summary ; in which a failed proposal at a txt send-off leads y/n to beomgyu, who can't help but meddle a little bit.
genre ; idol!au, strangers to friends to lovers, slow burn, fluff & crack, beomgyu being a menace.
featuring ; txt(ofc), sunghoon & jay and jake from enha, dino from
svt, probably more enhypen and svt cameos.
warnings ; profanity, suicide jokes, attempt at humour, secondhand
embarrassment, limited to no knowledge of an editor job, this plot started as a silly little joke in a conversation with my friend - fangs lu 4 da help!1
author's note ; this is my first fic pls dont eat me. also ignore time stamps pls the app is hard to manage T_T
start ; 24 june 2024
status ; completed 2 september 2025 (sorry-)
summary. making a fool out of himself in front of three thousand people on the regular sure never taught heeseung how to talk to pretty girls—a realization he only has when you (the most beautiful girl he’s ever seen) walk into his soul-sucking economics class and all he’s got in manpower is himself, his idiot friends, and a deeply unhelpful twitch chat.
pairing. streamer!heeseung x y/n
↳ ft jay, jake, sunghoon, and twitch chat
genre. college au, twitch streamer au, fluff, classmates to lovers
word count. 12.0k
disclaimers. heeseung-centric/pov, swearing, alcohol use, kissing/suggestive activities while drunk, smoking, some crudeness bc they're stupid college guys, pacing is highkey ass i'm sorry
released. 03.09.2026
author's note. this is a prequel to sparks but the events are slightly tweaked and can be read entirely as a standalone! my take on loser heeseung and the pinnacle of my streamer!enha career. i hope no one minds that it's told from hee's pov :( pls tell me all ur thoughts about everything!!
masterlist
any feedback is appreciated ദ്ദി(｡•̀ ᗜ<)
burgermuncher123: what fucking idiot streams their course selection
When Lee Heeseung goes live at a time of day that isn’t four in the morning, people fear the worst.
The most widely accepted explanation is that he was kidnapped because he “looked kidnappable.” Some propose that he must’ve been beaten up by those kids he was cyberbullying on Among Us VR a few days ago. Something, something, “Mr. Beast video”—the stream notification might as well have been a national emergency alert.
But as they flood into his corner of Twitch, everyone quickly realizes that their streamer was, in fact, perfectly fine.
There he is, in all his unassuming, wonky headset glory. The storage room he passionately defends as a bedroom is still comfortably barren, bathed in a cozy golden light by the morning sun that filtered in through the dented shutters—something softer on the eyes than the blinding white of his ring lights. His keyboard collection is tucked away in one corner, a bulky dehumidifier running in the other.
gopissgirl: Bro this fucking ragebaiter. look at his Stupid ass
mavuikasbikecanrunmeover: HE’S NOT DEAD!!!!!
xyz_: yo his bald spot finally isn’t reflecting the light peepoCheer
Heeseung cracks his knuckles. Twists his neck, then his back.
“Alright, chat.” A sigh from the depths of his soul leaves him. “We’re fighting a war today.”
It turns out the earth-shattering event that warrants a Heeseung stream at nine-thirty in the morning is his second-year course selection. Or, in more efficient terms, war—because if he had to spend one more second in the torture chamber that is Professor Jenkins’ circuits lecture, he will die in those trenches.
hoonbot: ARE YOU TAKING 12 COURSES HELLO
jeikeushim: i will NEVER regret switching to accounting
user14: why the fuck are u taking econ1130 man 😭😭
“Okay, okay, chat,” Heeseung hunches forward, elbows knocking into a crumpled Monster can before firmly planting on the desk. His hands are steepled, voice low and dead serious, as if he’s about to deliver the most unrivaled, undeniable justification for why he, an engineering student, is going to take Economic History in the Twentieth Century.
“Listen. I need to fulfill a breadth credit this year and Jay said the prof is super chill. Plus, I saw a guy on Reddit say this was a bird course. I’ll be fine.”
applesauceeater: oh this guy’s so Cooked
girlqueenpussyboss67: whenever sunghoon starts talking about coding i like to come watch u cuz it reminds me that it’s ok to be a little stupid in the head <3
“I like to come watch you because it reminds me that it’s okay to be a little stupid in the he—” A loud, indignant sputter. He pushes himself up, walks to the back of the room (“the gall,” the microphone manages to pick up) before sitting back down and scooting back towards the camera.
“Mods, ban the guy who said that. Also, ban the guy who brought up the bald spot I do not have, and ban the word ‘bald’ from my chat.”
Heeseung needs to kill Jay.
And that one guy from Reddit. And himself from two months ago.
Some would argue that he’s being too much of a hater barely a week into the term, but Heeseung can barely find enough fucks to give about this class at all, let alone question the ethics of his internal Death Note.
Circuits with Jenkins, Heeseung decides, was heaven compared to this. The classroom hadn’t been bad. Jake and Sunghoon had shared it with him, so he could spend his classes fucking around on Roblox Fruit Tycoon Simulator rather than paying attention. Sometimes, Jenkins would grace the class by rambling on about her ongoing divorce with her good-for-nothing husband. In retrospect, what had he been complaining over? Certainly nothing worse than this.
The Economics department holds its courses in one of the campus’ oldest buildings: a quaint, beautiful thing—Romanesque in its turrets and arched windows and brickwork. It’s a shame the outside is the only part of it that seems maintained at all, since Heeseung’s lecture hall seems a cough and two sneezes away from falling apart completely.
No windows, awful ventilation, sticky tables. The sound of the professor’s gnarly smoker voice. Heeseung laments about how he can’t enjoy the daylight he never enjoys anyway—and promptly decides to make it Jay’s problem.
Jay—who’d been having a steak burrito in the student commons between classes before being intercepted by Heeseung and cursed out so colourfully he’d have thought he’d killed his parents—blinks at his friend.
“Dude,” he says, more dumbfounded than anything. “Do you not background check your classes? Even a little? The economics building is straight dogshit. Everyone knows that.”
Heeseung wonders why his hands are still at his sides and not wrapped around Jay’s throat. “That’s not the point. You said that he was chill,” he seethes.
Jay takes another bite, voice muffled by the food in his mouth. “He is chill. Plays golf with my dad on Sundays at our country club.”
“He sounds like he chain-smokes twenty-five cigs a day. He calls everyone ‘kid’, but it’s, like, condescending. Not in a cool way like Brad Pitt does it.”
“Nothing to do with how chill he is, man. Besides, you’re lucky you only have to take an easy course and not something like econometrics.”
“I know you did not just say that to me of all people,” Heeseung grits out, having to physically restrain himself from making a colouring book joke.
A thinly veiled snicker, hastily covered up by a weak cough. “Well, you’re outta luck. Can’t drop courses until next week.”
“Whatever, I’ll just skip until then—”
“Go and I’ll give you fifty dollars for it.”
Unbothered by how Heeseung is gawking at him, Jay finishes the last bits of his food, crumpling the foil into a little ball. For all the pity he felt that Heeseung actually took the class he’d only recommended as a half-joke, he also felt a strong urge to make his friend suffer, to put it ineloquently. One of his eyebrows is slightly quirked, as if to ask if it was a deal or not.
God, rich people are freaks, Heeseung curses in his mind. On what planet does he benefit from that? What am I, his little show pony? This is ridicul—
“Deal, you son of a bitch,” he hisses, snatching his bag and storming out.
Making bank, Heeseung resolves, has to take priority.
Not that he particularly wants to indulge Jay’s sick, twisted wishes—but rather because fifty dollars is fifty dollars, and to someone like Jay, fifty dollars is a tissue to blow his nose with.
Three more agonizing lectures go by before the day miraculously arrives: the last time Heeseung would ever have to attend this godforsaken class. Never again would he have to hear a lick about post-war economic development or anything of the sort.
The lecture hall is still as dreadful as ever, though noticeably emptier than it’d been the first week, which Heeseung decides that he cannot wait to contribute to. He slumps into an empty seat (still uncomfortably warm from whoever was sitting here before him), slots his headphones over his ears, and prepares to mentally clock out for the next two hours.
Perhaps the universe is finally on his side.
Sure, having to be here at all is a huge drag—but for once, the walk to the Economics building hadn’t been polluted with the smell of chemicals from neverending construction. His Discover Weekly had refreshed and wasn’t ass.
And now, in a few hours time, he would officially be fifty dollars richer, spending his sweet new free time playing FIFA and fucking up a bag of M&M’s and—
Someone taps his shoulder.
Heeseung jolts at the touch, eyes sliding half-open. Despite half his vision being blocked by his hood and music blasting him towards deafness, he can vaguely sense a presence next to him. Figuring it’s someone passing through, he moves to pick his bag up from where it is at his feet—but the tap comes again.
One of his hands moves to pause his music, the other sliding his headphones off one ear.
“—cuse me, sorry. Is this seat taken?”
Heeseung finally bothers to look up, and—
Fuck. Oh, fuck my life.
There’s little that can phase a guy who accidentally ripped his pants on stream and made “BUZZ LIGHTYEAR BOXERS” the number one trend on Twitter for a full twenty-four hours. He’s seen it all, done it all—worn the maid outfit, read fanfiction of him and Sunghoon, the works. Figured he'd already been enlightened to the highest degree after watching Megan Fox in Jennifer's Body when he was fourteen.
So, maybe he should feel a little pathetic about how openly he's gawking, but he's far too busy trying to figure out if he's hallucinating the ridiculously pretty girl in front of him.
Lips pursed, you manage a small, nervous smile. Your head swivels to look around the lecture hall. “Um, if it’s taken, I’ll just—”
“It’s not taken,” Heeseung blurts out, as if his tongue had finally screwed itself back on. “It’s— no one’s sitting here, no. You can sit.”
Your eyes soften with relief, mumbling a quiet “thanks.”
Heeseung closes his eyes. Shuts them so hard that they start to hurt from the pressure and colours start exploding behind his eyelids. Anything to distract himself from how his throat is closing up because the prettiest girl he never even fathomed could exist had just knocked her knee into his as she's settling into the cramped seat.
So much for mentally clocking out.
The lecture hall quiets as the professor coughs into the mic. Lights dim, and a PowerPoint that was easily made ten years ago is projected onto the pull-down screen, crooked from the audience's point of view. Heeseung can feel the drowsiness from the warm, stuffy air threatening to pull him under.
Breathing in heavily, he’s ready to drown himself out again, but a whisper comes from beside him, making him stiffen. “This class has been going on for a while, right? Did I miss anything?”
He swallows, voice rough. “Uh, no. Just standard syllabus stuff… this guy drones a lot.”
A giggle, followed by a sarcastic sigh. “Read his reviews so my hopes aren’t high. But it’s required, so what can you do?”
Your elbow is propped up on the seat arm between him and you, jaw cradled in the palm of your hand—just shy of brushing against the fabric of his hoodie. “I would’ve taken it in the winter term, but there was one person in a group chat I’m in who said he was ‘super chill’, so he can’t be that bad, right?”
Heeseung could kiss Jay on the mouth.
For the remainder of the lecture, the two of you are silent. You’d since slipped on a pair of clear-framed glasses, perched on the slope of your nose as you diligently take notes—while Heeseung’s trying not to piss himself every time you tuck a loose lock of hair back behind your ear in the corner of his vision.
When noon hits, the lecture hall rumbles with noise again as everyone is filing out. Heeseung from literally two hours ago would be bewildered by his current self still being in his seat rather than having already sprinted out the door.
“I never caught your name,” you say, cutting through the noise. He can hear your voice clearly now that you aren’t whispering. “I’m Y/N.”
He wets his lips. “Heeseung,” he manages.
“Nice to meet you. I’ll see you around?”
“Y— Yeah.”
Heeseung does not drop Economic History in the Twentieth Century.
He'd spent a good ten minutes logged into his student portal—the 'withdraw' button he'd been so ready to press staring him down as if daring him to even think about it anymore—before closing out of the tab. Admitting defeat.
Which means he doesn’t free up any time in his schedule to play FIFA, nor does he get fifty dollars from Jay (despite his negotiations that he’d technically fulfilled what he’d been asked to do).
All he really got out of this ordeal was unsolicited emotional turmoil over a girl he’s had barely half a conversation with.
Two full days have passed since he's met you, and not once had you strayed from his thoughts for more than a few minutes. In all honestly, he's can't remember exactly what your features look like from off the top of his head—but he remembers that you had outrageously pretty eyes and hair and a sweet lilt to your voice that makes him want to tear his hair out. The feeling you'd caused to stir in his chest lingers, stubbornly refusing to leave.
heeshings: alt revived bc my streamer got action. we all cheered
washingmachine42069: Yo you talk to women ?
Heeseung groans loudly, hands dragging down his face. “You don’t get it, chat,” he fake sobs. “She’s so fucking pretty. Like—”
Shooting up, his arms wave around as he attempts to defend himself. “—I literally sat down, ready to honk, shooo, mimimimi pass out, and then I feel this tap on my shoulder. I’m like ‘bro, who the fuck is this’. I turn my head and boom. I'm at the pearly white gates. It's God. I saw God—I literally entered heaven. You guys wouldn’t drop the class either! Stop pretending you would!”
user8: based on how you’re reacting to this i can tell u had No game
jayparkk_ ✔: respond to my msgs
jayparkk_ ✔: shouldn’t u be thanking me licking my shoes or some shit i literally locked u in for life
“‘I literally locked you in for life’ you didn’t lock me into shit,” Heeseung grits out, pointing an accusing finger at the webcam. “All you’ve done is made it so I have to keep going to these fucking awful classes.”
jayparkk_ ✔: aint no one forcing you into anything lil bro 😹😹😹
rima_ovo: “all you’ve done is cause a gorgeous woman to enter my life” my steak too juicy. my lobster too buttery. We need to kill this guy
xddd111: dw bout it we’re gonna manifest her for you KEEP YO CHIN UP KING 💯💯💯
The aged playground swing creaks as Sunghoon settles into it.
“I thought you dropped that class,” he comments, offhanded.
Perhaps it's a bit concerning—and sad—for three grown men to be loitering at the local children's playground at one in the morning. Even the stray tabby that likes to wander around the area is giving them what could seriously be a stink eye.
But Heeseung had been throwing so egregiously in Valorant that it was making Sunghoon rank down, so the latter had to put his foot down and stage an intervention.
Heeseung's quiet from his spot in the whale spring rider.
His lanky form is folded up in the small space, chin perched on his tightly drawn-up knees. Frigid air chips at his cheeks as he stares at no particular spot on the ground. “I was going to. Jay was even gonna give me fifty bucks for it—” neither Jake nor Sunghoon comment on how that makes no sense, “—But I raise you this: pretty girl.”
Sunghoon rolls his eyes. “You didn't drop the course that made you want to kill yourself because of some eye candy?” he asks incredulously.
Jake snorts loudly, fishing a pack of cigarettes out from the back pocket of his jeans. Flicking the top open, he slips one out with slender fingers. “Hoon, haven't you been eye-fucking your stats TA for weeks now? Don't think you're reaaaaally one to talk.” —to which Sunghoon shamelessly ignores.
“First of all, speak on her with some respect,” Heeseung retorts. “She's not just eye candy. Have you considered that she had a good impact on my mental health? Exhibit A: I don't want to kill myself when I think of that class anymore.”
“Man, if this girl is as great as you make her out to be, you gotta shoot your shot or something,” Jake says, voice slightly muffled. “Cig?”
Heeseung declines. Lighting a flame, then taking a drawn-out drag, Jake continues: “'cause you can't just sit around on your ass all day, hoping she'll pick you if you ogle her stupidly enough.”
“Fuck off, I wasn't gonna do that anyway. Either way, literally what business do I have shooting my shot? I don't know anything other than her first na—”
“Y/N L/N,” Sunghoon's drawling cuts through the air.
“Philosophy, politics, and economics major. Wants to go to law school. Transferred from Hanhwa Women's College. Sister's...” he squints at his screen. “—sister's a big shot lawyer downtown.”
Silence. “How the fuck did you do that?”
Shrugging, Sunghoon plucks the cigarette from between Jake's fingers, bringing it up to his own lips. “Not hard. Here, want to see it again?”
He taps around on his phone for half a minute or so. “Jason's seeing Charlotte Kim. The volleyball one.”
Jake shoots up from where he's been lying on the ground, several woodchips stuck to the back of his hoodie. “He is?”
Sunghoon pulls up a photo on his screen, which Jake immediately snatches into his own hands. “Yeah. He's your neighbour, dumbass. How the hell do you not know this?”
“Dude, I've been crashing at Lambda recently 'cause Minjun's on exchange, so his room's empty. It's fucking sick, Ren's girl makes the craziest Belgian waffles—”
The sound of a car horn blares through the quiet of the night, causing a flock of birds to flee from where they'd been nestled in the trees. Heeseung's gaze snaps over, squinting as Jay's familiar figure locks the sleek convertible before slinking up to the group.
He's baffled at the sight. “The fuck are you guys doing?”
“Therapy,” Jake calls out, shaking the cigarette pack in the air. “Cig?”
Jay takes one, catching the lighter Sunghoon tosses his way. “I saw you guys on 360. You know you look really fucking weird, right?”
“We, gang. If we went down right now, you'd be part of it.”
Heeseung's hates how Jay turns to him with a gleam in his eyes.
“Listen, Heeseung,” he starts. “I know you already sorta owe me your first-born child for being the best wingman ever, but since I'm so gracious—I have a plan, and on my balls it's going to end your bitchless streak.”
Planting a solid hand on Heeseung's shoulder, he says, with all the seriousness in the world: “You've gotta talk to her.”
The three of them stare at him in complete silence, broken only by the woodchip Sunghoon chucks at the back of his head. “Shut the fuck up, dude. You're pissing me off.”
Jay hisses, shooting a scathing glare at Sunghoon while rubbing at the spot he'd been struck. “If you'd let me finish,” he snarks, turning back to Heeseung. “You've gotta get her to warm up to you. Be proactive. Women love that shit. But only if they like you.”
“And what if she, I don't know, doesn't like me?”
“That's what the talking part is for, idiot. You've gotta gauge whether she fucks with you or not. She's friends with Chaewon, so I can even help you on that front. Then, if she seems sorta into you, invite her to the Lambda party.”
Heeseung blinks. “You want me to win her over by talking to her and then inviting her to a frat party?” he sputters. “Who am I, Jake?”
“Do you want to become co-president of the eye-fucking club with Sunghoon and expect her clothes to magically be on the floor?”
Another woodchip is aimed at Jay's head, which he manages to dodge this time—only for another to fling square into his forehead, this time from Heeseung.
“Ow!” Jay yelps. “Fuck's your problem?”
“I'm not trying to fuck her, dickhead.”
Jay gives him deadpan look. “What I mean is that the bar's in hell. You've gotta raise it at least a little.”
His gaze is determined. Unwavering. Freakishly inspiring. It has Heeseung nodding along, despite not knowing and, frankly, being scared of why. As if a weird seed of motivation was planted inside of him, growing, snowballing.
Jake's cigarette is on its last legs. He's about to let it drop and snuff it out with his sole until it's snatched out of his grasp by Heeseung, who hastily presses it between his lips.
A rough inhale. Nicotine courses through his thrumming veins. A calm exhale.
He nods firmly. “I'm going to do this.”
Slam.
The wood of his desk is cold against Heeseung's forehead. “Chat, I can't fucking do this.”
Something might have genuinely possessed him last night, because whatever speck of conviction Heeseung had about getting to know you was nowhere to be found the second he woke up that morning.
He's been spiralling in a whirlpool of preemptive humiliation and despair since—so much so that he went live with the stream title “FUCK MY STUPID BAKA LIFE!!!!!!”, which his mods, fearing the wrath of Twitch's Terms of Service, lovingly re-titled to “heeseung girl crashout #2”.
Jay accompanies him this time, sprawled out on armchair at the back of the room. Legs propped up on an ottoman as he plays Geometry Dash on his phone.
“I don't know what you're freaking out about,” he says wryly, not looking up. “Plan's not flawless, but it is flexible.”
“She's gonna think I'm a sleaze!” Heeseung exclaims, dropping his face into his hands. “I'm gonna fuck up my shot before I even have a chance to shoot it!”
Setting his phone aside, Jay crosses his arms. “Alternatively, she might be into you and think that you're not into her because you're not doing anything about it.”
ikeuekeu: TRUTH NUKE
xx_gamer42_xx: my brother in christ how are u gonna get a golden ticket and be too much of a pussy to go into the chocolate factory
The last message is read out by the text-to-speech, sending Jay into a fit of howling laughter, having to muffle it against the nearest cushion he can grab onto. Heeseung hardly manages a weak “shut up” that sounds lame even to his own ears.
He lets his eyes close, expecting respite. Reprieve, even.
He sees your face instead.
An aching groan rumbles from his lips. “Fine, fine! I'll do it!”
user12: any updates on the girlfriend arc ?
“Fuck.”
The sharp curse flies out of Heeseung's mouth as he watches his Valorant agent fall to the ground, shot dead. He cards a hand through his hair, murmuring a low “52, Chamber” into his comms before letting his gaze flit over to his vertical monitor.
“'Any updates on the girlfriend arc?'” he scoffs. “Is that what we're calling it?”
At that moment, a notification pops up on his phone—a small ding that vibrates against his desk.
Heeseung flips it over in his hand. The blue light of the screen reflects in the sheen of his eyes. His bottom lip tucks between his teeth, the faintest trace of a smile threatening to appear.
shinramyeo_n: IS THAT A SMILE I SEE
jakelikestobake: oh my god bruh my streamer's the Rizzler
Heeseung has never, in the history of his existence, ever been this indecisive.
After fucking around the whole summer after first year, he put hardly two thoughts worth of deliberation into choosing which branch of engineering he wanted to major in. Only went to one showing when he was apartment hunting because “as long as there's an ethernet port and I can run 144 Hz, it's chill.”
Yet, he's on the path to the Economics building—a walk he's made way more times than he expected—for the sole reason that he might hit it big and catch a glimpse of you again, and he's been stuck in a never ending push and pull the entire way there.
Passes the construction site that's started up work again. ('Jay's a— a no nonsense type of guy. Straightforward and logical. Isn't he trying to bag a job at McKinsey or whatever? He's good at this solution-giving shit, right?')
Stops at a wooden bench in front of a courtyard fountain, burying his face in his hands. ('Who am I kidding? Jay? Jay made his LinkedIn in ninth grade! He doesn't have a soul—')
Eventually, Heeseung manages to back-and-forth himself into the threshold of the lecture hall's northernmost entrance, hands shoved in the pockets of his jeans as his eyes scan down the rows of seats.
('Alright, well. Didn't instantly see her the second I stepped in so my life's over. Time to lea—')
A hand waves at him from three rows down.
Face lit up with recognition, you turn around in your seat, whispering something to your friend before waving him over a little more energetically.
Heeseung's breath catches as he spots you. Several thoughts are whirling around in his head (the most coherent one being slight confusion about how you still recognize him). Panic seems to keep the soles of his feet glued to the floor—until they're suddenly moving.
“Heeseung, right?” A smile graces your lips, small but warm. “Do you wanna sit? I was originally saving this seat, but someone—” you shoot a playful glare at the girl next to you, “—has an interview she has to leave for.”
He vaguely recognizes her as Chaewon, one of Jay's friends from high school. She's looking at him knowingly, head cocked to the side—a look he conveniently doesn't meet.
“I...” He dares to peer into your eyes for a half a second. Doesn't catch the slightly optimistic glimmer in them before already looking away. “...Yeah, sure. That'd be great, thanks.”
Class goes by relatively similarly to the first time he met you: in sum, you're actually paying attention to the lecture while Heeseung does anything but. It's only at the end where, rather than leaving, you're still hovering next to him.
Waiting for him, he slowly realizes. “You're staying behind?”
It's the first time he sees your expression shift into something more timid. “If you're free—” you start, “—would you wanna come to the library with me? I have some things to work on, and... I'd like the company.”
It's noon on a weekday. Sunghoon would probably be at the library, slaving away at whatever computer science assignment currently had him shackled to the wall. If Heeseung, God forbid, runs into him at any point and he sees him trailing behind you, there would be a clowning in the group chat like never seen before.
And, sure enough, about two minutes after he walks by a Sunghoon-shaped figure slouched at a bureau, Heeseung feels his phone start to buzz violently in his pocket.
You tilt your head to the side, lips quirked in a teasing smile. “Popular much?”
Embarrassed, he chuckles dryly, silencing his phone with a swift click. “I wish.”
Heeseung's friendship with you is a simple one.
Uncomplicated in a way that, despite the two of you not doing too much actual talking, puts him at ease—a boat drifting on a calm wave. He's never been the type to try and fill dips in conversation by piling on more, but he'll still feel the weight of it—whereas with you, you'll simply be studying, spinning a pen between your fingers and humming a soft tune under your breath, while he tries to peek at you as discreetly as possible.
Silence with you is comfortable.
Then, when momentum builds (“I've gotta go. They're having tryouts for the moot court team in half an hour.” “...Wait—” “Hm? What's up?” “...I've got a ton of physics work to do. Uh, so I'll probably be locked up in the library for the rest of the week, haha.” “Then... then I might join you sometimes. If that's okay, of course.” “Yeah, yeah, no yeah, that's okay. Feel free.”), conversation weaves itself into the space between you.
Heeseung learns that you transferred here from the women's university across town on a scholarship. Your sister had gone here for law school, and you, wanting to do the same, figured it give you the best chance if you did your undergrad and built a network here.
All very academically diligent things that Heeseung, to put it frankly, couldn't really resonate with—but he likes watching your eyes glint as you talk about it. You're determined, he knows that much.
He learns that you're quieter than he'd assumed, based on how readily you spoke to him the first time you met. A bit clumsy, he realizes as the two of you trudge to the nearby shawarma truck and you occasionally bump into his shoulder. He has to pretend like he isn't holding his breath each time you do, and when he finally swallows his nerves down, he manages to puff out his chest enough to tease you about how you “can't walk in a straight line.”
It's sweet, he thinks. You're sweet.
fluffydogpng: someone clip this RIGHT NOW
0148593: hardstuck gold 3 but there's a pretty girl in his dms so maybe we're the real losers in this scenario 💔💔💔💔
The notification is from you. Some create mode reel that you're losing your shit over.
It's stupid. So stupid.
Eyelids drooping, Heeseung reads through it a second, then a third time, before finally flipping his phone back face-down.
Jay's gritting his teeth, trying to ground himself as the muscles in his upper body sear with heat. Two beats goes by—then, he forces himself to push the barbell upward from his body, finishing the last rep in his bench press set.
Metal clangs against metal as he deposits the bar back into its hooks. A gruff sound is drawn from his throat. He stays lying down, taking a few moments to catch his breath before his eyes dart to Heeseung, who's hovering over him.
“That's it? Just classes and the library?” Jay huffs out.
“Pretty much.” Heeseung leans his weight against the equipment. “Food, sometimes.”
Slowly sitting up, Jay unwraps the black wrist straps bound around his wrists, just to wrap them around again more tightly. “Okay, she's clearly not disgusted by you. Invite her.”
“I don't want to, man. She doesn't... seem like the type. She really cares about school.”
“What, so she's a nerd?”
Heeseung kicks him in the shin.
A loud hiss of pain. “I was kidding,” Jay mocks, trying (and failing) to swat him back. “This isn't a teen movie from the 2000s, dumbass. You think that just because she cares about school, she's not gonna want to go to a party? Look at Hoon—those aren't mutually exclusive.”
He gestures for Heeseung to toss him the G Fuel bottle at his feet. “Think about it. A party gives you an excuse to dress real fucking slutty. She'll be yours by the end of the night.”
“Do you ever shut up?”
Jay clicks his tongue. “There's no harm in inviting her,” he emphasizes. “If this goes anywhere, she's gonna eventually find out all the stupid shit you do on the internet anyway. I know you want to 'get it right' or whatever, but if a party is what turns her off from you then it's only doomed from here on out.”
A sigh from the depths of Heeseung's soul is pulled from him. He rubs at his temples as an attempt to clear his mind, even if just for a brief moment.
“Did Chaewon say anything?” he eventually asks, voice quiet—not really sure what answer he's looking for.
“Nope,” Jay says, popping the 'p'. His back collides with padded leather as he lies back down. “Something about 'not tossing her to the wolves'. Says you're an open book, though.”
“Oh, fuck my life.”
Everyone knows that the voices in your head clock in each night at nine o'clock to make you go through a micro crisis where you become increasingly miserable about your life. Usually they don't get to Heeseung until really, really diabolical hours—but apparently, when it comes to you, he can barely last a few.
(11:02PM) HEESEUNG: had a quick question
The slices of moonlight that pour into the room through half-closed shutters are the only thing preventing Heeseung from wallowing in pitch-black darkness. One arm draped over his forehead, he scowls at the sent message like it personally offended him with its lameness.
“Who am I fucking kidding,” he mutters to himself.
But just as he's about to unsend it, a small, green dot appears next to your name. His thumb pauses mid-motion.
His heart starts to speed up when he sees you've read the message.
It plummets to his ass when he starts getting a call from you.
In Jay's rundown of seven different possible outcomes that Heeseung forced him to give, not once did he mention you calling him would be involved. He's half-delirious, voice shot to hell after his earlier stream with Jake and Sunghoon—and the girl he has a massive crush on chooses now, of all times, to call him for the first time.
Holding his phone in a death grip, Heeseung represses the instinct to fling it across the room like a hot stone. He prepares himself. Clears his throat. Lightly smacks himself a few times.
He uses a shaky finger pushes accept, phone then hastily pressed to his ear. “Hello?”
“Heeseung?”
Your voice is soft. Somehow melodic through the static of the line. A gentle stream of freshwater.
Heeseung's eyes flutter shut as it washes over him, subconsciously pressing the device harder against the side of his head.
“Hey, I saw your message. I would've replied, but the thing is my hands are sort of occupied. Hope this is okay?”
Slowly, Heeseung rolls over in his bed to lie on his side. It takes a moment for him to find his voice. “No, yeah, it's fine. You're busy, then?”
“No, not busy. It's just that I just did my nails, so they're still drying.” A breathy laugh leaves you. “What's up? Is this about this week's homework?”
“Oh, it's—” A feeble cough. “It's nothing important. I was actually wondering if you, uh, wanted to come to a... party. This Friday,” he says, cringing at how the words feel on his tongue.
The small 'oh' you let out makes his stomach churn, but it doesn't carry displeasure more it simply does surprise. “What kind of party? Like a frat party?”
“Yeah, a frat,” Heeseung mumbles, fidgeting with the loose thread of his blanket. “It's at one of the better known ones. Lambda Delta Nu. I don't know if you've heard of it— I know some of the brothers...” he trails off. “...This Friday's the first one of the year, so it's gonna be really big, I guess.”
You're quiet for an uncomfortably long time.
“You don't have to—”
“No, no, I've just— God, you're gonna think I'm lame,” you laugh wryly. “I've just never been to one.”
Heeseung blinks, before a grin unknowingly appears on his face. “Why would I think you've been to one? You went to an all-girls college.”
“I don't know!” you whine. “I didn't do anything in high school, either. Do you like, bring your own drink? Do you have to pay to get in?”
“No, they have drinks. And girls don't.”
“That's... shameless.”
“Tell me about it.”
Suddenly, a loud, incessant vibration comes from your end. Even Heeseung, with his questionable track record of emotional cues, can pick up on the frustration in the sigh you let out. He cautiously prods. “Something wrong?”
“No, I'm just getting a call from my mom,” you say, tone not as light as before. “I've gotta go, sorry. But I'll be there.”
A small pause. “Good night, Heeseung.”
Heeseung's fingers twitch. His heart clogs his throat.
By the time he finishes dwelling on whether to tell you 'good night'—the words already forming on his lips—you've already hung up the call.
The weight of his leather jacket—Jay's leather jacket, technically, that he'd forced him to wear—is heavy on Heeseung's shoulders.
Even though the party doesn't properly start for another forty minutes, a considerably large swarm of rowdy, half-drunk college students have already accumulated on the house's front lawn, lining up to get in.
Nothing out of the ordinary—Lambda Delta Nu always kicks off the ground with a big, flashy rager. Heeseung can only wrinkle his nose at the thought of how crowded and sweaty it'll get later.
Beer case in hand, he skips past the line, approaching the low, rickety folding table stationed at the foot of the porch. Jake, who's supposed to be helping handle payments, is quite glaringly not doing so—instead sitting backwards atop the table, the neck of an empty beer bottle dangling from his fingers.
“Drinking on the job?” Heeseung deadpans, lightly slamming the case down on the space right next to where Jake is leaning back on his free hand, making the latter startle.
When he turns around, Jake's face splits into a grin. Notoriously lightweight, his cheeks are already flushed a pale red. “I'd personally call it multitasking,” he drawls.
Launching himself up, Heeseung swiftly hops over the table, making his way up to the house and greeting the guys he recognizes along the way. Jake tails along behind him.
“I wanna do some crazy shit tonight,” he says, the scheming evident in his tone. “You gonna match me shot for shot?”
The kitchen island is decked out with all sorts of drinks—beer, liquor, soju, seltzers, coolers, fruit juices. Heeseung's gaze travels over the labels, landing on a Smirnoff Ice.
It opens with a satisfying crack. “Can't. Haven't finished the programming problem set yet.”
Jake stares at him. “Are you deadass?”
“You think I want to be?” Heeseung counters. “Does Minjun have a working PC in his room?”
“I mean, yeah, he does. Wait, so you're going to spend the night doing a fucking problem set?”
“I was busy with stream earlier. I'm basically already done. I'll play one game, go up, do it, and then come back down. It'll take like twenty minutes, max.”
Jake, being familiar with Heeseung's working pace, is thoroughly unconvinced.
Heeseung can't blame him—on any other day, he would be unconvinced too—but today, he would force himself power through.
Because you would be here.
Earlier in the day, you had sent him a voice message (that he replayed an embarrassing number of times) asking him when you should get there, if there was a dress code, and a small catalog's worth of other questions.
You sounded nervous, and he was so, very endeared by it.
Which is why he's so determined to finish his work, submit the shit half-assed if need be, and then come back down. He already isn't fond of the idea of getting to know you at a musty frat party, so he's resolved on at least trying to be a good host.
Fuck, why did he care so much about your opinion?
“Yo, Lee Heeseung! Get your sexy ass over here!” One of the frat brothers, Ren, hollers from beside the beer pong table, echoed by Jake's cackling in the background.
A year older than him, Ren roughly throws his arm around Heeseung's shoulder, messing up his hair as if he were a little kid. “You ready to get shit on?”
“Pfft,” Heeseung scoffs, tongue poking the side of his cheek. “Give me the fucking ball.”
Heeseung's drunk.
He's tipsy, to be more specific. Not fully drunk, but definitely on the way—and far drunker than he expected to be at this point in the night.
In his defense, it had been the game's fault. The opposite team had gotten lucky with a streak of successful shots that kept him stuck in position, so now he's about four shots (give or take, he hasn't been keeping count) deeper than he'd like to be. A guttural groan is ripped from his chest as another one lands in a cup, drowned out by sound of multiple slaps on his back and the cacophony of people yelling 'shot!' over and over.
“No, no, fuck off, I'm done for now,” Heeseung says semi-coherently, a lazy grin on his face. There's a shot cup that someone's trying to thrust into his hand from every direction. “Fuck off to hell, all of you.”
Deafening music—some shitty rap song—blares through the air, slightly fuzzy at the edges. It thrums through every single one of Heeseung's nerve endings as he drags himself out of the living room.
If someone told Heeseung that half the fucking city was in the Lambda house right now, he would fully believe them without hesitation.
Every inch of property is flooded by people. Some choose to lounge by the pool in the backyard, some chat with their friends in the kitchen. Some choose to swap spit in the most absurd corner of the house. The air is hot and clammy and smells heavily of cigarette smoke.
“My hair's gonna smell like this for days,” he groans to himself.
Heeseung nearly misses the staircase under the mountain of people piled on top of it. There isn't a single fuck in his body he has left to give about all the sweaty people he's pushing aside, his sole objective just to drive through the throng and get to the second floor without being trampled.
The sooner he can get up there, the sooner he can finish his work. The sooner he can finish his work, the sooner he can go back down and get hammered and find you.
You. Fuck, he’d gotten distracted.
You’d gotten here earlier, didn’t you? He should probably text you.
A chipped banister is Heeseung's saving grace, acting as leverage for him to haul himself up the stairs. Soft, erratic pants escape him when he makes it to the top, body bending at the waist as he leans his weight against the wooden railing.
Nearly the whole first floor can be seen from up here. Heeseung's eyes idly scan the different rooms, taking note of certain things—like how Jake's shirt is now off, Jay's drinking with some of his friends from high school, and Sunghoon's hogging the entirety of a couch to himself with a girl stretched out on top of him.
When they break apart so he can trail sloppy kisses down the side of her neck, Heeseung makes eye contact with him over her shoulder.
He cocks an eyebrow, as if to say: That's her?
Sunghoon promptly flips him off.
Snickering, Heeseung pushes off the railing to leave.
The house's bedrooms are all located along a lengthy hallway, decorated with painted oil portraits of the frat's original founders and framed photos of prior generations of brothers. Dragging himself further down, Heeseung tries each of the doors to find the one with a fucked up lock, knowing that one would be Minjun's. Eventually, he finds it at the very end of the hall, pushing into the room without much grace.
Minjun's room is actually nice, to his credit—minimalistic, sleek black walls, accentuated by silver grey details. A flag of the Lambda Delta Nu letters hangs from the dark oak bed frame, next to a hockey jersey slightly dusty from going unworn for a while. Heeseung recognizes some of the miscellaneous things (namely stray clothes) he knows belong to Jake that are scattered around the room.
Then, to top it all off, the lights are switched on, suddenly plunging the room into a deep shade of red.
He snorts. LEDs? Really? Is he fifteen?
Whatever. It doesn't matter. He has all the time in the world to flame him for it when he gets back from Barcelona.
Gingerly, Heeseung peels the weighty jacket off, the leather having begun to stick to his skin. It's draped over the back of the desk chair, leaving him in a white cotton tank top. The air hitting the bare skin of his arms and chest causes a shiver to run through him at the sudden drop in temperature.
He takes a moment, letting clean, smoke-free air circulate through his lungs, before steeling himself.
Heeseung realizes very quickly that trying to code while tipsy fucking sucked.
What he thought would only take twenty minutes to do absolutely does not take only twenty minutes. Trying to parse through walls of code is hard enough sober, let alone with his brain fighting for its life through the dense fog that had settled over it from the alcohol. The only words that leave his mouth during the process are a litany of 'fuck' and 'shit' variations grumbled under his breath each time the code doesn't run properly.
But if there's one thing that studying engineering does for someone, it's teaching them to accept that their fate is doomed from the start—so he tanks the grade, submitting the shitty code just so he doesn't have to look at it any longer.
Heeseung exhales a long-suffering sigh. He had sobered up a bit, having fished a rare water bottle from Minjun's mini fridge that is otherwise entirely filled with Red Bull and soju. The edges of the chair dig into his back as he slumps against it. His right hand aimlessly palms around on the desk, gripping his phone when he feels its boxy shape.
There's a text from Jay, he muses. Several texts.
(11:52) JAY: Yo where the fuck r u
(11:52) JAY: Y/n's looking for you
(11:53) JAY: Tell me Jake isn't serious is your bitchass actually doing homework rn
(11:53) JAY: Do u want an award for being virgin of the year
(11:53) JAY: I sent her ur way
(11:53) JAY: I'm actually going to beat the shit out of u
Heeseung's brain short-circuits.
He's suddenly very conscious of how much of a mess he looks like right now—probably dead to the world, eyes bloodshot from staring at dense code, hair sticking up in a hundred different directions from how many times he's run a frustrated hand through it.
Meeting you in frat guy's bedroom at a party he invited you to probably looks really bad on his part. What if you came up and he ran his mouth? Scared you off? He shouldn't have let those fuckers shovel shots down his throat. He had to fix his hair. Wipe his sweat. Kill Jay—
There's a soft, hesitant knock at the door.
Heeseung freezes.
His heart beats four counts before he calls out hoarsely, “Come in.”
Hinges creaking, the door is carefully opened from the other side. Your head slowly peeks in, uncertainty marring your face. It relaxes with relief when you register that it's actually him in the room.
“Oh, good,” you breathe out, finally pushing into the room. You're clutching a solo cup in one hand, phone in the other. Your skin shines with a light sheen of sweat. “I was really worried that I was gonna walk in on people fucking.”
If you had looked anymore carefully, you'd notice how Heeseung's Adam's apple bobs up, then down.
The music from downstairs gets noticeably more muted. Or maybe turned off entirely? His fists clench, trying to quell his twitching fingers.
You're drenched in crimson in front of him, the red lights painting you in a way that has his mouth running dry. Every shred of his pitiful dignity seems to evaporate as he trails his trembling eyes over your body, latching onto how your shorts delicately squeeze around your thighs. How elegant your neck stretches when you crane it to the side. How your top is cut just low enough.
God help me, I am no better than anyone else.
If Heeseung wasn't so busy staring at you, he might've noticed you staring at him back.
At his tousled hair. How the muscles in his arms rippled as he flexed them unconsciously.
At his lips, maybe. Who knows.
It takes Heeseung longer than he's proud of for him to reel himself back in and tear his gaze from you. The fog clears, music returning to the volume it was at before.
“Are you drunk?” he blurts, finally standing up from his chair.
Your face breaks into a lazy smile. The alcohol in your system has your tongue feeling heavier than usual, honeying your voice and making your words connect with a barely-there slur.
“Nuh uh. I'm not that lightweight. This is only my second drink of the night.” You hold up the half-full cup, the contents swishing around inside.
Suddenly, you tilt your cheek towards him. “Here. Feel.”
Heeseung's eyes widen. “H—Huh?”
“Feel my face,” you repeat, tilting closer.
Just how drunk are you?
Lifting a hand, Heeseung hesitates for a moment before letting the back of his hand carefully press against your offered cheek. The touch is electric, sending a surge from the tips of his fingers up the length of his arm. Your skin is impossibly soft. It yields under his touch like a cloud.
It's also flushed hot, which he makes sure to point out.
You scoff lightly, feigning offense. “That doesn't mean anything.”
“It really does, Y/N,” Heeseung finds himself murmuring softly. He isn't sure what possesses him to then move his hand from your cheek to your forehead—liquid confidence, maybe—but he does.
You don't lean away.
“I met your friend. Jay, I think,” you finally say, breaking away to walk over to the desk.
Heeseung's gaze flickers with disappointment, following your figure as you plop down into the chair. Quite possibly the worst thing you could've told him, but he bites his tongue.
“He seems nice. Turns out we're in the same Econ program group chat. Was he being serious about you doing homework up here?”
The code he'd been writing is still pulled up on the computer screen, which you take the luxury of scrolling through, much to Heeseung's dread. He moves to try to steal the mouse away, which you respond to by immediately snapping your arm out to keep it out of his reach. “Don't look at that.”
“Why?” you ask, as if you're a kid being denied candy.
“Because I did it while drunk. The code can barely run. I don't even know what I wrote.”
“I'm just curious! It's not like I'm gonna judge you— I don't know jackshit about coding.”
Your brows are drawn in a knot that Heeseung has grown familiar with after a lot of staring during library sessions. It's the same look you get when you're stuck on something—whether it's some theoretical concept you can't wrap your head around, or a flashcard you can't seem to remember, no matter how many times it comes up in rotation.
Now, you're glaring at his code as if it's at fault for not magically bestowing you with god-tier computer science powers the second you'd glanced at it.
Suddenly, you're swivelling around in the chair to face him. “Teach me how to code.”
Heeseung sputters. “What?”
“Teach me how to code,” you repeat, batting your lashes.
Pursing his lips, he tries to push down a smile. “You came to the biggest party of the year and you want to learn how to code?”
“Am I high or are we not at the same party?”
“I wasn't coding willingly. Shit, you really are a huge nerd.”
You whine. “I already did all the party stuff! Chaewon introduced me to her friends and we danced and I watched a few games of beer pong. I already hit the quota I set for night. And... and I want to spend time with you,” you say, voice growing quieter towards the end.
Heeseung knows it's probably the alcohol talking, but that doesn't stop him from instantly softening around the edges.
You're just so— so cute right now. Talkative and clingy in a way that stirs something gooey in his chest, in a way that he never expected to see. He wonders if this is real at all, and yet would actively still jump into the deep end even if he knew it wasn't.
“Okay,” he murmurs softly, poking your forehead. “Don't sulk.”
Heeseung shifts so that he's leaning over you from the side, and this time, you don't resist when he takes the mouse from you, letting your hand fall away. Seconds later, a blank program is pulled up on the screen.
“Three basic things you gotta know about writing code,” he starts. “Variables, conditionals, and loops. Variables store stuff—”
His breath stutters when he feels your chin perch innocently on the nook of his bicep.
You're unfazed when he glances down at you, simply staring ahead at what he's typing. He finds his voice again, meeker than it was.
“—conditionals decide what happens, and loops loop things. So, if I wrote an if statement, like if x is greater than five, then...”
The wonderful world of Python can only keep someone entertained for so long—Heeseung thinks it a miracle you lasted as long as you did before starting to not-so-subtly hint at wanting to do something else.
Drink, that is. Fiending to drink.
The smart decision was probably to get you to pace yourself, yet Heeseung's never claimed to be smart. Nothing he's ever done really has.
He's selfish. Selfish and tipsy. He wants to savour this endearing side of you because he doesn't know if he'll ever be able to see it again.
That's how you both end up here: sat side-by-side on the floor, leaning back against the bed frame, drinking from soju bottles—yours strawberry, his grape—that Heeseung had taken from Minjun's mini fridge. Somewhere in his mind, he makes a mental post-it to buy them back for him.
Conversation flows. You talk about what it was like spending your entire life in all-girls schools, and he might've let it slip that he's a streamer (to which he immediately shuts down all attempts you make at trying to get him to show you his channel, not matter what you said or how you pouted).
Things about school, things about people, things stupid beyond imagination (“D'you think I could get Clavicular to collab with me?” “What?”)—it all comes out in a natural stream of thoughts.
At some point, you start to grow quiet. As if you're sobering up, even though your bottle is getting emptier.
Heeseung notices. He matches you. “Tired?”
You shake your head. “Not yet. This is just how I get when I drink. I get loud and then I get quiet,” you explain, words slurring a bit.
It's later in the night, so the rush of the party had settled down, though there's still a decent amount of commotion, mostly from people hanging out in and around the pool.
“Heeseung?” you mumble.
“Yeah?”
“Do you ever feel like you're just floating through your existence?”
Heeseung's in the middle of taking a swig from his bottle. The question sends him into a mild coughing fit, the corners of his eyes instantly watering. “Don't you think that's a bit—cough—bit too loaded of a—cough—question?”
You give him a sheepish smile before letting your head drop back, a soft thud against the mattress. “Sorry. I'm a little out of it right now. Forget I said anything, actually.”
Wiping his mouth with his hand, Heeseung turns to look at you. “I've done viewer counselling sessions for my streams. My chat says I'm a good listener.” He sounds so lame to himself, but you laugh, and that matters more.
Silence falls over the two of you. Just when he thinks it's cemented itself and you no longer want to talk, you mumble: “I dunno if I actually want to be a lawyer.”
A pause. “Okay,” Heeseung says slowly. Processing the statement, turning it over a few times in his head. “Why?”
You rub at your eyes with the heels of your palms, dragging them down your face. “That's the thing—I don't know,” you groan, words garbled from alcohol. “Like, my mom wanted to be a lawyer but didn't get into law school, so that's why she's in real estate. Then, my sister passed the bar with flying colours and is now this big, successful lawyer who brings home two hundred grand a year. So... so I'm sorta supposed to do all that too, you know? Do my diligence. I'm as much my mother's daughter as my sister is. And I am! That's why I'm here in the first place—”
Heeseung's hands gently grasp your own flailing ones, stilling them before placing them back into your lap. “Woah, woah, chill. You're rambling. A lot.”
“—I just—I know I'm succeeding. I have medals and titles and resources and a scholarship here and yet—when I look at my mom and see how happy she is whenever she brings these things up, I don't... feel what she feels.”
You trail to a close like air escaping a punctured balloon, voice thin as insecurity seeps into your pores. “I don't feel what she feels and I don't know what's wrong with me.”
Heeseung remains quiet for a long time.
Horror is the only fitting word that describes the expression on your face. A shaky hand cards through your hair as you scramble to apologize. “S—sorry. I don't usually... overshare like that, fuck—”
“Y/N,” he cuts you off. “You know I'm only an electrical major because Jake is too, right?”
You blink a few times, trying to clear the dense fog shrouding your mind. “Seriously?” you croak after a moment.
“Okay, no, not fully,” he chuckles dryly. “But like, half seriously. I chose electrical because my highest grades last year were in the electrical courses they make us take. Having a friend sorta tipped it over, I guess.”
Shifting his body so that he's fully facing you, Heeseung props his elbow up on the mattress, resting his head in his hand. “Other reasons were if I chose a major I'm good at, I might have a better chance at scoring internships. Or doing a masters or some other bullshit that would "further my professional career". Point is none of those have anything to do with what I want because I don't know what the fuck I want.”
“Streaming's fun,” he hums. “My dad doesn't think it's a real job, though. So I get what you mean. At least, I hope I do.”
He takes a moment to carefully select his next words, going over them in his head to make sure they'll sound fine rolling off his tongue.
“There's no rule that says you're 'supposed' to do anything. You have free will,” he says. “Right now, being a lawyer sounds more like your mom's dream, not yours. But maybe that'll change, and you actually do want to be a lawyer in the future. Who knows. Either way, you'll be the only one to make that decision when the time comes. Not your mom. Not your sister. You.”
Heeseung can't decipher the emotions that are pooling in your eyes. He's worried it's a bad sign—he's never been the best with empathy or knowing exactly what to say, and he's certain that he's not more graceful while tipsy than he is sober—but you shift to face him.
Legs unfurling from your chest to cross on top of each other. Inching closer until your face is a breath's away from his.
Tension permeates the small space, so thick and palpable that Heeseung can practically taste it. His eyes trace the slope of your nose, the curve of your cupid's bow, the strands of messy hair that he ached to brush out of your face. Unknowingly, he wets his lips—a movement your eyes follow.
Hope is scary. Fragile. All it takes it one wrong step, one toe out of line, and it can be extinguished with the gentlest gust of wind.
Heeseung dares to hope.
“If you ask me... I think you're enough just as you are.”
You lean in. He lets you.
You hesitate. He doesn't pull away—and a hundred, thousand fireworks set off in his chest when your lips slot against his.
They're soft, tentative. Just a little bit awkward and uncoordinated in their movements, but Heeseung doesn't mind. He lets you steer the ship where you want it to go.
The kiss is brief, only lasting a couple seconds before your mouth detaches from his with a soft smack. He expects you to pull away, to no longer be able to breathe in the faint notes of jasmine in your perfume on every inhale—but you don't.
You keep the sliver between you an inch wide, nose nudging against his, breath still fanning against his skin in warm puffs. Lingering.
You push yourself up onto your knees, a yelp escaping you as you stumble, the ends of your hair skimming his face. Heeseung's hands instinctively find your waist to steady you. He revels in the way the dip feels against his palms. A meek sorry comes from you, which he returns with a small it's fine.
Shifting closer, the front of your thigh presses against his side. He sucks in a sharp, shuddering breath as you sling yourself over him, helping you down as you settle into his lap, thighs bracketing his.
Heeseung has to crane his neck up ever so slightly to meet your gaze.
You're gorgeous. He's thought that since the very day he met you, but this—your bare skin scorching his hands, the sight of you on top of him—has his mind going mushy and blank. A barely audible groan slips out of him as your arms sling around his neck, fingers gently threading through the hair at his nape.
“You're pretty.” The words come out in a rush, not caring if you know. Needing you to know. “God, you're so fucking pretty.”
“You're buttering me up,” you say, your retort lacking any real contempt. He only shakes his head, reconnecting your lips, deeper, escalating.
Heeseung's heartbeat is in his ears. The ache that's been sitting his chest, tamped down but constantly brewing, springs forth the moment he feels your tongue swipe against the seam of his lips. They part instantly, letting your tongue press in, wet and hot—the strawberry flavouring mixed with the slight bitterness of alcohol you'd been drinking hitting his taste buds.
“I want you.” You sigh the words into his mouth, and he swallows them fervently. “Please...”
Heeseung breathes out a shaky laugh. “Neither of us are sober.”
“You don't want me?”
“Fuck, I never said that.”
Eager hands fist at the hem of his tank, which he lets you slip off and toss aside, his entire top-half left bare. His skin is flushed hot, chest heaving as your lips trail down his neck, his collarbone, his sternum—unable to control the low moan he lets out as they latch onto his abdomen, sucking a hickey into the skin. “F—fuck...”
When you come back up, Heeseung pulls you back down flush against him. One hand slides under your thigh, the other slipping into the back of your shorts, lightly running over the skin there. A full-body shiver runs through him as the tips of his fingers brush against the texture of your waistband.
“Lace?” he muses, as if it doesn't undo him.
“Shut up.”
“I didn't say I was complaining. You know I'm not complaining, right?”
“Shut. Up.”
And how quickly he complies, slanting his lips to yours again. Heeseung feels feverish—choking out a high-pitched gasp as your hips grind down. He's throbbing against your ass, his entire arm wrapping around your waist like an iron band to pull you against him harder, coaxing you to give him more friction, his head lolling back when you do. He finds the ribbon of your top at your back, tugging it loose—
“Shit, someone get him out!”
Someone's shouting outside. Heeseung doesn't hear it, fingers fumbling with the clasp of your bra—
It grows louder. Fucking hell, shut up, he thinks, brows knitting together as he tries to focus on you, on how you feel against him—but your movements slowly come to a halt.
“What's that noise?” you whisper.
Heeseung shakes his head before feverishly kissing down your neck, trying to reassure you. “Nothing, nothing. C'mon, baby, keep going—”
But the commotion only seems to multiply, growing until it's a cacophony of panicked and confused voices. Concerned, you look over your shoulder towards the window, your grip in his hair loosening.
He groans into your skin as he feels you start to shift off his lap. It feels like he's never wanted anything more desperately than to keep you against him—but he lets you climb off, hands falling limply to the side.
Head tilting towards the ceiling, Heeseung blinks a few times, trying to clear the hazy fog from his head (and calming himself down so he doesn't explode) before standing up begrudgingly and dragging himself over to the window.
Heeseung peeks outside. His brow furrows with confusion, then concern. Instead of everyone being littered around the backyard doing their own things, every head is turned towards the pool.
Jake is currently being hauled out of the pool like a wet dog by Jay and Sunghoon, face contorted in pain.
“What's going on?” Your voice is quiet. Uneasy.
“I don't know. I think something happened to Jake,” Heeseung says gravely, breaking away from the window to pick up his shirt from the floor. “I— fuck, I'm going to kill him.”
Pebbles dig into Heeseung's socked feet—he couldn't be bothered with shoes—as he rushes out into the backyard towards where Sunghoon, Jay, and a couple other Lambda guys are crowded around Jake. He calls out, “What's going on here?”
Jake's leaning back against his hands, one of his legs outstretched in front of him. He's red as a lobster, from his face down to his neck, and also soaking wet, clothes sticking to the outline of his body, dripping water down that washes the concrete a darker shade—yet he only waves a dismissive hand.
“Nothing,” he slurs. “I'm—hic—fine.”
Sunghoon scoffs, hands on his hips. “Einstein here decided to jump from the roof and didn't realize he was jumping into the shallow end because he's shitfaced.”
He then turns to Heeseung, looking him up and down. “Where've you been? I haven't seen you in, like, two h— do you have a fucking boner right now?”
Much to his horror, Heeseung looks down to find a very noticeable tent in his pants. He exhales—zen, he thinks, be zen—before slipping his leather jacket off to tie around his waist. “Shut the fuck up.”
Apparently, Jake is coherent enough to stare at Heeseung's crotch, see that he's hard, and put two and two together. “Holy shit, did I cockblock you?”
“Yes, you fu— whatever. It's not important. We need to call the ambulance.”
“Jay's already on it,” Sunghoon says, jerking his head over in Jay's direction.
A small distance away, Ren—who's also visibly drunk but somehow still manages to climb onto a patio table with falling—cups his mouth to create a makeshift megaphone before yelling at the top of his lungs: “Alright, wrap it up! We're done here! If you're not a brother or fucking a brother, get the fuck out!”
Loud groaning resounds throughout the yard. People are evidently upset that they'd been cut off for the night, but eventually, the crowd disperses. Some staggering as their sober friends haul them out, some laughing on their phones—Jake would probably be on a hundred people's Snapchat stories and at the top of the university's subreddit by the morning.
Heeseung finds you standing in the doorway of the sliding screen door that leads to the yard. You look noticeably worried.
His eyes soften.
“What happened?” you ask as he approaches you.
Standing in front of you, Heeseung brings his hands up to cup your face, smoothing out the crease between your eyes with the pad of his thumb.
“Jake's jumped into the pool and fucked up his leg. An ambulance is on the way,” he says, chuckling at your deadpan expression.
Heeseung peers into your eyes. His heart stutters. “I'm sorry,” he whispers. “About us getting interrupted, I mean.”
You shrug, arms wrapping around his waist, resting your cheek against his chest. “'s whatever. In fact, I was kinda going into this whole frat party thing with the expectation that there would be some bullshit.”
He raises an eyebrow. “Were your expectations met?”
A soft, pondering hum leaves you. “Quite.”
The hospital waiting room is deserted at this hour, save for the anxious mother and her sleeping son huddled together. Heeseung's shoes click against tile as he makes his way back to the area, two paper cones filled with water in his hands.
Jake had broken his leg. With his parents not in the country, Heeseung had offered to stay and wait until he gets settled with a room.
You had stayed with him.
Rounding the corner, he sees you yawning. A faint smile tugs at his lips.
“You don't have to stay here, you know,” he says, handing you a cone. It's the third time he's said it since the two of you got here—and you've been stubborn about it each time. “I'll call you an Uber.”
You accept the water, taking a sip before giving him a shrug.
“You'll be bored. Besides, I'm not tired,” you say, as if he hadn't just caught you in the act.
Heeseung looks like he's about to refute you again, but ends up dropping it. He plops down into the hard waiting room chair, throwing the water back like a shot. Ice cold water slides down his dry throat.
Silence. There's an elephant standing in the corner, staring the two of you dead in the eye.
“So,” he starts awkwardly.
You smack your lips. “So.”
“...I, uhm, I think you're cool.”
He sees you turn to face him in the corner of his vision, and absolutely refuses to meet your eyes. “Heeseung, you had your hand in my pants.”
Absentmindedly, he starts folding his empty paper cone, sealing the edges to make a rectangle while grumbling something about how you 'can't just lead in with that.'
“I might like you,” he gets out.
“I might like you,” you copy mockingly.
“I'm being serious!”
“You just told me that you 'think I'm cool.'”
Sighing, Heeseung drops his face into his hands, wrestling with his nerves and feelings and the stupid little flips you make his heart do. Eventually, his words come out in an embarrassed mumble. “I think you're really pretty and sweet and I'd like to go out with you.”
If he had been looking at you, then he would've seen you pursing your lips, trying to hold back a smile.
A few seconds pass before Heeseung feels your head rest on his shoulder.
“I'd like that.”
“Chat,” Heeseung claps his hands together, closing out of his browser so that his camera can be set as full-screen. “I posted on Twitter earlier that we have a special guest joining us today.”
user888: oh my god this is so exciting
heeseungism: DAD PLEASEEE LET US SEE MOM PLEASEEEEEE
Heeseung glances out the corner of his eye.
You're sitting beside him just out of frame, fingers fidgeting nervously with the hem of your cardigan. The sight makes his chest tighten with fondness.
“You look nervous,” he points out.
You shoot him a look, despite letting him pull you up to stand. “Am not.”
He only laughs in return, hands warm on your hips as he guides you into view.
“Alright. Chat, this is my girlfriend, Y/N,” Heeseung announces, chin hooking over your shoulder. “She's a little shy, so don't be fucking weird and scare her off.”
cherryxxi: HELLO!!!!! 🥹🥹🥹🥹
applejuicemaster: bruh why am i lowkenuinely proud of u
reynakisser_: Wtf she's so out of ur league. pick ME!!!!! HE DONT KNOW HOW TO HANDLE ALLAT
Half-lidded eyes scanning the racing chat, Heeseung's lips quirk upwards at everyone's reaction.
#SYNOPSIS >> jungwon never planned on spending his nights dodging half-demodog girls. he just wanted to be normal hawkins boy in 1976, or at least make it through a party without running away from girls. instead, he ends up pulled into something bigger: training sessions he never asked for, government secrets, and a girl who never tells him her name but keeps saving his life anyway. does it ever drive you crazy just how fast the night changes? jungwon knows it does. but what scares him more is how quickly he stopped wanting to run from any of it.
→ pairing: jungwon x fem!reader // stranger things au, romcom, mystery, slowburn, strangers to lovers, 70s au, paranormal #playlist → somebody’s watching me - rockwell | maneater - daryl hall & john oates | you spin me round - dead or alive | i was made for loving you - kiss | lay all your love on me - abba → word count: 22k
before anything happened, jungwon was just that kind of guy who tried really hard to get things right. maybe too hard. he wasn’t awkward exactly, just very in his own head. the type who triple-checked if he locked the door, then walked back again just to make sure. he was always polite, always on time, always brought his own pen just in case. he liked routine, stability, knowing exactly what was coming next. which, unfortunately, made him the worst possible person to be living in hawkins, indiana.
this town had a reputation, well, not that anyone ever really talked about it. not properly, at least. there were always those “gas leaks” and “mall fires” and “lab accidents,” but people around here learned to mind their business and keep flashlights in every room just in case. (jungwon had four.)
he wasn’t the type who got involved with that stuff. the most dangerous thing he’d ever done was ride his bike after 9 p.m. but still, there was something about hawkins that made normal feel a little unstable. power went out more than it should. compasses acted weird sometimes. and one time, his goldfish turned up dead for no reason, which felt minor but suspicious.
and dating didn’t really work out for him either. not because he wasn’t cute (he was, annoyingly so), or because he didn’t know how to talk to people. it was more like he didn’t fully know how to be a person around people he liked. he tried, he really did. and for a while, he convinced himself he just had bad luck. or maybe it was just hawkins. maybe dating was harder when your town was possibly cursed. but still, he kept showing up, he kept trying.
because that’s the thing about jungwon: even when he was absolutely unsure about what he was doing, he showed up anyway. clean shirt, hopeful heart, half a bottle of cologne, probably sweating through his undershirt, but ready to fall in love with someone who laughed at his jokes.
he never expected it to be you, though. and definitely not the way it happened. not after that date, not after that disaster of a night. not after demodogs showed up. but we’re getting ahead of ourselves.
it wasn’t really jungwon’s idea. the date, i mean. it was one of those “you should totally meet her” situations, where someone (jay) says it in a way that makes it sound like you don’t have a choice. in this case, the someone was his best friend, so jungwon figured he couldn’t exactly say no without starting some kind of friendship thing.
“her name’s minju,” jay had said. “she’s cool. she listens to rolling stones and smokes clove cigarettes” and jungwon didn’t really know what that meant, but he said okay anyway.
he met minju for the first time at the arcade, where she was playing galaxian, she had three bobby pins in her hair, a hole in her sleeve, and offered him half a cherry slushie before even asking his name. she was kind of intimidating, but she smiled at him and called him “pretty boy,” and honestly, that was enough to make him agree to the drive-in before he had time to think about it.
it was a double feature — jaws and the exorcist — the kind of lineup that made him slightly nervous but also felt like the right thing to do. it was 1976, after all. people were into that stuff, like horror movies and jean jackets. so he borrowed heeseung’s car, packed two bags of popcorn in a paper bag, and wore his best (only) button-down shirt.
minju said the movie was boring halfway through the first reel and asked if he wanted to go "somewhere quieter." jungwon, being jungwon, said sure, even though jaws had literally just eaten a guy on screen and he was kind of invested. they ended up parked near the edge of the woods behind the screen, sitting on the hood of the car while she pulled out a joint from her sock like it was completely normal. she lit it, took a long drag, and passed it to him without saying anything. he stared at it like it was a test.
“you don’t have to if you don’t want to,” she said, smiling sideways. “i won’t tell your mom.”
so jungwon took it, of course he did. what was he gonna do? say no and watch her laugh at him for the rest of the night? so yeah, he took one single inhale, immediately coughed so hard he nearly fell off the hood, and then tried to play it cool while tears ran down his face. minju said it was cute. and for a second, it actually felt kind of okay. like maybe this whole thing wouldn’t be a total disaster. but, unfortunately for jungwon, it was a total disaster.
you see, jungwon lived in hawkins his whole life. he knew this place was weird. there were too many locked government buildings, too many stories that ended with “and then we never saw him again.” but even with all that, he never thought he’d end up on a date like this. he knew minju had a bit of a maneater reputation. he just didn’t think it was… literal. because that night he discovered that minju was, in fact, half demodog.
jungwon had no idea how he ended up here. ten minutes ago, things were going… okay. or, well, okay-ish. the kind of “okay” where he was slightly high, kind of cold, and trying to act normal while sitting next to a girl talking about astrology now — something about scorpios and karmic cycles — and jungwon, who was an aquarius and didn’t know what that meant for him exactly, just nodded like he understood. he didn’t, but she was smiling at him with this sleepy, glazed-over expression, and he figured that was enough.
he was just starting to relax when she went quiet. not in the casual, “i’m thinking” kind of way, but in a sudden way where your brain immediately registers that something isn’t right. her body stiffened slightly, her fingers twitching in her lap. and then, without saying anything, she tilted her head to the side and made a low, guttural sound in the back of her throat.
at first he thought she was messing with him. some weird joke. a dramatic horror movie bit. maybe she was trying to scare him. maybe that was her thing. some girls smoked weed and talked about their dreams. maybe minju turned into a demon for fun. but then she made the noise again, louder, and her shoulders started to shake. her head snapped once, then again, too fast to be normal. and that’s when jungwon saw that her jaw was changing. or stretching. unhinging? he could not tell or explain. her mouth opened far wider than it should have, and her eyes, both of them, darkened like someone had shut off a light behind her face.
he didn’t even have time to scream before her skin split. it wasn’t bloody, it was more like peeling, like something inside her had been waiting to get out. claws pushed through her hands, her spine shifted, and her entire shape rearranged in front of him like her body was just a placeholder.
jungwon scrambled off the car and hit the ground hard, scraping his elbow on a rock as he landed in the dirt. he tried to get up, lost his balance, and immediately stepped out of his own shoe. it was pathetic. this was not how he thought his night would go. he was supposed to maybe hold hands, maybe get a goodnight kiss, not get eaten alive by the girl who complimented his collar earlier. so he pushed himself up and ran (or limped, technically) toward the tree line, heart hammering, head spinning. behind him, he could hear the sound of claws hitting ground. he didn’t dare look back, not yet. if he was gonna die in the woods behind a drive-in theater, he didn’t want the last thing he saw to be his date-turned-monster lunging at his head.
but then something else happened. there was a sharp, metallic clang, followed by a loud snarl and what sounded like something collapsing into the leaves. for a second, he thought he was hallucinating — maybe the weed was stronger than he thought — but then he blinked and saw someone standing in front of him.
it was you.
you were holding a crowbar, your jacket streaked with something wet and dark, your expression unreadable. your breathing was fast, but steady. jungwon stared at you, chest heaving, completely frozen.
“you good?” you asked casually, like you’d just bumped into him on the street and not saved him from a literal demonic creature.
he blinked a few times. “minju—she—she just—”
“turned into something with claws and multiple rows of teeth?” you said, stepping past him. “yeah. i noticed.”
you crouched beside what was left of her — well, it — and pulled something out of your backpack. it looked like a bear trap, but there were wires running through it and it made a quiet buzzing noise when you snapped it open. jungwon sat up slowly, wincing as he touched his scraped elbow. he watched as you locked the trap around one of the creature’s limbs (no, paws?) and tried to stand back up, brushing the dirt off your jeans like this was the most normal thing in the world.
“are you like... with the police?” he asked, because his brain couldn’t come up with anything better.
you glanced over your shoulder at him. “do i look like i’m with the police?” he didn’t answer. “she won’t shift back now,” you said. “not until they come get her.”
“they?” he repeated. “who’s they?”
“government,” you said, tightening the straps on your bag. “probably. they don’t tell me a lot.” jungwon was still trying to process what was happening: his date turning into a literal monster, your weird trap device, the fact that you just kind of showed up. “you should go before someone sees you,” you said, already halfway across the clearing. “or before another one shows up.”
“wait—there’s more?”
you stopped, looked over your shoulder again, and raised an eyebrow. “this is hawkins,” you said. “there’s always more.”
he didn’t know what to say to that. he also didn’t know how to ask for your name without sounding like a complete idiot. and before he could figure out how to say anything useful, you were already walking away. so he fully stood up now, still missing one shoe, still bleeding a little, and still way too dazed to form a sentence longer than four words. but somehow, his mouth moved anyway.
“wait!” he called.
and just like that, you climbed onto your bike and pedaled off into the trees like it was just another tuesday night. jungwon stood there for a long time, still half in shock, the sound of your wheels fading behind him. he looked at the blood, the trap, the sky. then down at his sock, now dirty and wet and very alone without its matching shoe.
he didn’t understand what just happened. but what he did know, somehow, very clearly, was that he really, really wanted to see you again.
so when jay asked “dude, what kind of weed did you smoke?” half-laughing, half-serious, as he leaned back against the convenience store wall, jungwon didn’t answer right away. he just sat on the curb with his elbows on his knees, staring out at the nearly empty parking lot like he was waiting for something to crawl out of the pavement. the sun was too bright, the world too loud. every passing car felt like a threat. he hadn’t really slept in two days. his other shoe was still missing.
jay nudged his shoulder. “you seriously saw her turn into what? a dog? like a werewolf thing?”
“no,” jungwon muttered. “not a dog. like... something with claws. and her face... split.”
“bro.” jay exhaled, shaking his head. “you gotta stop eating whatever jake gives you. i’m telling you, that’s not weed. it’s probably laced with, like, rat poison or something. you hallucinated.”
jungwon didn’t answer. he didn’t have the energy to argue. he knew what he saw. he knew it wasn’t a trip. he still had the scrape on his elbow, the dirt-stained sock, the memory of your voice telling him, this is hawkins. there’s always more.
“anyway,” jay went on, dropping the candy wrapper onto the ground, “you’re not gonna believe this part. apparently minju left town the next morning. like, someone said her parents came to get her. moved back to wherever she was before. some place in new mexico, i think. totally random.”
he snorted, like the timing was just some weird coincidence. but jungwon could feel the shift in his chest again, that low, creeping sensation that hadn’t left since that night behind the drive-in. it didn’t feel like a coincidence, it felt like a cleanup. like the kind of thing that happened when something unnatural tried too hard to fit into a normal life and someone upstairs hit the eject button. he wanted to ask more questions — who saw her leave, when exactly, who said it first — but every time he tried, his throat tightened. like the universe didn’t want him digging too deep.
so instead he just nodded and let jay change the subject. and after that, the days sort of blurred together.
heeseung picked him up in his beat-up mustang a few times, trying to distract him with trips to drive-throughs and cassette tapes of the eagles. riki stopped by his house with popsicles and theories about the cia putting fluoride in the water. jay pretended nothing weird had ever happened at all. they all knew something was off with him, but they were guys in the seventies: no one knew how to talk about feelings unless a guitar was involved.
jungwon tried to be normal. he showed up to band practice, went to the arcade, even helped his neighbor’s kid fix her broken banana seat bike. he said all the right things, laughed at the right moments, nodded along when someone mentioned classes starting soon. but his brain wouldn’t stop looping. not just the image of minju shifting into something with claws and teeth (though that haunted him a lot too), but you. the way you moved without hesitation. the way you handled something that should’ve been impossible like it was routine. the way you didn’t ask for thanks. didn’t wait around. just did what needed to be done and disappeared again.
you hadn’t said your name. hadn’t looked back. hadn’t even given him time to process before riding off like it was nothing.
but jungwon couldn’t let it go. so he started carrying a flashlight with him everywhere. he borrowed books from the school library about local history, weird animal sightings, electromagnetic pulses. he hung out at the drive-in more, hoping maybe you’d show up again. he even checked the tree line a few times. nothing.
no one believed him, of course. why would they? even he didn’t fully believe it half the time. but the scrape on his elbow hadn’t faded yet. and sometimes, late at night, he swore he could hear a noise low and distant. he didn’t know what you were, and he didn’t know what minju had become, or why it happened, or what it meant for him. but he knew one thing for sure: you had answers, and he wasn’t going to stop until he found you again.
jungwon worked at a place called decelis’ hobby depot, a cramped little store on main street. it wasn’t fancy, or cool, or particularly clean, but it had working fans, a cassette player behind the counter, and a boss who didn’t ask too many questions, so jungwon thought it was a decent workplace. they sold mostly model kits, train sets, dungeons & dragons starter boxes, war magazines, and dusty board games that only like five people in town knew how to play. it was the kind of shop where a guy could spend three hours arguing over star trek vs. battlestar galactica and still come back the next day to do it again.
jungwon didn’t mind it. in fact, for the last week, he kind of depended on it. because everything else in his life felt off. he kept telling himself it was a normal week. monday had mail. tuesday had math. wednesday he almost got hit by mrs. choi’s car while biking to work, which happened often enough it barely counted as an event. he shelved new inventory. he restocked dice. he re-taped the sign on the bathroom door that kept falling off. just another week. except no, not really.
because no matter how normal everything looked, jungwon couldn’t stop thinking about what happened behind the drive-in. about the way minju’s eyes had gone black. about the way your voice sounded when you told him to leave. about the way you’d looked at him, not scared, not surprised, just a little annoyed, like he’d accidentally walked into the wrong movie screening. maybe you were part of some secret operation, or maybe you lived in the woods, or maybe you were actually a hallucination brought on by stress and cheap weed. he didn’t know. all he knew was that every night when he closed his eyes, he heard snarling and metal and your voice saying, she won’t fully shift back now.
which is probably why, when a girl walked into the shop on wednesday and smiled at him, he almost dropped the box of paint thinner he was holding.
“hey,” she said, leaning on the counter. she was chewing grape gum and had feathered bangs and those tinted sunglasses that were more for fashion than sun. “you work here?”
jungwon blinked. “uh. yeah?”
she smiled wider. “cool. do you guys sell glue?”
“glue?”
“yeah, like for model kits. i’m helping my brother build the starship enterprise. i think it’s dumb, but he’s ten, so.”
“oh. yeah. uh—aisle three.”
he pointed. she didn’t look. instead, she tilted her head and said, “have we met before?”
jungwon’s brain did the thing it had been doing all week: flashing red lights, minor panic, sudden need to escape. because this was familiar. a pretty girl, a friendly smile, a dumb question. this was exactly how it had started with minju. one second he was making small talk, the next he was screaming in a forest with one shoe and a bloody elbow.
“nope,” he said quickly. “definitely not.”
she laughed like she thought he was being cute. “you sure? i could swear i’ve seen you somewhere.”
he stepped slightly backward. “i have a really generic face.” (no, jungwon, you don’t.)
her smile faltered for a second, but she recovered fast. “well, i’m eunchae,” she said, twirling her gum. “in case you remember later.”
he didn’t answer. she waited, clearly expecting him to ask where she lived or at least say his name, but he just stood there with the glue still in his hand and the sudden, irrational fear that if she blinked too long, her face would split open.
after a few more seconds of silence, she shrugged, said “okay, awkward,” and walked toward aisle three. he let out a breath. he wasn’t trying to be rude. really, he wasn’t. under different circumstances — different year, different town, different everything — maybe he would’ve flirted back. maybe he would’ve asked if she was free friday night or offered her a discount she didn’t earn. but right now? he couldn’t do it. because the last girl who smiled at him like that had tried to kill him.
and jungwon was closing that wednesday. the closing shift was always the worst, but that night it was especially brutal. seungcheol, the store owner, had asked jungwon to stay late to reorganize the new shipment of model tanks and fantasy figurines that arrived in a box that smelled vaguely like wet socks. jungwon just nodded and didn’t argue, even though he was already on his fifth day of barely sleeping and kind of thought he was losing his mind.
so he stayed and he restocked. he put price tags on a whole army of tiny plastic wizards. he flipped the “open” sign to “closed” and locked the door behind him. and by the time he stepped outside, the sky was dark and the street was nearly empty. it was one of those sticky indiana nights where the air felt thick and the bugs were louder. all the lights on main street were off except the flickering one in front of the laundromat, and for a second, the town felt even smaller than usual.
he walked around the back of the shop, grabbed his bike from the alley, and started pedaling home like he always did. but something felt... weird. it felt like someone was watching him. like there was a second set of tires behind him. or footsteps in sync with his pedaling. or maybe it was just his paranoia again, that had been happening a lot lately.
he shook it off. tried to focus on the road, on the sound of his wheels, on the cassette tape playing in his walkman. it was led zeppelin. kashmir. dramatic as hell. not helping.
he was maybe five minutes from home when it happened. he’d just turned onto the narrow road that ran alongside the woods when he saw her, eunchae, the girl from the store. she was standing off to the side of the road, near the tree line, like she’d been waiting for him.
and listen, maybe in any other context, he would’ve thought this was some kind of romantic gesture. some 1976 version of “i made you a playlist” but given everything that had happened lately (the murder girl, he demodog thing, you) his brain did the only rational thing it could do: it panicked. his legs locked, the handlebars twisted. and before he could stop it, he hit a bump, swerved left, and went flying off the bike like a cartoon character. he landed on his side in the gravel. his walkman skipped. his elbow throbbed.
“shit—” he groaned, rolling over.
he looked up just in time to see her walking toward him. slowly. too slowly. and her smile? was soft. too soft. “hey,” she said, crouching down next to him like this was totally normal. “are you okay?”
“what are you doing out here?” he asked, voice shaky.
“i was just walking. saw you riding by.” her voice was weirdly calm. like she practiced being casual.
she reached a hand toward him, and for a second, he almost took it, until he looked up fully and saw her eyes. not both, just the left one. for a second, maybe less, it shimmered red. not bloodshot, not a reflection. red, glowing.
he flinched so hard he rolled backwards and scrambled to his feet, nearly twisting his ankle in the process. his bike was on its side. his knee was bleeding. he didn’t care. “i—I have to go,” he stammered.
“jungwon,” she said, still calm. too calm. how did she know his name? he did not say it back then. “don’t you want to talk?”
“nope,” he said, already turning. but before he could bolt into the woods or pass out or both, there was a flash of a headlight and a sudden screech of tires behind him. someone skidded to a stop on a bike, just a few feet away, dirt kicking up under the wheels.
it was you again.
he hadn’t even gotten a full second to process what he was seeing before you’d cut through the woods somehow, like you knew exactly where he’d be, or where the thing pretending to be eunchae would be. you jumped off before the bike had even fully stopped, hair a little windblown, sleeves pushed up, bag already slung around to the front like you’d done this a hundred times. and maybe you had. you looked dead serious, the kind of serious that made jungwon freeze in place even though his entire brain was screaming run.
“you,” he breathed out, half in shock, half in what might’ve been hope. he didn’t even know anymore.
you didn’t look at him at first. your eyes were locked on eunchae or whatever version of her was standing there now. she wasn’t moving much, just enough to make jungwon feel like something was about to go horribly wrong. her posture had shifted just slightly, but it was enough, you could see it. you were already pulling something out of your bag. not a weapon, exactly, but not not a weapon either. something with wires and tape and glowing parts that made no sense to him but clearly made sense to you.
“back up,” you said, calm but firm. your voice cut straight through whatever panic had been building in his chest, and he didn’t even think. he just did what you said.
eunchae smiled, but it wasn’t a regular smile. it was off. like she wasn’t fully in control of it. her head tilted a little too far to the side, and for a second, jungwon saw it again, that flash of red in her eyes, like something inside her had just blinked awake.
“she’s starting to shift,” you muttered, mostly to yourself. you were already crouching, loading something into the device in your hands with way too much ease. “god, i hate when they do it halfway. it’s always creepier.”
jungwon didn’t say anything. he was too busy trying not to throw up. and then it happened fast, her jaw twitched like it was going to split again, and her fingers cracked, and that awful low growl started up in her throat. but before she could take even one step forward, you aimed, flipped a switch, and shot her in the side with something that looked like a cross between a cattle prod and a glue gun. there was a zap so loud it echoed, a flash of sparks, and then she just dropped. not like she died, more like someone unplugged her.
you didn’t even flinch. just walked over to check that she was fully down and then stood up again, brushing your hands off like it was nothing more than a particularly annoying chore. jungwon watched, still half in shock, as you rolled your shoulders and finally looked at him directly.
“what the hell were you doing out here alone?” you asked, like he was the problem.
he blinked, pointed lamely at his bike, and said, “i was just riding home.”
you gave him a look that said obviously, then sighed like this was the fiftieth time you’d had to save someone from getting eaten by something that used to have a high school ID. your hair was stuck to your forehead and your hands were a little shaky, but your voice stayed flat. “you need to stop being in the exact wrong place at the exact wrong time.”
“i’m not doing it on purpose,” he said, voice cracking a little. “they keep finding me.”
you didn’t argue, but you didn’t disagree either. you just narrowed your eyes and gave him this long once-over like you were trying to figure something out. “maybe it’s your face,” you said finally. and before he could ask what that meant, you’d already turned back toward your bike. you swung your bag onto your back, kicked the stand up, and nodded toward the road like you were giving him a ride home even if he hadn’t asked for one. “come on,” you said. “i’ll ride with you. you clearly need supervision.”
jungwon hesitated for a second, looking between the knocked-out girl on the ground — who still twitched every now and then, like something under her skin was trying to finish transforming — and you, already rolling your eyes like he was taking too long. he grabbed his bike without a word and followed you. his hands were scraped and his knee was bleeding. his pulse hadn’t come down once since he’d left the store. and he was still sort of high from the extra long shift and the headache of reorganizing twenty different kinds of fantasy figurines.
you were halfway down the road, bikes rolling over loose gravel and patches of uneven pavement, the woods pressing in on either side. it was quiet except for the sound of the tires and the occasional crunch of leaves. jungwon rode just a little behind you, close enough to talk, but not close enough to make it weird.
“so,” he said finally, voice low like someone might be listening. “what… what was she?” you didn’t answer right away. just kept pedaling, jaw tight. “was she, like… possessed? or—i don’t know—bitten?”
you sighed. “kind of.”
he frowned. “kind of?”
“look,” you said, still not looking back. “they’re not really possessed. they’re infected. or something close to it.”
“infected by what?”
you slowed down slightly, enough that he could ride more beside you now. “demodogs,” you said, like that word should’ve meant something. to him, it didn’t.
he blinked. “what the hell is a demodog?”
you glanced at him. “you really don’t know anything, do you?”
“no?” he said. “why would i?”
you were quiet for a second, then let out another sigh. you’d realized he wasn’t going to drop it. “they’re creatures,” you said eventually. “not from here. not from our world. there’s this place—it’s called the upside down. it’s like… a parallel version of here, but dead and rotting and full of things that want to eat you.”
jungwon stopped pedaling. he braked hard enough that his tires made a sound on the gravel, and then he stood there, legs on either side of the bike, staring at you like you’d just told him god was real and also personally hated him. you kept going for another second, noticed he wasn’t behind you anymore, and circled back slowly. you shrugged like the whole thing was casual. “i know how it sounds.”
jungwon opened his mouth, then shut it again. opened it once more. eventually he said, “no, yeah. it sounds like i should never leave my house again.”
“not the worst idea,” you said, and then started pedaling again like that was the end of the conversation.
jungwon caught up eventually, legs working automatically even though his brain was very much still in the dirt road behind him. he didn’t know what to think. like, genuinely didn’t have a single coherent thought in his head. just static. maybe a little screaming. he wasn’t sure if he was processing it or if he was actively refusing to. either way, it didn’t feel great. it wasn’t just the “parallel world full of monsters” part. it wasn’t even the fact that apparently those monsters could just infect people. it was more the idea that this had clearly been going on for a while and no one had told him. not the government. not the school. not the news. not even jay, and jay claimed to know everything about weird local shit.
jungwon had lived in hawkins his whole life. he thought the worst thing that ever happened here was that time a raccoon got stuck in the library vent and made the whole building smell like piss for two weeks. but apparently people were getting infected and turning into monsters and being sent back into society like nothing happened. and no one thought that was worth mentioning?
they rode in silence for a minute. well, you rode normally. jungwon was still riding like he was in shock. which, to be fair, he was.
finally, he asked, “so what’s happening to that girl?” his voice came out smaller than he meant. he hadn’t realized how much it had freaked him out until he said her name. the way she smiled right before her face twitched. the red glow in her eyes. the way she crouched like her joints were bending the wrong direction.
you glanced at him, like you could tell he was reliving it, but didn’t say anything about it. you just said, “same thing that happened to the other one. she was taken, changed, and sent back.”
he didn’t ask who sent her back. he already knew you wouldn’t answer that. he didn’t know how many more vague responses he could handle before his head exploded, but the way you said it, like you knew the full picture but were only allowed to hand him a single piece at a time, made it clear he wasn’t getting anything more than that. he nodded anyway.
you took a breath. “they go missing. and when they come back, they’re not exactly the same. they don’t remember much. just enough to pass as normal.”
“but she was normal,” jungwon said. “she was flirting with me like a regular person.”
“yeah,” you said. “that’s kind of the point.”
he looked at you. “but how?” he asked. “who’s doing this? who’s sending them back?”
you were quiet again, but your eyes didn’t leave the road. “they don’t tell me a lot,” you said. “i just get the intel. sometimes the name of a town. sometimes a face. sometimes it’s just a gut feeling.”
he frowned. “who’s they?” you didn’t answer that. he watched you closely. “you’re avoiding that question.”
“i’m avoiding a lot of questions,” you said. “it’s safer that way.”
“for who?” he asked. “me or you?”
you didn’t say anything for a few seconds. then, finally, “both.”
the road curved, and you both leaned into it, tires crunching over the gravel. the trees started to thin a little, and up ahead, there were a few porch lights blinking through the dark. it meant they were getting closer to his neighborhood. close to where things were supposed to be safe again, where he could go inside, lock the door, brush his teeth, maybe pretend for five minutes that none of this had happened. but the thought didn’t help.
jungwon let out a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding and said, mostly to himself, “they keep picking me.” you didn’t say anything right away. you knew he had more to say. so he added, quieter, “why?”
you slowed again, you looked over at him, and he could tell by your face that you weren’t going to sugarcoat anything. not because you were trying to be cold, just because that wasn’t how you operated. “you’re exactly their type,” you said.
he frowned. “their type?”
“you’re...,” you said, flatly. “you’ve got that whole… sweet face thing going on. you’re the perfect bait.”
he blinked. “i’m not bait.”
you didn’t even blink. “you kind of are.”
jungwon stared ahead at the road again, the pit in his stomach growing by the second. he hadn’t thought of it that way. it felt kind of insulting, honestly, being described like some helpless rabbit in the woods. but at the same time, he couldn’t really argue. minju had picked him. eunchae too. and now, apparently, he was the prime target for half-dog monster girls from hell. great!
“so what,” he said after a beat, “you’re just going around saving guys like me from… demon girls?”
you shook your head a little. “not just guys. and they’re not demons. they’re still people. somewhere in there.” you glanced over at him. “but yeah.”
you didn’t elaborate, didn’t launch into some big explanation about what you did or why. and jungwon wasn’t sure if that was because you didn’t trust him, or because you just didn’t see the point in saying more than what was necessary. still, he didn’t press. mostly because he wasn’t sure what else he could even ask. every new answer just raised ten more questions, and he could feel his brain getting slower, like he was full of wet cement instead of blood.
he didn’t know what he expected from you, maybe some kind of plan, or a bigger truth that would explain all of this in a way that made sense. something that would make the last week feel less like the beginning of a horror movie and more like a weird, isolated glitch in the universe. but you didn’t offer anything. and maybe that was the most honest thing about you. no comfort, no reassurance, no pretending that this would all go back to normal. just facts. and your bike tires rolling quietly next to his.
you coasted the rest of the way in silence, and the closer you got to his house, the more jungwon could feel the weird tension in his chest tightening, that thing between anxiety and anticipation that had no clear name. the street was quiet. porch lights were on, sprinklers ticking in the distance, bugs flying lazy circles around the lamppost at the corner. it looked like any other night. it wasn’t.
you pulled up to the curb in front of his house, brakes squeaking just a little, and he put one foot down, glancing toward the front porch light still glowing like nothing out of the ordinary had happened. like he hadn’t nearly died again.
you stayed on your bike, arms resting on the handlebars, backpack still strapped on. always ready to leave. jungwon looked over at you, still not sure what he was supposed to say. so instead, something just fell out of his mouth. “does it ever drive you crazy just how fast the night changes?”
you tilted your head a little, not smiling exactly, but there was something in your face that softened. “if there’s one thing i’ve learned,” you said, “it’s that it always does.”
he nodded, mostly to himself, like he wasn’t sure what to do with that answer. then he looked up at you again. “can i at least know your name?”
you exhaled through your nose. not annoyed this time, more like you were used to the question, and used to not answering it. “next time,” you said.
he let out a dry laugh. “i don’t know if i want there to be a next time.”
you raised an eyebrow. “then i guess we won’t see each other again.”
jungwon stood there for a second, hand still on the handlebars, heart kicking weirdly in his chest. he wanted to say something. that he didn’t mean it like that. that maybe he did want there to be a next time, even if he didn’t fully understand why. even if he still didn’t know what the hell was going on. but you were already starting to turn your bike around, already half-facing the road again like you were about to disappear into the night just as fast as you came.
and he just stood there, watching you. thinking, quietly: i want there to be a next time. i want to see you again. even if he didn’t say it out loud.
saturday night rolled in like it always did in hawkins. heeseung’s place was lit up from the driveway to the back porch, music spilling out into the street, the kind of music you couldn’t escape even if you wanted to. which jungwon did. he’d told jay at least five times that he wasn’t going. first it was because he was tired, then because he had “stuff to do,” and finally because he didn’t think it was a good idea to be around… well, people. women in general. especially after the whole minju-and-eunchae-almost-ate-him situation. but jay was relentless, the kind of relentless that didn’t take “no” as an answer and didn’t care if you were two seconds away from a breakdown.
so somehow, against his better judgment, jungwon ended up in jay’s car, half-listening to deep purple on the tape deck, trying to convince himself that nothing bad ever happened at house parties. which, in hawkins, felt like a lie. and the place was already packed when they got there. people were drinking, laughing, playing music way too loud. there was a keg, there were questionable snacks. and there were girls. a lot of girls.
jungwon had made himself a promise the second he stepped out of the car: no flirting, no small talk, no “just being friendly.” he wasn’t in the mood, and besides, the last two girls who’d shown interest in him had tried to kill him. kind of ruins the whole dating vibe. still, it didn’t stop people from trying. a girl smiled at him by the kitchen. he nodded, took a sip of his drink, and immediately pretended to spot someone across the room so he could walk away. another girl tried to pull him into a game of spin the bottle — he claimed he was “terrible at it” and backed off so fast he almost tripped over a chair. by the third time he ducked out of a conversation with a girl, jay had caught on.
“dude,” jay said, cornering him near the stereo, “are you avoiding every single woman here?”
