Your 20s are not about getting your life together they're about learning to escape the self imposed torture labyrinth you've built inside your own head
⌗ in which . . . while you spend spring fair buried in your campus anonymous confession feed, a string of suspiciously specific posts begin surfacing, ones you don’t realize are quietly leading to you and park jongseong
流星 ໑ . . universitystudent!jay x fem!reader
⌗ includes . . . a university au ! fluff, swearing, anonymous confession page shenanigans, campus gossip, flowers as a love language, public spectacle, light emotional tension ♡ purely a work of fiction, none of this reflects reality | wc: 4.5k
⟶ mentioned ⋮ a lot of idols because campus is crowded !
♪ el’s bubble: day one 😎 of dumping all my tweaked up drafts on tumblr . . this felt far too cute not to post because anonymous confession pages, bouquets, and jay own a concerning amount of my heart ! please please please enjoy — likes, reblogs, and feedback are deeply appreciated on here ♡ requests are open if you want to see me write something specific ۫ ׅ
tags: @wonscapes @simsimluver @maishee @grdientlips @kristynaaah @psychicdazestrawberry @heesroses @vmpiricou @seungiesdoll @malibluess | send an ask if you’d like to be added ˙𐃷˙
now playing . . . art class by beabadoobee
The cool spring air hit you, sending strands of your hair flying to your face, effectively and deliberately ruining your lip combo you’d spent a few minutes on.
Perfect.
So, so perfect.
The university grounds had burst into color — you could smell the scent of fresh corn dogs being fried from the row of food stalls near the humanities building, a speaker somewhere blasting Bags by Clairo loud enough for the chorus to melt into the chatter of passing students, laughter ringing out from every direction.
Every year, the graduating batch organized a spring fair as one final send-off before the semester dissolved into deadlines, internships, and goodbyes too heavy to say out loud.
Festive is an understatement.
Flowers strung along canopies, student booths lined with handmade trinkets and half-melted candles, photo walls stood crowded with squealing friend groups, while games and cheap drinks in plastic cups filled whatever empty spaces remained.
Really, it was one last attempt at wringing sentimentality out of a student body too sleep-deprived, and far too emotionally constipated, to process the fact that the seniors would be gone in a few months.
Not that any of that was your main concern.
Nope, while everyone else was busy pretending to cherish the fleeting beauty of university life, you were far more invested in the one thing spring fair reliably delivered every single year: the campus anonymous confession page losing its collective mind.
Like clockwork, the submissions came flooding in the second booths opened.
Confessions.
hello and good moooorning 😍 to the engineering major at booth 6 who keeps fixing his sleeves every thirty seconds FUHHH you’re so damn fine bruh like you’re insane
WHOEVER THE FUCK LITERALLY JUST GOT SERENADED BY THE LEE HEESEUNG FROM THE MUSIC DEPT WITH WOOZI’S GUITAR did you say yes or are we all just gonna die from the heat today 😞
Shameless pleas to visit their stalls.
hi hi hi PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE come to booth 14 🥹 we’re really cool we promise! we have brownies, friendship bracelets, and jake voluntarily (mind you, VOLUNTARILY) doing customer service with a smile ✌️this may never happen again so take the risk or lose the chance and come visit us
send support to booth 9 pls… hot (totally) health sciences major chwe vernon agreed to wear cat ears if we hit the quota (begging on my knees btw)
Missed connections.
to the cute girl in a pink cardigan who helped me pick up the flyers in the library yesterday, i’m so sorry for suddenly running away because Jungwon poked me by the waist 😭 if you see this pls reach out i wanna be friends sb
tysm to kazuha from the performing arts department for buying our cheesecakes and complimenting them 🥹 so so grateful for the love and support, we were too shy to say it in person but you made our entire day ☹️ i hope you see this
Questionable public dares.
yo admin if this gets posted before 2pm i will man up and ask for a picture with sunghoon
my friends said i will never have the balls for this but yolo 😂 but to ningning from the fashion booth, do you wanna check out the book booth by the engineering building…??? ADMIN PLS POST THIS ASAP TY
Suspiciously detailed sightings that sent entire departments into detective mode.
just saw business boy, black tote bag, silver watch, bring in a huge ass bouquet at exactly 10:09 am today (entrance by the accountancy department building) WHO IS IT FOR PLS SPILL
admin pls tell james to stop manning the god damn drink booth like he’s auditioning for boyfriend of the year 😭✌️im crine
Friends exposing friends with absolutely no shame.
MANNN my seatmate (from lecture hall 4 btw) spent a whole ass hour perfecting her eye makeup for literally no damn reason apparently 💔 “i need to look nice in group photos” but kim mingyu is legit on campus rn just floating around
admin pls post because ik very well my friends just on here rn… seungmin if you see this pls pls PLEASE come to the building by the dorms because you have yet to hand me over the money from last week & im craving allat 🫠
And, naturally, dramatic cries for administrative intervention.
admin can you please confirm whether or not sunoo is single so i can proceed with my day hwhauahahah
TO WHOEVER IS USING THIS PAGE TO PUBLICLY THIRST OVER THE BUSINESS MAJOR BOYS PLEASE KEEP GOING I’M SO DAMN INVESTED 🙏
Spring fair was many things, but above all, it was prime anonymous page entertainment.
The feed moved like it had a life of its own, too fast to properly keep up with, too loud to ignore, and just chaotic enough that everyone pretended they weren’t checking it every thirty seconds.
You were seated at one of the long wooden tables near the center walkway, half-shaded by a canopy of paper flowers someone had clearly spent too many late nights folding.
Your friends had run off earlier with vague promises of “be right back” and “we’re getting food,” which, in spring fair language, meant you had at least ten uninterrupted minutes alone with your phone and absolutely zero self-control.
Perfect conditions, really.
Your thumb kept scrolling out of habit more than curiosity now, refresh, pause, scroll, repeat, it’s like the page had become a second pulse in your hand.
The feed was still alive, of course. It always was at this hour, like the entire campus had agreed productivity was optional for the day.
You weren’t even reading anymore; you were just catching fragments of them as they passed.
YOON JEONGHAN OH MY GOODNESS GRACIOUS jeonghan literally just walked past me again and ugh i swear he wants to make eye contact 🤣 chill im easy
Admin pls stop approving confessions from the same 7 people flirting with people they saw for less than a minute 😭
to whoever the hell keeps stealing extra fries from our booth: we see you, we respect you, and we fear you (just don’t steal one of the plastic containers bruh istg)
admins just be approving to approve nowadays im hollering
JUST PASSED BY BOOTH 14 AND WTF JAKE IS SO FINE IN PERSON WHY DID NOBODY TELL ME 💔
admin pls why are all the confessions js people admitting they’ve been staring at strangers for 0.2 seconds and calling it fate 🥲
You exhaled lightly through your nose, shifting your elbow on the table.
The feed blurred into itself again — booths, crushes, complaints, people overreacting to everything and nothing all at once.
Then, in between everything else, something newer slipped in.
Not as a thread, not grouped together, not framed as anything important.
It was just fragments appearing at different points in the scroll, separated by entirely unrelated posts that had nothing to do with each other.
A complaint about melted ice cream sat above it, followed by a lost phone report, followed by someone asking if it was embarrassing to trip in front of their crush and still think about it three days later.
Buried somewhere after a booth announcement about discounted chicken popcorn came a post that looked more like an unfinished thought than a confession.
okay wait i’m actually going to get exposed for this but i HAVE to get this off my chest cause im so bad at keep secrets 🧍♂️… whoever is the lucky girl congratufuckinglations
You kept scrolling.
A meme about Hoshi tripping on his own shoe lace. A student asking if anyone had seen a missing shoulder bag. A rant about how the mathemathics department’s attendance sheet was “emotionally violent on Thursdays.”
Another booth update. Someone selling stickers shaped like fruits. A joke about how no one trusts the engineering department with electrical wiring but still buys from them anyway.
Then, scattered again, further down, separated by posts about croquettes and someone complaining about the heat making eyeliner run, another line appeared.
IF YOU GUYS SAW A BUSINESS MAJOR WALKING AROUND WITH A BUNCH OF FLOWERS TODAY NO THE FUCK YOU DID NOOOTT 😂 quit playing
A confession about accidentally calling a professor “mom” during recitation. A blurry photo of someone’s drink order labeled “breakdown brew.” A booth owner begging people to stop stealing sample forks.
Then the same voice, not labeled, not connected, just dropped again in a completely different section of the feed, like it belonged to an entirely separate conversation happening in parallel.
he literally walked around with them for like an hour like he was thinking too hard about something that wasn’t even that complicated be so fr right now man
More posts passed between it. Someone losing their wallet. A joke about how spring fair was just capitalism disguised as bonding time. A group asking admin to stop approving confessions written entirely in caps lock.
A review of booth revel bars calling them “life changing and emotionally destabilizing.”
Then another fragment appeared lower down, not adjacent to the others, not grouped, not following any visible order.
i’m his friend btw i’m allowed to say this 💀 he kept stopping near booths like he was waiting for a sign from the heavenly figures or something but then just kept walking again like nothing happened every time i can’t deal with this bitch for longer
The feed kept moving without acknowledging it. A poll about favorite booth snacks. A lost airpod report. Someone asking if anyone had seen the accountancy department boy who always sits slightly off-center in Lecture Hall 5 on Wednesdays because “he looks familiar and I’m losing my mind about it.”
Another unrelated joke about Jake smiling too much at customers.
Then, further down again, almost swallowed by everything else, the final fragment appeared.
anyway if lecture hall 2 psych girl somehow sees this, just know he’s been like this since forever and i’m tired of having to deal with his whiny ass 😭
You stared at the screen a little longer than necessary.
The posts kept moving the same way they always did, too fast to settle into anything solid. Booth updates, complaints about the heat, someone saying their garlic bread fell, and they “emotionally checked out for the day.” A Joshua sighting that apparently caused mild chaos for no reason other than existing.
Nothing about it was structured enough to take seriously.
Your thumb kept scrolling.
A recurring mention of a business major with a silver watch moving between booths kept slipping through the feed, like the page had collectively decided he was now part of the spring fair scenery.
why does the commerce guy with the silver watch or something keep appearing everywhere like he’s doing a campus tour wtf 👻 companion who are YOU
Then another post a few scrolls down, joking about how he kept pausing near booths like he was trying to decide something important, turning away, coming back, then disappearing again like the fair itself was giving him second thoughts.
“Who even is this guy that he has several posts about him,” you mutter under your breath.
Between those, everything else stayed unrelated. Someone complaining about their groupmate disappearing mid-spring fair to “find themselves” and returning with only fried snacks. A rant about Lecture Hall 11 seats being “designed like medieval punishment devices specifically for Monday mornings,” like some ancient trial method disguised as university furniture.
bro from business keeps hovering around like he’s waiting for a cue in a movie but refuses to read the script DAMN ITT JUST TAKE THE RISK BROTHER 🫡
A friend-type post followed somewhere else in the feed, joking about someone being seen pacing between booths all day, stopping near crowds, then walking away again like he was waiting for something to align properly before acting on it.
You exhaled lightly through your nose.
“Jeez, what’s all the fuss for,” you muttered under your breath, thumb still moving.
A guy with flowers, some vague sightings, people acting like it was a bigger deal than it sounded on paper.
Your eyes flicked back to the feed, slower now, like you were actually paying attention instead of just scrolling through habit.
Lecture Hall 2, psychology girl.
That detail came up again.
You tilted your head slightly, thinking.
Psych department. Lecture Hall 2. Tuesdays.
Your gaze drifted, not fully focused, just connecting dots as they came.
There were only so, so many girls in your class who fit that routine.
The one who always came in early and chose the same seat without fail. The one who never really joined conversations before class started. The one who stayed quiet, always slightly detached from the noise around her. The one who left right after lectures ended, like she was already halfway elsewhere before anyone else stood up.
You hummed softly to yourself.
“Probably her then,” you said under your breath, more observation than certainty, you were just sorting through possibilities the same way the page was.
Your thumb kept scrolling.
Still no urgency.
After all, it was still just another messy spring fair feed.
Your thumb kept moving, screen half-tilted toward you as you slouched a little further into the wooden bench.
The feed didn’t care that you were only half-reading it anymore. It just kept giving you more of the same exact things — booth drama, exaggerated confessions, someone arguing about cup noodles superiority like it was a serious academic debate.
You were mid-scroll when your phone dimmed slightly from inactivity, your attention drifting just enough to let the sound of the fair take over again.
The sound of chairs scraping, distant laughter, and a burst of music from a nearby stall that got swallowed by the crowd almost immediately.
Then something tapped your shoulder.
It was light and direct; it wasn’t enough to hurt you, but just enough to interrupt.
You blinked once, still half in the page, then instinctively turned your head slightly.
Another tap, closer to your other side this time, like whoever it was didn’t feel like waiting for you to fully register them.
“Hello,” a voice said behind you, calm but way too close to ignore.
You finally looked up.
The phone in your hand was still open to the feed, but it suddenly didn't feel important enough to hold onto.
Behind you stood Jay.
The Park Jongseong, mind you.
Not in a dramatic way, no, not like the kind of arrival people would turn their heads for twice. He was just there, close enough that the noise of the fair felt slightly farther away, like the space around him had decided to quiet down without asking permission.
Business department. Silver watch. The same name that kept slipping through anonymous posts like background noise people joked about but never expected to actually stand in front of them.
Shit.
The same guy people apparently kept orbiting in passing, the one with the easy reputation, the one who always looked like he belonged somewhere slightly more put together than wherever he was currently standing.
And yet he was just there.
Right behind you.
Holding a bouquet that looked almost out of place in his hands.
Yellow first, soft and bright like sunlight caught in something real. White flowers layered in between like pauses that didn't need explaining. Pink near the edges, lighter, almost hesitant, like someone had chosen them last but still chosen them anyway.
His grip on it wasn't fully confident either. It’s like he wasn't used to holding something that mattered in a way people could see.
Your brain didn't process it all at once.
It came in fragments.
Silver watch. Jay. Business department. The posts. The running jokes. The vague mentions. The anonymous page chaos that suddenly didn't feel so anonymous anymore.
Your chest tightened before you could even name the feeling.
Not pain, not fear.
Hell no.
Just something sharp and immediate, like your body had recognized him faster than your thoughts did.
Your fingers loosened slightly around your phone without you realizing it.
The screen stayed lit in your hand, still showing the feed, still full of noise that now felt distant and irrelevant.
None of it mattered anymore though.
Jay was looking at you like you weren't just another passerby at spring fair. As if he hadn't just crossed campus, ignored everything else, and stopped exactly here on purpose.
Your heartbeat did something stupidly obvious then, loud enough that it almost felt unfair.
Heat crept up your cheeks before you could stop it, subtle at first, then worse when you realized there was no way to pretend you hadn't noticed him.
You swallowed slightly.
He still didn't speak.
He just waited.
It’s almost like he was giving you time to fully arrive back into your own moment before he stepped into it with you.
The seconds stretched, and you became acutely aware of every sound around you.
The distant hum of the fair. The laughter from the food stalls. Someone calling out prices for handmade jewelry four booths away. All of it felt like it belonged to a different world now, one that existed just beyond the strange, quiet bubble you'd somehow fallen into with a guy you'd only ever known through secondhand stories and pixelated profile pictures.
You finally found your voice, though it came out smaller than you intended.
"Hi."
Damn it.
The word barely made it past your throat, and you immediately wanted to take it back.
Hi? That was what you came up with?
After seeing his name circulate through anonymous posts, after all the whispers in lecture halls about who he was and who he might be interested in, after scrolling past a post about him just seconds ago without a second thought? Hi?
But Jay's expression didn't shift into the polite, distant acknowledgment you might have expected from someone like him. Instead, the corner of his mouth lifted slightly, almost like he'd been waiting for you to speak first and was quietly pleased that you had.
"Hi," he echoed back, and his voice was lower than you'd imagined it would be.
He wasn't in a rush to fill the space between you with unnecessary words.
You glanced down at the bouquet again, as if looking anywhere else might buy you time to figure out what was happening. The yellow flowers caught the afternoon light, and you noticed for the first time how deliberate the arrangement was. This wasn't something grabbed last-minute from a grocery store display. Someone had thought about this. Someone had chosen each stem with purpose.
And that someone was standing right in front of you, watching you not-so-subtly avoid eye contact.
"Those are—" you started, and then stopped, because you weren't sure how to finish the sentence. Beautiful? For me? Completely unexpected from a person I've never actually spoken to before today?
"They're for you," Jay said, and he shifted his weight slightly, lifting the bouquet just enough that it became impossible to pretend otherwise. "If you want them."
Your breath caught somewhere between your lungs and your throat.
If you want them.
He was giving you an out. He understood that this was strange, that showing up out of nowhere with flowers for someone you'd never formally met wasn't exactly standard campus behavior. Yet, he said it so simply, like the question was genuine and not just a formality.
"I—" You looked up at him properly now, and the full force of eye contact hit you all at once.
He was taller than you'd realized, or maybe you just felt smaller.
Either way, you found yourself staring directly into the kind of gaze that made you understand why people wrote anonymous posts about him in the first place. There was something unnervingly present about the way he looked at you. He was just so, so focused entirely on you like you were worth the attention.
"You don't have to explain," you managed finally, though your voice still felt unsteady. "I just—I wasn't expecting—I mean, I saw the posts, but I didn't think—"
"You saw the posts?" There was a flicker of something in his expression. Not quite amusement, but close to it. "About me wandering around with flowers?"
The heat in your cheeks intensified, and you were suddenly very aware that you'd just admitted to scrolling through the anonymous confession page like everyone else on campus. "I mean—yes? It's hard not to. People post about everything and anything nowadays."
"That's true." He glanced down at the bouquet for a moment, and you noticed the way his thumb brushed against the paper wrapping. A small, almost unconscious gesture. "Though I wasn't sure if you'd actually see them… or if you'd care if you did."
The admission landed strangely.
He thought about this.
About you specifically, not just about the act of holding flowers in public while people speculated.
"Why wouldn't I care?" you asked before you could stop yourself, and then immediately regretted it.
That sounded too eager, too obvious, too much like you wanted him to have a good answer.
But Jay didn't seem to mind. If anything, his smile deepened just slightly, and he stepped closer. Not enough to be overwhelming, but enough that you could smell something faintly clean and warm, laundry detergent, maybe.
"Because you didn't seem like the type to pay attention to anonymous posts," he said simply. "You always looked like you had better things to think about."
You blinked. "You've noticed how I look?"
The question slipped out before you could filter it, and you watched his expression shift again. Something softer. More uncertain, almost, though he recovered quickly.
"I've noticed a lot of things," he admitted, and then he held the bouquet out fully, bridging the last of the distance between you.
"These are for you. Because I wanted them to be for you. I've… actually, I’ve been wanting to talk to you for a while, and this seemed like the only way I'd actually do it."
Your hands moved on their own. You reached out, fingers brushing against the paper wrapping, and you felt the weight of the bouquet settle into your grip. It was heavier than you expected.
The yellow flowers were bright against your skin.
The white ones looked almost luminous in the afternoon light.
The pink, god, the pink was softer up close, delicate in a way that made something twist gently in your chest.
No one had ever given you flowers before.
Not like this, not carefully chosen and held by someone who looked at you like you were worth the effort of choosing them.
"I don't know what to say," you whispered, and the honesty of it surprised even you.
"You don't have to say anything." Jay's voice was quiet now, too, matching yours. "I just wanted you to have them. I just wanted you to know."
A laugh bubbled up from somewhere unexpected.
Not nervous this time, but genuine, warming, and bright and entirely beyond your control.
You looked down at the flowers in your arms, then back up at him, and the absurdity of the moment hit you all at once.
"This is ridiculous," you said, but you were still smiling. "In the best way, by the way. Very, very ridiculous in the best possible way."
Jay's shoulders relaxed slightly, like he'd been holding tension he hadn't realized was there. "I wasn't sure if you'd think it was creepy. Showing up like this. I've been walking around for twenty minutes trying to figure out if this was a terrible idea."
"Twenty minutes?"
"Maybe longer." He ran a hand through his hair, and the gesture was so unexpectedly human that you felt another laugh building in your chest. "The posts weren't wrong. I have been wandering around with these. I just didn't want to seem like I was... I don't know… making a scene."
"You kind of are making a scene," you pointed out, but there was no bite to it. Just warmth.
"Maybe." He glanced around briefly, and you noticed a few people nearby stealing glances. Not many, but enough. Enough that you knew this would probably end up on the anonymous page by tomorrow morning. "But I think I'm okay with that. If you are."
You looked down at the bouquet again, at the colors bright against your arms, and felt something settle in your chest.
"I'm okay with that," you said.
You laughed, bright and unselfconscious, letting the sound carry just enough that it felt like release.
The noise of the fair faded back in around you, but it didn't feel overwhelming anymore.
Jay watched you laugh, and something in his expression shifted.
Something softer, fonder, like he hadn't expected this moment to go this way but was grateful that it had.
A strand of hair had fallen loose from wherever you'd tied it earlier, and you didn't notice it at first, too caught up in the flowers, in the absurdity, in the warmth spreading through your chest.
But Jay noticed.
His gaze flickered down for just a second, and then his hand was moving, slow enough that you could have pulled away if you'd wanted to.
You didn't want to.
His fingers brushed against your temple, light and careful, as he tucked the strand back behind your ear. The touch lingered just a moment longer than necessary, and then his hand dropped, returning to his side like nothing had happened.
You felt the ghost of his fingertips against your skin, and the sensation stayed with you, quiet and warm and impossible to ignore.
"There," he said softly. "Now you don't have to keep fixing it."
You hadn't even realized you'd been fixing it.
Somehow, that small gesture felt bigger than the flowers in your arms.
More intimate, more deliberate, like he'd been paying attention in ways you hadn't known anyone was paying attention.
"Thank you," you said, and the words felt inadequate, but they were all you had. "For the flowers, and… for whatever this is."
Jay smiled, and the expression transformed his face in a way that made you understand, suddenly, why people couldn't stop talking about him.
Because when he looked at you like that, like you were the only person in a crowded fairground worth focusing on, it felt like something worth talking about.
"I should thank you," he said. "For not making this weird."
"It's still a little weird," you admitted, but you were smiling too.
"Like… um—good weird?"
"Good weird," you confirmed.
The afternoon light caught the yellow flowers in your arms, and for a moment, everything felt suspended.
You held the bouquet tighter, and somewhere in the back of your mind, you knew you'd have to explain this later.
To your friends, your classmates, and probably your parents if they saw you returning home with flowers.
To whoever saw the inevitable post on the anonymous page tomorrow.
That felt far away now, though, separate from the warmth of this moment and the quiet certainty settling in your chest.
Jay tucked his hands into his pockets, watching you with an expression you couldn't quite name but felt, somehow, like it meant something.
"So," he said, and the word was light, easy. "Do you want to walk around? See what else the fair has to offer?"
You looked at him and felt the last of your nervousness dissolve into something warmer.
"Of course," you said. "I'd love that."
You fell into step beside him, flowers in your arms and the afternoon stretching out ahead, bright and unexpected and entirely, wonderfully new.
𝓦𝐇𝐄𝐑𝐄𝐈𝐍⠀ ✶ ⠀your husband, park jongseong, has spent his entire life getting exactly what he wants. unfortunately for him, you're the one person completely immune to his spoiled antics. what begins as a harmless disagreement quickly spirals into an hour of relentless whining, one very exasperated wife, and a lesson your husband never realized he desperately needed.
𝟑𝟕𝟏𝟓 🗯️ ✽ ─── ⏾ 𝗵𝘂𝘀𝗯𝗮𝗻𝗱 park jongseong⠀x ⠀ 𝓯 ! rea ´ ꒳ ` 𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭 : established relationship ˒ porn without a plot ˒ brat taming ˒ light angst with a nice ending ˒
𝔀𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 : explicit sexual content ⋮ 𝗶𝗻𝘁𝗲𝗻𝗱𝗲𝗱 𝗳𝗼𝗿 𝗺𝗮𝘁𝘂𝗿𝗲 𝗮𝘂𝗱𝗶𝗲𝗻𝗰𝗲𝘀, 𝗺𝗶𝗻𝗼𝗿𝘀 𝗱𝗼 𝗻𝗼𝘁 𝗶𝗻𝘁𝗲𝗿𝗮𝗰𝘁 ✿ oral sex (m. receiving) ˒ creampie ˒ unprotected p in v ˒ handjob ˒ dirty talk ˒ praise kink ˒ edging ˒ degradation kink ˒ make-up sex ˒ consensual power dynamics ˒ dacryphilia ˒
𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐥𝐞𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐬⠀ ✶ ⠀ 𝐫𝐞𝐪𝐮𝐞𝐬𝐭
🍸 。 𝐞𝐥’𝐬 𝐛𝐮𝐛𝐛𝐥𝐞 i love love love me some submissive jay ugh ! anyways happy july guys i love you all so so muchi
"Y/N! You're being too dramatic—it's literally just a restaurant. We've been to this one multiple times, and you're only acting up now? What gives?"
Jay's voice bounces off the marble countertops of the kitchen, sharp and incredulous. He's been trailing behind you like a lost puppy for the better part of an hour, and his patience is wearing thinner than the gold trim on his daddy's credit card.
The argument is absurd, really — over a restaurant. Your monthsary dinner, to be exact. Every single time, without fail, Jay insists on the same overpriced venue with the same underwhelming menu: three kinds of salad, a charcuterie board that tastes like cardboard, and a wine list longer than the actual food options. A new place had opened across the district, equally elegant, actually varied, garlic bread that supposedly redefined the concept, and you'd simply suggested switching things up.
Jay had said no. Not because he had a real reason, but because that was his default. No was his reflex, and everyone in his life had always caved right after.
You hadn't caved.
So here he was, spiraling.
You continued walking, pacing circles through the ground floor of the house, not even granting him the courtesy of eye contact. That made it worse. Jay's jaw tightened as he trailed you from the kitchen to the living room, back to the kitchen, then into the hallway.
"Y/N, seriously?" He huffed, running a hand through his dark hair. "I'll take your silence as a yes then. That solves the problem. We're going to the usual place."
You stopped. Turned. Looked at him with a gaze so flat it could've smoothed granite.
"God damn it, Jongseong. Just give me a moment, can't you? You're way too stubborn for a lot to be coming out of your mouth."
Jongseong? Jongseong. Not Jay. His real name, the one you only used when you were genuinely agitated, and it landed like a slap. His lips parted, something flickering behind his eyes, shock, maybe, that you weren't folding, that you weren't apologizing the way everyone else always did. His family, his friends, his staff, they all gave in. You never did. That was why he loved you, though he was currently too bratty to remember it.
"Me? Stubborn?" He let out a disbelieving laugh, gesturing at you with both hands. "Please. You're the stubborn one here. We wouldn't even be arguing if you just caved. It's tradition, Y/N. We always go there. Why mess with something that works?"
