his shaft and making everything slippery and drip. He reaches around to pinch your clit—knowing another orgasm will make everything even messier.
You cry out as your orgasm draws closer, but your senses are beginning to get fried out.
Your overwhelming sensations make you even more attractive to him. He realizes you're completely mindless and sensitive—one big erogenous zone. He starts snapping his hips brutally—hitting that spot inside you that makes your eyes roll back. "Fucking sensitive little thing," he grumbles.
Your legs completely give out as another mind-numbing orgasm washes over you. Joshua catches you before you fall—holding you up against the wall as he continues to fuck you through it. Your pussy is completely wrecked now—completely swollen and dripping down your legs.
He groans loudly as he feels your ruined walls clenching rhythmically around his length. His digits spread your cheeks wide to watch his cock slamming into your gaping hole. "Shit."
He's never seen anything sexier than you—completely fucked out by him. Your tits bounce wildly against the wall, your legs tremble violently, and your pussy makes disgustingly loud noises as he fucks into it. "I'm gonna come inside you," he grunts.
You let out a broken cry, a mix of a plea for him to fill you up again and a warning that you're overwhelmed.
Your broken cry ignites a new wave of heat in his abdomen. He wraps his arms around your waist tighter and pulls you even flush against him—his hips moving like a jackhammer as he chases his release. "I know, baby," he coos, trying to soothe your fried nerves.
"Fuck!—too much—ah, right there!"
His length rubs that sweet spot inside you that cuts off a circuit in your brain completely. Incoherent babble flutters out of you—your words turning into desperate mewls as he drills into you savagely. Your pussy starts gushing uncontrollably—soaking around him. "Fucking hell."
His eyes roll back as you drench him—your body going limp and overwhelmed. He loses control completely—his hips snapping forward violently as he empties himself inside you for one last time. His hot release mixes with your excessive fluids—dripping down your legs.
He holds you up against the wall—both of you completely spent and destroyed. Your pussy is absolutely ruined—gushing and leaking floods of his semen and your own juices down your thighs. He's never seen anything more erotic in his life. "Shh, baby. I gotcha," he hums.
You pant, melting in his arms. Your mind is all mushy, and you're gone—from frequent rounds of delicious pleasure.
Joshua peppers your neck with soft kisses, bracing you firmly as he feels your body go limp against him. He knows you're completely spent—overloaded with pleasure and completely satisfied. He pulls out slowly—his cum dripping out of your ruined hole as he carries you to the bed. "My poor girl," he coos, patting down your spiked strands.
He lays you down on the bed gently, tucking you under the covers to keep you warm. His eyes watch you for a moment—your face flushed, your mouth open, and your body completely relaxed. He can't believe how fucking adorable you look and completely fucked out.
Joshua begins cleaning you up, wiping away the mess between your legs with a warm cloth. He gazes at the angry bruises on your hips and the red handprints on your ass cheeks—proof of how roughly he took you. He kisses each mark gently. "So damn perfect," he praises.
He climbs into bed beside you, pulling you into his arms and wrapping the blankets around both of you, and holds you close—his heart racing from the intense sex and his love for you. He buries his face in your hair and inhales your distinct scent. "I love you so fucking much," he murmurs softly, kissing your forehead gently.
"So when are you giving me your last name?" You ask suddenly.
He laughs softly—amused by your ability to be coherent enough to joke around after being fucked into oblivion. "Are you seriously thinking about marriage right now? Your pussy is still leaking my cum and you want to talk wedding plans?" He smirks, raising a brow.
"Why not? Your fill reminded me of a wedding dress... y'know, they're both white," you blabber, trying to make your weird comparison sound coherent while your brain is still floating.
Joshua bursts into laughter—your logical comparison between wedding dresses and his semen is hilarious to him. He pulls you closer—his hand automatically going between your legs to feel the mess he's made inside you. "Baby... Your mind is broken," he grins, kissing your forehead again.
"Are you even going to marry me?" You ask as your lips fold down.
Joshua gazes down at you—his expression softens at your pout. He knows you're half-joking, but he can also sense a hint of insecurity deeply layered underneath your words. He rolls you over onto your back and hovers over you—his hands framing your face. "Of course I'm gonna marry you, you idiot," he says seriously.
"You better," you squint your eyes at him.
He chuckles, leaning down to press a gentle kiss to your lips. He is aware you're just playing around, but he also knows that deep down, you're serious about this. "I'll give you my last name the second you let me put a ring on that finger," he murmurs against your lips.
"I never stopped you from putting one," you say, darting from his eyes, choosing to stare at his jaw, where your digit trails.
He notices your evasive gaze and the way your finger is tracing his jawline. He grabs your hand firmly and brings it to his lips—kissing your fingertips softly. "Then why am I still not married to you, huh?" he asks teasingly, nipping at your fingertip.
"Because you still haven't asked me properly," you retort, biting your inner cheek.
He chortles, rolling his eyes playfully, knowing you're right. He's never actually proposed properly. It's always been joking around or spontaneous moments. "So you're saying you want some big, romantic proposal?" He asks, his mind already racing with ideas.
"No, I just want you. Your last name and ring on me."
Joshua swallows thickly—his heart warming at your simple yet heartfelt response. He knows you don't need some big, flashy proposal—you just want him, and that's more than enough. "Then you'll have it," he promises softly.
You cast him a small, shy smile. He wants to tease you more, but your brain is still fogged up from intense rounds of sex, and it's really not the right time to discuss such a serious topic right now.
"Go to sleep now," he coos, kissing your temple.
You nod drowsily, already feeling your eyes fluttering shut. His arms wrap tightly around you and adjust the blanket up over both of you again. He knows you're exhausted—both physically and mentally. He also knows that you're the only woman he's ever wanted to marry.
He spoons you from behind, pecking your shoulder. He smiles knowingly to himself as he looks at the framed picture of you two resting on the shelf. It captures the happy couple surrounded by lush greenery. His arm rests on your waist and you make the peace sign, both of grinning in the frame but what Joshua smiles about right now is not the picture of your first anniversary—it's about a small box cozying a ring hiding behind it on the shelf.
Author's Note:
Is it obvious I pretty much gave up on this one lol?
It's too much to mend
You're the hug that had to end
Though I've tried to hold on
And if you knew me at all
You wouldn't try to keep me small
Who would do that to a friend
Let alone the one you love?
Xu Minghao, 2028
Paris has a way of making people believe they’re living inside a photograph—soft edges, cold air, everything washed in a pale shade of blue.
But walking alone along the Seine, I realize the city only feels romantic when your heart is quiet.
Mine isn’t.
The river glimmers under the winter dusk, rippling like it’s carrying memories I tried to leave behind years ago. I lean against the railing, let the iron bite into my palms, and breathe out slowly.
Three years.
Three years since Sua left for Paris.
And somehow, the ache hasn’t shifted an inch.
I thought time would dull it.
I thought distance would turn everything into a harmless story.
Instead, standing here, I feel exactly like I did at twenty-one—young, unsure, holding my breath without realizing it.
Funny, how easily the past returns.
One moment I’m staring at the river, and the next I’m remembering her at twenty-six: small, loud, a little chaotic in that way only she could pull off. She had a way of filling rooms with noise, hands always moving, laughter spilling out before she even finished a joke. And her laugh stayed with me.
And now she’s thirty-one.
Older than me by two years, glowing in a way that comes from surviving life rather than escaping it. She moves differently now—calmer, more certain, like she finally learned how to inhabit her own skin.
But when she laughs… it’s the same sound.
Light. Familiar.
A quiet door opening inside my chest.
I close my eyes because the realization stings more than it should:
I’m not over her.
I’ve never been.
—
People think my life got simpler after she left.
That her departure was just a footnote in the chaos of fame.
But the truth is far messier.
When Sua disappeared to Paris, the fallout didn’t hit me first—it hit Seungcheol.
Hyung doesn’t break loudly.
He crumbles the way old paper does—quiet, slow, unavoidable.
I saw pieces of him fall every day.
The way he stopped humming before rehearsals.
The way he lingered in empty practice rooms after everyone left.
The way he stared at his phone like he was waiting for a call he already knew wouldn’t come.
And on one of those nights, long after the others had gone home, he finally admitted, in a voice that barely carried:
“She was the calmest part of my life.”
It felt like he was confessing to a betrayal he couldn’t name.
And I…
I felt something I shouldn’t have.
Relief.
Because if he was losing her—
Did that mean I had a chance?
I hated myself for thinking about it.
For wanting something that hurt someone I respected so deeply.
But feelings are rarely polite.
And mine had been waiting too long.
—
Eventually, I push myself away from the river and start walking without direction, letting the city guide me the way it always does when I’m overwhelmed.
I don’t even realize where my feet have taken me until I’m standing in front of Dior.
The windows glow golden against the blue evening, warm and soft, like they’re inviting me to forget everything for a moment.
Maybe that’s why I walk in.
The scent of expensive perfume greets me, clean and floral. Soft music hums in the background. A staff member bows, recognizing me but keeping it discreet.
I move without thinking, past the bags and coats, toward the accessories where silk scarves drape like water.
I reach out and touch one—pale cream, faint gold threads, delicate enough to feel like a secret.
Sua would look beautiful in this.
The thought appears naturally, like breathing.
Too naturally.
My chest tightens.
It’s ridiculous. I shouldn’t be standing here thinking about her like this. I shouldn’t be imagining how she’d look in something I picked, or how she’d scrunch her nose before refusing the gift, claiming it’s too much.
I can practically hear her voice:
“Minghao, no. Are you crazy? I’m not wearing a Dior scarf.”
And I can hear mine, too—tired, amused, trying not to smile:
“Come on. It’s cheap. I’m a superstar.”
I swallow, suddenly aware of the sting forming behind my eyes.
Great.
Perfect.
Of all places to cry—a Dior store.
I clear my throat, grab the scarf, and carry it to the counter.
“Gift wrap it,” I say.
The employee smiles gently. “A special someone?”
I hesitated for only a moment.
“…Something like that.”
They wrap it in black and gold, tie a ribbon so flawless it almost hurts to look at. I take the bag, feeling its weight—not heavy, but significant.
When I step back outside, Paris feels colder—not the air, but something inside me settling into clarity.
Because standing there on the empty street, clutching a gift for a woman who may never accept it, the truth finally lands, soft but devastating:
I never moved on from Jang Sua.
Not three years ago.
Not last year.
Not even yesterday.
And worse—
This time, I want to fight for her.
Even if it makes me selfish.
Even if it means standing against fate, against hyung, against the history I was never part of but always felt.
Even if she doesn’t choose me in the end.
For once, I want to try.
Not as a patient friend.
Not as the younger one who watched from afar.
But as the man I’ve become.
And if that makes me the villain…
then so be it.
—
The air inside Musée d’Orsay always feels different.
Quiet in a way that feels… intentional. Like the walls were built to absorb noise and leave only breath behind.
Sua walks in first.
And Paris light does her a favor.
Again.
It pours through the massive clock windows, soft and golden, and it hits her hair in this angle that makes me want to punch the sun for trying to show off. She tucks a strand behind her ear, the motion familiar, the same as years ago—but something about her is completely changed too. Stronger. Calmer. Like she’s grown into her own silhouette.
She glances at me over her shoulder.
“Come on, Hao. I know exactly which hall you’ll like.”
It’s stupid—how her voice still does this to me.
Like it’s brushing dust off memories I didn’t realize I’d kept so carefully.
I follow her past marble sculptures and high arches.
I’ve been here a dozen times, but today the museum feels new.
Maybe because she’s the one leading me.
Maybe because I’m watching her, not the art.
She stops in front of a massive canvas.
A Degas.
Of course it’s Degas.
Muted colors, soft brushwork, dancers frozen mid-motion—all things I love.
But for a moment, the painting might as well be a blank wall, because all I can focus on is the way Sua’s eyes soften when she looks at it.
She steps closer, hands clasped in front of her.
“I always liked this one,” she murmurs.
“It’s messy up close. But if you step back…”
She takes two small steps back, demonstrating.
“…it makes sense again.”
I could tell her that’s the same way I feel about her.
Up close she’s too much—too bright, too brave, too honest.
But when I step back—
She makes sense of every chaotic thing in my chest.
I don’t say it.
Instead, I watch the way her lashes flutter when she leans closer to study a brushstroke, the way her breath hitches softly, the way her brows knit as she tries to decode the artist’s intention.
She’s been here a thousand times, but she looks like she’s seeing it for the first time.
And I…
I’m not looking at Degas at all.
I’m looking at her.
She must feel it, because she suddenly stills.
The air around us shifts.
Slowly, she turns her head.
Her eyes meet mine.
And it’s over for me.
Completely over.
“Why are you looking at me like that?” she asks softly.
I swallow, but it does nothing to loosen the tightness in my throat.
“Sorry,” I murmured. “I just… haven’t seen you this close in a long time.”
Her breath catches.
Just slightly.
But I see it.
Her gaze flickers down—to my mouth—then back up.
It’s fast, subtle, but I’ve spent years learning how to read tiny details in people.
She knows.
She feels this too.
I step closer.
The museum is quiet enough that I can hear her inhale.
Quiet enough that the space between us suddenly feels like a live wire.
“Look,” she whispers, motioning at the painting again. “The layering here is—”
She doesn’t finish.
Because I lift my hand.
Slowly.
Carefully.
Like I’m touching something sacred.
My fingers hover for a second—
God, I didn’t expect to be this nervous—
and then I slip two fingers under her chin.
Just enough to guide her face upward.
To the painting.
To me.
Her lips part.
She freezes—but she doesn’t pull back.
Her skin is warm under my touch, soft in a way that feels unfair.
I lower my voice.
“There,” I murmur, pointing at a delicate brushstroke with my other hand.
“The texture. You used to notice this before I did.”
She doesn’t even look at the painting.
She’s looking at me.
And oh—
her eyes.
They’re exactly the same as the day when we first met.
Wide, curious, easy to read if you knew how.
But now there’s something deeper under it.
Something heavier.
I step closer.
Close enough to feel her breath on my jaw.
Her eyes flicker to my lips again.
It’s small.
Barely a twitch.
But it’s enough.
I lean in.
Just a little.
Just enough that the world blurs behind her.
Her breath catches.
Her hands tremble.
She moves in too.
Slow.
Careful.
Like we’re both afraid to scare the moment away.
Our noses almost brush.
Almost.
Almost.
And then—
She steps back.
Just half a step.
Small enough to look accidental.
Big enough to break me.
“…Hao,” she whispers, voice unsteady.
“Don’t start something we can’t finish.”
The sting is instant.
Sharp.
Precise.
But I don’t show it.
Instead, I smile—a soft one, the kind that tries to hide an entire storm behind its edges.
“I’m not starting anything,” I murmured.
“I’m just… catching up.”
Her eyes soften.
She knows what I mean.
She knows exactly how much I’ve missed her.
How much I shouldn’t want her.
How much I do anyway.
She looks down at her shoes, cheeks flushed.
Silence fills the space between us again—
but this time it’s heavier.
Charged.
I drop my hand from her chin slowly.
Carefully.
Like letting go of something I’m not sure I’ll ever be allowed to touch again.
She exhales shakily.
And for a moment—just one—
I swear she leans toward me again.
But she stops herself.
Of course she does.
Because Sua is careful.
Because Sua thinks ahead.
Because Sua is the kind of person who knows that hearts are fragile and timing is cruel.
And I—
I’m the idiot who still hopes anyway.
—
We leave the museum quietly.
Not awkward.
Not rushed.
Just… thoughtful.
The winter air hits first—cold, crisp, carrying the kind of Paris dusk that looks like it was made for confessions. Streetlights blink on one by one, washing the pavement in soft amber.
Sua rubs her palms together.
“Cold,” she mutters.
Without thinking, I slip my hands into my pockets so I don’t reach for hers.
“Let’s get dinner,” I offer, keeping my voice light. “You pick. You know the best places here.”
She smiles—small, shy, still a little shaken from what almost happened.
Almost.
God, that word is going to kill me one day.
“Okay,” she says softly. “I know a place.”
—
The bistro Sua chooses looks like it was built out of candlelight and nostalgia—everything gold-tinged and a little cramped, tables pushed too close together like everyone’s secrets are meant to overlap. My coat brushes hers as we sit, knees grazing. I pretend that’s normal. I pretend I’m not hyper-aware of every centimeter between us that doesn’t exist anymore.
It feels like Paris is playing a prank on me.
Like the city is whispering, oh, you think you moved on? Cute.
The waiter drops off wine. A deep red that smells like regret aged in oak barrels. Sua swirls hers slowly, looking at it like it’s a fortune teller.
“I forgot how early you start drinking here,” I tease.
She nudges her glass toward mine. “I forgot how early you used to judge me.”
We toast—softly, the way people do when they’re scared of shattering something fragile.
The first sip hits warm. Too warm.
Maybe it’s the wine.
Maybe it’s her.
Probably her.
“So,” she says, leaning back. “Three years. Tell me everything. Start with something normal. Like… how’s your mom?”
My chest tightens. That’s the thing about Sua—she always goes for the heart first, like it’s the most obvious entry point.
“She’s good,” I say, fingers tapping my glass. “Still sending me videos of random cats she finds on the street. Still pretending she doesn’t know how to use AirPods.”
Sua’s smile is immediate, soft. “She still asks about me?”
“Every time she sees a scarf she thinks you’d like,” I admit. “She… really loved you.”
Sua’s gaze dips. She traces a finger on the condensation of her glass, drawing circles that disappear as fast as they form.
“I loved her too,” she says quietly.
The wine suddenly tastes heavier.
There’s a pause—not awkward, just… dense. Like we’re standing at the edge of a memory we don’t know how to walk through without falling in.
“Your turn,” I say. “How’s Paris been treating you?”
Sua laughs, but it’s small. “Honestly? I don’t know. Some days I think I’m living the dream. Some days I think I’m running away. And some days…”
She trails off.
“Some days?” I prompt.
“Some days I wake up and think of home. And I don’t even know what ‘home’ means anymore.”
Her voice is too honest. Honest in the way it used to be at 2 a.m. on rooftops when we were younger and dumb and thought the world was a little kinder.
“I get that,” I say.
She looks up sharply. “You do?”
“Yeah. I spent the last three years watching everyone heal in different ways…”
I swallow. “And me somewhere in the middle.”
Sua’s breath catches. She tries to hide it with another sip of wine.
I continue, because if I stop, I won’t say it at all.
“You know what was the worst part?” I ask.
“What?”
“Feeling like the only person who wasn’t allowed to break.”
Her face shifts—something like guilt, something like tenderness.
“Minghao…”
“I had to watch two people I cared about fall apart,” I say. “And when I almost fell too, there was no one to catch me.”
She reaches across the table—instinct, reflex—then freezes halfway. Her hand hovers there, midair, like she’s afraid of her own impulse.
I force a smile. “It’s fine. That’s old news.”
But my voice cracks on old.
Sua slowly retracts her hand, but her eyes stay on me, searching, like she’s trying to read the parts of me she forgot existed.
“You know,” she says softly, “you look different now.”
“Older?” I tease.
“Stronger,” she corrects. “Quieter. Like you carry things but don’t tell anyone.”
“That’s not new.”
“No,” she says, “but the weight is.”
And she says it so gently I almost forget to breathe.
We fall into conversation after that—drifting between old memories and half-jokes, talking like people who used to know each other’s schedules down to which day they’d skip lunch.
We talk about art. About performing. About stupid gossip from home.
She tells me about the older woman at her workplace who mothers her too much.
I tell her about Seungkwan panicking every tour season.
She chokes on her wine laughing when I show her a picture of Dokyeom’s newest plant.
It’s easy. Too easy.
Like slipping back into a hoodie you thought you lost.
She laughs so hard her eyes disappear, shoulders shaking, hand hitting the table. God—I forgot how much I loved that laugh.
And every time she leans closer, brushing my arm by accident, something in my ribs flickers like it’s trying to remember being alive.
Then she asks about it.
Because of course she does.
“So,” she says teasingly, eyes glinting over her wine glass, “how about you, Mr. Superstar? Have any girlfriends since I left?”
It’s playful. Light.
But her shoulders go tense, like she’s bracing herself.
I could lie. I could laugh it off.
But I’m too tired for halfway truths.
“I tried,” I say.
Her smile falters.
“But no one ever felt like you.”
The words come out quiet. Almost conversational.
But they land between us like a confession.
Sua freezes—not dramatically, just a tiny, startled halt, like someone hit pause right when her heart was mid-beat.
Her eyes widened just a little.
Her fingers stop playing with her glass.
She inhales—but forgets to finish it.
And I know that look.
I remember it from years ago.
It’s the look she gets when she wants something she’s not supposed to want.
“Minghao…” she whispers.
Her voice isn’t angry. Or smug.
It’s shaken.
“We shouldn’t talk like that,” she says. “We’re… older now. Wiser.”
I smile, soft. “Are we?”
“No,” she admits, and it breaks something open inside me.
We sit there, drowning in things we won’t touch.
She looks down at her hands like they’re betraying her.
I look at her and try not to reach across the table again.
She exhales slowly, like she’s deflating.
For one suspended moment, with wine warming our bones and Paris humming outside, she almost looks like she might reach for me again.
But she doesn’t.
And I pretend I don’t feel the ghost of it.
—
The staircase to the rooftop complains with every step—creaking, rattling, betraying us to whatever security guard is probably sleeping downstairs. But Sua climbs it like she owns the place. Like she owns gravity. Like she owns me, honestly.
“Sua,” I hissed under my breath, trying to keep my voice down even though laughter is already threatening to leak out. “This is definitely private.”
She waves her hand backwards without looking.
“Everything’s public until someone tells you no.”
Of course she says that.
Of course I follow her anyway.
The door at the top clicks open easily—like the universe is enabling her crimes—and suddenly we’re on a small rooftop that looks forgotten by time, by renovations, by humans in general.
Just one old bench.
A few winter-killed plants.
A railing that looks like it was installed by someone who trusted too much.
And beyond all of that: Paris.
A thousand lights smeared like watercolor across the horizon.
She steps out first.
The wind tugs at her hair, slipping a strand across her cheek. She tucks it behind her ear slowly, almost absent-mindedly, eyes drifting across the skyline like she’s scanning for memories.
She shivers—barely noticeable, but I catch it.
My jacket is off my shoulders before I even think.
She turns, startled when I place it over her.
Her fingers catch mine for half a second.
Warm. Soft. Familiar.
“You’ve changed,” she says, tilting her head, that teasing lilt back in her voice.
I swallow.
“Not enough, apparently.”
Her breath catches—just barely.
Like she wasn’t expecting honesty.
We sit on the little iron bench, close because the bench is small, but closer than we need to be. Our knees brush. It’s nothing. It’s everything. The wine bottle sits between us like a dangerous middleman.
She leans back, staring up at the sky.
“I forgot how pretty Paris is,” she murmurs.
I look at her profile, the way the city lights turn her eyes honey-warm.
“Yeah,” I say softly. “Me too.”
She groans dramatically. “Okay, that was cheesy.”
“But it's true.”
“Still cheesy.”
But she smiles as she says it, and my chest feels like someone lit a candle in it.
We talk again, about the kind of things people only talk about when they’re sitting too close and pretending nothing is happening.
She tells me about a bakery near her apartment that she swears has “life-changing croissants.”
I told her the tour messed up my internal clock so badly I can sleep standing up now.
She confesses her coworkers are scared of her.
I tell her I’m still not convinced she isn’t intimidating on purpose.
Her laugh comes easier with every minute.
Looser. Warmer. Like wine trailing down the spine.
At one point she leans in—just a centimeter too close—and her laugh brushes my jaw.
My pulse betrays me instantly.
Then it happens.
She glances at my mouth.
Fast.
Instinctive.
Like she didn’t mean to, but her eyes just… went.
She freezes.
I freeze harder.
The air goes thick—the kind that feels like destiny inhaling sharply.
Her gaze flicks up to mine again.
Her smile falters.
Something shifts—something tender, hesitant, unbearably familiar.
“Stop looking at me like that,” she whispers, trying to tease, but it comes out breathier than she intends.
“Like what?” My voice is low, rough in a way I don’t hear often.
She opens her mouth—closes it—tries again.
“I don’t know. Like I’m…”
She swallows.
“Like I’m yours.”
Her words hit something old in me.
Something bruised.
Something that never healed right.
“Sua,” I breathe.
But she shakes her head, tiny, fragile.
“Don’t,” she whispers. “Not if you don’t mean it.”
I look at her—really look—and the wind feels louder suddenly, the city quieter.
“I always mean it,” I say.
Her breath stutters.
Her hand moves—small, unconscious—toward my sleeve.
Not grabbing. Just… touching.
Like she’s letting herself remember the shape of me.
We sit like that for a moment, suspended, both terrified to speak in case the spell breaks.
Then the wind blows again.
She shivers.
I lean in without thinking.
Not enough to kiss.
Just enough that our foreheads almost touch.
“Cold?” I murmur.
She shakes her head.
“No.”
But her voice trembles in the middle—just once.
She looks at my mouth again.
Longer this time.
Softer.
Like she’s studying it.
Like she’s trying to decide something that scares her.
I feel her breath mix with mine.
She leans in—barely, but enough that heat curls low in my stomach.
I don’t move.
I’m terrified if I do, she’ll pull away.
Her gaze flicks up.
Our noses graze.
And then, quietly—
“Minghao,” she whispers, voice cracking on the second syllable, “I… don’t know what I’m doing.”
“Me neither,” I admit.
Her lips quirk into the saddest, smallest smile.
Then—
Very slowly, like she’s giving herself permission inch by inch, she lifts her hand to my jaw.
Her thumb barely touches my skin.
A whisper of contact.
The kind that says I’ve missed this more than I’ll ever admit.
I exhale shakily.
She leans in—not fully, not confidently.
Just enough that I can feel the trembling in her breath, the uncertainty, the wanting.
“Hao…”
My name breaks on her tongue.
And then she moves.
A small, soft, terrifying kiss—
Barely pressure.
Barely time.
Just her lips against mine like a secret she finally let slip.
I kiss back—gentle, careful, terrified that if I move too fast she’ll disappear.
One second.
Two.
Then she pulls away, chest rising too fast, eyes wide like she just stepped off a cliff.
“We shouldn’t have,” she whispers.
Maybe.
She’s right.
Probably.
But her lips are still parted.
Her hand is still on my jaw.
And she’s still leaning toward me.
“…But you kissed me back.”
She closes her eyes.
Pain flickers through her expression.
But so does something else.
Wanting.
Remembering.
Considering.
“I know,” she breathes, voice shaking.
“I know.”
—
The kiss still lingers on my lips—warm, trembling, unfinished—when Sua pulls away.
Her eyes won’t settle.
Her breathing’s uneven.
Her hand is still on my jaw, like she forgot to put it back.
For a moment, neither of us moves.