“no,” jungwon said, which was technically true if you counted the one he’d accidentally brushed past in the hallway without making eye contact.
riki appeared out of nowhere, holding a beer. “he is. he totally is.”
sunghoon joined them a second later, already grinning. “what’s the matter, jungwon? scared you’ll fall in love?”
jungwon rolled his eyes, taking another sip of his drink. “scared i’ll get eaten, actually.”
jay and sunghoon laughed like it was a joke. jungwon didn’t.
he was trying to blend into the wall like it was part of his survival strategy. in theory, it made him look busy. in reality, it just made him look like he was waiting for someone, which apparently was an open invitation for girls with plastic cups and too much eye contact. and it was in the middle of this escape routine that he saw you.
not fully, just a glimpse. you were by the back door, head turned like you were watching something outside, hair catching the light for half a second. jungwon blinked, and you were already moving, slipping into the crowd like you weren’t even trying to be seen. his brain short-circuited. you were here, at this house, at this very party. his legs moved before he could think, weaving past a couple making out in the hallway, sidestepping someone, scanning the crowd for you. but every time he thought he caught sight of you, you were gone again. it was like trying to chase smoke.
by the time he reached the back door, it was open just a crack, letting in a draft of cold air. he pushed it wider and stepped outside, heart pounding, half-expecting to see you standing in the yard like you’d been waiting for him. instead, he found jake and heeseung sitting on the steps, passing a joint back and forth. pass the dutchie by musical youth was playing from a boombox balanced on an overturned milk crate, the tape warbling just slightly, like it had been played too many times.
both of them looked up when he appeared, eyes glassy, smiles slow. “yo,” jake said, holding out the joint like it was a peace offering.
jungwon shook his head, still scanning the yard. it was empty except for an abandoned folding chair and a beer can rolling lazily in the grass. no footsteps. no bike. no sign you’d been there at all.
he stood there for a moment, breathing into his hands, telling himself he was imagining it. maybe it was the music. maybe it was the fact that he was running on four hours of sleep. even thought he hadn’t even smoked whatever jake had brought tonight, so he had no excuse for hallucinating. but he knew what he saw. or at least, he thought he did. so he stayed there a little too long, just staring into the dark like it might rearrange itself into something that made sense.
jake coughed behind him, the kind of cough that doubled as a laugh. “you good, man?” jake asked.
jungwon turned just enough to shake his head. “thought i saw someone.”
“yeah?” jake smirked, already passing the joint back to heeseung. “was she hot?”
jungwon didn’t answer. partly because he wasn’t sure if “hot” was the right word for you, and partly because he didn’t feel like explaining the part where you’d saved his life twice and also might be the only person in hawkins who knew why girls kept trying to eat him.
heeseung exhaled slow, leaning back against the step. “dude, you’re jumpy. you should’ve taken a hit.”
jungwon mumbled something about having to drive later, which wasn’t even true — jay was his ride. but the idea of being high and seeing you again, or worse, seeing something else, made his stomach knot.
the back door creaked open and riki stuck his head out. “yo, jungwon. jay’s looking for you. something about beer pong?”
jungwon groaned. “i don’t even play beer pong.”
“yeah, that’s probably why he wants you,” riki grinned, then disappeared back inside.
he lingered one more second, eyes scanning the treeline beyond the yard. nothing moved. no flash of a leather jacket, no bike leaning against the fence, no you. and inside, the party was somehow louder. he threaded his way back through the kitchen, dodging a girl who’d been eyeing him earlier. she smiled; he pretended to need more chips. jay spotted him from across the room, waving him over like he’d just found a missing person.
“finally,” jay said, shoving a plastic cup into his hand. “you’re my partner.”
so here’s the thing: jungwon had already decided he was just gonna get through the night. play whatever stupid game jay had roped him into, avoid eye contact with anyone holding a drink and a smile, then maybe sneak out early and go home. easy plan. but of course, it didn’t stay easy. the girls they were playing against were the kind of girls jay lived for — all hair flips and fake trash talk, leaning over the table just enough to make him lose focus. jungwon, on the other hand, was just trying to hit the cup and go home. he wasn’t even looking at them until it happened.
jay missed a shot, laughed it off, and one of them leaned in to pick up the ball. her head tilted, and for just a second, jungwon swore he saw a flash of red in her eyes. not like oh she’s wearing contacts red. like this person should not exist in a normal human form red. his stomach dropped. he told himself it was the lighting. then the other girl looked at him, smiling in that slow way that wasn’t really a smile, and her eyes did the same thing. same red, same wrongness.
jungwon froze. the ball slipped out of his hand. jay was still laughing, totally oblivious, asking if he was “already drunk or something.” jungwon didn’t answer. his brain had gone straight to that night on the road, to minju, to eunchae, to the way you’d told him they keep picking him. he took one step back from the table. then another. jay was saying something but it didn’t matter, because jungwon’s heart was already in full flight mode.
“i’m leaving,” he blurted.
“what?” jay blinked. “the game’s not even over—”
“don’t care.”
and that was it. he set the cup down like it was a live grenade and just walked out. no goodbye, no excuse, nothing. straight through the kitchen, out the front door, and onto the street. it was freezing out, but he didn’t care. he didn’t even wait to find jay or get a ride. he just started walking, hands shoved deep in his jacket pockets, pulse still pounding like he’d just outrun something. because maybe he had.
he was walking fast with his hands shoved deep into his jacket pockets, trying to convince himself that if he didn’t make eye contact with anyone or anything, he could actually get to his house without incident. it was a dumb plan, he knew it, but at this point in his life, ignore everything and hope it goes away was pretty much his go-to survival strategy.
the air was cold, the road was quiet except for the sound of his sneakers hitting the pavement, and he kept counting the streetlights between him and his house like it was some kind of countdown to safety. he was maybe five lights away when a shadow stepped directly into his path. jungwon looked up, and there was a girl standing right in front of him, smiling in that casual, friendly way strangers sometimes do when they want directions. “hey,” she said. “do you know what time—”
jungwon didn’t even let her finish the sentence. “no! no, no, no. i don’t want anything, i don’t want to talk to you, just stay away from me!” his voice cracked halfway through, which really added to the general unhinged energy he was putting out. he started backing up, one hand already out in front of him like she was radioactive. “don’t you dare come closer! i swear, i’m serious!”
the girl froze mid-step, eyes wide, and for a second it looked like she wasn’t sure if she should answer him or just run. jungwon, meanwhile, was already scanning for escape routes when he heard your voice from somewhere behind him.
“jungwon,” you called, walking up like you’d just strolled out of a convenience store instead of whatever hell dimension you usually came from. “she’s not one of them.”
he stopped, still breathing hard. “she’s… not?” he asked, his voice dropping from panicked to just extremely awkward.
“no,” you said, like that should’ve been obvious.
and now he was just standing there, feeling the embarrassment creep up the back of his neck. “okay, well, sorry, i’m just—” he stopped, ran a hand over his face, and sighed so hard it sounded like he was trying to let all the frustration out in one breath. “i can’t keep doing this. i’m sick of it. i’m sick of random demon things trying to kill me, i’m sick of not knowing when it’s gonna happen, i’m sick of feeling like i can’t even go outside without something going wrong. i was literally just walking home. minding my own business. i wasn’t bothering anyone.”
the other girl was still there, watching the whole thing like it was the weirdest street performance she’d ever seen. “uh… did you, like, smoke something jake gave you?” she asked carefully.
“no!!!” jungwon practically shouted, throwing his arms out like she’d just accused him of murder. “i did not smoke jake’s weed. but i’m starting to think i should!”
he didn’t wait for a response, he just turned and started walking again, muttering something under his breath about how this town was cursed. you glanced at the girl, shrugged like this was just another friday night in hawkins, and jogged a few steps to catch up with him. the girl stayed where she was, probably wondering why the hell everyone in this town seemed so weird, and why one of them had just yelled at her like she was a movie monster.
jungwon was still marching down the sidewalk when he heard you behind him. “jungwon! wait,” you called out just as he started to walk away, his steps already picking up speed like he was trying to escape not just the night but his own thoughts.
he paused but didn’t turn immediately, like he was debating whether to face you or just keep pretending you weren’t there. finally, he spun around with his hands thrown up, looking half-surrendered, half-exasperated. “what?” he asked, voice a mix of frustration and disbelief. “what do i have to do for these demon girls to stop coming after me? seriously. tell me. i’m losing my mind here.”
he let out a shaky breath, his eyes darting around like the words might disappear if he didn’t get them out fast enough. “my friends are starting to think i’m gay—” he stopped mid-sentence and then hurried to add, “not that there’s anything wrong with that, okay? it’s the seventies, i’m a progressive guy, totally open-minded and all, but i’m not gay. i like women.” then, like he wasn’t quite sure if he should say it or not, he blurted out, “i actually think you’re really pretty—” and immediately his eyes went wide, like he’d just committed a crime in broad daylight. he blinked a few times, as if trying to rewind the last few seconds and unsay everything, but you just raised one eyebrow and didn’t say a word.
after a long pause, you finally spoke, your voice calm but firm. “if you want them to stop coming after you,” you said, “you need to learn how to protect yourself.”
he threw his hands up, frustration spilling out like he couldn’t hold it in any longer. “how am i supposed to protect myself from… whatever this is…” he trailed off, searching for words that even he didn’t fully understand, “…if i don’t even know what this is? i don’t know what an upside down is, i don’t know why this cursed town has half demodogs running around pretending to be girls, and honestly, i don’t even know how you keep finding me before they do.”
as he said it, his mind was spinning in a thousand directions at once. oh god, i just told her i think she’s really pretty he thought, a weird mix of embarrassment and disbelief flooding through him. and you didn’t even blink, no reaction. his mind was saying i’m some idiot talking nonsense or something. maybe i shouldn’t have said that. maybe i should just keep my mouth shut next time.
“you’ll find out. over the next few weeks, i’ll teach you. everything you need to know.” you didn’t say it like it was up for debate, just a plain statement.
jungwon squinted at you like you’d just announced he was joining the army. “what’s that even gonna look like?”
you didn’t hesitate. “saturday afternoons, you meet me at the abandoned train yard outside of town. no excuses, no showing up late, no ‘i forgot.’” you started counting off on your fingers. “first, we start with basic awareness. what to look for, what to listen for, how to tell when someone’s following you without turning into a paranoid mess—though, to be fair, you’re already halfway there. after that, weapons handling. i’ll show you how to use the stuff i carry, and we’ll figure out what works for you so you’re not swinging around like a maniac. then, we move on to what to do if you’re cornered. last, i’ll teach you how to spot if someone’s turning before they actually turn. and no, you’re not going to like the tests for that. they’re uncomfortable. but you’ll survive. probably.”
jungwon stared at you for a long second, like he was waiting for you to laugh and admit this was all some elaborate prank. “so… you’re telling me i now have homework for my own survival?”
“exactly,” you said, completely serious. “and if you actually pay attention, maybe we can get you to a point where you can walk home without screaming at random girls in the street.”
he groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “you make it sound so simple.”
“it is simple,” you replied. “it’s just not easy.”
he hated how that kind of made sense. deep down, he knew you were right, because the way things were going, he either learned how to handle this or he’d end up on one of those faded missing persons posters thumbtacked to the grocery store bulletin board, right between the ad for a used lawnmower and the flyer about a lost cat. and the worst part? he could already picture jay making fun of the photo they’d use.
so picture this: jungwon shows up at the abandoned train yard, which honestly looks like the perfect place for any sort of creepy stuff to go down, with rusty tracks, old wooden beams, and enough broken glass to give anyone a legitimate reason to cry if they step on it barefoot. he’s already half regretting agreeing to this whole training thing because, honestly, it sounds like a bad sci-fi movie plot. but here you are, waiting with that usual no-nonsense vibe, like this is just another day for you.
jungwon’s standing there, feeling every bit as out of place as he could be. he’s thinking about how this isn’t exactly what he pictured doing on a saturday afternoon. and here’s you, already pulling out some kind of weapon that looks cobbled together from spare parts. definitely not something you pick up at a regular hardware store in indiana in 1976. and he’s trying so hard to keep his cool, but inside he’s scrambling to piece together everything he’s learned so far, and honestly, most of it sounds insane.
you start by talking about awareness. basically, how to notice when something’s off before it’s too late. jungwon’s eyes dart around the yard, trying not to look like he’s about to bolt, but his heart’s racing anyway. you point out little things he’d never think twice about: a broken twig, a shadow that doesn’t belong, the way someone might be moving just a little too quietly. jungwon tries to keep up, but it’s clear this stuff doesn’t come naturally. every now and then he asks a question, usually dumb ones that make you roll your eyes just a little, but you answer anyway.
then comes weapons handling. you hand him something that looks like a cross between a slingshot and a fishing rod, and his first thought is, “are you serious?” but you’re already showing him how to use it. where to hold it, how to aim, how to not hit himself in the face, which is a real concern. jungwon fumbles more than once, his fingers fumbling over the weird contraption, and you keep telling him to focus. inside, he’s beating himself up. this is supposed to be simple, but it feels like trying to juggle knives while blindfolded. he’s embarrassed, sure, but there’s also this stubborn determination bubbling up because god knows he can’t keep running from this stuff forever.
while you’re teaching, jungwon’s mind keeps wandering back to all the crazy nights he’s had lately. part of him wants to ask why you even care, but he doesn’t. it’s too weird, too raw. instead, he just watches you, figuring out how someone could be so calm when everything around them is falling apart. the whole time, jungwon is juggling fear, confusion, and a weird sort of hope that maybe this nightmare could get a little less scary if he’s got you around. it’s not like he’s expecting to suddenly become some action hero, but if this training means he might survive the next time something goes wrong, well, that’s worth struggling through.
so after a few rounds of jungwon nearly hitting himself in the face with that weird makeshift weapon, you finally stop and cross your arms like you’re about to deliver some serious wisdom. jungwon’s panting a bit, cheeks flushed, not from the workout, but more from feeling like a total mess. and just when he’s about to ask if this is gonna get any easier, you hit him with that look that says, listen up, this is serious.
“you know,” you start, voice low but steady, “this isn’t just about throwing stuff or spotting weird shadows. it’s about trusting yourself. you gotta trust that you’re not gonna freeze when things get bad.”
jungwon blinks at you, trying to act like he’s got it all figured out, but inside he’s scrambling. “easy for you to say. you’re the one who just shows up and kicks ass, i’m the guy who’s one wrong move away from being dinner.”
you roll your eyes but there’s a flicker of something (annoyance? maybe amusement?) in your expression. “yeah, well, maybe you’d do better if you stopped thinking of yourself as a walking disaster.”
he shrugs, half-smiling despite himself. “last time i tried to ‘trust myself,’ i ended up running like a scared puppy while half demon dogs chased me. doesn’t exactly build confidence.”
so you decide jungwon’s ready to graduate from the weird slingshot-thing to something more practical, which, in your world, apparently means a shotgun that looks like it’s seen more action than half the town combined. you hand it to him, but the second it’s in his grip, jungwon’s thinking, oh great, now i’m just one wrong move away from committing accidental homicide. it’s heavier than he expected, awkward to hold, and his first thought is how ridiculous it is that ten minutes ago he was worried about stepping on broken glass, and now he’s got enough firepower to take down whatever nightmare creature decides to stroll in.
you move closer, probably because you have to, but to jungwon it feels… close. like close enough that he can smell the faint soap on your sleeves and see that little crease between your eyebrows when you’re focused. you’re talking, something about where to place his hands or how to brace his shoulder, but he’s only catching about half of it because his brain’s doing this annoying thing where it keeps pointing out, wow, she’s actually really pretty, which is insane because you also literally fight demons for a hobby. and yeah, that makes no sense, but none of this does.
he forces himself to focus when you adjust his grip, your fingers brushing over his. he tries to ignore the fact that his stomach just did something stupid like flip over. instead, he concentrates on your voice, the way you’re explaining how the kickback works, how if he doesn’t hold it right, it’s gonna bruise him in places he doesn’t want to think about. you tell him to aim at an old paint can you’ve set up on a busted wooden beam. he lines it up, squinting, trying to remember every single step you just rattled off. it’s harder than it sounds. the gun feels heavy, his palms are sweating, and he can feel you watching him, which is somehow worse than any monster he’s run into so far. he thinks about how completely absurd it is to be standing here, in some abandoned train yard in indiana, on a saturday, getting shooting lessons from a girl he met while running from half demon dogs.
he fires. it’s loud, so loud he’s sure someone in town heard it, and the kickback shoves into his shoulder hard enough to make him stumble. the shot misses the can by a mile.
you sigh, stepping forward to fix his stance again, and jungwon’s mind is already spiraling. he’s thinking, this is crazy, i should be at home, i should be doing literally anything else, but also, when you’re this close, it’s hard to remember why he keeps wanting to leave. it’s messed up, but some part of him almost doesn’t mind this whole survival homework thing if it means moments like this. not that he’d admit it to you. not yet, anyway.
so after the whole shotgun fiasco, jungwon’s shoulder is already sore, and his pride’s not doing much better. you’re reloading the weapon and he’s standing there, staring at you, realizing he knows almost nothing about you other than you can scare off monsters and make him feel like an idiot with a single look, and that’s starting to bug him.
he wipes his palms on his jeans, trying to play it casual. “so… how long have you been doing this?” he asks, gesturing vaguely to the gun, the yard, the general vibe of demon-hunting boot camp.
you glance at him, like you’re deciding how much you actually want to say. “long enough,” you answer, which isn’t much of an answer at all.
jungwon frowns. “right. and by ‘this,’ you mean… what exactly? because every time i think i’ve got a handle on what’s going on, something weirder happens. first, it’s girls turning into demodogs in front of me and trying to eat me and then you show up like you’re from some secret government experiment and now i’m here learning how to not shoot my own foot off so… what’s the deal? why me?” he said all of that way too fast, and now the poor boy is panting.
you study him for a second before leaning the gun against a beam. “i told you about the upside down,” you start.
jungwon tilts his head. “yeah, but i’m still not sure what that means.”
you sigh, trying to find the right words. “think of it like… the other side of here. same streets, same buildings, but twisted. dead air, rotting plants, creatures that shouldn’t exist. there’s a tear between that world and ours, and sometimes… things come through.”
jungwon swallows, his brain working overtime. “okay, but that still doesn’t explain why they’re after me.”
“that’s the thing,” you say, crossing your arms. “there’s something about you — maybe your scent, or your energy — they can pick it up. and once they’ve got a target, they don’t stop.”
jungwon blinks at you, trying to decide if you’re messing with him. “so… i’m basically free snack?”
“pretty much,” you say, deadpan.
he groans, dragging a hand down his face. “fantastic. and here i thought my biggest problem this year was college.”
you don’t laugh, and that’s when he realizes you’re not exaggerating. there’s a weight to what you’ve said that sits in his chest in a way he doesn’t like. he wants to ask how you got involved, who taught you, why you even care what happens to him, but he can tell you’re not gonna spill all your secrets in one afternoon. still, the curiosity is there, nagging at him like a loose thread. and if there’s one thing jungwon’s sure of, it’s that he’s not gonna be able to stop pulling at it.
by the time you call it for the day, jungwon’s arms feel like they’ve been through hell. you take the gun from him without a word, check it over, and start packing it away like it’s nothing. he watches you work, still trying to make sense of half the things you said earlier about this upside down place and why he’s some sort of target. the whole thing feels like too much, but also not enough. you’ve given him pieces, but not the whole picture, and it’s driving him crazy.
he kicks at a bit of gravel with his shoe, not really looking at you when he says, “so… that’s it for today?”
you nod, slinging the strap of the weapon bag over your shoulder. “that’s it.”
“right,” he says, dragging out the word. there’s a pause, and then, “you know, you’ve told me about monster dogs and shadow worlds and how i’m basically on some kind of hit list, but you still haven’t told me your name.”
you glance at him, expression unreadable. “does it matter?”
jungwon stares at you like you just asked the most obvious shit ever. “uh, yeah, it matters. i’ve been calling you ‘mystery girl’ in my head and it’s weird.”
you raise an eyebrow. “and you think knowing my name is gonna make any of this less weird?”
“no,” he says, crossing his arms, “but at least i’d know what to yell if a girl tries to eat me again.” you watch him for a moment, like you’re weighing whether or not you’re gonna give in. then you finally say it, just your first name. jungwon repeats it under his breath, testing how it sounds. he nods once, satisfied. “okay. better than mystery girl.”
you smirk. “glad i meet your standards.”
he smiles faintly, but his mind is already working on all the other questions he still doesn’t have answers to. knowing your name feels like progress, but it’s a tiny step in a much bigger mess he’s only just starting to understand.
the next week goes by so slow that jungwon starts wondering if he’s somehow slipped into a different dimension where absolutely nothing happens. every morning he wakes up, grabs whatever breakfast is around, and heads to decelis’ hobby depot for his shift. it’s the usual stuff, his boss doesn’t notice anything different, his coworkers don’t act any weirder than usual, and there are no glowing-eyed demon girls lurking in the parking lot. after work, he usually meets up with jay at the diner or the arcade. they talk about nothing important, like sports and music and how jake needs to quit smoking. sometimes they drive around with no real destination, just circling the same blocks until it’s late enough to go home.
but even with everything feeling so normal, jungwon can’t shake the thought that something’s off. it’s not like he misses running for his life, but the silence is strange. last week his life was shadows in the street, teeth where they shouldn’t be, you showing up right before things went bad. now, nothing. no upside down weirdness, no cryptic warnings, no training sessions at the train yard.
part of him feels relieved. maybe this is it, maybe it’s over. maybe you did something to scare them off for good. but another part of him, the part that’s been watching over his shoulder for too long, feels tense. what if it’s not over? what if the quiet is just the part before everything gets worse? and he doesn’t write you, not that he has your address anyway. he doesn’t go looking for you, but every time he passes somewhere you could be, his eyes wander. by the time friday rolls around, he realizes he hasn’t seen you in a week, and that feels almost as strange as the first night he met you.
jungwon ends up at jake’s place on saturday night for their usual dungeons & dragons session. jake’s basement smells like weed like usual, and the table is already set up with dice, character sheets, and a mess of snacks that definitely weren’t approved by jungwon’s mom 2 years ago. heeseung’s lounging back in his chair, trying to act like he’s not three beers in, and sunghoon’s flipping through the monster manual like he’s studying for an exam. jay’s not there, of course. apparently, he’s “too old” for d&d now, which jungwon thinks is the dumbest thing he’s ever heard. it’s not like there’s an age limit on pretending to be a wizard.
the game starts off normal enough. jake’s the dungeon master, narrating in that overly dramatic voice he always uses, and jungwon’s trying not to screw up his rolls. their party’s stuck in some underground temple, fighting off a bunch of cultists, and sunghoon keeps trying to negotiate with them instead of actually fighting, which drives jake nuts. heeseung accidentally kills one of their own allies by rolling a critical fail, and they spend twenty minutes arguing about whether they can resurrect him. by the end of the night, they’re not much closer to finishing the quest, but nobody really cares.
when it’s over, heeseung offers jungwon a ride, but jungwon turns him down immediately because heeseung can barely stand up straight, so he grabs his bike from jake’s garage and starts pedaling home.
it’s late, the streets are quiet, and there’s that damp chill in the air that makes it feel later than it really is. jungwon’s halfway down the road when his stomach does that thing, that drop, like the moment before something bad happens. he slows down, scanning the shadows. no glowing eyes, no weird figures, nothing. but then he sees a tree off to the side of the road, one he’s passed a hundred times before, except now there’s a thin, dark slit running down its trunk. it’s not just a crack; it’s too clean, and it draws his attention. he stops, resting one foot on the ground, staring at it.
that’s when he hears a sound, almost like a whisper. he can’t make out the words, but it’s enough to make the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. he glances around, half-expecting you to be there, but there’s no one. he sets his bike down in the grass and takes a step closer to the tree. the slit in the trunk isn’t just dark, it’s pitch black, like staring into nothing. he squints, leaning in, trying to see if there’s actually anything there. the whisper comes again, just barely loud enough to register. it’s not english, it’s not anything, really. it’s just sound, and it feels wrong.
jungwon’s about to back up, deciding this is officially weird shit enough for one night, when something shifts inside. it’s not solid, it’s not air either, it’s like smoke but heavier, curling out in slow movements. and before he can even take a step back, it grabs him. not literally, it’s not like a hand shoots out or anything, but it pulls him in. one second he’s standing on the side of the road, the next he’s being yanked forward. he doesn’t have time to shout. his stomach drops, the cold hits him, and then he’s not on the road anymore.
the first thing he notices is the smell. it’s damp, metallic, like wet dirt mixed with something burnt. the second thing is that everything looks wrong. the air has this faint haze, and the sky — or whatever’s above him — is a weird reddish black. the trees are there, but they look sick, all twisted with these thick vines crawling over them, pulsing faintly like they’re alive.
jungwon just stands there for a second, trying to figure out if he’s dreaming, dead, or both. he mutters, “what the hell,” but his voice sounds weird, swallowed by the air.
his brain is moving in about ten different directions. part of him’s thinking, okay, this is definitely the upside down thing she was talking about, another part is wondering why the hell he didn’t just go home with heeseung, and somewhere in there he’s debating whether or not it’s worth trying to touch one of those gross vines just to see if it’s real. he doesn’t, though. he just keeps looking around, turning in a slow circle, waiting for something to jump out. the whole place feels empty, but not in a good way. empty like there’s something here, just hiding.
jungwon turns around, expecting to see the tree again, or at least the slit in the bark, but there’s nothing there. just more of the same dead-looking trees stretching out in every direction. no road, no bike, no way back. he stands there for a second, hands on his hips, trying to process it. it’s not like he thought he could just step right back through, but seeing nothing at all makes his stomach twist. he figures standing still isn’t going to help, so he starts walking. the ground is almost muddy, and every step makes this faint squelching sound. he keeps his eyes moving, partly to watch where he’s going, partly to make sure nothing’s creeping up behind him.
the weird thing — well, one of the weird things — is how familiar it all feels. there’s a stretch of road up ahead, cracked and uneven, and for a second he thinks he might’ve found his way back to hawkins. but when he gets closer, he realizes it’s not the same. the buildings in the distance have the same shapes as the ones back home, but the windows are shattered, the walls are covered in those gross vine things, and everything has that same reddish tint hanging over it. it’s hawkins, but it’s not hawkins.
jungwon slows down when he reaches what should be main street. the storefronts are there, the diner, the record shop, even decelis’ hobby depot, but they all look abandoned. no lights, no sound, just that faint hum in the air. he doesn’t know whether to keep moving or start yelling for help. both seem like bad ideas. still, the longer he stands there, the more it feels like something’s going to notice him if he doesn’t do something. so he keeps walking, telling himself he just needs to find the tree again. except there’s no sign of it anywhere. and now he’s really starting to wish you were here.
his brain starts replaying bits of the training you gave him. awareness, focus, keep your eyes moving. all great advice in theory, except right now his hands are empty. then it hits him: she left me that weapon thing. the weird slingshot-fishing rod hybrid. he pats his pockets, checks his jacket, and then it clicks. the weapon’s in his backpack. the backpack’s on his bike. the bike’s on the other side of… whatever this is.
“idiot,” he mutters under his breath. “absolute idiot.”
he’s still kicking himself when he spots something in his peripheral vision. a flicker of movement inside an abandoned car parked on the side of the street. the windshield is cracked, the paint’s peeling, and there’s a layer of grime thick enough to write his name in. he takes a step closer, peering through the glass, and before he can even process what he’s looking at, the door creaks open. a girl steps out. she’s familiar, kazuha, he’s seen her at the public library once or twice. always quiet, always polite, but there’s something different now. her expression is flat, almost bored, but her smile is not, it’s wide and sharp.
“hey, jungwon,” she says, her voice is too smooth, like she’s testing how close she can get.
“uh… hi.” he takes a step back.
she tilts her head. “i’ve been looking for you.”
“yeah, that’s not creepy at all.”
her smile widens. “you’re even cuter up close.”
jungwon blinks. “okay, that’s… weird. thanks, i guess? but also, no thanks. i’m good.”
she starts walking toward him, slow and deliberate. “you don’t have to be nervous. i’m not gonna hurt you.”
“see, usually when someone says that, it means they’re about to hurt me,” he says, taking another step back. “and just so we’re clear, i’m not really in the mood to be, you know, eaten by a half-dog, half-human hybrid today.”
her eyes flicker in a way that makes his stomach twist. “you think i’m a monster?”
“i think i’ve had a really long day, and i left my only weapon on a bike that’s currently not in this dimension, so i’m not in the best position to… whatever this is.”
she laughs, a little too cheerful, like they’re in on some private joke. “you’re funny. i like that.”
jungwon glances around, trying to figure out if running is even an option. “yeah, i’m hilarious. now, if you’ll excuse me, i’ve got to… go that way. far away from you.”
and he doesn’t even think about it. the second kazuha takes another step toward him, he turns and runs. his shoes slip a little on the cracked asphalt but he pushes forward, arms pumping, heart already pounding. behind him, there’s this wet, snapping sound, and then a noise that’s definitely not human. he doesn’t have to look to know she’s changing into something else. in his head, he’s cursing himself. all week he’d been complaining about how nothing was happening, how maybe things had gone back to normal. well, congratulations, idiot, now you’ve got a demodog coming after you and no clue where the hell you are.
he hears her or it getting closer with heavier steps now, claws maybe. he doesn’t want to turn around because that feels like the moment he’ll trip and it’ll be over. the panic’s starting to spike so high it’s hard to think.
then it gets too close. he can hear the breathing, fast and harsh, right behind him. he keeps running faster and he thinks, okay, this is it, this is the part where i die in some alternate dimension, and my body never gets found because it’s probably stuck in a tree trunk somewhere. and then there’s a sudden flash of light, bright enough to burn into his vision even though he’s facing away. the noise behind him stops. he skids to a halt and turns just in time to see you, standing there, weapon raised, and kazuha — or what’s left of her — slumped on the ground.
“jungwon! how the fuck did you end up here?!” you yell, not even giving him a second to breathe.
he’s still bent over, trying to catch his breath. “the tree…”
you pull him up with a firm grip, not letting go. as he straightens up, you can’t help but notice how much taller he is. he has to bend his head down a bit, eyes wide and breathing heavy, that mix of panic and relief clear as day. when he looks at you, it’s like he’s searching for something solid in this place that’s anything but it. there’s that desperate, almost fragile look in his eyes that makes something tighten in your chest, even if you’re trying not to show it. you can feel the tension in his body, but there’s also this flicker, like seeing you right now is the one thing keeping him steady.
you catch yourself softening even as you keep your voice steady when you say, “you could’ve died, jungwon.” there’s a crack in your tone you’re trying to hide, but it’s there because yeah, you really were worried.
he swallows hard, still catching his breath. “that tree… the one with the slit… i saw it, and next thing i know, i’m stuck here. i was just trying to find a way out.”
you give him a look, part frustration, part relief, thinking about how reckless he can be but how glad you are he’s okay. “getting out of here isn’t easy. usually takes someone who knows what they’re doing. i only came because i sensed you were trapped.”
he looks down at you for a second, and the silence stretches, heavy with all the things neither of you say. then, almost like he’s trying to distract himself from the weight of it all, he says, “you were worried about me?”
you avoid his eyes for a beat, then nod slowly. “yeah. don’t make me do this again.”
jungwon lets out this weird, half-laugh that sounds more like he’s trying to pretend he’s not freaking out, but you catch it anyway. “no promises,” he says, like that’s supposed to make everything better. you roll your eyes, but there’s this small pause where neither of you says anything. finally, jungwon breaks the silence, sounding like he’s trying to act calm but failing. “so… uh, how exactly do we get out of here?”
you glance around, your face tight with that mix of this sucks and i got this, but you don’t pretend you have all the answers. “it’s complicated. this place isn’t built to let people in and out. normally you don’t just ‘walk back’ once you’re in.”
jungwon scratches the back of his neck, thinking about how he left his makeshift weapon prototype on his bike, probably the only thing that might’ve helped. “and uh, speaking of stuff, i left my bag with the thing you gave me... on my bike. so, yeah.”
you laugh, shaking your head. “only you would forget the one thing that might keep you alive.”
he shrugs, “well, at least i’m consistent.”
there’s this weird energy between you now, not exactly comfortable but not totally awkward either, like you’re both trying to figure out if you’re just stuck in this mess together or if something else is bubbling under the surface. “look,” you say, voice softer now, you look around, weighing options, then sigh. “somewhere out there’s a way back, and we find it before anything else finds us.”
jungwon swallows, nods, glancing back down the empty street where the abandoned shops stare at him. and despite everything, he feels a little less alone because you’re here, even if this whole situation is the biggest mess he’s ever been in. and you start moving down the empty street together, the cold hum of the upside down filling the silence between you. it’s the kind of quiet that isn’t peaceful but not exactly tense either. your arms brush once, almost by accident, and both of you freeze for a second. jungwon clears his throat, trying to shake off whatever that was.
“hey,” he says, glancing at you, “i don’t think i ever properly thanked you. for, you know, saving my life. a bunch of times now.”
you don’t say anything right away, just keep walking, but there’s a shift. you can tell he’s sincere, and honestly, it’s kind of nice hearing it. he’s usually so focused on trying not to screw up, you forget he’s got this quiet, straightforward side that doesn’t mess around with small talk. then he stops, turning toward you with that look like he just noticed something.
“you got a cut on your forehead.” he points it out, not making a big deal, but it’s the kind of thing only someone paying attention would notice.
you reach up and touch the cut on your forehead, barely pressing against it, then shake your head like it’s nothing worth mentioning. but before you get a chance to say anything, a vine, one of those thick, dark things, suddenly snaps and drops right beside you with a loud crack. you flinch, stepping back without thinking. jungwon’s quick to grab your shoulder to keep you steady, pulling you close enough that you’re almost bumping into him.
you both freeze for a second after the vine snaps close by. jungwon’s hand stays on your shoulder, steadying you. you can almost hear your own breath, uneven and shallow. he looks at you with that kind of serious calm that makes it clear he’s thinking about what could’ve happened. “that vine thing could’ve hit you,” he says quietly. his voice isn’t loud or panicked, but you can tell he means it.
you don’t say anything right away. you just blink and nod slowly, still feeling the weight of how close you were. “yeah, it almost did,” you answer, your voice low. it’s like you’re still trying to catch up with what just happened.
jungwon’s hand doesn’t move, and you realize how grounding it is, like maybe he could protect you too, and not just otherwise. “you okay?” he asks. simple question, just concern.
you glance down at him. “i’m fine,” you say. but you don’t pull away. it feels strange, but not bad. and after a moment you step back and look around, trying to shake off the tension. “we should keep moving,” you say, voice firm now. “find a way out of here.”
you step away with a little more space between you. jungwon doesn’t move right away, just watches the empty street for a second. then he falls in step beside you, his footsteps slower, careful. you start walking through the cracked pavement, the cold air filling the space around you. the storefronts are all shuttered and broken, their windows like dark eyes, and the hum in the air never stops. every once in a while, your arms brush or your shoulders accidentally hit, and each time it’s a little reminder that you’re still here, together, stuck in the same mess. but it’s not like either of you talks much.
after a few minutes, you reach an open field that feels even more empty than the street. tall grass twists and bends under the strange light, and at the far edge, a dark crack splits the earth. you stop and look at it for a second. jungwon’s eyes follow yours, and then the sky behind the crack flashes red, lightning cutting through the thick, heavy clouds. the thunder hits almost right after, loud enough to make jungwon flinch. without thinking, he slips behind you and grabs your shoulder, pressing himself close for a second. it’s quick, but it makes your heart skip. you turn your head and see him looking at you like he’s not sure what to do with this whole upside down nightmare or the fact that he just hid behind you.
“it’s just thunder,” you say, voice calm but steady, trying to shake off the tension for both of you. you reach for his wrist and pull him gently toward the field, toward the crack. “we have to get closer. the way out might be there.”
jungwon swallows hard but follows, trusting you even when everything about this place screams that nothing’s normal. the red lightning keeps flashing in the distance, and the thunder rolls like the earth itself is warning you to turn back. but you don’t, you step into the grass and start walking toward the crack. he hesitates for a second as you walk toward the it, your hands brushing until you finally grab his. the grip’s firm but steady, like you’re the one holding onto the last bit of normal he’s got left. the grass crunches softly under your feet, and he looks at you, maybe trying to find some courage in that quiet way you have.
“i’m gonna push you back through,” you say without looking at him, voice low but steady. “i can only send one person at a time.”
he stops for a second, his fingers tightening on yours like he’s trying to hold on to everything at once. “wait, what? you’re not coming with me?” his voice sounds way more desperate than he wants it to.
you finally meet his eyes, like you expected the question and maybe you’re tired of explaining. “it doesn’t work like that. i’m used to this. i’ll find another way back. you have to trust me.”
he bites his lip, trying to keep it together. “but how am i supposed to know you’re okay?”
you give him a half-smile that doesn’t quite reach your eyes. “i’ll figure it out.”
“you promise?” he asks, his voice quieter now, like he’s trying to believe it even if it sounds crazy.
“promise,” you say, and before he can say anything else, you push him gently toward the crack. his breath catches, and his hands drop like he’s suddenly realizing what’s happening. the grass blurs beneath him and then everything shifts.
he lands back in hawkins just where he left, the street exactly the same except for the missing slit in the tree trunk. his bike is still leaning against the curb, the worn-out backpack sitting there like nothing happened. he picks up the bag, slings it over his shoulder, and climbs onto the bike, the weight of the day hitting him like a slow wave. as he pedals away, his mind’s running through everything. the weird empty streets, the red lightning, the vine snapping, you standing close enough for him to feel it, the way you pushed him through that crack without hesitation.
he’s trying to make sense of it, but it’s like his brain’s stuck on pause. part of him wants to say it was all some crazy nightmare, the other part knows it was real, because he’s still carrying the cut on his forehead and that uneasy feeling that this isn’t over. he keeps thinking about you, about how you said you’d find a way back, and whether he really believes it or if he’s just hoping to hold on to something familiar in the middle of all this chaos. as he rides home, the quiet night wrapping around him, he tells himself to stop overthinking, but it’s no use. there’s too much that doesn’t add up and too many questions waiting for answers, and somehow, somewhere, he knows this isn’t the last time he’s going to see that cracked tree or the place it leads to.
the week after he got shoved back into hawkins, jungwon kept looking for you without even knowing where to start. he’d ride his bike all over town, passing by the park, the edge of the woods, anywhere he thought you might show up. it wasn’t like he had much to go on. just your name, and the fact that you’d saved his life more than once. he didn’t know where you lived, didn’t know what you did when you weren’t pulling people out of the upside down, and it was starting to drive him a little insane.
the upside down kept replaying in his head, too. the sound of the vines snapping, kazuha trying to eat him alive, the red lightning in the distance, the way your hand felt when you pulled him forward. he’d wake up in the middle of the night convinced he could still hear that low hum, and then he’d just sit there in the dark, staring at his ceiling. so in the end of the week, he was done keeping it to himself. he needed to tell someone, and jay was the only person who might not immediately call him crazy — or at least wouldn’t stop being his friend if he did.
they ended up sitting in jay’s basement, jungwon had been pacing for five minutes before he finally stopped and looked at him. “i’m just gonna say it,” jungwon said. “you remember when i tried to tell you about minju? how she—” he hesitated, lowering his voice even though no one else was around, “—turned into that half demodog thing and then just… vanished from town?”
jay didn’t even look up from the screwdriver he was spinning between his fingers. “yeah. i also remember you telling me she tried to eat you, which, for the record, is still the weirdest string of sentences i’ve ever heard from you.”
“well, this isn’t like that,” jungwon said quickly. “this is worse.” he rubbed the back of his neck. “there was this tree, out behind the road. it had this… opening. not like a hole, more like a… cut. i went through it.”
jay glanced up. “you went into a tree.”
“it wasn’t just a tree,” jungwon said, already aware of how bad it sounded. “on the other side it was like hawkins, but empty. no people, just… red lightning, thunder that felt like it was right under your feet, and vines that moved. alive vines.”
jay sat back, watching him carefully. “so you’re telling me you crawled into an evil version of hawkins, the plants were trying to kill you, and somehow you’re here telling me about it.”
“because of this girl,” jungwon said, and then, quieter, “she’s the one who pulled me out.”
jay tilted his head. “a girl?”
“yeah. her name’s—” he said your name like it was a thing he wasn’t sure he should hand over. “first time i saw her, she literally tackled a demodog off me, minju. and she started training me to kill them— well, actually not kill kill them, just knocking them out.” jay looked at him with a what the fuck expression but jungwon continued anyway. “she knows that place better than anyone. i think she lives between the two or something. i don’t know.” he let out a short breath. “but i haven’t seen her since she shoved me back through that tree.”
jay set the screwdriver down and leaned forward. “jungwon… you’ve been looking for her this whole week?”
“everywhere,” jungwon said. “but i don’t even know where she lives. don’t know her last name. nothing.”
jay shook his head slowly. “man, you sure you didn’t pass out in the woods again and just… dream all this up?”
jungwon’s expression tightened. “i know it sounds insane. but i was there. she was there. i didn’t make it up.”
jay studied him for a long moment. “you’re serious.”
“yeah.”
jay exhaled, rubbing his face. “alright. let’s say i believe you. what do you want me to do about it?”
“help me find her,” jungwon said like it was obvious.
so jungwon spent most of that week trying to make jay do the one useful thing a skeptic could do: ask. not because jungwon wanted to drag jay into some mad quest, but because jay knew people. jay always knew someone who worked the diner, someone who stocked the record shop, someone who could overhear gossip. so jungwon told the story over and over until it stopped sounding like a story and started sounding like a problem. he went to jay’s place at odd hours and replayed the same details again. he asked jay to at least put out feelers: ask around the hardware store, the bakery, the older kids who hang at the pool hall. he said he’d ask, casually, to anyone who might have seen a girl with no last name, somebody who helped people and kept to herself. that’s all jungwon wanted — a scrap of something to confirm that what he’d seen wasn’t just a string of bad sleep and worse weed.
the week stretched and jay did the small favors he’d promised, jungwon kept his routine because routine was something that still made sense: mornings at decelis’ hobby depot, afternoons shelving model kits and restocking paint, evenings trying to sound normal with heeseung and riki and jake at the diner or playing d&d. on the surface nothing changed. the boss handed out the same complaints about messy counters, the same customers asked for the same advice about brush types, and his friends kept making the same jokes about his “mystery week” mood. under that surface, everything turned. he rode his bike past the same streets he’d seen from the upside down and checked every place he thought you could hide and came up with nothing.
there were moments when he started to think maybe jay had been right all along, that maybe he had passed out behind a tree and stitched together a bad dream. those moments lasted about as long as it took him to unzip his backpack and feel the weight of the prototype inside. he had brought the thing you’d given him everywhere since the yard: a clumsy, half-finished weapon that somehow felt practical. it rode with him on his bike and even stayed against his ribs when he slept. having it was both stupid and comforting, but it was proof that it had happened, and a small insurance policy against it happening again. sometimes he caught himself patting the pack as if it were a talisman. sometimes he laughed at himself for doing that. sometimes he was ashamed for needing it at all.
on thursday, jungwon got home after work, the kind of tired where even pedaling the bike up the driveway felt like too much. it was already dark, the street quiet except for a radio playing somewhere a few houses down. he leaned the bike against the porch and stepped inside, the air in the house still and cold because he hadn’t bothered to light the furnace yet. he tossed his work shirt on the arm of the couch, walked toward the kitchen to grab something to eat, and that’s when the power went out.
it was instant. one second the kitchen light was on, the next it wasn’t. no hum from the fridge, no soft ticking from the clock on the wall, nothing. jungwon stood there for a moment, waiting for it to come back, and it didn’t. he went to his bedroom to grab the flashlight he kept in the top drawer. it was supposed to be right there, next to the stack of batteries and the random junk he never threw out, but before he could even pull the drawer open, something caught his eye: the christmas lights he kept strung along the wall above his desk had turned on.
they weren’t new, just the same set he’d had up since december, still plugged into the outlet because he never bothered to take them down. most of the time they just sat there, unlit, collecting dust. but now they were glowing, not in that steady way they did when he actually switched them on, but blinking in this weird stop-and-go rhythm. at first he thought maybe the outlet was going bad or the cord was loose, but after watching for a few seconds, he realized it wasn’t random. the timing was too exact.
he sat down on the edge of his bed, resting his elbows on his knees, and just stared at them. short flashes, then a pause, then longer flashes, then another pause. he counted them under his breath, then started over to make sure he wasn’t messing it up. after a couple of minutes, it hit him that this wasn’t just some electrical glitch. three short blinks. one long. three short again. he didn’t know morse code by heart, but he’d seen enough old war films to know it meant something. he stood up, crossed the room, and pulled a dusty boy scouts manual from the shelf. the cover was bent, the pages smelled like the attic, but in the back there was a chart.
he started matching the blinks to the letters, writing them down on the back of an old grocery list he found on his desk. it took a while, mostly because the lights would stop completely for half a minute before starting again, and each time he thought it was over, they’d go again. first came a long string of numbers, broken into two parts. coordinates. then, right after, two words: save me.
jungwon stayed there for a long time, the only sound in the room the faint click each bulb made when it turned on. he didn’t have to check a map. he knew exactly where those coordinates pointed. somewhere deep in the woods outside hawkins.
he didn’t waste time. he threw on his jacket, grabbed the flashlight from the drawer, stuffed the boy scouts manual in his pocket, he grabbed that weird weapon you’d given him, and took off on his bike. the air outside was cold enough that his hands started to sting, but he didn’t slow down. the streets were empty this late, and once he reached the edge of town, it was just him, the gravel crunching under his tires, and the occasional creak of the bike chain. when he reached the trail that led into the woods, he ditched the bike and started walking. the deeper he went, the quieter it got, except for the sound of his own steps. he knew exactly where he was heading, and the closer he got, the more the back of his neck started to prickle. the last time he’d been through one of these, it hadn’t exactly gone smoothly. he’d made it out, sure, but not because of anything he did. this time was different. this time he was going in on purpose.
he found the spot without even having to check the coordinates again. the crack was right there in the base of a tree, the air around it bending in a way that didn’t look right. it wasn’t wide, but wide enough for him to squeeze through. he stood there for a second, his hand resting on the bark, his other hand tight around the flashlight. then he took a breath and stepped forward. the air changed the second he crossed over. it was heavier, and there was that faint hum that never stopped. the colors shifted to that washed-out, dull tone he remembered, and the smell was different too, something like damp earth that had been sitting too long. the ground under his shoes was soft in some places, almost slippery, and he had to watch his step.
he started walking, but he didn’t really know how he was supposed to find you. there wasn’t a trail, and it wasn’t like he could just yell your name and expect you to show up. still, he kept moving, glancing around every few steps, trying to catch anything that looked out of place, though in this place everything was out of place.
the sound of his own breathing felt louder than it should have, and every time something moved in the corner of his eye, his shoulders tensed. he didn’t know if you were close or if this was going to turn into another long walk to nowhere, but he wasn’t about to turn back without checking. he kept going, deeper into the upside down. he froze when he heard a low, uneven noise, like something trying to breathe through its teeth. he shut off the flashlight, crouched a little, and waited. it came again, this time followed by a sharper, shorter sound, almost like someone had kicked something over. that was enough, so he started toward it, moving slow but steady, keeping his weight on the balls of his feet so he wouldn’t step on anything loud.
the noise led him downhill into a shallow dip in the ground where the vines were thicker. he could make out movement up ahead. at first he thought it was one of those creatures, but then he saw you.
you were backed up against what used to be part of a playground slide, the metal rusted and half-swallowed by the upside down’s mess. in front of you was something tall, wrong-looking, and moving in short, jerky bursts. it had too many joints in the wrong places, and it was blocking your only way out. you were holding that prototype weapon you’d left him before, except it wasn’t working. every time you tried to fire it, it made a small click but nothing else. the thing in front of you took a step closer, and you threw a piece of broken wood at it, which didn’t do much except make it tilt its head in your direction. jungwon didn’t think about it after that. he pulled the flashlight back out, flicked it on, and shone it straight at the thing’s face.
it froze. not because the light hurt it, but because it didn’t seem to like sudden changes. jungwon used those two seconds to run straight at you. you yelled something at him that he didn’t catch, but he grabbed your arm and yanked you sideways, hard enough that you both hit the ground a few feet away. the thing swung one of its arms toward you, missed, and slammed into the side of the old slide, knocking it off balance.
the flashlight beam swung across the ground, and that’s when jungwon saw a long, loose vine running from the thing’s ankle to one of the thicker growth patches. he didn’t know if it was part of the creature or something it was using, but he didn’t stop to figure it out. he grabbed the prototype from your hands, twisted one of the dials like he’d seen you do once, and slammed it down on the vine. it sparked, hissed, and the thing made a noise that was halfway between a growl and a scream before stumbling backward.
you scrambled to your feet, grabbed jungwon’s wrist, and pulled him toward a gap between two leaning trees. behind you, the thing was still thrashing, but it didn’t follow. once you were a safe distance away, you both stopped, breathing hard. jungwon handed the prototype back to you without saying anything, and you stared at it for a second before tucking it under your arm.
he looked at you, voice a little rough from everything. “what the hell happened?! i was worried sick about you.”
you took a breath, the weight of what you’d been through settling back in as you finally spoke. “i got stuck on this mission. that thing you saw was chasing me for days. i couldn’t shake it. ended up trapped, and that’s when i sent the lights.”
jungwon rubbed the back of his neck, his eyes fixed on you like he was trying to understand everything all at once. “how did you even manage to send messages with those christmas lights?”
you looked down for a moment, then met his gaze. “i have ways. it’s not easy, but i figured you’d get it.”
he nodded slowly, then his voice softened. “i spent more than two weeks thinking you were gone. i was really worried.”
you felt something tighten in your chest, the weight of that worry settling on you. you hadn’t expected him to care so much. “i’m sorry i didn’t come looking for you.”
jungwon shook his head, stepping a little closer. “don’t. you had your reasons. but i wasn’t going to give up on you.”
you looked at him, the way his words hit deeper than you expected. part of you wanted to push him away, to say it was better if he had given up, but the truth was, hearing him say he didn’t made something in you soften. it wasn’t just about being saved from the upside down; it was about not feeling so alone. the tight knot of guilt inside you loosened a little because here was someone who cared enough to keep looking, even when it seemed hopeless. you didn’t say anything right away, just let the quiet settle between you, a quiet that felt less heavy now, like maybe you could start to trust again.
the quiet stretched between you, your arms came close, nearly brushing a few times, but neither moved away. it was subtle, the kind of small closeness that means more than words ever could. you could feel the weight of everything unsaid hanging there. jungwon kept stealing glances, his eyes searching, almost hesitant, like he was waiting for you to break the silence first. the air felt heavy, not with fear but with a kind of quiet understanding.
you look at him, your voice quiet but steady, “thank you for saving me. you didn’t have to do that.” the words come out slower than you expected, like you’re trying to find the right way to say it without sounding weak. and there’s something about the way he’s looking at you now, and it is not just relief or exhaustion, but something that feels like he really means it. your eyes meet his, and for a second, everything else feels distant.
jungwon’s face softens and he nods, “of course i did. you saved my life more times than i can count.”
he doesn’t rush away or look anywhere else. instead, he keeps looking at you, like he’s trying to memorize every detail. you notice how his eyes move slowly, from your eyes to your lips, then back again. you find yourself doing the same, catching his gaze flicker between your face and your mouth. it’s quiet but heavy with something neither of you says out loud yet.
you feel your heartbeat pick up, and you have to remind yourself where you are: in the upside down, in a place that’s not safe, with this tension that’s definitely not just about survival. you take a breath and say, “we can’t just stand here. we need to find a way out of here, together this time.”
jungwon nods, still close enough that you can feel his presence without trying, and he says quietly, “yeah, this time, we don’t leave each other behind.”
you don’t wait long after he says that. the air in the upside down is always damp and heavy, like it’s pressing down on your skin, and you can hear things moving somewhere in the distance. it’s not safe to just stand there, no matter how much you want to. jungwon feels that too. he keeps glancing over his shoulder, the flashlight beam jittering across broken trees and dead vines, but even as he moves, he stays close to you, almost like his body doesn’t trust him to keep space anymore.
you keep walking. he doesn’t say much at first. he’s concentrating on the ground, making sure he doesn’t trip over the vines curling across the dirt. every few steps, he checks that you’re right next to him. not because he doubts it, but because he has to see it with his own eyes. the quiet gets broken by those weird animal sounds. distant, not too close yet, but enough to make jungwon tighten his jaw. he raises the flashlight a little higher, then lowers it again like he’s debating if he even wants to see what’s out there.
“this way,” you whisper, pointing toward a stretch of collapsed buildings in the distance. it’s not much of a plan, but jungwon nods like it’s gospel.
the ground sucks at his sneakers when he moves, sticky and uneven. every sound feels too loud. his breath, the crunch of glass under his foot, the low hum of whatever is alive in this place. he’s trying to stay calm, but his grip on the flashlight handle is so tight his knuckles are white. you get to the ruins of what used to be a gas station. the sign is tilted, half-buried in the dirt, covered in that dark pulsing mold. jungwon hates looking at it, so he doesn’t. he follows you through a gap in the wall. it’s just shadow and old shelves inside, but it feels safer than being out in the open.
for a minute, it’s quiet again. jungwon leans against what’s left of the counter and finally exhales like he’s been holding his breath since you started walking. you sit across from him, pushing some broken glass out of the way. his flashlight flickers once, then steadies again. he mutters, “stupid batteries,” under his breath.
you look at him. “you ok?”
he nods, then shakes his head almost immediately. “no. not really. but… i’m better because you’re here.” it slips out before he can stop himself.
the silence after that is heavier than the air. he fidgets with the flashlight, turning it in his hands, then finally looks at you. you don’t move away this time. your knees are almost touching, and when he realizes that, he stops fidgeting. he thinks about saying something else, but the ground shakes faintly and the sound is back, closer this time. both of you freeze. jungwon grips the flashlight, but you pull out the crowbar instead, steady like always. it passes after a few seconds. whatever it was, it’s moving in the opposite direction. jungwon swallows hard and sets the flashlight down, rubbing his hands on his jeans. “i hate this place,” he mutters.
you don’t disagree. but when you put the crowbar down and shift closer, jungwon feels his chest loosen a little. your shoulder brushes his, and you don’t pull away. you whisper, “we’ll find the gate. we’ll get out.”
jungwon turns his head, really looks at you. your face is lit unevenly by the dim beam of his flashlight, shadows moving when the light flickers. there’s dirt smudged across your cheek, and your hair is sticking out in messy strands from where you’d been running, fighting, breathing this awful air. your jacket has a tear near the sleeve, threads pulled loose, and he notices your knuckles too, scraped raw. he doesn’t say anything right away, he just stands there, staring longer than he should. his throat feels tight, like the words are there but won’t come out. he lifts his hand before he can stop himself, hesitating halfway, and then carefully wipes at your cheek with the edge of his thumb. it’s clumsy, not smooth at all, but gentle. when the dirt smears faintly under his touch, he almost pulls back, embarrassed, but you don’t move away. you just let him do it, eyes flicking up to his, steady in a way that makes his chest ache.
his hand lingers for a second longer than it should. he drops it finally, clearing his throat and looking away like he didn’t just cross some invisible line. but his head is buzzing, and he knows you felt it too, that small shift between the two of you. and you’re the one who breaks the silence. “we can’t stay here. there’s a gate nearby.” your voice is low, even, like you’re keeping yourself steady for both of you.
jungwon nods too quickly, almost grateful for the excuse to move. you lead him out of the collapsed building, back into the open, and the two of you walk through the heavy air again. he stays close this time, not bothering with the safe distance he always used to keep. when the vines twitch across the ground, he doesn’t flinch as hard, because your arm brushes against his every few steps and that feels more grounding than the flashlight in his hand.
you stop when you reach what used to be a toolshed. the floor inside is split wide open, a jagged crack glowing faintly, pulsing like it’s breathing. jungwon freezes at the sight, his grip on the flashlight tightening. it doesn’t look like an exit, it looks like a trap. “this is it,” you say quietly. “the gate.”
jungwon swallows. “how do we—”
“together,” you cut in. your eyes don’t leave the crack in the floor, but your voice stays steady. “it only works if we go at the same time. it has to believe we’re one person. if it thinks we’re separate, it’ll throw one of us back.”
jungwon blinks at you, caught between disbelief and panic. “what do you mean ‘believe’? it’s a… portal.”
you finally look at him, and there’s the faintest flicker of a smile that doesn’t quite reach your mouth. “you’d be surprised. just hold my hand and think of me as an extension of yourself. like i’m not separate. like i’m you.”
his first instinct is to argue, to ask a hundred questions, but he doesn’t. instead, he stares at your hand when you hold it out. he hesitates, only for a second, then takes it. your palm is rougher than he expected, but warm and soft. he tries to think about what you said: an extension of him. it sounds impossible, ridiculous, but when your fingers squeeze his, it doesn’t feel that far off. the truth is, you already make him feel like he’s not just one person carrying the weight of everything anymore. you’ve been the one showing up when everything else was falling apart. thinking of you as part of him, as if you’re connected in some way, isn’t as hard as he thought it would be.
“ready?” you ask.
jungwon takes a shaky breath and nods. “yeah.”
you don’t wait for more. you step together toward the glow, hands locked, the air pulling at you the second your feet touch the edge. jungwon squeezes your hand tighter, shuts his eyes, and thinks as hard as he can: don’t let go.
you hit the ground hard. not upside down ground, not that damp rotting mess, but actual hawkins dirt. the portal spits both of you out right in the middle of the woods, and because the universe has the worst sense of humor, jungwon lands flat on his back. the flashlight goes flying somewhere into the bushes, and before he can even register the fact that he’s free, you land right on top of him. he makes a sound that is not dignified. kind of a wheeze, kind of a gasp. your elbow digs into his ribs, and your hair falls in his face, and suddenly he is very aware of two things: one, he can’t breathe, and two, you are literally lying on him.
jungwon’s brain short-circuits. like, fully shuts down. he’s staring up at the trees, trying not to think about how close you are, but of course, that’s all he can think about. your knee is pressing into his leg, your hand is still gripping his like you never let go, and his heart is beating so fast it feels like it’s trying to climb out of his chest. if anyone asked, he would swear the demodogs weren’t half as terrifying as this exact moment.
you push yourself up a little, bracing your hands on the ground, but you’re still hovering right above him. jungwon can feel your breath on his cheek, and every rational part of his brain is screaming at him to sit up, to make a joke, to do literally anything that isn’t just lying there frozen. instead, he stares at you. wide-eyed, nervous, completely gone. there’s dirt on your face again, smudged across your jaw, and he has the urge to wipe it away like before, but his arms aren’t cooperating. his entire body feels like it’s been unplugged.
and then, because jungwon is jungwon and his mouth has a mind of its own, he blurts out, “your eyes are so pretty.”
the words hang there, stupid and heavy, and the second they’re out, he regrets everything. he thinks, oh great, perfect timing, very smooth. we just escaped a nightmare dimension, i almost died for the tenth time this month, and now i’m complimenting her eyes like some awkward kid. but you don’t laugh, you don’t roll your eyes or make some sharp remark. instead, something in your face shifts. softer, almost shy. for the first time since he met you, you don’t look like you’re carrying the weight of the world on your shoulders. you just look at him.
jungwon swallows hard. his pulse is still out of control, but he pushes himself up on his elbows so he’s not completely flat on the ground anymore. you’re still close, way too close, and he realizes he doesn’t actually want you to move away. he hesitates, of course he does, but then he thinks about how you looked at him back there, how you never let go of his hand, how he never wanted to let go either. and before he can second guess himself, he leans forward just enough to close the gap.
the kiss is slow and careful at first. jungwon’s lips barely brush yours at first, so tentative it almost doesn’t count as a kiss at all. he’s testing the waters, ready to pull back the second you flinch or turn your head. except you don’t, you lean into it, steady, like you’ve been waiting for him to finally stop hesitating. the moment it registers that you’re not pulling away, something loosens inside him. he presses in just a little more, the kiss deepening, still cautious but real now. his lips are warm, unsure, and he doesn’t really know what to do beyond the basics. but the fact that you’re kissing him back, not rushing, not resisting, makes his entire chest feel like it’s about to cave in.
he’s aware of everything at once: the scratch of the forest floor under his back, the ache in his ribs from the fall, the smell of dirt and smoke still clinging to your jacket, but none of it matters. all he feels is the way your mouth moves against his, soft but certain, the way your hand is still locked with his like you’re grounding him there. when your fingers squeeze his, it hits him harder than anything: you want this too. jungwon doesn’t close his eyes all the way at first. he keeps flicking them open, like he needs to check that this is actually happening and not some cruel hallucination courtesy of hawkins. every time he sees you that close, sees your lashes brushing down and the concentration on your face, he almost forgets how to breathe.
the kiss lasts longer than he expects, and when he finally pulls back, it’s not because he wants to, it’s because he needs air, because his chest is burning from holding his breath too long. he’s breathless, dazed, and a little stunned by his own boldness. his face is hot, his ears even hotter, and he knows he probably looks ridiculous. he doesn’t care. his eyes dart over your face, searching, memorizing. he notices the dirt still smudged across your skin, the faint line of a scratch near your temple, the way your lips are a little swollen now from the kiss. and then he sees the smallest smile tugging at your mouth.
jungwon’s heart kicks so hard it almost hurts. he can’t look away. he thinks, very clearly, that if every monster in hawkins decided to come charging through the trees right now, claws and teeth and all, he wouldn’t regret this. not a single bit. not the fall, not the panic, not the upside down, nothing. because it led him here, to this exact second, with you looking at him like that. soi he is the one who breaks the silence first. his voice is quiet but the words come out fast, like he’s been holding them in his mouth too long. “this is the first time i kiss a demodog killer.”
you laugh, and it’s not the kind of laugh he’s used to from you. it’s not sharp or short, it’s real, and he feels it more than he expected. “i don’t kill them, actually,” you say, shaking your head a little. “i just freeze them so the government can deal with it later.”
jungwon blinks, staring at you. “every time you tell me something new about you, i just get more curious.”
you laugh again, softer this time, and jungwon swears it’s the first time he’s seen you like this. not guarded, not tense, just laughing, and it makes his chest feel weird. he thinks about how he’s seen you fight, how you never seem scared of anything, and now here you are, smiling at something he said like it’s the easiest thing in the world. “there’s a lot you don’t know about me, jungwon,” you say, tilting your head.
he doesn’t look away, doesn’t even try. “and i’m curious to know you more and more.”
you raise an eyebrow. “are you sure about that?”
jungwon nods immediately, without thinking twice. “never been so sure about something.”
you laugh again, that same laugh that makes him feel like he’s watching a side of you no one else gets to see, and before he can process it, you lean in and kiss him. it’s quick, almost surprising, and his eyes go wide before he realizes what’s happening. and then it’s over, just like that. you stand up and brush the dirt off your knees, then reach down and pull him up with you. his legs feel unsteady, and his brain is a mess, but he manages to stay upright. you look at him and ask, “you okay?”
he grins, still a little stunned, and says, “never been better.”
you shake your head, laughing again. “you could’ve died.”
jungwon shrugs, still holding your hand without even noticing. “at least we’re safe now.”
you squeeze his hand a little tighter and your voice softens. “thanks for saving me.”
he groans like you’ve just told him the worst joke. “stop thanking me. you’ve saved me like… two hundred and thirty-four thousand eight hundred and ninety-three times already.” you laugh again, louder this time, and jungwon just stands there, watching, thinking that if this is what it feels like to survive, maybe it was worth every second of the nightmare.
so after that night, walking home with you became the kind of thing jungwon never questioned. it wasn’t even really a decision. his house wasn’t far from the woods, and somehow it made sense that the two of you ended up there, hands still tangled like neither of you trusted the air enough to let go yet. by the time you reached his porch, sweaty, scratched up, and still running on the adrenaline of surviving, it felt almost ordinary.
it stayed that way. week after week, night after night, something would happen, some noise in the forest, some sign of the upside down bleeding through again, and the two of you would find yourselves side by side. sometimes it was terrifying, sometimes it was boring, but no matter what, you always ended up walking to jungwon’s place after. it turned into a routine. two shadows crossing hawkins in the dark, his sneakers scuffing on the pavement, your boots quieter but always in sync with his. jungwon didn’t think much about it at first, but he started noticing how natural it was. the way you’d slip your hand into his without asking. the way he’d hold it tighter when he thought about the vines or the growls that still echoed in his head. the government trucks passing through town didn’t scare him as much anymore, not with you there.
a few weeks later, you told him everything. jungwon listened. he always listened, probably more than anyone ever had. you told him about the infection, about how a demodog’s bite almost took you out years ago. how it got into your blood, how it should have killed you but didn’t. how you clawed your way back and swore you’d never let anyone cage you again. the government had tried, of course, they’d seen you as a test subject, a piece of evidence, not a person. you ran, you fought, you disappeared. and since then, you’d been finding others like you. girls who weren’t as lucky, who carried the infection like a curse. you froze them before it spread too far, handed them over to the labs, trying to save them before they lost themselves completely.
jungwon didn’t know what to say to all that. he wasn’t sure there were words for it. he just remembered sitting there, the two of you leaning against the side of his house, and feeling something shift in his chest. he thought he’d already been falling for you, but that night it hit him harder. it wasn’t just that you were strong or that you’d survived. it was the way you told him, and without asking for pity. the way you kept looking ahead like you weren’t afraid of what came next. jungwon had never met anyone like that, and he didn’t think he ever would again.
after that, the weeks blurred. you and jungwon fought off more things than he could count. sometimes it was a nest of vines stretching under an abandoned barn. sometimes it was noises near the quarry that turned out to be real, and sometimes just paranoia that wasn’t. jungwon wasn’t brave on his own, not really, but with you next to him, he didn’t hesitate anymore. he started joking about it too, making dumb comments to break the tension, just to see you roll your eyes or crack a smile. the two of you got closer in the small ways too. jungwon got used to the sound of your laugh, which was rare but addictive when it came out. he got used to you stealing his jacket when the nights got cold, and how he’d always pretend to be annoyed even though he liked seeing you in it. you got used to him cooking badly but always insisting on feeding you after a fight, and the two of you sitting in his kitchen at two in the morning, eating burnt waffles like it was fine dining.
jungwon thought a lot about how it all started. how he used to hesitate with everything, how he was always afraid to take a step forward. now, when you reached for his hand in the dark, he didn’t think twice. when you leaned against him after a long night, he didn’t freeze up. it was strange how quickly it became normal: two kids in hawkins, caught up in something bigger than themselves, making it through one night at a time. and he knew he was falling deeper. every new piece of you he learned, every scar you showed him, every laugh he earned, it pulled him in more. jungwon wasn’t the kind of person who spoke about love out loud, not yet. but he carried it in the way he looked at you when you weren’t paying attention, in the way he tightened his hand around yours every time you walked down the same streets, heading back to the same porch, like it was a promise.
by the end of it, jungwon couldn’t imagine his nights without you. not the danger, not the fear, but the part after. the two of you walking through hawkins with dirt on your faces and bruises on your arms, holding hands like that was the only thing keeping the world together. it became his favorite part of all of it: the walk home, the routine, the quiet proof that you’d both made it through again. and he knew it wasn’t going to be like this forever, but he didn’t care. he knew you were going to be together. maybe the gates would close one day, maybe the government would move on to another disaster, maybe hawkins would finally sleep through the night again. but none of that changed what had already happened.
the thought crossed his mind sometimes, how everything started because he’d gone on a date with someone else that night. if he hadn’t, he never would’ve never met you. he never would’ve seen you, never would’ve followed, never would’ve ended up here. isn’t it crazy just how fast the night changes?
but it will never change jungwon and you.
#RONNIESNOTES: heyyyyy!!! i had way too much fun writing this fic honestly and i’m still kind of shocked i managed to mash together one direction and stranger things in the same story lmaooo but somehow it worked at least i think it did??? hopefully you’ll think so too :) this is my first long jungwon fic (even tho he’s my bias (heeseung is actually my ghost and he haunts me) which is probably why i was so perfectionist about finally writing something for jungwon) and i’m really happy with how it turned out!!! i hope you guys enjoy reading it as much as i enjoyed writing it <3
•°. *࿐ PAIRING ― riki nishimura x fem!reader
•°. *࿐ SYNOPSIS ― in which riki is smitten with you and your sharp tongue.
•°. *࿐ GENRE ― one-shot, ????-to-lovers, fake dating, angst, fluff, crack, rich kid au, highschool lacrosse au
•°. *࿐ WORD COUNT ― 22k
•°. *࿐ CONTENT WARNING(S) ― violence(one fight) and threats of it, lots of tension, mc is a horndog what's new, i meant to make this slow like the first part but im a weak woman, weed, mc is her own worst enemy, mc is stupid before she is smart <3, attempted unwanted touching, riki is the jealous type but in a green flag way, don’t ask where the teachers are, riki has bigger hands than mc, kissing(many a time), once i got the angst out of the way it turned into crack js
•°. *࿐ EXTRA NOTES ― thank you all for being so kind and giving me such helpful feedback and love! shoutout to my hg @1ntaks for once again holding my hand and basically beta reading this for me, you're the best queen.
•°. *࿐ SOUNDTRACK ― busy woman by sabrina carpenter, don’t smile by sabrina carpenter, big girls don’t cry by fergie, better than me by doja cat, diet pepsi by addison rae, what a girl wants by christina aguilera, positions by ariana grande, he could be the one by hannah montana, bmf by sza
part one.
AT THE BEGINNING OF FEBRUARY you realized how easy it was to get over Eunseok at the same moment that it sinks in that you can’t get over Riki.
Maybe it's the fact that he’s still friendly despite the ‘breakup’, or that he still makes sweet comments that feel too genuine to be taken as flirting anymore. He hasn’t changed much of his behavior at all since the end of January, actually.
The news of the short-lived relationship spread around school. Though it was clear that you both were still friends, most of the rumors were dispelled. However, some were still infuriatingly present.
Now, you’re not the type of person who gives a shit about what other people think of you—especially not a bunch of pubescent teenagers with so little going on in their own lives that they find entertainment in yours. But your patience is wearing thin. If you hear another freshman whisper about you not being over your cheating ex, you are going to go insane. (Despite your reputation, you are above throwing hands with 14 year-olds.)
“So you want something like this, right?” Julie taps on her phone screen from across from you, showing the nail inspiration photo you had sent her just last week. When you only nod, she tilts her head with a curious raise of her brows, “We can do something different, hon’.”
Quickly, you shake your head and straighten your posture in the chair across from her, “No, sorry. I just—I’m just thinking about shit. I still want a set like that.” You force a soft laugh, and she nods with a soft ‘okay’.
“So? Anything new?” She asks with a pretty smile as she plugs in her nail drill and turns on the dust collector.
You lay your hands onto the rest between the two of you, humming and then sighing, “I’m still single.”
Julie begins working at removing her work from three weeks ago with the drill, though the pink mask keeping her from inhaling the dust doesn’t hide her face of baffled confusion, “I thought you were dating that lacrosse guy, though.”
The sound of the drill and fan are like white noise to the both of you as you sigh and drop your head forward, “Didn’t work out.”
Julie gasps softly, clearly upset for you, “What’d he do?”
While you love that her first instinct was to ask what he did and not what you did, the latter is more fitting for the situation. “He was too perfect and I got scared?” You admit softly with a guilty shrug.
Julie pauses in her work and deadpans at you, “Ho.”
“I know!” You whine softly as she resumes, using your free hand to grab the chilled can of Dr Pepper she’d grabbed for you before your appointment started, sipping from the pink straw before you continue to whine, “I fucked up.”
“I never got to see a photo last time, either.” Julie recalls as she progresses to removing the hard-gel off your other hand, “You hadn’t picked anyone for your little plan, yet.”
Julie knowing about your genius plan to ruin Eunseok and Nayeon’s day, everyday, with your tall, hot, and sweet ‘boyfriend’ was inevitable. She had dropped the traitorous bitch as a client the moment you and Belle told her about it, equally as disgusted by Nayeon as the both of you. Not to mention, Belle always yapped her pretty head off during her appointments, so as previously stated, it was inevitable.
“You’re gonna hate me,” You say, grabbing your phone with your now dusty and bare fingers to quickly tap to a photo of Riki that Jake had sent you. He’s got his helmet tucked under his arm and seemed to be captured in a heated argument with another boy on the team. The first thing you noticed was his hands, though.
When she pauses to look at your screen, she looks at you again and sighs like a disappointed mother, shaking her head and turning the drill back on. You whine, “Don’t sigh at me, I’m in mourning.”
“I thought you said you weren’t worried about catching feelings.” She reminds you, and you roll your eyes.
“Bitch, look at him.” You sass, picking up your phone to show the still-lit screen before placing it facedown in your lap again, “and he was just so—sweet. And he liked when I was mean to him.”
“As he should.”
“—and his smile made me want to stick my head in an oven Sylvia Plath style.” You say with a soft pout on your lips, “It was so much so suddenly, and I freaked out.”
Julie turns off the drill and grabs the brush to clean off the dust from your hands as she nods slightly to what you’re saying, “And Eunseok was so recent.”
“—And Eunseok was so recent!” You repeat in vehement agreement, groaning up at the ceiling as you slump slightly, “Why do boys ruin everything?”
You spend the next few hours of your nail appointment ranting about everything. Riki, your ex, your ex best friend, your dad (who had texted you a long message after you left him that you promptly responded to with a ‘that doesn’t look like an apology so im not reading that’).
mommy dearest 🩷: can you pick up some groceries for me? just a few things
The text from your mom as you swipe your card on Julie’s reader is paired with a chime you recognize as your bank app. Your new nails tap on your screen as you open the notification, grinning at the sight of a hefty transfer of funds into your account.
The small list your mother sends doesn’t come close to costing the amount she sent you to pay for it, so you decide to stop at Sephora while you’re out too.
You choose the highest percentage to tip and sign her phone screen with your knuckle before bidding her a happy farewell and exiting the salon. The drive to the strip center is barely ten minutes long, your BMW filled with Christina Aguilera and the trip slightly delayed by your admiration of your new nails at every red light.
When you get into the Sephora, which you decided to visit first since your mom’s list included produce, you b-line to the skincare section.
You’re debating between oil cleansers when you’re tapped on the shoulder.
The woman before you looks around your mother’s age, a bit shorter than you but with a beautiful smile on her face. “I’m so sorry to bother you, but are you Y/n?”
You blink, caught off guard, but nod.
Her grin widens. “I’m Riki’s mom!”
Your stomach drops. Every instinct screams at you to panic, but instead, you paint a pretty smile on your face, the kind your mother taught you to perfect at charity galas. “Oh my god, hi!”
Before you can react, she pulls you into a hug, warm and tight, smelling faintly of lavender and vanilla. You reciprocate, though your arms are stiff and hesitant.
“I’ve heard so much about you,” she gushes, pulling back to hold you at arm’s length. Her eyes, as sharp and bright as Riki’s, scan you with something between approval and curiosity. “You’re just as lovely as he said.”
“Thank you,” you manage, your voice light despite the whirlwind in your chest at the sudden and information that Riki talks about you at home. “It’s so nice to meet you.”
“I can’t believe I ran into you like this!” she says, her excitement bubbling over. “You’re like a doll, honey. The photos he’s shown me don’t do you justice.”
Your brain short-circuits at the word photos. Plural.
“Oh?” you manage, keeping your smile intact even as your heart feels like it’s trying to escape the confines of your chest.
“Of course! He’s always talking about you,” she continues, as if she didn’t just drop a bomb on you in the middle of Sephora. “He showed me the cutest one of you two at the bowling alley—said it was his favorite night in a long time.”
Your breath catches, but you quickly cover it with a soft laugh, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear. “That’s so sweet of him.”
“It is, isn’t it?” She beams like she’s talking about a national treasure instead of her son. “He’s always been so shy when it comes to girls, but with you, it’s different. I can tell you mean a lot to him.”
The words land like a stone in your chest, heavy and impossible to ignore. You can’t tell if she’s trying to hint at something or if she’s just being a proud mom, but either way, you suddenly feel very out of your depth.
“That’s nice to hear,” you say lightly, though your throat feels tight. “He’s a great guy.”
She places a hand on your arm, her touch gentle but firm. “You’re good for him, you know. He’s happier these days, more confident.”
Your mind flashes to Riki’s easy smiles, the way he leans into you during conversations, the soft look in his eyes when he thinks you’re not paying attention. You swallow hard.
“Thank you, Mrs. Nishimura,” you say, your voice steadier than you feel . “That really means a lot.”
Her smile softens, and she gives your arm a little squeeze. “Oh, call me Rin, honey. And if you ever want to come over for dinner, just let me know. I’d love to have you.”
“Dinner sounds lovely,” you say with a polite smile, already running on autopilot. “I’ll have to check with Riki, but I’m sure he’d love that too.”
“Oh, good! I’ll talk to him about it tonight,” Rin says brightly, her excitement only adding to the internal chaos brewing in your chest. “You two are so sweet together—I can’t believe he didn’t tell me you were this gorgeous in person.”
You blink, momentarily stunned, and force out a soft laugh. “That’s really kind of you to say.”
“I mean it.” She gives you an approving once-over before leaning in conspiratorially. “You know, he’s usually so tight-lipped about his personal life. I had to drag it out of him that you two were dating in the first place.”
The air leaves your lungs like you’ve been punched. He hadn’t told her.
“He—uh—didn’t mention that we’re…” you start, the words catching in your throat.
“Together?” she finishes for you with a knowing smile. “Oh, don’t worry. I won’t embarrass him too much about it. I just want him to be happy, and it’s so obvious you make him happy.”
You feel your face flush, your carefully constructed composure threatening to crack. But instead of correcting her, you nod, your smile tighter now. “That’s really sweet of you to say.”
She reaches out and pats your arm warmly. “It was so nice meeting you, sweetheart. I’ll let you get back to your shopping. Tell Riki I said hi, okay?”
“I will,” you promise, your voice light despite the storm in your head.
As soon as she disappears down another aisle, you let out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding. Reaching for the oil cleansers again, you try to steady yourself, replaying her words over and over.
He didn’t tell her.
A part of you is…warm with the information. The other part wants to puke your guts out.
You stare blankly at the oil cleansers in front of you, your grip tightening around the bottle in your hand. The woman’s words replay in your mind like a broken record, each one sharper than the last.
“He’s happier these days, more confident.”
“It’s so obvious you make him happy.”
“He didn’t tell me you were this gorgeous in person.”
Your chest tightens, a mix of guilt and something softer—but no less overwhelming—clawing its way up your throat. The whole point of fake dating was to not make things messy. Yet here you are, feeling like a lead character in a rom-com whose life is falling apart. Right now would be an amazing time for Matthew McConaughey to come out and sweep you off your feet.
(You realize with borderline humiliating speed that you would much prefer if Riki swept you off your feet. Seriously, there must be something wrong with you.)
The bottle trembles slightly in your hand, and you force yourself to set it back on the shelf with a shaky exhale. You’re not the kind of girl who lets this sort of thing get to her. You’re confident, decisive, in control. Except when it comes to him.
The thought makes you pause, your fingers brushing absently over your nails as the memory of his smile creeps in—the one he reserved just for you, warm and easy and dangerous.
“Shit,” you mutter under your breath, grabbing the Sulwhasoo cleanser you were debating spending so much on and beginning to mindlessly fill the black Sephora tote as you walk through the aisles. Real therapy has nothing on retail therapy considering you know what your problems are and how to fix them. Paying someone to tell you those things seems counterproductive when you can make yourself feel better by treating yourself.
By all accounts, it’s been a good day for you. Getting out of the school parking lot was exceptionally easy despite the traffic you encounter more often than not. You got your nails done and love how they turned out. You’re currently splurging at Sephora. And now you have reason to believe Riki doesn’t secretly hate you for breaking his heart.
riki 🙈: just got out of practice
riki 🙈: are you coming to the game tomorrow?
You look at your phone as you tap your card on the reader and accept the large black and white striped bag from the girl at the counter. Thanking her with a smile before beginning to make your way out to your car again. When you settle into the driver’s seat, the heat turns on as you place the bag into the passenger seat.
Your thumbs hover over the keyboard, nails tapping against your case as your phone automatically hooks up to the bluetooth, ‘After Hours’ by The Weeknd beginning to play. “Oh, shut up.” You sigh as you pause the music and finally muster up the right response.
pretty girl 🪩: depends on how nice you are to me tomorrow
riki 🙈: i’ll bring you a gift rn
pretty girl 🪩: im not home
As soon as the text is marked as Read, your screen is replaced by his caller ID, a photo of him at age ten in a Michael Jackson costume lighting up your screen. You can’t help but chuckle before pressing the green button, reaching to turn the volume up as you ask with a playfully suspicious tone, “Can I help you?”
“Mhm, where are you?” His deep voice and hum makes you bite your fist.
You begin pulling out of the parking lot to make it across the street to the grocery store, “Getting groceries, why?”
“I wanna see you.”
Lord have mercy—
“You sure you don’t just miss Gus?“ You hesitate to mention the revelations made by his very kind mother in Sephora, but decide to hold off.
“Oh, I do miss Gus, but I miss his mom more.”
Oh, you hate the soft laughter that leaves your mouth the moment you hear it, “I won’t be long at the store, it’s just a few things.”
There’s a shuffle on the other side, then he says, “What store?”
“Riki, it’s literally like four things.” You laugh at his shameless eagerness, “I’ll text you when I’m home.”
He chuckles softly before humming again, “Okay, bye pretty.”
“Bye.” A beat passes and ‘What a Girl Wants’ by Christina Aguilera blares through the speakers so loud you jump, “Jesus Christ.”
By the time you pull into the grocery store parking lot, you’ve replayed his voice in your head at least five times. I wanna see you. It wasn’t just what he said, but the way he said it—soft, easy, like he wasn’t asking for anything out of the ordinary. Like it was natural for him to want to be around you, and for you to want the same. You’re...friends.
You curse the thought away as you grab your keys and step into the cold evening air, adjusting the strap of your bag over your shoulder. You don’t need to be thinking about Riki Nishimura and his stupid, perfect face and voice the whole time.
The grocery run is quick—milk, eggs, a few vegetables, and a bag of Gus’s favorite treats because you can’t resist—and you’re back in your car in record time. You text Riki that you're on the way home and find yourself smiling when he loves the message. It drops a second later when you realize what you’re doing and curse again, tossing your phone into the cup holder like it’s on fire and covering your face to self-reflect.
When you pull into the driveway of your home, it isn’t hard to spot Riki’s black Jeep parked at the curb. What is hard is hiding the grin that forms on your lips as you park your car and get out to grab the groceries in your trunk. The lacrosse player is already exiting his own vehicle and jogging over to help you.
“You didn’t have to come,” you say as he reaches for the bag of vegetables in your hands, but there’s no bite to your words.
“You said you’d text me when you were home,” he replies, his voice light and teasing as he takes the other bags with ease. “I figured I’d save you the trouble.”
You shake your head, grabbing your Sephora bag and locking your car. “So damn impatient.”
“Only when it comes to you.” His response is so casual, so effortless, it knocks the air from your lungs. You glance at him, but he’s already halfway up the path, waiting for you at the door like he hadn’t just said something that made your knees weak.
When you catch up, you unlock the door with the code and nudge it open with your foot, paising once you’re inside to shut it behind him. You kick off your shoes and pass Riki to get to the kitchen, placing your Sephora bag on one of the island’s chairs and watching him place the few grocery bags on the counter.
“Gus~” You call out as you begin to unpack the paper bags, and there’s a soft warbled meow in response in the direction of your room. The plump tuxedo cat appears around the corner, rubbing his body against the wall with another soft cry for attention that has Riki cooing and lowering himself to the ground to oblige him.
Once you’ve got groceries put away, you watch the 6’ something lacrosse player pet your cat with gentle scratches under his chin that he leans into with slow blinks, “Are you happy?”
Your softly giggled question has Riki smiling up at you, “So happy.”
With a soft huff of amusement, you grab your Sephora bag and walk in the direction of your room, choosing not to glance behind you to see if he’s following. Just act natural, bitch.
You leave your door open as you enter your room, thanking the lord that the cleaning lady had visited while you were out and your room isn’t as dirty as you left it this morning. Walking into your bathroom to start putting away your new skincare, you ignore the sound of him entering your room.
“You have a lot of perfume.” You hear him comment, glancing over your shoulder to see him admiring the organized collection on your open vanity.
“Yeah, I...have a problem” You say with a soft laugh of slight embarrassment at your habit of buying yourself anything pretty or relatively cutesy. “I have more in my closet.”
Riki whistles lowly, seemingly a bit impressed, “Which one’s your favorite?”
With a hum of thought, you step out of your bathroom to walk to your closet. You don’t mind the open door as you enter, reaching the island in the center working double as storage and where you keep your perfumes. Riki follows just to the doorway, leaning against it as his eyes move from you to the expanse of your walk-in closet. The floor-to-ceiling shelves in the back displaying heels and boots of different luxury brands, the pretty runner rug beneath your feet, it all screams you.
You’re plucking your favorite bottle from the display when his eyes land on the corner of something flat and white hidden behind a woven hamper. The easy smile on your face drops the moment you see him pull it out from its hiding spot, a boyish grin on his face. “You sneaky fuck.”
He laughs at your immediate cursing, holding the white board out of your reach as you hasten towards him to take it from him, “Pros and Cons?”
“Oh my god.” You give up on taking it from him, hands moving to try and cover his eyes, “Riki!”
“It’s about me, pretty girl.” he argues playfully, still laughing while trying to dodge your hands, “C’mon, just a peek!”
“Boys aren’t allowed to peek—Riki!” You fight laughter as his arm hooks around your head, his hand covering your face as he begins to read out the words you wish you had erased when you had the chance.
“‘Nickname kinda dumb’, you think my nicknames dumb?” He asks in an offended tone, laughter seeping into his words.
“That wasn’t me, that was Jongseob—“
“Cut his hair—Why is cutting my hair a con?” He asks incredulously, finally letting you push his hand away from your face to look down at you. Your back is still half-pressed to his chest, and the moment you can look up at him your heart skips like it’s playing hopscotch in your chest.
You catch the glance his eyes take down below your nose and find yourself pulling away quickly, grabbing the whiteboard from him to haphazardly use your sleeve to wipe the marker off, ignoring his laughed ‘hey!’ and sighing in relief when you erase enough for the rest of its contents to look like random pink lines across its surface.
When you spin around with a playfully pointed finger to curse him out, your words catch in your throat at the look in his eyes.
How a look could be both heavy and so soft, you do not know, but it's the best way you can describe Riki’s gaze.
“Wh—“ You stammer with hesitation, face heating up as his soft smile turns into a smirk of amusement, “Stop looking at me like that.”
“How am I looking at you?” He questions in a light tone, almost soft. If you didn’t know better you’d think him genuine in his innocence, but the slight twitch of the corner of his lips and the way his eyes flit to yours gives it away.
“Riki.”
His name leaving your lips draws his gaze away from them, and his smirk turns into one more wry. “I left your gift in my car.”
Your chest clenches painfully as he turns to exit your closet, your lips parting yet no words leaving them as he walks out. You follow after him, abandoning your perfume on the closest surface, “Riki, wait—“
“It’s okay—” he starts, turning just in time to stop you from crashing into him. His hands find your forearms instinctively, steadying you, but the sudden proximity freezes you both in place.
You blink up at him, startled, your breath hitching at the closeness. His fingers are warm through the fabric of your sweater, his touch gentle, like he’s afraid to hold on too tight.
“I—” You start to say something, anything, but your voice falters when you meet his gaze. There’s something there, something unspoken and unbearably soft that makes your chest ache.
Your words catch in your throat when he gently steps back, his hands slipping away as though he’s suddenly aware of the space—or lack thereof—between you. “It’s fine,” he says, a faint smile tugging at his lips, though it doesn’t reach his eyes. His voice is soft, but there’s a distance in it that wasn’t there before, and it only makes the knot in your chest tighten. “I’ll go grab it.”
You take a step forward before you can stop yourself, “Riki, I didn’t mean—”
“Really, don’t worry about it.” His voice is light, too light, as he cuts you off with a small wave of his hand. “Stay here. I’ll be right back.”
You hesitate, watching as he turns toward the hallway, his movements just a little too deliberate. His usual ease is gone, replaced by something quieter, more careful.
Your heart sinks. Is he upset with you? He doesn’t seem angry, but there’s a tension in the way he carries himself that wasn’t there before.
“I wasn’t trying to make things weird,” you blurt out, desperate to bridge the gap forming between you.
He pauses mid-step, his back still to you. For a moment, it seems like he might say something, but instead, he exhales quietly and turns just enough to glance over his shoulder.
“You didn’t,” he says, his tone softer now, but there’s a flicker of something in his expression—regret? Frustration? “It’s not you. I just… I need a second. That’s all.”
His mother’s words ring in your head again, “It’s so obvious you make him happy.”
Yet, you feel like the opposite is all you can see. You ask him to be your fake boyfriend to make your ex mad, not even considering his feelings. You tell him you can’t date him despite him treating you with more respect and care than Eunseok ever did. You let him kiss you. You kissed back.
Clearly, you have royally fucked up a few times now.
Confronting him about not telling his mother felt like it would only make things worse between the two of you. Maybe, it’d be better for him to hear it from his mother instead of you.
Your stomach twists, guilt gnawing at you even though his words tell you otherwise. You nod, unsure what else to say, and he offers a faint, almost apologetic smile before disappearing down the hall.
“And then what?” Belle questions with a vehemence that startles you slightly. Eunchae, Hiyyih, and Jongseob are all listening intently from their normal spots in your room, your oldest friend of the four standing with her hands on her hips.
When you had informed the group chat you were staying home the next day, you definitely did not expect the four to show up to your house after piling into an Uber. One look at your tear-streaked face was enough for them to ask the questions that brought you to now.
You stammer slightly, “He—He came back with the gift and made up an excuse to leave.”
“You let him leave?” Belle asks incredulously, and you shrink under her gaze, “Bitch.”
“I don’t know, okay!” You say with your face in your hands, frustrated tears burning your eyes again as you groan, “It’s all so complicated.”
Jongseob raises his hand, waiting for Belle to motion for him to speak before he asks, “Do you like him? Also, is this a bad time to say I have a joint in my bag?”
Eunchae punches his arm, and your hands slide off your face, mind too preoccupied by your current dilemma to even insult the only boy in the friend group for his lack of ability to read the room as usual. Hiyyih leans forward to let the youngest reach over her to get to him, “That was a good question until you ruined it.”
”Do you like him, though?” Eunchae asks once Jongseob’s arm is surely to bruise and his hands are up in surrender.
You look up from your hands, “I don’t know—“
“You’re pissing me off.” Belle sighs, palm moving to her forehead, and while you know she means well. “You like him.”
“I can’t.” You argue, voice shaking as you fight tears. Eunchae moves from her bean bag to sit next to you. “All that shit with Eunseok was barely a month ago—“
“Who gives a shit about Eunseok anymore?” Belle snaps, throwing her hands up in frustration, “Just because you dated that asshole for two years doesn’t mean it’ll take that long for you to move on.”
“It still feels like I’m using him.” You finally let the tears fall, and her frustration seems to dissipate. She sighs softly, kneeling in front of your sitting form at the edge of your bed.
Her hands move to cover yours, “Do you still have feelings for Eunseok?” The face you make answers her question and she adds, “Do you still think of Riki as a way to get back at him?”
“Of course not.“
“Then you aren’t using him.” She finishes. “He went into this knowing your plan, and you said he even told you it wasn’t you that was the problem.”
You shake your head, tears falling as you blink them away, “He looked upset—“
“Then that’s his problem.” She argues again, “It’s his job to communicate how he feels if he likes you.”
“He does communicate. I’m the issue!” You cry pitifully, “I don’t want him to think I’m not over Eunseok because—I’m still so angry.”
“He cheated on you with your best friend, you don’t have to forgive him to be able to move on to a healthy relationship.” She states.
“But it feels—“ You can’t find words for why it feels wrong to want to date Riki, because the thought of it makes your heart race, “I don’t know! I’ve known him for barely a month and I just—“
“You like him and feel like it’s not real because it happened too fast?” She reads you like a damn book, but you’re almost thankful for it.
“Yes!” You cry, “And he deserves better than that.”
“So, you like Riki?” She repeats her question, her tone matching yours.