"It doesn't work. You just don't like change." You turned on your heel and walked toward the stairs. "Because nobody's ever made you deal with it."
"That's not—" He followed you, footsteps quickening. "That's not fair. I'm not some spoiled brat, I just—Y/N, come on. Can you stop walking away from me?"
No response. You climbed the stairs, one deliberate step at a time, and his voice climbed with you, gaining pitch and desperation. He rambled about tradition, about how the other restaurant probably wasn't even that good, about how you were being unreasonable, about how he always compromised — laughable, really, given that he'd never once compromised anything in his entire privileged life.
You reached the hallway. The bedroom door was ajar.
Then something in you simply snapped. Not with anger. With resolve. Enough was enough.
You turned, caught his wrist mid-stride, and pulled. Jay stumbled forward with a startled yelp, and you walked him the remaining steps to the bed, pressing a palm against his chest and pushing. He fell back onto the mattress with a soft thud, not hard, not violent, but firm enough that his eyes went wide, mouth opening and closing like a fish pulled from water. He stared up at you from the sheets, hair fanning across the pillow, chest rising and falling faster than it had any right to.
"Y/N, what—"
"Shut up." You climbed onto the bed, onto him, knees bracketing his hips, and planted both hands flat against his chest. Beneath your palms, his heartbeat was already racing. "You've been following me around this house for an hour, Jongseong, whining like a child who got his toy taken away. Has anyone ever told you no before? Has anyone ever not given you what you wanted?"
His throat bobbed. "I—"
"That was rhetorical." You leaned down, close enough that your breath fanned across his lips. His eyelashes fluttered. "You're used to people bending for you. Apologizing. Folding the second you pout. That's not how this works. You don't get to bulldoze over me because you've never heard the word no before."
"I wasn't—I wasn't trying to—"
"You were." You shifted your weight, pressing your hips down against his, and the sound that escaped him, a broken and breathy thing, made heat pool low in your stomach. Already. Just from this. From you barely touching him. "You were trying to wear me down until I gave in. That's what you do, isn't it? Push and push until people just hand you what you want because it's easier than fighting you."
He didn't answer. Couldn't, maybe. His hands had found your thighs, fingers curling into the fabric of your shorts, and his chest was heaving like he'd run a marathon.
"You're pathetic," you murmured, and the word landed soft and devastating. "A spoiled, bratty, pathetic boy who can't handle being told no. And look at you now." You rolled your hips — a slow grind that dragged the seam of your shorts directly against the growing hardness in his sweats. "You're already this hard? From me just telling you off?"
A whimper. Actual, honest-to-god whimper, high and thready, his head pressing back into the pillow.
"That worked up after just me grinding on your pathetic dick?" You ground down again, harder, watching his face contort, eyebrows drawing together, lips parting, a moan slipping free before he could catch it. "This is what gets you going, isn't it? Someone finally not putting up with your shit?"
"Baby—" His voice cracked. "Y/N, please—"
"Please what? What am I gonna do with that please of yours? Use your words, Jongseong. You had plenty of them downstairs." Another grind, slower, torturous, and his hips bucked up involuntarily, chasing friction that you immediately denied by lifting yourself just out of reach. He let out a shattered exhale, fingers tightening on your thighs. "What do you want?"
"You. I want—please touch me."
"I am touching you." You slid one hand from his chest to his jaw, gripping it firm, angling his face so he couldn't look away. "You mean you want more. Say it properly."
His eyes were glassy, overwhelmed, and his lower lip trembled. "I want more. Please, Y/N. I'm sorry—I'm sorry for being—"
"Sorry for being what?" You tilted your head, pressing your hips back down, resuming that maddening grind. The friction made your own pulse throb, but you kept your expression cool, controlled. "Say it."
"Sorry for being—a brat. For—fuck—" He swallowed thickly as you picked up the pace, rolling against him in deep, rhythmic waves. "For always needing to get my way. I'm sorry, baby, I'm sorry, please—"
"Good." You released his jaw and reached for the hem of his shirt, tugging it up and off in one motion. His torso was lean, flushed pink from his collarbones down to his stomach, muscles tensing under your gaze. Pretty. He was so pretty, and even prettier like this, undone, desperate, trembling beneath you like you hadn't already given him everything he'd ever asked for. "You know, Jongseong," you said, dragging your nails lightly down his chest, watching goosebumps rise in their wake, "I think you needed this. Someone to put you back in your place."
He nodded frantically, a mess of ragged breath and half-formed sounds.
You leaned down and kissed him, hard and bruising, all teeth and tongue, swallowing the moan that poured from his mouth. Your hands found his sweats, yanking the waistband down along with his boxers, and his cock sprang free, flushed and leaking at the tip, straining against nothing. You pulled back from the kiss just to look at it, then at him, and let out a low, mocking laugh.
"You're dripping, baby. That's adorable." You wrapped your fingers around him, just barely, just enough to feel the heat and the way he throbbed against your palm, and his hips jerked up, a choked sound ripping from his throat. "So needy. So desperate. And for what? A little grinding and some mean words? That's all it takes?"
"Y/N—" His hand flew to your wrist, not pushing or pulling, just holding, like he didn't know what to do with himself.
You tightened your grip and stroked him once, slow, base to tip, swiping your thumb over the head and smearing the precum there. His back arched off the mattress, a whine ripping through the air, loud and unabashed.
"Look at you," you said softly, almost tender, which made it worse. "Whining and squirming like you've never been touched before. Tell me something, Jongseong." You stroked him again, setting a pace that was deliberately unhurried, grip just firm enough to feel good but too loose to satisfy. "You've had people before me, right? Of course, a pretty boy like you would have always had. Rich, charming. Probably had them lining up."
He nodded, biting his lip so hard it turned white.
"And how often did you actually finish with them?"
His eyes squeezed shut. A tremor ran through his thighs. "N-not—not often," he admitted, barely audible.
"Not often," you repeated, mocking. "Poor thing. Everyone is so busy worshiping you they forgot to actually take you apart, hmm?" You twisted your wrist on the upstroke, and his mouth fell open, a strangled moan echoing through the room. "No wonder you're like this. You've been half-satisfied your whole life and you didn't even know it."
"Only you—" He was gasping now, chest heaving, fingers clenching and unclenching in the sheets. "Only you can—make me—fuck, Y/N, please—"
"What? Only I can do what? Make you cum?" You slowed your hand to a crawl, and the sound he made was guttural. "Not yet. You don't get to cum until I say so. Do you understand?"
"I—I understand, please—"
"Good boy." The phrase hit him like a drug. His whole body shuddered, cock twitching violently in your hand, and you felt another bead of precum slide against your fingers. "Oh, you like that. You like being good for me."
He nodded again, frantic, tears gathering at the corners of his eyes, not from sadness but from sheer, overwhelming sensation. You leaned down, kissing the corner of his mouth, his jaw, the spot below his ear that made him whimper, and then you began to move south.
Your lips traced a path down his neck, his collarbone, his chest, pausing to drag your tongue over one nipple, then the other, making him jolt and cry out, and further, over the trembling plane of his stomach, until your face hovered above his cock. It stood angry and flushed, twitching with every exhale you let fall against it.
You looked up at him through your lashes. He was staring down at you, wrecked — hair a mess, cheeks crimson, chest rising and falling like he'd forgotten how to breathe.
"Hold my hair," you said.
He reached down with shaking hands, gathering your hair into a loose grip at the back of your head, and you took him into your mouth.
The sound he made was broken. Your lips wrapped around the head, tongue swirling, tasting salt and skin, and you sank down inch by inch, letting the heat and wetness consume him. His hips stuttered up, greedy and desperate, and you pulled off immediately, a string of saliva connecting your mouth to his cock.
"What did I just say about being patient?" Your voice was cool, but your eyes were sharp.
"Sorry—sorry, baby, I'm sorry—"
"Be good." You took him again, deeper this time, flattening your tongue along the underside, and set a rhythm that was designed to ruin. Wet sounds filled the room as you bobbed your head, hollowing your cheeks, taking him as far as you could without gagging. His fingers tightened in your hair, a warning, and you felt him try to push you down, try to make you take more, and you responded by dragging your nails down his thigh.
"Ah—fuck—sorry, sorry—" he stammered, but his grip stayed, trembling, barely holding back. You pulled off again with a slick pop, and the look you gave him was pure ice.
"You want me to deepthroat, Jongseong? You ask."
"I'm sorry," he whispered, and he meant it, his voice fracturing on the second word. "Please—I'll be good—please keep going—"
You took him back into your mouth, and this time you relaxed your throat, swallowing around him, taking him deep, deep, until your nose pressed against his pelvis and he screamed, a shattered sound that bounced off the walls. His hips canted up involuntarily again but he caught himself this time, forcing himself still even as his thighs shook violently around you. Good. He was learning.
You set a brutal pace then, fucking your own throat on his cock, hollowing your cheeks, dragging suction that had him writhing and crying out in a mess of syllables — your name, baby, please, oh god, more, please more. His cock throbbed against your tongue, heavy and hot, and you could feel him getting close, his stomach tightening, his moans climbing higher, his hands trembling in your hair.
You pulled off.
"No—" The word ripped out of him, desperate, almost angry. "Y/N, no, I was—right—fuck—"
"Calm down, I know." You wiped your mouth with the back of your hand, calm as anything, while he stared at you with wild, tear-glazed eyes. "You were close. And?"
"And I—please let me cum, please, I need it—"
"You need it?" You wrapped your hand around him again, slick with your own spit, and started stroking, slowly, so slowly, feeling every ridge and vein, every pulse of his racing heartbeat echoing through his cock. "You need it, but you've been a brat all day. Why should I let you?"
"I said I was sorry—I am sorry—" He was babbling now, words tumbling over each other, hips rocking up into your fist in tiny, uncontrollable thrusts. "I won't—I won't do it again, I'll listen, I'll go to whatever restaurant you want, I'll—ah—"
"Whatever restaurant I want," you repeated, amused. "You'd agree to anything right now, wouldn't you?"
"Yes," he gasped. "Anything. Anything you want, Y/N, just—please don't stop—"
You didn't stop. You kept stroking, kept that same torturous pace, watching him climb higher and higher. His abs clenched, his toes curled, his breath came in short, ragged huffs, and his cock jumped in your grip, once, twice, right at the edge.
And you felt it. That telltale tensing, the way his thighs locked up, the way his mouth opened in a silent cry.
"Oh?" You tilted your head, voice dripping with faux surprise, your hand never faltering. "You're about to cum already? Just like that?"
"I—yes—please, Y/N, let me—"
"Do I make you that needy?" You squeezed the base of his cock, and he actually sobbed. "All those people before me, and none of them could get you there, could they? But I can. Just my hand, just my mouth, and you're already falling apart."
"Only you," he choked out, and the words were so raw, so honest, that something in your chest clenched. "Only you, Y/N, nobody else—nobody's ever made me feel like this—please, I'm right there, I'm so close, please let me cum—"
"You're close," you echoed, and your voice softened, just a fraction, just enough for the air to shift. You stroked him steadily now, grip tight, pace deliberate, leaning down so your face was inches from his. "You've been so good, Jongseong. So good for me. Taking what I give you. Learning."
His eyes searched yours, wet and pleading and so impossibly open.
"You deserve it," you said quietly. "Cum for me."
And he would have, right then, right there, with those words, but you had something else in mind.
You let go of him.
His eyes flew wide with panic, but before he could protest, you were standing, shucking your shorts and underwear in one motion, and then you were back on him, straddling his hips, and you reached between your bodies to position him at your entrance.
"You want to cum inside me, baby?" You asked, and your voice had dropped low, rough, almost as affected as his.
"Yes," he breathed. "Please—"
You sank down.
The noise he made wasn't human. A full-body shudder wracked through him as you took him to the hilt, your own breath catching at the stretch, the fullness, the way he filled you so completely that your vision blurred at the edges. You gave yourself a moment, just one, to adjust, to feel the desperate throb of him inside you, and then you moved.
You bounced on him, once, twice, three times, deep, forceful strokes that had him hitting spots that made your thighs tremble. Your hand found his hair, fingers threading through the dark strands, and you gripped, firm and possessive, tugging his head back so he had no choice but to look at you.
"Eyes on me," you commanded. "Don't you dare look away."
He didn't. He couldn't. His gaze was locked on yours, glassy and worshipful, tears spilling freely now down his temples, mouth open in a silent, endless moan. You rode him hard, those few strokes enough to undo everything you'd built and broken and built again, and on the fourth bounce, he shattered.
His orgasm hit like a wrecking ball. He came with a sound that was barely a word and you felt him pulse inside you, hot and thick, filling you in waves that seemed to go on and on. His hips jerked up helplessly, overstimulated, and you kept moving, kept riding him through it, chasing the pressure that had been building in your own core since the moment you first ground against him.
It didn't take long. You were already so close, had been close through all of it, the power, the control, the way he looked at you like you were the center of his universe, and within a handful of strokes, your own orgasm crashed through you. Your walls clenched around him, milking his cock in pulses that drew a weak whimper from his throat, and your spine curved as pleasure whited out every thought in your head.
Then silence. Or something close to it, just the sound of two people breathing, ragged and uneven, slowly coming back to earth.
You collapsed forward.
Your face fell into the curve of his neck, his shoulder, and his arms came around you immediately, instinctive, warm, wrapping you up like you were something precious. His cock was still inside you, softening, and neither of you moved to change that. His hand found the back of your head, fingers threading gently through your hair, and he ruffled it softly, tenderly, the way you'd grip him when you were commanding him. A mirror. A response. His other arm banded around your waist, pulling you flush against his chest.
For a long moment, you just breathed.
Then your chest hitched.
It wasn't supposed to happen. You'd been in control, composed, untouchable — but now, in the quiet aftermath, with his heartbeat steady beneath your cheek and his hands so impossibly gentle on your body, something cracked open inside you. A wave of tenderness so acute it hurt, and tangled up in it was guilt, the sharp, stinging kind that came from the realization that you'd been cruel. You'd called him pathetic. Degraded him. Treated him like he was less than, even if he'd liked it, even if he'd asked for it with every whimper and whine.
Your eyes burned.
"Baby?" Jay's voice was soft, concerned, the brattiness entirely gone. He shifted, trying to see your face, but you buried it deeper into his neck. "Hey. Y/N. What's wrong?"
"Nothing," you mumbled, but your voice cracked, and you hated it. "I'm fine."
"You're not." He pulled back just enough to look at you, and his thumb found your cheek, catching the tear that had just begun to slide down your face, one single tear, the only one that escaped before you clamped down. He wiped it away with more care than you deserved, his touch feather-light. "Why are you crying?"
"Because I was mean to you," you whispered, and the admission felt like pulling off a bandage. "I didn't—I didn't want to be that harsh, I just—you were driving me crazy, and I—"
"Hey. Hey." He cupped your face in both hands, tilting it up so you had to meet his eyes. They were warm. So warm it made your throat ache. "You weren't mean. You were exactly what I needed." A small, breathy laugh escaped him. "I've never… Y/N, I've never felt like that before. Ever. You're the only person who doesn't just give me whatever I want, and I need that. I need you."
"But I—"
"You put me in my place," he said simply. "And I probably needed it a long time ago." His thumb traced the curve of your cheekbone, sweeping away the dampness there, and he pressed a kiss to your forehead, then your nose, then your lips, soft, lingering, nothing like the bruising kiss from earlier. "I'm sorry for being a brat. I'll try harder. Okay?"
"I'm sorry too," you breathed against his mouth.
"Don't be." He smiled, the one that crinkled his eyes and made him look younger, softer, stripped of all the privilege and pretense. "And for the record—we can go to the new restaurant. I was being stupid."
A wet laugh escaped you, and he caught it with another kiss, pulling you tighter against him, one hand cradling the back of your head while the other traced lazy patterns on your spine.
You melted into him, every hard edge, every sharp word, every ounce of dominance dissolving into something small, soft, and fiercely tender.
✷ NOTE : thank you all so, so much for reading ! i hope you enjoyed this little world for a while ♡ all of this is purely a work of fiction & doesn’t reflect reality at all . . likes, reblogs, and feedback are deeply cherished and very, very appreciated on here !
you'll feel like a total dipshit train wreck and no matter what some girl is gonna see you and think "role model". you can't kill yourself you have to go be clocky in the gas station so a 14 year old can have the trajectory of her life altered forever
synopsis. Tired of his life in the big city, Jay moves to a small town by the Korean seaside and renovates an old bookstore to turn into a café. Fate would have it that you work at the restaurant right across the street from him—quickly, memories from your time at culinary school together float back up to the surface, accompanied by old feelings.
genre+warnings. exes to lovers, small town au, slightly aged up characters, dual timeline, maximal angst in this one i'm sorry guys... but a lot of fluff too dw, smut (MINORS DO NOT INTERACT!), deceased parent, sick grandparent
word count. 28,773
a/n. here we fucking finally are lmaoo if you were wondering why i haven't posted in 10 months, this is why !!!!!!! this is a very very long time in the making, i def had my ups and downs writing this, so i hope it will be worth it and you guys will enjoy lol pls pls pls let me know what u think, it would mean even more than usual !!!!!! and as always massive thanks to @zreamy for freaking out over hometown jay with me and for betareading this behemoth... ur such a ride or wtv it is british people say!
part two
small playlist here !
“De ceux qu’on aime, de ceux qu’on a aimés, il reste toujours quelque chose. Une sensation sur la peau, un petit rien qui palpite. L’amour est un oiseau, aussi fragile que capable de s’élever jusqu’aux astres. De ceux qu’on aime, de ceux qu’on a aimés, demeure toujours une lumière, pareille au soleil qui persiste sous les paupières quand on ferme les yeux.”
“Of those we love, of those we have loved, something always remains. A sensation on the skin, a barely-there fluttering. Love is a bird, as fragile as it is capable of reaching the stars. Of those we love, of those we have loved, remains always a light, akin to the sun that perseveres under the lids when you close your eyes.”
Laurine Roux, Le souffle du puma [rough translation]
.
.
Watching the scenery flash by as he drives down the highway, Jay wonders if it’s normal to feel so little sadness about leaving one’s hometown behind. Oh well. It isn’t like there’s anything left for him in Seoul.
He’s still surprised his father insisted on helping him pack. He didn’t bother when Jay, 20 years old back then, moved all the way to France, but then again, his mother had been around to do it. Still, this is a four-hour drive down the country, and Jay has already hired a mover to bring down his bigger pieces of furniture, so the silent, tense afternoon they spent in each other’s company packing up Jay’s clothes, books, and all sorts of stuff really could’ve been avoided.
He supposes he should be grateful for the attention, but after twenty-five years of not receiving any and resigning himself to that fact, it’s hard to suddenly backtrack and welcome it with open arms. Not even his mother’s death managed to change things—why would they change now?
After the last of his things found a place in the overflowing trunk of Jay’s BMW, he and his father stand next to the car, avoiding each other’s eyes and saying nothing. Jay doesn’t even know what he’s waiting for. Some words of encouragement? A sign of affection, no matter how meager?
“Guess you should go now. I don’t think this is an actual parking spot,” his father offers instead after thirty excruciating seconds, gesturing to the general area in front of Jay’s apartment.
“Right. Well, thanks for helping.”
His father nods rapidly. Jay has never seen him do that. “Of course.” He crosses the distance separating them in a few steps, and places a heavy hand on his son’s shoulder. “Take care, Jay.”
Tears prick at the back of Jay’s eyes, but he is used to not letting it show. “I will. You too, dad.”
His father looks at him then, and again in his eyes there is a glint of something unfamiliar to Jay. He can’t figure out what it means, or maybe he doesn’t want to. “Alright. See you around,” he says, like his son is an acquaintance he might or might not meet again.
Jay’s feet stay planted on the pavement as he watches his dad walk back to his own car a few meters down and drive away, thinking, Isn’t he the one who should be watching me go away?
He’s on his way now, and it might just be due to the speed of his car, but his heart feels light. He left Seoul for the first time five years ago, and he is leaving again today. The city he loved so dearly his entire childhood and adolescence is now full of reminders of things he’d rather leave behind. Despite its impressive size, he feels as though something is out to get him at every street corner. Here is the tteokbokki and sundae restaurant at which he always used to eat with the middle school friends he hasn’t contacted in years; here is the bus stop at which he’d wait after every hospital visit to his mother; here is the fountain at which the two of you agreed to meet for your first date.
It’s a very spontaneous, borderline irrational decision that Jay’s made, but he can’t handle living in Seoul anymore. Not just the constant whiplash from memories he’s been experiencing lately, but everything that comes with city-living has been getting on his nerves. The relentless honking, the crowded streets and public transport at every hour of the day, the god-awful odors wafting from the sewers, the list could go on and on. He used to be indifferent to it all; now he wants nothing more to escape it.
This will be his second time ever in Sojuk-ri. The first time was just over six months ago, when his mother asked him to take her there. They’d driven there and back in the same day because her cancer had already reached a stage that meant she couldn’t leave the hospital for too long. The doctors had only agreed to let go because having reached that stage also meant that it wouldn't make such a difference.
He doesn’t have much of a plan. The idea of owning his own café has been in the works for a few years now, ever since he moved to Paris, really, but it wasn’t meant to happen so soon, and it certainly wasn’t meant to happen in a town he barely knew. There might not even be a proper unit for a café in Sojuk-ri, and he’ll have to look around other villages. He’s already got five visits lined up with a real estate agent tomorrow morning. But maybe that’s why it feels so right—he can’t stress over the details if he hasn’t thought about them extensively.
The few friends he has left in Seoul tried to reason with him. You don’t know anyone there, you don’t know if they’re the kind of people who’d visit a café. Everything you want to do, you can do here, and it’ll be easier and more stable. But he feels like he can’t breathe in the city. Maybe he’s running away. And so what if he is? Cliché as it may sound, he likes to think he’s running towards his future rather than away from his past. Clichés exist for a reason. Jay finds comfort in them sometimes, like so many people have had this experience before him, and he isn’t alone. Or worse, weird.
The brightness of the clouds is blinding through the windshield. Jay has a good feeling about this.
.
.
“Two tofu bibimbaps and one kimchi stew!”
“Got it,” you say, taking the handwritten kitchen order ticket from Yeonju’s hands and clipping it above the stove. She usually walks right back into the front of house, but you feel her lingering at the doorway, her gaze heavy on the back of your head. “What?” You’re usually one to mind your manners, but manning a kitchen alone during rush hour is reason enough to let politeness slip slightly.
“They’re not happy about the all-vegetarian menu.”
“Who’s they?”
“Everyone, Y/N! I’ve been asked four times why there’s no pork in the kimchi stew.”
It’s a good thing you’re not facing her—if your sister-in-law-slash-waitress saw the smile on your lips, the knife resting on the counter might be used to cut something other than carrots.
“That’s what they get for getting so drunk and breaking a chair last week.”
“That was just that one group of old men. I already told off Mr. Kim and Mr. Choi when they came in yesterday. You’re punishing our entire clientele for five stupid drunkards.”
You stir the soup base, pretending to ponder her words. “Let them think of it as a group project. If one party does poorly, everyone’s grade goes down.”
She groans. “Is that how I’m supposed to explain it to our customers? This isn’t Seoul. The people here need their meat. Actually, I’m not even sure this would fly in Seoul.”
“Sounds like their problem,” you say, shrugging. Yeonju groans again but finally walks back out.
From her seat on an overturned crate at the other side of the kitchen, cooling herself down with a paper fan, your grandmother chuckles and you exchange smiles. “You tell ‘em, honey. Back in the day, I’d ban them for a month if they got too rowdy. This is more fun.”
You sigh. “I’m just tired of this happening. No matter how often we tell them this isn’t a drinking place, there’ll be people going overboard once every few weeks. The bar is just a few doors down, I don’t know why it’s so hard to go there after eating.”
“Mmh.” You glance at your grandmother. Her eyes are closed, and that unsettling serenity has made its way back to her features. You’ve lost her, it seems. But that doesn’t keep you from rambling away.
“I guess we could stop selling soju altogether, but that would make us lose a pretty significant part of our revenue. And after work, Yeonju and I would have to actually go to the convenience store to buy it instead of grabbing it from the fridge here, so that’s out of the question. Have you ever seen Mrs. Kang’s face when you buy alcohol from her? She looks at you like a criminal as if she isn’t the one selling it. She’d be an awful drug dealer. Anyways, I’m glad there isn’t anyone here handing out drugs. Not that I know of, at least.”
Your grandmother’s smile stretches ever-so-slightly, so you take it she might be listening after all.
“I also thought we could close a little earlier. No one comes in at nine thirty to eat. Rush happens at what, six, seven p.m.? If we closed around nine rather than ten, Yeonju and I would have more free time and it wouldn’t make a big difference financially. How does that sound, Grandma?”
Yeonju walks in at that time, empty dishes stacked on her arms. “That’s a good idea, actually,” she says. “Your brother has been saying he wishes I was around more.” For some reason, she thinks it’s funny to punctuate her words with a suggestive wiggle of her eyebrows.
“Gross. Can you not refer to him as my brother when you’re talking about your sex life, please?”
“We’ve been married two years. You’ll have to get used to it at some point.”
“I won’t be used to it even when you’re celebrating your twentieth anniversary.”
“I’m glad you have that much faith in us,” she says, grabbing side dishes from the fridge and walking back out into the front of house. You wait for her to be gone to chuckle so she can’t hear that her joke made you laugh.
Today’s lunch rush ends earlier than usual, probably due to a smaller amount of customers. Fine, you’ll put meat back on the menu. Starting tomorrow. They can suffer a little longer.
After cleaning the kitchen and taking count of your stock, you close up store. The three of you walk the short way back to your family’s house, your grandmother in the middle, you and Yeonju flanked on her sides, each holding one of her arms. Your legs ache, and you’re immensely grateful for the few hours of rest ahead of you.
Once in a while, it happens that when you reach your bedroom, you feel inexplicably pulled to your bookshelf. There, you take out a familiar novel, and let it open naturally onto the page bookmarked by a picture, its edges frayed and worn with time. You don’t know how long you stand there, staring at the two happy faces immortalized by one of your friends’ phone camera, a sad smile on your lips. With your thumb, you trace the outline of the man standing by your side, a beer in his hand, his other arm around your waist, rosy cheeks visible even in the dimness of the room.
In the silence of your own room, you whisper, “How are you now?”
.
.
It happens in the blink of an eye.
Chef Lee, today’s mentor, has already started her presentation. No time to lose here—no ice-breakers or long welcome speech or going around the classroom introducing themselves one by one. Lee gave two introductory sentences and went straight into the first lesson of the year, a basic overview of the different cuts they’ll have to master for every dish. Everyone is giving their undivided attention. If it wasn’t for Chef Lee's monotonous drawl, a pin could be heard in the large, white room. That is, until the door suddenly opens and you barge in, out-of-breath like you were just running, eyes wide, not unlike those of a deer caught in headlights, Jay thinks.
