tags ; fluff fluff lots of fluff, hurt/comfort, established relationship, arguments
notes: hi im very nervous this is my first time ever writing smth like this.. so pls bare with me i tried okay :c idk if i like it but i think its really cute ^_^ | @glittykitty3 made their first ever fanfic, so it encouraged me to maybe make one n i did!!
The front door clicked just as you were finally starting to drift off. You knew instantly it was Seungcheol. You’d been avoiding him all day because of the argument you guys had, and he’d been so busy with work he hadn't even had the chance to clear things up.
You heard the soft creaks of the wood as he walked down the hall to the bedroom. You quickly rolled over and lay back in the same spot, pretending to be fast asleep.
He walked in, changed his clothes quickly, and sat on the edge of the bed right by your feet. He let out a long, heavy sigh. "I miss you," he whispered.
You were so surprised you almost moved, but you stayed still. He started talking about his day, even though he thought you were asleep, and then he started talking about you. He mentioned how much joy you brought him and how he hoped he did the same for you. He kept repeating how much he loved you and how sorry he was for starting such a stupid argument.
Honestly, the whole fight was just because you were both tired and cranky, and it had spiraled into something bigger than it needed to be. You had missed him terribly all day, and you were planning to talk to him when he got home, but now you were just hiding under the covers like a scared kid. You loved him too much to let a petty argument get in the way.
He stopped talking for a second, then tried to wake you up. "Baby," he whispered. "Baby wake up."
You opened your eyes, and you could tell by the look on his face that he knew you weren't actually asleep. A soft, knowing smirk played on his lips.
"Hi my baby," he said.
You got all flustered, like it was the first time he’d ever called you that. "Hi Cheol," you replied.
You sat up and stared at him, both of you wondering who would speak first.
"Im… Im sorry for the way I spoke to you last night," he whispered, grabbing your hands.
You frowned, feeling bad about the whole thing. "I forgive you Cheolie. I said some things myself, so Im sorry too."
He let out a breathy laugh and squeezed your hands. "I missed you a lot."
"I missed you a lot more, my love," you said. You both smiled, finally happy that it was over. You never wanted to be on bad terms with him.
"I’d shower, but… I’m sooooo tired," he said, exaggerating as he looked at you.
You rolled your eyes, but you were smiling. "Fine, just shower tomorrow." You patted the spot on the bed. "Come here."
He giggled and quickly shuffled over, laying down. He hugged you and tucked his head against your chest, nuzzling in like a cute puppy. You started feeling drowsy again as your eyelids got heavy.
"I love you," he declared, his voice muffled against you.
You smiled down at him and kissed his hair softly. "I love you too, Cheolie. Now rest, baby." From that, seungcheol smiles in his sleep, pulling you just a little bit closer.
Summary :: A spell gone wrong leaves you and your longtime rival, Choi Seungcheol, trapped in each other's bodies
Word count :: 7k words
series masterlist ✦ svt masterlist
Genre: Hogwarts AU • Enemies to Lovers • Slow Burn • Fluff • Light Angst
Trigger Warnings: Minor Injuries, nothing too much I suppose.
A/N: Several Hogwarts inaccuracies, questionable magical logic, but we ball.
excessive use of word "neither" i tried using different words, but i keep coming back to neither
It all began in the first year itself. Professor Flitwick had been practically glowing after the first Charms lesson of the year. Standing atop his stack of books, he clapped his hands together with obvious delight as two feathers floated neatly across the classroom, one hovering above your desk and the other above the desk of the Gryffindor boy sitting a few rows away. It had taken most of the class several attempts just to make their feathers twitch, yet somehow the two of you had managed the Levitation Charm on your very first try.
He announced that Slytherin would be awarded ten points and Gryffindor five, since you were quicker than the boy.
The room went quiet before the whispering started. The eleven year olds were quite vicious without meaning to be, murmuring that of course the Slytherin girl got more points, some arguing that it was actually the boy who levitated the feather first.
Choi Seungcheol did not help. He turned to his friends with his chin tipped up, still frustrated about losing by such a small margin, although it was no competition, and said, loud enough for you to hear, "Must be nice. Wish my parents could buy me House Cup points too."
You turned to look at the arrogant boy. “Don’t be so bitter for losing. You’ll catch up to me,” You smiled sweetly at him, “in a year or two”. A few nearby students laughed and Seungcheol's ears turned bright red almost instantly.
The lesson ended before either of you said another word, but by lunchtime the two of you were already racing each other through the corridors toward Herbology because neither wanted to arrive second. That’s where your rivalry started.
For you, it became about proving that every mark, every compliment, every point beside Slytherin's hourglass had been earned. For Seungcheol, it became about refusing to let the infuriating Slytherin beat him without a fight.
By seventh year, your rivalry had become part of Hogwarts itself. Students expected arguments whenever your paths crossed. Professors instinctively called on someone else whenever both of your hands went up at once. First-years who had never witnessed how it started still knew not to seat the two of you together.
Nobody remembered that it had begun with five House points, one careless accusation, and an equally childish comeback from two stubborn eleven-year-olds who had been far too competitive for their own good.
❈ ── 🍃 ── ❈
By seventh year, both you and Seungcheol had earned prefect badges, much to the surprise of absolutely no one. There had never been a shortage of academic excellence, rule-following, or painfully stubborn determination between the two of you, Unfortunately, the prefect rota cared very little about personal grudges and every few weeks, your names inevitably appeared on the same patrol schedule, assigned to the same stretch of castle for the evening.
Both of you had an unspoken rule of never acknowledging the other during patrols.
That night was no different.
You had already finished checking the eastern staircase on the fourth floor when you rounded the corner and spotted another pool of wandlight moving steadily toward you. Seungcheol emerged a moment later, one hand tucked into the pocket of his robes while the other lazily held his wand at his side. His shoulders visibly sagged the instant he recognized you, accompanied by an exaggerated sigh that was entirely unnecessary and, excessively irritating for you.
"Brilliant," he muttered under his breath, slowing his pace just enough to fall beside you instead of walking ahead. "Of all the prefects they could've paired me with tonight..."
You didn't bother looking at him as you continued down the corridor, your own wand casting long shadows across the stone walls.
"I was about to say the same thing."
Silence lasted exactly half a corridor before the argument started over something so insignificant that, later, neither of you could remember who had actually begun it.
"Ten points was generous," Seungcheol said, hand cutting through the air before he landed a point he considered unanswerable. "That cauldron fire was entirely Jeonghan's fault."
"You weren't even watching," you shot back.
"I'm saying your House gets away with far more than mine ever does," Seungcheol argued, turning enough to face you properly now instead of watching where he was walking. His eyebrows drew together, and every sentence came accompanied by another emphatic gesture of his free hand. "McGonagall would've deducted twice the points if one of my housemates had done half the things your lot gets away with."
You came to an abrupt stop, forcing him to halt a step later when he realized you were no longer walking beside him.
"You can't honestly expect professors to reward Gryffindors for setting things on fire every other lesson and for being obnoxiously loud" you replied, folding your arms across your chest.
"Name one instance where we set something on fire" He let out a disbelieving laugh.
"Oh I can name more than one, how about that day when your team was being showoffs and...”
Neither of you noticed the hurried footsteps approaching from around the corner.
Two third-year students rounded the bend so quickly they nearly collided with both of you. They froze the moment your wandlight illuminated their faces, every ounce of guilty panic written plainly across their expressions. One still clutched a box of Honeydukes sweets beneath his robes while the other looked as though she was already calculating how many House points she was about to lose.
You instinctively reached for your wand.
Seungcheol had already opened his mouth to ask why they were out after curfew.
Before you could get a word out, the boy panicked and flung a badly aimed Confundus Charm to buy himself time to run. It should have missed you both completely. Instead it caught the corner where you and Seungcheol stood close together mid argument, wands raised, both your defensive instincts flaring at the same instant.
Two defensive charms collided with the already unstable spell.
Magic ricocheted violently through the narrow corridor.
For a second, white light bounced between stone walls and polished wand tips until it became too bright to distinguish where one spell ended and another began.
Something pulled sharply behind your ribs, the corridor lurched beneath your feet and then everything disappeared.
You woke on your knees on cold stone, and the first wrong thing you noticed was your own hands. They were too big. The knuckles were broader, and there was a thin scar across one that you had never had in your life. You turned them over slowly in the wandlight, and when you finally opened your mouth to ask what had happened, the voice that came out was not yours. It was lower, rougher and unmistakably Choi Seungcheol's.
Across the corridor, another figure had reached exactly the same realization.
Your own face stared back at you, impossibly pale beneath the flickering torchlight. Seungcheol—wearing your body—lifted trembling hands to his face before abruptly grabbing at his own sleeves, then his hair, then his jaw, as though touching enough familiar features would somehow force everything back into place.
"What did you do?" he demanded.
You jerked upright so quickly you nearly lost your balance.
"What did I do?" The disbelief that surged through you almost drowned out the unfamiliar sound of his voice coming from your own throat. "You were the one waving your wand around like an idiot."
"My defensive spell was perfectly controlled."
"You call that controlled?"
"It would've been if yours hadn't gotten in the way."
You took a step toward him.
He immediately stepped forward as well.
The two of you stood almost chest to chest, each wearing the other's face while glaring with exactly the same stubborn determination.
"Fix it."
"You fix it."
"I didn't cause it."
"Neither did I."
The younger students had vanished long ago, saving themselves from detention, oblivious to the catastrophe they caused and left behind.
The corridor filled instead with overlapping accusations, increasingly ridiculous theories, and several failed attempts to convince yourselves this would be fine. You cast revealing spells on one another.
It wasn't until nearly twenty minutes later, when every spell either failed or confirmed the impossible, that the arguments finally began to lose momentum.
The silence settled heavily between you and now you both couldn’t unfortunately deny it anymore.
"Tell me this isn't happening," Seungcheol said, in your voice, sounding faintly sick.
"I wish I could," you said back, in his.
You were standing inside Choi Seungcheol's body.
And he was standing inside yours.
❈ ── 🍃 ── ❈
You moved to an empty third floor classroom because neither of you could stomach the thought of walking into the hospital wing like this. The shame of the truth felt worse than the swap itself.
"If anyone finds out," you said, arms folded across a chest that wasn't yours, "my entire reputation is finished, Seungcheol. Gone."
"You think I want people knowing this either?" he said, pacing in your body with none of your usual composure. "I'm the Gryffindor Captain. I can't be the bloke who got soul swapped with you because we were bickering after curfew."
You shudder inwardly. "Then we tell no one. We fix it ourselves."
He stopped pacing and looked at you, weighing it. "Every evening. Third floor classroom. We trade whatever the other needs to know to survive being us for a day."
"Fine."
"Fine."
He stuck his hand out to shake on it, oddly formal for someone who lived his life informally, and you looked down at your borrowed hand and shook it, telling yourself this would be over within the week.
Spoiler, it was not over within the week.
❈ ── 🍃 ── ❈
Living inside Choi Seungcheol's life turned out to be nothing like you had imagined it, and you had imagined it plenty, in the resentful corner of your mind. You had to sit through a Quidditch strategy meeting that ran forty five minutes long, because the captain was expected to walk the team through three formations for the match against Slytherin, and you had to bluff your way through it with fragments of Quidditch knowledge you had absorbed as an unwilling bystander over the years.
You noticed things you had never let yourself notice. Seungcheol's roommate, a broad shouldered Chaser named Mingyu, came to find him after dinner with a folded letter from home clutched too tight in his hand.
"It's about my grandma," Mingyu admitted, sitting heavily on the edge of a bed that wasn now yours temporarily. "The Healers still don't know what's wrong."
You didn't know what Seungcheol usually said in moments like this. You said the only thing that felt honest. "Do you want to talk about it, or do you want me to distract you until practice?"
Mingyu blinked at you, his shoulders sagging with relief. "Distraction. Definitely distraction."
Later, alone, you found a battered notebook in Seungcheol's trunk with every player's birthday written in cramped handwriting, little reminders beside each one. Chan, nervous flying in rain, check on him before matches. Soonyoung, keep away from firewhiskey. You sat on his bed for a long time with it open on your knees.
Seungcheol, meanwhile, discovered your life and admitted, begrudgingly, during one of your evening meetings at the Etiquette Club, that it was way too exhausting.
❈ ── 🍃 ── ❈
"You finished three second years' essays with them tonight," he said, dropping into the chair across from you, in the third floor classroom. "Then you did your own. It's past midnight."
"That's Tuesday for you," you said simply shrugging.
"Does anyone ever ask if you're tired?" he said, abruptly
You looked up at him, startled, and said nothing at all. You picked at a loose thread on your sleeve until he let the silence swallow the question back down.
❈ ── 🍃 ── ❈
The Yule Ball rehearsals turned into a disaster almost immediately. You had been the seventh-year dance instructor for weeks before the swap, a position earned through years in the Ballroom and Etiquette Club, and trapped in Seungcheol's body you still had to run them. Which meant you had to rely on Seungcheol to demonstrate steps with his dance skills, or lack thereof, in front of the entire seventh year.
The true catastrophe was Seungcheol, wearing your body, attempting to dance. He trod on your partner's feet twice in one turn. He counted the beats under his breath in a way you never would. His partner, Junhui, who had been your friend since third year, kept glancing at your borrowed face with growing confusion, unable to reconcile the girl he knew, precise in everything, with whoever kept stepping on his shoes.
You dragged Seungcheol aside the second rehearsal ended.
"You are destroying seven years of reputation in one afternoon," you hissed at him.
"I'm doing my best," he hissed back, looking like his pride was wounded rather than sorry. "Dancing was never exactly my area of expertise, if you hadn't noticed."
"Clearly."
You stood there a moment, both furious, both cornered, until the solution landed on you out of pure desperation. "We dance with each other instead. I lead, since apparently my muscle memory came with me. You just follow closely enough that no one notices."
He stared at you like you'd suggested something far worse than it was. Even if neither of you wanted this, it’s not like you had a choice either.
❈ ── 🍃 ── ❈
The rehearsals that followed took up more of your patience than either of you had to spare. You corrected the position of Seungcheol's hands, adjusted the distance between your bodies, told him to lower his shoulders.
"Stop muttering the count," you said, for what felt like the tenth time. "It throws off the rhythm for both of us."
"My feet ache," he complained. "You've had me bent into shapes no human spine was designed for."
"Then stop arguing and hold the position."
"You're impossibly particular, you know that?"
"Particular is the only reason either of us survives this without becoming laughing stock."
It became its own kind of routine, the same rhythm your rivalry always had, except now it put you close enough to feel warmth radiating off borrowed skin.
❈ ── 🍃 ── ❈
The Quidditch match against Slytherin arrived inevitably. You had spent the week before it inventing excuses, a headache, a sudden allergy, praying it rained hard enough, because the truth was one you had hidden from almost everyone you knew. You were terrified of heights.
"You've got this," Seungcheol told you, the night before, with a false certainty. It just made your stomach twist.
You wanted, badly, to tell him the truth right then but your throat closed around it. Your pride didn’t allow you to say that. "Right," you said instead. "Of course."
The match itself was the worst hour of your life. The moment the broom left the ground your vision narrowed and your chest locked up, your hands white knuckled on the handle, your breath coming in short useless pulls you prayed nobody below could see. You forced yourself to stay in the air anyway, teeth clenched against a fear that felt like drowning.
Gryffindor still lost, badly, and your stomach dropped the moment the final whistle blew.
Seungcheol found you in the corridor outside the changing rooms afterward, his hands fists at his sides. "You cost us that match," he said. "Do you understand what today meant?"
"I tried," you said, eyes stinging, voice cracking on the word. "You have no idea what you're asking of me."
"Then explain it to me."
You couldn't. Neither of you listened to the other, and you parted with the unresolved fury hanging between you, and did not speak again for two days.
❈ ── 🍃 ── ❈
It was Jun who unraveled everything, without meaning to. Seungcheol, still wearing your body, asked to meet him near the Astronomy Tower to finalise the dance partners list and get it over with.
Jun blinked at him. "Why there? You've always hated heights. You nearly fainted on the Tower stairs in third year, remember?"
The words landed on Seungcheol like a slap. His stomach dropped, and the pieces of the last two days slid into place at once, your excuses, your locked shoulders on the broom, the shake in your hands during the match. "Right," Seungcheol managed. "Forgot about that."
"Are you all right?" Jun asked, slowing when he noticed the unusual tension in your shoulders. Before you could answer, he seemed to remember something else and gestured vaguely toward the staircase. "Oh—and Seungcheol was looking for you earlier. I saw him heading toward Professor McGonagall's office. "
Seungcheol's chest went cold at the thought of what that might mean.
For a brief moment, he wondered whether you had somehow discovered a way to reverse the swap without telling him. The thought barely lasted a second before another possibility settled heavily in his chest.
You were going to tell someone.
By the time he reached the corridor outside Professor McGonagall's office, the door had already been left slightly ajar. He stopped just short of the doorway, his footsteps instinctively quiet against the stone floor.
Inside the office, you sat opposite Professor McGonagall, still wearing his face.
Gone was the composed certainty you usually carried through the corridors of Hogwarts. Your shoulders had lost their usual rigid posture, your hands resting tightly clasped together in your lap as though you were afraid they might begin shaking if you let them move. You carefully recounted everything from the beginning: the patrol assignment, the collision of defensive spells, and the impossible moment the two of you had awakened inside one another's bodies.
Professor McGonagall listened without interruption. She did not speak once.
She merely folded her hands together atop her desk, her expression growing steadily more severe as every passing minute confirmed that two seventh-year prefects had concealed an unstable magical accident from the faculty for weeks.
Only when you finally fell silent did she rise from her chair.
She walked slowly around the desk before stopping directly in front of you, her gaze unwavering beneath the brim of her pointed hat.
"I have watched the two of you spend years attempting to outdo one another," she said. "I expected competitiveness. I did not expect recklessness."
The silence stretched.
When she spoke again, her voice softened almost imperceptibly.
"Tell me.. why did neither of you come sooner?"
Your fingers tightened together until your knuckles paled beneath Seungcheol’s skin.
Then, without looking up, you answered quietly.
"Because I thought we could fix it ourselves." You drew in a slow, uneven breath. "...And because I didn't want anyone thinking we'd been alone together after curfew for any reason other than patrol."
A faint, almost exasperated sigh escaped the professor.
"You two truly are young fools."
The smallest corner of your mouth twitched despite yourself before disappearing just as quickly.
After another moment, your composure finally cracked.
"I also..." Your voice faltered for the first time all evening. "I made things worse."
Professor McGonagall remained silent, giving you the space to continue.
"I played the Quidditch match in his place."
You swallowed hard.
"I could barely breathe the moment the broom left the ground. Every time I looked down, I thought I was going to fall. I wanted to quit before the match even started." Your gaze stayed fixed on the floor. "But I knew how much Quidditch means to him. I knew what that team expected from their captain. I couldn't let everyone down before the whistle had even blown."
Your hands trembled faintly.
"I still let them down."
His hand remained suspended beside the doorframe, fingers curling slowly against the cold stone as every piece of the previous week's argument rearranged itself inside his mind.
Guilt settled heavily in his chest. He wanted to step through the doorway. He wanted to apologize.
Professor McGonagall notices him linger near the door, “Mr. Choi, how lovely of you to join us”
He walks in, still looking like you, and stands beside you, ready for anything that she might say to you both now.
Professor McGonagall regarded the two of you for a long, measured moment. "I am less concerned," she began, her voice calm enough to be unsettling, "with how this happened than I am with what you chose to do afterward."
You lowered your head.
"You are both prefects. Students whom this school trusted to exercise sound judgment." She paused, allowing the weight of her words to settle over the room before continuing. "Instead, the two of you decided that your pride was more important than informing a professor about exceptionally dangerous, poorly understood magic. Had this curse worsened? Had either of you sustained permanent magical damage? Had one of you become trapped? You would have had no one to blame but yourselves."
Every sentence landed heavier than the last.
She sighed quietly, some of the sharpness leaving her expression.
"I believe the worst lesson has already been learned," she said at last, folding her hands neatly before her. "Though I sincerely hope that should either of you find yourselves involved in impossible magic again, your first instinct will be to seek help from a professor instead of allowing your pride to dictate your judgment."
Neither of you argued. There was very little left to say.
After a brief silence, she reached for a parchment on her desk and made a neat note with a flourish of her quill.
"As Head of Gryffindor and Deputy Headmistress, I cannot simply overlook your astonishing lapse in judgment. Consider yourselves both assigned to detention this Saturday evening."
You and Seungcheol exchanged the briefest glance before instinctively looking away again.
Professor McGonagall noticed.
"Together," she added without looking up from her parchment. "Professor Hagrid has requested assistance gathering medicinal plants from the edge of the Forbidden Forest. Since the two of you seem determined to solve your problems without adult supervision, perhaps an evening completing unpleasant work under proper supervision will remind you why rules exist in the first place."
The faintest trace of embarrassment settled across both your faces.
"Yes, Professor," you both answered almost simultaneously.
Only then did Professor McGonagall rise from behind her desk.
"Now," she said, retrieving her wand, "let us remedy the problem that should have been brought to me weeks ago."
Within the hour, she led both of you back to the corridor where the accident had begun. The stone floor felt strangely familiar beneath your knees as you and Seungcheol faced one another once more, neither quite able to hold the other's gaze for more than a heartbeat. Professor McGonagall's wand moved in slow, deliberate arcs through the air. Ancient incantations echoed softly around the empty room as thin strands of silver light unfurled from the tip of her wand, wrapping around each of you before gradually weaving together into a single glowing thread.
The sensation arrived almost immediately. A sharp pull somewhere behind your ribs and a wave of dizziness that made the hallway tilt for only a fraction of a second.
Then, just as suddenly, everything settled.
When you opened your eyes again, your own hands rested against your knees.
You flexed your fingers once, then again, relief quietly spreading through your chest as familiar muscles responded exactly as they should.
Across from you, he mirrored the movement almost unconsciously before running a hand over his own face, as though reassuring himself that every feature belonged where it was supposed to.
The body swap was over.
The silence that followed, however, was far more difficult to undo.
You were looking up at Seungcheol through your own eyes again, and he was looking back at you through his, and everything you now knew about each other sat between you like a third person in the room
❈ ── 🍃 ── ❈
Saturday evening, Professor McGonagall’s punishment arrived far sooner than either of you would have liked.
You both made your way down the sloping path from the castle toward the edge of the Forbidden Forest, where Hagrid was already waiting beside an overflowing wooden cart. The gamekeeper greeted you with his usual warmth, though the look he gave the pair of you carried just enough amusement to suggest Professor McGonagall had been very clear about why two seventh-year prefects had found themselves serving detention together.
"Moondew an' Moonlace don't collect themselves," Hagrid said cheerfully, thrusting a woven basket into Seungcheol's hands before passing another to you. "Stick close, keep yer lanterns high, an' don't wander off. Most creatures'll leave yeh alone if yeh've got the sense not ter bother 'em first."
You exchanged a brief glance with Seungcheol. After everything the two of you had already survived together, gathering magical plants almost sounded... peaceful.
The forest was quieter than you had expected. Damp earth softened your footsteps beneath thick roots and fallen leaves. Hagrid moved steadily several paces ahead, his lantern swinging gently from one enormous hand as he occasionally called back instructions about which plants to avoid disturbing.
You and Seungcheol settled into an easy rhythm. He reached higher branches before they struck your face as the path narrowed. Every so often your baskets bumped together when both of you reached for the same plant, earning nothing more than a brief glance before one of you wordlessly stepped aside.
It was... strangely comfortable.
Then, inevitably, you spotted a cluster of silver blossoms growing just beyond the edge of the path.
"They're right there," you murmured, already stepping over a thick tree root before either Hagrid or Seungcheol had the chance to object.
You had barely taken two careful steps into the undergrowth when something darted through the bushes several feet to your left and the sound was sudden enough to make you aware.
Branches shook violently and leaves scattered.
Your foot came down awkwardly on a patch of loose moss hidden beneath the fallen leaves as the ground disappeared beneath you. A sharp twist shot through your ankle before you had time to catch yourself.
"Seungcheol—"
The word had barely left your mouth before he was moving. He covered the distance almost instantly.
One arm wrapped firmly around your waist before your back could hit the ground while his other hand caught your wrist, steadying both of you with enough force that the momentum carried you several steps backward. His grip tightened instinctively as he turned, positioning himself between you and whatever had moved through the trees, your body pressed securely against his chest while his wand lifted in one smooth motion.
For one suspended heartbeat, neither of you breathed.
The bushes rustled again. Then...
A plump brown rabbit bounded lazily out from beneath the undergrowth, paused, twitched its nose at the two of you, and disappeared into the trees without the slightest concern.
Both remained stunned in place, holding onto each other, more from instinct than intention. His breathing was slightly uneven, the rise and fall of his chest impossible to ignore from where you stood pressed against him.
Somewhere behind you, Hagrid let out an amused chuckle. "Jus' a rabbit," he called without looking up from the herbs he was collecting. "Scared the pair o' yeh good, did it?" he said before returning to his work, evidently deciding the pair of you required no rescuing after all.
Neither of you answered. Your eyes met for one unbearably long moment, and the forest seemed to disappear entirely.
His gaze flickered briefly to your face before darting away again, the tips of his ears colouring almost instantly. He cleared his throat, taking a careful step backward as though sudden movements might somehow make the moment more awkward than it already was. The hand at your waist loosened reluctantly, though it lingered just long enough to ensure you had found your footing before letting go altogether.
"I..." He exhaled quietly, rubbing the back of his neck with a faintly sheepish expression. "I may have overreacted." He dropped his hand back by his side and you notice something dark on it.
"Wait." You reached for his wrist before you decided to. He frowned in confusion as you turned his hand over, revealing a thin cut across two swollen knuckles, blood already beading where he had clearly caught the rough bark of a branch when he lunged for you.
"When did this happen?"
Seungcheol glanced down as though seeing the injury for the first time.
"Oh." His answer was maddeningly unconcerned.
"It’s nothing” He gave a careless shrug
"It's bleeding, Seungcheol." You caught his wrist before he could wave you off and turned his hand over gently in the lantern light, digging in your bag for the small tin of dittany you carried out of habit.
He sighed but stopped resisting, letting his fingers relax in your grip while you dabbed the dittany carefully over the scrape. He barely flinched, though you caught the way his jaw tightened and then slowly eased again as the sting faded, and neither of you said anything for a while, your focus fixed entirely on his hand.
His focus however, was fixed entirely on you.
"You know," he said after a long moment, his voice noticeably quieter than before, "you really don't have to fuss over me."
“How could I let go of the opportunity of holding this favour over you?” you said as you keep gently cleaning his wound.
He shakes his head in amusement.
You bottled the dittany and put it back into your bag before getting up. Then you shifted your own weight again, forgetting for a moment which foot you weren't supposed to be standing on, and the same sharp pain shot up your ankle, pulling a hiss through your teeth before you could stop it.
His gaze dropped immediately to your foot, his expression changing so quickly it was almost impossible to follow. Lingering amusement vanished first. It was replaced by concern. A heartbeat later, concern disappeared beneath familiar irritation.
"You twisted your ankle, didn’t you?" he said, his voice quieter than before, though no less firm.
"I’m fine."
"Yeah right” He didn't wait for you to argue further. He crouched, testing your ankle with careful fingers, and when he straightened up he simply lifted you off your feet entirely, one arm under your knees and the other braced firm behind your back.
"What are you doing! Put me down." You exclaim. "I can walk."
"Can’t let you hold something over me” he said, and you could hear the grin in it even without looking up to confirm it, “Consider this as your favour repaid”
You looped an arm around his neck for balance only, you told yourself firmly, and let him carry you back toward the castle.
"Don’t you dare make me fall," you said, trying to look anywhere but at his impossibly close face.
“I just might” He finally set you down only after Madam Pomfrey's door came into view.
❈ ── 🍃 ── ❈
You had expected returning to your own bodies would restore everything to the way it had always been.
Another spoiler, it did not.
For several days, neither of you seemed capable of behaving normally around the other. Seven years of effortless rivalry had suddenly become awkward. Every encounter carried an unfamiliar hesitation, as though both of you had forgotten the roles you had spent years playing.
When your paths crossed in the corridors, your first instinct was still to reach for some familiar remark, yet the words often stalled before they reached your tongue. If your eyes met across the Great Hall, one of you always looked away first, only for the other to do the same a heartbeat later, both pretending to have found something infinitely more interesting elsewhere.
The body swap had ended, but it had left behind far more than either of you had bargained for. You knew the quiet burdens Seungcheol carried beneath his easy confidence, the responsibilities he accepted without complaint, and the countless kindnesses he performed when nobody thought to look.
He knew the impossible expectations you placed upon yourself, the exhaustion hidden beneath your composure, and the fears you had guarded so fiercely for years. Those pieces of each other lingered stubbornly between every conversation, making it impossible to return to the comfortable certainty of simply being rivals.
Seungcheol resumed his habit of appearing beside you at every opportunity, though his teasing had changed. He no longer cared nearly as much about House points or exam scores. Instead, he found endless amusement in pointing out habits only he knew you had, making observations that would have sounded ordinary to anyone else but left you uncomfortably aware of the weeks he had spent living your life. Every comment earned him an exasperated look, every grin another reluctant retort, yet somehow the conversations lasted longer than they needed to.
You told yourself he was simply impossible to ignore, an arrogant git.
Yet you had begun noticing that arrogant git too.
Your gaze searched for him before Quidditch matches without conscious thought. When prefect duties were assigned, you found yourself checking the rota for his name before folding the parchment away. If he wandered into the library while you were studying, you invariably looked up from your book, only to look away the moment your eyes met. Whenever he fell into step beside you in the corridors, you complained out of habit, yet your pace unconsciously slowed just enough that he never had to catch up.
Truth being said, you both were being idiots who were now arguing simply to have a reason to keep talking.