You find yourself answering before you can even think, “Yes!”
Your stomach drops as Belle stands like her work here is done.
It isn’t you realizing you like Riki that has your stomach filling with dread and guilt, it's the fact that you like him more than you have ever liked anyone.
You liked Eunseok, even told him you loved him, but that seed hadn’t grown in your chest no matter how many times it left your mouth in the form of ‘I love you.’
Yet, you imagine yourself with Riki—loving him—and it all sounds so…easy. The mundanity you dreaded having to live with Eunseok sounded like a dream with Riki. Falling in love with him sounded like something you wouldn’t mind experiencing.
Which, all things considered, is fucking terrifying to you.
Hiyyih, who had been silently watching the interaction, pats the shoulder of the boy beside her, “I think she’s gonna need that joint now, Seob.”
The shaggy-haired producer straightens up, nodding and quickly reaching for his bag to pull the baggy from the front pocket.
Belle moves toward your closet, “Manchae, Hiyyih, help her wipe her face while I find her an outfit for the game tonight.”
Your eyes widen, and you shake your head in a panicked way that makes Belle grab your face in her hands, uncaring of the fact she’s squishing your cheeks, “Do you want Riki to be your boyfriend, yes or no?”
“Yes.”
“Then you are going to this game, and you are going to look hot.” She walks you through it like she’s talking to a child, “And when he scores the winning home run, you’re going to run onto that field and jump him, got it?”
Jongseob raises his hand again, though doesn't wait to be called on as he interjects, “Home runs are baseball—“
“That isn't the point, dipshit.” Eunchae sasses before turning her attention back to you, “Can I ask what the gift he got you was?”
You nod as Belle releases your face, sniffling softly as you hold up your hand to showcase the charm bracelet on your wrist. Two charms hang from it, your birthstone and a tiny lacrosse stick. “He said he got it before…everything happened.”
“He bought you a charm bracelet after a week of knowing you?” Jongseob asks in a suspicious tone, and when the three girls besides you shoot him a dirty look, he holds his hands up in surrender, “Sorry—it’s just I think I’ve…connected some dots.”
“You haven’t connected shit.” Eunchae says, before promptly adding, “I just wanted to say that, you can continue.”
Jongseob shoots her an annoyed look, before looking at you and beginning, “Well, I was talking to Soul the other day—y’know the one that goes to music club with me— and he said he and Riki were friends in Freshman year.”
His hesitant pause has you looking at him and saying, “What does that mean to me?”
He continues, “He mentioned him having a huge crush on a girl then—“
“Why would I want to know this, Seob?” You question with exasperation.
“Let me finish!” He insists, and you sigh, motioning for him to land the damn plane, “I did some digging—aka asking his teammates about it—and while most of them didn’t know or wouldn’t tell me, Jake kind of insinuated it was you.”
You blink, “How did he insinuate it was me?”
“Well, I asked him what he thought about your breakup and he got all weepy about it. Said he was rooting for you guys to be endgame.” Typical Jake. “Then, I mentioned you guys not knowing each other for long and it sounded like he almost said that Riki’s been into you for years.”
The four of you blink at the boy’s retelling of events, and Belle is the first to snap out of her surprise, “And why didn’t you tell us this when you found out?”
“You guys never let me talk. Plus, that seemed like the last thing she wanted to hear.” He argues, then motions to you, and none of the girls in the room can really argue back. He doesn’t seem all that bothered about the truth of his own statement, though, as he holds up the bagged joint once more. “Now, are we smoking this or not?”
Parking your car has never left you with such a dreadful feeling in your gut, which Jongseob swore a hit of his shitty joint would ease, yet all it did was jumble your thoughts more.
The temperature sensor reads a biting 30°F, and as you zip up the thick teddy puffer jacket you shiver with pure nerves. “Fuck.”
Flipping down the sun visor, you check your reflection in its mirror. The warm light reflects off the gloss on your lips, which you fuss over with the pad of your finger even though it’s as perfect as it was when you applied it.
Stalling. You’re stalling.
With a deep breath, you snap the visor shut and cut the engine, grabbing your purse and phone before stepping into the biting cold. The frigid air slashes through the layers of your outfit, your jacket doing little to stop the chill. You already regret picking the cuter option over something more practical, but you’d made your bed. Now you had to lie in it.
Ain't that the truth.
The field is already alive with movement and muted chatter. Teams are warming up, their voices cutting through the chilly air as balls thud against lacrosse sticks and cleats crunch on frosted grass. You can’t see Riki yet, but the sight of the players in their jerseys stirs the knot in your chest.
Decelis Demons v. YG Pirates
As you near the bleachers, a familiar voice calling your name stops you in your tracks.
“Over here!”
You turn, spotting Riki’s mom waving at you with a warm smile, flanked by two young girls bundled in matching puffer jackets. His sisters. The younger one is tugging impatiently at her scarf, while the older stands with her arms crossed, looking vaguely unimpressed by the entire ordeal.
“Mrs. Nishimura, hi!” you manage once you’ve climbed the bleachers to join her side, hoping your smile doesn’t betray the whirlwind of emotions brewing beneath the surface.
“I wasn’t sure you’d come,” she says, her voice as kind as you remember. “Riki didn’t mention anything, but I figured you’d be here for him.”
Your face heats at her words, but you force a nod, gripping the strap of your purse tighter and attempting to ignore the cold nipping at your fingers. “Of course, even if it's colder than a Yeti’s ass out here.”
You almost regret your colorful language before the older girl snorts softly, “Preach.”
Mrs. Nishimura chuckles, “It is freezing,” she agrees. “I told Riki he should’ve picked an indoor sport, but you know how stubborn he is.” She jests, and then proceeds to add, “Oh, and these are my daughters, Maki and Runa
You smile at the two of them, Maki’s a bit more subdued but Runa’s bright as she waves. At the mention of Riki, your eyes scan the field for a glimpse of his number. The players are still warming up, running drills and shouting plays back and forth.
And then you see him.
Riki stands near the goalpost, casually balancing his stick across his shoulders as he chats with a teammate. Even in the midst of the pregame chaos, he moves with the same effortless confidence that always draws attention, his tall frame impossible to miss.
The sight of him stirs something unfamiliar and electric in your chest. It’s not the usual comfort you’ve come to associate with him—it’s sharper, more restless, like an itch you can’t quite get to.
You tear your gaze away from him when you hear your name called once again, finding Gaeul quickly climbing the steps of the bleachers to get to you, her free gloved hand catching your arm happily, “I was hoping you’d be here!”
You smile, part of you relieved that she isn’t acting differently despite everything, and your eyes fall on the poster board in her other hand, “Is that for Jay?”
She follows your gaze and nods, unrolling it to reveal ‘Go Jay!’ with a big 19 under it, which you assume is his jersey number. The dark red sweatshirt under her puffer reads the same number as well. “Cute, right?”
“Very cute.” You reply with a soft laugh, smoothing a crease from the corner of the poster board as you add, “I’m sure he’ll love it.”
“He better,” Gaeul huffs in a mock seriousness, “M’freezing my ass off for him.”
Mrs. Nishimura, who seems to have been listening in from her spot beside you, chimes in with a knowing smile, “He still insists you come to every game?”
You momentary confusion is quickly shaken off as you remind yourself that Gaeul and Jay have been dating since sophomore year, of course Riki’s mom knows her, and the girl in question nods fondly, “He says I’m his good luck charm—“ She gasps, and you blink, “—I forgot to kiss him before I left earlier!”
Your brief panic induced by her gasp subsides as you giggle softly, “Oh, no!”
She playfully smacks your arm and grabs it, “You’re coming with me for that.”
Your laughter doesn’t subside, only grows, as she motions to the Nishimura’s that you’ll ‘be right back’ and begins tugging you along down the bleachers, “Where are we going?”
“To kiss my man.” She answers, but pauses in her step to look at you and clarify, “I’m kissing him, you…can kiss Riki.”
“I will not be doing that, but I respect the effort.”
She groans melodramatically as the both of you continue walking down the bleachers, “Aww, c’mon, you guys were so cute together!”
You thank the lord that it’s too loud for Rin and her daughters to hear the girl from this distance, both for your sake and Riki’s, but laugh softly, “I don’t think kissing him a week after breaking his heart is the right move to get him back.”
Gaeul pauses on the last step to look at you with an unhinged jaw as soon as you realize your mistake, opening your mouth to deny before the accusations leave her pink lips, “You want him back?”
Her words are shrill with excitement and you have the sudden urge to shrink into nothingness as you hover a cold shivering hand over her mouth and avoid the gazes of those around you both, “Bitch, shut up!”
She flattens her lips in an attempt to compose herself but fails to muffle the excited squeal and bounce of her gait as she tugs you down the side steps of the bleachers to get to the field.
The lacrosse field feels bigger up close, the expanse of frosted grass sprawling out under the big lights on either side of it. Gaeul marches ahead with purpose, her poster now tucked under her arm as she scans for Jay. You lag behind slightly, your thoughts still buzzing from the last few minutes.
“Gaeul, slow down,” you mutter, pulling your jacket tighter around yourself as the cold nips at your ears.
She ignores you, her focus locked on a cluster of players by the bench. You spot Jay among them, laughing at something one of his teammates says. Gaeul picks up her pace, her excitement palpable, leaving you to follow at a more hesitant shuffle.
You scan the group of players, not recognizing any of them as Riki. When you do find him, you exhale heavily at the sight of him deep in conversation with Jungkook, the coach clearly getting on his ass for something.
“Hey there,” a voice calls out, smooth and laced with a confidence that plants a murky feeling in your gut. You glance up to see a guy in a YG Pirates jersey standing in front of you, his helmet tucked under his arm and a cocky grin on his face. 32 is bold and dark green on his chest.
“Lost, sweetheart?” he asks, his tone dripping with mock concern.
You take a step back instinctively, your eyes narrowing. “Do I know you?”
He raises a brow, his grin widening as if you’ve said something amusing. “Feisty, huh? Just my type.”
Your stomach twists at his boldness, irritation bubbling under your skin. You glance over his shoulder, hoping to spot Gaeul, but she’s already halfway to Jay, oblivious to your predicament. “Ew,” you blanch curtly, trying to sidestep him, but he shifts to block your path again.
“C’mon, don’t be like that,” he presses, leaning in slightly. “I’m just trying to be friendly. What’s your name?”
Before you can muster a surely bitchy reply—or a curse—a presence appears behind you.
“I don’t think this is your side of the field,” a familiar voice cuts in, light yet edged with authority. You glance up to see Heeseung standing at your side now, his lacrosse stick casually balanced over his shoulder, his expression calm but his gaze sharp. “Can’t you tell by the colors, dude?”
The opposing player stiffens slightly, his grin faltering as he sizes up Heeseung. “Just talkin’, man,” he mutters, his tone defensive now.
Heeseung doesn’t flinch, his smile remaining intact as he tilts his head slightly. “Right. And now you’re done.”
The player hesitates for a moment before shrugging and backing away, muttering something under his breath as he turns and jogs off. Once he’s gone, Heeseung turns to you, his easy smile returning. “You good?”
You refuse to utter ‘that was hot,’ so you settle for a, “Yeah. Thanks for that, though.”
Heeseung shakes his head, “Nah, you had that handled.”
You barely miss a beat with your response, “Yeah, but it was sweet of you.”
He shrugs with his hand up and that same grin, “What can I say?”
You make a face, “Not that.“
He goes to defend himself, but Gaeul appears with smeared lipgloss and a pretty grin to happily say, “Coach is kicking us off the field.”
“Joyful.” You say with a playfully stiff smile that has Heeseung whining. A soft giggle from you has his frown turning into a grin again and he shoots you a salute.
“I’ll tell Riki you wished him good luck, ma’am.”
“Don’t get concussed, say that too.” You call back as Gaeul tugs you back toward the bleachers, poster under her arm creased. She’s beaming, and you giggle at her glowing smile, “I think I know what you and Jay got up to while I was harassed.”
Her smile drops as she gasps with concern, “Harassed? What happened?”
“It’s not that serious.” You quickly assure her, “Heeseung kinda scared him off, he was a guy on the YG team.”
“Ew.” She makes a face as you both arrive at the bleachers, and you nod.
“That’s what I said.”
As you both arrive back to your seats, and you gasp and happily accept a hot chocolate Rin had thoughtfully gotten for you with a sweet side hug. God you hope Riki still wants you and you can keep this saint of a woman in your life.
As if on cue, the referee blows a sharp whistle, and the players jog to their respective side of the field. Riki is dismissed by Jungkook and pulls his helmet from under his arm as the other members of the team crowd around the coach, his head turning just enough to scan the bleachers.
Your heart skips as his gaze locks onto yours for a fleeting moment.
He doesn’t smile, not exactly—but his expression softens, his eyes warming like he’s relieved to see you there. The corner of his mouth twitches just enough to feel like a secret, like something meant only for you.
And then he pulls his helmet over his head and focuses on Jungkook’s words, it almost feels like a shock to your system but the lingering warmth in your chest makes it hard to feel the cold anymore.
You watch the team huddle, Jungkook’s game face amusing enough to you that you snicker softly before your attention falls back to Riki. Heeseung, who if your memory serves you right is 01, catches Riki’s shoulder in a brotherly way.
Your brows furrow as you see Riki’s head tilt slightly at what Heeseung says, glancing in your direction and then the opposing teams, and you assume his eyes search for a jersey that reads 32.
The players move onto the field with another whistle, and you watch with dread as two opposing jerseys approach the center of the field. 10 and 32.
Now, you know very little about lacrosse despite it being your school’s biggest sport and your brother playing it, but you know that Riki is a midfielder. You know this through his excited play-by-plays of practice to you on the phone whenever he was finally out, as well as the basic knowledge of how a lacrosse game starts. Two midfielders wrestling for the ball.
It couldn’t be called wrestling, however. Riki swipes it barely millisecond after the ref blows his whistle, tossing the ball to 05.
You gasp softly as his shoulder slams into 32s chest hard enough to send him stumbling back, but his body moves quickly toward the opposing defense and away from the startled enemy. If you didn’t know any better you’d assume he was only doing so to keep him off Jake’s back. “Geez, what did you feed him?”
You ask Rin softly, eyes trained on her son and your brain attempting to wrap itself around the difference in his body language and…aggression on-field, when he had barely risen above a loud speaking volume in your presence. She chuckles, “Would you believe me if I said his diet largely consisted of taiyaki and ramen growing up?”
“No.” You awe at her words, eyes still on him but flitting to meet hers for a brief second, “That’s just unfair.”
“Tell me about it,” The elder of his sisters huffs, “I ate my vegetables and have glasses an inch thick, but he gets to eat sweets all his life and has perfect vision.”
“That’s your fathers genetics, not mine.” Rin clarifies, offering you an explanation like it’s second nature already, “That man can’t see something coming straight at his face until it’s already hit him.”
“My brother has horrible vision, too.” You snicker softly, your eyes rarely leaving Riki but only doing so to look between the three Nishimuras, “Refused to wear contacts, even for lacrosse.” You motion in the general direction of the field, and the older woman seems intrigued.
“Your brother plays?”
You shake your head with a soft laugh at your brother’s expense, “Not since highschool, and he was benched most games because he couldn’t see the ball,” your words have Rin laughing and Maki snorting, “plus he generally sucked. He really only joined because his friend was on the team.”
Jake scores a goal and the crowd around you goes wild with cheers, mainly higher in pitch. You let out a supportive cheer and immediately act like you didn’t when his helmeted head turns your way. You’re almost positive a shit-eating grin has formed behind his helmet.
The game continues, the scoreboard leaning toward Decelis’ victory as the first two quarters come to a close and half-time ensues.
“No.” You reject Gaeul’s suggestion almost as soon as it leaves her mouth.
“Aww, c’mon!” She whines, tugging your arm closest to her, “His face would be so funny!”
“He’s wearing a helmet, you can’t see his face. And it’s small enough for you to hold up by yourself.” You point at the poster-board in his hands, which she had happily held up for a good portion of the game until her arms got tired.
“But my arms are gonna fall off.” She groans melodramatically, “Please?”
“Buy me another cocoa and I’ll think about it.”
As half-time comes to a close, your right arm is screaming for relief while you hold your side of the poster up and nurse a cup of steaming cocoa in the other hand. Gaeul shamelessly screams in support of her boyfriend, who you see hunch over slightly like he’s holding back laughter of amusement.
Your hand feels like it’s about to fall off, and you curse yourself for refusing the mittens Eunchae had offered in favor of showing off your new nails. ‘They’re too pretty to cover up,’ you had whined, yet now you wouldn’t be surprised if your fingers started breaking off like a vampire’s from Twilight.
The scoreboard reads heavily in the home team’s favor, and you pray to every deity that the game finally ends for your arm’s sake (and your crippling anxiety). Though, watching Riki slice through YG’s defense and score points like they're nothing doesn’t look like it’ll be getting old for you anytime soon.
“You’re drooling.” Gaeul teases as you suck in a sharp breath at the sight of Riki once again shoulder 32 off balance, hard enough for him to fall onto his ass this time. Tensions are high as the time counts down, though part of you’s hoping this never ends.
“I don’t drool.” You retort in a soft grumble, yet you rub the side of your wrist over the corners of your mouth self-consciously. “I’m a fucking lady.”
“Right…” Gaeul agrees with playful doubt in her tone that’s punctuated by giggles as you playfully shove her shoulder.
The final whistle slices through the winter air as Riki launches the ball into the goal, accompanied by an uproar of cheers and groans from the crowd. Decelis has won, 12-7, the scoreboard glowing with the decisive win. The players pour onto the field, some celebrating, others trudging off in defeat. Your eyes dart instinctively toward Riki, helmet under his arm, hair damp with sweat as he exchanges fist bumps and quick words with his teammates. The way his expression softens to a grin when Jake slings an arm around his shoulders makes your stomach twist.
You clutch your empty cocoa cup, suddenly desperate to find a reason to approach him. Before you can muster up a plan, the chaos swallows him—players crowding, parents flooding in from the sidelines, and Gaeul’s excited tug on your sleeve pulling you back to the moment.
“Let’s go find Jay!” she beams, and you immediately look toward Rin, Maki, and Runa.
The woman smiles warmly and pats your shoulder, “We always wait in the parking lot for him. You two can have a moment.”
Gaeul is dragging you down the bleachers the moment you softly thank the woman. Your heart thrums as you scan the chaos for Riki, but he’s nowhere to be found. Gaeul bounces ahead, her attention locked on her boyfriend.
Her hand slips from your arm as you’re both swept into the excitement, and her curls disappear in the crowd.
The field feels like a warzone, buzzing with shouts, laughter, and the rhythmic stomp of cleats against frozen grass. You’re jostled in every direction, bodies pressing and colliding as parents swarm to congratulate their kids, and the players themselves disappear into the fray. Your fingers curl around the half-empty cocoa cup as if it might ground you, your pulse hammering in your ears.
Where is he?
You catch glimpses of Riki’s teammates—Jake’s unmistakable blonde head bobbing as he jokes with Heeseung, Sunghoon hoisted onto someone’s shoulders—but Riki remains elusive, swallowed by the tide of bodies.
“Riki!” His name slips out, barely audible over the noise, and you feel a flush creep up your neck. What are you even doing? Someone brushes past you, hard enough to make you stumble. “Watch it,” you mutter, turning to see a player in a YG jersey, helmet off and grin too familiar.
32.
He doesn’t say anything at first, just gives you a once-over that makes your skin crawl. His shoulder brushes yours again as he angles toward you, his smirk sharper now. “Didn’t think I’d see you again,” he drawls, voice low enough that it’s almost lost in the noise.
You make a face of disdain, like speaking to him both disgusts you and is beneath you, “Is that supposed to be cute?”
“C’mon,” He says, tone dripping with what you assume is his attempt at charm, “Don’t be like that. You’ve been watchin’ me the whole game.”
“I don’t even know you.” You respond with the same look on your face that reads you’d rather be anywhere else than where you are, listening to him.
He steps closer, undeterred by your tone and clear disgust, “That can be remedied,” His voice is low, and you see his hand move from his side to reach for your waist.
Your anger takes over your motor control, and the half-empty, long chilled cocoa in your hand splatters over the front of his jersey, “Don’t fucking touch me.”
The cocoa splashes onto his jersey in a satisfying arc, the dark liquid seeping into the white fabric. His grin falters for a moment, replaced by a stunned look that quickly twists into irritation. “Are you fucking serious?” he snaps, brushing at the stain, but it’s a futile effort.
“Yeah, I’m fucking serious,” You retort, mirroring his tone, “Who the fuck told you that you could fucking touch me?”
The players around you have started to notice the commotion, a few stopping to watch as Number 32 bites back, “You’re not even worth half of what that bitch offered me.”
If what boiled within you was anger, then what it morphs into at the player’s statement must be seething fury, “Excuse me?”
“What’s goin’ on here?” A hand clasps over your shoulder but the voice calms any volatile reaction brewing in your gut, Jungkook stepping between you and the YG player.
Jungkook’s presence immediately shifts the energy around you. His broad frame looms between you and Number 32, the way his body blocks out the other player like a wall of stone, calm yet unyielding. The cocky grin fades from the YG player’s face as he holds up his hands in mock surrender, shooting a glare at Jungkook.
Jungkook doesn’t even glance at the YG player, his focus entirely on you as he steps closer, his gaze softening slightly when he sees the tension in your shoulders and the shift in your jaw. “You okay?” he asks, his voice surprisingly gentle in the midst of the chaos.
You nod, even though the heat of anger still lingers in your chest. “I’m fine,” you say, but your voice shakes just enough that Jungkook catches it.
His eyes flick briefly to the YG player, who’s clearly not in the mood to test Jungkook’s patience any further. “Walk with me,” he says, his tone leaving no room for argument. You want to protest, to stay and search for Riki, but something about the way Jungkook stands there—tall, unshakable—tells you it’s not worth resisting.
He guides you through the crowd and off the field with his hands on your shoulders. When the two of you arrive at the edge of the field where the bleachers drop off and the parking lot comes into view, he releases you. “Do I need to go talk to that kid’s coach? Or parents?”
“No, I think the shit-colored stain on his jersey says enough.” You retort swiftly, the implications of his words stick with you, though. ‘You’re not even worth half of what that bitch offered me.’
It isn’t as if you woke up yesterday, you know he’s talking about Nayeon. Whether it be some kind of intuition or you’re just that fucking familiar with her thought process from years of what you had thought was friendship, you know it.
“Hey.” Jungkook’s gruff but somewhat gentle call snaps you out of your stewing, and you blink at him, “Don’t do anything I’m gonna hear about, okay?”
Your immature response is interrupted by the loud cheers and chatter morphing into shouts and hollers of a more alarmed tone that has the both of you looking in the direction of the field. Jungkook doesn't seem eager to let you involve yourself in whatever it is that’s going down on the field, you know this because he’s shooing you off toward your car in a dismissive but authoritative tone.
If you cared at all about anything except beating Nayeon’s face in at the moment you would be protesting and following after him as he jogs toward the commotion, but you don’t. Instead, you walk to your car, toss your Prada bag into the passenger seat as it begins to warm up, and plot.
Watching your friend group’s grins fall while learning that you did not, in fact, kiss Riki after the game but left without even speaking to him in a fit of blind rage was not how you wanted to start your weekend. You blame their soured moods for the fact that all four of them were avidly against your plan to beat Nayeon’s face in the next time you see her, but begrudgingly decided to not jump to conclusions.
The only proof you have that Nayeon was the one to sic that cretin on you may be his words, which aren’t worth much, but you refuse to believe anything else.
Monday arrives with not a singular text or call from Riki, and while Belle has already talked you off of the metaphorical ledge about it, you feel the urge to disappear off the face of the Earth every time you imagine seeing him again after leaving the game he asked you to attend without so much as a word.
Part of you figures the silence on his end is payback, or him deciding to finally let his alleged crush on you go. The other part of you really hopes he was just busy.
Jake is…silent in your second period. Not that you’d mind the silence on any other day, but it’s definitely not normal. Well, he’s silent until he catches sight of the charm bracelet on your wrist as it clinks softly on the desk. His grin is back in seconds and he takes his phone out.
“Want a picture?” You offer sarcastically. When Jake eagerly nods and holds his phone up for the picture, you shoot it a mock smile and manicured middle finger as your charm bracelet catches the light above.
With giddy giggles, Jake takes the photo and practically bounces in his seat in joy as he taps his thumbs on his screen hastily. You’re rolling your eyes and looking down at your worksheet when he asks, “Wanna know who I’m texting?”
“If I wanted to know I’d ask.” You respond swiftly, tapping the eraser-end of your pencil on the desk absentmindedly.
“It’s Riki.” He states with a smugness that pisses you off.
Looking up from the paper, you raise your brows, “Okay?”
“He needed proof,” He adds on with his arms crossed as he leans back in his seat, “Wanna know why?”
“I feel like you’re gonna tell me anyway.”
He’s still smirking as he proves you right, “He thinks you hate him.”
You blink, annoyed nonchalance pushed aside by genuine confusion, “Why would he think that?”
Jake shrugs, though his face seems anything but clueless and you hate that he knows more than you do, “Maybe ‘cause you left the game without saying anything to him.”
“Jungkook made me get off the field.”
“You could’ve waited with his family in the parking lot.”
“Well, I didn’t.” You snap, growing frustrated with the conversation despite it being your own damn fault, “Why are you telling me this, Jake?”
“‘Cause he’s my friend and he’s been miserable.”
“Then he should talk to me.” You retort with a sigh, guilt filling your gut despite your defensive words, and he tilts his head with a nod of agreement, “If I hated him he’d know. I don’t exactly keep that shit a secret.”
Jake, who had bore witness to your fight with Jaclyn Delvacchio in junior year, hums, “Well, can you do us all a favor and talk to him, please?”
“We have fifth period, I’m not gonna ignore him for an hour when he sits next to me.” You roll your eyes and focus back down at your worksheet.
By the time the bell rings, you’re halfway between plotting your own demise and debating if you should actually try to talk to Riki. The idea makes your stomach twist. What if Jake was wrong, and Riki doesn’t want to hear from you? What if your silence solidified something in him—pushed him away for good?
But then you remember how he smiled at you that day in the hallway, the soft tug of his lips like he couldn’t stop himself, and how his eyes lit up when you agreed to come to the bowling date. You remember the way his voice faltered ever-so-slightly when he asked you, like he was bracing himself for rejection but couldn’t bear not to try.
The thought makes your stomach hurt and your chest heavy, and you realize something that makes you want to kick yourself: you don’t want to lose that. You don’t want to lose him.
Yet, you so easily brushed him aside in your list of priorities to stew in your anger about someone who shouldn’t even be a thought in your mind at this point.
You screwed up. Again.
At this point, you feel like you’re winning the losing game. Not only do you hate losing, but you hate the feeling in your chest and gut that makes you want to go home and rot until Riki forgets you ever existed. Belle’s voice screams in your head to talk to him, to make the effort to speak to him and throw away your pride.
So, instead of staying in your old Latin teacher’s class for fourth period grading papers, you persuade her to let you spend your fourth period ‘at lunch with your friends’.
Your friends all share the same lunch period; sixth, when you’ve already gone home. So you lied, yes.
But Riki has fourth period lunch.
You slip through the cafeteria doors, the clang of trays and the murmur of conversation fading as you scan the room for him. The place is packed, and your heart beats louder than the chatter around you. It’s ridiculous—Riki isn’t hard to find. But your anxiety builds anyway, sending a slight tremble through your hands.
You spot him by the window, his profile framed by sunlight, his usual quiet demeanor marking him as an island in the chaos of the cafeteria. His friends surround him, but they’re not your focus. Your eyes zero in on him, his long sleeves pulled up to his elbows, his hair messy and covering his forehead like he didn’t feel like styling it this morning, the rings on his hands that glint in the cafeteria light.
But before you can make your way over, the sound of a voice you loathe cuts through the air, sharper than glass.
“A couple hundred bucks and he was practically my dog.” Nayeon muses at the two girls you barely recognize that sit across from her at a table not far from you, “Sucks that he failed, though. Would have spent my money on someone else.”
“So you…had him hit on her?” The girl on the left asks, a bit confused as she exchanges a look with the girl beside her.
Nayeon seems eager to relay the details, “I told him she liked playing hard to get,” She shrugs disinterested, yet you see a sliver of the smirk on her face from your angle, “made him all the more eager to knock her down a peg.”
The two girls seem peeved by what she says, like any sane person would be, but anything either wants to say dies on their tongue as they catch sight of you. “Girl…”
One trails off as you begin your approach, the same lightness in your gut that has your vision clouded with seething fury.
She looks over her shoulder just enough for you to see her smirk drop into wide-eyed fear.
Your hand catches the back of her head, slamming the side of her face into the table with little care for the eyes that immediately find you, “Sorry, I didn’t hear you, bitch. What was that?” There’s ‘ooo’s and ‘oh shit’s from the wuickly forming crowd as you pull her up by her hair, launching the flailing girl onto the ground. “Are you fucking kidding me?”
She scrambles off the ground, immediately getting in your face as she hisses, “You don’t deserve him.”
“Oh, fuck you.” You curse as your hand meets her face, and she shrieks as her head snaps to side.
Nayeon recoils for a moment, eyes wide with shock, but the anger on her face quickly replaces any hesitation. "You think I'm scared of you?" She spits, moving toward you with a snarl. She may not have expected this, but now that it's happening, she seems desperate to prove herself.
Grabbing her by the shoulders, you shove her into one of the metal chairs, the clattering sound of it screeching across the floor as she stumbles backward. The two girls hasten to get out of the way, faces a mix of fear and ‘oh shit’.
Nayeon picks herself up with blind fury guiding her actions, hands flying out as she lunges forward to shove you back. Your hands grasp her hair again, and the crowd surrounding the scene roars.
Her nails claw at your wrist as you yank her forward. She’s small, but her anger makes her stronger than she has any right to be. The fight is a mess of hair pulling and shoving, curses from you and shrieks from her.
You shove her hard into the table again, the force sending a tray of half-eaten food crashing to the floor, and the crowd goes wild, hooting and cheering. The heat in your chest ignites with every movement. The adrenaline rush is undeniable.
Nayeon's attempts to push you back only seem to fuel your anger further. Her breath is ragged, and you can practically taste the bitterness she's been carrying since the moment you stepped into her world. Every movement of hers is desperate, like she's trying to claw her way back to a victory she's long since lost.
"Get the fuck off me!" she yells, her voice barely audible over the chaos. But you don't listen. You slam her against the chair again, hard enough that she falls onto her ass, eyes wide with disbelief. Nayeon's face contorts in pure anger as you approach again, her hands flying up in a futile attempt to strike you. Her nails scratch at your arms, but the pain barely registers.
But then, someone grabs your waist, lifting you off the ground effortlessly. The world tilts as you're pulled off of Nayeon, feet leaving the ground. For the split second that you’re struggling against them, thinking it’s one of her friends or a teacher, you curse at them too.
Then the cologne hits your nose and the voice hits your ears, “Alright, that’s enough, pretty girl.”
Your heart stutters in your chest as Riki’s voice cuts through the frenzy, low and soft in your ear, but with a sharp edge of firmness that you’ve never heard from him before. His grip on you doesn’t waver, and despite the anger still coursing through your veins, you freeze for a second, thrown off by the ease he had pulling you off of that traitorous bitch—who’s being held back by Jake and Jungwon.
“Skank!” Nayeon shrieks, clawing at Jake and Jungwon’s arms that keep her from lunging at you again.
Any calm that Riki’s presence brought you is washed away, but he pulls you back by the waist as you move to have a go at Nayeon again. His arms wrapping around you to keep your arms at your sides as you bite back, “Says you, bitch.”
“Easy, easy,” He eases, your back hitting his chest as your jerky and angry movements force him to pick you up again, “Cool it, baby. You got her good.”
“Get her out of here before the teachers get here,” Heeseung orders in a hushed tone as the other members of the lacrosse team grab at phones and shove the crowd back.
“I’m not—hey!” Your defiant statement is interrupted by the arm around your waist tightening and your feet lifting off the floor once more. “Riki!”
“I know, I know.” Riki’s hold is firm as you struggle weakly against him, his voice deep and low like he’s easing a wild animal, his touch warm. You can’t bring yourself to fight back the way you did with Nayeon as he walks you out of the cafeteria building. His presence, the warmth of his chest against your back, it all has your defense mechanisms easing up and your anger softening to a low simmer.
When he finally sets you back down, the cool chill of the air eased only by the sunlight hitting the two of you, you turn to face him with a charged glare, “I can walk.”
He holds his hands up in good faith, or maybe an attempt to calm you down, “I know, baby.”
“And she deserved that.”
“I know, baby.”
The way he repeats himself so softly, how he’s letting you take out the remnants of your anger on him, it only makes the ache in your chest worsen. You exhale sharply, “Stop that.”
“Okay.” He says, voice soft but no pain or hurt to be detected in his voice, only in his eyes.
Your own sting almost automatically with both frustration and anger at yourself and no one else, “No, not—“ Taking a deep breath, your hands move to your face, “This is all wrong.”
“What is?” You try not to notice how he doesn’t attach ‘pretty girl’ or ‘baby’ to the end of his question. You fail.
“Everything.” You mutter, exhaling another soft, “Fuck.”
“You’re bleeding.” He points out, his hands pulling yours from your face to examine the scratches up your arms.
“Nails are intact, though.” You mumble softly, trying to make yourself feel better. Riki looks at you in slight disapproval, brows furrowing, and you add, “I’m okay.”
He sighs, shaking his head, “There’s a first-aid kit in the locker room, let me clean you up.”
“Ew, I’m not going into the boys locker room.” You reject his offer with an obstinance that would usually amuse him, yet he shows a sliver of frustration in his body language. “And I told you, I’m fine.”
“Okay, you can either walk or I can carry you.”
“As if.”
Your challenge is met with him raising his eyebrows and lunging for you a second later. You flinch and swat at his hands, “Okay, fine!” He pulls back again with a ‘that’s what i thought’ look, “I’ll walk.” you add with a defiant ‘hmph’ as you walk past him.
He doesn’t press the issue, following you towards the athletics building and holding the door open for you to enter first, to your utter fury of course. Stupid boys. Stupid emotions.
When you find the boys locker room, you pause as he pushes the door open, “I’m not going in there.”
He sighs with a nod like he expected as such, “I’ll be right back, stay here.”
You sigh and cross your arms, rolling your eyes and leaning back against the wall across the locker room entrance.
Riki returns with a first aid kit and his hoodie, “Let’s go to the bleachers, no one’s got practice today.” You assume the hoodie is for you, and you’re proved correct when he tosses it into your face and snickers when you curse at him. “C’mon.”
You begrudgingly walk with him out of the athletics building to the school field not a far walk from the entrance.
You hear the bell ring from where you sit on the bleachers minutes later as your chilled fingers are tended to by the lacrosse player, “You’ll be late, you know.”
“We’ll both be. It’s fifth period now.” He states as he delicately cleans the raw skin streaking up your wrist with an alcohol wipe.
“Ow.” You mumble, and he tsks with a growing smile.
“Don’t be a baby.” He teases, and you mock his words in a higher pitched voice back to him.
“Fuck you.”
He snickers softly, gently rotating your hand in his to clean the visible lines tainting the delicate flesh, “Baby.”
His statement isn’t the beckon or fond coo you wish it’d be, but it causes flutters in your gut all the same. You mock him again and he huffs softly in amusement, refraining from continuing the back and forth to focus on your scratched up wrists and forearms.
As he moves to your right hand, his touch lingers on the charm bracelet hanging off your wrist as he dabs at the skin. The metal chain catches the sunlight, twinkling faintly against your wrist as Riki pauses. His thumb brushes over one of the charms absentmindedly before he speaks, voice softer than you expected. “You’re wearing it.”
“Why wouldn’t I?” you reply, trying to sound casual despite the way your pulse stutters. His touch, even as fleeting as it is, sends a warm shiver through you.
“I just…” he trails off, dark eyes flicking up to meet yours briefly, his gaze filled with something tender. “I wasn’t sure if it was your style.”
“Why’s that?” You ask with a slight furrow of your brows, and he snickers softly.
“I’m sure it’s not the luxury you’re accustomed to.”
“Everything I wear isn’t expensive. I’m not a snob.” You huff in slight offense, though he finds it amusing.
“Never said you were a snob, princess.” He clarifies, discarding the alcohol wipe to grab the ointment from the kit, “Nothing wrong with being spoiled.”
“I’m not—“ you go to argue, but the amusement on his face has the words dying on your tongue as you look away from him, “You’re such an ass.”
“Aww, I’m wounded.” He pouts softly, before it turns into that pretty smile again and he laughs softly, “It looks good on you.”
It takes a half-second for you to remember he’s talking about the bracelet, and your instinctive reply comes in the form of a weak, “Fuck off.”
His head falls forward as he laughs at your weakly aggressive statement. His touch is still gentle as he continues, hands unbelievably warm around yours. How unfair.
“Your hands are freezing.” He states softly, tube of ointment placed aside in favor of engulfing your hands in his. You watch him rub at them, your nails clicking against his rings with every movement until they catch his attention, “These are nice.”
“I know.”
He huffs in amusement, biting his bottom lip before he says, “‘Course you do.”
The tension between the two of you shifts, delicate and tenuous, like a thread stretched too tight. Riki’s touch is warm and steady, and you hate how easy it would be to let yourself relax into it. His thumbs keep brushing over your knuckles, slow and deliberate, and your chest tightens with every pass.
You clear your throat, trying to focus anywhere but his hands, but when you look up, his gaze is already on you. It’s not intense, exactly. Not piercing or overwhelming. Just…soft. Patient, even. The kind of look that has your fight or flight instincts kicking in to protect the
“What?” you snap, defensive and unsure, your voice sharper than you mean for it to be. You regret it instantly when his brow furrows slightly, though his hands don’t pull away.
“Nothing,” he replies softly, his voice steady. “Just glad you’re okay.”
The simplicity of it almost knocks the wind out of you. You blink, trying to find a reply that won’t give you away, but the words stick in your throat. All you can manage is a mumbled, “I told you, I’m fine.”
“Yeah,” he says, his tone carrying a gentleness that makes you ache. “But I worry about you anyway.”
You don’t know what to do with that—how to handle the sincerity in his voice or the way his touch lingers like he’s afraid to let go. It feels like too much and not enough all at once.
“You shouldn’t,” you mutter, trying to pull your hands back, but he holds them lightly, just enough to keep you there without forcing you.
“Can’t really help it, pretty girl.” His lips curve into a faint smile, one that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Especially when you’re getting into fights.”
Your stomach twists, a cocktail of guilt and frustration bubbling to the surface. You want to tell him it wasn’t just a fight. That it was Nayeon, that she deserved it, that you were defending yourself in more ways than one. But that isn’t the truth, is it? Not really.
“I—” You start, then stop, swallowing down the lump rising in your throat. “I don’t—” Your voice wavers, and you hate it. “Riki, I can’t—I’m not good at this.”
“At what?” his hands grasp yours tighter as he leans forward with his gaze so…so attentive.
“This.” You motion vaguely between the two of you, trying to not cry in front of him. You’re failing horribly. “Us. You. Me. God, fuck.”
“Talk to me, pretty girl.” He pleas softly, and your chest feels as warm as your hands are in his.
“I don’t know what I’m doing,” You exhale, head dropping back in an attempt to keep your frustrated tears from falling, “And I keep fucking up everything good in my life, and I just—“
His neck cranes slightly to meet your gaze as you avert it to his hands around yours, waiting for you to continue. Listening.
You take a deep breath, “I like you, I really do,” his thumbs slow to a stop against your knuckles, but you don’t look at him, “and you’re so—perfect and I’m not—“
“Don’t say that—“
“I’m not.” You insist, and one of his hands moves to your cheek as you continue, thumb gently wiping away a stray tear, “I’m…messy and mean-“
“I don’t care about that.” He argues gently, but you’re not done.
“-and I can’t even handle my own shit in a mature way so why should I be able to give you anything better—“
You don’t get to finish as his lips press against yours, cutting off your spiraling words with a kiss so sudden and deliberate it steals every thought from your head.
His hand on your cheek tilts your head up toward him, his other remains holding yours. It’s not a hesitant kiss. There’s nothing unsure or tentative about it, not like the first one he gave you. He isn’t suffocating you, or doing anything more than moving his lips against yours like it’s all he’s wanted to do for years but knows to take his time savoring it instead of rushing in with teeth and tongue.
All you know is that you’re leaning into him, your anger, frustration, and self-doubt melting away under the weight of his touch. It’s a good kiss—better than good. It’s consuming, overwhelming, and entirely too much, yet you feel like more wouldn’t be all that bad.
When he pulls back it isn’t far, his forehead resting against yours. You’re breathless, your lips tingling in the aftermath and brain foggier than you’d like to admit. His nose brushes against your as he says, “I don’t care about any of that,” his voice is low and hoarse, “I just want you.”
You exhale shakily, feeling his words hit you lips, “Riki—“
“I’ll wait.” He promises softly, a hint of desperation in his words that has something in your gut fluttering, “However long it takes for you to be ready, I’ll wait.”
Your eyes flutter shut as you shake your head weakly, looking down at your lap. “That’s not fair to you.”
“I don’t care about fair, pretty girl.” He responds with a slight smile, hand moving from your cheek to tilt your chin up and make you look at him. His gaze flits between your eyes and lingers below your nose, a pattern that mirrors your own. “I can wait.”
His words are soft, spoken like an oath as his eyes find your lips again and decide to stay there a while.
“Why?” You ask, barely a whisper.
Riki lifts his gaze to look you in the eyes, a soft smile on his lips as he says, “‘Cause I like you more.”
You roll your eyes, “Is it a competition?”
He hums low, as if apprehensive, “Not much of one.” Your jaw drops slightly as if offended and he laughs softly, “I mean, I have you completely outmatched, pretty girl.”
“Oh, yeah?” You challenge with a slight laugh, “How so?”
He shifts closer as he hums again in thought, “Well, you’ve liked me for how long? A few weeks?” The question is more of a statement, and he seems unbothered by the short time-span with the smile on his face, “Yeah, I’ve got you beat.”
“You didn’t know me until recently, so it doesn’t count.” You argue with defiance, and he raises his brows.
“Are you invalidating my feelings for you right now?” He asks in a mock-offended tone, hand moving to his chest.
You scoff with playful annoyance, looking away from him briefly before your gaze finds him all over again, like a moth to a flame, “How long?”
His smile turns shier, and he chuckles awkwardly, “Nah, it’s not a competition. You’re right.”
“Nuh-uh, you started it,” You laugh, shoving his sturdy chest weakly, “C’mon, I already know. I just wanna hear it.”
Your smug words paired with the shrug you give have his eyes narrowing, “You know?”
You nod, “Jake ratted you out.”
Riki’s eyes widen slightly and he groans, head dropping forward in embarrassment, “I’m gonna kill him.”
Riki lifts his head, still chuckling under his breath as he finally relents, “Alright, fine.” His eyes meet yours again, warm and steady, even as a blush creeps across his cheeks and ears. “Since freshman year. Happy now?”
Despite you being the one to force it out of him, you hold back the urge to giggle and turn away from him. “Very.” You answer with a slightly blissful grin on your face.
“You gonna hold that over my head?” He asks playfully, leaning closer like he wants to kiss you again.
You fight every impulse telling you to close the distance yourself, but let your eyes move between his eyes and smirking lips freely, “I might.”
“Yeah?” He jests softly.
You hum, deciding to be a little mean. “I could also hold over your head that your mom still thinks we’re dating.”
His eyes shut and the hand creeping towards yours again freezes. His head falls forward and you panic for a moment thinking you went too far before you realize his shoulders are shaking and you can hear soft wheezing. “You’re mean.”
His muffled whine makes you snicker gleefully, and you add, “She said I’m good for you.”
You don’t realize the joy behind those words until he raises his head with a teasing but genuine (and flirty) grin on his face as he asks, “You’re happy about that, huh baby?”
You find yourself teasing him back instead of getting hostile at his flirty tone, probably due to the boost he gave your ego, “Mmm, not as happy as you seem to be with me as your girlfriend. According to your mom, anyway.”
Before he can reply, a familiar voice cuts through the moment.
“Nishimura.”
Both of you whip your heads toward the source of the sound. Standing at the bottom of the bleachers with his arms crossed and an exasperated expression is Jungkook. He’s wearing a hoodie and joggers, looking like he just came from the gym with his curls in a bun, but his sharp eyes land squarely on Riki first, then shift to you.
“What the hell are you two doing up there?” Jungkook asks, though there’s no real heat in his tone.
Riki straightens up, rubbing the back of his neck sheepishly. “Just…taking care of something, Coach.”
Jungkook’s brows rise, and he gestures toward the field. “And why aren’t you in class?”
“I—uh—” Riki stammers before Jungkook waves a hand dismissively.
“Save it. I don’t need the whole story. Just get your ass to class before I have you running suicides until next week.” His gaze softens slightly as it flicks to you. “And you? ”
You shrink a little under his stare, mumbling, “I wasn’t feeling well.”
Jungkook lets out a long sigh, pinching the bridge of his nose. “You—” He shakes his head before gesturing toward the parking lot. “Go home, kid. And no more fights, please—or distracting my team.”
“Alright, alright,” you mumble as you stand. You glance at Riki, who’s already grinning like this whole thing is hilarious, and shoot him a glare. “Stop smiling, you ass.”
Riki just snickers, his grin growing wider as he stands. “I’ll walk you to your car, pretty girl.”
Jungkook shakes his head, muttering something about teenagers and their hormones. “She can walk herself, get to class.”
Any complaint Riki wants to make is silenced by the pointed finger Jungkook sends him, and he sighs. Your cheeks burn as he leans down to press a kiss to one of them with a soft, “See you later, pretty girl.”
Riki averts his eyes from Jungkook’s judgmental gaze as his star midfielder jogs down the bleacher steps, offering a respectful bow of his head as he passes.
Jungkook then looks over at you, and you’re already arguing, “I have to get my bag from my locker.”
He deadpans, clearly unimpressed as he says, “Ask one of your friends to get it for you.”
Unable to argue with his reasoning, you let out a soft huff and begin patting your pockets for your phone. A relieved sigh escapes your gloss-smudged lips when your fingers brush against the device through a layer of fabric. Silently, you thank whichever of your spirit guides prompted you to button your back pocket before entering the cafeteria.
You suddenly remember another reason to stay a bit longer, “My keys are in my bag!”
Jungkook sighs, “If I see you in the halls in 10 minutes you’re getting banned from my field.”
You grin, bouncing down the steps with a happy, “Thanks, Coach Jeon.”
He makes a face of disgust, hand gently pushing the side of your head as you walk by, “Get out of here.”
It’s almost laughable how quickly the situation disappears, like it never happened. No one snitches—not one person. Even the crowd of students who saw everything miraculously forget when teachers start asking questions. It’s the lacrosse team who spins the story, their collective loyalty so seamless you almost believe they rehearsed it. Nayeon threw the first punch, they all swear. You didn’t fight back. You defended yourself.
The only video evidence of the fight are clips of Nayeon lunging for you and blurry photos, another thing you’re sure the lacrosse team took care of, so the school really have nothing to go off of. By the time the dust settles, it’s like the cafeteria incident is just another school rumor, one of those things everyone knows happened yet every retelling of events sounds skewed in some way.
Your mother hadn’t been informed by the school of the issue, thankfully, but you had endured a scathing voicemail from your father about the ‘stunt’ you pulled with Eunseok’s ‘bright and good’ girlfriend while eating Chinese takeout with Belle Tuesday night. She sat there munching on an eggroll and snatching small pieces of your sweet-fire chicken while your father’s angry ramble drew on and on for a few long minutes before he ended it with a, ‘call me back.’ The laughing fit you and Belle had over that one has become a bit of an inside joke now.
Thursday evening finds you in the kitchen of your home following your Aunt’s slutty brownie recipe with Riki on FaceTime propped up against the egg carton. “Butter, butter, butter…” You mumble to yourself as you reach for the ingredient, making a face as some of the softened dairy gets on your thumb. Riki, who had been silently observing you through the screen, snickers softly. You send a pointed look to the camera, “Don’t laugh at me.”
“M’not, you're just cute.”
“Fuck you.” You lose the fight against the smile forming on your face as you unfold the waxy wrapping of the butter and tip it into the mixing bowl, “I’m always cute.”
He only hums low with that same smirk on his face as he rests his chin on his arm, watching you switch on the mixer and grab a brownie pan from the cabinet beside the stove. A beat passes and he asks, “You don’t have to, you know?”
You glance away from pressing your knuckles into the cookie dough to flatten it along the bottom of the greased pan, “I know, but I don’t want your friends to have anything over me.”
Your joke is received with a soft laugh, “I wouldn’t let them hold it over you.”
“While I would like to see that, this is much easier.” You dismiss as you move to the sink to wash your hands and grab the pack of oreos. “Plus, Jungkook loves slutty brownies so maybe he’ll take the stick out of his ass if he gets one.”
Riki snorts softly on the other end, his bangs messily covering his forehead and eyes, “It’s game day, I don’t think the stick will come out.”
You hum in defeat, shrugging slightly as you begin to place the layer of oreos into the pan, “A sweet treat for good graces then.”
Once you finish the layer of oreos, pour the brownie batter over it, and stick it in the oven, you sigh loudly. Fanning yourself and pulling your hair off your neck as you move toward your phone to grab it. “Jesus Christ, it’s hot.”
“It’s 30° outside.”
“I’m not outside, I’m inside.” You sass with a ‘duh’ look on your face as you hold the phone angled up at your face as you walk toward the living room. “And how dare you try to contradict me.”
“Sorry, pretty girl. It won’t happen again.” He responds after a light chuckle.
You feign another roll of your eyes as you fail to fight the smile growing on your lips once again. “Yeah, that’s what I thought.”
The next morning, you arrive at school earlier than you’d like—especially with how fucking cold it is. Still, you look cute and feel it too, with a new lip gloss on your lips and a pair of pearls on your ears to match the ones on your eyes.
Exiting your car, you hasten your trek to the field. The bags rustle at your sides as you chant a soft tune of “I’m so fucking cold” under your breath. Your hands are, once again, not protected by gloves as you so vehemently refuse to cover up Julie’s masterpiece. She was very pleased that her hard work stayed intact during the fight, but recommended you treat your hands with care if you want them to last as long as they usually do.
Jungkook notices your approach, tipped off by the high-pitched shiver that escapes your lips as you finally arrive on the field—a sound that doesn’t go unnoticed by the rest of the team either. They seem to all slowly get distracted by your figure’s approach, eyes drawn to either the bags at your sides or cute way you’re walking in the cold.
“What are you doing?” Jungkook snaps in annoyance, his tone almost dismissive.
“Jesus Christ, this violates the Geneva Conventions in some way, I'm sure.” You huff softly, holding up the bags as you arrive at his side, “I made slutty brownies.”
Jungkook’s frown softens as the team parrots your words hopefully, and he then barks, “Single file, maggots.”
You’re almost too cold to enjoy the spectacle the team provides racing to get first in line, yet keeping a respectful distance ahead of you. You snicker softly as you set the bags down, bending with a shiver to grab them to pass out before the one in front of the line protests.
“You’re cold?” Kai asks with worry from the front of the line, and the one behind him, Taehyun, steps out of line with his arms held out.
“I’ll pass them out, you need to warm up.” He fusses with a slight scolding tone, “There are hot-packs over there.” He cocks his head toward the bleachers as he takes your place in front of the bags.
You’re left standing there in confusion as Taehyun takes over your current job, walking towards the bleachers in search of the stated hotpacks before a warm object is pressed to your cheek and you startle.
Riki snickers softly as you look at him in disgust before realizing it’s him, and your face softens to an eyeroll with a soft ‘fuck off’ muttered under your breath. You move to grab the hotpack from him, but he cheekily holds it out of your reach with a boyish giggle.
The look you give him has him flattening his lips to hold back a grin as he silently hands the heat pack to you with a muttered apology.
“Why aren’t you in line?” You question, and he has that same smirk on his face.
He shrugs, “Wanted to talk to my girl first.” You give him a look and he groans, “Can’t you just let me indulge for a second?”
“Patience is a virtue, Riki.” You muse as you cross your arms to tuck your hands away with a hotpack in each hand. “Plus, you said you’d wait.”
“And I will—I am.” He confirms with a shake of his head and a lighthearted grin, “But you could be a little more forgiving, pretty girl.”
“I don’t believe in forgiveness.” You retort with a shrug and a pretty smile.
“Niki!” Jake calls out from the line a few yards away, he’s a few players behind with a grin on his face as he says, “Don’t worry about getting in line, I’ll get you one!”
“Yeah, keep talkin’ to your girlfriend~.” Sunghoon teases, causing most of the team to snicker or whistle.
Riki’s ears go red, but when you point it out with a giggle, his hand immediately shoots to one of the red appendages and he shakes his head, “It’s the cold.”
“Niki, our shy boy!” Heeseung coos from the line, and the rest are all too eager to join in.
“Wow, Niki, you're so cute!”
“Niki, kiss her!”
“It’s giving Romeo!”
Riki groans softly, hands covering his face from your vision as you laugh, a warmth blooming in your chest that eases the chill in your bones. “I’m gonna kill them.”
He’s about to say something else when Taki takes a bite of the brownie in his hand and grunts something sounding like “oh yeah” with his words garbled by the mouthful he’s chewing.
You watch the scene unfold with amusement, leaning back on your heels as the team collectively loses their minds over a baked good. Taki, still mid-chew, looks like he’s having a near-spiritual experience, while Jungkook shouts something about chewing with his mouth closed.
Riki uses the distraction to lower his hands from his face, a grin breaking through his earlier embarrassment as he watches you watching them. His voice cuts through the chaos, low and teasing: “You seem happy.”
Your gaze moves to him, “Is that an issue?”
“Not at all.” He responds smoothly, “You look good when you’re happy.”
“I always look good.” You retort out of habit.
He seems to have expected it, nodding along in agreement before he asks, “So, if I asked you to wear my jersey instead of whatever cute shirt you were gonna wear tonight, would you?”
“Look good? Yes.” You answer with a light, teasing tone, “Agree? Mmm, maybe.”
“You’re killing me, baby.”
“Sweet names will get you nowhere.”
“So, you like it when I call you that?” He asks, stepping closer with a cheeky grin.
You remain defiant, arms crossed as you instinctively lean away from him with a laugh, “I never said that.”
“You didn’t deny it either.” He retorts swiftly, his head tilting and his eyes moving over your face with a smugness that pisses you off.
“No, I didn’t.” You agree, and his eyes narrow slightly at the almost flirty smile on your lips as you turn away from him to make your way back to Taehyun.
You fight the giddy feeling in your chest as you feel his gaze on you, deciding against sparing a glance back as you hear the crunch of his steps following after you.
As always, you’re right. Riki’s spare jersey looks adorable on you.
“He’s gonna die.” Gaeul practically squeals at the sight of you. It’s a bit warmer than the morning had been when you arrive at the opposing school’s stadium, the long sleeved fleece-lined undershirt protecting you from the chilled breeze. “Bitch, your ass looks fantastic.”
A grin brightens your face and laugh leaves your glossy lips as she fawns over your look, “Right?” You turn slightly to give her a better view of your behind purely out of excitement, because yeah, your ass looks good in these jeans.
“It’s smiling at me,” She gasps, smacking your butt lightly with a laugh before hooking her arm with yours and beginning to tug you along. “I didn’t know if you’d come tonight with everything that happened last game.”
“Why?” You ask a bit cluelessly, before remembering the event clearer and shaking your head, “Oh, that weird guy? No, I’m fine.”
She hums with a slight frown as the two of you get to the concessions, “I’m so sorry for leaving you in all the chaos, I didn’t realize you weren’t behind me until I got to Jay.”
Sensing the remorse behind her words, you find yourself quickly saying, “Don’t feel bad, I’m okay.”
“Ugh, I need your number! That’s been eating me alive all week!” She huffs softly as the line moves up, “I tried to find you at school but you kept evading me.”
“You couldn’t ask Belle? Don’t you two share a class?” You question with a slight tilt of your head and her jaw slacks.
“Why did I not think of that?” She mutters to herself as you both reach the front of the line and she orders herself a soft pretzel before looking over at you, “My treat, an apology.”
You aren’t one to reject free food when offered, so you look at the concession worker and say, “A Dr Pepper and another soft pretzel, please.”
Gaeul pays and a worker in the back pulls out two warm pretzels as another grabs the familiar maroon bottle from a cooler. She starts speaking again the moment the food and drinks are in your hands.
“Food isn’t allowed on the field, but I already gave Jay a kiss before he went on the bus.”
Her smile is suggestive, and you make a face that has her whining, “C’mon, I’ll hold your food while you go—“ She shimmies her shoulders and purses her lips into a kissy face that has you letting out a shrill ‘ew, stop!’
“That’s deplorable.” Your words contradict the laughter seeping into your speech, “I am not going down there.”
“Boring.” She groans, but her face brightens suddenly and she waves ahead. When you follow her gaze and find Mrs Nishimura approaching, you internally freak out until she smiles at you and you remember how lovely of a woman she is.
A lovely woman who seems to zero in on the jersey you wear the moment she’s within arms reach, “Oh, don’t you look darling!”
She pulls you into a warm hug and you accept it keenly, “Thank you! Are Maki and Runa with you?”
Your question comes as she pulls away, keeping you at arms-length as she shakes her head, “No, they stayed home with their father, neither wanted to make the trip.”
The trip being about an hour long car ride to the other side of town, which is fair. Feels shorter when you’re driving, though. You got through SZA’s new album on the way, too.
The three of you make it to the bleachers, finding a spot to watch the game as the ref whistles and the teams start to huddle. The board reads:
STARSHIP ALIENS v. DECELIS DEMONS
You sporadically tear pieces off of your soft pretzel as your eyes follow Riki the entire game, catching his eye at multiple points and having to act like you don’t see he’s got a shit-eating grin on his face under that face-guard.
The Demon’s win 12-8 long past sunset, a chill nipping your nose and the empty paper your pretzel came in crumbled into a ball in your hand. Rin sends you the same look as the last game before retreating toward the parking lot.
The moment you step foot on the field after releasing Gaeul’s arm, Jake appears in your view with a big grin, “Didja see the weaving I did? I looked cool, right?”
You debate breaking it to the boy that you may have entirely forgotten he was even on the team, too focused on his teammate to even notice him.
“I don’t think she was watching you.” Heeseung appears with his helmet off and his sweat-drenched hair sticking to his forehead. He moves to throw an arm around your shoulder and you quickly dodge with an ‘eugh’.
“You’re sweaty and you stink.” You grumble with a grimace on your face, and Heeseung seems ready to complain before he grins again at something behind you and a second later arms engulf you from behind.
“You’re cute from the back too, pretty girl.” Riki muses into your ear, lifting you up held against his chest with his arms wrapped around you.
“Riki, you sweaty bastard, let me go!” You whine, struggling against him as he lets your feet touch the ground again.
He giggles boyishly as he obeys, and as you turn to give him a piece of your mind you find the curses dying on your tongue at the grin on his face.
His smile is wide and unapologetically smug, the kind that crinkles the corners of his eyes and makes your chest feel like your heart is trying to claw its way out. His helmet dangles loosely in his hand now, his hair a damp mess but somehow still looking good.
“You can’t just pick people up like that,” you say, trying to sound annoyed but betraying yourself when your lips twitch upward. “It’s rude.”
He leans forward slightly, closing the gap between you as if he can’t keep himself away. “Oh? You didn’t like it?”
You roll your eyes, stepping back to put some space between you, but Riki matches your movement with an exaggerated pout, clearly enjoying himself. Before you can fire back with something probably aggressive or mean, another voice cuts in.
“Alright, Romeo, stop flirting and help us pack up,” Jungwon calls, dragging the duffel bags of gear toward the bus. He tosses a water bottle at Riki, who catches it without really looking.
“I’ll see you in a minute,” Riki says softly, his grin softening into something warmer that sends an entirely different kind of shiver through you. He leans down and kisses your cheek before jogging off to join his teammates.
Holy fuck.
Your heart is racing in your chest like an old woman whose heart is about to give out, and your long sleeve undershirt is suddenly too damn hot.
You barely manage to pull yourself together before Gaeul pops up next to you, a knowing smirk spread across her face as she loops her arm around yours. “He kissed you~,” she sing-songs, her tone just low enough not to draw attention, but her amusement is blatant.
“Fuck off,” you mumble, pressing a hand to your cheek like it’ll somehow stop the warmth there from spreading like the grin in your face. You hope the shadows cast by the stadium lights are enough to hide your flustered state.
Gaeul doesn’t let up as the two of you wander toward the edge of the field, her giggles like little daggers stabbing at your already tattered dignity. “He picked you up. And got touchy.”
“I’m aware,” You huff, “I experienced it.”
“I mean, I don’t think you get how big a deal this is,” she practically rambles, “Riki’s never been this…confident!”
“Oh?” You question with your brows furrowed slightly.
She nods with an eager hum, “Riki’s shy! At least he was when I first met him.” Everything up to this point hadn’t pointed you in that direction regarding Riki’s personality, too familiar with the smug smiles and nonchalance, “I mean, he’s like a different person now that you’re around.”
“That’s…good, right?” You question hesitantly, “I mean, he wasn’t weird or anything, right?”
Your voice must have failed to convey the jesting tone you intended because Gaeul quickly begins to backtrack as you approach the bus. Jungkook is at the driver's seat of the bus while some of the team boards it with their duffles hanging from their shoulders and others are loading the luggage compartment with gear, free of their shoulder pads and helmets.
Even without the padding, Riki’s back is broad, jersey hanging off muscle. You can barely see Jake past him, who's on the other side of the compartment helping organize it.
You forget about any questions on your tongue when the shorter male cheekily points out your approach from behind and he looks over his shoulder for you with the prettiest smile you’ve ever seen.
Beautiful bastard.
He wastes no time in loading the equipment bag in his hands into the compartment before stepping away from the bus, jogging toward you with that grin. Gaeul begins to pull away with a grin, but leans in to speak quietly enough for him to not hear, “I’ll give you guys a second.”
She shoots a wink at you as she and Riki pass each other, a soft snicker leaving you as she calls out happily for Jay, who’s just stepped off the bus.
Riki slows as he reaches you, his smile turning slightly sheepish now that it’s just the two of you. He lifts a hand to scratch the back of his neck, his other hand gripping the hem of his jersey. “You’re not mad about earlier, right?”
You ignore the fact his movements cause the jersey to ride up, revealing a sliver of his abdomen that makes you feel like a Victorian man seeing an ankle for the first time.
“I haven’t decided yet.” You respond with a nonchalant shrug and a thoughtful tilt of your head.
He chuckles softly, his hand dropping from his nape as he steps closer with the same magnetism as before, like he doesn’t want to be too far, “C’mon, I was happy you’re here.”
“And you just had to pick me up?”
His laugh is warm and full, the sound washing over you and melting away any annoyance you could have pretended to feel. “Yes.” he says with a nod, his eyes crinkling at the corners again as he shifts his weight from one foot to the other.
This time, you roll your eyes and half-fight the smile naturally growing on your face, “Fine, but that’s your first strike.”
His brows raise in curiosity, his grin turning to a smirk as he asks, “First strike? How many do I get?”
“Three. Duh.” You sass, and he seems to find that just as amusing as your very serious strike system, though you find it kinda hot that he didn’t question the logic behind it. (The answer: if Sheldon Cooper can have a strike system, so can you.)
“And what happens after three?” He asks, leaning closer with intrigue and that stupid smile.
“Let’s hope you never find out.” You retort, having an idea of what to say but not sure if ‘flogging’ is too far. (You know Belle would laugh, though.)
“Nishimura!” Jungkook barks from the open doors of the bus. The last of the team is filing onto the bus, probably eager to get home. “Stop lollygagging and get on the damn bus.”
You snort softly at the word choice, but find that you aren’t safe from the Coach’s annoyance, “You too, go home. Don’t make me tell them about Shadow.”
The gasp that leaves your lips is one of pure betrayal. The audacity. The nerve. “You—”
He raises his brows in a ‘do it, i dare you’ way and your lips fall shut.
Riki is unable to move past the Shadow thing. “Shadow? Like the Hedgehog?”
“No, like my cat.” You snap sarcastically, “Get on that damn bus.”
Your gaze moves to the vehicle in question, and you find the eyes of the Decelis lacrosse team trained on you and Riki. Through an open window, you hear a voice you think is Kai’s saying, “I thought her cat’s name was Gus.”
“Baby, you have to tell me now.” He laughs breathlessly, like he’s not sure whether to let it out or keep it in for your sake.
“It will never leave my mouth, and I swore him—“ Your words shift from defiant to angry as your finger shoots out to point at the tattooed man impatiently waiting at the bus’ door, “—to secrecy!”
Your words are full of betrayal as you vehemently continue with your manicured finger still pointed, “You took the Unbreakable Vow!
“You were eight.” The Coach retorts. “You used a Crayola marker. It was pink.”
You want to argue, but hold yourself back for everyone’s sake as you look back at a heavily amused Riki and say, “Get on the bus.”
“I’m not letting this go.” He warns with pure joy on his face and a laugh in his voice as he begins to slowly walk back.
You simply shake your head and cross your arms defiantly, “I’m not gonna tell you.”
He only tilts his head with ‘really?’ look, too smug for his own good, the bastard.
Jay and Gaeul appear, her lipgloss smudged on his lips and messy on her own. Jungkook notices them with a disgusted frown and chilling glare. Jay mutters a ‘sorry Coach’ after kissing Gaeul goodbye, and she happily begins to approach your side.
Riki takes the brief moment of time to circle back and ask you quickly, “Are you free tomorrow? Or tonight?”
You blink, mindful of Gaeul’s approach but finding his impulsivity endearing, nodding instead of saying something you’ll cringe at later.
His grin stretches wide, lighting up his face like you’ve just made his entire night. “Cool. I’ll text you,” he says casually, though there’s a spark of excitement in his voice that betrays him. Before you can respond, he jogs back toward the bus, shooting you one last look over his shoulder as he climbs the steps.
Gaeul sidles up to you, her arm sliding through yours with practiced ease, the grin on her face telling you she heard the exchange, “Ready to go?”
You’re thankful she doesn’t tease you again, nodding as the both of you begin to walk toward the visitor parking.
With your back turned, you don’t see one of the slightly ajar windows sliding open more, or the boy that pops his head out of it until he calls out, “Hey!”
You stop mid-step, glancing back over your shoulder to find Riki leaning halfway out the window, his hair messy and damp but looking entirely too perfect for someone who just played an entire game.
You raise a brow in silent question.
“You look good in my jersey!” he calls out, his tone playful but tinged with something softer—something that makes your heart skip.
Your cheeks heat instantly, and you can’t fight the smile breaking across your face. Gaeul snorts next to you, gripping your arm like she’s about to combust.
“I know!” you shout back, doing your best to sound casual, though the warmth in your voice betrays you.
His grin widens, impossibly charming, and he shoots you a two-fingered salute before disappearing back into the bus as the vehicle begins to roll away. Gaeul finally releases her pent-up laughter, practically bouncing on her toes.
“You know?” she echoes, mimicking your response and clutching her stomach. “Girl, you’re gonna kill him one day with that play.”
You start walking toward the parking lot again, tugging her along to keep her from lingering. “I wasn’t playing anything,” you say, though the warmth in your cheeks tells a different story. “I do look good in his jersey. That’s just reality.”
“Sure, sure,” she teases, bumping her shoulder into yours. “But you could’ve just said thank you. Or blushed. Like a normal person.”
“Showing that he affects me is embarrassing.” You grumble softly, “I’ll die before I boost a man’s ego like that.”
(Though, you did cry in front of him about how much you like him, so maybe that argument isn’t valid anymore.)
She cackles at that, nearly stumbling over her own feet as you reach your car. “But, seriously, I’ve never seen him like that. He’s so…” Her voice trails off as she unlocks her own car a few spaces down, but the twinkle in her eye says enough.
“So what?” you press, opening your car door but pausing before you get in.
Gaeul grins knowingly, pointing at you with her keys. “So gone for you.”
You spend the next minute acting like the thought of him being ‘gone’ for you, as Gaeul put it, doesn’t make you want to squeal into a pillow and kick your feet, and when the two of you part ways that feeling remains.
The hour drive home feels longer with Riki on your mind, but maybe it’s the fact you aren’t sure if seeing him again tonight is the best idea.
Something you’ve realized about yourself since meeting Riki is that you suck at impulse control. You preach self-control yet the moment he’s around you—or even mentioned—you find yourself wanting to act on every impulse the chemicals in your brain fire.
When you get home, pulling into the garage as your parents were once again out of town, you read a text Riki had sent not ten minutes prior.
A beat passes before he responds and you huff in disbelief.
The response comes in the form of a phone call. His contact photo lights up your screen, and you huff softly in amusement before pressing the answer button and bringing it to your ear as you get out of your car, “Yes?”
“Both?” His voice comes through, playful yet tinged with something warmer. You can hear the muffled chatter of his teammates in the background, he must not be home yet. “You’re really not making this easy for me, you know.”
“You asked,” you counter with a soft laugh, locking your car and slinging your bag over your shoulder. “I just gave you the answer.”
“Yeah? Which door should I be knocking on? Front or back?”
“You’re not seriously coming tonight, stupid,” you say, though the idea isn’t unappealing. You reach the door, cursing softly at how loud the garage is as it closes. Your hand wraps around the door handle.
“Why not?”
“Riki,” you start with a laugh, entering your home and flipping on the light.
“What? You said both,” he teases. You can hear the grin in his voice, and you roll your eyes even though he can’t see. “Besides, Coach is gonna drop us off at the field to grab our cars anyway. It’s not like I’m going out of my way or anything.”
You hesitate, caught between the thrill of seeing him tonight and the logic of how tired he must be after the game. “Are you sure you don't wanna go to bed?”
“Not really,” he says softly, a bit more serious now, warm. “I’d rather see you.”
Your stomach flips, the sincerity in his voice knocking the wind out of you. “You’re annoying, you know that?”
“And you love it,” he shoots back, but there’s a gentleness there that makes you smile despite yourself.
“You better shower before you get here,” You say after a beat, and you swear you hear a whispered ‘yes’ before adding, “Don’t need your stench stinking up my house.”
“Yes ma’am.” He chuckles on the other end, a sound that comes through your phone beautifully. “Just don’t fall asleep before I get there.”
“Yeah, yeah, just text me when you’re on the way.” You walk toward the kitchen, dropping your purse on the counter and unzipping it to grab the eyedrops as you say, “Also, do you have a curfew?”
“Why? You tryna keep me for longer, pretty girl?” His teasing words are unfortunately true, but you refuse to admit it.
“Well, it’s already almost 10:00.” You dodge his question as you unscrew the tiny bottle in your hands, “I didn’t know if your mom would want you home sooner rather than later.”
“Nah, she’s fine with it.” He assures you, and then a beat passes and he asks, “What about yours?”
“They’re out of town, so it doesn't really matter.” You shrug, “So to answer your question, the front door is fine.”
You hear shuffling on the other end, a car door opening and closing, “So, you don’t mind if I stay a while?”
You can hear the smile in his words, and with a bite of your nail you say, “I’ll kick you out when I get sick of you.”
He laughs softly on the other end, “I’ll stay till you kick me out, then.”
You exchange a few more words before he hangs up to drive, and you have a window of time to panic(and clean up).
After a five minute debate with yourself about taking off or keeping on your makeup, you decide the former is the better option with how late it is and your track record of falling asleep without doing so.
(You also make a promise to yourself that if you fall asleep in front of Riki, death is the only option.)
So, when you get the text that he's arrived and you open the door with a bare face, you half-expect him to comment on it. You had FaceTimed him late enough for the boy to bear witness to your nighttime routine on multiple occasions, but he’d never shown any reaction to it.
The only reaction you get is the same boyish smile as always, the warmth behind his eyes making your heart lurch in your chest.
“Hey,” he greets softly, hands stuffed into the pocket of his hoodie as he steps inside. He smells like some mélange of citrus and musk, his body wash and cologne you assume, and it makes your head feel funny.
“Hey.” You respond with a light huff of amusement as you step aside for him to enter, closing the door behind him, “I see you showered.”
His damp hair covers his forehead, the same messy style he has everytime he takes off his helmet and sweat saturates each lock, yet a bit frizzy like he towel-dried it before he left.
He chuckles, head shaking lightly in amusement as he lets you lead him toward the kitchen, “I listen.”
His words are playfully defensive, the boyish smile on his face and the way he cranes his neck slightly makes you laugh, “You better.” He hums, dropping himself onto one of the barstools at the kitchen island, eyes flickering over the space as you move to grab yourself a drink. “You want anything?”
“Whatever you have.” He shrugs, so you grab two Dr Pepper cans from the fridge and move back to the island.
Riki watches you pull two straws from the drawer in amusement, his elbows on the counter as you pop open the cans with practiced ease and an unhurried leisure. You catch his eyes with a raise of your brow that has him smirking slightly and saying, “Just watchin’.”
“I’d prefer you didn't stare.”
“Can’t help it.”
You roll your eyes at him, but put the straw in and hold the can out toward him anyway. When he takes it with that almost besotted look in his eyes and his fingers brush yours, you find yourself turning away from him the moment it’s out of your hand, “Are you hungry?”
Riki shakes his head, tapping his fingers against the can before taking a sip. “Nah, we stopped for food after the game.”
You nod, opening the pantry to browse and distract yourself, but it does nothing to drown out the weight of his gaze. This was a horrible idea. When you glance at him, he’s still watching you, straw between his lips, eyes holding something unreadable.
“Stop it.”
Riki obediently averts his gaze, turning in his stool until he’s no longer facing you—though he playfully overachieves, turning his back to you completely. You can’t help but poorly conceal a laugh at his actions, which prompts him to look back over his shoulder for your smile.
You act like you don’t catch the way his gaze follows you, ignoring the way it forms a knot in your gut. “C’mon, let’s sit in the living room.”
He follows without hesitation, the soft thud of his socks against the floor trailing after you. You settle into the couch, tucking your legs beneath you, and he drops down beside you like he belongs there.
He does it so easily—makes himself at home in your space, in your presence. It should annoy you. Maybe it does, but not for the reasons you wish it did.
Riki sets his drink on the coffee table, stretching an arm across the back of the couch. He doesn’t touch you, but he could. If you shifted even slightly, if he reached just a little further.
You pretend not to notice.
You scroll through the options absentmindedly, hyperaware of Riki’s presence beside you—the way his fingers drum idly against the couch cushion, the way his head tilts slightly in your direction when you stop on a show.
“This good?” You ask, your voice quieter than intended.
“Yeah,” he says softly. You get the feeling he doesn’t really care what’s on.
You settle into the silence, the soft hum of the TV filling the space between you. For a moment, it’s almost comfortable, normal. But the stillness makes your mind race, and it’s impossible not to notice how close he is. You shift slightly, your side brushing against his as you settle deeper into the cushions, and the air feels thicker somehow, heavier.
You steal a glance at him, his eyes fixed on the screen, but there’s a subtle tension in his posture that wasn’t there before. His shoulders are a little tighter, his jaw a little more set, like he’s holding something back.
Like a ray of sunshine on a rainy day, Gus appears around the corner with a sweet trill and takes the attention of both of you away from the movie(and each other).
Riki perks up immediately, his gaze shifting from the screen to the small ball of fur trotting toward the couch. “Oh, hey, buddy,” he greets softly, leaning forward slightly as Gus hops onto the cushions with practiced ease.
You watch with amusement as he settles in Riki’s lap, loafing contentedly and blinking slowly at you from his spot. Unable to bear it, you shift slightly closer to the boy beside you to reach your cat more comfortably, muttering a soft and fond, “Traitor.”
The midfielder laughs softly, ringed fingers gently scratching the tomcat on his head near your own, “He loves me.”
“He’s a lovey cat.” You retort, and though your words are true, you’ve never seen him lay in anyone’s lap this fast, much less a boy. He was never too fond of Eunseok, and doesn’t really care much for Jongseob, yet seeks out affection from Riki every time he comes over. “He likes warm laps.”
“Maybe he just has good taste.”
“Or maybe he’s a cat.” You retort, shifting again in your seat to make sure you’re not too close. He comments this time.
“Am I making you nervous?” He asks teasingly, voice low.
“Excuse me?” You ask with a judgemental confusion on your face.
He seems undeterred, only motivated by the tone you give him, “You keep fidgeting, baby.”
“What did I say about calling me that?” You lightly smack his side, and he winces playfully.
“My bad,” he concedes, hands lifting from Gus momentarily in mock-surrender, “it won’t happen again.”
“Don’t lie.”
He chuckles, “It’ll happen again.”
A noise begins to play from the other room, and Gus immediately launches himself from Riki’s lap to run off. You laugh softly at Riki’s slight pout, the boy dramatically reaching after the feline longingly, “That was his automatic feeder.”
“Damn.” He sighs, his hands falling back to his sides on the sofa. The tip of his thumb brushes your knee accidentally, and the tension in the air shifts once more.
Both of you seem to zero in on the simple contact, accidental and barely-there yet electric in a way you’d never experienced such minute touches. The tip of his thumb turns into the pad of it, a gentle tracing of circular patterns on your knee. Then, his knuckles join, as if testing the waters.
When you glance at him he's already looking at you, his eyes dark with something unreadable, something intense that makes your stomach flip and your chest explode with warmth. Like an itch, one you know how to quell but the side of your brain dealing with critical thinking tells you it’s probably a bad idea.
His palm flattening against your knee is enough for you to disregard the advice of your logical brain and act on the only impulse your brain can fire at the moment.
Riki’s other hand moves to your cheek when you’re close enough, long fingers tangling into the hair behind your ear as his thumb brushes your cheekbone. His head tilts to the side, nose brushing yours as he shakes it lightly. He doesn’t use the hand on your cheek to push you away or tease you further, any playfulness gone and replaced by a warmth and desire that makes your chest fill with butterflies.
Your breaths mix, the sound of the TV drowned out by the sheer madness of him. He looks like the last thing he wants to do is pull away, like it’s a struggle to not close the short distance between your lips and his—to not cross any lines. Then, his forehead presses to yours gently and he says, “We don’t have to. I can wait.”
His words are soft, nearly whispered, yet his deep voice makes them heavier on your gut than you’d ever admit. You find yourself speaking in a mirrored tone, “I don’t want you to wait anymore.”
His eyes widen just slightly, and his lips part, just barely, his gaze dropping to your mouth. His thumb continues its delicate path across your cheekbone, his fingers flexing in your hair as if anchoring himself to this moment. You can feel the warmth of his breath mingling with yours, the proximity making your heart race.
“I want you to know,” he begins, his voice a low rumble, “I’m not going anywhere. I meant what I said about waiting…I won’t rush you.”
You take a deep breath through your nose, his words a tender weight against your chest. But it doesn’t change what you’re feeling now or how close he is. How easy it would be to just close the gap and kiss him, to let all the tension and uncertainty dissolve with the space between your lips.
“I know.” You say with a slight smile.
Before you can second-guess yourself, your lips find his in a soft and brief kiss.
Riki’s intentions seem to differ from your own as you move to pull away, the hand on your cheek sliding into your hair as his lips chase yours to pull you back in. There’s no hesitation behind it like before, his lips moving against yours with a building urgency that you can’t help but reciprocate.
You gasp softly against his mouth when the hand on your knee glides up your thigh, fingers pressing into skin and pulling you closer almost desperately. He tilts your head just enough to deepen the kiss, a low sound from his chest setting your blood aflame as you maneuver into his lap.
His hands move as your knees settle on either side of his hips, warm palms splaying over the curve of your waist and fingers digging into flesh to feel you as close as possible. It’s too much, yet somehow not enough.
Your fingers thread into his slightly damp hair, another deep sound escaping his intoxicating lips that has your stomach flipping. His breath is warm against your skin, his lips brushing yours again and again, each kiss deeper than the last. You can feel the way his heart beats beneath your palm, just as fast as yours, and it makes something tighten in your chest.
Riki tilts his head slightly, his nose brushing against your cheek as he exhales softly, his grip on your waist shifting as his hands trail up your spine. He pulls you impossibly closer, a restrained urgency in the way he holds you. He's patient—always—but there's something in the way his fingers press into your skin, in the way his lips part just enough for his breath to mix with yours, that tells you he's feeling this just as intensely as you are.
Pulling away feels like the worst idea in the world, but your lungs ache and something in the back of your mind tells you this is all too soon, too fast. The sound that the disconnect of your lips with Riki’s makes sends a thrill up your spine that the look in his eyes only exacerbates.
His forehead is warm against your own as your breaths mix and his hands slide back down to your waist. His lips ghost yours as you pant softly against him, his head tilting and his nose brushing over your cheek as his lips find the skin there, then your jaw, and your pulse point. You can feel the chastity of his kisses, the type that’s so gentle you’re not sure if you actually felt his lips on you or you just want them there enough to trick your mind into believing it.
“God, pretty girl.” He sighs, burying his nose into your neck to stop himself from kissing you more.
“Riki,” you murmur, unsure of what you want to say, only knowing that you don’t want him to move away just yet.
He hums against your skin, his breath warm, sending a shiver down your spine. “Yeah?”
You hesitate, then exhale softly. “Nothing.”
He chuckles, low and knowing, before pulling back just enough to look at you. His eyes are dark, but there’s something tender in the way they study you, like he’s trying to commit this moment to memory.
His thumb brushes absentmindedly over your waist, his touch light, reverent. “You good?”
You nod, though your heart is hammering in your chest. “Are you?”
He tilts his head slightly, as if considering, then grins—small and lopsided. “Yeah.”
His gaze drops to your lips again, lingering for a beat too long before he exhales through his nose, shaking his head. “I should go before I do something stupid.”
The admission has your stomach flipping once more, but you find yourself huffing softly in amusement, “Yeah, you should.”
The moment your hands move to his shoulders and you attempt to dismount his lap, his arms wrap around your waist and his nose returns to its home buried in your neck, “Mmm, in a minute.”
A laugh escapes you, breathy and light, as your fingers absentmindedly trace the line of his shoulder blades. “You just said you should go.”
“I should,” he murmurs, voice muffled against your skin. “Doesn’t mean I want to.”
You hum softly, deciding against teasing him and instead settling into the security of his embrace. You feel him smile against your skin, slowly pulling his face from the junction between your neck and shoulder.
Then, his hands move, one sliding up your spine while the other lifts to cup your jaw, and he kisses your cheek. Soft. Chaste.
“Okay,” he murmurs, still so close. “Now I’ll go.”
You don’t stop him this time when he loosens his hold, when he gently shifts you off his lap. You don’t say anything as he stands, raking a hand through his already-messy hair(courtesy of your hands, of course), or when he stretches and his hoodie rides up. When he looks down at you, you almost shrink under his gaze before he smiles that warm way you love and he leans forward to grab your hand in his.
You let his fingers slide between your own, your eyes on him as he tugs you gently and prompts you to get off the couch to step closer to him with a soft huff of amusement, “I thought you were going?”
His hand in yours slips out in favor of joining the other on either side of your jaw, thumbs gently brushing your cheeks fondly as he mirthfully smirks down at you. You have no choice but to tilt your head back to look at him at this proximity, and he doesn’t seem all that eager to widen it.
“I am.” His muttered confirmation is contradicted by the way his lips find yours again, soft yet eager, no longer hesitant to join them as often as he’d like with your prior statement. When he pulls away and you chase his kiss, he hums with amusement in his grin, nose nudging yours. “How am I supposed to leave if you keep making me want to kiss you, huh?”
“I didn’t even do anything.” You defend yourself with a soft laugh.
“Mm, you don’t have to.” He groans softly, eyes shutting as he presses his forehead to yours and sighs, “You’re mine now, right?”
The bluntness of his question has your heart skipping but you hum as if apprehensive, “Maybe. You didn’t ask.”
His eyes open and he looks at you with playful disbelief and a whole lot of amusement, “You want me to ask you out, pretty girl?”
“I never said that,” You retort reflexively, ignoring the way his eyebrows quirk up in challenge and entertainment, “But I might be yours if you ask nicely.”
“Nicely. Right….” He nods in mock understanding, and when he leans in to kiss you again, you meet him halfway. “Will you…” He starts with his voice soft and deep in all the best ways as he pulls away between kisses to continue, “be…my girl?”
He pulls away just enough to see your face as you recover from the dizzying way his lips find yours, and your words are softer than you intended as you breathlessly reply, “I’ll have to think about it.”
His shoulders shake with soft laughter as he shakes his head and mutters, “shut up,” under his breath before he closes the distance once more.
•°. *࿐ PAIRING ― riki nishimura x fem!reader
•°. *࿐ SYNOPSIS ― in which riki is smitten with you and your sharp tongue.
•°. *࿐ GENRE ― one-shot, friends-to-???, fake dating, angst, fluff, crack, rich kid au, highschool lacrosse au
•°. *࿐ WORD COUNT ― 20.9k (yeah, i went kinda crazy)
•°. *࿐ CONTENT WARNING(S) ― violence(fighting), cursing, high school, mc has a shitty ex-bf, cheating(not riki obviously), almond grandma(mentioned), a singular cigarette is smoked, mc is shorter than riki, riki can also pick mc up, suggestive jokes, kys jokes, mc has hair (texture and length unspecified, but can be put up), objectification of girls(not riki tho), mc objectifies boys back, dreamy riki, not suggestive or smutty but mc is absolutely a horndog, mc is her own worst enemy, mc using riki to get back at her ex but he likes it, i did not edit this lmao
•°. *࿐ EXTRA NOTES ― inspired by euphoria and my hs experience, riki is a loser and a lover, implied that mc is 18, eunseok(riize) is an absolute asshole in this sorry guys i needed a villain, enha are all in the same grade, mc wears makeup and has a manicure of an unspecified length, mc has sick lore, also shoutout to my hg @1ntaks for digitally holding my hand thru this <3
•°. *࿐ SOUNDTRACK ― busy woman by sabrina carpenter, hiss by megan thee stallion, low by sza, i did something bad by taylor swift, without you by lana del rey, agora hills by doja cat, girls like me don’t cry by thuy, only girl (in the world) by rihanna, safety net by ariana grande, snooze by sza
part two
AT THE BEGINNING OF 2024, you lost for the first time in your life.
Finding your boyfriend of two years making out with a girl you know too well as Lee Nayeon, your best friend, on the Carrara marble countertop of your family home that you had trusted her to take care of for eight days while you were in New York was not on your New Year’s resolution. You had planned to stay to see the Times Square Ball Drop with your mom and stepdad, but you realized you’d prefer to spend it with your boyfriend.
He didn’t seem to share the same sentiment, considering he has his tongue down the traitorous bitch’s throat. “Are you fucking kidding me?”
She screams, both of them startled by your appearance and scrambling off of each other. You feel an urge to slam her face into the precious marble they were defiling, but you stay where you are. “Are you fucking kidding me?”
“It isn’t what you think, babe—“
The speed at which Nayeon’s eyes filled with guilty and horrified tears fuels your rage, and behind you, Bahiyyih appears.
“Look who’s back—oh?” She stops beside you, arm hovering to wrap around you until she sees what you’re seeing. “Eunseok? Since when were you back from Stanford?”
“Since he’s been fucking Nayeon, apparently.”
The barbie-haired girl’s eyes widen, and as she looks between the two she notices the same things you’re painfully aware of. Nayeon’s smeared lip gloss, her tears, Eunseok’s undone jeans, and the sparkly residue on his mouth. “Oh…”
Nayeon’s whimper as she slides off the counter snaps you out of your daze, “You’re crying?” The angry tears forming in your eyes go unshed as you walk closer to her, “You fuck my boyfriend, and you’re fucking crying?”
Anger turns to fury when the boy in question gets between you and her, pleading to let him explain, his hand grabbing your elbow to pull you away, only for you to jerk away, “Okay, I won’t touch you, just let me explain—“
“How long?”
“What? Babe, this isn’t-“
“How long have you been fucking him?” Your question is directed at who you thought was your friend, who avoids looking at you as she silently weeps. Scoffing, you realize you won't get a straight answer and choose to reel in your urge to beat her face in with one of your stepdad's bowling trophies that’s on display a few steps away. “Get out.”
“Babe, let me—“
The attempts at holding in your temper are lost on you, quickly forgotten as you walk over to the fireplace, grabbing the fire poker hanging up and holding it up. Nayeon lets out a scared, oh my God, while Eunseok tries to calm you down, demanding you put down the weapon. Instead of that, you walk past them, out the front door, ignoring Bahiyyih’s, “No, no, no—”
Eunseok’s red Mustang sits prettily in the driveway, and you can hear him realizing what you intend to do, but it’s too late for him. You slam the poker down onto the hood of his car, “Get. Out!”
“You crazy bitch, what is wrong with you?!” He screams, and you find yourself screaming back.
“Take your side piece and get. Out!” You slam the poker down again, and in minutes he’s got Nayeon in the passenger seat and is peeling out of your driveway like it’s on fire.
If rage had a physical human form, you would be it. Clenched jaw, a deadly weapon in your hands, and a white-hot fury in your eyes that promised to make those two regret crossing you.
The amount of junk food you have consumed in the last week would’ve sent your almond grandmother into an early grave. Your other friends had been visiting as often as possible to keep you from being alone in your thoughts for too long, offering to take you out or go shopping, yet the thought of possibly seeing either of those backstabbing fuckers in public made you sick to your stomach.
Pride didn’t allow you to cry, so instead of sadness and heartbreak, which you definitely felt but would never admit to, you felt pure seething fury.
“So I’ve been thinking,” You take a drag from the cherried slim between your fingers, exhaling towards the sky as you lean against the side of the pool.
From her spot on the lawn chair sunbathing, Belle says. “You can’t kill them.”
“I can, you’re just a party pooper.”
“The party should not include going to prison for murder.” Her statement makes you roll your eyes, “You aren’t built for prison, babe.”
“Well, that I can agree with,” You sigh, the water shifting around you as you turn to face her, arms resting on the edge, “but that wasn’t what I was thinking about.”
Pausing, you take one last drag from your cigarette before smothering it into the stone, “One of the things about him that pissed me off to no end was his temper, right?”
Remembering the many conversations and rants had and heard, Belle nods, “Mhm.”
“So what if I date someone I know will piss him off?”
“If that’s what you think will help you heal, then…” She trails off, and you groan.
“Why can’t you just say it’s an amazing idea?”
“Girl…” Sighing, she asks, “I just don’t think a third party should be involved.”
“He already got one involved, so why can’t I?”
Making a face that screams, well you’ve got a point, Belle then adds, “I think you should find someone who pisses him off but they should be aware of your plans. Don’t lead someone on.”
A cunning smile grows on your glossy lips, “I’m not.”
“Oh, so you already have someone in mind?” She gathers with a growing smile of disbelief, “Please tell me it isn’t one of his frat brothers.”
You grimace at the thought, “Ew, no. The only one of them remotely dateable is Wonbin and that’s meeting the bare minimum standards.”
Shrugging, Belle offers, “At least they're hot?”
“Hot does not equal dateable, plus I hardly believe any of them would date their friend’s ex anyway.” Shaking your head, you push yourself out of the pool and sit on the ledge to let yourself drip dry, “What about one of the lacrosse guys?”
“You say no to a frat boy but not a lacrosse player?”
“I know, I know, but at least I have eyes on them instead of hoping they're being loyal in another city.” You put a hand above your eyes to block out the sun, “Me knowing the coach kind of helps, no?”
“If loyalty is your goal then good luck, bitch.” Belle snorts, sipping from the pink bendy straw sticking out of her Dr Pepper bottle, “Lacrosse players are mansluts.”
“I know that, but…” You push yourself to stand, grabbing the towel Belle holds out when she hears the sound of your feet leaving the water, her eyes still closed and covered by a pair of Prada sunglasses, “I have a few options.”
“The only, as you put it, ‘remotely dateable’-“ she emphasizes those two words with quotations using her perfectly manicured fingers, “-lacrosse players are Jay and Sunoo. Jay is taken and Sunoo friendzones every apretty girl he meets.”