You’re unbelievably pretty.
But you’re also late, and judging by the look on Chef Lee’s face, that is a barely tolerable offense.
“And who are you?” she says.
“I’m Y/L/N Y/N, Chef. I’m so sorry for being late, I got lost in the subway.”
A few snickers are heard around the room, undoubtedly a reaction to your countryside dialect—based on the conversations he had with his new classmates before Chef Lee arrived, Jay gathered that most people here were from Seoul. Thankfully, their teacher seems to feel the same way about mockery as tardiness, and gives the culprits a harsh glare.
“Please familiarise yourself with Seoul’s public transport as soon as you can, Miss Y/L/N,” Lee says, clearly already bored with this interaction. “You might find that it will come in handy.”
“Yes, Chef,” you say in a quiet voice and head to the nearest — and only — available station. Jay isn’t aware he is still staring at you until your eyes meet. From across the room, you smile at him, and it sends his heart into a frenzy.
Until this exact moment, he was readying himself to spend a year in a cutthroat, competitive environment. And he still is—but he thinks he’s found something that’ll keep him going.
.
.
Jay looks around the bleak room. It clearly hasn’t welcomed a human being in a while now. Yellowing paperbacks fill dusty bookshelves, the ones that have fallen to the floor open at random pages. He’s been told that since the sudden passing of the previous owner, no one has come to clean the place up—he’d been a widow for years already, and his two children lived abroad. Ignoring the real estate agent’s worried glances, Jay picks one up and brushes the dust off. He’s hoping for serendipitous words, confirmation that he’s doing the right thing, some good omen—anything will do.
The book is in Russian. Jay does not know Russian. He’s not sure what kind of sign this is supposed to be, and so puts the book back down and resumes his tour of the room.
“I know it’s not in great shape right now,” the agent says as Jay inspects the tubes of unknown function that run up one of the walls between two old bookshelves. This place seems to be all bookshelves. “But I promise it’s all just clutter. One good sweep, and it’ll look good as new,” he adds with an unconvincing chuckle.
Jay walks to the one window that isn’t hidden behind a piece of furniture. The room is dark now, but with some rearranging, it could become very lively. Warm, golden sunlight filters through the white-paneled window, making visible the dust that floats in the air. He’d appreciate its beauty more if it wasn’t making the agent sneeze so much.
At the back of this main room, an archway leads to a kitchen. Some tiles on the floor and on the walls are broken, and the oven looks like something Jay’s great-grandmother would’ve owned. There’s an awkward empty spot where the fridge should be, mold staining the ceiling, no corner that hasn’t been claimed by spiders and cobwebs. Jay wonders whether this room even has access to running water and electricity. Its only real attribute is its size, spacious enough to hold a few more kitchen appliances and for two or three people to work in.
“I’ll take it,” he announces.
“Really?” the agent exclaims, eyes almost bulging out of their sockets. But he remembers his job here, and quickly regains his composure. “I mean, that’s fantastic to hear, Mr. Park. Did you want to see the apartment upstairs?”
Jay smiles genuinely for the first time today and acquiesces.
The stairs lead directly from the kitchen into a one-bedroom apartment that’s about as rundown as the rest of the place. Fully furnished, too, although Jay suspects he’ll have to change out the sofa and the bed frame that look about a century old.
“I told you this one was a bit of a fixer-upper,” the agent says, eyeing Jay nervously as if he might suddenly go back on his words.
The young man bites back a laugh—talk about a euphemism. He doubted that in its current state, this place was at all inhabitable. But he didn’t mind, it meant he could truly redo it to his whimsy. “That’s alright,” he reassures the agent. “Do I sign the papers now?”
A few minutes later, the two men stand outside, shaking hands. “Pleasure to have done business with you, Mr. Park.” Jay wonders if the relief on his face has anything to do with the fact that this sale comes after seven unsuccessful visits. What can he say? He has standards.
“Call me Jay, please. We’ll be neighbors, after all,” he says, nodding his head to the real estate agency a few storefronts down the street.
“Right,” the agent says, smiling. “I’ll see you around, then, Jay. Let me know if you need help with the renovations, I know a guy.” Checking his watch, he adds, “Oh, and since it’s lunchtime, I highly recommend you try this restaurant right here. The true gem of our small town. The best japchae you’ll eat in your life.”
The mere mention of the dish tugs at Jay’s heartstrings, and a smile that only he understands the meaning of appears on his lips. He doesn’t say, I doubt that. Instead, he says, “Thank you. I’ll try it out.”
With a last nod of his head, the agent heads back to his office. Jay turns to the restaurant, and upon seeing its name in big, red LED letters — either turned off during the day, or broken — has to squash his hopes down. A restaurant called Kim’s Kitchen that serves japchae in a small seaside town, what are the odds? But the Korean coastline runs for thousands of kilometers, Kim is the most common name in the country, and japchae is practically the national dish.
The smell of soy sauce, sizzling meat and burnt sugar hit his nose as soon as he walks into the tiny, homey place, as well as the cheerful noises of businessmen off on their lunch break, clinking glasses of beer and soju at 12:30 p.m.. Lucky for him, there’s one spare table in the corner, where he sits and waits for someone to notice him. It only takes a minute for a woman to approach him, black hair tied in a low ponytail — just like you used to wear, he thinks despite himself — and white stained apron over a pink t-shirt. She smiles at him in that polite but tired way that restaurateurs have about them before wiping his table and setting down cutlery and a plastic jug of water.
“You’re a new face,” she says matter-of-factly.
Jay’s eyebrows shoot up. Does she usually recognize every face that walks through here? “I am, yes.”
“But you’re not a tourist.” She speaks in such a strong dialect that Jay wonders, perhaps naively, whether she’s exaggerating it. The chatter at the tables around him has dwindled down, other clients shamelessly eavesdropping on their conversation and staring at him.
He clears his throat, a blush creeping up his neck. “Um, I’m not, no.” His words hang in the air for a few unbearable seconds during which he debates adding more—that he’s just bought the old bookstore across the street, that he plans to turn it into a café, that he is staying at the only Airbnb in town that remains available after summer. But he stays silent, and the waitress smiles again, more sincerely this time.
“Well, welcome to Sojuk-ri,” she says. The chatter picks back up; he must have been deemed not interesting enough by the curious eyes and ears around him. “And welcome to Kim’s Kitchen. We always serve japchae and bibimbap with beef or with the seafood catch of the morning. This week’s specialty is abalone porridge, because my husband got sick, again, and we thought we might as well make some for everyone,” she says, sighing. “Our side dishes today are cucumber kimchi, soybean sprouts and steamed eggs.”
“Could I get one serving of japchae and one of porridge, please?”
“Coming right up.”
As she walks away, Jay goes to retrieve his phone from his coat pocket. “One japchae and one porridge, Y/N,” he hears the waitress shout in the direction of the kitchen, and he freezes.
“On it,” a voice shouts back. The wind is knocked out of him.
To hear your voice again after five years is like waking up and realizing that the terrible nightmare he was having was just that—a terrible nightmare.
He whips his head up in the direction of your voice, although he’s not sure he could handle the sight of you right now. Knowing you were in the next room, breathing the same air, hearing the same sounds, was already a lot. Too much, even. He has half a mind to slip his coat back on and feel the harsh September wind on his face, but his brain and his legs seem to have stopped cooperating. His feet stay planted on the ground as if glued there. The noise in the restaurant has faded away. All he can hear is his deafening heartbeat.
There’s a screen made of thin wooden slats that hides the kitchen from view. He catches a glimpse of someone — you? — wearing blue jeans and the same apron as the waitress when she steps into the kitchen. What would you do if you saw him?
Scratch that, Jay thinks. What will you do when you see him, your new neighbor, your old friend?
The only way to escape this now is to annul the contract he signed five minutes ago and to flee Sojuk-ri, never to come back again.
Jay’s mind goes through every possible outcome as he waits for his meal. He could march up to you and demand an explanation. He could march up to you, fall to his knees, wrap his arms around your hips, and cry. He could pretend not to have seen you. He could pretend he’s forgotten all about you. He could tell you not a single day has passed without you haunting his thoughts. He could ask if you still think things really are better off this way. He could ask if you, too, have not had a moment’s peace since you last saw each other.
The waitress walks back out, holding a tray full of steaming food, and he gets another glorious glimpse of you. Because it really is you—your hair falling in a braid down your back, something he’s never seen before, holding up a spoon to your lips, your left hand ready to catch any drop that might fall.
Do you regret it?
Jay stares at the screen in front of him as the waitress sets down his plate and bowl, lightly saying, “Enjoy.”
Tears prick at his eyes as he chews on the glass noodles. If he wasn’t one hundred percent sure that it was you behind that screen before, he is now.
The agent was right—today and five years ago, it really is the best japchae he’s ever had.
.
.
Tears muddle your vision as you pack your belongings—well, “packing” is a pretty word for something that looks more like frantically stuffing things into your one large suitcase, backpack and tote bag. In September, you’d sulked at your family for not driving you up to Seoul; now, you’re grateful there were only so many things you could bring on the train with you.
Just yesterday, you were laughing and eating delicious jjajjangmyeon, tangsuyuk and fried pork dumplings at a Korean-Chinese restaurant with your friends and boyfriend. There were many things to be happy about—the end of your mock exams, Jay’s upcoming birthday, Jaemin finally getting a text back from the girl he had a crush on in high school, the nearing results for the numerous internships and stages your school offers worldwide.
You think of the concentration on Sumin’s face (and the annoyance on everyone else’s) as she takes precise photos of your food for her Instagram account, claiming the camera eats first; of the dramatic expressions and sounds Jake makes whenever he bites into something he likes; of Jaemin’s voice, louder than everyone else, as you sing Happy Birthday to Jay, joined by all the other restaurant-goers and the waiters who bring out pandan cake, two candles forming the number 20 alight.
You think of Jay’s hand squeezing yours under the table, of all the not-so-discreet glances throughout dinner, of the food he places on your plate instead of focusing on his, of the silent but comfortable walk back home in the chilly April weather, his jacket on your shoulders.
All it took was one frantic phone call for it to feel like a lifetime ago. Your mother’s words on the other side of your cell (“Your grandma fell— She’s in the hospital now— The doctors can’t tell us when she’ll wake up”) created a gap between the life you led up until 7 am this morning and the life you lead now. The girl who imagined travelling the world to visit her friends at their high-end, starred workplaces sometime in the near future isn’t the same girl drafting an email to her school to inform them she’s dropping out of the course and therefore withdrawing her application for a stage in one of the most reputed fine-dining restaurants in Paris, and therefore, in the whole world. The girl who watched her boyfriend blow his candles last night and thought, “This is the first of many birthdays we’ll be celebrating together,” isn’t the same girl bursting into tears at the sight of a hoodie he purposefully left on her bed for her to cuddle on the rare nights they spent apart. Now, she has to deal with the heartbreak of wondering whether it’s better to take it with her as a keepsake or to give it back to its rightful owner.
If your entire life wasn’t being heaved upside-down, you’d perhaps feel some pride at how efficiently you’ve managed your departure, all things considered. In just a few hours, aside from emailing your school, you’ve talked to your landlady, telling her you’ll pay your rent for as long as you’re legally obliged, giving her Sumin’s number to arrange a time to go over inventory and the state of the apartment—you’re still procrastinating calling Sumin to explain everything to her, but you know she’ll agree to help. You’ve cleared out your fridge and cupboards, preparing yourself a couple of snacks for the journey home, giving the rest to the nice lady in the apartment across from yours who once told you having a culinary student “as generous as you” as her neighbor was the best thing that’s happened to her in recent years. She’s one of the many people you feel impossibly sad leaving behind, but you have no choice. Your decision was taken rapidly, more reflex than thought. Your brother called shortly after your mother this morning, letting you know he and his fiancée would move back home from Busan in a few weeks if it turned out to be necessary.
You’ve even remembered to change the reservation at a fancy restaurant in Seoul for Jay’s birthday from a party of two people to four—he’ll celebrate with Sumin, Jake and Jaemin rather than with you. Another thing you hope Sumin will agree to take care of in your stead.
Perhaps the hardest part will be telling Jay. You have to, if only because there are things in his apartment you need to collect—although, truth be told, it’s not like your life depends on having any of them. But even if you’re leaving in a rush, you can’t not see him before leaving at all, it’s just the idea of sitting him down and letting him know what’s going on is too much. So, once you’re done here, you’ll head over to his, pick up everything you need, get him up to speed in a couple of sentences, and leave. You won’t kiss him, or hug him, or even look at him, because if you do, there’s a high chance you won’t be able to leave at all.
You can’t think about what you’re doing right now. You can only do, do, do. You’ll take the time to think once the damage is done, once you’ve hit that no-return point that leaves you with no possibility to fix changes, only regret.
Because you know part of you has been regretting this since you’ve decided to do it. Part of you pictures being back home, taking care of your grandmother, running her restaurant, daydreaming of Paris and sleek kitchens and Michelin stars and all the people you left behind.
Of the one person you left behind.
.
.
Nothing should come as naturally to a grown adult as breathing. And yet, as Jay stands outside your restaurant the next day, he can hardly remember how it goes. Inhale, exhale. With a trembling hand, he opens the door. A bell resounds through the empty room. We’re not open yet! a voice, yours, calls from the kitchen. Inhale, exhale.
The screen is drawn back. He has no time to steady himself as you appear in the doorway, beautiful as ever. Your mouth opens, your eyes widen. What was it again? Right. Inhale, exhale, but his breathing is unstable, embarrassingly shaky.
He can’t breathe and think and talk at the same time. So he stands there, barely breathing.
“Jay?”
You look like you’ve seen a ghost. Maybe he is, to you.
But you also look as unbelievably beautiful as you always have. You look just as you do in Jay’s memories of you, and yet entirely different. Five years aren’t quite enough to say you’ve aged, but there is still something new in your features, something Jay only notices because he wasn’t there to witness the years gradually leave their mark on your face. Seeing you like this is a brutal reminder of the time since he last saw you, five years, four months and nine days to be exact. Three days before his twentieth birthday.
Yesterday, he fled before you could notice him scarfing down the food he’d ordered. Something about the blend of spices, the chewiness of the noodles, the crunch of the vegetables—it was all so distinctly you. Jay is usually one to savour every bite of his food, but in that moment, he felt like a starved man. He ate quickly and on the table left two ten-thousand won bills that more than covered for his meal.
Walking into the restaurant again, he knows what to expect. You, on the other hand… You’re surprised, that much is clear. Jay is scared to find out whether he’s a good or bad surprise.
“Hi,” he says, but his voice comes out strangled. He clears his throat and tries again. “Hi.”
“Hi,” you reply. Neither of you speaks for a few moments. It’s not until your gaze drops to the glass Tupperware in his hands that he remembers what he came here for—or rather, what his excuse is for coming here.
“I, uh, I’m moving into the old bookstore across the street. I’m going around giving rice cakes to, you know, introduce myself to the neighborhood, so, yeah, here…” Step by step, he bridges the distance between the two of you until he’s close enough to hand you the Tupperware. When you take it from him, you look down at it and scratch your ear like you’ve never seen rice cakes in your life, while he lets his arms hang limply by his side, too painfully aware of himself, of you, of your shared surroundings.
“Thanks,” you simply say, staring some more at the container before setting it down on the table next to you. You finally look at him again, and the confusion on your face is clear, but there’s a lingering sadness there that Jay feels deep in his bones. You haven’t gotten any better at hiding your emotions, he notices. “The old bookstore, you said?”
Jay amazes himself with the steadiness of his voice and his ability to keep his knees from buckling. This is a normal conversation between two people, he has to remind himself continuously, just a normal conversation. Although it doesn’t really help—standing in front of you after all this time, he feels like a tearful reunion or grand declaration of feelings should be occurring, not a normal, almost banal conversation.
“Yeah. I’m turning it into a café,” he says.
Slowly, a smile makes its way across your lips, and he almost melts into a puddle right then and there. “A café?” you repeat. “That’s surprising.”
He mirrors your smile to the best of abilities. “I fell in love with scones in London. No turning back since then…”
Your eyebrows shoot up. “You were in London?”
For a moment, Jay forgot that he lives in a world where you aren’t aware of something as crucial as his place of residence for the past two years.
“Yeah. After Paris,” he explains, unable to hide the guilt in his voice, especially as the gray cloud of a bad memory passes through your eyes.
You nod, and he thinks that’s the end of that. But then, you ask, “Did you see the Queen?”
“Oh, of course,” he says after a pause—he’d needed a second to realize you were joking with him. As if you were friends on good terms. As if being in the same room after five years of distance and no-contact was normal. “I was on a first-name basis with all the Buckingham Palace residents.”
You scrunch your nose, your way of biting back a smile at a stupid joke. Jay is thrown back to a time when the two of you barely knew each other, and you still hadn’t admitted to yourself — or to anyone, for that matter — that you found him funny.
“How cool.”
“I know,” he says, smiling too widely.
You nod to the tupperware, filled to the brim with square rice cakes. “Can I have one of those?” you ask, as if only now that the ice has been somewhat broken, you could eat food made from his hands.
“Of course, they’re all yours,” he replies immediately. “I sprinkled powdered sugar, cinnamon and crushed hazelnuts on top.”
“Of course you did.”
Jay is vaguely aware that it is odd to be staring at someone this intensely, but he can’t help himself. His heart beats uncontrollably as he stands a few feet away from you, watching as you take a bite into the rice cake and smile. Your expression turns flustered when you notice his staring, and he remembers himself enough to take a step back and focus his gaze on something else.
“Jay?”
There’s white sugar at the corner of your lips. He discards the thought that he could wipe it away with his thumb.
“How come you’re not surprised to see me?”
His gaze snaps from your lips to your eyes. All of a sudden, they’re glossy, your eyebrows furrowed. Jay isn’t sure what he’d do if you started crying. Cry too, probably.
“I mean, you walked in here like it’s just another day. I don’t remember ever telling you I was from here. Did you-”
“I didn’t know. I ate here yesterday and saw you, but before that, I had no idea.” He wants to reach out to you, feel the warmth of your hands against his. He wants to tell you that he always knew the universe would find a way to bring you back to him. Instead, he says, “Crazy coincidence, right?”
You take a deep breath, processing his words. “Yeah, crazy coincidence,” you say in a tone that Jay can’t quite decipher, something he’s not used to when it comes to you.
There’s a small silence, unspoken words hanging heavy in the air, weighing down Jay’s tongue in his mouth. In the kitchen, a timer goes off. Your head swivels in its direction. “I should probably…” you start, but don’t move. Jay gets the message nonetheless.
“Right. Yeah, of course. I won’t keep you any longer. Hope you like the rice cakes.”
“Thanks.”
His hand is on the door handle when you call out his name, sending electricity down his spine. He turns around with embarrassing haste.
“Come have your meals here when you’re working on your café. You always used to skip them when you were focused on something… I don’t know if you still do, but the offer is there.”
Jay smiles. “Okay,” he says.
.
.
“You’re still here?”
Your voice makes Jay jump. He’s been alone for at least three hours now, and with the sun having set, the classroom is plunged in darkness, save for the streetlights outside and the bright lamp above his prep station. When he turns around, you’re walking towards him, and he can just make out a mix of surprise and amusement in your smile as you step into the light. There’s some concern, there, too, he’d like to think.
“I am. And you’re sneaking up on someone holding a very sharp knife.”
You reach his prep station, rest your lower back against the counter. “I’ve seen your chopping skills, Park. I’m not afraid of you.”
Playfully, he rolls his eyes. Is it just him, or have those jabs you like to throw at each other started to feel less sharp, less rough around the edges lately? Like a dull knife, “a knife that’s been loved too much,” his mother always used to say. You still use it because it’s familiar, but it’s not as efficient anymore.
“I’m not the one who showed up to a cooking course not knowing what a julienne was.”
“Yes, but that’s because you’re the one with a world-renowned chef for a dad.”
Jay tilts his head, taking the hit. “Well, dad is a generous term for that man.” Immediately, he wishes he could take back his words. Not only have the two of you never delved into any sort of personal matter, you’re not nearly close enough to do so—and he’s afraid you’ll think him ungrateful for the life he’s had, like he always is whenever he mentions his dissatisfaction with his dad to someone. He watches as you look down at your hands and tug at your sleeves. His stomach flips with embarrassment. He’s said the wrong thing, and now that you were finally starting to relax around each other, he’s gone and made things weird.
But then, you look at him, that mischievous glint still in your eyes, and ask, “Do you really want to get into your daddy issues right now? Nine p.m. on a random Tuesday?”
His shoulders sag with relief. He lets out a breathy chuckle, saying, “No, better not. What are you doing here, anyway?”
You wave a notebook at him. It’s simple, with metal spirals holding the pages together and a transparent plastic cover. “I wanted to go over some recipes at home and realized I left this precious thing here. What about you?”
“Also going over some recipes. It’s not going swimmingly, as you can see,” he replies with a sigh, gesturing at the mess of pots on the stove, of diced vegetables on the cutting board, of spoons and chopsticks and knives strewn around the station. It’s not like him to be so disorganized, and judging by the astonishment on your face, you know this. “I’ve been here since the end of class, and I still can’t get this sauce just right.”
You furrow your eyebrows. Jay waits for it—a teasing comment, a snide remark, if you’re feeling particularly mean. Something about how easy today’s lesson was, how this is something he should’ve mastered in no time. But the hatch never drops.
To Jay’s absolute bewilderment, “Have you even eaten?” are the words that come out of your mouth. He’s even more surprised to find that he indeed has not eaten yet. When he tells you this, you click your tongue and shake your head. Is he being… scolded?
“That’s not reasonable, Jay,” you say, and it takes him a few seconds to be fully sure you’re genuine and not playing an elaborate, ultra-convincing trick on him. You grab a spoon, dip its underside into the sauce Jay has been breaking his back over the entire evening and bring it to your mouth. “Plus, your sauce tastes just fine.” You sound irritated. It only confuses Jay further.
“Just fine is not exactly what I’m going for, here.”
“Just fine will have to do for now,” you say with a tone that lets him know this is where the conversation ends. “Come on, let’s clean this up and go eat something.”
Jay has a feeling you don’t often run into people that don’t listen to you, and he decides he doesn’t want to be the first. So, quietly, he gets to washing dishes as you pack away his many tries at this stupid doenjang. He tells you to put them in the communal fridge or take them home to yourself—if he can go the rest of his life without having to look at another soybean, he’ll be happy.
“That might be a bit tricky if you plan to go into Korean cuisine,” you point out.
“Let a man dream, Y/N.”
This is how Jay finds himself under a red tent thirty minutes later, tipping back soju and munching on stir-fried anchovies with peanuts and crispy, burning-hot scallion pancakes that coat his fingers with oil. He hadn’t realized how hungry he was until he looked at the empty plates in front him and found himself ready for more.
“We go to one of the best culinary schools in Seoul, a city in which fine-dining options abound, and you bring me to a pojangmacha,” he states matter-of-factly, looking around at the people around him, all varying amounts of drunk, at the old lady wearing a plastic mask and frying all kinds of finger foods that go perfectly with alcohol.
“Seoul has nothing more delicious to offer than its street food.”
Jay tilts his head in agreement, raising his glass to yours. “Can’t argue with that,” he says, and the sound of your glasses clinking gets a smile out of you.
A few beats of silence pass. Surprisingly comfortable silence, Jay thinks as he watches you watch the passers-by. You suddenly turn to face him, and he picks up the bottle of soju, pouring the both of you a drink, pretending he wasn’t staring at you just seconds ago. “So, what was that thing about your dad earlier?” you ask unceremoniously.
The question should take him aback more than it does, but perhaps the shared bottle of alcohol has already worked its magic between the two of you—Jay doesn’t feel like it’s an inappropriate topic to broach with someone he’s only previously spoken about food and overly strict chefs with. “So you do want to get into my daddy issues on a random Tuesday at nine p.m.,” he jokes.
“Well, it’s more like ten p.m. now, so I think we’re good.”
He chuckles. “Alright. Well, how do I go about this without sounding like the most clichéd poor little rich boy ever? I had everything but a father. The man you see on TV, barking orders at his kitchen staff and criticizing the cooking show contestants like their food isn’t worth a dime, that’s basically the same man I had at home. Except most of the time he wasn’t even paying enough attention to have something to yell at me for. I could’ve been flunking half of my classes, and he would’ve been none the wiser.”
“Gosh. That… sucks,” you say, looking genuinely distraught. “I always thought he was playing it up for the cameras.”
Jay watches the clear alcohol swish around his glass. “His father was an army general and he himself was a cook in the army for a decade. It wasn’t an act at all,” he says, then drinks the soju. It burns on its way down. “It was okay at first. It was even good, sometimes. He wasn’t always there emotionally, and he spent a lot of time at work, but we didn’t argue every time we talked. But my mom wanted a divorce, she didn’t like being the wife of a celebrity chef, she didn’t care about the big house, and the fancy restaurants, and the articles in the magazines. When she left him, she said, “I fell in love with you for your kimchi stew. Now you charge hundreds of thousands of won for two scallops.” He was even more distant after that, to say the least.”
He pauses there, letting silence hang in the air between the two of you. You pour the last of the soju in Jay’s glass, then ask the owner for another bottle and another scallion pancake. “Go on,” you say, gently. Jay wonders for a second if he deserves your listening ear—but if you’re happy to extend it, he might as well take it. Getting it all out feels surprisingly good. Refreshing.
“Well, the weeks at my mom’s new apartment were great. We’d cook together, go out to museums, watch movies. I could talk about anything with her, even the embarrassing stuff. She felt like a friend as much as a mother. But my father… mostly, he wasn’t there. I couldn’t go to him. He was always at work, always off somewhere more important, he didn’t even show up to my high school graduation. The only times he would pay attention to me was when I cooked. I would stay up preparing banchan, fermenting kimchi, making pastes from scratch. He’d come home late in the evening, join me in the kitchen and teach me tricks. All without a word. I think it was the only way he knew how to show care. I’ve talked about this with my mom at length… I think he’s been taught that showing vulnerability means being weak.” He glances at you, your eyes wide open as if you used them to listen rather than your ears, your eyebrows furrowed in empathy. “I told you this was cliché.”
You smile. Something warm spreads in Jay’s chest—it’s the soju getting to him, surely. He continues before you can say something nice and make him lose his footing. “I desperately wanted to make him proud. I knew he wouldn’t bat an eye if I brought home the best grades or became the captain of some sports team. So I dedicated myself to cooking. And now, I love it, I really do…”
“But part of that is because you want him to notice you.”
Your eyes meet. The woman running the stand approaches then, setting down your soju and pancake on the table. “Does that make me a fraud?” Jay asks when she’s gone. It’s the first time he’s uttered the question out loud. He hopes it comes out casually, consciously self-deprecating, and not like something he’s been terrified of since the course started.
You frown. “Of course not. We all have different reasons for cooking. Yours is just as valid as anyone else’s.”