❈ ── 🍃 ── ❈
The Great Hall had been transformed so completely that it hardly resembled the room where you had spent seven years eating hurried breakfasts before class or quietly finishing essays beneath enchanted candles. Hundreds of floating lanterns drifted lazily beneath the bewitched ceiling, their warm light reflecting across polished marble and the gleaming floor that had been cleared for dancing. Music from the small orchestra gathered near the staff table floated effortlessly through the hall, wrapping itself around conversations and laughter until the entire evening seemed to move to the same gentle rhythm.
The Yule ball had finally arrived. You had spent months preparing this night.
You had organised rehearsal schedules, corrected footwork, adjusted postures, paired partners, and repeated the same instructions until your voice had become hoarse. Every carefully planned detail now unfolded exactly as you had imagined.
And yet the moment your eyes found Seungcheol standing near the entrance, every other part of the evening was irrelevant.
His formal robes were tailored neatly across his broad shoulders, replacing the perpetually rumpled uniform you had grown so accustomed to criticising. His usually unruly hair had been brushed back from his forehead, exposing his sharp features. Even the familiar confidence in the way he carried himself seemed more refined tonight.
You realised, with no small amount of annoyance, that you were staring at him.
As though sensing your attention, Seungcheol glanced toward the entrance and whatever he had been saying to Mingyu died halfway out of his mouth. His eyes moved over you, and he couldn’t help but settle his gaze on you. The hem of your dress pooled elegant and unfamiliar around you, your hair swept back from your face making you look prettier than you always looked.
He appeared almost caught off guard by his own inability to look elsewhere. His shoulders, which had been relaxed only moments earlier, straightened almost unconsciously.
You continued walking toward him, each measured step feeling strangely louder than the music surrounding you.
For the first time since meeting him, Seungcheol seemed to struggle for words.
When you finally stopped before him, he drew a quiet breath that sounded suspiciously like someone trying to steady themselves.
"You clean up well," he said, when you finally reached him, aiming for careless and missing it by a wide margin.
"So do you," you said, and heard how it came out, quieter than you meant it.
Neither of you managed anything cleverer than that. When the orchestra announced the beginning of the opening waltz, Seungcheol extended his hand toward you, and you took it.
You braced yourself for the same clumsy partner from rehearsals. Instead, when the music started and his hand found yours, his grip was sure and his posture was correct, every adjustment you had ever given him folded into instinct.
"You've been practicing," you said quietly, surprise softening your voice.
"Don't sound so shocked," he murmured back, though the corner of his mouth pulled up, pleased despite himself.
He led you through the opening steps without a single misplaced beat.
The difference should have been insignificant.
You had stood this close to him dozens of times already.
You had corrected this exact hand placement yourself.
You had physically moved his arm into position more than once.
But those memories belonged to borrowed bodies.
This...this was the first time it was truly him. And truly you.
His palm stayed warm against the small of your back, and your eyes kept finding his and holding there far longer than any formal dance required. Your cheeks went warm under his gaze. You looked away first, and when you glanced back he was still watching you, something soft caught at the corner of his mouth, and for once none of you reached for an argument.
❈ ── 🍃 ── ❈
Several nights after the ball, you were back on ordinary prefect patrol, back in the same corridors where all of this had started, and to no one’s surprise, paired with Seungcheol.
It should have been an uneventful patrol. Instead, Seungcheol had spent the last ten minutes finding increasingly ridiculous ways to irritate you.
You ignored the first few comments.
Experience had taught you that acknowledging him only encouraged him.
Unfortunately, Seungcheol had also learned that lesson.
"I've been thinking," he said after another stretch of silence, sounding far too pleased with himself already. "I really wasted a remarkable opportunity during our body swap."
You continued walking. "I'm choosing not to ask."
"I probably should've walked into the Great Hall one morning," he continued anyway, "stood on the Gryffindor table, and announced—in your body, no less—that I'd been hopelessly in love with Choi Seungcheol since first year."
Your steps stopped so abruptly that the hem of your robes swished around your ankles.
Slowly and wordlessly, you turned to look at him.
He was grinning. "I think it would've been convincing."
You let out a slow breath through your nose, pressing two fingers briefly against your temple before beginning to walk again.
"I genuinely cannot decide," you muttered, "whether surviving the body swap made you a better person or an infinitely more irritating one."
"I was hoping for 'more charming.'"
"You truly are an arrogant git"
He laughed quietly to himself before falling into step beside you again, entirely unbothered by the insult.
"I mean," he continued after another few moments, "that would have explained why you keep staring at me so much.”
You spun toward him, your cheeks warm enough that you didn't need a mirror to know exactly what they looked like.
"Would you please stop talking?"
The words came out sharper than intended, though they lacked any real anger.
Seungcheol noticed immediately. His smile changed, and turned far more satisfied.
He took one unhurried step closer, close enough that you instinctively leaned back before realising there was nowhere to go. Your shoulders met the cool stone wall behind you, and before you had the chance to move again, he lifted one hand to brace himself lightly against the wall beside your head.
His eyes searched your face for a long moment before settling on the unmistakable warmth still colouring your cheeks.
"I see you’re not refusing it" he murmured, unable to hide the amusement tugging at the corner of his mouth.
Your heart gave one sharp, thoroughly inconvenient beat.
"...Shut up, Seungcheol."
This time, your voice came out much quieter than either of you expected.
"Make me" His eyes dropped to your mouth, lingered there a beat, and lifted back to your eyes
You leaned in before you could think better of it.
The decision was so sudden that for the smallest fraction of a second, Seungcheol simply stared at you. Whatever teasing remark had been sitting on the tip of his tongue disappeared entirely, replaced by an expression of genuine surprise.
He closed the distance anyway.
His hand found your jaw almost instinctively, fingers warm against your skin as though he needed to convince himself this was finally happening. Your own hand caught in the front of his robes without thinking, gathering the fabric as the distance between you disappeared entirely. The hand resting beside your head slid from the wall to your waist, drawing you closer until there was no space left between you. For a long moment there was nothing else, no rivalry, no seven years of pride, just the quiet drag of his mouth against yours and the wall solid at your back and his heartbeat thrumming close enough that you could feel it.
When you finally pulled back, both of you a little breathless, he rested his forehead against yours and let out a disbelieving laugh against your temple.
"Unbelievable things keep happening whenever we patrol together at night," he murmured.
"Maybe you should stop patrolling with me, then," you said, though you made no move to step back from his embrace.
"Not a chance," he said, and leaned in again, slower this time, and kissed you like he meant to keep doing it for a long while.
End.
📖 Before you leave Owl's Library, consider returning this record to the shelves with a reblog so other readers may find it.
thinking about seungcheol having to wake up way earlier than he wants to. the alarm goes off and he immediately groans, reaching for you before he even opens his eyes properly. one arm wraps around your waist, pulling you back against his chest when you try to sit up. "five more minutes," he mumbles into your shoulder. except five minutes pass and he's saying it again. and again. eventually you manage to get him out of bed, but barely. he's sitting at the kitchen counter in an oversized hoodie, hood pulled over his messy hair, staring down at his coffee like it personally offended him. every time you walk past, he catches the sleeve of your sweater between his fingers without looking up. not enough to stop you. just enough to make sure you're still there. "baby, i have to get ready." he hums. "cheol." another hum. you glance down and find him pouting into his folded arms. when you finally step between his knees to fix his hair, he immediately folds forward, burying his face against your stomach. no warning. just gives up all at once and melts into you. his arms circle your waist, warm and heavy. "don't wanna go," he mutters. you laugh, running your fingers through the back of his hair. "you have to." he only squeezes you tighter. and for a second, standing there with his face hidden against you and his hoodie half falling over his eyes, he doesn't look like the leader everyone knows. he just looks like your sleepy boyfriend who got dragged out of bed too early and thinks you should be suffering through it with him.
PAIRING: Vernon x f. reader
SUMMARY: Modern problems call for modern solutions, including naming a random stranger in the book store as your boyfriend to avoid an embarrassing encounter with your ex. The problem? The stranger is Vernon and he’s not supposed to be a stranger at all - he’s your coworker, and now everyone at the office - including your ex - thinks you’re dating.
WC: 20,296
AU: Faking dating, Coworkers to Lovers, Romcom
GENRE: Smut, some fluff and crack
RATING: 18+ Minors are strictly prohibited from engaging in and reading this content. It contains explicit content and any minors discovered reading or engaging with this work will be blocked immediately.
WARNINGS: Reader has some insecurity about how her working hard is perceived, some ranting about Being A Girlboss, a little bit of inner angst, my bad attempts at humor, reader’s ex boyfriend SUCKS sorry to all the Minho’s of the world I named him after, explicit language, some minor commentary on power dynamics, Star Wars Lore, explicit sexual content including unprotected vaginal sex (never do this), oral (f. receiving), nipple play, vaginal fingering, multiple orgasms, a little bit of a handjob, some cum eating if you squint, Vernon was supposed to be a freak but I made him soft instead, mutual pining.
A/N: Thank you to @camandemstudios for allowing me to be a part of the Lonely Hearts Collab. I’m honored to be among such amazing writers and I cannot wait to see what everyone else wrote.
A/N 2: Thank you to the (w)hor(e)anghae squad @daechwitatamic @eoieopda and @jihopesjoint for beta reading this and letting me blind pass it over so I wouldn’t have to read it again because I don’t like it :)
MASTERLIST | PERMANENT TAG LIST | ASK | LONELY HEARTS CAFE COLLAB
WHOSOEVER SLAYETH CAIN SHALL SUFFER TENFOLD... OR WHATEVER IT IS THAT THE BIBLE SAYS. You haven’t slayed Cain and you’re not really sure you believe in anything in the Bible, but you’re certainly suffering sevenfold. Eightfold. Ninefold.
Sevenfold had been earlier this morning when you dropped your glass of coffee on the ground, shattering your favorite cup and staining your white tile. Several Clorox wipes later, there is still brown stuck to the grout, looking a bit like you had an unseemly accident in the middle of your kitchen.
Eightfold had been when you decided to fix your weekend by heading to the bookstore. Surely purchasing books that you were going to let sit on your shelf months before reading would fix your day - until someone rear-ended you in the parking lot, leaving a good dent and an apologetic exchanging of numbers and insurance information.
Ninefold comes when you least expect it, standing in the aisle with a stack of books in your hand, eyes flickering over the different titles and ornate covers. You already feel better than you had this morning. The smell of paper, the whisper of turning pages, and the hum of the cafe brewing coffee in the distance immediately puts you at ease.
You swear nothing can put a damper on a good hour spent between shelves - until ninefold walks around the aisle corner.
The stack of books in your arm nearly drops to the ground when you see your ex-boyfriend hand-in-hand with his new girlfriend. You wheel around so fast you slam into the person behind you, which does knock all the books from your hands onto the floor.
A hissed curse leaves your lips followed by a quick apology. You drop to your knees, picking the books up as quickly as you can. The dude you’ve collided with has also dropped his books, the amalgamation of your soon-to-be-purchases making it more difficult for you to pick up your shit and leave the scene before Minho sees you.
Minho says your name, surprised.
“Fuck,” you whisper, fingers going rigid on the stack of books in your hand. You shoot to your feet and spin around, breathless as you come face to face with Minho and the new girlfriend that you definitely didn’t look up on social media a few weeks ago. “Hi, Minho.”
“Wow, it’s nice to see you not in the marketing department for once.”
“Well, I work there…” You offer a bit sharply, tapering to adjust to a nicer tone. “Hence, you know - finding me there.”
“I meant you rarely leave there.” He laughs and you feign a grin, eyes flickering over to the rosy-cheeked and very glossy-haired girl on your ex’s arm.
Good for her, you think. I wonder what hair product she uses.
“This is Mina.”
“Mina?” You ask, sticking your hand out as you shuffle your books awkwardly to the crook over your elbow. She smiles - god she has good teeth - and shakes your hand. “Mina and… Minho. Easy to remember.”
“It’s nice to meet you. Minho tells me you’re the only ex he’s ever left things on good terms with.”
Your eye twitches.
Good terms was a serviceable way to put it, you suppose. Sure, there had been no fighting or infidelity or long distance that put a strain on your relationship. In fact, you hadn’t been aware that there was a strain on your relationship until Minho was sitting you down on his couch and letting you know that it just wasn’t working for him anymore.
That had been confusing. You hadn’t asked any questions though, opting to sit and stare at him while clenching your teeth, nodding along while he explained that your inability to leave work at work and enjoy home while at home was wearing down on him.
You’re not saving lives, he’d said. He had been earnest too, which is the crux of it. You’re in marketing. You need to take a breather.
As if he didn’t come home in a bad mood after shitty sales calls all day, as if he wasn’t stressed when he didn’t hit quota, or didn’t complain about how long the department meeting went - you know. You were there, too.
So sure, you were on good terms. But only one of you seemed to have been unhappy with where things were going, and only one of you seems to have moved on to someone with really good hair genes and great dental hygiene.
Your tongue runs over your teeth, suddenly worried that you’d forgotten to brush them this morning.
“Yeah,” you agree, clearing your throat and choking a bite. “Good terms are always the goodest - best way to end things.”
“He’s really hopeful you’ll find someone,” she sighs, looking up at him dreamily. “He’s always wanted the best for you.”
A vein bursts in your head. Well- no. You wish the vein you feel throbbing in your head would burst and knock you out so you’d no longer have to suffer through this ninefold moment of suffering. Perhaps, even, a very attractive medic with glossy hair and good teeth could come save you and fall in love at first sight.
The genuine way that Minho and Mina look at you tells you that they’re serious, that they see you as something that deserves love too. Said in a cooing voice, said patronizingly, said with a pat on the head and a firm pout.
You turn with your free hand, grabbing the sleeve of the man who is hovering behind you and pull him over to you, grin growing sevenfold. Eightfold.
“No need to worry,” you assure them. “My boyfriend is right here! The stars really did align for me, just like you hoped and dreamed.”
Your seconds-old-star-crossed-lover looks entirely startled, looking between you, Minho and Mina. His books are cradled against his chest, his brown eyes wide. He’s actually incredibly cute, his glasses a little askewand his brown hair a little unruly.
“You’re dating Vernon?”
You look at Minho, blank. “What?”
Minho looks at your Very Real Boyfriend. “You’re dating Vernon? From IT?”
Ninefold, meet Tenfold.
“Of course,” you answer slowly, looking at your partner of now thirty seconds. “I am dating Vernon… from IT.”
Vernon (from IT) looks like he would rather be anywhere else than standing in the middle of the fantasy novel aisle with you at a bookstore, your nails digging tighter into his sleeve and your crazy eyes telling him to get with the program.
Vernon (from IT) clears his throat and nods, looking over at Minho. “Yeah. Hey, Minho.”
“Wow. This is really unexpected.”
“It sure is.”
Your nails dig in harder and Vernon (from IT) tries to pull away from you but you step closer, leaning toward him while flashing Minho and Mina a smile. “Anyway, no need to worry about me finding a relationship. I am very happy.”
“Figures you found someone at work again.” He laughs, but the comment lands like a blow. You feel yourself flinch, smile going too tight. “You really don’t leave enough to find anyone else, huh?”
Vernon (from IT) seems to notice, shifting toward you to slide his arm around your waist. The move startles you, drawing your attention to his face. He really is pretty this up close, his lips the perfect shade of bubblegum pink, his cheekbones high and hidden beneath the rim of his glasses, the tangy scent of citrus on his clothes.
“I like women who work really hard,” Vernon (from IT) assures Minho. “I’ll never get tired of resetting her password over and over again because she loses all her sticky notes everytime the cleaning crew comes through.”
If Minho senses the shift, he doesn’t let on. He’s never been great at social cues anyway, which is what makes him a decent salesman. Still, you’re eager to get out of their way and the glare of Mina’s shiny hair.
“Well,” You state. “We have to get going.”
“For sure. It was nice seeing you outside of work!”
With a final nod, Vernon (from IT) tugs on your waist. You both navigate awkwardly down the aisle, steps not quite in time and hips bumping. It’s uncomfortable and uncoordinated, but as soon as you’re around the aisle and away from your encounter, the two of you separate.
Vernon (from IT) looks anywhere but you. His cheeks are tinted pink as he looks up at the ceiling, shifting from foot to foot while you regain all your books in your arm. Embarrassment and gratitude both well up inside of you, one beating the other out.
“I am really sorry,” you blurt, voice a little loud. The people around you startle and you lower your pitch when Vernon (from IT) looks at you, chewing on his lip. “Thank you - I don’t even know how to say thank you for doing that.”
“I didn’t have much of a choice.”
Your cheeks heat. “Right.”
“Happy to help, though. You can thank me by swapping books with me, though.”
“What?”
He gestures to your books. “I was standing behind you because you grabbed my books after you ran into me.”
Oh. Right. You look down at the pile of books in your hand and see a few titles that you own, but did not plan on buying today. You divest yourself of his selections, taking the ones he’d collected off the ground from there.
“So you really work in IT?”
He snorts. The sound is… a little off. You glance up at him, but his face gives away nothing. “Yeah.”
“I didn’t know.”
His smile is off, too. “I know.”
You’re unsure how to reply to that, but you’re also uneager to let him go, suddenly. Vernon (from IT) stands there for a second, lips pressed in a firm line and studying you. He really is beautiful, the light hitting his eyes in a way that turns them molten gold and-
“Alright well,” he interrupts your thoughts. “See you later or something.”
The urge to stop him strikes you, your mouth opening and closing. No words come out. You don’t know what to say - or why you want to stop him, just that you do. He walks toward the front of the store to purchase his books, leaving you standing in the middle of the store and wishing you’d met Vernon (from IT) under different circumstances.
-
Routine is important to you, especially during the weekdays. Wake up, snooze your alarm for at least fifteen minutes, get up when the second one goes off. Groan as you feel every single joint in your body pop after sitting up in bed. Wonder if you really need a corporate job to pay your bills (decide the answer is yes), and get up to feed the furious beast yowling from the bed.
The ferocious beast in question has a routine as well. Perhaps not as important as yours, the cat knows when he’s supposed to be fed and when it’s even a minute past feeding time. Halloween takes his meals very seriously, which you respect.
Your morning continues with the monotonous rhythm you’ve learned to appreciate: make coffee, shuffle back to your room into the ensuite bathroom for skin care, start your morning proper. The only thing that isn’t the same thing every morning is your playlist and your outfit of choice, leading both items up to fate to decide.
A hint of spring is in the air when you step outside. It’s that kind of sunny day with a cool breeze that promises longer days of sun ahead, despite still being brisk in the morning and biting when the sun sets.
Mornings during the days that hang between winter and spring are your favorite. You roll the windows down a little on your drive to work, fingers drumming against the steering wheel as you crawl along with all the other commuters.
Buildings shoot up toward the sky on either side of you. Dozens of banks, private firms, buildings with multiple different businesses and food courts become your entire world as you navigate to the parking garage. It’s already full of cars, but you get special parking.
Well - special as of your promotion just a few weeks ago. The designated parking spot and title bump was all that had come with the promotion, though, much to your dismay.
Still. You’d worked for this particular publishing house in the marketing department for close to a decade now. You weren’t quite as far up the ladder as you wanted to be, but you were trying to get there little by little.
So close. No cigar.
The elevator of the parking garage opens to reveal other office workers already filling the mirror-walled space. You step in as everyone makes room, clutching their bags and briefcases a little closer. You see Mingyu from creative and flash him a polite grin, which is answered with a bright one of his own and a small wave.
When the people not associated with your company shuffle off on other floors, Mingyu slides over closer to you. He’s one of the many designers in the art department, and definitely several rungs below your position, but you started the company at the same time together.
“How was your weekend?” He asks, wagging his brows up and down.
You frown. His questions suggests there’s something salacious to your wild weekend spent reading books with Halloween, but you don’t think burning the bagel you ate for girl dinner or staying in the same shirt for forty-eight hours straight is what he’s looking for.
“It was fine?” It comes out as a question. “How was yours?”
“Hm. It was good. We went out to catch the big game. Seokmin got so drunk he vomited, and Vernon won all of the bets we placed before.”
Mingyu leans forward, looking at you like you’re supposed to understand something. You don’t get it, looking him up and down with a pinched brow.
“That’s nice?” Again, it comes out as a question. “Not for Seokmin, I guess.”
His eyes narrow. Pin you to your spot against the elevator wall.
Then the elevator dings, signalling that you’re at his floor. Creative is an entire level down from marketing, all dim lights and glowing screens for the designers hard at work. Mingyu gets off, still looking suspicious as the elevator doors close and you shoot up another floor.
Instead of focusing on it, you shrug it off. Mingyu has a penchant for being weird - a creative thing, in your opinion. As soon as the elevator door opens, his behavior is long forgotten as you slip into work mode.
Everyone greets you with a polite smile or small wave on the marketing floor. The main office is filled with grey-walled cubicles, employees popping up to peer over walls with mugs of coffee and protein shakes and breakfast items as they ask their neighbors how the weekend was.
A glass wall in the far back denotes the executive and director offices. You head for the one in the back, right corner. Instead of turning on your lights, you let the natural lighting from the floor-to-ceiling windows filter in, keeping the ambiance muted and relaxing. The only additional lights you flick on are the monitor light at your desk and a small salt lamp wedged between the books on one of the many shelves behind you.
Your office is still slowly being decorated. You’d only moved in after your recent promotion, and it’s still bare of personalization, save for the salt lamp and a few things you’d moved in from your cubicle.
And the coffee machine - your own private, blessed coffee machine in the corner on a small bar cart. That might be your favorite thing about your office. You like your coworkers - for the most part, anyway - but being able to bury yourself in your work without having to interact with all of them every time you want coffee is nice.
Sitting down, you roll your shoulders. When your monitor flashes to life, you see the number of emails in your inbox and try not to groan out loud. You’re thrilled to be the new Senior Director of Marketing, but you’ve gone and made the mistake of becoming too important at work, most things unable to move forward without you playing some part in it.
In theory, that was one of the reasons Minho had broken up with you in the first place. Too buried in work, too many late nights at the office, too many dates or movie nights interrupted by the blue glow of your phone screen on your face while you answer urgent emails.
The thing is - you don’t mind. It doesn’t bother you to pause and send a quick email, or to stay late and help get something launched. You like the intricacies of being a problem solver, and with as fast as your company is growing and publishing new titles, you’ve got challenge after challenge ahead of you.
It’s easy to fall into the monotony of answering emails, joining virtual meetings and striking your pen through your to-do list. It fills three pages, but it feels good to cross something off, even if you’ve only completed two things.
By lunchtime, someone is knocking on your window. You look up, surprised to see Seungkwan sticking his head in. He’s the Manager of Digital Marketing and Social Media and he’s dubbed himself as your assistant.
Other duties as assigned, he always jokes, but you are thankful for him.
“You have to eat,” he reminds you in a singsong voice, crossing his arms over his chest. His glasses are pushed up into his blonde hair. “Maybe you can take me to lunch and divulge every detail about your new romance.”
That makes you sputter. “My what?”
Looking like the cat that ate the canary, Seungkwan slips into your office, clapping his hands together. He sits on the edge of the couch in front of your desk, bounding with energy.
“Come on,” he whispers, looking at you earnestly. “Everyone knows - you don’t have to keep it a secret anymore!”
“Keep what a secret?”
He rolls his eyes. “You’re dating Vernon!”
You stare. “Who?”
“Vernon! From IT!”
It comes back in tunnel vision. Ninefold meeting tenfold, Minho and Glossy Hair Mina, Vernon (from IT). Suddenly you’re hot all over, feel it creeping up your neck and blooming across your cheeks. You clear your throat, leaning back in your chair as your fingers reach for your water.
“I’m - oh!” You escape answering for a second by gulping down copious amounts of water, trying to cool the panic that is licking flames up your skin. “Right. Vernon… from IT.”
“Honestly, he’s cute.”
“Ha. Ha. Yes. Um. Yeah.”
“You’re so cute when you’re flustered. How long have you been dating?”
“Uhh very new. Yes. Super new. I’m sorry - how did you hear about this?”
“Mingyu told me, but Soonyoung told him and Joshua in sales told Soonyoung because Minho told the Always Closing group chat.”
“The what?”
He sighs. “Ugh, do you keep up with anything? The sales floor has a group chat. It’s where Soonyoung gets all his tea because he and Joshua room together.”
“Who the fuck is Joshua?”
Seungkwan stares. “It is a wonder you even know who Vernon is. I swear you don’t know people you’ve worked with for years.” A thought seems to strike him and he gasps. “Oh my god is that why you’re always going to him for your fucked up passwords?”
Something Vernon said comes back to you vaguely. Something about forgotten passwords when the cleaning crew throws out your sticky notes. Of course, no one would throw out your sticky notes if you weren’t dropping them all over the floor, but that’s neither here nor there.
Bolting from your seat, you startle Seungkwan, whose brows disappear in his hairline as he stares up at you.
“Actually, I can’t do lunch today.”
He sighs. “Boss, you have to eat.”
“I am! I am going to lunch with my…. Vernon from IT.”
“Oooo.” He leans back, shaking his head and grinning at you. “Go on then. Make sure you wrap it before-”
“If you finish that sentence I will revoke your privilege to my coffee cart.”
Seungkwan’s grin only gets wider. “Enjoy, boss.”
In a flurry, you leave your office. Eyes follow you as you go and suddenly you’re unsure if people are looking at you because you’re walking so fast that you’re almost running, or if it’s because they think you’re dating Vernon).
Your finger nearly breaks as you slam the button over and over again to shoot a few floors down. It doesn’t make the elevator go any faster. When the doors finally close and you begin to descend, you turn to the mirror walls and panic, tucking stray pieces of hair back into place and trying to fix the mascara smudges from staring at your screen for four straight hours.
A knot forms in your stomach. You press your damp palms against your dress pants, wiping viciously to try and keep the moisture at bay. When the elevator dings and the doors open to the silent hum of the IT department, you think you might vomit.
Unlike the marketing floor, no heads turn as you go. You try to maintain a normal pace this time, marching down the rows of cubicles before you realize you have no idea where Vernon sits. You pause awkwardly, standing on your tiptoes to try and see over the walls of cubicles to spot him.
“Can I help you?” A man sticks his head out of his cubicle, his headphones around his neck. He looks you up and down critically. “You’ll have to have proof of submitting a ticket before-”
“Vernon,” you interrupt him. “Vernon from IT? Where does he sit?”
For a second, the guy narrows his eyes. Then a lightbulb seems to go off and he grins, leaning back in his chair. He looks far too pleased with himself, and there’s something oily and slick you don’t like about his gaze. “You’re her.”
“I’m a senior director, yes.”
That changes his tune immediately. He sits up, clearing his throat. “To the back on the left.”
“Thanks.”
Following his lead, you pass by several empty cubicles, everyone seemingly at lunch. You take the corner as instructed and find a handful of men sitting in the same cubicle, one sitting atop a desk and swinging his legs, another leaning against the cubicle wall, and the last one sitting in the seat.
The one sitting in the seat is the quarry you seek, his eyes going wide when he sees you storming toward him. He goes rigid in his seat, clearing his throat and slapping the leg of the man sitting atop his desk. He kicks at Vernon before spotting you and immediately jumping down, straightening his shirt.
Nervous energy crackles as all three sets of eyes settle on you. You stop right in front of his cubicle, trying to put on your bravest smile.
“Hi?” Vernon asks, looking at the two men on either side of him. “Did you forget your password again?”
“What? No. I don’t do it that often.” He looks unsure, brows raised behind his glasses. You huff, putting your hands on your hips. “Okay, I forget it sometimes. But no, that isn’t why I’m here.”
“Does your software need updating?”
“No, I-”
“Oh. I did forget to give Seungkwan that new phone he asked for on behalf of the social team. It came in last week - I’ll finish setting it up and-”
“Lunch!” You all but yell, startling all three men. “I came here for lunch.”
There’s a long pause. Vernon’s coworkers look like they’d rather be anywhere else than trapped by you. You ignore them in favor of a quick study of Vernon. He’s in dress pants and a button down shirt that is untucked and a little wrinkled. It’s a far cry from the casual way he was dressed at the bookstore, but it’s still not totally work appropriate.
Still he pulls it off. There’s something casual and cool about it, aloof in a way that still looks good. His hair is even styled neatly, though a brown lock falls over his eyebrow as he leans forward and asks, “Lunch? The cafeteria is on the first floor.”
The man who had been sitting on his desk kicks him. “She’s asking you to go to lunch, dude.”
“She’s not-” Vernon pauses and looks at you. “Are you asking me to go to lunch?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
Your patience narrows to a tight smile, your words pinched between your teeth, “Because that’s what loving girlfriends do, sweetie.”
The words land and have an immediate effect. Vernon flushes from the neck up, mouth opening and closing as he presses his palms against his thigh. The man who kicked him snickers and tries to hide it with a thinly veiled cough.
Your gaze narrows and he notices you watching, clearing his throat to stretch his hand toward you. “I’m Chan. It’s nice to meet… Vernon’s girlfriend?”
You shake his head and say nothing, eyes drifting to the man leaning against the wall. He gives you a small salute. “Seokmin.”
“Oh.” You blink. “The puker?”
His charming smile drops immediately as he looks at Vernon, smacking him on the shoulder. “You told her about that?”
“I didn’t tell her anything.” Vernon stands, shrugging away from both of his friends’ wandering eyes. “Sure, sweetie,” he answers you, giving you a plastic grin. “It’s your treat this week, right? At that very nice, very expensive steakhouse down the block.”
There’s a glimmer in his eyes that tells you Vernon will only play along if it’s by his rules. You’re at a disadvantage, so you grin and nod, willing to go by his rules for now. “That’s so right, darling. Let’s go.”
“Enjoy lunch!” Chan calls behind you as Vernon shuffles behind you, quickly trying to tuck his shirt. “Don’t do anything I-”
“Don’t finish that sentence,” Vernon warns, quickening his step to match yours. “Sorry about him.”
“Don’t worry, I’ve got my own version of him sitting in my office.”