“I don’t know, Jungwon’s cute.” You think aloud, placing a hand on your hip, “He’s just a tight ass.”
“And therefore undateable.” She finishes for you. “What about the baseball team?”
“Eunseok plays, I’m trying to not be reminded of him.”
Belle hums in acknowledgment, “Let me look at the Lacrosse team's insta.”
You pull the claw clip out of your hair as you wait, patting your body dry until she holds out her phone for you to look at. Taking it with your dry hand, you examine the team photo.
You recognize the majority of them, rolling your eyes at a few familiar ones before your eyes land on one particular member of the team you don’t recognize. “Who’s number 10?”
Handing it back, you walk over to the oversized Hall & Oates shirt you’d stolen from your brother’s room(he left a lot of his clothes when he moved out, something about ‘finding his style). You hear the tap of her nails on the screen a few times before she answers, “Some guy named Niki? Or Riki? He doesn’t have any posts on his profile but in the photos he’s tagged in he’s called either of those names.” She gasps, a cackle escaping her lips, “Some of these are his mom tagging him in baby photos, please come look!”
Leaning over, you peek at her screen, “Oh my god, I would die.” You can’t help but giggle as she scrolls, this woman’s Instagram is a gold mine of childhood photos of this guy. “Okay, I feel weird looking at his baby photos, show me the other ones he’s tagged in.”
“On it.” Belle affirms, “Let’s go inside, too.”
“Okay, so-“ Belle stands before a whiteboard, one that your stepdad used to use before upgrading his office to have a massive one mounted on the wall, a pink dry-erase marker uncapped in her hands as she looks down at her phone for reference. After a quick text to the group chat, a brief summary of your plan was explained when everyone got to your house, and it seemed that everyone was invested. “-are we all in attendance.”
Jongseob is eating cereal in the white tufted chair in the corner of your room, Eunchae is in the bean bag, and Bahiyyih is on the floor between them, lined up like a good audience.
“We’re making a pros and cons list for Riki Nishimura,” Belle announces, writing his name on the whiteboard as ‘Niki’ between the two names, “feel free to interject when you have a pro or con to list.”
“Con,” Jongseob raises a finger with his mouth half full, swallowing before saying, “His nickname is stupid.”
“Opinions don’t count, stupid.” Eunchae rolls her eyes, earning the finger from the boy in the chair.
“But like, why is his nickname Niki?” Hiyyih asks, and Jongseon lets out a nearly intelligible ‘thank you!’.
“I assume it’s because there's another Riki on the team,” Belle guesses, and the three nod. You sip the Baja freeze you’d had them pick you up on the way to your house and hum.
“Make an ‘unsure’ column,” you instruct, and she does so, writing ‘nickname kinda dumb’ under it.
“Pro, he’s on the Lacrosse team so he’s fit,” Belle starts, writing it on the board under its labeled column.
“Con, he’s on the lacrosse team.”
A chorus of agreement accompanies it to its column.
“Pro, from the photos he’s tagged in and the team photo, he’s at least 6’.” Eunchae adds, Belle nods and writes ‘tall’.
“How can you tell?” Jongseob asks, and she rolls her eyes like his question is the most idiotic thing she’s ever heard.
“Because I pass Heeseung in the halls from 5th to 6th period and in these photos, this guy looks a little taller than him.” She explains, and you hold a hand up when Jongseob opens his mouth to insult her.
“Con, no instagram posts.”
“Pro, I just found a pic from Jake’s insta and I can see him in the back. He’s got abs.” (Thank you, Bahiyyih.)
By the time the sun has set, the whiteboard is packed, the pros heavily outweighing the cons. You had even searched the large group chat you were added into on Snap in freshman year full of girls you barely know who dated around and kept each other informed, and found his name zero times.
“I think he’s the one.” You sigh.
Jongseob snorts, pulling the cherry soda vape from his lips and asking, “Why do you think Eunseok will hate him?”
“He hates Lacrosse guys ‘cause he didn’t make the team, I figured it would hit a soft spot.” You smile and shrug.
“Hold on, the plot thickens,” Bahiiyih announces, eyes on her phone screen. “Do you guys remember that guy Nayeon had a crush on in freshman year?”
A chorus of confirmation causes her to grin, “I’m pretty sure it was this guy.”
You push yourself off your bed to peek over her shoulder at record speed, “No fucking way. How do you know?”
“I backread in the group chat, and she sent a picture of him, look!” She turns her phone for everyone to see, and from the slightly blurry and oddly angled photo that she obviously tried to take secretly, you can certainly see a resemblance, “Am I hallucinating, or is that him?”
“No that definitely looks like him,” Belle agrees, turning her head to face you with her jaw slack and a look, “He’s the one.”
“How are we gonna convince him to fake date you, though?” Jongseob asks, and you roll your eyes.
“Leave the planning to those qualified, Seob.”
You, all things considered, would call yourself a professional at annoying men. From years of experience before your brother moved out, you learned every which way to annoy him, and more importantly, boys in general. You are also smart enough to understand that his best friend, Jungkook, is your ticket to getting closer to the lacrosse team, aka Riki, even if you have to deal with Jake’s flirting and Heeseung’s annoyingly beautiful smile, you will get through it purely out of spite.
When you get to school extra early the day before the semester is set to start, parking your car and turning your sights to where you knew he took the team to practice in the mornings, and where you knew he would be even if he and your parents got back from New York just last night. “A hoe never gets cold.” You mumble the chant to yourself over and over as you turn off your car’s engine and the warm air stops blowing.
You curse rather loudly when you open your door and are met with a frigid breeze that makes your body clench to preserve its warmth. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.”
With your school bag on your shoulder and a thick white puffy jacket lined with fleece that keeps your torso warm, you speed walk toward the field, which the student parking lot happens to be in relative close proximity to.
The sight of you approaching is enough to stop a good half of the players in their laps around the field, a typical start to Jungkook’s diabolical training regimen. The distraction you pose catches the man of the hour’s attention, and when he turns to face the source, he seems shockingly displeased. With a barked order to keep running thrown at the stopped players, he turns to you again and asks, “What are you doing here?”
Your lips part in dramatic offense, “You seem unhappy to see me and I don’t appreciate it.”
Rolling his eyes and pulling two hotpacks from his bag on the ground and handing them to you, he repeats, “What are you doing at school so early?”
Shrugging, you shove your hands into your jacket pockets and glance at the team, catching the eye of Sunoo and winking as he passes by. “I’m bored and single. What better way to spend my time than watching lacrosse players train in frozen hell?”
Jungkook’s face tells you he’s far less than impressed, and he seems at a loss for words. You decide to let him in on your plan, not seeing any harm in doing so.
“Okay, I’m trying to ruin Eunseok's day, every day, by reminding him I have a hotter, taller, and more athletically skilled boyfriend than he ever was or could be,” You start, “And I’m calling in a favor.”
“What favor? You don’t do shit—“
“Okay then, tell me more about him or I’ll tell my brother about what really happened to his Audi last Christmas.” The Audi in question had a large scuff on the back bumper that Jungkook had paid you three hundred dollars to take the blame for, which while your brother was upset, you knew he’d be far angrier if he knew the truth. Jungkook knew that too.
If the cold wasn’t already doing the job, you would say he lost all color in his face. A sweet smile forms on your lips, and you take the moment of his speechless horror to take another glance at the team.
When you meet the eyes of the familiar boy in a dark red hoodie with the number 10 on it you feel your face warm up involuntarily. Instinctively, you swallow the nervous lump in your throat, something that’s never happened to you, and quickly turn back to the coach (not before catching sight of the slight tug at the corner of #10’s plump lips). “So?”
Jungkook sighs, “Which one?”
“Number 10.”
Immediately, the man shakes his head, “Nuh-uh.” At the raise of one of your eyebrows, he quickly explains, “He’s one of my best players, I don’t need him being distracted by my best friend’s kid sister.”
You roll your eyes, “If you have a better option for me, then please, do share.”
“What about Jungwon?”
“Tight ass,” You say barely a breath later, eyes watching said player jog past, lingering on his backside as he moves away, “In more ways than one.”
“Okay, stop.” Jungkook says, disgust on his face, “What about Taehyun.”
“He’s Dr. Evil and Jungwon is his mini-me, they’re both so strict they’d never agree.”
He makes a face, point heard, before suggesting one last player in a last-ditch effort, “Jak—”
“If the name Jake Sim leaves your mouth I’m setting your Mercedes on fire.”
His mouth shuts automatically, and he sighs.
“So, tell me about him.”
“Why don’t you go ask?”
You give him a look that read, don’t be fucking stupid.
“Ugh, fine. What do you wanna know?” Jungkook caves, blowing the whistle around his neck, signaling the team to start the next warmup, pushups.
“What’s his favorite color?” You ask, obviously pulling his leg considering the grin on your face.
“Nishimura!” He immediately calls, and number 10 looks up from his position on the ground. You don’t look longer than a moment, your spine straightening up automatically when his eyes meet yours once again, “What’s your favorite color?”
You don’t look, but you can bet money that he probably looks confused considering your brother’s best friend tells him to ‘just answer the damn question’, and then you hear his voice.
“Black.”
Fuck, this is bad. The little shit in you wants to say that black isn’t technically a color, that it’s the absence of such, but the thought of looking at him and saying something like that makes your palms go clammy and your heart beat out of your chest. His voice is deep, and with the exertion in it from the warmup, you think you might just have to throw yourself into an active volcano.
“Mine is green, coach!”
“I didn’t ask, Huening.” Your lips flatten, your hand flying to cover your mouth as you try not to giggle. Instinctively, you look at Kai, whose ears have gone red in embarrassment, and you take pity.
“I like green too, Kai.” You say loudly for him to hear, and his head perks up to look at you.
“I like blue!” Jake pipes in, all too eager to include himself.
“Nobody asked, Jake.” Jay grunts, on his hundredth push-up and losing patience.
Jungkook blows the whistle again, “Burpees.”
“You’re a monster.” You muse, watching the team lose all faith in a heavenly being as they do what he says. Every jump grants you the sight of rock-hard abs, so you're not really complaining.
“Stop ogling the team, it’s gross.” Jungkook hisses, “What else do you want to know?”
“Girlfriend?”
“Not that I know of.”
“Type?”
He makes a face, “I don’t know. He’s a teenager, probably anything that breathes in his direction.”
“Age?”
“Turned 18 in December, the team threw him a pizza party.”
“Beginning or end of December?” You ask quizzically.
Rolling his eyes, Jungkook huffs, “Why does it matter?”
“I need to know if I’m dealing with a Sagittarius or a Capricorn. Please, please, tell me he isn’t a Capricorn.”
“Jesus Christ…” Thinking about it, Jungkook answers, “I think it was in the first week?”
A sigh of relief leaves you, “Thank god. I cannot stand an earth sign.”
“I’m an earth sign.”
“And it took me ages to forgive you for that.”
“Okay, go away.” Jungkook shakes his head, obviously annoyed and desperate to get rid of you.
“But I’m not—“
“Nishimura.” Dread fills you, and before you can stop him from opening his mouth again, number 10 stands up.
“Yeah, Coach?”
“Walk this one to her car.”
Confusion is etched on his pretty face, but he nods, jogging over as you curse at Jungkook quietly enough for him and the lord to hear but not the approaching lacrosse player.
When he stands just a few feet away, waiting for you to start walking with him, you turn to face him and feel a jolt in your stomach. He’s tall.
You already knew this but seeing it with your eyes is a different experience than seeing photos of it. Get a grip, bitch.
Offering him a condescending smile, a defense mechanism to keep yourself from humiliating yourself by showing how affected you are, you shoot your brother’s friend the finger and begin to make your way off the field.
You pass Riki, not even sparing him a look as you do so, but listening to make sure he’s following. With his much longer legs, it isn’t long before he’s walking just slightly behind you, not at your side but close enough for you to sense his presence. When you make it to your car in what felt like awkward silence to you but was probably nothing to him, you heave a sigh of relief when she unlocks and you open the door.
Not sitting yourself inside yet, despite the cold and the fact your body hurts from it, you turn to face him.
“This yours?” He asks. God, that voice again.
You hum in confirmation, “Her name is Manon.”
“Nice name.” He compliments, and you tilt your head, looking between his eyes and glancing down to his mouth every so often. He swallows almost unnoticeably, “What’s yours?”
Resisting the urge to ask if he truly didn’t know, you conclude that would sound far too conceited, and tell him your name.
He tries it out, and you can see the tip of his tongue flick across his teeth before he says, “I’m Riki.”
“I know.” You say shamelessly, “You can go back to practice, now.”
If you didn’t know any better, you would think the slight smirk that tugs at his lips is of annoyance, but with the way his eyes look down your face every other second, you know exactly what you’re doing. He blinks, turning his body slightly to walk away, “Yeah.”
You wait until his back is to you to slide into your driver’s seat, quickly pulling your phone out to text the group chat.
bitchqueen: guys this is bad
bitchqueen: he’s HOT
bitchqueen: i can’t do this
Glancing back up to see if Riki left, you sigh in relief when he’s nowhere to be found. You look back down when your phone dings.
bellenotdelphine: eunseok bought nayeon a van cleef bracelet
bitchqueen: okay bitches im back
myrootcame2005: ur resolve inspires generations
Going back to school wasn’t so bad, or at least it isn’t as bad you thought it would be. You were the only licensed driver in your friend group, and as such you expected to have a full car every morning, picking up Belle first as she lived down the street, and then Jongseob and Eunchae, who grew up neighbors in a neighborhood you pass on the way to school. Bahiyyih usually gets a ride with her brother, though she does complain his truck still smells like the musky car freshener he spilled back when he got it.
After parking and putting on your shoes that you’d taken off because you hate driving with them on, you had Belle hand you your backpack from at her feet and the four of you exited the car into the frigid weather. “Jesus fuck, why is it so cold?”
Belle huddled by you as you sped walked to the school doors, where you finally took notice of the stares directed your way. Ignoring the staring was the easy part, having a freshman walk up to you and ask, “Hey, is it true you destroyed your boyfriend’s car with a crowbar?” was hard to avoid.
Belle seems ready to tell them to fuck off but you smile sweetly, “It was a fire poker, actually, and destroyed is a strong word. Also, who the fuck are you?”
You got in enough trouble with your parents when they found out, these people could at least get the facts right. When the 14 year old boy opens his mouth to answer, you make a face, “I don’t actually care.”
Ignoring that encounter, you would say it was a relatively normal day. AP classes already gave you packets and mounds of homework, but with the semester classes you took last year you only had 5 periods of the day before being allowed to go home, perks of being a senior, you guess. The fact almost every class you had was an AP class was a definite downside, though.
The only AP class you didn’t have happened to be Medical Microbiology, which you had dreaded to take but it was the same teacher you had last semester for A&P who loved you enough to exempt you from the final without you having to submit the form like everyone else, and luck was on your side it seemed because while you were seething to find that Nayeon was in your 5th period class, the sight of the seating chart and the name labeled next to yours made you decide to postpone ingesting whatever deadly chemical Mrs. Wilson had in her locked cabinet.
Nishimura,
Riki
The short curly-haired woman seemed overjoyed to see you, of course, and like clockwork you handed her a small pink box containing her favored cookie from the shop down the road, earning yourself a nice sidehug.
You know a way to a teacher's heart, which had made your high school experience better than most could imagine, though Mrs. Brooks from Pre-AP English freshman year was a cunt and you gave up on making her like you within the first month. Sitting down at your seat, which happened to be somewhat close to her desk, you were looking down at the packet she’d left stacked on the table by the door for students to take from as they came in when you felt a tap on your shoulder.
Growing up with a brother gave you a good understanding of how boys worked, and when you saw no one in your periphery, you looked to the opposite side, seeing the familiar lacrosse player. You dread small talk, though when the late bell rings as he sits down, you thank the heavens you don’t have to.
Moving your hair off your shoulder, you took a pink mechanical pencil from your matching pencil case as Mrs. Wilson started speaking.
“Hey.” He leans ever so closer, whispering to get your attention, “Can I borrow a pencil?”
The raised eyebrow you send his way makes his raise his own, and you roll your eyes, grabbing one of the orange ones you never used and handing it to him, when you notice his look between the two pencils, you say, “Can’t risk you taking one of my good ones.”
He rolls his eyes this time, but starts writing his name with it anyway. At first, he uses his right hand, but ten minutes into the lecture about the staining process, he switches hands.
It isn’t annoying until he starts intentionally brushing your elbow with his own, and you know it’s intentional because when the word you’re writing comes out jagged and you look at him, he has a smug look on his face while avoiding meeting your eyes, snickering softly when you erase the word you deemed too ugly to continue writing. You turn in your seat, facing away from him and rotating your paper with you as you cross one leg over the other, it was easier writing this way anyway.
With your new angle, you can see Nayeon glancing over every now and then in the corner of your eye.
Now, to say your reputation wasn’t ruined but in fact reinforced by everyone finding out about what you did to Eunseok’s car, was a factual statement. You didn’t like the term ‘anger management issues’ which is what the therapist your mother made you see last year used to describe your behavior.
In your humble opinion, Jaclyn Delvacchio deserved the bruise you left on her brow bone and is honestly lucky you didn’t get a good enough hit in before the history teacher pulled you off of her, maybe she should’ve kept her mouth shut about Eunchae’s braces.
Then, there was Kaley Graham in your freshman year, a sophomore who told you to stay away from your then-situationship, Eunseok, to which you responded to her threats by grabbing her head and slamming her face into the window of an active classroom. You thought the photos of her face smashed against it were funny, the school and your suddenly-present father did not.
So really, you’re already labeled a crazy bitch, violent, ‘untameable’(as you'd heard uttered by boys you wouldn't touch with a twenty foot pole). You might as well act like it.
When the bell rings 45 minutes later, you breathe a sigh of relief, finally time to go home.
You don’t notice he’s waiting for you until you’ve gathered your things and taken your keys out. He leans against his desk, waiting for you with observant eyes that land on the key-fob in your hand before moving up to your eyes. “Free period?”
You nod, “as are the next two.”
He whistles low as the both of you walk out, “I didn’t get any free periods, you’re lucky.”
“Lacrosse?” You ask, and he nods with a small grimace.
“And I failed Chem last year, so I’ve got to take it again.” He sighs, “I’m not great with all the math.”
“AP?” You ask innocently, and he snorts.
“God no. Regular.” He states, raising a brow as he adds, “Did you take AP?”
You hum, nodding, “Yeah.”
“So, if I come to you with a radiation equation, would you help me?” He asks in a way that almost feels teasing.
“It’s called a nuclear equation, and I suppose I could be persuaded.” You stop in front of the double doors at the front of the school, and from how others are rushing through the halls you assume the bell is going to ring soon.
“Could I try to persuade you after lacrosse practice? I’m gonna be late for Chem.” He says, though his tone is anything but worried, just like the smirk on his face.
“There’s a cafe next to the nail salon down the road, I might be there when lacrosse practice is over.” You hint, before turning to leave without another word.
After texting the group chat about the plan to meet up with Riki after his practice ends, you felt good. Flirting came easy, especially when you wanted something, which obviously was the case with him, but you weren’t oblivious to the fact he was flirting back.
hueningbarbie: damn u act fast
bitchqueen: i'm just a girl who knows what she wants and gets it ;)
hongchae: do you think he’ll agree?
bitchqueen: if he doesnt i think jake is my only other option
bitchqueen: killing myself means i let them win
bellenotdelphine: jake is NEVER the only option
bellenotdelphine: hang in there queen
You sit in a worn out booth facing the big wall of windows lining the front of the hole-in-the-wall cafe. Part of you regrets choosing it considering Gloria, the old lady who always takes your order and brings you your food, seemed all too excited when you said you were waiting for a boy that wasn’t Eunseok.
You try not to look up every time you see a car pull into the strip center of cafes and food joints, only glancing when you see a black Jeep pull into the parking spot next to your car, quickly acting like you weren’t looking when the familiar lacrosse player hopped out of it with wet hair and the same sweatshirt with his jersey number and name on it.
It isn’t until he slides into the booth across from yours that you look up from the menu you weren’t even reading, “How was practice?”
He sighs, leaning back into the booth and you feel his shoe brush yours, “Coach had me on offense,” he says, rubbing his side with a wince.
“Want some tiger balm?” You ask nonchalantly, reaching into your purse to pull out the small container of it you keep to help with the pain you get from looking down and taking notes, not to mention scrolling through social media, too.
He takes it with a whispered please, and you try not to watch as he moves his hand under his shirt to rub it in. Bahiyyih was right.
“Any drinks, mija?” Gloria appears beside your booth with a knowing look on her face as she looks between you two, “and you?”
“Dr Pepper, please.” You order with a smile, and she affectionately rubs your arm with a nod before looking at Riki, who repeats you.
When Gloria walks away to get the drinks, Riki seems curious, “I come here a lot.”
Nodding, he says, “I figured. What’s good, here?”
“Oh, everything is good. Do you recognize anything on the menu?” When he shakes his head, you try not to act offended, and say, “The enchiladas are really good, but if you’re picky I would get the tacos.”
“Mm, I’ll get an enchi-“ he struggles to mimic your pronunciation of the word, and you laugh quietly.
“Enchiladas?” You ask with a cheeky smile, and he scrunches his face up in shame, “It’s okay, it’s hard to say.”
“You’re good at it.” He states, not an opinion, a fact.
“I am.” You agree, and the smile on his face is enough to send your heart into your throat. Get. A. Grip. “Like I said, I come here a lot.”
“So, what do I have to do to persuade you to help me pass Chem?” He asks after Gloria sets down your drinks and takes your orders(sending you a hidden wink as she turns to walk into the kitchen), and you realize now's the time to bring up your plan.
“So, I actually have a proposition for you.” You admit, and he leans forward a little, curious to hear it. When you say it, albeit a slow and awkward version of what you intended to say as the nerves got the better of you because of that damn look in his eyes, you swear you almost see his face drop a little.
“So you want to…fake date? To make your ex jealous.” He sounds unsure, and you quickly shake your head.
“Not jealous, I kinda just want to ruin his day...everyday.” You state, “I’m the crazy bitch, you’re the hot athlete. Match made in heaven, right?”
He seems to take the ‘hot’ comment well, crossing his arms and tilting his head, “So, what are the rules? If we’re dating, do we have to go all out or just spread the word?”
“Spreading the word only works for so long,” you say, pleased by his question, “Kissing is a bit much, especially since it’s only been a few weeks since I dumped him. If we move too fast everyone will think you’re my rebound. We should take it slow.”
“So…” he thinks for a second, “Holding hands?”
You hum in agreement, “Get me flowers, too.”
“What’s your favorite kind?” The question shouldn’t throw you off, but it hits you rather suddenly that you’d never been asked that by a guy, especially not Eunseok.
“Lilies.” You say, “And baby’s breath.”
He nods, taking a mental note of that just as Gloria comes out with your food. The enchiladas were a win, he devoured them like he hadn’t eaten for years, though there was a pause in the process when he insisted on trying the salsa you had poured generously over your own food, which was far too spicy for him, to your delight.
You exchanged numbers outside of the restaurant after paying(he had picked up the bill before you could grab it), and as you were putting a name to his number, he leaned down and pressed a kiss to your cheek.
Laughing at the look on your face, he subtly motions behind you, and when you glance back you find about five girls no older than 16 piled into a Corolla and staring, but snapping their eyes away and hiding when you meet their gazes.
Turning back to him, you swallow the sudden lump in your throat when you see he’s already looking at you.
“Good catch.” You cough, ignoring the smug smirk growing in his face, “I’ll text you.”
“Okay.” He says, waiting for you to move away before he does, and you find yourself sucking in a deep breath and turning to get into your car.
“So he agreed?” Belle asks from the passenger seat of your car, “I told you, teenage boys are easy.”
You pull into your parking spot in the school lot, pulling down the ugly parking pass they make you hang from the rearview mirror that you always tuck back up when you leave because it's an eyesore, “We tried to work out the technicalities last night but I fell asleep on the phone.”
Eunchae gasps as if scandalized, “You fell asleep on the phone with him? That’s so cute.”
You groan, “I know, it’s embarrassing!” Getting out of your car, you try to withhold a groan when you immediately spot Jake practically skipping over, a cheeky grin on his face. Shit.
You don’t hide your displeasure when he calls your name, shooting a giggling Belle the finger before turning to give him attention you know you’d regret, “You and Niki?”
“Is that any of your business?”
He starts giggling, the grin on his face widening as he starts hopping around like an excited puppy, “No way! You gotta tell me how he fi—“
“Jake!” A girl from the cheer squad calls his name from across the courtyard, and he whirls around to wave with a flirty smile.
By the time he turns back to you, you’re already walking away with the girls. “We’re talking about it in 2nd!”
“No we’re not!” You call back, waving your hand dismissively. Eunchae snorts, hooking her arm with yours as the three of you walk through the entrance. Jongseob had come in early with his other friend group for club prep, so his presence is sorely missed.
“Do you think he’ll get you flowers?” The junior on your arm asks, and you shrug.
“I mean, maybe.” Your answer makes Belle roll her eyes.
“Manifest it, or…” She stops in front of your 1st class of the day, ready to drop you off, and a grin overtakes her face, “Bitch.”
You step closer to see when she sees, and at your assigned seat is a bouquet of the same flowers you told Riki you liked, pink and white lilies with baby's breath sprinkled in. Habitually, you bite your lip to withhold the smile, sliding your arm out from Eunchae’s and walking in.
The girl who sits next to you, Hikaru, has an almost fox-like grin on her face as she sees you finally arrive. She says a few things that you hum in response to as you pluck the tiny folded card from between the blossoms, opening it and allowing Belle and Eunchae to peek over your shoulder to read it with you. “Shut up!” Belle practically squeals.
For: Pretty
“God.” You sigh, closing the note and grabbing the bouquet from Eunchae who had picked it up to smell them, “I wonder where he got these.”
“I don’t know but they look expensive.” Belle muses with a grin and you hum in agreement with a smile.
A text tone dings from your phone, a familiar one that makes you groan. When you look at your screen your jaw clenches and shifts.
spermdonor: lunch? we need to catch up.
You suspect your mom told him about how you get off early now, cursing the woman mentally as you send back a simple thumbs up to her ex-husband.
Between 1st and 2nd period, you had put the bouquet in your car to avoid walking around with it, and you’re so very thankful you did with the annoying grin on Jake’s face as you sat across from him in College Algebra.
“You and Niki.” He repeats with a cheeky raise of his brows, his grin unaffected by the look of utter distaste on your face at his presence.
“What about Riki and me?” You ask monotonously, clearly unimpressed with the prompt.
“You guys datin’?” He asks cheekily, clearly already aware that you went on a ‘date’, but wanting to hear it from you.
“If I say we went on a singular date will you leave me alone?” You ask with a sigh, using your knuckle to massage your temple.
Jake shakes his head with a shit-eating grin, “Not a chance.”
You groan softly as the bell rings, and the sigh of relief is quickly smothered with your hopes of escaping this period without having to answer a question as a familiar substitute walks in, Mr. Morrell, a nice old man who usually just lets everyone do their own thing. He’s your mortal enemy now, you’ve decided.
The moment he announces those wretched words, ‘free day’, your fate is sealed.
Jake is snickering like a freak, leaning over his desk as if you aren’t just a few feet away from him, “You and Riki.” He giggles, and you look at him as if he’s possessed and it disgusts you.
“Please, leave me alone.” You say with a bit more emotion than your last few words.
Jake is too busy giggling like a little girl to listen or even hear what you said, nearly cutting you off as he asks, “Where was your first date?”
“The Mexican place next to the nail salon down the street.” You answer monotonously, just wanting to get it over with at this point.
“Did he pay? He paid.” Jake asks then nods to himself as he says the last statement.
“Yes, he paid.”
“Ooo, did he kiss you? Nah, Niki’s way too pussy to do that—“
You cut him off with an invisible twitch of your brow, “He gave me a solid kiss on the cheek.”
It’s as if you’ve broken the already clearly leaking dam of pure giddy delight. He’s practically squealing with a breathy and high-pitched ‘naur way~’, whipping out his phone you assume to text their group chat. He’s bouncing in his seat, and you make a face as you pull your desk an inch away from his desk to stop feeling the movements.
You open your coloring book you bring with you to classes when you have no other work, you have other work but you’d rather not do that while Jake giggles and grills you.
The rest of the period is filled with him asking questions you either answer shortly or choose to not answer at all. (“Do you think he’s the one?”)
You of course could not see was that across the campus Riki was hiding his phone in his lap wanting to sink into a hole and die as Jake spams the team group chat like a live tweet of his, though strongly condemned by him, weirdly thorough interview like your barely started kind-of-relationship is his favorite sitcom.
“Thank you, lord.” you sigh as the bell rings, freeing you of your torment as you grab your gathered and organized bag to pull over your shoulder and hasten out of the classroom before Jake can get you. (Yes, like a boogeyman.)
It seems you can’t catch a break as you find out Park Sunghoon is in your 4th period. Park Sunghoon, jersey number 23, goalkeeper of the Decelis Demons. Also, you’ve decided, another mortal enemy.
You don’t even know how you hadn’t noticed him all semester or the semester prior, given how awkwardly talkative he is. Sitting beside you with a cute but unsettling smile, holding out his hand like he was meeting a celebrity, which you weren’t exactly complaining about but the smile was weird. He was almost just as bad as Jake, if not worse simply because he freaked you out a bit. Seriously, why is someone so beautiful so fucking weird. His moles look like constellations but something about his vibes unsettle you.
It isn’t like you don’t have weird friends, you’ve watched Jongseob stuff fifty chile-coated gushers into his mouth purely because Eunchae told him he couldn’t. Weird usually isn’t the issue, except it is in this scenario.
Escaping him and getting to go to your teacher’s aid period was like a shining of heaven’s pure light on you. You find yourself grading papers in the back of the classroom while your freshman-year Latin teacher plays Hercules in New York on the projector, a purple glitter pen in your hand as you go through the stack of exams.
“Hey,” one of the freshmen a cluster of desks away calls to you in a semi-hushed voice, halting the movement of your glitter pen and directing your attention to them, “your boyfriend’s waiting at the door.”
‘I don’t have a boyfriend’, parts your lips before you suddenly remember that Riki exists and halt before it can leave them. Looking to the closed door of the classroom, you find the boy in question peering through the small window in the door, and raise an inquisitive brow.
He only waves at you, a clear signal he wants you to come out and talk to him, part of you wonders why he knew where you were but memories of the phone call the night you both agreed on the whole ‘fake dating’ thing, exchanging school schedules and discussing preferences, come back to you and you nod lightly.
Mrs. B looks up from her laptop as you cap the glitter pen, “Don’t be gone too long.”
Shooting her a smile and a small ‘yes ma’am, thank you’, you get up from the desk and shoot the snickering freshmen a weak glare as you walk to the door, opening it just enough to side step out of the room and shut it behind you.
“Hey.” is the first thing he says, his voice is deep despite its softness, mindful of the other classes going on in the language hall as well as the other teens clearly trying to get a good look at him as the door closes behind you.
You say it back just as softly, “Hey.”
He smiles just a bit, a boyish quirk of his lips that has your heart picking up, get a fucking grip, bitch. “I’m sorry about Jake and Sunghoon.”
The mention of them has you pressing your lips together with a nearly-sympathetic smile, “It’s okay.”
“No, they’re…a lot.” He chuckles softly, though his words are still genuine, “I don’t want you to get scared away.”
Something in your heart flutters, “Don’t worry about it.” You say with a soft laugh that has his eyes darting to your smile. “Sunghoon was…weird, but I already knew that Jake’s a pest, so…”
He laughs at your words, head shaking slightly, “Still, I’m sorry about them.”
“It’s fine, really.” You say with a shake of your head. A student exits the Spanish class down the hall, pausing at the sight of you and Riki before walking in the direction of the bathrooms.
Riki spares them little more than a brief glance over at the sound of the door shutting behind them before his gaze is back on you. God, why is he looking at me like that, you think just before he speaks again, “Do you bowl?”
The question catches you off guard, and you tilt your head and ask, “Like do I know how or do I do it often?”
“Both.”
“Kinda and no.” You answer, “Why?”
He brings a hand up to rub the back of his head, your eyes darting to the way the sleeves of his t-shirt stretch to accommodate the movements of his arm and a few veins are visible up his arm, “Some of the guys and I were going this weekend, I…figured I’d ask.”
His words are finished with a bit of hesitance that you have little time to linger on as you question with a slight laugh, “Did they ask you to bring me?”
You see a slight pink tinge to the tips of his ears as his elbow drops yet his hand lingers on his trapezius, creating yet another visual that has you wanting to repeatedly slam your forehead into the wall beside you. He shakes his head slightly, “No, I, uh, wanted to bring you.”
The words are said with a soft laugh like he’s a bit embarrassed with himself, and you find your teeth catching your bottom lip to hold in the despicable grin that you know should not be growing on your face right now. You just broke up with your long-term boyfriend, wake up.
If Riki’s eyes dart to your lips, you don’t see it as you glance to the door of your class. “Then…yeah. I’ll come.”
Your answer has his lips forming a pretty grin that he quickly covers up with a bite of his bottom lip and a nod, taking a step back as he prepares to leave, “Cool. I can pick you up, yeah?”
Yeah, you can. You nod, “Just text me.”
“Yeah, I’ll text you.” He finishes with another nod, and you giggle softly at his repetition. His eyes soften at the sound, another thing you don’t notice as you see the student returning from the bathrooms, glancing your way every so often as they approach the closed Spanish class door.
Riki sees them too, and as they look over again, he leans down to press his lips to your cheek in a quick but sweet kiss, “See you next period.”
He shoots you a swift wink as he backs up again, and you put it together that he kissed you because of the third party in the hall. You exhale a soft response as he turns to jog off, clearly not meant to be gone from class as long as he has been, “Yeah.”
As soon as he turns the corner and you’re alone in the hall, you close your eyes for a long blink to bring yourself back to Earth. A soft curse leaves your lips as you turn back to the door to re-enter the Latin class, heart racing and hands slightly clammy.
Clammy.
The fact that a boy is making you feel so damn juvenile with the way you can’t help but react to his words and face and voice and eyes—
The walk to 5th period fills you with a sense of dread before you remember who else is in that class. Mrs. Wilson greets you happily as she sets up the activity for the day on the projector, which alerts you to the fact someone is standing by your seat who doesn’t belong there.
Riki has a look of confusion on his face as he looks up at Nayeon, clearly a bit confused by whatever is leaving her lips. The teacher’s greeting alerts the both of them to your presence in the doorway, where you paused at the sight of her. The corners of Riki’s lips quirk up at the sight of you, but Nayeon looks like she’s about to puke.
You don’t even speak. Something about the sight of pure panic in her eyes gives you a boost of serotonin but the fact that she’s standing in front of your ‘boyfriend's desk, speaking to him. Oh, you’re pissed.
Yes, you are aware he isn’t actually your boyfriend and the two of you hadn’t even discussed publicly referring to each other as such, but the principle still stands. You want to punch her face.
Unfortunately, Mrs Wilson would be quite upset if you slammed Nayeon’s head into the whiteboard, and you like your teacher too much to debate starting a fight in her class.
Your eyes follow Nayeon’s every move as she hastily removes her hands from where they were on his desk, avoiding your burning stare as she moves to her own seat.
Walking to your desk, you smile at Riki as if what just happened has zero effect on you despite the burning fury in your gut, and sit down beside him. “Hey.”
Your soft greeting has him saying it in kind, shifting in his seat to lean back and see you better, “You know her?”
His question has you tilting your head in a faux innocence, “Mhm. Why?”
Riki has a slight knowing look on his face as he watches your reactions, “She had a lot to say about you.”
“What did she say?” You ask as if it’s a simple question, like you aren’t dying to know and anxiety isn’t clawing at your chest making it harder and harder to make your hands not shake.
He shrugs with a purse of his lips, a slightly cheeky smile forms on his face as he asks, “You jealous?”
A scoff leaves your lips and your eyes roll before you can even think to hold the sass back, “Jealousy implies she’s better than me in some way.” You say with a defiant cross of your arms, “and she is not.”
“Then why’d you glare so hard?” He asks, clearly amused by both your words and body language.
You think, why did I not tell him about Nayeon?
The answer? Eunseok and Nayeon’s little affair had more of an effect on you than you would like to admit. Anxiety claws at you everytime you even imagine Nayeon interacting with Riki, and the fact that you just walked in on her saying something to him that your pride won’t allow you to ask him about just makes it all so much worse for you.
The truth is that the irrational part of your brain, the one that often wins the battles against its more logical other half, made the thought of Riki knowing you were betrayed by your best friend all the more sickening to imagine. It’s embarrassing. Humiliating.
“I wasn’t glaring.” You argue, and Riki raises his brows as if to say ‘really?’ before he huffs softly in amusement and the bell rings.
“Yeah, you were.” He says with a lingering curiosity in his gaze before he looks to the board as Mrs Wilson starts class. Your first instinct is to argue, to be stubborn like you always are, but the lingering anxiety in your chest makes you want to never speak again just to find some kind of peace.
The entire time you take notes you aren’t truly absorbing any information, your brain is stuck on every possible thing that Nayeon could have said to him and how you’re gonna find out without directly asking either of them if possible.
You feel sick and he’s not even your real boyfriend.
Oh, fuck.
Between realizing you want Riki and remembering that you have to go to lunch with your father, you simply didn’t have enough time to achieve as much mental preparation as you’d like before lunch. The Italian restaurant you find yourself sitting inside with a menu in your manicured hands is a relatively ‘fancy’ establishment, at least if the $35 fettuccini alfredo was anything to go by.
Your dad is the one paying, so you aren’t all that mad about the prices considering the look in his eyes is enough to ruin your enjoyment of the basket of breadsticks between the two of you. If you thought it would make a dent in his bank account you’d order another plate of mozzarella sticks just to spend his money, but the satisfaction just wouldn’t be there.
Punching his face might feel better.
“Am I gonna have to put you in anger management again?” His anger is hushed and composed, but the shift in his jaw and the patronizing look of disappointment on his face belied his composure. Always being hyper-aware of how people view him is one of the things you hate about your dad. His attitude takes a higher spot on the ‘Why You Hate Your Dad’ pyramid, though.
“You can’t ‘put me’ anywhere.” You bite back as you dip the breadstick in your hand into the small bowl of marinara, “Eunseok deserved it.”
“You don’t get to decide what people deserve.” He argues, still so patronizing.
The feeling of being talked down to is one you're all too familiar with when it comes to your father. The man can’t accept his own faults, one of which being how shit of a father he was and is. You roll your eyes as you take a bite of your breadstick, half-drowning his words out with your own and the other half remembering every single thing coming from his lips to throw back in his face next time he cries about how you never reach out to him.
“Eunseok is a smart and successful, young man. And you throw it all away for—“
Ah, you almost forgot how much more your father likes your ex than you. Offering him internships, a place at his firm when he graduates, none of which he’d ever even mentioned to you. You wouldn’t ever work for or with your father, but the fact he had never spoken a word about any chances to help you gain experience like he did your ex was as infuriating as it was unsurprising.
“I didn’t throw shit away.” You snap, “He cheated on me, you keep skimming over that detail, father.”
“I’m not skimming over it, it’s irrelavent.” He exhales, trying to calm his slightly raised voice, “And you know I hate it when you call me that..”
“Irrelevant? Oh, I’m sorry, should I have stayed with a boyfriend that sleeps with my best friend?” You scoff, sipping your Dr Pepper, “And if you wanted me to call you dad, you should've acted like one.”
“Hey.” He warns, yet you only roll your eyes. “Reaching out goes both ways—“
“I know you did not just say that to me.”
“—and I am your father, so you speak to me with respect.” He finishes, voice raising slightly in frustration before he settles it back to a more composed volume.
“No.” You shake your head, “That’s not how shit works.”
“Yes,” He bites back sternly, “If you want me to keep funding your life you’ll—“
Normally, you let your father say whatever it is he wants to say, tell him you really don’t care what he thinks and then for about a month he doesn’t text you. Then it’s ‘I want to improve our relationship’ and ‘I feel like you’re drifting away’. Today was not a normal day, however.
“Then cut me off.” You say with a shrug, “You can’t hold that shit over my head like I ask for the money you send, which you only send because you know you’re a shit father and you feel guilty.”
He doesn't respond, his jaw shifting, so you continue.
“And considering the fact that you are a cheater yourself, why the fuck would I listen to a word you say when it comes to my own love life?” You ask, not really caring that you aren’t exactly speaking quietly, “Eunseok deserved a fire poker to the face, and I used it on his car instead. Which is what Mom should have done when she found you with the nanny.”
“Quiet down, you’re making a scene.” He hisses, and you tilt your head and look around as if you give a single fuck. “I already took care of Eunseok’s car, which will be taken out of your allowance—“
Your eyes narrow at his words, “You paid to repair his car?”
Your father doesn’t skip a beat as he continues, “—Yes, I did. And you don’t get to throw the biggest mistake I’ve ever made back in my face—“
“Yes, I do.”
“—No, you don’t.”
“Yes, I do.” You argue back stubbornly, continuing before he can speak over you again, “And you paid for Eunseok’s car, the same boy who fucked one of my best friends for months while actively dating me and you don’t see a single problem with that?”
“His parents were discussing pressing charges—“
“That’s when you tell them to go fuck themselves.”
He sighs at your words, clearly sick of your temper (which you inherited from him), “You need to start handling your emotions better, you’re graduating this year.”
“I have literally witnessed you throw a chair in anger, get someone else to say that to me.”
He seems ready to respond, when the waiter comes with the food, and you speak before he can, politely asking if you can get a to-go box for it instead. Your father doesn’t seem to have the guts to speak as the waiter glances between you both unsurely before nodding, “Of course.”
He takes the dish back and the moment he is out of ear-shot, your father says, “We aren’t done talking.”
“I am.” You shrug, clearly not willing or planning on sitting here any longer than you have to.
The waiter is back out with your to-go container wrapped in a bag that has mint-chocolates inside as well as a complimentary box of breadsticks that you’ll probably eat while crying your eyes out later. You ignore the stern orders from your father to sit back down, thanking the waiter with a polite smile and promptly walk out of the restaurant.
The tears of frustration start falling the moment you’re in the safety of your car, a soft curse leaving your lips as you put the bag of food in the passenger seat and pull out of the parking lot, turning ‘this is me trying’ by Taylor Swift all the up as you drive the highway back home. You ignore the texts from your father, as well as the calls.
You’re at the red light before turning into your neighborhood when Riki’s caller ID shows up on the screen of your console, and you debate even answering, but wipe your eyes and clear your throat as you press the green answer button, “Hello?”
Your voice is more stable than you expected it to be, and Riki responds in kind, “Hey, I just got out of practice—you okay?”
“M’fine, what’s up?” You say with an attempt at a sneaky sniffle, the thought of him knowing you’re crying is too humiliating. Part of you is disappointed he somehow could tell that something was up. The other part of you, the vulnerable and hurt teenage girl with daddy issues and a yearning to be listened to and understood, begs to just break down.
He doesn’t seem to buy it, you hear the sound of keys jingling and then a car door opening and shutting, then he’s speaking again, “You sure?”
The light turns green, and you finally turn into your neighborhood, “I’m fine.” It’s almost a snap, one you instantly regret as you quickly say, “Sorry, just—“
“It’s okay,” He assures, and you feel even more guilty, more tears threatening to fall as your bottom lip trembles again. You’re pulling into your driveway as he continues, “Wanna talk about it over lunch?”
“I just got lunch with my dad, actually,” You say with a soft, bitter laugh, voice wavering and a soft curse leaving your lips the moment it does, “Fuck, sorry, this is just weird.”
He seems a bit panicked by the way your voice only turns more tearfilled as you apologize, “Hey, don’t worry about it, seriously—“ There’s a sound like a knock on the other end, and you hear him whisper something like ‘go away’ before he’s continuing, “—sorry I teased you earlier today, I, uh, thought I made you mad so I was calling to make up for it.”
A soft sob leaves you as you laugh with it, “I’m not mad about that, but I did wanna talk about it,” You sniffle, “About Nayeon, I mean.”
“You don’t have to, I was just messing with you.” You can imagine him shaking his head slightly as he speaks, “She didn’t really say much, just asked if we were dating.”
“What’d you say?” You find yourself asking.
He hesitates before answering, “Yeah.”
It sends a weird hot jolt to your stomach and your worried lips turn into a girlish smile that you quickly wipe off your face, “That’s okay, y’know. I’m pretty sure my friends have been telling everyone you’re my boyfriend, so the whole ‘taking it slow’ shit is out the window.”
He chuckles on the other end and it flips your stomach like a fucking pancake, “Great, I’m not that type anyway.”
(There’s a feral voice in the back of your conscience that screeches like it’s a beast gnawing at the walls of its enclosure.)
Your teeth catch your bottom lip and your eyes shut like you’re trying to come back to Earth and not hang up out of pure flustered reflex. You force out a response, “Just means we have to make it more believably genuine.”
“What’s your plan, pretty girl?”
Oh, you want to bang your head into the steering wheel. “Do you mind coming over? I wanna discuss it in person but I just got home.”
You jaw slackens in shock at your own words, looking into the rear view and mouthing at yourself; Bitch, what the fuck—
“Yeah, sure. What’s the address?” His response is so natural and unperturbed the catastrophizing your brain has done in the last second slips away and you silently scream.
A second later you respond like normal, “I’ll text it to you.”
“Okay, I’m on my way, then.”
When the two of you hang up after a few more words, you realize what you have done and quickly turn off your car, grabbing the food and your purse and hastening into the open garage, struggling with the doorknob and pressing the garage door button before entering.
Your room isn’t messy, per say, but your duvet is covered in cat fur, and you don’t even know if Riki’s allergic to them or not. “Gus, can you move, please?” You ask your cat as you begin to pull the duvet off your bed but he remains unmoving on the end of your bed.
He blinks at you slowly, and you sigh.
After taking too much time carefully moving the duvet from under your cat and hurriedly tossing it into the laundry room while grabbing your spare to put on the bed instead, the doorbell rings.
With one(at least three) last look in the mirror to check your appearance, still in the outfit you changed into for lunch with your dad, you open the large iron front door.
“Hi.” You greet softly with a slight smile, and Riki has one himself that almost looks shy.
He bites his bottom lip and says back, “Hi.”
As you let him in, you look down at the door handle, waiting for him to step inside before shutting it behind him.
As his eyes move to assess his surroundings with slow steps, you catch up to him, grabbing his sleeve and pulling his hand from his pocket as you tug him along toward your room with unhurried steps. He lets you, though you hear the chuckle under his breath.
“That’s Gus. I hope you’re not allergic to cats.” is the first thing that leaves your mouth as you pull him into your cleaned room(though you’ll have to un-ass your closet later), and he gasped softly.
The voice that comes out next is higher in pitch and softer as he hesitantly approaches your loafing cat, who sniffs his fingers for a second or two before headbutting them. You witness Riki practically melt as he coos at the feline that happily receives his pets.
“Wanna guess his full name?” You jest, and he hums, looking over at you curiously but not halting his petting of Gus. “Gazpacho.”
Riki looks elated by the information, grinning so prettily you want to use the vintage lotus lamp on your nightstand to beat your head against, and he softly goes back to cooing, “Hi, Gazpacho.”
A giggle laugh leaves your lips that you quickly cover with your mouth and a quick avert of your gaze, eyes landing on the whiteboard against your wall. The fucking whiteboard.
“Oh, fuck.” leaves your lips before you can stop yourself but you’re already moving to grab the object of your doom, “Don’t look, close your eyes.”
Your demands are met with pure boyish defiance, and his eyes follow your movement to your closet door, opening it just enough to toss the whiteboard inside and quickly shutting it. “You saw nothing.”
He slowly pulls away from Gus with a growing suspicious smirk, “I’m scared to ask.”
“It’s just a whiteboard, nothing of consequence written on it, or anything.” You say with a purse of your lips.
“A whiteboard?” He questions with a tilt of his head.
You nod, moving away from your shut closet door and taking the opportunity to change the subject, “My stepdad’s a physicist.”
“Ooh, that’s cool.” He says with a thumbs up, taking the moment to move his eyes around the room as he had been distracted by the cat, “This is a nice house.”
“Thank you,” You respond softly out of instinct, “My mom’s a big lawyer too, so….”
“Ah, right, I think Jake mentioned that once.” He nods, sitting in the bean bag(you’ll have to break the news to Eunchae later).
You hum, sitting on the edge of your bed beside Gus and petting him, “What do your parents do?”
He has a slightly shy grin on his face as he says, “They own a pretty big dance studio.”
“That’s super cool.” You compliment with a tilt of your head, “Do you dance?”
If you could audibly coo at the redness blooming on the tips of his ears as he nods slightly you would, but you settle with a giggle that has him squeezing his eyes shut in embarrassment, “I do, yeah.”
“I did ballroom for like, ten years.”
It’s as if you’ve revealed a hidden treasure, and he asks, “Do you still know how?”
You immediately hold up a defiant hand, “I am not showing you, and it’s been years.”
He whines, hands moving to clasp pleadingly, “Aww, c’mon, I’ll take you to my family’s studio and show you mine.”
This piques your interest and you ask before you can think about it, tone playfully flirty, “Taking me to meet your parent’s so soon?”
He chuckles softly, voice still so low, “Like I said, I don’t like slow.”
It takes a few more minutes of pointless chatter(and many more flirty remarks that make you want to scream into your pillow) before you get to the core of your problems today; Nayeon.
“Okay, wait, so—she and your ex…were together?” He reiterates to better understand, and you nod, and he then asks, “In your house?”
“Why do you think I took the fire-poker to his car?” You shrug, and he has a half-grin on his face.
“I thought that rumor was exaggerated.” He admits, giving you an appreciative once over like he’s impressed, “You’ve got a temper, huh?”
“I’ve never overreacted in my life.” You say with a slight raise of your hands.
He nods with a slight smirk as if he absolutely believes you, “‘Course not.”
“Anyway, she had a major crush on you in freshman year, literally fantasized about your wedding and everything,” You blissfully expose, “And I already had my eyes on you so it all worked out.”
He nods with a hum and slight smirk, “I see, so I’m sweet revenge.”
“The sweetest.” You playfully flirt, and his eyes turn into shy crescents.
“So, who were your other options?” He asks after a few seconds to let the pink on his cheeks fade, and you grin.
“Jealous?” You mimic his tone from earlier in the day and he rolls his eyes.
“Yeah, I am.” The admission falls naturally from his lips and your gut flips, “Curious, too.”
“Jungkook didn’t want me to choose you.” You respond with a tight smile.
His eyes widen, “Coach knows?”
“He’s got an idea.” You respond with a slight shrug.
“Did he suggest anyone else?”
“Jungwon,” You answer easily, snickering softly when he groans and throws his head back, “but he’s a tight-ass, he’d never agree.”
Riki snorts, and with a shrug says, “You’re pretty, I think he’d come around.” Your raised brow has him quickly changing the subject with a curious tilt of his head, “You already had your eyes on me, though?”
His question is cheeky and paired with a matching grin that makes you roll your eyes and fight nervous giggles as you say, “I never said that.”
“Really? ’Cause I heard you say it.” He seems much too determined to not let you move on from the subject but your mother loves to compare you to a mule in regards to obstinance.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” You shrug innocently.
He leans forward slightly in the beanbag, his elbows resting on his knees, and that grin of his only widens. “You’re a terrible liar.”
“And you’re annoyingly persistent,” you counter, but there’s no real bite behind your words. You stand up, moving toward your desk under the guise of rearranging things that don’t need rearranging, mostly to avoid his knowing gaze.
Riki tilts his head, watching you with amusement. “You know, if you’re trying to throw me off, it’s not working.”
You glance over your shoulder, trying not to crack under the weight of his attention. “Throw you off from what? I’m just tidying.”
“Right. And I’m just here for the cat.”
“Good. Gus loves the attention,” you quip, folding your arms over your chest as you turn back to him.
“But I’m not done yet,” he says with mock seriousness, shifting in the beanbag like he’s settling in for the long haul. “What’s so bad about admitting you’ve been into me? I mean, look at me.” He gestures to himself in a way that’s more playful than cocky, but you still roll your eyes so hard it’s a miracle they don’t get stuck.
“Wow, humble too,” you shoot back, but the warmth in your cheeks betrays you.
“Hey, just stating facts. Can’t help it if you have great taste.” He pauses, letting the silence stretch just enough to make you squirm. “Besides,” he adds, his voice dipping lower, “you’re kind of making it obvious now.”
Your hands find your hips in defiance. “How, exactly?”
“Oh, I don’t know,” he muses, standing up slowly, his movements deliberate as he closes the distance between you. “The way you got all flustered when I asked if you still know how to dance. Or how you won’t look me in the eye right now.”
You refuse to back down, lifting your chin as you meet his gaze. “I’m not flustered. And I’m looking at you right now, aren’t I?”
He smirks, leaning just a little closer, his tone teasing. “Sure you are. But you’re still not answering my question.”
You blink innocently up at him through your lashes and you swear you see his eyes dart below your nose. “What question?”
Riki lets out a soft laugh, a mix of exasperation and amusement, as he shakes his head. “You’re impossible, you know that?”
“I’ve been told.” You shrug, trying to look nonchalant, but the proximity is starting to get to you.
He watches you for a moment, his smirk turning into something softer, though no less mischievous. “Alright, fine. I’ll let it go. For now.”
“Oh, how gracious of you.” Your sarcasm earns you a grin as he steps back and flops dramatically into the beanbag again, sprawling like he owns the place.
“Gotta keep you on your toes, don’t I?”
“More like get on my nerves,” you mutter, though the twitch of your lips gives you away.
“Same thing.” He winks, and you hate how charming he looks doing it.
The smirk he gives you as he leans back has your stomach doing somersaults, but you refuse to let him see you sweat. Instead, you turn your attention to Gus, pretending to be more interested in your cat than in the boy currently making himself at home in your life—and your head.
As Riki lounges back in the beanbag, his eyes drift lazily around the room again, lingering on the neatly arranged desk and the wall beyond. “You’ve got a pretty organized vibe for someone who just tossed a whiteboard into a closet like it was a bomb.”
You freeze mid-pet, your hand hovering above Gus’s head. “You’re still on about that?”
“I mean, it’s a whiteboard. What kind of secrets could it possibly hold?” His tone is teasing, but the glint in his eyes says he’s not letting it drop.
You debate lying, but the little smirk playing on his lips tells you he won’t believe you anyway. “Nothing important. Just… research.”
“Research.” He repeats with an arched brow, “Like, ‘solving world hunger’ research or me research?“
You groan, dragging your hands down your face. “I hate you.”
“Now I really have to see it.” He starts to rise, and you spring to your feet, blocking his path to the closet.
“Riki, no.”
“Riki, yes.” He steps closer, towering over you slightly, his grin widening as you try to stand your ground.
“Don’t make me sic Gus on you,” you warn, pointing toward the loafing cat.
“Gus and I are best friends now. He’d never betray me.” Riki gestures toward the cat, who yawns dramatically like he’s staying out of it.
“Traitor,” you mutter at Gus, which earns you a laugh from Riki.
“C’mon,” he cajoles, his voice dropping into that infuriatingly soft tone that makes your heart do weird flips. “What’s the worst that could happen if I see it?”
Your resolve wavers, but the idea of him actually reading the whiteboard is too mortifying, “I’ll have to kill you.”
His grin only widens at your threat, his dark eyes glinting with amusement. “Wow, straight to murder, huh? Didn’t realize you were so passionate about…whatever’s on that board.”
“You have no idea,” you mutter, crossing your arms in an attempt to look intimidating. It doesn’t work. Riki’s grin turns smug, like he knows he has the upper hand.
“Now I really need to know.” He leans closer, and the proximity sends your heart into overdrive. You can practically feel the heat radiating from him as he tilts his head, his voice dipping into a teasing drawl. “What if it’s, like, a shrine to me or something?”
The gasp you let out is equal parts offense and panic. “You think way too highly of yourself.”
“I don’t know,” he teases, tapping his chin as though deep in thought. “I’ve heard people do wild things when they’ve got a crush.”
“Bold of you to assume—”
“You’re avoiding the question again.” He cuts you off, smirking as he steps back just enough to lean casually against the end of your bedframe, his arms crossed. “What’s on the whiteboard, really?”
You hesitate, the words sticking in your throat. There’s no way you’re admitting to the utterly ridiculous pros and cons list your friends talked you into. Not yet, anyway.
“It’s… study stuff,” you finally say, your tone lacking conviction. “School projects, maybe some physics equations. Boring things you wouldn’t care about.”
“Physics equations?” he repeats, clearly unconvinced. “Yeah, because I look like the kind of guy who’d buy that excuse.”
“Hey, I’m trying here,” you snap, which only makes him chuckle again.
“I can tell. You’re terrible at it.” His grin softens slightly, the teasing replaced with something that feels a little too close to genuine. “Relax, I’m just messing with you. You don’t have to tell me.”
You blink at him, surprised by his sudden shift in tone but immediately suspicious of it. “Really?”
“Sure.” He shrugs, though there’s still a playful glint in his eyes. “But now I have leverage. You’ll owe me later.”
“Owe you for what?” you demand, but the smug look on his face says you won’t get an answer you like.
“For letting you off the hook, obviously.” He straightens and gives you a wink before heading back to the beanbag like he didn’t just upend your entire equilibrium. “Don’t worry—I’ll think of something good.”
You stare at him, your jaw slightly agape, as he makes himself comfortable again. Gus hops onto his lap, clearly picking sides, and Riki’s attention shifts back to your cat like nothing happened.
“You’re infuriating,” you mutter, though you can’t quite keep the fondness out of your voice.
He glances up, his smirk softening into a smile that’s entirely too charming. “And you love it.”
You hate that you do.
The week passes by with a dreadful speed, and after four whole days of anxiety-induced stomach aches, migraines, and a few breakdowns in the dark privacy of your room at midnight, it is the weekend.
It is the weekend, and Belle, Hiyyih, and Eunchae bear witness to a minor crash-out.
“I’m gonna puke.” You mumble, sitting on the ottoman at the center of your walk-in closet with your face in your hands as the older two walk around you, going through your options for an outfit.
“Keep that shit in bitch,” Belle says without looking away from the clothes hanging in your closet, pointing a finger blindly at you in warning, “You puke, I puke.”
Eunchae moves towards your hunched form from her spot on your bean bag(which she moved into your closet to sit on), snickering softly as she sits beside you and brings her hand to rub circles on your back. “There, there.”
A part of you wants to snap at her that she isn’t funny, but the act is weirdly comforting so you let her continue. Bahiyyih speaks from where she is in front of your shoe shelf, “Why do you have so many shoes?”
“My mom gets sent them monthly by some guy she was a lawyer for a while ago,” You exhale as you drop your hands into your lap, eyes still closed as you contemplate opening them ever again, “She hates wearing pumps now so she gives them to me or regifts them.”
“What if you wear these?” Hiyyih holds up a pair of Louboutins, and you open your eyes to see before looking at her like she’s crazy.
“Not only is it bowling and I’m gonna have to change shoes anyway, but I’m not wearing a So Kate for something that isn’t even a date, Hiyyih.”
She pouts her bottom lip as she puts them down, and Belle pulls a top from the collection of them hanging in your closet and holds it up in question towards you. After a few seconds of staring at the article of clothing, debating if you remember looking cute in it or not, you nod and she tosses it into the ‘maybe’ pile.
Two seconds later, you’re hunching over and blindly grabbing a pillow near you to scream into.
Eunchae pats your back again, her snickering turning into full-blown laughter. “Feel better now, drama queen?”
You lift your head just enough to glare at her over the pillow. “No.”
“Good,” Belle says, tossing another shirt into the ‘definitely not’ pile without even showing it to you. “Because if you puke or scream again, I’m calling your mom and telling her you’re being insufferable. She might take those Louboutins back.”
“That’s not funny,” you mumble into the pillow.
“It’s a little funny,” Hiyyih chimes in, holding up a sequined crop top like it’s the Holy Grail. “Okay, but seriously, what about this? It says ‘I’m fun,’ but not, like, too fun.”
Eunchae tilts her head at it. “It also says ‘I moonlight as a disco ball.’”
You groan, sitting up straight and snatching the crop top out of Hiyyih’s hands. “Why is this so hard? It’s bowling! I should just wear sweatpants and call it a day.”
Belle spins around with the precision of a K-drama villain. “Don’t you dare. Do you want to show up looking like his cousin who just rolled out of bed, or like the mysterious, unattainable enigma that you are?”
“Unattainable?” you ask with a hesitant furrow of you brows.
“Yeah, unattainable, as in: unattainable by anyone else but him,” Belle clarifies, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “You’re playing the long game, babe.”
“You say that like this is some kind of psychological warfare,” you deadpan.
Belle shrugs. “It kind of is.”
Eunchae raises a hand like she’s in class. “But what if he’s bad at bowling? Like, gutter ball after gutter ball bad? Do you let him win or destroy him?”
You pause, genuinely considering it. “Destroy him, obviously.”
“Bold choice.” Hiyyih nods approvingly, tossing a pleated skirt into the maybe pile. “What if you’re bad, though?”
You gasp. “That’s not even an option.”
Belle smirks. “So confident for someone who hasn’t touched a bowling ball since middle school.”
“You’re supposed to be helping me, not roasting me!” You grab the nearest pillow and launch it at her. She dodges with ease, laughing as it smacks into the closet door behind her.
“Roasting you is my way of helping you,” Belle retorts, unfazed. “It’s called multitasking.”
Eunchae picks up the discarded pillow and hands it back to you, patting your head like you’re a distressed pet. “There, there. At least you’ll look cute while you embarrass yourself.”
“Why are all of you like this?” You drop your head back into your hands, half tempted to cancel the whole thing.
“Because we love you,” Belle sing-songs, pulling out a denim jacket that you forgot you even owned. “Now shut up and try this on. We’re on a schedule, ho.”
You sigh, begrudgingly taking the jacket as the three of them continue their chaotic brainstorming session around you. It’s not helpful in the slightest, but somehow, it makes you feel a little less like throwing up again.
By some miracle—or maybe just the collective force of Belle’s bullying, Eunchae’s comfort, and Hiyyih’s endless suggestions—you finally land on an outfit. The moment you pull the halter top over your head, the three of them fall silent, which is either a very good sign or a very bad one.
“Okay, that’s cute,” Belle finally declares, hands on her hips like she personally designed the top. “It’s giving effortless, but still hot enough to make him sweat.”
“It’s super cute on you,” Hiyyih chimes in, tilting her head as she appraises the outfit.
“It is,” Eunchae adds, grinning as she slides off the bean bag to circle you.
The cropped halter top clings just right, the rich color complementing your skin tone and making you feel…hot. Paired with the baggy jeans that sit low on your hips, the whole look is casual, but not too casual. You glance at the mirror, adjusting the jeans slightly and eyeing the way they pool at the hems over your socked feet.
“Am I pulling this off?” you ask hesitantly, smoothing the fabric of the top.
Belle snorts. “If he’s not staring, I’ll be personally offended on your behalf.”
Eunchae pretends to swoon dramatically, throwing herself back onto the bean bag. “The mysterious unattainable enigma strikes again.”
“Okay, but shoes,” Hiyyih cuts in, crouching by the pile of options at your feet. “You’re wearing sneakers, obviously, but which ones? The Nikes or the New Balances?”
You glance down, debating for a moment before pointing to the Nikes. “They’re cleaner.”
Belle raises an eyebrow. “Barely. When was the last time you cleaned your shoes?”
You glare at her, picking up a sneaker and threatening to launch it her way. She holds up her hands in mock surrender, moving to pull a jacket from the rack as she says, “Make sure you bring a jacket, though. It’s cold as shit.”
“Or she can not bring one and Riki can lend her his.” Eunchae suggests with a cheeky grin.
Belle promptly tosses the jacket into the back of your closet.
You roll your eyes but can’t help the small smile tugging at your lips. The nerves are still there, bubbling under the surface, but with your friends around—and an outfit that actually makes you feel cute—you start to think that maybe, just maybe, tonight won’t be a complete disaster.
riki 🙈: im here
“We’re seeing you off,” Belle declares, handing you the Prada bag she just stuffed your lip combo into. Hiyyih trails behind her, spritzing your neck and wrists with your favorite perfume.
The dread must be plastered all over your face because Eunchae immediately starts snickering from where she’s leaning against the doorframe. “We just wanna see his reaction.”
“To me or to you guys making kissy faces at him from the porch?” you deadpan.
The chorus of giggles that erupts from your three friends is all the answer you need.
“Oh, come on,” Belle says, looping her arm through yours as she drags you toward the front door. “We’ll behave.”
“You behaving is a scientific impossibility,” you mutter, trying to resist, but she’s got the strength of someone fully committed to the bit.
“Hold on,” Eunchae pulls something out of her hoodie pocket she must’ve forgotten was there until just now, uncapping the small bottle and holding it in front of your lips, “Open.”
You obey with a slight furrow of your brows, and she sprays it into your mouth, giggling when you flinch slightly in surprise and grimace at the strong mint taste. Eunchae grins, unzipping the bag on your shoulder just enough to slip it in before closing it, “To prevent food breath.”
The moment Belle opens the front door, your breath catches at the sight of Riki leaning casually against the passenger side of his Wrangler, hands tucked into his pockets. The golden light of the setting sun highlights the faint smirk on his face, his jewelry glinting as he shifts.
"Lord have mercy," you mutter under your breath.
You didn't expect him to show up in sweatpants and a hoodie, but you weren't prepared for this either. The necklaces layering his collarbones and the glint of piercings--does he have an eyebrow piercing?—are almost too much. You quickly shove down the spiral threatening to start and glance back at the three traitorous girls behind you.
Their kissy faces drop immediately, though Eunchae barely suppresses her laughter.
With a playful shove to Hiyyih—who stumbles into the porch pillar but resumes her antics without missing a beat—you flip them all a perfectly manicured middle finger and step off the porch.
As you walk toward him, you swear the faintest blush tinges his ears. He waves briefly at your friends before straightening and meeting your gaze.
"You look good," he says, voice low and easy.
"I know." Your response is swift and confident, though the smile on your face is warmer than intended.
The moment is interrupted when the backseat window of his car rolls down, and Jake's grinning face is revealed. Your smile drops.
"Why is Jake in your car?" you deadpan, your smile dropping.
Riki groans, dragging a hand over his face. "Dude, I told you not to be weird."
Jake looks offended. "I didn't even say anything!"
"Seeing your face is enough," you reply flatly. Jake pouts dramatically while you shoot Riki an accusatory glare. "You could've warned me."
"If I did, you would've come out frowning," Riki whines playfully. "You have such a pretty smile."
From the backseat, Jake's obnoxious "ooooh" echoes, accompanied by giggles that make Riki's blush spread down his neck. Still, he keeps his composure enough to open the passenger door for you.
"What a gentleman~," Belle teases loudly from the porch.
Eunchae waves at you, practically bouncing with glee. You shoot Belle a glare, mouthing "kill yourself" as you accept Riki's hand and climb into his lifted car.
"Bye, Manchae," you call, snapping your attention away from him as he closes the door. You're too aware of his cologne and the lingering warmth of his hand. He looks way too good.
Riki salutes your friends playfully before circling to his door. Through Jake's open window, you hear Hiyyih shout, "She likes Dr Pepper!”
"And winning!" Eunchae adds.
"And tongue," Belle finishes just before the window rolls up.
You cringe. Riki's amused laugh is confirmation he definitely heard that. "I hate her so much," you mutter, pulling the sun visor down to touch up your lip gloss to dostract yourself.
You're halfway through the motion when you notice Riki hasn't started driving yet. Turning, you catch him just as he’s looking back at the road, his hand on the gear shift. (There’s something attractive about the fact he drives stick.)
Jake's giggle breaks the silence. "Oh, shut up, Jake," you snap, not necessarily to defend Riki—though it only makes Jake laugh harder. “Why couldn't your other friends bring him?" you grumble, swiping the gloss over your bottom lip.
"He's my neighbor," Jake says cheekily.
"I would've made him walk," you reply, clicking the gloss shut and shoving it back into your bag. "Or Uber."
"That's just cruel," Jake protests, but you shrug.
"Sucks."
Riki snickers and nods. "Okay, he'll Uber next time."
Jake looks appalled. "Bro."
"You're annoying me too," Riki replies, barely glancing back as he rests his hand lazily on the gear shift.
You pointedly ignore the way his rolled-up sleeves expose a line of muscle up his forearm, a vein standing out as he moves to grab his phone charger. "Play your music," he says, holding the cord out to you.
Jake gapes. "Bro, you never let us play our music."
"That's because you guys have shit taste," Riki says without hesitation.
Your lips twitch, a sliver of pride blooming in your chest.
You connect your phone, Sabrina Carpenter's Taste filtering through the speakers. Jake perks up. "Oh, I actually like this song."
"You better," you reply, humming along as the music plays.
Riki bobs his head lightly to the beat, his usual laid-back energy soothing you as the drive continues.
"Who else is bowling with us?" you ask, turning the music down slightly.
"Jay, his girlfriend, and Heeseung," Riki answers casually.
You hum in understanding and turn the volume back up, inhaling the soft musk of his cologne mingling with your perfume. The scent is annoyingly pleasant, calming in its own way.
By the time he pulls into the parking lot and finds a good spot, the sky has dimmed to a deep navy. Riki is out of his seat in a flash, jogging around to open your door before Jake even unbuckles himself. His hand lingers on yours as he helps you down, his fingers interlocking with yours naturally.
Jake trails behind you two as Riki leads you toward the neon-lit entrance, the muffled sounds of bowling balls and laughter drifting through the glass doors.
Jay, a pretty girl you are pretty sure was in your art class in freshman year, and Heeseung are standing near the entrance, and you wish you could hide behind Riki from their gazes that immediately find your intertwined hands.
You send a smile to the only other girl reflexively, and she sends the prettiest one back. She grins excitedly as the three of them meet your trio halfway once you enter the door that Riki holds open for you to enter first.
(You wonder if these are manners his sisters and mother taught him or a previous girlfriend—wait, no you don’t.)
“I told you it was her!” She smacks Jay’s arm, and he winces with a soft laugh, clearly used to his girlfriend’s antics. Her approach is welcomed as she explains, “He was saying Riki was lying.”
“About?” You question curiously, an easy smile on your glossy lips.
She giggles as she answers, “You being his girlfriend.”
“Okay, that’s enough.” Riki says lowly, clearly embarrassed by the subject as you snicker at his misfortune.
“I’m Gaeul, by the way.” The girl states with a giggle as she pulls you from Riki with her elbow hooked with yours, and you barely glance back at your ‘boyfriend’, who’s being patted on the shoulder by Jay. “They’ll handle paying for everything, let’s get some snacks.”
“Oh, okay.” You say softly before smiling with her, delighted that she brought up food before you had to ask Riki about it. You aren’t ashamed of eating, or shy about doing so in front of him, but having another girl who also seems to prioritize food was immensely comforting to the anxiety in your gut.
She grins as the two of you step into line at the concession counter, “I’m also glad I got you away from the boys for a second, they’re so…”
“Boyish?” You finish, and she laughs softly.
“Yeah.”
“Girl to girl,” You start, moving up in line with her, “I don’t think I’m gonna be good at bowling.”
She gasps joyfully, “I suck!”
You laugh at her clear excitement that she’s finally not alone in that aspect, “But that means the boys are better than us.”
She rolls her eyes at the mention of them, “Riki and Heeseung are the really good bowlers,” There’s one more person between you two and the counter now, “I love my boyfriend, but he and Jake suck compared to those two.”
“I don’t want to lose to Jake.” You sigh, “It just doesn't seem ethical.”
“Riki’ll handle him.” She snickers softly, “You should've seen him at practice when Jake and Hoon messed with you.”
Your interest is piqued, but the person in front of you finishes paying for their food and you are forced to put your questions aside as she begins ordering and you realize you don’t even know what you want.
You’re skimming over the menu above when your phone dings in your purse.
riki 🙈: what size shoe do u wear?
Quickly typing an answer, you glance between your phone and the menu, and Gaeul turns to you, waiting for you to add to the already sizable order with how much the four athletes can eat. “Oh, I can pay for myself—“
“Riki already venmoed me enough to spot you,” She interjects with a soft giggle, and you feel your cheeks burn.
“Oh,” You let out before shaking your head and looking at the waiting cashier, “A large drink and a basket of cheese fries, please.”
Gaeul hands you the stack of cups she’s handed, and you startle slightly when a hand and arm appear in your vision, plucking the cups from your hand. When you look over your shoulder you find a smirking Riki, “I got this. Go sit.”
You huff softly, fighting your smile that threatens to grow even wider, “I can fill up my own drink.”
“I know, but I wanna do it.” He states with a nod like it’s the most natural thing in the world, and you can’t do much more than glare weakly. He only chuckles softly as Gaeul finishes paying and realizes he’s with you, “Go. Dr Pepper, right?.”
You look away from his cheeky smirk with a shift of your jaw, and you lose the fight against the grin now on your face, “I hate you.”
He only huffs softly in amusement as you walk away with your arms crossed, making your way to where you spot Heeseung’s orange hair. There’s a pair of green bowling shoes beside another bigger pair that are red placed on the bench seating, and Jake has a grin on his face the moment you sit down to put them on.
“I am not above hitting you in the head with a bowling ball, Jake.” You say as you pull the white sneakers off your feet to put on the bowling shoes, not even soaring the Australian boy a glance as his mouth shuts, clearly rethinking speaking.
Heeseung snorts, “Shit, you are violent.”
You look up from your bowling shoes at the Lacrosse captain, who’s grin drops and he quickly looks away, acting like he wasn’t just laughing. Jay shakes his head with a laugh, “Thank you, for shutting them up.”
You give him a smile with a scrunch of your nose, “My pleasure.”
The moment Riki and Gaeul return, you’ve barely gotten your shoes tied. You’re still shooting looks at Jake, who’s pretending to look anywhere but at you while Jay wheezes softly into his hand. Riki raises a brow, setting a tray of drinks and snacks on the table. “What happened now?”
“She threatened Jake’s life with a bowling ball,” Heeseung informs him with amusement still clear on his face.
Riki pauses mid-sip of his drink, glancing at you with a mixture of amusement and disbelief. “Already? We haven’t even started the game yet.”
You shrug innocently, tugging the laces on your bowling shoes tighter. “He looked like he deserved it.”
“I didn’t even say anything!” Jake argues with a whine, and you roll your eyes.
“You had that stupid look on your face.”
“Not defending him, but that’s just what Jake looks like.” Jay interjects with a finger raised to make a point, and Gaeul smacks his hand lightly with a disapproving shake of her head despite her snickering.
Riki sits beside you, handing you a large cup full of what you assume is Dr Pepper that you immediately taste to prove your theory, humming happily and smiling as you thank him. His smile mirrors yours as he begins to put on his own bowling shoes, and you grab your purse, which you had initially placed to your left, from between the two of you to place it elsewhere.
“Here,” He says softly, grabbing your purse from you to put on his other side with his jacket, which he had shed at some point between entering the building and sitting down, and you mutter a soft ‘oh, thank you’ that has his soft smirk widening just a bit before he focuses back on tying his shoes.
You’re somewhat thankful that they seemed to have agreed on teams instead of each of you having your own scoreboard, though seeing every ‘x’ between your ‘5’ points was embarrassing enough.
Gaeul seems wholly entertained by the gutter ball she just achieved as you cheer for her from your seat between Riki and Heeseung, too distracted by the fun of the game to see the goosebumps on your arms. You’re leaning forward to pluck a fry from the basket of them on the table when you feel a warm something draped over your shoulders.
Riki is standing for his turn before you can even react, but across the table Gaeul turns to hide her face in Jay’s shoulder to poorly muffle the high pitched squeal she lets out. You ignore the heat rising up your neck, catching the fry between your teeth to slip your arms into the jacket sleeves.
Jay and Gaeul seem to be the only team playing purely for fun, because Jake and Heeseung are neck and neck with you and Riki on the scoreboard and your ‘boyfriend’ looks less than pleased about it.
It’s near the last round when Jake scores a miraculous nine points that you mentally prepare to accept defeat, looking up at Riki who had just gotten back with your refilled cup, “Horrible news.”
He raises his brows, looking at the scoreboard and cursing under his breath. It’s your final turn, and while you hadn’t completely embarrassed yourself with your subpar bowling skills you probably weren’t good enough or lucky enough to score anything higher than six points. At the moment, HeeJake is in first place.
Gaeul is cheering you on with her back against Jay’s chest, and Riki leans down, resting a hand on the edge of the table beside you, his face just close enough to make your heart race. “No pressure,” he says softly, smirking. “But if you lose, we’re never hearing the end of it.”
You roll your eyes, trying to act unimpressed. “Great pep talk. Truly inspiring.”
He snickers softly, straightening back up as you stand with dread clear on your pretty face. Heeseung pipes up, “Give her a good luck kiss, Romeo.” The glare you shoot the Lacrosse captain only makes him snicker with his hands held up in mock-surrender, “Was just a suggestion.”
The feigned smile you give him has your fake boyfriend plucking your drink from your hands (how did he knew you had an urge to throw it at Heeseung’s face, you’ll never know), and his hands move to your shoulders to walk with you to edge of the lane to grab a pink 7lb bowling ball.
Riki’s grip on your shoulders lingers, and he leans down slightly to murmur near your ear, “Just—aim in the middle.”
You glance at him over your shoulder with a withering look, choosing to ignore his proximity, “Like that isn’t what I’ve been doing.”
“Could've fooled me—ow! Okay, okay,” He’s still laughing despite rubbing his chest where your punch landed, much too cheeky for your liking but his smile is too…something for you to want to wipe it off his face, “You’re better than Jake.”
You shoot him a skeptical look, but it’s hard to ignore the encouragement in his eyes. Taking a deep breath, you grip the heavy pink ball tightly, positioning it at your waist. Riki steps back, hands on his hips, his smirk still in place.
“Alright, show us what you’ve got, baby.”
“Oh, shut up.” You grumble softly, shooing him away to get his heart-fluttering grin out of your face, and as you pull his oversized sleeves up your arm to keep it from getting in the way you give yourself a mental pep talk.
Don’t lose, bitch.
It doesn’t help that your nails make putting your fingers in the three designated holes a struggle, and the moment the ball is released into the lane, veering left toward the gutter before God herself takes control and it curves back toward the center and slams into the center pin, you cover your face.
Strike!
Gaeul practically shrieks in excitement as the pins scatter, “Yes, girl!”
You blink, lashes fluttering as you process the cheering as well as groans from Jake, and you gasp, “Holy shit!”
Riki’s joyous laughter is infectious and warm, and you let out a soft shriek that fades into giggles as his arms wrap around your waist and he lifts you off your feet in a hug, “Hell yeah, baby!”
The moment your feet are back on the ground, Gaeul is before you with her hands up for high fives, practically bouncing in excitement for you. It’s practically second nature to you as you match her energy, too high on your miraculous win to notice Riki’s hands lingering on your waist.
Another thing you fail to notice in your moment of joy is a familiar couple just a few lanes over, one party too distracted by the ruckus to pay any attention to the game her boyfriend and his friends dragged her to join.
She watches you smile and laugh as Riki helps you out of your bowling shoes, and her eyes follow you as you walk toward the restrooms with the light blue Prada bag she had always wished you would give her. It isn‘t fair.
You sigh softly as you place your bag on the sink in front of you, unzipping it to grab your lip combo to touch up in the mirror before going back out. As you uncap your lipliner with a muffled click, you hear the bathroom door open but don’t think much of it at the moment.
It isn’t until you look into the mirror, leaning forward slightly to see your lips better, that you see who it is.
“Can I help you?” You ask her reflection with a tilt of your head, tone less confrontational than it should be, but you’re trying to keep your good mood and Nayeon’s face is threatening to ruin it.
She scoffs softly, yet keeps a safe distance, “Do you even like him?”
You look away from the mirror to really look at her, ignoring the satisfaction that her slight flinch brings you, “Excuse me?”
“You moved on fast.” Nayeon states, and you scoff with a smile of both fury and amusement at her audacity, “Is it even real, or did you use daddy’s money to get him to date you?”
The tilt of your head should have been a sign for her to shut her mouth, but she continues when you don’t respond like usual, “But I guess moving from one guy to another is just like you.”
She’s just trying to rile you up, it’s obvious.
You shake your head with a soft and bitter laugh, looking back at the mirror to continue what you had intended to do, the lip pencil gliding over the edges of your lips and the pad of your ring finger blending the harsh edges.
Her jaw shifts in the reflection as you cap your lip-liner and exchange it for your lip gloss, and you send her a condescending smile, “You done?”
“You bitch—“ Her words are cut off by another person entering the bathroom, and as you swipe the gloss over your lips, you pause when you see it’s Gaeul.
She glances at Nayeon, but her main focus is on you as she says, “Ready to go?”
You hide your confusion at her question with a pretty smile, closing your gloss and stuffing it back into your bag before you walk to her, shoulder checking the audacious bitch on your way out, “Yep.”
Gaeul’s arm hooks at your elbow as you both exit the bathroom, and you sigh in relief at being out of that situation before you remember your prior confusion and she explains without you needing to ask, “Your ex is at our table antagonizing Riki, I figured if he’s here she would be too.”
Your brows furrow and you quickly pick up the pace of your stride with fury souring your mood once again. When you turn the corner, your gaze zeroes in on Riki, who’s leaning back in his seat seemingly unbothered by whatever it is that Eunseok is saying to him, and Nayeon hastens past you to join her boyfriend’s side.
Eunseok’s eyes land on you the moment his girlfriend puts herself on his arm, and they follow you as you approach Riki without even a glance his way until he speaks, “You move on fast.” He snorts, soft and bitter, “Didn’t expect you to open your legs so fast considering how long it took you to put out.”
You ignore him, though the anger in your gut is boiling hot as your gaze moves to Riki, who you find is already standing now, his jaw shifting yet no other sign in his body language that he’s as pissed as his narrowed eyes say he is. Jay, Heeseung, and Jake all watch, though from their body language you can tell they’re not exactly about to stand by if your ‘boyfriend’ decides to throw a well-deserved punch.
His gaze moves to yours the moment your hand finds his, softening as your fingers intertwine with his and you mutter, “Let’s go.”
He nods wordlessly, his willingness only pissing Eunseok off more as he laughs mockingly, and you feel Riki’s hand tighten around yours, “Already got him trained, huh? He like how mean you are?”
“I do, yeah.” Riki responds for you with a smug smirk, “She’s got a hell of a bite.”
The second meaning to his words isn’t lost on you, and you find the way Eunseok bristles at the comment amusing enough to not get mad at Riki for it later considering the two of you obviously hadn't done more than hold hands. (You hear Jake choke on his drink, too.)
“Bro, it’s your turn!” Calls a familiar male across the bowling alley, Sohee.
You take the moment of brief distraction to shoot a pointed look at Jake, who gets up from his seat to play peacemaker with Heeseung.
Jay seems to motion for Riki to leave while they’re distracted by the two, and you shoot Gaeul an apologetic glance that she receives with a shake of her head and a look that reads ‘don’t be sorry’ as Riki leads you out of the building.
The moment the frigid air hits you, you tug the sleeves of his jacket down your arms again and shiver slightly. “He’s such a dick.” You sigh softly, “I’m sorry.”
Riki shakes his head as the two of you stop just a few paces outside the entrance, “Don’t apologize.” His hands move to rub at your arms to help you warm up, and the sight of both of your breaths visible in the cold has you moving to take his jacket off to give to him, but his hands cover yours the moment they start pulling at the open zipper. “I’m okay.”
“Riki, it’s cold as shit.”
“All the more reason for you to keep the jacket.” He argues back with a soft smirk, “Really, I practice in the cold every day.”
“You’re active, then. Not standing around,” You fuss, and he tilts his head slightly in acknowledgement before a cheeky smirk grows on his face.
“‘You worried about me, pretty girl?”
“Oh, stop it.” You groan with a poorly concealed warm laugh, and he catches your hands as you weakly swat at his chest, pulling you closer. “Riki.”
Your soft mutter of his name has his eyes shutting and his head falling back with a soft groan escaping his lips, “You’re so mean, baby.”
“It isn’t fair to you.” He doesn’t seem pleased by your statement, shaking his head and leaning forward to press his forehead to yours.
“Just a kiss.” He pleas softly, his nose brushing yours and you inhale sharply, “Just one.”
His words flip your stomach inside out, and as you sigh his name again he leans in.
“Oh shit!” The sudden exclamation has you and Riki both startling away from each other, Jake grinning like a maniac at the doors with Heeseung, Jay, and Gaeul behind him. “Fuck, did I just ruin a moment?”
You groan, turning away from them to begin walking to Riki’s Jeep, arms crossed to protect yourself from the cold and your mind in utter shambles because—
What the fuck?
Jake gets a ride from Heeseung home according to Riki, who had unlocked his car for you to get in while he said goodbye to the others. A part of you regrets not saying goodbye to Gaeul, but the thought of spending another second under their gaze at that moment felt suffocating.
The silence in the car is loud. Not awkward loud, but loud enough that every glance out the window and every shift in your seat feels amplified. Riki’s hands stay firmly on the wheel, his fingers drumming against the edge of the leather cover as he fiddles with the turn signal.
“So,” he starts, his voice casual but slightly strained, “you’ve got a mean bowling game for someone who swore they’d lose.”
You glance at him, catching the way the passing streetlights make his jawline look sharper. “That’s because I hustle. Low expectations are a great strategy.”
He huffs a small laugh, his lips twitching into a smirk. “Guess I’ll keep that in mind for next time.”
You lean back against the seat, trying to ignore the fact that your heart still hasn’t settled since that moment at the alley—the one where his face was too close, his breath too warm, and you almost forgot this whole thing was fake.
“So… next time?” you tease, arching a brow. “How much more mortifying teasing can you handle?”
“Depends,” he says, keeping his eyes on the road. “How long does it take to make your ex think he lost the best thing that ever happened to him?”
Your laugh comes out before you can stop it. “It’ll probably never happen, I just like to see him squirm.” The weight of his words sits in the air between you, heavier than it should be. You turn to look out the window, feigning interest in the row of darkened houses you pass by.
“You know,” he says after a beat, his voice quieter now, “I don’t think they’re worth this much effort. Your ex and… her.”
You blink, surprised at his shift in tone. “Well, thanks for that motivational speech, Riki. Really helps my self-esteem.”
He shakes his head, glancing at you briefly. “That’s not what I meant. I just mean… if they couldn’t see how good they had it with you, that’s on them. You don’t need to prove anything.”
The sincerity in his voice catches you off guard. You open your mouth to reply, but the words don’t come. Instead, you study him in the dim light, wondering—not for the first time—why he agreed to this in the first place.
“Why are you doing this, Riki?” you ask softly, your voice barely above a whisper.
He hesitates, his fingers drumming lightly against the steering wheel. “I told you, I need you to help me pass Chem.”
You narrow your eyes, not convinced but also not ready to push. “You haven’t even asked for help past me giving you my old notes.”
He smirks again, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes this time. “They’re just that helpful. Don’t overthink it.”
And maybe you don’t, because overthinking means dissecting the way he’s looking at you now in the faint glow of the dashboard, like he knows something you don’t.
The car slows to a stop in front of your house and you fiddle with the hem of your halter top, trying to figure out how to say what’s been sitting heavy in your chest since the bowling alley. “Riki,” you start, your voice softer than usual.
He hums in acknowledgment, already looking at you.
You take a steadying breath. “I don’t think… I’m ready for a real relationship.”
That gets his attention. His hands shift in his lap, his expression unreadable. “Okay,” he says after a beat, his tone cautious. “Where’s this coming from?”
You shift in your seat, suddenly finding the dashboard very interesting. “It’s just… you’ve been really good to me this past week, and I feel like it’s not fair to you. I mean, you’ve made it pretty clear how you feel, and I don’t want to lead you on or—”
“Hey.” His voice is calm, steady, and it makes you pause. “You’re not leading me on. I knew what I was getting into.”
“Yeah, but…” You trail off, frustration bubbling up because the words in your head won’t come out the way you want them to. “It’s not just about you. It’s about me, too. I don’t think I’m ready to deal with… all of this. Not after everything with him. It’s too much.”
He doesn’t say anything right away, which somehow makes it worse. The silence stretches, and you’re about to apologize—again—when he finally speaks.
“So, what do you want to do?”
“I think we should stop,” you say, hating how small your voice sounds. “The fake dating, I mean.”
He nods, almost imperceptibly. “If that’s what you want.”
“It’s not—” You stop yourself, biting your lip as your eyes burn. “I just… I don’t want to hurt you. You deserve someone who’s all in, and I can’t be that right now.”
His lips twitch into a faint, almost sad smile. “You’re thinking too much about me again.”
You frown, confused. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
He shrugs lightly, his eyes moving away from you briefly before they settle back on yours. “It means you’re allowed to put yourself first, you know. I’m a big boy; I’ll survive.”
“But—”
“No buts.” He cuts you off gently, an easy smile still on his face. “If this is what you need, we’ll stop. No hard feelings.”
The simplicity of his response hits harder than you expected. It’s so Riki—quietly selfless, always willing to go along with what makes you happy.
You hate how much you suddenly want to reach across the console and kiss the life out of him. But you don’t. Instead, you swallow the lump in your throat and force a smile.
“Thanks, Riki.”
His smile doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Anytime.”
You watch him exit his car, circle around the front, and open your door for you while holding a chivalrous hand out just like before. A part of your heart aches with the knowledge he’s still doing this despite not technically having to, and you smile softly as you accept his help. His hand doesn’t linger in yours as it did before, though.
The walk to your front door is silent, and he halts just before the step onto your porch, his hands in his pockets, you pause before approaching your door, turning to him. With the few inches that the porch gives you, meeting his gaze is easier. “Tonight was really fun, ignoring the end of it,”
He chuckles softly, “Glad you had fun, pretty girl.”
If he didn’t mean to let the name slip he doesn’t show any signs of panic or regret, only meeting your nearly-level gaze with warmth.
There’s a moment before you turn your body only slightly towards the front door, “Goodnight.”
His hand catches your elbow gently as you begin to turn away from him, pulling you back yet giving you time to pull away if you so desire, and you don’t.
His lips meet yours in a kiss that’s softer than you imagined it’d be. His hand moves to your cheek yet pauses just before his skin touches yours, lips sweet and slow against yours.
It’s over before you can kiss back like you want to, his lips parting from yours with a soft smack that makes your stomach flip.
“Goodnight.” He bids in a low mumble, barely an inch from your lips when the words leave his and he takes a step back with a soft smile that makes your heart twist painfully, “See you Monday.”
You can only nod, forcing a slight smile and turning to punch in the door code with shaky hands and a heavy, aching heart.
➜ summary: you just moved into a new building, right across from three loud guys. two said sorry and the third couldn’t care less.
pairing: pshx f!reader,wc: 14k words , genre: enemies to lovers ish, neighbor!au, fluff, romcom w: rude jokes, cussing, kissing
The elevator doors swung open, and soon you stepped out into the third floor hallway. You looked like you were moving in, which in your defense…you were. The oversized hoodie slipping off one shoulder, arms hugging a stack of takeout containers and a cactus you had that had pricked you far too many times, but that didn’t matter. You were finally on your own.
Unit 3B. That was you now.
Your keys jingled in your palm as you found the door, nudged it open with one knee, and stepped into the apartment you’d stared at for months on rental listings. It wasn’t huge, but it had a little kitchen with enough space for your mum’s rice cooker, and a balcony that caught the sun in the morning. You spun around in the centre of the room, grinning, almost knocking the cactus you had just placed on the counter in the process.
And by nightfall, the place felt like yours. Your fairy lights were strung up across your living room. Your fridge held exactly a bottle of soda, some tuna you had eaten an hour ago and a bag of unwashed grapes. You lit a vanilla candle, the one your best friend, Jungwon, made you promise to use so you'd remember him… even while being so far apart. But Jungwon hated travelling, so in his mind, you'd basically moved to another continent.