Paris waits below us, glittering like it’s holding its breath on our behalf.
Then she pulls back.
Slow.
Like she’s trying not to wake something.
“I should—” she begins.
I know what she’s going to say.
That she should go.
That she shouldn’t have kissed me.
That this was a mistake.
I can already feel my chest tightening, preparing to hear it.
But the word never leaves her mouth.
Instead, she just swallows hard, blinking fast.
She’s not ready to say it.
I’m not ready to hear it.
So I take a step toward her—not close enough to the corner, but close enough she knows I’m choosing her over fear.
“Come with me,” I say quietly.
She startles a little. “Minghao—”
“Just… ten more minutes.”
I breathe out, steady.
Honest.
Bare.
“I’m not ready to say goodnight.”
The wind moves around us.
So does something between us.
For a second, she just looks at me—really looks.
Like she’s searching for the trap, the danger, the thing that will make this make sense.
But there’s nothing.
Just me.
Just her.
Just tonight.
She hesitates.
Then nods.
Not big.
Not confident.
Just a small, fragile nod that still makes something in my chest bloom painfully wide.
We walk down the old staircase again—quieter this time.
Our footsteps sound softer.
Like the kiss stole all the sharp edges out of the world.
Outside, Paris feels colder.
Brighter.
More unreal.
We drift toward the river instinctively, pulled by the kind of gravity that doesn’t need words. The Seine glints like silver ribbon under the city lights, and the stone path beside it is quiet except for our muffled steps.
We don’t hold hands.
But our shoulders brush every few seconds.
Like punctuation marks.
Like reminders.
Sua keeps her eyes on the river, but her mind is clearly miles away.
Her breaths come uneven, like she’s thinking too fast to breathe right.
I steal a glance at her.
Her cheeks are pink from the cold.
Her lips—god—still look soft, still look kiss-warm.
She bites the corner of her mouth once, like she’s trying to reel herself back in.
“Are you okay?” I ask gently.
Bad idea.
She freezes.
“Yeah.”
Her voice cracks around the word.
Then she clears her throat.
“Yeah. I’m just—thinking.”
“About?”
She laughs once—short, shaky.
“Everything.”
She doesn’t say names.
But I feel the ghost of one in the air anyway.
I swallow, trying to soften my voice.
“You don’t have to pretend you’re not overwhelmed.”
“I’m not pretending,” she says.
Then quieter:
“Okay. Maybe a little.”
We walk in silence for a few seconds.
Her shoulder brushes mine again—
Not by accident this time.
She doesn’t pull away.
Neither do I.
The lamps along the river reflect in her eyes—thin streaks of gold that make her look almost undone. Like one more soft touch would make her spill everything she’s been holding in.
She exhales shakily.
“Minghao…”
“Mm?”
She slows her steps—not stopping, just easing her speed like her thoughts got too heavy to carry at full pace.
“What… what are we doing?”
Her voice barely reaches me.
It’s small.
Young.
Afraid.
Hopeful.
My heart squeezes.
“I don’t know.”
I shrug gently.
“But it feels… right to be here with you.”
She looks at me quickly—like she wasn’t expecting me to say something that earnest.
Then she snorts—god, I missed that sound—then nudges me with her shoulder.
“Don’t you dare.”
The river glimmers beside us.
The city hums softly.
And between us—warmth, aching and quiet, stretching thin like a thread neither of us wants to let go.
Finally she says, “I keep thinking about the kiss.”
I choke on my breath slightly. “Yeah?”
She nods, eyes on the ground.
“Yeah.”
My heartbeat becomes a full percussion ensemble.
“And?” I ask, softer.
She takes a breath.
Then another.
Her voice drops to a whisper.
“And I didn’t… want it to stop.”
The world tilts.
Just a little.
I don’t grab her hand.
I don’t pull her to me.
I just walk beside her, letting her confession settle in the air between us, warm and trembling.
“You know…” she says after a long, shaky exhale, “I thought seeing you again would feel like closure.”
“And?”
“It doesn’t,” she admits.
“It feels like—like a book I thought I finished, but suddenly there are new pages.”
My throat tightens.
Dangerously.
“Sua…”
She shakes her head quickly.
“No. Don’t—don’t read into it. I’m not… choosing. I’m not making promises.”
She glances up at me, eyes raw.
“I’m just… telling you how it feels.”
I nod.
Slow.
Honest.
“That’s enough for me.”
Our shoulders brush again—
This time lingering for a beat too long.
We don’t say anything else for a while.
We just walk.
The dark water beside us.
The city around us.
The kiss behind us.
Something new ahead.
Ten minutes, I said.
But the night stretches on and neither of us says goodnight.
Not yet.
Not when everything feels like this.
Not when we’re both afraid of what going home alone will force us to admit.
—
The walk back to her apartment should be ten minutes.
Paris makes it feel like two.
We don’t talk.
We don’t touch.
But our shoulders brush every few steps, like gravity keeps forgetting we’re not allowed to want each other.
And God—
every time her sleeve whispers against my arm,
my heartbeat trips like it wants to fall forward.
We stop at the turn to her street.
The corner lamp spills a halo of gold over her, and she looks…
not drunk.
Not tipsy.
Just overwhelmed.
Like she’s been carrying something for too long, and tonight loosened her fingers around it.
She exhales once.
Slow.
Watching the breath disappear into the cold.
I should let her go.
I know I should.
But tonight…
Tonight I was allowed to imagine another ending.
A life where she laughed like that for me.
Smile at me.
Leaned toward me.
Choose me.
I can’t let the night end without asking.
Even if I already know.
“Sua,” I say, voice low.
She turns, eyes soft, too soft.
The kind of soft that ruins a man.
I swallow.
“Can you—just… wait a second?”
Her brows knit together.
Concerned.
Curious.
Afraid.
I take one breath.
Then another.
Then I ask the question that’s been clawing at my ribs since she kissed me first on that rooftop:
“If I ask you to choose me tonight…”
My voice cracks.
I force it steady.
“…would you?”
The city goes quiet.
Even the river holds its breath.
Sua doesn’t answer.
Not for five seconds.
Not for ten.
She just stands there, eyes glimmering, mouth trembling like she’s trying to keep herself together.
Then her gaze drops to the ground—
like she’s ashamed of the truth she’s about to say.
Her voice is barely air when it comes out.
“…I want to.”
My heart actually stutters.
Stops.
Starts again too fast.
But then—
She looks up.
And there’s a crack in her expression, thin and sharp and final.
“But I can’t.”
The words unravel me.
Not loudly.
Not dramatically.
Just quietly—
cleanly—
the way a thread snaps when it’s been pulled too tight.
She steps closer, like she’s trying to fix it, even though we both know she can’t.
Her fingers hover near my sleeve, almost touching, not quite.
“Minghao… I don’t want to hurt you.”
I laugh once, soft, broken.
“That’s the funny part,” I murmur.
“You’re the only person who could.”
Her breath hiccups.
She actually looks like she might cry.
Everything in me wants to reach for her.
Pull her close.
Tell her it’s okay.
That I can wait.
That I can be patient again.
That I can survive on crumbs again.
But I can’t.
Not this time.
Because I love her too much to let her half-choose me.
And she loves him too much to fully choose me.
She whispers, “I’m sorry, Hao.”
I shake my head.
“No. Don’t be. I knew.”
My voice slips.
“I knew before I asked.”
The air between us thickens—
heavy, aching, familiar.
Then I do something stupid.
Or maybe brave.
Or maybe just inevitable.
I lift a hand.
Slow, so slow.
Give her time to pull away.
She doesn’t.
She leans into the touch like she’s been waiting for it for years.
My palm cups the side of her face.
Warm skin.
Wet lashes.
A tremble in her breath.
“Come here,” I whisper.
She steps into me.
Her forehead touches my collarbone.
Her hands clutch my coat like she can’t stop herself.
I hold her.
God, I hold her like she’s everything I ever wanted and everything I’m about to lose.
Her shoulders shake once.
Barely.
I press a kiss—
gentle
careful
almost reverent—
to her forehead.
She freezes.
Then exhales like the sound itself is breaking her apart.
I pull back just enough to see her face.
“Then I hope—”
My throat closes.
I will try again.
“I hope whoever you choose makes you happy. Really.”
Her lips part.
She looks devastated.
Like she wants to say something but can’t.
Like the universe swallowed her voice.
If I stay one more second, I’ll ask her again.
And she’ll hesitate again.
And maybe—maybe—
she’ll say yes.
But she shouldn’t.
Not like this.
Not when her heart is still somewhere in Seoul wearing a black hoodie and a guilty, desperate smile.
So I step back.
One step.
Two.
Her fingers twitch like she wants to reach for me.
I smile—
the saddest smile I’ve ever worn—
and whisper,
“Goodnight, Sua.”
Then I turn away.
I walk first.
Because if she walks away from me, I’ll chase her.
And if I stay, I’ll kiss her again.
And if she asks me to stay,
I’ll stay forever.
So I leave.
Not because I want to.
But because loving her sometimes means walking away before she has to watch me break.
Behind me, she doesn’t call my name.
But I hear her breath hitch.
And that’s enough to ruin me all over again.
──────────────────────────────
HI GUYSSSS OMG ITS BEEN SO LONG!!!!
I finally get used to all the chaos around me and managed to find some free time to finish this!!
Pls enjoy and see u soon!
Oh, and, to read the first episode of Muted Hearts, please click here <3
It's too much to mend
You're the hug that had to end
Though I've tried to hold on
And if you knew me at all
You wouldn't try to keep me small
Who would do that to a friend
Let alone the one you love?
Xu Minghao, 2028
Paris has a way of making people believe they’re living inside a photograph—soft edges, cold air, everything washed in a pale shade of blue.
But walking alone along the Seine, I realize the city only feels romantic when your heart is quiet.
Mine isn’t.
The river glimmers under the winter dusk, rippling like it’s carrying memories I tried to leave behind years ago. I lean against the railing, let the iron bite into my palms, and breathe out slowly.
Three years.
Three years since Sua left for Paris.
And somehow, the ache hasn’t shifted an inch.
I thought time would dull it.
I thought distance would turn everything into a harmless story.
Instead, standing here, I feel exactly like I did at twenty-one—young, unsure, holding my breath without realizing it.
Funny, how easily the past returns.
One moment I’m staring at the river, and the next I’m remembering her at twenty-six: small, loud, a little chaotic in that way only she could pull off. She had a way of filling rooms with noise, hands always moving, laughter spilling out before she even finished a joke. And her laugh stayed with me.
And now she’s thirty-one.
Older than me by two years, glowing in a way that comes from surviving life rather than escaping it. She moves differently now—calmer, more certain, like she finally learned how to inhabit her own skin.
But when she laughs… it’s the same sound.
Light. Familiar.
A quiet door opening inside my chest.
I close my eyes because the realization stings more than it should:
I’m not over her.
I’ve never been.
—
People think my life got simpler after she left.
That her departure was just a footnote in the chaos of fame.
But the truth is far messier.
When Sua disappeared to Paris, the fallout didn’t hit me first—it hit Seungcheol.
Hyung doesn’t break loudly.
He crumbles the way old paper does—quiet, slow, unavoidable.
I saw pieces of him fall every day.
The way he stopped humming before rehearsals.
The way he lingered in empty practice rooms after everyone left.
The way he stared at his phone like he was waiting for a call he already knew wouldn’t come.
And on one of those nights, long after the others had gone home, he finally admitted, in a voice that barely carried:
“She was the calmest part of my life.”
It felt like he was confessing to a betrayal he couldn’t name.
And I…
I felt something I shouldn’t have.
Relief.
Because if he was losing her—
Did that mean I had a chance?
I hated myself for thinking about it.
For wanting something that hurt someone I respected so deeply.
But feelings are rarely polite.
And mine had been waiting too long.
—
Eventually, I push myself away from the river and start walking without direction, letting the city guide me the way it always does when I’m overwhelmed.
I don’t even realize where my feet have taken me until I’m standing in front of Dior.
The windows glow golden against the blue evening, warm and soft, like they’re inviting me to forget everything for a moment.
Maybe that’s why I walk in.
The scent of expensive perfume greets me, clean and floral. Soft music hums in the background. A staff member bows, recognizing me but keeping it discreet.
I move without thinking, past the bags and coats, toward the accessories where silk scarves drape like water.
I reach out and touch one—pale cream, faint gold threads, delicate enough to feel like a secret.
Sua would look beautiful in this.
The thought appears naturally, like breathing.
Too naturally.
My chest tightens.
It’s ridiculous. I shouldn’t be standing here thinking about her like this. I shouldn’t be imagining how she’d look in something I picked, or how she’d scrunch her nose before refusing the gift, claiming it’s too much.
I can practically hear her voice:
“Minghao, no. Are you crazy? I’m not wearing a Dior scarf.”
And I can hear mine, too—tired, amused, trying not to smile:
“Come on. It’s cheap. I’m a superstar.”
I swallow, suddenly aware of the sting forming behind my eyes.
Great.
Perfect.
Of all places to cry—a Dior store.
I clear my throat, grab the scarf, and carry it to the counter.
“Gift wrap it,” I say.
The employee smiles gently. “A special someone?”
I hesitated for only a moment.
“…Something like that.”
They wrap it in black and gold, tie a ribbon so flawless it almost hurts to look at. I take the bag, feeling its weight—not heavy, but significant.
When I step back outside, Paris feels colder—not the air, but something inside me settling into clarity.
Because standing there on the empty street, clutching a gift for a woman who may never accept it, the truth finally lands, soft but devastating:
I never moved on from Jang Sua.
Not three years ago.
Not last year.
Not even yesterday.
And worse—
This time, I want to fight for her.
Even if it makes me selfish.
Even if it means standing against fate, against hyung, against the history I was never part of but always felt.
Even if she doesn’t choose me in the end.
For once, I want to try.
Not as a patient friend.
Not as the younger one who watched from afar.
But as the man I’ve become.
And if that makes me the villain…
then so be it.
—
The air inside Musée d’Orsay always feels different.
Quiet in a way that feels… intentional. Like the walls were built to absorb noise and leave only breath behind.
Sua walks in first.
And Paris light does her a favor.
Again.
It pours through the massive clock windows, soft and golden, and it hits her hair in this angle that makes me want to punch the sun for trying to show off. She tucks a strand behind her ear, the motion familiar, the same as years ago—but something about her is completely changed too. Stronger. Calmer. Like she’s grown into her own silhouette.
She glances at me over her shoulder.
“Come on, Hao. I know exactly which hall you’ll like.”
It’s stupid—how her voice still does this to me.
Like it’s brushing dust off memories I didn’t realize I’d kept so carefully.
I follow her past marble sculptures and high arches.
I’ve been here a dozen times, but today the museum feels new.
Maybe because she’s the one leading me.
Maybe because I’m watching her, not the art.
She stops in front of a massive canvas.
A Degas.
Of course it’s Degas.
Muted colors, soft brushwork, dancers frozen mid-motion—all things I love.
But for a moment, the painting might as well be a blank wall, because all I can focus on is the way Sua’s eyes soften when she looks at it.
She steps closer, hands clasped in front of her.
“I always liked this one,” she murmurs.
“It’s messy up close. But if you step back…”
She takes two small steps back, demonstrating.
“…it makes sense again.”
I could tell her that’s the same way I feel about her.
Up close she’s too much—too bright, too brave, too honest.
But when I step back—
She makes sense of every chaotic thing in my chest.
I don’t say it.
Instead, I watch the way her lashes flutter when she leans closer to study a brushstroke, the way her breath hitches softly, the way her brows knit as she tries to decode the artist’s intention.
She’s been here a thousand times, but she looks like she’s seeing it for the first time.
And I…
I’m not looking at Degas at all.
I’m looking at her.
She must feel it, because she suddenly stills.
The air around us shifts.
Slowly, she turns her head.
Her eyes meet mine.
And it’s over for me.
Completely over.
“Why are you looking at me like that?” she asks softly.
I swallow, but it does nothing to loosen the tightness in my throat.
“Sorry,” I murmured. “I just… haven’t seen you this close in a long time.”
Her breath catches.
Just slightly.
But I see it.
Her gaze flickers down—to my mouth—then back up.
It’s fast, subtle, but I’ve spent years learning how to read tiny details in people.
She knows.
She feels this too.
I step closer.
The museum is quiet enough that I can hear her inhale.
Quiet enough that the space between us suddenly feels like a live wire.
“Look,” she whispers, motioning at the painting again. “The layering here is—”
She doesn’t finish.
Because I lift my hand.
Slowly.
Carefully.
Like I’m touching something sacred.
My fingers hover for a second—
God, I didn’t expect to be this nervous—
and then I slip two fingers under her chin.
Just enough to guide her face upward.
To the painting.
To me.
Her lips part.
She freezes—but she doesn’t pull back.
Her skin is warm under my touch, soft in a way that feels unfair.
I lower my voice.
“There,” I murmur, pointing at a delicate brushstroke with my other hand.
“The texture. You used to notice this before I did.”
She doesn’t even look at the painting.
She’s looking at me.
And oh—
her eyes.
They’re exactly the same as the day when we first met.
Wide, curious, easy to read if you knew how.
But now there’s something deeper under it.
Something heavier.
I step closer.
Close enough to feel her breath on my jaw.
Her eyes flicker to my lips again.
It’s small.
Barely a twitch.
But it’s enough.
I lean in.
Just a little.
Just enough that the world blurs behind her.
Her breath catches.
Her hands tremble.
She moves in too.
Slow.
Careful.
Like we’re both afraid to scare the moment away.
Our noses almost brush.
Almost.
Almost.
And then—
She steps back.
Just half a step.
Small enough to look accidental.
Big enough to break me.
“…Hao,” she whispers, voice unsteady.
“Don’t start something we can’t finish.”
The sting is instant.
Sharp.
Precise.
But I don’t show it.
Instead, I smile—a soft one, the kind that tries to hide an entire storm behind its edges.
“I’m not starting anything,” I murmured.
“I’m just… catching up.”
Her eyes soften.
She knows what I mean.
She knows exactly how much I’ve missed her.
How much I shouldn’t want her.
How much I do anyway.
She looks down at her shoes, cheeks flushed.
Silence fills the space between us again—
but this time it’s heavier.
Charged.
I drop my hand from her chin slowly.
Carefully.
Like letting go of something I’m not sure I’ll ever be allowed to touch again.
She exhales shakily.
And for a moment—just one—
I swear she leans toward me again.
But she stops herself.
Of course she does.
Because Sua is careful.
Because Sua thinks ahead.
Because Sua is the kind of person who knows that hearts are fragile and timing is cruel.
And I—
I’m the idiot who still hopes anyway.
—
We leave the museum quietly.
Not awkward.
Not rushed.
Just… thoughtful.
The winter air hits first—cold, crisp, carrying the kind of Paris dusk that looks like it was made for confessions. Streetlights blink on one by one, washing the pavement in soft amber.
Sua rubs her palms together.
“Cold,” she mutters.
Without thinking, I slip my hands into my pockets so I don’t reach for hers.
“Let’s get dinner,” I offer, keeping my voice light. “You pick. You know the best places here.”
She smiles—small, shy, still a little shaken from what almost happened.
Almost.
God, that word is going to kill me one day.
“Okay,” she says softly. “I know a place.”
—
The bistro Sua chooses looks like it was built out of candlelight and nostalgia—everything gold-tinged and a little cramped, tables pushed too close together like everyone’s secrets are meant to overlap. My coat brushes hers as we sit, knees grazing. I pretend that’s normal. I pretend I’m not hyper-aware of every centimeter between us that doesn’t exist anymore.
It feels like Paris is playing a prank on me.
Like the city is whispering, oh, you think you moved on? Cute.
The waiter drops off wine. A deep red that smells like regret aged in oak barrels. Sua swirls hers slowly, looking at it like it’s a fortune teller.
“I forgot how early you start drinking here,” I tease.
She nudges her glass toward mine. “I forgot how early you used to judge me.”
We toast—softly, the way people do when they’re scared of shattering something fragile.
The first sip hits warm. Too warm.
Maybe it’s the wine.
Maybe it’s her.
Probably her.
“So,” she says, leaning back. “Three years. Tell me everything. Start with something normal. Like… how’s your mom?”
My chest tightens. That’s the thing about Sua—she always goes for the heart first, like it’s the most obvious entry point.
“She’s good,” I say, fingers tapping my glass. “Still sending me videos of random cats she finds on the street. Still pretending she doesn’t know how to use AirPods.”
Sua’s smile is immediate, soft. “She still asks about me?”
“Every time she sees a scarf she thinks you’d like,” I admit. “She… really loved you.”
Sua’s gaze dips. She traces a finger on the condensation of her glass, drawing circles that disappear as fast as they form.
“I loved her too,” she says quietly.
The wine suddenly tastes heavier.
There’s a pause—not awkward, just… dense. Like we’re standing at the edge of a memory we don’t know how to walk through without falling in.
“Your turn,” I say. “How’s Paris been treating you?”
Sua laughs, but it’s small. “Honestly? I don’t know. Some days I think I’m living the dream. Some days I think I’m running away. And some days…”
She trails off.
“Some days?” I prompt.
“Some days I wake up and think of home. And I don’t even know what ‘home’ means anymore.”
Her voice is too honest. Honest in the way it used to be at 2 a.m. on rooftops when we were younger and dumb and thought the world was a little kinder.
“I get that,” I say.
She looks up sharply. “You do?”
“Yeah. I spent the last three years watching everyone heal in different ways…”
I swallow. “And me somewhere in the middle.”
Sua’s breath catches. She tries to hide it with another sip of wine.
I continue, because if I stop, I won’t say it at all.
“You know what was the worst part?” I ask.
“What?”
“Feeling like the only person who wasn’t allowed to break.”
Her face shifts—something like guilt, something like tenderness.
“Minghao…”
“I had to watch two people I cared about fall apart,” I say. “And when I almost fell too, there was no one to catch me.”
She reaches across the table—instinct, reflex—then freezes halfway. Her hand hovers there, midair, like she’s afraid of her own impulse.
I force a smile. “It’s fine. That’s old news.”
But my voice cracks on old.
Sua slowly retracts her hand, but her eyes stay on me, searching, like she’s trying to read the parts of me she forgot existed.
“You know,” she says softly, “you look different now.”
“Older?” I tease.
“Stronger,” she corrects. “Quieter. Like you carry things but don’t tell anyone.”
“That’s not new.”
“No,” she says, “but the weight is.”
And she says it so gently I almost forget to breathe.
We fall into conversation after that—drifting between old memories and half-jokes, talking like people who used to know each other’s schedules down to which day they’d skip lunch.
We talk about art. About performing. About stupid gossip from home.
She tells me about the older woman at her workplace who mothers her too much.
I tell her about Seungkwan panicking every tour season.
She chokes on her wine laughing when I show her a picture of Dokyeom’s newest plant.
It’s easy. Too easy.
Like slipping back into a hoodie you thought you lost.
She laughs so hard her eyes disappear, shoulders shaking, hand hitting the table. God—I forgot how much I loved that laugh.
And every time she leans closer, brushing my arm by accident, something in my ribs flickers like it’s trying to remember being alive.
Then she asks about it.
Because of course she does.
“So,” she says teasingly, eyes glinting over her wine glass, “how about you, Mr. Superstar? Have any girlfriends since I left?”
It’s playful. Light.
But her shoulders go tense, like she’s bracing herself.
I could lie. I could laugh it off.
But I’m too tired for halfway truths.
“I tried,” I say.
Her smile falters.
“But no one ever felt like you.”
The words come out quiet. Almost conversational.
But they land between us like a confession.
Sua freezes—not dramatically, just a tiny, startled halt, like someone hit pause right when her heart was mid-beat.
Her eyes widened just a little.
Her fingers stop playing with her glass.
She inhales—but forgets to finish it.
And I know that look.
I remember it from years ago.
It’s the look she gets when she wants something she’s not supposed to want.
“Minghao…” she whispers.
Her voice isn’t angry. Or smug.
It’s shaken.
“We shouldn’t talk like that,” she says. “We’re… older now. Wiser.”
I smile, soft. “Are we?”
“No,” she admits, and it breaks something open inside me.
We sit there, drowning in things we won’t touch.
She looks down at her hands like they’re betraying her.
I look at her and try not to reach across the table again.
She exhales slowly, like she’s deflating.
For one suspended moment, with wine warming our bones and Paris humming outside, she almost looks like she might reach for me again.
But she doesn’t.
And I pretend I don’t feel the ghost of it.
—
The staircase to the rooftop complains with every step—creaking, rattling, betraying us to whatever security guard is probably sleeping downstairs. But Sua climbs it like she owns the place. Like she owns gravity. Like she owns me, honestly.
“Sua,” I hissed under my breath, trying to keep my voice down even though laughter is already threatening to leak out. “This is definitely private.”
She waves her hand backwards without looking.
“Everything’s public until someone tells you no.”
Of course she says that.
Of course I follow her anyway.
The door at the top clicks open easily—like the universe is enabling her crimes—and suddenly we’re on a small rooftop that looks forgotten by time, by renovations, by humans in general.
Just one old bench.
A few winter-killed plants.
A railing that looks like it was installed by someone who trusted too much.
And beyond all of that: Paris.
A thousand lights smeared like watercolor across the horizon.
She steps out first.
The wind tugs at her hair, slipping a strand across her cheek. She tucks it behind her ear slowly, almost absent-mindedly, eyes drifting across the skyline like she’s scanning for memories.
She shivers—barely noticeable, but I catch it.
My jacket is off my shoulders before I even think.
She turns, startled when I place it over her.
Her fingers catch mine for half a second.
Warm. Soft. Familiar.
“You’ve changed,” she says, tilting her head, that teasing lilt back in her voice.
I swallow.
“Not enough, apparently.”
Her breath catches—just barely.
Like she wasn’t expecting honesty.
We sit on the little iron bench, close because the bench is small, but closer than we need to be. Our knees brush. It’s nothing. It’s everything. The wine bottle sits between us like a dangerous middleman.
She leans back, staring up at the sky.
“I forgot how pretty Paris is,” she murmurs.
I look at her profile, the way the city lights turn her eyes honey-warm.
“Yeah,” I say softly. “Me too.”
She groans dramatically. “Okay, that was cheesy.”
“But it's true.”
“Still cheesy.”
But she smiles as she says it, and my chest feels like someone lit a candle in it.
We talk again, about the kind of things people only talk about when they’re sitting too close and pretending nothing is happening.
She tells me about a bakery near her apartment that she swears has “life-changing croissants.”
I told her the tour messed up my internal clock so badly I can sleep standing up now.
She confesses her coworkers are scared of her.
I tell her I’m still not convinced she isn’t intimidating on purpose.
Her laugh comes easier with every minute.
Looser. Warmer. Like wine trailing down the spine.
At one point she leans in—just a centimeter too close—and her laugh brushes my jaw.
My pulse betrays me instantly.
Then it happens.