Jay likes how seriously you take him. Between those who think his connections got him into the school and those who suck up to him, thinking it’ll get them a spot at one of his dad’s restaurants, not many of his classmates treat him as an equal, pure and simple. But you do. You’ve always been as snarky towards him as towards the rest of them, and you don’t question his presence in the classroom.
For a second, he dares hope he’s found a friend in you.
“What about you? What’s your reason for cooking?”
An introspective smile spreads on your lips as you ponder his question. “I want to make better japchae than my grandma.”
When Jay presses, you tell him about your hometown and Kim’s Kitchen, your grandma’s restaurant, the simple but hearty food that people keep coming back for. “It’s delicious, but I want to learn other techniques. Make more sophisticated meals. She says I think I’m a big-shot now that I’ve moved to Seoul and spend hours cutting carrots into identical strips. But I like it here, it’s so different to anything I’ve ever known. Sure, the chefs are on our asses about the smallest details, and everyone is simultaneously friend and foe, but outside of school, nobody cares about you. No eyes following your every movement, no gossip spreading from door to door. Living in a small town is like being trapped in middle school forever.”
He asks what the name of your town is, but you dismiss him easily. “The chances of you knowing it are slim, and the chances of you ever hearing of it in the future are even slimmer.”
Jay grew up without the affection of his father; you grew up with the unwanted attention of every adult around you. Somehow, it led you to the same point in life. Early twenties, an obsessive love of cooking, and a need to leave your past behind.
Soon after that, as Tuesday tips into Wednesday, you decide it’s time to go. Jay tries to pay, but you insist otherwise. “You’ll get it next time,” you say.
The soju has stained his cheeks red, has warmed him up enough to not feel the cold November air biting at his skin. You’re clearly a better drinker than he is, helping him into a cab and deciphering his address as his speech comes out mumbled. He’ll regret ordering that third bottle in the morning.
Next time. Looking out the window at the rapidly passing buildings and people and street lights, Jay turns the words around in his head. He decides he likes the sound of them.
.
.
Indifferent to whether someone’s leaving or arriving, the bells of your restaurant’s door chime when Jay walks out, just as they did when he walked in. They continue to ring for a little bit, the emptiness of the restaurant amplifying the sound. It’s all you can do to stand there, your brain valiantly trying to wrap itself around what just happened and failing.
The only proof that less than ten seconds ago, like an apparition, Jay stood in front of you, is the remaining glass Tupperware, filled to the brim with rice cakes and light brown toppings, your mouth already anticipating their softness and sweetness.
Soft and sweet. Those adjectives would describe something else you know.
Your brain is truly failing to understand how he could not only appear, but also leave again so suddenly. In and out within five minutes. And what had you done—invited him to eat here? You try to recall the short conversation, but every word spoken and heard is blurry, mumbled; a momentary black-out. His presence in Kim’s Kitchen was so nonsensical that nothing seemed appropriate to say. Maybe he has completely grown out of his habit to skip meals when he works, maybe the overwhelming smell and thought of food doesn’t cut his appetite anymore, and you wouldn’t have to coax him out of the kitchens or bring dinner to him when he perfects recipes. But you had to say something, anything to ensure you would see him again, as though you haven’t become literal neighbors, and as you walk back to your kitchen, you realize that you had buried the ache of missing him deep into the marrow of your bones.
Deep enough to ignore, deep enough that it never went away.
Your knees suddenly buckle underneath you and you drop to a crouch. An unexpected, gasp-like sob escapes your throat. You cover your mouth with your hand, but it’s too late—the dam has broken. Holding onto the handle of the oven like it’s your only tether to this world, more sobs keep pouring out of you, and you do nothing to force them down. You need to get it out somehow, the shock of seeing him, here, of all places. The shock of your present and your past colliding, bleeding into one another like you have been desperately trying to prevent for years. The shock of your heart giving in so easily at the mere sight of him.
Except it wasn't just the mere sight of him, was it? It was his voice, still gentle, still carrying that lilt of amusement. His scent, the same woody perfume, masculine but not overbearingly so. The kindness, painfully obvious in his eyes and in his gestures: of course Jay would move in somewhere and proceed to deliver homemade rice cakes to everyone in the neighborhood.
He was close enough to touch. Just a few steps, and you could’ve—what, exactly? Wrapped your arms around him, buried your face in his neck, as you once loved to do, kissed him? It’s ridiculous. Eight months of knowing each other, six of those spent dating; you hadn’t even spent a whole year together. And yet, here you are, half a decade later, mind still branded by a hot iron with every memory you have of him.
You’ve never cried so pathetically. Even when you left Seoul and everything you had built there behind, you barely let yourself cry—a few silent tears on the train back, and that was it. No time to wallow, you had a grandma to take care of and a restaurant to run. Seeing Jay today feels like mourning your relationship, five years after its untimely death. You knew you wouldn’t have been able to do everything that needed to be done while feeling this kind of pain, but you also know that feeling it all at once like this is impossibly worse.
You don’t know how long you stay there, crouched low, tears drenching your palms, shoulders trembling. But at some point, a pair of arms wrap themselves around you, and the familiar scent of rose water and medicine envelops you. Your grandmother. It’s not every day that she has the strength to come help you out at the restaurant, and the fact that you’re in such a state now that she’s here only makes you feel worse. In her arms, you feel like a kid again, crying over a dead goldfish or a mean comment on the school playground as she strokes your hair and shushes you.
“What on Earth has gotten you like this, my dove?” she asks gently. The sound of her voice calms you down, brings you out of your mind, stuck in the past, and back to this moment in time.
You sniffle and rub your eyes dry. “I saw someone I thought I’d never see again,” you say, voice heavy, sitting uncomfortably in your throat.
Your grandmother chuckles. You look up at her, and all the tenderness in the world is in her eyes. “Well, aren’t you a lucky one?”
“I don’t feel lucky.”
Brushing away tears from your cheeks with her thumb, she says, “You know, there are some people I’d do anything just to see one last time. This is a precious opportunity, dear. Don’t let it slip away.”
A small smile appears on your lips. “You don’t even know who this is about,” you murmur, and this is apparently funny enough for your grandmother to burst into laughter.
“Oh, honey, I don’t need you to tell me to know. It’s written all over your face.” She gives you a knowing smile, then is back on her feet, a hand extended out to you. “Now, come, we have work to do.”
.
.
The real estate agent didn’t lie when he called the old bookstore a fixer-upper: there are floorboards coming undone, flaky wallpaper that needs to be torn apart and reapplied, electricity and gas pipes that should definitely be checked by a professional. Jay has weeks, if not months, of work in front of him before he can start thinking about opening the café.
But it’s his, and that is all that matters.
He has saved enough money working at upscale restaurants in Paris and London, and the only upside of having both his grandfather and his mother pass away in the past three years has been the inheritance, which has allowed him to pursue this otherwise unreasonable dream. And if he somehow runs out of money, maybe you’ll give him a part-time job as a kitchen porter.
Thankfully, the real estate agent did also not lie when he said he “knew a guy.” One phone call is all Jay needs for said guy, or Heeseung, as his parents would have it, to show up at the shop and have a look over it. The only thing he asks for in return is lunch at Kim’s Kitchen, and Jay is more than happy to oblige.
Just like yesterday, you’re nowhere to be seen when the two men step inside the restaurant. The same waitress — Jay wonders if she’s a family member of yours — greets them and shows them to their seats, far from the kitchen, to someone’s great disappointment. On the menu today is abalone porridge, “again,” raw beef bibimbap, which Jay orders, and spicy fish stew, which Heeseung orders. Jay notices how intently Heeseung watches the waitress as she rattles off the dishes of the day and wonders if there’s something there, or if he’s just very hungry and low on patience. But from the way his eyes stay on her even as she retreats to the kitchen, he assumes it’s the former. Part of him is curious to know more, but a bigger part is very much aware that this is a man he met an hour ago and is not in the measure to ask, “Hey, got a thing for that waitress?”
But maybe Heeseung will give him the answer himself.
“The chef here is really good with spicy dishes. Not so spicy that you lose the flavors, but not so little that it becomes bland.” He’s probably just trying to make small talk, but Jay latches onto this like a lifeline, because the mere mention of “the chef here” is enough to get his heart racing.
“Oh yeah? Do you know her well?” he asks, conscious that this might not be the most normal follow-up question to a statement about your cooking skills. He tries to appear as nonchalant as he can, pouring water into his and Heeseung’s blue plastic cups.
“I do, actually. We’ve been friends since childhood.”
Childhood friends. Jay’s eyes narrow momentarily before the rational part of his brain reminds him that the man in front of him need not be an enemy.
“How do you know it’s a her, by the way?” Heeseung asks.
“Oh. The real estate agent mentioned it yesterday,” he replies, not even sure whether that’s true or not. “Y/N, I think it was?”
Heeseung smiles. “That’s the one.”
Why does your name make him smile?
Jay is not a great actor, but he puts on his best relaxed, just-trying-to-get-to-know-you, I-have-no-other-intentions face, and asks, “Are you guys, like…?”
Heeseung furrows his eyebrows, taking a second to compute Jay’s words, then leans back in his chair, a surprised expression on his face. “Oh, no, not at all. It’s never been like that. No, I’m, uh… There’s someone else I like, let’s just say.” Jay follows Heeseung’s gaze, turning around to find the waitress — Knew it — gathering the empty bowls from another table. When he looks at Heeseung again, he’s smiling in a shy, self-deprecating sort of way, but before he can ask him about it, Heeseung continues speaking. “Anyways, I’m sure our moms would love to see it happen, but since the two primarily concerned are against it, I doubt we’ll ever make them happy. In that regard, at least.”
“What do you mean, they’d love to see it happen?”
“Well, you know what moms are like,” Heeseung says, shrugging, but Jay gives him a look that says he does not know what moms are like—not theirs, at least. When it came to relationships, all his mother ever told him was to be careful. “Her mom has known me since I was little, and vice versa. Our moms are friends with each other. We’ve only ever been polite to each other’s moms. That’s enough for them to think we should get married.”
Jay almost chokes on his water then. “Married?” he echoes in a tone that makes him sound far more involved than he’s trying to come off as. He clears his throat. “I just mean, I didn’t realize it was marriage you were talking about. That’s pretty, uh, big,” he explains with an awkward chuckle.
If Heeseung finds his behavior suspicious, he doesn’t say anything. “I know. But here, it’s marriage or nothing. You better not be caught dating anyone for fun, because suddenly your parents, their parents, and basically every parent in this town is on your ass about getting married and having kids. A lot of people get engaged right out of university, or even high school, sometimes.”
“Wow,” Jay says, because that’s all he can think to say right now. Everywhere he’s been, being in your early twenties has meant dating apps, one-night stands and casual relationships. None of his close friends are even engaged at the moment, and he’s twenty-five. He’d be lying if he said he’d never imagined what yours and his future might have looked like when you were dating, but when he’d pictured marriage and children, you were both thirty at the very least.
“Yep. Things are changing, though. My parents already had me at my age, whereas I don’t even have a girlfriend. And I’m not the only one. Well, Y/N’s in the same boat, for one.”
Hope flares in Jay’s heart. “She’s not seeing anyone either?” he asks, thinking his tone sounds natural enough, but aware that his eye contact is far too intense. He can’t help himself.
“Nope. Now that you mention it, I haven’t seen her date anyone in a really long time. I’ve always assumed she’s just busy with the restaurant, but I should ask her about it. It’s probably just that there aren’t many options here…” he trails off, looking into the distance with a pout. But then, his gaze sharpens as he directs it to Jay. “Guess one more option has appeared, though. I think it’s safe to assume you wouldn’t have moved here all on your own if you were dating someone, right? You don’t have a wife and kids back in Seoul?”
Jay laughs, more out of shock than anything. “Definitely not, no.”
Heeseung leans back in his chair with a grin on his face, the brightest Jay’s seen him smile so far. “Perfect. I honestly have no idea what kind of men Y/N’s into, but you seem decent enough so far.”
“I’ll take decent enough.”
The food arrives then, and as they eat, Jay tries not to burst into tears at the thought that you made this meal. He is both relieved and sad when Heeseung shifts the topic from you to their renovations plans. They agree that it would be best to start with the studio, so that Jay can move in and not have to extend his stay at the guest house he’s currently living in for another month or two. There are things Jay can’t do himself, things for which he has neither the skills nor the time to learn, such as completely replacing the wood panels that line the floor or removing the old, deteriorating ceiling tiles. Apparently, in this town, every guy knows a guy: Heeseung has someone for water, for electricity, for gas, and they’re respectively a cousin, a brother-in-law’s brother, a long-time friend. Jay will get to do the fun bits himself—choosing the wallpaper and parquet flooring, building and arranging furniture, decorating the café. The sooner he can get a functioning kitchen set up, the better. He can only try out so many different cake recipes and sandwich-filling combos in the tiny kitchen of his current residence.
Even when he goes to pay at the counter by the entrance of the kitchen, Jay doesn’t get a glimpse of you. It’s only when he exits the restaurant, the chime of the bell already a familiar sound, and he turns around to wish a good day to the waitress, that you peek out from behind the curtain. A smile and a wave, directed at him. You’re gone before he can return the attention.
He is inexplicably giddy all day—well, he knows the reason for his unwavering smile, but to Heeseung and his team, he lies that it’s “just excitement at seeing the project coming along so quickly.”
.
.
There’s a knock at the door just as Jay, fresh out the shower, slips his t-shirt on. He wonders who it could be at this hour—it’s almost ten p.m., too late for the old lady he’s renting from to drop by with food like she did yesterday night. He debates asking who it is behind the door, but ultimately decides, naively perhaps, that not only are the crime rates in this town probably extremely low, it wouldn’t make sense for a robber-slash-serial-killer to knock before barging into a house.
You look the opposite of a robber-slash-serial-killer as you stand at Jay’s door, a black plastic bag in your hand, a smile he can only describe as angelic on your lips. Bottles clink together as you raise the bag to shoulder-level. “Let’s catch up,” you say, but instead of letting yourself in, you turn and head somewhere else.
“Wait,” Jay says, but you don’t, so he scrambles to put on his slippers and grab his jacket from the coat rack. The two-room apartment he’s staying at sits atop his landlady’s house, and although she’d told him he was welcome to use it, he hadn’t ventured up the other set of stairs that lead to the roof. You seem to know your way around, though, so he follows you.
From this high up, Jay can see the sea glittering in the distance, the small fishing boats rocking peacefully on the water, the many roofs strewn around the town, their colors lost to the night. It should be in this moment, as the beauty of the town he’s chosen to set up store in reveals itself to him, that he truly feels that he made the right decision, coming here. Or it should’ve been when he found the old bookstore; or when Heeseung told him the place looked much worse that it actually was, and that it would be a piece of cake, renovating it.
Alas. It’s only when you press the button to the fairy lights, flickering to life and casting a halo of golden light behind you, that Jay knows he’s really found what he came here for. He’s transfixed, feet frozen to the concrete, eyes glued on your face, but you don’t seem to notice. “Nice place, right?” you say, gesturing to the potted plants, the low wooden table, even the clothesline on which the fairy lights hang, like fireflies. It’s all he can do to nod appreciatively.
From a trunk he hadn’t noticed, you pull out two cushions and one blanket. The cushions go on opposite sides of the table, and you hand him the blanket. “Here, your hair’s still damp, take this,” you explain, not quite meeting his eyes. Without another word, you sit across from each other, Jay watching you carefully as you pull out bottles of soju, cans of beer and a packet of dried anchovies from your bag.
“A successful trip to the convenience store,” he comments.
“To welcome you to the area,” you add. “And to catch up on lost time.”
Lost time. An appropriate way of describing the years that separate this moment from the day you let go of his hand. Would things have gone differently, had you known you would meet again like this down the line?
He appreciates that you don’t tiptoe around the subject. You’re not strangers, you never could be, no matter how much time you might go without seeing each other. There’s a certain level of connection you can’t come back from. The two of you can’t start anew, and he’s glad you’re not pretending like that is what this is. And yet, there’s the gnawing feeling that you’re treating him more like an old friend than an old lover. You’re being almost too welcoming. You’d always made him feel special, like he was to you what no one else had ever been, what no one else could be—right now, he just feels awkward.
Dismissing all the questions burning the tip of his tongue, Jay settles for a safer one. Rather than on your face, he focuses his gaze on the way you fill the small glasses to the brim with soju. “How did you know I was here?”
“Mrs. Yoon used to be one of my schoolteachers. She’s also a friend of my grandma’s. She showed up to our house the night you got here saying she had just welcomed the most handsome lodger.” you say, imitating her. “Wasn’t hard to figure out who she was talking about. She’s pushing eighty and still getting excited about boys, of all things.”
You clink your glasses and tip your drinks back at the same time. “You think I’m a boy, Y/N?”
Jay can’t help the smirk that appears on his lips as you briefly choke, the soju seemingly going down the wrong pipe. “She probably does. You could be her grandson.” He knows you’re avoiding the question, but he lets you off the hook, just this once. There’s a slight furrow in your eyebrows as you pour a second glass for the both of you. You don’t wait for him before you all but throw it down your throat.
“So. How’ve you been?” Jay asks after a few moments of silence. Surprise flashes through your face for a second, as though you weren’t the one to propose this catch-up session in the first place. When you sigh, there’s far too much depth to it for a 26-year-old, Jay thinks.
“I’ve been fine,” you answer simply. “Just working a lot.”
“Too much?”
You briefly meet his eyes. “Sometimes, yeah.” You must know this won’t cut it. Even when you were just getting to know each other, this sort of run-of-the-mill, surface-level answer didn’t fly between the two of you. So, Jay says nothing, waiting patiently for you to go on. “It’s not the work in itself that’s tiring. I’m glad my grandma’s recipes continue to be loved by so many people, and I’m glad she’s also letting me put my own twist on our dishes and come up with new ones. I work long hours, and we only close one day a week, but I like what I do. It’s this town…” you say, looking around yourself with disdain, as if the very buildings and roads that constitute Seojuk-ri are the ones you’re at odds with, “that’s exhausting.”
“Things haven’t changed, then?”
“Not in the slightest. People are still just as nosy, just as overbearing, just as sickeningly well-intentioned as they have always been. If anything, it’s gotten worse, because the old people have gotten older and the young people are starting to take on those characteristics, too. Don’t get me wrong, I wouldn’t trade it for the world. Everyone that I love is here. But if I have to go through one more conversation with another one of my school friends, mother of two at 24, about when I’m finally gonna have a kid, I might just take all of my family’s money and flee. I don’t want to hear about my biological clock anymore.”
Jay chuckles, cracking open one can of beer for you, another for him. You grab it immediately, taking large gulps as you look up at the sky with anger. “Gee, I wonder why,” he jokes. “I always thought it was your dream to give birth to twins before your frontal lobe even fully developed.”
You roll your eyes. “It’s not like there’s anyone here I’d want to knock me up,” you say. You pause at the same time, as it dawns on you both how your words could be interpreted. Despite himself, hope flashes through Jay. He already knew from his conversation with Heeseung that you were single, but to hear it from you — not in these exact terms, but still — is something else entirely.
“That’s… good to know,” he says for lack of a better alternative, feeling as flustered as you look. You’re both silent for a little while, exchanging quick, chaste glances, as though there’s anything to be shy about between the two of you.
“Your turn,” you say eventually. “I’ve been here this whole time, but you’ve moved around, right?”
He nods. Tells you about his time in Paris, about the two-year contract he got offered upon completion of his stage at the Michelin-starred restaurant—the one you’d also had your eye on. Tries not to read too much into your expression, which you seem to be keeping as neutral as you can. Wonders if it’s still a sensitive topic.
He quickly moves on to London. “Surprisingly, my favorite part of working at L’Arôme was getting to help out with the desserts once in a while. The techniques, the flavor combinations… I found them more exciting. So when I got the opportunity to work under a pastry chef in London, I didn’t hesitate for a second.”
Of course, he had to learn all the basics first. Ganaches, caramels, meringues, all sorts of dough… What he ended up falling in love with was the simplicity of it all. The cuisine his father, and therefore, Jay himself, had always been interested in was complex. Measured down to the milligram, temperature-controlled, extensively researched and tested-out—so much fuss for something that will be eaten in two, three bites. It was a different sort of culinary experience, one Jay realized he wasn’t as taken with. He liked irregular chocolate chips, cracked cake tops, frosting spread unevenly. As often as he could, he would go to a different café in London and try about half of the baked goods they had on display. For the first time in his life, Jay knew exactly what he wanted his next step to be, and he knew it was his decision and only his.
You listen intently, nodding along to his words, and Jay tries not to lose his focus when your smile turns particularly fond. You don’t even seem to realize what you’re doing, and that somehow makes things worse.
“And then, well, I ended up back in Seoul.”
“For your mom.”
“For my mom, yeah. And now I’m here.”
“And now you’re here.” A pause. Then, a mere whisper, “How?”
How, indeed. In the past couple of days, every time Jay’s mind drifted back to you — which happened far too often for him to keep count — he’d been in awe at the sheer improbability of your reunion. Of all the seaside towns you could’ve hailed from, it just so happened that it was this one, the only one he had any sort of attachment to. It was this sort of happening that made him reevaluate his lack of belief in some higher force, some ruling hand over the universe.
“I came here with her a few months before she… you know. Died. Passed away. I never know what word is preferable. People have such weird ways of reacting to it.”
You shrug. “Whichever one you like is best. I like to just…” You guide your thumb across your throat, tilting your head as you make a clicking sound with your teeth. It’s a crude gesture, and Jay can’t help but laugh. You’re probably the only person he knows that would ever refer to someone’s death like that. He appreciates your trying to keep this conversation a light-hearted one—somehow, you must know his mom’s passing still feels raw in his best moments, unbearable in his worst.
“It was just a town that she liked. She couldn’t spend too much time away from home, so we were here for the afternoon only. Maybe if we’d stayed longer, you and I would have run into each other sooner?” Jay says, drawing a smile from you, which in turn always makes him feel oddly relieved. “Anyways, I think she came here a few times when she was young and wanted to relive those moments. Her life flashing in front of her eyes, something like that.”
You consider his words for a few seconds. “I wonder what sort of buried memories will come to the surface when I’m on my deathbed.”
And without missing a beat, as if the answer was written on his tongue, Jay says, “I’ll remember you.”
He hears the breath that hitches in your throat. You stare at him, seemingly caught off-guard, while in his head, like a cassette tape, he replays you. Late nights spent in kitchens. Late nights spent under the red tent of your favorite pocha. Conversations that started at sunset and stopped at sunrise. Knowing glances thrown across a classroom, a house party, a restaurant table. Falling asleep next to you. Waking up next to you. Your hair tickling his neck. Your hands on his waist, on his shoulders, everywhere.
A blush creeps up his cheeks. With effort, he tears his gaze away from yours, takes a swig of his beer in the hope that he can blame his redness on the alcohol. Eventually, you look away too, smile down at the empty glass in your hands like it, rather than the man sitting across you, just all but confessed its love to you.
The night goes on like this, for longer than either of you anticipated. The September night air should deter you from staying outside so late, but between the blankets around your shoulders, the alcohol, and the warmth of finding each other again, the cold truly has nothing on you. It’s only when you yawn, causing Jay to yawn for so long that tears brim his eyes, that you decide it’s time to go to bed. Your chat takes on a more light-hearted tone as you put away the cushions and he gathers the cans and glass bottles for later recycling; you don’t stop talking as you head back down the stairs, and stand in front of Jay’s door as you finish recounting an anecdote. Of course, he wants to invite you in, not even because he has anything salacious in mind, but just to prolong the night as much as he can — although he can’t say with total certainty that nothing would happen if you found yourselves in a dark room together — but he says nothing. If he’s going to do this again, he’s going to do it right and take it step-by-step.
When you’re ready to leave, you press a chaste kiss to his cheek, and if he wasn’t so stunned by the sudden warmth overcoming him, he’d have embraced you before you could turn around and leave.
As he tosses and turns in his bed later, Jay thinks back to his work trip to Japan from last year, where he’d learned about the art of kintsugi. He’d stayed at a guesthouse, where one shelf of a cupboard had been filled with bowls lined with gold. When asked about it, his host explained that to repair broken pottery, the Japanese sometimes mixed gold powder with lacquer in the cracked areas. The object was more beautiful broken when fixed than in its original state.
Maybe he is getting ahead of himself, maybe he is being overly optimistic, but he can’t help but think that the two of you, too, might become more beautiful than you ever were.
.
.
Sometimes it’s Jay that drags you out of the kitchens when it’s far too late to still be behind a stove, sometimes it’s you. More often than not, you end up at the same pojangmacha you went to the first time, where you and the owner are now on a first-name basis. She’s taken to asking whether the two of you have finally gotten together every time she sees you. You’ve taken to not answering and smiling at Jay, as if you’re waiting for his answer as much as she is.
Other times, and on weekends, when the place you need to drag each other out of is the comfort of your respective beds, you will try out an upscale restaurant in Gangnam or Hongdae. Since that first outing of yours, Jay has insisted on paying for every meal, and you only stop opposing after the fifth or so time, when you realize that your feeling of owing him is completely one-sided. You learn many things about Jay over the course of these first couple of months—one of them being that he is the least transactional, most generous person you have ever met. He is on par with the village aunties who let you and your siblings spend the afternoon at their houses and filled your bellies with snacks your mother never bought you, for absolutely nothing in return. You wonder where he learned to be so kind. The most he’ll accept from you is a vending coffee machine when you notice him dozing off during break, and he’s too tired to argue.
You don’t know what to make of the growing friendship between the two of you. Between classes and your part-time job — three nights a week spent washing dishes at a barbecue place isn’t ideal, but rent in Seoul is high, and at least you don’t have to deal with drunk customers — you don’t have time to give it too much thought. Because while on paper, you really are just friends, in your head, things are slightly more nuanced by that.
It’s not like you’re an expert when it comes to love. With one eight-month relationship during high school that you got little out of except for the basics of sex and some notions of the type of connection you want, and another one that lasted the three months of the summer between your first and second year at the local college, you’re actually very, very far from love expertship. But no need for a PhD to know that what you feel for Jay is not platonic—unless everyone else’s hearts start racing, palms start sweating, thoughts start blurring when their friends are around, and no one has bothered to let you know.
Who knows if he feels the same way? He hasn’t told you, and you definitely won’t be asking him, too scared to lose the person who might potentially become your closest friend here. One thing about you, however, is you won’t push your feelings down. Even if you wanted to, you wouldn’t know how—the women in your family have always compared you to an open book, sometimes reproaching you for it, sometimes praising you. Even you, in your twenty-one years of living, have yet to come to a conclusion on the constant transparency of your emotions. It’s a blessing not having to bottle things up only for them to explode later—you get to really live through your feelings as they come. It’s a curse, however, when you can’t hide your disappointment upon receiving a terrible gift, or when the desperation written all over your face only works to drive someone away.