Jungwon dramatically declared, “You’re practically moving to another country.”
“Jungwon, I’m literally a two-hour train ride away.”
“That’s basically Europe.”
You rolled your eyes at the memory, smiling to yourself.
Still, you were glad you’d made the decision to move. Three years ahead of you… of being on your own, of learning to be independent, part-time jobs, and what you hoped…a future incoming relationship. It should be easy. It should be peaceful. It should be—
“DUDE!!!”
A scream ripped through your wall.
It came from the wall to your right, a thin wall nudged between you and your neighbours. You could hear celebrations. A voice shouted, “THAT WAS INSANE!” followed by a loud thump like someone had jumped off the sofa.
You tried ignoring it at first, burying yourself under the blanket like it could block out noise. But 20 minutes in, another screamed “HE’S OFFSIDE, YOU DUMB—” loud enough to rattle the walls, you snapped.
You threw on your hoodie, jammed your feet into slippers, and marched out the front door like you were storming a battlefield. The hallway was dim and quiet, except for the muffled party behind door 3C. You knocked, hard, but polite.
The door creaked open mid-laughter, revealing three guys mid-snack, mid-game.
“Hi,” you said, tight smile. “Sorry to bother you, but… would you mind keeping it down a little? I’ve got a test tomorrow and it’s kinda hard to focus with all the screaming.”
The one with fluffy hair, cute little eyes, nodded immediately. “Shit. Sorry, sorry. Totally our bad.”
Another one, long lashes and a goofy smile, actually winced. “Didn’t realise it was that loud. We’ll keep it down, promise.”
“Are you new here?” the first one asked.
You nodded. “I just moved in today, actually.”
“Oh shit. Mrs Kim moved out?”
“Damn, we’re not getting her kimchi anymore, that’s for sure.”
“We gotta eat those store-bought ones that taste like ass.”
The second boy looked at you again, more focused this time. “Oh right! I’m Jake! It’s great to meet you! I’m sorry it happened under… unfortunate circumstances. But we’ll be quieter!”
“I’m Jay, by the way,” the first one added with a small grin, pushing his hair back.
You nodded, smiling slightly. At least they were nice about it. Well, two out of three, anyway.
You glanced past both of them, eyes landing on the third boy slouched on the couch, still holding the controller, gaze fixed on the paused screen like you weren’t even there. His jaw clenched once. No name. No hello. Just a subtle, annoyed glance in your direction before he looked away again.
Cool. So he hates you. That’s cool with you.
The third guy didn’t say anything. Just glanced at you once, then turned back toward the TV.
“Uh, thanks,” you said, lips tight, already backing away.
You returned to your apartment and for a blessed thirty minutes, it was quiet.
Then someone scored a goal and the wall shook again.
You blinked slowly at your ceiling, arms folded under your head like the weight of your patience was finally starting to crush your ribs. Okay. So that’s how it was going to be. You frowned.
And that was literally… how war started.
The next morning, fuelled by petty vengeance and two hours of sleep, you grabbed your pastel pink sticky notes and wrote:
“Dear 3C, I’ve played FIFA before. It is not that damn fun for you to be out here screaming. Please tone it down. Regards, the zombie in 3B.”
You slapped it on their door. Nothing changed.
And the next day:
“Dear 3C, I can’t sleep. Kindly shut up <3 With love, the girl one more sleepless night away from writing to the landlord. 3B.”
You half expected them to ignore it. Instead, you found your note missing by mid-afternoon. Gone.
For a moment, you felt powerful. Maybe they’d actually listened.
Then 8:43 p.m. hit and someone in 3C scored a goal so loud you swore the bass from their TV made your candle flicker.
Alright. So it was personal now.
You stormed over to their door again, hands on your hips.. It wasn’t that late. You weren’t unreasonable. You believed in joy. In freedom. But right now? Rage was the only thing pumping through your system.
You shuffled down the hall with your bunny slippers slapping against the floor, hair in a claw clip that was giving up. You looked deranged. And for the first time, you were fine with that. You banged on their door.
The door cracked open a second later, revealing Jake blinking like a deer in headlights. His hair was messy. He looked mildly afraid.
“Were… we being loud again?”
You stared at him, deadpan. “Ya think?”
Jake rubbed the back of his neck. “Okay, okay. I’m so sorry. It’s Sunghoon. He keeps saying it’s not that loud and we were mid-tournament and—”
“Tell Sunghoon that his ego’s not the only thing echoing through these walls,” you snapped, arms crossed. “Some of us are trying to study.”
Behind Jake, you heard a familiar scoff followed by a smug voice yelling, “God, she’s so annoying. We were literally whispering.”
You leaned to the side, locking eyes with the third boy slouched on the couch, controller in hand, feet on the coffee table like the world owed him something. He didn’t even pause the game this time.
You didn’t know what it was about his stupidly symmetrical face but your blood boiled.
“Tell this Sunghoon guy…his whispering sounds like a screeching cat,” you said flatly, before spinning on your heel and marching back toward your door when you heard his aggravating voice.
“Tell her she’s overreacting over a couple of friends simply trying to have fun,” Sunghoon fired back from the couch, not even raising his voice.
You turned your head just enough to glare over your shoulder. “Well, tell him, his shirt doesn’t match his fucking pants.”
Jake looked helpless, standing between you both like a middle child caught in a divorce.
And then, with that same bored tone, Sunghoon called out again, “Well, tell her… those slippers are the best thing she’s worn all week.”
You stopped.
Jake sucked in a breath.
You slowly turned, eyes narrowing. “Tell him he wouldn’t know good fashion if it came with a user manual and punched him in his freaking face.”
Sunghoon finally glanced away from the TV, meeting your eyes for the first time that night. His lips curved into the most irritating half-smile you’d ever seen.
“Tell her–”
Jake stepped in between again, hands raised. “Okay! Okay. We’re gonna turn the volume down. Like, way down. Like you can’t even hear us tiptoe. Right, Sunghoon?”
Sunghoon leaned back against the couch and shrugged. “Whatever. I’m not the one annoying my neighbors at 9pm on a Friday night. Get some friends.”
You slammed your door shut.
War was back on.
-
The next morning, your plan was simple. A little petty, sure, but necessary.
You stood outside their door in your pyjamas, holding a fresh pack of neon yellow Post-its since your previous ones were used up by the ongoing Post-It war.The hallway was empty. Your bunny slippers made no sound as you padded up to 3C and stuck the first one of the week dead-centre on the door.
“Dear 3C, just a gentle reminder that FIFA will not feed you, clothe you, or give you money. Kindly shut up. PLEASE. Warmest regards, 3B.”
You smiled to yourself and floated back to your apartment.
That night? For the first time…? Silence. Beautiful, blissful silence. You actually managed to revise two chapters and fall asleep before midnight. You woke up in the morning feeling like a changed woman.
But then you opened your front door.
There, taped neatly to your door, was a blue sticky note with surprisingly neat handwriting.
“Dear 3B, you sound like you narrate your life out loud. – 3C.”
Your jaw dropped.
“Narrate your life out loud?” you muttered. “That’s literally called thinking.”
You marched back into your apartment, flung open your stationery drawer.
“Dear 3C, apologies if my internal monologue disrupted your daily FIFA championship. I only talk to myself because your volume settings make it impossible to hear my own thoughts. With all due respect (and ear damage), 3B."
That afternoon, Jay knocked on your door. You hesitated, then opened it a crack. He was holding a bag of convenience store pancakes in one hand.
“Peace offering,” he said. “Also, I think your notes are hilarious. Jake’s been collecting them. I think he’s making a scrapbook.”
You blinked. “Is this a joke or something?”
Jay shrugged, leaning casually against the doorframe. “No! Honestly, it’s kinda refreshing.”
Jake popped his head in from behind, grinning. “Also, your handwriting’s really neat.”
You opened the door a little wider, cautious then shrugged. “You want some… uh… spaghetti? I made it this morning.”
“Spaghetti?” Jay tilted his head.
You nodded. “Yeah. I usually experiment with food. I’m…uh…in culinary school.”
Jake’s eyes widened. “Wait, so you’re like… a chef?”
“Trying to be.,” you said with a shrug, suddenly a little self-conscious.
They exchanged a quick look before barging in like you'd personally handed them invites at the door.
“That’s so cool,” Jake said, practically bouncing as he flopped onto your beanbag. “I burnt instant noodles last week. Twice.”
Jay wandered deeper into your living room, his gaze landing on the dusty old guitar leaning against your bookshelf. “Dude, check it out! She plays the guitar.”
You rubbed the back of your neck, awkward. “It’s just for fun. I’m not that good.”
“I’m sure you’re great,” Jake said, already chewing through a mouthful of spaghetti he’d somehow found, and served himself in a bowl you didn’t remember offering.
You blinked at him. “Did you just—?”
“Plate was right there,” he said through a mouthful. “I took it as a sign.”
Jay nodded solemnly. “She feeds us and plays guitar. She’s better than Mrs. Kim already.”
You sighed and closed the door behind them. “I’m starting to think Mrs. Kim left because of the three of you.”
In between bites, Jake nodded without hesitation. “I think so too.”
“We can be loud,” Jay added, helping himself to another serving.
“Have you thought of… not being loud?”
“We do,” Jay said. “But then we get loud again.”
You rolled your eyes. “Guys, some of us have school and—”
“We have school too,” Jake chimed in, mouth full.
“Okay… some of us care about sleep.”
Jay perked up. “That’s why we got you this.”
He dug into his hoodie pocket and pulled out a tiny box, dropping it into your hands.
You squinted at it. “What’s this?”
“They’re sleep buds,” he said proudly. “They go in your ears and play white noise and, like… ocean sounds or something. Blocks everything out. Even us.”
You stared at the box, then at them.
“Instead of compromising, you got me gear?”
Jake grinned. “Yeah. We like you. We want you to be able to sleep… through us.”
Jay gave you a thumbs-up. “It’s called adaptation.”
You looked down at the sleep buds in your hands and then back up at the two of them absolutely inhaling your spaghetti like they hadn’t eaten in weeks.
You didn’t know whether to kick them out or thank them.
So you just sighed, defeated. “You guys are the weirdest neighbours I’ve ever had.”
Jake beamed. “Aww. You’re the weirdest too.”
And somehow… the next day… they were back.
You opened the door mid-knock, confused, only to find Jay grinning at you.
“What’s for lunch today, boss?” he asked, already halfway through the doorway.
You blinked. “How’d you know I made something?”
“We could smell it,” Jake said, stepping in right behind him, holding up a comically large spoon. “Smells so good. Brought my big spoon today. Came prepared.”
“Uh… I made chowder?”
Jake’s eyes lit up. “Oh my god, I love chowder.”
Jay had already plopped onto the floor cushion, flipping through your Spotify like he owned your iPad. “What kind? Clam? Corn? Pumpkin? Wait… do people put pumpkin in chowder?”
You stared at them, ladle in hand.
“Corn,” you muttered, shuffling back into the kitchen.
Then the day after that… they came again. At this point, it felt less like a surprise and more like a recurring appointment.
“No fucking way. Kimchi stew? This shit is so good!. Jay, you need to try the beef. It’s so soft. How— how’d you get it so soft? Is this like one of those expensive beef? Wakoo?”
“It’s Wagyu, Jake.” You corrected.
“Wagyu~” He sang.
Jay, already mid-bite, nodded with a full mouth. “Can I havefth thefth reshepee?”
You wiped your hands on a dish towel, leaning against the counter with one brow raised. “Do you guys ever eat in your own apartment?”
Jake didn’t miss a beat. “Not when you cook like this.”
Jay pointed his chopsticks at you like he was making a closing argument in court. “This is technically your fault. You fed us once. That’s basically a binding contract. We’re best friends now. Aren’t we, Jake?”
Jake nodded, mouth full. “Mhmff. Whatever he said.”
You sighed, setting your elbow on the table and dropping your chin into your hand. “If you’re gonna keep doing this, at least wash the dishes after.”
Jake saluted you with his spoon like you were the captain of a very tiny, soup-based army. “Yes, chef.”
You looked at the two of them, one already on his third helping, the other stealing more beef straight from the pot, and shook your head.
This wasn’t how your independent, put-together, college life was supposed to go. You were meant to be focused. The mysterious girl on the third floor who only ever came out for groceries and exams.
But maybe… with the two of them barging in uninvited, eating like they hadn’t seen food in years, and treating your living room like it was theirs…
Maybe you wouldn’t feel so lonely after all.
-
It was 9 p.m. Strangely quiet.
Usually, by now, there’d be at least one goal celebration shaking the walls or someone shouting about a missed penalty. But tonight? Nothing. You didn’t let it bother you. You took it as a win.
The balcony door slid open with a soft scrape. You stepped out into the cool night, cradling your little scissors and spray bottle like sacred tools. Your succulents were arranged in a neat line. A few leaves had started to curl. You knelt down, snipping the dead ends carefully.
You should’ve felt peaceful.
But tonight, something tugged at your chest.
You missed Jungwon. You missed your mom’s mismatched cutlery and the way your dad always forgot he’d already asked about your grades. Maybe even your pet fish, the one that never did much except float around looking confused.
Jay and Jake were friendly, sure. But they weren’t yours. They weren’t part of your before. They didn’t know the town you came from or the versions of you that existed before now.
And even though you thought you’d settled in... even though you were coping...you were lonely.
Without meaning to, you started speaking out loud — just like you always did.
“It’s fine. You’ll do better tomorrow. Tomorrow you won’t feel as lonely,” you said softly as you misted the leaves. “You’ll be stronger. You’re gonna get used to this. You can do it.”
But the lie caught in your throat.
Because you were crying already.
You wiped your cheek with the sleeve of your hoodie, frustrated, betrayed by your own body. You reached for your phone without thinking and hit the contact you swore you wouldn’t keep calling every time you got overwhelmed.
Jungwon answered on the first ring.
“What’s up?” he asked, casual as ever.
“Won…” you breathed out.
There was a pause. Then: “Are you crying?”
“No?”
“I can hear you sniffling, you shit.”
“It’s just—” your voice cracked. “It’s hard. I’m alone all the time. I’ve got no friends. I’ve got no one to talk to. I’m alone, Won.”
“I know,” he said gently. “I know…”
There was a pause. You could hear him shifting in bed, his voice soft and serious now. “But think about it this way, okay? You’re barely in your first month. You’re gonna get used to it. You’re gonna find people. You’re gonna build something here. It just takes time.”
You bit your lip. “You’ll visit if you can, right?”
“I’ll visit,” he promised. “Even if it takes two bloody hours.”
“But you hate traveling.”
“For you, I’d suffer.”
You sniffled. “You’re just saying that so I’ll hang up.”
“You’re right because I’m exhausted from basketball. But also… I love you.”
“Fine,” you mumbled. “I love you too.”
“Chin up. You’re talented and you deserve to be there. You can do this. We’re all counting on you.”
“I know.” You exhaled slowly. “Goodnight, Wonnie.”
“Night.”
You ended the call and sat in silence for a moment, letting the cool night air settle on your skin. The tears had stopped. Your hands still smelled like mint and basil and the faint sweetness of the spray bottle. You stared at your succulents, wondering if they ever got lonely too.
Unbeknownst to you, just a few feet away, out on the connected balcony, hidden by the divider, someone had heard everything.
He hadn’t meant to eavesdrop. He’d stepped out earlier, just needing air, needing quiet, needing to be somewhere still for once. And then he’d heard your voice. The words that were not meant for anyone else.
And for the first time, Sunghoon didn’t roll his eyes or make a sarcastic comment.
He just stood there in the dark, one hand gripping the railing, heart a little heavier than before.
He understood more than you thought.
And somewhere between your tears and Jungwon’s voice, he changed his mind about you.
-
The next few days, there was absolute silence. Maybe the food had finally worked some psychological warfare on Jay and Jake. Maybe it was their way of returning the favour. Either way, you weren’t about to question it.
You were grateful, to say the least.
Because for the past week, you’d been moping around your apartment. Living alone and striking out as an “independent bachelorette” sounded empowering in theory, but in practice? Maybe you weren’t one of those girlies after all…y’know the ones on Instagram who made solitude look like a season of self-discovery instead of a series of breakdowns.
It was Saturday. You’d spent the entire morning in bed watching a Netflix documentary about some guy swindling people on Tinder, surrounded by crumpled tissue and scented candle smoke that had long turned suffocating. You were still in yesterday’s hoodie, blanket tangled around your legs.
Three knocks echoed at the door.
You lifted your head from the pillow with a groan, barely alive. The sound came again.
Dragging yourself across the living room, you cracked the door open just a sliver, just wide enough to peek through but not enough to reveal the disaster that was your face, your hair, or your pride.
“Uh.” The voice was hesitant. Familiar.
You squinted.
Sunghoon.
You blinked. “What are you doing here?” you asked, your voice hoarse from crying and a full night of narrating your own spiral.
“There was a mix-up with the mail,” he said, holding up a small stack of envelopes.
“Oh.” You extended your arm awkwardly through the tiny gap in the door and grabbed the letters. “Thanks.”
There was a pause, “I can see your puffy eyes through the gap.”
You scoffed, immediately pulling the door closer. “You just have to be a smartass about everything, don’t you?”
He shrugged, completely unbothered, hands in the pockets of his hoodie. Still standing there.
“…Are Jake and Jay home?” you asked, trying to sound casual.
His expression twitched, almost amused. “Why? Trying to steal my best friends again or—”
“No,” you deadpanned. “I was just wondering. It’s been… quiet this whole week.”
“They went home to visit their families.”
Oh. Right. Come to think of it, maybe that explained why everything felt extra heavy lately. It was the time of year people usually went home. People surrounded themselves with comfort and familiarity. And here you were, stuck in the city because the train ticket home was just slightly out of budget.
“You didn’t go?” you asked softly.
“Can’t,” he shrugged.
“Oh.”
There was a beat of silence. Then he tilted his head.
“Well,” Sunghoon said slowly, “if you ever need someone to emotionally rejuvenate you by pointing out your hair looks like a rat’s nest, you know where to find me.”
The words came with the usual venom but the message behind them landed differently.
You stared at him through the gap in the door. You couldn’t tell if he was trying to be funny, or… sincere, in his own weird, backhanded way. It was strange. You’d only had three full conversations with the guy. And every single one ended in a WWE tournament.
You narrowed your eyes slightly. “Are you… being nice to me?”
He clicked his tongue. “Don’t ruin it.”
And with that, he turned and walked back.
-
You finally got up.
There was no movie-worthy breakthrough moment. Just the dull ache in your head from crying too much and the feeling that if you shed one more tear, your eyeballs might actually eject themselves from their sockets. So you moved. You stripped your bed, tossed the mountain of tissues into a trash bag, sprayed half a bottle of disinfectant in the air, and opened every window.
Your apartment looked like it had survived an apocalypse, which, to be fair, was accurate. But you scrubbed it back to life.
By the time you were in the kitchen, your eyes were still a little swollen, but you’d pressed them with cool spoons and a sad little compress until you could see straight again. Kind of.
You pulled out ingredients from your fridge one by one, lining them up like you were preparing for war. Slicing, boiling, julienning, stir-frying. The sound of the pan crackling beneath the glass noodles filled the silence of your apartment. It smelled exactly like it did when your mom used to make it.
You plated it in a wide, shallow bowl. It was delicious. Of course it was. You took pride in it. You always had. Jungwon used to tease you, calling your hands “blessed by Gordon Ramsay” like everything you touched turned into comfort food. You’d swat his arm, trying not to smile as he reached for second helpings before you’d even sat down.
You missed him. You missed your family. You missed not having to eat alone on a day like this.
Your eyes drifted to the door.
Would it be stupid? To bring food to Sunghoon? You’d never really done anything kind for him. Most of your interactions were lined with sarcasm and insults. And yet… that one line of his kept replaying in your head, “If you ever need someone to emotionally rejuvenate you by pointing out your hair looks like a rat’s nest, you know where to find me.”
So maybe…maybe he meant it. Or maybe you were just desperate for company and your noodles were starting to get cold.
Before you could talk yourself out of it, you packed the noodles into a clean container, wrapped a rubber band around it, and found yourself standing in front of 3C. Your feet had walked you here without permission. Your hand hovered in the air, ready to knock, but now… you hesitated. You weren’t here to complain. You weren’t here to yell. And that made it harder.
And just before your knuckles could land on the door, it swung open.
Sunghoon stood in front of you, coat already on, scarf looped lazily around his neck. There was a little shine to his hair like he’d styled it, and he looked surprised, mildly confused to find you on his doorstep without any anger evident in your eyes.
“What?” he said, voice dry.
You blinked, staring at him. You’d never really looked at him properly before. Not when he was this put-together. The gel in his hair, the sharp line of his jaw, the way his scarf sat slightly off-center like he’d thrown it on in a rush. You knew he was attractive. You weren’t blind. But seeing him now?
Sunghoon was actually… pretty handsome.
“I—uh—” you stammered.
His eyes narrowed slightly. “Spit it out.”
“I—uh—I made some… stir-fried glass noodles,” you said, stumbling over every syllable. “And I know how much it sucks being alone on a day like this, so I thought… maybe it’d bring you some kind of familiarity. From home, or something.”
You didn’t let yourself overthink it. You shoved the container into his hands, heart pounding.
“Bye,” you mumbled, before immediately turning around and marching back to your apartment like you’d just robbed a bank. The door clicked shut behind you.
You pressed your back to it, eyes wide.
Shit.
Was Sunghoon actually hot?
-
Sunghoon stood in the hallway, unmoving. The container in his hands was warm and he stared down at it for a couple of seconds longer than he probably should’ve.
Jake and Jay had been raving about your cooking for weeks. At first, he thought they were exaggerating. How good could someone’s food be that it made two of the loudest people he knew voluntarily whisper through a FIFA match?
But he’d seen it with his own eyes, Jake silently fist-pumping the air, mouthing “LET’S FUCKING GO” after a goal, and Jay barely reacting as he scored. They even created a rule: first one to speak puts a dollar in the Silence Jar. A literal jar. With money.
Sunghoon didn’t get it.
And he didn’t particularly care to. Not then.
But now, standing in the hallway in his coat and scarf, staring at the gift you shoved into his hands with flushed cheeks, something felt different.
He had been on his way out, actually. There was a bar nearby, nothing special, just a dim-lit spot with quiet music and decent food where no one bothered him. He usually went there whenever Jay and Jake went back home, like they did this time every year. It wasn’t that he didn’t have family—he did. It just wasn’t… warm. They were always busy. Always somewhere else, even when they were in the same room.
He peeled off his scarf, feet dragging a little as he headed back into the apartment, the door clicking shut behind him. He set the container on the kitchen counter, grabbed a pair of chopsticks from the drawer, and opened the lid.
Steam wafted up instantly, sesame oil, soy sauce, garlic, something subtly sweet he couldn’t name. The noodles glistened. They looked homemade. No, they felt homemade.
He picked up a strand and gave it a tentative taste.
His eyes widened before he could even help it.
It was good. Like stupid good. Like how the hell is this girl not running her own restaurant kind of good. Better than anything he would’ve paid for at that bar tonight.
He stood there in silence, chopsticks hovering mid-air, thinking back.
He wasn’t proud of how he’d treated you. Three encounters, three arguments. He remembered each one too clearly. The snark in his voice. The way your expression hardened. The notes on the door.
But it wasn’t really about you.
He hated being called out. Hated being the problem. Maybe it was ego, or maybe it was the way he’d always felt like he had to be put-together or to say the least…controlled. Your presence threw him off. You were loud in a way that was sincere. You didn’t filter your emotions. You wore your annoyance on your sleeve and your feelings on your face.
It irritated him. It also… made him feel something.
And then there was that night on the balcony.
He hadn’t meant to listen. But when he heard your voice cracking through the divider, talking to someone…maybe it was your boyfriend? Your best friend? Whoever it was about how lonely you were, it hit him harder than it should’ve.
Because he got it.
He felt it too.
Being alone in a crowd. Having people around but never really with you. That weight in your chest that didn’t come from sadness exactly…just the absence of warmth.
Sunghoon felt it more often than he cared to admit. He loved Jake and Jay, loved them to pieces. They were the kind of people who filled a room with noise and an energy he couldn’t really place and who made him laugh even when he didn’t want to.
He wanted something more. Something real.
Someone who just… saw him.
He sat at his kitchen counter, staring at the container of glass noodles still warm with steam curling from the lid. He wasn’t usually impulsive. He didn’t do gestures. But maybe tonight called for something a little uncharacteristic.
He stood and reached up, opening the top cupboard where Jake and Jay kept what they called their “emergency date plates.”. The kind of plates you used to impress someone. They only ever brought them out when trying to convince girls they were not, in fact, living in a borderline condemned apartment flat.
He grabbed two.
And then, before he could second guess it, he walked out into the hallway and knocked.
Your door creaked open a few seconds later.
You blinked at him, confused. “What?”
It almost felt like deja vu. Except now, he was you…awkward at the door.
And then it hit him.
He looked at you…like, really looked at you, and for the first time, he realised he’d never actually seen you before.
You were wearing a soft pink sleeveless dress, the fabric loose and falling just above your knees, cinched slightly at the waist. Your hair was tied into a side braid, fringe swept slightly to the side, with a few delicate strands left loose to frame your face. You looked like you belonged in a pastel painting.
Shit.
Were you actually—pretty?
Nope. Nope. Stop that. Sunghoon blinked hard, trying to erase the thought.
Damn it.
You probably had a boyfriend. Someone smart and warm and emotionally available who FaceTimed you every night and wrote you good morning texts. Someone who missed you from back home.
And besides…someone who could cook like you? You could probably bag Jake and Jay at the same time in under a minute if you wanted. Not that you would. But still.
He cleared his throat.
“I, uh…” He held up the plates slightly. “I thought maybe… you could join me?”
He wasn’t good at this. But his voice was steady.
“Only if you want to,” he added, quickly. “I just figured. Y’know. Glass noodles taste better on… plates that aren’t plastic.”
His eyes met yours.
He was trying.
And this time, it was your turn to blink in disbelief.
-
Sunghoon had returned with the container of glass noodles, now a little colder, a little stickier, but still giving off the faint aroma of sesame oil and soy sauce. You’d reheated it and plated it up, slightly embarrassed that the presentation wasn’t what it had been fresh off the stove, but he didn’t seem to care. Or maybe he did, but you couldn’t tell, because for the first five minutes, you didn’t look at each other.
The clink of chopsticks, the occasional scrape of ceramic, and your ceiling fan. It was awkward. You wondered why he even came. Why he asked in the first place, if he was just going to eat in silence.
“So,” you said.
“So,” he said.
You paused.
“You first.”
“No, you—”
“Okay, I’ll go first,” he said, cutting himself off. He cleared his throat and set his chopsticks down. “I—uh—I just wanted to say thanks. For the meal.”
You blinked. “Okay.” You nodded slowly. “You’re… shockingly formal when you’re not pissed.”
“I—” Sunghoon let out a breath and leaned back a little in the chair. “I was never pissed.”
“Mhm,” you hummed, nodding, eyes narrowed. “Sure.”
“I was annoyed, sure. Who likes being called out?”
“I wasn’t trying to call you out,” you said, tilting your head. “But put yourself in my shoes. I have to wake up at stupid o’clock to learn how to make a soufflé or whatever, and meanwhile, I’m treated to surround sound yelling and the occasional ceiling vibration.”
He gave a small shrug. “Well, we haven’t done it in a while.”
“And I’m grateful,” you replied, lips twitching. “Truly.”
“We got a silence jar and everything,” he muttered, almost like he didn’t want to admit it.
Your eyebrows shot up. “A silence jar?”
He nodded. “Yeah. Jay implemented it. He said if we keep it up, we’ll have enough for extra toppings on our next pizza night.”
You burst into laughter, the sound surprising even yourself. It came out light and real, and you covered your mouth halfway through. “That’s… honestly? A decent plan.”
“It can be,” he said with a grin starting to pull at the corner of his mouth. “Until everyone starts trying to play FIFA like it’s an ASMR video.”
“You guys actually whisper?” you asked, incredulous.
“Well, yeah. You told us to.”
“I didn’t think you would listen,” you said, pointing your chopsticks at him.
Sunghoon shrugged again, his eyes dropping to the plate in front of him. “Well… they changed my mind, so.”
He didn’t say what he was really thinking.
That it wasn’t Jake or Jay who changed his mind. It was that night. The way your voice had carried through the gap in the balcony, fragile and cracking. The way you’d said I’m alone, Won like it was something that had been sitting inside you for too long, waiting to spill. He’d realised then maybe he wasn’t just an annoying neighbour to you. Maybe he was part of the problem. Maybe he’d been making things harder for someone who was already trying to hold it all together.
“So…” he said quietly, eyes on his plate, “why are you alone during the holidays anyway?”
“Couldn’t afford a train ticket,” you said eventually. “I mean—I could have, technically. But that’d mean I wouldn’t have enough money left to buy ingredients for my assignments the next few weeks.”
Sunghoon winced. “Oof. That’s rough. Must suck.”
You gave a little shrug. “Yeah. It’s fine though.”
He knew it wasn’t.
There was a pause. He glanced sideways at you.
“If you ever… feel like you need someone to talk to,” he started, voice casual, “you could just knock. I have FIFA.”
You snorted. “Oh, like I’d willingly join that mess.”
“It’s actually really fun.”
“How fun can flinging a ball across a screen with your thumbs be?”
“It is!” he defended, turning fully toward you.
You raised a brow. “I tried once with my friend and it was so boring.”
“That’s ‘cause you weren’t playing it right,” he insisted, already standing up. “Come on. I’ll show you.”
“I’m not playing FIFA with you.”
“Come onnn,” he whined, grabbing your wrist and tugging you lightly toward his door.
“God, this is gonna be so stupid,” you muttered, dragging your feet even as you followed him out.
Inside his apartment, the lights were warm, the couch sunken in like it had been through a war. You sat reluctantly, tucking your knees up as he handed you the controller.
“Alright,” he said, sliding in beside you. “This is you—Team Two. All you have to do is use the left joystick to move, the right one to look around. This button to pass, this one to shoot.”
You blinked. “So many buttons.”
“It’s easy! Just follow what I say.”
“Okay… so now I just—?” You pressed a button and immediately kicked the ball out of bounds.
“No, no—move left. Left.”
“I am moving left!”
He glanced over. Your tongue was sticking out slightly in concentration, eyes squinted, brows furrowed. He chuckled before he could stop himself, quickly looking away.
Then you screamed, “I DID IT! DID I DO IT?!”
He turned back just in time to see you score.
Sunghoon yelled, jumping up. “Yeah! That was it!”
You stared at the screen, jaw dropping. “Holy shit. I’m amazing.”
He looked at you again, this time longer. Your eyes were glowing, still locked on the TV. Your fingers tapped at the buttons like you already got it down. You bit your lip when you were focused, tongue sticking out just slightly when you were thinking.
And you were cute. So fucking cute.
The match picked up pace. Suddenly it was 2–2, and both of you were leaning in like your lives depended on it. You were yelling at the controller. He was shouting advice. At one point, your knees knocked, but neither of you noticed. The room was loud, just your voices and the music from the game and the way your laughter filled every corner of his flat.
Then it happened.
You scored.
You screamed, controller tossed onto the couch, and before Sunghoon could register what was happening, your arms were around his neck, squeezing him tight as you jumped slightly in place.
“I WON! DID YOU SEE THAT?!”
He froze. Your cheek brushed his jaw, your warmth right up against him. His hands hovered midair like he didn’t know whether to hold you back or not.
And then you let go, plopped back onto the couch, and grabbed the controller again like nothing had happened.
Sunghoon didn’t move.
For the first time in what felt like forever, his heartbeat stuttered. Sped up like it had been woken from a long, indifferent sleep.
He sat there, silent, staring at you as you shouted at your pixelated team.
And all he could think was well that…he hadn’t planned on crushing on the new girl based on one single positive interaction.
God, he was so screwed.
-
The next few days passed in a blur of almost-conversations.
You and Sunghoon didn’t talk much. Not like that night. Just a few polite waves across the hallway, a quiet “hey” if you caught the elevator at the same time. Respectful nods. The occasional awkward glance if your eyes met for too long.
And then Jake and Jay came back.
And of course, Jake being Jake, invited himself into your apartment before you could even say no.
“I missed your cooking while I was gone,” he sighed dramatically, sinking into the dining chair like he’d returned from war.
“Well, today’s your lucky day,” you said, flipping through your assignment folder and squinting at the week’s task. “Because for today’s assignment, I’m supposed to…” you paused. “Make a really mean chicken pot pie.”
Jake’s eyes lit up. He clapped his hands, nearly tipping his chair over. “CHICKEN POT PIE?!”
Before you could even blink, he leapt up, yanked your door open, and sprinted into the hallway.
“JAY! IT’S CHICKEN POT PIE!” he yelled like it was a fire drill.
From across the hall, Jay’s voice rang out. “WHAT?! NO WAY!”
And then—another voice joined them.
A quieter one.
“Chicken pot pie?”
You didn’t even have time to react before you were suddenly hosting three grown men in your kitchen, all leaning over your counter.
“Guys,” you said, elbow-deep in flour. “I can’t focus if you’re all staring at me like that.”
“We’re just excited,” Jake grinned, chin in his hands.
“Well don’t be. I’ve never made this before. It might taste like ass.”
“Your hands are basically blessed by Gordon Ramsay,” Jay declared, grabbing a slice of carrot from the cutting board. “It’s impossible for it to taste like ass.”
You laughed, the sound soft and unexpected even to yourself. “Jungwon used to tell me that all the time.”
“Oh he did?” Jay echoed, voice teasing.
Sunghoon stood a few steps back from the others, arms crossed loosely, leaning against your fridge. He hadn’t said much since stepping into your place, but now he watched the three of you.
The way you smiled when Jay made a joke. The way Jake knew where you kept your mixing bowls. The way your eyes sparkled, just slightly, when you laughed about something from home. The way they got it. The way they knew you.
And the way he didn’t.
Sunghoon couldn’t explain it but it made his stomach twist. Tight and strange and uncomfortable.
And then he heard it again.
Jungwon.
Who the hell was Jungwon?
His name sounded too casual. Too affectionate. The kind of name you didn’t just drop without meaning.
Sunghoon didn’t say anything. He just looked down at your countertop, at the flour dusting your hands and the delicate way your fingers shaped the crust, and all he could think was—
Why the fuck did he care so much?
You moved around your kitchen with the kind of ease that made it impossible not to watch. Sunghoon’s eyes were locked on you, the way your hair swayed behind your back as you leaned forward to stir something in the pot, the way your sleeves were pushed up.
His heart pounded harder than it should’ve. He tried to brush it off. Maybe he was just hungry. Maybe it was just the smell of garlic and butter making him lightheaded. That had to be it, right?
Except no.
He hadn’t planned on feeling like this today. Not when he woke up. Not when he brushed his teeth and went on his phone and told himself he’d stay in his apartment. He hadn’t even planned on coming over. And that night the two of you shared noodles? He’d chalked it up to vulnerability. Nighttime feelings. Nothing serious.
But now it was noon. He was awake. Sober. And you were still somehow making his chest tighten just by existing within ten feet of him.
God. He hated having a crush.
He didn’t even realise how lost he looked until Jake spoke up from the side, breaking the spell.
“So, is Jungwon finally coming?”
This guy again.
Sunghoon’s head whipped toward Jake so fast it might’ve snapped his neck.
You perked up at the mention, a smile blooming across your face without even trying. “Yeah! He’s coming in two weeks! I actually told him about you guys. He’s kinda excited to meet you.”
That smile. It wasn’t fake. It wasn’t forced. You looked like someone who meant it. Someone who missed this guy. Someone who talked to him often.
Sunghoon clenched his jaw and looked away, grabbing a water bottle off your counter just to do something with his hands. He twisted the cap a little too hard.
He didn’t know who the hell Jungwon was.
But he already didn’t like him.
“He’s coming over?” Jay asked, his mouth still half-full of pie filling.
“Yeah,” you said casually, brushing a stray hair behind your ear as you peeked into the oven. “He’s staying at my place for the week he’s here.”
Staying at your place?
Sunghoon blinked.
He looked around your apartment, eyes scanning every corner like they were going to magically reveal a hidden guest room. But there wasn’t one. You lived in a studio. Everything was in one space. Your bed, your desk, your kitchen, your couch. Except… there wasn’t even a real couch. Just a throw-covered loveseat that barely seated two.
No air mattress in sight. No hidden folding cot. No suspicious lumpy bags that might hold a spare futon.
Just one bed.
His chest tightened.
Where the hell was Jungwon gonna sleep? With you?
He picked at the label on his water bottle, teeth grinding quietly as he stared down at the floor, like it held answers. It didn’t.
He wasn’t even involved with you. This shouldn’t matter. It shouldn’t bother him.
But it did. In the most uncomfortable, teeth-clenching, mind-racing kind of way.
-
You stood in front of the three boys, arms crossed, heart racing slightly under your apron. The chicken pot pie sat on the table…golden brown crust, just the right amount of bubbling over on the sides, the smell of thyme and butter and garlic filling your apartment.
Jake, Jay, and Sunghoon each took a spoonful at the same time like they’d rehearsed it. You watched them, nervous, scanning their faces.
One by one, their expressions lit up. Jake’s eyes widened, Jay let out a satisfied groan. Well… except Sunghoon. Of course.
He stayed still. Always unreadable. But you caught it. The tiny pause, the way his brows lifted just a fraction. He liked it. He just didn’t show it like the others.
“So—” Jake started.
“Good,” Jay finished, already reaching for more.
Your eyes flicked to Sunghoon. Somehow, his opinion was the one you were waiting on. The one you needed.
“So?” you asked, staring at him.
He blinked. “What?”
“How is it?”
“It’s good,” he said, nodding once, tone flat as ever.
Your smile dropped. You frowned. “Doesn’t seem like it.”
“What? I just said it’s good.”
“No, you said ‘good’ and then frowned and put your spoon down. Usually it’s ‘It’s good,’ then a second bite. Right, boys?”
Jake nodded enthusiastically, chicken still in his mouth. “She’s right.”
“Totally right,” Jay added, already helping himself to more.
Sunghoon rolled his eyes, leaning back slightly. “You’re all being dramatic.”
You scoffed, insulted. “I guess you don’t want seconds then. Tch.”
You clicked your tongue and turned on your heel, storming off toward the kitchen, grumbling under your breath. Your apron fluttered behind you as you moved, and you didn’t look back.
Sunghoon watched your little pout, the way your shoulders stiffened, how you exaggerated every step. He didn’t know why, but he liked your reaction. No, he loved it. He found it ridiculously cute. Too cute, actually. That slight wrinkle in your forehead. The way your voice got higher when you were mad. The tiny stomp in your step.
The moment your back turned, his lips twitched upward.
When lunch ended and the three of them stood by your front door, Jake and Jay turned to hug you dramatically.
“Never move out,” Jake said into your shoulder.
You rolled your eyes. “You’re just saying that because you get free food.”
“And precisely why we don’t want you to move out,” Jay replied, squeezing you once more before the two of them shuffled out, bickering as they made their way into their apartment across the hall.
Sunghoon lingered. Just behind you.
You turned, raising a brow. “Aren’t you leaving?”
He nodded. “Yeah.” He stepped back slowly, hands in his pockets, gaze flicking to the floor before settling back on you. Then he paused. Like he wasn’t sure if he should say what he was about to say.
“The chicken pot pie was good. I think…” he exhaled, voice quieter, “I think it was one of the best things I’ve ever had.”
You blinked, caught off guard.
“It reminded me of home,” he added, eyes still on you now, a little softer than usual. “Not in the way where it’s about the taste or anything… it’s just… you cook like home. If that makes any sense.”
You hadn’t expected that.
Your cheeks flushed immediately. You turned away before he could see it, pretending to fiddle with a dish on the counter, fingers uselessly adjusting an already-clean plate.
“Thank you,” you murmured, voice low, almost shy.
He lingered for a second longer like he wanted to say more. Then he gave a quiet nod and walked out the door.
-
It was raining.
It was only 4 p.m., but the sky had turned an eerie charcoal grey, clouds rolling thick above the city. Thunder cracked so loud you felt it in your chest, and the wind howled between the buildings, slamming against your windows.
You hated this.
You hated how much you still feared storms even at your age. How useless independence felt when you were stuffing tissues in your ears and jamming earmuffs over your head like you were five again. You turned on every single light in your apartment, lamps, fairy lights, even your microwave light and cocooned yourself under your thickest blanket, barely breathing, eyes wide.
Then the whole building shuddered.
The lights flickered.
And then everything went dark.
You screamed.
Your apartment disappeared into a blanket of pitch black, shadows curling up the walls like ink. Your heart pounded. You scrambled up from the couch, tearing off your earmuffs and patting the walls with shaky hands, trying to find a light switch like that would fix anything.
“Shit,” you whispered, voice trembling. “Shit shit shit.”
You fumbled for your phone. A message popped up from your landlord.
“The building is experiencing a temporary blackout due to the storm. Electricity should resume in an hour. Thank you for your patience.”
An hour? Alone? In this? In the dark? Absolutely fucking not.
You jumped at another violent crack of thunder and instantly rushed out into the hallway. Your blanket trailed behind you like a cape. You beelined for the only door you knew.
You knocked. The door swung open almost immediately.
“No time to explain but I’m shitting bricks here,” you said all at once.
It wasn’t Jake or Jay.
It was Sunghoon.
His brows raised. “The thunderstorm?”
You nodded frantically. “Are Jake or Jay here?”
“They’re asleep.” He glanced behind him, then back at you. “But I could… stay with you. If you want. Until it passes.”
You hesitated.
Then thunder cracked again, louder this time, right above your building.
You flinched. “Okay,” you breathed, defeated.
The two of you sat cross-legged on your couch, sharing a single candle as your only source of light. It flickered between you, casting long, warm shadows on the walls.
“Seems like you’re scared of the thunder,” he said gently.
“Well,” you sighed, voice tight. “I’ve been scared of it since I was younger. It just… gets to me.”
He nodded. “It’s okay.”
You noticed it then…the subtle tremble in his shoulders. He was shivering. From the cold, probably. Your heater wasn’t working without electricity, and the apartment was steadily turning into a fridge. You were wrapped up like a burrito, but he’d come in without anything but a hoodie.
Feeling guilty, you shifted toward him and lifted one side of your blanket.
“Uh…” he looked at you like he wasn’t sure if he was being pranked.
“Relax. I can see you shivering like a dog,” you muttered.
“Oh.” He blinked, then grabbed the other end of the blanket and scooted in beside you.
Now under the same blanket, his body heat pressed faintly against yours. You sat side by side, knees pulled to your chests.
And then, in a whisper, he said, “You know…”
You looked over at him, startled by the sudden softness in his voice.
“I know I’m not as close to you as Jay and Jake are,” he said, eyes trained on the candle, “but… you don’t always have to find them for help.”
You blinked. “Huh?”
“I’m saying…” he sighed, eyes flicking up toward you, and then away again. “Never mind.”
“No, what? Just spit it out.”
He exhaled through his nose like it physically hurt to get the words out. “I’m just saying… you could ask me for help too.”
You stared at him, your eyes adjusting to the candlelight flickering between you.
“Oh,” you said softly.
There was a beat of silence. You weren’t really sure what to do with that. But you didn’t want to leave it hanging either.
“I’ll be sure to think of you the next time,” you mumbled, barely louder than the rain still pelting the windows outside.
You felt him nod beside you.
You turned your head slowly, resting your cheek against your knees, eyes drifting toward him. His face was tilted down, lashes long and dark as they blinked now and then, just slow enough for you to notice. His jaw had softened a little. He looked calm, in a way you weren’t used to seeing him.
“Would you rather have a million dollars,” you said suddenly, “or have no problems in the world?”
He blinked, confused for a second, then turned his head toward you. His chin was on his knees now too, and with the two of you curled up in the same blanket, inches apart, it felt almost like whispering under covers at a sleepover.
“What kind of question is that?”
“A good one,” you replied, lips twitching. “So answer it.”
He scoffed a little under his breath. “Uh… maybe no problems in the world?”
“Smart answer. Why?”
He paused, “I think people ruin themselves trying to solve problems that shouldn’t be theirs. If I had no problems, maybe I wouldn’t waste time worrying about all the stuff that doesn’t matter.”
You blinked at him. That was… not the answer you were expecting. It was a good one. Way too good, actually.
“Right,” you said softly, giving him a small nod.
He looked at you for a second longer before his eyes flicked down. “Your turn. Would you rather go back in time or go into the future?”
You puffed your cheeks out, thinking. “Hmm… that’s a toughie.”
Then your eyes widened, the way they always did when you had a lightbulb moment. “Go back in time!”
“Why’s that?”
“So maybe I’d really weigh the pros and cons of moving to a city where I know no one,” you said with a grin, but it faded slightly at the end.
Sunghoon stayed quiet.
“You must really feel alone,” he said.
You blinked, startled. “What?”
“I hear you talking about it sometimes. On your balcony. When you think no one’s listening. You talk about how moving here feels like a mistake.”
You looked away, embarrassed. “It’s not a mistake. I just… miss everything back home.”
“I get it,” he said after a second. “I was like you. Back when I was home, I wanted to leave so badly. Thought being somewhere else would fix everything. But now that I’m here… yeah, I have Jay and Jake, and they’re great, but sometimes I come back to the apartment and everything’s fine and normal and still—I just feel… empty. And I don’t even know why.”
You didn’t say anything for a long time.
You just watched him. His face had turned thoughtful, distant. His eyes unfocused, drifting somewhere past the flickering candle, past your walls, like he was staring right through the quiet that lived in his chest.
You mumbled, “Well, yeah. But… I also don’t regret it. Not one bit.”
“Really?”
You nodded. “Yeah. I mean—I’m here doing what I love. Not many people get to do that. And I made friends with three incredibly annoying people in this building.”
He turned toward you again, eyes narrowing playfully. “So we’re friends now?”
Your cheeks heated up instantly. You glanced away, pretending to roll your eyes. “Are we not?”
He let out a low chuckle, the kind that rumbled softly at the back of his throat. “I’m glad you think we are.”
“So,” you said, tilting your head, “does this mean you’ll finally be nice to me now? Or is that too much character development for one night?”
Sunghoon smirked, eyes flicking to you with a teasing glint. “You want nice? From me?”
“Yeah. Like a full sentence without sarcasm. I feel like that’s a reward I’ve earned by now.”
“You earned a participation medal at best.”
You laughed, nudging him with your knee. “Unbelievable.”
He was already looking at you again—closer this time.
“Hold on,” he said softly, “you have an eyelash on your cheek.”
You blinked, caught off guard. “What?”
Before you could move, he leaned in.
His face hovered inches from yours as his thumb brushed gently against your cheek, his touch soft but sure. The pads of his fingers were warm. His eyes, now impossibly close, scanned your face with a kind of quiet focus you hadn’t felt from him before. You swallowed.
Neither of you moved.
Your gaze locked, and the space between you slowly disappeared…inch by inch, breath by breath. It wasn’t planned. It just… happened.
Then suddenly, his lips were on yours.
Then it deepened. His other hand pushed the blanket off his head, dropping behind your neck to pull you in, and your hands found their way to his thighs, then to the curve of his jaw. His lips parted just enough, and your pulse jumped as he moved against you.
His hands slid to your waist. He lifted you slightly and shifted you into his lap in one smooth motion. You were now straddling him, knees on either side of his thighs, and he didn’t stop kissing you, not even for a second.
The kiss grew stronger. He tilted his head, hand moving to your chin to pull you even closer, his mouth parting yours with a low inhale as his tongue brushed against yours.
Your hands moved back down, gripping at the soft cotton of his hoodie, when—
Click.
The lights flickered on.
You both froze.
Your faces were still inches apart.
You slowly pulled back, still on his lap. He blinked, eyes searching yours like he wasn’t sure what just happened. Like part of him wanted to keep going, and the other part… couldn’t believe you just kissed him like that.
You stared at each other, the silence heavy now.
His hands were still resting lightly on your waist. Yours were still fisted in the fabric of his hoodie. Both of you breathless.
“I need to go back home,” Sunghoon said suddenly, voice low but rushed. His eyes darted everywhere except at you.
You blinked. “Right. Of course!” you said quickly, nodding way too fast. “Yeah. No—totally.”
He shifted awkwardly underneath you, face flushing as he cleared his throat and muttered, “Probably… need a pillow or something.”
It took you a second.
Then you saw the way he was subtly covering his lap with the edge of the blanket.
“Oh.” Your voice came out small. You quickly scrambled off his lap, cheeks burning so hot they could’ve powered your apartment during the blackout.
“Sorry,” he mumbled, already halfway to your door.
And then, Sunghoon stormed out of your apartment.
-
It had been a couple of days since you last properly spoke to Sunghoon. Not for lack of trying. You had…more than once. But each time, he’d give you a quick nod, maybe a polite smile if you were lucky, before promptly power-walking away.
Maybe he just wasn’t feeling what you were feeling. Maybe that kiss was a fluke, something in the heat of the moment. Maybe your little new crush was painfully one-sided.
But you pushed it aside. You had bigger things to focus on.
Jungwon was coming today.
You’d spent the entire morning rearranging your apartment, cleaning it from top to bottom, fluffing cushions and spraying perfume not just on yourself but into the air like it could somehow mask how nervous you were. You even did your hair the way he liked it, soft curls and a side part.
And then, there he was.
The door swung open and your best friend stood in the hallway, suitcase in hand and a grin already on his face.
“WON!” you squealed, running up to him and leaping into his arms.
“Hello, idiot,” he said, his voice fond as he hugged you back, lifting you off the ground with ease.
The shout must’ve startled the boys in 3C, because right on cue, the door across the hall creaked open and out came Jake and Jay, both peeking out.
They spotted you clinging to Jungwon like a koala.
You beamed. “Guys! It’s him!”
“The famous Jungwon,” Jay said, nodding in approval as he stepped out.
“And you must be Jake and Jay,” Jungwon said smoothly, setting you down.
Then came the third.
Sunghoon.
He didn’t move from the doorway. Just stood there, arms crossed, expression unreadable.
Jungwon turned to him, a friendly smile still on his lips, chuckling. “You must be Sunghoon, then.”
Sunghoon’s gaze narrowed slightly. “What’s so funny?”
Jungwon blinked, caught off guard. “Nothing,” he said, clearing his throat. “She just… told me you were like this.”
“Like what?” Sunghoon asked sharply, the scoff nearly audible in his tone.
Jungwon scratched the back of his neck. “Nothing. She just said you were cool,” he said with a shrug, throwing you a teasing look.
Sunghoon rolled his eyes.
You stood there, suddenly awkward, unsure what the hell had crawled up Sunghoon’s ass. The hostility was as thick as the tension in the air and you hadn’t done anything. Not really.
At least you didn’t think you had.
Just stood there, arms crossed, a stiff expression on his face while Jake and Jay welcomed Jungwon like he was already part of the group. Jungwon, ever the social butterfly, fit in easily, throwing a few jokes around, complimenting the apartment despite its questionable decor, and even teasing Jake about the ugly dinosaur pyjamas he was wearing in broad daylight.
But Sunghoon?
He was frowning the entire time.
You couldn’t figure it out. His jaw was tight, his responses were clipped, and every time Jungwon so much as glanced your way, you saw Sunghoon’s eye twitch.
You walked back to your apartment with Jungwon beside you, chatting excitedly about dinner plans and all the places he wanted to visit during his stay. But when you turned back, just for a second, you caught Sunghoon still watching. Still standing in the hallway.
His arms were still crossed.
And he didn’t look away.
-
Sunghoon stood there, arms folded across his chest like they were the only things keeping him together. He stared ahead blankly, jaw tight, doing everything in his power not to glare a hole through the wall. He wasn’t sure what he was feeling.
Sure, he knew he had a crush on you. He’d known since the chicken pot pie, probably. Or maybe since you wrapped that blanket around his shoulders. Or maybe long before that. But what he didn’t know was who the fuck Jungwon was, and why he was walking into your apartment.
“Dude,” Jake muttered, throwing him a sideways look. “You could’ve at least smiled.”
“I did,” Sunghoon growled, not bothering to hide his scowl.
Jay snorted. “That was barely a smile. You looked like you were in the middle of passing a kidney stone.”
“Why do I even have to be nice?” Sunghoon snapped. “I don’t know him.”
“Because your crush’s boyfriend just came into town,” Jake replied, like it was the most obvious thing in the world.
Sunghoon's head snapped to him so fast you’d think he got whiplash. “Boyfriend?”
Jay raised a brow. “Not denying the crush though.”
Sunghoon ignored him. “Let me ask you again. Boyfriend?”
Jake shrugged. “I mean… yeah, I guess?”
“What the fuck do you mean you guess?” Sunghoon hissed, dragging a hand down his face. “He can’t be her boyfriend.”
“But he is,” Jay said with a shrug and an infuriatingly smug smile.
“No, he’s not. He can’t be. Because she and I…” he paused, realising too late what was about to fall out of his mouth. “…kissed. Three nights ago.”
Jake’s mouth dropped open. Jay blinked.
“I’m sorry, what?” Jake finally blurted.
“Nothing,” Sunghoon muttered quickly, suddenly desperate to eat his words.
“You can’t say nothing when you just said everything!” Jake shouted, grabbing Sunghoon’s shoulders and shaking him.
“Tell us right now!” Jay begged dramatically, gripping his own hair.
Sunghoon rolled his eyes, flustered. “I—we—kissed. That’s it.”
Jay blinked. “You know we were kidding about the boyfriend thing, right?”
Jake grinned. “Jungwon’s just her best friend.”
“We just wanted to see if you’d admit you liked her,” Jay added, eyes sparkling with way too much joy. “Which you did.”
“No, I didn’t,” Sunghoon argued weakly. “I just said we kissed.”
“Okay, Mr Visceral Reaction every time we mention Jungwon,” Jake teased.
Jay smirked. “Say it. Say you like her.”
Sunghoon groaned, eyes shut tight as if the ceiling could swallow him whole. Then, finally—quietly, begrudgingly—
“Okay. So what if I like her?”
Jay and Jake immediately turned to each other with identical gasps, smacking each other’s arms excitedly.
“Oh my god, he admitted it,” Jay whispered dramatically.
Jake clutched his chest. “It’s happening.”
“You guys are disgusting,” Sunghoon groaned, pinching the bridge of his nose. “And if you keep acting like this, I’m never telling you anything again.”
“Okay, okay.” Jake raised both hands, trying to suppress a grin. “We’ll behave.”
“BUT I’M SO EXCITED,” Jay squealed.
Jake smacked him on the shoulder. “Starting now.”
Jay nodded solemnly, rubbing his arm. “Sorry. That one slipped.”
Sunghoon sighed and leaned against the counter, arms crossed again. “I started liking her last month… when you guys went back home for the week. She cooked me stir-fried noodles, and we ate together. Played FIFA. I don’t know. I just… developed a crush on her.”
“That’s so cute,” Jay and Jake said in unison, stars in their eyes.
“Seriously, can the two of you act normal for like three minutes?”
Jake shrugged, still smiling. “I just didn’t expect you to have a girlfriend before me.”
Jay patted his shoulder. “You’ll get there, buddy.”
Jake tilted his head. “You think?”
“Yeah, you have nice eyes. Great personality.”
Jake beamed. “That’s so kind.”
“Can we please get back to my problem for like a minute?” Sunghoon cut in, glaring at both of them.
“Oh. Right.”
Jay cleared his throat and finally looked serious. “Look. We like her. She’s hilarious, and she makes good fucking food. And let’s be real, you’ve never liked anyone. We’ve been trying to get you to double date with us for years and you just stare at your phone all the time. But with her? You’re like... a guy with actual feelings.”
“But now I’m losing to Jung… whatever his name is.” Sunghoon sighed.
“Jungwon,” Jake said. “And no, you’re not.”
“How do you know she doesn’t like him?” Sunghoon muttered, staring down at the floor.
“Because,” Jay said, “if she did, she wouldn’t have kissed you.”
“Unless she’s indecisive or confused or something. I don’t know.” Sunghoon exhaled hard, running a hand through his hair. “Maybe I was just… a moment. And he’s her person.”
Jake shook his head. “I’m telling you—just talk to her.”
“Yeah,” Jay added. “Before you spiral even harder and start writing love songs about her. But if you do, I haved like a couple of guitars you could borrow.”
Sunghoon rolled his eyes. But somewhere, deep down… a part of him hoped they were right.
-
You were pacing back and forth on your cheap IKEA rug, while Jungwon was laid out dramatically on your bed, arms folded behind his head, thoroughly enjoying the show.
“I’m telling you, he’s avoiding me,” you snapped, pointing an accusatory finger at no one in particular. “We kissed—KISSED, Jungwon—and now he won’t even look at me! I wave, he nods. I say hi, he nods. I breathe in his direction, he—guess what—nods!”
Jungwon hummed, annoyingly calm. “Maybe he’s nervous. Or maybe he wants you to go to him.”
“I do go to him! And then he speed-walks away like I’m the plague!” You groaned, pressing your fingers to your temples. “I’m gonna lose it.”
“Maybe…” he tapped his chin thoughtfully, “you’re just a shit kisser.”
You whipped around and chucked a throw pillow directly at his smug face.
“Asshole.”
He caught it with a grin, clutching it to his chest dramatically. “I’m just saying. Maybe you scared him off.”
“You’re lucky I haven’t strangled you with this blanket,” you muttered, grabbing another pillow just in case.
Jungwon sat up, brushing imaginary dust off his shirt. “You know, sometimes I forget we grew up together because you’re so unpredictable now.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
He snorted. “You used to be fearless. Remember that Heeseung guy you had a crush on in middle school?”
You blinked. “What about him?”
“You were six, and you walked up to him at recess, said ‘I like your lunchbox,’ then kissed his cheek and ran off.”
“Ah,” you said flatly, “the good old days. That girl’s dead now.”
“She’s not dead,” Jungwon argued, grabbing your wrists and tugging you to sit beside him on the bed. “She’s just… overthinking everything. Look, if Sunghoon doesn’t like you—whatever. But if he does? You’re missing out just because you’re too chicken to tell him.”
You glared. “I hate it when you make sense.”
“I know.” He grinned. “It’s my worst trait.”
“I just—” you exhaled, flopping back beside him. “What if it ruins everything? We literally just got closer. What if I say something and it all goes to shit?”
“Okay, counter-offer.” He sat up straighter. “You tell him, or I will. I will walk down the hallway, knock on his door, and go ‘Hi, my best friend has feelings for you, she also has performance anxiety but can cook a great bowl of chicken noodle soup.’”
“You wouldn’t,” you hissed, swatting at his arm.
“Then do it yourself!” he laughed, dodging your attacks. “Before I start printing flyers and pasting them in the apartment lobby.”
God. Why did he always have to be right?
“Fine.”
Your hand was already on the doorknob, breath caught in your throat, just about to leave when the door across from yours had swung open at the exact same time.
And there he was.
Sunghoon.
You both froze, hands still gripping the doorknobs, blinking.
You cleared your throat first. “Sunghoon.”
He blinked like he hadn’t already been staring. “What?”
You squinted. “Is that the only word you know how to say when I call your name?”
He paused. “Sorry.”
You opened your mouth to say something else but were rudely interrupted by muffled snorts from behind Sunghoon. Jay and Jake’s heads popped out from their doorway like nosy meerkats.
“Hoon,” Jay said in a loud, exaggerated voice, “we need more eggs.”
“Desperately,” Jake added, nodding like this was a national emergency. “Go to the store.”
Then Jungwon peeked out from behind you with an equally suspicious grin. “Oh, and while you’re there, can you grab some ice cream too?”
You and Sunghoon looked at each other.
“What is happening right now,” you said flatly.
Before either of you could respond, four hands shoved the both of you toward the elevator. You stumbled in, the doors sliding shut just as Jay yelled out, “Don’t come back without snacks!”
The elevator stopped at your floor.
Your shoulders brushed as you stood side by side, awkwardly watching the floor numbers light up.
Then, finally, you broke it. “About that day—”
Sunghoon shook his head quickly. “Don’t worry about it. I won’t tell Jungwon.”
You blinked. “What do you mean you won’t tell Jungwon?”
He looked away. “Well, aren’t you like… crushing on him? I wouldn’t want what we did to, you know… ruin your chances or something.”
Your entire face scrunched up. “Won and I? What? Ew. God, no. We’re friends. We grew up together. Thinking about him that way would be like incest or something.”
And just like that, Sunghoon felt like he’d been hit by a shooting star and given a second chance at life. His heart did a full backflip. You were single. You were available.
He couldn’t help it. He smiled.
“Why do you suddenly look so happy?” you asked, eyeing him suspiciously.
“I’m not.”
“You’re literally smiling.”
“I’m not.”
“We’ve hung out a couple of times and if I’m being honest, I’ve never seen you smile this—”
“Cut it out.” He tried to brush it off, biting back the grin. “I’m just glad.”
“Glad about?”
“Glad that I didn’t ruin your chances,” he said nonchalantly, looking up like he hadn’t just panicked thirty seconds ago.
“Mhm.” You narrowed your eyes at him, the golden-orange glow of the sunset casting warmth across his cheekbones. He was handsome. Frustratingly so. “Well… because I actually like this other guy.”
Sunghoon’s smile faltered.
“I haven’t known him that long,” you continued casually, “but he seems cool. I don’t really know much about him yet.”
“That’s… nice.” Sunghoon turned away quickly, jaw tight. He was definitely grimacing. Please don’t let her see that I’m grimacing, he begged internally.
“Yeah, he’s really tall. Really handsome, too.”
“That’s just…” he exhaled. “Great.”
“He doesn’t seem super friendly but he has a big heart. Even if he tries really hard not to show it.”
“Seems like a swell fuckin’ guy,” he muttered bitterly.
“It’s a pity though,” you sighed dramatically, still watching him. “I wish I could get to know him better.”
“Well… anyone’s lucky to get to know you.” He tried to smile. It didn’t reach his eyes. “I know I am.”
You tilted your head. “Not to mention… he lives really close to me.”
Sunghoon’s eyes darted to you. “He does?”
“Mhm.” You nodded, heartbeat accelerating.
“Like how close?”
You took a slow step toward him. “Like… just across the hall close.”
“Oh.” He blinked. “That close.”
Silence settled in the small elevator. You both just stood there, not looking at each other, tension hanging in the air like humidity.
Then, out of nowhere—
“I’m just saying,” Sunghoon said, dead serious, “but Jake sleeps with the lights on and Jay doesn’t wash his hair as often as you think he does.”
You blinked. “Huh?”
“I sleep normal,” he added quickly. “I wash my hair. I do proper haircare—shampoo, conditioner, mask, mist. I could do your routine too. For you. If you want.”
You stared.
“I can’t cook, but I’ll try. I can figure skate. I can spin twice in the air. Jay and Jake? Not even one spin. Jay can play guitar, Jake can sing but I can spin, okay? Without getting dizzy too.”
“Sunghoon.”
“And those idiots never clean up after eating your food. Jay doesn’t use coasters. Jake never makes his bed.”
“SUNGHOON!”
He looked at you, breathless. “What?”
You stepped forward. Slowly. Then, you mumbled, “It’s you.”
He blinked. “What?”
“I like you.”
And for once, Park Sunghoon had absolutely nothing to say.
“Okay,” he said. “Cool. Okay. I—wow. Okay.”
You raised a brow. “That’s it?”
He nodded dumbly. “No. Yes. I don’t know. I just—holy shit. You like me.”
You smirked, the smile slowly stretching across your face. “Yes. I like you.”
The elevator dinged. Neither of you moved.
He looked at you again, still dazed. “Hold on, I kinda need a minute.”
You both stepped out into the empty lobby. The sun outside had just dipped below the skyline, casting a pinkish-orange glow through the glass doors. The streetlights flickered on. But you waited.
“It’s been a minute,” you said.
“I know,” he exhaled, hand raking through his hair. “But you like me back, so I kinda need, like… a long minute.”
“Back?” You grinned, the corners of your mouth lifting all the way to your eyes. “So you like me too?”
He nodded slowly. “Yeah. I thought it was obvious from the, uh… word vomit.”
“Well yeah,” you shrugged. “But I didn’t want to assume. Didn’t wanna be narcissistic.”
“I think even if you were,” he muttered, “I’d still think you were pretty cute.”
You blinked. “Did you just—”
“Gross, I know,” he said quickly, face flushing. “I just said that out loud, didn’t I?”
You laughed. “Yeah. But you kinda can’t take it back now.”
“Fine,” he said, pretending to groan. “You’re cute. Ugh. I said it again.”
-
A MONTH LATER
Jay and Jake found it fundamentally unfair. They were the ones who got close to you first. They were the ones who complimented you, made you laugh, showed up when you needed help. They loved you first or at least, that’s what they told themselves. But here you were, doors locked for the first time in three months, cooking a full-course meal for Sunghoon to celebrate your one-month anniversary.
“You’re not allowed to come,” Sunghoon told them flatly before slamming the door shut.
“But—!” they shouted in unison, already mourning the steak they wouldn’t get to taste.
Word on the hallway was that you were cooking the perfect medium-rare T-bone steak, paired with your signature brown sauce and a vegetable medley so crunchy and flavourful. Meanwhile, Jay and Jake sat hunched on the couch, scrolling through a food delivery app.
“Isn’t it funny,” Jake said, arms folded, “how we were the ones who befriended her first, and now we’re stuck with Burger King?”
“Life’s unfair, bud.”
Back in your apartment, things were a little more romantic. You’d decorated with fairy lights and candles, the room dimly lit. You were still being frugal, splitting every cost you could. But you’d managed to steal two T-bone steaks from the diner you part-timed at.
Sunghoon showed up in a black and white tuxedo, looking like he’d taken the prom theme you had placed as a joke a little too seriously.
“You look absolutely gorgeous,” he said, leaning down to press a kiss to your cheek.
“And you look absolutely handsome,” you grinned.
He walked over to the table and took in the spread. “Okay, what do we have?”
“I made the steaks, obviously, and then there’s the vegetable medley… and your favourite—mashed potatoes,” you giggled.
Sunghoon exhaled, shaking his head with a disbelieving smile. “How did I get so lucky?”
You shrugged. “I don’t know either.”
He laughed. “The guys are pissed, by the way. You made me all this, and they’re over there with cold fries.”
“What?” you said, surprised. “I made them something too! Don’t worry.”
“You did?” he raised a brow.
“I had a feeling they’d be hungry if you were over here.”
“Babe, you didn’t have to do that. They’re grown men.”
“Yeah, but technically my assignment this week was pasta and I have too many leftovers.”
“They’re spoiled by you.”
“And so are you.”
“True, but I’m your boyfriend. They’re just two annoying shitheads constantly trying to butt in.”
“I’ll be quick. I’ll just drop the dish off and come back.”
“No,” he said, standing. “I’ll do it. You stay here.”
He kissed your forehead, grabbing the lasagna you’d tucked into the fridge. “You’re too sweet, you know that?”
“He walked across the hall and opened the door to Unit 3C.
Inside, Jay was mid-rant. “I just don’t get it. Sunghoon isn’t even that hot.”
“I mean, he is,” Jake added, “but she deserves better, you know?”
Sunghoon cleared his throat. “I can hear you two idiots.”
They both froze, turning around sheepishly. “We were just joking. We love you, man.”
He held up the dish. “And to think I came here bearing gifts from my girlfriend.”
Jake’s eyes widened. “Wait—is that lasagna?”
“She felt bad we were eating good without you, so she made you dinner.”
“Oh my god,” Jay gasped. “Sunghoon, I don’t mean to be pushy, but please marry her.”
“I can’t,” Sunghoon muttered. “Not when you two are constantly inserting yourselves into my relationship.”
“Okay, okay, we’ll back off. Just—can we have the lasagna?”
“And can you tell her we love her?”
“I am not telling my girlfriend you love her,” Sunghoon snapped. “I’ve barely worked up the nerve to tell her that myself.”
“Wait,” Jake said suddenly, “you haven’t told her you love her yet?”
“It’s only been a month.”
“So… you don’t love her?”
“I do,” Sunghoon replied, almost too quickly. “I just don’t want to come on too strong if she’s not ready.”
Jay and Jake shared a glance before shrugging.
“What?” Sunghoon asked, frowning. “Why are you looking at me like that?”
Jake cleared his throat. “It’s just… she already said it.”
Sunghoon looked up. “What?”
“Yeah,” Jake replied casually. “You texted her about picking up those heat packs for her cramps, and she went all soft and whispered, ‘God, I love him so much.’ Her words. Not mine.”
Sunghoon stood frozen in the doorway, the dish in his hands suddenly weightless.
You loved him.
“So… you’re saying I should tell her?” he asked, voice quiet, almost unsure.
Jay and Jake both nodded enthusiastically. “Definitely. Especially if it makes her our sister-in-law,” Jay added, grinning.
Sunghoon rolled his eyes. “God, the two of you can be so annoying.”
“But you still love us,” Jay shrugged. “So what’s the point of complaining?”
He hated that Jay was right.
Back in your apartment, Sunghoon sat across from you, completely transfixed. You were dressed in a soft pink satin dress that shimmered every time you moved. It hugged your shoulders delicately, the neckline simple, elegant. Your hair was curled softly, pinned loosely on one side with a vintage clip, and your lips were glossed just enough to make him stare longer than he should’ve.
And God, you looked so beautiful.
He tried to pay attention. He really did. But his heart was too loud, his thoughts too full. How was he supposed to say it?
Sunghoon had never told anyone he loved them before. Not seriously. Maybe to his mom years ago, right before he left for the city. But this? This felt entirely new.
Because sitting in front of him was someone who made every quiet part of his life feel loud again. You filled in the spaces he didn’t even know were missing. You made his apartment feel less cold, his world a little less grey. And the way he loved you—God, it wasn’t something small. It wasn’t a flicker or a passing crush. It was all-consuming and terrifying and the best damn thing he’d ever felt.
He loved you like it was muscle memory. Like even if he forgot everything else, his hands would still reach for yours and only yours.
“Hoonie,” you interrupted gently, frowning. “You’re not listening.”
He blinked back into focus. “Sorry,” he murmured, smile tugging at the corners of his lips. “I was just thinking about something.”
“What?” you looked up at him, ur big eyes shining.
Sunghoon unknowingly smiled, his eyes dripping with honey, god he loved you. He wanted to say that. So badly.
“I…I just–uh–feel…that,” His voice trailed off. “You look really beautiful tonight. I mean, you always do. But especially tonight.” He hesitated, the words stuck behind his teeth.
You smiled. “Thank you. You look very handsome too.”
-
Later that night, the two of you were in Sunghoon’s apartment along with Jay and Jake for the usual game night.
You were sitting cross-legged on the floor, your prom-night dress bunched awkwardly around your knees, mascara slightly smudged from earlier laughter, hair pinned half-up. Sunghoon sat slouched in the beanbag beside you, tie loosened, sleeves rolled up, brow furrowed in concentration. Jake was lying on his stomach, legs swinging in the air, and Jay had somehow made himself horizontal on the couch.
You and Jake were a team. Sunghoon and Jay were not handling that well.
“Revive me!” Sunghoon yelled.
Jay shouted back, “I’m busy trying not to die, dumbass!”
Button mashing intensified. Trash talk flew across the room.
“VICTORY!” Jake screamed, leaping up like a madman.
You followed suit, springing to your feet and clambering up onto the coffee table in your dress. “GET WRECKED, LOSERS!” you yelled, pointing dramatically at Sunghoon. “THAT’S RIGHT, LOSERS!”
Jake joined you on the table, doing a badly timed robot dance. The two of you jumped in sync, yelling in triumph, while Jay groaned into a throw pillow and Sunghoon watched with a hand covering his mouth, half to hide his smile, half to suppress a laugh.
“You’re all bark, no bite!” you called, face flushed, hair falling loose. “Your character died fourteen times, Hoonie.”
“I let you win!” he shot back, grinning as he sat up straighter. “I was being a gentleman.”
“Sure,” you scoffed, sticking your tongue out at him. “Real chivalrous of you, sir died-14-fucking-times.”
He chuckled under his breath, eyes lingering on you for a second longer than usual. Then, without a word, he stood and walked out of the room.
You blinked. That was...odd.
You gave Jake a gentle shove off the table and followed Sunghoon into the hallway. He was pacing outside, one hand in his hair, the other fiddling with the watch on his wrist.
“Hoon?” you asked, stepping out and gently closing the door behind you.
He jumped slightly, turning toward you. “You scared me.”
“You okay? You just left so sudden…”
“I—uh—yeah. I was just trying to figure out how to say something.”
You tilted your head, arms crossing over your chest. “Say what?”
“Nothing,” he mumbled with a shrug.
Your expression softened. “Are you mad at me?” You sighed. Maybe your little victory dance had been a bit much. “Hoonie?”
“No, baby, I could never be mad at you,” he said quickly, leaning down to press a kiss to your forehead.
“Then what’s wrong?”
“Nothing, I just…”
You stepped closer, teasing lightly, “Do you want me to redo my victory dance? I could. You just have to beatbox, and I’ll take it from there.”
That made him laugh.
“Come on,” you grinned, starting to move your body in the most ridiculous way. “I’m pretty sure I should’ve been a dancer instead of a chef.”
He laughed again, this time louder and then, before he could stop himself, the words slipped out.
“Oh my god, I love you.”
You blinked. Your smile faded. Your brain, for one impossible second, completely short-circuited.
“Did you just say you love me?” you asked, heart hammering.
His eyes widened in sheer panic. “No?”
“I heard it.”
“You misheard.”
“Oh my god,” you gasped, practically vibrating. “You love me. You love me!”
“Fine!” he burst out, throwing his hands up like he was under arrest. “I do! I love you, okay?”
You smiled, “You do?”
“Of course! I love the way you talk too fast when you’re excited. I love how you make my idiot friends feel like they matter. I love that you make me feel whole. That when I’m with you, I don’t feel hollow anymore. You… you make me feel like I’m not empty.”
You grinned so wide it hurt. “That’s because you’re not.”
“I used to be,” he said helplessly, gesturing vaguely like he was mourning his past self. “I was mysterious. Brooding. Sexy, even. And now? Now I smile at cat videos you send me on TikTok. Look what you’ve done to me. This is all your fault.”
You scoffed, “My fault?”
“Yes! Who else could it be?” he said, breathless, like the truth had been waiting at the edge of his tongue for too long. “You walk into my life with that stupidly perfect smile, that laugh that makes everything feel lighter, those eyes that somehow hold the whole damn sky and now I’ve got feelings. Big ones.”
He took a shaky breath, pausing for a minute.
“I used to think I was fine on my own. But now? I get out of bed just because I know I might see you. I hear your knock and my whole day lights up. For the first time, I feel like I know what living really means. It’s you. Loving you. That’s it.”
You leaned in and kissed him right in the middle of his rant.
He blinked, dazed.
“You sure talk a lot for someone who usually says nothing,” you murmured, forehead resting against his.
“I do it when I’m nervous,” Sunghoon whispered, and then kissed you again.
“I find it cute,” you mumbled between kisses.
Sunghoon grinned into the next kiss, backing you up step by step toward your apartment door, his hands finding your waist. “God,” kiss “I love you,” another kiss “so much.”
You let out a breathless laugh. “You’re very handsy for someone who claimed to be brooding and mysteriou.”
“I told you,” he whispered, lips brushing your jaw as he reached behind you, fumbling for the door handle, “you ruined me.”
Your back hit the door with a thud. He fumbled with the knob like he was drunk on you, eventually pushing it open and guiding you inside.
He kicked the door shut with the back of his foot.
You were still laughing into his kiss. He walked you backward until your knees hit the bed and you dropped onto it with a squeak.
He climbed over you, hands on either side of your waist, face flushed, heart in his throat.
“I fucking love you,” he said again, like it wasn’t real until he repeated it.
You wrapped your arms around his neck, eyes sparkling. “I love you too.”
Preview: He was meant to kill for her, but he didn't expect to fall in love
Amazing gif from @chwedout 🤍🌼🤍🌼
Hansol glanced at the new message notification on his phone—an unknown number. Just two words, "hi". Followed by another, "I need your help."
They weren’t the first. He lost count of how many people had texted, called, or even left anonymous notes with the same desperate plea. Help me.
He wasn't a saint. Far from it. Not really a sinner either—though some might argue otherwise. Honestly, who gets to decide? But one thing was certain: he had helped some people. In his own way.
He grew up in a foster home after his parents died in a car crash when he was six.
It was supposed to be a trip to the beach before starting elementary school. He remembered the smell of sea salt and the soft sound of waves—before everything went black.
Instead of a classroom, he entered a new life in a cramped government house. The foster home wasn’t all bad. He shared it with one other kid, which made things bearable—almost fun sometimes. Minus Mrs. Park, the caretaker. God, she was horrible. He didn’t even want to start unpacking that.
Now, he's a hitman. People pay him to kill. Ironic, right? Some people study ten years behind a desk to keep a heart beating. He was trained to stop it in seconds.
At 12, a man adopted him. Just like that—papers signed, suitcase packed.
Mr. Ki. He never smiled, never yelled. Just barked orders like a military ghost. Hansol never understood why he had to run kilometers every morning, or why his squats and jumping jacks had to be counted out loud. Reflex training. Silence drills. Night vision tests.
Then, one day, Mr. Ki handed him a gun. No words. Just a deer in the woods. His first kill.
Cold eyes. Steady hands.
“You are Vernon now,” the man said.
That was the day Hansol died. And Vernon was born.
Now, he tossed his Nietzsche onto the nightstand and walked toward the computer, phone still in hand. He typed back, "Tell me."
Almost instantly, the reply came. "I'm Jung Y/n. I want you to kill my husband. His name is Lee Seokmin. He works at Shinjeon & Baek Law Group."
He arched a brow. Efficient. His fingers flew across the keyboard. Lee Seokmin.
Dozens of links. Headlines. Smiling photos. Press statements. Typical corporate face. White-collared. Polished. He clicked one photo—Seokmin, arm wrapped around a woman. Her hand rested on his chest. Wedding bands caught the light.
That must be her. Jung Y/n. Out of habit, Vernon clicked her profile next. Her account wasn’t private.
That last part made him pause. A crooked smile tugged at his mouth. A woman who quotes Plato but hires a killer in secret?
Interesting.
He leaned back in his chair, still staring at her photo. “Let’s see what kind of truth you believe in, Jung Y/n.”
*
The café was nearly empty, just the way Hansol preferred it.
Muted jazz played low in the background, blending with the soft clink of porcelain and the occasional murmur of baristas. Rain tapped gently against the windows—persistent, but polite.
He sat in the farthest corner, back to the wall, hood pulled low. His fingers curled loosely around a cup of black coffee—untouched, cooling. He didn’t drink when he worked. And this? This counted as work.
The door creaked open. He looked up.
You stepped in, brushing raindrops from the sleeves of her coat. Hair still damp, cheeks flushed from the cold, eyes scanning the room until they landed on him. You looked… ordinary.
Hansol didn’t wave. He didn’t need to.
He just sat there, a shadow in the farthest corner of the quiet café, the scent of dark roast and rain-soaked pavement wrapping around him like smoke.
Then you walked in.
The soft chime of the door followed you, along with the sharp scent of petrichor clinging to your coat. Your eyes scanned the room, then lit up when they landed on him—
A smile bloomed. Warm. Natural. Disarming.
And it took him aback.
Because you were smiling at a man you believed would soon kill your husband.
“Hey, nice to meet you. You must be Vernon.”
You said it with the polished tone of someone used to customer service counters and PTA meetings—cheerful, bright, oddly soothing. The same kind of tone the woman near his apartment used to sell massage chairs every weekend.
“Yes,” he said simply. He took your handshake—cool fingers, light grip, steady. “That would be me. And you’re Jung Y/n?”
You nodded, setting your coat over the chair before sitting across from him. A few rain droplets clung to your hair, glittering like tears under the café lights.
“I was a little nervous before coming, so… I brought you this.”
You pulled out a box and nudged it toward him.
“If you don’t mind.”
Mini donuts.
Neatly arranged. Some glazed, some dusted with sugar, one with pink sprinkles that didn’t quite match the mood.
Hansol blinked at the box.
In ten years of this life, he’d received death notes, bloody wallets, burner phones—never pastries.
He didn’t reach for one. He just stared at them for a second longer than he meant to.
Strawberry sprinkles. Jesus.
He remembered liking them. Once. Long ago. When someone packed him lunch before first grade. Before things turned cold.
His eyes lifted to yours.
And he watched.
Straight-cut hair, still damp. Your features were quiet, balanced, unremarkable—but somehow the softness in your expression caught him off guard.
You smiled like you didn’t know where you were. Like you didn’t care.
“I forgot my umbrella at school,” you said lightly, brushing hair behind your ear. “Sudden rain, of course.”
“How are you, by the way?” you asked next, like you weren’t sitting across from a killer-for-hire.
Your eyes were curious. Not cautious. That, too, surprised him.
Hansol nodded slowly. “Good. Very good. Like every day.”
You mirrored him. Smile intact. “You… you look normal,” you said without hesitation.
That stopped him. Hard.
Normal.
No one had ever called him that. Not in any tone that wasn’t sarcastic or suspicious.
Hansol cleared his throat, shifting slightly in his chair.
“So,” he said, his voice returning to neutral, “what do you do for a living, Mrs. Jung?”
You waved your hand, almost shy. “Please. Just call me Y/n. Be casual with me.”
“I’m a kindergarten teacher. St. Louisville Kindergarten. Ring a bell?”
He nodded. “Yeah… Heard about it. Kind of far from here, isn’t it?”
“Yes! That’s why I’m drenched.” You glanced down at your clothes—water-darkened at the sleeves, a few strands of wet hair clinging to your cheek. “I hope you don’t mind.”
“No, that’s fine,” he said, watching closely. “But are you fine?”
There was a flicker of concern in his voice.
You shook your head quickly. “I’m heading home anyway. I just didn’t want to miss this.”
Hansol nodded. Still quiet. Still measuring.
Then you tilted your head slightly. “So… what about you, Vernon? What do you do?”
He raised his brows, caught off guard. That wasn’t a line people usually crossed with him.
A beat passed.
Then your eyes widened as you groaned under your breath.
“Ah—I’m sorry, I tend to forget things when I’m nervous. That’s… ridiculous.”
Hansol inhaled slowly. He had to bring this back to what mattered. “So, Y/n. Y/n, right?”
You smiled again. “Right.”
“Listen.” His tone lowered, firm now. “I don’t do business without reason. My rules are clear. I kill bad people. That’s it. Sinners only. I don’t touch the innocent.”
His gaze locked onto yours. There was nothing playful left.
“So if you want me to kill your husband…” He leaned forward slightly, elbows on the table, voice like steel behind velvet.
“You need to tell me. What’s his sin?” Hansol noticed it immediately—the way the color drained from your face the moment he mentioned your husband.
It was subtle. The way your shoulders tensed, your fingers curled slightly in your lap, your eyes losing that soft shine. He’d seen it before. Too many times. That quiet shift before a story that hurts.
You took a deep breath, voice quieter now, careful. “I’ve been married to Lee Seokmin for five years.”
Your thumb brushed the rim of your coffee cup. “He was a good man. Really. Funny, dependable, affectionate when he wanted to be.”
Hansol didn’t blink. He listened.
“But… things changed. Slowly. At first, it was just the way he talked—he got mean when he was angry, started throwing things when we fought. But it escalated. Last year, he started getting physical.”
Hansol’s brows pulled together slightly. “Why?”
That made you pause. You blinked, lips parting.
“I just wanted to have a child,” you said, almost like a confession. “That’s all I asked. A baby. A family. But he was… afraid. Said I was trying to trap him. Said he wasn’t ready.”
You looked away, jaw tightening.
“The more I brought it up, the more he pulled away. And then one night…”
Your voice trembled slightly as you reached into your coat pocket and pulled something out—a small mirror. You angled it under your chin and slowly lifted your scarf.
Hansol’s eyes narrowed as he leaned in.
There it was. A healing cut, faint but unmistakable, just under the curve of your jaw.
A blade. Close. Intentional.
“He threatened to kill me,” you said softly. “That night, I knew it wasn’t just words anymore.”
Hansol sat back. A deep silence stretched between you.
You stared at your hands. “I just wanted a happy family. That’s it. A house with a kid, maybe two. Someone to come home to. Laugh at stupid movies with. Fight about groceries and then make up the next day. I didn’t ask for too much, did I?”
Happy family.
The words echoed.
Hansol looked down briefly, his fingers tapping against the table, almost like they remembered something his mind didn’t want to.
Then he looked back up. “Have you ever considered divorcing him?”
You let out a breath that sounded too close to a laugh.
“I did. Twice. But every time I packed my things, he’d cry. Apologize. He’d tell me he’d change, say he’d go to therapy. He even bought baby clothes once. Told me we could try.”
Hansol tilted his head, unreadable.
“And did he?”
Your silence was answer enough.
“No,” you whispered. “He just got better at hiding the threats. At gaslighting me. At making me question my own memories. And I… I got tired.”
Your voice cracked then. Just slightly. Just enough to make Hansol lean back, look at you differently.
He’d seen people cry before. Seen them beg, scream, curse. But this— This quiet surrender in your voice. This was different.
And for the first time, Hansol took a sip of his coffee.
*
The amber glow of the bedside lamp stretched over the pages of the book resting in Hansol’s hand, it cracked open to a passage he’d read too many times to count. His eyes moved slowly over the line, Schopenhauer’s quote lingering at the edge of his mind:
“A man can do what he wills, but he cannot will what he wills.”
He paused. The sentence seemed to hum beneath his skin, more familiar than he wanted to admit. He leaned back against the headboard, the leather spine creasing beneath his thumb, and let the words take him somewhere else.
A week ago.
A rainy afternoon.
And you.
His memory slipped easily into that quiet café, where the sound of soft jazz tangled with the patter of rain against the window. You had sat across from him, your damp sleeves clinging to your arms, fingers wrapped around a lukewarm mug of tea. The donuts sat untouched between you, half-glazed offerings between strangers.
Your voice had trembled only slightly when you told him about your husband. Married for five years. A good man, once. Then cruel in slow, almost invisible degrees. Throwing things. Silence as punishment. One night, the blade. The thin scar you showed him was still pink beneath your neck.
And Hansol had said, his voice quiet but unyielding,
“You should punish him, not kill him.”
You had looked up, startled. Your eyes widened—not with fear, but disbelief. Hope, maybe, or the lack of it.
He leaned forward, resting his elbows on the edge of the table. “Men can’t run from who they are,” he said. “They’ll never change.”
His fingers tapped once against the rim of his cup. “Killing him won’t give you anything. Not peace. Not justice. Not freedom. And it won’t give his family anything either—just another grave they’ll never understand.”
You didn’t answer immediately. You simply blinked slowly, and your lips parted as if you wanted to say something but didn’t trust the words to come out right.
Back in the present, Hansol closed the book gently and placed it on his nightstand. The silence in the room felt heavier now, like the echo of a decision that hadn’t yet been made. He rubbed the back of his neck, then glanced at his phone, the screen still dark. No new messages. No name at the top of the list.
Only yours—still saved as Jung Y/n.
Hansol remembered how the conversation ended that day—unexpectedly gentle for a man like him.
You sat with your fingers tangled together in your lap, eyes fixed on the corner of the table like the grain of the wood might reveal a hidden answer. The scar you’d shown him still hovered in his memory like a question mark. But it wasn’t the wound that haunted him—it was the way your voice trembled after. Not with rage. Not with vengeance. With fear. With exhaustion.
You were scared.
And Hansol, for once, didn’t feel like a weapon. He felt like a man sitting across from someone trying not to drown.
“Think about it,” he’d said after a pause, sliding the untouched box of donuts toward you. “You don’t want to do this. Not really.”
You looked up at him, surprised, as if his words cracked through some wall you hadn’t realized you’d built.
“I don’t usually offer that,” Hansol added, leaning back into his chair. “Options. Most people come to me with answers, not fear.”
Your lips parted. You wanted to argue—he could see it in your eyes. But instead, you nodded. Slow. Grateful. A little broken.
He let you go. Told you to take your time. Think it through.
That had never happened before. He never gave people time. They either meant it, or they didn’t.
But something about you made him certain—you didn’t. You weren’t a killer. You were just cornered, and no one had ever handed you a way out that didn’t end in blood.
Back in his apartment now, Hansol stared at the ceiling, the quiet pressing down like a weight. He rolled onto his side, phone still silent, screen dim.
He should’ve heard something by now. A text. A thank-you. Even a final word, saying you’d changed your mind. Maybe you’d filed for divorce. Maybe you were healing.
He almost smiled.
For once, he hoped he’d done something good.
He hoped, in this twisted life of contracts and kill orders, he’d managed to give someone a different ending.
And for the first time in a long time, Hansol told himself he should try to believe in that.
He shut his eyes, and let that quiet hope keep him warm. A frustration sighed out, he started to think he'll make a good therapist
Hansol didn’t believe in coincidences. But when he reached for a jar of jelly—blueberry, the good one—only for his hand to brush against someone else’s, he paused.
And blinked.
You.
You, with your hair tied up messily and a basket half full with tofu, milk, and instant coffee. You, wearing a soft blue sweater and looking at him with the same wide-eyed surprise he must’ve mirrored.
“…You shop here too?” you asked, sounding more breathless than the question warranted.
Hansol glanced at his own basket—just two items. Packed kimchi and jelly. It almost felt embarrassing. “Only for essentials,” he replied, raising a brow. “Didn’t expect to see you here.”
“Same,” you smiled, brushing a loose strand of hair behind your ear. “I just moved in with my sister. She lives a block away.”
His eyes narrowed slightly. “You moved?”
“Yeah,” you said, shifting your weight to one foot. “I filed for divorce this morning.”
That made him straighten a little. “You did?”
You nodded, and for the first time, he saw something new on your face—relief. Not full, not yet. But it was a start.
“I needed to. I mean… you were right.” Your voice softened as you looked down at the neatly stacked rows of jelly. “Killing him wouldn’t have made me feel safe. It would’ve made me something I’m not.”
Hansol exhaled slowly through his nose. The faintest curve touched his lips. “I see…” He placed the jelly in his basket and leaned a little closer. “Is that a sign I’ll be seeing you a lot around this area?”
You looked up, surprised again—he kept catching you like that.
“Depends,” you said slowly, teasingly. “If you keep your grocery list this short, maybe not.”
Hansol smirked. “Then I guess I’ll start cooking.”
You laughed, and the sound lingered, unexpected and warm among the quiet fluorescent aisles. It felt strange. Natural. Dangerous, even. But Hansol didn’t walk away. For once, he didn’t want to.
Again… Hansol never believed the world was small. He believed it was deliberate. The way things happened. The way people crossed paths. Like how he saw you again—twice that same week.
Once, in a quiet bakery when he was grabbing his usual black coffee and you were hunched over a cinnamon bun with whipped cream. You waved when you saw him and offered a bite without hesitation.
Then again, outside the pharmacy. You were picking up vitamins, hair still damp from a shower, bundled in a hoodie and slippers like the world was your living room. You smiled, and that smile sat in his mind for the rest of the day.
The next night, he texted you.
[Unknown Number]
“Don’t tell me you’re going to show up at my gym next.”
You replied ten minutes later:
[Y/n]
“Do you go to the one with the green sign near the station?”
“Asking for a friend. Who likes jelly and kimchi.”
Hansol stared at his screen longer than he meant to, lips twitching into something dangerously close to amusement.
[Vernon]
“If I say yes, you’ll show up on purpose.”
[Y/n]
“No comment.”
It wasn’t normal for him—this kind of banter. But nothing about you was. You weren’t like the people he dealt with. You didn’t walk in with envelopes or plans. You walked in with donuts. With a storm in your past and a laugh that somehow cut through his quiet.
He started texting more after that. Little things.
“Saw this and thought of you.” —attached was a photo of a small bookstore display featuring Nietzsche.