The elevator ride down to the first floor and the walk out onto the busy street is silent. It’s not the comfortable, easy silence you might have with Seungkwan or Mingyu - if Mingyu could wrap his head around silence. It's awkwardly silent, both of you looking anywhere but one another.
You don’t know where you’re going, but Vernon leads you to a Michelin steakhouse down the block, true to his word. You glare at him when you step into the dark entryway where a host with hair as glossy as Mina’s greets you.
“Two?” You both nod and she grins. “Right this way.”
Vernon follows her first, shuffling behind her as she leads the two of you into the dining room proper. It’s a beautiful establishment with lacquered floors, rich wooden tables draped with fine tablecloths and the kind of glassware that looks like real crystal.
When you both sit down with menus in hand, the hostess leaves you and you lean forward, hissing, “How much money do you think I make?”
“More than I do in IT,” Vernon answers breezily, eyes roving the menu. For a second, his gaze flickers to meet yours over the top of the menu. It’s the first time he’s really looked at you since you marched into his office. “Consider it an apology meal for the mess you’ve got us in.”
“Hey! You played along?”
“You’re right, I guess I could have just super embarrassed you in front of your ex-boyfriend. That would have been very polite of me.”
That stumps you. You open and close your mouth, feeling a bit like a fish. You suppose that’s fair - what was Vernon supposed to do when you’d grabbed him in the middle of a bookstore and staked your claim?
Sighing, you lean back as your server gives you a moment of respite, filling your glasses with water and going over the specials. When they leave, you grab your glass and take several gulps of water, trying to cool your head.
It only works a little.
“I didn’t know Minho was going to tell the entire world.”
“Really? Minho has the biggest mouth at this company. You should see his Teams messages.”
“You can do that?”
“On the clock?” He asks. When you shake your head, assuring it stays between you, he nods. “Yeah, we can see everything you do.”
“Oh.” You think of all the terrible things you’ve searched on your work computer like how to get over a breakup and how to tell if my ex still likes me. “Anyway, I didn’t know he was going to say anything.”
The server returns to take your orders. You order some sort of steak salad at random while Vernon orders something blessedly modest. As the server parts ways, Vernon leans back in his chair and looks at you again, expression unreadable.
“Well,” he eventually says. “No harm done once you tell everyone we’re not dating.”
“Once I what?”
“Well you’ll have to-”
“No way.”
“What?”
“Do you know how embarrassing that would be?”
He raises a brow. “More embarrassing than grabbing some dude in the bookstore and claiming he’s your boyfriend.”
The air leaves your lungs and you melt into the seat, your misery showing. “I already said sorry.”
“There’s nothing to be embarrassed about. Just tell everyone you broke up with me.”
You snort. “No one would believe that.”
“Why?”
Instead of answering him immediately, you busy yourself unraveling silverware. It’s a hard question to answer, not because you don’t know the answer but because you don’t want to tell him. Vernon is quiet, though. Patient.
He doesn’t press you for an answer, happy to wait you out until you’ve folded your napkin and placed it on your lap, and once again drained the rest of your water. It does nothing for your nerves as you fixate on a spot atop the table.
“I don’t… date.”
“You dated Minho.”
“Yeah. That’s uh… it. It’s kind of a running joke that I am undateable.”
He frowns at that. “Respectfully, I find that incredibly hard to believe.”
“Thanks. I think.” You pick at a string in the tablecloth. “Anyway, no one would buy that I ended the first relationship I’ve had since Minho. I didn’t even end the last one and sort of clung to it in a way that was sort of embarrassing.”
“I see.”
You’re unsure if he really does. When Minho had broken up with you, you’d attempt to make arguments to keep him around. Offered less work hours, even said you’d go to therapy to talk about your insane need for success. He hadn’t wanted any of it, and you’d eventually realized that he just… didn’t want you.
They never did, when people realized what dating you entails. Everyone wants a woman who works hard. They like the illusion of it, the woman who gets up early in the morning and goes to workout before going to her corporate job and girl bossing all day long. They desire the woman who dresses fashionably, who wears designer tags and commands a room all day before coming home to make an effortless dinner followed by a luxurious night routine.
And you get it. You want to be that too. But the truth is most days you wake up past your alarm and rush to the office wearing shoes that don’t match, and sometimes you come home so late and burned out from your job that you eat a handful of shredded cheese over the sink with a stick of beef jerky, only to do it all again the next day.
That wasn’t what anyone wanted. At least, not in your experience.
“Anyway,” you clear your throat. “You’re right, or whatever. I should just tell them I lied. I’ve given worse news. Just you know - less personal.”
For a few minutes, Vernon is quiet. You don’t look up to meet his gaze. Instead you watch the ice cubes in your glass melt, little beads of condensation zigzagging down the curve of your glass.
A sigh makes you look up at Vernon. “What if we dated for like a month or something?”
“What?”
“I don’t mean really date,” he offers quickly, sensing your surprise. For some reason, that stings a little. You swallow it down past the knot forming in your throat. “It’ll get people off your back or whatever and we can just mutually end things.”
“Really? You’d do that.”
He shrugs a shoulder. “I guess, yeah.”
“You can break up with me,” you promise eagerly, leaning forward with the new promise of a solution to your problem. “Everyone will believe it. Just say I work too much and I’m too obsessed with my career.”
An uneasy gaze flickers in Vernon’s eyes. “It can be mutual,” he says firmly. “That way it ends nicely.”
“Fine. Everyone will think one thing anyway, you’ll get out without a scratch, trust me. Are you sure you’re willing to do this? I can… suck it up and tell everyone I made it up.”
“Do you really want to?”
“No,” you admit.
“Then it’s settled.” He shrugs, heaving a heavy sigh. “I’ll give you a month and then we can mutually end things.”
Sticking your hand over the table, you offer it for Vernon to shake. His mouth twitches a little as he smiles, leaning forward to take your hand. His is warm and softer than you imagined, enveloping yours firmly as he shakes.
“Deal,” you smile, feeling a glimmer of hope.
Just like that, Vernon (from IT) becomes Vernon (your boyfriend).
Sort of.
-
Vernon doesn’t consider himself anxious. He’s never really dealt with anxiety, and there are only a few things that can make him nervous in the world. The few times he remembers being nervous were when he was in a bidding war for a limited edition Millenium Falcon model, in line at a meet-and-greet for his favorite band when he was sixteen, and when he lost his virginity to Carley Waters in his sophomore year of college.
He’d won the bidding war and managed to not sound like an idiot meeting his idols, but he definitely came immediately after putting his dick inside Carley. Two out of three were pretty good odds, all things considered.
Vernon is more nervous than all three of those events combined as he checks himself in the mirror for the millionth time. Usually, he doesn’t really think twice about what he wears to the bar on the weekend. He has fifteen of the same shirt in the same colors, and his jeans all look the same, even though he thinks they’re different.
Now, though, he has the added element of you. He cannot recall a single time that you’ve ever agreed to go out with your work friends - and to your surprise, not his, you do have the same work friends - but tonight is different.
Tonight, you’re supposed to be dating.
It’s weird. Chan and Seokmin agree it’s weird. He keeps no secrets from them and had already told them about the encounter at the bookstore. They’ve sworn themselves to secrecy, though Vernon cannot fathom how they just go with it.
She’s really hot, Chan had said after a few sips of beer. Fuck it, right?
She’s the third most executive person in marketing, Seokmin warned. Be careful.
Both are true. Vernon had acknowledged Chan’s point the first time he’d seen you in Information Technology a little over two years ago. You’d been dating Minho then and entirely untouchable - still are, kind of - and Vernon had been the only person at the office early enough to help you out. He’d been new then, and often came in the earliest to get started on the overload of tasks he was always given as the junior employee.
Even then, Vernon thought you were the most beautiful person he’d ever seen. Sure, you had on mismatched shoes and there was a breathy chaos to you that would probably stress most people out, but he sort of liked it. Thought that it was different in a good way, and spoke to the sort of person who worked really hard and didn’t fake their way through the day.
Vernon had realized Seokmin's point right after he’d learned Chan’s. As soon as he helped you login to your computer, he’d realized you were a Senior Manager of Marketing. Not a huge title in a company so big, but high enough that Vernon thought twice about his attraction to you.
Now, both of their points are moot. You’re still attractive but that doesn’t really change the situation - makes it harder, even. Vernon had never really dreamed of an actual relationship with you and now that he’s found himself in a fake one, he’s not really sure what to do with the acknowledgement that he’s attracted to you.
Worse is that he doesn’t actually know if he’s allowed to date you. Vernon is a senior coordinator in the IT department and you’re a senior director. Perhaps not in his department or directly overseeing him, but it’s a high enough position that Sekomin is right - it could mean trouble if this goes poorly.
So why the fuck did he offer to fake date you for a month?
As someone in Information Technology, most people think Vernon is smart. He doesn’t consider himself to be above average intelligence, and as he slides his sneakers on his feet to go pick you up for a night out, he thinks everyone is wrong about him - he’s fucking stupid.
Looking in the mirror one more time, Vernon decides it’s as good as it’s ever going to get. Jeans, a black shirt and a hat facing backward is all he really knows how to style. He shoves his keys in his pocket, a tiny vial of contact solution just in case, and grabs his phone as he heads out the door.
Your apartment complex isn’t that far from his. He finds it with ease, surprised that you don’t live in one of those high-rise apartments that all the other executives live in. The apartment is pretty modest with only three floors and rows of respectable Toyota Camrys and Honda Civics.
When he spots you coming down the stairs, his traitorous heart does that same little staccato it had last weekend when he saw you at the bookstore. He hadn’t expected to run into you outside of work and only panicked for a split second before he realized that you didn’t recognize him.
And then you’d called him your boyfriend.
Recovering from the memory of it, Vernon stares as you open the door to his car, flashing a tight smile as you slide in. He doesn’t know what he thought you might wear on the weekend, but he’s surprised to see you in jeans, a black form-fitted shirt tucked in, and a simple purse on your arm.
“What?” You ask, a little breathless. He sees the sticky shine of lipgloss on your mouth and squeezes the wheel, fighting the urge to lean over and taste it.
Insane, he thinks as he puts the car in gear. He’s gone insane.
“Nothing. I guess I just thought you’d live somewhere nicer.”
“Oh.”
Your shift in tone makes him realize how it sounded. “Sorry - not like that. I thought it would be somewhere really fancy. You’re a senior director and all that.”
“I only got promoted a few weeks ago. And it was not a pay raise, trust me.”
“Seriously?” You glance sidelong at him, pausing like you’ve said something you shouldn’t. His lips twitch and he says, “Not on the clock.”
That gets you to grin, leaning back into the passenger seat. “Only came with an office and title bump. I was already doing all the work of a senior director so they felt like they needed to bump my title to protect themselves, I think.”
“That’s kind of shitty.”
You hum. “Is it like that in IT?”
“I think it’s like that anywhere.”
“Good point.”
A comfortable silence falls over the car. It’s not at all like the awkward, stilted lunch the two of you had at the beginning of the week. He had been sweating through his shirt that time around, though you didn’t seem to notice. He’d been a little angry with you too, for getting the both of you into this mess.
But… it had been his idea to help you save face. He didn’t have to. He didn’t owe you anything, and he believes you when you say you would come clean and admit you lied through your teeth. Maybe that’s why he offered to help anyway, your willingness to swallow the pain of embarrassment to relieve him of the facade.
Library is a hole in the wall bar that Vernon and his friends from work like to go to on Saturday nights. It’s sort of a funny joke, a bunch of professionals from the publishing industry getting drunk and eating shitty bar food in a place named for the very buildings they dedicate their life to, in a weird, roundabout, mathematical way.
Vernon has friends outside of work that come too, but tonight it’s just the usual crowd: Chan, Seokmin and Seokmin’s girlfriend, Mingyu and Soonyoung from creative, and some of the people from the sales team. The sales team is only there by virtue of Joshua, who is the only person from sales Vernon remotely tolerates.
Vernon isn’t exactly sure what a sales team does at a publishing company anyway.
When Vernon parks, he sees you take a deep breath. He averts his eyes, feeling like he’s intruding on a moment before you brace yourself and get out of the car suddenly. He makes a noise and panics to follow you. You’re already plunging ahead like you’re storming into battle, and perhaps in your mind you are.
He jogs to catch up. “Wait!”
You stop, turning to face him with a dubious expression. “What?”
“We should walk in together.”
“Oh.” You blink. It’s a bit cute but Vernon shoves that down. “You’re right. Sorry. I sort of… set my mind to the task and forgot.”
“You can’t approach this like you approach work.”
“I can’t?”
He laughs. “No. Relationships aren’t jobs - so a fake one isn’t either. You have to try and appear like this is natural. If you come in all to-do list and checkmarking the boxes, it’s going to look weird.”
“Oh.”
The confidence you had a second before deflates. He feels a little guilty, reaching out to take your hand before he realizes what he’s doing. Your hands are cold in his but he doesn’t mind, wrapping his fingers in yours as you stare at him like he’s grown three heads.
Maybe he has.
“We should walk in together. Maybe holding hands.”
“Right.” You lick your lips and he tries to give you a smile more confident than what he’s feeling. His heart is hammering in his chest, both at the way your hand squeezes his nervously and at the preposterousness of it all. “You’re kind of good at this.”
“I just have a different perspective.”
“The perspective of someone who knows how to date versus… whatever I am.”
He hears the joke in your tone so he lets himself laugh a little. He starts walking, tugging you next to him. “Not exactly. I just watch a lot of movies, including romances.”
“Really? What’s your favorite one?”
“Uhhh.” He thinks about it as you both approach the door. He doesn’t answer for a second while he flashes the security outside his ID. “I really like The Proposal. With Sandra Bullock.”
Instead the bar is filled with modern music at a reasonable level and small, wooden tables with chipped tops. There is nothing about the bar that actually looks like a library, save the single shelf shoved in the corner with beat up comic books and an insane amount of hentai that Soonyoung put there.
“You mean the one where the boss fake dates her employee… and they work at a publishing company?”
As soon as you ask the question, Vernon realizes the irony. He looks at you with a wide gaze, pausing at the entrance to look at you. Your mouth folds on itself, trying not to laugh as you too realize the irony of the movie.
“Yeah, so that’s weird I guess,” he admits. He tugs on your hand. “Come on, we always sit in the back.”
You follow him wordlessly. The crowd isn’t big inside, but there are enough people that you have to shuffle a little closer to him. He catches the scent of your perfume - it smells like sweet tobacco and vanilla, something that is subtle with a little bit of spice.
Turning around the corner of the bar, you see a wall entirely taken by booths with pool tables in the open space. Mingyu and Seokmin’s girlfriend are already fighting over the felted green as she points a pool cue at him, threatening. Seokmin is lounging in one of the booths, watching on with a dopey grin that makes Vernon roll his eyes.
Everyone else sits in in a variety of booths, an entire corner dedicated to the dozen or so of them who have made this their home for the last two years. Vernon keeps you close, feeling his hands go clammy when all the eyes turn to the two of you. Despite the rumor having spread far and wide, it’s clear that surprise ripples through the crowd at seeing evidence of your relationship.
The fake one, that is. Naturally.
Instead of going directly to the safety - or danger, in this case - of his friends, Vernon heads to the bar. He needs to take the edge off immediately, though he knows he can’t get too crazy. The drive home is short, but even if you weren’t in his car for the evening, he doesn’t like to tempt fate.
Next to him at the bartop, you drop his hand to press your palms against the sticky wood. You make a face and he laughs before ordering a simple rum and coke. You order the same but with a lime and the bartender flashes you a charming grin.
Vernon glances at you and realizes you don’t even register the bartender. You’re chewing your lip and fidgeting, pulling at the sleeves of your shirt and shifting from foot-to-foot. A pang goes through him.
“Relax.” You look up at him, eyes wide. “We’re going to do fine.”
“What if I fuck it up?” You ask, voice barely audible as you lean in. “They’re going to see right through me, Vernon from IT. They’re going to have one conversation with us and be like ‘no way is he dating that lunatic.’”
“For starters, you’re not a lunatic.” You give him a look and he amends, “Not in the way that’s bad, anyway.”
“How do you know? We barely know each other.”
You’ve got him there. The bartender comes back with your drinks and you take yours, draining half of it before remembering the lime. He watches you squeeze it into the drink while he contemplates his answer.
“I guess I just have a feeling for these things. You don’t seem very crazy to me.”
“Thanks.”
“And I guess I’m getting to know you, so there’s that.”
You sigh. “Right.”
“You’ll do fine. But maybe don’t call me Vernon from IT.”
“Right.”
“Come on.”
With wavering confidence, you follow Vernon over to the crowd from work. Everyone greets you warmly, though a little unsure. He notes the comments about being shocked to see you outside the four walls of your office, a joke you take in stride.
It’s clear you don’t know how to interact with everyone at first. It’s not to say that you’re stiff or awkward, but Vernon can see the rigid set in your shoulders and the way your eyes follow the conversation but don’t actually contribute.
You have an effect on others as well. For those who are a little more unfamiliar with you, they can’t seem to puzzle out why one of the higher ups is here guzzling down rum and cokes. And you are guzzling them down, carving a path to and from the bar at a rate that impresses Vernon.
“How are things going?” Chan slips into the seat you just vacated to march to the bar again. “She seems surprisingly normal.”
“Why is that surprising?”
Chan gives him a look. “She’s a suit.”
“I don’t think so,” Vernon laughs. “Trust me on that.”
Chan hums unconvinced, watching you at the bar. “She’s nice, at least.”
“Very.”
“Don’t fall in love with her or anything.”
“Weird thing to say, man.”
“Yeah, well. She’s attractive, nice, and no offense, a little weird. She’s exactly your type.”
That makes him frown. “What’s weird about her? Also, would that be so bad?”
“She knew the radius of the sun and the verbatim definition of parsecs. I’m not answering that second question because I shouldn’t have to.” Chan claps him on the shoulder, looking over Vernon’s head. “She’s coming back, but seriously. Be careful.”
Chan scoots away, flashing Vernon a look that makes the single drink Vernon has had sour in his stomach. Then you’re there, sitting down next to him, swaying a little bit. He smells sweet tobacco and vanilla, his eyelids fluttering for a second as you shift a little too close - or what would be too close, if you weren’t fake dating.
“What’s that look on your face?” You ask, sipping your drink. He wonders if it’s appropriate to ask if you need water.
“What look on my face?”
“You know, like-” You try to pinch your brows together and your mouth puckers downward. He feels himself smile and he shakes his head. “Sort of frowny.”
“Nothing.” You look at him skeptically. “Hey, I have a question.”
You pause, looking a little panicked. “Okay.”
“What’s the radius of the sun?”
“Oh!” You visibly brighten and it’s like watching the sun spill over the lip of the horizon, all gold and liquid, warm and bright. “432,690 miles. Surface temperature is about 5,772 Kelvin.”
Suddenly, Chan’s warning feels very, very real. Vernon tries to hide his smile, looking down at the table. Meanwhile, you start rattling off facts about the sun, not taking a single breath as you explain you memorized them from when you were working on the marketing for a line of textbooks about space early on in your career.
Vernon lets you talk. Lets you somehow divert back to work, watching as you animatedly walk him through the process of what you do. How you think. It’s fascinating, and he’s not really sure how anyone else could find it tiresome, seeing the way you light up when you tell him about a project that Seungkwan’s team killed it on.
Your pride is palpable, your energy shifting from unsure to confident.
Suddenly, you pause, leveling Vernon with a hard stare. He says nothing, watching the way you drink him in, something beneath the surface of your gaze he can’t quite read. “Can I say something?”
“On the clock?” he asks, grinning. You shake your head and he gestures for you to continue.
“You have pretty eyes. I still like when you wear glasses, though. They suit you.”
Yeah. Vernon thinks Chan’s warning is very real.
-
Running in heels is hard. You don’t know how anyone manages to do it in movies. Not that you think anything that happens in movies is real, but you can’t imagine how they make it work for the scene. You nearly break your ankle three times on your sprint to IT and you’re sure you scare the daylights out of Chan when you come tearing around the corner.
You shout a greeting over your shoulder but don’t stop until you’re hissing Vernon’s name while rushing into his cube. He flinches, turning around to look at you mid-task. You’re heaving, putting a hand on your hip as you straighten, trying to suck down air.
“Say no!”
He’s visibly confused. “To what?”
“Just say no!”
Before Vernon can ask you another thing, you hear Minho’s voice. Your heart thunders in your ribcage as you try to lean against the wall of Vernon’s cube, nearly missing it. You stumble a few steps and he catches you by the elbow, lightning quick as he helps steady you.
When he drops his grip, the place where Vernon had held you moments before is warm. You try not to think about it, heart thundering doubletime as you watch Minho approach, a lazy swing to his step and a smirk on his face.
“Funny I found you here!”
“Why would that be funny? My Vernon - my boyfriend is down here.”
From the corner of his eye, you see Vernon wince. You’re not doing a great job at keeping it casual, but you’re also still out of breath from sprinting down the stairs to beat Minho here and warn Vernon. Seungkwan had barely been able to give you the heads up that Minho was going to ask for a double date, and you simply couldn’t have that.
Even as you near the end of your second week dating - fake dating - Vernon, you’re unsure the two of you can get through a date with someone who actually knows you. Vernon might be able to give some details on the surface, but you dated Minho for a year - how could Vernon ever hope to keep up?
Minho leans against Chan’s cube. Luckily it’s vacant of its usual occupant - Chan hates Mihno, as you’ve recently learned through a lunch with him and Vernon.
“Glad I caught you together, then,” Minho says, though you think he’s not that glad. But what do you know? “I wanted to see if you were busy on-”
“Yes.” You flash him a too-wide grin with too many teeth.
“I didn’t even give you the date.”
“We’re always very busy.”
“Ah.” Minho scratches the back of his neck and gives Vernon a look akin to sympathy. “Never has time, does she? Always all work, no play. I wanted to see if you guys wanted to go to dinner with Mina and I tomorrow night, but…” He shrugs. “Same old.”
You try not to let your exterior crack, but Minho’s words cut right through your outer shell to the softness of you. Without fail he manages to highlight this obsession you have with work, making it sound worse every single time.
Behind you, Vernon shifts closer. You become acutely aware of him suddenly, warmth radiating from him as his chest presses against the back of your arm and his hand slips to the middle of your back, featherlight, like he’s afraid to touch you. He smells like ocean driftwood and salt, something that makes you think of warmer days. Fresh fruit. Cold water.
Fighting a shiver, you freeze up, hyper aware of him.
“Oh, I don’t know,” Vernon says gently. “She doesn’t work that much. She makes plenty of time for me.”
Minho’s eye twitches, the only sign he’s annoyed. As a trained salesperson, his tells are always subtle, nearly undetectable. But you know him inside and out, can see the sliver of annoyance there.
Satisfaction rules supreme, a smile tugging at your lips until Vernon adds, “We can make time for them, right?”
You snap your head to the side, eyes meeting his. Vernon has beautiful eyes. You’d said as much the other night when you had a little too much to drink, staring up at him without his glasses. He looks good without them, but you like the way the frames sit on his nose, the way they reflect light against the liquid brown of his iris.
Now, those eyes are staring back at you straight on. There’s something fierce in them, and though you barely know him, you have a sneaking suspicion Vernon is annoyed. Not with you but with Minho.
Still…
“Are you sure?”
Your question is gentle. For a moment, you forget Minho is there at all. You’re looking at Vernon, trying to puzzle out why he would say yes to something insane again. It was lucky enough he’d offered to participate in this little charade to save your pride, and now here he is doing it again, unprompted.
Vernon’s mouth twitches. He nods, hand pressing into your back a little firmer before he drops it away. You turn to Minho, who watches the two of you with a peculiar expression. “Alright,” you tell him. “It’s a date.”
“Great. I’ll send you the details.”
When Minho leaves, you turn to Vernon, the question on the tip of your tongue. He doesn’t give you a chance, shooting you a sidelong glance as he says, “Why is he always bringing up your work schedule?”
You wince. Vernon either doesn’t notice or is nice enough not to say anything. Instead of answering right away, you sit on top of Vernon’s desk, feet dangling a little. He makes room for you, turning his chair to face you and give you his full attention.
He’s dressed the same as always today, but you notice his shirt is ironed and tucked in neatly. Rubbing his brow, he slides his glasses up on his head, pressing his fingers along his eye sockets like they’re strained.
“What kind of stuff do you do?” You ask instead of answering his question. You gesture to his multiple computer screens. “Besides help me figure out my passwords.”
“Lots of stuff. It’s mostly small things like remoting into people’s computers to help them solve their issues. I spend a majority of my day showing people how to unmute themselves on their virtual meeting software.”
“Do you like it?”
He shrugs. “It’s got a rhythm to it that I like. I like having a to-do list every day and I can pretty much always know what to expect.”
“That does sound nice. And you can spy on everyone’s messages right?”
He raises his brow. “On the clock?” That makes you smile and you shake your head. “I could, but I don’t. There are a ton of people who forget us and HR can see all their shit, though.”
“Ooo like what?”
He sucks in air through his teeth, “Man, I don’t think I can tell you.”
You can tell he’s teasing and you scoff, kicking out with your foot toward his knee. He dodges you easily with a playful grin. “Come on!”
“I’ll tell you off the clock. Real off the clock.”
“Fine. Speaking of - are you busy tonight?” He raises his brows in question. “We should probably meet up and try to flesh out some details of our uh… relationship. I know some things about you but not a lot. Like, when is your birthday?”
“February 18.”
You slap your hand on top of his desk. “Vernon! That’s super soon! Are you doing anything for it?”
“Nah. I don’t ever want to make a fuss and it's close to Valentine’s Day so sometimes people are doing things retroactively.”
You hum, displeased with the answer, but you file it away for later. “So are you free tonight?”
“Yeah.”
“Cool, you can come over to my place. Do you like pizza? You have to like pizza, right? You’re a boy.”
“A lot of boys like pizza, yes. Specifically me.”
“Good. Seven?”
“Seven.”
-
A knock at the door makes you look up from your computer. It takes a second for your eyes to adjust, the light outside the office windows long fading with the setting sun and the only other source the salt lamp behind you and the burn of the safety lights in the main cubicles.
Vernon leans against the door frame, resting his head against it as he peers at you. For a second, you forget about everything except the way he looks leaned against the frame, his glasses perfectly perched on his nose and hair soft with wear from the day.
Then, you lurch with realization, gasping and looking at your watch. “It’s seven.”
“It’s seven,” he agrees, laughing gently.
You bolt from the seat, groaning and grabbing things to shove in your bag. In the process, you knock over a cup and a curse flies out your lips. He pushes off the door, walking over to help you tame the chaos.
“Easy,” he admonishes. “All good here, don’t panic.”
“I’m really sorry. I got stuck working through this media plan that someone asked for and I completely lost track of time.”
“It’s okay.”
The panic welling up inside you calms down as you look up at him. Vernon says nothing further, picking up your cup and righting the pens that you’ve knocked over. His movements are casual, straightening the things on your desk until he’s satisfied and steps away.
You prepare for annoyance, for the same expression you’re used to when you’re late to an event or have missed a thing, when you’ve yet again lost track of time holed up in your office and yet… Vernon just gives you an easy smile and a shrug.
No annoyance. No judgment. Just… Vernon.
Perhaps tenfold isn’t so bad.
“It’s not pizza, but there's a tiny little bar a few blocks down that I really like. They serve food.”
“Yeah?”
He nods and hesitates. “It’s… themed, though.”
“That’s okay. I like a theme.”
The theme in question isn’t so much of a theme as it is an entire franchise. You stand in the doorway of Cantina Far Away, mouth parted as you drink in the sights and sounds of the Star Wars themed bar.
A circular bar sits in the middle of the small establishment. There isn’t a ton of room to recreate the iconic corner of the world where you were first introduced to Han Solo as a kid, but there’s just enough to make the magic work.
Kegs and other apparatuses hang from the ceiling of the stone top bar. Lights track underneath the bar top and in the ceiling, giving the dim illusion that it’s permanently dusk inside. Small, round tables fill the main space, with three booths lined against the back wall. An R2-D2 replica stands beside C3-PO in the corner, and a familiar soundtrack plays through the sound system.
“If you want to go somewhere else-”
“Do they have blue milk?”
Vernon pauses. “What?”
You look up at him, grinning. “Do they have the blue milk?”
“They have something on their menu like that, yeah. I don’t know what it is.”
“I always wanted to drink the blue milk as a kid.”
“Alright.” He gestures to the bar, which is mostly empty. “Let’s get you blue milk.”
Popping up on a stool, you can’t help but crane your neck upward to look at the bar from this angle. It truly looks like every part of it was taken from the movie set. You run your hand atop the bar’s surface to realize it’s actually wood that looks like stone, marveling at the smoothness.
Behind the bar, two bartenders move in sync, dressed in Jedi robes. When they approach, you both order the blue milk - you, because you demand to know what it tastes like, Vernon, in solidarity.
Vibrating with excitement, you turn to look at Vernon. “When I was a kid, watching Star Wars was one of the few things my mom and I got to do together.”
“One of the few things?”
You nod, clapping your hands excitedly when the bartender brings you whatever concoction the blue milk is. It comes in a tall glass and is clear, baby blue and frothy at the top. Leaning over, you take a whiff. It smells vaguely coconutty and you narrow your eyes, leaning forward to take a tentative sip.
Coconut rum hits your tongue and you cringe. Vernon does too, making a face and sticking his tongue out as he immediately shoves the drink away from him. You laugh, not even caring that you hate it. It tastes nothing like you expected and you don’t really like coconut, but it strikes a nostalgic chord.
“My mom was a single parent and worked really hard at a law firm,” you eventually answer, taking another sip and cringing. Vernon orders something more generic - a rum and coke for you both. “But she always made time on the weekend if I really wanted to do a Star Wars marathon and she took off work for all the prequel releases to take me.”
“That’s cute. My mom was really into it too. Want to know a secret?”
“Yes.”