She glances at my mouth.
Fast.
Instinctive.
Like she didn’t mean to, but her eyes just… went.
She freezes.
I freeze harder.
The air goes thick—the kind that feels like destiny inhaling sharply.
Her gaze flicks up to mine again.
Her smile falters.
Something shifts—something tender, hesitant, unbearably familiar.
“Stop looking at me like that,” she whispers, trying to tease, but it comes out breathier than she intends.
“Like what?” My voice is low, rough in a way I don’t hear often.
She opens her mouth—closes it—tries again.
“I don’t know. Like I’m…”
She swallows.
“Like I’m yours.”
Her words hit something old in me.
Something bruised.
Something that never healed right.
“Sua,” I breathe.
But she shakes her head, tiny, fragile.
“Don’t,” she whispers. “Not if you don’t mean it.”
I look at her—really look—and the wind feels louder suddenly, the city quieter.
“I always mean it,” I say.
Her breath stutters.
Her hand moves—small, unconscious—toward my sleeve.
Not grabbing. Just… touching.
Like she’s letting herself remember the shape of me.
We sit like that for a moment, suspended, both terrified to speak in case the spell breaks.
Then the wind blows again.
She shivers.
I lean in without thinking.
Not enough to kiss.
Just enough that our foreheads almost touch.
“Cold?” I murmur.
She shakes her head.
“No.”
But her voice trembles in the middle—just once.
She looks at my mouth again.
Longer this time.
Softer.
Like she’s studying it.
Like she’s trying to decide something that scares her.
I feel her breath mix with mine.
She leans in—barely, but enough that heat curls low in my stomach.
I don’t move.
I’m terrified if I do, she’ll pull away.
Her gaze flicks up.
Our noses graze.
And then, quietly—
“Minghao,” she whispers, voice cracking on the second syllable, “I… don’t know what I’m doing.”
“Me neither,” I admit.
Her lips quirk into the saddest, smallest smile.
Then—
Very slowly, like she’s giving herself permission inch by inch, she lifts her hand to my jaw.
Her thumb barely touches my skin.
A whisper of contact.
The kind that says I’ve missed this more than I’ll ever admit.
I exhale shakily.
She leans in—not fully, not confidently.
Just enough that I can feel the trembling in her breath, the uncertainty, the wanting.
“Hao…”
My name breaks on her tongue.
And then she moves.
A small, soft, terrifying kiss—
Barely pressure.
Barely time.
Just her lips against mine like a secret she finally let slip.
I kiss back—gentle, careful, terrified that if I move too fast she’ll disappear.
One second.
Two.
Then she pulls away, chest rising too fast, eyes wide like she just stepped off a cliff.
“We shouldn’t have,” she whispers.
Maybe.
She’s right.
Probably.
But her lips are still parted.
Her hand is still on my jaw.
And she’s still leaning toward me.
“…But you kissed me back.”
She closes her eyes.
Pain flickers through her expression.
But so does something else.
Wanting.
Remembering.
Considering.
“I know,” she breathes, voice shaking.
“I know.”
—
The kiss still lingers on my lips—warm, trembling, unfinished—when Sua pulls away.
Her eyes won’t settle.
Her breathing’s uneven.
Her hand is still on my jaw, like she forgot to put it back.
For a moment, neither of us moves.
Paris waits below us, glittering like it’s holding its breath on our behalf.
Then she pulls back.
Slow.
Like she’s trying not to wake something.
“I should—” she begins.
I know what she’s going to say.
That she should go.
That she shouldn’t have kissed me.
That this was a mistake.
I can already feel my chest tightening, preparing to hear it.
But the word never leaves her mouth.
Instead, she just swallows hard, blinking fast.
She’s not ready to say it.
I’m not ready to hear it.
So I take a step toward her—not close enough to the corner, but close enough she knows I’m choosing her over fear.
“Come with me,” I say quietly.
She startles a little. “Minghao—”
“Just… ten more minutes.”
I breathe out, steady.
Honest.
Bare.
“I’m not ready to say goodnight.”
The wind moves around us.
So does something between us.
For a second, she just looks at me—really looks.
Like she’s searching for the trap, the danger, the thing that will make this make sense.
But there’s nothing.
Just me.
Just her.
Just tonight.
She hesitates.
Then nods.
Not big.
Not confident.
Just a small, fragile nod that still makes something in my chest bloom painfully wide.
We walk down the old staircase again—quieter this time.
Our footsteps sound softer.
Like the kiss stole all the sharp edges out of the world.
Outside, Paris feels colder.
Brighter.
More unreal.
We drift toward the river instinctively, pulled by the kind of gravity that doesn’t need words. The Seine glints like silver ribbon under the city lights, and the stone path beside it is quiet except for our muffled steps.
We don’t hold hands.
But our shoulders brush every few seconds.
Like punctuation marks.
Like reminders.
Sua keeps her eyes on the river, but her mind is clearly miles away.
Her breaths come uneven, like she’s thinking too fast to breathe right.
I steal a glance at her.
Her cheeks are pink from the cold.
Her lips—god—still look soft, still look kiss-warm.
She bites the corner of her mouth once, like she’s trying to reel herself back in.
“Are you okay?” I ask gently.
Bad idea.
She freezes.
“Yeah.”
Her voice cracks around the word.
Then she clears her throat.
“Yeah. I’m just—thinking.”
“About?”
She laughs once—short, shaky.
“Everything.”
She doesn’t say names.
But I feel the ghost of one in the air anyway.
I swallow, trying to soften my voice.
“You don’t have to pretend you’re not overwhelmed.”
“I’m not pretending,” she says.
Then quieter:
“Okay. Maybe a little.”
We walk in silence for a few seconds.
Her shoulder brushes mine again—
Not by accident this time.
She doesn’t pull away.
Neither do I.
The lamps along the river reflect in her eyes—thin streaks of gold that make her look almost undone. Like one more soft touch would make her spill everything she’s been holding in.
She exhales shakily.
“Minghao…”
“Mm?”
She slows her steps—not stopping, just easing her speed like her thoughts got too heavy to carry at full pace.
“What… what are we doing?”
Her voice barely reaches me.
It’s small.
Young.
Afraid.
Hopeful.
My heart squeezes.
“I don’t know.”
I shrug gently.
“But it feels… right to be here with you.”
She looks at me quickly—like she wasn’t expecting me to say something that earnest.
Then she snorts—god, I missed that sound—then nudges me with her shoulder.
“Don’t you dare.”
The river glimmers beside us.
The city hums softly.
And between us—warmth, aching and quiet, stretching thin like a thread neither of us wants to let go.
Finally she says, “I keep thinking about the kiss.”
I choke on my breath slightly. “Yeah?”
She nods, eyes on the ground.
“Yeah.”
My heartbeat becomes a full percussion ensemble.
“And?” I ask, softer.
She takes a breath.
Then another.
Her voice drops to a whisper.
“And I didn’t… want it to stop.”
The world tilts.
Just a little.
I don’t grab her hand.
I don’t pull her to me.
I just walk beside her, letting her confession settle in the air between us, warm and trembling.
“You know…” she says after a long, shaky exhale, “I thought seeing you again would feel like closure.”
“And?”
“It doesn’t,” she admits.
“It feels like—like a book I thought I finished, but suddenly there are new pages.”
My throat tightens.
Dangerously.
“Sua…”
She shakes her head quickly.
“No. Don’t—don’t read into it. I’m not… choosing. I’m not making promises.”
She glances up at me, eyes raw.
“I’m just… telling you how it feels.”
I nod.
Slow.
Honest.
“That’s enough for me.”
Our shoulders brush again—
This time lingering for a beat too long.
We don’t say anything else for a while.
We just walk.
The dark water beside us.
The city around us.
The kiss behind us.
Something new ahead.
Ten minutes, I said.
But the night stretches on and neither of us says goodnight.
Not yet.
Not when everything feels like this.
Not when we’re both afraid of what going home alone will force us to admit.
—
The walk back to her apartment should be ten minutes.
Paris makes it feel like two.
We don’t talk.
We don’t touch.
But our shoulders brush every few steps, like gravity keeps forgetting we’re not allowed to want each other.
And God—
every time her sleeve whispers against my arm,
my heartbeat trips like it wants to fall forward.
We stop at the turn to her street.
The corner lamp spills a halo of gold over her, and she looks…
not drunk.
Not tipsy.
Just overwhelmed.
Like she’s been carrying something for too long, and tonight loosened her fingers around it.
She exhales once.
Slow.
Watching the breath disappear into the cold.
I should let her go.
I know I should.
But tonight…
Tonight I was allowed to imagine another ending.
A life where she laughed like that for me.
Smile at me.
Leaned toward me.
Choose me.
I can’t let the night end without asking.
Even if I already know.
“Sua,” I say, voice low.
She turns, eyes soft, too soft.
The kind of soft that ruins a man.
I swallow.
“Can you—just… wait a second?”
Her brows knit together.
Concerned.
Curious.
Afraid.
I take one breath.
Then another.
Then I ask the question that’s been clawing at my ribs since she kissed me first on that rooftop:
“If I ask you to choose me tonight…”
My voice cracks.
I force it steady.
“…would you?”
The city goes quiet.
Even the river holds its breath.
Sua doesn’t answer.
Not for five seconds.
Not for ten.
She just stands there, eyes glimmering, mouth trembling like she’s trying to keep herself together.
Then her gaze drops to the ground—
like she’s ashamed of the truth she’s about to say.
Her voice is barely air when it comes out.
“…I want to.”
My heart actually stutters.
Stops.
Starts again too fast.
But then—
She looks up.
And there’s a crack in her expression, thin and sharp and final.
“But I can’t.”
The words unravel me.
Not loudly.
Not dramatically.
Just quietly—
cleanly—
the way a thread snaps when it’s been pulled too tight.
She steps closer, like she’s trying to fix it, even though we both know she can’t.
Her fingers hover near my sleeve, almost touching, not quite.
“Minghao… I don’t want to hurt you.”
I laugh once, soft, broken.
“That’s the funny part,” I murmur.
“You’re the only person who could.”
Her breath hiccups.
She actually looks like she might cry.
Everything in me wants to reach for her.
Pull her close.
Tell her it’s okay.
That I can wait.
That I can be patient again.
That I can survive on crumbs again.
But I can’t.
Not this time.
Because I love her too much to let her half-choose me.
And she loves him too much to fully choose me.
She whispers, “I’m sorry, Hao.”
I shake my head.
“No. Don’t be. I knew.”
My voice slips.
“I knew before I asked.”
The air between us thickens—
heavy, aching, familiar.
Then I do something stupid.
Or maybe brave.
Or maybe just inevitable.
I lift a hand.
Slow, so slow.
Give her time to pull away.
She doesn’t.
She leans into the touch like she’s been waiting for it for years.
My palm cups the side of her face.
Warm skin.
Wet lashes.
A tremble in her breath.
“Come here,” I whisper.
She steps into me.
Her forehead touches my collarbone.
Her hands clutch my coat like she can’t stop herself.
I hold her.
God, I hold her like she’s everything I ever wanted and everything I’m about to lose.
Her shoulders shake once.
Barely.
I press a kiss—
gentle
careful
almost reverent—
to her forehead.
She freezes.
Then exhales like the sound itself is breaking her apart.
I pull back just enough to see her face.
“Then I hope—”
My throat closes.
I will try again.
“I hope whoever you choose makes you happy. Really.”
Her lips part.
She looks devastated.
Like she wants to say something but can’t.
Like the universe swallowed her voice.
If I stay one more second, I’ll ask her again.
And she’ll hesitate again.
And maybe—maybe—
she’ll say yes.
But she shouldn’t.
Not like this.
Not when her heart is still somewhere in Seoul wearing a black hoodie and a guilty, desperate smile.
So I step back.
One step.
Two.
Her fingers twitch like she wants to reach for me.
I smile—
the saddest smile I’ve ever worn—
and whisper,
“Goodnight, Sua.”
Then I turn away.
I walk first.
Because if she walks away from me, I’ll chase her.
And if I stay, I’ll kiss her again.
And if she asks me to stay,
I’ll stay forever.
So I leave.
Not because I want to.
But because loving her sometimes means walking away before she has to watch me break.
Behind me, she doesn’t call my name.
But I hear her breath hitch.
And that’s enough to ruin me all over again.
──────────────────────────────
HI GUYSSSS OMG ITS BEEN SO LONG!!!!
I finally get used to all the chaos around me and managed to find some free time to finish this!!
Pls enjoy and see u soon!
Oh, and, to read the first episode of Muted Hearts, please click here <3
"Like clouds kissed by the sun, some people leave behind a color you can’t name."
✧ moon junhui x f!oc
✧ kwon hoshi x f!oc
✧ summary: She came to Seoul to escape—what she found instead was him. Jun, unreadable and magnetic. Hoshi, warm but just out of reach. As feelings blur and moments slip by, Min Ah realizes not everything beautiful is meant to last. Some storms come softly. Some leave a mess behind.
Jun woke up like he always did: too early, too tired, too aware. His alarm hadn’t even rung yet, but the shadows on his bedroom ceiling already told him what time it was. 6:32. Again.
His apartment was a glass-and-concrete shell. All warm white and expensive stillness. Too big for one person. Too silent. His toothbrush sat by itself in the holder. The kitchen sink held a single used mug from last night—half-drained instant ramen broth and a water ring where his soju glass had been. The air purifier hummed like it had more to say than he did.
He moved on autopilot. Shower. Shirt. Shoes. Wristwatch. No tie—he stopped wearing those weeks ago. No reason. Just felt like choking.
The walk from his apartment to The Parc was only ten minutes, but he stretched it out like punishment. One more block. One more red light. One more chance that maybe—just maybe—he’d forget she worked in the same building.
Of course, he didn’t.
Quantix occupied the 17th and 18th floors—sharp suits, brutal deadlines, silent elevators. Artois lived on the 10th, all creativity and noise. Their offices never overlapped. But the building did. The cafés. The lobby. The elevator banks. The goddamn foodcourt arena.
That’s why he waited until 9:13 every morning to scan his badge. Long after the Artois team’s usual clock-in time. Long enough to make sure her friends were already inside. Long enough to avoid her perfume in the elevator.
But it never really worked.
Today, like every day, he ducked his head and moved fast through the lobby. The LED directory glowed with building-wide announcements, reflecting briefly on the floor-to-ceiling glass. Artois' newest campaign was one of them—muted pastels, dreamy text overlays, and—
He didn’t look long enough to confirm.
He didn’t need to.
Instead, he slipped into the tiny café in the back corner of the building—one that smelled like roasted almond syrup and overheard meetings. The barista, a sleepy-eyed guy with long bangs, raised a brow in recognition.
“Same?” he asked.
Jun hesitated.
“No,” he said finally. “Nutmeg latte. Medium. No lid.”
The barista blinked.
Jun almost laughed. He didn’t even like nutmeg.
But she’d once said, half-laughing, “This tastes like a blanket made out of hugs,” and ever since then… he chased that warmth like a sick dog chasing a shadow.
He left with his drink, hands warming against the cardboard cup, and took the elevator alone.
17 floors. 13 seconds. Not long enough to forget.
—
Quantix was clean. Too clean. Rows of glass offices, silent keystrokes, white noise from desktop fans. He slipped into his seat and opened his laptop. Pretended to care.
But the truth sat heavy in his ribcage. Sloshed around like old wine in a forgotten bottle. He hadn’t seen her in weeks. Not properly. Not without ducking behind a pillar, or skipping a lift, or pulling his hoodie up and pretending to scroll his phone.
But even if he didn’t see her—
He saw her.
Saw her oatmilk order change. Saw the way she laughed in the reposted Stories. Saw the new intern she mentored, the one who wore too much cologne and clearly worshipped the ground she walked on.
She was in his algorithm. His building. His bloodstream.
She might as well have been on another planet.
He sipped his nutmeg latte. It did taste like a hug.
But not the one he wanted.
—
The elevator ride to the seventeenth floor was only twelve seconds long, but Jun counted every second like he was holding his breath underwater.
He didn’t even mean to start doing that. But sometime after week two of dodging Min Ah’s presence in this building, his body developed its own rituals. Breath in, breath out, no eye contact with the 10th floor. Pray the elevator doesn’t stop. Don’t look at the mirrored walls. Don’t check the time. Don’t even think about the time—because he knew Artois clocked in around nine sharp, and he knew Min Ah had a habit of running two minutes late with an iced oatmilk latte in one hand and a tote bag slipping off her shoulder.
He didn’t need to know that.
He just did.
It was stupid. It was humiliating. It was also too late.
Because once you’ve memorized someone’s silhouette, their laughter, the way they scrunch their nose when annoyed, or the little “mmph” they make when sipping something too hot—your brain doesn’t forget. It just replays them in loops. On silent. Without asking.
And Jun was stuck in that loop now. Like a badly edited highlight reel. One that skipped the good parts and emphasized the ones that hurt.
He stepped into the Quantix lobby—steel-blue carpeting, frosted glass meeting rooms, the usual scent of cold brew and quiet tension—and dropped his keys onto his desk with a little too much force. The sound was small. But it felt violent.
Mingyu glanced up from the couch across the room, already halfway through a bagel, laptop balanced on his knees.
“Rough morning?” he asked, mouth full.
Jun grunted. “Fine.”
Mingyu arched a brow. “Nutmeg again?”
Jun looked down at his coffee cup.
Three sips in, it was already too sweet. Too creamy. The nutmeg lingered like an echo of warmth—fake warmth, if he was honest.
He used to hate drinks like this. Used to scoff at people who added nutmeg to coffee like it was some kind of emotional balm.
But Min Ah had made it sound so sincere.
So he took another sip anyway.
—
Around 11:04, Jun made a conscious decision to skip the usual break and stay glued to his desk. He even pretended to review the same spreadsheet for the fourth time, just so he could avoid going downstairs for lunch. Just in case.
Because somewhere around noon, the Artois team would be swarming the café in the lobby—he knew their schedule. Thursdays were “Marketing Treat Days.” Dahyun usually initiated them. Eunji always picked up something with way too much sugar. Min Ah… well. She will go for the plain Americano.
How did he know that?
He wished he didn’t.
—
It started innocently enough.
Just a few skipped encounters.
A small change in his routine here and there. Going to the gym an hour earlier. Using the back stairwell instead of the main elevators. Quiet mornings. Quieter exits.
But then it became a pattern.
And then it became a habit.
And now it was practically choreography.
Every step Jun took was calculated around not seeing her.
Like a dance he wasn’t invited to anymore.
He remembered once standing outside the café in the lobby—coffee already in hand, just waiting for his meeting to start—and spotting her through the glass.
She was laughing at something Eunji had said. Her scarf was slipping off one shoulder. She looked tired, a little sleep-deprived, but so alive. So Min Ah.
Jun panicked.
He’d ducked behind the column beside the pastry shelf.
Mingyu, walking in right after, had stopped mid-step. “Hyung,” he said flatly. “What the actual fuck.”
“She didn’t see me, right?” Jun muttered, heart thudding.
“You’re hiding behind a pillar like Sweeper from Dora the Explorer.”
“I just didn’t want it to be weird.”
“It’s already weird, bro.”
And then Mingyu just walked off. Like it was any other Tuesday.
Jun had stayed frozen behind that pillar for thirty-six full seconds.
—
Later that week, he overheard a snippet in the hallway. One of the Artois girls, Dahyun maybe, chatting with someone else near the vending machine.
“Feels like the Quantix boys disappeared lately, huh? Do they even work here anymore?”
The words weren’t sharp. Just casual. Offhanded.
But they stuck.
Because yeah, Jun had disappeared.
He’d ghosted the entire floor.
Ghosted her.
And despite all of it, despite the silence and the rerouting of his entire life to avoid crossing her shadow—
He still knew too much.
He knew she’d started carrying two pens again, after swearing she’d go full digital in October.
He knew the new intern she mentored wore cologne so aggressively it left a trail—like invisible breadcrumbs of “this is what fresh-out-of-college confidence smells like.”
He knew she’d been wearing earrings again. Little ones. The kind she used to wear when she was nervous before a pitch.
He knew all this not because he meant to spy. Not because he was still trying to be part of her world.
But because… he didn’t know how not to care.
How do you unlearn someone?
How do you forget a voice you once thought in?
—
Somewhere mid September
Seungcheol’s apartment was the kind of place that looked like it came with its own LinkedIn endorsement. Sleek furniture, expensive light fixtures, coffee table books no one ever read—mostly because Mingyu kept using them as coasters.
It was a Saturday. Technically a day off. But nothing about Jun felt “off-duty.” Not the way he dressed—black hoodie, joggers, and sunglasses like a shield. Not the weight in his steps. Not the half-there look in his eyes.
When he knocked—twice, then pushed the door open—he was met with a wave of smells: overcooked eggs, leftover cologne, a whiff of takeout from someone’s midnight cravings, and the crisp scent of Seungcheol’s lavender diffuser that he refused to admit he re-ordered monthly.
Inside, the rest of the Quantix boys were mid-chaos.
“Bro, I swear, that’s not how the trade works!” Mingyu was waving a spatula around like a weapon, his phone screen held up with his other hand. “You can’t offer me a wide receiver and a broken running back and call it a deal!”
“I’m offering strategy, not just stats,” Joshua replied coolly, perched on a barstool, peeling a mandarin orange with surgical precision.
“You’re offering me a loss,” Mingyu shot back.
“Boys,” Seungcheol warned from the corner, not looking up from the French press he was handling like it was mission-critical. “One more sports argument and I’m making you both do yoga with me next weekend.”
“Again? My glutes still hurt from last time,” Jeonghan chimed in lazily from the couch, tossing popcorn into his mouth and missing.
It was the kind of scene that used to feel comforting to Jun.
Today, it felt like walking into someone else’s memory.
“Hyung?” Wonwoo noticed him first. Just a glance up from his book—of course he brought a book to brunch—but it was enough. The room shifted.
The noise dropped a decibel.
Mingyu turned. “Wow. You’re not a hallucination. That’s wild.”
Jeonghan snorted. “He looks like one. What’s with the Matrix cosplay?”
Jun shrugged off the comments, sluggishly dragging himself toward the couch. His limbs felt like rubber. His skull pulsed. He dropped into the cushions like gravity had tripled just for him.
“Rough night?” Joshua asked, voice flat but not unkind.
Jun just grunted. “Didn’t sleep.”
“Didn’t text, either,” Mingyu mumbled, pouring eggs—still slightly too wet—onto a plate.
Jeonghan cocked his head. “Did you even shower?”
“I did. Just didn’t rinse off the shame.”
A beat of laughter. Awkward. Quick. But then it faded.
They could all feel it. The weight in the room. The unspoken something sitting heavy between them, bleeding out like a slow leak.
Seungcheol passed Jun a glass of water without asking. “Drink. You look like you’ve been dating dehydration.”
“I’ve been seeing worse things,” Jun muttered.
It was supposed to be a joke. But no one laughed.
Wonwoo leaned back, closing his book. “You gonna talk about it?”
Jun didn’t answer.
“Of course not,” Jeonghan sighed. “Because avoidance is hot now.”
“You can’t keep doing this, hyung.” Mingyu finally spoke, more serious this time. “You ghosted her. Then you ghosted us. Now you just… show up when your fridge runs out of soju?”
“I didn’t ghost anyone.”
Joshua raised an eyebrow. “You disappeared. That’s the same thing, just with extra drama.”
Jun sat back, let his head hit the cushion. The dull ache in his chest had been a constant for weeks. It throbbed harder when they talked like this—when they cared too loudly.
“I needed space,” he said quietly.
“Space from what?” Jeonghan snapped. “From a woman who actually gave a damn about you? Or from the reality that you fucked it all up?”
“Mingyu.” Seungcheol turned toward the kitchen. “That bottle of chili oil on the top shelf? Please throw it at Jeonghan.”
Mingyu didn’t move. “Nah, he’s right though.”
Jun closed his eyes.
“Look,” Seungcheol’s voice was calmer now, measured. “We’re not trying to beat you up. But we’ve been sitting here for weeks watching you unravel in slow motion.”
“Half the time you text us at 3AM just to say ‘nevermind,’” Wonwoo said.
“Or show up drunk and crash on my couch,” Mingyu added.
“You haven’t smiled since August,” Joshua said. “And your coffee orders changed. That’s alarming.”
Jeonghan raised a hand. “Exhibit A: Jun used to drink iced Americano with foam and three exact cubes like a lunatic. Now he drinks nutmeg lattes. That’s love-induced insanity. Someone help him.”
Jun chuckled. Just barely. “She said it tasted like a hug.”
“And now you’re addicted to fake affection in a cup,” Jeonghan deadpanned. “How poetic.”
Silence.
It stretched again.
And then Mingyu said it.
“You should call her.”
Jun blinked.
Mingyu wasn’t looking at him. Just flipping the eggs on a new pan, his voice steady. “You should call her, hyung. Or at least admit why you haven’t. Because I’m tired of pretending your heartbreak isn’t splashing all over my hallway at 2AM.”
Jun exhaled through his nose. “It’s not that easy.”
“Of course it isn’t,” Seungcheol said. “It never is.”
“Then why does it feel like I’m the only one who can’t breathe?” Jun’s voice cracked, finally. He looked at them—at his boys, his brothers, the only ones left who still held pieces of him—and let the weight drop.
“I didn’t know what I wanted,” he admitted, barely above a whisper. “I didn’t know what I was doing. I kept telling myself she’d be safer without me. That I’d only mess it up. That if I left first, she wouldn’t get hurt as bad.”
Jeonghan sat forward. “Then you’re a coward.”
Jun didn’t flinch.
“And if that’s the case,” Jeonghan continued, softer now, “you shouldn’t have taken her heart as a placeholder.”
The room held its breath.
Jun nodded once.
It was the only thing he could do.
He had no rebuttal. No witty line. No dramatic defense.
Just that truth.
That silence.
That pain.
The brunch went on. Scrambled eggs got cold. Toast burned in the corner. Someone turned the music up to distract themselves.
Jun sat among them. In the middle of everything. And yet still miles away.
He was surrounded by the loudest love he had left.
And still—
He felt alone.
—
He didn’t even like clubs.
Too loud. Too bright. Too full of people pretending to be happier than they were. Jun always felt like a shadow in those places — the kind of person that didn’t show up on film, even if you tried to take his picture.
But he went anyway.
Because Yujin had asked.
Because she looked at him like she already knew the answer would be yes.
And because the silence of his apartment was getting too loud again.
Hwang Yujin had been a convenient mistake.
He met her at a rooftop mixer he barely remembered — one of those industry things that blurred into one another after a while.
Someone’s client’s plus-one. PR, or something close enough. Always in black. Always unreadable.
He had noticed her because she didn’t try to impress anyone. She had a voice like velvet and eyes that made him feel like she saw straight through people.
And when she came home with him that first time, she didn’t ask questions.