“Is the school near the coffee place?”
“Don’t forget your umbrella this time.”
You answered. Every time. And slowly, it stopped being surprising that you were in his day. It started feeling… expected. He didn’t know if it was dangerous. Maybe it was. But then again, so was he.
*
Hansol had just finished dinner—nothing fancy, just some rice and grilled mackerel from a nameless place down the street—when he stepped into the alley behind the building to cut across toward the main road. The air was damp, heavy with the smell of rain and old grease.
Then—
An arm coiled tight around his neck.
His reflexes kicked in. No time to think.
He dropped his weight low, elbow driving backward into the assailant’s ribs. A grunt. Another twist, and he slammed the stranger against the wall. The man fought hard, fists flying, but Hansol moved faster. A punch to the jaw, then a brutal knee to the gut. The man collapsed in a heap, unconscious before his body fully hit the ground.
Hansol didn’t wait.
He darted through the alley, turning corners, hand sliding into the pocket of his coat where his gun rested.
Every sound was a threat. Every shadow, a question. Someone wanted him dead. That much, he knew.
Then—
Movement.
A flash of white fabric. Soft footsteps. Running. He raised his weapon.
But then your voice cracked through the air.
“Vernon!”
You came into view like a ghost out of a nightmare—wearing what looked like a nightgown, breath coming in short, fast puffs. And in your hand—
A gun.
He blinked. “What the hell—?”
You looked just as shocked to see him. “Why are you here like this? What happened? What is this?” his eyes dropped to the weapon in your hand, then to your clothes—ripped slightly, stained from the scuffle.
You followed his gaze and swallowed. “Someone broke into my place. I—I knocked him out and took his gun.”
His jaw tightened. “You should’ve called the police.”
“I was too scared,” you said, voice breaking. Your fingers gripped his jacket like it was the only solid thing left. “I couldn’t think straight.”
He understood that. Who could think clearly when death brushed your skin?
With a sigh, Hansol pulled off his coat and draped it over your shoulders, steadying your hands. “Stay with me.”
He gripped your wrist, careful but firm, and led you toward another alleyway—a shortcut to his apartment. His mind raced, calculating. Someone was targeting both of you. This wasn’t a coincidence.
Then he saw it. A flicker of movement near the stone gate at the far end. A silhouette.
Gun raised.
In one motion, Hansol spun, pulling you flush to his chest, shielding you. His arm extended, finger on the trigger—
Bang.
The shot rang out clean. The figure crumpled, weapon falling from their grasp with a metallic thud.
Silence. Then just your breathing, heavy and uneven against his collarbone.
Hansol slammed the apartment door shut and double-locked it. The air inside was warm, lived-in. Sparse lighting and the faint smell of black coffee clung to the corners. He didn’t speak as he dropped his coat, yanked open a drawer beneath the shoe rack, and tossed you one of his black jacket.
“Here. Wear this, you’re shivering.”
You caught it silently, hands still trembling from the alley encounter.
Hansol was already moving—opening cabinets, drawers, retrieving a duffel bag from under the couch. He threw in a handful of ammunition, a switchblade, burner phones, an old passport. The shift in his demeanor was swift—methodical, practiced. This wasn’t the first time he had to move quickly.
“You’re not safe anymore,” he muttered as he knelt beside a safe hidden in the floorboards. He clicked it open and pulled out two more handguns. “Keep these. One in your bag, one on you. Safety’s on. Don’t take it off unless you’re aiming to kill.”
He placed one gun in your palm, firm and cold.
But you didn’t grip it.
Not yet.
Hansol turned his back to you, kneeling again to tie up the duffel’s zipper.
And that’s when he felt it—
A sharp, chilling pressure at the back of his neck. Metal. He froze. His eyes shifted to the window’s reflection in front of him—and there you were.
Gun in hand. Arm steady. Finger near the trigger.
His breath caught.
“Shit.”
Hansol’s fingers were still wrapped loosely around the gun when you reached into your night gown pocket and pulled out something small—flat, encased in leather. You flipped it open.
The badge caught the dim apartment light, flashing gold and stark against the dark—
NIS. National Intelligence Service.
His jaw locked.
You looked up at him, expression unreadable now. Everything—your trembling hands, the nervous smiles, the soft-spoken fear—fell off you like a mask. Your voice, when you spoke again, was steady. Crisp. Cold.
“Let’s go down,” you said. “People are waiting outside.”
The shift hit Hansol in the gut like a steel punch. Your tone—professional, sharp, devoid of warmth—wasn’t the woman who brought him donuts, or the one who clung to his jacket in the alley, whispering that she was scared.
You were someone else. Someone trained.
Hansol didn't move right away. He let out a bitter chuckle, short and humorless. “So that’s what this was.”
They’d been waiting for this. For him. For a while. And the worst part? He hadn’t seen it coming. Not once. He, the one who could smell death in a three-mile radius, had been outplayed. Cornered. By you.
The agents closed in. And all Hansol could do was walk. Then he noticed it—no one had their weapons trained on him. Every barrel, every laser dot, every cold, quiet threat… was aimed at you.
His steps faltered.
Eyes narrowing, he turned just enough to catch your profile. Your jaw was clenched, unreadable. But your grip on his wrist trembled—only for a second—before locking firm again. It was a slip, but it told him everything.
“They’re not here for me,” Hansol muttered, voice low and certain. “They’re here for you.”
You didn’t answer.
Didn’t need to.
Your breath hitched. The silence screamed louder than any denial.
Hansol scanned the crowd again, his eyes landing on the man nearest—a clean-cut figure with sharp posture and a standard-issue Glock. The man didn't even spare Hansol a glance as he barked the order.
“Agent Jung. Step away from the target.”
Hansol froze.
Agent Jung.
So even your name… had been real.
The gun you still held to his neck hadn’t wavered, but he could feel it now—your arms weren’t braced in duty anymore. They were trembling beneath the weight of something heavier. Regret.
“Y/n,” the man said again, harsher this time. “You know the protocol. You’ve compromised the mission. Step away—now.”
Hansol turned slowly, deliberately. Your eyes met his. Not the eyes of a stranger, not the eyes of a spy—but of someone who had cooked with him, shared stolen laughter in the quiet aisles of a grocery store, who had once clutched his jacket in fear and now held a gun to his neck with shaking hands.
You blinked. And something broke.
The muzzle dropped an inch. Then another.
Hansol didn’t move. Didn’t breathe. He didn’t want to rush you. This wasn’t about the agents or the mission anymore. This was about whatever war was being waged inside you.
Then, slowly, you reached into your coat pocket and pressed something cold and familiar into his hand.
One of his guns. The one he’d given you.
Your fingers curled over his. You leaned in, your lips grazing his ear, and whispered, “In three.”
Hansol’s mouth twitched. Damn.
He didn’t know what twisted part of him found this thrilling—but it was there. He could feel it rising like heat under his skin. A hell of a night was about to begin, and his heart wasn’t afraid.
It was alive.
He counted in silence.
“One…”
Your eyes flicked sideways. Your stance shifted.
“Two…”
The man in front of you stepped forward, aiming. “Agent Jung, do not engage—”
“Three.”
In a single motion, Hansol twisted left, catching your wrist to pivot you behind him as he fired up, shattering the overhead lights. The alley plunged into chaos—glass rained, red beams danced across the walls like wild eyes.
You dropped low, scooping a weapon from a fallen agent and rolled behind a car.
Hansol was already moving—swift, calculated, every movement a blur.
Two agents dropped before they could find cover. Another shouted, trying to call for backup, before a clean shot from you silenced him.
“Parking lot,” you said between breaths. “East exit’s clear.”
Hansol reached for your hand. “Then what are we waiting for?”
You didn’t hesitate. Your fingers met his, tighter than ever. No orders now. No protocol. No lies. Just two fugitives, running headfirst into the dark.
And Hansol—grinning, blood thrumming—knew one thing for sure.
This was far from over.
*
The road stretched endlessly in front of them, headlights carving through the darkness like a scalpel. Hansol gripped the steering wheel in silence, the hum of the engine the only thing filling the air between you. You sat rigidly in the passenger seat, tapping furiously on your phone, switching between encrypted channels, hoping for a response.
Nothing.
No confirmation. No debrief. No explanation.
Just silence… and that one chilling command you’d caught before the line went dead.
"Terminate if compromised."
Your pulse roared in your ears. The phone shook in your hands. With a breath that barely stayed in your lungs, you shut it off and—without a second thought—hurled it out of the window. The sharp crack of glass on asphalt echoed like a closing door.
Hansol didn’t say anything at first. But you caught the smirk twitching on his lips through the faint dashboard light. Of course he noticed.
“What?” you snapped, your voice rougher than intended.
He didn’t look at you. Just kept his eyes on the road. “Nothing.”
You turned fully toward him, eyes narrowed. “You’re enjoying this.”
Hansol let out a breath that was nearly a laugh, but there was a thread of disbelief in it. “No. I’m trying to wrap my head around it.”
“Wrap your head around what?” you asked, biting back the storm in your chest.
He glanced at you, just briefly. “I mean, first off—you’re not a wife with a violent husband. You’re NIS.”
You said nothing.
“Second, you tried to arrest me. After I saved you.”
You rolled your eyes.
“And third—plot twist of the year—they weren’t even coming for me.” He turned to you with a smirk. “You really buried the lead there.”
“You’re such an ass,” you muttered under your breath. Your fists clenched in your lap.
“And what?” Hansol continued, quieter now. “You were going to let them take me? Tie up a loose end?”
You looked away, jaw tight. “It wasn’t supposed to go like this.”
“That’s not a no.”
“No,” you snapped. “It’s not.”
His silence returned, but it wasn’t comfortable—it was sharp. Heavy. He shifted in his seat, his hands tightening on the wheel. The smirk was gone.
“Figures,” he muttered.
You exhaled through your nose, shoulders tense. “Don’t pretend you’re some innocent bystander. The agency had every reason to keep eyes on you.”
“Yeah?” he bit back, calm tone fraying. “Then why are those same eyes on you now?”
That stopped you.
He chuckled, low and cold. “Exactly.”
The tension in the car was thick enough to strangle. The betrayal ran both ways, and neither of you were pretending otherwise now. You stared ahead at the road, your pulse drumming against your ribs.
“I don’t know what they’re hiding,” you said finally, voice brittle. “But they weren’t just watching you. They used me to get close.”
Hansol scoffed under his breath, but didn’t interrupt.
“And now they’re trying to erase it. Erase me.”
A long pause.
The night stretched on, the highway empty except for their car cutting through it like a blade.
Hansol’s knuckles were tight on the steering wheel, but his tone stayed even when he spoke again. “Then… is Lee Seokmin real?”
You nodded slowly, still staring out into the dark. “An old friend. Got him a lot of cash for the role. We're going to his safe house.”
The car’s engine cut off with a low rumble, and the world fell into silence again. A worn cabin stood before you—quiet, nondescript, half-buried by trees and dusk. No lights, no sign of life. But you knew better.
You moved first, brushing past Hansol as you stepped toward the entrance with practiced caution. He followed, eyes sharp, tense fingers near the hem of his jacket—close enough to draw if anything went wrong.
The front door creaked open under your hand. No alarm. No traps. Just the smell of dust and old wood.
As you stepped inside, Hansol scanned the place in quick, calculated sweeps. A map folded on the table. A lantern, a half-empty mug, sealed ammunition cases. The kind of house built for vanishing.
You dropped your bag to the floor, exhaled slowly.
"Seokmin was an agent as well," you said, breaking the silence as you pulled off your jacket. “He ran a month ago. Burned all his ties. Don’t know the reason… just vanished mid-mission.”
You ran your fingers along the edge of the desk, as if grounding yourself with something familiar. “He left me this. Said if anything ever felt off at HQ, come here and don’t look back.”
Hansol raised a brow. “So he knew something.”
You nodded. “He always knew things before anyone else. It’s why they hated him.”
There was a pause.
Then Hansol asked, voice low and unreadable, “Was he… close to you?”
You didn’t answer immediately. Just met his eyes.
“We trusted each other,” you said finally. “More than most.”
Hansol didn’t push. He turned instead, eyes flicking toward the window, body never fully relaxed.
“Do you think we’re safe here?” he asked.
You shrugged. “Safe enough to breathe. Not enough to sleep.”
He smirked, just barely. “Good. I wasn’t planning to sleep anyway.”
You scanned the safe house—barebones, dim, but stocked. Your hands moved quickly, gathering weapons, spare mags, folding maps. One bag, efficient. No room for mistakes.
“We drive to Busan before sunrise,” you said, checking a pistol’s slide before slipping it into the side pouch. “Lay low for a day or two. I have a contact who can forge IDs. After that, we head to China by boat.”
Behind you, Hansol leaned against the doorway, arms crossed casually. “I’m coming with you?”
You paused mid-movement. Turned slightly. “What?”
“One bag. Two sets of plans,” he said, one brow raised in mock surprise. “I assumed I was invited.”
You scoffed, flustered. “You’re not. I mean—I didn’t think you would even want to. I figured you'd have your own escape planned or… I don’t know. Whatever. I don’t have to explain this.”
Hansol’s lips curled into a smirk. He pushed off the doorframe, walking toward you. “Relax,” he said softly. “I’ll come with you.”
He reached out, gently taking the bag from your hands, setting it aside without looking.
His fingers brushed against a loose strand of your hair, tucking it carefully behind your ear. Then, they lingered—just for a second too long—against your cheek.
“The fact that I don’t feel betrayed by you,” he murmured, his voice low and unsettlingly honest, “is dangerous.”
You didn’t move. Didn’t speak. But you didn’t stop him, either.
His fingers traced the line of your jaw, and you leaned into the touch without thinking. Your breath hitched.
He tilted his head slightly. “At least now, I don’t need to feel bad about liking you.”
Your eyes flicked up to his just as he leaned in—deliberate, slow, with the kind of tension that made the air feel sharp. His hand slid to the back of your neck, gentle but firm, and then—
He kissed you.
There was nothing rushed about it. No fury, no heat of survival. Just something solid, something dangerously steady in a world that had just fallen apart.
When he pulled back, your forehead rested against his. You could feel the weight of his breath, feel your pulse pounding through your ribs like it wanted to say something your mouth couldn’t.
“You sure about this?” you whispered.
Hansol gave a soft, short laugh. “No. But I’m sure about you.”
Your breath tangled with his, and for a moment, time warped—flickering between everything you were running from and the person standing in front of you.
Hansol’s hands didn’t leave you. They rested at your waist, grounding you. But the silence between you cracked like a match striking dry wood.
You should’ve stepped away. You didn’t.
Instead, your fingers reached for him—curling into the fabric of his shirt, pulling him closer. You didn’t need to say anything. He was already moving with you, pressing you back until your spine met the wall of the safe house.
The kiss deepened, no longer careful.
It was urgent now—desperate, laced with the kind of heat only shared between people who had seen death knock and chose to cling to something alive instead.
His jacket dropped first, then yours. Hands fumbled against belts and holsters, mouths parting only to breathe hard, uneven. There was no room for caution—only want, and the tremble of adrenaline refusing to fade.
“You should hate me,” you whispered against his skin.
Hansol’s mouth grazed your neck, voice low and ragged. “I should. I don’t.”
The bag of weapons lay forgotten on the floor. The outside world—the betrayal, the chase, the agency you once trusted—felt miles away.
*
Morning slammed into you like a slap to the face—uninvited, merciless, and too bright for a pair of fugitives with no time left to lose.
You woke to the weight of a warm palm brushing your cheek. The low hum of a car engine idled outside the cabin’s thin windowpane, muffled by cheap curtains and the restless hush of wind through pine branches.
“Hey.” Hansol’s voice cut through the fuzziness in your head, a soft rasp close to your ear—gentle, but edged with urgency. “Y/n. Up. Now.”
Your eyes cracked open. For a fleeting moment you didn’t know where you were. Then the night came back in pieces: the safe house. The loaded bag on the floor. The stolen heat of his mouth on yours. The truth sitting between you like a live grenade, its pin half-pulled.
You shoved yourself upright, blinking the sleep from your eyes. “What time is it?”
Hansol shot a glance at the crooked wall clock above the door. “Eight. We should’ve been gone an hour ago.”
You groaned, pressing your palms to your face, trying to squeeze out the ache behind your eyes. “God—did we really—”
His low chuckle cut you off. Rough, amused, and infuriatingly unbothered. “We really did. Also… you snore, by the way.”
Your head snapped up, a weak glare in place of a retort. “Shut up,” you muttered, already fumbling for your jacket and shoving your half-loaded pistol deep into the bag beside the spare clips. He caught your wrist just as you brushed past him—strong fingers wrapping around the pulse point, halting you like it was nothing.
Hansol leaned in, close enough that his breath brushed your lips. Forehead pressed lightly to yours, grounding you in the middle of this storm.
“Hey,” he murmured, voice steady as an oath. “You’ll be safe with me. I promise. Even if the whole damn country wants us dead.”
You stared at him—really stared—and for one quiet heartbeat, all the running, the betrayals, the blood that wouldn’t wash off yet… none of it mattered more than this.
You nodded, the word stuck in your throat but clear in your eyes.
“Okay.”
The car rumbled down the highway an hour later, tires humming against cracked asphalt, a battered duffel bag tossed in the back seat next to leftover ammo boxes and half-spilled maps.
You pulled into a quiet rest stop near the coast—last chance for a hot drink and anything vaguely pretending to be breakfast before Busan swallowed you both whole.
Hansol returned from the convenience store, dropped a packaged sandwich and a steaming coffee in front of you where you sat on a cracked picnic bench beneath a lonesome pine. Salt air drifted in from somewhere past the highway, a briny promise of freedom you weren’t sure you’d ever touch.
You ate in silence for a while, trucks and early commuters groaning by in the distance. Your body was wound tight, yet beside him, your heart felt oddly, stubbornly steady—like he was an anchor in the storm you’d unleashed together.
But the quiet didn’t last.
“Why did you become a hitman?” you asked suddenly, your voice rough from sleep.
Hansol didn’t answer right away. He turned the coffee cup in his hands, thumb pressing down on the cheap plastic lid, releasing and pressing again—like he needed something to hold him here.
When he finally looked at you, there was no mask left. Just Hansol—raw, unguarded, heartbreakingly young beneath the man you’d come to trust with your life.
“I didn’t choose it,” he said simply. His voice was so calm it almost hurt. “I was trained for it before I even knew what the word meant.”
Your half-eaten sandwich sagged in your lap, forgotten.
Hansol gave a small, bitter laugh that didn’t touch his eyes. “The first time, I thought maybe… if I took out people who deserved it, it would mean something. That it would balance out whatever was broken inside me.”
He looked past you then, eyes lost to a road only he could see. “I kept telling myself that lie. That I was doing good work. That ending bad people made up for how I started. And it gave me… a life. Purpose.”
His gaze flicked back to yours—steady now, but threaded through with a grief you knew too well.
His gaze flicked back to yours—steady now, but threaded through with a grief you recognized too well.
He drew in a slow breath, then murmured almost to himself, “He who fights with monsters should look to it that he himself does not become a monster.”
Your eyes snapped to his, the quote sparking recognition deep in your chest. “Nietzsche.”
A small smile ghosted across Hansol’s lips, tired but real. “Yeah. Funny thing to live by for a hitman, huh?”
You huffed a laugh, more air than sound. “I remember that line.”
Hansol cocked his head, studying you like he was reading a puzzle he already knew the answer to. “Did you ever actually read philosophy, Y/n?”
You dropped your gaze, nudging the sandwich aside, suddenly fascinated by the cracks in the old picnic table. “No. Tried. But it just… messes with my head.”
Hansol barked a short laugh, not mocking but almost relieved. He reached out, nudging your knee with his own under the table, his hand still wrapped around his coffee cup like it was armor.
“It does,” he agreed quietly. “Breaks it open, then leaves you to pick up the pieces.”
You looked up at him then, the salt wind tugging at your hair, the taste of half-meant promises between you. For a breath, neither of you were fugitives. Just two people stranded in the same question: Who am I now?
A truck engine rumbled to life behind you, snapping the moment. You stood, offered him a hand.
“Come on, philosopher. Busan’s not gonna wait for us.”
Busan swallowed you whole in the haze of late afternoon—salt air heavy with brine, fish stalls, and the sharp cries of gulls circling overhead like they could smell secrets slipping through the alleys.
Hansol wedged the borrowed car into a narrow spot behind Jagalchi Market, where rows of battered scooters leaned against graffiti-tagged walls. You tugged your cap lower over your brow as the sea breeze tugged loose strands of hair across your mouth.
“First things first,” you said, scrolling through your phone for the address burned into your memory. “We need clothes. Food for the ferry ride. And then—my contact.”
Hansol cocked an eyebrow as he fell into step beside you, weaving through the crush of fishmongers and tourists trailing plastic bags dripping with saltwater.
“Contact,” he repeated, voice edged with a lazy mockery that didn’t fool you for a second. “Should I be worried?”
“Only if you hate pretty faces and suspiciously efficient paperwork.”
He gave a sharp bark of laughter, but you didn’t miss how his eyes flicked sideways at you, narrowing just enough to betray the flicker of possessiveness he probably thought he hid well.
“Oh, I hate both,” he said dryly. “Definitely hate both.”
You bumped his shoulder as you pushed through a cluster of chattering students in matching uniforms. “Relax, Vernon. He’s harmless.”
Hansol clicked his tongue, but you could feel the tension rolling off him—like a blade pressed flat against your spine, warm and unspoken.
“Yeah, we’ll see about that.”
You led Hansol through a maze of back alleys behind the market, ducking under hanging laundry and sidestepping crates of flopping fish that stank of yesterday’s tide. Finally, you stopped at a battered metal door tucked between a noodle shop and a storage shed. You didn’t bother to knock—just rapped twice and shoved it open.
Inside, the air smelled faintly of oil and cheap cologne. Files and fake passports littered a metal desk, an old radio murmured some upbeat pop song in the background. And there he was—Kim Mingyu.
Tall, tanned, muscle packed tight into a plain white shirt stretched across broad shoulders. His grin was wide and careless, boyish dimples carved deep into his cheeks—a dangerous combination with those quick, clever eyes that flicked straight past Hansol and pinned you like a butterfly.
“Well, well, well…” Mingyu drawled, arms already open as he crossed the room in three easy strides. “If it isn’t my favorite headache come crawling back.”
Before you could stop him, he caught your shoulders and planted a kiss on one cheek—then the other, lingering just enough to feel his smirk against your skin.
“Mingyu—” you warned, shoving him back a step with a palm to his chest.
He laughed, ignoring the shove entirely, then flicked a teasing glance over your shoulder at Hansol. “Relax, man, I’m just saying hello. She’s the one who taught me how to greet French diplomats—very convincingly, might I add.”
Hansol didn’t say a word, but you felt his presence shift closer behind you—a quiet threat wrapped in casual silence.
Mingyu winked at you and released your shoulders, only to cup your face lightly and squint at you like he was looking for cracks. “Here’s my favorite person—finally got your pretty ass here in one piece. So tell me, boss… what happened? You look like you crawled through a bar fight and made out with a hurricane.”
You rolled your eyes, flicking his hands away. “We made it out of Seoul—barely. Turns out the Agency didn’t want me alive long enough to file paperwork.”
Mingyu’s grin faded a fraction. He dropped his hand, gaze flicking to Hansol, then back to you. “No surprises there. Seokmin was here an hour ago getting the same escape kit you’re about to beg off me.”
Your pulse jumped. “Seokmin was here?”
“Yup.” Mingyu tapped a stack of IDs on the desk, then leaned a hip against it, folding those annoyingly perfect arms. “Asked for a new identity and ferry papers to Shanghai.”
Hansol shifted beside you, voice quiet but edged in iron. “Where is he now?”
Mingyu’s smile returned—wolfish now, eyes flicking between you both like he was watching his favorite drama in real time. “That, jealous friend, depends. How nicely are you gonna ask?”
Before Hansol could open his mouth—and before Mingyu could smirk his way into getting punched—you stepped in, palm pressed lightly to Hansol’s chest to hold him back.
“Mingyu, behave,” you warned, voice low but firm.
Mingyu’s grin only widened, eyes dancing. “Behave? When did you ever like me behaving?” He flicked his chin toward Hansol, who stood a step too close behind you, bristling like a guard dog. “So… who’s Mr. Sunshine here? Bodyguard? Stalker?”
You shot him a look. “He’s… a friend.”
Mingyu clutched at his chest dramatically. “Friend? More than me?”
You almost rolled your eyes out of your skull, but then you felt Hansol’s stare burn into the side of your face—sharp, questioning.
You ignored it, turning back to Mingyu. “He makes sure I’m safe. That’s all you need to know.”
Mingyu cooed like you’d just handed him the gossip of the year. He leaned in, stage-whisper conspiratorial. “Mmm. Lover? You always did have a thing for the tragic types.”
You pushed at his shoulder—hard enough to shove him back a step. “Shut up. Just give me what I asked for.”
But behind you, Hansol’s voice rumbled soft and dangerously amused, low enough for only you to hear.
“Lover, huh?”
You felt your ears heat immediately, but refused to turn around. “Don’t start.”
Mingyu just laughed—loud and delighted—as he bent over the battered desk, rifling through stacks of fresh IDs. “God, I missed this. Okay, Romeo and Juliet. Let’s get you two ghosts out of my city before you ruin my clean record.”
*
The dusty back office rattled with the hum of an ancient fan while you and Hansol lingered by the grimy window, the staff cursing under his breath as he double-checked exit stamps and ferry tickets.
Hansol leaned one shoulder to the wall, eyes drifting lazily over the port beyond the glass—where fishing boats and rusty cargo skiffs rocked gently on choppy water. Then something snagged his gaze. A shape too familiar to dismiss.
“Y/n.” His voice cut through the staff's muttering. “Look.”
You turned just in time to see a tall figure slip through a gap between two crates stacked high with fishing nets—black leather jacket, faded cap pulled low.
Seokmin.
For a split second, your breath caught in your throat—then your body moved before your mind caught up. You shoved past him, crashing through the door into the bright slap of salt air.
“Seokmin!” you shouted, but he didn’t turn. He broke into a sprint instead—boot soles slamming the wet dock boards.
“Shit—Hansol, come on!”
Hansol was already at your side, boots pounding in rhythm with yours, the two of you tearing past startled fishermen hauling ropes and crates of wriggling octopus.
Seokmin darted left, vaulted a rusted railing, and landed hard on the deck of a battered trawler bobbing against its moorings. He scrambled for the cockpit, fumbling with the ignition as the old diesel engine coughed awake.
You hit the deck a heartbeat later, Hansol right behind you, gun drawn but lowered—eyes locked on the man who, for years, had been your friend, your cover, your silent co-conspirator.
“Seokmin—don’t!” you yelled, hands spread, voice raw from wind and betrayal.
But Seokmin barely glanced over his shoulder, one boot kicking at the gear lever, desperate to launch the boat out of the harbor before you could close the distance.
Hansol’s hand shot out, grabbing your elbow just as you lunged for Seokmin’s jacket. Together, you slammed him back against the rusty cabin door, the engine roaring beneath your feet.
Cornered. Caught. Nowhere to run but open water—and not fast enough.
Breathless, you locked eyes with him.
His chest heaved, eyes darting between you and the silent threat that was Hansol at your shoulder.
“You're here…” Seokmin rasped, voice cracking with something deeper than fear—guilt, maybe, or something darker. “…they're coming for us. There's no safe space.”
“Seokmin—” you stepped forward, trying to steady him by his shoulders. “Who? Who’s coming? Who sold us out?”
But Seokmin just laughed—high, splintered, wrong. His knees buckled before you could catch him properly. Hansol stepped in, grabbing under his arm to keep him from cracking his skull on the deck.
Too late. His head lolled forward, eyes rolling white for an instant before flickering shut.
You and Hansol were left half crouched on the swaying boat deck, your fingers fisted tight in Seokmin’s jacket, the sound of the harbor all around you—seagulls crying, waves slapping hulls, engines growling as if mocking you with the normalcy of the day.
“What the hell—” you gasped, heart pounding so hard you thought you’d pass out too.
Hansol looked from Seokmin’s unconscious face to you, mouth twisting into something between a snarl and a grim laugh.
“Fantastic,” he bit out. “Just fantastic. Now what, Agent Jung?”
Your mind spun—Seokmin’s words echoing like a gunshot in a tunnel: No safe space.
The salty wind lashed strands of your hair across your mouth as you crouched on the old trawler’s weather-beaten deck, knees tucked up, braced against the gentle heave of waves beneath you. Seokmin lay sprawled on his back beside you, jacket half unzipped, face pale under the slap of late afternoon sun.
Hansol stood a few feet away, half-shadowed by the rusty cabin wall—legs braced wide, one hand resting casually on the grip of his holstered gun, the other shielding his eyes as he swept a glare across the endless sprawl of water. He looked carved from stone: all hard lines and coiled patience, like he’d been born with the ocean wind snarling through his hair.
Seokmin’s eyelids twitched once, twice—then fluttered open to the white glare of the sky. His brow crumpled in confusion at the sight of gulls swooping lazy arcs overhead, their cries shrill and mocking. He sucked in a thin breath, licked cracked lips, and turned his head just enough to catch a shadow looming over him.
Hansol stared down at him like a cat sizing up an injured mouse. He didn’t blink. Didn’t smile.
“Welcome back, Sleeping Beauty.” His tone was so dry it could’ve sanded rust off the deck.
Seokmin’s mouth opened. Closed. Then opened again, the shape of your name forming on a hoarse exhale. He dragged his gaze sideways until it landed on you—your face half hidden by wind-tangled hair, eyes sharp as broken glass but weirdly soft around the edges when they landed on him.
“Y/n…? What—where—what the hell—”
You didn’t bother with sympathy. You thunked a plastic water bottle against his chest so hard he wheezed. “Drink. And breathe, genius. Or pass out again, I don’t care.”
Hansol’s chuckle rumbled under the whine of the old engine. He shifted his weight, boots scuffing the deck. “We’re on our way to Shanghai, by the way. Mingyu said that’s where you were headed—so… surprise. Road trip, but wetter.”
Seokmin choked on the first mouthful of water, hacking like an old man as a splatter hit his chin. He pointed an accusing finger at Hansol, hand shaking so badly he nearly smacked himself in the nose.
“Shanghai?! Who are you?! Why is he—what is this—”
Hansol shrugged, unbothered, mouth curling into a shark’s grin that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Bodyguard. Lover. Emotional support hitman. Depends who you ask.”
You shot him a death glare but didn’t dignify it with a comeback. Instead, you jabbed a finger at Seokmin’s forehead, ignoring how he flinched. “We didn’t have options, Seokmin. Either I drag your sorry ass with me or they’d find your corpse floating back to Seoul in a week.”
Seokmin’s wide eyes ping-ponged between you and Hansol—then to the rolling gray water stretching forever in every direction. He sagged back down with a dramatic groan, using the bottle now like an ice pack pressed to his temple.
“Perfect. I faint for five minutes and wake up in the middle of the sea. God, I hate my life!”
Hansol crouched down just close enough to cast Seokmin’s face in shadow, voice dropping to a low, pleasant threat that made even your skin crawl in a good way.
“Behave, buddy.”
Seokmin squeaked something that sounded like a prayer to every sea god he could remember. You laughed—sharp and sudden, the sound ripping through the salt and the fear like sunlight splitting storm clouds.
Hansol flicked you a glance, half-smirk playing on his lips despite the tension pulling his shoulders taut. And just for a fleeting second, the ocean didn’t feel so vast.
Your laugh hadn’t even finished echoing across the choppy water when you turned back to Seokmin—knees digging into the rough deck, eyes narrowing as the weight of everything you still didn’t know came crashing back in.
“Alright, Seokmin—enough stand-up comedy,” you said, voice low and sharp. “Tell us. All of it. Why did you run? What the hell is really happening to us?”
Seokmin rubbed a shaking hand over his mouth, still pale and clammy, breath misting the air between you. For a moment he just stared at you—like he was cataloging whether you could handle it. Then he huffed out a bitter laugh so soft it almost didn’t survive the wind.
“This wasn’t supposed to get this messed up,” he muttered, voice cracking at the edges. He wiped a tear that wasn’t really a tear, just the ocean salt stinging his eyes. “God, we were kids… Should’ve known better.”
Hansol shifted behind you—close enough that you could feel the tight coil of muscle and mistrust vibrating off him. He didn’t say a word, but you knew he was listening to every syllable.
Seokmin lifted his eyes to yours, dark and raw. Older.
“Remember what we talked about… about the foster home?” he rasped. “How we were all placed there, how they called it a ‘haven for war orphans’? We knew It wasn’t. It was a breeding ground.”
You felt the blood drain from your face. “I remember. But we knew that. We knew we were trained—conditioned.”
Seokmin swallowed hard, a muscle in his jaw jumping. “I got orders months ago. Quiet ones. My assignment was to start eliminating everyone from that program—everyone. Us. The old handlers... You.”
The words punched the air right out of your lungs. “Why? Why now?”
Seokmin barked a humorless laugh. “They’re phasing us out, Y/n. Cleaning up the old experiment. Making room for a new one. A better one. Perfect little soldiers—no flaws, no memories, no stupid feelings that make us hesitate to pull the trigger on each other.”
He dropped his gaze to the deck, shoulders curling in on themselves. “I tried to dig deeper. To see who’s funding it. How far it goes. It’s worse than we thought. They’ve got a whole batch of kids—trained harder, broken younger. They don’t want anyone left to question it. So they started tying up loose ends. Us.”
The gentle slap of waves against the hull filled the silence that followed—too gentle, too normal for the earthquake cracking through your bones.
“How many more of us are alive?”
Seokmin met your eyes. Defeated. Hollow. “I don’t know. Not many. And we’re next if we stop moving.”
*
The harbor at Shanghai cracked open before dawn—fog clinging to rusted cranes and the scent of diesel heavy enough to choke on. You’d barely spoken since you left the South Korean coast behind.
Hansol had watched you the whole way—how your shoulders stayed stiff even when you pretended to sleep, how your fingers ghosted over the old scar on your neck you’d lied about once upon a time.
When the boat bumped against the dock, he pressed a cheap chocolate bar into your hand. The wrapper crinkled, loud in the hush before morning chaos.
“You’ll be fine,” Hansol murmured, low enough that only you caught it. His eyes held yours steady, unwavering even as the deck crew shouted around you. “Worst case, I teach you how to kill. Properly this time.”
It was stupid. It was wrong. But the corner of your mouth twitched—just for a breath—and the flicker of it was enough to make his own chest ease for the first time in hours.
Seokmin jumped down from the railing beside you, rubbing at his sore shoulder from where Hansol had kindly yanked him out of that fishing net he’d almost fallen into earlier. He jerked a thumb your way, grinning at Hansol like they weren’t all fugitives now.
“What are you babysitting her for, Vernon? She’s the biggest badass out of the three of us— she dragged my corpse out of Seoul. I say let her handle you instead.”
Hansol shot him a dry look, then turned to you—taking in the smudge of fatigue under your eyes, the chocolate still unopened in your palm.
“She is,” he agreed simply. No teasing this time, no heat. Just the truth—sharp and steady as a blade.
The drive out of the harbor city was long and winding—through roads that spat them out at nameless villages, rice paddies blurring in the rearview until even memories of Seoul felt like a half-forgotten nightmare.
Thanks to you and Seokmin—both fluent enough to barter for a dusty secondhand van and a moldy apartment above a closed-down bakery—Hansol didn’t have to do much but watch, silent and absorbing, while the two of you did the talking.
The first month was awkward. Hansol hovered at the edges of local diners while you negotiated extra bowls of rice or free pickles from soft-hearted aunties who liked your accent. He ate in silence, listening to you and Seokmin argue over soy sauce ratios like a pair of squabbling siblings—each word foreign yet comforting in how it filled the spaces his old life had left hollow.
By the second month, the routine softened. Hansol found the abandoned town library a mile from your shared apartment—its books dusty, its shelves crooked, its windows permanently clouded by sea mist. He asked the local council for permission to “watch over it” for free, and they agreed with a shrug—no one visited anyway.
Most days, the door creaked open once or twice at most: a child looking for picture books, a bored housewife browsing old romance novels. Between those fleeting interruptions, Hansol read. Philosophy—whole shelves of it, Chinese and Western alike. He liked the quiet arguments on paper better than any order barked through a phone back when killing people was his job description.
Sometimes you would come by after your morning shift at the Chinese restaurant two blocks away—your apron still dusted with flour, your fingers warm from the wok. You’d press your nose to his cheek, ignoring the stale scent of old paper and coffee in favor of the steady comfort he’d grown into.
By the third month, it all felt real enough that the old ghosts only murmured now and then.
Nights were his favorite. The library keys heavy in his pocket, the hush of closing time settling like a promise. And you—tucked into his side on the thrifted couch in the corner of the tiny living room you both called home.
Hansol didn’t expect this. Happiness, he realized, wasn’t the roaring thing people described. It was quieter: your laughter bubbling from the kitchen, Seokmin’s footsteps creaking on the floorboards upstairs, your weight soft against him as he traced the lines of your collarbone while a half-read Nietzsche balanced on the armrest.
He’d forgotten how to be gentle—until you gave him the perfect excuse to remember every day.
Even paying rent was bearable, with Seokmin grumbling about leaks and sharing the bills without complaint.
An ex-hitman. A runaway agent. A traitor turned tenant upstairs.
And you—at the heart of it all.
Hansol closed his book one slow night and pressed a kiss to your hair, the words still echoing somewhere behind his ribs:
If this is freedom, I’ll guard it better than any job I ever did.
It was the crack of gunfire that tore the hush of your little safe life apart—one sharp echo that rattled the thin windows and the fragile peace you’d built in three stolen months.
You jerked awake, pulse stuttering as you instinctively reached for the warmth beside you—Hansol, already half up on one elbow, eyes wide and sharp in the dark.
For a heartbeat, neither of you spoke—just stared at each other in the faint spill of streetlight sneaking through the curtain. It was a look that spoke in the language you’d both learned the hard way: Are you okay? Stay with me.
Then came the heavy thud of feet on the hallway stairs—boots or shoes, too many to count, muffled orders barked in a dialect that even your sleepy brain recognized as local police slang.
Hansol slipped from the bed, a predator’s grace in every careful step. He tugged on sweatpants, grabbed the pistol he still kept tucked in a false book spine near the dresser—old habits die slow deaths—and turned to you with a rough whisper.
“It’s okay. Stay behind me, yeah?” His palm pressed briefly to your cheek—warm reassurance against the cold coil tightening in your belly.
Out in the dim hallway, Seokmin was already cracking open the door to the stairwell, his hair sticking up wildly, only half awake but eyes snapping clear the moment he caught Hansol’s low question:
“You heard it too?”
Seokmin just nodded, jaw tight. You stepped close behind Hansol, fingers brushing the bare skin of his back—anchoring yourself as much as him.
“What was that?” you murmured, voice raspy with sleep and dread.
Seokmin glanced back at you both, then stepped outside barefoot, the boards creaking under his weight. He disappeared down the landing while you and Hansol waited, every second stretching thin and tight as piano wire.
Hansol wrapped an arm around your shoulders, pressing you against his chest. You felt the steady hammer of his heart, the calm strength in the way he kissed the top of your head despite the tension rolling off him in waves.
“It’s nothing, okay? Just some idiot with bad timing.” His whisper ghosted against your temple—equal parts comfort and promise.
The door swung open again. Seokmin came back in, hair ruffled from the wind, an exasperated scoff riding his breath.
“Local cops. They’re hauling in one of the dragsters from the pier. Guy tried to bolt through the alley—gun went off, but he’s in cuffs now. Just dumb luck they passed our floor.”
Hansol let out a quiet huff—half laugh, half leftover adrenaline—and pressed another kiss to your hair.
“See?” he murmured. “Wrong place, wrong time. We’re fine.”
Seokmin rolled his eyes, already trudging back upstairs to his bed. “Next time, lock the damn window. I need my sleep.”
Hansol just chuckled under his breath, his arm never leaving your shoulders as he guided you back inside—past the ghosts that still sometimes rattled your door, but couldn’t touch the sanctuary you’d both built from scratch.
*
The library was a tomb at midday—dust motes drifting through shafts of sunlight, the faint hum of an old fan the only thing keeping the heat from swallowing the narrow aisles whole. Hansol sat alone at the back desk, sleeves pushed to his elbows, ink smudged on the side of his palm from labeling the new arrivals.
Half of him was content, oddly at peace in this quiet sanctuary of forgotten books and old stories. The other half—it never slept, not really. It flickered awake the moment he tugged open the last battered cardboard box and found, nestled beneath romance paperbacks and old newspapers, a thin manila file marked in Korean:
GwFH-02 PROJECT
Hansol stared at it for a long moment. He knew better than to touch ghosts. But some things called you whether you wanted them or not.
His chair creaked as he sat down at the back table, the file spread open before him. Faint pencil notations, official stamps, the yellowed edges of old secrets. His eyes caught on a seal—simple, sharp, unmistakable.
A logo he hadn’t seen—except once, half-hidden at the bottom of your old badge, the one you’d tucked away beneath the bed back in Busan.
His heart thudded.
He turned the pages with care, his pulse a slow hammer in his ears. A list of names lined the next page, each neat row ending in a brutal red line through the middle—strikeouts like silent executions. His eyes tracked them one by one, jaw tightening, until the list stopped—two names untouched by red ink:
정Y/N — Jung Y/n
이석민 — Lee Seokmin
And there, typed beneath in faded letters: Raised in Gwangju Foster Home.
Hansol’s fingers trembled as he flipped to the last page—a photograph. Black-and-white, edges curled with time.
A group of children in mismatched clothes stood in front of a squat old building with a crooked sign: Gwangju Foster House.
Faces blurred by age—except for the ones circled in red pen.
He found you immediately. A girl, maybe nine, hair pinned back, standing shoulder to shoulder with a boy who was unmistakably Seokmin—round-cheeked but with the same sharp glint in his eyes even then.
And to the far left, nearly cut out by the edge of the photo, half-hidden by an older boy’s shoulder—was him.
Hansol.
Staring at the camera with a blank face.
He hadn’t remembered this place. Not until now.
A distant, sick hum filled his ears—like the sea roaring in a seashell pressed too hard against his head.
He snapped the file shut, breath caught somewhere in his ribs.
You, Seokmin, him. Not a coincidence. Never had been.
Dinner was quiet that night. Too quiet.
The old kitchen table creaked under the weight of three mismatched plates—steamed dumplings, stir-fried greens, and leftover rice warmed a second time because none of you had really remembered to cook.
Seokmin ate like nothing was wrong—shoulders hunched, sleeves rolled up, cracking dumb jokes about the neighbor’s runaway dog. You smiled politely, chiming in when you had to. But Hansol barely tasted the food.
His chopsticks paused halfway to his mouth more than once, the clatter of the neighborhood muffled under the roar inside his head: Your name circled in red. Seokmin’s too. And his own face—hidden in plain sight.
He heard your voice only faintly through the noise.
“Baby?”
You said it again, softer this time, a gentle nudge at the edge of his wandering mind.
“Vernon.”
His eyes snapped to you—startled, caught like a man dragged back from somewhere deep underwater.
You tilted your head, a faint wrinkle between your brows. “Where did you go just now?”
Seokmin let out a small scoff, jabbing another dumpling onto his plate. “He’s been weird since he got home. What did you read this time, professor? Another dead philosopher?”
Hansol ignored him. His eyes were only on you.
“Tell me about it,” he said suddenly, voice so low it almost didn’t sound like him.
You blinked. “About what?”
“The foster home. How they trained you. You and Seokmin.”
The room stiffened at once. Seokmin froze mid-bite. You set your chopsticks down too carefully, a small, deliberate click against the chipped ceramic.
“Baby—” you began, your tone suddenly fragile and tired all at once.
But he pressed on, needing it like a splinter needed pulling. “Tell me. I just… I need to hear it from you.”
You looked at him then—really looked. Not with fear. Not with the fragile softness he’d grown used to waking beside. But with a quiet, raw disappointment that cut deeper than any bullet ever could.
“You promised,” you whispered, voice barely above the hiss of the old kettle on the counter. “You promised me, Vernon. No past. No ghosts. That was the deal.”
Hansol swallowed. But the truth burned his throat too bitter to swallow down now.
“But I deserve to know!”
Seokmin pushed back from the table, hands raised, voice trembling. “Hey—hey—can we not do this now—”
But neither of you heard him.
You glared at Hansol, fighting to keep your voice steady while your chest wanted to break open. “If you open that door, Vernon… if you drag that hell back into our life—then you kill this. Us.”
Hansol’s lips parted—like he might say I’m sorry. Like he might lie and promise to stop digging. But the truth was right there in his eyes: he couldn’t.
*
Sleep never came easy for Hansol these days.
That night, after the argument you hadn’t really finished, he lay awake far too long—listening to your breathing, to Seokmin’s restless shuffles upstairs, to the faint hum of night insects outside the cracked window.
And when he finally drifted under, the dark did not cradle him gently.
A hallway. Dimly lit. The creak of old floorboards under his tiny feet. Seven years old, maybe eight. Too small to understand what real cruelty tasted like—but old enough to hear it.
A scream, raw and jagged, echoing from somewhere past the sleeping quarters. Not the first one—never the first.
He remembered whispering to the boy next to him, “Did you hear that?”
He remembered the boy rolling over, blank eyes, saying “Sleep, Hansol. It’s nothing.”
It was never nothing.
Tiny Hansol had pressed his ear to the splintered door, trembling, heart a rabbit in a snare.
Then courage—foolish, childish courage—pushed him to slip into the hallway. Bare feet on cold wood. The scream again. Then a groan, low and choked, like someone drowning in their own throat.
He found the room. Half-open door. A girl—in his age—pinned to a cot by rough straps, tears streaking her dirty face. A man leaned over her, syringes lined up on a metal tray. Her eyes found him through the gap—pleading, delirious.
“Help— please—”
Little Hansol backed away. The man turned. A cold look, then a smile, teeth too white. “Back to bed, It’s just a test. You dream too much.”
He ran.
Hansol sat bolt upright, breath ragged, the ghost of a scream ringing in his skull long after the room had gone silent again.
He wiped the sweat from his brow with the back of a trembling hand. Next to him, your arm lay draped loosely across his stomach, your breathing slow and steady—utterly untouched by the storm still raging behind his eyes.
A month. Maybe more. This same memory, rising from the grave he’d buried it in the moment he left that damned foster home for good. He’d told himself it was a trick of childhood fear — a boy’s overactive mind before he was rescued by Mr. Ki and forged into the thing people later called Vernon.
Except tonight, in the hush between sleep and waking, it hadn’t felt childish at all. It felt like a warning.
Hansol slid out from under your touch, careful not to rouse you. He crossed the creaking floor and pushed open the window, gulping down the wet night air like a drowning man.
Behind him, you stirred. A sleepy mumble.
“...Vernon?”
He shut the window, cutting off the sticky air, and turned.
You were sitting up now, hair a soft mess around your face, your eyes searching his in the half-dark. “Bad dream again?” you asked, voice barely more than a whisper.
Hansol let out a short laugh—rough, humorless. “You could say that.”
You reached for him, fingers brushing his wrist, grounding him to the now. To you. Not the hallway. Not the screams.
“You’re shaking,” you murmured, concern deepening the line between your brows.
He covered your hand with his own, rough palm swallowing yours completely. “Go back to sleep, love. It’s nothing.”
You frowned, but before you could press, he bent down, kissed your forehead, and let the old name slip away into the dark.
Hansol’s hands stilled over the spine of a returned book—some local student’s half-torn poetry collection—when he spotted it:
A plain envelope, cream-colored, sitting dead-center on his desk like it had grown there overnight. No postage. No fingerprints. Just his real name printed in neat, slanted ink:
Offer for Mr. Choi Hansol.
His breath caught behind his ribs. He looked around, too sharply. The library was its usual graveyard at this hour—two old women gossiping by the history shelf, a single high school boy nodding off over a math workbook. No CCTV. No staff besides him.
Careful not to crumple it, Hansol picked up the envelope and turned it over twice. Nothing else—no seal, no logo. Just him, staring at the truth of his name like a bullet meant only for his skull.
He sank into his creaky chair behind the low desk, the old wood groaning under his weight and his pulse hammering so loud he almost expected the dozing kid to hear it.
With stiff fingers, he broke the flap and slid out a single piece of thin paper.
Only a few words, typed.
Wanna know more about your parents? Do me a favor.
That was it. No signature. No instructions. Just a hook baited perfectly for a man who’d spent thirty years burying questions he’d never dared say out loud.
Hansol’s eyes flicked over the shelves—dusty stacks, uneven rows, the quiet hum of a ceiling fan. He forced himself to breathe, folding the letter once, twice, and tucking it inside the battered leather notebook where he hid receipts for overdue fees and grocery lists.
For a moment, he let his fingers rest on the cover. Choi Hansol. Not Vernon. Not the hitman. Not the runaway boy.
Just him. And somewhere out there, someone knew exactly which ghosts would break him open again.
He stood abruptly, startling the napping kid. “We’re closing in fifteen,” he called, voice steady, though inside him something old and half-dead had begun to claw its way back toward the light.
A few days passed. He tried—truly tried—to pretend the first envelope hadn’t wormed its way into his skull. He shelved books like a machine. He kissed your temple each morning as if his hands didn’t tremble the moment you turned away. He told himself the past was ash, and he was done breathing it back to flame.
But fate—or whoever was playing puppeteer—wasn’t done with him.
It was a Wednesday afternoon when he found it. Same paper. Same ink. Same neat, mocking words. No stamp, no return name. It was waiting for him on the seat of the staff break room chair this time—like a cat dropping a dead mouse right where he’d have to look.
“What do you know about your parents, Hansol?”
Just that.
He read it once. Twice. He didn’t realize how hard his knuckles had clenched until the thin paper began to tear at the fold.
Hansol scanned the empty break room. The cracked kettle. The cheap instant coffee. The tiny window rattled with winter wind. He shoved the envelope deep in his coat pocket, heart pounding. The hum of dusty fluorescent lights suddenly sounded like whispers above his head.
He pressed a palm to his mouth, forcing his pulse to calm. Then he stepped out, forcing a bland smile at the old woman asking about folk tales, guiding her kindly to aisle four.
But inside him, Vernon the hitman sharpened his knives again. Whoever they were, they weren’t playing for fun. And if they knew how to push him—
They knew how to reach you, too.
He finished his shift with the same careful face, every muscle tight as wire beneath his skin. As closing time came, he replayed the single question over and over,
What do you know about your parents, Hansol?
What did he know?
The next day, Hansol pushed open the library door, the faint creak cutting through the hush of rain tapping on the old windows. He shook off his damp hood, eyes adjusting to the dim aisle of shelves—then froze.
A man in a dark suit, sleeves immaculate, hair slicked back like he owned every step he’d ever taken. He stood casually at Hansol’s work desk, setting down a thin envelope right on top of Hansol’s old philosophy book—like he’d done it a thousand times before.
The man didn’t flinch when Hansol entered. Instead, he turned, slowly, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. Arrogant. Inviting.
Hansol’s eyes flicked to the envelope—To: Choi Hansol scrawled in tidy block letters—and back to the stranger’s face.
“Choi Hansol,” the man drawled, voice smooth as silk and twice as dangerous. “Finally, we meet properly.”
Hansol let the door close behind him. He flicked the lock shut with a click that echoed through the empty library.
“Cute trick,” Hansol said, rolling his shoulders back, hands loose at his sides. “You think paper scares me?”
The man’s grin widened. “No. But truth does.”
They stared at each other—two animals testing the cage. Rain pattered the windows, the only witness.
Hansol’s smile turned feral. “Last chance. Who sent you?”
The man didn’t answer. Instead, he stepped forward—and Hansol’s body moved before his mind caught up.
The first punch came fast, the stranger’s fist grazing Hansol’s jaw. He twisted with it, absorbed the pain, then slammed his elbow into the man’s ribs. Wood creaked under their boots as they crashed into a shelf—books thudded to the floor like muffled applause.
The man swung again—Hansol ducked, caught him by the coat lapel, and drove him backward into the stacks. Shelves rattled. A dictionary split open at their feet.
“You think you know me?” Hansol snarled through clenched teeth, knuckles burying into the man’s stomach—once, twice—each hit a wordless curse for every envelope, every lie.
The man wheezed but laughed through bloodied lips. “Oh, I know you, Vernon. Or should I say—Hansol.”
Hansol grabbed a fistful of hair, yanked the man’s head back, eyes burning. “Keep talking.”
The man’s grin was red now, teeth stained. “I’m just the first. You want your past—fight for it.”
Hansol’s vision tunneled—red, white, then cold clarity. He slammed the man against the window so hard it rattled in its frame.
“Say that again,” Hansol growled, voice a blade of ice.
“You were adopted before your training…” the man hissed, spit and blood flecking his grin, “but life brings you back again, doesn’t it? Funny, ain’t it?”
Hansol’s knee drove up into his gut, cutting off the words in a choking gasp. He didn’t let him crumple—he hauled him back up by the collar, nose to nose.
“I’m free enough to bury you here if you don’t start making sense.”
The man choked on a laugh, then spit blood at Hansol’s boot. “They want you back. All of you. The old ghosts—they’re not done—”
Hansol felt it—a shift in muscle. He dropped instinctively just as the man swung the hidden knife, steel singing past his ear.
Hansol caught the wrist mid-swing, twisted—crack—the knife clattered to the floor. With a roar born of every lie he’d ever swallowed, Hansol drove the man back into the shelves, books exploding around them.
When it was done, the man lay half-buried under an avalanche of hardcovers, groaning, one arm bent at a sick angle.
Hansol’s chest heaved, blood dripping from the shallow slice on his forearm. He stared at the man—this messenger, this threat wrapped in a suit—and saw no more answers in him than in those cursed envelopes.
Quietly, almost gently, Hansol crouched, fisted a handful of the man’s shirt, and hissed against his ear,
“Tell your puppets I’m done running. They want me? They can come themselves.”
*
Hansol stood at the doorway for a beat, the envelope heavy in his hand, before stepping into Seokmin’s room. The floor creaked under his weight, but he didn’t care. He didn’t even knock. The door swung open with the kind of casual finality that made Seokmin’s head snap up from his seat by the window.
“Hansol?” he blinked, caught off guard. “What’s going on?”
He immediately noticed the tension radiating off Hansol’s frame—his shallow breaths, the twitch in his jaw. But what Seokmin didn’t see, at least not yet, was the faint purpling bruise hidden at the corner of Hansol’s mouth.
Hansol didn’t answer at first. He simply walked into the room, shutting the door behind him. Then he held up the envelope—creased, slightly blood-smeared at the edge from a cut across his knuckle.
Seokmin’s brows drew together. “What’s that?”
Hansol didn’t speak. He pulled out the photograph, unfolded it carefully, as if it might explode in his hand.
There, frozen in grainy color, were three couples. Young. Dressed in uniform. All smiling like the world hadn’t yet asked them to die for it.
He pointed to the couple in the middle. “These are my parents.”
Seokmin leaned forward, squinting. His expression faltered—recognition flickering like static in his gaze.
Hansol pulled out another sheet—documents with the stamp and insignia he’d seen before.
GwFH-01. National Intelligence. Strategic Human Asset Division. Special Forces.
Two other names were highlighted beneath his parents: Jung and Lee.
Hansol didn’t need to ask.
“How did your parents die?” he asked quietly, too quietly.
Seokmin flinched. “What kind of question is that?”
“Just answer me.”
“I was six.” Seokmin’s voice turned sharp. “Why does it matter?”
“Mine died in a car crash,” Hansol said, stepping closer, eyes dark. “Off a beach highway. No other vehicle. I woke up in the hospital with a concussion and no parents. They told me it was an accident. That I was lucky. Then I was sent to Gwangju Foster Home.”
Seokmin’s blood drained from his face. “You… you too?”
Hansol gave a mirthless smile, paper trembling slightly between his fingers. “They planned to move me into the same program. GwFH-02. I was supposed to be trained alongside you. And her.”
He didn’t need to say your name.
Seokmin slowly stood up. “How… how do you know about the project name?”
Hansol let the envelope fall to the floor, his voice a low growl.
“Because someone sent me this. With all the information about our past and our parents.”
Seokmin stared at the document, then back at Hansol—expression somewhere between horror and disbelief.
Seokmin stood still, barely blinking, as Hansol’s words settled in the space between them like ash.
Hansol ran a hand through his hair, fingers trembling with something between rage and disbelief. Then, in a quiet voice too steady for the fire burning in his chest, he spoke again.
“They offered me a deal,” he said.
Hansol looked up at him, and something about the hollowness in his gaze made Seokmin take a step back.
“They want me to kill you,” Hansol said, then paused—his throat dry. “And her.”
Seokmin’s jaw tightened. “You’re joking.”
“I’m not.” Hansol exhaled slowly, forcing the venom out with the air. “They said if I did it—if I ended what’s left of GwFH-02—I’d be rewarded. Recruited as a mentor for the next batch.”
Seokmin’s fists clenched at his sides. “So that’s their plan now? Make you their new monster?”
Hansol gave a dry, hollow laugh. “That’s always been the plan, Seokmin. We’re not people to them. We’re blueprints. Test groups. And our parents too.”
He took a step forward, the fire in his voice rising. “I’m telling you, these people—they’re not just corrupt. They’re evil. And there’s no safe space for us. Not here. Not in China. Not anywhere.”
Seokmin’s chest rose and fell, his pulse thundering in his ears. “Why are you telling me this?”
Hansol’s answer came without hesitation.
“Because I’m not going to do it. I couldn’t kill her even when I didn’t know the truth. And I’m sure as hell not killing the only people left who know what we went through.”
The silence that followed was thick with something unspoken—shared trauma, trust half-formed, a desperate need to believe they weren’t truly alone in this fight.
Hansol turned to the door. “We need to get ahead of this.”
Seokmin’s voice stopped him. “You didn’t tell her, did you?”
Hansol shook his head. “Not yet.”
The small dining table creaked as you set down the last plastic container, the steam curling up between you in lazy ribbons. You dropped the chopsticks beside the plates with a sigh, wiping your hands on your apron.
“I accept no complaints,” you declared, flopping into the chair opposite Hansol. “Because these are made by Minghao and I’m too tired to fix the taste.”
Seokmin chuckled, but there was a twitch in the corner of his mouth—something uneasy. “Oh no, Minghao’s food is sacred. Wouldn’t dare.”
Hansol gave a half-smile, eyes lowered as he opened a container of mapo tofu. “Wouldn’t dream of criticizing the chef. Especially not when she has a kitchen knife collection bigger than mine.”
You smirked and pointed your chopsticks at him. “Damn right. Eat fast. There’s a war tomorrow.”
The table fell into a comfortable rhythm—quiet chewing, the soft clink of chopsticks against ceramic. But you weren’t stupid.
You noticed the glances.
Quick ones. Fleeting. The kind that carried meaning.
Between Hansol and Seokmin.
You caught one exchange mid-bite and raised a brow. “Okay. What’s with the looks? Did one of you break something? Or are you two communicating telepathically now?”
Seokmin coughed into his tea, looking away. Hansol, ever the calmer liar, shrugged and shoveled more rice into his mouth.
“Nothing,” he said. Too quickly.
You leaned back in your chair, narrowing your eyes. “I may be tired, but I’m not blind.”
“Really, it’s nothing,” Seokmin added, trying to sound casual. “Just something… we were talking about earlier.”
“Uh-huh.”
You let the moment go—for now. But you saw the way Hansol’s chopsticks paused mid-air when you looked at him a little too long. The way his eyes didn’t quite meet yours when you smiled.
Something was unraveling. You could feel it.
But you were too tired to tug the thread tonight.
So instead, you ate your dumplings in silence.
And Hansol, across from you, forced himself to do the same—while the truth burned a hole through the lining of his gut.
Then, the floor trembled.
It was so slight you almost mistook it for a passing truck—but Seokmin’s head snapped up. Hansol froze mid-bite. The silence that followed was loud. Too loud.
Then—
BOOM.
The window nearest the kitchen exploded inward, shards of glass raining across the tile like ice shrapnel. You didn’t scream—you couldn’t. Instinct slammed into your chest like a switch flipped on.
Hansol was already on his feet, toppling the table to its side just as bullets ripped through the dining room wall.
“Go! Go!” he shouted, grabbing you by the elbow.
Seokmin was behind the pantry door in seconds, yanking it open to reveal the hidden trapdoor beneath. A storage crawlspace that, to most, looked like a forgotten floorboard—inside it: three duffel bags, one metal crate, and enough weaponry to start a riot.
You dove in, heart in your throat, hands moving without thought. Seokmin tossed you your pistol while grabbing the loaded AR.
Hansol pulled out his favorite — compact, silenced, perfect for indoor retaliation.
“We’re boxed in,” he growled, listening as footsteps approached the front porch.
You popped the mag, checked the rounds, slammed it back in. “I haven't touched the dumpling!”
Hansol met your eyes, and even through the rising smoke, there was something calm there. Cold. Focused.
“You take back. Seokmin, right. I’ll hold center.”
You nodded, breath short.
The door blew open before you moved.
Black figures poured in, tactical gear and masks, rifles drawn. You rolled behind the broken couch as Hansol fired first, two clean shots dropping the first man to enter. Another tried to flank, but Seokmin was already sweeping the hallway with ruthless precision.
The war was today.
*
“They’re still tailing?” Seokmin’s knuckles were white on the steering wheel, eyes cutting between the dark road ahead and the side mirror as the ruined town faded behind them.
Hansol, in the passenger seat, didn’t answer right away. His jaw was tight, his bruised lip cracked open again, the taste of blood metallic on his tongue. He’d seen it coming—just not this fast.
You sat in the middle of the backseat, hair messy, a cut just above your brow, chest still rising and falling too quickly from the ambush. Your voice cut through the suffocating silence.
“Somebody want to tell me what the hell just happened?”
Seokmin didn’t respond, not right away. His glance toward the rear view was brief but loaded—then toward Hansol, who exhaled sharply. The weight of the truth finally became too heavy to dodge.
“We’re running again,” Hansol said, voice low and cold. “They found us.” he turned to you.
Your blood ran cold. “What?”
Hansol shifted in his seat, facing forward again. The light from passing road lamps flickered across his bruised features, casting shadows like ghosts over the truth he was about to release.
“I got a message,” he began, voice rough. “Anonymous. At first, just words. Then photos. Then files. Things no one else could’ve known—not unless they were part of it.”
You leaned forward slightly, hands braced on the back of his seat, your breath still uneven.
“What kind of files?”
Hansol’s jaw clenched. “A project name. GWFH-03. My parents’ names… with red stamps across their profiles. Deceased. Labeled ‘eliminated.’ Then yours. Seokmin’s. GwFH projects. Both still marked active. That’s how I knew. We weren’t just orphans. We were curated.”
Seokmin’s hands tightened even further on the wheel, veins bulging beneath his skin. His mouth was shut tight, but his eyes—through the rearview—were locked on Hansol.
“They staged our parents’ accident,” Hansol continued, a cold edge in his voice now. “Said it was a rainy cliffside crash. I remembered the ocean. The blood. But I never questioned why I survived. Why I had no relatives, no trail to follow. They wiped it all.”
He paused, hand drifting to the envelope wedged in his coat pocket, thumb brushing its frayed corner.
“I was supposed to be part of GwFH-02. But I got intercepted. Someone else got to me first. A hitman. He took me. Raised me.”
You inhaled sharply, not daring to interrupt.
“He trained me to kill, but not for them. For his own reasons. Which means—” Hansol looked over his shoulder at you again, eyes now burning with clarity, “—I was the only one from the project who slipped through the cracks.”
Seokmin finally spoke, voice low and stunned. “You’re telling me… you were supposed to be one of us. But someone stole you from the system?”
Hansol gave a grim nod. “And now they want to pull me back in. Not as an agent—” he scoffed, bitter— “as a mentor. They offered me the job. Said if I did one thing—eliminate both of you—they’d let me in.”
Your blood turned to ice.
He turned fully now, his body tense, eyes unreadable. “And I didn’t. Because you’re the only people I’ve ever really had. And I’m done being someone’s weapon.”
Silence stretched, tense and uncertain. The hum of tires on the highway underscored the weight between you all. Seokmin didn’t say a word.
You slowly leaned back, your hand unconsciously brushing the healing cut on your brow. When you finally spoke, your voice was softer than before.
“So now what?”
Hansol looked ahead, eyes narrowing as the black road carved deeper into the unknown.
*
The car rolled through the backroads of Gyeonggi-do under a gray, tired sky. The silence inside was heavier than the fog outside — thicker than the tension Seokmin wore on his face after leaving Seungcheol’s place.
He was gripping the steering wheel like it owed him an answer. Hansol, next to him, kept an eye on the side mirrors, his gun tucked at his hip, resting but never forgotten. You sat in the back, hoodie up, headphones in, not listening to anything — just needing the quiet, just needing space.
“He’s scared,” Seokmin muttered finally, voice gravel-thin. “Can’t blame him. Regional office or not, helping us puts a target on his entire department.”
Hansol exhaled slowly, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “We didn’t ask him to burn the building down. Just help validate the evidence. Point a press contact. Something.”
You leaned forward, unplugging the dead headphones. “He didn’t even look at us after the video.”
The video.
It had been live for forty-eight hours.
Posted under an anonymous name, with no edits, no filters, no masks.
GwFH: NIS Strategic Human Assets Division
— a title dry enough to sound like nothing, but heavy enough to break the country apart.
The video opened with old footage—news clips of three seemingly unrelated car accidents over decades ago. One in Incheon, one in Busan, one on the coast near Mokpo. Each accident had no surviving adult. But each had one child.
Each child ended up in the same foster home.
Gwangju Foster Home.
And then came the interviews.
You and Seokmin—on camera, faces shown, voices steady—speaking of the drills. The beatings. The surveillance. The drugs. The way they turned a trauma-bonded family into machines.
Hansol was last to speak, and his voice cracked mid-way through his segment when he said:
“This wasn’t fate. This was designed. Curated. Our lives were manufactured in grief so they could be sharpened into weapons. Even our parents—agents of GwFH-01—were removed to clear the path. And now it’s happening again. A new project. A new batch. This video is a last stand.”
The public reaction? Loud. Divided. Explosive.
Some cried conspiracy. Others saw the truth too clearly.
But the NIS?
They responded with silence.
And then with shadows.
“This is not over,” you muttered as you checked your phone, notifications coming in too fast to process. “Our faces are out. Our story is viral. And that bastard—Kim Jong-il—is finally being pulled out of his nest.”
Seokmin snorted humorlessly. “He won’t go down easy. If we don’t finish this, he’ll erase us before morning.”
Hansol’s voice was calm. Too calm.
“Then we don’t give him until morning.”
You all went quiet for a beat.
The apartment Mingyu rented under a fake name was hidden between a bookstore and a defunct bar in the maze of Mapo’s older alleyways. From the outside, it looked like nothing—just another sun-bleached door and a flickering hallway light. But inside, it was wired.
A monitor lit the room with a sickly glow. Phones, routers, portable hard drives, and at least two stolen signal jammers littered the floor. Mingyu had always been reckless in a way that worked. Chaotic, loyal, and brilliant.
“You’re late,” he said the moment you walked in, without looking up.
Hansol shut the door and immediately went to the window to check the alley again. Seokmin dropped into the nearest chair, wincing from a healing wound on his side, bandaged fresh the night before.
You stepped closer to the table, where Mingyu tapped his fingers against a keyboard with one hand and held a half-eaten gimbap with the other.
“Is the journalist in?” you asked.
Mingyu didn’t answer for a moment, too focused on encrypting the newest drive you handed him. Then he said, “Yeah. They’re in. Got connections at JTBC, but I told them to go independent first. We don’t need censors this early.”
“Do they believe us?”
He shrugged. “You’re trending in five countries. Half of Seoul wants you canonized, the other half thinks you’re traitors. But the journalist? She believes you. And she’s mad.”
You raised a brow.
Mingyu finally looked up at you and grinned.
“She’s an orphan too. Grew up in a similar home, though not military-grade. She’s running this piece like it’s war. Asked if she could meet you before the next release.”
Hansol moved closer to the table, his jaw clenched but his voice even. “It’s not safe.”
“No shit,” Mingyu said, standing. “That’s why we’re doing it my way.”
He stepped into the back room and came out with three burner phones and a bag of wires.
“We’re splitting the next part into three clips. One with the black site locations. One with a live audio recording from the last year’s training session—courtesy of our boy Seokmin—” he pointed with his gimbap, “—and one video that Seokmin gave me. From Gwangju.”
Seokmin stiffened.
You blinked. “Wait—what video?”
Mingyu’s expression sobered. “The basement tapes. From the home. Footage of the injections. The training drills. The... the punishments.”
A cold swept through the room. Hansol stopped breathing.
“How did you—” you tried to ask.
“I’ve been saving them,” Mingyu interrupted, softly. “Back when you and Seokmin disappeared. I knew someday... someday you'd need to burn it all down.”
Silence.
Then Hansol said, voice tight: “When’s the journalist meeting us?”
Mingyu looked up at the clock. “Tonight. 2 a.m. On the bridge near Dongjak station. Quiet place. Just one hour.”
You nodded, eyes meeting Hansol’s.
“Then let’s make sure we survive until 2 a.m.”
*
The wind under Dongjak Bridge was sharp at this hour. It bit through your coat like truth cutting through the fog of lies you’d lived in. The journalist, Lee Haeun, sat across from you on the concrete step, recorder set between you both. Her eyes were steady. Angry. Hungry for justice.
You'd been speaking for thirty minutes—laying it all bare. The indoctrination. The surgeries. The names they made you forget and the pain they taught you to carry like a medal. Seokmin sat not far, eyes scanning the dark river. Hansol was on edge, pacing in small loops like a panther caged by memory. Mingyu leaned against the support beam, trying to look casual, but you could tell by the way he tapped his lighter that he was counting heartbeats.
Then Hansol stopped walking.
His gaze fixed on the road above.
The sound came next. Tires.
Five cars.
Black. Silent. Boxed in.
You saw it in Hansol’s face first. A twitch of the eye. A barely there nod to Seokmin, who immediately slid his hand under his coat. Mingyu tensed, already moving toward Haeun.
The journalist didn’t stop recording. Not yet.
Hansol spoke first. “We’re boxed.”
You grabbed the journalist’s wrist, fingers firm. “Stay close. Don’t run. Do you understand me?”
She looked like she might argue, but something in your eyes stopped her.
Seokmin murmured, “Two exits. Gone. We fight or disappear.”
“No disappearing,” Hansol said, his tone edged in finality. “We end this tonight.”
From the nearest car, the back door opened.
Boots hit pavement. And then you saw him. Kim Jong-il. The head of the division. He wasn’t wearing a suit anymore. He didn’t need to. Power wrapped itself around him like smoke. But something in his face was... worn. Maybe it was age. Maybe it was guilt. Or maybe it was just arrogance finally curdling into fear.
“You’ve caused quite the storm,” he said casually as he stepped into the circle of weak orange light. “I figured you’d go underground. Instead, you go viral. Cute.”
You pushed the journalist behind you, slowly drawing your gun and letting the barrel rest against your thigh, low and ready.
Hansol spoke without emotion. “We told the truth. That’s all.”
Kim smiled. “Truth, huh? You think people care about truth? They want stories. Villains. Redemption arcs. You gave them a fairy tale. But fairy tales end.”
You took a step forward. “So do tyrannies.”
He tilted his head, mocking. “Still the mouth on you, Agent Jung.”
The air thickened.
Behind Kim, a small unit of armed men formed a half-circle. Not uniforms. But you recognized the way they stood. The way they breathed.
They were raised like you.
The next thing, the gunshot cracked through the plaza—sharp, violent, and unmistakable.
Seokmin jerked violently, his body folding mid-step as the bullet struck him high in the chest. He hit the pavement with a dull, sickening thud, limbs tangled beneath him.
“Seokmin!” you shouted, instinct kicking in as your hand reached for your weapon— But too late.
The second shot found you.
It slammed into your torso like a battering ram, sending you sprawling backward. The world tilted, your lungs seized, and for a split second, all you could hear was the roar of your own heartbeat. It wasn’t pain—it was pressure. Blunt force trauma. You crashed to your knees, hands scrambling for balance as air fled your lungs.
Hansol was there before your body hit the concrete. He caught you, arms strong around your waist, dragging you behind the low wall that lined the plaza’s garden. His heart thundered against your shoulder. He pressed his hand to your side, fingers checking for wetness, for blood.
Nothing.
His chest rose sharply. “The vest,” he muttered, voice strained with disbelief.
You barely managed a nod, coughing as you tried to find your breath. “Vest,” you rasped.
Hansol gave a tight, humorless chuckle, more relief than mirth. “Yeah. No kidding.”
Across the lot, Seokmin groaned and rolled onto his side, spitting blood but still alive. The bullet had knocked him down—but hadn’t punched through. The Kevlar held. He lifted one arm with effort, giving a thumbs-up like a man half-drunk on adrenaline.
The plaza had erupted in chaos. Civilians scattered—some screaming, others frozen in shock. But one person didn’t move.
Kim Jong-il.
He stood where he had fired the shots, pistol still smoking in his hand, unmoved by the wreckage he caused. His face was blank—eerily calm, like pulling the trigger had been as routine as breathing.
The journalist was frozen behind her camera, lips trembling but hands steady. Mingyu yanked her behind a pillar, hissing, “Keep filming. Don’t stop. You stop, we die.”
Your pulse thundered. Your limbs trembled as you pushed yourself up from the ground, Hansol’s hand still steadying you. You emerged from cover, chest heaving, eyes locked on the man who had spent years turning children into weapons—then discarding them like broken tools.
Hansol stood at your side, weapon still drawn but held low. His eyes never left Kim.
Kim raised his voice, calm and calculated. “Turn off the camera,” he ordered, gesturing toward the journalist.
Mingyu stepped out from behind the pillar, defiant. “No.”
Kim’s expression flickered—only slightly. His voice dropped low, meant only for you. “You’re making a mistake.”
Your reply was ice. “We made that mistake when we didn’t put a bullet in you sooner.”
And then the sirens came.
Fast. Loud. Unmistakable.
Unmarked black sedans skidded to a halt on either side of the plaza. Riot vans flanked the street entrance. Doors flew open and uniformed officers, one of them was Choi Seungcheol, spilled out like water from a burst dam—tactical gear on, rifles raised, shouts tearing through the tension.
“DROP YOUR WEAPONS!”
You didn’t move.
Hansol turned to you, silently asking. You nodded once, steady despite the pounding in your ears. His gun hit the pavement with a sharp clatter.
Kim didn’t resist. He turned, slowly, his fingers lifting in surrender. But Hansol saw it—the micro-expression. The twitch in his mouth. The smallest crack in the mask.
He knew.
It was over.
Hands raised, Kim opened his mouth—but no words came.
There was nothing left to say.
Hansol felt the tension drain from his muscles like a fever breaking. Cold sweat coated his back. His knees ached from crouching. His arms ached from holding you, like if he let go, the truth might disappear.
From the ground, Seokmin lifted a shaky arm and waved. “Just so we’re clear…” he coughed, “we’re the good guys.”
Laughter nearly broke from your throat—frayed, raw, and unhinged.
Hansol turned to you, his hand brushing your back without thinking.
You leaned into him—burned out, sore, aching in places you hadn’t even noticed were wounded. But alive.
Above you, the camera was still rolling. The world watching. And for the first time in years… you were no longer running.
You were fighting back.
*
The hall buzzed with the low hum of conversation, camera shutters, and rustling pages. Banners flanked the stage, displaying the matte-black cover of “GwFH: No Escape”—Seokmin’s book that had taken the country by storm.
The subtitle was small but powerful: A Survivor’s Chronicle of the NIS Strategic Human Assets Project.
Now reformed and forced under constant government supervision, the NIS had become a symbol of accountability. And much of that began with the three of you.
Seokmin sat behind the table, signature pen clicking between his fingers, face lit with a smile that never once dimmed. His hand moved fast—signing book after book, sometimes with short notes, sometimes with a high five, a nod, or a joke.
He had become that guy. The one people wanted to talk to. Not just because he’d survived something unthinkable—but because he’d turned that survival into purpose.
Seokmin now wrote full-time. His books were hybrids of memory and method—insights into criminal profiling, the dark logic of systemized violence, and how institutions manipulate trauma for control. Part memoir, part analytical guide, his writing didn’t just educate—it warned.
And today, he was beaming.
Then his gaze caught a small figure in line—a little girl bouncing on her mother’s hip, waving her book up and down with uncontainable glee.
“June!” Seokmin called out, straightening in his chair. “You came to see me?”
June, now three, squealed. “UNCLE SEOKKIE!” Her voice was loud enough to make the woman behind you laugh as you stepped forward.
“You came alone?” Seokmin asked with a knowing smile. “Hansol still lecturing today?”
You nodded, hitching June up higher on your hip. “He got cadets running obstacle courses until sunset. He’ll join later.”
Seokmin reached out, and June practically dove into his arms.
“She missed her favorite uncle,” you said with a smirk, watching your daughter snuggle into his chest.
“Really? I missed you too, baby June.” He kissed her temple. “Let’s get dinner tonight. My treat. Ice cream after. Don’t tell your dad.”
“She’s already spoiled,” you laughed.
And you meant it. June was raised not in fear, but in healing. By people who had once seen the worst the world had to offer—and chose to fight for better.
Hansol—Vernon, as he finally went by publicly—had built a small academy on the outskirts of Seoul. Mostly, it was training for students preparing to enter the police or military academies, a program that emphasized not just physical defense, but critical thinking, trauma management, and ethics.
He never talked about the past unless asked. But every lesson he taught carried the weight of what he’d lived through.
You had returned to your roots—quietly consulting, occasionally teaching, and now… raising a child in peace.
A year after the fall of Kim Jong-il, after the footage, the trials, and the national apology—you and Hansol stood in a tiny mountaintop registry office, exchanging rings with only Seokmin and Mingyu as witnesses.
There were no fireworks. Just promises.
And now, here you were—watching Seokmin hold your daughter, a copy of his story in one hand, a hopeful glint in his eye.
You’d run far. Fought hard.
The world had stopped spinning.
Or maybe… it just slowed down long enough for you to catch your breath.
It was a small night, months after the trials, after the streaming, after the names and faces were exposed to the public and the machine that nearly swallowed you all was forced into the light.
You and Hansol were sitting on the rooftop of your temporary safe house in Busan. A blanket draped over both your shoulders, the sea wind brushing your skin, the stars above you hazy from city lights but still visible if you looked hard enough.
He was beside you, legs stretched out, hands warm around a chipped mug of tea. Quiet. A rare kind of quiet that didn’t feel like tension—it felt like peace finally had a seat at the table.
You glanced at him. His profile soft in the moonlight, lashes low, jaw relaxed. And still, you could feel it.
Something held in. Something waiting.
“What?” you asked gently, nudging him with your knee.
He didn’t answer right away. Just set the mug down, the ceramic clinking against concrete.
Then he looked at you.
Really looked.
He drew in a breath, like he needed to summon it from somewhere deeper than lungs.
“I’m Hansol,” he said. “Choi Hansol.”
Your eyes didn’t widen—but your chest tightened in the way it does when you’ve been waiting for something you didn’t realize mattered this much.
“I figured,” you murmured. “Somehow.”
His lips quirked—barely a smile, more like the release of a held breath. “I wanted you to know before anyone else did. Before the world labels me again.”
“Why now?” you asked, searching his expression.
Hansol leaned closer, resting his arm behind you, thumb brushing the edge of the blanket.
“Because the only name that ever felt like mine… was the one I didn’t have to hide when I was with you.”
Your fingers found his, slow and certain. “Choi Hansol,” you repeated softly.
He nodded.
And then you kissed him—not like a first kiss, not like a goodbye kiss—but the kind that seals something. Like truth. Like beginnings.
That night, you fell asleep on that rooftop, cheek against his chest, name whispered between heartbeats.
Choi Hansol.
No more running. No more hiding. Just him. Finally, a safe place.
all is fair in love, war, and... trying to get fired? the waterpark is the last place you and seokmin want to be. in a ditch attempt to escape your job, the two of you opt to break carat bay’s unspoken, cardinal rule: don't date your co-worker.
⛱️ pairing. co-workers seokmin x reader.
⛱️ word count. 12.4k.
⛱️ genres. alternate universe: non-idol, alternate universe: waterpark co-workers. romance, friendship, humor, hint of angst.
⛱️ includes. mentions of food, alcohol; profanity. fake dating and all its shenanigans, sweetheart seokmin, lots of making out (do with that what you will), soonyoung is a plot device, other idols get randomly name dropped as employees.
⛱️ notes. this is part of @camandemstudios’ carat bay collaboration. ever so grateful to be trusted with seok! ‹𝟹 thank you to my ride or die, @chugging-antiseptic-dye, for beta reading. check out the other fics in the collaboration here.
🎵 seokmin’s top tracks this month. sugar, brockhampton. sunny days, wave to earth. get you, daniel caesar ft. kali uchis. heart to heart, mac de marco. m2m, cody jon.
The framed plaque is heavier than you expect.
A small, polished thing. Mahogany edges, gold trim. Your name etched onto a brushed metal plate, capitalized and misspelled. The receptionist claps politely. Someone offers you a slice of cake. Your manager—Changbin—says your name like it’s a blessing, like you’re his biggest win this quarter.
“... a beacon of initiative,” he’s saying, hand on your back, smile radiant and full of teeth. “Always on time, never a complaint, always going above and beyond—”
You stop listening around the word beacon.
Where joy should be, a horrible kind of dread is crawling up your throat like soda foam. You don’t want this. You never wanted this.
For the last six months, you’ve been orchestrating your own quiet downfall.
Small acts of rebellion: late reports, mismatched fonts in client decks, turning in spreadsheets without formulas. Once, you deliberately CC’d the wrong contact on an invoice email. Twice. Three times.
Nothing. Not a single reprimand. You’ve only been praised for your ‘out-of-the-box thinking.’
Now here you are. Employee of the Month at Carat Bay—home of hollow branding jargon, ergonomic nightmares, and a break room fridge that smells like egg salad and regret. You’re holding a plaque you prayed someone else would win.
The universe is cruel. Your parents are crueler.
See, Carat Bay is just the latest on your resume’s Greatest Hits of Unwanted Professions. Before this was the summer you spent handing out frozen yogurt samples in a visor that said Lick Me. Before that: barista at a vegan café that also sold crystals. Before that: dog-walking, tutoring, retail at a candle shop that played Meghan Trainor on loop.
Your parents forced each one of them with the same airtight argument: You need discipline. You need direction.
You said you wanted to freelance. Write, maybe. Design book covers. Do something weird and personal and fulfilling. They laughed. Your father nearly choked on his coffee.
But a deal was struck with the Carat Bay gig. If you got laid off, they’d stop pushing. Let you go rogue. No more curated job listings emailed at 5 a.m. No more passive-aggressive forwarded TED Talks. No more, ‘When I was your age, I had a mortgage and two kids.’
If—if—you got laid off. Quitting was not in the cards. It was either that or you stay for at least three years, which you would honestly rather die than do.
Now, you find that you have this. A plaque. A photo op. Changbin squealing, “This one’s going in the newsletter!”
God, you think, gripping the plaque like it might shatter. You are being rewarded for mediocrity. You are being celebrated for incompetence.
You smile for the camera anyway.
It’s the kind of smile that could get you promoted.
Back at the merchandise stand, your co-worker greets you with a grin and a pair of scissors he’s using to snip zip ties off a crate of branded tote bags.
“Look at you, hotshot,” Seokmin says, nudging you with his elbow. “Changbin’s golden child. I knew you had it in you.”
Your brows furrow. “You’re not mad?”
He scoffs, that beaming smile of his slotting back into place without a moment’s hesitation. “Why would I be mad? This means I don’t have to be Employee of the Month. That plaque is cursed,” he teases good-naturedly.
You laugh. Genuinely, if only for a second. Seokmin is the kind of person who makes you believe in the good of humanity.
He once gave his lunch to a crying intern. He always remembers your birthday. He talks to every lost tourist like it’s his job, which technically, it is not. And—in your honest, unbiased opinion—he’s easy on the eyes, too. It takes a lot to make the dreadful polo and even more dreadful khakis work, but Seokmin somehow manages.
“Seriously,” he continues, turning back to the tote bags, “I’m happy for you. You’ve been working hard. And let’s be honest, you’re the only one who knows how to fix the card reader. Changbin was probably just buying insurance.”
There’s a lightness to his voice. No trace of envy. Just easy, unaffected kindness.
You swallow down the guilt forming like a pit in your stomach. You’ve been quietly planning your own escape route while he’s been showing up every day like a real adult, juggling overtime and night classes. You’re trying to crash and burn and Seokmin—sweet, undeserving Seokmin—might get singed in the crossfire.
You clear your throat. “Thanks, Seokmin. That means a lot.”
He just shrugs. “Don’t let it go to your head, okay? You still owe me lunch for covering your shift last week.”
Seokmin walks away to restock mugs, and you stare after him, plaque still under your arm, feeling like the world’s worst con artist. You don’t want Employee of the Month. You don’t deserve it.
You know someone who does.
Lee Seokmin, who brings extra socks to work in case someone forgets theirs. He knows the perfect ratio of syrup to ice in the rainbow slushies. He has an uncanny ability to get toddlers to stop crying with a single balloon animal.
You’ve seen it all. He’s sunshine in human form, if sunshine occasionally tripped over its own feet and knocked over the popcorn machine.
That’s the thing, though. Seokmin—bumbling, bright-eyed Lee Seokmin—isn’t just your co-worker. He’s the son of the owners.
The heir of this kitschy little theme park kingdom. The golden boy who is destined to inherit its cotton candy throne and take up the sticky, sunscreen-slicked mantle of summer fun for generations to come.
Carat Bay is practically tattooed on his DNA. The gift shop trinkets, the underwater mascot shows, the overenthusiastic lifeguards. This whole place was designed by his family and built on a business model of manufactured joy, and he was the prince working the merchandise stand to get some good ol’ starting-from-the-bottom experience.
So when, days later, he startles and blurts, “I swear it’s not what it looks like!”—while clutching an open box cutter and a half-disemboweled box of limited edition light sticks—your first reaction isn’t anger.
It’s confusion.
You ask, flatly, “What the fuck are you doing?”
He winces. He always winces when you swear. Rubbing the back of his neck, his eyes dart around like he’s searching for an escape hatch. “Okay, I know this looks bad. Like, really bad,” he starts. “But I swear I wasn’t going to, like, ruin them. Just… make them look better?”
Your mouth opens. Closes. And opens again. “But why?” you manage. It’s a good thing the waterpark has already shut down for the day. You’re not sure what you’d do if you had to deal with this with a whole shift ahead of you.
Seokmin sighs. It’s the kind of sigh that carries a decade of summer-themed retail trauma.
You glance over his shoulder to the shimmering banner flapping in the breeze: WELCOME TO CARAT BAY—THE #1 MERCH DESTINATION ON THE COASTLINE! A glittering monstrosity. Just like everything else here.
“I thought you liked it here,” you add, genuinely bewildered. “You do the Carat cheer. You wore the mascot suit that one time. Willingly.”
He shrugs, sheepish. “Well, yeah. But I also want out.”
“You’re the owner’s kid. All this is going to be yours someday.” You gesture vaguely at the cartoon dolphins, the sparkle-laminated shelves, the sea of bubblegum-pink merchandise.
Seokmin shouldn’t be cutting up product. He should be on some managerial fast-track, drawing up expansion plans in a conference room somewhere. Not ruining stock and looking like he’s going to hurl from the guilt of it.
It happens fast enough for you to almost miss it, but Seokmin’s expression crumbles into a grimace. Unnatural on a face that usually had a perpetual grin, a catalogue of every positive emotion known to man. “Yeah,” he exhales. “Exactly.”
It clicks, then. All of it.
The too-frequent mishandling of inventory. The time he tripped and unplugged the entire register system. The day he mistakenly shipped an entire box of glow-in-the-dark keychains to the wrong coast.
You’d chalked it up to Seokmin being Seokmin. Lovable. Mildly chaotic. But now—
“You’ve been trying to get fired,” you say, the truth hitting you like a tsunami on the Wave River.
“Just like you,” Seokmin confirms. The knowledge sends a prickle of panic down your spine, but it fades when he goes on to joke, “Only I suck at it even more than you do.”
You snort. You can’t help it. “Wow. So we’re really the dumbest people here.”
He laughs sheepishly, but it’s the most honest thing you’ve heard in weeks. And when your eyes meet, there’s this quiet understanding that passes between you—like a pact sealed in shared misery and mutual sabotage.
You exhale. “Fine. I won’t rat you out. But you’re going to tell me what it is you actually want to do. Eventually.”
Seokmin grins. It’s that sun-bright, unfiltered expression he wears when he’s about to say something incredibly sincere or incredibly stupid.
“Deal.”
You reach for the disemboweled box. “Let’s make it look like an accident.”
Now you’ve both got a secret. And a goal.
The only thing more dangerous than two people who hate their jobs? Two people who’ve decided to stop pretending otherwise.
--
Except nothing you try works.
You set the air conditioning so low people start confusing your booth for a meat locker. Seokmin deliberately stocks the wrong merchandise on the featured shelves. You both take extended lunch breaks and once, very deliberately, you curse out a mom with three kids after she calls the staff lazy. Seokmin nearly fainted afterward from the adrenaline.
But none of it lands. Your manager pats you both on the back. Customers rave about your booth on Yelp. Kids write thank-you notes in marker.
Next thing you know, a laminated sign appears at the break room. Your name and Seokmin’s, right next to the dreaded Employees of the Month title.
The photo is horrible. Your smile is tight with disbelief. Seokmin’s peace sign is half a second from cramping.
You two convene in the supply closet. Your emergency meeting room of choice.
“This is bad,” you say, pacing. “This is so, so bad.”
“We could, uh… just keep trying?” Seokmin offers, nibbling the edge of a pen.
“We’ve been trying. We ended up with a plague.” You groan. “We need something bigger. Something bold.”
Your mind whirs. You sift through memory like old receipts in a drawer. Nobody gave a fuck enough about merchandise to cry about its sabotage. Snark was to be somewhat expected from the two of you, and you didn’t really want anything too extreme on your track record.
How had the past couple of people left Carat Bay? Your fingers tap, tap, tap on the closed closet door. There had been Heeseung, and Soobin—
Bingo.
The recent firings. Not many, but enough to see the pattern.
Heeseung, shortly after he was confirmed to be living with the girl who worked the bodyslide. Soobin, who packed his stuff up when he was found making out with the after-hours lifeguard.
The ‘rule’ wasn’t written in stone. Not in the employee manual, not mentioned during briefings. But it still existed in a yellowing Post-It taped up on the janky breakroom refrigerator.
DON’T FUCK EACH OTHER.
“Of course,” you whisper. “Of course.”
“What?” Seokmin says, wary.
You turn to him slowly. The smile that breaks on your face only seems to unnerve the boy even more, especially when you go on to declare, “We fake date.”
A beat. Seokmin blinks at you like you just offered to throw hands with God himself. “Fake date?” he repeats.
You nod sagely. “It’s bulletproof. Everyone who’s gotten canned the past three months? They were caught hooking up with coworkers. There’s a Post-It in the lounge, remember? ‘DON’T FUCK EACH OTHER.’”
Seokmin opens his mouth, closes it. Then again. It’s like watching a fish try to breathe above water. Finally, he croaks, “No.”
“No?”
“No,” he repeats, slightly firmer now, arms crossing over his chest like that would protect him from you. Which, to be fair, it might have if you weren’t already smirking.
“Wow,” you say, feigning hurt. “That repulsive, huh?”
Seokmin chokes. “Don’t put words into my mouth!”
You raise an eyebrow. “Then what am I supposed to take from that, huh? You look like I asked you to run off to Vegas.”