“My first name is Hansol. A little inspired by Han Solo. I prefer to go by Vernon with everyone who isn’t my family, though.”
That makes you smile. “I like it, though. Your mom has good taste like mine. Think they’d be friends?”
He blushes. “Maybe.”
You realize how forward of a question it is. You avert your gaze to your blue drink, sipping it and grimacing. Vernon chuckles and says, “You don’t have to drink it.”
“I don’t have to do a lot of things but I do anyway.”
“Hmm. Like what?”
“Ugh. I don’t know? Attend meetings all day?”
“I think you do have to do that.”
You scrunch your nose. “Alright, fair.”
“Tell me about your job.”
You glance at him, brows raised. “You want me to talk about work?”
“It’s obvious you like what you do, and by the sounds of it, working hard runs in the family. Tell me what you like about it.”
That makes you sigh as you push the ice around in your glass. What do you like about your job? Well, you like a lot of things and you hate a lot of things. So you start listing them, telling Vernon that you like the routine and you enjoy having a rhythm to your day. You like feeling proud when you can solve a problem no one else can, or when you lead your team through chaos and they look at you like you’re a god who showed them the way.
You like that you can be an authority in the room but you don’t feel like a dictator, and that now when you talk, people listen. Your team is your favorite, loving the way you and Seungkwan work in tandem, and the way the creative department likes to pick your brain. Mingyu and Soonyoung are always asking for your feedback, even if your opinion doesn’t matter in the hierarchy of their world.
The dislikes though… well, you dislike that you never have enough time in the day. That you’re always in a meeting and feel like you leave your team drowning in work picking up the slack. Hate that you get time blindness and sit in your office for hours past dinner to get something right, to get something perfect.
Hate that because you like what you do, everyone thinks you don’t have a life or don’t want a life. And that leads you to the center of the entire issue with your relationship with Minho.
You pull away like you’re approaching a particularly purple bruise when you near the topic of Minho. Your blue drink is gone and you order something more normal instead. The coke and rum sizzles on your tongue as Vernon looks at you expectantly.
“I’m doing all the talking,” you mutter, a little defensive. “What’s your favorite color?”
“Blue.”
“What kind of blue.”
“Blue like that very nasty milk you just drank.” You stick your tongue out and Vernon smiles. His smile is like a burning star at the center of a solar system, glowing and bright and warm. It gives life. “What’s yours?”
“Deep red. Like… wine or burgundy. What’s your favorite movie?”
“Ah, not that question. I’m a bit of a cinephile.”
“Too bad. You have to pick one.”
Vernon thinks about it. The tip of his finger traces the condensation of his glass lazily and you hyperfocus on it, watching the way he catches the bead of liquid every time. He has nice fingers, you realize. The thought makes you clench and suddenly wonder if you need to walk out of the bar down to the church to confess the sin of your mind.
Not that you’re religious, but maybe you should be, with where your mind has wandered.
“I like The Princess Bride.”
You gasp, grabbing him by the wrist and shaking it excitedly. “My name is Inigo Montoya. You killed my father, prepare to die!”
Vernon’s laughter is infectious. You both fall into a fit of giggles, quoting your favorite parts of the movie. It’s nice - this is nice. It’s unexpected and you’re a little unsure how you got here, but Vernon makes the pressure of getting to know one another in preparation to fake date in front of your ex fade away.
Until, of course, you remember that’s why you’re at the bar and the thought suddenly sobers you.
Straightening, you ask, “Why’d you want to go on a double date, anyway? You don’t owe me that.”
“He seemed kind of smug. I thought it was annoying.”
You hum, studying him. “It’s a bit risky. I dated him for a year… if there’s anyone who knows anything about me, it’s probably him.”
“I can always just hack into your data and learn everything about you.” You stare at him, mouth opens. His grin grows. “I’m kidding. I mean I probably could but I’m not a hacker.”
“Are you sure? You’re a bit suspicious, Vernon Chwe.”
“Hansol.” You frown in confusion. His tone is gentle, eyes soft when he murmurs, “You can call me Hansol. You know… to make it um. Seems legit.”
“Hansol.” You try out the name, liking the way it fits on your tongue. His eyes are dark and you feel like you could fall into them - you kind of want to. “Hansol. I like it.”
Maybe you don’t need to go to that church to beg for forgiveness after all. What you think you need might be divine intervention to stop the butterflies in your stomach when you say his name, or the nervous shake in your hand when you see him smile.
Not Vernon (from IT) but Hansol.
-
Hansol (from IT) is late when he picks you up. For once, you’re just glad it’s not you. Your heart beats a little faster when you see him pull up in his nondescript, black RAV4. He waves through the window when he sees you, a shy smile on his face as he reaches to turn down the music.
Inside the car smells distinctly like Hansol - driftwood, salt, a little bit of the air freshener that has long since dried but still sways under his rearview mirror. He looks good tonight, dressed in ripped jeans, a black shirt and a black leather jacket. He’s sans glasses, and though he looks good, you miss them a little.
Hansol without the glasses is a little intimidating. Especially this version of him that grins when you settle into the seat next to him, his brows slightly raised as though to ask if you’re good. When you nod, his grin tilts upward again and he puts the car and drive, one hand on the steering wheel, the other on the gear shift tapping to the beat of the music.
It feels like you’re radiating nervous energy, but you relax as Hansol asks about your day. He’s good at that, eliminating whatever weight is sitting on your shoulders or whatever residual stress you’ve got from work. You don’t feel so… well. On the clock.
The thought makes you squirm in your seat, pulling the edge of your dress down your thighs a little. You picked it out as a last minute choice, unsure whether you’re trying to dress to impress or dress to show you don’t care what Minho thinks of you.
Hansol notices you fidgeting. “You alright?”
“Kind of nervous.”
“Any reason in particular?”
You blow out air, your head smacking against the headrest. “On the clock?”
“Off,” he says with a grin.
“I feel like I’m going to fucking blow it.”
“How so?”
“What if he asks me to kiss you?”
The words are out before you can stop them. It isn’t until you’re met with silence that you realize what you’ve said. You’ve certainly stuck your foot in your mouth on more than one occasion. You do it often, and quite wonderfully, truthfully. It has taken years of practice to stop flubbing presentations and pitches at work, but that doesn’t mean you don’t say insane shit.
Like right now, when you tell Hansol that of all the things you’re nervous about, the very slim, tiny percent of a chance of being asked to kiss him is at the top of the list.
And yet, because it’s Hansol, he grins and says, “Damn, Minho’s a freak like that? He likes to ask people to kiss so he can watch?”
Just like that, the tension eases. You laugh, hand flying your mouth to try and suppress it. His eyes are on the road, but they glitter when you catch a glimpse of his face in the headlines, flashing from dark to liquid gold for a split second.
“Okay,” you admit, laughter dying down. “He’s definitely not going to ask that. It’s just one of those irrational fears, especially with him.”
“Why especially?”
“I feel like he’s always trying to prove that he was right when he broke up with me. Or I guess, in general. He loves being right and sometimes it’s like he’s trying to force a gotcha moment.”
Hansol is silent as he turns into the parking lot. You say nothing, watching as he navigates to find a parking space. The restaurant is busy and there’s a valet, but Hansol is determined to find his own. He does - very close to the entrance - letting out a happy noise as a car backs out.
Car in park, he turns to look at you. “Can I say something? Not on the clock.”
Your heart skips a little. “Sure.”
“Minho is an asshole.” You smile, looking down at your hands folded in your lap. “And you’re going to get through dinner just fine because he’s an asshole, and you’re not.”
“Are you sure?”
His laugh is full. “I’m actually pretty confident in this. And if he does ask us to kiss, you have my full consent to lay one on me. Come on.”
You wish you felt as confident as Hansol seems. He slides out of the car easily, coming around to your side as you get out. He reaches out a hand almost instinctively, waiting for you to grab it. You look at him in surprise to find that he looks equally stunned at his own gesture.
Grinning, you take his hand. It’s warm in yours and he gives you a squeeze as you drop your linked fingers between you, walking toward the establishment like a real couple.
It feels real. You’re not sure what to do with that. The sudden realization of it churns in your stomach as you approach the dark interior of the steakhouse, immediately hit with a romantic ambiance that feels far too big for this tiny thing brewing inside of you.
Twelvefold? How many times have you suffered since that first day you ran into Hansol at the bookstore? You think it might continue through the evening, especially when he glances over at you on the way to the table to check on you, hand tightening for a split second.
As soon as you spot Minho and Mina, you’re glad that Hansol has a steady grip on you. Mina’s glossy hair is nearly blinding under the glow of the soft lighting and her smile is brighter still. You almost want to shield your eyes as they wave you over.
Neither of them seems to know if they should stand and greet you or what the protocol is. Good, you think, happy to see them as off kilter as you feel by this very weird and very unnecessary dinner date.
Why had Hansol agreed to do this again?
“She keep you late?” Minho asks Hansol, immediately reminding you why Hansol had said yes in the first place: he seemed kind of smug. I thought it was annoying. “You’ll get used to it!”
“Actually, it was me,” Hansol answers smoothly. He pulls out your chair for you, startling you again. You try to fein admiration - it’s not hard - and sit, looking up at him with a little bit of awe. Hansol sits, adjusting his seat so that it’s a little closer to yours. “I was working on an infrastructure request and lost track of time.”
That seems to shut Minho up for a moment. Then he laughs his businessman laugh and you wonder if it’s always sounded that way, hollow and fake and… well, annoying. “Damn, so you’re both like that?”
“Yep.” Hansol leans back in his chair, stretching his arm so that it rests over the back of yours. He doesn’t explicitly touch you, but you feel the warmth of him radiating like a furnace, a shiver snaking through you at how close he is. “Works well for us.”
You try not to frown. He’s not going to make it easy for your fake breakup. You’d assumed that you’d tell everyone you just didn’t have time for him, but with the way he’s talking to Minho now, you’re worried it’ll make the impending breakup a little less believable.
“That’s good, then,” Minho says eventually. “Just don’t schedule any vacations or you’ll both miss it.”
“I never did that,” you scowl.
Before he has time for a rebuttal, the server is there welcoming you to the restaurant. You shift in your seat, feeling irritated. Hansol senses it, the tips of his finger brushing against your bicep as if to tell you it’s okay. You relax, but only a little, still frustrated.
Again, you can’t help but feel like your faults are being exacerbated, like Minho is drawing them up to be far grander than they really were. You had missed some dinners and cancelled on some things, but you’d never gone as far as to miss a vacation or a birthday - never the big things. Never the milestones.
If the server can tell the energy at the table has shifted, they don’t let on. They pour glasses of wine that you let Hansol order while you’re spiraling in your head, and leave with the promise of coming back to take orders when the table is ready.
It’s Mina who restarts the conversation, glancing at Minho who sucks down the entire glass of wine in a single go. “So,” she says. “What is it exactly that you do?”
“Careful with that question,” Minho jokes. “She’ll talk to you about work for hours.”
“Which is what makes her good at her job.” Hansol’s voice is even. Smooth. Almost severe, a tone you’ve never heard from him before. Tension ripples from him for just a moment before he looks at you and smiles. “Her job is very cool.”
Unlike her blockhead of a boyfriend, Mina seizes the chance for normalcy and asks, “Marketing, right?”
Mina (with the glossy hair) is really nice. You like her almost immediately and strangely enough, you’re glad she’s there. Minho is like a stormcloud at the edge of the table, a little pocket of pressure that everyone can feel but tries to ignore.
Hansol makes your fake relationship look effortless. You have to mask your surprise when he recounts a detail about you that you didn’t expect him to know, or makes an observation that has you warming, ducking your face to hide the smile tugging your lips.
You know little things about him too. It’s almost like you weren’t aware until you’re saying them, all the small things about him bubbling to your lips like an instinct.
“He’s such an Aquarius!” You laugh, finish the rest of your steak. “The IT department is full of them, even and they’re all so effortlessly cool and have different interests. Hansol has the coolest case full of Star Wars collectibles and-”
“Hansol?”
Minho’s question catches you off guard. You blink at him a few times, confused until Hansol interjects, “That’s my legal name.”
“Damn. Should we be calling you Hansol?”
“Nope. Reserved for my mom and my girlfriend.”
“Wow.”
Minho sits back and observes the two of you. The plates have been cleared away for the evening and the glasses of wine have dwindled. You’re a little sleepy, ready to go home, but the appraising look in Minho’s eyes as they flicker back and forth between you and Hansol has you on edge.
Hansol seems unbothered, finishing his water. His arm rests against your back properly now and you almost melt when his fingers start to trace a pattern on your arm, almost absently. You’re so acutely aware of him that you’re nearly vibrating, telling yourself over and over again that this is just him committing to the bit. This isn’t something to overthink. His touch is for show.
You don’t want it to be for show. God, you don’t want it to be, but you try not to let it unravel right now, instead finishing your water under the heavy and calculating gaze of your ex-boyfriend, who, over the course of dinner, has made you realize you are so grateful is your ex.
“Huh.”
“What?” you ask, voice coming out a little more challenging than you intend. He has that look on his face like he’s trying to figure something out, like he’s trying to position himself in a way where he’s not wrong.
“You guys are really together.”
That makes you stiffen. Hansol’s fingers go still on your arm. “What do you mean?”
“You just didn’t really seem like you were dating at the bookstore. It didn’t even seem like you knew who Vernon was.”
“It was still new,” You lie. “I also wasn’t expecting to run into you both. That’s all.”
“I guess. Just… find it surprising, I guess. Figured you’d never have time for someone.”
It’s Hansol who says, “She has plenty of time for me. Speaking of time, it’s time we head home. I have to finish up some stuff for work tomorrow and she just finished an insane project and deserves some sleep.”
Again, Minho seems thrown for a loop. You could get used to seeing him like a fish out of water, trying not to let an evil smirk take over your face when Hansol beats everyone to the check.
There is an edge to Hansol’s movements. You observe him quietly, noting the way his mouth is pinched at the corners and the way his eyes darken when he looks at Minho. But when he looks at you, it’s like the world stops. Hansol’s eyes soften and his lips turn up at the corner, a gentle smile for you.
Only you.
You’re fucked. You’re fucked fucked fucked and it’s nearly all you can think about as dinner wraps up and Minho and Mina thank Hansol for paying. You want to smack him for offering to pay for the insanely expensive bill, but he takes everything in stride.
Outside, it’s a little cold. Hansol shucks his jacket off immediately, wrapping it around your shoulders while giving Mina some sort of computer advice that goes over your head because all you can focus on is the way Hansol smoothes the jacket over your shoulder, his hand dropping to your waist to keep you close.
You’re dizzy with it. Dizzy with him. You can’t recall a single time you ever felt this affected by Minho, much less anyone else. Despite having two glasses of wine, you know it’s Hansol and not the wine that has you buzzing. Hansol who has you warm, Hansol who makes it feel like there’s static in your brain when he glances at you to make sure you’re still okay after you’ve gone silent.
Hansol gives you a quick smile and turns to say farewell to the other couple. You’re happy to say goodbye - though perhaps you should have asked Mina her haircare routine - and you wave as Hansol leads you into the parking lot, fingers intertwined.
He turns to you, making you look up at him. “I’m going to kiss you,” he murmurs, barely giving you a warning. “Unless you say no.”
“I - okay.”
There is the barest of smiles on Hansol’s face before he leans in, pressing his lips against yours. It’s brief and gentle, so quick that you barely register he’s kissed you at all. He’s already pulling away when you blink, nearing his car as he does.
“He was a dick,” Hansol explains. “And he was staring at us when we left. So. Let him question what’s real now.”
Minho isn’t the only one questioning what’s real. You’re hung up on the kiss, despite it being nothing more than a peck. Your mouth is warm, thoughts spinning as Hansol helps you into the car. You say nothing, completely consumed by the feel of his mouth, the smell of driftwood and salt, the barest taste of wine.
The drive home is quiet but not uncomfortable. Hansol’s hand grabs yours instinctually over the center console, fingers tied together loosely as he drives. But there’s no one to perform for her, no one to show off too. No one who needs convincing.
It’s just you and the burning desire for him bubbling up inside of you.
You’ve lost count of how many folds you have suffered, but somehow, this one is a little less worse than the others.
-
Hansol cannot stop thinking about you. He’s pretty sure the last time he had brain rot this bad about another person, it was Larcy Dodsen in his senior year of college who had blown him to heaven and back. He’s had better (and worse) blowjobs since then, and doesn’t really think of Larcy Dodsen ever anymore.
But you. You.
You occupy every corner of his mind. He wavers back and forth between thinking about the way you smell or the way you laugh (a little reedy, but cute) and thinking about how bad he fucked up by kissing you that night.
Things aren’t exactly weird. The very basis of your relationship - or lack thereof - is weird. He’d agreed to be your fake boyfriend for a month, but with zero terms. No contract outline. No do’s and don’ts. No guidelines. No rules. No regulations. Just an agreement and a fucking dream.
Now, he’s wishing he had something to go off of, because what started out as an agreement to help someone out has turned into something else entirely.
Chan was right. Hansol is desperately trying to hide that fact from his best friend, but the way Chan side-eyes Hansol at lunch when he stares off into the distance, he thinks that the younger man might be onto him.
It doesn’t help that Hansol is buried in Help Desk tickets the weekend following kissing you, and you’re six feet under in a pile of projects. It isn’t until he goes a few days without talking to you multiple times that it’s occurred to him how much he texts you during the day.
Hansol finds himself checking his phone again at lunch, swearing that he felt it vibrate. This time, Chan catches him, putting down the fork and clearing his throat to gesture at the phone. “So it happened, right?”
“What?” Even Hansol winces at his own defensiveness. “I can’t check the time?”
“Do you check the time three times every five minutes? I know you can do math.”
“Just checking to see how her presentation went.”
Chan laughs and crosses his arms over his chest. “Right. So it did happen.”
“You’ll have to be more specific.”
He doesn’t. Chan knows it. Hansol knows it. Chan gets more specific anyway. “You like her. As in, you have feelings for her after… well. This weekend will make it a month. So wouldn’t that be your deal coming to an end?”
Hansol wants to think about anything other than that. “Everything is fine.”
Chan holds up his hand, a white flag. “You’re an adult. You can do what you want. Just make sure you know what she wants too, is all I’m saying.”
And that’s the crux of it. Hansol isn’t sure what you want. He assumed that you just wanted to get through this month and your fake breakup, but now he’s not so sure. He thinks of the way you’d look at him during dinner last weekend, the way your expression gets dreamy with a soft smile, eyes glowing.
Hansol doesn’t think he made it up - his creativity is good but not that good. He had been so sure that you felt something too, swears that you melted into him every time he touched you, every time he turned to check in on you.
And the kiss… it had been brief and born from wanting to rub it in Minho’s face, but Hansol had wanted to do it, too. Wanted it for himself. Wanted to allow himself a single, greedy thing. You’d been surprised but leaned into him, almost instinctual. It had been so short but it haunts his dreams, the phantom press of your mouth keeping him up late at night.
Even now, Hansol’s fingers trace his mouth, as though he can remember the feeling of your mouth against his. So maybe Chan is right. Hansol likes you - has feelings for you. There is a lingering sense that you might too, but he’s not sure.
He needs to be sure.
Finding a window to make sure, is tough, though. He only hears from you once throughout the rest of the day, and it's to shoot him a quick text that the presentation was moved to Monday and that you have to work all weekend on it.
He feels more disappointed than he lets on. He wonders if you remember his birthday is on Saturday. Not that you owe him that since you’re not actually dating, but in a perfect world Hansol thinks it might have been a good day to tell you how he feels. That he kind of wants to make this thing real.
On the bright side, you do remember his birthday. On the shitty side, he can’t spend it with you. You’re working on your presentation for the foreseeable future, and Hansol had hesitated to make plans with his friends knowing some of them were celebrating Valentine’s Day late with their partners and because he’d hoped to maybe spend it with you.
It feels stupid, thinking about it now. Of course you weren’t going to spend it with him. He knew what this was when he offered to do it. You were a bright burning star at the top of the company, and Hansol had been someone you barely registered.
By the afternoon, he’s still sullen. He’s thinking about just spending the evening eating pizza and playing video games online where he’ll get bullied by a bunch of high schoolers when he hears his phone ring and your name flashes across the screen.
Hansol’s heart soars. He all but throws the control across the room, diving to pick up the phone and answer, “Hi!”
“Please don’t hate me,” you rush out, completely out of breath. “I am panicking right now. My work laptop randomly got the blue screen of death and I’m in the middle of my project and-”
“I’ll come look at it.” He cringes, realizing how down bad he is. It’s his birthday and he shouldn’t have to work, but he’d rather come solve a problem for you than have a bunch of thirteen year old’s tell him that they’re fucking his mom. “I can come over in fifteen.”
“Oh! Uh… can you make that twenty?”
Weird. “Sure?”
“Great! Text me when you’re here and I’ll give you the unit number.”
Twenty minutes ends up being perfect, because Hansol goes through the mental anguish of what to wear, which is new for him. He showers as quickly and efficiently as he can, hopping with one leg in his jeans and the other missing the hole multiple times. He nearly runs into the wall as he’s pulling on a band tee over his head while also looking for his flannel.
Hair still damp, he pulls on a hat and twists it around backward, grabbing his glasses because he doesn’t feel like wearing contacts (and because you said you liked them) as he barrels out the house, radiating with nervous energy.
Hansol wonders if it’s appropriate to tell you how he feels today. It will be face to face but… no. You’d sounded stressed on the phone and he knows how important this presentation is for you, despite not knowing what it’s about.
He barely remembers the drive to your apartment, blinking and realizing he’s parked and texting you that he’s there. You give him directions to your unit and with shaky hands, Hansol turns off the car. He takes a few steadying breaths before getting out and heading to the stairs, his heart hammering with each step.
When he finally gets to your door, he double checks that it's the right one. His hands shake when he knocks, and he has to remind himself several times that he’s just here to fix your computer. Sure, he’s thrilled that he gets to see you, but this is on the clock. Not off.
You’re breathless when you open the door. “Hi!” You say a little too loudly. He raises his brows but you open the door and step aside, ushering him in. “Come on in.”
Hansol gives you an amused grin as he walks into your apartment. He’s confused as to why it’s completely dark, a question that he’s about to ask you as you shut the door, but you flick on the lights and he’s met with the world’s loudest shout of surprise he’s ever heard.
He flinches, hand flying to his chest in terror as the lights flood on and Hansol realizes that the reason they were off is to hide the obscene amount of Star Wars decorations covering every part of your apartment. He can’t even picture what your home is supposed to look like, just that it’s covered in streamers and paper Luke Skywalkers and RD-D2s, and filled with familiar faces.
Hansol’s mouth pops open as the crowd screams at him. Chan and Seokmin are at the forefront, phones in hand capturing Hansol as he stands there, dumbfounded. Soongyoung and Mingyu are blowing through noise makers with so much force that the paper on them breaks, and Seungkwan is leading an off-key rendition of happy birthday with Hansol’s friends you’ve never even met.
Slowly, Hansol turns to look at you. You’re standing behind him, hands clasped nervously and tucked under your chin as you watch him, terrified. You’re chewing on your lips, entire frame vibrating with energy.
He wants nothing more than to walk over to you and kiss you stupid. The flame of desire that licks through him is borderline impossible to tamp down, staring at you like the eighth world wonder as you slip over to him, scanning his face.
“Surprise?” You squeak.
“You did this for me?”
“Well, yeah.”
You say it like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. He wants to pin you against the island counter behind you, but it’s fill with food and beverages and blue fucking milk. “Is that okay?” you ask, suddenly nervous.
Hansol softens and starts to laugh. “Yeah,” he shakes his head. “It is more than okay.”
Before he can say anything else, the crowd of people crashes into him. Seokmin and Chan are screaming in his ear, grabbing him and yelling for shots. Mingyu and Soonyoung are chanting his name and his best friend from college manages to squeeze in and give him a hug and a birthday greeting.
How did you even know Minghao existed? Or how to contact him? Hansol has no idea, but before he can ask you any questions about the how or the why, he’s swept into your kitchen for birthday celebrations he thought would never happen, orchestrated by the single person he wanted to see most.
Fuck was Chan right more than ever.
-
The thing about being a bad liar is that you found it nearly impossible to hide what you were doing from Hansol. The thing about everyone thinking you’re always busy, is that it was an easy facade to shield the sheer stress of trying to plan a surprise party for him.
Your apartment is filled with more people than you’ve ever dared to let inside. It makes you a little nervous for all of these people to see this new part of you, but with a little bit of rum and the released pressure of Hansol looking like he’s enjoying himself, you decide it’s worth it.
Squished in the corner of your couch, you watch as Chan leads a game of cards that he is losing very badly at. Most of these people in your apartment are casual friends, with the exception of Seungkwan who is playing DJ in the kitchen, but they’re all friends that Hansol would want at a celebration for him.
At least, that’s what Chan and Seokmin said. Recruiting them had been pretty easy, but during the process of them helping you plan this, you’re pretty sure they’ve caught on to the AT-AT Walker-sized elephant in the room: you are very much into their friend. In a very Not-On-The-Clock appropriate way.
Now, you watch as Hansol makes his way over to you, dodging people who stop to talk to him. He seems pretty determined to reach you, clapping someone on the shoulder and moving them aside to continue his journey to you.
Your stomach flips when he sits on the arm of your couch, perched perfectly next to you. He looks good today, dressed in jeans, a soft looking tee and a flannel. The backwards hat does wonders for you - which you will not be psychoanalyzing now - and his black frame glasses.
“How did you do all this?” He asks, shaking his head in wonder. “I just… what?”
“It wasn’t easy, but it worked, right?”
“Is this the presentation you’ve been working on all week?”
“Yes. Please don’t be mad at me for lying.”
He laughs. “I couldn’t be mad at you if I tried.”
An argument breaks out over cards, Chan and Mingyu yelling at each other about someone cheating. Hansol winces at the noise and you scoot a little closer to avoid the deck of cards Mingyu throws in Chan’s direction.
“Is there anywhere quiet we can talk?” Hansol asks, though he’s laughing at them. “They’re giving me a bit of a headache.”
You grin. “For sure.”
Getting up, you lead Hansol down the hall to your bedroom, which is off limits to the rest of the party. The good thing about adult festivities is that no one is a weirdo about going into rooms they shouldn’t, staying exactly where it’s appropriate to be.
Shutting the door behind you, the noise of the party dies down immediately. It’s dark in your room, save for the single lamp burning in the corner at a low setting. You realize it’s a bit messy, apologizing to Hansol as you kick clothes out of the way. You hadn’t intended on bringing him in here, and suddenly the implication of Hansol standing in your room tingles down your spine.
“I, uh-” You stammer, looking at him. “Sorry it’s a mess. I didn’t intend on anyone seeing this.”
Halloween yowls, getting up off your bed. Hansol makes a surprised sound and you apoogize again, “It’s just Halloween. He likes to sleep in here. Out, kitty!”
You open the door and Halloween bolts out, going to find Seungkwan who will give him snacks.
Hansol grins and wanders over to the bookshelf, looking over the titles. You take a few steps to follow him but keep your distance, suddenly very nervous. He points his finger at a title and looks at you, inviting you to step closer to read it in the dim light.
You recognize the title - you’d bought it the day you’d crashed into him and got some of your books mixed up.
“This one one of the books you accidentally swapped with me,” Hansol notes, running his finger along the spine. You zero in on his finger - his hands, in general. They’re pretty. You swallow hard, looking up at the ceiling instead. “Have you read it yet?”
“Not yet. I started one of the others but I’ve been having trouble breeding - reading lately.”
Hansol presses his lips together in a flat line and you can tell he’s trying not to laugh at you. Warmth floods your face and you want to die on the spot, especially when he turns to face you head on, leaning against your bookcase.
His eyes are dark, drinking you in. Your pulse skyrockets, thinking about that quick kiss he had given you the other night. It’s all you’ve been able to think about, too afraid to ask him if it was just for show and too busy trying to plan this party to work out what to say about it.
Now, alone in your room, the questions fizzle on your tongue at the nearness of him.
“Thank you,” Hansol says eventually. “For planning this. I… would never have expected you to do that.”
“I wanted to celebrate you.”
He blushes, ducking his head. “It’s sweet. It did make me nervous, though.”
“Why?”
“I thought you were avoiding me, kind of.”
You blink. “Why on earth would I be doing that?”
“Thought that maybe I took it too far with the kiss.”
“No. You didn’t.”
Hansol’s gaze falls on you. It’s razor sharp and there’s something there, burning just under the surface. You swear it’s something like desire, but you’re too afraid to name it. Too worried that it’s just what you want reflected in his glassy gaze, and not his.
Then, “Did I not take it far enough?”
The question hangs in the air. You cannot hear anything but the pounding of your own heart. It’s just Hansol in this dark room with you, looking at you with exactly the same hunger that’s been churning in your gut.
You don’t know when this hunger started. All you know is that the last few weeks, it’s been there. Every time you look at him you feel it ignite, the desire so raw that you don’t know what to do with it.
Now, you know he feels it too - see it, in the way he waits for your answer. Patient. Calm. Steady.
“On the clock?” You ask, voice shaky. He shakes his head no. “You could go further.”
That’s all Hansol needs. He’s gentle when he reaches for you, cradling your face in his hands. You barely get to suck in a trembling breath before he’s kissing you.
This kiss is entirely different from the peck he gave you in the parking lot last weekend. This kiss steals the breath from your lung, his mouth confident and sure as he slots his mouth against yours. He smells like the sea, all driftwood and salt and his lips taste like the tangy drink he’d been sipping on earlier.
Everything else fades to the background. Your hands twist in his flannel. It’s soft, but nothing compared to the softness of Hansol’s tongue as he licks at the seam of your lips. You let him in and he groans, pulling you in impossibly closer as the kiss turns more desperate.
You melt. He kisses you hungrily now, sucking your tongue into his mouth. It makes your head spin, the party long forgotten as you press further into him. The bookshelf wobbles under the weight of both of you leaning against it, making you break, both of you panting.