Not about the boxes still unopened by the hallway.
Not about the extra toothbrush that sat alone on the sink.
Not about why Jun’s playlists were still filled with girl group tracks he’d never added himself.
She just slipped out of her heels, kissed his collarbone, and took what she wanted.
And he let her.
It became a rhythm. A quiet kind of disaster.
She’d stay some nights, then disappear for a week. They didn’t text unless it was to ask “your place or mine?”
She was sharp, clever, controlled. And he liked that she didn’t pretend it was love.
But even Yujin could tell when he wasn’t really there.
“Still thinking about her?” she’d asked once, casually, while buttoning her shirt in his bedroom.
He didn’t answer.
“You should call her, you know,” Yujin said as she stepped out of his room, saying a lazy goodbye as usual.
—
Last weekend of October
The club was already packed when they arrived.
Strobes sliced through the air like blade light. The floor was sticky. The ceiling was glittery.
And Jun was already regretting coming.
Yujin leaned into him, her voice cool against his ear.
“Let’s dance.”
He followed her to the floor, hands on her waist.
She moved like water — smooth, sensual, practiced.
But he wasn’t watching her.
His eyes had already found something else.
Someone else.
Min Ah.
She was across the room in a pink sweater and pleated skirt, red bow bouncing with each step.
Her hair… seems like she is going all out for tonight. She wore a wig that surprisingly suits her, doesn't even look fake.
Just like... her.
Her eyes were glittered. She looked —
God.
She looked like every second he’d spent trying to forget her had failed.
She was laughing.
Worse — she was laughing with him.
Hoshi.
That damn grin. That dyed-pink hair. That too-perfect costume.
Yuji Itadori in the flesh.
Too bright. Too kind.
Too close to her.
Jun had never liked Hoshi.
Not because he was annoying — though he was. Not because he was everywhere — though he was.
But because when Min Ah looked at Hoshi, she didn’t look like someone waiting for something that would never come.
She looked like she had already found it.
“Jun,” Yujin said, tilting her head. “You’re somewhere else.”
He shook it off. Loosened his shoulders. Forced himself to smirk.
“I’m here.”
The DJ dropped something sultry. A slow reggaeton beat that thumped under the skin.
Yujin slid closer. Her arms looped around his neck.
He let her press against him, let her move them in sync.
But his eyes kept drifting.
Back to the girl he’d left behind.
Min Ah was alone now. Hoshi had disappeared somewhere — the bar, probably.
And she was dancing.
Not for anyone.
Not with anyone.
Just herself.
She moved like music poured straight from her bones.
Jun knew that rhythm. Knew how her shoulders swayed, how she tilted her head when the beat hit just right.
His body remembered her like a language. His hands ached.
And then —
She opened her eyes.
They met his.
It felt like the club cracked open.
Everything fell away — the lights, the noise, the heat — until it was just them.
Across the crowd.
Two ghosts haunting the same heartbeat.
Jun couldn’t breathe.
He didn’t blink.
He didn’t move.
And neither did she.
Yujin turned slightly, noticed the freeze in him. She followed his gaze. Her lips parted — not in jealousy, but in recognition.
She wasn’t stupid. She knew the difference between a fling and a ghost someone never buried.
But before she could say anything —
Hoshi returned.
He brushed against Min Ah’s hand. Said something.
Jun didn’t hear it.
Because in the next breath —
Min Ah kissed him.
Jun’s world ended.
He stood there, still holding Yujin like she meant something, while the only person he’d ever truly wanted kissed someone else like it was the easiest decision in the world.
And the worst part?
She looked okay.
Yujin stepped back.
Her voice was level.
“You should go outside.”
Jun didn’t argue.
Didn’t say thank you.
Just turned and walked out of the club, one hand on his chest like he was keeping his ribs from cracking open.
—
The night air was colder than he remembered.
Jun had forgotten to bring a jacket. Or maybe he hadn’t meant to stay long.
Or maybe, deep down, he’d known this night would end like this — and dressed like someone prepared to be punished.
He didn’t make it far.
Behind the building, under a flickering back-alley light, he dropped to his knees and threw up.
The acid burned, but not as much as the sight of her lips on Hoshi’s.
Not as much as the smile she gave him after.
He sat on the curb behind the club, head bowed, elbows on knees. One hand cradled his forehead, the other clenched into his coat pocket like it was holding something in.
He wasn’t crying. Not exactly.
But his face was wet, and he couldn’t tell if it was from sweat, or rain, or whatever emotion was leaking out of him without permission.
The buzzing from inside the club felt miles away now.
The music thudded through walls and concrete — muted, like a heartbeat he didn’t want to belong to anymore.
Somewhere in the distance, a car alarm wailed and died.
Jun didn’t move.
He hadn’t said goodbye to Yujin.
She hadn’t chased him.
Maybe she understood.
Maybe she was relieved.
His chest felt split open — like something sacred had been scooped out of him without anesthesia.
He tasted bile in his throat. Shame on his tongue. Her name carved into the roof of his mouth like a prayer he wasn’t allowed to say.
And then — footsteps.
Heavy ones. Familiar in their lazy confidence.
Jun didn’t lift his head, even as a shadow fell over him.
Mingyu exhaled.
Not a question. Not even a greeting.
Just that tired, quiet sigh that only friends who’ve seen you at your worst can make.
He didn’t sit down right away. Just stood next to him, hands in pockets, like a bodyguard for a man who didn’t want saving.
Jun blinked slowly, eyes stinging.
Still no words.
Eventually, Mingyu lowered himself to the curb beside him. Elbows on knees. Close, but not too close.
Like he knew Jun might shatter if someone touched him.
They stayed like that. For what felt like forever.
Jun’s voice cracked when it finally came out.
“She kissed him.”
Mingyu nodded. “Yeah.”
“I didn’t even move. Just watched like a goddamn idiot.”
Silence.
“I was stupid. I thought — I don’t know. That maybe I still had time.”
Mingyu didn’t speak for a while.
“You didn’t lose her tonight, Jun. You lost her a long time ago. You just didn’t want to admit it.”
Jun swallowed.
His hands trembled, tucked into his sleeves. He swallowed hard.
“I thought… I thought maybe she still…”
The sentence didn’t make it.
He shut his eyes. Tried to breathe. Failed.
His breath came out shaky. Shallow.
Mingyu didn’t ask him to finish. Didn’t tell him she’d come back. Didn’t lie.
He just waited.
Eventually, he reached into his coat and pulled out a small bottle of water. Opened it. Handed it over.
Jun took it like it weighed ten kilos.
He drank one slow sip. Then another.
It didn’t help.
Nothing would.
Finally, Mingyu said, “Let’s go.”
Not a suggestion. Not a command.
Just a way to keep Jun from drowning.
Jun didn’t argue.
He stood like someone walking away from a funeral.
—
The clock read 01:42.
Jun didn’t realize how long he’d been lying there—flat on his back in bed, one arm over his eyes, the other resting on his stomach, phone screen dimmed to preserve whatever scraps of his retinas were still intact. He wasn’t really scrolling. Just... moving. Thumb dragging up, up, up, like maybe if he kept going long enough, he'd find a version of the world where he felt less like a leftover.
He hadn't spoken to anyone in hours.
He hadn’t needed to. The silence was good at talking back now.
The apartment around him was dark, save for the cold blue glow of his phone screen and the faint amber shimmer of the streetlight bleeding through his blinds. Even his plants had started wilting from neglect. The cactus on the windowsill looked particularly offended.
He could almost hear her voice in his head. That careful softness. That biting laugh when he got too pretentious. That way she used to say his name like she was rolling it over her tongue just to make sure it tasted the same every time.
He opened Notes.
Typed.
Deleted.
Typed again.
Deleted.
He sat up slowly in bed, the sheets cool against his back. Fingers shaking slightly, phone screen blinding now in the dark.
Finally, without thinking too hard, he opened a new note and let the words spill out in lowercase:
i know you don’t want to hear from me.
i know you don’t owe me anything.
but i saw you today. and you looked happy.
and that’s good.
that’s really, really good.
i miss you.
god, i miss you.
even when i’m not thinking about you, i’m still kind of thinking about you.
i hope your coffee was warm this morning.
i hope your boss wasn’t too annoying.
i hope you laughed at something dumb today and forgot me for a second.
He stared at it for a long time.
Read it once. Twice.
Then deleted it.
Just like that.
Gone.
He placed the phone face down on his bedside table, rubbing his eyes with the heel of his hands. He could still see her. Could still feel her—like she was hiding under his skin, tangled in his veins like something he forgot how to get rid of.
Jun leaned his head back against the wall.
Whispered into the quiet:
“I miss you.”
The room didn’t answer.
And even if she’d heard it—
Would it matter?
—
“I miss you.”
The words slipped out like steam—barely formed, barely real.
Jun didn’t mean to say them out loud. Didn’t mean to hear his own voice tremble in the quiet. It startled him, honestly. How soft it sounded. How small. Like it belonged to someone else.
The air felt too still after that. As if the room itself was holding its breath for a response that would never come.
He sat there for a while. Phone facedown. Lights off. Spine curved like a question mark. His fingers curled into the hem of his hoodie, gripping tight—like if he could hold something hard enough, he wouldn’t unravel.
But the unraveling had already begun.
It was slow.
Quiet.
The kind of heartbreak that didn’t scream—it settled. Heavy. Dense. Like ash after a fire.
And then he did what he always did when he couldn’t stand being inside his own head.
He moved.
Got up.
Paced the room once. Twice. Three times.
Opened the fridge. Closed it again.
Went to the sink. Stared at his own reflection in the dark window, distorted by the city lights outside.
His eyes looked… dull. Tired. The kind of tired that sleep didn’t fix.
He whispered again, this time to the reflection.
“Why did I let you go?”
No one answered.
Of course not.
Min Ah wasn’t here.
She hadn’t been here in a long time.
There was still a book of hers on his shelf, though. A dog-eared poetry collection she lent him months ago, spine cracked, cover smudged with coffee stains. He’d tried to return it once. Got as far as walking to her floor, then turned around the second the elevator opened.
Coward.
He was such a coward.
He reached for it now, fingertips brushing the bent corner she’d once folded.
Inside, there was a note. A stupid sticky tab with her handwriting on it.
This poem feels like your brain, I think.
He didn’t even know what that meant. He didn’t ask when she said it.
He should’ve.
He slid down to the floor, book in hand, back pressed against the kitchen cabinet.
Read the poem again. Didn’t remember the words. Didn’t care.
He could see her instead.
The way she used to lie across his bed, legs tangled in the sheets, arguing with him about fonts.
The way she always picked up his call, even if it was 2AM and she was mid-mask with cucumbers on her face.
The way she looked at him when he wasn’t being clever or charming or composed.
Just him.
Just Jun.
Raw. Open. Terrified.
And she still looked. Still stayed.
Until she didn’t.
Because he pushed her out.
Again.
And again.
And again.
Not because she wasn’t enough. But because maybe—deep down—he wasn’t.
He rubbed his chest. Right over the spot where it ached.
It didn’t help.
He closed his eyes.
He imagined it.
Not a fantasy. Not a dream.
Just… a memory reloaded through grief-colored glasses.
He imagined walking into The Parc’s lobby tomorrow. Seeing her by the café. Laughing with someone else. Maybe with Hoshi. Maybe with some new guy whose laugh didn’t sound like it was carved out of regret.
He imagined her smiling. Really smiling. The kind she used to reserve for him.
And he imagined standing there, invisible.
Watching.
Wanting.
Bleeding quietly under his skin.
The thought gutted him.
So he got up. Again.
This time, he walked into the bathroom.
Washed his face. Watched the water drip from his chin into the sink.
His breath came short.
He pressed his palms to the counter. Hung his head.
And whispered, barely audible—
“Did you ever love me?”
His own voice echoed off the tiles, hollow.
He didn’t expect an answer.
He wasn’t sure he wanted one.
He stayed there, in the bathroom, until his knees gave out and he slid to the cold floor. Phone still in the other room. Mind stuck on a loop.
Min Ah laughing somewhere without him.
Min Ah dancing in a club with glitter in her eyes and someone else’s lips on hers.
He dug his nails into his thigh just to feel something real.
He didn’t cry.
Jun wasn’t the kind to cry.
But God, he wanted to.
He wanted to cry until his chest stopped hurting. Until the weight lifted. Until the ghosts got bored and left.
But they didn’t.
So instead, he laid there. On the cold tile floor. Heart ticking wrong. Mind filled with static.
And somewhere, in the back of his head, her voice whispered:
“You type too loud.”
He laughed. Or maybe he sobbed. It came out as both.
Because that voice wasn’t real anymore.
Just like her.
—
Second weekend of November
The city was quiet in that eerie, cruel way only 2:17 AM could offer. The hour where even the taxis seemed to yawn, where the glow from The Parc’s lobby lights felt less like a welcome and more like a surveillance spotlight. Jun sat on the edge of his bed, the room dim except for the bluish hue of his phone screen. His apartment, always too clean, now felt like a cage—sterile and silent, like it was daring him to feel something.
He shouldn’t be awake. He should’ve been asleep hours ago. Should’ve ignored the notification. Should’ve put his phone down after scrolling through Mingyu’s chaotic group chat photos of brunch plates and fantasy football scores.
But then he saw it.
A repost. Gone in six hours. Probably Dahyun’s account. Maybe Eunji’s. He couldn’t remember now.
A blurry photo taken on a bus—cramped seats, window fogged with breath and autumn. In the center of the frame, Min Ah. Asleep. Slumped gently against a shoulder that wasn’t his.
Hoshi’s.
Of course it was Hoshi’s.
Her head rested like it had always belonged there, lips parted just slightly, a wisp of her hair stuck to the corner of her cheek. Hoshi was half-asleep too, eyes barely open, chin tilted just slightly toward her crown. As if he was guarding her even in his dreams.
It was cozy. Domestic. Intimate in a way that made Jun’s teeth ache.
He stared at the image too long. Tried to go back, tap, replay the Story—but it had vanished. Instagram’s algorithm, cruel and efficient, replaced it instantly with sponsored ads and influencer reels.
Jun’s thumb hovered above the screen, stuttering between hesitation and obsession. And then he did the thing he’d promised himself—again and again—not to do.
He typed her name.
@melodyminah.
Her page was still open to him.
She still followed him. That detail hit his chest like a slow bullet. It felt like mercy. Or punishment.
But no likes. No comments. No traces. Just silence.
Min Ah had always been warm like spring sun on a frozen lake—gentle, patient, melting him slowly. But Jun had never learned how to swim in warmth. Only how to hold his breath until it burned.
He scrolled through her feed. Stills from recent campaigns, behind-the-scenes reels with Artois team members, blurry selfies from coffee runs. In one, she posed with her fingers making a peace sign near her cheek, eyes puffy but bright. She looked tired. But she also looked…okay.
He wasn’t part of that okay.
Jun clicked her tagged photos. One had her at a gallery opening, standing beside a painting that reminded him of her: abstract but personal, layered and textural like she was thinking a thousand things but choosing silence instead.
He closed Instagram. Opened Notes.
You used to fall asleep on me like that, too. Except I never let myself relax. I was always scared I’d wake you up if I breathed too loud.
Deleted.
Typed again:
I don’t think I ever deserved you. But I miss you so much it makes me nauseous.
Deleted.
His fingers hovered. Again. Again.
This was the part that always broke him—the wanting to say something and knowing it wouldn’t change anything.
Somewhere between breath and breakdown, Jun closed his eyes and let the silence swell.
In his head, she was still telling him about the nutmeg latte.
“It’s stupid-good,” she’d said once, leaning against the café counter at The Parc, eyes dancing with mischief. “Tastes like November in a cup. You’ll love it, you just don’t know it yet.”
He did love it. Still drank it, almost ritualistically. Every morning. He hadn’t even told the barista to memorize the order—just wanted to say it out loud each time, like reciting a prayer no god was listening to.
He didn’t like sweet things.
But he’d liked it when she said it tasted like a hug.
And maybe he’d wanted to know what a hug really felt like.
Jun leaned back against the headboard. The room was too quiet. No sound of keys in the bowl. No whisper of music from her phone speaker. No laughter bouncing off the hardwood floors.
Growing up, silence had always meant safety. His childhood apartment had been full of it—cold and perfect and graveyard-still. No warmth. No clutter. Conversations happened in questions like, “Did you study?” and answers like, “Yes.” Affection wasn’t practiced. It was passed over like bad weather.
So when Min Ah had filled his space with chaos and breath and tiny complaints and dumb TikToks—he’d smiled. But also, deep inside, he’d flinched.
Because joy wasn’t familiar. And closeness? That had always felt like standing too close to a fire in clothes soaked with gasoline.
He’d wanted her. Deeply. Madly. But wanting and knowing how to keep were two different things.
And Hoshi? God. Jun hated how easy the man made it look. Always orbiting Min Ah like he was made of gravity. Unbothered. Steady. Good with people. Good with her.
Jun didn’t hate him because he was annoying.
He hated him because he fit.
Jun didn't fit anywhere. Not into families. Not into routines. Not even into his own body, sometimes.
He reached for his phone again. Typed for the third time.
I miss you.
This time, he didn’t delete it.
He just didn’t send it.
He whispered the words into the half-dark like it might travel on dust particles, like the walls might remember.
“I miss you,” he said, again—quieter. “I really, really do.”
There was no reply. Just the hum of the refrigerator. The static in his lungs. The grief that made a home somewhere behind his ribs.
Jun placed the phone on his bedside table. Screen down.
Then curled in on himself.
Because some people sleep to escape.
But he just wanted to forget he was still awake.
—
OMG FINALLYYY CHAPTER 14 IS UP!!! I've been trying to update since wednesday but tumblr wont let me??? it keeps failing idk why. but here u go! enjoy!!
"Like clouds kissed by the sun, some people leave behind a color you can’t name."
✧ moon junhui x f!oc
✧ kwon hoshi x f!oc
✧ summary: She came to Seoul to escape—what she found instead was him. Jun, unreadable and magnetic. Hoshi, warm but just out of reach. As feelings blur and moments slip by, Min Ah realizes not everything beautiful is meant to last. Some storms come softly. Some leave a mess behind.
One single, unassuming notification in the #general channel. From the one, the only: Dokyeom.
Team Artois, assemble! Urgent 5-min huddle at 3PM. Trust me, you’re gonna love this (mandatory).
Mandatory.
And yet it had the vibes of an unhinged reality show twist.
Min Ah stared at the message like it was a personal attack. Her fingers paused mid-typing. Her brain? Immediately in crisis.
“What is he up to now,” she muttered, narrowing her eyes.
Eunji rolled over in her chair like a harbinger of doom. “Place your bets. Last time he said ‘you’re gonna love this,’ we ended up doing a week of TikTok content strategy in VR goggles.”
Min Ah groaned. “I still get migraines when I hear the word ‘metaverse.’”
Meanwhile, across the office, Hoshi was trying so hard not to look at her that it physically hurt. His jaw was clenched, his cursor blinking on an empty Notion page. The scent of Min Ah’s grapefruit perfume had reached him approximately ten minutes ago and he had not been okay since.
They hadn’t talked about it. Well—okay—they had. Briefly. In the awkward, hungover haze of Sunday morning, followed by the Monday-of-all-Mondays in the office. But everything since then had been... careful. Cautious. Every conversation felt like walking a tightrope over a pool of unresolved sexual tension and emotional confusion.
And Min Ah?
Oh, she was losing it. Quietly. Slowly. Spectacularly.
Because somehow—some how—she had woken up in his bed and not regretted it.
No, scratch that. She regretted the chaos. The lack of memory. The part where she said Yuji Itadori in bed. She would never emotionally recover from that, in like, forever.
But him?
She hadn’t minded waking up next to him.
She’d minded it too little. And that was the problem.
Her phone buzzed with a message from Eunji:
[My Eunjinji]
bets on whether dokyeom’s surprise is a weekend getaway or human sacrifice?
[min ah]
what if it’s both
Dokyeom’s voice snapped them all to attention. “EVERYONE! MEETING TIME!”
He stood near the whiteboard like he was hosting the Hunger Games.
The marketing team trickled in: Min Ah, Eunji, Dahyun, a couple of interns, and Hoshi—who kept a whole extra chair between himself and Min Ah like they were at Catholic school mass.
Manager Kim arrived last, clutching a cold brew and already sighing.
Dokyeom beamed. iPad in hand. Suspicious twinkle in his eye.
“So!” he announced. “We’ve been absolutely crushing it, team. Insane engagement numbers. Client love letters. Even that chaotic Halloween reel went semi-viral—shoutout to Hoshi’s choreography and Min Ah’s wig sacrifice.”
Min Ah visibly flinched. Hoshi stifled a grin.
Dokyeom flipped to a slide titled:
GLAMPING TRIP: TEAM BONDING 2025
The room exploded.
“GLAMPING?!”
“This WEEKEND?!”
“Are there bathrooms??”
“Is this going to be like Squid Game?!”
Dokyeom raised his hands like Moses parting the Red Sea. “It’s all handled! We’re going to a curated glamping site in Gapyeong. Domes. Heaters. Projectors. Mood lighting. And of course—team bonding activities!”
Eunji snorted. “Are you trying to kill us or make us fall in love?”
Dokyeom winked. “Why not both?”
Min Ah choked on air.
“Wait, Gapyeong? Like autumn foliage, fairy lights, romcom energy Gapyeong?” she asked weakly.
Dokyeom nodded. “That’s the one. I already booked the place. Bus leaves Saturday at 7AM sharp.”
A small sound escaped her—half gasp, half soul-leaving-body. She felt Hoshi’s gaze flick toward her. She didn’t look back.
“Teams and tents will be randomly assigned,” Dokyeom added gleefully. “So no one can rig it to bunk with their crush—I’m watching you, Dahyun.”
“Excuse me?!” Dahyun shouted.
Eunji leaned over and stage-whispered to Min Ah, “He’s not wrong though.”
Min Ah wanted to sink into the floor.
“Anyway,” Dokyeom grinned. “Pack warm clothes, snacks, and a winning attitude. Dismissed!”
As the team shuffled back to their desks, Eunji was already complaining about the cold, the bugs, and the possibility of sharing a dome with Manager Kim.
Dahyun wiggled her eyebrows at Min Ah. “So. You, me, campfire horror stories, and thermoses full of wine?”
Min Ah forced a smile. “Only if you promise not to livestream my mental breakdown.”
—
It was too early to be awake, too cold to be cheerful, and much too soon to be making eye contact with Hoshi in broad daylight.
Min Ah pulled her hoodie tighter around her neck as she stood on the sidewalk in front of The Parc lobby, surrounded by a sleepy, semi-conscious gathering of coworkers. The team looked like a very specific breed of hungover penguins—everyone bundled up in mismatched hoodies, sneakers, and the occasional very questionable pajama pant.
Dokyeom, naturally, was wearing sunglasses and fingerless gloves. He raised both arms like Moses parting the Red Sea when the bus arrived. “Children of capitalism! Your carriage awaits!”
The Artois team let out a collective groan.
Min Ah was about to climb up the steps when Eunji nudged her sharply in the ribs. “You’re sitting next to Hoshi.”
“What?” Min Ah blinked, mid-step.
Eunji grinned, whispering like an agent of chaos. “I made sure of it. I told Dahyun I get motion sickness unless I sit in the front, and then I told Jaemin I’d save him a seat in the back. So the middle’s wide open… just for you two.”
“That’s manipulative.”
“You're welcome,” Eunji beamed.
Min Ah turned around, ready to protest, but then—of course—Hoshi appeared behind her. Hoodie, sweats, sneakers, coffee in hand. His hair was still damp from a rushed morning shower, and when their eyes met, he smiled that awkward, too-polite smile that meant I’m still thinking about that thing we’re pretending didn’t happen.
“Morning,” he said.
“Morning,” she replied, clutching her backpack like it might shield her from reality.
The bus door hissed open.
They climbed aboard.
And just like Eunji orchestrated, the only two seats left in the middle were right next to each other. A little too close. A little too fate.
Min Ah slid in first, mumbling something about “window seats” while already feeling her cheeks burn. Hoshi followed, settling next to her with just a hint too much space between their thighs—like he was trying not to touch her, and somehow that made the air even thicker.
The bus roared to life. They lurched forward.
And so began the quietest, most deafening 90 minutes of her life.
Min Ah tried to focus on the trees outside. Hoshi kept sipping his coffee like it was the only thing anchoring him to this realm.
A few rows back, Dokyeom whispered something to Eunji and they both snorted. The guy from finance Jaemin’s obnoxious laugh echoed off the windows. Dahyun was already asleep, earbuds in, neck pillow secured like she was entering hibernation. The vibe on the bus was pure chaos-meets-naptime.
Min Ah stole a glance at Hoshi. His hood was down now, and a soft tuft of dark brown hair stuck out awkwardly at the back. He looked peaceful, if not slightly constipated with anxiety.
Suddenly, a small bump in the road sent them jolting—and his thigh bumped into hers.
She stiffened.
So did he.
“Sorry,” he said quickly, retreating an inch.
“It’s okay,” she replied, voice tighter than her backpack straps.
Silence.
More silence.
Then—
“You brought snacks?” Hoshi asked, eyes flicking to her tote bag like it was the most interesting object in the universe.
“Um. Dried mango,” she said, digging through it. “Also seaweed crisps and those weird lemon gummies from Japan.”
He perked up. “Those slap.”
She handed him one wordlessly.
He took it with a shy grin. “Thanks.”
They chewed in awkward synchrony. The gummies tasted like citrus and tension.
Eventually, the bus quieted. Heads tilted back. Curtains drawn. Someone played a lo-fi playlist from their phone. The mood shifted—soft and sleepy.
Min Ah yawned.
Hoshi leaned his head back against the seat.
Their shoulders barely touched.
She should’ve pulled away. Really, she should’ve.
But it was warm. And comfortable. And… okay, sue her—he smelled good. That familiar faint trace of laundry detergent and aftershave and something distinctly him. Not romantic. Not emotional.
Just… human.
Min Ah’s eyes fluttered closed.
Somewhere between Seoul and Gapyeong, she fell asleep.
—
It started as a soft weight.
Something resting against her head.
Min Ah blinked slowly awake, disoriented.
She’d slumped sideways, and her cheek was now pressed against a solid, warm surface. Her nose brushed against fabric.
Her pillow had abs.
She froze.
Hoshi.
She’d fallen asleep on Hoshi.
Correction: with Hoshi. Because he, too, was completely knocked out—head tilted slightly to the side, lips parted, breathing slow. His face was so close. Too close. His brow furrowed slightly, like he was dreaming of something confusing. Maybe how they ended up like this. Maybe how she ended up like this.
Min Ah was about to move—about to gently slide away—when a loud snap echoed through the bus.
Eunji’s phone camera.
No.
“EUNJI,” Min Ah hissed, too late.