He rubs the back of his neck, visibly flustered. His ears are already pink. “It’s just… complicated.”
“Why? What, you got a secret girlfriend stashed in the plushie bin?”
He groans. “No. That’s not—I just… haven’t.”
“Haven’t what?”
“Dated.”
“You’ve never had bitches?”
“I don’t—women are not bitches,” Seokmin splutters.
He looks like he might spontaneously combust. You’re half-tempted to poke his cheek, see if steam comes out of his ears. Cute, you muse to yourself, but cute in the same way that a kitten might be if its head was stuck in a tissue box. Not cute in a I-want-this-man way. At least, you don’t think so.
You lean your elbow on the counter and study him, thoughtful. “I could ask someone else. Soonyoung probably wouldn’t even hesitate,” you note. “But I wanted it to be mutually beneficial.”
Seokmin chews the inside of his cheek. “Mutually beneficial?”
“Yeah. We don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do, handsome,” you say, deliberately sweet, watching his face redden by the second.
He presses his hands to his cheeks like that’ll stop the heat. “Can I… think about it?”
“Sure. Just don’t think too hard. Might take it personally.”
He groans again, but you catch the shy little grin he tries to hide as he ducks his head. Victory tastes a lot like Seokmin’s embarrassment—soft and just a little sweet.
Four days and three failed sabotage attempts later, Seokmin finally gets back to you.
You’re in the middle of stacking sun-bleached baseball caps that say CARAT BAY: GOOD VIBES ONLY when he approaches, rubbing the back of his neck like he might apologize for existing.
“So,” he starts, glancing around like he thinks you might have an audience. The only person within 10 feet of you is a kid licking ice cream and glaring at a pigeon. “About the thing. The, uh. Proposal.”
You know where he’s getting at. You just want to hear him say it. “You’ll have to be more specific,” you say breezily. “I proposed several things.”
He goes pink in the ears. Adorable.
“The fake dating thing,” he clarifies, and then fumbles over his next words. “Not that I think dating you would be—I mean, obviously, you’re very—I’m not, like, repulsed or anything—”
“Seokmin.”
“Right. Sorry. Yes. Let’s do it.”
You blink. Then blink again. You had expected him to try and let you down gently, to instead try and rope you into vandalizing the mat racer. Instead, he’s shifting from side to side, laying his heart down on your feet.
“If you still want to,” Seokmin adds when you’re silent for a beat too long. By some miracle, you resist the urge to coo.
“Handsome,” you say slowly, grinning as he sputters. “Of course I still want to. What changed your mind?”
He looks down at his shoes, his voice soft. “You said it could be mutually beneficial. And I figured… I want out. You want out. Maybe this is the way.”
Something flickers in your chest. Not pity, exactly. Something warmer.
“Alright,” you say, and you reach over to the counter to hold out your hand to him.
You lay out the ground rules. You’d spent an embarrassing amount of time the past few days doing research of your own—watching contemporary classics like Anyone But You and To All The Boys I Loved Before before scouring the fake dating tag on AO3.
“We don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do,” you remind him. “Touch is probably the best way to go about this, but we only have to do that when somebody’s watching. Convincing flirting is the key. The goal is to get caught.”
You don’t add the cliche of all cliches. No falling in love. Not because you’re hoping for it, no, but because it feels like a given. You like to think you’re smarter than Sydney Sweeney’s Bea and Landa Condor’s Lara Jean.
Seokmin listens with rapt attention before bobbing his head up and down in a solemn nod. With eyebrows slightly scrunched from concentration, he takes your hand.
The two of you shake on it.
--
You and Seokmin agreed to start small. Ease into it. Not make it too obvious. Open flirtation in the break rooms, stolen glances in line for churros, maybe a suggestive comment or two over headset. Nothing too dramatic.
So far, none of it has landed.
You’d told Seokmin to just follow your lead. He was good at that. Always had been. When you reached across the table to oh-so-casually pluck a cherry off his soda float and pop it into your mouth, you expected at least one co-worker to clock it. Instead, Soonyoung kept chattering about the new ice sculpture exhibit, completely unbothered. Joshua just nodded, as if you had simply demonstrated the polite camaraderie of sharing a beverage.
You even tried batting your lashes while Seokmin offered you the last dumpling. He didn’t need to play it up much—just smiled wide, ears going red. Still, all you got from the others was a distracted thanks-for-leaving-some-for-us, not even a wink or a whisper.
You were going to have to double your efforts.
“This is a disaster,” you mutter later that night as you help Seokmin restock souvenir mugs.
He straightens a bit too fast, knocking over a stack of keychains. “I thought it was subtle,” he sniffles, going to pick up the plastic surfboards.
“Exactly the problem,” you shoot back. “We’re so subtle, it’s like watching two Barbie dolls try to make out without bending at the waist.”
Seokmin’s laugh is loud and unguarded, drawing a look from a passing intern. He ducks his head and waits for her to pass. “Okay. We go bigger. I can do that,” he says, probably trying to convince himself as much as you. “Maybe I could, I dunno, carry you bridal style through the sand sculpture path?”
“Let’s not go zero to K-drama,” you say dryly. “We build up to that. We start with touches. Long looks. Close proximity.”
“You say that like we’re not already touching every five minutes by accident.”
You hand him a mug and let your fingers brush his, lingering. It’s an act, sure, but you’re sure he feels it too. The jolt of electricity. The thrum beneath your skin. Seokmin’s breath hitches, his eyes flitting to where the tips of your fingers had just pressed.
“That,” you point out. “But on purpose.”
He nods, dazed. “Right. Totally. On purpose.”
If anybody asked, you were building a believable relationship arc.
A couple of days later, you find Seokmin hunched over the merchandise booth counter, the cheap company laptop tilted slightly toward him. He’s got that familiar deep crease between his brows, the one he gets whenever he’s hyper-focused. Usually while trying to fix a jammed ticket printer or master a new drink recipe from the cafe next door.
You lean closer, about to tease him for working too hard, when the wikiHow tab on the screen catches your eye: How to be a good boyfriend: A guide for beginners.
You bite back a smile, heart squeezing painfully at the earnestness of it. Of course he’d look it up. Sweet, ridiculous Seokmin.
“Whatcha doing, handsome?” you ask, voice lilting and teasing.
Seokmin jolts upright so fast he nearly knocks the laptop onto the floor. “I—Nothing! Research! Important work research!”
You snicker, plucking the laptop gently from his grasp and setting it safely aside. “Research, huh? Planning to date the slushie machine or something?”
He groans, covering his face with both hands. “Don’t make fun of me,” he mumbles, words muffled by his palm. “I'm—I'm trying to be good at this.”
Your chest aches again. Not in an oh-I’m-screwed way, but in the reminder that, once again, Lee Seokmin is too good for this world. Too pure to be roped into your low-budget, romantic-comedy life.
“Hey,” you say delicately, nudging his arm until he peeks at you between his fingers. “You can just ask me, you know.”
“Ask you?”
You grin. “Yeah. You’re fake-dating me, remember? Free resource right here.”
He drops his hands, staring at you for a moment. It lasts long enough to make you feel seen, which is never good. “You’d really help me?”
“Of course. I’m an excellent fake girlfriend.” You lean in, conspiratorial. “Tip one: You’re already doing great just by caring this much.”
Seokmin's mouth parts slightly, like he wants to protest but can't quite find the words.
“Tip two,” you continue, tapping your chin thoughtfully. “If you ever don’t know what to do, just be honest. It's kind of…” —you soften— “my favorite thing about you.”
He blinks at you, visibly flustered, and you resist the urge to pinch his cheeks.
“Got any other questions, babe?” you tease, but Seokmin only shakes his head and mumbles something about knowing what to do.
You’re not all too sure about that. Especially as he starts acting pretty weird in the coming days.
At first, you think it’s just regular old Seokmin nerves. He fumbles during his cash register shifts, stutters when customers ask for directions, and practically leaps out of his skin when you tap his shoulder to pass him a bottle of water.
But then you notice him sneaking glances at you every few minutes. Shifty, fleeting glances. Like he’s hiding something. You catch him half the time, and he immediately goes red, waving you off with a too-high laugh. “Nothing!” he chirps. “Just—! Nothing!”
Suspicious.
During your lunch break, you find him pacing behind the Carat Bay merchandise booth, clutching his phone like it’s a lifeline. When he spots you, he stuffs it into his back pocket and beams so brightly it’s blinding.
“You good, handsome?” you ask, raising a brow.
“Yup!” His voice cracks on the word.
You narrow your eyes but let it go. For now.
It’s when you’re restocking plushies that you notice it: Seokmin, in the distance, accepting—and then panicking over—a large, extravagant bouquet of flowers.
He tries to hold it normally. He really does.
But first, he almost drops it. Then, he sneezes. Loudly. Violently. Three times in a row.
“Are you okay?” You rush over just as he doubles over with another round of sneezes, the bouquet wobbling precariously in his arms.
“I’m—” he gasps between fits, “—fine!” Sneeze. “Fine!” Sneeze.
You take the flowers from him. It’s a stunning collection of pink and white blooms. “Were you… getting me flowers?” you ask dazedly.
Seokmin nods, eyes watery, nose turning a tragic shade of red.
Your heart lurches. “Seokmin. Are you allergic to flowers?”
“N-No?” He says unconvincingly before another sneeze rattles through him.
You bite down a laugh, the affection nearly overwhelming.
“Oh my God,” you murmur, shoving the bouquet into Joshua’s bewildered arms as he passes by. “You’re literally dying to be my boyfriend.”
Seokmin sniffles pitifully. “Worth it.”
You shake your head, pulling him by the wrist toward the staff lounge. “C’mon, Romeo. Let's find you some allergy meds before you actually keel over.”
Behind you, Joshua calls out “Are these for me?” while holding up the bouquet.
Seokmin sneezes again in response.
--
“We should actually get to know each other,” you say around a mouthful of rice.
Lunch at Carat Bay is a lawless stretch of twenty-five minutes during which the staff gathers in a sun-warped outdoor seating area, and hierarchy momentarily dissolves into lukewarm leftovers and communal fries. You and Seokmin decide this is the perfect place for the two of you to set your scene.
You sit on the same picnic bench, unnecessarily close to two people who claim to be coworkers. Which is the point, really.
“I thought we were doing okay,” he answers middlingly.
“You Googled how to be a boyfriend, Seokmin.”
His ears redden. You fight a smile.
“Let’s do this,” you urge, setting your chopsticks down. “Secrets. Weird facts. Stuff you tell someone if you’re… you know. Really dating.”
Seokmin shifts, folding himself smaller as he thinks. “You first,” he says, almost bashfully.
“Fine,” you huff dramatically. “I can’t snap my fingers.”
Seokmin blinks then bursts into laughter, his head tilting back with the force of it. “That’s your big secret?”
“You’d be surprised how often it comes up in life!”
He wipes the corner of his mouth with a napkin, still grinning. “Okay, okay. My turn. Uh. I still sleep with a nightlight.”
Your heart squeezes. “That’s cute,” you say, smiling softly.
“It’s dizzying otherwise.”
“It’s fine,” you say, nudging him. “Better than getting eaten by whatever monster’s under your bed.”
He groans before looking at you with an open, helpless fondness that makes you feel raw. If you were a little smarter, you’d call it off then and there for both of your sake.
Instead, you go back and forth like that, trading tiny confessions. You tell him about your irrational fear of mannequins. He admits he once tried to drink orange juice after brushing his teeth on a dare and cried. Every admission makes him squirm, makes you giggle, softens the space between you and pulls it tighter.
Seokmin is sweetness, clumsy and earnest and golden. And as he talks, stammering through another story about how he accidentally joined a ballet class in high school thinking it was an improv workshop, you realize: you aren’t acting when you find him impossibly endearing.
You lean your head against his shoulder with a dramatic sigh. “We’re gonna crush this fake dating thing.”
“Yeah?” Seokmin says, wide-eyed but smiling.
“Yeah,” you say, and it’s with a certainty that’s wholly misplaced.
Soon enough, the conversation spins into romantic experiences. When Seokmin asks you about your worst dating experience, you lean in conspiratorially. “There was this one guy who wore socks during sex. Like—knee-high, novelty print socks,” you divulge. “Multiple times.”
Seokmin’s mouth falls open. “No. No. No.”
“Yes.”
“Was that—was it a kink thing or—?”
“Unclear,” you say. “He called it his 'performance gear.”
Seokmin makes a scandalized noise and drops his sandwich in horror. “That is the worst thing I’ve ever heard. I hate the fact you experienced that.”
You’re laughing now. The kind of light, surprised laugh that bubbles up without warning. “I can go worse.”
“Don’t you dare. I’m already mortified.”
“Come on, Mr. No Dating Experience,” you tease. “You’re the one who wanted to know. Unless you’re just jealous.”
He goes red instantly. It shoots up his ears, stains his neck. “I—well, maybe I should be! I don’t have any dramatic sock stories to tell,” he says defensively. “I had one crush in the eighth grade who gave me half of a Twix bar.”
“That’s romantic.”
“She transferred schools the next day.”
You burst out laughing, while Seokmin stares at you helplessly. “It’s not not character building,” he whines, shaking your shoulders as you giggle over his misfortune.
Across the lawn, Joshua nearly drops his water bottle doing a double take at the sight of you two. Joshua blinks a few times, looks away, and proceeds to accidentally pour water down his own shirt.
You and Seokmin exchange a glance.
“Half-win?” he whispers.
You grin. “Half-win.”
He reaches for another fry. You nudge his knee with yours. Lunch hour ticks on like a warm, strange summer dream.
--
You’re elbow-deep in foam fingers and keychains when Seokmin saunters over, oozing effort.
“Hey, gorgeous,” he says, leaning on the edge of the merch booth like he’s James fucking Dean. “Need a hand, or were you just waiting for me?”
It’s so out of character that you freeze for a second, your fist halfway inside a box labeled CLEARANCE MUGS. Then, you clock Soonyoung loitering a few steps away, nursing a popsicle and watching the two of you with all the interest of someone half-invested in a reality show.
You turn back to Seokmin. He winks. Actually winks. It’s not subtle. You can feel the twitch of his eyelashes from here.
Soonyoung squints. “You guys good?”
“Just peachy,” you chirp, playing along. You sling an arm around Seokmin’s shoulder and lean in a little, giving the performance a few more sparks. “My knight in branded polo just saved me from mug-related peril.”
“Cool,” Soonyoung says, totally unfazed. “Let me know if you find the sunscreen shipment. Shua burned his face again.”
You hold your grin until he’s gone, then collapse against Seokmin’s side with a snort. “Jesus. That was rough.”
Seokmin groans. “I thought the wink would sell it.”
“The wink was, frankly, terrifying.”
He flushes, rubbing the back of his neck. “I’m trying, okay?”
“You’ve got heart, baby,” you say, patting his chest. “Execution just needs a little work.”
He mutters something about humiliation and stock rooms.
“You sure you’ve never dated before?” you ask, teasing.
He sighs, still pink. “Yeah. Theater kid. Improv. Not exactly irresistible, apparently.”
You blink at him, then let your gaze sweep from the messy fringe of his hair to the freckle on his jaw, lingering a second longer than necessary. Sure, Seokmin is a bit—all over the place. But he’s boyishly attractive, and if he wasn’t doomed to wear rose quartz and serenity as a 9-5, you think he might actually be a real catch.
You decide to let him know.
“Seokmin,” you say slowly. “You are irresistible as fuck, actually..”
He gapes at you. You pretend not to notice how his ears go red like warning lights.
You busy yourself with mugs again, all while your heart plays hopscotch in your chest.
After the disaster masterclass with Soonyoung, you decide to up your act. With Seokmin's consent, of course.
It’s silly, really. His hand settles in the back pocket of your jeans as if it belongs there, palm flat against the curve of your ass like this is the most natural thing in the world. It’s not. It isn’t. Seokmin is practically vibrating with embarrassment, eyes darting like he’s waiting for a lightning bolt to strike him down. He’s sweating through his uniform polo, and you can feel the tremor in his fingers as he tries—bless him—to stay composed.
“You okay there, champ?” you murmur out the side of your mouth, smile still perfectly plastered. You’ve faked worse. But there’s something especially comical about watching Seokmin try to play suave when he looks like he might pass out from holding your gaze too long.
“Totally fine. Just, uh, practicing proximity,” he says, a little too loud, a little too stiff.
“Proximity,” you echo, biting down a laugh. “Sure. That’s what the kids are calling it now.”
He opens his mouth to reply but clams up instantly when Joshua walks by and double-takes so hard it’s like his neck cricks. Joshua’s eyes linger for a second too long, eyebrows halfway up his forehead, and then he walks faster, like maybe if he moves quickly enough, the image of Seokmin copping a feel in broad daylight will erase itself from his memory.
“Was that—did that count as a win?” Seokmin mumbles.
You grin victoriously. “Definitely a win.”
Seokmin exhales, relieved. “You’re really good at this,” he breathes.
“Oh, honey,” you say, adjusting your shirt and looping your arm around his waist like it’s nothing. “I haven’t even started.”
--
Seokmin shoots you a wide-eyed look over Soonyoung's shoulder. You know the one. The look that says, Please get me out of here before I die.
For the past fifteen minutes, Soonyoung has been monologuing about his fantasy, co-ed K-pop group, who he thinks would thrive the most in JYP Entertainment. You catch Seokmin’s eye and give him a sympathetic smile. When there’s a lull in the conversation, you seize your moment.
“We should get going,” you say, brushing your hand against Seokmin’s arm. It makes you feel like a scene partner in a bad rom-com. “Busy day.”
Soonyoung nods, waving a little too enthusiastically. “Yeah, yeah! Go do your merch-y things!”
And that’s your cue.
You lean in like it’s second nature and press a kiss to Seokmin’s cheek—except he turns to look at you just as you're going in, and your lips graze far too close to the corner of his mouth.
Seokmin freezes, eyes wide, cheeks pink. You pull back with a proud little smirk, only to hear Soonyoung’s delighted voice go, “Aww, cute!”
Soonyoung then leans in and, before you can stop him, plants a swift kiss to your cheek.
You blink.
Seokmin blinks.
Soonyoung pulls away, shit-eating grin firmly in place. “Guess that’s how we’re saying goodbye now, huh? Love that for us.”
And then he’s gone, humming something off-key.
You and Seokmin are left standing in stunned silence, lips parted, eyes still tracking the space Soonyoung just vacated.
“What just happened?” Seokmin asks dazedly.
“We’re either really bad at this,” you say, “or Soonyoung’s just really, really good at being Soonyoung.”
Seokmin lets out a strangled laugh. “You think Shua’s gonna want a kiss next time too?”
“God, let’s hope not. I only have so much emotional bandwidth.”
The next month’s announcement comes with a twist neither of you anticipated.
Wonwoo—quiet, brooding, catlike in demeanor—is the new Employee of the Month. The rest of the team cheers for him with tepid enthusiasm, and he accepts it with a shrug, already halfway back to the cabanas before the applause dies down.
But for you and Seokmin? It’s hope. A rare, glimmering thing.
Seokmin finds you an hour later, halfway through inventory behind the booths. He sidles in beside you like he’s doing something criminal, which—considering the last few weeks of manufactured PDA and workplace sabotage—isn't far from the truth.
“Heard the news?” he says.
“Wonwoo finally getting recognition for his uncanny ability to look hot and disinterested at the same time? Yeah. Big day for the guy.”
“No, I mean—” He lowers his voice, eyes flicking to the open slats of the booth. “Do you think this means it’s working? That they’re onto us?”
You close the inventory sheet and lean against the shelf. “I mean, maybe. But let’s not get cocky. We still work here. We’re not off the hook until we’re fully jobless and making life choices our parents would cry about.”
Seokmin grimaces. “Right. That.”
You bump your shoulder into his. “We gotta up the ante.”
He raises an eyebrow. “What, like another back pocket maneuver?”
“No. We bring out the big guns.”
He looks skeptical. “What’s bigger than the back pocket?”
“A kiss.”
Seokmin chokes on absolutely nothing. “A kiss?”
“In public. Obviously. Catch us in 4K. Let the rumors fly, let HR cry.”
He stares at you like you’ve suggested robbing a bank. Which, to be fair, with this level of emotional fraud it isn’t too far off. “You’re serious.”
“As a tax audit.”
He groans and drops his forehead onto your shoulder. “I am not mentally equipped for this.”
“You’re doing great, handsome.”
“Don’t call me handsome when you’re about to ruin my life.”
You grin, threading your fingers together in a fake prayer. “It’s only fake ruining. Come on, do it for the cause.”
He sighs deeply, like a martyr. “Alright. But if this backfires, you’re buying me dinner.”
“Deal. And dessert, too. You’ll need something sweet to cry into when we’re finally free.”
The plans get made. You’re both actively trying to get fired, sure, but Seokmin still wants to get some of his stuff done. And so the two of you stay even as the clock ticks past eleven, Carat Bay, a ghost town save for you and Seokmin.
Plastic bins of unsold shirts and foam fingers lay scattered around you while you’re both sluggishly folding and stacking them back into place. The fluorescent lights buzz overhead, casting a sterile hum over the quiet.
Seokmin yawns into his shoulder and tosses a crumpled hoodie into a bin without aiming. It lands with a sad little flop, nowhere close to folded. You nudge him with your hip.
“You're getting sloppy,” you snicker.
“‘M tired,” he mumbles.
“Whose idea was it to volunteer for overtime, huh?”
He gives a small, sheepish smile, one that doesn’t quite reach his eyes tonight. You watch him for a beat longer than you should, picking up on how the weight of something heavier seems to settle over him.
“Hey,” you say, softer now. “You okay?”
Seokmin fiddles with the hem of the hoodie, his fingers restless. For a moment you think he won’t answer. But then he breathes out a laugh, quiet and self-deprecating.
“I guess I owe you the truth,” he says, “about why I wanted to get fired so badly.”
You put the last foam finger down and turn to him, giving him your full attention. He looks everywhere but you before admitting, “I… I wanna open an animal shelter. Mostly for dogs, but… you know. Cats too. Whatever needs a home.”
You blink, processing. “Seokmin, that’s—that’s noble as fuck.”
He gives a short laugh. “Yeah, well. Not really. I’ve been saving up, but my parents aren’t really big on charity and shit. They still want me to take over this place."
Your heart twists painfully at his honesty, at the way he says it like he's bracing for you to think less of him. “Seokmin,” you insist, stepping closer, “I can’t believe you’d ever be embarrassed of this. You want to get fired because you want to help dogs?”
He lets out another laugh, finally looking at you. “When you put it like that, it sounds stupid.”
“It sounds like you have the biggest heart in the world,” you correct him.
He flushes at the praise, ducking his head. You feel something tender pull tight in your chest.
“You’re gonna do it,” you say, firm. “You’re gonna open that shelter. And it’s gonna be amazing."
Seokmin gives you a look so soft you have to glance away, pretending to busy yourself with a pile of lanyards. But even as you fumble with the cheap keychains, you feel the warmth of his smile on your skin—quiet and certain, as if for the first time, he believes it too.
--
The cubicle smells like a mix of chlorine, sunscreen, and the ghost of body spray someone probably forgot to bring home last week.
You and Seokmin are pressed shoulder-to-shoulder in the tight space, backs to the damp plastic wall, waiting. You can hear the sound of people outside. Laughter, feet slapping against tiles, the zip of a towel being whipped like a weapon. No one ever checks the shower cubicles during lunch. They’re too humid, too gross. That’s what makes it perfect.
“Okay,” you say, shifting your weight, peering at Seokmin. He’s biting the inside of his cheek, eyes fixed on some grout on the tiles. “We don’t have to, like, make out or anything. Just something quick. Catchy. Like a Sabrina Carpenter music video.”
Seokmin nods slowly. Then shakes his head. Then nods again. “Right. Okay. But, uh… just so you know… I’ve never done this before.”
“Kissed someone?”
“Yeah,” he says. He sounds like he’s confessing to murder. “Like—not even a stage kiss. I always got cast as the comedic relief or the tree.”
You pause. That makes your heart hurt a little. This was supposed to be a dumb performance. Another scheme. But now, your stomach knots with guilt.
“Do you want to back out?” you ask, already leaning away. “I don’t want to take your first kiss in, like, a sticky-ass stall with pool water dripping on us. That’s a memory you’ll carry forever.”
But before you can make a clean retreat, Seokmin grabs your wrist.
“I want to,” he says, and for once, he doesn’t sound unsure. “With you. It’s doesn’t sound bad.”
You freeze for a beat. His grip is warm. His cheeks are flushed pink, and he’s still damp from the park’s mist sprayers. For some reason, your heart picks that moment to hammer in your chest.
“Okay,” you breathe.
You lean in. You expect it to be awkward, but it’s… not.
It’s a little shy at first—his lips tentative, almost featherlight—but it deepens just slightly, like he’s trusting you to lead. His hand flutters awkwardly at your waist, not quite sure where to go, before settling on your hip.
When you pull back, you’re both a little dazed.
“Christ,” you murmur.
Seokmin grins, soft and stunned. “That wasn’t terrible.”
You smile, and for a second, you forget why you’re even here. Right—
You're still holding onto his wrist, gently, when you say, “We could practice. If you want. Just to make it convincing.”
Seokmin clears his throat. “Practice?”
“Yeah,” you say, with a noncommittal shrug. All cool girl, chill girl, this-isn’t-a-big-deal girl. “Just enough so we’re not all teeth and awkward angles when it counts. We want it to look natural.”
He nods, visibly thinking through the logistics. Then, a little breathlessly, he says, “Okay. Yeah. Practice. That makes sense.”
You step closer. The shower stall is cramped, so it’s not hard. Your shoes bump into his, your body brushing his chest. You place one of his hands on your waist. His fingers are hesitant, like he’s afraid you might change your mind and bolt.
“Touch me like you want to,” you urge him gently. “Like you're allowed to.”
His palm flattens more deliberately now. You feel the shift in him, the effort. His other hand lifts but hovers, unsure.
“Here,” you guide it, fingers curling gently around his wrist to place it at the side of your face. “You can hold me here. It helps.”
His thumb grazes your cheek, trembling slightly. His breath comes shallow.
“Now, slower this time,” you say. “Tilt your head a little more.”
He does, obedient. Eager. His eyes flick to your mouth, and then he leans in.
The second kiss is better. Less rush, more curiosity. You taste mint gum and something sweet—maybe from the café earlier. His lips are soft, tentative, and open slightly when yours press in a little firmer.
Your fingers rest lightly on his collarbone. His hand on your waist grips tighter, just a little. He kisses you again, like he’s learning. Like he wants to keep learning.
When you pull away, just slightly, he’s dazed and pink in the cheeks.
“Okay,” he says, voice low and stunned. “That was... useful.”
You try not to laugh. “We’ll need more practice. Just to sell it.”
“Right,” he agrees, too fast. “Totally. For realism.”
You’re both kidding each other at this point, but to hell with it.
Things escalate not long after. He’s touchier. Bolder. Somewhere along the way, Seokmin has stopped flinching when he touches you in public and started leaning into the performance like it’s second nature. And worse still: he’s getting good at it.
A brush of his fingers along the dip of your waist as you reach for the locker door. A comment in front of Soonyoung about how you look good in the staff polo, followed by a wink that is actually genuinely disarming. One time, he even smooths your hair back before a team meeting, murmuring something about presentation.
You catch Mingyu watching the two of you, eyes narrowed. Minghao frowns when Seokmin lets you steal a bite of his lunch using the same fork. The whispers are starting, and not even Seokmin’s endearing clumsiness can cover for the shift in atmosphere.
But the real danger doesn’t come from the outside.
It comes from the break room.
You’re sitting on the counter while Seokmin stands between your legs, lips a breath away. It’s meant to be another rehearsal. A quick one. A casual, convincing peck for the hallway.
Instead, Seokmin’s hand brushes your thigh. Not by accident.
Your breath hitches. He pauses. You don’t move.
His palm presses firmer, sliding just barely, just enough.
Then, without much warning, he leans in and kisses you again. Slower. A little hungrier. It catches you off guard—not because it’s clumsy, but because it’s not. It’s careful. Considered. There’s intention behind it, like he’s trying to see what else he can get away with.
You make a sound. It’s not loud, but it’s unmistakable. A quiet, surprised thing at the back of your throat.
Seokmin jerks back immediately. You stare at each other, both stunned into silence.
“What was that?” you ask, heart pounding.
His voice is soft, eyes wide. “I—I don’t know. I thought we were practicing.”
“We are,” you say, but it comes out shaky.
You both stare at each other for another beat.
It’s getting dangerous. Very, very dangerous. You force yourself to act, to play the role. You shift, leaning back slightly to break the tension, giving him a small, teasing smile. “Now I’m curious, Seokmin. Can you make the same sound?”
The question only flusters him even more. “What?”
“You know. The sound I made. You looked like you liked it.”
“I—” he sputters, adorably scandalized. “That wasn’t—I mean, it was nice, but I wasn’t—”
You lean closer again, voice dropping just slightly. “Let me try something.”
He nods. Wordless. Willing.
Your hands come up to rest on his chest, warm over the fabric of his shirt. You feel the faint thud of his heart beneath your palms. He’s wound tight, you can tell, nervous in the way he always is when you close the distance. You tilt your head, angle your lips near his ear.
“Relax,” you whisper, soft, lilting.
Then you kiss him.
It starts gentle, barely-there pressure. Your hands slide up his shoulders, then down, resting at his hips as you slot your mouth against his more deliberately. You deepen it slowly, coaxing, guiding.
When your fingers skim up the nape of his neck, he makes a sound—a small, breathy one that ghosts from the back of his throat. It makes your stomach flip, makes you smile into the kiss. You do it again. Just to hear it.
“That,” you murmur, lips brushing his, “was hot.”
He groans in embarrassment, pulling back to bury his face in your shoulder.
“You can't just say stuff like that,” he mumbles, muffled.
“Why not? You sounded good. Really good.”
You laugh, light and airy, and he groans again. When he peeks up at you again, he’s still flushed. But he’s smiling.
“Okay,” he whispers, all conspiratorial, almost as if it were a dare, “your turn again.”
You’re in trouble.
--
The plan is simple, in theory: get caught in a compromising position by the most enthusiastic gossip in Carat Bay.
The break room behind the bumper cars is off-limits after closing. Soonyoung has a habit of staying late to tally the day’s dance competition scores. It’s foolproof. Everything’s lined up.
Except Seokmin is looking at you like he’s just been asked to disarm a bomb with his teeth.
“I didn’t think you’d actually…” he trails off, eyes darting downwards, where your polo shirt now lies folded over the employee bench. His cheeks are redder than you’ve ever seen them, which is saying something. You’re still wearing your undershirt—barely indecent by any standard—but Seokmin’s expression says otherwise.
“Strip?” you finish for him, amused. “It’s the uniform. People get fired for less than partial nudity, you know.”
He swallows. Hard. “Right. Yeah. Totally.”
You laugh, stepping closer. “Seokmin, we’re trying to sell the illusion. If we’re going to pull this off, I need you to look less like you’re about to pass out.”
“I’m not gonna pass out,” he lies, his voice two pitches higher than usual.
You reach up, fingers grazing the side of his face, and it’s like flipping a switch. He exhales, trembling a little. Your thumb brushes the corner of his mouth.
“We’ve done this before,” you remind him gently. “We’ve kissed before. This is just like practice, remember?”
He nods again, more believably this time. “Yeah. Just like practice.”
“Exactly.”
You press your lips to his, soft and warm.
Enough to ease him in, to coax some steadiness into his hands where they hover near your waist. You kiss him again, this time slower, more deliberate.
And maybe—just maybe—you’re reassuring yourself as much as you are him. Because your skin tingles where his fingers tentatively land on your hips, and your breath hitches when his mouth parts just slightly, enough to let your tongue graze his.
He pulls back first, eyes wide and unfocused. “That was…”
“Convincing?” you offer, trying to keep your voice steady.
He nods mutely, blinking at you like he’s never seen you before.
“Good,” you murmur, straightening his shirt collar. “Let’s make this a performance Soonyoung won’t ever shut up about.”
The break room is just warm enough to be stifling, wrapped in the hush of neon hum and the smell of popcorn grease and old rubber. You’re straddling Seokmin’s lap on the worn-out couch you’ve both dubbed the ‘emergency plushie zone.’
Seokmin’s tie is hanging off a peg behind you, abandoned somewhere between your fifth and sixth practice kisses. How much fucking practice one needs to get this ‘right,’ you’re not sure, but neither of you are complaining.
This kiss starts like the rest, lips brushing with practiced familiarity, but something shifts when Seokmin’s hands curl around your waist with more certainty than before.
"You’re really getting good at this," you murmur against his mouth.
He huffs a shy laugh, fingers slipping beneath the hem of your undershirt where your skin runs hot. “You told me to practice.”
“I didn’t tell you to practice this well,” you say, and then you kiss him again, hungrier now, breath catching when his hand trails up your spine.
It’s just an act, you remind yourself. Just something to get Soonyoung to walk in and freak out, let the gossip train do the rest.
Except Seokmin moans when you nip at his lower lip. A small sound, barely there—but it melts into you. You want to hear it again. So you shift your weight, rolling your hips once. His breath stutters. Yours does too.
You press your mouth to the underside of his jaw, voice low. “You’re really committing to the bit.”
“I think,” Seokmin says, voice wrecked with something like disbelief, “I’m losing track of what’s a bit.”
You smile against his neck. “We’ve been at it for twenty minutes. Where the hell is Soonyoung?”
“Was—Was Soonyoung even at work today?”
You freeze. You pull back and stare at Seokmin.
Kwon Soonyoung had taken a ‘sick’ leave today. To line up at midnight for a video game. He bragged about it in the group chat that all the newbies shared.
You glance down at your exposed chest, then at the way your thighs are locked around Seokmin’s hips. “Are we fucking stupid?” you wonder out loud.
Seokmin blinks at you, lips swollen and pink, eyes blown wide. He leans his head back against the couch with a groan. “I don’t think I can do that again without losing my soul,” he rasps.
“You’ll get it back in pieces,” you sigh, patting Seokmin’s chest in a gesture that’s meant to be reassuring. “Starting with your tie.”
--
You’re heading back from the boardwalk, salt still on your skin and the cheap cola you pilfered from the vendor stand fizzing in your hand, when you hear voices. The kind that make you stop short and lean just a little closer to the maintenance shed wall, pretending like you’re very interested in the bulletin board you’ve seen a hundred times.
It’s Joshua. Low and calm, like always, but there’s a seriousness in his voice you’re not used to.
“Seokmin. I just want to know what this is.”
You freeze. You don’t mean to. You know it’s bad form to eavesdrop, especially when you’re the this in question, but something roots you to the spot.
“I’m not trying to start anything,” Joshua continues, “but if this is just a game, if the two of you are pretending? You guys should quit it. Seriously. You’re both going to get into a shitton of trouble.”
A beat. Then Seokmin’s voice rings out, convincingly offended.
“It’s not pretend. I like her.”
Your breath catches.
“I like how she always wipes her hands on her shorts even when she has a towel. I like how she rolls her eyes like the world’s exhausting but she still shows up every day. I like that she lets me be nervous, but doesn’t treat me like I’m fragile. I like her laugh. A lot.”
Joshua doesn’t say anything, so Seokmin keeps going.
“I’m—I may not be able to call her my girlfriend. Not yet,” he says hastily. “But that doesn’t change the way I feel. I lo—like being around her. I like her, Shua.”
You press your lips together, suddenly unsure what to do with your hands, your breath, your entire chest. You feel like a live wire. Humming, sparking at the edges with something dangerous and sweet.
None of that was part of the act.
And, fine. You wish it were real. Just a little bit. Just enough to close the distance between his feelings and yours.
You slip away from the corner of the shed before either boy notices you there. The cola in your hand has gone flat. Kind of like your plan.
The conversation makes a home underneath your skin, hangs like a cloud over your head. It exists even as you’re perched on the countertop in the employee break room, the sickly hum of the vending machine buzzing under the clatter of Seokmin's footsteps. He slots himself between your knees with the same ease he’s learned over the past few weeks, hands bracing on either side of your thighs. It would be routine now, if not for the fact that your heart is somewhere around your ankles.
His eyes search yours. “Are you okay?” he asks delicately, looking at you with that concerned glance he’s been throwing your way all afternoon.
The thing about Seokmin is that he's gotten good at reading you lately, which would be great if you weren’t actively trying to keep your thoughts from turning into a romantic nosedive. You sigh. Might as well throw it all out. “I overheard you and Joshua,” you push out through your teeth.
Seokmin freezes like you’ve just dropped on him a bucket of ice water. “What?”
You offer a crooked smile, something flimsy and fragile. “You were good. Like, really convincing. Should’ve guessed you were a theater kid.”
He looks like he’s been punched. The breath leaves him slowly. “You thought I was lying.”
You don’t answer. You don’t have to. The way your gaze skitters off to the corner of the room is answer enough.
His voice goes soft when he says his name, and you presume it’s him readying you. He’s about to let you down gently, you think. “I—” he starts, and you refuse to hear it. Not without one final act of stupidity.
You move before you can think. Your hand cups the back of his neck and you yank him forward, pressing your lips to his like it'll keep everything messy and tender at bay. It’s not careful. It’s not supposed to be. It’s a distraction, a fire alarm, an emotional eject button.
Seokmin doesn’t kiss you back, not immediately; his brain is still caught on whatever he was about to say. The kiss only lasts a few seconds, but it’s long enough for the door to swing open behind you.
“GUYS—”
You both tear apart like you’ve been electrocuted. Soonyoung stands at the doorway holding a neon slushie. The look on his face is the type of thing that would have him going viral on TikTok.
You and Seokmin exchange a look, wide-eyed and flushed.
It’s the worst time to get caught, and of course, that’s when it finally happens.
--
The fallout begins quietly.
Which is the worst part, really.
No fireworks, no messy confrontation, just an unrelenting silence that creeps in where easy laughter used to be. Every brush of Seokmin’s hand now feels weighted, every shared glance taut with the possibility of a conversation you’re not ready to have.
Worse, people are buying it. Hook, line, and sinker. After Soonyoung caught the two of you mid-liplock, the rumor mill went into overdrive, and suddenly, no one bats an eye when Seokmin shares his food with you, or when your knees knock beneath the merchandise booth. Everyone thinks you’re together. That you’re real.
It makes it harder than ever to fake it.
Seokmin still tries. He flashes you that warm grin and slings his arm around your shoulder like nothing’s changed, but it has. You can feel it in the way he hesitates before touching you, or how his laughter doesn’t quite reach his eyes when you tease him. He wants to talk about it. You know he does.
And he tries.
It happens after another long shift, the two of you walking side by side through the near-empty parking lot. The sky is bruised and pink at the edges, cotton-candy dusk descending on Carat Bay like an afterthought. He catches your wrist, gently but firmly.
“Can we just—talk?” he says, voice low, eyes impossibly sincere.
It’s the exact thing you’ve been avoiding. You look at his hand around your wrist and your heart hammers in your chest. You want to hear him out. You want to ask him which parts were real, and which ones were for show. You want to tell him it’s been pretty damn hard for you to tell the difference, even if you’re the one who laid out the blueprint months ago.
But you’re a coward. And this isn’t part of the plan.
So you do what you’re best at.
You run.
You tug your hand free and turn on your heel. You don’t get far. Just past the bumpers, right by the yellow staff lines painted across the lot, you hear it—the telltale squeak of worn soles and a long-suffering sigh.
Changbin.
He’s standing there, arms crossed, expression unreadable. His eyes flick from you to Seokmin, whose hand is still hovering like it’s caught mid-air.
“Inside. Both of you,” Changbin says coolly. “HR wants a word.”
Great.
You’ve been trying to get fired for months. And now, at long last, it feels like your wish is about to come true.
Except the look Seokmin shoots you isn’t relief.
It’s heartbreak.
The HR room is ice cold. Not temperature-wise—someone must've left the thermostat on the exact edge of comfort. It’s cold in that awful, bureaucratic kind of way. Like nothing good has ever happened in here. Like no one’s ever left this place with dignity fully intact.
Changmin, the HR Manager, offers you both paper cups of water. His smile is so bland it’s offensive. “Let’s make this quick,” he says, as if he has something better to do than scold employees for handsy interactions in the Carat Bay parking lot. “There’ve been some... concerns.”
Your arms are crossed. Seokmin’s foot keeps tapping under the table, a nervous rhythm he’s trying to stifle.
“Rumors have been circulating,” Changmin continues, folding his hands neatly. “Several employees have reported seeing you two getting cozy on company time.”
You open your mouth, but Seokmin beats you to it. “We weren’t—I mean, it was nothing compromising,” he argues feebly.
“The CCTV disagrees.”
Holy shit. You almost forgot about that. There are eyes and ears all over the place; you and Seokmin didn’t even have to wait around for Soonyoung. The two of you could have just made out in the merch booth and been done with it.
“You’re both aware of the rule,” Changmin goes on. “No romantic fraternization during work hours. No workplace relationships without disclosure. And certainly not in full view of customers or staff.”
“Yes,” you mutter.
Changmin sighs, as if he genuinely hates what’s about to happen. “After internal discussion, we’ve decided to terminate the employment of one party.”
It sinks in a beat too late, what’s wrong about the statement.
One party. Only one of you is going to get sacked, and it’s pretty clear who it’s going to be.
Seokmin’s head snaps toward you. “What? No, that—that doesn’t make sense,” he sputters. “We both broke the rule.”
Changmin's smile flickers. “Mr. Lee, you know very well your position in this company.”
Ah. There it is.
The heir card.
You could laugh, but it’d come out strangled.
“This doesn’t have to be a big thing,” Changmin says smoothly. “We’ll phrase it as a mutual separation. No disciplinary record. A clean reference, if needed.”
You stare at the condensation sliding down your paper cup. This was what you wanted, wasn’t it? To get fired. To be released from this pastel-colored theme park hellscape and finally live your own damn life.
And yet.
Beside you, Seokmin's voice breaks. “It wasn’t just her. If anyone should take responsibility—”
“This is final,” Changmin says, in the politest voice imaginable.
You got what you had planned for. Why does it feel like shit?
You find Seokmin in the parking lot after the meeting, his hands jammed in his pockets, shoulders drawn up like they’re trying to shield him from the world. The Carat Bay sign flickers behind him, casting a tacky blue halo over his profile. You take slow steps toward him, gravel crunching under your shoes.
“Hey,” you say tentatively. “I—I didn’t think it would go like that. I thought we’d both get fired. That was the point.”
Seokmin doesn’t look at you. His jaw works, like he’s trying to swallow something sharp. “I’m sorry you didn’t get what you wanted,” he says flatly.
“That’s not—” You stop yourself, bite your tongue. “You know that’s not what I meant. I didn’t want you to get hurt by this. I didn’t think they’d—only fire me.”
He lets out a bitter laugh, the kind that tastes of ash. “Of course they didn’t. Why would they? I’m Lee Seokmin, Prince of Carat Bay. Fucking heir to the tacky throne.”
You step closer. “Seokmin—”
“No, seriously. This is the first time I ever tried to do something for myself, and I managed to ruin it by—” He breaks off, exhales hard through his nose. “By catching feelings for someone who only wanted a clean way out.”
You flinch. “That's not fair.”
“Isn't it?” he snaps. “You heard what I told Shua, right? You were eavesdropping. So you know. You know I wasn't acting. You kissed me anyway, like it didn’t matter. Like it was just another scene.”
You shake your head. “I kissed you because I didn’t know what to say,” you say, voice cracking. “Because I was scared. Not because I didn’t care.”
Seokmin finally looks at you, and it guts you. His eyes are red-rimmed, vulnerable in a way he’s never let you see. When he speaks, it’s as good as a confession, “I thought maybe, just maybe, if I kept being useful, if I kept showing up, you’d start to want me for real,” he manages. “But I guess I really was just an acting partner, huh?”
He pulls back when you reach for him. “Don’t,” he says, looking less like the boy you’ve come to love and more like the ghost of him. “Don’t make this harder than it already is.”
And then he’s walking away, shoulders still hunched, hands still buried in his pockets, as if letting them out might betray too much. You stay rooted to the spot, the neon lights buzzing overhead, your name already half-forgotten by the place—and the coworker—you were trying so hard to leave behind.
--
You have at least two more weeks before your exile from Carat Bay is final, and you tell yourself you’re okay.
You tell yourself that when Seokmin, who you’ve worked elbow-to-elbow with all summer, starts pretending you’re not breathing the same air as him. You tell yourself that when he disappears to ‘stock’ the back room every time you so much as look at him.
You tell yourself that when he hands you inventory lists like he’s passing secret messages in a Cold War spy thriller. Gaze averted, fingers barely brushing yours.
You’re fine.
It’s fine.
You’re very normal about the fact that the boy who once had a casual palm curved to the slope of your ass now can’t stand to be within two feet of you. The boy who used to trip over himself to steal kisses, to coax soft sounds out of your throat in the shadowed corners of Carat Bay, now can’t even meet your eyes.
The merchandise booth is tiny, the kind of claustrophobic that’s usually endearing in the early stages of a slow-burn romance. Now it feels like a battlefield.
Every interaction is a landmine. You joke with Soonyoung and Joshua louder than necessary just to fill the silence Seokmin leaves behind. You laugh a little too hard when Mingyu teases you about winning the Fastest Employee-to-HR Pipeline award. You act normal. You’re good at acting normal.
Seokmin, for all his theater-kid roots, isn’t.
His silences are loud. His stiffness is louder.
You catch him watching you sometimes, when he thinks you’re not looking. There’s a hollow, guilty kind of sadness in it, like he’s punishing himself. Like he’s mourning something neither of you can name.
You don’t know how to fix it. You’re not sure you should. Wasn't this what you wanted?
You got out. You got what you needed. It’s not your fault if somewhere along the way, Seokmin handed you something far messier, far more dangerous, and you didn’t know how to hold it.
You clock in. You clock out. You memorize the days until your last shift like you’re counting down to parole.
You don’t think about how empty the booth feels now.
You don’t think about the way Seokmin used to smile at you like you put the sun in the sky.
You don’t think at all.
You can’t afford to.
And, really, you don’t mean to cry. You’d told yourself you’d get through your shift, maybe duck into the bathroom if it got bad enough. You could’ve handled this like an adult. Quietly. Dignified.
Instead, here you are in the back break room, facedown against the sticky laminate table. Your shoulders are shaking, and you’re sniffling embarrassingly loud as you try to muffle the sound.
“Whoa, hey,” comes Soonyoung’s voice, full of immediate alarm. “Hey, what—oh my God, are you crying?”
You don’t look up. You can’t. You just groan low into your arms, trying to make the world swallow you whole. Of all the people who could find you.
There’s the rustling sound of Soonyoung pulling out the chair next to you, scooting in close. A warm, awkward hand pats the middle of your back.
“Hey,” he says again, softer now. “Hey, it’s okay. Breakups suck. Like, really bad. Especially when it’s someone you see every day at work. That’s brutal.”
You let out a wet, miserable noise.
“Everyone’s been talking,” Soonyoung continues, unaware of the dagger twisting deeper into your gut. “Like, we all kinda figured something was wrong since Seokmin’s been… I dunno, all weird. He barely even smiles anymore. He’s acting like you killed his cat.”
You lift your head just enough to squint at Soonyoung through bleary eyes. “It wasn’t even real,” you whisper.
“Huh?”
You sniff and rub your sleeve across your nose, cringing at yourself. “It was all fake. Me and Seokmin. We were faking it.”
Soonyoung blinks at you. “Like… the relationship?”
You nod miserably.
“Why?”
Through your tears, you tell Soonyoung everything. The plan, the faking it, the makeout sessions. The way it ended on a Wednesday, of all days, which is terrible—because you both had to clock in the next morning like you hadn’t just broken each other’s hearts.
Soonyoung leans back in his chair, processing this with the same serious expression he reserves for really important things, like choosing what to order for lunch.
“Okay,” he says after a beat. “That’s kinda… diabolical. But also, like, you and Seokmin… you’re just idiots in love.”
You let out a half-sob, half-laugh, wiping your eyes with the heel of your palm.
“I mean it,” Soonyoung says, smiling now, in that rare, earnest way of his. “You’re both idiots. And it’s kinda beautiful, if you think about it.”
You don’t know if ‘beautiful’ is the right word for the mess you’ve made.
But maybe—maybe it could be.
--
You always figure there’s a big act of romance in every rom-com. A grand, sweeping gesture by the male lead. Unfortunately, your male lead is out of commission; you decide to take things into your own hands.
It’s your last day of work, and you have nothing left to lose.
Lunch time is your choice of poison. You wait for the clock to hit exactly 12:30, and then you hit Send after making sure everybody who matters is in the breakroom.
Someone gasps. Someone else drops their coffee. Employees and managers alike pull out their phones to see what’s so stunning.
The screenshots are in the group chat. Seokmin’s texts to you over the past few months, confessions of all the petty little sabotage attempts he’s made at the merchandise booth: mislabeling shirts, sneaking wrong sizes into bags, purposefully miscounting plushies.
People are side-eyeing you, whispering among themselves—
“Damn, she’s really airing him out.”
“Was the breakup that bad?”
“Evil ass ex.”
You ignore them all.
You’re focused on Seokmin, who is seated between Joshua and Soonyoung. When he glances at his lockscreen, he does a double take. Blinks. Shoots up, his expression slack with horror. He looks like he’s about to make a run for it.
You cross the room in a couple of quick strides. Before Seokmin can say a word, you grab him by the collar of his stupid Carat Bay polo and kiss him. Long. Hard. Unapologetic.
Your mouth moves against his like you’re staking a claim. Like you’re not done with him yet.
The breakroom explodes in noise—shrieks, whistles, laughter—but you barely hear it. Your brain is doing that thing again, the one where your entire world narrows into nothing whenever you’re up against Seokmin like this.
You’ve known since the first time you kissed him that he would ruin you. You were right.
You break the kiss to breathe, to murmur against his lips, “You’re definitely going to get fired now.”
You don’t need to look to know a few mothers outside the breakroom are going to be scandalized. That the CCTV in the corner is blinking red, and Seokmin’s face is angled so you absolutely cannot manipulate or miss who had just participated in public indecency.
For the first time in days, Seokmin smiles.
Not the fake half-smile he’s been giving you lately. Not the sad, wilted one. A real one. Wide and bright and devastatingly beautiful. He cups your face, leans in, and kisses you again—softer this time, like a promise.
Screw the script. You're writing your own ending.
--
EPILOGUE.
The drive is long, but not unbearable.
Soonyoung and Joshua have packed the car with snacks, and between the three of you, there’s enough chaos to keep the ride from feeling too heavy. It's only when the road smooths out into rolling countryside and the first glimpse of the shelter comes into view—an unassuming building with bright, inviting banners—that your heart tightens in your chest.
“There it is,” Soonyoung says, leaning forward against his seatbelt, eyes wide.
“Cute,” Joshua adds, pulling his sunglasses down to get a better look. “Looks like it belongs to someone who loves, like, every living thing.”
You laugh, amused. “Sounds about right.”
The car barely parks before you're throwing the door open, feet hitting the gravel with an eager crunch. Seokmin is already at the entrance, waving both arms above his head like he's trying to guide a plane in for landing. You sprint the last few steps and collide into him, arms wrapping around his middle.
He lets out a winded, delighted noise, hugging you so tight your feet lift off the ground for a second. “You’re here!”
“Of course I’m here,” you murmur against his neck. “I’d be a terrible girlfriend otherwise.”
Behind you, Soonyoung and Joshua groan loudly.
“God, it’s worse than I thought,” Soonyoung sighs. “You’d think the honeymoon phase would be over by now.”
“It’s watching a rom-com on 2x speed,” Joshua agrees.
Seokmin only grins against your hair, clearly unfazed. He sets you back down but keeps an arm looped lazily around your shoulders as he ushers everyone inside.
The shelter is still new—there’s the faint smell of fresh paint, and not every kennel is full yet—but the energy is unmistakably Seokmin: warm, bright, buzzing with earnest hope. He introduces you to every animal like he’s presenting you with priceless treasures. You fall in love with each one.
You had properly fallen in love with Seokmin shortly after you were both freed from the clutches of Carat Bay. The two of you talked it out. He asked you on a proper date. The rest became history, and the story of your origins—now about half a year in the rearview—proves to be a fun tale to swap during drinking sessions.
This time, you both got what you wanted, and so much more.
At one point, Seokmin presses a kiss to your temple. You instinctively lift onto your toes to kiss his jaw in return. You both giggle like teenagers, noses brushing, completely lost in each other.
From behind you, Joshua pretends to gag. “Do we need to leave you two alone with the puppies?” he says judgmentally, arms tightening around the Rottweiler puppy he’d been eyeing for weeks.
Soonyoung joins in on the teasing. “Disgustingly cute,” he announces dryly, already halfway out the door so he can escape you and Seokmin. And then, he throws in as an afterthought: “You two deserve each other.”
You glance up at Seokmin. He beams down at you like you’re the only thing he can see.
It pains you to admit—but for once, Kwon Soonyoung might be right about something.
summary: beomgyu's teasing is getting out of hand, and you're constantly left wondering what you did to deserve it. does he hate you? and if he does, why don't you hate him? your major crush on him certainly doesn't help. when he's teasing you, all you can do is stare at him, wondering if he’d ever like you back.
genre: FLUFFFFFF
characters: beomgyu x f!reader
words: 9668
warnings: none!!!
You’ve always considered Beomgyu the single biggest annoyance in your office. He’s the type who breezes into work with a cocky grin, always a little too casual, always quick with a teasing comment that seems specifically designed to get under your skin.
You’ve somehow managed to ignore him for your first few months in the company, but recently over the year, he’s been… everywhere. Offering to help with projects he has no reason to be near, popping into your workspace with coffee, even catching your eye during meetings.
And the worst part? Lately, instead of just being annoyed, you’ve started noticing things: the way his laughter lights up the room, or how he remembers your favorite coffee order, including yours. It’s maddening, and the more you try to brush it off, the harder it is to ignore that twist in your stomach whenever he’s around.
And...you hated every bit of it, you think. Every time he’d tease you—calling you “princess” when you were stressed, smirking when he made you flustered—it was like he was actively trying to get a rise out of you. And it worked. Every. Single. Time.
“Boo.”
The word was barely a whisper, but it made you jump so hard that your coffee slipped right out of your hand, splattering across your dress in a warm, sticky mess. You whipped around, finding Beomgyu standing there, barely holding back a laugh as he took in the damage he’d caused.
“Beomgyu,” you gritted out, grabbing a paper towel in a futile attempt to dab at the stain. “Do you enjoy terrorizing your coworkers, or am I just special?”
He leaned against the counter, crossing his arms as he watched you with an amused tilt of his head. “I don’t know, maybe I just have a soft spot for you.” he said, his voice dripping with sarcasm.
You rolled your eyes, fully aware of his gaze lingering on you as you tried to clean up. “You’re impossible,” you muttered, hoping he couldn’t see the faint pink on your cheeks.
He shrugged, a slow, lazy smile creeping onto his face. “You know you’d miss me if I didn’t keep things interesting.”
You didn’t reply. Instead, you shot him your best death glare, then turned sharply on your heel, whipping your ponytail right in his face. A small, satisfied smirk tugged at the corner of your lips as you heard him stifle a surprised cough behind you.
“Mm, raspberry,” he said suddenly, taking an exaggerated whiff. “Nice shampoo choice.”
You spun back around, crossing your arms and giving him a look that could curdle milk. “Dude!” you snapped, appalled—and maybe a little flustered. “People are staring.” You shot a glance at a few of your coworkers, who were desperately stifling their laughter.
Everyone in the office was all too familiar with the occasional “spat” between you and Beomgyu. For some reason, the two of you bickering like an old married couple had become prime entertainment around here.
He laughed, completely unbothered. “They’re just enjoying the show.” His grin didn’t waver as he looked at your coffee-stained dress with obvious amusement.
“I’m not in the mood for this,” you muttered, pushing him aside as you made a swift exit out of the pantry. “Not after you’ve essentially soaked me from head to toe with coffee.”
“Okay, okay.” He jogged up beside you, catching your arm just as you were about to storm off. Your eyes dropped to his hand on your arm, a spark of warmth rushing up to your cheeks. You’d blame it on surprise, but you couldn’t deny the way your heart picked up speed at the contact.
Beomgyu seemed to notice, too, because he let go almost immediately, a flicker of something in his expression—guilt? Amusement? You couldn’t quite tell. He recovered quickly, though, shooting you an apologetic smile that, annoyingly, looked almost… genuine.
“C’mon,” he said, voice softer than before. “I have an extra shirt at my desk. It’s clean, I promise.”
You crossed your arms, trying to look unimpressed, even though you were already considering it. “And why exactly would I want to wear your shirt?”
He raised an eyebrow, smirk slipping back into place. “Because…you either wear my shirt or walk around smelling like a coffee spill all day.” His eyes glinted with a challenge.
Your glare returned, but this time, you hesitated, the discomfort of your soaked clothes settling in. With a huff, you crossed your arms. “Fine,” you relented, narrowing your eyes.
A few minutes later, you were standing in the bathroom, staring at the shirt Beomgyu had handed you. You sighed, the absurdity of the situation slowly sinking in. There was no way you were going to wear this. You could practically feel your dignity slipping away with every second you stood there.
“Doing good in there?” Beomgyu’s voice floated in from the other side of the door, his tone teasing.
“Choi Beomgyu,” you called out, your voice dripping with disbelief. “I am not wearing this.”
From the other side, you could hear his laughter, muffled but still unmistakably filled with overconfidence. “I don’t think you have a choice.”
With a sigh, you stepped out of the bathroom, already bracing yourself for the inevitable ridicule. The moment you emerged, you looked up to see Beomgyu standing there, absolutely dying of laughter. His eyes formed perfect crescents, his whole face lit up in a way that made your heart beat faster than it did before.
It was a bright, obnoxious shade of pink, with Beomgyu’s face cartoonishly plastered on the front, a goofy grin matching the bold words scrawled across it: “Daddy’s Girl.”
Beomgyu was clutching his stomach, laughing so hard he could barely stand. "Oh my god," he gasped between breaths. "You look—" He paused, wiping tears from his eyes. "You look adorable."
You stood there, face flushed with embarrassment, glaring at him. “Why do you even have this damn shirt?”
His laughter slowly died down, but that infuriating grin of his remained. “It was a gift from Soobin,” he said, shrugging nonchalantly. “I just never expected to see it on you. However, I do have to say…” He trailed off, his grin widening as he stepped a little closer.
“What?” You didn’t want to ask, but it was already too late.
“Well, you pull it off better than I expected. Almost like you actually are Daddy’s Girl.” His voice dropped a little as he teased the last part, his tone playful and teasing. He inched closer to you, his presence suddenly a little too close for comfort.
“Y-you’re... an asshole,” you stammered, pushing him in his chest with more force than necessary.
You walked away, but you could still hear his laughter echoing behind you, completely unbothered that he had essentially broken down all your walls.
Your cheeks were burning, but as much as you wanted to keep the little pride you had left, you couldn’t help but suppress a grin that tugged at the corners of your lips. Beomgyu might be the last person you'd ever want to give the satisfaction of seeing you flustered, but there you were, cheeks red, heart racing, and trying to hide the smile that was slowly creeping across your face.
You could hear him still chuckling in the distance, and, despite your best efforts, a part of you almost hated how contagious his laughter was.
–
The whole office seemed to be buzzing with energy as everyone gathered for the afternoon meeting. You tried to act normal, to slip into the routine of things, but the moment you walked into the conference room, you felt it—the eyes. The teasing smiles. The laughter that seemed to linger just behind every glance directed your way.
You walked to your usual spot, only to have Soobin glance over at you with a mischievous grin. "So," he started, his tone light but laced with something that made you instantly uneasy, "How does it feel to be Daddy’s Girl?" His words were casual, but there was no mistaking the gleam of amusement in his eyes.
Your face immediately flushed, and you could already feel the heat creeping up your neck. "What? No! That's not—" You stammered, but your words faltered, and before you could regain your composure, Yeonjun jumped in.
“Oh my God,” he teased, crossing his arms with a smirk. “Didn’t expect the whole ‘Daddy’s Girl’ look to work for you, but Beomgyu definitely has good taste. You make that shirt look way better than he does.”
“Seriously? He spilled coffee–” You attempted to explain, but quickly gave up, realizing no one was really listening, too busy giggling. “Beomgyu, aren’t you going to explain why I have to wear this?”
“Because you’re daddy’s girl?” He laughed, clearly enjoying the moment way too much
The entire table broke into laughter, with some of the interns joining in, adding their own playful remarks about how you and Beomgyu seemed to be “matching in more ways than one” and how “that shirt definitely tells a story.”
Trying to maintain some dignity, you crossed your arms and glared at Beomgyu, who had his usual half-smirk on his lips, though his eyes held a playful spark. “You really had to do this, didn’t you?” you muttered, barely able to mask the irritation creeping into your voice.
Beomgyu’s grin widened. "I didn’t know you’d look so cute in it," he teased, completely unbothered. "Guess I should have made you wear it sooner."
“Seriously, Beomgyu?” You shot back, rolling your eyes.
—
The next day at work, you walked into the office with a scowl, still trying to shake off the embarrassing memory from yesterday. You had barely managed to avoid Beomgyu for most of the morning, but as you rounded the corner to your desk, you found him standing there—leaning casually against your cubicle wall, as if he’d been waiting for you.
He looked up with that all-too-familiar grin, the same one that had made your cheeks flush the day before. "Well, well, if it isn’t Daddy’s Girl," he teased, his voice dripping with that playful tone you couldn't escape.
You groaned inwardly, trying to hide the heat rushing to your face. "You’re really not going to let that go, are you?"
Beomgyu shrugged nonchalantly, still smiling like he was having the time of his life. "I mean, it’s a pretty good look on you," he said, his eyes twinkling with mischief. "You might want to consider keeping it as your new work uniform. Though, of course, you still look good in this little office siren look you’re going for.” He looked you up and down, making you feel suddenly self-conscious.
You couldn’t help but push his face away, trying to avoid his gaze, and quickly looked away, feeling the heat rising in your cheeks. "You're impossible," you muttered under your breath, focusing on anything but him.
Beomgyu paused, his eyes back on you, "You look good," he said, this time a little more serious, like he meant what he was saying.
You blinked, caught off guard by the shift in his tone. For a moment, the usual playful mischief was gone, and it was just him, staring at you with an intensity you hadn’t expected. You looked at him, unsure of how to respond, the tension in the air suddenly making you feel even more awkward.
"And you’re still annoying," you snapped, trying to regain control of the conversation, though your voice betrayed a hint of something softer beneath the words. You looked away, unable to meet his gaze for too long.
“Okay, okay. Look, I’m sorry if I took things a little too far yesterday,” he apologized.
You examined his face for any sign of mischief, but soon realized he was being sincere. You nodded, walking away.
—--
A few hours of working in silence passed, everyone was in their own little cubicle typing away with whatever they had to.
Just as you were getting into the groove of things, you heard footsteps approaching. Soobin’s voice broke through the quiet office. "Hey," he greeted, leaning on your desk with a smile. "Where’s your Daddy?" He raised an eyebrow playfully, clearly teasing about Beomgyu.
You blinked at him, caught off guard by the sudden question. "My what?" you repeated, confused for a moment before you realized what he meant. "Oh, please, don’t encourage him," you groaned, rubbing your temples.
Soobin chuckled. "I mean, you are Daddy’s girl, aren’t you?" He laughed again, clearly enjoying your discomfort, making you glare at his way. "Anyway, wanna grab lunch? We haven’t done that in a while.”
“As long as you stop calling me that.” You rolled your eyes.
Soobin raised his hands defensively, smirking. “Alright, alright. Fine.”
“I just have like a couple more e-mails to sort out.”
“Got it. I’ll wait for you outside.”
You went back to typing, trying to wrap up your task quickly so Soobin wouldn’t have to wait too long. You were back to focusing, but just as you were picking up the pace, you felt hands cover your eyes from behind.
“Beomgyu,” you muttered without looking up from your screen.
Beomgyu’s voice came in soft and teasing. “How’d you know it was me?”
You rolled your eyes, pushing his hands away. “You’re the only one who bothers me when I’m trying to do work.”
He chuckled, sliding into the chair next to your desk. “Guess you just know me so well, huh?” His eyes twinkled with mischief.
“Yeah, yeah, whatever.” you said, shaking your head as you finished up a few last details.
There was a minute of silence before you finally did look up at him. Beomgyu hated to admit how cute you looked when you looked up at him—your eyes meeting him with that slight furrow in your brow, your hair falling perfectly around your face. It took everything in him not to smile, but he quickly masked it with his usual smirk.
“So what do you want?” you asked, raising an eyebrow as you finished up a few last details.
“Lunch with daddy?” he replied with a casual grin, though his eyes held a glint of something that made your stomach flutter.
“Oh, I’ve already made plans with Soobin, dad” you said, not thinking much of it as you slipped your phone into your bag.
“Soobin?” Beomgyu’s voice hardened ever so slightly, but you didn’t catch the shift at first. He leaned forward in his chair, eyes narrowing just a touch.
You shrugged, focusing on gathering your things. “Yeah, just grabbing lunch. We haven’t hung out in a while.”
Beomgyu’s smirk faltered for a second, his usual confidence slipping just enough for you to notice. But before you could react, he leaned back, his demeanor slipping into something more casual, though there was still that slight edge to his words. “Right. Of course. Soobin.”
You looked at him, slightly confused by his changed demeanor. “Okay?” you replied, furrowing your eyebrows.
Beomgyu didn’t immediately respond. He just leaned back in his chair, arms folded across his chest as he watched you. There was a tension in the air now, something unspoken, and you couldn’t quite put your finger on it. His eyes, which were usually so playful, were now unreadable, like he was deep in thought.
“Yeah,” he finally said, his tone back to its usual teasing edge, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Enjoy your lunch, I guess.”
—-
During lunch, your mind replayed the previous scene with Beomgyu one too many times. Why was he so pissy after you mentioned going to lunch with Soobin? Weren’t they good friends? Why was he being so dramatic? Crazy ass, you thought to yourself.
“Are you even listening?” Soobin’s voice pulled you back to the present.
You snapped out of your thoughts. “Sorry,” you mumbled, offering him an apologetic smile.
Soobin raised an eyebrow. “You’ve been acting weird since we left for lunch. Did you even hear my harrowing story about how Beomgyu’s been acting up at home?”
Right, they’re roommates, you remembered, a pang of curiosity hitting you. “Wait, what did he do now?”
Soobin chuckled, shaking his head. “You wouldn’t believe it—he’s been sulking around the apartment lately, for reasons he won’t even explain. Just moody and snippy about everything.” He leaned in, lowering his voice. “I’m starting to think he’s hiding something.”
You couldn’t help but wonder if Beomgyu’s strange mood earlier was connected. Trying to play it cool, you asked, “Does he, like…do that often?”
“Nope, which is why it’s weird. And this all seemed to start around…” Soobin paused, giving you a suspicious look, “…around the time you two started bickering at work.”
“Oh please,” you scoffed, rolling your eyes. “Don’t blame this on me.”
Soobin laughed, his eyes sparkling with a hint of mischief. “Hey, I’m not saying anything,” he teased, though his smirk suggested otherwise. “Actually… there is one thing that might explain it.”
“What is it?” you asked, curiosity and a tinge of dread mixing in your voice.
“Well,” Soobin began, leaning in a little, “he was on the phone with one of our friends the other night, talking about some girl he’s into.”
Your heart did a little flip. A girl he’s into? Was it you?
“Yeah, someone from his yoga class,” Soobin added, watching you carefully.
Oh. Yoga class. You didn’t go to yoga. You felt a mix of relief and… something else you didn’t want to admit to yourself.
“Oh,” you said, trying to sound indifferent, though your disappointment was evident. “That’s… nice.”
Soobin tilted his head, amused. “You sound thrilled.”
“I am thrilled,” you replied sarcastically, rolling your eyes. “Glad he’s happy. Maybe then he’ll stop fucking with me.”
Soobin leaned back, watching your expression with that same knowing look. "Yeah, apparently she's, like, really flexible," he said, barely holding back a grin.
You forced a casual nod, hoping your face didn’t betray you. "Good for him, then."
He raised an eyebrow, clearly enjoying your reaction. “What, you’re not jealous, are you?”
“What?” You scoffed, trying to brush off the question, but your voice came out a bit too defensive. “Why would I be jealous?”
Soobin chuckled, leaning forward. "I mean, you guys do spend half your time arguing, and the other half looking at each other like... well, like something is going on.”
“That’s ridiculous,” you said, feeling the heat rise in your cheeks. “We’re just… coworkers. Besides, he’s obviously into some yoga girl I’ve never even met. Who’s apparently really flexible.”
"Uh-huh," Soobin said, raising his hands in mock surrender, but the glint in his eyes told you he wasn’t buying it. "Well, for what it’s worth," he added, "I don’t think he actually likes yoga that much."
“Oh, sure. I don’t actually care,” you replied, trying to sound casual.
“Really?” he asked, eyebrows raised in amused disbelief.
“Really,” you said, the words coming out a little too firmly—as if you were trying to convince yourself as much as him.
Soobin’s gaze dropped to your plate, and he chuckled softly. “Then why’ve you mashed your rice into porridge?”
You looked down, realizing your grip on the spoon was practically turning your knuckles white.
Your face heated with embarrassment, and you shot Soobin a glare. “You seem to be really enjoying this, Soobin. What happened to ‘I missed you, let’s catch up’? You’re practically using our only hour to tease me.”
Soobin laughed, leaning back in his chair with an innocent shrug. “Hey, I am catching up. I just happen to find your love life… fascinating.”
You rolled your eyes, attempting to brush it off. “It’s not my love life.”
“Right. Just your very intense work rivalry,” he said, grinning. “But fine, I’ll ease up. For now.”
—
You sighed, glancing at the clock. Just one more hour, and you’d be free. It was Friday, and the idea of slipping into bed and sleeping through the night was the only thing keeping you going. Unlike your coworkers, who were always up for late-night drinks, you had a steadfast love for sleep.
Well, at least until…
“You coming tonight?”
Startled, you looked up to see Beomgyu leaning against your cubicle. His hair was slightly tousled from a long day, and somehow, he looked even better when he was a little worn out. You felt a pang of frustration at yourself for even noticing.
“Where?”
“The team’s going out for drinks,” he said, his voice casual but his eyes fixed on you.
You hesitated, glancing away. “I don’t know. I was planning on just heading home,” you replied, trying to ignore the way he made it hard to focus on anything but him.
He tilted his head, a playful smile forming. “Come on, you’re always skipping out on these things. One night won’t hurt.”
You rolled your eyes, pretending to be unimpressed. “Right, because I’m sure you’re really hoping I’ll be there.”
“I was,” he paused, then corrected himself, “I am.” He looked at you seriously, as if making sure you knew he wasn’t joking or lying.
“I—I…” You stammered, unsure of what to say.
“Please?” He added, his tone softening, almost like a plea.
“Fine.”
—
The bar was buzzing with the chatter and laughter of your coworkers. The group had claimed about four or five tables, but you’d positioned yourself at the bar, seated on a stool. You weren’t sure why you even agreed to come—maybe it was Beomgyu’s pleading, or maybe the way his eyes softened when he asked you. Damn it, he could be so cute without even trying.
You stirred your drink, watching it swirl as your mind wandered. Every so often, you glanced over to where Beomgyu was standing, sandwiched between two tables. He was in his element, effortlessly drawing people in with that easy, curse that confident charm of his. His laughter filled the air as he joked with your colleagues, their faces lighting up at whatever he’d just said.
He had a way of making even the most mundane conversation feel like the most interesting thing in the room. His smile, his gestures, the way his eyes sparkled when he said something funny—it was like he could command the room without even trying. It was no wonder people were drawn to him, and you couldn’t help but be drawn in too, even if you didn’t want to admit it.
You watched as he shifted from one group to the next, always moving with such ease, always the center of attention. His effortless charm left a weird knot in your stomach, but also a strange flutter, something you didn’t quite know how to process.
Damn it, you thought again, taking another sip of your drink. You were making yourself dizzy just watching him.
“You’re going to catch flies with the way you’re staring at Beomgyu,” Soobin teased, leaning back in his chair with a mischievous grin. He placed a finger under your chin, gently tilting your head up.
You sighed, trying to brush off the comment, swatting his hand away. “Soobin,” you muttered, rolling your eyes. “If you’re just here to mock me about my stupid crush on Beomgyu—”
“Oh, so we’re admitting it’s a crush now?” Soobin interrupted, raising an eyebrow.
“What? No! I—I… it slipped out,” you stuttered, feeling heat rise in your cheeks as you tried to recover.
Soobin leaned in, his grin widening as he pressed, “So you are admitting it—”
“I’m not admitting anything!” you snapped, crossing your arms defensively and giving him an exaggerated glare.
Soobin chuckled, clearly enjoying your flustered reaction. "Sure, sure. Keep telling yourself that," he said, giving you a wink before turning his attention back to the table, though his smile lingered as if he knew something you didn't.
You huffed, trying to push the thoughts of Beomgyu out of your mind. The alcohol wasn't helping; if anything, it was just making things feel more awkward. You shifted in your seat, glancing back toward Beomgyu. He was laughing with your coworkers, his hands animated as he told some story, effortlessly commanding their attention. It was almost maddening how easy he made it look, his charm radiating off him like it was second nature.
"Are you sure you don’t have a thing for him?" Soobin’s voice brought you back to reality, and you looked at him, annoyed.
“I already told you, I don’t—" You stopped, realizing how defensive you sounded, how your heart was racing at the mere mention of Beomgyu’s name. You ran a hand through your hair, frustrated at yourself.
"So, what's going on then?" Soobin asked, his tone suddenly softer, less teasing. "You can’t keep pretending you don’t care."
You looked away, avoiding his gaze as you focused on the edge of your glass. “I don’t know what you're talking about.”
For a moment, Soobin didn’t say anything, just watched you, and you could feel the weight of his gaze. Finally, he spoke again, quieter this time. “You don’t have to figure everything out right now, but don’t pretend like it doesn’t matter."
You swallowed, feeling a lump form in your throat.
“Okay, what if I do…” you whispered, barely audible, eyes darting around nervously.
Soobin leaned in closer, eyebrows raised. “Come again?”
You sighed, feeling your face burn as you tried to keep your voice low, as if somehow that would protect you. “What if I do… have a tiny little bit… the tiniest bit… of a crush on him…” you whispered even softer, almost too quietly to hear.
Soobin leaned in further, a mischievous grin pulling at his lips as he mimicked your whisper. “I can’t hear you.”
You rolled your eyes, swallowing your embarrassment. “I said,” you shouted, louder than you intended, and immediately felt the weight of your coworkers' stares on you. You quickly smiled awkwardly at them before turning back to Soobin. “I said... what if I did have a tiny crush on him?”
Soobin burst into laughter, loud enough that it felt like the whole bar could hear it. His laughter, bright and unapologetic, drew even more stares from the surrounding tables. You felt your face flush even more.
“You know,” he said, catching his breath, “it’s about time you admitted it. You’ve been looking at him like that all night.”
“I have not!” you protested, though you could feel the heat rising in your cheeks.
“Right, because I didn’t just see you staring at him while he was telling that story about his yoga class.” Soobin grinned knowingly.
You groaned, sinking lower into your seat. “Can we drop it now?”
Soobin held up his hands in mock surrender. “Fine, fine. But just so you know, it’s obvious to everyone here.”
You raised an eyebrow. “You think so?”
“Oh, yeah,” he said, finally calming down. “Trust me, you’ve got the ‘I’m-trying-to-hide-a-crush’ look written all over you.”
You leaned back in your chair, exhaling in defeat. “This is so embarrassing.”
“Hey, don’t worry about it,” Soobin said with a grin. “If you’re embarrassed, then that means you care. And that’s actually kind of cute.”
“Thanks,” you muttered, rolling your eyes.
Soobin patted you on the back. “No problem, now go get your man.”
You snorted. “I’m not ‘getting my man’ anywhere besides isn’t he into this yoga girl you keep mentioning about?”
“First of all,” Soobin sighed. “I mentioned her once. Second, you're really gonna use her as an excuse now? I was just kidding. There wasn’t any “yoga girl”, I just wanted to see your reaction.”
“You lied?”
“For a good cause!” Soobin said, defensively.
“Look, I don’t even care. I mean... it’s not like he’s even looking my way,” you mumbled, more to yourself than to Soobin. “In fact, he hasn’t even talked to me all night.”
Soobin gave you a knowing look, the kind he always gave when he knew you were being a little dramatic. “You’re really gonna do this right now?” he asked, arching an eyebrow. “You’re letting one night ruin your mood?”
You sighed, resting your chin in your hand. “I mean, it's fine, really. I didn’t come here to be his entertainment plus free drinks!”
Soobin rolled his eyes. “It’s not about that, though, is it? You didn’t come here for him to entertain you, you came because you wanted to see him.”
“I did not come here…to see him.” You attempted to defend yourself. “I could be here to see you. You’re a pal.”
“Oh. Yeah. Sure.” Soobin rolled his eyes.
You shot him a glare but it only made him laugh. He could always tell when you were hiding something, and right now, he was enjoying it a little too much.
“Fine, maybe I did want to see him,” you finally admitted, your voice softer than you wanted it to be. “But that doesn’t mean anything. It’s just—he told me to come, which I did but now he’s been avoiding me all night and talking to everyone but me.”
“Have you tried initiating the conversation first?” Soobin said.
You stared at Soobin, momentarily taken aback by his insight. “I just… I’m not sure what to say anymore."
"Say hi or something, in fact," Soobin said, grabbing your arm and pulling you to your feet. "You talk to him tonight, and... yeah, that’s it. Just talk to him. No ands ifs or buts."
"W-what? No! I can’t... I’m not ready! I’ve only had one shot of vodka. I’m not ready for this level of commitment—"
Soobin sighed in frustration. "Damn, you’re stronger than you look." He grunted, struggling to pull you up as you continued to thrash in your seat.
You dug your heels into the ground, still trying to resist as Soobin tugged at your arm. "No, seriously, Soobin! I'm not ready for this. What if I screw it up?" You felt the panic rising in your chest, your pulse quickening. The idea of talking to Beomgyu, of finally doing something about it, felt too overwhelming.
“And what’s going on over here?”
The two of you stopped your struggle, realizing it looked as though you were hugging, and quickly turned around, both of you frozen like deer caught in headlights.
“Beomgyu,” the two of you muttered in unison.
“You’re making quite the scene,” Beomgyu said. His tone was hard to place, but you would guess he was either slightly annoyed or, more likely, not at all amused.
“Sorry.” You glanced around, realizing no one was really paying attention to the two of you, which left you a bit confused, but you decided to ignore it.
“Soobin, Taehyun’s looking for you.” He pointed over to the table of interns.
“Taehyun’s here? Doesn’t he have…” Soobin gulped. “Okay. I’ll go find him.”
Soobin gave you one last glance, his smirk still lingering as he followed Beomgyu's direction. “Don’t think I forgot about this,” he teased, then strolled off toward the interns.
You let out a small breath of relief, now alone with Beomgyu. He was still standing there, his expression unreadable, though you could have sworn you saw something in his eyes when Soobin had left.
“So,” you started, clearing your throat awkwardly. “Thanks for... saving me from Soobin.”
Beomgyu chuckled, his gaze softening slightly. “Not sure you’re saved when a bigger devil is here.” He smirked.
“Right,” You chuckled before turning your attention back to your drink.
"Care for a conversation?"
"Now?" You hadn’t meant to sound sarcastic.
Beomgyu looked at you with a hint of confusion in his eyes before replacing it with his usual smirk. "What’s wrong with a little conversation?"
"I just... don’t you have a whole parade to lead? Aren’t people waiting for the life of the party?"
“Well, the life of the party needs a break, and I was kind of looking for my own relief.” He glanced over at you.
“And?” you prompted, raising an eyebrow.
“Found her.” He locked eyes with you, a hint of mischief in his gaze.
You shifted awkwardly, trying to gauge his intent, but he kept his eyes on you, unfazed.
“So, this is where you take your breaks?” you asked.
Beomgyu’s smirk deepened. “Only when the company is worth it.”
Your breath caught slightly, caught off guard by his boldness. You didn’t know how to respond right away, so you turned your attention back to your drink. The silence stretched on, and for a brief moment, it felt like there was something unspoken between you two.
“Oh, right!” You pulled out a small paper bag from your work bag. “Here.” You handed him the washed t-shirt he had lent you.
“You can keep it,” he said casually.
“And why would I want to keep a shirt with your face on it?” You rolled your eyes, holding the t-shirt up with mock disdain.
Beomgyu chuckled, a teasing glint in his eyes. “Y’know…I always thought you were pretty, but I think wearing my face has made you ten times prettier than you already were.”
He leaned back, watching you closely, his smile softening into something more sincere. “I’m serious though. You look good in it.”
Your heart skipped a beat, but you quickly brushed it off, trying to maintain your playful composure. “Sure. But I think I’ll pass on wearing it as a permanent look.”
You glanced at your watch, it was still early. If you were home you’d probably be binging a drama. You shook your head. It was time to say goodnight. You didn’t feel like overstaying your welcome.
“I’m gonna take off,” you muttered.
“What? So soon? It’s only 10,” Beomgyu said, sounding surprised.
You shrugged. “Yeah, and I’m wasting my Friday night being surrounded by drunk colleagues.
“Okay, then at least let me send you home,” he said, his tone softening.
“It’s totally fine! I can take the bus!”
“The bus? We can share a cab!” Beomgyu insisted.
“I’ll be fine, I swear.”
“And I won’t be until you let me take you home safely!” Beomgyu said, pouting ever so slightly, his lips curling downward. You stopped yourself from smiling at the sight of his pout.
“It’s really fine! If it makes you feel better, I’ll get Soobin to drive me back. I mean, he drove me here,” you replied, trying to brush off his concern with a casual shrug.
Beomgyu’s demeanor shifted immediately. His face tightened, and you noticed a flicker of frustration in his eyes. "Again with Soobin," he muttered, his voice a little sharper than before.
You glanced over at Beomgyu, seeing the almost imperceptible shift in his expression. He looked... frustrated, almost as if your mention of Soobin was a trigger. You weren’t sure why, but the change in him caught your attention.
“Yeah, I mean, he drove–”
“Do you enjoy torturing me?” Beomgyu sighed, running his fingers through his hair in frustration.
“What?”
“Do you enjoy… torturing me?” he repeated, sounding almost exasperated by your sheer density.
“Are you drunk?”
He shook his head.
He pulled you aside, guiding you into a quiet corner of the bar. Now, there was no sign of your colleagues—just the two of you, standing by a plant. The sudden isolation made the air feel heavy.
“You’re torturing me,” he muttered, his voice low. “You actually hate me.”
You blinked in surprise, unsure if you had heard him right.
“Hate you?” You frowned, trying to make sense of what he was implying. “Beomgyu, I don’t hate you.”
“You avoid me,” he sighed, frustration laced in his voice. “You’re always making jokes with everyone around you. Yeonjun, Soobin—dear God, you even make jokes with the new interns, Taehyun and Kai.”
You stood there frozen, caught off guard by the intensity of his rant.
“You laugh with everyone, you smile, you bat your eyelashes at Soobin, you touch Soobin’s arms, you go on one-on-one lunch dates with Soobin… You like Soobin.” His words came out in a rush, and each sentence hit harder than the last. “And you don’t feel a single thing for me.”
You felt your heart skip a beat at his accusation, your stomach dropping.
“I–”
“Why won’t you like me back?” Beomgyu repeated, his voice softer now, but still laced with an underlying pain. His eyes searched yours, as if looking for an answer that you weren’t sure how to give.
And it was… three seconds of silence before Beomgyu hurled onto your shoes.
You stared in disbelief, mouth agape, as the reality of what had just happened set in. The mixture of complete shock and disgust made you freeze for a moment, unable to process what had just unfolded.
“No liquor, my ass!” You screamed, stepping back in horror as you looked down at your shoes, now a disgusting shade of… well, you didn’t even want to think about it.
Beomgyu collapsed onto the floor, his body crumpling like a ragdoll.
“Oh my God!” You shouted, hands thrown up in the air, unsure of what to do. You were stuck between wanting to laugh at the absurdity of it all and wanting to strangle him for ruining your night—and your shoes.
Beomgyu’s head lolled to the side, eyes barely open as he slurred, “I... I didn’t mean for it to... to go like this. I just… I thought you’d—” He cut himself off with another groan, clearly too far gone to finish his sentence.
Your mind raced, torn between sympathy for his state and pure annoyance. You didn’t sign up for this.
—
Soobin had driven the two of you back to your place. Beomgyu, half-conscious and heavily leaning against your shoulder, made no effort to support himself as you navigated him out of the car.
You reached your front door and stopped, fumbling with the keys for a moment before Soobin broke the silence with a sigh. “You sure you don’t want him to just go home with me?” His voice was soft, but you could hear the concern in it, even if he tried to mask it with a teasing tone.
You shot him a tired glance as you finally unlocked the door. “Isn’t your mom visiting right now? You sure you want her to know this is the kind of roommate you have?” You asked, raising an eyebrow as you nudged the door open with your foot, glancing at Beomgyu, who was mumbling nonsense under his breath.
“Yeah?” Soobin shrugged, clearly not thinking it through. “But, you know, I could always—”
“You sure you want your mom to see all this?” you interrupted, gesturing at the disaster that was Beomgyu, who looked like he might pass out any second.
Soobin blinked, his face faltering slightly as the reality of the situation hit him. “...You’re probably right,” he said with a chuckle that barely covered his embarrassment.
You shook your head, a small laugh escaping despite everything. “Thanks for the ride,” you said, offering a strained smile before you turned your attention back to Beomgyu. “Alright, let’s get you inside.”
Beomgyu stumbled and flopped onto the couch as soon as you let him go, groaning dramatically, his head lolling to the side. His disheveled hair and the faint smell of alcohol coming off him was enough to make you feel a little queasy, but you refused to let him see how uncomfortable you were. Instead, you turned to Soobin, who lingered by the door, looking unsure about whether to stay or leave.
“Is there anything I can do?” Soobin asked, rubbing the back of his neck nervously.
You looked at Beomgyu again and sighed. “Just help me change him.” You half-smiled, trying to reassure Soobin despite feeling like a mess yourself.
Soobin chuckled awkwardly. “You should probably get him some water or something.”
“Yeah, I will,” you said, already moving toward the kitchen, your mind racing as you debated what to do next. You glanced back at Beomgyu, still sprawled out on the couch, looking like he had no care in the world. He was out of it, sure, but the way he had acted earlier still lingered in your thoughts, leaving a pit in your stomach.
Soobin finally left, his footsteps fading as the door clicked shut behind him. You were alone now with a drunk, insufferable Beomgyu, and you weren’t sure if you were ready for whatever this night was about to throw at you next.
—
You were thankful Soobin stayed long enough to help change Beomgyu out of his puke-soaked clothes. It was an awkward scene, but you couldn’t exactly leave Beomgyu in his state. Soobin had managed to get him into a pair of comfortable sweats and a t-shirt before he left, leaving you to deal with the aftermath.
As you walked back into the living room, you found Beomgyu still sprawled on the couch, his head resting awkwardly on the armrest. His eyes were closed, his breathing deep but uneven. Despite the mess he’d made, you couldn’t help but feel a bit sorry for him.
You grabbed a glass of water from the kitchen and gently placed it on the coffee table in front of him, hoping he’d wake up enough to drink it.
It’d been a few hours since the incident happened. You had just been sitting on your armchair, waiting for Beomgyu to wake up.
His eyes fluttered open a moment later, his vision blurry as he blinked a few times, trying to focus on his surroundings. When he saw you standing there, a faint, sheepish smile tugged at the corners of his lips. “You’re still here…” he mumbled..
“Of course,” you said, sitting down on the edge of the couch, keeping a safe distance. “You’re kinda at my house.”
Beomgyu let out a groan, rubbing his forehead with his hand. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to drag you into all of this…”
You sighed, watching him closely as he sat up, trying to get his bearings. “You didn’t drag me into anything, I just so happened to be standing right in front of you, waiting for my prince charming to puke on me.” You replied, trying to hide the slight irritation in your voice, but the frustration from the whole night was starting to seep through.
Beomgyu winced at your words, a sheepish smile spreading across his face. “Yeah... that wasn’t my best moment.”
“No kidding.” You leaned back, folding your arms across your chest. “I’ve never seen you this... well, out of it. What even happened tonight?”
“I don’t know. I think I just... lost it. All the stuff with you and Soobin, it’s been bugging me more than I want to admit. And, well, I guess it all came crashing down at the wrong time.”
“So… you remember what you said in the bar just now?” You asked, the tension in your voice barely masked by the casual question.
Beomgyu nodded, his eyes slightly narrowed as if he was trying to piece everything together. “I’m puke and black-out drunk. Not the kind to forget about the stupid shit I do when I’m drunk... kind of drunk.”
You laughed awkwardly, trying to process what he was saying. "So you… were—are—jealous of Soobin?"
Beomgyu nodded slowly, his gaze avoiding yours as he seemed to wrestle with his own feelings. “Kind of. I guess. I don’t really know. But listen, he’s a great guy and clearly in better shape than me, so I… genuinely think the two of you would be great together.”
You blinked at him, trying to process the unexpected confession. "I don’t know… I kind of had my eyes on someone else, actually."
“It’s Yeonjun, isn’t it? It’s because he’s up there with that whole manager position and his weird party tricks… damn it, I should’ve picked up rollerblading when I had the chance.”
“No—not Yeonjun. He’s a little too intense for me,” you said, the memory of Yeonjun yelling at you for accidentally dropping a pack of Skittles down the garbage disposal flashing through your mind.
“Then who is it? Not Soobin, not Yeonjun—I’m gonna be so for real with you right now, we’re kind of your only options if you were into like hot people–”
“You’re spiraling.”
“I just… I’m curious to know who this guy is! Who’s this less attractive person I’m losing out to, y’know?”
“Well, he’s kinda cute to me.”
Beomgyu sighed and ran a hand through his hair, clearly frustrated but also trying to mask it with a weak smile. “Okay, fine. I get it. You like someone else, and that’s cool. But you’re really killing me here with the suspense. Actually, you know what…maybe I don’t wanna know.” He sat up from the couch, shaking his head.
You were leaning against the wall opposite him, your arms crossed loosely over your chest as you tried to steady your breathing. Your eyes flicked to Beomgyu, watching him as he ran a hand through his messy hair, clearly wrestling with his own thoughts.
The way he shifted uncomfortably on the couch made you feel almost guilty for not speaking sooner, but you weren’t going to lie, you kind of enjoyed this little mental torture he was going through.
Served him right for teasing you so much.
The truth was, you had been trying to avoid it, trying not to make things complicated especially with someone you weren’t even sure that liked you back.
Come on. Dropping your coffee and making you wear the ugliest t-shirt? That didn’t really seem like someone who liked you.
“Look, y’know what, I’m fine. I’ll just go home,” Beomgyu sighed, standing up from the couch. “Thanks for taking care of me. I’m really sorry about the shoes. I’ll get you a new pair. I promise.” He ruffled his hair, clearly trying to hide the awkwardness with a forced smile, but you could tell he was feeling guilty.
“Beomgyu–”
“I’m good. Look, it stings. The girl I’ve been pining for, for about a year or so, doesn’t like me back. It’s cool. I’ll get over it. Not now, but soon enough. I just hope this guy—whoever the fuck he is—treats you well… but like, I hope he’s not that hot. I don’t think that’d be good for my self-esteem. But you also deserve the best so I hope he’s at least hot-ish…? I don’t know what I’m talking about. I’m being really immature right now, aren’t I? This is not a good look on me,” Beomgyu rambled, his voice wavering slightly as he shifted uneasily on his feet.
“Dude, you gotta let me talk.” You sighed, walking over to Beomgyu and gently pushing him back onto the couch. He blinked up at you, still looking a little frazzled, but his shoulders visibly relaxed when you didn’t back away.