Curse or blessing, you won’t try to pretend you feel nothing for him. Sure, you won’t throw yourself at his feet — it’s not like you’re that infatuated with him, at least, not yet — but you won’t ignore the warmth that spreads from your stomach all the way to your fingertips whenever Jay smiles at you.
After all, there’s a small possibility he feels that same warmth, isn’t there?
.
.
You wake up painfully early. You know that with age, hangovers only get worse, and you’ve been careful not to go overboard when you drink—but last night was a case apart, so you might as well let yourself off the hook.
Your thoughts are muddled, as if still coated and sticky with soju, and your entire body is screaming for water. After drinking what feels like two liters of it straight from the tap, you prepare enough coffee for everyone in your house, knowing you’ll end up drinking half of it, and inhale the smell of the ground beans like they have healing properties. It’s in moments like these, when there’s no one to cook up some hangover soup and you must do it yourself because you’re the first one up, that you’re glad you cook for a living. Chopping some vegetables, boiling some noodles, preparing a broth, you could do it with your eyes closed, and you practically do. You’re not all there, half of your head still crunching beer cans, laughing over nothing with Jay as your conversation begins to make less and less sense. Sense—you at least had enough of it not to end up in his bed last night, which you knew was a real possibility when you showed up at his temporary apartment with alcohol in hand. There was a moment of pause yesterday in which he looked for a video to show you in his gallery. It gave you time to look at him, really look at him, for the first time since he magically appeared in Sojuk-ri. Like a caress, your eyes had languidly trailed from his well-kept nails, up his arms that had gotten insultingly bigger in your five years apart, up the throat your lips knew so well, to the face that filled your dreams more often than you’d care to admit. And, in your inebriated state, your thoughts had gone… there. They didn’t quite leave when he found the video of a dog, the reason he wanted to show it to you in the first place completely forgotten, and they have apparently still not left you now, as you peel carrots and ponder the universe’s way of doing things. Not very subtle, you conclude.
The sound of a door swinging open and hurried footsteps abruptly interrupt your thoughts. In the time it takes you to turn around, whoever it is rushing to the bathroom has already closed the door behind them. The thought of a family member of yours needing the toilet this badly first thing in the morning gets a giggle out of you, until you hear retching sounds. Your head snaps up, eyes widening as the awful noise continues, stomach turning. It lasts for another minute, then you hear the toilet flush, the sink run. You stare at the bathroom door worriedly until your sister-in-law, Yeonju, appears from behind it, Yeonju who got married to your brother five months ago, Yeonju who helps out at the restaurant and has never once complained, Yeonju who’s just gotten sick. In the morning.
Her steps halt the moment she sees you, her eyes widening, her mouth falling agape to mirror your expression. You stay like that for a few seconds, simply staring at each other, both of you at a loss for words as the meaning of it all dawns on you. “You’re up early,” she says finally.
“I am. I drank too much last night.” As she nods, you have another realization. The words come out of your mouth as quickly as they form in your brain. “I haven’t seen you have a drink in a while.”
A few more beats pass. “Don’t tell anyone,” she whispers. “It’s too early.”
You nod vigorously. “Of course.” Then, a smile breaks through the shock on your features, warm tears prickle at your eyes, and Yeonju looks away, fighting back a smile of her own. You put down your vegetable peeler and run to her as quietly as you can, and, dismissing for once the fact that she doesn’t like to be touched excessively, take her in your arms and hold her tight.
She allows it for a little bit, then, with a hushed giggle, says, “Okay, okay, don’t get too excited. It’s only been six weeks.”
You lean back, hands on her shoulders. “Six weeks?!” you say, whisper-screaming her words back at her.
“Mh-hm.”
“You’ve told Seungkwan, right?”
“I’ve only told him and my mother. I would tell yours, too, and Grandmother, but…”
“They’re not the calm and collected type, I get it,” you say, nodding seriously, as if you are the image of composure yourself.
Indeed, “You’re crying,” Yeonju points out, chuckling as a tear rolls down her own cheek. “Stop crying. I’m going to be sick again, for a different reason this time.”
“Shut up,” you laugh, and take her in your arms again. “I’m preparing you for the commotion that will inevitably happen.”
You let her go back to bed soon after, and pick your peeler back up. You should think of your brother, of your mother, of your grandmother, of Yeonju—but, for reasons you don’t feel strong enough to try and understand, the person that comes to mind is Jay. I want to see him, you think. And, for the first time in five years, the thought that immediately follows is, I can go see him.
So you do.
It's another hour before the soup is done and your family eats it, and then you’re putting your shoes on, retracing last night’s steps to Jay’s rental, the Tupperware he used for the rice cakes now cleaned and filled with your hangover cure. It takes a minute for him to open the door after you knock—you’re about to leave the soup at his door and turn back on your heels before it creaks open.
“Y/N?”
Everything about him is still veiled with sleep. His voice, deep and slightly groggy, his half-open eyes, his dishevelled hair, even his clothing—or lack thereof. You try not to stare at his naked upper body, but it’s hard not to when the realizations hit you that not only has he kept his habit of sleeping without a t-shirt, his torso has gotten impossibly more defined since the last time you saw it. You swear his shoulders didn’t use to be so broad.
But really, it’s the familiarity of the sight that has your head reeling so. How many times have you woken up to this Jay? He was always a morning person, and so the thought that he might still be sleeping at 10 a.m. hadn’t even crossed your mind. You hadn’t expected for such waves of memories to wash over you at the mere sight of him half-asleep.
He follows your gaze downwards, his own eyes widening. “Oh, sorry. Let me go grab a shirt.”
“No, it’s okay,” you blurt out, grabbing his wrist to stop him, and letting go of it just as quickly. “I only came here to give you this.” Jay looks down at the Tupperware in your hands like it’s an alien object. “It’s nothing fancy… just some noodles and vegetables. But it always makes me feel better after I’ve had too much to drink,” you explain, feeling more out of place with every word.
“Thank you,” he finally says, taking the container from your hands. “I think I might really need it.”
You try not to let it show, but you’ve never felt so helpless around him. Even when you were first getting to know each other, things had progressed so naturally, almost as if following a predetermined pattern, that there had been no room for shame, or embarrassment, or awkwardness. You’ve always prided yourself on your ability to take everything in stride—but this, this is putting a stoke in your wheels.
After all, when you last saw Jay, it wasn’t a goodbye, see you later, take care till then. It was meant to be a real adieu. Seeing him again undoes everything you had convinced yourself of these past few years: that you would both be better off that way, that if you truly loved someone, you’d know when to let them go, all sorts of inanities. You can’t accept that things could’ve gone differently.
“Well, I hope you enjoy it,” you say, unable to bring yourself to mirror the smile on his lips, before he can invite you in to have breakfast with him. You whisper, “Bye,” and take your leave under his watchful gaze.
.
.
A few days ago, Jay received a text from Jaemin, one of the few friends from culinary school he’s actually kept in touch with. It’s not like they call each other every day since graduating three years ago, but Jay isn’t surprised to see his name on his screen. All sorts of people have been reaching out to him lately—losing your mother will do that. He doesn’t even know how half of these people have heard of it.
Hey buddy, the text reads. I wanted to tell you how sorry I am about your mom. Call me if you need anything man. I mean it.
Another one had come a few minutes later. Could you text me your address? I’d like to send you something.
It took Jay over a week to answer the many well-wishing messages flooding his inbox, but he got around to it eventually. When Ms. Lee, his dad’s house help, knocks on his bedroom door to tell him mail has arrived for him, he assumes it’s from Jaemin, although there is no sender information or return address. Everything sent as condolences for his mother, Ms. Lee takes care of. But this one is specifically addressed to him.
For lack of a better alternative, he is staying at his father’s apartment in Seoul until he finds his own place. He knows he couldn’t withstand staying by his lonesome in his mother’s apartment, surrounded by her things. Her absence would be overwhelming. If he stayed in a hotel room, he’d probably wither away. At least, here, he has one person worrying about him, making sure he eats his meals and gets some sunlight every day. He means Ms. Lee, of course—his father has become even more of a closed-off workaholic, as if that was even possible, in the two weeks since his ex-wife’s passing.
He tears the envelope open, curious as to what Jaemin needed to send as a letter that he couldn’t have simply texted. Inside is a singular sheet of paper, folded in half. He takes it out, unfolds it. The sight of all-too familiar handwriting makes his heart stop.
It’s a recipe for pine nut porridge. There’s just one word on the back: Eat.
In the three days between his mom’s death and her funeral, Jay barely stopped crying. His eyes were constantly achingly puffy, his nose perpetually red and runny. But since the day of the funeral, he hasn’t shed a single tear, as if he dried himself out, as if the tears and pity of others drained him. Now, holding the piece of paper that was in your hands just days ago, his body shakes with loud sobs.
He feels a twisted mix of sadness and hope. Your letter is at once a reminder of his loss, of his life without the two women he’s loved most, and a sign that he still exists in a corner of your mind. That you still care enough to do this.
He remembers a conversation you’d once had about exes and past crushes. It was in the middle of a rainy night; he left the blinds to his bedroom up so that the only light you’d need was the one emanating from the moon and the stars, bright and fuzzy at the edges. Your head was resting on his chest and you were trailing your fingers up and down his arm when he asked if you ever thought about the men that came before him. You laughed, saying that he was the first man you’d ever been with, the others were boys. “And I don’t even mean that as an insult. We were so young,” you said. “I don’t think about them in the way you mean, no. But I do believe that with anyone you’ve ever loved, or even just held in your affections, you always carry a little bit of them with you afterwards.”
He had felt jealous then, even though he understood what you meant perfectly and knew he wasn’t being rational. (He only stopped pouting when you said, “Of course you have nothing to worry about. I’ve never felt the way I feel about you with anyone else.”) But now, he’s glad for it. He pictures you, looking beautiful in your little corner of the world, wherever that is, with a little bit of him in your heart. He remembers the sunny day on which you met his mom, and he pictures you, four years later, hearing the news, writing down the recipe you knew by heart, sending it in the mail.
It’s only basic ingredients. Pine nuts are expensive, but he’s sure neither his father nor Ms. Lee will mind him using them. And so, for the first time in two weeks, he picks up a knife, and gets to cooking.
.
.
Jay has caught the flu. You’ve never seen him so pathetic.
Nestled under the covers of his bed, half of his face hidden, eyebrows furrowed as if he is in deep pain—stepping into his room, you first wonder whether it really is that serious, then you feel immediate guilt for accusing him of exaggerating, even if it was just in your head. You are so used to the men in your family, your brother especially, looking like they are on the verge of death when faced with the common cold. But Jay — reasonable, independent, reliable Jay — is the last person you know who’d play up being sick for pity or attention.
“Here,” you say, putting a tray down on his bedside table. On it rests a bowl full of steaming, fragrant pine nut porridge that you’ve just prepared—easy to digest without being bland, it’s your grandmother’s go-to recipe for sickness of any sort.
“Thanks, baby.”
Even seeing him in his current state, you can’t help but tease him when the opportunity arises. “I think you’re the baby here.”
He manages a weak smile. “I hate that you have to see me like this. You shouldn’t feel like you have to take care of me, you know.”
“I know I don’t, but I want to.” You sit at the edge of his bed, gazing softly down at him as you brush away the hair that has stuck to his forehead with sweat. He can barely keep his eyes open, and his skin is alarmingly warm against your palm. “You’re still so hot. I mean your temperature, Jay,” you say, admonishing him slightly when his smile widens. He’s running a fever and still he’s able to see innuendos in your innocent words.
“Sorry,” he whispers. You pinch his earlobe.
“Wait for the food to cool down, and hopefully it’ll make you feel a bit better. Just give me a shout if you need anything,” you say, rising from your seat.
“Wait, Y/N.”
“Mh-hm?”
He hesitates. “Will you stay?”
It isn’t like Jay to ask anything from you. In your four months of knowing each other, you’ve always been the one who overshares, who coyly asks for favors, who texts him at all times of day and night. He listens to your anecdotes from seven years ago, remembers the names of all your friends and family members, does everything you ask him, does things you didn’t even ask him, and never complains. You do it because you expect him to do the same in return, to rely on you as you do on him. Maybe if you bore him by recounting in excruciating detail what you did that day, and where you went, and who you saw, and what they told you, he’ll feel like he can share worries weighing on his mind or memories that come to him out of nowhere. Maybe if you make him go to the store to get green onions and butter, then make him go back because he got the wrong brand of butter, he’ll feel like he can call you at six in the morning because he needs a second opinion on whether his tie and socks match, or whatever it is that men care about fashion-wise.
It’s working, you think, albeit very slowly—after your first time bonding over drinks and fried food, it took him three weeks to mention his dad again. It was another two before he told you more about his childhood, his mother, his school years. You’re greedy for everything he has to offer—you’ve never been so curious about someone, never craved so intensely to know what was going in their mind at any given moment. If he actually got a penny each time you asked him, “Penny for your thoughts?” he wouldn’t be rich, but he’d have an impressive amount of useless coins.
In your two months of dating, your efforts have become more visible. You don’t feel like you’re picking at an iceberg anymore, nor do you have to soften him up with alcohol and snacks. He always tells you what you want to know, and increasingly doesn’t need to be asked—you almost cried of happiness the day he started going on an unprompted monologue about how versatile and nutritious beans were, and how he could still taste the bean stew his grandmother had cooked once when he was eight and never again since.
Compared to words, actions are a bit more complicated. While he seems to do anything you ask, he has a harder time doing the requesting. Small things maybe, can you fetch him the salt, can you peel the potatoes; but he’ll always be the one who drives the two of you somewhere, he’ll never let you carry any of the groceries, he’ll never ask you to move your head even if his arm is killing him, he’ll always let you pick the movie you watch or the food you eat. When you insist on cooking for him, he insists on helping out. You pushed him all the way to the living room once, but he was back in the kitchen within the minute.
All morning, he’s been adamant on you going home, because he can take care of himself, and you’ll get sick, and “Who’ll take care of you when you get sick?” as if he wouldn’t be glued to your bedside the entire time. Only after some time do you agree that you’ll stay in the living room and check on him every once in a while, then go with him to the doctor tomorrow if it’s still this bad.
So when, finally, he asks you if you will stay, there’s only one possible answer.
“Of course, baby.”
.
.
Jay quickly settles into a new sort of routine.
He wakes up around nine a.m. every day without the need for an alarm, which, to him, is the height of luxury. He takes his time eating breakfast and getting himself ready, then heads out of the apartment with the strict necessities in the pockets of his coat and an empty tote bag. By that time, Heeseung and his men have started work in the soon-to-be café, and he drops by, standing there unnecessarily, watching the progress happen in real time. Most days he stops by the convenience store nearby to buy them soft drinks and various snacks. Sometimes he stays with them until lunchtime, sometimes he walks around the neighborhood, greeting everyone he walks past, smiling to himself when he realizes that they’re increasingly more polite, friendlier, less apprehensive of him and his sudden arrival. Then it’s lunch and he goes to your restaurant, by himself or with Heeseung and his team, eats like a king, and if he’s lucky, you’ll tell him to wait until your shift is over and you’ll spend your afternoon break with him. If he isn’t, he’ll go home and diligently practice new recipes, or less so diligently watch reruns of The Great British Bake-Off and consider it research.
Thankfully, more often than not, you grace him with your presence for a few hours in the afternoon. Part of him feels bad and keeps on telling you to go get some rest if you feel too tired in-between shifts; part of him knows he would be devastated if you actually did. You show him where everything is, from the singular bus stop to the post office to the pharmacy. You take him to the beach a couple of times, sitting in the hard sand or venturing out to the water, wincing at how cold it is against your feet until one of you inevitably splashes the other one and a chase ensues, both of you quickly wound out of breath from too much running and laughing. It makes him wish he’d been a high schooler with you—they are such adolescent moments, and he wishes he could feel the total carefreeness of them, but the weight on his heart every time he looks at you is too heavy. He wishes he knew you from before, he wishes the feeling of having known you his entire life wasn’t just a feeling but reality. Seeing you in your hometown is one step closer to that, but when he sees you talking to Heeseung and remembers that Heeseung knew you as a seven-year-old, scraped his knees on the same pavement, sat in the same classrooms listening to the same teachers, jealousy rears its ugly head and makes his stomach twist.
Sometimes the time spent with you is tinted with such sadness that he wishes he’d never met you, so that this could be a real fresh start for the both of you, but these thoughts never stay long. He reminds himself that finding you again is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity that he won’t waste on melancholy and what-ifs.
So he forces himself not to dwell on the past, but it’s a tough resolution to uphold when most of your conversations revolve around it. Of course, you tell each other about your plans for the future, where you want to go with the restaurant and how he plans on running the café, but catching up seems to be the priority for the both of you. Jay is reassured by the amount of questions you ask him—you seem to want to be filled in on the years of his life you weren’t a part of as much as he does yours. He’s somewhat surprised at how easy it is to talk to you again. Only somewhat, because he can’t imagine feeling anything but absolutely himself around you, with a few instances of the nervousness and self-conscious awkwardness that only your gaze could provoke in him, but still surprised, because every time he thought about meeting you again, he was sure your break-up would hang like a sword over your heads, threatening to make every interaction stilted and uncomfortable.
You don’t talk about the break-up. It’s there, somewhere in the air between you, but you don’t call it by its name. And actually, anything that has to do with your relationship, past or present, isn’t mentioned. Jay is too afraid to bring it up in fear of breaking the connection, fragile as it may be, that you’ve reestablished over his first week of being here. Instead, he tells you about the kitchens he worked in, about life in France, about how much better the Seoul metro is than the London underground, and don’t even get him started on the Parisian métro, but he doesn’t tell you about how much he missed you at that time and how he wanted to share every little thing with you but couldn’t. So now, he does: the ridiculously cheap baguettes and pastries, the ridiculously expensive rent, the omnipresence of and accessibility to culture, “and the food, oh my God, the food, you would’ve lost your mind.” You smile at this, a small, sad smile, and Jay regrets everything he’s ever said. He almost says something like, “You deserved it more than I did,” but before he can, you say that that sounds nice.
You tell him that your life hasn’t been as fun as his since leaving culinary school, but he absorbs every detail you give him, no matter how small, and wants nothing more than a step-by-step recap of what you’ve been up to since the last time he saw you. You’ve mostly been running the restaurant, which requires the sort of time and energy your grandmother simply doesn’t have anymore. She thankfully hasn’t had another fall since the first one five years ago, but the toll on her health has been so great that the days where she is both physically and mentally sound enough to help you in the kitchen are fewer and further between. About three years ago, you found someone to hold down the fort while you enrolled at the nearest culinary school and completed the credits you needed to get your Restauranteur’s Certificate. The prestige of that school was nowhere near that of the one in Seoul, and arguably you didn’t even need it, because you wouldn’t be applying to work at restaurants other than Kim’s Kitchen, but it was more of a principle thing and everyone in your family insisted on you getting it.
“That’s about it, I think,” you say dismissively. If you’ve missed him, you don’t tell him.
It’s not like either of you tries to hide it, but of course, people are quick to notice how often you and Jay are seen together, despite his very recent arrival. Even though you’d complained of it many times when you and Jay dated, the extent to and speed with which gossip spreads in this town comes as a shock to him. It starts with seemingly harmless questions from Heeseung and the three men that work with him. At first, they’re simple questions about himself, where is he from, what did he do before coming here, why did he come here, how is he liking it, does he know anyone—their curiosity knows no bounds. They’re usually unsatisfied with surface-level, one-sentence answers. And just when he thinks they’re satiated, the mere mention of you gets them going again, oh how did the two of you meet, did you get along, did you know she lives here?
When he asks you how he should reply to such inquiries, you instruct him to do as he feels. “Be ready for everyone to be in your business no matter what, but it’ll be even worse if you tell them we dated. I’m used to that kind of talk, but I don’t know how you’ll feel about it. Well, you’ve received media attention, so you know what it’s like.”
Media attention is something of an overstatement. As a kid, he appeared a few times on his dad’s cooking show, and since then, he’s been interviewed for a grand total of three food-centered magazine articles. He can’t say he “knows what it’s like,” because no one has ever cared about his personal life, let alone his love life.
But Jay isn’t a great liar. And while part of him doesn’t want to lie or even omit the truth about your relationship — he’s very proud of having once had the honor of calling you his girlfriend — he also doesn’t want to barge into your hometown and be an annoyance to you. So the first time Heeseung asks him what kind of relationship the two of you had, before he’s had the chance to discuss it with you, he errs on the safe side and says “We were… friends.” But his tone is a dead giveaway, and Heeseung just replies with a dubitative, “Interesting.”
Within days, the word has spread that he’s not just the odd tourist in the off-season. No, this guy is here to stay, the whispers around him seem to say, all polite nods and friendly smiles when he turns to look at them. When he brings it up, you give him a look that says I told you so and remind him not to mind them, that it’ll blow over the minute something else interesting happens.
Except Sojuk-ri is not a place where interesting things abound, especially at the end of September when all the excitement and busyness of summer is slowly fading. And so the braver ones start to show themselves. He’ll be eating at your restaurant, and the people sitting at the tables nearby will engage him in redundant conversations. “The food here is good, right? Y/N is a great cook and a lovely girl. I heard the two of you met at school? What brings you here, if not her?” He has the feeling that making a bad first impression in a place like this would be social suicide, so he answers as cordially as he can, hoping they’ll back off when they realize he won’t be giving them any information they haven’t heard already.
But they don’t. Older gentlemen will be standing arms crossed or hands clasped behind them right in front of his shop, watching as Heeseung and his team work. When he arrives, without fail, they’ll go, “Ah! So you’re Jay. What an unconventional name. And what are you planning on opening here?” He’ll explain that he goes by his English name rather than his Korean one since coming back from living in Seattle as a kid and liking the sound of Jay more than Jongseong. He’ll tell them that he’s turning the old bookstore into a café downstairs, and an apartment for him upstairs. They’ll either wonder out-loud what their town might do with a café, or celebrate the arrival of a new business in the area. “If you sell iced drinks in the summer, you’ll make a ton of money!” they’ll say with a big smile and a slightly-too-harsh tap to his shoulder.
Their female counterparts aren’t much better. When the weather allows it, they gather under the gazebo, sharing snacks and trading gossip—Just like on TV, Jay thinks the first time he sees them like this. If he happens to pass them by, one of them will stop him, a stranger calling his name with unsettling familiarity, and wave him over. Something about them tells him it’ll do him no good to ignore them. And truthfully, he quickly comes to not mind and even enjoy these encounters; it’s only a matter of getting used to their overbearing nosiness. They want to know all the basic stuff, of course, where’re you from, what’re you doing here, what’s your relationship with Y/N, but it’s the juicier details they ooh and ahh at, what do your parents do, oh, poor thing, how did she die, is that why you moved here, and anyways what’s your relationship with our Y/N? Of course, they don’t buy it that the two of you never dated: from his reddening cheeks to his loss of composure, anyone with two eyes and their head screwed on right can tell that saying, “We were good friends,” is one hell of an understatement. Embarrassingly quickly, he buckles under the pressure. They coax the truth out of him with persistent questions and persimmon slices.
“I guess we did date for a little bit,” he admits the second time one of these run-ins happens.
“Ah, see! We knew you weren’t telling us everything. And how long were you together?”
“Six months,” he mumbles, hiding his shy smile behind the cup of barley tea they’d poured him. To these women who have been married for as long as or even longer than he’s been alive, six months must be laughable. But to Jay, those six months were never topped—in intensity, happiness, or length.
They collectively ‘aw’ at him, expressions of endearment — and pity, Jay thinks — on their faces. “You’re still in love with her, aren’t you?” one of them asks, more a statement than a question. He looks down at the cup, warm in his hands, smile faltering. In their eyes, he seems to turn from a cute, excitable puppy, into a pitiful one. “It’s okay!” they reassure him. “You’re here now, you can get her back. She hasn’t dated anyone since she’s come back from Seoul, you know!”
He only manages to create a believable lie when they ask how things ended. “It was a mutual decision. She had to move back here to help out at the restaurant, I was going to Paris, it would’ve been too hard to stay together while we were so far apart.”
When he says he has to go, they don’t hold him back.
Unfortunately for Jay, the seventeen-year-olds are as interested in his love life as the seventy-year-olds. He’s scouring through the ‘1 paperback for 1000 won’ section outside of the second-hand bookstore when he hears them. Giggles, at first. Then hushed whispers, light slaps on arms, “You go talk to him,” “No, you go.” Approaching footsteps. A finger taps his shoulder twice, someone clears their throat behind him, and he turns around, expecting the worst. It comes in the form of a young girl, still in her school uniform.
“Yes?” he says, as politely as he can despite his frustration growing at the prospect of repeating the same conversation he’s been having for the past week. The girl, Yewon, if the name tag on her navy blazer speaks the truth, seems to forget what she meant to say, and just stares at Jay wide-eyed for a few unbearably awkward seconds. Her two friends have stayed behind, some feet away from her and Jay, and it takes one of them yelling “C’mon!” for her to remember what she came here for.
“Um, you’re Jay, right?”
“I am, yes.”
“And you used to be Y/N-unnie’s boyfriend?” It’s asked with such a perfect mix of straightforwardness and clumsiness that Jay can’t help but smile.
“Indeed.”
Her eyes widen again and she whips her head backwards, nodding frantically at her friends who gasp and slap each other’s arms. “And do you have a girlfriend right now?”
“No, I don’t.”
“So, are you and Y/N-unnie going to date again?”
That takes him longer to answer. “I don’t know. This is the first time we’ve seen each other in five years.”
For approximately three seconds, Yewon looks like she’s never heard more crushing news. Then, her features return to normal, and she says, “Okay! Thanks, bye,” and runs back to her friends, three black heads walking away as they whisper conspiratorially to themselves. Jay isn’t sure what to do with himself for a few moments afterwards.
But the most embarrassing of these moments by far is when his landlady shows up at his door one late afternoon, behind her two women with eyes exactly like yours beaming right at him. “I have friends who’d like to meet you,” she exclaims, and walks in without Jay’s invitation. It is her house, after all. “I’ll prepare some tea!”
While she busies herself in the small kitchen, the two women step inside. The younger one shakes his hand vigorously, a huge smile on her face as she introduces herself as Mrs. Ryu, your mother, and the other woman as Mrs. Kim, of Kim’s Kitchen fame, your grandmother, who just bows her head politely, smiling serenely. Quickly recovering from the shock of three women, two of them strangers, appearing at his doorstep, he bows back, bending from the waist, then shows them to the living room. He hands them cushions to sit down, awkwardly waiting for one of them to say something as he settles across the coffee table from them. Your grandmother just looks out of the window, peaceful as ever, while your mother asks question after question, the same ones as everyone else, and nods at every answer he gives, like they’re a confirmation of what she already knows, like she just wants to hear it for herself. The way her eyes never once leave his makes him doubt whether she has some sort of mind-reading, lie-detecting ability.