Eunji turned around from two rows back, holding her phone like a prized Pokémon. “Sorry, but I had to. You two look like a couple in a Netflix K-drama promo poster.”
“DELETE IT.”
“Too late. It’s already in the Artois group chat. Dokyeom added emojis.”
Min Ah groaned. She buried her face deeper into Hoshi’s hoodie-covered chest, fully giving up on the idea of dignity.
Hoshi stirred. “Hmm?” he mumbled.
She looked up, flustered. “Sorry—I—uh—you were—sleeping—I—”
He blinked, dazed. “You smell like lemon.”
“What?!”
“I think I drooled on your hair,” he added, half-asleep, totally shameless.
Min Ah stared at him, mortified.
But he just smiled, eyes fluttering shut again.
“Five more minutes,” he whispered. “Then we face the consequences.”
—
By the time the bus rolled into the glamping site, chaos had fully reawakened.
Eunji was telling everyone about the “accidental couple pic.” Dokyeom had changed his KakaoTalk profile photo to a blurry zoom-in of Min Ah curled against Hoshi’s chest. Jaemin made an offhand comment about how “cozy” they looked, waggling his eyebrows until Dahyun smacked him with a pillow.
And Hoshi?
Hoshi just walked beside Min Ah like nothing happened. A calm in the storm. Like he didn’t even know they were slowly becoming the plot of a Tumblr fic.
Min Ah hated how steady he looked.
Because she was not steady.
Her brain was still catching up.
With the night they didn’t talk about.
With the morning they tried to laugh through.
With the fact that she had just spent ninety whole minutes sleeping against someone she had accidentally, emotionally, and physically tangled herself with.
And the worst part?
She hadn’t hated it.
Not even a little bit.
She glanced at Hoshi out of the corner of her eye. He caught her. Smiled, soft.
Her heart did something stupid.
“Welcome to Ga-blemping Heaven!” Dokyeom declared, arms wide as they stood at the edge of the forested site. Rows of beige canvas tents glowed under the early afternoon sun. String lights hung from pine trees. There was a firepit, a grill, a small stage with a karaoke mic already plugged in. Fairy lights twinkled like they were ready for romance and ruin.
“Let the bonding begin,” Eunji said ominously.
Hoshi elbowed Min Ah gently. “Still time to fake an injury and go home.”
Min Ah shook her head. “Nah. I think I want to see where this disaster goes.”
He looked at her a moment longer. “Me too.”
The glamping site was, objectively, disgustingly aesthetic.
Like someone had curated a Pinterest board titled “Autumn Cozy Forest Romance, But Make It Corporate Retreat” and then manifested it with unlimited budget. Rows of cream canvas bell tents lined a gravel path, string lights looped between trees like warm halos, and fairy lights blinked lazily above fire pits and bean bags. There was even an espresso cart. With a barista. Wearing a beanie. In the forest. Capitalism had officially won.
Min Ah looked around with cautious awe, tugging her overnight bag higher on her shoulder. “Why does this feel like an Instagram influencer’s wet dream?”
“Because it is,” Eunji muttered beside her. “I checked the geo-tag. This place is a wedding venue on weekends.”
Dokyeom clapped his hands loudly from the center of the clearing, drawing everyone’s attention. “Alright, Artois troops!” he said with far too much energy for someone wearing socks with Birkenstocks. “Let’s do the rooming assignments!”
A collective groan echoed through the crowd. Everyone knew the horror of room assignments during overnight company events. The drama. The betrayal. The unspoken wars.
“Don’t worry,” Dokyeom said, waving a crumpled paper. “I’ve randomized it. Equal gender distribution, two per tent. Very fair.”
Min Ah narrowed her eyes. That sounded… suspiciously too fair.
One by one, people were called up to receive their tent numbers.
“Eunji with Dahyun.”
“Manager Kim with Senior Seo.”
“Hyunwoo with Hyojin.”
The line moved. Bags dragged. People scattered. Tents filled up.
Min Ah waited, rocking on her heels. Hoshi stood a few paces away, hands in his coat pockets, eyes on the ground. They hadn’t really talked since the bus incident. Since the nap. Since her head accidentally landed on his shoulder and stayed there. Since someone took a photo of it and now it lived in the group chat as everyone’s favorite new meme.
“And that just leaves…” Dokyeom paused, scanning the remaining names. His eyes lit up like a man watching chaos bloom.
“…Hoshi and Min Ah.”
They both froze.
Min Ah blinked. “Wait. That can’t be right.”
Hoshi straightened. “No no, there’s gotta be someone else—”
“Nope,” Dokyeom said cheerfully. “We had an odd number of both guys and girls. Math is math. Tent 9. Enjoy the bonding!”
And just like that, he walked off.
Min Ah stood there, blinking, brain buffering.
Hoshi turned to her slowly. “…I swear I didn’t plan this.”
“Did I say you did?”
“You looked at me like I set the tent trap.”
“Well maybe you did in your sleep while snoring on my shoulder.”
“I do not snore—”
“You absolutely do.”
They stared at each other.
Silence.
A squirrel ran past.
Somewhere, a leaf dramatically fell.
“Okay,” Hoshi said finally, rubbing the back of his neck. “We’re adults. It’s just one night.”
“Right. We shared a bed before and lived to tell the tale.”
He coughed. “Barely.”
She looked away. “Tent 9?”
“Lead the way.”
As they made their way toward Tent 9, Min Ah could feel the looks.
Not in a scandalous way—just the quiet, knowing glances exchanged between coworkers who knew just enough to guess something spicy might be going on. Eunji gave her a grin that said we’ll talk later. Manager Kim looked like he had bet on this pairing and was winning money in a secret Slack channel.
Tent 9 stood at the very edge of the campgrounds. A little more private. A little more removed. A little too romantic for something that was definitely not supposed to be romantic.
Inside, it was deceptively cute.
Two twin fluffy heated mattresses. A little lantern hanging from the ceiling. A woven rug. Even a fake potted plant in the corner like a passive-aggressive decoration from Hoshi’s apartment.
Min Ah dropped her bag with a thud and immediately sat on the left bed. “This one’s mine. No negotiations.”
Hoshi flopped onto the other bed. “Fine. I didn’t want to sleep near the fake ficus anyway.”
She tossed him a look. “You’re weirdly good at this.”
“At what?”
“This. The… acting normal. Like we didn’t—like nothing happened.”
His face twitched, just slightly. “Do you want me to act differently?”
“No,” she said too quickly. “I mean—yes. No. I don’t know.”
He smiled faintly, eyes on the ceiling. “We could always build a wall of pillows.”
“A Berlin Wall of Shame.”
“Exactly. Keep the Cold War vibes alive.”
She snorted, then sighed, sinking back into her mattress. The tent was quiet except for the muffled laughter of their coworkers outside, and the occasional rustle of leaves.
Min Ah glanced sideways.
Hoshi had one arm slung over his eyes. His mouth was tugged in a smile that didn’t reach his cheeks. His other hand rested on his stomach, fingers twitching.
Her heart twisted.
The dream had felt like Jun. The aftermath had felt like grief.
But this?
This just felt like… a beginning she didn’t know how to name yet.
Outside, someone shouted that dinner would be served soon. The crackle of a bonfire started somewhere near the main pit.
“Let’s just get through tonight,” she said softly.
Hoshi peeked over at her. “Survive now, overthink later?”
She nodded.
He smiled again. “Signal received.”
She rolled her eyes.
But her chest felt a little lighter.
Like maybe this wasn’t a mistake.
Maybe it was just… step one.
—
If there was one thing worse than tent-sharing with your very confusing almost-hookup-almost-crush coworker, it was publicly pairing up with said coworker for trust-building exercises led by a man in cargo shorts with an actual whistle.
“Alright, Artois troops!” Dokyeom yelled, hopping onto a tree stump like a deranged camp counselor. “Next up in our magical glamping bonding journey: team activities!”
A collective groan echoed through the trees.
Hoshi muttered, “Why does he sound like a PE teacher on crack?”
Min Ah elbowed him. “Shut up or he’ll assign you to the three-legged race with Manager Kim.”
That shut him up real fast.
The group was herded into a clearing near the edge of the forest, where several suspiciously cute activity stations had been set up. A macramé rope swing. An obstacle course made from string and pool noodles. A stack of hula hoops and—god help them—a blindfolded trust-walk zone.
“Pick a partner!” Dokyeom called out. “We’ll rotate later!”
Everyone scattered like cockroaches.
Dahyun sprinted toward Eunji. Soobin grabbed Jisoo. Even Hyunwoo and Manager Kim had some weird synchronized nod thing going.
Min Ah turned around, scanning—
Only to find Hoshi already standing beside her, hands in his pockets, awkward little smile blooming on his face.
“…Guess it’s us,” he said.
Her heart did that annoying little skip. “Guess so.”
They were assigned to the trust fall first. Classic. Cruel. Criminal.
Min Ah eyed him suspiciously. “Promise you won’t let me die?”
“I swear on my glasses collection.”
“…Wow. High stakes.”
She took a breath. Closed her eyes. And fell.
His arms caught her with ridiculous ease—strong, steady, warm.
“See?” he murmured. “Safe.”
Her heart stuttered. Stupid heart. “Yeah.”
She stepped away quickly, cheeks burning. “Your turn.”
He raised an eyebrow. “You gonna catch me?”
“Don’t flatter yourself.”
He smirked. “You’d catch me. You like me.”
“Excuse me—”
But he was already falling back.
She yelped and lunged forward—caught him with a startled oof, his weight slamming into her arms.
“SEE?” he grinned upside down. “You like me.”
“I hate you,” she gasped, laughing. “You’re so heavy—what the hell—are you carrying trauma in your pockets?!”
“I carry my issues everywhere. It’s my gym routine.”
She shoved him away, still laughing, and they moved on to the next station: the hand-tied maze. Basically, their wrists were bound together with a rope, and they had to navigate a path without letting go.
It was a disaster.
Every turn, every tug, every misstep brought them closer. Hoshi cursed under his breath when he almost tripped, dragging Min Ah down with him.
“Stop pulling!”
“You’re the one zigzagging like a drunk pigeon!”
“You smell like glitter and shame!”
“You said I smelled good yesterday!”
“That was before I remembered you put my wig in a microwave!”
They finally stumbled out of the maze—sweaty, breathless, and tangled.
A few claps came from their coworkers, but mostly everyone was just filming for future blackmail.
Min Ah collapsed on the grass, tugging at the knot on her wrist. “Who even designed this? A sadist?”
“Probably Dokyeom,” Hoshi said, panting beside her. “This has his chaotic evil fingerprints all over it.”
She leaned back on her elbows, watching the clouds shift lazily overhead.
Hoshi looked over at her.
She glanced at him, "What?"
“I didn’t hate that.”
“Which part? The falling? The insults? The rope burn?”
He smiled. “Being stuck to you.”
…Silence.
She looked away. “You’re such a flirt.”
“I’m not flirting,” he said, softer now. “Not really.”
She didn’t answer. But her fingers brushed his for just a second. Light. Uncertain. Real.
Then someone called out: “BONFIRE IN FIFTEEN! BRING YOUR CHAOS ENERGY!”
The spell broke.
Min Ah stood up and dusted off her pants. “Better get ready.”
Hoshi stayed seated, looking up at her like she was made of starlight and static.
“Hey,” he said.
She looked back.
He smiled, lopsided. “You’re really pretty when you’re annoyed.”
Her face flushed. “You’re lucky I don’t push you into the lake.”
“Worth it,” he said.
As they walked back toward the tents, side by side, brushing shoulders—
The air between them buzzed with everything unsaid.
And neither of them knew it yet, but the fire that night?
Wasn’t just coming from the bonfire.
—
The stars above were shy tonight, ducking behind the clouds as if even they didn’t want to witness the disaster unfolding below.
The bonfire cracked, sending embers dancing into the crisp night air. Fairy lights strung from tree to tree glowed like twinkling secrets, barely lighting the circle of chaos about to begin.
Dokyeom stood in the center, arms outstretched, ladle in one hand, the glint of evil in his eyes.
“Alright, delinquents!” he shouted. “The time has come. The game that will either bond us for life or completely destroy our dignity: Spill or Kiss!”
A few people groaned.
Soobin whispered, “He’s drunk on power. Someone stop him.”
“Too late,” Dahyun said, popping a marshmallow into her mouth.
The group started forming a loose circle—some sat on plaid picnic blankets, others on camping stools or straight on the gravel, bundled in hoodies and blankets. Hot chocolate steamed in mugs. Someone had brought an acoustic speaker softly playing retro K-pop in the background—Twice’s Signal, of course, as if the universe was in on the joke.
And just like fate had been doing all weekend, it struck again.
Min Ah ended up next to Dahyun.
And Hoshi.
Again.
The universe was not subtle.
“Okay, rules are simple,” Dokyeom beamed, dramatically clicking his pen. “One personal, mildly soul-crushing question. If you don’t answer, you kiss the person to your right. You must do one.”
“Wait—must?” Jisoo frowned.
“Yes,” Dokyeom said. “You cannot escape. This is a legally binding game in the woods.”
“Great,” muttered Min Ah. “This is how we die. Publicly. Emotionally.”
They started clockwise.
The first few rounds were hilarious. Dahyun was asked if she ever stalked her ex on LinkedIn (“obviously,” she said, sipping hot cocoa). Soobin got grilled about the weirdest thing he’s ever Googled drunk. (“How many raccoons can I legally own in South Korea.”)
Manager Kim was asked who in the office he’d fire if he could. He stared at Soobin for a full 10 seconds before leaning over and kissing him on the cheek. “Too dangerous,” he said.
Then it happened.
Eunji turned, oh-so-innocently, toward Min Ah.
“Min Ah,” he said sweetly, as if he wasn’t the human embodiment of chaos. “Your turn.”
Min Ah blinked. “Okay. Hit me.”
Eunji's smile sharpened.
“Did you ever sleep with someone from the office?”
The bonfire might as well have exploded.
Gasps. Laughter. Someone choked on their drink.
Min Ah stared at him, mouth hanging open.
“WHAT?!”
Eunji threw her arms up. “It’s a fair question!”
“THAT’S A MINEFIELD,” Hoshi hissed beside her, already paling.
Min Ah’s brain went into a tailspin. Her hands started sweating. Her soul left her body, hovered above the glamping tent, and said, this is why we don’t go on company retreats, babe.
Her heartbeat pounded in her ears.
She could feel Hoshi freeze next to her.
She looked at Eunji. “I’m not answering that.”
“Rules are rules,” Dokyeom sang. “Kiss the person on your right~”
The world tilted.
Min Ah turned her head slowly. Met Hoshi’s eyes.
The firelight danced across his features—his skin flushed, lips parted slightly, like he couldn’t decide whether to run or pass out.
Min Ah licked her lips. “This is stupid,” she mumbled.
Hoshi gave a breathless little laugh. “Yeah.”
Beat.
“You okay?” she whispered.
He nodded, just once. “Yeah. You?”
Min Ah’s voice was barely there. “I think so.”
She leaned in.
So did he.
And then—
Their lips touched.
Not for long. Not deep. But not nothing.
It was soft. Still.
Like time had slipped out of gear and for one perfect second, everything just... paused.
Her lips trembled against his.
His hand—somehow—found her knee. Gentle. Grounding.
When they pulled back, the air between them shimmered.
And then—chaos.
“AAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!”
“DID Y’ALL SEE THAT?!”
“WAIT HOLD UP—THAT WAS NOT A GAME KISS!”
Eunji actually threw her cup in the air.
Dahyun screamed into a pillow.
Soobin clutched Manager Kim’s sleeve and whisper-yelled, “OH MY GOD SHE DID SLEEP WITH SOMEONE IN THE OFFICE.”
Min Ah immediately hid her face in both hands. “I want to die.”
Hoshi choked on his own breath, eyes wide. “That was—no—that’s not—”
“You put your hand on her knee, bro,” Dokyeom said smugly, sipping cider like tea. “It’s over. Just elope now.”
“I’M NEVER PLAYING THIS GAME AGAIN,” Min Ah shrieked.
Eunji pounced on her. “Wait wait wait wait wait—WAS IT HIM?!”
Min Ah yelped. “NO COMMENT—”
“OH MY GOD IT WAS HIM.”
Hoshi made a noise like a dying duck. “I’m deceased. This is my funeral.”
But beneath all the panic and teasing—
Min Ah risked a glance at him.
He was already looking at her.
Their eyes met.
And this time…
They didn’t look away.
He mouthed: You okay?
She gave the smallest nod. You?
He smiled—crooked, nervous, warm. Better than okay.
Her stomach flipped.
Somewhere in the trees, an owl hooted. Somewhere across the fire, Eunji was still interrogating her with aggressive marshmallows. And somewhere in her chest, a feeling that started as chaos…
Was starting to feel like something else.
Something dangerous.
Something real.
—
The fire had died down to coals, and the night had sobered into stillness.
No more cheers. No more music. Just the soft rustle of wind threading through the trees, and the occasional muffled giggle from tents where the Artois crew was still probably sharing ghost stories or meme recaps of the day.
Min Ah lingered at the edge of the firepit like she was stalling time.
Her heart had stopped doing backflips about fifteen minutes ago—but now it was pacing. Cautious. Unsure.
Because she still felt it. That kiss.
Not the pressure of it, or the spark—it hadn’t been some steamy, cinematic, fireworks-exploding kind of kiss. But it had landed—like a small asteroid quietly crashing into the planet she called her emotional stability.
The truth was, it didn’t feel like acting.
And that scared the living hell out of her.
She tightened her cardigan around herself and turned toward their tent—their shared tent, because of course fate would trap her overnight with the same man she’d kissed in front of all their coworkers.
The tent looked cozy from a distance. Soft lantern glow seeping through the canvas, shadows swaying gently inside. A cream bubble of forced intimacy.
Her palms were sweaty.
Min Ah took a breath and unzipped the flap.
“Zrrrp.”
Hoshi was sitting up inside, cross-legged on a rolled-out sleeping mat. He looked up immediately. Like he’d been waiting.
“Oh,” he said. “Hey.”
His hair was still fluffy from the wind, his hoodie half unzipped. He had taken off the cat ears from earlier, but a faint glitter trail still clung to his jaw. The soft light made him look warm. Real.
Too real.
Min Ah stepped in and zipped the flap back up behind her. It was quieter instantly. Just the two of them and the hum of air.
“Hi,” she said.
They both just… stood there.
Or rather—he sat, she stood, awkward like someone caught in a very polite home invasion.
“You can sit,” he said, clearing his throat.
“Oh. Right.”
She eased down across from him, sitting a bit stiffly, pulling her knees up like a protective fortress. The blanket underneath them was soft and smelled like detergent and forest. Their shoulders weren’t quite touching. But her body felt hyperaware. Every shift of his weight. Every exhale.
A minute passed. Maybe two.
“…So,” he said eventually. “That happened.”
Min Ah glanced at him. “You mean the group-wide public workplace HR scandal that was our lips touching for five seconds?”
Hoshi huffed a quiet laugh. “That one, yeah.”
They both went quiet again.
Min Ah reached down and picked at a loose thread on the hem of her pants. “It didn’t… feel like a game.”
She looked down. “I think that’s what freaks me out the most.”
He nodded. Not pushing. Just listening.
“I thought it was going to be, like—just a dumb dare. Haha, funny, wow, scandalous. But then I kissed you and it felt like my body didn’t get the memo that it was a joke.” She paused. “It felt like my body… already knew yours.”
Her voice faltered at the end, like the truth had snuck up on her mid-sentence.
Hoshi didn’t speak for a moment.
“Yeah,” he said softly. “Same.”
She lifted her head slightly.
“I’ve imagined it before,” he admitted, not meeting her eyes. “Not like in a gross way—okay sometimes in a gross way—but also… like this. Quiet. Real. Like we’re just… here. Talking about it.”
Min Ah’s breath caught.
He added quickly, “You don’t have to say anything. I’m not asking for anything. I just— I don’t want you to think it was nothing. Or that I kissed you just because of the game.”
Her throat felt tight.
“I didn’t hate it,” she said quietly.
Their eyes met.
That changed the air.
It got heavier. Not tense, not bad—just charged. Like something was finally stepping into the room between them and refusing to pretend it didn’t exist anymore.
“I don’t know what to do with all this,” Min Ah said honestly. “I’m still kind of in this… grief haze. And the Jun stuff, it’s—God, it’s still there. I haven’t moved on. I don’t even think I’ve really started to. And then I go and do this—sleep with you, kiss you, laugh with you like we’re fine, and I don’t know if it’s real or if I’m just looking for a bandaid.”
Her voice cracked at the edges.
Hoshi listened. Like really listened. Like he wasn’t bracing for rejection, just… letting her be messy.
Min Ah wrapped her arms around her knees. “But I don’t regret it.”
That surprised her even as she said it.
“I thought I would,” she continued. “When I woke up in your bed, I thought I’d want to disappear. But I didn’t. And tonight—I didn’t kiss you because I was pretending. I kissed you because…”
She trailed off. Bit her lip. “Because it felt good. To want someone and not have to hurt for it.”
Hoshi exhaled slowly, like he’d been holding that breath the entire time.
—
They sat in it. The quiet. The admission. The flicker of something that wasn’t quite peace, but wasn’t panic anymore either.
After a moment, Min Ah smiled faintly. “Also, your lips are really soft.”
Hoshi looked scandalized. “Excuse me?”
“Like unnaturally soft. Are you using a gloss? Is it Fenty?”
“I will neither confirm nor deny my allegiance to Rihanna.”
She laughed, head falling to her knees.
He watched her like she was the only light in the room.
Outside, the fire had gone out. The wind picked up, rustling the trees in that way that made it feel like the forest was whispering secrets. Inside the tent, it was quiet—too quiet.
Min Ah shivered.
Just slightly.
But Hoshi noticed. He always noticed.
“You cold?”
She shrugged. “I’m fine.”
Hoshi tilted his head. “You’re visibly trembling.”
“I said I’m fine, Captain Sweatpants.”
“I’m trying to be a gentleman, Min Ah, not a heater.”
“Maybe try harder.”
But her teeth chattered right at the end, betraying her entirely.
Hoshi sighed, then looked toward the two single beds lined up against opposite sides of the tent—perfectly reasonable, perfectly HR-safe. Then he looked back at her, and the universe collectively held its breath.
“…Do you want to come here?” he asked, voice cautious.
She blinked. “Come where?”
He patted the space beside him. His sleeping bag was half-zipped, his body already curled up in a heap of blanket and warmth. His sweatpants peeked out beneath the edge, and for some reason, that made everything feel ten times more dangerous.
Min Ah stared at him.
Then at the other bed.
Then back at him.
She crossed her arms. “This is a trap.”
“It’s literally not.”
“You say that, but then you pull out the lip balm and suddenly I’m compromised.”
“Min Ah.”
“Hoshi.”
Another gust of wind howled outside. The fabric of the tent flapped slightly, and her shoulders curled inward.
She groaned. “If I wake up in your arms again, I’m suing.”
“No comment.”
Slowly—so slowly—she crawled over, dragging her blanket like a defeated ghost. She flopped onto his bed and immediately sighed at the warmth.
“…Don’t make it weird,” she mumbled, pulling the blanket up to her chin.
“Me? Make it weird?” Hoshi said. “Never. I’m the pinnacle of platonic behavior.”
“Uh-huh.”
They lay like that for a moment—awkward, stiff, two human icicles trying to defrost without igniting something irreversible.
Eventually, Min Ah shifted. Her arm brushed his.
Hoshi froze.
Then he shifted, too. Their legs tangled slightly, socks brushing. She kicked him once—lightly.
“Your feet are cold,” she muttered.
“So are yours,” he shot back. “This is a hate cuddle now.”
“You’re lucky I’m too tired to murder you.”
“You’re lucky I’m letting you freeload my body heat.”
“Shut up and hold me.”
That came out before she could think about it.
Hoshi’s breath caught.
And then—he moved. Gently. Tentatively. One arm sliding around her waist, the other adjusting the blanket so it cocooned them both. She nestled into his chest, her face pressed somewhere near the crook of his neck.
His heartbeat was loud.
So was hers.
This was a mistake.
This was a terrible idea.
This was…
…kind of perfect.
“I can’t believe we’re doing this,” she whispered.
“I can,” Hoshi replied, voice low. “I’ve kind of wanted to for a while.”
That made her look up—just slightly. Her eyes met his in the dark.
“You're an idiot,” she sighed.
She could kiss him right now.
He could kiss her.
But they didn’t.
Instead, she pressed her forehead to his collarbone and whispered, “Let’s just sleep.”
And he whispered back, “Okay.”
They lay like that—tangled, warm, too aware—and somewhere between heartbeats, Min Ah’s last thought before sleep found her again was:
"Like clouds kissed by the sun, some people leave behind a color you can’t name."
✧ moon junhui x f!oc
✧ kwon hoshi x f!oc
✧ summary: She came to Seoul to escape—what she found instead was him. Jun, unreadable and magnetic. Hoshi, warm but just out of reach. As feelings blur and moments slip by, Min Ah realizes not everything beautiful is meant to last. Some storms come softly. Some leave a mess behind.
Not just warm—scalding. Wrapped around her like honey, sticking to her skin in the softest, heaviest way. Every breath she took dragged through molasses, thick with heat and memory. Min Ah couldn’t move—didn’t want to move—because a voice was in her ear, low and breathless and familiar.
“Min Ah,” he murmured.
Jun.
Her mind whispered his name before she could stop it.
He kissed her neck, slow, reverent. Like prayer. Her back arched into his touch instinctively, lips parting on a silent gasp.
The room was dark. Not pitch black—there was a light somewhere. Moonlight? City glow? Or maybe just a dim, blue shimmer leaking in from memory. Her eyes fluttered open, catching glimpses of bare shoulders, the outline of a jaw she knew too well. That soft, unreadable expression he always wore when he looked at her like this—like he didn’t know if he was allowed to love her, and did it anyway.
She was under him now.
Legs parted. Breath caught.
His body hovered above hers like a secret waiting to be confessed.
She reached up, fingers trembling, and cupped his cheek. He leaned into it. Closed his eyes. Pressed a kiss to her palm.
“Are you sure?” he asked, voice hoarse.
It broke her.
Because he always asked.
Even when she hated him. Even when he deserved it.
She nodded, blinking through tears she didn’t remember inviting. “Just pretend,” she whispered. “Just for tonight. That I’m the one you want.”
Jun flinched.
But he didn’t run. Not this time.
Instead, he kissed her. Hard. Desperate. The kind of kiss that didn’t taste like romance—it tasted like regret, like memory, like everything they had tried to forget and failed to bury. His hands found her thighs, thumbs digging into soft flesh. Her hips rose on instinct, and—
He was inside her.
No warning. Just a smooth, slow push that made her gasp, clutching at the sheets. Her whole body arched, back lifting off the mattress as he filled her—familiar and deep and devastating.