Hansol’s mouth shines with your spit in the low lamp light and you have the urge to lean forward and lick it. You resist, only for him to give into his urge. He leans forward, tongue pressing to the corner of your mouth gently.
“What about now?” he mumbles, voice muffled against your mouth. “Too far?”
“No.”
He makes a sound in the back of his throat, hands dropping to your waist. You let him grip you, backing you up toward your bed. It’s a bit clumsy but you don’t care, hands looping around his neck to keep him close.
“Tell me what you want,” Hansol mumbles. Your knees hit the bed and you let yourself fall backward. He follows you, caging you in with both of his planted on either side of your head. “Tell me how far you want me to go.”
“On the clock?”
“Fuck no. Nothing I want to do right now is on the clock.”
“Good. I want you to go as far as you want.”
He drops his mouth to your neck. A moan slips between your lips when you feel his tongue scrape across the soft skin of your throat. He sounds strained when he says, “You gotta tell me, baby. I need to know what you want.”
“You.” It’s the most honest thing you’ve said all month. “All of it. Everything. But for real.”
Hansol nods. He presses messy, wet kisses up your neck, along your jaw, stopping at your mouth. His nose nudges yours and he smiles against your lips, giving you a chaste peck. “You’ve got me. For real.”
Grinning, you slide your hands underneath his shirt. He moans, throaty and delicious. He twitches under your exploration but he lets you brush your palms up the warmth of his stomach, reaching around until your hands are gripping his lower back.
His mouth attaches to yours again. The kiss is messy and addictive, Hansol filling your senses as he lowers himself so that his weight is rested on top of you. It’s comforting and wanted, your knees squeezing his hips to hold him in place.
One of his hands leaves the mattress to drop to your hip, squeezing before he scratches his nails against your thigh. You shiver, feeling the stimulation through your jeans. His hand slips under you, gripping the curve of your ass to lift you a little, pressing you closer to him.
A moan slips through your mouth to his when he rolls your hips against him. The stimulation isn’t remotely enough but you like this version of Hansol. His touch is confident, his lips intentful as they leave a trail from your mouth to your collarbone.
With one last squeeze to your ass, Hansol traces his fingers over the tops of your thigh to drop between your legs. He presses his fingers to the apex of your thighs, working you through your clothes. You let out a desperate sound and you feel the way he smiles against your skin.
His touch sparks a flame. You tear at his flannel, peeling it from his shoulders. He helps you get it off of him but he’s just as eager to peel you out of your jeans and shirt. A deep curse leaves his mouth when he sees you in just a bra and underwear, your chest heaving as you pant, staring up at him, mouth swollen and tender.
Reaching for him, you grab the hat and throw it. “Hat is very hot,” you admit. “But I wanted to do this.”
You slide your fingers in his hair, curling them through the strands to tug him back to you. He smiles into the kiss, tangling his tongue with yours. His hand skims up your thigh, fingers leaving a trail of goosebumps as he goes until he slides his hand back between your legs.
A gasp leaves you as he presses his fingers back to your cunt, pressing the fabric into your aching clit. He whispers a string of curses when he feels how damp you are, resting his forehead against your shoulder for a moment as he teases you over your panties.
“Please,” you whisper, hips rising off the bed. “Want more.”
“Mhmm.” He lifts his head and gives you a quick kiss to the cheek. “I’ve got you.”
Hansol doesn’t make you beg. You like that about him. Your breath catches when he drops to his knees, reaching his arm up to pull the back of his shirt over his head, tossing it. The sight of him between your knees in just jeans, his hair mussed and mouth swollen is enough to make you dizzy.
You prop yourself up on your elbows, watching with hooded eyes as Hansol grabs you by the calves, spreading you a little more. His hands are gentle and warm, rubbing up and down while he takes his time pressing a myriad of kisses up the right side of your inner thigh.
It feels so good. Your lashes flutter a little, breath coming in quicker. Everywhere his mouth touches tingles, a little path of buzzing electricity as he makes his way closer and closer to your heat until he switches sides.
You make a sound of protest and Hansol looks up at you through his lashes, grinning. He looks smug, leaning forward to bite your thigh playfully. It stings but it feels good, making your fingers twist in the sheets.
“Feel good?” he whispers, pressing his tongue to soothe the sting. You nod, mouth parted, unable to speak. He smiles again, dragging his tongue down your thigh. You think you might die right there.
Hansol makes his way back up. He drags his burning gaze up to meet yours, deliberately making eye contact as he presses the flat of his tongue against your underwear. If it wasn’t soaked before, it is thoroughly drenched now. You suck in a sharp breath, knees closing on instinct to squeeze against his shoulders.
He chuckles, dragging his tongue upward where it presses against your clit momentarily. He brings one of his hands up, pressing his middle finger right against your hole. You feel yourself clench around nothing and you know he knows, his grin wicked.
"What do you like?"
"I... don't know."
He looks at you, pausing. "You don't know? Like what makes you come?" You shake your head and realization lights his eyes. "That jackass didn't make you come, did it?"
You shake your head and he groans.
“Don’t worry,” Hansol promises with another languid lick to the soaked fabric. “I will make up for all the times you didn’t get to come.”
“Fuck.”
Vernon (from IT) has been replaced with Hansol (the Menace). He hooks a finger in the crotch of your underwear, pulling them to the side. He drags a knuckle against your pussy on purpose, both of you groaning in unison.
Eagerly Hansol leans forward, giving you a teasing lick. Your fingers dig into the mattress anyway. You can do nothing but stare at him, watching the way Hansol drags his dark eyes up to watch you as he drags his tongue through your folds again.
“Shit,” you hiss at him, a shiver wracking your body.
He seems pleased, shooting you a quick smile before he brings his mouth to you again, sucking gently. He avoids your clit at first, working you up slowly. Hansol eats you out like he has all the time in the world, like there’s no where he would rather be than tonguing your pussy.
It drives you mad, his name slipping from your lips in little gasps. His tongue circles your clit, applying pressure indirectly, working you up and up until finally, he closes his mouth around the throbbing bundle of nerves, suckling.
“Ohhhh,” you laugh, half delirious. “That. Whatever that is.”
He hums, parting only to say, “You got it.”
You see God when he fastens his mouth to you, sucking your clit gently. Dropping back against the bed, you twitch and gasp under Hansol’s ministrations. He sets a rhythm, adding his fingers to the mix as they press against your entrance. He doesn’t push in, but rather traces a pattern, making you squeeze.
Panting, you drop a hand to his hair. He hums in delight as you tangle your fingers in the strands, bringing him closer to your cunt. You feel like you’re burning up, your sheets sticking to your skin, the room spinning as Hansol eats you out in earnest now.
No one has ever seemed this dedicated to your pleasure. He doesn’t let up for a second, fingers and mouth working in tandem to bring you to a cliff of insanity. All you have to do is jump and dive head first into an orgasm.
You do. Hansol works you right to the very edge and you topple over, falling into it hard. You go taught but he holds you down, fighting your spasm as you come hard. He doesn’t miss a beat, the obscene sounds of him slurping at you drowning out the pitiful, high pitched whine that leaves you.
In a wave of exhaustion, your orgasm subsides. You flop on the bed, still shaking as he removes his mouth in favor of pressing slick, cum-stained kisses to your thighs. You lift your head and his eyes meet yours, flashing wickedly.
He pauses, looking at your wet, messy cunt back to your face. “Want a taste?”
Hansol (the Menace) is going to kill you.
You nod and he smirks. He runs his tongue generously up your pussy, making sure to dip into your entrance just a little before he stands up and leans over you to press a filthy kiss to your mouth. You suck at his tongue greedily, tasting yourself and him, a combination you’ll never get tired of.
One of his hands snakes up to your chest, tweaking a nipple gently, testing the waters. You nod, breaking the kiss with a gasp, “Yeah.”
“Gonna work you open with my fingers,” he slurs. He kisses down your neck again, working his way to your chest. “That okay?”
“More than okay.”
“God,” he whispers. “You sound so fucking good when you come. Want to hear it again.”
There is no doubt he will. Hansol rids you of your bra before returning to suck greedily at your chest. Your nails bite into his shoulders, dragging down his sides as he presses a finger into your warmth.
“God damn,” he laughs. He plucks at a nipple with his teeth and you curse. “You’re so fucking wet.”
“On the clock?”
“Fuck no. My finger is in your pussy.”
“I am really turned on.”
He gives your other breast a playful bite. “Good. Now I want you to come apart on my fingers.”
That won’t be an issue. Hansol gets you there embarrassingly fast. He finds the sensitive spot inside of you with ease and doesn’t hold back, pressing another finger in. He works you toward another orgasm like it's easy - and maybe for the both of you, it is. Maybe Hansol was meant to have you like this, gushing around his fingers and babbling nonsense as you come again, his mouth pressed against your hammering heart.
Maybe he was meant to have you fucked out and light-headed by the time you’re helping him out of his jeans, sliding his briefs down his muscular thighs to free his cock. The tip is dark and sticky, weeping with precum when he pins you to the bed, catching you in a bruising kiss.
Gone is the patient Hansol who had started with gentle kisses to your thighs, replaced by his need to have you. To consume you. You let him, willing to let him do whatever he wants. You want his pleasure just as much as he wants yours, slipping your hand between your bodies to palm his cock, heavy and warm in your hand.
He whispers your name and it sounds like a prayer. His forehead presses against yours, letting you pump him slowly. His hips twitch as though he’s fighting to control himself, letting you have your fun before he growls and grabs your hand, lacing your fingers to pin above your head.
Hansol scoots you up the bed, putting you where he wants you. Gone is the sweet guy from IT, replaced with whatever this is. You like this side of him equally, listening to him when he asks you to lift your hips so he can slide a pillow under your ass.
With a kiss to your brow that feels sweeter than the moment allows for, Hansol lifts your leg, prying you open for him. His cock is heavy against your cunt and he ruts a little, making you both whine in tandem.
“You still want this, right?” He asks, voice shaking. “For real?”
“Yes.” You squeeze the hand he has laced with yours, pinned to the mattress near your head. “On the clock. Off the clock. Literally all of the hours.”
“What if I refuse to change your computer password?”
That makes you laugh. He gives you a glowing smile, kissing the tops of your cheekbones. “Even then,” you promise.
“Good. Try breathing for me when you come this time.” You give him a look and he smiles. “Did you think you were done? I told you I was making up for lost time.”
He doesn’t give you a second to retort, his cock pressing in at that exact moment. “Ohhh you fucker,” you moan and he laughs, which makes things worse. You squeeze around him hard, barely breathing as Hansol slides in to the hilt, the pressure and stretch divine. “You did that on purpose.”
“I did,” he admits before trapping you into an uncoordinated kiss.
With one hand holding yours to the bed and the other sliding under your ass to help lift you with the pillow, Hansol sets a slow pace. You continue to kiss him, just as slow as he fucks you. He is deep, cock brushing against your g-spot on every upstroke.
Your free hand slides to his lower back, urging him to keep going. His tempo is measured, perfect, the angle of his hips just right. You start to feel insane, mumbling his name, whining between kisses, making a pathetic noise when he increases his pace.
Hansol fucks like he knows exactly how you like it. Of course he does. Even from the moment in that bookstore, he had you figured out. No one else has been able to adjust to you like he has, no one else has been able to understand - to see you.
“Fuck,” he hisses when you start squeezing on him for harder and longer. He’s pushing you toward that edge again, so close you’re already seeing stars. “Pussy feels so good.”
He shuffles up the bed more, folding you a little. You make a wild sound, gasping as the angle pushes his cock in deep. “Holy shit, Hansol.”
“That the spot?” he asks, and you nod. He starts fucking you in earnest, pace picking up. “God damn I could do this all day.”
“Keep doing that and I’ll let you.”
He laughs and kisses you again, all tongue and teeth. You start to spasm, feeling the way your muscles clench as you near your third orgasm. This one is tight in your stomach, a pressure that is so compact you feel like you’re going to combust.
“Breathe through it,” he reminds you, out of breath as he chases your high. “You can do that, yeah?”
You nod, saving your breath for when he tells you to use it.
A few more hard strokes and you’re doing exactly as instructed, taking in a deep breath as your orgasm hits. You see white, shaking underneath Hansol as the warmth of your high blooms in your lower stomach and expands. It’s better than the first two, stretching longer, the feeling reaching to your toes.
You manage to breathe all the way through it, barely hanging on as he fucks you through the entire length of your high. He presses his mouth to your temple, slowing his pace to let you recover. You feel melted, like your bones and muscles have all gone on vacation, leaving Hansol to do the work for you.
“Good?” he asks, breath fanning your face.
You nod and wrap your arms around his neck, pulling him close. “You,” you mumble. It’s not a complete sentence, but he gets what you mean, kissing you quickly before chasing his own high, gritting his teeth.
As spent as you are, you do your part to help him get there, squeezing with what strength you have left, whispering his name, pulling him in close with a leg around his hip. It works, sending Hansol over the edge and spilling into you within a few seconds.
He curses into your shoulder, pace turning sloppy until he finally stops, hips pressed to yours, cock sheathed to the hilt. Both of you stay like that, trying to catch your breath in a sweaty pile of limbs.
Hansol recovers first, shifting so that he can lay next to you. He pulls out, a mess of cum and fluid going with him. You don’t care, rolling to your side to kiss him slowly. Softly. He rests an arm over your hip, keeping you connected.
“This is a great birthday,” he jokes, voice hoarse. “I uhhh, forgot there was a party. No one will think we’re fake dating now.”
You grin. “Whatever. We’re not on the clock.”
He kisses you again. “Thank god. Cause I really want to do this again in fifteen minutes.”
You smile, really glad that Hansol (the Boyfriend) is on the same page as you.
𖤓 Pair : Hybrid!Heeseung x Fem!Reader
𖤓 Tags : Cute, fluffy, romance, angst, soft, mentions of blood [Heeseung is not hurt], Heeseung is really cute and shy.
𖤓 Synopsis : While searching for your ring which had fallen from your finger, you come across a very curious hamster holding your ring in its mouth. But it had no intentions of giving it back.
“Where is it, where is it?!” You push your hair back, crouching on the concrete road with your phone flashlight on, searching for a very special jewellery that fell off your finger and slipped while you tried to catch it, flying off somewhere.
It was a ring from your mother. A silver ring that was an heirloom which you always wore. The only jewellery piece on you. And now, while you were playing with it, walking home from your work, it had slipped.
“Dammit! Where are you?” Searching frantically in the late night, you move to the open trash can nearby, hoping it had fallen in there so you could find it. “Please, please, lord.” You rumble through the trash bags, your face scrunching from the terrible smell of trash.
Your hands passed through many cold metals, soju bottles, tin cans, and then..
*Squeak Squeak*
Halt. Your frantic searching stopped in an instant. A squeak? Is there a rat in the bin? But it doesn't smell like a rat—
A rustle in the bin snapped your thoughts. *Squeak Squeak* You yank out your hand from the bin, staring at the black plastic bag which continues to rattle, wondering what is inside the bin. Before you could make an assumption, a little face popped up from between the bags.
*Squeak*
*Silence*
Big boba eyes staring right into yours, two small ears perked up in your direction with small flicks of its whiskers. A hamster. A small, adorable and incredibly cute hamster which seemed to be holding something in its mouth.. A ring.
You gasp at the sight of the ring. That's your ring! In the hamster’s mouth! You stare at the hamster with wide eyes, wondering how you would get it out. “Hello..” You whisper, crouching down to meet its eyes at its level.
It just stared at you with those big eyes and didn’t make any move to get away. You thought it was safe for you to reach and grab the ring. Oh how wrong you were. As soon as you reached for the ring in its mouth, it squeaked loudly and jumped down, taking the ring in its mouth and sprinting away.
Your entire body jumps up, your legs moving automatically as you sprint behind it, clutching your purse. “Stop! You little—” It didn’t take long before you bend down and picked him up, yanking your ring from its little mouth with it repeatedly clawing at your fingers, squeaking loudly.
“No! Bad hamster.” It just squeaked loudly at you, biting you with its teeth, drawing blood in hopes that you would drop it, but unfortunately for him, you were a vet. “What are you?” You ignore the pain and hold the hamster in one hand securely, rotating him front and back so you see the sign if he was a hamster.
A small tiny difference, a black spot right beside a hamster’s butt. It’s a clear sign that the animal is a hybrid. “Ah. Here it is.” You smirk and turn the hamster to face you again. “Little thief, you are a hybrid. Too bad you got caught by a vet.” Its little face scrunched up, eyes filled with fear which almost made you coo at it.
But you weren’t going to be so kind because that ring was of your mother. And you were still mad that it took it and tried to run away with it. “We are going home. My place.” The hamster immediately started nibbing at your fingers again, deepening the wound and hoped that the pain would let you drop him but you simply put on some rubber gloves and held him in the other hand.
“I always carry gloves in case I find an injured animal. This time I found a thief.” You tease and watch as the hamster now accepts its fate, eyes teary and wide with fear clearly written in them.
You just smile secretly, already in love with this hamster because it was so cute and adorable.
It took about 10 minutes for you to reach home because you stopped by a convenience store on the way and put the hamster in your bag, hiding him so the owner doesn’t think you are bringing a pet in. It took the opportunity to tear up your bag to escape but will not avail because you felt him digging and ran out the store.
“Hamster! No!” You hissed at it, taking it out in your bare hands which it once again started to bite so you drop him. But you again refused to drop him. It looked at you with its black boba eyes, teary and filled with fear. Its whiskers were shivering and he let out small squeaks.
And god forbid, you almost burst out in tears in the public. He was so cute it hurt. “Don’t cry! Aish.. you cute thing..” You sigh and hold him carefully. He still wouldn’t give up and kept trying to bite you in fear.
But that stopped when you neared your home. It was as if the hamster sensed that you were nearing home and was taking his last breaths. You open the door of your house and walk in, flicking the lights on as the smell of warm cinnamon and vanilla greeted you.
But you couldn’t afford to sit and relax yet because there was a hamster in your hand who was having a full blown panic attack, thinking his end was near and you would punish it for everything he had done.
“Ok hamster, I know you are a hybrid. Do not try and lie to me because I’m a veterinarian.” You place the hamster on your couch and stop him before he could take off sprinting.
“I will give you clothes. You need to shift, change and come out. We need to talk.” The hamster could do nothing but leave weak squeaks and get carried by you to a room which seemed like it was yours. You placed the hamster on the bed and pulled out your biggest shirt and pants so it would fit.
You walk out and shut the door, waiting outside so you could hear him shift and know if he is actually obeying your orders. You were met with complete silence for the first 2 minutes and then you heard a noise. Feet shuffling. You hear the clothes being put on and a sigh.
A sigh which sounded like a man’s. The hamster was a grown man?
You sprint to your couch so you don’t look like a creep and wait for the door to open and let the man walk out and show himself to you. The door opened and a man stepped out. Your breath stopped looking at the face of the man. He was at least 6 feet, blonde hair and lean body. His face looked like it was sculpted with care and his eyes were exactly like a hamster’s.
He stood before you, head bowed and eyes glossy. His hands were folded neatly on top of each other as it looked like he tried to make himself look smaller. The tip of his ears were red, which you assumed was from embarrassment. “Whats your name?” You don’t let your voice be harsh, looking at the tears in his eyes.
He didn’t answer immediately, gulping and looking everywhere but you. “Heeseung..” His voice came small, filled with fear. “I’m Y/N, sit down, Heeseung.” You clear your throat softly, gesturing to the couch beside you as you move to not make him feel uncomfortable.
“How old are you?”
“I’m.. 24.”
Your eyes widened. 24? That was the same as you. But he looked younger than that. Malnourished perhaps. “Do you have a family, Heeseung?” His fists curl into a ball as he looks into his lap, his bangs covering his eyes but you could tell that he was holding back tears.
Shaking his head, he sobbed lightly. Using the back of his hand, he wiped the tear off quickly and gulped, not wanting to seem weak in front of you. “I'm sorry.. and I'm guessing that's why you steal stuff? To go sell them?”
You keep your voice gentle, refusing to increase his fear and anxiety. “I'm sorry. I'm truly sorry.. Please don't hurt me.” This time, his entire body was trembling with guilt, embarrassment and fear. Fear that you might do something to him.
Your heart aches to watch him like this. A grown humble man reduced to stealing for daily survival. “Do you.. have an education, Heeseung?” He nodded slowly. “I have finished high school.”
You nod, leaning back and looking at him carefully. A million thoughts were running through your mind but you were snapped out of it with a huge growl of his stomach. He blushed in embarrassment and placed his hand on his stomach, muttering an apology.
You smile looking at his flustered state. He was cute, really cute. And maybe you could help him somehow. “Hungry? Come on. Let me feed you.” He shot up, looking at you with hope. “Really? Thank you so much.”
Before serving, you quickly went to the restroom and took out the medkit. Your finger was still bleeding but had dried up with tiny bite marks and punctures visible. Sighing, you washed the wound and pulled out a bandage, using an antiseptic first and then applying the bandage on it. You tried to hide the fingers as you walk out and give him food.
You gave him tons of food. Rice, kimchi jjigae, Dwaeji bulgogi, with some bibimbap. He glew with happiness when he saw all the dishes in front of him. His hamster ears happily flicking as he prays first and then digs in like a man starved. You sit on your side and eat while watching him eat, loving how he swayed a little with the food.
In the middle of the meal, he couldn't stop thanking you and complimenting you, calling you the best and a goddess. You just smiled, your heart melting because of his words. Though your mind was still occupied on how you could help him get a job and secure an earning.
Then it clicked you. You needed a helper in your shop. Someone who could take care of the food and water in your clinic while you treated other animals. “Heeseung, fancy a job?” He looked up, shocked. “You.. have a job for me?”
You nodded, placing down your chopsticks. “I needed a helper in my clinic. To feed and water the animals, help with cleaning and all that. I have a few people but they aren't enough.” His eyes widened with realization. He was getting offered a job. “Would you like to join?”
Chopsticks dropped from his hand, cluttering on the table. Frozen. Then he sprung up, ran towards your side and pulled you into a bone crushing hug. “Yes! Yes I would like to join. Please hire me. I will do anything!”
You smiled, nodding and helping him sit after the news because he couldn't contain his excitement. The dinner went with a flash after that with you explaining everything to him and he nodded along, listening intensively.
“You can sleep on my bed, Heeseung. I can take the couch.” He shook his head. “No, you sleep on the bed. I can transform and sleep anywhere.” Before you could even respond, he shifted back into a hamster. “Heeseung!” He just squeaked in response and scrambled away near the couch, looking at you with pleading eyes so you could lift him up and place him on the couch.
You sigh, knowing he would not listen if he was already out of his clothes and in his hybrid form. “Fine.” Picking him up gently, you placed him on the couch, crouching down eye level to him so you could speak. “If anything is bothering you, come to my room. I will keep the clothes here.”
He squeaked happily and sprinted to you on his tiny legs, rubbing his body on your cheeks as if to show affection. That's when he noticed the bandages on your finger and guilt instantly washed over him.
You noticed the emotion shift so you quickly put your hands back, taking it away from his sight but he had already seen it. Guilt ate him knowing he was the one who caused them today while you were kind enough to feed him, give him a place to sleep and also give him a job.
His eyes filled with tears again as you groan internally, too weak for his tears. “Don't cry, Heeseung. I'm not mad for this. You were trying to protect yourself and I don't mind that.” He squeaked in sadness and licked your cheek, apologising.
This hamster was way too cute for your heart. You smiled and gave him a few pets before giving him your good nights while he squeaked as you headed back to your room to sleep, wondering what the future held for you.
—
It had been three months since you found Heeseung that night, when you gave him a job and a refugee in your house. You couldn't even call it a house because it had become a home after Heeseung came into your life.
Funny jokes, random hugs and touches, late night binge watching movies as you two cuddle under the cozy blanket on weekends and friday nights. It had quickly become his favourite. Yours too.
You didn't even realise when it had happened.. that you had fallen for him. Maybe his cute squeaks, his shy smiles when you fix his hair or compliment him on what he wears, it drew you in.
He was the perfect shy boy you had wished for in your life, watching manifestation videos and writing letters to the universe, you had done it all and now you were receiving your award. What you didn't know was if he liked you back or just saw you as his friend and companion.
But that changed when you started noticing how he truly behaved with you and the others on the job. Sure, he was polite and kind with everyone, making them laugh and taking care of them but with you? His touches lingered, eyes stared and heart thumped when you were near.
He would sneak into your room at night, in the same hamster form and climb onto the bed with a few meticulously placed items near your bed which he specifically placed so he could climb in and sleep beside you.
He didn't realize that you knew he did that. Of course he didn't know because when he sleeps, small squeaks escape his throat. It was on one random night when he first sneaked in, wanting your closeness and warmth that he fell asleep right beside you, snoring blissfully, unaware that it woke you up, shocking you.
Since that day, you didn't mind if he came to your room and then sneaked out before it hit dawn just so you wouldn't find out. But even after all this, you couldn't understand why won't he just say his feelings to you.
Why must he hide behind a wall and just admire you from afar when all you wanted was for him to hold you close, cuddle you to sleep while you caressed his ears and hair, murmuring sweet nothing into his ear.
So, you took the initiative. After the work hours, you stayed back and had Heeseung stay back with you with an excuse of last minute check ups with the animals. He believed you, already happy to spend more time with you privately.
“Heeseung, mind coming here for a second?” You call out from your office, hiding behind the door so he couldn't see you at first glance. You hear his rapid footsteps, almost like he was bouncing on his feet to reach you. You felt the door open when he reached.
Your breath caught in your throat as he spotted you immediately behind the door, grinning widely like he won the best hamster prize. “Y/N! You needed me?” He smiled with the slight tilt of his head. His hair falling over his eyes slightly making him look even more fluffy than he is supposed to be.
You knew you couldn't wait any longer so you just yanked his collar and pin him on the wall, placing his hands firmly on his side, causing him to jolt and his ears to collapse on top of his head. “Y/N—”
“Heeseung. Do you not see me as a woman?”
His eyes filled with confusion, brows frowning as he tried to understand what that meant. “A woman? You are a woman.”
“Heeseung do you only see me as a friend..? As a companion but.. nothing more?”
“Y/N—I don't understand—”
“I like you.”
Now it was his turn to be speechless. Body going rigid in your arms, ears plopping straight up in your direction when he stiffened under you. “Y/N—I—”
“Do you.. not see me as anything more than just a friend? Do you not feel your body heat up, your heart beat fasten?”
He opened his mouth to say something but no words came out. His eyes wandered anywhere but on you. His body itself moved away from you and more into the wall of your office. You got your answer.
“You don't..”
“Y/N—It's not—I’m sorry..”
You could do nothing but smile. Your gaze fell to the floor as your hair covered your face. You were glad that it did so he wouldn't see your teary eyes. He didn't feel the same. You overthought every interaction you had just because of your stupid heart.
You were glad that hybrids couldn't hear the sound of other heartbeats because he would surely hear the crack and shatter of your heart the second you confirmed he didn't like you.
Heeseung saw. He saw your shoulders tremble, a slight suck in of breath when he said the words I'm sorry, the way you bit your lip to stop yourself from crying. Your hair couldn't hide those. Only your eyes.. you're beautiful.. eyes.
Eyes that he loved staring into when he is sad. Eyes that hold so much love for him that he feels he would combust if it was ever given. Eyes that wake him up with little kisses on his head, soft whispers and gentle pats.
He loved you. God, he did. But the second you said the words, his brain glitched. He couldn't process that you like him back too, couldn't process when you confessed first when he wasn't ready to take it well. He loved you and he was overjoyed to hear it but now he messed up.
The one sentence that was supposed to make you happy is now breaking your heart, tearing it to pieces because he made you believe that he didn't feel the same. A stubborn sob left your lips, louder than you wanted but it did the job.
It broke him from his trance in less than a second, hands moving though the mind of their own when he reached to you, held your waist firmly in his palms and pulled you right into his chest. His arms snared you in, refusing to let go even though you tried to push him back lightly.
“No, listen to me, Y/N—I didn't mean it in that way!”
“What does it matter? You were clear that you don't feel the same. Your body told me everything I needed to know.”
“No! Y/N, please. Listen to me. I love you.”
A shot of electricity hit you like a bolt. Your hands froze, face pressed on his chest with his arms tightening on your waist. He refused to let go as he kept repeating the words I love you. Trying to make sure you heard him loud and clear that he felt the same.
“I was just too taken aback. I was scared that it was a dream. I feel the same, Y/N. I want us to be.. more than what we are.”
You pull back slowly, just enough so you could tilt your head up and look at him, his expressions and his eyes with your teary ones. “Y-you.. mean that?”
“Yes, Y/Nie, I mean it. I love you. So much that I can't keep away from you. I love your warmth, your smile, your laugh, and god.. your eyes.”
Tears again well up in your eyes but this time from happiness, though he didn't understand that and thought he said something wrong. He whimpered softly, nudging your face with his, leaning down to your level. “No, no. I'm sorry—did I say something wrong?”
You chuckled at his words. He was so cute. All worried because of a few happy tears on your face which he didn't understand. “No, Hee.. Happy tears.”
He grinned when he heard you say that. “Happy tears? Ok..” And pulled you into a hug again, burying his face in your neck. “I love you. I love you so much.” You just chuckled, nodding into his chest and repeating it back, hearing his heart thumping inside his rib cage.
“So.. does that mean i get to sleep in the same bed as you?” He questioned, still unaware that you know he sneaks into your bed. “Yes, of course, love.” He squeaked like a hamster and rambled on with thank yous and I love yous, blissfully unaware about how your heart was thumping too.
“Let’s go home.”
[1/7] I hope you enjoyed!! I loved writing this. Shy Heeseung is my fav :)) , (Navi) , (Main Navi)
Gen taglist : @wooyoungmybelovedhusband @en-injang @h-eva-n @yandere-stories [4/50]
Hybrid series taglist : @enfaerii
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•°. *࿐ 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.