Jay prides himself in his capacity to adapt to any situation, to just go with the flow and make others feel easy around him—but this is too much, even for him. He doesn’t know what to say, where to look, what to do with his hands. Before he himself knows what he’s doing, he stands up and excuses himself to the bathroom. He locks the door behind him, looks at his reflection in the mirror, hoping it’ll give him an answer as to what the fuck is happening, to no avail. He texts you instead, and is surprised when you answer right away.
Jay Hey
Your mother and grandmother are at my apartment?
Y/N Are you asking or telling me this?
Jay Both
Y/N Lol
That’s what you get for going around town telling everyone we used to be together
I had to have an awkward convo with them yesterday, your turn now
Good luck!
Jay Aren’t you going to help me out?
Y/N Nope
:)
So that’s useless. He was hoping you’d tell him why they had come to see him or whether there were things he shouldn’t say, but all you’ve done is let him know an “awkward convo” was on the way. When he comes back to the living room, your mother is still looking at him expectantly, only tearing her gaze away from him to thank Mrs. Yoon for pouring her a cup of steaming green tea.
“Jay, you’ve always lived in big cities, haven’t you?” Mrs. Yoon asks as he takes a seat next to her. When he nods, she smiles compassionately. “You must not be used to this kind of attention. I hope no one’s offended you.”
He chuckles. Not used to it is one way to put it. “It’s definitely been… surprising.”
Your mother and Mrs. Yoon laugh. Your grandmother smiles, and her features are so similar to yours that Jay feels like he gets a glimpse into the future for a millisecond. “This is just our way of welcoming you,” Mrs. Yoon explains. “Newcomers are rare around here… Old-timers like us, we’re used to knowing people your age from the moment you’re born. I know it might seem overbearing, but we can’t help but be curious about you.”
“Especially when it turns out that you know my daughter quite well,” Mrs. Ryu says, a knowing glint in her eyes as she peers at Jay over her teacup. His tea goes down the wrong pipe. His guests laugh as he does his best not to spit liquid all over them. “I’m not here to admonish you, Jay, if that’s what you’re scared of. Or lecture you, or anything of the sort.” She puts her cup down with a sigh. “Y/N has always told me about everything going on in her life. When my children were growing up, I made sure to be someone they could always come to to talk about anything, good or bad. It’s worked out to varying degrees between the three of them, but Y/N has never been one to hide things from me.” Here, she gives Jay a look he can’t quite decipher. “And yet, I only really learned about you yesterday.”
Today is nothing but surprises for Jay. He knows how close you are to your mother—he remembers the frequent calls you’d make to her, the way you’d mention her as often as you would any friend, the way you’d always say, “I’ll just ask my mom about it,” whenever you encountered a problem, no matter how big or small. It doesn’t make sense that she wasn’t aware you had dated someone for six months.
“I thought you knew Y/N had a… a boyfriend in Seoul,” he says, feeling oddly uneasy referring to himself that way in front of your mother.
“Oh, I did, I did. Don’t worry, I haven’t forgotten that she made you say hello a few times on the phone,” she says, laughing. The amusement on her face quickly fades, however. “But things haven’t been quite the same since she came back. Of course, everything happened so quickly back then, and we were all so worried, it just wasn’t the time to talk about relationships.” She turns her head to Mrs. Kim, takes her hand between both of hers, and your grandmother closes her eyes, her lips stretched in that calm, unwavering smile. Jay wonders whether she’s been listening to the conversation at all. “She was… She was sad. And not just because her grandma was injured and she had to leave school, I could tell. It was a difficult time for her. I should’ve been there more.”
“Don’t blame yourself, Seokja,” Mrs. Yoon chimes in. “You had to take care of your mother.” Your grandmother opens her eyes and smiles at her daughter.
“I know. It wasn’t easy for any of us, that’s true. We all had a lot on our shoulders, but I think Y/N took the brunt of it. And she never complained. Well, now she does, but she never did back then. Anyways, it took me a month to realize that something else was going on with her, why she seemed so… listless. It was only when I asked that I learned you two had broken up. She wasn’t even answering her friend’s call, Sumin, I think her name was?”
Jay doesn’t want to hear this. He knows your mother means no harm, but your unhappiness after the break-up is the last thing he wants to talk about this morning, or ever, really. Because of course, it brings him right back to his own unhappiness back then, nesting itself in every last crevice of his body and soul, reminding him of how it made every day feel the same, every food bland, every color dull. Even before he arrived here and saw you, it’s been a committed effort of his not to think of that period of his life, not to reopen the wounds that have taken so long to heal. What’s the point? He doesn’t want for one unfortunate event to taint his memories of your time together. He wants to remember the feeling of making you laugh, the sight of you in the morning, all dishevelled hair and warm skin under the sheets, the sound of your humming while you cooked. Your break-up he locked up in a box and pushed all the way to the back of the closet, only reopening it late at night when melancholy comes in sleep’s stead.
He has forbidden himself, and he’s done his very best at it, to think of how you were feeling. Naturally, he was dying to know how you were—doing as awfully as him, or letting life go on as if nothing happened? Did images of him appear in your head at random times of your day, memories you thought forgotten suddenly resurfacing, or did he never cross your mind? All these questions and uncertainties only hurt him more. He texted you once, a week after you left. A simple How are you?, forever unanswered, because you blocked him immediately. His phone number, all his social media, everything. He didn’t try, but he assumed he wouldn’t even be able to contact you by email. And so, for the five years that followed, he tried to limit his thoughts of you to moments you had really shared, to focus on the tangible rather than the imagined. It stung too, of course, but somewhat less.
She was sad. Listless. In just a few words, your mom has undone all of his efforts.
“Back then, all she told me was that you weren’t together anymore. I tried asking her once more later, but she reacted so badly that I never mentioned it again. All that to say, the town gossip made its way to us, and it’s only yesterday that she told us everything that happened.” He looks down at the contents of his teacup. “Oh, Jay,” she says, letting go of her mother’s hand to grab his. Jay is mortified to feel tears pooling in his eyes at the unexpected gesture. At least now he knows who you get your empathy and kindness from. “I know this is not a fun conversation to have. And I know it must’ve been hard for you, too.”
He nods, dropping his head even further down. She pats the back of his hand.
“It hasn’t been easy, no. But… I’m happy I get to see her again.”
Your mother mirrors his small smile. “I think she is, too,” she whispers, and he can tell she means it. He dares to believe it’s the truth—the opposite would be too painful.
“I found her crying in the kitchen the day she saw you for the first time,” your grandma says. So she was listening this whole time.
“Mom!” Mrs. Ryu exclaims just as Jay echoes, “Crying?”
“Oh, they weren’t sad tears. I don’t think so, at least. I think she was just shocked. Overcome with emotion, if you will,” she explains, addressing Jay a polite smile. “And this kind of emotion means something, don’t you think?”
The three women look at him like they know something he doesn’t.
It’s a lot to process at once. In the past five years, he’s been realistic enough to not delude himself into thinking you were either crying yourself to sleep every night since the break-up or not sparing him a single thought. He knew, or in some ways hoped, at least, that you were dealing with it like him: that there were good and bad days, that you wished things could’ve ended some other way, or not at all, but that you mostly tried to look at what was to come rather than what was left behind.
And today, on an otherwise peaceful Saturday morning, he’s gotten the confirmation that you suffered. That it wasn’t easy then, that there seem to be unresolved feelings now. What is Jay meant to do with this knowledge? It doesn’t make him happy. He could never be happy knowing you were, or are, in pain. Part of his ego might be comforted in knowing he wasn’t alone in his pain, but the bigger part of him that still longs for you would rather you forget about him and move on than hold onto him and hurt.
He doesn’t know what to say, so he stays quiet, takes a sip of the bitter, over-brewed tea. This doesn’t seem to bother his guests.
The silence doesn’t last long—four heads whip in the direction of the door as it creaks open. “Mom, Grandma, keep this behavior up and I’m sticking you both in the retirement home. Don’t count on me to take care of you,” you say as you walk into the apartment without so much as a knock. Relief washes over Jay as he watches you take your shoes off and make your way to the living room, meeting his eyes and shaking your head as if to apologize for your forebears. Your grandma contents herself with closing her eyes again and turning towards the window, letting the sunlight hit her face, a smile on her lips. If being old means you get to check out of conversations at any given moment without appearing rude, Jay doesn’t much mind aging.
“I’m not of retiring age yet, honey. We’ll talk about that later,” your mom says. “Plus, we weren’t doing anything wrong, just… getting to know our new neighbor. Isn’t that right, Jay?”
“We live across town, we’re not neighbors,” you say before Jay can reply.
“Please, everyone in this town is a neighbor.”
Jay is happy to fall back and watch you and your mother’s back-and-forth, with interferences from Mrs. Yoon here and there. You’re here; you came. Jay really thought you were going to leave him alone in this, but here you are in the flesh—why? To make sure your mother wouldn’t reveal something embarrassing about you, as if anything anyone said could change his opinion of you? Or perhaps, to protect him in some way, to tell him, If we’re going to do this, we’re going to do it together?
He meets your gaze from across the table. It lasts just a fraction of a second, but there’s a glint in your eyes, something like the complicity he thought he’d lost all those years ago. He allows himself to think you’re here for him.
You manage to shift the topic of the conversation away from you and Jay, and he feels like he can breathe properly again. There wasn’t that interrogation-like quality that sometimes comes with meeting the family to his discussion with your mother and grandmother, but he is glad nonetheless to not be the subject at hand anymore, and can talk more freely now that every word directed at him doesn’t feel like added weight on his shoulders.
Fifteen minutes later, there isn’t a drop left in the teapot and the conversation naturally comes to an end. Your mother looks around at everyone and, with a smile, says, “Well, I think we’ve inconvenienced you enough, Jay. Sorry for bursting in like this again.”
“It’s all good,” he replies, and means it.
“You should come around for dinner soon, okay?”
“I will, thank you.”
A few more niceties in this vein are exchanged, Mrs. Yoon says she will drop off some side dishes for him sometime during the week, as if he is a starving, overworked college student and not a classically trained chef. Your grandmother tells him she’ll go check that “the boys are doing a good job fixing up your café.”
You stay behind. Jay doesn’t know if the three women are exceptionally good at reading the room, or if he missed some silent signal of understanding between you and them, but they don’t question your not following them. The sudden quietness makes Jay feel like a giant in a too-small space, a room that can’t possibly contain the two of you.
And yet. You sigh and head back to the living room, going for the couch rather than the cushions on the floor, but Jay can’t bring himself to join you, and so sits back at the same spot from earlier.
“Seriously, Jay?” you say, chuckling, but he detects an actual trace of annoyance in your voice. Unable to hide your thoughts as always. You pat a spot on the couch next to you. “Come here.”
But Jay doesn’t move. Can’t. All he can do when he looks at you is search for traces of grief. He had five years to work out all of his feelings around your breakup, and he thought he had sorted through everything, gone through all the phases. Seeing you again, he feels like he has to start over. The past week hasn’t felt real, he thinks. He thinks it so hard, he says it out loud, only realizing what he did when he sees your expression soften.
“It’s been weird, hasn’t it?”
“Weird is one way to put it, yeah.”
There’s a pause, during which he spends every second worrying about what sort of turn this conversation will take.
“Is this a good time to talk about the elephant in the room, then?” you finally say.
He looks around, eyebrows furrowed with worry. “There’s an elephant in this room?!” he whispers.
You burst into laughter. “I see your humor hasn’t improved over time.”
“Seeing as you’re laughing, I’d say yours hasn’t, either.”
“Touché.”
Silence settles between the two of you again, creeps inside Jay, makes him wait for your next words with bated breath.
He had a feeling that all the skirting around the subject you’d been doing would come to this. It’s not that you’re pretending it didn’t happen, that would be impossible, for him, at least—he looks at you and he’s transported back to Seoul five years ago, at school, in one of your apartments, in the streets after dark. But you haven’t been actively tackling it either and with every passing day, the weight of unspoken words grows, making every conversation, every look at you harder and harder to navigate. This is new for the two of you, who in your six months of being together, had mastered the art of communicating—you never didn’t speak to each other. You especially were good at saying what was on your mind without ever being hurtful, and you’d helped Jay stop bottling his feelings up when he thought he could get over them himself and not have to trouble you with them.
Nothing you say could ever burden me, baby, you’d told him. I want to know everything that goes through your head.
And many things have changed since then, but maybe this hasn’t—the look you have in your eyes now is the same one as then, soft and inviting, aware that conversations aren’t always as easy as they are necessary.
“You’re here,” you say after some time. Jay was so caught up in his own thoughts, entire minutes could’ve passed without his noticing. You spoke so quietly, he wonders if he imagined it until you add, “You’re in Sojuk-ri.”
He smiles, stops himself from replying with something annoying like What an astute observation, Y/N, it would only be stalling. So, for lack of a better alternative, and because he assumes you have more to say, he whispers, “I am.”
“We used to date.”
Jay isn’t sure where you’re going with this. He nods, unable to suppress a grin. “We did, yeah,” he replies, louder this time.
“Then I broke up with you.”
A chuckle escapes his lips. “You’re on fire this morning,” he says, because he can’t help himself, and warmth envelops his heart at the sound of your laughter.
“I just want to recontextualise.”
“Woah, big words.”
“Big word, singular. And shut up. I’m trying to be serious, here,” you chide, still smiling.
“Sorry.”
A sudden shadow passes over your face, making your eyebrows furrow, your smile disappear. Jay’s heart drops, his feelings, as always, a mirror of yours. You rise from your seat on the couch and make your way to him. Every step you take echoes inside of him and grows louder as the distance separating you decreases. Then you’re standing in front of him, and he looks up at you, and there’s something like a magnet under his skin, desperately reaching out for yours, that makes his hand wrap around your ankle. His eyes stay trained on your face as you lower yourself to the ground and cross your legs. If you mind his touch, you don’t say or show it.
“You’re right, it doesn’t feel real,” you say. Your eyes sweep his face, focus on one part at a time. You simply stare at him for a moment as though trying to convince yourself that it is, indeed, real, that he is really there, not a figment of your imagination but a person whose flesh and bones used to be as familiar as your own. He lets you look to your heart’s content, because it allows him to look at you, too.
His loose grip around your ankle tightens ever so slightly and you look down at his hand as if suddenly noticing its presence there. After a second of what seems to Jay like hesitation, you place your hand atop his. “Would you still have moved here if you knew this was where I lived?”
“I would’ve come here years ago, if I knew,” he says with a small smile.
You furrow your eyebrows. “You didn’t even try calling.”
This takes him aback. Was that what you’d wanted? “I texted you, and you blocked me right away.”
The crease between your brows deepens. “I know.”
“You also didn’t try calling.”
“I sent you a letter.”
For some reason, it astonishes Jay that in all of five years, communication between the two of you amounted to one unanswered text and a letter with no return address. “You did. That was nice of you.”
Finally, this gets a smile, albeit subdued, out of you. “I know.”
“If I’d managed to call you somehow, would you have picked up?”
“Yes,” you say immediately. Then, “No. I don’t know.” Then, in a smaller voice, “It hurts too much to think about the other ways it could’ve gone. The better ways.”
Jay sighs, tucking a stray strand of hair behind your ear. “Then let’s not think about them. It won’t do us any good.”
Your eyes meet. The sadness in yours tugs at his heartstrings. “Are you mad at me?” you ask, the tremble in your voice making it sound like you’re on the verge of crying, and it’s all Jay can do not to take you in his arms and hold you tight against his chest.
“No. Not at all,” he says, and he hopes his tone alone is enough to convince you.
The magnet under his skin is uncontrollable. It raises Jay’s hand from where it was resting on your shoulder to your face, makes it cup your cheek, makes his thumb swipe slowly across your skin, right where tears are threatening to fall, as if preventing them.
“I tried being mad at you,” he says. “I tried a bunch of emotions. Sadness. Indifference. Nostalgia. But anger made things so much worse. It didn’t feel right, because I’d never been angry with you before. And it felt… It felt like admitting things could’ve gone differently. It felt like grieving a version of us that never existed because it never got the chance to. I decided to focus on the actual memories we had, and remember them fondly, instead of wasting my energy on being angry.”
A single tear falls from your right eye, wetting the top of Jay’s thumb. “I understand why you did what you did, Y/N,” he continues. “You had your reasons. You handled everything the best you could. It hurt like hell, but I can’t be mad at you for that.”
Jay doesn’t have to hold himself back from embracing you; you do it for him. Arms wound tightly around his neck, face in the crook of his neck, you quite literally cry on his shoulder. He hadn’t realized how close he himself was to crying until tears start falling freely from his eyes, mouth trembling as they gather at his jaw before dropping down the back of your t-shirt. Between sobs, you say, “I’m sorry. Even if you aren’t angry, I’m so sorry, Jay.”
He has never expected anything from you, least of all an apology. Yet hearing those words heals some of the fissures in his heart, puts the pieces back together like superglue. He doesn’t need or want a repeat of your break-up conversation, and he doubts you do. He doesn’t want to hear how staying together wouldn’t have been a possibility, how you’d both have too much going on, how you were too young to hold each other back, how the distance between France and South Korea was too substantial to dismiss.
He wraps his arms around your waist and brings you closer to him. Closing his eyes and trying not to let your proximity overwhelm him, he strokes your hair, rubs your back, tells you it’s all okay. “Don’t apologize, baby,” he says, the nickname unwittingly slipping from his lips. “We’re here now, that’s all that matters, isn’t it?” He feels you nod against his shoulder, but your sobs don’t relent.
Would it be very wrong if Jay said he missed having you like this? Of course, he hates to see you unhappy, but there’s a part of him that has always been endeared by the sight of you crying. If he could, he'd destroy whatever's upsetting you in a heartbeat, but at the same time, he can't help but selfishly rejoice in the fact that it's him you go to for comfort. It’s in his arms that you find what it is you need to get over what’s troubling you; under his touch that you slowly calm down.
He doesn’t know how long the two of you stay like this, nor does he care, but at some point, you lean back and take a deep, stabilising breath. Jay feels a page turn when your eyes meet—there might be no way to change the past, but the future is a blank canvas, the cursor at the start of a new document, and it’s up to the two of you how you want to write it.
You smile, and so does he. “I missed you,” you say.
“I missed you, too.”
There are more things to be said, but you’re both talked out. You have so much time ahead of you anyway.
.
.
The party started an hour ago, and Jay wants to leave already.
Not because it’s boring, the music bad, the conversation dull—not at all. If anything, this is a good party. One of the more fun ones he’s been to. On a regular day, he’d have no intention to leave until the early hours of the morning. But this isn’t a regular day, because you’re here, and somehow look prettier than you ever have before. Jay doesn’t know what it is—your hair, your outfit, your makeup, or maybe you’re secretly a witch able to cast beauty spells that work on already unfairly beautiful people such as yourself. He can’t stop looking at you, can’t stop searching for you in every room he walks into, and he tells himself that it’s because there really is something different about you tonight, ignoring the voice at the back of his mind telling him to quit finding excuses.
He finds you in the kitchen pouring yourself a drink, on your own for the first time tonight. “Hey,” he says when he’s close enough for you to hear him. He stands next to you at the kitchen counter. You look at him, smile, and return his greeting, in a small voice that he likes to think is intimate. Instead of loudly talking over the loud music like everyone else, you lean into each other and speak in low tones.
“I’m glad to see you,” you say.
“Me too,” he says, a grin he can’t suppress on his lips. “Any particular reason?”
You look around the room. “Just… this week was a lot, and I thought a crowded party like this was what I needed, but it turns out I was wrong. I’m way too tired to socialize with people I barely know. It’s nice to see a familiar face.”
As much as he likes to distance himself from most of his peers, at the end of the day, Jay, too, is just a man. A lot of his bedtime scenarios with you revolve around being your knight in shining armor in one way or another. Were they usually more dramatic than saving you from a tiring party? Yes, especially if he’d watched a superhero movie that evening. Nevertheless, he sees his chance, and couldn’t be quicker to grab it. “Do you wanna get out of here?”
The rest of the evening feels like a movie. Jay thinks that when he looks back to this moment, he’ll remember it as slightly fuzzy around the edges, like the two beers he had during the party gave a delightful haziness to the rest of his night. He feels light-headed just looking at you.
After quickly thanking and saying goodbye to the host, a classmate of yours who’s drunk enough not to be suspicious of your leaving together at ten pm, you walk around the streets of Seoul. The sky above you is dark and starless, but the many restaurant, bar and shop signs are so brightly lit it might as well be the middle of the day. There are about as many people as you would expect on a Saturday night in Hongdae, but Jay likes being there with you, feeling as happy as the smiling partygoers around him look, guiding you through the crowd with a hand on your lower back. You eventually reach the Han River, content to laugh at each other’s silly anecdotes and talk about a myriad of topics until hunger gets the best of you and you settle on finding the nearest fried chicken shop.
You’re both quieter as you eat—you jokingly remark that the two of you must’ve been really hungry, but Jay has something else on his mind. He tries not to stare at you too openly, but it’s a struggle: when the thing that’s been at the center of all your thoughts for the past few weeks is sitting right in front of you, it’s hard to do anything other than look at it.
It isn’t especially hard to know how you feel. Unless Jay likes you so much that he’s deluded himself into thinking the sentiment was reciprocated, he really doesn’t think you are immune to him. He’s made sure not to fall into the trap of ‘she isn’t into you, she’s just nice’ by paying attention to the small things: the smile that you try in vain to suppress whenever he compliments you, the way you stand closer than necessary when you work together in his or your kitchen, the small, innocent touches to his arm that linger, especially when you’ve had a couple of drinks. He doesn’t assume you’re in love with him because you laughed at a joke he made once. Rather, he’s observed, compared, spent hours sitting on his couch, looking into the distance, analysing. He’s come to the conclusion that you won’t slap him in the face and kick him in the balls if he makes a move.
At least, he really, really hopes so.
He pays for the food and you head out together, both seemingly more contemplative and lost in your thoughts than when you came in earlier. Without a word, you start walking in the direction of the subway station, and after a minute or two of intense self-pep-talking, Jay finally manages to take your hand in his. You react to his touch immediately, fingers interlacing with his with all the ease in the world. It’s near destabilising, how naturally your hands seem to fit together. For the rest of the way, the two of you exchange glances and smiles, and Jay almost runs into passersby and poles every fifty meters.
The next train arrives in five minutes. Jay keeps your hand in his as he turns to face you, and you mirror him, gently swinging your arms back-and-forth between your bodies. You look down at them, smiling, while he keeps his gaze trained on your face, smiling, too. He can’t see himself, but if he could, he’s sure the unbridled affection he’s currently feeling for you would be evident in his features. His heart is overflowing with unfamiliar but somehow comforting emotion, and he feels, at this moment, to a disconcerting degree of certainty, that he will never love someone quite as much as he loves you.
Three words burn the tip of his tongue, and he’s desperate to do something, anything, really, that will make you see how his entire being aches for you. But with your hand in his, he feels paralyzed, like a cat has fallen asleep in his lap and the slightest movement will wake it up. All he can do is stand there and control his breathing, a task that becomes complicated when you look up at him, a sheepish smile on your lips.
“Do you wanna come over for ramen?” you ask, voice a mere whisper, keeping your conversation private amidst the busy subway station. You just ate, so he isn’t particularly hungry, but he has an inkling you aren’t really offering ramen.
Jay doesn’t know what he expected, but it certainly wasn’t for you to drop the facade the moment he steps inside your apartment. You don’t even give him the time to shrug his coat off or rid himself of his shoes, and you certainly don’t pretend like you’re going to prepare some ramen—the second the door closes behind him, you turn around, grab his face in your hands, and press your lips to his. Just like with your hands earlier, his body reacts to you before he can even comprehend it. Maybe it’s because he's imagined this moment so many times, reality has become indiscernible from his daydreams, and he knows exactly what to do; he’d rather think it’s because the two of you are meant for each other.
His eyes close and his palms rise to meet the dip of your waist, pulling you towards him with such unintentional intensity that the two of you stumble backwards until his back hits your door. You press your body against his, stomach to stomach, chest to chest, mouths never straying apart, but it’s somehow not enough, and he wraps his arms around you in a futile attempt to meld your bodies to each other.
You stand there for who knows how long, Jay has better things to do than count the seconds, but long enough for your stillness — only your lips have been moving — to make the sensory light of your entryway turn off, leaving you in darkness. This seems to pull you out of your trance, and centimeter by centimeter, you lean back, gaze riveted on Jay’s lips, then his eyes. They meet only momentarily. Your arms were wrapped around his neck, and now, stepping back once, you let your palms glide over the length of his arms until they reach his hands. You keep them there as you look down at the ground.
“Sorry,” you say, and Jay can’t find a single reason on Earth why you should be apologising. “I thought that if I didn’t do that now, I’d never find the courage to.”
He smiles, and, taken by a sudden surge of confidence, raises a hand to cup your face and make you look at him. “I’m glad you did.” He bends down to trap your lips in another kiss, softer this time, slower, because now that he knows you won’t slip through his fingers like sand, he wants to take his time.
He hopes he’s not being too cheeky when he asks, “Where’s your bedroom?”, each word whispered against your lips. To his great relief, you don’t seem to find him impertinent, smiling as you lead him to your room.
Something stops him on the threshold while you turn on the lamp on your bedside table. The room is bathed in a warm, golden glow, and the light reflects perfectly on your bare skin as you lift your sweater over your head, leaving your top half covered by nothing but a bra. Jay doesn’t mean to stare, but he does—the mere sight of you has him breathing heavily, his muscles contracting in anticipation. Nothing outside of this room is of any importance to him in this moment—only this is, only you are. He walks towards you, more single-minded than he’s ever been.
One hand on your lower back, the other cupping the side of your face, he stands close enough to feel your rugged breath against his lips, but doesn’t lean in any further, simply taking the time to look at you. The unbridled lust in your eyes, your agape mouth—he knows he’s the one making you feel this way but can’t bring himself to believe it. “You’re beautiful,” he whispers, because he means it, and it’s all he can think of. How beautiful you are. How you’re letting him, of all people, see this side of you.
Your mouth closes into a smile. “Can you just kiss me, please?” you ask, and Jay doesn’t need to be told twice. He gets the message—no more dilly-dallying.
As your lips meet again and fall into a slow, sensuous rhythm that has Jay’s heart beating uncontrollably hard, your hands find purchase in the fabric at the bottom of his sweater. You don’t want to be the only one half-naked, it seems, and when Jay obligingly gets rid of his sweater, you tug at the remaining black sleeveless tank on his upper body. He laughs and says, “Don’t worry, this can come off too.”
Something in your eyes makes Jay laugh again when he takes it off, his torso now on full display. Your smile is so genuine, like you’re just happy to be here, to see him like this. It’s surprisingly innocent for a moment like this. He feels a little self-conscious at your unabashed staring, but tries not to mind it. If you like it, he likes it—all he can do is hope his efforts in the gym haven’t been for naught. Still grinning, you exhale a slow, shaky breath, and say, “Okay.”