She moaned. Loudly.
Jun's mouth found her collarbone. “You’re so warm,” he murmured. “So good. I missed you.”
She wanted to believe that. She did. She dragged her hands through his hair, tugged him closer. Their rhythm was unhurried, but intense—like drowning together in slow motion. He thrust into her with a kind of reverence that made her ache everywhere. Her legs wrapped around his waist, pulling him impossibly closer.
“Min Ah,” he breathed against her mouth, “say you still want me.”
She didn’t answer. She couldn’t. Because suddenly—his voice—
It wasn’t right.
Still breathless. Still familiar.
But just a little... off.
She blinked again, and—
Just for a second, the face above her changed.
Softer features. Brown eyes.
“Don’t stop,” she whispered.
He kissed her forehead.
“You’re safe,” he said.
Wait.
That voice—
Her eyes flew open.
—
Min Ah gasped and bolted upright, heart hammering, a scream lodged in her throat.
What the hell was that?
A dream?
Great, now my body starts betraying me too.
A beam of light slicing across her face, bright and blinding. Her head throbbed—temples pulsing with every second like a ticking bomb. Her mouth was dry—her tongue felt like sandpaper—and her limbs were tangled in warm sheets that didn’t feel like hers.
Groggy and confused, she slowly sat up.
Something tugged at her neck.
A choker.
She blinked. Her green earring—still hanging on her left ear.
Oh no.
She looked down.
No shirt. No bra. No skirt. Nothing.
Min Ah was completely, utterly naked in an unfamiliar bed. Her fingers curled into the sheets on instinct, tugging the fabric to cover herself. Her brain scrambled, clawing through fractured images from the night before. The glitter. The club. The drinks. The dancing.
The pain between her legs throbbed sharply as she shifted. She gasped—a soft, involuntary sound that escaped her lips.
That… that couldn’t mean—
No.
No way.
No—
She turned her head slowly, afraid, already regretting everything she might see.
A man lay beside her, on his side, back turned to her, apparently shirtless. Broad shoulders. Brown hair.
Brown hair.
Her blood turned to ice.
Jun?
No. It couldn’t be.
“Please,” she whispered to herself. “Please, please don’t let it be—”
The man stirred, let out a soft, sleepy grunt, then rolled over.
Min Ah screamed.
“AAAH!”
He screamed too. “AAAHHH WHAT?!”
They stared at each other, horrified, breathless.
“HOSHI?!”
“MIN AH?!”
“What the fuck?!”
“I DON’T KNOW!!” Hoshi clutched the blanket to his chest like it would protect him from the sheer shock searing through both of them. His hair was tousled in every direction. There was a glitter smudge on his temple. His voice cracked as he panicked, “Wait—wait—what—what happened?!”
“I don’t—oh my god—are we—did we—” Min Ah couldn’t even finish the sentence. Her mouth flapped uselessly.
They both looked around, desperate for clues. And there it was. Min Ah’s bra—pink and lacy—hanging from the doorknob like a mocking flag of surrender.
Hoshi’s face went pale.
“Oh my god,” he muttered.
Min Ah scrambled to sit up more, immediately regretting it. The dull ache between her legs pulsed again. She whimpered.
“You okay?” Hoshi asked quickly, inching closer before thinking better of it. “Do you… hurt?”
She nodded mutely.
“I’ll—get something. I mean—no—wait—do you want water? Should I get you clothes? My god, this is—wait, are we naked? I mean, obviously—but like—OH MY GOD.”
Then something small fell off the bed as Hoshi moved—light, crinkly.
An empty condom wrapper.
Silence.
Hoshi picked it up. Blinked.
“Oh,” he whispered. “At least we were… safe?”
Min Ah’s face turned beet red. “Why are you saying it like it’s a question?!”
“I—I’m panicking, okay?!”
She buried her face in her hands. “This is not happening. This cannot be happening.”
“I swear, I didn’t plan this—like, obviously. I didn’t even think you’d end up—” He stopped himself. “Oh my god, I sound like a creep.”
“No—no, I’m sure we were both drunk out of our minds,” Min Ah said quickly, trying to stay calm, even though her heart was beating wildly. “It’s not just on you. I was there. I—oh my god. We had sex?!”
Wait, does that mean… my dream was… real?
Hoshi flailed toward the edge of the bed. “I’m getting you clothes. You can’t stay naked like that. I mean, obviously. Not that I’m looking. I’M NOT LOOKING.”
He stumbled to the wardrobe, still stark naked, then yelped and grabbed a towel from the floor to cover himself. He tossed her a massive blue-and-white striped T-shirt. It smelled like detergent and something warm—something like him.
She slipped it on quickly while he found some shorts and pulled them on—neon green, so aggressively bright it hurt her already bruised feelings.
Once they were both semi-dressed, they stood awkwardly in the middle of his bedroom, avoiding each other’s eyes.
Silence.
Min Ah wasn’t sure if her legs were shaking from the hangover or the emotional whiplash. One second she was waking up naked in Hoshi’s bed, screaming bloody murder, and the next, she was wearing a blue-and-white striped oversized T-shirt that reached halfway to her knees, padding barefoot behind Hoshi down the hallway of his apartment like a ghost in a haunted house.
A very hungover ghost.
“Do you want water first or…” Hoshi turned back, his voice a bit hoarse, scratching the back of his neck. He’d pulled on a neon green pair of shorts that clashed painfully with his very existence. His pastel pink wig from last night was nowhere to be found, but somehow, he still looked like a walking fever dream.
“Coffee,” Min Ah croaked. “Or… maybe just a holy intervention?”
“Right. Coming right up.”
They stepped out into the main living space, and it hit them both like a wall.
The apartment looked like the aftermath of a very specific natural disaster: Category 5 Drunk Sex Hurricane.
—
Min Ah’s bob reddish-brunette wig—her beloved Momo Ayase crowning glory—was stuffed inside the microwave, the door left slightly ajar as if someone had attempted to heat it like leftover fried rice. A long white thigh-high sock dangled from the ceiling fan, somehow twisted around one of the blades. Her green circular earring was submerged inside a shot glass on the counter, next to an empty bottle of soju with a party straw still sticking out of it.
“Oh my God,” Min Ah repeated, covering her face.
Hoshi squinted toward the balcony door, stepping over what appeared to be a trail of sparkly stickers, maybe from someone’s costume.
“Wait—why is my wig out there?”
He slid the glass door open, and sure enough, the pastel pink Itadori-style wig lay in a tragic heap on one of the balcony chairs, tangled and half-blown away like a lost toupee. Beyond it was an empty bag of shrimp chips and what looked like Min Ah’s fake school ID badge with the name “Ayase Momo” scribbled in pink pen.
“I don’t even remember coming out here,” Hoshi muttered.
Min Ah just stood in the middle of the living room, her face a canvas of horror. “I think we might’ve… marked the apartment. Like wild animals.”
“I mean, if that sock on the ceiling fan doesn’t say primal instinct, I don’t know what does,” Hoshi joked, a little too brightly.
Min Ah gave him a look.
“Too soon?”
“Too soon.”
She turned and walked toward the kitchen table, needing something to hold on to. But even that betrayed her. Her pink cardigan—somehow crumpled—were draped neatly over one of the dining chairs like a damp towel. Her bra was still hanging from the bedroom doorknob, swinging slightly from where the door had opened.
“Oh my God,” Min Ah whispered again, this time unable to stop the laughter bubbling in her chest.
She turned back to Hoshi, her mouth falling open, eyes wide with disbelief.
“Why is my wig in your microwave?”
“I don’t know!” Hoshi half-yelled, throwing his hands up. “You said you were cold and I said, ‘warm your hair,’ or something like that, and you—God, I don’t know! Why would I let you do that!?”
Min Ah’s laugh burst out of her before she could stop it—sharp, disbelieving, and utterly unhinged. Hoshi blinked, then started laughing too.
And just like that, they were both doubled over in the middle of the mess, cackling like lunatics.
It was the kind of laughter that came from embarrassment, confusion, and the tiniest relief. Laughter that scratched at the surface of panic and guilt and didn’t quite fix anything, but made it momentarily survivable.
“You had a condom,” Min Ah wheezed, face flushed, body shaking from laughter. “Thank God you had a condom!”
Hoshi flopped backward onto the couch, hand to his forehead. “I didn’t even know I had condoms. I thought those expired in 2022.”
“Great,” she gasped. “I’m glad my impulsive breakdown sex came with a side of maybe-expired protection.”
He peeked at her from under his hand, grinning sheepishly. “I’ll Toss you for Plan B if it helps.”
They both cracked up again.
Then slowly, as the laughter faded, the weight returned. Like gravity finding them again after a few minutes in space.
The room was silent except for the quiet hum of the ceiling fan—still spinning with her sock.
—
Min Ah sat stiffly on one side of the couch, knees pulled close, Hoshi’s oversized striped tee swallowing her frame. Her hair was a mess, and she clutched a glass of cold water with both hands, as if hydrating might bring back her sanity—or at least the missing pieces of last night.
Across from her, Hoshi sat with his elbows on his knees, still shirtless and wearing a violently neon green pair of basketball shorts. His legs bounced. His fingers twitched. He looked anywhere but her face.
They’d spent fifteen minutes stumbling around the apartment, collecting their dignity in fragments. They hadn’t said much beyond panicked whispers and accidental “Sorry—no you go first—” while navigating the disaster.
Now they were both still. Wordless. Drenched in hangover and humiliation.
Min Ah took a small sip, throat dry. Her eyes flicked to Hoshi, then away again.
He leaned back finally, scratching his neck. “Do you…” he hesitated, voice raw, “…remember anything?”
Her fingers tightened around the glass. “Bits,” she admitted quietly. “You?”
Hoshi exhaled, slow and shaky. “Yeah. Bits.”
They sat in it, the space between what they did and how they’d gotten here. Then—
A sudden flash:
Min Ah’s back hitting the hallway wall, breathless from laughter. Hoshi’s arms around her waist. His mouth clumsily finding hers, then pausing—"Are you sure?"—and her answering with a tug on his shirt.
Fuck. That’s what it is?
Then, another flash.
Her legs wrapped around his waist as he lifted her onto the kitchen counter, knocking over a bowl of Halloween candy. Neither of them noticed. The countertop cold against her thighs, the soft rumble of Hoshi whispering, “You’re so—fuck, you’re so pretty like this,” before kissing her again.
A blurry image of her face, half-lit by the city lights filtering through the blinds. Her fingers curled into the sheets, eyes glassy.
She’d whispered something—
“Don’t stop.”
And Hoshi—his voice raspy, concerned—had kissed her forehead and said, “You’re safe.”
Now, in the morning light, her heart twisted painfully.
Min Ah pressed the glass against her cheek.
“I said that, didn’t I,” she muttered.
Hoshi glanced over. “What?”
She looked at him. “I said ‘don’t stop.’”
Hoshi froze.
For a moment, his expression dropped into something serious. Wounded. Then, just as quickly, he offered her a crooked half-smile.
“You did. More than once.”
“Jesus,” Min Ah whispered.
They both laughed—but it came out jagged. Off-key. Not quite funny.
Min Ah groaned and sank further into the couch. “Why didn’t you stop me?”
“I tried!” he argued. “I asked if you were sure—”
“Oh my God, I said I was sure, didn’t I—”
“You said,” Hoshi mimicked, falsetto, “‘I’ve never been more sure of anything in my life, Yuji Itadori.’”
Min Ah dropped her face into her hands and groaned so loud, he laughed despite himself.
“That’s— That’s not okay. That’s illegal.”
“I know,” he said solemnly. “I’m calling the police on myself right now.”
Min Ah groaned into the pillow, but a laugh still slipped out—half wheeze, half disbelief. The room fell quiet again, the kind of quiet that doesn't feel awkward… just full.
Hoshi leaned back against the couch, eyes unfocused, like he was rewinding something in his head.
Then, softer—careful—
“You said… ‘Just pretend. Just for tonight. That I’m the one you want.’”
Her breath caught.
He didn’t look at her. “I knew what you meant. I knew who you meant. I said okay anyway.”
She set the glass down on the coffee table with a shaky clink. Her voice, when it came, trembled. “You should hate me.”
“I don’t,” he said simply.
“But I used you.”
“No,” he said again, firmer now. “We used each other.”
Silence thickened around them again, but this time it wasn’t empty. It was full—of truths unspoken, of touches remembered, of kisses shared not out of love, but out of need.
“I think I cried after,” she said suddenly, her voice cracking at the edges. “Not during. But… after. In your arms.”
Hoshi nodded once. “You did.”
Min Ah’s eyes filled with tears, but they didn’t fall. “Why didn’t you push me away?”
“Because I’ve always wanted to be close to you,” he said. “Even if it’s just to hold the pieces.”
That broke her. Not loud. Not dramatic. But a single tear slipped down her cheek as she turned her face away.
“I’m a fucking mess.”
“So am I,” Hoshi said. “But hey, at least we’re messy together?”
She huffed a laugh that was half-sob, half-snort. “God, you’re such a dumbass.”
“And yet, you slept with me.”
Min Ah looked back at him, eyes shining. “I really did, didn’t I.”
He giggled. “Correction: Kwon Soon Young and Song Min Ah didn't sleep together, Yuji Itadori and Momo Ayase did.”
“Oh my god—” she moaned, curling up and pressing the pillow to her face. “I want to die.”
“Same,” Hoshi said cheerfully. “But at least I died doing what I love.”
“You are insufferable.”
“And yet…” he teased, raising an eyebrow. “You’re still wearing my shirt.”
She peeked out from under the pillow and stuck her tongue out at him.
Another pause.
More gentle this time.
Min Ah slowly sat back up, rubbing her face. The morning sunlight streamed through the window now, catching on the glitter still dusted across her collarbone, like leftover stardust from a disaster.
“I think I need a shower,” she mumbled. “And a lobotomy.”
“Both are available,” Hoshi said. “Bathroom’s down the hall. Lobotomy’s DIY though.”
“Perfect,” she sighed, then hesitated. “Hey… Hoshi?”
He looked up.
She met his gaze, something unbearably soft in hers. “Thank you. For being kind to me. For not making this worse.”
He just smiled. Not with his usual grin, but something quieter. Something real.
“Always.”
—
She nodded slowly, pressing her lips together, then rose to her feet. The oversized T-shirt swayed with each step, brushing the tops of her bare thighs as she padded quietly down the hall. Hoshi watched her go—silent, unreadable—until the bathroom door clicked shut behind her.
The small bathroom was dimly lit, washed in the warm glow of sunrise filtering through the frosted glass window. Min Ah turned on the light, blinking against the sudden glare.
It looked… normal. Stupidly, heartbreakingly normal.
A toothbrush holder shaped like a milk carton sat by the sink. There were two half-used face washes—one labeled “For Oily Skin” and the other “For Sensitive Skin”—like he couldn’t commit to either identity. A Spider-Man hand towel hung crooked on a silver bar. And next to the mirror, resting proudly on the sink like a relic of war, was a bottle of hand soap shaped like Iron Man.
She stared at it.
Snorted softly.
Of course.
She caught her own reflection in the mirror—messy hair, glitter-smudged collarbone, bruised lips. Her eyeliner had mostly given up somewhere between "hot" and "haunting." The green earring still dangled from her left ear like a drunk little witness.
Her eyes met her own, and for a moment, she didn’t know who she was looking at.
Min Ah placed her hands on the sink, leaning forward. The porcelain was cold against her palms. The silence swelled around her like a tide.
And just like that—the memory bled back in.
Jun’s voice.
“Are you sure?”
Her own whisper.
“Just pretend. Just for tonight.”
The way it felt—raw, aching, too real for a dream. How his weight pressed into her. How he kissed her like she was the last chapter of a story he couldn’t finish. How she’d let him in, let him break her open again.
Her breath hitched. She squeezed her eyes shut.
God, she missed him.
Not just the sex.
The himness of him. His quiet hesitations. The way he looked at her when he thought she wasn’t watching.
The ache he left behind, curling like smoke in the hollow of her chest.
And yet—
She opened her eyes again. Looked down at the shirt she wore.
Hoshi’s. Soft cotton. Faint detergent. A little too big, a little too comforting. A safety blanket wrapped around a mistake that didn’t feel like one.
And when she’d woken up—when the dream crumbled—she hadn’t screamed because it wasn’t Jun.
She screamed because it was Hoshi.
But she hadn’t run.
She hadn’t regretted him.
Min Ah inhaled shakily and touched the edge of the mirror, her fingers brushing the cool glass like it might tell her who she was now.
“I’m so fucked,” she whispered.
Then she grabbed a towel, wiped the glitter from her neck, and turned on the shower.
—
Monday morning at Artois had never felt so loud.
Not in the literal sense—no, the office hummed with its usual sounds: keyboards clicking, coffee machines whirring, the occasional thud of Manager Kim’s forehead against his desk. But to Min Ah, every little thing seemed magnified.
Hoshi’s laugh three desks away? A siren in her ear.
The smell of his cologne when he passed behind her chair? Like a landmine going off in her brain.
The memory of his mouth on her skin? Impossibly louder than any Slack notification pinging her laptop.
And still, they were trying. Trying so, so hard to act normal.
“Hey,” Hoshi said that morning, passing her desk with a coffee in each hand and a slightly-too-casual grin. “Got you your usual.”
“Oh,” Min Ah replied, voice a half-octave too high. “Thanks.”
She reached out and their fingers brushed—just for a second—and it was like someone hit rewind on her entire weekend.
Suddenly she wasn’t in her ergonomic office chair anymore. She was in his bed, half-sobbing into his neck, clutching at him like the night might swallow her whole. She blinked and looked down at her coffee like it had personally betrayed her.
“Smooth,” Eunji whispered from the next desk, clearly catching none of the backstory but all of the vibes.
Min Ah sipped the coffee to cover her face. Hoshi had already walked off, but she could feel his presence like a magnet two cubicles away.
And of course, just to make things worse, the sweater incident happened an hour later.
Min Ah had just returned from the printer and was settling into her chair when she caught movement in the corner of her eye—Hoshi, tugging his sweater over his head in one quick motion. He’d worn a white T-shirt underneath, but the damage was already done.
She froze mid-sit, gaze involuntarily tracking the stretch of his arms, the flash of skin at his waist, the sound of fabric brushing over his hair.
She had seen him without a shirt. Scratch that—she had seen him in ways HR could never prepare her for. And now, his shirt rode up just enough to remind her that yes, he did, in fact, have back dimples.
Min Ah dropped her pen. Right off the desk. It clattered to the floor dramatically, like even the universe was like, “Girl, get it together.”
She bent to pick it up—and behind her, Hoshi looked over just in time to see her leaning forward, the hem of her blouse riding up just enough to show a sliver of skin above her waistband.
He choked on his coffee.
“Bro, you good?” Eunji asked, glancing over.
“Hot coffee,” Hoshi croaked. “Went down the wrong pipe.”
Meanwhile, Min Ah was internally screaming.
By 2 PM, they were both jumpy enough to startle at the sound of someone typing too aggressively.
By 3:30 PM, Hoshi had rewritten a single sentence on a brand strategy deck six times because Min Ah’s laugh from across the office kept echoing in his brain.
And by 4 PM… it happened.
Dokyeom strolled into the pantry like he owned it, cradling a microwaved sweet potato and wearing the most suspicious smile on Earth.
Hoshi was already inside, refilling his water bottle and praying to the gods of professionalism.
“Afternoon,” Dokyeom chirped, too casually.
“Hey, man,” Hoshi said, glancing up.
“You look… well-rested,” Dokyeom said, biting into the sweet potato. “Which is impressive, considering how late you left the party.”
Hoshi froze.
“…Yeah, it was a late night,” he said carefully.
Dokyeom leaned against the counter, eyes gleaming with danger. “Funny. I don’t remember you calling a cab.”
“…Because I didn’t?” Hoshi offered weakly.
“No,” Dokyeom grinned. “Because I drove you.”
Hoshi dropped the water bottle.
It clattered dramatically to the floor, and if this were a cartoon, little cartoon sweat drops would’ve popped up around his head. “You—wait—what?”
“You and Min Ah,” Dokyeom said, voice full of delight. “Sat in my backseat. Whispered. Laughed. Giggled.”
“We did NOT giggle.”
Dokyeom raised an eyebrow. “Do you want me to go through how you insisted on carrying her to your apartment like a newly weds while holding her hand, hmm?”
Hoshi practically combusted. “I—NO—I MEAN—NOT—okay wait I need a second—”
He lunged for his phone and typed furiously.
—
Two minutes later, Min Ah arrived at the pantry, looking suspicious as hell.
“Emergency?” she hissed as soon as the door swung shut. “I was literally in a meeting—”
“Dokyeom knows,” Hoshi whispered, eyes wild.
She blinked. “Knows what—OH.”
“Yeah. Apparently he drove us.”
Min Ah stared at him. Then at Dokyeom. Then back at Hoshi.
Dokyeom waved with his sweet potato. “Hey, Min Ah.”
“…Hi,” she said weakly.
“You two have a fun little afterparty?” he asked sweetly.
Min Ah immediately turned red. Hoshi groaned into his hands.
“We didn’t—” she started.
“Nothing happened,” Hoshi added at the same time.
Dokyeom grinned. “Relax. I’m not judging. I just enjoy watching you both suffer.”
“Dokyeom, I swear to god—”
“I’m not gonna tell anyone,” he said, laughing now. “But I’m open to being… persuaded.”
Min Ah narrowed her eyes. “Persuaded?”
“I don’t know,” he said casually. “Maybe you cover my coffee budget for the next month?”
Hoshi gaped. “Blackmail?”
Dokyeom winked. “I prefer the term… Emotional leverage.”
Min Ah sighed. “Fine. You get coffee.”
“And pastries,” Dokyeom added.
“Don’t push it,” she warned.
“Okay, okay,” he laughed. “But seriously. You guys good?”
That caught them both off guard.
Min Ah blinked. Hoshi looked up.
“…What do you mean?” Hoshi asked.
Dokyeom shrugged, suddenly softer. “Just—whatever happened, I know you’ve liked her for a while. And Min Ah, you’ve been… not okay, since that guy.”
They both winced.
“I’m not here to start drama,” Dokyeom said. “But just… don’t hurt each other. Alright?”
Min Ah looked at Hoshi.
Hoshi looked at her.
And for a second, the noise of the office faded.
Then Dokyeom ruined the moment by saying, “Anyway, I have a date with an Excel sheet. Try not to bang on the copy machine.”
“GET OUT,” Hoshi shouted, throwing a napkin at him.
—
After he left, they stayed there in silence.
Hoshi leaned back against the counter. “So. That happened.”
Min Ah groaned. “God, I forgot about the car ride.”
“We were holding hands?” he said, glancing at her.
“Apparently.”
They both flushed again.
“I mean,” Hoshi said. “It wasn’t… bad.”
“No,” Min Ah agreed softly. “It wasn’t.”
She looked up at him. “Thanks. For not freaking out.”
“Thanks for not running away.”
They stood there awkwardly, smiling like idiots, hearts pounding.
Then the microwave dinged somewhere in the hallway and they jumped three feet apart.
“…We should probably go back to work,” Min Ah said.
“Yeah. Before Dokyeom starts charging rent for pantry time.”
As she walked past him, he caught a whiff of her perfume and barely managed to not faceplant.
And when she looked back at him—smiling, blushing, a little brave—he knew this wasn’t over.
Not even close.
—
Okay, so now, they’re back on their desks.
The thing about pretending nothing happened?
It only works if you can stop remembering everything that happened.
Min Ah stared at her laptop, eyes glazed over, fingers frozen above the keyboard. The campaign deck in front of her made no sense—like she was reading a foreign language through a fish tank. Hoshi sat two desks to the left, separated by nothing but a small cactus and the crushing weight of unsaid things.
He hadn’t looked her way since they returned from the pantry.
And yet—she could feel him.
The way his leg bounced restlessly under the desk. The way he tugged at his sleeves like he wanted to disappear inside his own shirt. The faintest inhale every time she shifted in her chair.
It was like their bodies were still stuck in yesterday’s gravity, orbiting the echo of tangled sheets and whispered names.
Min Ah tried to focus. “Slogan options: fast, fresh, fearless…” she muttered aloud. Then stopped.
Fast. Fresh. Fearless.
That sounded like a condom brand.
She slapped her hand over her face with a groan.
From two desks away, Hoshi coughed. Not a real cough. One of those poorly-disguised laugh-coughs people do when they’re trying not to explode.
“Shut up,” she muttered without looking up.
“I didn’t say anything,” he said, voice strained.
She looked over.
His shoulders were shaking. His face was red. He was laughing silently like some deranged mime.
“You are the worst,” she hissed.
Hoshi raised his eyebrows and smiled… No, grinning ear to ear, as if he’s trying to say, “Yeah, whatever that lets me get my Momo Ayase back to my bed.”
Min Ah grabbed the nearest object—her stapler—and held it threateningly. “Don’t test me. I will staple your lip shut.”
“Promise?” he whispered.
“Hoshi.”
Eunji glanced over the cubicle wall. “Why are you two whisper-fighting like raccoons in a trash can?”
Min Ah shot up in her seat. “Nothing! We’re—fine. Totally normal. Healthy workplace rapport!”
Eunji narrowed her eyes suspiciously. “You look like you saw a ghost.”
Hoshi coughed again. “That’s just the fluorescent lighting. Brings out the trauma in all of us.”
Min Ah collapsed into her chair like a marionette with its strings cut. She was going to combust. Spontaneously. Right here in her ergonomic chair with lumbar support.
Then—her Discord pinged.
[HORANGSHI]
i can’t stop thinking about your sock on my ceiling fan
do you want it back or should i auction it
She turned red so fast, her ears went hot.
[MinMine]
Die
in a microwave
like my wig
A beat later:
[HORANGSHI] is typing…
Then it disappeared.
Then he typed again:
i’d do it all over again. just maybe with less tequila and more… clarity.
Min Ah’s chest twisted.
She looked up.
He was already watching her.
Softly.
Like maybe he meant it.
And for once…
she didn’t look away
—
HEHEHEHEHEHEHEHEHEHEHHEHEHEHEHEHE HI GUYS :)
pls help me to decide the endgame AAAAAHHH I CANNOT
"Like clouds kissed by the sun, some people leave behind a color you can’t name."
✧ moon junhui x f!oc
✧ kwon hoshi x f!oc
✧ summary: She came to Seoul to escape—what she found instead was him. Jun, unreadable and magnetic. Hoshi, warm but just out of reach. As feelings blur and moments slip by, Min Ah realizes not everything beautiful is meant to last. Some storms come softly. Some leave a mess behind.
✧ I personally don't recommend this chapter to whoever that is going on a bad break up.
Chapter 11
Seven days since Jun last texted her. Seven long, dragging days since his name had lit up her phone, since his dry humor filled her notifications like smoke curling beneath a door. She didn’t realize how quiet her world had gone until the silence started to scream.