Hi, can I request a fanfic with scoups where he just randomly starts making out with you when you talk a bit too much because he finds you so cute
Ugghhh i love him
Too Cute to Handle 💕
Genre: Fluff + Cuteness Aggression + Hot Makeout
Warnings: Established relationship, excessive cuteness, soft!Scoups losing his mind (affectionately), light steam (making out, wandering hands, nothing explicit), pure unfiltered fluff
Song rec: “Adore You” by Harry Styles
You were sprawled across the couch in one of Seungcheol’s oversized hoodies, legs tangled with his, talking a mile a minute about the stray cat you saw on your way home.
“And then she did this little mrrp thing and tilted her head and I just Cheol, I almost cried on the sidewalk. She was so round and her eyes were so big and she let me pet her for like three whole seconds before she decided I was worthy—”
Seungcheol wasn’t even pretending to listen anymore.
He was watching you with that dangerous little smile, the one where his dimples pressed deep and his eyes went all soft and predatory at the same time.
His hand had been resting on your ankle, thumb stroking lazy circles, but the longer you talked gesturing wildly with the sleeve paws of his hoodie, voice pitching higher with excitement the tighter his grip became.
You didn’t notice.
You were too busy describing the cat’s little white socks.
“So then I was like, ‘Hi baby, do you have a home?’ and she—”
He made a low, strangled noise.
You blinked. “What?”
“Nothing,” he muttered, but his jaw was tight and he was biting the inside of his cheek like he was physically restraining himself.
His free hand came up to pinch your cheek gently, then not so gently, squishing the soft skin between his fingers.
“Cheollie, I’m trying to tell you about the cat—”
“You’re killing me,” he groaned, voice rough.
“You’re actually going to kill me.”
You tilted your head, confused and a little pleased.
“What did I do?”
“You’re talking with the hoodie paws. You’re using voice cracks. You called a stray cat ‘baby’ in that voice.”
He sat up suddenly, pulling you closer by the ankles until you were half in his lap.
“You’re being so fucking cute I can’t breathe.”
Your face heated. “I’m just talking—”
“Exactly.”
He cupped your cheeks with both hands now, thumbs brushing your skin almost reverently. His eyes flicked all over your face like he couldn’t decide where to look your sparkling eyes, your slightly puffed cheeks, the way your lips kept moving even as he held you. “You talk too much and it’s lethal. I’m having cuteness aggression. Medical emergency.”
You giggled, trying to squirm away half-heartedly.
“You’re so dramatic—”
He cut you off with a kiss.
Not a soft one. Not the gentle little peck he usually gave you when you were being silly.
This was sudden and deep and hungry, like he’d been holding back for the last ten minutes and finally snapped.
His lips moved against yours with purpose, one hand sliding to the back of your neck to tilt your head just right.
You made a surprised little sound that only seemed to make it worse.
“Cheol—” you tried to say between kisses, but he swallowed it, kissing you harder. His other arm wrapped around your waist, pulling you fully into his lap until your knees bracketed his thighs.
The hoodie rode up your legs and his warm palm slipped underneath, resting possessively against the bare skin of your lower back.
“You’re so cute it hurts,” he mumbled against your mouth, barely pulling away enough to speak.
“Every time you get excited like that… fuck, I just want to kiss you stupid.”
“Then do it,” you whispered, dizzy and grinning.
He did.
The next kiss was slower but no less intense tongue brushing yours, teeth grazing your bottom lip, the kind of makeout that made your fingers curl into his hair and tug. He groaned softly at the pull, the sound vibrating through you.
One of his hands slid up your spine under the hoodie while the other stayed on your cheek, thumb stroking like he still couldn’t believe you were real.
You pulled back just enough to breathe, foreheads pressed together.
“Hi,” you said softly, a little breathless, cheeks burning.
Seungcheol’s eyes were dark, lips kiss-swollen, but the fond smile that broke across his face was pure sunshine. He squished your cheeks again, gentler this time, and planted three rapid little kisses on your puckered lips.
“My baby,” he murmured, voice wrecked.
“My cute, talkative, lethal baby. Keep talking. I’ll just keep kissing you every time I can’t handle it anymore.”
You laughed, bright and giddy, and leaned in to kiss him again soft this time, sweet, the kind of kiss that tasted like promises and quiet nights in.
He smiled against your mouth, arms tightening around you like he never planned on letting go.
Outside, the city kept moving, but in here it was just you, his favorite hoodie, and Seungcheol’s endless, adorable, slightly feral love.
You quietly stepped into your home. You were worried about waking Seungcheol since it was so late. You dropped your stuff and tiptoed into the bedroom. Buried beneath the mountain of blankets on your bed was Seungcheol fast asleep. You stared at his sleeping form, his peaceful face bringing you a sense of happiness. It always made you happy to see your busy boyfriend finally get some much needed rest.
You changed into your pajamas and crawled under the covers beside Seungcheol. Your fingers played with his messy hair gently smoothing it away from his face. You cupped his cheek and stroked his skin with you thumb. You pressed your lips to his forehead.
"I love you,” you whispered
"I love you too."
You jumped and let out a small gasp. You playfully hit his arm.
"Jesus Cheol! You scared me!”
"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to," he chucked
"You’re a jerk," you pouted
"Aww don't say that!”
He wrapped his arms around you and pulled you towards his chest. He pecked your pouted lips making your displeased expression dissipate.
Requested by @whrryuu : helloooo can u make ot13 reactions to a younger s/o with tooth rooting fluff plsplspls u r one of my fav authors and i loveee all ur works <33 thank yeww
A/N: Hiiiii angel!! Thank you SO much for the sweet words, I’m smiling so hard!!
Also, I wrote this while waiting for my call to the doctor's office, and the amount of time I giggled... in public 😭 I'm pretty sure the assistant there wanted to write my name to see the psychiatrist 💔 I really enjoyed writing this one!!
Seungcheol: He calls you baby so much, it’s comical atp. Wraps you in his big strong arms, shielding you from the entire world. He high-key spoils you: buys you snacks, jewelleries, designer bags, tucks your hair behind your ear, even ties your shoes sometimes. If anyone teases you for being younger, he’s like, “And? She’s mine.”
Jeonghan: tease. level. expert. He’s constantly poking fun at your age. “Aww, are you even old enough to be out this late?” “Are you even old enough to use your pretty mouth like this?” “Is my baby old enough?” But then he’s doting lol. Pulls you into his lap during movie nights or when he's feeling freaky, strokes your hair when you're sleepy, gives you forehead kisses and says, “You’re too cute. What do I do with you?”
Joshua: Such a gentleman it’s unreal. Always checking on you, opening doors, holding your hand when crossing the street. Calls you sweetheart or baby with the softest smile. “Did you eat? Want me to walk you home?” He loves listening to you talk about little things like your classes or shows, eyes full of admiration, which makes him even more eager to protect you from the outside cruel world.
Jun: Younger? He’s taking that as a challenge to be the ultimate younger boyfriend. I mean he's old but, in your relationship, he's the kid. But don't forget, he's Jun: he’s playful and flirty but super doting whenever he feels like it. “You’re so smol, it’s adorable,” he coos, pinching your cheeks. He buys you keychains, kisses your lips when you pout, and tucks your hand into his pocket when it’s cold.
Hoshi: Calls you my baby with a proud grin. Carries candies in his bag just for you. Sends you selfies like “miss you~~” even if he saw you ½ an hour ago. He shows off a bit in front of the other members. “Look at my cutie! Isn’t she the cutest??” Will not shut up about you. Ever.
Wonwoo: His affection actually runs quite deep. Always watches you with fond eyes when you ramble about your day animatedly. Reads books with you on his chest, lets you doodle on his arm with pen. Will buy you random gifts throughout the week. He doesn't really see you as a kid but definitely thinks it's cute that you're younger. His favorite thing is seeing you in oversized hoodies aka his hoodies.
Woozi: Pretends he’s unaffected and acts superrrrrr nonchalant but yk Jihoon lol. He’s so shy about PDA, but his ears turn pink when you kiss his cheek or nose or forehead or lips or... anywhere actually. But he sneaks cuddles when no one’s looking. Writes you little melodies on his guitar, gives you USBs like, “I made this… it’s for you.” Deadly soft. D.E.A.D.L.Y. S.O.F.T. I'm telling you, the nonchalance bullshit doesn't go too far with him around you.
Dokyeom: Literal sunshine™ boyfriend. He thinks your every reaction is the most adorable thing ever. “Look at you getting shy! You’re so cute I could cry!” Will deadpan compare you to toddlers and say you are cuter... infront of the kid's parents 💀 Makes silly faces to make you laugh [he loves making you laugh], sends voice notes of him singing songs before bed. Never stops telling you how much he loves you.
Mingyu: Always holds your bag, opens your drink, wraps his arms around you in public like a warm wall. “You good, baby?” Loves it when you act bratty—it makes him grin like crazy and turns him on. Carries you over puddles, cooks for you everyday, and looks like a proud boyfriend when you compliment his food. He'll definitely marry you one day, that's how smittenly in love he is with you.
Minghao: So gentle, holds your face when he kisses you. Buys you art supplies and writes little notes in the margins of your sketchbook. If you’re overwhelmed, he’s like, “Come here,” and pulls you into his arms in total silence. You’re his soft spot, no matter how calm he seems. He really loves that he can be your protective figure, not that he thinks you're any less capable to protect or defend yourself but he loves it that in general sense, he's the one. Note: he coos you all the time
Seungkwan: Panics over every little thing because you're his baby [in a romantic sense]. “Are you cold? Are you hungry? Do you need water?” Cups a hand on your cheeks , “You’re too cute, I can’t take it.” and have cuteness aggression every five minutes. Will 100% hide his face when you kiss his nose. Loves showing you off—“This is my girlfriend, the cutest woman in the whole world!” Yeah, he still calls you a woman, because you are!
Vernon: Our Vernon can be so so so so so so soft. Tugs you into his hoodie with him, lets you nap on his chest. Blushes when you hold his hand first, but won’t let go the whole day. He thinks you being younger is the cutest thing ever. Just wants to sit next to you forever, playing with your fingers. If he could, he'd keep you inside his pocket.
Dino: He tries so hard to be ‘the man’ but ends up being an adorable mess because of you. “I’m older, I’ll take care of you,” then trips over nothing after you smile at him. You make him flustered constantly 24/7, but he’s serious when it counts—“You can count on me, always.” and you can. Will dance with you in the kitchen because he's romantic.
Author: bratzkoo
Pairing: rich af! minghao x architect! reader
Genre: fluff
Rating: PG-15
Word count: 14k~
Warnings/note: enemies to lovers minghao kinda that i've been thinking about for weeks! i need this.
summary: you really thought minghao is just your usual old money prioritizing getting richer over the environment, not with his background and whatever he does, well, until you didn’t.
taglist (hit me up if you wanna be added): -
requests are close, but you can just say hi! | masterlist
Y/N straightened her blazer, mentally rehearsing counter-arguments to every possible criticism as she strode into the Seoul Metropolitan Government conference room. At twenty-eight, she'd earned her reputation as one of the city's most uncompromising sustainable architects through sheer determination and technical brilliance. The Hangang Riverfront Revitalization Project was exactly the kind of high-profile commission her firm needed—and she wasn't about to let anyone derail her vision of creating the most environmentally innovative public space in Asia.
She scanned the room, noting the familiar faces of committee members and developers, before her gaze locked onto an unfamiliar figure. Xu Minghao of XM Development stood near the windows, examining the site maps with intense focus. She'd never met him personally, but his reputation preceded him—artistic, enigmatic, and ruthlessly effective at getting his designs approved. His buildings were architectural marvels that graced magazine covers and won international awards while consuming unconscionable amounts of energy with their glass facades and dramatic lighting.
As if sensing her scrutiny, Minghao looked up. Their eyes met across the room in a moment of instant recognition—not of each other personally, but of what each represented. A subtle tension charged the air between them.
Joshua Hong, the city's cultural development officer, approached with his characteristic diplomatic smile. "Y/N! I see you've noticed Minghao. Let me introduce you properly before presentations begin."
She followed Joshua, maintaining perfect professional composure as they approached Minghao, who straightened to his full height, his expression coolly appraising.
"Xu Minghao, this is Y/N, principal architect at Green Path Architecture. Y/N, Minghao is the creative director at XM Development."
"Your Dongdaemun Plaza extension was featured in Architectural Review last month," Y/N said, extending her hand. It wasn't a compliment—merely an acknowledgment of fact—but she could acknowledge quality work even from the opposition.
Minghao's handshake was firm, his gaze direct. "And your critique of it in Sustainable Design Quarterly was quite... thorough." There was a hint of something in his voice—not quite anger, more like curiosity.
Y/N didn't flinch. "I stand by every word."
"I would expect nothing less." A ghost of a smile touched his lips, surprising her. "It was one of the more intelligent critiques I've read. Most critics don't understand the structural constraints we were working with."
Before Y/N could respond to this unexpected comment, they were called to take their seats.
Throughout her presentation, Y/N was acutely aware of Minghao's attention. Unlike other developers who checked phones or whispered to colleagues during technical explanations, he observed with complete focus, occasionally making notes. His scrutiny was unnerving—she found herself emphasizing certain points more forcefully, as if in direct challenge to his design philosophy.
When Minghao presented his concept, Y/N reluctantly found herself impressed by his eloquence and vision. Where her presentation had been data-driven and practical, his was almost poetic—speaking of architecture as cultural storytelling, of spaces that evolved with seasonal light, of connections between traditional Korean design principles and contemporary human needs.
"A truly sustainable space," he concluded, his voice quiet but carrying through the silent room, "must sustain not just environmental metrics, but the human soul. It must create memories, inspire creativity, and connect people to something larger than themselves."
It was beautiful rhetoric that conveniently sidestepped concrete sustainability commitments, Y/N thought critically. Yet she couldn't deny the power of his vision or the masterful renderings that accompanied it.
When the committee's decision came, delivered by Joshua, it landed like a thunderbolt.
"Both proposals contain essential elements the committee feels are necessary for this project's success. Rather than choosing between them, we're asking Y/N and Minghao to collaborate on a unified design—combining Green Path's environmental innovation with XM's cultural and aesthetic vision."
Y/N's expression remained professionally neutral while her mind raced through implications. A collaboration? With him? Their approaches weren't just different—they were fundamentally opposed.
Across the room, she saw Minghao's composed mask slip momentarily, revealing a flash of the same dismay she felt. Their eyes met again, mutual wariness transformed into shared predicament.
After the meeting adjourned, Minghao approached her with measured steps. "It seems we have a situation," he said, his voice low.
"That's one way of putting it," Y/N replied evenly. "I have serious concerns about reconciling our approaches."
"As do I," he admitted, surprising her with his candor. "But the commission is significant. Perhaps we can establish ground rules to make this... functional."
They agreed to meet the following day at a neutral location to establish their working parameters, both clearly determined to protect their core principles while finding some way to fulfill the committee's requirements.
The café they chose was halfway between their respective offices—a small, quiet place with good lighting and minimal distractions. Y/N arrived ten minutes early, selecting a corner table and arranging her materials precisely. Minghao arrived exactly on time, dressed in simple black that somehow looked both casual and impeccable.
"I reviewed your full proposal last night," he said without preamble as he took the seat across from her. "Your technical solutions are innovative, but they fail to consider the aesthetic impact."
Y/N set down her coffee cup with deliberate care. "And I reviewed yours. Your spatial concepts are impressive but environmentally irresponsible. Your projected energy consumption is triple what it should be for a public project of this scale."
"Those calculations don't account for the passive cooling systems integrated into the design."
"Even with those systems, the glass expanses you've proposed create unnecessary thermal management challenges."
They continued this technical sparring for nearly an hour, each demonstrating a surprisingly thorough understanding of the other's specialty. Y/N had expected Minghao to dismiss environmental concerns entirely but found instead that he comprehended them well—he simply prioritized differently. Similarly, Minghao seemed taken aback by her knowledge of architectural theory and cultural references.
"You've studied Korean traditional architecture," he noted when she referenced historical precedents for natural ventilation.
"You sound surprised."
"Most sustainability specialists I've worked with focus exclusively on contemporary technology."
"That would be shortsighted," Y/N replied. "Traditional builders solved climate challenges without modern energy sources. There's much to learn from them."
A thoughtful expression crossed Minghao's face. "On that, at least, we agree."
This small point of alignment felt like a minor breakthrough. They tentatively established a working schedule and division of responsibilities, each carefully guarding their core elements while identifying areas where compromise might be possible.
As they gathered their materials to leave, Minghao hesitated. "I should clarify something. I'm not opposed to sustainability. I simply believe it must include cultural and aesthetic sustainability alongside environmental concerns."
Y/N studied him, trying to determine if this was merely diplomatic posturing. "And I'm not opposed to beauty. I just believe it shouldn't come at the expense of future generations."
Minghao nodded once, accepting this. "Then perhaps this collaboration isn't impossible after all."
"I didn't say that," Y/N countered with hint of a challenging smile. "I said it wasn't entirely impossible."
Something flickered in Minghao's eyes—surprise, followed by what might have been respect. "Until tomorrow, then."
Their working relationship developed into a pattern of intense intellectual debate punctuated by rare moments of unexpected alignment. They established a temporary studio in a small gallery space Joshua arranged for them—neutral territory that became the battleground for their competing visions.
Each morning began civilly enough, reviewing progress and outlining objectives. By afternoon, they were invariably locked in philosophical combat over fundamental aspects of the design. Y/N found these debates simultaneously frustrating and stimulating—Minghao challenged her assumptions with perspectives she'd never considered, forcing her to articulate her values with greater precision.
"You speak of environmental responsibility as if it exists in isolation from human experience," Minghao argued during a particularly heated discussion. "But people protect what they love. Create a space they don't connect with emotionally, and it will be neglected or demolished within a generation, regardless of its ecological merits."
"And you speak of human experience as if it can be separated from environmental context," Y/N fired back. "The most beautiful space becomes meaningless if the air is unbreathable or the temperature unbearable. Ask the residents of coastal cities losing ground to rising sea levels how much they're enjoying the 'human experience' of architectural masterpieces that contributed to climate change."
Mingyu, Minghao's assistant, had learned to make himself scarce during these exchanges, quietly leaving coffee and returning hours later when the conceptual storm had passed.
What surprised Y/N most was not Minghao's stubborn defense of his vision—she'd expected that—but his work ethic. He matched her legendary stamina hour for hour, sometimes staying past midnight to perfect details or research technical questions that arose during their debates. One evening, she returned from a quick dinner break to find him surrounded by books on wetland ecosystems, cross-referencing her water management proposals against ecological studies.
"I wanted to understand the biological implications better," he explained simply, not looking up.
Another night, Minghao found Y/N studying the historical design references in his original concept. When he raised an eyebrow in question, she merely said, "If I'm going to argue against aspects of your design, I should at least understand its cultural context properly."
These moments of mutual professional respect existed alongside their fundamental disagreements, creating a complex working relationship neither had anticipated.
Three weeks into their collaboration, they reached an impasse over the central plaza. Y/N's design prioritized permeable surfaces and rainwater capture, while Minghao's emphasized traditional patterns and ceremonial pathways. Neither would yield, their respective heels dug in after days of circular arguments.
"This isn't productive," Minghao finally said, running a hand through his hair in a rare display of frustration. "We're approaching this from incompatible premises."
"Then we need to change the premises," Y/N replied, surprising herself with the suggestion. "We're still thinking of our designs as separate entities being forced together, not as a new integrated concept."
Minghao looked at her thoughtfully. "What are you suggesting?"
"Let's visit the site. Together. Not to argue our positions, but to observe. Maybe there's something we're both missing."
The next morning dawned clear and cool as they met at the riverfront. By unspoken agreement, they walked in silence, observing how light played across the water, how people naturally gathered in certain spaces, how the existing landscape created patterns of movement.
An hour passed before either spoke. They had stopped at a particular bend in the river, watching an elderly man feeding birds while a group of students sketched nearby.
"There's a rhythm to how people use this space," Minghao said quietly. "Different but harmonious patterns overlapping."
Y/N nodded. "And natural cycles intersecting with human ones. The tide, the seasonal plants, the daily movement of sun and shadow."
They spent the entire day at the site, gradually beginning to exchange observations, then ideas, their usual combative dynamic softened by the physical reality of the place itself. As sunset painted the river gold, Y/N found herself sketching alongside Minghao on a park bench, their shoulders occasionally brushing as they worked.
"What if," Minghao said suddenly, looking up from his drawing, "the water management systems became visible features that change with the seasons? Not hidden infrastructure, but celebrated elements that tell an environmental story while creating evolving beauty."
Y/N stared at him, momentarily speechless at how perfectly this bridged their divided approaches. "That... could actually work." She quickly sketched an adaptation of her technical systems that incorporated his aesthetic principles. "The filtration gardens could become these sculptural elements that transform with rainfall patterns."
"Yes," Minghao leaned closer to see her drawing, his usual reserve giving way to genuine enthusiasm. "And these ceremonial pathways I proposed—they could be constructed with your permeable materials, creating traditional patterns that also serve ecological functions."
They worked with growing excitement, building on each other's ideas in a creative flow unlike anything their previous combative approach had produced. When darkness finally forced them to pack up their materials, both were reluctant to break the productive spell.
Walking back toward the subway station, Y/N glanced at Minghao's profile, softened in the evening light.
"I still think you're wrong about the glass pavilions," she said, but there was no edge to her voice now.
"And I still think your maintenance projections are unrealistic," he replied with the ghost of a smile.
"But today was... not entirely unproductive."
"A diplomatic assessment," Minghao agreed. After a pause, he added more seriously, "You're not what I expected, Y/N."
"Oh? And what did you expect?"
"Someone less willing to consider alternative perspectives. Less... formidable in defending her vision."
Y/N raised an eyebrow. "I could say the same about you. I expected a developer focused exclusively on aesthetics and profit, not someone who would spend hours researching ecosystem impacts."
They parted at the station with a new sense of possibility, though neither would admit how significantly their perception of the other had shifted. Y/N found herself thinking about Minghao's unexpected depth as she rode home—his quiet intensity, his surprising knowledge across disciplines, the rare moments when his composed exterior gave way to genuine passion for architecture.
It was professionally inconvenient, she decided, to discover that your philosophical opponent was actually worthy of respect. Even more inconvenient to realize you were beginning to look forward to the intellectual challenge he presented each day. Most inconvenient of all was catching herself wondering what else might lie beneath his carefully controlled surface—and why that possibility intrigued her more than she cared to admit.
-
The breakthrough at the riverfront changed something fundamental in Y/N and Minghao's working relationship. Though they still disagreed—often vehemently—about specific elements, a grudging respect had formed between them. Their temporary studio space gradually transformed, walls covered with evolving sketches that showed a slow but unmistakable merging of their distinct approaches.
Y/N arrived early one morning, a week after their site visit, to find Minghao already there. He sat with his back to the door, so absorbed in his work that he hadn't heard her enter. She paused, taking the rare opportunity to observe him unguarded. His movements were precise as he sketched, occasionally pausing to reference her technical specifications before continuing. The morning light caught the edges of his profile, and Y/N was struck by the intensity of his focus—the same quality she prided in herself.
"You've adapted the rainwater system," she said, finally announcing her presence.
Minghao turned, not startled but transitioning smoothly from solitary concentration to acknowledgment of her arrival. "I had some thoughts about integrating it more fully with the traditional elements."
Y/N set down her materials and moved closer to examine his work. The technical system she'd designed remained intact in its function but had been transformed visually into something that echoed historical Korean water features while remaining distinctly contemporary.
"This actually improves the water flow," she admitted, studying the modifications. "The aesthetic changes create a more efficient path for heavy rainfall."
"Form following function," Minghao said with the slight upturn of lips that passed for his smile. "Or perhaps function following form. Does it matter which comes first if the result serves both?"
Y/N gave him a measured look. "It matters in the process. But I'll concede the outcome is... promising."
They settled into work, the morning passing in focused collaboration punctuated by their usual debates—though the tone had shifted from combative to challenging, each pushing the other toward more refined solutions.
Around noon, the studio door opened to reveal Seungkwan from Y/N's firm, carrying several bags of takeout.
"Lunch delivery!" he announced with characteristic enthusiasm. "Y/N, the office is buzzing about your collaboration. Everyone's wondering if you've strangled the famous Xu Minghao yet or if he's converted you to the dark side of luxury development." He stopped abruptly, seeming to realize Minghao was present. "Oh! I mean—that is—good afternoon, Mr. Xu!"
Y/N suppressed a smile at Seungkwan's flustered backpedaling. "Minghao, this is Seungkwan from my PR department."
"We've met briefly," Minghao said with a gracious nod. "At the initial presentation."
"Right! Yes! I was very impressed with your cultural integration concepts," Seungkwan babbled, setting down the food and backing toward the door. "I'll just leave this here and let you both get back to your... creative tension. Or harmony! Whatever you're creating!"
After Seungkwan's hasty departure, Y/N shook her head. "Sorry about that. He's brilliant at public relations but subtle isn't in his vocabulary."
"He cares about you," Minghao observed, arranging the food containers. "Your firm seems more like a family than a corporation."
"We're small but dedicated. Everyone believes in what we're doing." Y/N accepted the container he handed her. "What about XM? From what I've read, it's quite hierarchical."
Something flickered across Minghao's face—so brief Y/N almost missed it. "Traditional corporate structure, yes. Efficiency has its advantages."
"But?"
Minghao looked up, surprised by her perception. "What makes you think there's a 'but'?"
"Your expression. Just for a second."
He considered her for a moment before responding. "The traditional structure has advantages for executing projects efficiently. It has... limitations for innovation. Particularly regarding sustainability initiatives."
This was the most personal insight he'd offered about his professional situation. Y/N sensed something significant beneath his measured words.
"You're advocating for change within XM?"
"Let's say I have a longer-term vision that doesn't always align with quarterly profit expectations." Minghao's tone made it clear he considered this topic closed.
They ate in silence for a few minutes before returning to safer territory—the technical challenges of their current design integration. But Y/N filed away this glimpse beneath Minghao's professional exterior, another piece in the increasingly complex puzzle he presented.
Later that week, Y/N sat in her apartment surrounded by crumpled sketches, trying desperately to focus on refining the public garden layout for their project. Instead, she found herself repeatedly drawing Minghao's profile—the sharp line of his jaw, the thoughtful tilt of his head when considering a design problem.
"This isn't happening," she muttered, furiously erasing the latest inadvertent portrait. "This is Stockholm syndrome. Professional delirium. Sleep deprivation psychosis."
She crumpled the paper and tossed it toward the trash can, missing by a good foot. The floor was already littered with similar failures—evidence of her complete inability to focus without her thoughts drifting to a certain frustratingly elegant architect with stupidly perfect cheekbones and infuriatingly thoughtful design insights.
When her phone rang, Y/N nearly leapt for it, grateful for any distraction. Seeing Seungkwan's name on the screen was an added relief—at least it wasn't Minghao calling about work, which would mean having to sound professional while in the midst of this embarrassing crisis.
"Please tell me you're free for dinner," Seungkwan said without preamble. "We're all at the usual place, and Woozi is three beers in, talking about writing a concept album about sustainable architecture. You need to witness this."
Y/N stared at her disaster of an apartment—takeout containers from three consecutive nights of working late with Minghao, sketches everywhere, and a half-empty bottle of wine that wasn't helping her current crisis at all.
"I'll be there in thirty," she replied, grateful for the escape.
The hole-in-the-wall restaurant was already lively when Y/N arrived, sliding into a booth next to Jeonghan and across from Seungkwan and Woozi.
"The workaholic emerges!" Seungkwan announced dramatically. "How's life with the enemy?"
"He's not the enemy," Y/N answered automatically, then froze at her own defensive tone.
Three pairs of eyes locked onto her with laser focus.
"Well, well, well," Jeonghan drawled, sliding the soju bottle towards her. "That's new."
"What?" Y/N poured herself a generous shot. "He's a collaborator now. Professionally. On the project. That's all."
"Right," Woozi nodded sagely. "Totally professional. Which is why you just drew hearts around his name on that napkin."
Y/N looked down in horror, only to find a blank napkin. When she looked up, Woozi was smirking.
"Your face right now is all the confirmation we needed," he said.
"I hate all of you," Y/N groaned, burying her face in her hands. "It's not—I don't—UGH."
"Oh my god, she actually likes him," Seungkwan stage-whispered, eyes wide with delight. "Our Y/N has fallen for Corporate Architecture Ken!"
"I have NOT fallen for him," Y/N hissed, looking around to make sure no one from the industry was nearby. "I just... don't completely despise working with him anymore. He has... occasional good ideas."
"Occasional good ideas," Jeonghan repeated flatly. "Is that what we're calling it when you haven't stopped talking about 'Minghao's innovative approach to spatial harmony' for three weeks?"
"Or when you defended his honor to that sustainability consultant who called his previous projects 'ecological disasters'?" Woozi added.
"Or when you started wearing your nice blazers to the collaborative studio instead of your usual 'comfort over corporate' outfits?" Seungkwan chimed in.
Y/N looked between them, betrayal written across her face. "I just wanted to project professionalism!"
"Since when have you cared about looking professional?" Jeonghan laughed. "Your entire brand is 'too busy saving the planet to care about dress codes.'"
Y/N downed her soju in one shot, the harsh reality hitting harder than the alcohol. "This is a disaster. If—and I mean IF—I were developing... unprofessional feelings, which I'm NOT admitting to... it would be career suicide. Personal suicide. A complete betrayal of everything I stand for."
"Dramatic much?" Woozi raised an eyebrow.
"He works for XM Development!" Y/N whispered furiously. "They literally built that resort that destroyed an entire coral reef ecosystem! I protested outside their headquarters! I wrote a scathing industry article about their CEO!"
"Who happens to be his uncle," Seungkwan pointed out unhelpfully. "Awkward future family dinners."