“Okay?”
You nod. “Mh-hm.”
Like magnets your lips find each others’ once more. Jay makes you step backwards until the back of your legs hit your bed, and, propping one knee on your mattress to stabilize himself, lowers you down onto it. Hovering over you, he breaks away to look at you, in search of a sign that you’re okay with this, and the sheer want and trust in your eyes reassure him that this is more than okay, and actually, can he get on with it please.
He lets you set the pace. You kiss him with a feverish sort of intensity that he is more than happy to return. He focuses only on the feeling of your lips moving against his, because if he lets himself be distracted by anything else — your hands tugging at his hair, your breasts pushing up against him, your hips bucking ever-so-slightly into his — he’s scared he’ll lose total control over himself. What that would entail, he isn’t sure, and doesn’t care to find out, not right now at least, not for your first time together.
He breaks away to let you both catch your breath. One hand firmly holding you by the hip, the other on the side of your neck, thumb brushing up-and-down your throat, a barely-there pressure, he presses kisses to your jaw, your ear, your neck. A small hum escapes your lips when he reaches a spot in the crook of your shoulder, and he doubles down there, biting and sucking on your skin hard enough to leave a mark, the sound of your soft moans drowning out everything else.
“Jay, please,” you whisper. This makes all the blood in his body gather in one spot, and for the first time since arriving at your apartment, he realizes just how much he’s straining against his trousers. You seem to notice this too, and, looking him straight in the eyes, place a hand on his bulge, then repeat, “Please.”
Jay thinks he might pass out.
That simple touch of yours, as well as the knowledge that you want this as badly as he does, has his entire body screaming out for yours. But he’s barely started, and perhaps he’s a more patient person than you are, because he doesn’t want to give in just yet. The word “please” sounds too good on your lips, and he wants to hear it over and over again, just for that confirmation that he is the only one who can provide you with what you need.
“Okay, baby,” he says, but gently takes your hand off of him, placing it on his shoulder instead.
Then he starts making his way down. A kiss to the side of your chin first, then your throat, then your collarbone. Slow hands on your warm skin, he reaches behind your back to unhook your bra, and you arch slightly to grant him easier access. He has to take another stabilising breath when your upper body is fully revealed to him, but you squirm, grip on his shoulder tightening, and he concedes not to take things too slow.
It feels like everything that’s happened in his life has led to this—a grand, elaborate scheme just to hear the gasp torn from your throat when his lips wrap around one of your nipples. He’d smile with unbridled pride if he wasn’t so wholly concentrated on the task at hand. He drinks in every satisfied sound you make, savours the feeling of your nails digging into his skin, makes a note of every little thing that has you arching your back in a desperate attempt to get closer to him.
You whine when one of his hands trails up the inside of your thighs, slowly but surely approaching where you need him the most, although never quite making it there. He tells himself that one day, he’ll drag this out, just to see how long he can withhold it from you, how long it would take before you start begging. But right now, he needs it as urgently as you do.
You’re warm and damp against his palm. Your hips seem to move of their own accord in the search for even the slightest of friction—Jay doesn’t know what he’s done to deserve this, to deserve you, but he knows that he’ll do everything to keep it.
It’s far too easy to reach underneath your short black skirt, hook his fingers under the waistband of your tights, and pull them down along with your panties. Your lace panties, Jay notices, which match your bra, and he is reminded of a party during his last year of high school when Bang Yedam, a friend of his at the time, newly self-appointed sex expert since he’d lost his virginity at summer camp three months ago, had drunkenly assured him: “If a girl is wearing a matching set of underwear when you hook up, you didn’t fuck her. She fucked you.” Jay had nodded like it was gospel. Now, hovering over your half-naked figure in your bed, he smiles to himself. He thinks of you getting ready for this party, and maybe it was a coincidence, and you just liked wearing matching underwear, but maybe, just maybe, you’d worn this in the chance that he might see it. You’d worn it because you wanted him to see it.
With that thought in mind, he finds the sweet spot in the crook of your neck again, pressing kisses there as he slides two fingers between your folds. He shouldn’t be so surprised to find you so completely and utterly soaked—if your jagged breathing and increasingly louder whines weren’t enough, then this is the physical confirmation that you want him just as badly as he wants you. “You’re wet,” he whispers, lips moving against your jawline. He doesn’t mean to tease, he’s just so astonished, so in awe that he’s able to get you like this, that he can’t help but speak the words out loud.
You try to hide your face behind your forearm, but his free hand is quick to guide it away. “Whose fault is that?” you mumble, attitude immediately fading away when he presses the pads of his fingers to your clit and starts to draw slow, regular circles.
He can’t explain the feelings that overcome him. Watching your eyebrows furrow, your cheeks glow, hearing your breathing and your moans get louder, feeling your hands grabbing at him and pulling him impossibly closer—he feels all of your pleasure like it’s his own. Of course, when he’s had sex before, his partner’s pleasure was always as, if not more important than his own, but this, this is something else. He wants to give you this forever. He wants to give you everything he has.
He slips a finger inside of you, and you whimper out his name, and he wants to die. You take it in so easily that he’s able to add a second one just moments later. Your fingernails dig into the skin of his bicep as he continues to press kisses to your neck, fingers repeatedly grazing a spot deep inside that has you clenching around them. The pitch of your moans change, higher, whinier, your hips buck upwards without you seeming to even realize it, and it dawns upon Jay that he’s about to give you an orgasm for the first time ever. He’ll be damned if the mere thought isn’t enough to make him come, too.
And then, just as he’s sure that you’re on the brink of coming undone on his fingers, you grab his wrist and pull it away from you. He’s hurt you, or he read you completely wrong and you were hating every second of it, or—
“I want you.”
He’s confused. You just had him. He was knuckles deep inside of you. “But-”
“Jay. I want you,” you repeat, hooking your fingers around his belt loops.
Oh.
“Are you sure?” he asks, because it’s always good to ask, but also because he finds himself almost wishing you’ll say no. He knows that he’ll last an embarrassingly short amount of time once inside you, and he feels like he’s doing a good job so far and doesn’t want to taint it.
But you just laugh, start to undo his belt, his trouser button. He lets it happen, focuses on his breathing instead. “I’m very sure. There are condoms in the first drawer,” you say, nodding your head towards the bedside table.
Jay tries to be normal as he finds said condoms and strips; meanwhile, you readjust yourself on the bed so that your head rests on the pillows. You look at his face, smile, then look downwards, watch him put the condom on, and smile harder. He would usually feel so self-conscious at this point, like he’s being evaluated, but you make him feel like he has nothing to worry about.
Your body looks lazy on your mattress, one hand on your stomach, the other next to your head; one leg resting, one hiked up. A work of art is what you are, Jay thinks. And you’re waiting for him, an angelic look on your face that makes him want to do the most sinful things to you. He repositions himself on top of you, propping himself up on his forearms, kisses you to calm himself down, but it’s no use. You wrap your hand around him, pump him a few times, rub the tip of his cock against your clit. That alone has a deep grunt escaping his throat—he really won’t last long.
Then finally, you align his head with your entrance, and he pushes in, both of you immediately gasping at the overwhelming feeling of being united like this. Your voice is strained when you tell him to go slow, and you claw at his back as he makes his way inside of you, inch by inch. Jay hopes you’ll leave marks for him to find tomorrow and every day after that, proof that this is really happening, that it isn’t an umpteenth dream of his. He waits for a few moments once he’s all the way in, lets you relax around him. He can practically feel the tension leave your body once the pain of the stretch fades away and only pleasure remains in its wake.
His movements start out shallow and slow. He doesn’t want to hurt you, doesn’t want to lose the little control he’s still holding onto, albeit with struggle. But every thrust, every torturous slide of his cock into you has his grasp on reality slipping from him. Of course, you’re not helping: with his face buried in the crook of your neck, your mouth is practically by his ear, your moans so loud he feels them in the tips of his fingers.
“This feels so good, Jay,” you whisper. Something inside him snaps.
Jay grabs the backs of your thighs and hooks your legs around his hips. He’ll find the spot deep inside you his fingers had reached earlier, he’ll make you cry out until your voice turns hoarse, he’ll make you say his name until it’s the only thing you know how to say.
He doesn’t know whether you have neighbors or whether your walls are thin. He also couldn’t care less. His thrusts are deeper, quicker, harsher, but just as regular. You are perfect around and underneath him, and he is slowly losing his mind. He, who usually barely makes a peep during sex, so concentrated on doing things right, can’t stop himself from moaning and grunting, the sounds dampened against your skin.
He isn’t sure how long he’s been fucking you, but it can’t be more than a few minutes—and yet, here you are, mouth wide open, crying out as your orgasm washes over you. Jay comes seconds later.
His soul has left his body. You seem to be in a similar state. He continues to move, shallow thrusts to get every last drop of pleasure from him and from you until you are both completely spent. He eventually slips out, kissing the side of your face as he does, and rolls onto his back. He quickly discards the condom, then turns towards you, warm satisfaction and bliss spreading from his stomach throughout his entire body at the sight of the contented, peaceful look on your face. Strands of hair stick to your forehead with sweat. He brushes them away, whispering, “You’re so beautiful.”
You chuckle. “You mentioned that earlier.”
“And I’m mentioning it again now.”
Opening your eyes, your gaze bores into his. “And you’re very handsome,” you whisper back, palm coming up to cup his cheek. You take the time to just look at each other, and Jay thinks this is what heaven must be like. He bends down to press a kiss to your lips, then another, and another—why would he stop when he finally has you all to himself?
You giggle in-between kisses, and of course Jay joins in, light-headed and light-hearted with a giddiness unlike any he’s felt before. He doesn’t stop when the both of you are smiling so hard your teeth bump against each other, which only makes you laugh more, makes him tighten his grip around your waist.
“You know,” you say eventually, looking up at the ceiling, “I think I might like you. Just a little bit, though.”
Jay lifts his head from your neck, stares at you like you’ve just told him Santa Claus was real all along. You glance at him, a shy smile on your lips that you try to suppress.
He’s grinning so much it hurts. “Yeah?”
You shrug. “Mmh.” He’s never been so endeared by someone trying to play it cool.
“Well,” he starts, taking his time pressing more kisses to the side of your face. “I know I like you. And not just a little bit.”
“Okay, it’s not a competition,” you say, although your smile has reached your eyes by now. You’re not doing a very good job hiding your happiness.
“Mmh, except it is.”
You attach your lips to his again—an effective way of getting him to shut up. But this time, they’re not the chaste, gentle kisses from moments ago; they’re immediately deeper, hungrier, an obvious aching for something more. The energy that Jay thought he had completely lost comes rushing back to him, a surge of desire rising within him again.
He’s never wanted anything so intensely. But a sudden question appears in his mind, and he knows he won’t be able to shake it unless he’s made sure the both of you are on the same page.
“Can I be your boyfriend?”
Your gaze softens. “I thought you’d never ask,” you reply before kissing him again.
summary: you know what they say, never answer a call from your boss when you’re drunk off your mind—oh, and never tell him that he desperately needs to get laid.
word count: 6.4k
warnings (18+): smut. swearing. pet names (sweetheart, baby). alcohol. kissing. heavy petting. spanking. semi-public sex. rough sex. office sex. unprotected sex. light teasing. minor brat taming (?). slight dacryphilia.
MINORS DNI!!
A/N: been dying to do an office siren fic for the longest time, lol. and being a huge fan of ‘the devil wears prada’ this just had to be done.
People-watching was a secret pleasure.
When writer’s block struck or your motivation dipped, your gaze naturally wandered across the sea of Vogue employees—the editorial department, buzzing with energy, some typing furiously, others fighting off yawns as they cradled half-empty lattes.
It was a vibrant chaos, punctuated by the occasional sound of heels clacking or phones ringing.
For the past week, your unofficial subject of interest has been Audrey Klein, one of the junior beauty editors.
Every day at precisely 1:00 PM, Audrey would reapply her signature lipstick—Dior Addict 922, a sultry red that had headlined Vogue’s “Power Lips for Winter” feature last month.
She’d peer into her compact mirror with laser precision, tousle her bangs into submission, and sashay toward the pantry with the confidence of a supermodel strutting the red carpet.
Her heels echoed through the bullpen, catching a few glances like she anticipated. The cacophony of staff chatter and the steady hum of keyboards seemed to fade when she passed.
“She’s at it again,” Anton, your cubicle neighbor and the office gossip, murmured as he perched on the edge of your desk.
He nodded toward the pantry where Audrey now leaned against the counter, laughing at something your features editor, Park Sunghoon, had just said.
“Do you think he even notices her?”
Park Sunghoon was practically a Vogue institution. At a young age, he gracefully ascended to Features Editor after a meteoric rise from editorial assistant.
With his impeccable tailoring, razor-sharp instincts, and a résumé that included stints at L’Officiel and Harper’s Bazaar, Sunghoon embodied everything Vogue stood for: brilliance, beauty, and an aura of untouchable mystery.
But the real excitement around the office? Sunghoon was devastatingly handsome. Unfairly so, as Anton liked to say.
He was like a dreamboat from Ancient Greek mythology, beautiful eyebrows, perfectly aligned moles, hypnotic brown eyes that seemed to see right through you—and a smile that drove the young seasonal interns crazy, though that was a very rare occasion.
And yet, he was maddeningly aloof, entirely unbothered by the countless women who lingered a little too long at his desk.
“Dedication or desperation?” you mused, glancing at Audrey. “I’ll never understand why everyone worships him. He’s…exhausting.”
Anton snickered, twirling a pen effortlessly between his fingers. “He’s also fine.”
He stops, tapping the pen against his chin in pensive thought, “I guess his beauty is an apology for his scary personality.”
Anton was only partially right.
Sometimes, you hated the way your stomach would twist whenever he glanced at you during a meeting, willing away your unfathomable fantasies—because, at the end of the day, his looks couldn’t overcompensate for his personality.
Park Sunghoon terrified you.
Not in the obvious sense though. He wasn’t loud or explosive. Sunghoon didn’t need to raise his voice to make his point. He could slice through your confidence with a single look or a flat, unimpressed tone.
And yet, despite the intimidation, you couldn’t help yourself.
You were stubborn. Always had been. And that stubbornness meant that every time he ripped apart one of your articles—usually with a sigh and a biting comment—you couldn’t just sit there and take it.
You’d defend yourself, argue your points, even as your palms got clammy and your voice wavered just slightly under the weight of his simmering gaze.
“You’re insufferable,” Sunghoon said once, after a particularly heated debate over a piece you’d written about emerging fashion tech trends.
You’d stayed late in his office, going back and forth until he finally waved a hand and let you keep half your original draft.
“And you’re impossible,” you’d shot back, clutching your notes to your chest like a shield.
But you’d do it anyway. You’d rewrite your drafts, re-interview sources, and pull all-nighters just to meet his exacting standards. No matter how stubborn you were, the truth was you always gave in.
You did everything Park Sunghoon requested—eventually.
And maybe that was what frustrated you most. Because no matter how hard you fought, he always won in the end.
It wasn’t just you, either. Sunghoon had a way of getting under everyone’s skin. You’d seen seasoned journalists break under his criticism, storming out of meetings or retreating to the bathroom to cry.
He was unrelenting, unapologetic, and always right—or at least, he acted like he was.
Still, despite everything, you weren’t like the others. You didn’t quit. You didn’t crumble.
And that, in itself, was something of a miracle.
Sunghoon had once acknowledged it in his own infuriating way—after tearing apart one of your drafts and sending you back to rewrite for the third time, he’d leaned back in his chair and said, “You’re stubborn. But you’re good. That’s why you’re still here.”
It wasn’t a compliment—not really. But coming from him, it almost felt like one.
So yes, Park Sunghoon intimidated you. He frustrated you. Sometimes, you even despised him.
You grumbled, returning to the half-written article on your screen. “101 Tips to Get the Guy” wasn’t your finest pitch, but it had been approved begrudgingly.
Now you were stuck trying to make a glorified listicle feel worthy of Vogue.
“Oh- three o’clock,” Anton whispered knowingly before retreating to his own desk.
The sound of Sunghoon’s voice startled you.
“(Y/N),” Sunghoon greeted, appearing beside you. His tone was just as sharp, cutting through the din of the office.
He held a coffee cup—likely a black coffee, cold foam, his usual drink of choice—and a clipboard tucked under his arm.
“How’s the article coming?”
You turned, only to be met with the sharp lift of his brow. He adjusted his glasses, the motion precise and maddeningly deliberate.
“Don’t bother lying.” His voice was cold, laced with quiet disdain. “I’ve seen you staring at Audrey all day.”
“I wasn’t…” you trailed off, voice growing small as his brown eyes narrowed slightly, looking away as your face flushed.
“Sure,” he said dryly. “Bring me what you have. My office. Ten minutes.” Sunghoon didn’t wait for a response, striding back to his glass-walled corner office.
You winced, shrinking into a puddle while Anton flashed you a sympathetic smile. “Great,” you groaned under your breath, scrambling to pull your draft together.
Sunghoon’s office was as intimidating as the man himself: a sleek mix of polished mahogany and chrome, with towering shelves of art books, Claude Monet impressions and archival issues of Vogue.
He leaned against his desk, sleeves rolled to his elbows, looking like a dreamy editorial spread come to life.
But this somehow felt more reminiscent of a REM Nightmare.
“Let’s see it,” he said, motioning for you to hand him the printout of your article.
You stood awkwardly, clammy hands clasped behind your back as he scanned the first few paragraphs.
The silence was deafening.
Crashing a friend’s psychology class one time in college, could only tell you so much about body language.
Furrowed brows, then raised. Short, irritated huffs between each paragraph—the bottom line? It wasn’t looking good.
After a moment, he sighed—long and dramatic—before dragging a hand through his hair and shoving his glasses up into it.
Why did he have to look so hot when he was disappointed?
“This… reads like something out of Seventeen magazine.” Sunghoon dropped the pages onto his desk with a thud.
“Excuse me?” you said, trying to keep your voice even.
“This isn’t Vogue, sweetheart,” he continued, ignoring your indignation. “This is…fluff. A cute checklist for teenagers who are still figuring out contouring. We don’t do fluff here. We do substance. Style and sophistication. This? It’s juvenile.”
Your fists clenched at your sides. “With all due respect, Sunghoon, the concept was approved. I’m simply delivering exactly what was asked for.”
Sunghoon straightened, his sharp gaze pinning you to the spot. “And I’m asking you to elevate it. Vogue readers don’t need ‘101 Tips to Get the Guy.’ They need insight. Depth. Why not reframe it? Something like, ‘The Science of Seduction: Beauty Hacks Proven to Work.’”
“That’s…” You paused, begrudgingly acknowledging it was a better angle.
“It’s Vogue,” Sunghoon said simply, leaning back. “Rewrite it. And please, try not to bore me this time.” He waved you off like a rejected textile, dismissing your presence as he made a call.
The walk back to your desk felt much like a walk of shame, slamming your notebook down with a frustrated sigh.
“Rough?” Anton asked, biting into his sandwich.
“Rough is an understatement. Sunghoon called my article juvenile,” you hissed, collapsing into your chair.
Anton shrugged. “He’s probably just stressed y’know? Winter issues are always chaotic.”
“Yeah, but chaotic doesn’t give him the right to be a jerk,” you shot back. “Honestly, he just needs a good lay.”
Anton almost choked on his food, “with his face?” He smirked, “He probably gets more action than anyone here.”
“With his personality?” you countered, turning to his office.
Over the frosted partition, you could spot him pacing, grateful you weren’t the one being yelled at over the phone.
“Highly doubtful.” You continued.
Anton raised an eyebrow. “I…wouldn’t be so sure. And if I didn’t know better, I’d say you wouldn’t mind finding out yourself.”
Your glare could’ve melted steel. “Not even in my worst nightmares.”
But even as you said it, your mind wandered—briefly—to how Sunghoon had looked leaning against his desk, adjusting his tie with his sleeves rolled up, tearing your work to shreds.
Infuriating. And annoyingly hot.
But he was still an insufferable prick. So, you pushed the thought aside and focused on your screen, hammering out an article that might—just might—finally earn a fragment of his approval without the usual snide remarks.
The city sparkled under the glow of Manhattan’s nightlights, alive with the usual buzz of life roaring in the busy streets.
The day of work was finally over, and you, Anton, and Yunjin, fresh from the trenches of Vogue, stood on the corner of Fifth Avenue impatiently flagging down a cab in the gelid air.
Yunjin had her coat draped over her shoulders like a makeshift cape, exuding effortless elegance as always, while Anton clutched a bag of takeout fries he’d snagged from a food truck on the way out.
“Where are we going again?” you asked, voice slightly muffled by the scarf you were wrapping around your neck.
“Lustra,” Yunjin beamed, checking her phone with a practiced flick of her wrist. “Chic but not pretentious—and they make a mean Moscow mule that’ll change your life.”
Anton let out a low whistle, his breath slipping through the sharp hisses of cold air. “It better for the prices they charge. You sure they’ll let me in? I’m just a humble journalist. Not exactly a hot commodity like you two.”
“Oh please, Anton,” Yunjin scoffed, stepping gracefully into the cab that had finally pulled up. “You’re literally gorgeous, they’ll let you in.”
Lustra was everything Yunjin promised: dim lighting, plush velvet seating, and a DJ spinning music at just the right volume to feel alive without completely drowning conversation.
The three of you nestled into a corner booth, Moscow mules in hand, and dissolved into the kind of freewheeling, tipsy conversation that made you forget the stress the day had given you.
Yunjin, as usual, was glowing—slightly moving to the music’s beat. “Did I mention Scarlett and I hit six months last weekend?” she said, her tone humble yet smug.
“Congrats!” you said sincerely, raising your glass as the man beside you gave the beaming girl a congratulatory hug.
“Yeah, yeah, rub it in,” Anton groaned sarcastically. “Meanwhile, I went on a date with a girl who ditched me the second I started talking about my favorite filmmakers. Can you believe that? How do you date someone who doesn’t know who Coppola is?”
You paused, a bit confused, “wait, Francis or Sofia?”
“Sofia.” Anton simply states and Yunjin snorts into her drink, “Okay, very tasteful but you really need to leave the fanboying for like, fifth dates, Anton.”
“What about you, (Y/N)?” Anton asked, eyeing you amusingly, nudging your shoulder. “Any love life updates?”
You swirled the remnants of your drink. “Not much to report. Between deadlines and Sunghoon riding my ass, I barely have time for one-night stands,” you paused, downing your drink, “let alone a relationship.”
Anton chuckled. “Oh, here we go again. Another Sunghoon rant incoming.”
“No, seriously!” you insisted, waving your glass.
“That man is the bane of my existence. He’s so uptight, and his looks—fine, I’ll admit he’s hot—do not make up for his sour mood. And you know what he needs? A good one-night stand. Someone to take the edge off so he’ll stop ruining my life.”
Yunjin raised an eyebrow, her lipstick-stained glass hovering mid-air. “And who, pray tell, is this mysterious someone?” She shot a brief conspiring glance towards Anton who smirked.
“Yeah…do we know her?”
“Oh, shut up,” you shot back with a roll of your eyes, laughing. “It’s not me. I wouldn’t touch that man with a ten-foot pole.”
“Hmm,” Anton said, smirking. “Methinks the lady doth protest too much.”
You were just about to retort when your phone buzzed on the table. The name on the screen making your stomach drop.
“Oh, no,” you groaned.
“What?” Yunjin asked, leaning in.
“It’s Sunghoon,” you said, swiping to answer. “I’ll be right back.” You sifted through the crowd, briefly apologizing for the noise as you stepped out.
Outside, the winter breeze bit at your skin as you stepped away from the club’s noise. Sunghoon’s voice finally came through the line, crisp and formal. “(Y/N), I need you to come into the office. Fifteen minutes.”
Your eyes widened as you slowly processed his words, holding back an incredulous laugh—at this hour?
“Are you serious?” you asked, irritation creeping into your tone.
“Very,” Sunghoon replied. “Unless, of course, you’re too busy… gallivanting at clubs.”
Oh you could taste his sarcasm on your tongue, and you would’ve let it slide if it wasn’t filled with such derision.
You huffed, crossing your arms. “Gallivanting? People with hobbies call it living, Sunghoon. You should try it sometime.”
His radio silence on the other end—or maybe the alcohol—suddenly gave you the courage to keep going.
“Screw it, you know what your problem is?” you said, words spilling out faster than your brain could process them.
“You’ve got a lot of pent-up anger, and you know what the cure is? Getting laid. Seriously, you’d be doing everyone a favor. Maybe then you wouldn’t be such a miserable ass all the time.”
“Excuse me?” he said, his voice colder than the air around you.
“Don’t pretend you don’t know what I’m talking about. You’re gorgeous, fine. But your personality? Yikes. That’s probably why women run the other way. Just…” you groaned, “let your inhibitions go for one day, Sunghoon.”
“Maybe then I wouldn’t be standing in the fucking cold because of you!”
With that, you hung up, your heart pounding.
You brushed the setting panic away as you stepped back inside.
You didn’t remember much after that. Brief flashes of hitting the dance floor, and sipping a couple more drinks flickered in your memory, until Anton took you home.
The next morning, you stumbled out of the elevator nursing a hangover that could bring a lesser mortal to their knees.
Sporting oversized sunglasses and clutching a venti black coffee, you mustered up weak smiles to your coworkers in greeting, before you slumped into your chair.
“I must say, those glasses go with your blazer quite well.” Anton greeted you with a knowing grin.
He handed you a Tylenol, and you pouted at him with a grateful smile.
“Rough night?”
“You could say that,” you muttered, sipping your coffee.
“Remind me to never drink like we’re in college again.” You groaned and your best friend chuckled, “but it was fun, our first night off since like, ever.”
“At least I could sleep in after that.” You whined, recalling your haphazard morning routine when you missed your alarm.
Anton leaned closer, lowering his voice. “Ooh, looks like someone else had a rough night, too.”
You followed his gaze to Sunghoon, who was pacing the office, angrily critiquing an intern's layout with the precision of a surgeon.
You watched the intern subtly dab a tissue at her eyes when he walked away, immediately restarting her layout.
“Uh-oh,” Anton whispered. “What’s his deal?”
Wait…
Your jaw dropped in horror, as the memories of your call flooded back, ducking under your cubicle.
Anton noticed immediately. “What’s wrong?”
You turned to him, eyes wide. “I think I know why he’s in such a bad mood…”
In a hushed, frantic whisper, you told him everything, recounting your drunken tirade from the night before.
Anton stared at you, his expression a mix of shock and glee—grin growing by every word and detail you dropped.
He placed his croissant down slowly, like he needed his hands free to fully process the chaos.
“You what?” he whispered, leaning in so close it felt like he was about to crawl into your lap.
“I told him to get laid!” you hissed, slumping further into your chair. “I basically said his entire personality is why women run screaming! And I said it while I was drunk in the middle of the street!”