At Artois, life moved as fast. Meetings, briefs, punchy presentations about skincare branding and fall campaign timelines. The room buzzed with mid-August heat and iced Americanos. Dahyun was sketching with a stylus, Eunji snacked on spicy chips mid-slide show, and Mr. Kim was spinning his phone like a fidget spinner, waiting for a client reply.
Min Ah was there—but only just.
She sat, eyes half-focused, nodding at all the right moments. But her head was somewhere else. Still stuck in Jun’s apartment two weeks ago, when they cooked together and he kissed her so slowly she forgot what loneliness felt like. Still playing back that quiet Sunday morning when he kissed her bare shoulder before she left, murmuring, “Next time, you cook.”
She’d smiled so wide at that. It had felt like a promise.
Now it felt like a punchline.
“Min Ah?” Mr. Kim’s voice cut into the hum of her memory.
She looked up. “Hmm?”
“Any ideas on the visual angle? For the autumn rebrand?”
The conversation moved on. But Min Ah didn’t. Her gaze dropped to the table, where her pen sat still on the page. She hadn’t written a single thing.
The weight of absence pressed hard against her chest. She didn’t cry. She didn’t sigh. She just sat there with her heartbeat thudding unevenly and a growing ache between her ribs.
She opened her mouth before thinking.
“Should we go out this weekend?”
Dahyun paused mid-doodle. “Huh?”
Min Ah pushed a smile onto her face. “It’s been a while, right? Since we went out? Club again?”
Eunji perked up immediately. “Say less. I’ve been waiting for someone to say it.”
“Oh hell yes.” Dokyeom—visiting from finance again—pumped his fist. “Shots on me.”
Mr. Kim blinked. “That’s unlike you, Min Ah. You okay?”
“Yeah, just… felt like dancing.”
Everyone cheered. Laughed. Someone already made a group chat to organize it. They thought it was a whim. A joke. A summer Friday night plan.
Only Min Ah knew the truth.
She didn’t want to party. She wanted to rewind. Rewind to the weekend when she and Jun locked eyes across a club floor, when he reached for her like he couldn’t help it. Maybe if she went back to that same place… maybe if the lights flickered just right and the song hit just hard enough… maybe he’d show up again.
Maybe he missed her, too.
That night, her apartment was quiet except for the soft flick of a match.
She lit a candle Jun once complimented — vanilla, sandalwood, something warm and nostalgic. She stood in front of her wardrobe for what felt like an hour, holding dress after dress against her frame. Rejecting each one.
Too bright. Too plain. Too much.
Finally, she pulled out the one.
Dark blue silk. Thin straps. Fitted. She remembered Jun’s look the first time he saw her in it. His mouth had opened like he wanted to say something, but he never did. He just reached for her.
She slipped it on.
She curled her hair loosely, pinned one side up with a gold clip. Applied perfume to her collarbone — the one he used to kiss. Lined her lips in soft mauve, traced gloss over them slowly, carefully.
The girl in the mirror didn’t look heartbroken.
She looked beautiful. She looked sharp. She looked like she was about to get what she wanted.
Her phone buzzed on the table.
Min Ah turned so fast her heels squeaked against the floor.
But it wasn’t him.
Just the group chat: Eunji sending outfit options. A blurry selfie from Dokyeom holding three bottles of soju. Dahyun saying she might be late because of a family dinner.
No Jun.
Still no Jun.
She stared at the mirror again. At the girl who looked nothing like someone waiting. But she was.
She was still waiting.
She turned off the light. Let the candle glow against the wall. A faint silhouette of herself shimmered in the reflection of her window, the cityscape behind her blinking like a million distractions.
“Maybe he’ll be there,” she whispered, one last time.
Then she grabbed her bag and walked out into the night.
—
The same club. Same heat rolling off the walls. Same beat pounding beneath their feet like a shared pulse. Artois Marketing descended like glittering chaos, glitter and gloss and perfume clouding the air around them. The neon sign above the booth still flickered at the corners. Someone had already popped a bottle of champagne before the rest had even sat down.
Min Ah had tried not to expect anything.
She told herself she just wanted to dance. Be with her friends. Forget the week, the silence, the ache. But the moment she stepped inside, the lie cracked like glass under pressure.
She was looking for him.
Eyes darting toward the entrance almost reflexively. Every time the bouncer moved, every time the door cracked open to let in more heat and bass and strangers — she looked. Too fast. Too hopeful.
He wasn’t there.
Not yet.
“MIN AHHHHHHHHH!” Eunji’s voice pierced the hum of the club as she wrapped an arm around her waist, cheeks already flushed.
Min Ah forced a smile. “You started without me?”
“Dokyeom bought us three rounds before 11,” Eunji yelled, throwing her head back in a laugh. “He’s in a mood.”
Min Ah looked over. Dokyeom was dramatically dancing with a waitress holding their bottle service tray, much to Mr. Kim’s horror.
Hoshi appeared beside her not long after. “You’re late,” he said, nudging her shoulder lightly. “You miss the free stuff.”
“I’ll drink double,” Min Ah replied, tone light, though her eyes flicked past his shoulder again. The entrance was still empty. Still no sign of him.
She tried to loosen up. She really did. They ordered cocktails, danced to two songs, posed for blurry selfies with cheeks pressed close and lipstick-stained glasses in their hands. The floor thumped beneath them like a promise. Dahyun tried to drag her into a dance circle; Min Ah laughed and shook her head. “Later,” she said.
But even as she said it, she was glancing back again.
The door opened. A group walked in.
Not him.
Again.
Drink. Smile. Dance. Glance.
Rinse. Repeat.
“Why do you keep checking the door?” Hoshi asked at one point, voice low and a little too close to her ear.
Min Ah blinked. “What?”
“You’ve looked over there like, thirty times.”
She fumbled. “Just… habit, I guess.”
Hoshi didn’t press. He just handed her another drink and said, “Maybe you need to dance more.”
She did. She danced with him. With Dahyun. With herself. She danced like she meant it. For a moment, the music was loud enough to drown out her thoughts. Her hips moved without thinking. Her arms rose, hair clinging to the back of her neck with sweat. The lights painted her in strobes of pink and violet.
But every time the beat dipped, every time a new song started, she found herself turning back.
Still not there.
Still not coming.
Time passed strangely. The kind of stretch and blur only alcohol could explain. At some point, she ended up back at the booth, surrounded by empty glasses and laughter that didn’t reach her.
“Water,” Mr. Kim announced, dropping a bottle in her lap like a concerned older brother. “You’re cut off.”
“Rude,” Min Ah muttered, unscrewing the cap.
“You were just trying to pour tequila into Dahyun’s shoe,” he said. “You’re done.”
She didn’t remember that part.
She sat still as the rest moved around her — people dancing, posing, shouting over the music. The club blurred into noise and haze. Her dress clung to her skin, hair messily stuck to her temples. Someone dropped into the seat next to her, but she didn’t register who.
Her eyes were still on the door.
Why hadn’t he come?
Did he forget?
Did he not care?
Did he know she would be here?
Was she that obvious?
The questions churned like water in her stomach, unsettled and sour.
When someone next to her tried to pull her up, she shook her head and slumped deeper into the couch.
“I’m good,” she mumbled.
“You okay?” Dahyun asked gently.
“Fine,” Min Ah said. Her voice felt hoarse. Her mouth was dry.
She closed her eyes for just a moment. The pounding music faded into the background. Her fingers curled around the cool water bottle like it was the only thing keeping her tethered.
The world spun lazily. Softly.
No Jun.
She told herself not to care.
She told herself maybe next week.
—
Monday was the hardest.
Not because she expected a long message or a grand gesture—Min Ah wasn’t that naïve anymore. But she thought, at the very least, Jun would ask if she got home safely. That was something he always did. No matter how complicated things became between them, he’d never once forgotten that simple check-in.
Except now he had.
She woke up with makeup still smudged on her face and the echo of last Saturday ringing in her head like the final beat of a song no one clapped for. Her limbs were sore, her voice scratchy, and the realization hit as she brushed her teeth: she hadn’t dreamt any of it.
She’d waited all night, and Jun never came.
She checked her phone before work. Nothing.
Opened Instagram. No new stories.
She told herself he was just busy.
Told herself again when she passed by the lobby café and didn’t see him grabbing his usual iced Americano with three ice cubes, oat milk foam, cinnamon dusting, and no lid.
Told herself again when she rode the elevator with her team and her phone remained motionless in her pocket.
At her desk, she opened her inbox and forced herself to work. Deadlines. Campaign drafts. Social copy revisions.
But by lunchtime, she was sitting in the corner of the break room, typing a message she didn’t have the nerve to send.
I miss you.
She stared at it. Backspaced.
Typed it again.
Deleted it again.
Saved it in her notes.
Tuesday was quieter.
She didn’t wear makeup. Didn’t curl her hair. Threw on a hoodie over a midi skirt and told herself it was “effortlessly casual.” No one commented, except Dahyun, who offered her a piece of chocolate and didn’t ask anything else.
There was still no message from him.
Min Ah typed another one.
Can we talk?
Backspace.
Are you okay?
Backspace.
She threw her phone on her bed and forced herself to do laundry just so she wouldn’t retype it again.
By Wednesday, she knew better.
She didn’t check her phone every hour anymore—only every other hour. She ate lunch with the team, laughed when Dokyeom recited bad copy headlines like poetry, made faces at Eunji across the table when Mr. Kim tried to flirt with the new girl from legal.
She was getting better at pretending. Practiced smiles. Planned distractions.
But Hoshi wasn’t buying it.
She could feel his eyes on her sometimes. Not in a heavy way. Just—watchful. Gentle. Like he was waiting for her to come up for air and say something, anything, but knew better than to pry.
He didn’t bring it up.
He didn’t say Jun’s name.
But when she laughed at something Dahyun said, and Hoshi caught the flicker in her eyes that didn’t match the sound, he didn’t look away.
Thursday, she dressed like she used to. Soft pastel blouse, wide-leg jeans, tinted lip balm.
The world spun forward. It always did.
Still no message.
Still no call.
She opened the chat bubble and stared at his name for a long time before locking her phone and placing it face down.
This time, she didn’t even write it out.
She already knew he wasn’t going to reply.
—
On Friday, everything felt… still.
It was one of those unremarkable afternoons that felt like it might dissolve into nothing. Artois was quieter than usual—campaign timelines were stabilizing, client meetings slowing down before the next big pitch. The floor buzzed gently with keyboard clacks, distant laughter, the occasional ring of an intern's phone.
Min Ah was sitting at her desk, adjusting font sizes on a mockup she barely cared about, when Hoshi leaned on the divider between them.
“Hey,” he said casually. “Big plans this weekend?”
Min Ah looked up. “Not really.”
He sipped from a juice box—stolen from the office fridge, no doubt—and raised an eyebrow. “We haven’t gone out in a while.”
She tilted her head. “We literally went out last week.”
Hoshi studied her for a second, then bumped his knuckles gently against her arm. “Come on. Just for a few hours.”
There was a pause.
Min Ah hesitated.
Then, before she could change her mind—before she could start overthinking like she always did—she nodded once.
“Why not?”
“Hell yes,” Hoshi grinned, pushing off her divider. “We party responsibly now, remember. No getting dragged home by Eunji this time.”
She laughed, more genuinely this time, and rolled her eyes. “No promises.”
But that night, when she got home, it was all quiet again. Her room. Her thoughts. Her heart.
The club would be loud tomorrow.
She hoped it would drown everything out.
Because Jun still hadn’t messaged her.
And that silence was starting to sound a lot like goodbye.
Second weekend in a row.
Another Saturday. Another round of Hoshi yelling in the group chat, “Get dressed, club rats!”
Another bottle of glitter sprayed into the air like champagne.
Another night of Min Ah dressing up for someone who never showed.
She chose a halter dress this time—shorter, tighter. Something she wouldn’t normally wear. Her hair was messier, lips stained cherry red, lashes curled to perfection. It wasn’t for Jun. Not anymore. It was for her. For distraction. For survival.
That’s what she told herself in the mirror.
But as soon as she stepped into the club’s velvet heat and felt the bass crawling up her legs, she caught herself scanning the crowd. Again.
Maybe tonight.
Maybe this time.
They’d gotten the same table in the same corner. Like muscle memory. Like ritual. Artois didn’t question it. Eunji was the first to order shots. Dahyun followed with a round of highballs. Hoshi waved at the DJ. Mr. Kim made friends with the bartender again.
Min Ah was already on her second drink when the first one hadn’t even kicked in.
“Whew, slow down, alcohol machine,” Dokyeom teased as he returned with a tray of drinks, nearly spilling half on her lap.
Min Ah just grinned, eyes glassy. “Don’t challenge me.”
The nickname stuck. Alcohol machine. Eunji had called her that the week before too, when Min Ah downed a tequila shot like water and then danced with someone from HR without remembering his name.
No one brought up Jun anymore—not directly.
They all knew.
They saw the way she flinched every time someone’s phone buzzed. The way she laughed too loud and never looked down at hers. The way she kept glancing toward the entrance every five minutes, thinking she was being subtle.
She wasn’t.
But no one teased her. Not like they usually would.
It wasn’t pity. It wasn’t awkwardness.
It was something softer. Something like: We know, and we’re giving you space to fall apart the way you need to.
Min Ah hated that even more.
So she drank.
And danced.
And when Dahyun dared her to kiss Mr. Kim’s cheek after he boasted about being voted “most dateable” in his university yearbook, she did it without hesitation.
It wasn’t even about being reckless. It was about pretending. Pretending she didn’t care anymore. Pretending she wasn’t still checking the damn door. Pretending she wasn’t still wearing perfume she knew Jun liked.
The music pulsed louder. Lights flickered like flashbulbs.
Min Ah leaned back against the booth, one hand slung lazily over the edge of the couch, eyes half-closed. She could feel the thrum of bass in her throat, like a second heartbeat. She could also feel the weight of a gaze—not heavy, not forceful—just there.
She opened one eye.
Hoshi.
He was standing by the edge of the booth, arms crossed, drink in hand, watching her like he was waiting for a sign she didn’t know how to give.
His hair still looked foreign on him—darker, neater—but he had stopped fussing with it lately. It suited him now. Made his gaze seem more grounded, even when he was teasing Dahyun or stealing sips from other people’s cocktails.
He didn’t smile this time. Just raised his glass a little. A quiet you good?
She nodded. A small shrug. I’m surviving.
That was enough.
He slid into the booth beside her—not too close, not far. Just there. Solid. Unmoving. Someone she could lean against, if she wanted.
She didn’t. Not yet. But she could.
“Let’s dance again,” Eunji slurred, dragging Dahyun with her.
Min Ah blinked toward the dance floor. Swirling light. Sweat-slick limbs. Spilled beer.
She didn’t move.
Instead, she took the neon green drink someone had left behind and chugged the rest without thinking. It tasted like liquid candy and battery acid.
“Christ,” she gasped, laughing afterward.
“Do you even know what that was?” Hoshi asked, raising an eyebrow.
“Joy,” she said simply, tilting her head back against the booth.
They stayed like that for a few minutes. Just sitting. Just breathing.
Around them, the party raged. Artois screamed lyrics to songs they only half-knew. Eunji climbed onto the couch to yell at a man who spilled vodka on her heels. Dokyeom somehow acquired a pair of sunglasses he hadn’t come in with.
And Min Ah?
She closed her eyes and tried to feel nothing.
But the song that came on next betrayed her.
It was soft. Hypnotic. Twisting through the speakers like smoke curling under a locked door.
“If you saw my tears, would you touch me…”
Her eyes snapped open.
The lyrics hit her in the gut. She felt it in her throat. Her chest. A pressure building behind her ribs.
She didn’t cry.
But she wanted to.
“I hate this song,” she whispered.
Hoshi glanced at her, but didn’t say anything.
Because she didn’t hate the song.
She hated what it reminded her of.
—
They left past two in the morning.
Dahyun and Eunji were singing something off-key. Mr. Kim was arguing with a taxi driver about a coupon. Dokyeom was trying to bribe someone with soju to get one last hot dog.
Hoshi walked beside her the whole way to the curb.
“Did you have fun?” he asked gently, like he wasn’t sure she remembered any of it.
She nodded.
Lied.
He opened the car door for her when the taxi pulled up.
And for a second, she thought he might say something—something real. Something about Jun. About the way she’d looked tonight. About how he didn’t like seeing her drink like she was trying to forget the world.
But he didn’t.
He just smiled, the kind of smile that knew how to wait.
“Sleep well, Min Ah.”
And she did.
Sort of.
—
Time blurred into something soft around the edges.
Min Ah didn’t realize when it became easier to laugh at Hoshi’s jokes.
A nudge on the shoulder when he teased her about the ridiculous fonts in a client brief. A louder laugh than she meant to let out when he impersonated Mr. Kim panicking over engagement stats. An eye roll that turned into a grin when he offered her half his banana milk and told her it was “because you looked particularly tragic today.”
She wasn’t healing.
She was... floating.
Pretending.
Somewhere between forgetting and remembering.
And Hoshi, sweet Hoshi, didn’t push. He just stayed near.
At first, it was breakfast runs. Then it became habit.
Some mornings, she’d step out of her apartment building and see him there, leaning against his car with a takeaway coffee in each hand. No announcement. No pressure. Just, “Thought you’d want one. You always forget breakfast.”
He drove her to work like it was normal. Like this was something they’d always done.
He never asked why her eyes looked tired. He never asked if she’d heard from Jun.
And she never offered.
But every time she sat beside him, she felt the warmth of his presence spread just enough to get her through the day.
There were nights, too.
Late ones, when the glow of her phone screen was the only light in her room. When her fingers hovered over Jun’s name in her contacts.
She didn’t delete him. Couldn’t.
But she stopped expecting anything back.
One night, she typed:
did i do something wrong?
Backspaced it all.
Never sent.
Then the phone buzzed.
Not Jun. But Hoshi.
hey
u awake?
this meme looks like mr kim when he reads our pitch decks
And just like that, she smiled. A real one. Not big. Not lasting. But there.
She replied.
And for a while, that feels enough.
—
The office felt different now.
There were no more questions about Jun. No more stolen glances toward the Quantix table at lunch. In fact, they never even saw them again, not even Mingyu. No more teasing from the team. The storm had passed—or maybe, everyone had just accepted the weather. Dokyeom had a theory that the whole Quantix team was just an illusion created by The Parc. Actors hired to cheer these low-paid worker daily. Min Ah laughed, maybe he's right.
Maybe whatever she had with Jun was just an illusion.
But how strong an illusion have to be to even be able to ruin her days?
Sometimes, she’d forget what she was typing halfway through an email.
Sometimes, she’d stare too long at the desk calendar, realizing another week had passed with no word from him.
Sometimes, when the others were loud, laughing, bickering over lunch orders—she’d smile and nod and laugh with them, but feel utterly, terrifyingly alone.
Hoshi filled the silence.
He made sure she wasn’t the last to leave. He offered her the last shrimp tempura.He memorized her favorite side dishes and made fun of her when she dipped her fries in mayonnaise.
“You’re a menace to society,” he declared once.
“You’re just mad because I’m right,” she shot back, mouth full of food.
“Right about being gross? Sure.”
And they laughed. Loud and unfiltered. Even Eunji snorted across the table, covering her mouth like she couldn’t believe she laughed, too.
In moments like that, Min Ah thought—
Maybe I could love him. If I let myself.
But at night, when the lights were off and the city buzzed outside her window, her mind betrayed her.
The memory returned.
The song.
The party.
The ache.
The hope.
She saw herself again—red lipstick, silver heels, a stupid sparkle eyeliner that Hoshi said looked like stardust.
Waiting. Always waiting.
And Jun never came.
—
By the third week, she stopped checking her phone every morning.
Instead, she checked her reflection. Fixed her hair. Chose earrings she hadn’t worn in months.
“Who are you dressing up for?” Eunji teased one Thursday.
Min Ah paused. “Myself.”
It wasn’t entirely a lie.
She felt... different now. Not better. Just different.
More detached. A little emptier. A little more numb.
But also: more controlled.
She didn’t cry anymore when she heard a song that reminded her of him.
She didn’t stay up past midnight hoping his name would pop up on her screen.
She didn't let herself rewatch the videos they took at his apartment. She deleted them. Eventually.
Instead, she clung to the new rhythm of her life.
Wake up.
Go to work.
Laugh at Hoshi’s jokes.
Pretend she didn’t remember Jun’s laugh too.
Eat lunch.
Skip dessert because it reminded her of their first weekend.
Say she was tired when Hoshi asked if she wanted to hang out.
Go home.
Play music.
Lie on the floor and imagine what she'd say to Jun if she saw him again.
The script changed every night.
Sometimes, she’d scream at him.
Other times, she’d kiss him before she said a word.
Sometimes she saw him crying. Sometimes she cried.
But mostly, she saw herself walking away.
Finally walking away.
But she didn’t. Not really.
Because part of her still waited.
—
Friday, October 31st. Halloween night.
The moment Min Ah walked into the club that night, it felt like she'd stepped into a glittery fever dream.
It was loud..
Neon strobes swept the dance floor in erratic pulses of green and gold. Confetti rained from nowhere. The ceiling shimmered with disco balls and tangled black streamers. Dahyun had outdone herself—again. Somewhere near the bar, Eunji was screaming about how her Sailor Mars wig kept sliding off her head. Mr. Kim was doing Jojo poses. And Dokyeom was already shirtless, having lost half of his Inuyasha costume in what he claimed was “an unfortunate hallway transformation sequence.”
Min Ah had lost count of the parties by now.
Club night had become routine—her new weekend religion. Another week without Jun? Another excuse to forget. To drink. To scream into the void with a cocktail in one hand and glitter smeared under both eyes. This was the Artois way, after all: if life kicks you, kick back harder—with your heels on, if possible.
She adjusted the red bow on her chest and tried not to trip over her oversized socks. Her Momo Ayase look had come together scarily well. Pleated navy skirt. Soft pink sweater. The black choker with the emerald circle. Even the earrings matched.
And beside her?
Hoshi, grinning in a custom-made Jujutsu High uniform, hair pastel pink and sticking up in all directions. Yuji Itadori, in the flesh—and maybe slightly too sexy for someone supposed to be fighting curses.
“Stop looking so cute,” she grumbled, elbowing him as they made their way through the crowd.
“I can’t help it,” he beamed. “This wig does things to me.”
They laughed, and she meant it. She really did. Until her chest ached again, quietly. Like it always did lately.
They reached the table where the rest of the team had collapsed. Dahyun was already two shots in and trying to summon anime theme songs. Mr. Kim, dressed as Kakashi, was adjusting his headband while flirting badly with a Genshin cosplayer. Even Eunji, whose tolerance was scary, was looking a little glossy-eyed in her red skirt and heels.
The night was young, and Min Ah was already tipsy.
Someone shoved a drink into her hand. A glowing blue concoction. She didn’t ask what it was. She never did anymore.
“Should we go dance?” Hoshi asked, eyes flicking to the floor.
“God, yes.”
Min Ah smiled and followed him. Her feet already moved with muscle memory—like she belonged here, like the club was the only place her body didn’t hurt.
They moved easily, instinctively. Hoshi led the rhythm with his hands up and eyes closed, spinning once just to make her laugh. Min Ah followed suit, head thrown back, skirt twirling. For a moment, she felt light. Almost free. Like she could float out of her skin.
The DJ’s set shifted—beat slowing down, bass smoothing into something softer, sexier.
A Brazilian track? Maybe reggaeton? She couldn’t tell. All she knew was the rhythm—it pulsed like a heartbeat. Hot and low and slow.
Hoshi told her he’s getting another glass. She just nods.
Now she’s alone.
Min Ah let her eyes close. Feeling herself. Letting go of everything.
Her body moved without thought. Shoulders swaying, hair brushing against her neck, fingers still curled around her half-empty glass. Everything blurred into movement, into heat.
Then she opened her eyes.
And froze.
Across the dance floor, through a sea of moving bodies and flickering lights—Jun.
Her heart didn’t just drop. It shattered.
He was there. Just like she’d imagined for weeks. But not how she imagined.
Jun stood close to a girl Min Ah didn’t recognize—tall, sleek, red lips, dressed in a velvet-black backless dress. Her dark sleek glinted under the lights. His hands were on her waist, their bodies swaying slowly in sync with the music.
The girl laughed.
And Jun looked up.
Straight at Min Ah.
Their eyes locked. Like magnets. Or knives.
For a second, neither moved. Not him. Not her. The music blurred into static.
Min Ah’s chest felt like it was caving in.
She couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t blink. Couldn’t move.
Jun’s expression shifted—like someone waking up from a dream they weren’t supposed to be in. Guilt? Shock? It flashed, then vanished.
He turned his head, said something to the girl. His hands didn’t leave her waist.
Min Ah’s stomach turned.
And that’s when Hoshi appeared.
He came up behind her, laughing, slightly breathless, his hand brushing hers. He leaned in to say something—something stupid, probably, about how she danced like a fever dream—but the words never landed.
Because Min Ah—spinning, burning, breaking—did the only thing her body seemed to understand in that moment.
She turned around.
And kissed him.
Hoshi stiffened for a heartbeat. Then melted into it.
His hands found her waist, carefully. He kissed her back, warm and soft and just a little hesitant.
Min Ah didn’t close her eyes. She didn’t need to.
Because she wasn’t really there.
She was kissing Hoshi.
But watching Jun.
Jun, who stood frozen in place.
Jun, whose eyes never left her.
Jun, who suddenly stepped back from the girl, mouth tight, hands gone cold.
Jun, who disappeared into the crowd a second later—taking all the air with him.
Min Ah pulled away.
Hoshi’s cheeks were flushed. “Didn’t see that coming,” he murmured, eyes still wide.
She laughed. It came out cracked. “Neither did I.”
They walked back to their table together. Her hand still in his. Hoshi’s steps were light—glowing.
He didn’t notice how tightly Min Ah gripped her glass when they sat.
Didn’t see how fast she reached for the vodka.
Didn’t see the tears clinging to her lower lashes.
Didn’t know her lips still burned—but not from him.
And when the DJ played “Party 4 U” two songs later, she smiled.
But it didn’t reach her eyes.
She was dancing in a crowd of laughter, wrapped in glitter, surrounded by noise.
And still, somehow—
Utterly alone.
—
The song slithered its way through the noise, slow and sticky like honey left too long in the sun.
"I only threw this party for you..."
Min Ah heard it and didn’t move. Her head leaned back against the crushed velvet wall of the booth. Her eyes fluttered shut. But the tears didn’t fall. Not yet.
Hoshi was beside her, rambling about someone’s dance moves, too buzzed to notice that her soul was slipping quietly out the back of her body.
Eunji was sprawled across the booth with one leg on Dahyun’s lap, drunk-whining about Mr. Kim’s Naruto headband poking her eye earlier. Dokyeom was at the bar, probably trying to get them one last round even though they didn’t need it.