Y/N dropped her head onto the table with a thunk. "This isn't happening. I refuse. I absolutely refuse to be attracted to Xu Minghao. He probably irons his socks. He definitely owns more black turtlenecks than Steve Jobs ever did. His idea of sustainable materials is 'slightly less endangered tropical hardwood.' This is a cosmic joke."
"But he's so pretty," Seungkwan sighed dreamily. "Those cheekbones could cut glass."
"And he did publicly challenge his board about sustainability initiatives," Jeonghan reminded her. "That article was everywhere in the industry. He put his reputation on the line."
"Not helping," Y/N mumbled into the table.
"Look," Woozi said, suddenly serious. "You've spent your entire career fighting against developers who don't care about environmental impact. Now you've found one who might actually be an ally—who gets your vision enough to fight for it within his own corporate structure. What's the real problem?"
Y/N lifted her head, expression pained. "The problem is I wanted to hate him. I was prepared to hate him. Hating him was simple and comfortable and fit my worldview perfectly. But now..." She gestured helplessly.
"Now you like him," Seungkwan finished for her. "Like, LIKE him like him."
"And I hate that I like him," Y/N groaned. "It's so inconvenient. So cliché. So... ugh."
"The heart wants what the heart wants," Jeonghan said with philosophical air.
"Well, my heart needs to shut up and get back to focusing on sustainable architecture instead of Minghao's stupid perfect hands and the way he tilts his head when he's really considering an idea and how he remembers exactly how I like my coffee and—" Y/N cut herself off, horrified.
The table erupted in delighted chaos.
"This is the greatest day of my life," Seungkwan declared, wiping away a fake tear. "Our ice queen has melted for the prince of luxury development."
"I'm leaving," Y/N announced, grabbing her bag. "I'm moving to a remote island where there are no architects, no colleagues, and definitely no irritatingly perceptive friends."
As she stood to leave, Woozi called after her: "Just remember to invite us to the wedding! I've already started composing your processional!"
The wadded-up napkin Y/N threw hit him squarely between the eyes.
Meanwhile, across the city, Minghao sat perfectly still in his apartment's minimalist living room, staring at the scale model he'd been working on for the past three hours. It was meant to be a section of their riverfront design. Somehow, he'd unconsciously incorporated elements that were distinctly Y/N's—the curved rainwater channels, the integrated vegetation patterns, the community-focused gathering spaces.
"This is unacceptable," he murmured to himself, setting down his tools with deliberate precision.
He'd spent years cultivating perfect control—over his designs, his career trajectory, his emotions. Three weeks working with Y/N had somehow dismantled that control with terrifying efficiency.
His phone rang. Jun.
"Please tell me you're not still working," his friend said when Minghao answered. "It's Friday night. We're at Mingyu's place. Even Wonwoo left the office."
"I'm not working," Minghao replied, staring at the evidence that he'd been thinking about Y/N rather than actual work. "Just... reviewing some concepts."
"All work and no play makes Minghao a dull boy," Jun sing-songed. "Come over. Mingyu made his famous hotpot, and Vernon brought that weird board game where you have to build fictional cities."
The prospect of architecture-themed entertainment was the last thing Minghao needed right now, but the alternative was sitting alone in his apartment, fighting the unprofessional urge to text Y/N about a design idea that had occurred to him in the shower.
"Fine," he conceded. "I'll be there in twenty minutes."
Mingyu's apartment was chaos compared to Minghao's serene space—warm, cluttered, and currently filled with his closest friends sprawled across various furniture. The delicious scent of hotpot filled the air, and someone had put on a jazz playlist that mingled with conversations and laughter.
"He emerges from his creative cave!" Jun announced as Minghao entered. "We were taking bets on whether you'd actually show up or send another 'something came up' text."
"I'm not that antisocial," Minghao protested mildly, accepting the drink Mingyu handed him.
"No, you're just that obsessed with perfection," Wonwoo corrected from his position on the couch, not looking up from his book. "How's the collaboration going with the eco-warrior princess?"
Minghao nearly choked on his drink. "Her name is Y/N, and the project is progressing adequately."
"Adequately?" Jun repeated with a grin. "That's not what Mingyu said after he dropped off those materials yesterday. What was it again, Mingyu? Something about 'intense creative energy' and 'finishing each other's sentences'?"
Mingyu had the decency to look apologetic as he stirred the hotpot. "I just mentioned that you two seemed to be working well together. Better than expected, considering how you used to talk about her environmental manifestos."
"We've found professional common ground," Minghao said carefully, taking a seat at the dining table. "Her technical knowledge is impressive, and she's more open to aesthetic considerations than I initially assumed."
"Wow, from Minghao, that's practically a declaration of love," Vernon commented, looking up from where he was setting up the board game.
"It's professional respect," Minghao clarified firmly.
"Is that why you've saved every industry article she's ever written?" Wonwoo asked, finally closing his book. "For professional respect?"
Minghao shot him a betrayed look. "Those are research materials. Know your opponent's perspective."
"And is that why you specially ordered her favorite tea for the studio? And stayed up all night researching wetland ecosystems to understand her water management system better? And hand-crafted that traditional pavilion model that took you three days?" Jun pressed, clearly enjoying himself.
"Those were... professional courtesies," Minghao insisted, feeling uncomfortably warm. "The project benefits from a harmonious working relationship."
"Harmonious," Mingyu repeated with a knowing smile. "Interesting word choice."
"You guys are reading too much into this," Minghao said, helping himself to food in an attempt to end the conversation. "We're collaborating on a project with strict deadlines. That's all."
The room fell silent for a moment before Jun spoke again, his tone gentler. "You know, it wouldn't be the end of the world if you did like her."
"She represents everything I'm supposed to be working against," Minghao said quietly. "She's idealistic to the point of impracticality, stubborn about her principles, and has publicly criticized XM's projects multiple times."
"And yet..." Vernon prompted.
"And yet," Minghao admitted reluctantly, "she's brilliant. Her technical innovations are genuinely revolutionary. She sees connections in systems that most designers miss. And she cares about the impact of her work in a way that's..." he searched for the right word, "...admirable."
"Just admirable?" Wonwoo asked, eyebrow raised.
Minghao set down his chopsticks, suddenly finding it difficult to maintain his usual composure. "Fine. You want the truth? I can't stop thinking about her. I find myself sketching elements I know she'll appreciate into designs she'll never even see. I've started questioning corporate policies I've accepted for years because her arguments make compelling sense. I wake up thinking about our debates and go to sleep solving design problems we discussed."
He ran a hand through his hair in a rare display of frustration. "It's completely inappropriate, utterly unprofessional, and would horrify my uncle and the entire board if they knew. She probably still thinks I'm a corporate sellout despite everything, and the project will end in three weeks, after which we'll go back to being professional adversaries. So yes, maybe I do find her more than just professionally admirable, but it doesn't matter because nothing could ever come of it."
The room was silent for a long moment.
"Wow," Mingyu finally said. "That's the most words I've heard you speak consecutively in... possibly ever."
"She must be really special," Vernon added thoughtfully.
"This is a disaster," Minghao sighed, his perfect posture finally slumping. "Of all the architects in Seoul, why did it have to be her? The one person guaranteed to find my family's business morally reprehensible? The one designer who would consider my aesthetic priorities superficial? The most stubborn, principled, frustratingly intelligent woman I've ever met?"
"The heart is mysterious," Jun said, patting his shoulder sympathetically. "And apparently has terrible timing."
"The heart has nothing to do with this," Minghao insisted. "This is temporary insanity brought on by extended proximity and creative intensity."
"Right," Wonwoo nodded sagely. "That explains why you've started dressing even more impeccably than usual for your studio sessions. And why you've been turning down family dinner invitations to work late with her. And why you risked your position at XM to champion sustainability initiatives that align with her values."
Minghao stared at him. "How do you know all that?"
"I pay attention," Wonwoo shrugged. "And Mingyu talks a lot."
"Traitor," Minghao muttered, glancing at Mingyu, who was suddenly very interested in the hotpot.
The following day, Y/N arrived at the studio determined to maintain strict professional boundaries. She'd spent half the night lecturing herself about the absolute insanity of developing feelings for Xu Minghao, of all people. She had a plan: minimal personal conversation, focused work discussion, and absolutely no noticing of his perfect cheekbones or elegant hands or the way his eyes lit up when discussing traditional Korean architecture.
Her resolve lasted approximately three minutes.
Minghao was already there, arranging a collection of material samples on their work table. He looked up when she entered, and something in his expression seemed different—a flicker of self-consciousness that mirrored her own.
"Good morning," he said, his voice carefully neutral. "I brought coffee." He gestured to a cup on her side of the table. "Black with one sugar."
The fact that he remembered exactly how she took her coffee was not helping her resolution at all.
"Thank you," she managed, setting down her bag and picking up the cup to give her hands something to do. "I was thinking about the central plaza transition areas overnight. I have some ideas for improving the flow."
Minghao nodded, seemingly grateful for the immediate focus on work. "I was considering the same issue. The current design creates a bottleneck during peak usage times."
They fell into their usual pattern of collaborative problem-solving, but something had shifted in the atmosphere. Y/N found herself hyperaware of every accidental brush of hands when they reached for the same reference material, every moment their eyes met when making a point, every instance of inadvertent synchronization when they both had the same idea simultaneously.
Judging by Minghao's slightly stiffer-than-usual posture and occasional hesitations before physical proximity, he might be experiencing similar awareness. The thought was both terrifying and oddly exhilarating.
By afternoon, the awkwardness had somewhat dissipated as they became absorbed in a particularly challenging aspect of the water feature design. Their usual dynamic reasserted itself—Y/N focusing on technical efficiency, Minghao on experiential quality, both pushing the other toward a more integrated solution.
"If we adjust the flow pattern here," Y/N suggested, leaning over the model they'd constructed, "we can increase capture capacity while creating more interesting visual movement."
Minghao considered this, head tilted in the exact way that Y/N had embarrassingly confessed to finding attractive just the night before. She forced herself to focus on the model instead of his profile.
"That could work," he agreed, reaching for a pencil to sketch the modification. Their fingers brushed briefly, causing both to withdraw a fraction too quickly.
"Sorry," they said simultaneously, then looked at each other in surprise.
A moment of silence stretched between them, charged with something neither was prepared to acknowledge.
"We should take a break," Minghao finally said, straightening up. "We've been working for hours."
Y/N nodded, grateful for the suggestion. "Good idea. I need some air."
They stepped outside into the late afternoon sun, walking silently to a small park across from their studio building. Finding a bench, they sat with a careful distance between them, watching office workers hurry past on their way home.
"The project is progressing well," Minghao observed after a while. "Better than I expected when we were first assigned to collaborate."
"Agreed," Y/N said. "It's become something neither of us would have created independently."
"That's the value of diverse perspectives," Minghao replied. "When integrated thoughtfully rather than forced together superficially."
Something about his phrasing made Y/N wonder if he was talking about more than just their architectural collaboration. Before she could analyze this further, her phone chimed with a news alert.
"Oh," she said, reading the notification. "There's an article about you. About XM's sustainability initiative."
Minghao tensed visibly. "Already? The board meeting was just yesterday."
"You didn't know this was being published?" Y/N asked, scanning the article. "'XM Development Creative Director Challenges Board on Sustainability Direction.'"
"No," Minghao replied, his usual composure slipping. "Someone leaked it. This complicates things."
"In what way?"
He hesitated, then seemed to make a decision. "My uncle—the chairman—is deeply traditional in his business approach. He believes our brand is built on luxury and exclusivity, not environmental considerations. I've been trying to shift the corporate direction gradually, presenting sustainability as market advantage rather than moral imperative. A public leak makes it appear I'm forcing his hand through media pressure."
"Are you?" Y/N asked directly.
"No," Minghao said, meeting her eyes. "I would prefer to change the company from within, through demonstrating that sustainable design can be both beautiful and profitable. Our project is meant to be evidence of that possibility."
Y/N studied him, seeing the complexity of his position more clearly than before. "You're navigating a difficult path between family expectations and your own values."
"As we all must in different ways," he replied quietly. After a pause, he added, "Working with you has... clarified certain priorities for me."
The admission hung in the air between them, neither quite ready to explore its full implications. Instead, they watched the sun begin its descent, casting long shadows across the park.
"We should get back to work," Y/N finally said, standing. "The committee presentation is in two weeks."
Minghao nodded, following her lead. As they walked back toward the studio, he asked unexpectedly, "Would you join me for dinner tomorrow evening? There's a restaurant I think you might appreciate—they source all ingredients locally and power their kitchen entirely with renewable energy."
Y/N nearly stumbled in surprise. "That sounds suspiciously like something I would approve of," she said, attempting to keep her tone light despite her suddenly racing pulse.
"I do occasionally pay attention to your preferences," Minghao replied, a rare hint of humor in his voice.
"Then yes," Y/N agreed, telling herself this was still professional courtesy, nothing more. "I'd like that."
As they returned to work, Y/N tried not to think about Seungkwan's inevitable reaction when he heard she was having dinner with Minghao, or how much time she would likely spend tonight overthinking what to wear, or how the prospect of spending an evening with Minghao outside their work environment filled her with both anticipation and alarm.
This was fine. Perfectly normal. Just two collaborating professionals having a business dinner. The fact that her heart raced slightly at the thought was irrelevant and absolutely not worth examining.
Across the table, Minghao appeared to have regained his usual composed focus, though Y/N thought she detected a new tension in his movements, a heightened awareness that mirrored her own. If he was experiencing even a fraction of the confusing emotions currently churning through her, he was hiding it far better than she was.
Y/N forced her attention back to their design, trying to ignore how thoroughly Xu Minghao had disrupted her carefully ordered world—personally and professionally. The most infuriating part wasn't that she was attracted to him despite their differences.
It was that she was attracted to him because of them.
-
Y/N stood in front of her closet, surrounded by discarded outfits, feeling ridiculous. It was just dinner. A professional dinner with a colleague. The fact that she'd tried on seven different combinations was completely unrelated to the fact that said colleague was Xu Minghao.
"This is pathetic," she told her reflection as she adjusted a simple black dress. "Too formal." She changed into jeans and a nice blouse. "Too casual." A tailored pantsuit followed. "Too business meeting."
After thirty more minutes of wardrobe crisis, she settled on a dress that balanced professional and elegant—something she might wear to an industry event rather than a date. Because this was definitely not a date. Minghao had simply suggested they discuss their project in a different setting. The fact that he'd chosen a sustainability-focused restaurant was merely... thoughtful professional courtesy.
Her phone buzzed with a text from
Seungkwan: "WHAT ARE YOU WEARING??? Send pics!!! I need to approve!!!"
Y/N groaned. She'd made the tactical error of mentioning her dinner with Minghao during a work call, and Seungkwan had practically hyperventilated with excitement. She ignored the text, knowing any response would only encourage him.
Seconds later, her phone rang.
"You can't ignore me on this historic occasion," Seungkwan declared when she answered. "Our Y/N, sustainability warrior princess, dining with the prince of luxury development! The office has a betting pool on whether you'll come back engaged or covered in wine after throwing it in his face."
"It's a professional dinner," Y/N insisted, checking her watch. "And I'm going to be late if I don't leave now."
"Just tell me one thing," Seungkwan said, his tone suddenly serious. "Are you going to give this a chance? Whatever 'this' is between you two?"
The unexpected question caught Y/N off guard. "I... don't know what you mean."
"Yes, you do," Seungkwan replied gently. "I've known you for years, Y/N. I've seen you passionate about projects, about environmental causes, about fighting corporate developers. I've never seen you like this about a person."
Y/N sat on the edge of her bed, suddenly unable to maintain her denial. "It's complicated, Seungkwan. Even if there were... feelings... which I'm not saying there are... there are so many reasons it couldn't work."
"Name one that doesn't involve your stubborn pride or preconceived notions."
She opened her mouth to list the many practical obstacles, then closed it again, realizing how many of her objections had gradually eroded over the weeks of working with Minghao.
"Just be open to possibility," Seungkwan suggested. "That's all I'm saying. And text me immediately if anything romantic happens!"
"Goodbye, Seungkwan," Y/N said firmly, ending the call. But his words lingered as she gathered her things and headed out.
The restaurant was intimate but not overtly romantic—a renovated traditional building with contemporary sustainable elements seamlessly integrated throughout. When Y/N arrived, Minghao was already there, dressed in his usual impeccable style but with subtle differences that suggested he'd put thought into his appearance beyond his normal care.
"This place is beautiful," Y/N said as they were seated at a corner table with a view of a small courtyard garden. "I haven't been here before."
"It opened recently," Minghao replied. "The owner is an old friend who shares your commitment to sustainability. The building itself is carbon-neutral, and all ingredients are sourced within fifty kilometers."
Y/N raised an eyebrow. "You really did your research."
A flicker of something crossed Minghao's face—was that actually nervousness? "I wanted to choose somewhere you'd appreciate."
The thoughtfulness of this gesture was not helping Y/N maintain her professional distance at all.
After ordering, an awkward silence fell between them—so different from their usual passionate debates or focused work discussions. It was as if removing the shield of their project had left them both uncomfortably exposed.
"So," Y/N finally said, "how did your uncle react to the article about your sustainability initiative?"
Minghao's expression tightened slightly. "About as well as expected. There was a... heated discussion about company direction and my role within it. He believes I'm being influenced by outside perspectives."
"Am I the outside influence he's concerned about?" Y/N asked directly.
"Among others," Minghao admitted. "But my interest in sustainable design predates our collaboration, though working with you has... intensified certain convictions."
"Is your position at risk?" The thought bothered her more than she wanted to admit.
Minghao considered this question carefully. "Not immediately. Family dynamics complicate professional relationships. My uncle values loyalty and tradition, but he also recognizes that markets evolve. The question is whether sustainability represents a fundamental shift in our company identity or merely a strategic adaptation."
"And what do you believe?"
"I believe it's necessary," he said simply. "Both ethically and practically. The future of development must incorporate environmental responsibility—not as marketing strategy but as core principle."
Y/N studied him, struck by how similar his words were to arguments she'd made in industry publications. "That sounds suspiciously like something I would say."
A hint of a smile touched his lips. "Perhaps you've been a bad influence."
"Or a good one, depending on perspective," Y/N countered, returning his smile.
The arrival of their first course provided a welcome shift in conversation to lighter topics. Y/N was surprised by how easily they moved from professional discussions to personal interests—Minghao's background in traditional art, Y/N's early environmental activism, shared admiration for certain architects and mutual disdain for pretentious industry trends.
"I can't believe you also hated the Hansen Tower," Y/N said, laughing at Minghao's devastatingly accurate critique of a recently celebrated building. "Everyone acts like it's revolutionary, but it's just inefficient design hiding behind flashy facades."
"Form without function," Minghao agreed. "Beautiful from a distance but completely impractical to actually occupy. Architecture should serve people, not merely impress them."
"Another suspiciously Y/N-like statement," she observed, enjoying the unexpected alignment of their views.
"I've always held this perspective," Minghao clarified. "But working with you has helped me articulate certain principles more clearly."
As their meal continued, Y/N found herself increasingly aware of how much she was enjoying Minghao's company. His quiet intensity, thoughtful observations, and unexpected flashes of dry humor were dangerously appealing. The careful distance she'd maintained began to feel increasingly arbitrary.
When dessert arrived—a beautifully presented seasonal fruit creation—Minghao hesitated before speaking. "I've been considering a possibility that I wanted to discuss with you."
Something in his tone made Y/N's pulse quicken. "What kind of possibility?"
"A professional one," he clarified, seeming to sense her sudden tension. "I've been contemplating establishing an independent design studio focused on integrating sustainable innovation with cultural and aesthetic excellence. The kind of work we've been doing together, but as a dedicated practice rather than a one-time collaboration."
"You're leaving XM?" Y/N couldn't hide her surprise.
"It's one option I'm considering," Minghao said carefully. "Family expectations are powerful, but at some point, personal convictions must take precedence." After a pause, he added, "I would value your perspective on whether such a venture could succeed."
"I think it could," Y/N said slowly, processing the implications. "But it would be a significant risk compared to your position at XM."
"Some risks are necessary for meaningful change." His gaze met hers with unexpected directness. "Both professionally and personally."
The weight of his words hung between them, carrying implications beyond career choices. Y/N found herself at a crossroads—continue maintaining careful professional boundaries or acknowledge the growing connection between them.
Before she could respond, her phone buzzed with an urgent message. Y/N glanced at it and frowned.
"Everything alright?" Minghao asked.
"It's from Seungkwan. Apparently there's been a leak about our project—some industry blog has published speculation about conflicts between our design approaches, claiming the collaboration is failing."
Minghao's expression darkened. "That could undermine the committee's confidence before our presentation."
"We should address this," Y/N said, professional concerns immediately overriding the personal moment. "Perhaps with a joint statement or preliminary images that demonstrate our progress."
"Agreed." Minghao signaled for the check. "We should return to the studio and review what might have been leaked and prepare a response."
The intimate atmosphere dissolved as they shifted back into work mode, both perhaps secretly relieved to postpone the more complicated conversation that had been developing.
The next morning, Y/N arrived at the studio early, determined to focus on damage control rather than dwelling on the unresolved tension from dinner. To her surprise, she found Mingyu pacing outside the door.
"Y/N!" he exclaimed when he saw her. "Thank goodness. Minghao sent me to wait for you. There's an emergency meeting at XM headquarters. The chairman is demanding to review the project immediately instead of waiting for the committee presentation."
"What? Why?" Y/N asked, alarmed by the sudden interference.
"The leaked information created concern about the project's direction," Mingyu explained as they hurried toward a waiting car. "Minghao's uncle is worried about the company's reputation if the collaboration is perceived as compromising XM's luxury brand identity."
During the drive to XM's imposing glass headquarters, Y/N felt mounting dread. This was exactly the corporate interference she'd initially feared when forced to collaborate with a luxury developer.
The building itself embodied everything Y/N had spent her career criticizing—excessive glass that created massive heating and cooling demands, dramatic but energy-intensive lighting, and materials selected for prestige rather than sustainability. As they rode the elevator to the executive floor, Y/N steeled herself for confrontation.
Mingyu led her to a conference room where Minghao was already engaged in tense conversation with an older man whose commanding presence and family resemblance identified him as the chairman. Several board members and executives observed from around a massive table covered with printouts of their design.
Minghao looked up when Y/N entered, his expression carefully controlled but his eyes communicating a silent apology.
"Ah, the environmental architect," the chairman said, turning to assess Y/N with calculating eyes. "I've heard much about you. Please, join us. We were just discussing certain... concerns about the direction of this project."
Y/N approached with professional composure, noting the specific design elements that had been highlighted for criticism—precisely the innovative integrations she and Minghao had been most proud of developing together.
"Chairman Xu," she acknowledged with a respectful nod. "I understand you have questions about our collaborative approach."
"Indeed," he replied coolly. "XM Development has built its reputation on distinctive luxury experiences. These elements," he gestured to their sustainable water management systems and community-focused spaces, "dilute our brand identity with features that could appear in any public park. Our clients expect exclusivity."
Y/N felt a familiar surge of frustration but maintained her professional demeanor. "With respect, Chairman, this project is specifically designed as a public space that balances environmental responsibility with exceptional design quality. The integration creates something unique rather than diluted."
The chairman's expression remained skeptical. "A noble sentiment, but our investors have specific expectations about XM projects. Minghao knows this," he added with a pointed look at his nephew.
"Uncle," Minghao said, his voice quiet but firm, "the committee specifically requested a collaboration that incorporates both companies' strengths. The design we've developed fulfills that brief while expanding XM's capabilities in an emerging market sector."
"A sector you seem increasingly preoccupied with," the chairman observed. "First your sustainability initiative presentation, now this project. One might wonder where your priorities lie."
The undercurrent of personal disappointment in his tone made the professional criticism more cutting. Y/N saw Minghao's carefully maintained composure falter slightly, revealing how deeply his uncle's approval mattered despite their differing visions.
"My priority is the future success of XM," Minghao replied. "Which requires evolution rather than rigid adherence to past formulas."
The chairman waved this away impatiently. "We need concrete adjustments to realign this project with our brand standards. I suggest removing these community elements, upgrading the materials to our usual specifications, and redesigning the central pavilion to feature our signature aesthetic."
Y/N bit her tongue, recognizing that these changes would effectively erase every sustainable innovation they'd integrated, returning the design to exactly the kind of environmentally irresponsible luxury project she'd fought against throughout her career.
She glanced at Minghao, expecting him to begin negotiating a compromise. To her surprise, he straightened his shoulders and spoke with quiet determination.
"No."
The single word fell into stunned silence. Even Y/N hadn't expected such direct refusal.
"What did you say?" the chairman asked, his tone dangerous.
"I said no," Minghao repeated calmly. "The design represents a balanced integration developed through genuine collaboration. Removing those elements would compromise both its integrity and its purpose."
The chairman's expression hardened. "Perhaps you've forgotten whose name is on this building, Minghao. Your experimental design theories are interesting, but ultimately, XM projects reflect the company vision—my vision."
"I haven't forgotten," Minghao replied. "But I also remember the principles my father valued before you took control—innovation, integrity, and creating spaces that elevated people rather than excluding them."
The personal nature of this statement clearly crossed a line. The chairman's expression turned glacial. "We'll continue this discussion privately. Everyone else, please leave us."
The executives quickly filed out, eager to escape the family tension. Y/N hesitated, looking at Minghao with concern.
"It's alright," he told her quietly. "I'll meet you downstairs after we've finished."
Y/N reluctantly left the room, acutely aware that Minghao had just risked his position—and family relationship—defending their shared vision. The implications of this were too significant to ignore.
An hour passed before Minghao appeared in the lobby, his expression composed but with a new resolution in his eyes.
"Walk with me," he said simply, leading her out of the building and across the street to a small park—one of the few green spaces in the corporate district.
They sat on a bench beneath flowering cherry trees, a moment of natural beauty incongruously peaceful after the tension of the meeting.
"I've been relieved of my position as creative director," Minghao said finally, his voice calm despite the bombshell.
Y/N stared at him in shock. "They fired you? Over our project?"
"The project was simply the catalyst. My uncle and I have been moving in different directions for some time. Today merely forced the issue into the open."
"Minghao, I'm so sorry," Y/N said, genuine distress overriding any professional considerations. "You shouldn't have sacrificed your position. We could have modified some elements, found a compromise—"
"No," he interrupted gently. "The compromise would have destroyed what makes the design valuable. And this isn't just about one project. It's about the future I want to create versus the past my uncle wants to preserve."
"Still, your career—"
"Is not defined by XM," Minghao finished. "Perhaps this was inevitable. I've been considering independent paths for some time, as I mentioned last night."
Y/N studied him, searching for signs of regret or uncertainty. Instead, she found surprising calm—as if a burden had been lifted rather than imposed.
"You seem... okay with this," she observed.
A ghost of a smile touched his lips. "There's freedom in clarity. For years I've tried to balance family expectations with personal convictions. Now the choice has been made for me."
"What will you do now?"
"Exactly what I suggested yesterday—establish an independent practice based on the principles we've explored together." After a pause, he added more softly, "Though I had hoped to discuss that possibility with you under different circumstances."
Y/N felt a flutter of something that definitely wasn't just professional concern. "With me? In what capacity?"
Minghao turned to face her directly, his usual reserve giving way to unexpected openness. "In whatever capacity you might consider. As a consultant, a collaborator, or..." he hesitated, then continued with quiet determination, "...something more. If that's something you might want."
The directness of this semi-confession left Y/N momentarily speechless. Part of her wanted to retreat behind professional boundaries, to remind both of them of all the reasons personal involvement would be complicated. But after watching Minghao sacrifice his position defending principles they both valued, such caution suddenly seemed cowardly.
"I don't know what I want," she admitted honestly. "Three months ago, I would have said collaborating with an XM developer was my worst nightmare. Now I'm sitting here disturbed by the fact that you're no longer with XM, which makes absolutely no sense considering I've spent years criticizing everything they represent."
"Life rarely follows our expectations," Minghao observed, a hint of humor warming his voice.
"Tell me about it," Y/N sighed. "My entire worldview had such clear lines before meeting you. Sustainable architects: good. Luxury developers: bad. Now everything's complicated."
"Complexity can be valuable," Minghao suggested. "In design and in relationships."
Y/N looked at him—really looked at the person rather than the professional role he'd occupied. The man who had challenged her assumptions while respecting her principles. Who had matched her passion for architecture with his own, differently expressed but equally genuine. Whose carefully maintained reserve concealed depths she'd only begun to discover.
"I think," she said carefully, "that I would like to explore what 'something more' might mean. But slowly. This is all very... new territory."
The smile that transformed Minghao's usually composed features was worth every moment of confusion that had preceded it.
"New territory is where innovation happens," he said softly.
Their conversation was interrupted by Y/N's phone ringing insistently. She glanced at it and groaned.
"It's Seungkwan. Again. He's probably heard about the XM meeting already—news travels unnervingly fast in this industry."
"You should answer," Minghao suggested. "He'll just keep calling otherwise."
Y/N reluctantly accepted the call, holding the phone slightly away from her ear in anticipation of Seungkwan's volume.
"Y/N! IS IT TRUE?" Seungkwan practically shouted. "DID MINGHAO JUST QUIT XM DEVELOPMENT TO BE WITH YOU? THE ENTIRE OFFICE IS LOSING THEIR MINDS! WOOZI JUST SPAT COFFEE ALL OVER HIS KEYBOARD!"
"That's not exactly—" Y/N began, feeling her face heat up as Minghao raised an amused eyebrow, clearly able to hear Seungkwan's voice.
"IT'S THE MOST ROMANTIC THING I'VE EVER HEARD!" Seungkwan continued, undeterred. "GIVING UP A FAMILY EMPIRE FOR LOVE! IT'S LIKE A DRAMA BUT WITH SUSTAINABLE ARCHITECTURE!"