“This guy…that I’m into–”
“Oh great. We’re still talking about this asshole.”
“He’s really funny,” you spoke, your tone exasperated but softening.
“It’s that one tall dude from marketing, isn’t it?” Beomgyu asked, raising an eyebrow.
“You’re not listening!” you yelled, cutting him off. Beomgyu gave you a sheepish, apologetic smile, slowly realizing that he was spiraling. You pulled his chin toward you, making sure he was looking at you. “He’s funny. He’s kind of an asshole, actually.”
“You’re into that?”
You shrugged, “And he’s really handsome.” You looked up at Beomgyu, giving him the sweetest smile, which made his heart leap.
“Don’t smile at me like that. You’re just gonna make me more hung up on you.” Beomgyu’s voice was softer now, the playful edge gone, replaced by a vulnerability that made your heart race.
You chuckled, “He’s also really cute. Didn’t peg him for the jealous type.”
“What?” He tilted his head, confused.
“He’s also really narcissistic. Has apparently zero alcohol tolerance,” you mumbled. “He also puked on my shoes.”
Beomgyu blinked a few times, his mouth opening and closing as if he wasn’t quite sure how to respond. “Wait, he puked in your shoes? And you’re still into him?” He let out a disbelieving laugh, though it was edged with a hint of nervousness. "And you think I'm the one who’s messed up?"
“Beomgyu, it’s you. How are you not getting it?”
“Oh.”
Beomgyu’s gaze softened, the realization sinking in fully. His lips parted as if he were about to say something, but he hesitated, unsure of how to handle the sudden shift in the conversation.
“I’ve liked you for awhile now.” You continued, “I just thought you genuinely…disliked me. Or at least just enjoyed making my day miserable.”
“Miserable? Baby, I was entertaining you,” he said, his voice low, teasing but with an undeniable sincerity underneath.
You raised an eyebrow, feeling both amused and flustered. “Entertaining me? By making me spill coffee on myself and tricking me into wearing that ugly t-shirt?”
Beomgyu chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck. “Well–” he started, clearly trying to defend himself but failing to keep his grin in check.
“How about two weeks ago when you took out the screws of my chair at work and I fell and hurt my ass?” You crossed your arms, a playful yet accusatory tone in your voice.
“To be fair, that was Soobin’s idea,” Beomgyu said quickly, as if the excuse could somehow absolve him. He looked genuinely innocent for a split second before breaking into an even wider grin. “But I did help, so I guess I’m partially guilty.”
You scoffed, unable to suppress a smile despite yourself. “Partial guilt? You’re the mastermind behind most of it.”
"You don't get it!" Beomgyu sighed dramatically. "You're just so... adorable when you're mad! Your eyebrows furrow, your eyes widen, and when you pout... it's just... God, if you could see yourself the way I see you."
You raised an eyebrow, trying to suppress the grin that tugged at your lips. "Adorable? Really? You think I'm adorable when I'm mad?"
Beomgyu nodded eagerly, his eyes lighting up. "Yes! You don’t get it! You’re like a firecracker. When you get all huffy and your cheeks puff up, it just... it drives me crazy." He looked almost embarrassed, rubbing the back of his neck. "It's like the cutest thing ever."
You couldn’t help but laugh, a genuine sound that surprised both of you. "Am I just your daily work stress ball or something?”
"Yes!" Beomgyu replied instantly, his voice a little too eager. He leaned in slightly, his tone softening as if revealing a secret. "I swear, if you could see yourself, you'd understand. It’s like you’re all fierce and pissed off, but still so... you. And God, it's so easy to fall for."
You smiled shyly, “You’re a little weirdo, aren’t you?”
Beomgyu grinned, his eyes sparkling with that mischievous glint you’d come to know all too well. "Maybe," he said, his voice low and teasing. "But I'm your weirdo. If you’ll take me."
He leaned in just a little closer, his gaze flicking between your eyes and your lips, and for a brief moment, the air between you seemed to thicken. You felt your heart skip a beat, suddenly hyperaware of how close he was.
You cleared your throat, trying to play it cool, but your voice came out softer than you intended. "I don't know if I’ll like that," you teased, though you couldn’t hide the hint of a smile tugging at your lips.
Beomgyu chuckled, his expression softening into something more sincere. "You should. I swear, I’ve got the best intentions. Even if I do mess with you a little."
Your breath caught as his words hit you in a way you hadn't expected. He wasn’t just being playful anymore—there was something real behind his eyes.
"You’re... kind of sweet when you’re serious," you murmured, unable to stop yourself from feeling a little flustered under his gaze.
Beomgyu leaned back just slightly, his smile turning a little shy, like he hadn't meant to let that much of himself show. "Yeah, well... I mean it, you know?" he said quietly, looking down at his hands before meeting your gaze again. "You make it hard not to feel this way."
“You’re being ridiculous.” You puffed your cheeks.
“There! There it is!” Beomgyu shouted, jumping up and down on your couch in excitement like a little kid.
You couldn’t help but laugh at his antics, your heart skipping a beat at how effortlessly cute he was. “You’re being insane!” you said, still smiling.
“I’m not!” Beomgyu responded dramatically, flailing his arms for emphasis. “How are you not seeing how cute you are?!” His voice was nearly exasperated, like he was trying to make you understand some grand truth about yourself.
“It’s probably how I see you!” you shot back, a teasing smirk tugging at your lips.
A moment of silence filled the room, the weight of what you had just said hanging in the air.
Beomgyu’s eyes widened slightly, his expression faltering as he processed your words. “That’s how you see me?” he asked, his voice softer, almost unsure.
You nodded, your gaze shifting as you tried to put your thoughts into words. “Yeah. You’re… well, close to perfect, as far as I can see.” You shrugged slightly. "The way you put your tongue at the side of your cheek and poke it when you're feeling smug after winning an argument with me... Maybe that's why I let you win sometimes. You look... sexy when you do that."
Beomgyu froze, his eyes locking with yours, a mix of surprise and something else flickering in his gaze. Then, slowly, his lips curled into a grin, that mischievous glint returning. “You think I’m sexy when I do that?” he asked, scooting closer, his hands coming to rest beside your thighs on the couch.
You felt the heat rise in your cheeks, suddenly self-conscious as you realized what you'd just admitted. But before you could retreat, Beomgyu leaned in a little, his face lighting up with that playful yet sincere spark. “Well, now that you’ve said it... I’m definitely not letting you off the hook,” he teased, his tone warm and a little more serious than before, making your heart skip a beat.
“What else do you like about me?” he asked, his gaze drifting from your eyes to your lips.
You blushed, feeling your heart race. “When you… when you make everyone laugh. You’re just so effortlessly you,” you said softly, your voice warming as you smiled shyly at him.
He leaned closer, his breath warm against your ear as he whispered your name. “I wish you could see yourself the way I see you,” he murmured, his voice low and sincere. “You’d see the most beautiful person in the world.”
You stayed silent, your heart pounding as his words settled in. The air between you seemed to thicken with unspoken feelings, and for a moment, you couldn’t find your voice.
He leaned back slightly, his eyes searching yours with a mixture of hope and uncertainty. "And, would the most beautiful person in the world... let me kiss her?"
Your breath caught in your throat. You could feel the tension, the way everything seemed to slow down as you locked eyes with him. He was so close, and his expression was so genuine, you couldn’t help but feel your heart flutter.
Slowly, you nodded, barely able to whisper, “Yeah... I think I would.”
His eyes lit up, and in that instant, the world around you seemed to disappear. Without wasting another second, Beomgyu gently cupped your face in his hands, leaning in until his lips met yours in a soft, tentative kiss. It was sweet at first, testing the waters, before deepening as you both relaxed into the moment.
Everything felt perfect. Well…until…
You pulled away, suddenly aware of the rules that had always been lurking in the back of your mind. “Wait. Doesn’t our company have a rule about dating?”
Beomgyu froze for a second, his lips brushing yours one last time before he pulled back, a playful grin spreading across his face. “I could quit tomorrow if it meant I could kiss you every day,” he sighed dramatically, but there was a sincerity in his eyes that made your heart race.
Before you could say anything, Beomgyu pulled you gently but insistently closer, guiding you to sit on his lap. He leaned in again, his lips on yours.
“Beomgyu, I’m serious.” You mumbled between the kisses, your voice breathless but laced with uncertainty.
He only grinned wider, his hands lightly gripping your waist, “Rule, schmule,” he muttered dismissively, pushing you closer to him as he deepened the kiss. "We’ll figure it out. Besides, isn’t Taehyun like the boss’s son or something? We could bribe him."
“What?!” You gasped, pulling away from the kiss, your eyes wide with disbelief.
“Shit, I wasn’t supposed to say that,” he muttered sheepishly, but the mischievous gleam in his eyes was unmistakable as he shrugged and pulled you back into the kiss.
“You did not just drop a big bomb like that!” You tried to protest, but your words were muffled by his lips.
“Less talking, more kissing,” Beomgyu murmured between kisses, his hands gently guiding your face to meet his again.
“But we have all night,” you teased, breathless but still managing a smirk.
He paused for a moment, his face a little too close to yours, his grin playful. “I’m listening…” he said, clearly enjoying this back-and-forth.
You couldn't help but laugh softly, pushing him playfully away just enough to get a word in. “You’re also gross.”
Beomgyu’s expression faltered for just a second before he burst into laughter, his arms wrapping around you tighter as he pulled you back against him. “Gross? I thought you liked me.”
You rolled your eyes, but the warmth spreading through your chest made it hard to stay mad. “You’re impossible,” you murmured, even as you found yourself leaning in again.
“Impossible to resist,” he corrected with a wink, his lips capturing yours once more, and this time, there was no pulling away.
IN WHICH after waking up to a song playing outside of your window as if you were in a corny romance movie, you get to meet Choi Beomgyu, a boy so desperately in love that he drove across town to confess his love, just to find out he did so outside of the wrong house.
pairing– Choi Beomgyu x fem!reader
featuring– txt members, original characters, Heeseung and Jake of enhypen
genre– fluff, angst, suggestive — mature talks, topics, but no explicit smut
contains– band member!Beomgyu, nerd!Beomgyu, nerd!reader, school setting BUT EVERYONE IS OF AGE, reader works at a convenience store, Beomgyu has a crush on someone else at first, party + drinking on said party, reader lives with her parents, both parents mentioned, reader is mentioned to be a virgin, reader is able to play basketball, reader wearing a skirt, 10 things I hate about you mentions
word count– 18.2k
↪ izzy speaks... ahh my baby is finally here! I love writing fluff, it's how I was made to be—a girl that writes happy stories. I really think serenade is a cute one, and I'm so glad I decided to do it with Beomgyu, my love <3
I want to say thank you to Mae again for helping me with editing this, you saved my life <3 I also want to thank Adel—for always listening to my yaps about my stories and helping me sort out my thoughts. And everyone reading this. My stories happen because of y'all. :3
playlist | masterlist
It’s been a while since you’ve had a good night’s sleep. However, you knew that the moment your face hit the pillow and the exhaustion from the long week settled in, tonight was going to be the day. There was no need for you to wake up early tomorrow, and you were going to take advantage of that, ready to sleep throughout the entire morning.
But your plans on catching up onto your messed up sleep schedule fail once again when the guitar reaches your ears, stirring you awake. Then, the soft voice follows right after, making you rub your eyes with the back of your hand, glancing at the time on your phone. 8:12. There goes your dream of sleeping in.
You make it out of the bed, searching for where the sound is coming from. It couldn’t be your house, you’d have to own a guitar for that first. Once you reach your window and look outside to see a boy with a guitar, it all starts making sense.
Well actually, it makes even less sense.
You scan his figure, watching his brown hair fall in front of his eyes as he plays the instrument, a bike lying right beside his feet. You blink confusedly, listening to the soft melody you don’t recognize. And even though you can’t seem to wrap your head around why he is standing outside your house and singing a love song, it does sound amazing. His voice combined with the soft chords of the guitar warm your heart, causing you to open the window fully to see and hear better.
As soon as you do, his eyes lock with yours and he freezes. The song stops, his fingers stilled on the guitar strings as he scans your face, quickly looking around as if he was searching for someone. You both blink confusedly when your eyes meet again, trying to see what the hell is happening. He clears his throat first, awkwardly running his hand through his hair. “Is– Uhm, is Yuna here?” You frown, narrowing your eyes at him. “Who?” You question, watching his cheeks turn red, probably from embarrassment. “Kim Yuna? I uhm, isn’t this her house?”
Suddenly, it all makes sense. Of course this poor boy is confessing his love under your window for a different girl. You don’t know him, obviously, but it still manages to hit. “Are you from Haneul Academy?” You scan him all over again, getting your answer in the form of a slight nod. You nod as well, everything falling in pieces together. Kim Yuna, the one person you despise. Yeah, she definitely doesn’t live in your house.
“I’m sorry to disappoint you, but no. She doesn’t even live on this street.” If his cheeks were red before, he doesn’t want to know what his face looks like now. It’s so utterly embarrassing. What was he even thinking about? Riding the bike with a guitar on his back on a Saturday morning to sing a love song for someone he wasn’t dating was already stupid enough, but this? This was terrible.
He moves around busily, grabbing his bike so quickly that his guitar almost breaks as it bumps into it. You open your mouth to say something, anything really, but you can’t find the right words. What are you supposed to say? Hey, it’s all good, at least you didn’t embarrass yourself in front of anyone else? You sigh, watching him get on his bike while mumbling soft, messy apologies without looking you in the eyes. He almost manages to fall off it when he fixes his guitar, but quickly gets himself back together, running away as if he’s just robbed a bank.
You watch him go from your bedroom window, your eyes softening just slightly. You feel bad for him, honestly. You’re sure he feels embarrassed, you would too, but a part of you thinks this might actually be better for him.
You know Yuna briefly. You’ve never talked to her outside of school, and even then, it was just when she wanted to borrow your notes before a test, but you still knew enough. A social butterfly with friends everywhere she looks, always around someone, no matter who it is. Her grades aren’t anything impressive, just average, and still, people seem to love her for a reason unknown to you. She’s pretty, you have to give her that, but you always believed in looking for more in a person, which leaves you confused on how it’s possible she is always dating someone.
Maybe she isn’t a bad person, you can’t know that, but you know she cheats her way through exams every semester, that she’s got a few upper classmates wrapped around her finger enough for them to always get her into the front of the line at the cafeteria, that she has started the ‘pretty contest’ in her first year just so the guys could rate girls at school for their own pleasure, and that much was definitely enough for you to dislike her.
You step away from the window, lingering for just a second before jumping into your bed again, your hands resting on your stomach as you stare at the ceiling, replaying the song in your head with a soft hum of the melody. You close your eyes shortly after, falling back into the dream realm, where you see the unknown boy again, singing a song only you could hear.
You regret signing up for an afternoon shift as soon as you step inside the store, your manager barely greeting you before running off, mumbling something about not being able to wait to get home and watch the football game. You settle behind the cash register, stretching your arms above your head.
It’s shortly after that the real work starts and you see customers walking in. It feels okay until people start asking you for help while you have a line at the cash register, trying your best to explain to them where they can find the product while scanning items of the person in front of you. They’re usually understanding, letting you do what you need and willing to wait a while, but there are also occasions where you get yelled at for being too slow or being a mess, making you clench your jaw. It’s not a hard job and it pays you good money, that’s why you like it so much, but people like that always make you want to quit.
Thankfully, it slows down before you can lose your mind and never come back. You breathe out in relief, sitting down in your chair and unlocking your phone. There’s ten minutes left before you can leave and you just pray no one else comes in. If you’re lucky, the manager gets here earlier and lets you leave even before your shift fully ends.
But of course, it’s not the manager that walks in. You raise your head and place your phone aside, your eyes widening when you see the same black zip up hoodie you did this morning. His hands are in his pockets, his feet leading him to a ramen alley before he can even notice you.
You watch him from your place, debating if it’s better to leave him alone and hope he doesn’t recognize you or approach him. Eventually, when he walks to the cash register to pay, you settle for the latter. “Hi,” you greet him awkwardly, scanning his cup of ramen. His eyes meet yours and his cheeks immediately turn pink, making him avert his eyes again as he greets you back. You smile, hoping to make it somehow less awkward while telling him his total. He places the exact amount in front of you and grabs his food, hesitating for a second. “I’m sorry, again,” he mumbles, raising his head again.
Your eyes soften a bit when you catch the blush hiding behind his glasses and messy hair, obviously still flustered. “I didn’t…did I wake you up?” He wonders when he remembers you standing in the window in your pajamas with your hair slightly ruffled from sleep. You shrug, putting the money away into the register before turning your head back to him. “Yeah but it’s fine, I wanted to wake up early anyway,” you lie so he doesn’t feel even worse, watching him hum in response.
“Can I, uhm, do you want anything from the store? Like coffee or ice cream? I…feel bad,” he admits, his eyes more sincere than you thought possible. You think about it, trying to see what the correct answer is, but when you figure there isn’t one, you just nod. “Coffee would be nice,” you agree, and before he can walk away to find a cup, you extend your hand towards him, your name slipping past your lips. He smiles, still awkward, as he shakes your hand, repeating your name inside his head to memorize it. “Choi Beomgyu.”
Your manager steps inside the store just as you collect the money for your coffee from Beomgyu. You smile at him, stepping out and making space for him at the register so he can lock it. It’s been around a year since you started working here and for some reason, he still doesn’t want you closing. At first, you found it weird, worried about what you did wrong, but then you learnt he is like that with every one of his part timers, no matter how long he’s known them for. His trust issues are bad, but honestly you can’t blame him. He’s just being careful.
Beomgyu stands on the side awkwardly, debating if this was his cue to leave. Your manager seems to catch onto that because his eyes flicker from him to you before sighing. “Yeah, you’re all good for today. Feel free to leave with your little boyfriend.” There were so many things wrong with the sentence, but you didn’t have a chance to correct him before Beomgyu hands you your drink, offering to walk you home since it’s dark outside.
You walk side by side, sipping on your coffee without a single word. You’re not sure if he minds or not. With his hands in his pockets again and his eyes glued to the ground beneath his feet, it’s hard to tell. “You don’t have to walk me home,” you mumble, making him look up. “It’s okay. I know where you live now anyway,” he jokes, but his laugh doesn’t sound entirely convincing, more like regretting.
“How did you end up there?” You wonder, watching the corner of his mouth twitch slightly. You narrow your eyes, trying your best to read him. “I’ve got the address from one of Yuna’s friends—Jia. I asked her for it last week, I doubt she moved out in the last few days and you started living there instead, though.” He kicks a few rocks on the ground and you nod. “Lived there my whole life,” you let him know and he hums. “I was stupid,” he shrugs like it’s no big deal, like it’s something he expected deep down.
You’re not sure what to say or do. People never have a right or wrong answer, but most of the time, you can still tell what they expect from you or what they want to hear by the tone of their voice, by the way they stand, or any other body language. Beomgyu doesn’t give you any clues, though.
“Do you…like her a lot?” You ask instead, the words feeling sour on your lips. He seems to think for a second, weighing his pros and cons. “We’ve spoken twice,” he mumbles, blowing some air on his forehead to get his hair out of his eyes. “I don’t exactly know her, to be honest, but yeah, I do like her.”
“Why?” The question comes out more judging than you’d want it to but either he doesn’t notice, or simply doesn’t care. “I don’t know,” he shrugs. “She was nice when we spoke. It surprised me. I never expected a girl like her to look my way, let alone ask me about music and when our performances are.”
“A girl like what?” You frown, quickly masking it by taking another sip. “A pretty girl,” he says casually, and when he senses you quiet down, his eyes widen, quickly shaking his hands in the air to correct himself. “Which isn’t supposed to mean that the girls that do talk to me normally are ugly. Not that many girls talk to me. I– uhm– I think everyone is pretty, in their own way. She just is kind of out of my league, you know? And that makes me even stupider for thinking there would be a chance but–”
“Calm down,” you interrupt his panicking, a snicker escaping your lips. He’s blushing again and it’s honestly kind of cute. “If you think you’re stupid, then you probably have a chance with her, she likes that kind.” He rolls his eyes at your comment, shaking his head with a soft chuckle, making your lips curl up into a smile. You’re glad he understands a joke and doesn’t attack you immediately—which is something you’re sure all of the boys she keeps around herself would do.
“Sorry for the rambling. I don’t exactly know how you’re supposed to talk to girls,” he admits, making you chuckle. You let the conversation settle into a comfortable silence again, thinking about everything he’s said until now. The longer you spend with him, the less he makes sense to you. He’s nice, calm, quiet, innocent and pure, so why does he look at someone like Yuna? You can’t wrap your head around it. There’s a specific type of guys she’s dated, from what you observed, always the exact opposite of what Beomgyu is.
“The song is really nice by the way,” you proclaim, finishing your drink. “What song?” He asks confusedly, processing your sentence for a second before he connects the dots, his eyes widening. “It’s cringe,” he corrects you, averting his eyes again in embarrassment. “Do you really think that?” — “Yeah,” he nods, but you don’t believe him. To you, it seems more like he’s building up a wall in case you were going to agree, change your mind and say it’s the worst song you’ve ever heard.
“Well, I think it’s really good,” you assure him. “It’s been playing on repeat in my head.”
“Really?” He blinks hopefully, your smile widening as you nod. “Yeah. You wrote it, right?”
“I did,” he agrees, biting back his smile. “It’s stupid, though, isn’t it? Writing a song for a girl that I know will reject me.”
“You keep saying that you’re stupid and that what you do is stupid,” you mumble, shaking your head slightly. “But I don’t think that’s right.” He seems caught off guard by your words, struggling to find the right answer.
“I’m not stupid,” he says finally, tilting his head slightly with a sigh. “But I make decisions like that, sometimes.”
“You think liking her is one of them?” He doesn’t even rethink his answer before nodding, mumbling something about a hierarchy in popularity and the slim chances of her liking him back. When you ask why he decided to confess then, if he’s so sure he doesn’t have any chances with her, he tells you about how his friends boosted his ego the night before and he ended up believing in himself more. You listen closely, thinking about how it’d feel to be in his position.
After learning about Beomgyu’s crush and the way he sees Yuna, you naturally shift the conversation to something lighter, something that you’ve been wondering about and you know he won’t mind talking about—music.
He tells you about his band, the process behind his song writing and how he got into music at first, making you smile as you listen to his story on your way home. Honestly, you could have been home at least ten minutes ago, but for some reason, you didn’t want to leave. You enjoy talking to him, seeing his viewpoint on certain stuff and listening to his soft voice, making you take a longer route just to be with him longer.
You don’t think he minds, his laugh and stories making you think he likes being around you just as much as you do.
Once you do finally reach your house, Beomgyu stops mid step, smiling awkwardly again as he stands in the exact same place he did this morning. You smile back at him, glancing at the house, the soft light in the living room window letting you know your parents are there. “Thank you for the coffee.” He shakes his head slightly, brushing it off like it’s nothing. “Thank you for liking my song. Possibly more than the person it was meant for.” Somehow, he doesn’t sound sad. In fact, it’s almost like he’s making fun of the situation now.
“Good night, Beomgyu,” you smile gently, his lips forming the same grin. “Good night.”
You feel exhausted by the time lunch comes around on monday, the lack of sleep from the previous night finally getting to you. Still, it feels worth it when you know it helped you do well on today’s tests. Sometimes, you question if it’s really necessary to do all this for some grades, but after another success, your worries wash off and everything makes sense again.
You walk through the full cafeteria, looking for a table to sit at, when your eyes fall to a familiar face, his lips turning into a soft smile when he notices you. You smile back at him but don’t move, still trying to find a table—preferably one that is empty. You’re not sure what Beomgyu’s smile means, if it’s an invitation to sit with him and his friend, but you don’t want to risk the embarrassment if it’s not.
But no matter how closely you look, you find nothing, your feet slowly bringing you to his table anyway. “Mind if I sit here?” You ask carefully and Beomgyu doesn’t hesitate moving to create space for you. You slide beside him, smiling awkwardly as a form of gratitude. “Sorry for interrupting– Taehyun?” You blink when your eyes land on the boy opposite you, recognizing him from one of the math competitions the school held just a few weeks ago. He greets you warmly, even though the confusion in his voice is obvious.
“Oh, wait,” his eyes widen in realization, flickering between you and Beomgyu. “Are you the girl he ambushed?” — “I didn’t ambush anyone!” Beomgyu argues immediately, his cheeks turning red after realizing how loud he must have been just now. “Of course not,” Taehyun scoffs. “You just sang a love song–”
“Alright, shut up,” Beomgyu interrupts him, glancing at you apologetically. You shake your head with a light chuckle, brushing it off. “I’ve already told you it’s fine.”
“He’s lucky it was you, honestly,” Taehyun comments between bites. You raise an eyebrow, blinking confusedly. He simply shrugs, “There are hundreds of students here, if Jia gave him the address of, like Minseo, a video of him would be trending all over the internet by now, and he’ll never have a chance again.” Beomgyu buries his head in the table, practically hiding under it with a groan as his friend continues embarrassing him. You do think he has a point, though. Meeting you was definitely on the lower side of all the embarrassing scenarios that could have happened.
“You both seriously need to shut up before the whole school finds out,” Beomgyu grumbles, looking around as if to check if anyone was spying on you. You shake your head, opening your mouth to tease him further, but before you can, he kicks you under the table. You hiss, but instead of yelling at him, you confusedly watch his face turn redder and his eyes follow someone behind you. You carefully turn around, watching Yuna walk past to her usual table. You look at Beomgyu again, your eyes softening when you manage to read his eyes—broken, desperate, lost.
A heavy sigh leaves his lips when she disappears from his sight, his eyes focusing on you and Taehyun again. You both give him a knowing look that he doesn’t seem to understand. “What? I’m just… I was looking for Soobin!” He comes up with an excuse quickly, making Taehyun scoff. “I completely forgot he doesn’t have lunch for another hour.”
“Right, as if.” Beomgyu closes his mouth again, knowing arguing with him is pointless. Beomgyu knew he was smart, always on top of the class, but Taehyun was on a different level. It was no use trying to outsmart him.
You hesitate, rethinking the situation again before finally placing down your utensils, turning to face Beomgyu. “I’ll help you,” you state, his eyes scanning your face confusedly. “With?” — “With your crush.”
He doesn’t have time to ask you what you mean before you continue, the confidence in your voice scaring him slightly. “I think there is a chance for you. We just have to work on some things.”
“Like?” Taehyun urges, the tone of his voice giving away that he doesn’t believe in what you’ve planned. “Getting him into things she likes,” you say confidently. “If they have more things in common, it’ll be easier for them to talk, ergo he needs to find out what she likes and then apply it to himself. Think of it like a test. If you prepare well enough, you won’t need to worry about failing.”
When you put it that way, Beomgyu doesn’t think it’s completely impossible. And even though you can see Taehyun doesn’t agree, as long as Beomgyu does, you can be useful. “I have a group project with Minseo,” you inform them, frowning slightly at the thought. Group projects were never something you loved, especially if you were paired with people who didn’t care about their grades. On the very first day it was assigned, you asked Minseo when she was free to research information and she straight up asked you to do it on your own, mumbling something about her head hurting every time she thinks for too long.
You hated being paired up with her, but it could be useful now at least. “I can figure out what Yuna likes through her. It won’t be too hard.” The hard part will be convincing her to meet with you. But once you do, you’re certain to get the information out of her. After all, she’s always been known to be an open book.
“Good luck with that,” Taehyun shakes his head, getting up. “Don’t turn him into a completely different person in the process, I’d hate to be his friend if he turns into one of the football jocks she seems to be dating all the time.” Beomgyu doesn’t seem to be paying him any attention, barely mumbling a bye back as his eyes find Yuna again, watching her laugh with her group of friends a few tables away.
“Let’s do it,” he agrees, turning his head to you again. “Let’s try what we can.”
Getting Minseo to meet up with you was actually easier than you expected. She did have a bunch of excuses at first, but after you told her you would buy her ice coffee and take care of the presentation fully on your own, she agreed.
So now, you were sitting in a campus café, waiting for her arrival with Beomgyu a few tables away. You told him you would handle it alone, but he insisted, saying that he needed to know immediately. You didn’t see a point in arguing with him, letting him tag along if that was what he wanted to do. You could see that he was nervous, fidgeting with his fingers on top of the table. Seeing him like this was what made you want to help. Because even though you couldn’t say you would wish Beomgyu someone like Yuna, you do think he deserves to be loved just like everyone else. Who he chooses to be loved by is not for you to decide.
It is Friday now, almost two weeks since you’ve met him for the first time. You’ve learnt that he isn’t as shy as you thought he was at first when he started greeting you in the hallways as if you were friends for years, inviting you to sit with him, Taehyun, and occasionally Soobin every day for lunch. He was nice, and whenever he talked about his music like it was the love of his life, you found yourself smiling, listening to every word.
You sip on your coffee, eyes locked onto the iced latte opposite you. She was five minutes late already. Taking out your phone to text her and ask her if she is on her way, you notice a different message, from no one else but Beomgyu. You look his way, telling him to shut up with your eyes. He’s telling you to sit still and hold on for a while longer, reminding you that girls like Minseo don’t care about other people enough to be on time but will always show up eventually. You can see that he’s worried you might just get up and leave and this whole plan would go to vain, and you hate that he can read you so well because that’s exactly what you wanted to do.
You sigh, putting your phone face down on the table and staring a hole into the café door, waiting for your project partner to show up.
When she finally turns up, your coffee cup is almost empty. You watch her walk in with a smile on her face, one so fake you want to pretend it’s not directed at you. But she sits down on the chair opposite you and you can’t pretend she’s not there with you anymore. “Hey,” you offer a soft greeting that she brushes off, taking a sip of her latte. “This is good, is that vanilla?” She wonders, watching the glass with amusement. “I– yeah,” you blink. “You asked for vanilla when we talked yesterday.”
“Right,” she nods, narrowing her eyes at you as if she was trying to remember who you were. It was annoying. “Why am I here actually?” Minseo tilts her head slightly, a small gesture that sends a shiver down your spine. It’s weird talking to her like this, even more so knowing that the first real interaction you have with her is being watched by someone who believes in you more than he probably should.
“I wrote the paper and I know your head hurts when you study for too long, but I just need you to read it to have a general idea of what it’s about and sign yourself under it so we can say you contributed to the work,” you explain just like you prepared earlier with the guys at lunch. She hums, not saying anything in protest as you hand her the two pieces of paper. You can see the disgust in her face but as long as she doesn’t say anything, you won’t either. That’s not really why you’re there anyway.
You start the conversation slowly, asking her about a boy from the basketball team you heard she’s been seeing. At first, you were worried it wouldn’t work, that she would think you were weird for asking her about things like this as that’s what you would do if a stranger asked you about your personal life, but she casually starts answering your questions, the excitement in her voice when she has an excuse to stop reading the paper obvious.
You don’t have to do much as she naturally shifts the conversation from herself to the other girls, gossip falling off her lips like it’s her second nature. You must say, you never heard so many disturbing things about people you didn’t know before.
As soon as she mentions Yuna and her obsession with athletes, your ears perk up. “Oh really? I didn’t know her type was that simple,” you comment casually and Minseo takes a sip of her coffee, the paper long out of her hands, laying untouched right beside her cup. “Oh no, athletes aren’t the only thing she is into. You know Jinho from the swimming team? He definitely wouldn’t make the cut,” she shakes her head like it’s the most obvious fact. You frown slightly, trying to remember him. When you realize you can’t put a face to the name, you figure that’s why he doesn’t fall under her type. She doesn’t like people whose names others don’t know.
“It’s someone like Yeonjun that she’d kill for. She’s been trying to get him ever since our first year. Weirdly enough, he isn’t interested.” Yeonjun is a name you do recognize. A star of every party that mattered, someone who was always surrounded by other people, just like Yuna. If it was by choice or not wasn’t your business. He was handsome, you could see why girls would like him, but he wasn’t your type. You’d much rather have someone who could solve a math problem than a guy who could drink a bottle of beer upside down.
“I see,” you hum. “So what would you say her type is?” It’s a simple question, that’s what it’s meant to be, but to your surprise, it’s also a question Minseo could talk about for hours. Hadn’t you known better, you would think she was still talking about herself. “She loves fashion, you know? Like there’s something so hot about a guy that can dress,” she says, looking around the café quickly. “See? That guy right there. It’s so hot,” she points at a guy in his twenties ordering a drink, waving with an innocent smile when he notices her. He looks flustered.
Even though you don’t want to admit it, you must say she is right. The rolled up sleeves of his button up that reveal his forearms are hot. You shake your head to snap out of your thoughts quickly and take a proper look at what he’s wearing. It’s the opposite of what Beomgyu has on himself right now. Yet, it’s not something you think he wouldn’t be able to pull.
“Oh! And him!” She whisper-yells, pointing at another guy who just walked in. When you see the black shirt and gray sweatpants he has on, you roll your eyes slightly. In his case, it’s definitely not the clothes she is attracted to but the muscles beneath them. “What else is there?”
Minseo thinks for a second, finally averting her eyes from the unknown boy and looking back at you. “Someone popular,” she states the obvious. “Who has connections, and like a bunch of followers.” You fight the urge to scoff at the simplicity of the girl. You weren’t exactly expecting her to say someone nice and kind, but a part of you still had hope until now. “He also needs to go to parties with her, you know her,” she laughs. It’s the same laugh she always gives her friends at lunch and it makes you think if she’s always this fast at befriending people. If that’s what you can call whatever this is.
“I was so surprised when she told me this, but apparently she also likes when guys get soft or whatever. She talked about emotions so much it made my head spin. She said a soft but popular guy like in the movies would be the best combination. I don’t necessarily agree though, I like them without all the emotions and shit.” — “What about you?” She tilts her head and you quickly blink in shock to make sure you’ve heard her right. “Is there anyone I could help you with?” Her smile widens at the idea, leaning closer to you. “If you want my recommendation, Minho from the football team might have been the best sex I’ve ever had.”
Your cheeks flush and you quickly shake your head to stop her. “I think– I think I’m good. I don’t really, uhm,” you avert your eyes, glancing over to Beomgyu for a brief second to see if he was still watching. Thankfully, your eyes don’t meet as he is busy texting someone on his phone. “Oh my, are you a virgin?” That question caught you off guard even more, your eyes widening. When your eyes shoot back to hers, it's enough of an answer for her. “Don’t worry, we’ve all been there,” she laughs, but to your surprise it doesn’t sound like she’s laughing at you. “Maybe you should try your luck with Yeonjun then, I’ve heard he likes virgins.”
“I see,” you nod, your voice shaking slightly. It’s embarrassing. This whole conversation, sitting there in front of her and talking about things like these. “But what did you say your type was again? Maybe I know someone better.”
You open your mouth to answer and then close it again. You’re not sure what she wants you to say, if she expects an honest answer, if she wants you to say athletes just so you could fit into her group, or if she simply wants to make fun of you and there’s no right or wrong answer.
After giving it a second thought, you open your mouth again. “I like kind people. Ones you don’t have to worry will judge you or make fun of you. I like when they are able to hold a meaningful conversation and have their own opinions on stuff,” you says, searching her face for any sign of not liking where you were going with this. When you don’t find anything, certain that she’s still listening, you continue. “I also like when guys aren’t scared to show their girl off, I think that’s very cute—when a guy proudly talks about his girlfriend.”
“I see, you’re one of those,” she giggles, leaning back in her chair. “How about looks?” You think about it for a second but then just shake your head. “Someone taller than me, I guess? I don’t know.” She shakes her head as well, but her smile never falls off. “I like you,” she proclaims, your surprise turning into a soft giggle when she messes up your name. Still, it’s something. “It’s bad you never attend any parties, you’re not only smart but also nice to talk to. Do you drink?”
“Sometimes, I guess,” you nod and her smile widens. “You should come to my party then. I haven’t told anyone about it yet but I want to do one next month, make sure you’re free. The girls and I can help you find someone, I’m sure you’ll be able to pick one of the guys there.” You don’t refuse her, you don’t say anything really. You’re not sure what you should say. So you just nod slightly, figuring that she’ll probably forget about this in a few days anyway.
She stretches her arms above her head, her yawn informing you that this was the end of her attention span. “This was really great,” your name is still a mess, but it’s closer this time, making you think that the next time you see her she might actually get it right. “But I should go now. The paper, uh, looks awesome.” You smile, nodding even though you know she hasn’t read a single word of it. It’s fine, you didn’t expect her to in the first place.
Minseo get’s up from her chair, giving you one last smile—one way less fake than the one you received when she came in—before walking off. You sigh, leaning back in your chair and closing your eyes. When you open them again, the chair opposite you is occupied again. “God, since when do you walk like a ghost?” You ask, exhaling sharply. Beomgyu chuckled, running a hand through his hair. “Looks like you’ve made a new friend. I didn’t know you were into gossip and all,” he teases you, making you roll your eyes. It’s crazy how quickly he got comfortable around you, turning from a mumbling and blushing mess to an annoying smartass.
“Don’t laugh too much, the work starts now. We need to buy you new clothes.”
Your eyes scan the rack of clothing in front of you, searching for what might suit Yuna’s style. If it was up to you, what Beomgyu was wearing now would be ideal. You shake your head at yourself, picking up a dark blue jacket you’re sure you’ve seen Yeonjun wear in a different color.
You turn around to show the piece to Beomgyu, seeing him holding up a pair of jeans himself. You narrow your eyes. “It’s the same one you’re wearing right now,” you point out and he awkwardly rubs the back of his neck, shrugging. “I like my jeans, why not buy another pair if I’m comfortable in them?” He’s right, you can’t argue with that. You sigh, brushing it off and handing him the jacket for him to try on. He takes it without another word, looking around and browsing for more. You do the same, leaving him to do his thing while you go look through the other side of the store.
You walk around, trying to figure out what could look good. You’re not sure honestly, and the more time you spend at the store, the more you question if you’re fit to be the person helping him. You had your own style that you liked and didn’t care if others found it stylish or not, barely keeping up with the latest trends unlike Yuna. At the end of the day, you and her were the complete opposites, so how were you supposed to get him to fit her style?
When you meet Beomgyu again near the changing rooms, his hands are full. You smile, glad that he found it so easy picking out something that would fit both his and Yuna’s preferences. It’s only when you sit down and watch him come out in the first outfit that you realize he didn’t even try picking up clothes that weren’t in his usual style.
“This is nice, right?” He asks, doing a small spin so you can see. Baggy, ripped jeans and a comfortable hoodie. You scan his outfit, raising your eyebrow. It did look nice. It was similar to what he wore normally — except for the backwards cap on his head — so you couldn’t say you wouldn’t like it, the opposite actually.
For some reason, he looked different standing in front of you now. It wasn’t the same boy you’ve met outside of your house, it wasn’t the boy that walked you home from work the same night and talked about a girl he likes, it wasn’t even the same boy that you got comfortable around so quickly. The Beomgyu standing in front of you now felt like a boy just for you.
With his soft smile and glasses framing his face, he was just a boy you wanted to get serenaded by.
“It’s totally a boyfriend vibe, you know?” He fixes his hat, looking into the mirror to check himself. “What do you think?” You blink quickly, nodding. “Yeah, it looks great,” you agree, swallowing a lump in your throat as the memory of Beomgyu singing outside of your window comes back to you.
“Right? Taehyun and Soobin need to stop arguing with me about having a better style. I’m the best,” he laughs, disappearing into the changing room before you can say anything else. When he comes out again, he has a new pair of jeans on—black ones this time—a simple white shirt and the jacket you picked up before.
Your eyes widen just slightly, biting the inside of your cheek as he steps closer to you, watching himself in the mirror beside you. “I didn’t think this would suit me too well,” he mumbles, hiding his hands in the jacket pockets, smiling. “But it actually looks amazing. I think I’ll get this.”
“Yeah, you should,” you nod, mentally slapping yourself to snap out of it. You need to focus, not think about how well he looks. “I’m sure Yuna will like it,” the words come out broken but you’re not sure why. You do think she will like it. It’d be stupid of her not to. He looks amazing.
“Okay, I have one more outfit there,” he says, fixing his hair quickly. “Come on.”
“Where?” You blink confusedly, slowly standing up. “I chose an outfit for you as well.” Your eyes widen as you follow him inside one of the cabins and he hands you the clothes. You don’t get the chance to say anything before he closes the door behind you, sliding back into his cabin.
You stand there for a second, not moving an inch while listening to his soft hums of the song playing on the store speakers. As soon as your mind processes what has happened, you take a look at the clothes you’re holding, making a mental note that he likes the color pink.
You step out while fixing your hair, Beomgyu already waiting for you with his back turned to you. You clear your throat and he immediately turns to face you, his eyes widening for a brief second. You feel a bit awkward as he watches you, his eyes scanning your whole body as if he saw you for the first time.
He has a neat, light blue button-up, half of the buttons undone, revealing a white tank top beneath it. His pants are black, formal, something you didn’t think you’d see on him. The more you watch him, the more you question if there’s something he doesn’t look good in.
“I… you look amazing,” he compliments you, finally averting his eyes. His head falls low as he buttons his shirt, focusing on anything but how you look right now. He closes his eyes, trying to snap out of his thoughts, but the only thing he sees when he does is you again, standing right there with your innocent eyes and the clothes he picked up.
While looking for his clothes, he stumbled into the women section, his eyes immediately landing on a pink sweater. He isn’t sure why, but the first thought that popped up in his mind was about how nice it would look on you. He knew he was shopping for his clothes but he couldn’t help it, ending up browsing the women’s section for something to go with the sweater. And he did find something—a white skirt. He thought it would look cute on you, what he didn’t know was that it would look this cute.
The skirt was shorter than he expected, revealing more skin than he was ready for. Just seconds ago, he was thinking about how good he looked in his clothes and now, he was a mess. He shakes his head, avoiding looking at you again as he swallows a lump in his throat, asking you what you think of his outfit.
“You look handsome.”
The words come out before you can stop it, making you avert your eyes as well, your cheeks lightly flushed.
You both stand there, avoiding meeting each other’s eyes from embarrassment as if you’ve just walked in on him naked. It’s irrational if you think about it from a different perspective, but you can’t look him in the eyes, no matter how much you try to.
You’d rather not look at him again if it’d mean getting your heart to calm down and not making you feel like you’re going to get a heart attack any second.
You’d rather not meet his eyes again than admit a part of you wishes he was dressing up like this for you instead of Yuna.
Beomgyu walks out of the store with two plastic bags—one for himself and the other for you. You did like what he picked out, and as soon as you said it out loud, his eyes met yours instantly, putting his embarrassment aside and saying he’ll buy it for you. You tried arguing at first but gave up halfway, letting him do whatever he wanted.
“Is there another thing we could check off the list today?” He wonders, walking through the mall with you by his side.
“Aren’t you tired?”
He hesitates for a second, shrugging. “No, not really,” he mumbles. “I don’t have anything else to do tonight.” It’s a small lie if he’s honest. He could find what to do. He has his guitar, his band that is waiting for him to compose another song they could play at the spring festival the school holds, and there’s the game he’s been promising Soobin to play for the past few weeks. Still, he doesn’t want to go home just yet, doesn’t want to close himself in his room for hours with music when he could hang out with you. It’s the first for him.
Beomgyu was always someone who loved music. No matter what it was—the sound of a guitar, his old music teacher teaching him her favorite songs, the sound of his pencil drumming against the desk when he was bored in class, or even the birds singing in the morning when he woke up.
He wasn’t sure why spending time with you suddenly sounded better than music but he didn’t want to question it.
All he wants to do is enjoy the rest of his day, preferably by your side.
“Sure,” you nod, looking at your phone to see the time. “We can watch a movie together,” you offer, already sending a quick text to your mom to let her know you wouldn’t come home alone. “Yuna likes romance movies.”
He hums, listening to your every word as you talk about all the possible movies that come to mind at the moment, giving a quick commentary to each of them so he could picture them.
“Do you have a favorite?” You think it through, remembering exactly how you felt watching each movie you’ve just mentioned. “10 things I hate about you,” you answer finally, confident in your response. There were so many good ones you could watch, but this one holds a special place in your heart. “Let’s watch that one then.”
The light is on in the living room when you reach your house, Beomgyu awkwardly hanging behind you as you walk inside, a loud “I’m home,” leaving your lips. You peek into the living room, waving at Beomgyu to come closer when you see both of your parents cuddled up on the couch, watching your mom’s favorite reality show.
“Good afternoon,” Beomgyu greets them nervously, pushing his glasses up when they slide down his nose. “I’m Choi Beomgyu, I go to Haneul Academy with your daughter.” Your parents glance up upon hearing the unfamiliar voice, your mom’s smile widening immediately. “Oh my,” she quickly stands up, motioning for your dad to follow as she makes her way over to you.
You shake your head slightly as you watch your mom extend her hand towards him, introducing herself with a smile, your dad mirroring her actions. “You’re handsome,” she comments, nodding as if she was approving. You shoot her a look but she ignores it, offering Beomgyu something to eat.
“I, uhm, thank you,” he smiles, chuckling nervously. “It’s nice to meet you.”
“We’re going to watch a movie,” you inform them, getting their attention back to yourself. You’d rather not scare him away immediately. “Have fun,” your mom beams, glancing at your dad briefly. “I’ll get you something to eat as soon as our show ends.”
“Thank you.”
Beomgyu follows you into your room while you mumble apologies but he just shakes his head, brushing it off over and over again. “Your parents seem really nice.” You nod, closing the door behind you. “They are, but I get it if my mom seems like a lot right now.”
“She’s nice,” he repeats, assuring you it’s okay as he carefully sits on your bed. “Besides, even if she was an evil witch, it wouldn’t be your responsibility to apologize for her behaviour.” You bite back your smile, averting your eyes from him again and grabbing your laptop from the table.
“You’re really nice as well, you know,” you mumble, sitting down and placing the laptop on top of your thighs.
You’re really nice. The words echo in his head, a soft smile tugging at his lips. He opens his mouth to say something but closes it again as the movie starts playing, the sentence stuck in his throat. The intro music plays and he has to force himself to take his eyes off you and focus on the movie instead.
You soon learn Beomgyu can’t shut his mouth for longer than a few minutes, not even while watching a movie.
“This makes no sense. He can’t actually be that stupid, can he?” — “As you can see, some guys don’t have more than one brain cell,” you laugh, watching Joey pay Patrick as if it was his idea all along.
“Your eyes have a little green in them.” You smile, a soft giggle leaving your lips when she throws up right after that. Beomgyu beside you chuckles as well, glancing at you. “I’m starting to get it,” he says and your eyes meet. “Oh?”
“Yeah, I mean,” he clears his throat as if he was embarrassed. “They are cute together. It’s nice seeing them,” he mumbles, averting his eyes. “And it’s easy to imagine myself in there.”
“Yeah? Who would you be if you were there?” You question, your eyes flickering between the screen and the boy beside you. “Cameron,” he answers without hesitation and your smile falters for just a second. “I assume I know who Bianca would be.” He shrugs, not meeting your eyes again.
It doesn’t surprise you. You can see him in the position, pining over a girl while she flirts with the popular guy, playing around with him until she realizes what she’s missing out on. It’s funny, how just the thought of Beomgyu and Yuna makes you feel sick in the stomach even though you were the one offering your help with his crush.
The movie playing on your laptop along with a few soft laughs at times is the only thing that fills the room after that. You stay quiet, ignoring the way your shoulder brushes against his, watching in silence as Patrick and Kat get together, as Cameron and Bianca start seeing each other, even as Kat finds out she’s been played and Beomgyu starts asking questions, wondering if they are going to be okay.
“Is it that bad?”
“You mean being lied to and finding out he wasn’t interested from the start?” You raise your eyebrow and he closes his mouth again. “I get that just…you can see it in him that he loves her, right?”
“That’s true,” you nod slightly. “And that’s why they’re not going to stay apart forever.” That seems to quiet him down, eyes focused on the movie again.
As soon as the movie finishes, you shift in your place, Beomgyu’s eyes falling to your figure. “So? What do you think?” You ask to break the awkward silence. At least that’s what it seems like to you. “It’s really good,” he nods, his voice quiet. You want to ask if he’s okay, what is he thinking about and if he wants a glass or water or anything, but before you can do so, he is already on his feet, fixing his pants. “I should go now,” he says and you notice he doesn’t look you in the eyes. “It’s late and my mom is probably waiting for me.”
You nod, unsure of what to do. A part of you wants to stop him, ask him to stay longer and talk with you—about school, your part-time job, anything he wants—but you know you can’t. So instead, you stand up as well, leaving the laptop on your bed as you walk him out, watching him say his goodbye to your parents and them returning it with such a bright smile you’d think they’re talking to your best friend.
You linger at the door as Beomgyu walks out of your house, a plastic bag with his new clothes swinging in one of his hands. He looks back just once, your eyes meeting for a brief second, a spark flickering in them before he gives you one of his soft smiles, waving at you before disappearing into the dark.
You’re not sure what it is that had him running out of your room so quickly, but you know one thing—spending the day with him changed something.
Something you couldn’t quite name yet.
There has to be a logical explanation for the sudden change, and you doubt it’s the different clothes.
Taehyun seems to think the same, his eyes narrowing as he glances between you, Beomgyu, and the girl standing near the table, a smile on her face. Your eyes lock with his and he immediately wonders what’s happening. You shrug, as confused as he is. Soobin besides you doesn’t look as fazed, his eyes focused on his food, completely ignoring the situation happening around.
He wasn’t always eating lunch with the three of you but he knew about the situation. Beomgyu’s crush wasn’t a secret, and because they were best friends, there was no need to hide his plan from him either.
“Thanks for the help with the english homework,” Yuna smiles, making you roll your eyes. When you see Taehyun scoffing opposite you, you smile as well. You’re glad you’re not the only one feeling this way—like her whole presence near you is an irony.
“No problem,” Beomgyu answers with a shy smile. “Anytime.”
“This soup is really good,” Soobin interrupts and you’re not sure if he can’t read the room or just doesn’t care. Either way, Beomgyu glares at him, ignoring his comment completely.
“Okay,” she giggles gently, a sound so perfect you can see why Beomgyu would fall for her. Despite your differences and your disagreement with her actions, you get it. Deep down, you understand. She’s pretty, with long shiny hair and glossy lips. Her skin looks as soft as she sounds when she speaks, and her laugh sounds more beautiful than you expected.
“I’ll see you around then,” Beomgyu smiles at her awkwardly as she walks off to her table of friends, humming instead of answering. You wouldn’t consider this a real conversation or progress but when you see his eyes, you can’t say it out loud. He looks too proud of himself for that. “Did you guys see that?”
“No, not really,” Soobin says, not bothered at all. Beomgyu rolls his eyes at him but his smile doesn’t fall off his lips. “I’ve seen it. It’s weird,” Taehyun frowns.
“It’s not weird.”
“It is.”
“You don’t think it’s weird, do you?” Beomgyu looks at you, making you blink quickly. Your eyes flicker from him to his two friends, searching for help. Because honestly, you’re not sure.
“You like her,” you shrug, brushing the question off. Beomgyu raises an eyebrow but doesn’t say anything else, the topic slowly drifting to something no one minds talking about—their band practice.
Taehyun tells you about a new song they’re working on, complimenting Beomgyu’s work on the music—which makes his neck turn red—and laughing as he remembers how Kai’s legs got tangled with the cables and he knocked down a bunch of instruments. You gasp when you hear the story, worried about him and all the instruments that must have been damaged. Thankfully, Taehyun assures you no one got hurt, not a single guitar or band member.
“Have you prepared for the spring festival yet?” Soobin wonders, munching on his food. “There’s a month left and you’re performing, right?”
“Forty days,” Beomgyu corrects. “And…not really. I’m working on it, I promise. I told the manager we’d be performing three new songs so I need to make that happen,” he sighs, running a hand through his hair. “Inspiration has been avoiding me lately.”
“What normally works for you?” You ask, watching his eyes widen slightly. He thinks about it, his mouth falling open and then closing again multiple times. “I’m not… I’m not sure actually. It usually just appears out of nowhere, I don’t think there’s a pattern or something that would make me write good music.”
“Relaxed mind,” Taehyun speaks up. “And memories. That usually works for me.”
You nod, glancing between the three boys. It’s true that ever since you went shopping with him, he’s been out of it. Sure, he still talks like he is on crack a lot of the time, his brain working faster than yours ever could, but every time you mention his music, his smile seems to falter for a second. And now that you know he hasn’t been able to write anything lately, it starts to make sense.
“Alright. We should do something then. Relaxed mind and memories? I think I know of a way to connect that with our little mission,” you smile gently, ignoring Taehyun narrowing his eyes at you, studying you, and only focusing on Beomgyu, his lips turning into a soft smile you’ve grown to love over the past few days. “Have you ever played basketball?”
Athletes were one of the most obvious things on Yuna’s like-list. Her dating history said enough. It was only natural for the next step of your plan to be something to do with sports—but Beomgyu certainly didn’t expect to be playing on the school court with the captain of the basketball team.
“You’re late,” he comments, looking at a non-existential watch on his hand. “Wasn’t Jake supposed to be here?” You ask instead of answering, walking closer to Heeseung, one of your old friends from middle school, Beomgyu following right after you. “Change of plans,” he shrugs innocently. “He had a chore to run to and I wanted to check out who you were so eager to teach basketball to.” There’s a hint of amusement in his voice that makes you roll your eyes because you know exactly what he’s referring to. The last time you asked him and Jake to play basketball with you was when you wanted to introduce your boyfriend to them, but this was a different situation.
A completely different one.
“Heeseung, meet Beomgyu. Beomgyu, Heeseung,” you introduce them briefly. “He wants to impress a girl and needs to be good at sports for that.” Beomgyu shoots you a look immediately, a silent plea not to tell on him completely. It’s enough that he has to listen to Taehyun’s constant ranting about how stupid it is and Kai’s teasing, he doesn’t need it from a stranger as well.
“Nice to meet you,” Beomgyu extends his arm awkwardly, a brief smile on his lips. Heeseung shakes his hand without a second of hesitation, his smile much wider. “Who’s the lucky girl?” He wonders and before Beomgyu can answer, you turn to him. “He always wants to know all the gossip to have a clear picture of others in his head but he doesn’t tell others. You don’t have to worry about anyone finding out.”
Beomgyu nods. “Yuna,” he admits, quickly looking around to check no one else was in. It’s kind of cute. It would be if he wasn’t talking about the one girl you don’t want him to talk about. You think it might feel a lot better if it wasn’t someone so different from you—if it was someone you didn’t compare yourself to so often.
Heeseung whistles, laughing softly. “That’s a tough one.” — “Do you think it’s not worth it?” Heeseung tilts his head slightly, taking a proper look at the boy in front of him. “That’s something you have to decide on your own. I don’t think you’re a bad guy, otherwise she wouldn’t be talking to you,” his eyes fall to you quickly before he looks back at Beomgyu. “And that alone gives you a chance with anyone.”
Beomgyu narrows his eyes at him, glancing at you. “I don’t think that was an encouragement.” Heeseung laughs at him, shaking his head. “If you want my insight, Yuna is not someone everyone can deal with. And I’m not one to tell you if she’s good for you or the other way around.”
You shake your head. “Just tell him it’s all worth it. It better be when we are putting so much effort in for her,” you laugh, the sound bitter. Heeseung raises an eyebrow at you, eyeing you up and down but before he can ask anything, you tell them to start playing already because you don’t have the whole day for them. It’s a lie. Once you knew you’d be spending the afternoon with Beomgyu again, you cancelled your shift and free-upped the rest of your day.
You don’t want to be time limited. Not when you’re with him.
Heeseung throws the ball to Beomgyu, daring him to show off what he is capable of. He hesitates, eyes flickering between you and Heeseung before he starts dribbling, trying to get around the captain. But this is Heeseung’s arena and he doesn’t let him win easily, stealing the ball the first chance he gets and running to the other side of the court, scoring perfectly.
It goes like that for a while, Beomgyu slowly getting used to the pace and learning when to try going through Heeseung and when not. It’s not easy at all but that’s something he expected. Playing with the captain couldn’t be easy.
“You’re good,” Heeseung praises, scoring another point. Beomgyu scoffs, pushing his sweaty hair back. “You learn fast and are confident.”
“I haven’t scored even half as many times as you did.”
“Yeah but I’ve been training my whole life,” he says, running around Beomgyu again before calling out to you. You raise your eyebrows confusedly, your eyes widening when the ball comes to you. You catch it, questioning what that was for. “Let’s play,” he explains simply, wrapping his arm around Beomgyu’s shoulder. “You haven’t gotten out of your form, have you?”
“You play?” Beomgyu asks confusedly, his eyes wide. You smile, dribbling slowly as you walk closer. “It’s impossible not to when you’re surrounded with people that do,” you shrug as if it’s the most obvious thing ever. “But I’m not any good, don’t worry.”
“That’s a lie,” Heeseung leans closer to Beomgyu, chuckling. “I always ask her to play against our newbies to see how good they are. She never loses,” the praises leave his lips as if it’s his second nature, making you roll your eyes. However, when Beomgyu smiles at you, saying he wants to play with you, a smile tugs at the corner of your mouth as well. “Let me take my glasses off first, they’re pissing me off.”
You watch him take them off and hide them inside his bag, your eyes never leaving him. It’s the first time you’ve seen him without them and a part of you is grateful for that. It’s really hard to focus on anything when he looks like that—absolutely gorgeous with his big brown eyes sparkling with excitement. Yeah, this wasn’t good for you at all.
Running around the court, sweating your ass off, was never something you enjoyed a lot. It was the main reason why you never wanted to play basketball for a club. But running around with Heeseung and Beomgyu by your side was something completely different. You were laughing, your stomach hurting from how much. Your hair was sticking to your forehead and you were sure it wasn’t a pleasing sight, but you couldn’t care less at the moment. Not when your eyes were focused on the sweat on Beomgyu’s forehead, his laugh addicting.
If it was with him, you could run forever on this court.
“Timeout, timeout,” Beomgyu repeats over and over again, his breathing heavy as he leans forward, his hands resting on his knees. Despite the exhaustion, he is still laughing softly, trying to collect himself again. His whole body feels too heavy all of a sudden. He falls to the floor, laying on his back and closing his eyes. Heeseung beside you laughs while you slowly walk over to him, sitting down beside him.
Your own breathing is unsteady but you’re still doing better than him, resting your hands on the ground beside you and blowing air up to your forehead in a lame attempt to get your hair out of your face.
“I’m not turning into an athlete,” he states, visibly exhausted. You chuckle. “You’d be good at it.” He shakes his head, still not opening his eyes. “Absolutely not. I think I have asthma.”
“Well then, it’s good you’re so smart,” you mumble and he prompts himself up on his eyebrows, watching you curiously. “What’s that supposed to mean?” You panic slightly, shaking your hands in front of your face. “I mean, you don’t have to be sporty! You are, obviously, uhm, I–”
His soft laugh interrupts you, a sigh full of relief escaping your lips. “I’m just teasing you. I’m glad I’m smart as well,” he assures you, glancing at Heeseung who is still standing up, a bottle of water in his hands now. You’re not sure where he got it but you need one as well, extending your arm towards him and asking him to pass it over. “Not that anything would be wrong with being an athlete, obviously.”
“Obviously,” Heeseung laughs, handing you the water. “You’re good,” he shakes his head, joining you on the ground. “That was fun, though. You do have a talent,” he assures him and you smile again, agreeing. Beomgyu grins proudly, mumbling something about always knowing he’d be good. It makes you laugh again. It’s amazing how easy it is for him to make you laugh but you definitely don’t complain.
As you’re collecting your things from the ground and saying your goodbyes to Heeseung, he pulls out his phone, telling you to wait. Both you and Beomgyu look over, questioning what he needs. “Let’s exchange numbers.”
Beomgyu smiles, quickly pulling out his phone and handing it to Heeseung for him to put his number in. “I’ve got a few pictures when you two were playing, let me send it to you.” You frown confusedly but Heeseung only smirks at you, Beomgyu’s phone lighting up with a new message instantly. “I think they are good, you should post them.”
There’s a bunch of photos of the two of you playing and laughing, some solo shots of Beomgyu, and even a picture of him laying on the ground just a few minutes ago. His smile widens, an idea sparkling in his head. Beomgyu quickly turns towards you, showing you a picture of him with the ball, his forehead sweaty, hair falling into his eyes. “Yuna said she likes big followings, right? I should start posting anyway, and this one is good, right?”
You freeze for a second, nodding slightly. “Yeah,” you mumble, biting your bottom lip to make sure you don’t say anything else. The words, “Can’t you do something just for yourself and not her?” hanging dangerously on the tip of your tongue.
“Alright, I see you around,” Heeseung says, sensing the sudden shift in your energy. “Call me later, yeah?” You nod, smiling awkwardly, holding tightly onto your bag. “I will,” you agree, meeting Beomgyu’s eyes again, hoping he can’t see how broken you feel over something so stupid. “Let’s go?”
When you get home you notice Beomgyu’s new post. The same picture he showed you earlier. When you scroll to another picture, he’s laughing with you and it makes you smile. The last picture he posted is of him laying on the ground, exhaustion visible. You think back to the moment and even though it’s only been minutes since you last saw him, you find yourself missing him already.
You want to spend more time with him, create more memories and laugh with him. But as soon as your eyes fall to the like button under his post, the silly wish disappears because you know you can’t ask for that. Not when his eyes are already on someone else.
Liked by yunaluxe and others.
You turn your phone off, throwing it beside you on the bed and burying your face in your pillow, a loud, regretting groan leaving your mouth.
The club room is loud, the electric guitar shaking the walls when Beomgyu walks in. Taehyun doesn’t notice him at first, his eyes closed as he plays, his grimace making Beomgyu wonder what he’s thinking about. It’s been long since he heard him play like that. Taehyun was usually calm, keeping his troubles to himself in order not to bother others.
“Hey,” Beomgyu greets him, Taehyun’s fingers stopping mid move as his eyes flutter open. “Hey. Sorry that was,” he tilts his head and swallows a lump in his throat, his brows furrowed as he thinks about how to explain himself. “I needed to cool off for a second.”
“Everything good?”
“Yeah, don’t worry,” he shakes his head. “Just a rough day. Math and all,” he brushes it off and even though Beomgyu feels a bit uneasy, he nods, getting his guitar out of the case. “Yeah, math sucks,” he plays into it, smiling as he joins his side. “It completely tired me today as well. Should we play it off together?”
Taehyun’s lips turn into a smile, “Sure.”
Kai laughs awkwardly as he walks into the club room, making both Taehyun and Beomgyu turn his way. The two of them are sitting at a table in the corner of the room now, chatting about nothing in particular while waiting for their third member. He’s late, which isn’t usual for him.
“You got lost or what?” Beomgyu asks with a light laugh, his smile falling off when he notices another figure behind Kai. “Kind of,” he chuckles, a teasing smirk on his face as he steps aside for the two boys to see. “Oh.”
“Hi,” Yuna smiles warmly, fixing her skirt in a way that has Beomgyu thinking she wants him to look. He clears his throat, glancing at Taehyun instead. “I’m going to absolutely embarrass myself,” he whispers, his eyes screaming for any sort of help. Taehyun just rolls his eyes at him, jumping down from the table. “What brings you here?”
“I saw Huening in the hallway and asked him about you,” her eyes briefly flicker to Beomgyu, his neck turning red under her gaze. “And when he said you’ve got practice right now, I asked if it would be possible to join you.”
Beomgyu pulls a chair for her, unsure if he should yell at Kai or be thankful. He feels like a mess, with no idea what to do. There has to be a right and wrong answer but he can’t find them for some reason. So he simply grabs his guitar, squeezing it tightly as he waits for his band mates to prepare as well.
It’s awkward. He avoids meeting her eyes as much as possible while her gaze lingers on his figure in a way he didn’t think was possible. A part of him feels excited, but the other is just tensed, insecure, and intimidated. Sure, they’ve played for others before. The three of them stood together on a podium in front of a bunch of people since middle school, but this was different—intimate.
“Okay, uhm, let’s start with spring,” Beomgyu looks over his shoulder at Kai behind the drums and then back at Yuna, sharing an awkward smile with her before his fingers gently move over the strings, one hand holding the pick and determining the rhythm while the other switches between different chords.
As the soft melody echoes through the room, his eyes close, focusing on his voice as he starts with the first verse. Spring is an old song from four years ago they play to this date to warm up. It was also one of the first songs Beomgyu has written, and even though he knows he has improved a lot since then, he still feels proud.
“Should we do Wake up next?” Kai suggests as soon as the song comes to an end. Beomgyu’s eyes widen, anxiety running through his whole body. “Yeah, let’s do that,” Taehyun agrees without hesitation, ignoring Beomgyu’s panicked look. Wake up is a recent song, one he wrote with Yuna in mind. It’s embarrassing on its own, even more so when he’s supposed to play it in front of her.
“Oh, is that a new song? I haven’t heard of that one,” Yuna asks excitedly, her bright eyes catching him off guard. It feels like he is talking to a completely different person. Just a few weeks ago, he was convinced there wasn’t an universe where she would like him back and now, he felt like he was in a dream. Beomgyu from a month ago would be jealous of him now, absolutely excited to play a song for her.
But now, he doesn’t feel that. He feels lost and confused as his voice fills the room because it’s not Yuna or her pretty smile that his mind drifts to.
It’s you, the girl he’s spent so much of his time with lately he can’t see a reality in which he doesn’t talk to you.
His fingers slip. The chord misses. His heart stutters, faster than the tempo, his head clouded with memories of everything you did together. It’s weird, wrong. He’s supposed to be thrilled, jumping from excitement that he gets to show off his music in front of Yuna and possibly get closer to her, so why is it only you he can think of while playing a love song he wrote?
“Shit, I’m sorry,” Beomgyu shakes his head, stopping before the song ends. Taehyun and Kai stop their movements as well, watching him confusedly. “My head is elsewhere,” he admits, mentally slapping himself to snap out of it. “It’s okay,” Taehyun assures him, his voice giving away that he is confused. This hasn’t happened before. If anyone was out of it during practice, it was Kai. Beomgyu was always focused, relaxing with the music and getting his mind off any unnecessary thoughts. It was weird.
“We can take a break,” Kai suggests, anxious when he looks at Yuna. He brought her in because he wanted to help Beomgyu and make them closer, he’d hate for this little mistake to cause the opposite. Thankfully, she doesn’t look disgusted like he expects her to, the same warm smile on her lips that calms him down a bit. “Sorry,” Beomgyu mumbles again, placing his guitar on the stand.
“It was really great,” Yuna says softly and Beomgyu’s eyes finally meet hers. “Don’t worry about it, the song sounds amazing.” — “Right,” he nods slightly, jumping up on the same table as before, his feet swinging in the air. “It’ll be better at the spring festival.” It’s a light promise that causes Yuna’s smile to widen, nodding happily. “I can’t wait to listen to it. I should go now, Minseo needs my help with getting alcohol for her party,” she giggles, the sound sending a shiver down Beomgyu’s spine. “You’re all coming, right?”
The guys exchange a look, unsure of what to say. Beomgyu only heard of the party when Minseo was talking to you about it in the café and honestly, he completely forgot about it. He didn’t think he was invited anyway, he never was. “You have to, it’ll be fun,” she encourages them, grabbing her hand back from the floor and standing up. “I’ll see you there,” she grins before any of them even answer her, not giving them a choice. And just like that, she walks away, leaving the three boys alone in the room.
Kai blinks confusedly, trying to figure out what just happened. He thought something was up right when Yuna approached him and asked him about their practice, but this was on a completely new level of insane. He turns his head towards Beomgyu who is as lost as he is, his gaze lingering at the door.
But for some reason, he doesn’t miss Yuna, doesn’t look there and imagine her figure. No, all he can think about is how wrong it felt playing the song for her, and how much he wishes it was you sitting on the chair in front of him, laughing with them at the stupid jokes Kai made or the way he messed up the chords.
Because with you he doesn’t feel the same pressure as with Yuna.
With you, it just feels easy.
“You haven’t forgotten, right?” You blink confusedly, looking up to see who’s talking to you. Your confusion only grows when your eyes meet Minseo who you haven’t talked to since the day in the café. “About…?” She gasps, shaking her head in disappointment. “The party, obviously! You have to come.” The fact she’s talking to you doesn’t surprise you as much as the way she finally says your name correctly does.
“I…when is it?” You ask carefully, hoping she doesn’t yell at you. She simply sighs, opening her phone to show you something. “Have you lived under a rock until now? It’s bold on here,” she turns her screen towards you, your eyes quickly scanning her story with the time and address. It is clear and you’re sure everyone knows about it already. It’s your fault for not following her.
“Tell me you don’t have anything today. We talked about this a month ago already.”
“I, no, I’m free,” you nod, a little uncertain. Parties weren’t exactly your thing, but you didn’t know how to tell her no. It was the first time someone out of her circle talked to you about anything other than homework they needed help with, and even though you knew it was pathetic holding onto it so much when you complained about their lack of intellect a lot before, you didn’t want to miss out on your chance to prove to them you weren’t just a nerd who didn’t have any hobbies outside of studying.
“Then it’s settled,” she claps her hands happily. “Bring whoever you want with yourself as long as they’re fun, I don’t care.” You nod, someone popping into your head immediately. She grins, waving at you slightly before walking out of the class, already chatting with someone else.
You brush your hands on your skirt awkwardly, trying to get them to stop sweating as you step out of the car, Beomgyu and his two friends right behind you. Kai’s older sister quickly wishes you to have fun, telling Kai to call her once he needs a ride back before driving off, leaving the four of you at the sidewalk.
“This is so weird,” Taehyun comments, looking at the already full house. Some people are in the garden, laughing around the pool while one of Minseo’s friends stands behind the DJ pult, mixing songs in a way that gives away that she is definitely not supposed to touch the device.
“Tell me about it,” Beomgyu mumbles while Kai just grins, way more excited than the three of you. “Oh, come on. It’s going to be fun!”
“Or extremely embarrassing.” Kai rolls his eyes, wrapping his arm around Taehyun’s shoulder and walking towards the house, yelling how lame you and Beomgyu are. You watch their back in disbelief, glancing at Gyu beside you. He’s wearing one of his ripped jeans with an oversized band shirt, looking as handsome as ever. He also isn’t wearing his glasses, and so when he turns his head towards you, his eyes meeting yours, you feel weak in the knees.
“Let’s go,” he smiles and you avert your eyes, squeezing the bottom of your skirt as you gaze into the ground beneath your feet. He seems to notice your uneasiness, wrapping his hand around your shoulder and pulling you closer into a brief side hug. You raise your head again, surprise written all over your face as you watch him, eyes wide. “You look amazing,” he assures you, thinking that’s what’s bothering you. “I told you when we were buying the clothes and I’ll tell you all over again until you believe it.”
It’s incredible how easy it is for Beomgyu to have your heart racing. His words echo in your head, his cologne reaching your nose as he slowly walks with you towards the house as well, keeping you close. You look down on your clothes again, a small smile tugging at the corner of your lips as you stare at the white skirt and pink sweater—the same clothes he bought for you a few weeks back.
Beomgyu grabs a drink for you and him as soon as you get inside, finding a space in the corner of the room. He tells you about a new show he’s been watching, how his new song has been going, and even about his failure at cooking dinner last night. You laugh, slowly getting comfortable again and forgetting about everyone else, your world only having two people in it—you and him.
You’re not sure where Kai and Taehyun disappeared or if they were having fun but it’s what bothers you the least at the moment, unable to focus on anything that wasn’t Choi Beomgyu and his soft voice.
But your little bubble is interrupted when your eyes meet Yuna’s behind Beomgyu and she walks over, greeting you with the same annoyingly beautiful smile. You take a sip of your drink and a small step back to make space for her, Beomgyu mimicking your movements. “Hey,” he greets her back, introducing you to her as if you didn’t already know who she was. “Oh, yeah, my bio girl, right?” She asks and you grit your teeth, nodding.
It’s ridiculous. You’ve been in her bio class for two years and she always came to you asking for help or homework answers, often cheating off your tests as well, so how were you still only labeled as her bio girl? It made you feel like a joke.
“I didn’t know you two knew each other,” she mumbles. You bite back the insult you want to say and simply smile, letting Beomgyu answer. “Yeah, we’ve been friends for a while,” he nods, glancing at you. There’s a flicker of something you can’t name in his eyes, making you blink confusedly. Haven’t you known better, you think it’s pain, regretted behind those words. Does he not see you as his friend?
“Oh, right, I saw you on Beomgyu’s post when he was playing basketball, right?” You nod again, shaking it off and focusing your attention at Yuna again. “Well, it was nice meeting you,” she says, shutting you out of the conversation before you can say anything else. “I don’t have anything to drink, mind grabbing something with me?” Beomgyu opens his mouth and closes it again, his eyes flickering between the two of you before he nods hesitantly, letting her wrap her arm around his and pull him away, leaving you standing there alone with just a cup of vodka in your hands.
You’d be lying if you said you don’t feel like shit but there’s nothing you can do, watching them from your corner while sipping on your drink, looking like someone drained life out of you. Minseo seems to notice when she walks over to you to greet you, her smile turning into a frown as she asks what’s going on. You don’t answer. Can’t. But she figures it out on her own, her eyes following yours and finding Beomgyu and Yuna chatting near the drinks, both laughing over something he said.
“Oh,” she breathes out, standing in front of you to cover the sight. She raises her cup, unsure of what to say to make you feel better. “Yuna is… I didn’t know… I mean,” she clears her throat, feeling the pain in her gaze. You shake your head, raising your cup as well and forcing a smile, drinking with her. Your eyebrows furrow when the bitter taste fully settles in, the grimace you make making Minseo laugh. You’re glad at least one of you is able to laugh at the moment.
“You know, I’m not as stupid as everyone thinks,” she says suddenly, glancing back at them again. “So I really enjoy talking to you because I know you’re not stupid either.” — “Thanks?” You interrupt confusedly and she sighs. “My point is, I wanted to have a friend who was smart and also could talk about stupid boys with me so I wanted to help you get a boy, I told you that, right?” You nod, trying to see where her monologue is going. “But he’s…I can’t really help you when Yuna wants him as well. You understand, right?”
Your eyes widen, your lips shaking a bit as you try to answer her. But what is it that you’re supposed to say? Yeah, no worries, I get that she wins every time? Oh thank you for being such a great friend, Minseo?
Instead, you brush it off, changing the conversation before she can say anything else and make you feel even worse. She seems to prefer it that way as well. Her smile returns and she tells you about the boy she is seeing at the moment, complaining about him not showing up today before she drags you with herself towards the center of the room, introducing you to a few people as if you were really her friend.
You sit down on the couch right beside her, fixing your skirt when it rolls up higher than you’d want. One of the guys offers you his drink but you refuse, saying you’re good. It’s only when you see Yuna holding Beomgyu’s hand and pulling him with herself for a dance that you grab the drink from him, gulping it down in one go. There’s a few whistles around you and cheers but they don’t reach your ears. The only thing you can hear is Minseo telling you to be careful before you receive another cup with who knows what.
You’re not sure how long you’re sitting there, drinking and chatting with Minseo’s friends but it does help make you feel better. You push Beomgyu out of your head for a while, thinking about getting home and watching a movie with your mom instead of the boy that keeps breaking your heart over and over again without knowing about it. It feels nice to be able to focus on something else for once, but with your luck, it doesn’t last long.
“Here you are,” Beomgyu’s voice is a little panicked when he finds you, sounding as if he was looking for you all over the house. His breathing is unsteady as he looks around the group of people surrounding you, frowning. It’s an unusual crowd to say the least, especially when it’s Minseo of all people telling you to stop drinking because you’ve had enough. Your eyes flicker to him, your smile falling off. “Oh, hey.”
“Hi,” he greets you back even though he doesn’t understand, your name gentle on his lips. “Are you okay?” He asks, worried as he comes to stand beside you. You nod, smiling again. “Peachy.”
“She drank quite a lot,” Minseo tells him, making you roll your eyes. They’re acting as if you were wasted, unable to hear them. But you’re sitting right between them, annoyed with both of them. “The last time I checked I was able to drink however much I want,” you mumble, asking for another drink. Yeonjun who’s sitting opposite you reaches over and offers you his cup. You grab it without hesitation.
Beomgyu says your name again in a poor attempt to stop you but it only makes you want it more. You need to drown the pain he causes you. Need to shut his voice out before you start crying in front of everyone without even knowing why.
“Come on, we should go. Your mom will be worried,” he tries again and you shake your head. “I think she’s perfectly fine here,” Yeonjun interrupts him with a teasing smirk, leaning back in his seat. “Right, princess?” You nod, ignoring the nickname. “I’m sure her pretty little head can think for herself. And either way, there’s nothing to be worried about when she’s with us.”
His words make Beomgyu even more uncertain, his blood boiling when he watches Yeonjun’s eyes trail down your body. It’s disgusting, really. He stands between you without hesitation. “Let’s go,” he tries again, watching your cheeks turn red as you look up at him, hoping for the couch to swallow your whole so you could disappear.
His eyes are pleasing and part of you wants nothing more than to leave with him right now, but it hurts. It hurts so fucking bad.
Beomgyu grabs your hand before you can speak, pulling you up so you’re standing in front of him. You watch him confusedly, opening your mouth to argue with him and tell him you want to stay. However, he interrupts you before you can even do so, his empty hand cupping your cheek as he leans closer, pressing his lips against yours.
Your eyes widen, feeling your heart is about to jump out of your chest when he tilts his head slightly, his eyes closed as he tastes your lips, his other hand moving from your to your waist, keeping you flush against him.
You’re out of breath when he pulls away, the loud cheers around making you snap out of your thoughts and realize what’s going on. Beomgyu holds your hand again, his eyes soft as he looks at you. “Can we go now?” You nod this time, squeezing his hand tightly as he pulls you away from the crowd, getting out of the house without looking back once.
You don’t look back either, your eyes fixed on your intertwined hands, unable to think straight as he pulls you towards Lae’s car, Taehyun and Kai already waiting inside.
He holds your hand throughout the whole ride without a single word, only letting you go when the car stops in front of your house and you step outside, your gaze lingering on him until Lea drives off and you’re finally able to break down, tears slowly rolling down your cheeks.
You don’t want to get out of your bed the next morning, frowning when the light from outside reaches your face. You hide your head under your blanket, groaning. You reach your hand out, trying to find your phone somewhere on the bed. Once you do, you’re left disappointed when you see it’s dead, slowly rolling out of the bed to charge it.
It feels like someone beat your head the whole night but you force yourself to get out of your room and find something to eat, trying your hardest to ignore the sickening feeling in your stomach that reminds you just how poor your decisions were last night.
“You’re awake,” your mom smiles from the kitchen counter, already handing you a glass of water and some scrambled eggs. You smile as you grab them from her, sitting down at the table where your dad is drinking his morning coffee. “Did you throw up last night?” He asks and you shake your head immediately, assuring him it wasn’t that bad.
“Beomgyu came by earlier,” your mom says as she settles into a chair beside you. Your eyes widen. “Asked if he could talk to you but you were asleep so I sent him back home. Did something happen?” You hesitate as you take a bite of your breakfast, remembering the way his lips felt against your last night. There’s a few things from last night that are blurry. You don’t remember how much you drank or what it was, but you remember this clearly.
“No, nothing happened,” you shake your head in the end. “It probably wasn’t that important, don’t worry about it.”
Nothing important. You try to convince yourself of that as well but as soon as you’re done eating, you rush back to your room, grabbing your phone immediately. Your lips curve into a smile when you see new messages from Beomgyu, feeling like for once, maybe life is going your way.
Beomgyu: Are you awake yet?
Beomgyu: Can we talk?
Beomgyu: I’m on my way to your house
Beomgyu: Your mom said you’re still sleeping, just call me when you wake up?
Beomgyu: I need to talk to you
Beomgyu: And preferably see you as well
Beomgyu: I miss you
He’s adorable. You rush to press the call button but freeze when you get a new notification. Yunaluxe shared a new story.
You click on the notification even though a part of you knows you shouldn’t. Your stomach immediately drops when you see a picture of her and Beomgyu from last night, her arm wrapped around his waist while the other holds up a drink. He is smiling, his arm around her waist as well. You feel sick as you read the caption. Love finding future celebrities before they’re famous.
You turn your phone off again and let it charge, jumping back into bed and closing your eyes, Beomgyu’s messages staying there unanswered. You can’t talk to him. Not when you know he thinks last night was a mistake. He likes Yuna, right? There’s no reason for him to talk to you.
Life never goes your way.
It hurts avoiding him, but it hurts even more seeing him. You turn away every time you catch just a glimpse of Beomgyu in the hallways, avoiding all his messages and calls. It’s been four days since you properly looked at your phone, not wanting to see what he texted you. You can’t. You’re sure that if you read his messages you’d cry again, and you’ve had enough of that.
So instead, you buried yourself in work. You took a shift every day of this week and once your classes ended, you ran to the basketball court immediately to be with Heeseung and Jake, making sure there wasn’t a minute you could meet or think about Beomgyu.
It worked.
At least until it didn’t.
You hear your name from behind, squeezing your eyes shut at the familiarity of it. You want to run away and pretend you didn’t hear him but before you can do so, he grabs your hand and your eyes widen. You slowly turn around, pulling your hand away from him. “Hey,” you greet him awkwardly.
He sighs. You expect him to accuse you of avoiding him, be mad, or even yell at you. Instead, he does the complete opposite. “Hi,” he says simply, his voice as soft as you remember it. You meet his eyes hesitantly, your heart shattering into tiny pieces when he smiles at you. “Can we talk?”
He doesn’t give you the chance to refuse, pulling you aside so you don’t stand in the way of other students. You’re both quiet for a while, unsure of what you’re supposed to say. An apology hangs at the tip of your tongue but the words never come out, the nervousness building up more and more the longer you stand there.
Eventually, you break the awkward silence. “It looks like your wish became reality.” His eyes widen, looking at you confusedly. You clear your throat, looking away. “Yuna likes you, it’s super obvious. You’ve been talking to her, right? I’m sure it’s going well for the two of you.”
“What? No– you– are you serious?” Now this is more in the tone of how you expected this conversation to go, the annoyance in his voice clear as day. “This has nothing to do with her. I wanted to talk to you. To you, about you.”
“Did Taehyun get used to her yet? I’m sure she’s also eating lunch with you now, right? I hope he isn’t making it too hard for you,” you say as if you couldn’t hear anything he said.
“Can’t you hear me?” He questions, taking a step forward. “This is not about Yuna or anyone else, I don’t care what Taehyun thinks of her. And no, she is not fucking eating lunch with us, which you would know if you weren’t running away from me. Seriously? Can’t you just talk to me, please.”
His voice breaks at the end and you have to bite the inside of your cheek. No, you can’t talk to him. It’s too hard. Too painful. You need to run away from him, this conversation, everything he makes you feel.
“I can’t,” you admit, focusing everything you have left on making sure your voice doesn’t break. If it did, you’re sure you’d cry. “I can’t, Beomgyu. Please, just go be happy with her and let me get over you in peace. I want to be your friend, I really do, but I need to be alone at first to be able to do that.”
Beomgyu opens his mouth to argue, tell you how stupid it all is and that he doesn’t want you to do that, that he needs you closer than ever now. You walk away before he can do so, breathing heavily as you turn your back to him. It’s not fair.
It’s the only thing both of you can think about. It’s not fair.
It’s not fair he gets to walk around all happy with his dream girl liking him back while you have to watch, every word that comes out of his mouth breaking you in a different way.
It’s not fair you get to walk away and look for closure while he is left standing there alone, unable to do anything but watch you as he regrets everything that happened in the past few weeks. As he regrets everything except for you.
Beomgyu doesn’t need to speak for his friends to know something is wrong. As soon as he walks into the club room and sits down, it’s obvious he isn’t okay. Taehyun and Kai exchange a quick look before walking over to him, sitting beside him without a word.
“Is everything…good?” Taehyun asks awkwardly, immediately shutting his eyes closed and regretting how off he sounds. “Perfect,” Beomgyu mumbles, only confirming their worries. “What happened?”
Beomgyu hesitates, staying quiet for a while and repeating everything inside his head. Yeah, what did happened? When did everything go so fucking wrong? “We kissed,” he admits with a sigh. “Who?” Kai frowns and Taehyun immediately slaps his shoulder, shaking his head. Beomgyu rolls his eyes, your name leaving his lips before he can stop it. “On the party. And as you might have noticed, she’s been ignoring me since.”
“Wait, slow down, you kissed her? I thought you wanted Yuna?” Kai asks confusedly, the surprise in his voice obvious. “Dude, it was so obvious they have feelings for each other,” Taehyun says and Beomgyu immediately turns his head towards him. “You think she has feelings for me?” He wonders, a little too excited.
“I know she does. Have you seen the way she looks at you?”
A smile forms on his lips, but it disappears as quickly as it appeared when he remembers you don’t want to see him right now, even if you do like him. “Whatever, it doesn’t matter now. Nothing matters now. She doesn’t want me around and says I should be with Yuna.”
“Wasn’t that what you always wanted?” Beomgyu glares at Kai and the poor boy raises his hands in surrender. “I’m just saying, you can’t blame her when Yuna has been the only thing you’ve been able to talk about for weeks.”
“That’s not true,” he argues even though he doesn’t believe it himself.
“It’s slightly true,” Taehyun nods. “But it’s definitely not lost yet,” he assures him quickly when he sees the pain in his eyes. “I know you and I know her, you two are way too good friends to be able to stay apart for so long. I’ve known you for years, Beomgyu, and as long as I’ve known you, Soobin was always your best friend. But after meeting her? It was so painfully obvious you like her the most out of all of us. I wondered all the time if you only see her as a friend. And she looks at you the same. Like you’re the whole world.”
Beomgyu doesn’t answer. He doesn’t know how. Silence takes over the room again and Taehyun wonders if he said something wrong, nervously glancing at Kai.
“Do you want to cancel practice today? We don’t have to have one. We are basically perfect,” the youngest asks carefully but Beomgyu just shakes his head, standing up slowly. “No, we should practice. The spring festival is in a few days and we can’t mess up. I’ve heard some recording companies will be there.”
They don’t argue with him, following him to their instruments without saying anything else. The silence is weird, uncomfortable, and it makes Taehyun and Kai uneasy. It’s the first time since they started playing together that their practice was this quiet.
Beomgyu grumbles as he keeps messing up the chords, his head too loud compared to the silence in the room. It’s unbearable. But he pushes through anyway, not wanting to bother his friends with something so small as a failed crush he realized he had too late.
It’s only when Taehyun suggests playing a different song that he finally manages to play somewhat stable. The right melody finally echoing through the club room. And as Taehyun starts singing and Beomgyu prepares for his verse, his mind drifts off again. He sees you, standing right in front of him and cheering him on with your big eyes, watching him like he is the star.
And in that moment, it feels like all of his pain vanishes, only the happy memories he has with you remaining.
“I need to go,” he blurts out all of a sudden, quickly packing his guitar. His friends watch him confusedly, blinking as he runs off without another word, unsure of what to do now.
Beomgyu doesn’t care. Doesn’t care that it was he who insisted on having this practice or that he was a complete mess until now. There’s something more important to do at the moment than to drown himself in sadness. He has a song to write.
You’re not sure about this. You stare down at your outfit, thinking if you should change again. You’re wearing a light blue dress that you’d normally love but for some reason can’t seem to feel good in right now.
“You look gorgeous, I promise. Beomgyu is going to fall to his knees when he sees you,” Heeseung assures you, watching you from your bed. But it’s not about whether he’ll like it or not, you don’t even know if you want him to. Jake turns off his phone and looks at you as well, a soft smile playing on his lips as he shakes his head at you. “It’s beautiful. No need to stress it. We’re going there to have fun, not for some dumb dude. What was his name? Beomhuj? Or something like that.” You giggle as Jake playfully winks at you, making you feel better without having to try much.
You’re glad they are going with you. You don’t think you’d be able to go alone. When you met Soobin in the hallway two days ago, he offered to go with you and you doubted he knew anything about what happened with you and Beomgyu so you simply rejected his offer softly. You weren’t going to go anyway. Just last night, you were set on staying home and laying in bed with your comfort movies, but then Heeseung and Jake came over, also set on something—making you go with them.
You weren’t in the mood to argue with them and so you got dressed, letting them convince you.
And now, you’re standing right behind the barricade with each boy on your side, awkwardly looking around the empty podium. You told yourself you weren’t excited, that you were there simply because your friends made you, so why were you searching for a certain boy with your eyes the whole time?
Beomgyu, Taehyun and Kai walk on the podium shortly after, the cheers and whistles loud around you. Even though you’re supposed to feel sad, mad even, all you are at the moment is proud. They are incredible. You know how hard they worked up to this point and seeing the crowd cheering for them makes you giddy. They deserve this, no matter what anyone else says.
You watch Beomgyu introduce their band, his eyes nervously scanning the whole crowd. It might be just your imagination but you swear you catch a glimpse of his smile when his eyes finally land on you, clearing his throat as Kai starts playing the drums and music takes over the place.
You smile as you listen to their music, all the sadness and emptiness you felt before washing off. You can’t help it. Even though a part of you wants to run away and hide so you never have to see him again, your other half heals when you listen to him. It always had.
The song comes to an end and Beomgyu glances at his bandmates quickly before wrapping his hand around the mic, smiling at the crowd.
“This is the first time we’re playing this song and it’s quite fresh, so I’m sorry if we sound a bit off,” he laughs awkwardly. “I wrote it at my worst and best at the same time. This one is for, uhm, a special someone,” he proclaims, avoiding eye contact as he thinks over his words. “It’s for the girl who makes me feel so much at once I’m unable to think straight, someone who has been there with me even when I was so oblivious it hurt her,” you see him glance at you briefly, his eyes saying everything you wanted to hear after accepting the fact you like him. You swallow a lump in your throat, shifting nervously and glancing at the two boys beside you.
“This one is called Because of you. I hope you like it.”
You blink confusedly as the melody surrounds you, the excitement in your eyes obvious as you look at Heeseung to make sure you’re not dreaming. He has a playful smirk on his lips, nodding as if he could read your mind completely.
“You laughed at things I couldn’t say,
And made them rhyme inside my chest,
I thought I’d lost the words one day,
But with you, I found the rest,”
Beomgyu’s voice makes you melt in an instant, your eyes glued to his as he sings his song, a song just for the two of you. You get your serenade, you realize. A song he wrote for you and no one else. Your smile widens, cheering him on with the rest of the crowd, causing his grin to widen as well.
“Because of you, I raise my voice,
Not to impress, but to rejoice,
You turned the noise into a song,
And showed me where my words belong,
I used to run, now I stand through,
Because of you,”
The words play in your head the same way the first song you’ve heard him play did, the melody already stuck in your head as you hum along, singing with him as if you’ve known the song for years. Maybe it’s because it’s him, maybe because it’s the two of you, but you don’t care. Not when he stares at you throughout the whole song, even though you know Yuna is somewhere in the crowd as well.
As soon as the song ends, Beomgyu glances at Taehyun for reassurance, giggling when he sees the proud nod he gives him. He rolls his eyes playfully when he sees how excited Beomgyu is, shaking his head. “Do I need to tell you everything? Get down there,” he encourages.
Beomgyu turns towards the crowd again, laughing awkwardly. “If you guys excuse me for a moment.” He doesn’t wait for their answer, doesn’t wait for anything really as he puts away his guitar and rushes down the podium to the barricade. You watch him with amusement, giggling softly as Jake claps beside you.
“Hi,” he smiles as soon as he stands in front of you. You giggle again, hiding your face in your hands. “Hey.” Beomgyu holds your hands and brings them away so he can look at you, an annoyingly beautiful smile spread across his lips as he pulls you closer and connects your lips with his again.
It’s the kind of kiss that leaves you wanting more, making you feel absolutely drunk on him. You kiss him back without hesitation, smiling. If every kiss with him feels like butterflies exist in your stomach—you want to kiss him forever.
He pulls back a little breathless, resting his forehead against yours.
“It’s you. Deep down, I knew it’s always been you.”