And Min Ah—Min Ah was curled up small, empty glass in her hand, cheeks flushed and damp, heart caving in on itself.
Jun was gone.
Again.
But not really. He was still lodged somewhere in her lungs. Breathing for her. Hurting her.
She opened her eyes and stared at the chaotic kaleidoscope of the club. Glitter on the floor. Flashing strobes. People laughing so hard they couldn’t stand straight.
She looked down at her hands.
They were shaking.
And she wasn’t even cold.
Hoshi turned toward her, said something—sweet, maybe even tender—but she only heard the music.
"Party on you, party on you, party on..."
Min Ah smiled, slow and sad. She wasn’t even sure he was still talking. Her hearing had started ringing anyway.
She leaned her head on Hoshi’s shoulder.
He stiffened for a second, then settled, resting his chin gently against her hair. Maybe he thought it meant something. Maybe she wanted him to think that.
Because it was easier than telling the truth.
Easier than admitting that every time she closed her eyes, she saw Jun.
Easier than facing the part of her heart that still waited like a fool.
Maybe Jun didn’t even remember her laugh anymore.
Maybe he didn’t care how much she drank to drown it all.
Maybe he never loved her to begin with.
The thought scratched at her ribs like a rusty nail.
She blinked once. Twice. Swallowed.
Her voice was barely above a whisper, drowned out by the song, by the chaos, by her own heartbeat—
If I break myself enough times, maybe I’ll stop feeling it.
"Like clouds kissed by the sun, some people leave behind a color you can’t name."
✧ moon junhui x f!oc
✧ kwon hoshi x f!oc
✧ summary: She came to Seoul to escape—what she found instead was him. Jun, unreadable and magnetic. Hoshi, warm but just out of reach. As feelings blur and moments slip by, Min Ah realizes not everything beautiful is meant to last. Some storms come softly. Some leave a mess behind.
Jun’s apartment smelled like garlic, sesame oil, and green onions… a comforting, layered aroma that wrapped around Min Ah like a blanket. The sun streamed through the wide windows, soft and sleepy, reflecting off Jun’s polished floors and the stacks of paper and open books on the dining table. He'd moved them aside earlier to make space for breakfast.
Min Ah was standing barefoot in his kitchen, sleeves of her oversized shirt rolled up to her elbows, her hair messily tied with a pastel scrunchie. Jun had woken up late, hair still sticking up slightly, quietly watching her from the couch, his long legs folded under him, a mug of coffee in his hand.
She turned and caught him staring. “You’re creeping again.”
Jun blinked. “I’m admiring.”
Min Ah rolled her eyes, but her cheeks flushed anyway. “Then help me plate the dumplings, Mr. Admirer.”
He stood with a lazy stretch and padded over. Their fingers brushed when he reached for a dish, and she instinctively smiled. Sundays like this—quiet, slow, safe—had become her favorite. A small part of her feared just how easily she'd started to crave them.
Jun handed her the soy sauce bowl and leaned against the counter, watching her work. “You didn’t have to cook.”
“I wanted to,” she said, voice soft. “You cooked last time. And you’ve been working so much. This is nothing.”
Jun hummed in response, noncommittal. His hand reached up to her back, tracing small circles without thinking. She leaned into it, like always. But there was a hesitation in his touch now, subtle and featherlight. Min Ah didn’t notice at first—not fully.
They brought the food to the table, filling their plates with pork and chive dumplings, stir-fried bok choy, and rice. Jun poured her tea without asking, and Min Ah added chili oil to his plate without being prompted. It was a rhythm they had fallen into so easily.
“So, Mr. Finance, how many emails are you ignoring today?” she teased between bites.
“Only eighty,” Jun replied, deadpan.
“Impressive.”
“I deleted thirty already.”
Min Ah grinned. “Proud of you.”
They ate in silence for a while, the quiet between them never uncomfortable, at least not until today. She noticed he wasn't really eating, just pushing rice around with his chopsticks. His eyes would drift toward her, then away, then toward the window. His smile didn’t reach his eyes.
She tilted her head. “Are you okay?”
Jun glanced at her. “Yeah. Just... tired, I think.”
Min Ah nodded. She didn’t push. But the air had changed slightly, like something fragile had been bent out of shape, just a little.
After breakfast, they cleaned up together, Jun drying dishes while Min Ah rinsed them. Their arms brushed often, and she would occasionally nudge him with her elbow. He responded with a small smile each time, but never with the usual flirtatious glint in his eyes. She caught herself frowning once or twice, unsure of what she was sensing. Distant? Distracted? Or was she just overthinking?
Jun’s phone buzzed from the counter. He looked at it, didn’t touch it, then walked away.
They ended up on the couch, her head on his lap, his fingers combing gently through her hair. She was scrolling through her phone lazily while he stared out the window again.
“Let’s go to Yeonnam next weekend,” she said. “That new dumpling place opened, remember?”
Jun took a second too long to respond. “Hmm? Yeah. Maybe.”
“Maybe?”
“I don’t know if I’ll be free.”
She tilted her head to look up at him. “Work?”
He nodded, but his jaw was tight.
Min Ah dropped the subject, returning to her phone. But her stomach sank slightly. This wasn’t the first “maybe” this week.
Later, they played a few rounds of a dumb mobile game she downloaded. Jun wasn’t even pretending to try hard, she beat him every round and he just smiled whenever she cheered.
“Are you letting me win?” she narrowed her eyes.
“Maybe,” he said again.
He kissed her after that, a soft kiss on her forehead. She leaned up for more, catching his mouth in a slow, quiet kiss. He kissed her back, gently, carefully, as if he was afraid to hold on too tightly. And something about that unsettled her more than if he had pulled away.
They didn’t have sex that morning. Not because the mood wasn’t there, but because Jun excused himself for a shower and stayed in there longer than usual. When he returned, she was curled up on the couch, playing her game again, pretending not to feel strange.
They spent the rest of the afternoon watching a movie, but neither of them remembered what it was about.
When it was time for her to leave, Jun walked her to the door, holding her bag like he always did. She reached for his hand, and he let her hold it, but his grip wasn’t as firm. It was warm, but it felt… unsure.
“I’ll text you,” he said quietly.
Min Ah gave him a small smile. “Okay.”
She stepped into the hallway, the door clicking softly behind her.
She didn’t ask, “When?”
And he didn’t say, “Soon.”
Inside, Jun leaned against the door, eyes shut. In his pocket, his phone buzzed again. He pulled it out this time—just work messages. But he didn’t open them. His screen stayed dark.
He could still see the image from Wednesday, Min Ah sitting in the café, laughing with Hoshi, her eyes soft, her head tilted slightly, like it did when she felt safe. He remembered the ribbon in her hair. The dress that hugged her waist. The way Hoshi looked at her. The way she looked back.
Nothing happened, he told himself again. They're coworkers. Friends.
Still, the image wouldn’t leave him.
And he hated that part of him wanted to ask her about it. Hated that he didn’t. Hated more that he might not want to know the answer.
So he did what he always did when things felt too much.
He backed away slowly.
—
Monday morning came with light rain tapping on the office windows, the type of drizzle that made the world look like it had been softened with watercolor. Min Ah arrived ten minutes earlier than usual, a warm cup of soy latte in one hand and her phone in the other.
She’d woken up to a message from Jun.
Good luck today. Don’t skip breakfast.
Min Ah smiled to herself the way people did when no one was watching, her fingers brushing her phone screen lightly as if trying to absorb the warmth of his words. She sat at her desk, cheeks still faintly pink, sipping slowly from her coffee.
By noon, she sent him a reply.. A sticker of a bear typing frantically on a laptop with the caption:
Monday mode 😵💫.
An hour passed. Then two. No reply.
By late afternoon, her phone buzzed.
Fighting. Hope the rest of your day goes smoothly.
Maybe he’s just tired, she thought. Or overworked. Monday blues. Maybe it’s nothing.
It wasn’t cold. It wasn’t even short, objectively. But it didn’t feel like him.
Not like the Jun who used to send voice notes of his coffee order just to make her laugh.
Not like the Jun who used to ask what she was eating for lunch, even if he already knew.
Not like the Jun who held her hand across his kitchen table like she was made of something he didn’t want to lose.
Tuesday morning, she woke up determined to be warm first.
She picked one of her favorite memes—a sleepy duck dragging itself to work—and sent it at 7:55 a.m., with the caption:
This is me. Pray for me and my 9AM sync.
No response.
At 12:38, her phone buzzed just as she sat in the small breakroom, eating rice balls and miso soup.
Not by 9AM.
Not by 11.
You’ll do great. Don’t stress too much.
Should she reply? Ask if he was okay?
Again, kind. But it felt... templated. Like a canned message.
She stared at it for a full minute, thumb hovering above her keyboard.
No.
She placed her phone face-down.
Her appetite was gone anyway.
Her phone stayed silent.
That evening, she didn’t text. She waited.
Waited through a walk home in cloudy dusk, waited through folding her laundry, waited through brushing her teeth.
Wednesday came.
The ache in her chest wasn’t sharp. It was dull and spreading, like something left too long in the cold.
No message.
No meme.
No Did you eat lunch?Nothing.
By lunchtime, Min Ah hadn’t touched her phone since she walked into the office. Not because she wasn’t thinking about it—she was. Constantly. But her pride was a stubborn thing.
She looked less like herself that day. Her lipstick was a bit off, the top corner not filled in properly. Her hair tied in a slightly lopsided ponytail.
Nothing major, but enough for someone observant to notice.
Eunji noticed.
The Artois team had gathered briefly in the pantry area, half-standing, half-sitting around the bar counter while they waited for the microwave to stop whirring. Dahyun was explaining some TikTok trend. Mr. Kim, as always, was trying and failing to understand it.
Everyone was laughing.
Everyone, except Min Ah, who was smiling but absent.
“Wow,” Eunji suddenly said, loud enough for the group to hear. “No phone-checking every thirty seconds today?”
Eunji watched her from across the counter.
Min Ah was pretending to scroll through something on her phone, but her screen hadn’t moved in minutes.
Min Ah looked up, blinking.
Eunji raised an eyebrow. “Everything okay with Mr. Quantix?”
Dahyun glanced over.
Mr. Kim paused mid-chew.
Min Ah forced a chuckle, tucking hair behind her ear. “He’s… busy..”
Her voice was even, but soft. Controlled.
Eunji didn’t smile, but her gaze softened just slightly. She didn’t press.
The silence stretched for a beat too long, then Dokyeom walked in, dramatically announcing he was starving and breaking the tension with his usual flair. People laughed again.
But Eunji kept her eyes on Min Ah for a second longer.
She didn’t say I’m sorry. She didn’t say Are you okay?
But in that lingering look, something shifted—a quiet offering of truce, or maybe understanding.
The wall wasn’t gone, but it had cracked.
Min Ah returned to her desk after lunch with her chest feeling heavier than before.
She opened her messages. No new texts.
Her chat with Jun was buried five threads down now, under a flurry of team notes and food group orders.
But her hand hovered over her phone more than once that afternoon.
She didn’t open it.
Didn’t text again.
Didn’t know what she’d even say if she did.
Nothing.
Her eyes kept flicking to the time.
3:12.
4:20.
5:07.
It was as if someone had switched the lights off on something that used to shine.
Min Ah walked home under gray skies. It wasn’t raining, but it looked like it might.
The wind pulled at the hem of her coat, and she pulled it tighter around her, heart and hands cold.
And when she curled into bed that night, phone face-down again, she told herself she wouldn’t cry.
She didn’t.
But she didn’t sleep much either.
—
It was nearly 10:43 AM on Thursday when Hoshi finally wandered into the Artois pantry.
He’d just wrapped up a painfully long budget alignment call with a client who kept saying “pivot” like it meant something, and he was in desperate need of caffeine, and not the nice kind, but the ugly, canned convenience store kind that tasted like regret and MSG but got the job done.
He cracked the top open with a satisfying hiss, leaned his elbow against the counter near the coffee machine, and took a long, slow sip.
That’s when he saw her.
Min Ah was already there, staring blankly at the drip tray of the machine as if waiting for a miracle. She was in a pale beige cardigan today, oversized and soft, with her hair tied in a messy half-bun that somehow still made her look like she belonged in a commercial for artisanal soap or something.
But something was off.
Her lips were pressed into a thin line. Her fingers clutched her phone like it owed her money. And her coffee, half-filled and lukewarm, sat untouched on the counter beside her.
“You look like someone canceled your birthday party,” Hoshi said, voice soft but teasing.
Min Ah blinked and turned toward him. She smiled—it was automatic, practiced, polite. Too practiced.
“Nah,” she replied. “Just… didn’t sleep well.”
Hoshi raised an eyebrow, watching her for a beat longer than necessary. “Was it bad dreams, or just doomscrolling until 3AM?”
Min Ah let out a small laugh, one that fizzled before it could settle. “Something like that.”
There was a pause. She glanced down at her phone again. Then back at her coffee. Then nowhere at all.
She wasn’t going to say anything else.
Hoshi took another sip of his drink and leaned a little closer, not enough to be obvious, but enough to let her know he wasn’t going anywhere.
He could see it now—the slight smudge under her eyes that concealer hadn’t fully erased. The way her shoulders were pulled inward, her body curling around itself like she was trying to be smaller.
She wasn’t wearing lipstick today.
That fact stuck with him more than it should’ve.
“Need anything?” he asked gently. “Want me to ask Dokyeom to fake a client emergency so you can go home early?”
Min Ah chuckled. “And let him think I owe him a favor for the rest of my life? No, thank you.”
They both smiled.
But it didn’t reach her eyes.
Another pause. Longer this time. The kind that sits heavy in the chest.
Hoshi looked down at the rippled metal surface of the counter and said nothing.
Because what could he say?
He could ask her. Ask what was wrong. Ask if it was Jun. Ask if he’d stopped replying again, if he’d pulled back, if he was hurting her without even realizing it.
He could offer his shoulder, his time, his warmth.
But instead, he just leaned back against the counter and took another sip of canned coffee.
“Do you ever think about dyeing your hair again?” Min Ah asked suddenly.
Hoshi blinked. “What?”
She nodded toward his head. “The brown looks good. Just… wondering if you ever miss the blond.”
Hoshi tilted his head, pretending to ponder. “Hmm… I don’t know. I think the brown’s growing on me. Easier on the eyes, right?”
“It makes you look…” She hesitated. “...grounded.”
He laughed. “What, like a tax accountant?”
“No,” she grinned faintly. “Like… more settled. Less neon energy.”
“Wow. Attacked at ten in the morning.”
She bumped his elbow gently with hers. “You know what I mean.”
He did.
He just didn’t know how to answer without telling her that every time he looked in the mirror lately, he saw someone who was trying a little too hard to be someone else.
Without telling her that part of the reason he stopped wearing pink blazers and checkerboard pants was because she once said Jun’s style was “quiet but sexy.”
Without telling her that he’d stood in the aisle of the hair dye section for fifteen minutes before picking dark brown, thinking maybe, just maybe, it would make him feel a little less like the loud friend, the chaos mascot, the silly one who got left behind.
“I like the brown,” she said softly. “It suits you.”
Without telling her that being near her hurt sometimes.
Especially like this.
Especially when she looked so lost.
“Thanks,” Hoshi replied, voice gentler than usual. “You look nice too. That cardigan’s a weapon.”
Min Ah blinked. “What?”
“Like, dangerously soft. I’m shocked HR hasn’t issued a warning.”
She laughed again. Really laughed, this time. It sounded like her.
But only for a moment.
Then her phone buzzed on the counter. She looked at it. Lit up, screen unlocked. Read the notification. Didn’t smile.
And then she locked it again without replying.
That was all Hoshi needed to know.
His heart dropped a little—not out of triumph, but out of something that felt a lot like helplessness.
So this was it.
Jun was doing it again. Pulling away. Leaving her dangling in the middle of nowhere. Making her wait. Making her question herself. Making her small.
Part of Hoshi burned with quiet rage.
Another part felt this dark, ugly bloom of hope rising inside his chest.
He hated himself for thinking it.
Maybe this was the opening.
Maybe, if she could just see—really see—that she didn’t have to feel like this, that there was someone who noticed everything, who never made her wait, who never disappeared...
“Min Ah,” he said suddenly.
She looked up.
He hesitated. The words were there, just past his tongue, but he swallowed them back down.
“You should eat something.”
Min Ah tilted her head. “What?”
“It’s already 11. Your coffee looks like it died thirty minutes ago.”
She smiled, gently. “You’re probably right.”
“I’m always right.”
He tossed his empty can in the trash and straightened up, hands in his pockets. “Come on. I’ll walk you to the lunchroom. Let’s see if Eunji left any snacks unclaimed.”
Min Ah hesitated. Then nodded, sliding her phone back into her pocket. “Only if you promise not to lecture me the whole way.”
They walked side by side down the hall. Their arms brushed once, then again.
Neither of them moved away.
And as Hoshi glanced sideways at her—at the cardigan, at the slight puffiness under her eyes, at the way she was still pretending she wasn’t checking her phone every three minutes—he felt the hope rise again, uninvited.
But somewhere, deep in his chest, the words pulsed quietly like a drumbeat:
He didn’t speak it aloud.
Didn’t dare.
Maybe I still have a chance.
But if I do… this time, I’ll wait. I’ll stay close. I’ll be good.
—
Even if she never looks at me the same way.
Even if she still loves him.
I’ll be here.
The apartment was quiet.
Too quiet, in that distinct way only big spaces get when there's no one else to fill them. Outside, the city flickered—lights blinking across high-rise windows, traffic humming somewhere twenty floors below, the occasional red pulse of a passing aircraft blinking against the foggy skyline.
Jun sat on the couch in the dark, still in the clothes he’d worn to work. His blazer had been discarded somewhere hours ago—maybe the armrest, maybe the floor. He wasn’t sure. He couldn’t really move. His back curved forward slightly, elbows on knees, hands limp between them.
His living room was dim except for the soft light that spilled through the windows, illuminating the outline of his jaw, the slope of his shoulders, the deep furrow between his brows.
On the coffee table in front of him sat a takeout box. Unopened. Cooling. Forgotten.
His phone lay beside it, screen facing up.
It lit up every few minutes—emails, work reminders, a message from Mingyu asking if he was coming in early tomorrow for the investment briefing.
Not her.
Not once.
Jun exhaled through his nose, sharp and soft at the same time.
His thumb ghosted toward his phone again. Hovered above it. Didn’t touch.
He hadn’t texted her in five days.
He knew that.
He was counting, even if he told himself he wasn’t.
She hadn’t texted either.
And that was the part that made him feel like he couldn’t breathe.
Then he saw her.
The image kept playing over and over in his mind.
Last week. Friday. After lunch. He had been tired from an early client meeting outside the office, hungry and a little grumpy when he decided to detour through the lower ground of The Parc for something quick.
No, he saw them.
Hoshi leaned in as he spoke. She leaned in too.
It looked like it belonged in a commercial.
Like they belonged together..
Her. With someone else. Looking lighter than she ever did around him these days.
—
He rubbed his face with both hands now, letting them drag down slowly. Then stared at the floor.
“She looked so happy,” he whispered to no one. “Like she didn’t even think of me.”
She belongs with someone who doesn’t have to be convinced to stay.Someone who doesn’t disappear.
That thought wasn’t fair. He knew it. But once the spiral began, it didn’t care about fairness.
His brain started feeding him more. Louder, sharper.
Someone who doesn’t carry so much goddamn weight inside his chest that even breathing sometimes feels like work.
Jun leaned back against the couch, his head resting on the cushion, eyes closed now.
In the darkness behind his lids, the image changed.
Not Min Ah laughing.
But Min Ah curled up in his bed. That morning weeks ago when she stayed through the weekend. The way she leaned into his hand when he touched her cheek. The way she fell asleep mid-sentence because she trusted him. Because, for a moment, she really thought he was choosing her.
Wasn’t I?
But hadn’t he started pulling away again, little by little?
Fewer texts. Quieter calls. Canceling lunch on Monday because he was “slammed,” and skipping Tuesday altogether. He hadn’t even given her a reason for today. Just… didn’t show up.
And she hadn’t called him out.
She never did.
That made it worse.
That made it feel like maybe she was already adjusting. Already letting go. Maybe this was just her soft exit.
Jun sat forward again, elbows back on knees.
His fingers curled into loose fists.
This was exactly what he promised her he wouldn’t do.
He remembered her voice—soft, right before she left his place that Sunday morning.
“Don’t disappear on me again.”
And here he was.
Vanishing in real time.
Even though she never did anything wrong.
Even though all she did was exist and be kind and want to love someone the way she deserved to.
Even though this time—this time—he swore he’d be better.
His phone buzzed again.
Mingyu, again. Followed by a message from the Quantix group chat. Something about a new pitch.
Jun stared at the screen. Still nothing from her. He thought about texting. Just something simple.
“Hi.”
Or maybe, “How are you?”
But then his brain snapped again, fast and cruel.
She doesn’t want to hear from you.
She has a whole team who actually talks to her.
She has Hoshi, who doesn’t make her wait.
Jun dropped the phone back onto the table, face down this time.
His mouth was dry.
The silence of the room shifted. It wasn’t peaceful anymore. It was suffocating.
He stood up slowly, walked toward the window, and stared out.
The city glittered like it was mocking him.
Every time he told himself he’d do better, something pulled him back down. He wanted to be someone who could love without fear. But he wasn’t. Not really. Not yet.
He had spent so long surviving, protecting, controlling his solitude that the moment someone reached for him with tenderness, it felt like a threat.
Min Ah didn’t deserve that.
And yet, she stayed.
For a while.
Until now.
—
Jun placed a hand against the cool glass of the window.
She hadn’t told him about the coffee run. That wasn’t a crime. They didn’t have to share everything. But the thought of her and Hoshi, sitting across from each other, laughing like they used to—it stuck.
It made Jun feel ten years old again. Small. Replaceable.
He exhaled shakily and turned away from the window.
Then sat back on the couch. Picked up the takeout box. Opened it. Put it back down after one bite.
His phone buzzed again.
He didn’t look this time.
He just sat in the dark, letting the city keep moving outside, wondering how long he could stay frozen like this before she finally stopped waiting.
—
It had been five days.
Five days since Jun pulled away.
Again.
No calls. No texts. No little green bubble lighting up her phone to say, “I’m thinking about you.” Not even a “busy today” or a ghost of a meme he thought she might like. Just… silence.
Min Ah lay on her bed, still in the wide-legged pants and soft blouse she wore to work. The only light came from a half-burned candle on her windowsill, flickering weakly like it, too, was running out of energy.
The room felt untouched. Still. Like it didn’t know whether to hold on or let go.
Her phone sat beside her pillow. Blank screen. No vibrations. No pings. No buzz that made her heart skip for one stupid second.
She hated how trained she’d become—how her body still reacted to hope even when her brain already knew better.
Min Ah rolled onto her side, pulling her knees toward her chest. The sheets were cool. The air smelled like fabric softener and the faint trace of the takeout she didn’t finish. A kimbap roll, picked at then abandoned. The soy sauce container had tipped, dark liquid staining the paper bag it came in. She hadn’t had the energy to throw it out.
Her mind looped the same lines like a stuck song:
Did I say too much? Did I stay too long?
Should I have asked what we were?
Was that it? Did I ruin it by being happy?
The spiral was gentle at first. Not the kind that screamed or shook her by the shoulders. But soft. Like a blanket she wrapped around herself without realizing it was suffocating her.
She could still remember the way Jun looked at her the last time he touched her.
They were in his apartment. She was sitting on his kitchen counter, laughing about how their fried rice turned out too salty because she accidentally double-measured the soy sauce. He just stood there, smiling, face close to hers, hands warm against her thighs.
That look.
That warmth.
It felt real.
It was real.
Wasn’t it?
Min Ah sat up slowly, her hand reaching for her phone before her heart could catch up.
She opened their chat. The last message was from her, four days ago.
He never replied.
The read receipt sat there, like a bruise.
She scrolled up. Looked at the thread that once overflowed with shared Spotify links, blurry pictures of their food, random observations like “the office printer is making a haunted house noise again.” Those little, intimate fragments of dailiness that made them feel more than just something undefined.
Now, it was like someone hit pause.
No. It was worse.
Someone had turned off the sound entirely.
Her thumbs hovered over the screen.
Looked at it.
She typed:
Hey. Is everything okay?
Stared.
Read it again.
Then deleted it.
If he wanted to talk to her, he would have. If he wanted her, he’d make it known.
Didn’t he say it himself?
“I won’t disappear again.”
Min Ah scoffed, quiet and bitter. Her eyes stung, but no tears came. Not yet. She was too tired to cry. All that lived inside her now was the ache of something unfinished.
She turned her phone over, screen down, and set it back beside her.
The silence swelled.
She reached up and rubbed at her temples, brushing strands of hair away from her face. Her fingers were cold.
Maybe she was overreacting. Maybe he was just overwhelmed. Busy. Exhausted. He was always inside his head.
But hadn’t he been… off?
Ever since that Wednesday, something in her chest had been off-kilter.
Jun hadn’t called. Hadn’t texted. Not even a lazy meme. The silence was heavy, familiar in the worst way.
Min Ah found herself wondering—What if he’s just over it?
What if she wasn’t interesting enough? Pretty enough?
Enough, period?
What if Jun had someone else now? Someone less complicated. Someone who didn’t come with ghosts of family wounds and work crushes.
Maybe he was never hers to begin with. Maybe all she was… was a warm weekend and a temporary comfort.
The thought clung to her skin like smoke, impossible to shake.
Or maybe that was just another excuse she was making to give him room to vanish.
Min Ah wrapped her arms around herself.
She thought she’d stopped doing that—justifying men who couldn’t give her what she needed. She thought Jun was different. And in many ways, he was. But that didn’t mean he was ready. Or able.
Or willing.
A car horn echoed down the street outside. She stood slowly, legs heavy beneath her, and padded barefoot to the window. The candle flickered behind her.
From the 12th floor, the city looked soft. Blurred. Lights melting into one another like watercolor. A plane blinked red in the distance. Some office tower still had lights on. People still working. Or maybe just forgetting to shut things down.
She leaned her forehead against the glass, eyes wide but unfocused.
Somewhere in the city, Jun was staring into the same sky.
She was sure of it.
Maybe he was sitting in his living room again, with the lights off and dinner untouched, thinking about her. Maybe he was tired too. Maybe he wanted to call.
But he didn’t.
He never did.
And Min Ah was tired of being the one who waited.
The one who made room. Who excused. Who softened herself until she forgot what her own edges looked like.
“Why does it always end like this?” she whispered, voice barely audible above the hum of her fridge and the city outside.
The candle gave one last flicker, then went out.
—
OK so I'm entirely open for two different ending since I can't choose at all between Jun and Hoshi................. what do you think?