"Seungkwan, please," Y/N attempted, mortified. "It's much more complicated than that. He had professional disagreements with the company direction—"
"BECAUSE OF YOU!" Seungkwan crowed triumphantly. "BECAUSE YOU SHOWED HIM THE LIGHT OF ECO-CONSCIOUS DESIGN WITH YOUR PASSION AND PRINCIPLES! I'M WRITING THE WEDDING SPEECH RIGHT NOW!"
"There is no wedding!" Y/N hissed, avoiding Minghao's gaze. "We haven't even—that is—we're just—"
"Just what?" Seungkwan pressed, finally lowering his volume to merely enthusiastic rather than deafening.
Y/N glanced at Minghao, who was watching her with undisguised amusement and something warmer that made her pulse quicken.
"We're figuring it out," she said finally.
"HA! I KNEW IT!" Seungkwan's volume instantly returned to maximum. "JEONGHAN OWES ME DINNER! I SAID YOU'D ADMIT FEELINGS BEFORE THE PROJECT ENDED!"
"I'm hanging up now," Y/N informed him, doing exactly that despite his protests.
She turned to Minghao with embarrassment. "Sorry about that. Seungkwan has no concept of indoor voice or professional boundaries."
"He cares about you," Minghao observed, echoing his comment from weeks earlier. "Though his enthusiasm is... considerable."
"Wait until you meet the rest of them properly," Y/N said, then paused as she realized the implication of future social integration. "I mean, if that's something that might happen. Eventually."
"I'd like that," Minghao said simply.
They sat in surprisingly comfortable silence for a moment, the cherry blossoms occasionally drifting down around them in the spring breeze.
"So what happens now?" Y/N finally asked. "With the project, with the committee presentation, with... everything?"
"The project continues," Minghao said decisively. "My departure from XM doesn't change my commitment to our design. As for the rest..." he looked at her with quiet intensity, "that depends on what we both want to build."
The architectural metaphor wasn't lost on Y/N. "I've never been good at personal blueprints," she admitted. "Professional plans, environmental strategies, technical specifications—those I can draft perfectly. But this..."
"Perhaps we approach it like our design process," Minghao suggested. "Start with core principles, develop the framework gradually, adjust as we learn, and trust that something valuable will emerge from the collaboration."
Y/N couldn't help smiling at his architect's approach to relationship development. "That's the most Minghao way possible of asking someone to date you."
"Is it working?" he asked, a rare vulnerability visible beneath his composed exterior.
Instead of answering immediately, Y/N reached for his hand—a simple gesture that somehow felt more significant than their entire professional collaboration.
"I think," she said carefully, "that I'd like to see what we might design together. Beyond riverfront projects and sustainable pavilions."
Minghao's fingers interlaced with hers, his touch as precise and intentional as everything else about him. "I've found our collaborative process surprisingly rewarding so far."
"Despite the arguments?"
"Because of them, in part," he amended. "Few people challenge me the way you do. It's... invigorating."
Y/N laughed. "Only you would find someone questioning your every design decision 'invigorating.'"
"Only when the questions are intelligent ones," he clarified, his thumb tracing a small pattern against her palm. "And when they come from someone whose perspective I've grown to value."
The simple honesty of this statement affected Y/N more than any grand declaration could have. She looked at their joined hands—her practical manicure next to his artist's fingers—and thought about how unexpected and yet somehow right this felt.
"So we continue with the committee presentation," she said, bringing the conversation back to safer territory while she processed her emotions. "And afterward..."
"Afterward, we explore possibilities," Minghao finished. "Professional and personal."
"Seungkwan is going to be insufferable about this," Y/N groaned, but couldn't suppress her smile.
"As will Jun," Minghao admitted. "He's been making increasingly unsubtle comments about our 'creative chemistry' for weeks."
The thought of their respective friends' reactions to this development was both mortifying and amusing. Y/N could already imagine the dramatic speeches, the knowing looks, the inevitable "I told you so" declarations.
"We should get back to the studio," she said reluctantly. "We have a presentation to finalize, and now we need to address your change in professional status as well."
Minghao nodded, but neither moved immediately to leave the peaceful moment they'd created together.
"Just to be clear," Y/N said, feeling uncharacteristically uncertain, "you're really okay with what happened at XM? You didn't throw away your career because of our project?"
"I didn't throw away anything," Minghao replied with quiet certainty. "I chose authenticity over compromise. The project was simply the catalyst for a decision that's been forming for longer than you might realize." After a pause, he added, "Though I will admit that knowing you has clarified certain priorities."
Y/N felt a rush of warmth at his words. "That might be the nicest thing anyone's ever said to me, and it wasn't even really a compliment."
"It was absolutely a compliment," Minghao corrected her. "Just expressed with appropriate restraint."
Y/N laughed, struck by how much she enjoyed his particular brand of reserved intensity. "You know, for two people who started out thinking we represented everything wrong with each other's approach to architecture, we've come to a surprisingly compatible place."
"Perhaps we weren't as opposed as we believed," Minghao suggested. "Just viewing the same principles from different angles."
As they finally rose to leave, still holding hands as they walked back toward their studio, Y/N reflected on the unexpected journey that had brought them to this point. From professional adversaries to reluctant collaborators to... whatever they were becoming now. It wasn't a path she could have designed or anticipated.
But sometimes, she was beginning to realize, the most interesting spaces emerged from unexpected intersections—in architecture and in life.
-
The committee presentation room buzzed with anticipation. Two weeks had passed since Minghao's departure from XM Development—two weeks of intense preparation, industry speculation, and carefully navigated new personal territory between him and Y/N.
"Are you ready for this?" Y/N asked, adjusting the display boards one final time. She wore her most professional outfit, a structured suit in deep green that somehow managed to be both authoritative and a personal statement.
"Absolutely," Minghao replied, his calm demeanor betraying none of the professional upheaval he'd experienced. If anything, he seemed more centered than before, as if shedding his corporate constraints had allowed a more authentic self to emerge.
Word of their situation had spread throughout the industry—the XM creative director who'd left his family's company over creative differences, continuing to collaborate with the sustainable architect who'd presumably influenced his professional rebellion. The resulting publicity had transformed their presentation from a standard committee review into a highly anticipated industry event.
Joshua Hong approached them with an encouraging smile. "Quite the turnout today," he observed, nodding toward the unusually full room. "Your project has generated significant interest."
"Apparently professional drama is good for publicity," Y/N said dryly.
"Quality work is good for publicity," Joshua corrected. "The circumstances simply brought additional attention to what was already an innovative collaboration."
As committee members and industry observers took their seats, Y/N felt a flutter of nerves—not about the design itself, which she knew was exceptional, but about the public perception of her relationship with Minghao. They'd agreed to maintain strictly professional behavior during the presentation, focusing attention on their work rather than the personal connection that had developed alongside it.
Her phone buzzed with a text from Seungkwan: "We're all here! Third row, looking FABULOUS and ready to cheer inappropriately loud!!!"
Y/N glanced over to see Seungkwan, Jeonghan, and Woozi seated together, all giving her enthusiastic thumbs up. Behind them sat Jun, Mingyu, and Wonwoo—Minghao's support team. The sight of their merged friend groups was both heartwarming and mildly terrifying.
"Your colleagues are here," she murmured to Minghao. "And mine. Together. This could be interesting."
"Should we be concerned?" Minghao asked, following her gaze to where Seungkwan was now showing something on his phone to Jun, both of them grinning conspiratorially.
"Definitely," Y/N confirmed.
Before she could elaborate, Joshua called the presentation to order. Y/N took a deep breath, centering herself in the familiar territory of professional expertise as she stepped forward to begin.
"The Hangang Riverfront Revitalization Project presented unique challenges and opportunities," she began, her voice clear and confident. "Our goal was to create a space that serves environmental needs, community functions, and cultural expression in equal measure."
As she outlined the technical aspects of their design, Y/N found herself naturally transitioning to Minghao's contributions without the planned handoff cues they'd rehearsed. Their presentation flowed organically between her explanations of sustainability innovations and his descriptions of spatial experience and cultural references.
The committee watched with undisguised interest as these former adversaries demonstrated a seamless collaborative vision. When they revealed the final design models and renderings, a murmur of appreciation spread through the room.
Their central concept—visible environmental systems integrated with traditional Korean design elements to create both functional efficiency and cultural resonance—was beautifully realized in the detailed models. Water features that processed rainwater while referencing historical irrigation patterns. Community gardens arranged to create contemplative spaces reminiscent of traditional courtyards. Solar elements that cast evolving shadow patterns inspired by traditional architecture.
During the question period, a committee member asked directly about the impact of Minghao's separation from XM Development on the project's viability.
"My professional transition doesn't affect my commitment to this design," Minghao answered with perfect composure. "The concept we've developed represents principles I intend to pursue in my independent practice."
"And how do you respond to industry speculation that personal factors influenced these professional decisions?" the committee member pressed, glancing between Minghao and Y/N with poorly disguised curiosity.
Y/N tensed, but Minghao responded with characteristic grace.
"Professional respect can develop into broader appreciation," he said carefully. "Y/N's environmental expertise and design integrity challenged me to reconsider certain assumptions. That kind of intellectual growth naturally influences career decisions."
It was the perfect answer—acknowledging their connection without feeding gossip or distracting from the work itself. Y/N shot him a grateful look as the questions returned to technical aspects of the design.
When the presentation concluded, the committee announced they would deliberate and provide their decision within the week. As the crowd dispersed, Y/N and Minghao found themselves surrounded by their enthusiastic friends.
"That was AMAZING!" Seungkwan declared, hugging Y/N before she could evade him. "You two have, like, actual presentation chemistry! It was like watching an architectural tango!"
"Please never say 'architectural tango' again," Y/N begged, though she couldn't help smiling at his enthusiasm.
"Your integration of the water systems was particularly elegant," Wonwoo told her, adjusting his glasses. "I appreciated the technical rigor behind the aesthetic elements."
"And your cultural references were so thoughtfully applied," Jeonghan said to Minghao. "Not superficial at all."
As their friends chatted excitedly about various aspects of the presentation, Y/N noticed the easy way their previously separate groups had merged—Mingyu and Seungkwan comparing notes on their respective roles, Jun and Jeonghan clearly bonding over some shared mischievous energy, Wonwoo and Woozi engaged in what appeared to be a deeply technical conversation about acoustic design elements.
"They get along well," Minghao observed quietly, coming to stand beside her.
"Surprisingly well," Y/N agreed. "Though I'm not sure the world is ready for Seungkwan and Jun joining forces."
"Too late," Minghao noted, nodding toward where the two were clearly plotting something, occasional glances in their direction confirming that Y/N and Minghao were the subject of whatever scheme they were developing.
"We should probably be concerned about that," Y/N said.
"Definitely," Minghao agreed, echoing her earlier assessment.
Before they could investigate further, Joshua approached with news.
"The committee was impressed," he told them. "Very impressed. They've asked me to inform you that deliberations may be abbreviated—they're leaning strongly toward full approval with minimal revisions."
"That's wonderful news," Y/N said, relief and pride washing through her. After everything they'd been through, the validation of their shared vision meant more than she'd expected.
"There's something else," Joshua continued. "The city planning department was so taken with your integrated approach that they're considering a larger initiative—a series of sustainable urban interventions throughout Seoul, using your river project as a prototype. They'd be interested in discussing this with both of you, regardless of which firm ultimately leads the river project construction."
Y/N exchanged a look with Minghao, both processing the implications of this unexpected opportunity.
"We'd be very interested in those discussions," Minghao replied, his calm words belying the significance of Joshua's news.
After Joshua departed, Seungkwan appeared with an announcement of his own. "Attention, architectural power couple and assorted friends! We've arranged a celebration at The Garden Terrace. No excuses, attendance mandatory, first round on Jeonghan because he lost the betting pool about when you two would finally get together!"
"We haven't officially—" Y/N began, but Seungkwan waved away her objection.
"Semantics! You're holding hands right now!"
Y/N looked down in surprise to find that, indeed, her hand had somehow found Minghao's during their conversation with Joshua. She hadn't even noticed.
"The evidence is undeniable," Jun declared solemnly. "Subconscious hand-holding indicates advanced relationship development."
"That's not a real thing," Minghao told his friend with fond exasperation.
"And yet," Jun gestured meaningfully at their joined hands, "empirical evidence suggests otherwise."
Rather than pulling away in embarrassment as she might have weeks earlier, Y/N simply adjusted her grip on Minghao's hand more comfortably. "Fine. We'll come to your celebration. But no embarrassing toasts or relationship interrogations."
"We make no such promises," Seungkwan replied cheerfully. "See you all there in thirty minutes!"
The Garden Terrace was exactly the kind of place Y/N and Minghao might have designed together—a rooftop restaurant with traditional elements reimagined through contemporary sustainable design. Living walls provided natural cooling, solar canopies created dappled light patterns across wooden floors, and the careful arrangement of spaces allowed both community interaction and private conversation.
Their friends had reserved a corner section with spectacular views of the city at sunset. Y/N and Minghao found themselves at the center of a boisterous celebration, their successful presentation and potential new opportunities providing the official reason for festivities, though everyone present knew the unofficial cause for celebration was more personal.
"A toast!" Seungkwan announced, raising his glass. "To the most unlikely architectural partnership in Seoul—proof that opposites not only attract but create award-winning public spaces in the process!"
"And to new beginnings," Jeonghan added, with a meaningful look at Minghao. "Professional and otherwise."
Everyone raised their glasses, the genuine warmth of the moment overriding Y/N's usual aversion to being the center of attention. Under the table, Minghao's hand found hers again, a quiet connection amid the lively celebration.
As the evening progressed, Y/N found herself in conversation with Jun while Minghao was engaged in discussion with Woozi across the table.
"He's different with you," Jun observed, nodding toward Minghao. "More himself, somehow."
"What do you mean?" Y/N asked, curious about this perspective from someone who'd known Minghao far longer than she had.
"Minghao has always contained himself," Jun explained. "Precise control in everything—his art, his work, his emotions. Necessary for navigating family expectations and corporate politics, but it became second nature. With you, he's still Minghao—still thoughtful and measured—but there's a freedom to it now. Less constraint, more authentic expression."
Y/N considered this, watching Minghao as he listened intently to Woozi's apparently passionate discourse on acoustic design. There was a subtle openness to his posture and expressions that did seem different from when they'd first met.
"I'm glad," she said simply. "He deserves that freedom."
"And what about you?" Jun asked. "Your friends tell me you've changed too."
"Do they now?" Y/N replied dryly, making a mental note to have words with Seungkwan about discussing her personal development with Minghao's friends.
"Apparently you smile more," Jun said with a grin. "And have developed a surprising tolerance for aesthetic considerations in your designs."
"Function still comes first," Y/N insisted, though she couldn't deny how her perspective had evolved. "But I've come to appreciate that beauty can be functional in its own way—creating spaces people connect with emotionally means they value and protect those spaces."
"Exactly what Minghao has always believed," Jun noted. "See? Perfect harmony."
"Hardly perfect," Y/N laughed. "We still argue constantly."
"Creative tension," Jun corrected. "Essential for innovation."
Across the table, Minghao caught her eye and smiled—that rare, genuine smile that still made her heart do ridiculous things in her chest. He excused himself from his conversation and made his way to her side.
"Stealing my architect, Jun?" he asked, his tone light.
"Just confirming you're worthy of her," Jun replied with theatrical seriousness. "The jury remains deliberating."
"A reasonable concern," Minghao acknowledged, surprising Y/N with his playfulness. "I have similar questions myself."
"On that note, I'll leave you two to your existential relationship doubts," Jun said, standing. "Seungkwan is demonstrating what he calls 'the dance of sustainable architecture' to Mingyu, and I can't miss that."
As Jun departed, Minghao took his place beside Y/N. "Having second thoughts yet?" he asked quietly.
"About?"
"This." He gestured between them. "Us. The complicated personal and professional entanglement we've somehow created."
Y/N considered the question seriously. "Second thoughts? No. Occasional moments of disbelief that I'm actually involved with someone who once represented everything I professionally opposed? Absolutely."
"The feeling is mutual," Minghao assured her, his eyes warm with amusement. "My uncle still can't comprehend it. He called yesterday to ask if this was an elaborate professional strategy to absorb your environmental expertise into a new luxury brand."
"Is it?" Y/N teased.
"If so, it's a strategy that's backfired spectacularly," Minghao replied. "I find myself increasingly aligned with your environmental priorities rather than his profit margins."
"Terrible business sense," Y/N agreed solemnly. "But excellent ethical development."
Their conversation was interrupted by Seungkwan's return, slightly flushed from whatever architectural dance he'd been performing.
"Stop being antisocial in your little couple bubble," he admonished. "We're planning the housewarming party for your new joint studio."
"Our what?" Y/N asked, bewildered.
"Your new studio," Seungkwan repeated as if it were obvious. "For the independent practice you're obviously going to establish together. We've already started a Pinterest board for the design. Very minimal but with plants everywhere. Mingyu suggested a coffee station that would make most cafes jealous."
"We haven't discussed—" Minghao began.
"Details," Seungkwan dismissed with a wave. "The concept is solid. 'XYN Design' or something similarly clever that combines your names. Sustainable luxury for the conscious elite. We're trademarking taglines as we speak."
Y/N looked at Minghao, expecting shared exasperation at their friends' presumption. Instead, she found him looking thoughtful.
"It's not an unreasonable concept," he said carefully. "Combining our complementary expertise in a dedicated practice."
"You're actually considering this?" Y/N asked, surprised by his openness to Seungkwan's meddling.
"I'm considering many possibilities," Minghao clarified. "Including professional collaboration that extends beyond our current project." After a pause, he added more quietly, "If that's something you might be interested in exploring."
Before Y/N could respond, Seungkwan clapped his hands delightedly. "See? It's practically decided! Jun, they're discussing the studio concept! Operation Architecture Romance is advancing to phase three!"
"We have phases?" Y/N asked, alarmed.
"So many phases," Seungkwan confirmed cheerfully before hurrying off to update Jun on this development.
Left momentarily alone despite the bustling celebration around them, Y/N turned to Minghao. "Are we really discussing a joint studio?"
"We're discussing possibilities," Minghao clarified. "No commitment, just... consideration of potential futures."
The careful way he framed it—open but not pressuring—was so characteristic of his approach to everything. Y/N found herself appreciating this thoughtfulness even as part of her marveled at how quickly her life had transformed.
"Three months ago, I would have laughed at the mere suggestion of working with you long-term," she admitted. "Now it seems like the most natural evolution imaginable."
"Evolution rather than revolution," Minghao observed. "Gradual integration of complementary elements."
"You make it sound so architectural," Y/N smiled.
"It's how I understand the world," he acknowledged. "Through spatial relationships and balanced tensions."
"And how do you understand us?" she asked, surprising herself with the directness of the question.
Minghao considered this with characteristic thoughtfulness. "As a harmonious counterpoint," he said finally. "Different melodies that create something more complex and beautiful together than either could alone."
The poetry of his answer caught Y/N off guard. For someone so reserved, Minghao occasionally revealed unexpected depth of feeling through carefully chosen words.
"That's beautiful," she said softly.
"It's accurate," he replied simply. "At least from my perspective."
Around them, their friends continued celebrating, occasional glances and smiles in their direction suggesting that their quiet conversation was not going unnoticed. Y/N found she didn't mind the attention as much as she might have expected. There was something affirming about having their connection witnessed and supported by people who mattered to them both.
"Whatever we decide professionally," Y/N said, returning to the question of their potential collaboration, "I know I want to continue what we've started personally. Despite how unexpected and occasionally inconvenient it might be."
"Inconvenient?" Minghao raised an eyebrow.
"Well, yes," Y/N laughed. "Do you know how often I have to hear Seungkwan say 'I told you so'? At least three times daily. And my entire professional identity was partly built on criticizing exactly the kind of development your family company represents. Plus, you're annoyingly particular about material selections and have opinions about literally every design element down to the smallest detail."
"All valid points," Minghao acknowledged, the hint of a smile playing around his lips. "Though I could note similar inconveniences—Jun's unbearable smugness, my uncle's disappointment, your stubborn insistence on prioritizing function even when aesthetic adjustments would create negligible efficiency impacts..."
"See? Completely impractical connection," Y/N concluded, her smile belying her words.
"And yet," Minghao said softly, taking her hand, "here we are."
"Here we are," Y/N agreed, feeling a sense of rightness that defied all her previous notions of compatibility. "Designing something neither of us planned but both of us need."
Six Months Later
Y/N adjusted the placement of the architectural model on the display table, stepping back to assess its impact in the gallery lighting. Around her, staff made final preparations for the evening's exhibition opening—"Sustainable Harmony: New Directions in Urban Design."
The gallery space—a renovated industrial building with exposed brick walls and carefully preserved structural elements—provided the perfect backdrop for their first major presentation as partners in XYN Studio, the name they'd ultimately embraced despite Y/N's initial eye-rolling at Seungkwan's suggestion.
The past six months had been a whirlwind of change. The Hangang Riverfront project had received unanimous committee approval and was now under construction, with Y/N and Minghao serving as design consultants. Their joint studio had formed organically from their continued collaboration, gathering surprising momentum as clients sought their unique integration of sustainability and aesthetics.
And personally... Y/N smiled to herself, remembering the incredulous looks on her friends' faces when she'd casually mentioned moving in with Minghao just three months into their relationship. For someone who had always prided herself on careful planning and methodical decision-making, the speed of these developments should have been alarming. Instead, each step had felt like a natural progression, as if they were simply acknowledging what had already formed between them.
"Perfect," Minghao's voice came from behind her as he surveyed the model placement. "The lighting highlights the water elements exactly as we intended."
Y/N turned to find him carrying two cups of tea—oolong for himself, black with one sugar for her. The simple gesture of remembering her preference, as he had from their earliest collaboration, still touched her in unexpected ways.
"Nervous?" she asked, accepting the cup.
"Appropriately alert to the professional significance of the evening," he corrected, making her smile. Minghao rarely admitted to anything as unrefined as nervousness, though she'd learned to recognize the subtle signs—the slightly more precise adjustment of his cuffs, the extra moment spent considering his words.
"It's a beautiful exhibition," Y/N assured him, looking around at the carefully curated display of their work. "The perfect introduction of XYN Studio to the wider design community."
Their exhibition showcased a series of urban interventions—some completed, others conceptual—that demonstrated their shared vision. Each project balanced environmental innovation with cultural and aesthetic excellence, creating spaces that served both planet and people with equal consideration.
"Your parents are coming tonight?" Minghao asked, a hint of that not-nervousness in his voice.
"Yes," Y/N confirmed. "They're excited to finally meet you properly. My father has read every article about your departure from XM at least twice. He's fascinated by your professional evolution."
"And your criticism of my family's company?" Minghao asked with a raised eyebrow.
"Also fascinated by that," Y/N admitted with a laugh. "He finds our entire relationship 'conceptually intriguing,' which is high praise from an environmental engineering professor."
"And your uncle?" she asked in return. "Any change in his position?"
Minghao's expression grew more thoughtful. "Some. The success of the river project has made him reconsider certain assumptions. He's even incorporated some sustainability elements into recent XM developments—though more as marketing strategy than core principle."
"Progress nonetheless," Y/N observed.
"Incremental change," Minghao agreed. "Sometimes that's how transformation happens—not through dramatic rejection but gradual integration of new ideas."
The philosophy could have applied equally to their personal journey—from professional adversaries to reluctant collaborators to partners in every sense. Not a sudden conversion but a gradual recognition of complementary values beneath seemingly opposed approaches.
Their moment of reflection was interrupted by the arrival of familiar voices—their friends coming early to preview the exhibition before the official opening.
"It's MAGNIFICENT!" Seungkwan declared before he'd even fully entered the gallery, Jeonghan and Woozi following with more moderate but equally supportive expressions.
"Professional bias noted but appreciated," Y/N replied dryly as Seungkwan embraced her enthusiastically.
"No bias, only objective recognition of excellence," Seungkwan insisted. "Though I do take partial credit for facilitating the partnership that made this possible."
"How exactly did you facilitate it?" Woozi asked skeptically.
"Through strategic encouragement and creating opportunities for romance to blossom," Seungkwan explained grandly. "Also, I totally called it from day one."
"We all called it," Jeonghan corrected. "Some of us were just more vocal about it."
As they bantered, Jun, Mingyu, and Wonwoo arrived, completing what had become their merged circle of friends. The easy integration of their once-separate groups mirrored Y/N and Minghao's own blending of lives and practices—unexpected but surprisingly natural.
"The central concept is exceptionally well-articulated," Wonwoo observed as he studied one of the display boards. "The balance between innovation and accessibility is precisely calibrated."
"High praise from architecture's most discerning analyst," Jun translated for Y/N. "He stayed up all night reading your design manifesto and called it 'refreshingly substantive.'"
As their friends explored the exhibition, offering commentary and support in their various styles, Y/N found herself standing slightly apart with Minghao, observing the scene with shared appreciation.
"Did you ever imagine this?" she asked quietly. "When we were first forced to collaborate on the river project? That we'd end up here?"
"Never," Minghao admitted, his honesty one of the many things she'd come to value deeply. "I expected a difficult professional exercise that would ultimately remain a compromise between opposed visions. I never anticipated discovering such fundamental alignment beneath our surface differences."
"Nor did I," Y/N agreed. "I was so certain I understood exactly who you were and what you represented. Being wrong has never been so satisfying."
Minghao's expression softened into the smile that was still rare in professional settings but increasingly common in their private moments. "Perhaps that's the most valuable outcome of our collaboration—the recognition that initial judgments rarely capture the complexity of another person's perspective."
"That, and the truly exceptional architecture we create together," Y/N added with a grin.
"That too," Minghao acknowledged. "Though I maintain the personal discovery has been the more revolutionary development."
Before Y/N could respond, Seungkwan's voice rose above the general conversation. "Everyone! Attention please! Jun and I have an announcement!"
Y/N and Minghao exchanged wary glances, all too familiar with the creative chaos that tended to result from Seungkwan and Jun's collaborative ideas.
"As the self-appointed chroniclers of the greatest architectural love story of our generation," Seungkwan began dramatically, "Jun and I have created something special to commemorate this exhibition opening."
"We call it 'From Rivalry to Romance: The Architectural Journey of Y/N and Minghao,'" Jun continued, producing a tablet with a flourish. "A digital scrapbook documenting your transformation from enemies to partners."
"You did not," Y/N said, horrified fascination in her voice.
"We absolutely did," Seungkwan confirmed. "Complete with candid photos, overheard quotes, and a timeline of significant moments—including Y/N's legendary takedown of Minghao's Dongdaemun Plaza extension in Sustainable Design Quarterly, which we now recognize as sublimated attraction expressed through professional criticism."
"That was genuine criticism," Y/N protested, though she couldn't help laughing at the absurdity of the situation.
"The glass curtain wall was legitimately problematic from an energy management perspective," Minghao agreed, surprising everyone by joining her defense.
"See? Still perfectly aligned in their architectural principles," Jun declared triumphantly. "True love."
As their friends gathered to view what promised to be an equally embarrassing and endearing documentation of their relationship, Y/N turned to Minghao. "Should we be concerned about this becoming public?"
"Definitely," Minghao replied, echoing their now-familiar exchange. But his expression remained calm, even quietly amused. "Though I find I'm less concerned about public perception than I once would have been."
It was true, Y/N realized. Both of them had grown more comfortable with the unconventional nature of their connection—professional rivals turned partners, environmental advocate and luxury developer finding common ground, opposites creating harmony rather than discord.
As the gallery began filling with exhibition guests—fellow architects, clients, critics, and friends—Y/N felt a moment of perspective on the journey that had brought them here. Not just the architectural achievements displayed around them, but the personal evolution that had made those achievements possible.
Later that evening, after successful introductions between families, enthusiastic reception of their work, and countless congratulations from colleagues, Y/N and Minghao finally found a quiet moment alone in the corner of the gallery.
"A successful launch," Minghao observed, his composed exterior barely hinting at the satisfaction she knew he felt.
"For the studio and the exhibition," Y/N agreed. "Though I could have done without Seungkwan and Jun's multimedia presentation of our 'architectural romance.'"
"It was surprisingly well-produced," Minghao noted with that hint of humor she'd come to treasure. "The timeline of our evolving design approach alongside our personal development showed genuine analytical thinking."
"Of course you would appreciate the organizational structure," Y/N laughed. "Even in embarrassing friend interventions, you find design elements to admire."
"Pattern recognition is fundamental to architectural thinking," Minghao replied solemnly, though his eyes betrayed his amusement.
Y/N studied him in the gallery lighting—the elegant lines of his profile, the careful precision of his movements, the subtle warmth in his expression that most people missed but she had learned to read fluently. All the elements that had once seemed to represent values opposed to her own now recognized as simply different expressions of shared principles.
"I love you," she said simply—a statement they'd exchanged privately before but never in a professional context. "Not despite our differences but because of how they've helped us both grow."
Minghao's expression softened in the way reserved only for her. "I love you too," he replied, his quiet voice carrying the depth of feeling he expressed more through actions than words. "You've changed how I see everything—architecture, sustainability, purpose, balance. It's been the most valuable revelation of my career."
"Just your career?" Y/N teased gently.
"Of my life," Minghao amended, taking her hand with characteristic intentionality. "The most unexpected and essential discovery I never knew I needed to make."
Around them, their exhibition—the physical manifestation of their shared vision—drew appreciation from the design community that had once seen them as representatives of opposed approaches. Their friends and families mingled in unlikely but harmonious combination. And between them, something had formed that neither could have designed alone—a connection that balanced strength with vulnerability, principle with flexibility, certainty with growth.
Not a compromise between conflicting visions, but a new creation altogether—unexpected, challenging, and ultimately more beautiful than either could have imagined when they first faced each other across that conference room, certain they understood exactly who the other was and what they represented.
The most exquisite designs, they had both discovered, emerge not from perfect agreement but from productive tension—opposing forces finding balance to create something neither could achieve alone.
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