Anton’s face twisted as he tried—and failed—to suppress his laughter. “Oh my God, (Y/N). You didn’t just burn the bridge. You nuked it.”
“Not helping, Ant!” you groaned, burying your face in your hands.
“Wait, wait, wait,” Anton paused, his grin so wide it looked painful.
“Let- let me get this straight. You—our beloved, mild-mannered coworker—called Park Sunghoon, the Ice King of Vogue, an uptight, sexually frustrated killjoy who needs to let loose. Do I have that right?”
“Essentially,” you muttered through your palms.
Anton sat back, folding his arms with a hum as if to fully savor the moment. “You realize you’re my hero now, right?”
“This isn’t funny!” you hissed, peeking over your sunglasses to make sure Sunghoon wasn’t within earshot. “He’s already in a bad mood. What if he fires me?”
Anton waved a dismissive hand. “Please. Sunghoon doesn’t fire people. He just makes their lives a living hell until they quit.”
“Great,” you deadpanned. “Super comforting.”
“Honestly, though,” Anton said, lowering his voice conspiratorially, “he probably needed to hear it. You’re not wrong. He is an uptight control freak, and let’s be real, he could use a night of… recreational activities.” He let out a chuckle, stopping himself when he noticed your glare.
“You’re supposed to help me, not encourage my demise.”
Anton smirked. “Fine. Damage control time. First, don’t mention it unless he does. Second, be professional, act like nothing happened. And third…” He trailed off, eyes lighting up mischievously.
“What?” you asked warily.
He grinned, snapping his fingers and pointing out, “if he does bring it up, double down. Tell him you’re just looking out for his uh well-being.” He covered his mouth to avoid another giggle from slipping through.
You groaned, leaning back in your chair. “I’m doomed.”
At that moment, Sunghoon walked by your desk, his perfectly tailored suit somehow making him look even more intimidating.
He glanced in your direction—just a flicker of his sharp dismissing glare—before continuing down the hall.
Anton leaned closer. “That look was…scary.”
“His looks are always scary,” you muttered, though your stomach churned with nerves.
“No, this was different,” Anton stated. “This was like…‘I’m planning your funeral and choosing tasteful florals for the casket’ scary.”
Before you could respond, Yunjin appeared, holding a stack of mood boards and looking utterly unbothered. “Why do you two look like someone just died?”
“Oh, no one’s dead,” Anton said cheerfully. “But (Y/N)’s career might be.”
“Thanks, Anton,” you said dryly.
Yunjin raised an eyebrow. “What happened now?”
Anton wasted no time filling her in, embellishing just enough to make your drunken tirade sound like a full-on Shakespearean monologue.
Yunjin listened, her expression shifting from confusion to horror to amused admiration.
“Well,” Yunjin said finally, “at least you were honest.”
“That’s not helping!” you snapped.
She giggled with a hopeless shrug. “Look, if he hasn’t confronted you about it yet, maybe he’s letting it slide. Or maybe he secretly agrees with you.”
Anton snorted. “Yeah, because Sunghoon is definitely the kind of guy to take constructive criticism well.”
Yunjin looked thoughtful. “Or,” she said, a mischievous glint in her eye, “he’s planning to make you pay for it in the most passive-aggressive way possible.”
You groaned again, face sinking further into your hands. “I need a time machine.”
“Or a therapist,” Anton said.
“Or both,” Yunjin added.
The three of you fell silent as Sunghoon reappeared, this time striding toward his office with a stack of proofs in hand.
He didn’t look at you, but the tension in his jaw was impossible to miss.
“Yep,” Anton concluded. “He’s plotting your doom.”
You shot him a withering glare. “I hate you so much.”
“Don’t worry, (Y/N)” Anton said with a grin. “If he does fire you, I’ll buy you a consolation martini.”
“Because that’ll fix everything,” you muttered sarcastically as you mentally prepared for whatever wrath Sunghoon was surely about to unleash.
The office printer room was its own little world—tucked into the far corner of the writers floor, dimly lit, and constantly humming with the soft whir of machines churning out drafts, proofs, and pitches.
It was the perfect place to avoid people, particularly a certain brooding features editor who had taken up far too much real estate in your thoughts since last night.
You spent the morning successfully avoiding him, hiding back in your workspace and typing whatever nonsense to look busy, pretending to speak to coworkers when he passed by and making your coffee in the fashion department.
But, of course, you couldn’t evade him forever.
Every passing moment was spent trying to find the right words to say something when your worlds inevitably collided.
You tapped your foot impatiently as the printer sputtered and beeped, taking its sweet time with the twenty-page document you needed for your pitch meeting tomorrow.
You glanced at the door nervously, praying that fate wouldn’t bite you in the ass.
What would you even say? You’re sorry you told the truth? You’re sorry you got “unreasonably” upset that he called you off work?
“Six more pages,” you muttered under your breath, watching the slow machine spit out the pages like it was mocking you. “Just six more…”
The door creaked open, and for a brief, foolish moment, you thought about pretending you hadn’t heard it. But then you caught a whiff of cologne, that telltale wood scent with notes of vanilla and bergamot.
Only he would wear Tom Ford.
“(Y/N).” His voice was low, clipped, and far too close for comfort.
You forced yourself to look up. Sunghoon stood by the door, one hand in his pocket, the other holding a folder.
Even without the blazer, he looked effortlessly immaculate, his white shirt sculpted to perfection, his expression a familiar mask of indifference—except for the way his jaw ticked slightly when your eyes met.
“Mr. Park,” you greeted, your voice straining for neutrality.
You turned back to the printer, focusing on the flashing green light like your life depended on it.
Sunghoon took a few steps closer, the sound of his leather shoes on the tile making your pulse quicken.
“Avoiding me?” he asked casually, but there was an edge to his tone that made your stomach drop.
“No,” you quickly lied.
The printer suddenly shut off, and you cursed under your breath—grabbing whatever stack of papers remained.
You didn’t even bother aligning them, too focused on your escape. “Just busy. You know how it is.”
You turned to leave, but Sunghoon sidestepped, blocking your path. “Busy club hopping?” he asked, arching a brow.
Your face burned.
Of course he remembered.
“I had a night off, it was a personal evening” you said, clutching the papers to your chest like they could shield you from his piercing stare.
"Hmm. Personal," the tall male repeated, the word dripping with irony. "Interesting. Because I recall a very personal call from you last night.”
You cringed, wishing the ground would swallow you whole.
“Something about my... personality? Stressed. Uptight. And my supposed need for, what was it again? Oh, right-getting laid." Sunghoon’s voice was calm, but the restrained anger in his tone was palpable.
You swallowed the lump in your throat, your brain scrambling for something, anything, to say. “I—well, I was…drunk.”
“Clearly.” He stepped closer, his eyes narrowing. “Drunk enough to think that telling your boss at midnight to psychoanalyze his personal life was a good idea.”
You opened your mouth to respond, but he wasn’t done.
“Drunk enough to suggest that I—how did you put it?—‘let my inhibitions go.’”
The way he said it made your face flush even hotter, and your thoughts briefly betrayed you, wondering what it would look like if he ever did.
“Look, I’m sorry,” you blurted out. “It was unprofessional, and it- it won’t happen again.”
Sunghoon tilted his head slightly, studying you with an intensity that made your breath hitch.
“You’re right,” he said after a moment.
“It was unprofessional. And reckless. And frankly…” He leaned in, just enough to make you feel the heat of his presence. “…you’re lucky I don’t have HR on speed dial.”
Your heart was pounding now, and you couldn’t tell if it was from fear, embarrassment, or the undeniable air crackling between you.
“I said I’m sorry,” you said, your voice coming out softer, more desperate than you intended. “I shouldn’t have said—any of that.”
Sunghoon didn’t respond immediately. He simply stepped closer, gaze locked on yours, unreadable and unrelenting.
“Sorry doesn’t fix it, sweetheart.” he said, his voice low and almost dangerous.
“You don’t just…” he trailed off, his eyes dragging over you slowly. “Get to say whatever you want and walk away.”
You stepped back again, only to feel the cool, unyielding surface of the printer against your back.
He was close now—too close. The scent of his cologne made your head spin, and you couldn’t tell if it was the lingering hangover or his intense presence.
“I wasn’t trying to—” you stammered, your throat dry. “I didn’t mean—”
“Didn’t mean what?” Sunghoon interrupted feigning confusion, his hands braced on the machine on either side of you, trapping you in.
“Didn’t mean to call me uptight? Didn’t mean to tell me I needed to get laid?” His tone was sharp, but his gaze softened ever so slightly, his lips curving into something that wasn’t quite a smirk.
Your heart was hammering against your ribcage, and you hated how your breath hitched as his face inched closer.
The atmosphere between you was suffocating, the air charged and stifling all at once.
You couldn’t think, couldn’t move, couldn’t even breathe.
“I—I was drunk,” you reasoned again, your voice barely audible.
“And yet,” Sunghoon murmured, leaning down slightly, his dark eyes boring into yours, “you said it. You think I don’t know what you meant?”
You could feel the faintest brush of his breath on your skin as he bridged the thinning gap. Your knees felt weak, and your grip on the papers loosened slightly.
You turned your head, trying to look anywhere but at him, but he reached out, his fingers brushing lightly against your chin, tilting your face back toward him.
“Look at me,” Sunghoon said, his voice quieter now, almost a command, but it wasn’t harsh—it was soft, almost…intimate.
You obeyed, your eyes flickering to his, and that was your mistake.
His gaze flicked down briefly to your lips, and your breath caught as his face drew closer, his lips just inches from yours.
The tension was unbearable at his point. Your chest rose and fell in shallow breaths, your pulse roaring in your ears.
Every logical part of your brain screamed at you to stop, to say something, to step away. But you couldn’t.
And then, before you could think it through—before you could stop yourself—you surged forward, crashing your lips against his.
The stack of papers in your hand fell to the floor in a forgotten mess as your hands reached up instinctively, clutching the fabric of his well pressed shirt.
He groaned against your lips, his voice rough and full of something you couldn't quite name.
For a second—a fraction of a second—you thought Sunghoon might pull away, but then his hands were on your waist, pulling you flush against him, and the kiss deepened.
It was everything you didn’t know you needed—hot, consuming, and utterly intoxicating. The taste of espresso and something uniquely him lingered on your tongue as his fingers tightened around your waist, anchoring you to the moment.
You only briefly pulled back, gasping for air, before Sunghoon’s lips chased yours again, kissing you with a force that almost made your knees buckle.
It was frantic, needy and messy in a way that came from too much tension snapping at once.
Your heart threatened to beat out of your chest as your hands rushed for his buttons, each one revealing a much more intimate vision of him only the naive interns could dream of.
Your hands landed on his chest as his lips grazed along your jaw, planting kisses on your neck that made you fall back in breathy sighs.
They traveled up his neck and into his soft dark strands, moaning softly as he skillfully unbuttoned your blouse, palming your breasts over your lace bra hungrily.
Without any warning you were quickly spun around, and bent over the printer, a soft gasp escaping your tingling lips at the cool contrast of the machine on your hot skin.
“Is this what you meant?” He asked, hating the way your heart skipped at the sound of his belt unbuckling behind you.
His hand crept up your skirt, sending shivers up your spine as he hooked his fingers around the band of your panties, tugging them down without care.
You felt your cheeks flush at the cool air hitting your glistening cunt, practically aching for him.
“Hmm?” He mused, awaiting an answer before landing a sharp, yet pleasurable smack on your ass.
The sound of your gasp echoed off the walls, gripping the machine as you anchored yourself, swallowing a choked moan.
You felt the heat of him pressing against your entrance, the head of his cock teasing your sensitive clit. You let out a breathy moan, trying to rock yourself backwards to feel him inside you.
Sunghoon’s hand pressed firmly on your back, holding you in place with tut. You felt another smack on your reddening skin, holding back a whimper.
“I need you to answer me, sweetheart,” he instructed, “is this what you wanted?”
You nodded, begging he would take the hint.
Of course he didn't, continuing to tease the both of you as his hand caressed your backside, his lips planting kisses across your exposed skin.
When you didn't say anything else Sunghoon spanked you once again, a louder whimper escaping your mouth this time.
"I can’t hear you," he instructed, a smirk tugging his lips, "is this what you wanted?"
"Yes! Fuck." You rushed, with desperate cries.
Without a moment of hesitation his cock slid inside of you, both of you lowly moaning in pleasure.
You had never felt so good in your life.
His hand found its place on your waist, gripping tight as he started a rhythm, bottom lip slipping between your teeth as you willed yourself not to moan.
The last thing you needed was for the whole office leaning their ear against the printing room door in scandalous curiosity.
“Don’t make a sound, ‘hear me?” He instructed, with every slow thrust, inching deeper as you whimpered in response, nodding hastily.
"That's it, sweetheart," he praised, his cock meticulously stretching you out with every passing second, "So fucking tight.."
You shudder under his tight grasp, swallowing a few moans as he slowly bottoms out into you with every drag, arching into him as he bites his lip at the pornographic sight.
“You take me so well, don’t you?” He groaned, practically sensing the cocky smirk on his lips as he reveled in your sweet whimpers.
He was such a prick.
“You’re— you’re a— fuck.” you cry, biting your lip to stifle your moans.
Sunghoon leaned over, his groans tickling the shell of your ear like he wanted you to break, “I’m a what, baby?”
Your brain was too foggy to form a coherent sentence, irritation a mere afterthought as he hit every spot, his cock filling you perfectly. You couldn't even remember the last time someone fucked you so full.
So much for declaring that you wouldn’t even touch Sunghoon with a ten foot pole.
You let your guard down for a few seconds before his hips experimentally snapped into you, lewd moans tumbling past your lips before his hand instantly clamped your mouth.
“You never listen, do you (Y/N)?” Sunghoon grunts, grabbing your hips and slamming himself into you, his cock reaching even more profound places as you cry out, desperate moans muffled by his palm.
His brows furrow, low groans escaping his lips, “so fucking stubborn.”
Your hands search for any surface to grip onto, surging forward from the sheer force of his hips snapping into you, gasps drowned into his palm.
“Walking around challenging my authority?”
You couldn’t respond, pretty eyes rolling to the back of your head, eyes fluttering shut as he pounded into you, making sure to hit the most pleasurable spots inside you.
“Mr Park? Are you in here?” a voice called through the door, loud enough to cut through the haze of everything.
You froze, rising up in alarm before he pushed you down. Sunghoon’s jaw clenched, indifferent to the reality of the situation that teetered on the lines of danger.
“Yes,” he called back, his voice calm and steady, yet still rutting into you.
His grip finally left from your side, instead slipping a hand between your thighs and circling over your sensitive clit, jolting as your muffled cries of pure ecstasy were heard by him and no one else.
The voice on the other side hesitated, then added, “I have the updated layouts you asked for.”
Your nails dug into the skin of your palms, fighting the urge to scream as he hitled himself deeply, making a mess of you as he fucked into you over, and over again.
You were damn near the cusp of falling apart from everything, yet the fact that he had the audacity to be so calm and collected while stretching you out, sent you over the edge.
“Leave them on my desk,” Sunghoon replied coolly, not even glancing toward the door.
The footsteps retreated, and you closed your eyes in sheer relief. You were a teary mess now, crying at the dizzying sensation of fingers on you, velvety walls tightly hugging him as his thrusts picked up.
“You crying for me, princess?” He moans, and the soft delivery of his words makes your cunt flutter around him.
He finally moves his hand away from your mouth, as if challenging you to make a sound.
“Sunghoon, fuck.” You cry, in a broken whisper, clenching around him uncontrollably as he tries to hold you still.
“I know baby, I know.” He cooed, savoring the way your legs shaked, pupils blown wide with lust as his pistoned in and out of you so easily.
With his fingers, he continued his assault, working your clit in tight circles as your hips bucked wildly. He groaned, feeling your walls squeezing him, threatening to bring him over the edge.
But he wouldn't cum before you.
Sunghoon’s lips ghosted over your ear, his soft guttural moans shooting straight to your core, “such a pretty mess for me, aren’t you?” his lips curled into a grin as you finally tipped over the edge.
A soft, yet long moan that slipped was quickly muffled by his hand as he fucked you through it, your toes curling and thighs quivering.
White hot pleasure washed over you like a tidal wave, drowning you in sheer bliss. But just when it was starting to subside, he was slamming his cock into you.
The sound of his skin meeting yours was like music, and his fingers returned to your clit, sending you spiraling back into ecstasy.
Your weak cries of pleasure only seemed to encourage him more.
Sunghoon moaned, a beautiful sound leaving him as his cock twitched. With a few hard erratic thrusts, he came, filling you up completely, not wasting a single drop.
He groaned softly, riding out your highs before you whimpered at the feeling of him slipping out of you, both panting.
The silence between the two of you was mutual as you caught your breaths. Sunghoon leaned down, sliding your panties back up and pressing a soft kiss on your asscheek.
It was infuriating to admit that, just as good as he was with everything else, he was really good at fucking.
husband!jay who, for a very long time, had been the epitome of restraint. Your marriage began with the discreet, practical formality of a courthouse ceremony — a necessity, considering his schedule was an unforgiving, suffocating machine of back-to-back meetings and global acquisitions. He was there, present, but always a man committed to his work. And yet, the day your wedding celebration finally happened and the honeymoon arrived, coinciding with his first real stretch of vacation in years, the man you thought you knew simply vanished, replaced by something far more primitive and, frankly, exhausting in the most wonderful way possible.
He turned into a complete, shameless koala. It wasn’t enough for him to just be near you; he seemed to have developed a physical allergy to any space between the two of you. In Paris — the city you’d chosen for your honeymoon — it only got worse. Jay insisted on holding your hand at all times, as if the entire city needed to know you were his. He held onto you as you walked through elegant streets, stopped in the middle of the sidewalk just to fix your scarf and use the excuse to steal a kiss, tugged you closer by the waist whenever you paused in front of a shop window or some café too pretty to resist, and kept an arm around your shoulders for nearly the entire walk back to the hotel. Inside bookstores, in restaurants, while waiting in line at a pâtisserie, it didn’t matter, Jay always found a way to touch you. A kiss to your temple while you picked dessert, his fingers absentmindedly stroking your palm under the table, his face buried in your neck the second the elevator doors slid shut. The man who once barely had time to breathe now seemed determined to make up for every second of distance that had built up between you, and he did it by becoming absurdly, scandalously affectionate.
But it was behind closed doors that the transformation became truly overwhelming.
The man who used to be so disciplined, so careful with his energy, suddenly seemed to have an infinite, bottomless reservoir of desire. He didn’t just want to love you; he wanted to consume you. Every night, the moment the lights went out, the “magnate” Jay dissolved into a man driven by one singular, frantic purpose. He pulled you into bed with hungry intent, spending hours exploring every inch of your skin, his mouth pressing warm, wet kisses from your collarbone all the way down to your thighs, clearly trying to memorize the texture of your body better than you knew it yourself.
And then there was the way he always came undone always deep, intense, with a primal force that left you breathless and trembling. It was as if, after years of being a man of logic and spreadsheets, he had finally decided to let instinct take the wheel. It got to a point where you genuinely started wondering whether a human being was capable of going into some kind of permanent rut. You’d catch yourself staring at the ceiling in those quiet moments after he finally fell asleep, sprawled over you like a heavy, satisfied predator, thinking about the sheer physical effort he put into every single encounter.It only made the questions from those nosy aunts at family dinners feel even more absurd. Every time one of them leaned in with that curious look and asked, “So, when are we going to see a baby with his face running around?” you could feel heat creeping up your neck. You’d glance at your husband, sitting among the elders with the impeccable posture of a respectable, successful husband, and have to bite your lip to stop yourself from laughing or maybe moaning. While they theorized about “bad timing” or “planning,” you’d secretly be thinking about the brutal, relentless biological warfare Jay had been waging against your uterus for the past two weeks. Really, it wasn’t for lack of trying. It was almost funny to imagine your aunts’ reaction if you actually decided to tell the truth: “If only you knew the amount of effort he puts into making that happen every single night!”
husband!jay who is an actual menace when it comes to physical proximity in public. Of course, he’s not stupid enough to be overt about it, but you can still feel the subtle drag of his thumb tracing slow circles over your white tights, the touch growing heavier over the milky fabric the second he feels you part your legs just a little. He’ll be discussing market trends with complete seriousness while his grip tightens just enough to let you know exactly what he plans on doing to you the moment you both get in the car.
husband!jay who finally sheds all that polished, statesmanlike composure the second your bedroom door clicks shut. He doesn’t want to be the calm CEO anymore; he wants to be a man completely surrendered to his own urges. After days of deprivation, he has no patience for anything slow or delicate he wants the friction, the weight, the overwhelming sensation of being buried inside you. He’ll strip you with focused, efficient intensity, his eyes dark and heavy behind his glasses before he finally takes them off and tosses them aside like they’re just another useless corporate accessory, all so he can focus on you and only you, his breathing breaking into rough, guttural grunts as he whispers the filthiest things against your ear.
husband!jay who doesn’t care about gentleness or whether you still look “pretty.” In fact, what revives him after a draining day at the company is seeing you ruined in his bed, hair tangled from his rough tugging and that dazed, well-sated look written all over your face.
husband!jay who prefers to dominate you the old-fashioned way, favoring the raw connection of skin against skin, no distractions, no games, no toys. To him, those are nothing but excuses for weak men who can’t measure up on their own and need a third party to satisfy their wives. Please, how humiliating would it be for Jay Park to let his wife come from nothing but a cheap vibrator? He’d rather pin your wrists above your head, pressing your body into the sheets beneath the heavier, harder weight of his own until you can feel every solid inch of him. There’s no restraint; he drives into you with deep, rhythmic thrusts, loving the sound his firm pelvis makes when it collides with the softness of your ass. He wants to hear you moan his name, hear your voice crack when he keeps hitting that perfect, sensitive spot over and over again.
husband!jay who comes home and can’t even pretend to hold himself back, losing every ounce of polish and manners he spent his life learning; his senses narrow into those of a hungry, slightly caveman-like man. He hikes up your skirt, his large, calloused hands gripping your thighs so firmly they’ll leave faint marks by morning. Taking you from behind while you’re washing dishes becomes the sole objective, the hard ridge of his cock straining against his slacks and pressing into your ass, grinding there like some dog in heat. He doesn’t care about looking “elegant,” not when he’d been fantasizing about this exact moment for hours in the cold emptiness of his office. Eventually, the dishes slip from your soapy hands, forcing you to brace yourself against the cold ceramic of the sink when his pace starts growing harsher.
husband!jay who comes home after a fourteen-hour conference looking absolutely exhausted, yet still ridiculously handsome with his tie loosened and his sleeves rolled up. He doesn’t want some grand romantic display; he just wants to bury his face in your warm, soft breasts. Is that really too much to ask?
husband!jay who is an exceptional provider in the most practical, realistic sense of the word. He doesn’t buy you extravagant jewelry just to show off; he’s the kind of man who notices when you casually mention a skincare serum while making the bed, or a snack you liked that grocery stores don’t even sell anymore. In the blink of an eye — or after a few minutes spent negotiating with suppliers from each brand — everything would be stocked in the pantry before you even had time to realize you were craving it.
husband!jay who, every time he leans in to smother your moans with his wet, firm kisses, carries a faint trace of his office life on his breath. It’s the taste of the lozenges he chews to stay alert through long meetings, or the mint gum he uses because he once saw online that chewing it makes his jawline look even sharper. It’s such a strange, intoxicating contrast the feeling of his hot, heavy tongue sliding against yours, always paired with that artificial coolness.
husband!jay who, despite the chaos and pressure of his packed schedule, turns into a complete whiner the moment the morning sun hits the bedroom. When you try to move, making excuses about needing to get up to make coffee or start your day so he doesn’t end up late, he answers with a low, irritated groan that vibrates deep in his chest. “I’m the boss, remember? I can buy coffee on the way… or you can just bring me some later.” And while you try to pull away, his hand starts wandering with slow, lazy intent, gliding from your waist down to the waistband of your pajama pants. The sensation is devastating in the best possible way; the solid, firm weight of his hand is warm, but as his fingers brush your skin, the smooth, cold metal of his wedding band creates a sharp, vivid contrast against the heat of his morning touch. It’s such an intimate, comforting feeling that your breath catches, wiping out any motivation you had to be productive. He feels your body go still and lets out a low, satisfied murmur of victory, already knowing you won’t be seeing a coffee machine anytime soon.
genre: academic rivals to lovers, rich jay au, university au, angst, slow burn
part two word count: 18.1k
warnings: angst, depictions of terminal illness, scenes that occur in hospitals, use of the american (usa) health system (aka receiving medical care is expensive), swearing, slowwwww burn
playlist: this is me trying / cardigan / mirrorball- taylor swift / yellow - coldplay / BIRDS OF A FEATHER - billie eilish / safety net - ariana grande / garden (say it like dat) - sza
note: I AM SO SORRY PLEASE DO NOT HATE ME but part two was well on it's way to being 30k+ and I didn't like how uneven that would have made this story feel. This is part two, and part three will be the final. IT WILL BE, I SWEAR!!!!!!! part three is already mostly written, so rest assured that you will not have to wait nearly as long for it. Also, some of the spoilers I've been releasing are from what is now part three, so know that those moments have not been scrapped. they just haven't happened yet. For now, enjoy part two!
part one
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Park Jongseong is everything you hate. Spoiled, entitled, and the heir to a top conglomerate in the business world you’ve been fighting tooth and nail to break into. You can’t even begin to count how many sleepless nights, skipped meals, and personal desires you’ve sacrificed just for a seat at the table he was born sitting at.
But when a piece of news in your third year of university pulls your world out from under your feet, everything starts to change. Including your feelings towards the one person you thought you’d always loathe.
⋆.˚⟡ ࣪ ˖⋆.˚⟡ ࣪ ˖⋆.˚⟡ ࣪ ˖
Light filters through your half-drawn curtains. It’s brighter now. You’re not sure exactly what time it is, but you’re guessing somewhere just before noon, if the long shadows across the linoleum are anything to go by.
It would be quiet, peaceful even, if it weren’t for the pair of eyes staring at you from the foot of your bed.
“How are you feeling?” Sunoo asks again. It must be nearing the hundredth time this morning alone.
His voice is gentle, but it hits your ears like an accusation.
Put your guilt aside for a second, Jay told you that night in his car, and let people that love you take care of you when you need it.
Avoiding eye contact with your little brother now, it’s still easier said than done. All you can think about is how difficult this must be for him.
If your aversion to hospitals was enough to make your pulse spike at the thought of seeing a doctor, you can’t imagine what he must be feeling now.
But Sunoo isn’t a child anymore. Even since you began university, he’s changed. The years have hollowed out his cheeks, sharpened his gaze. When he looks at you now, it’s with the discernment of an adult.
And with age comes perception. It’s like he can see the gears turning in your mind.
“You don’t have to worry about me, you know.”
“What?” You’re quick to mask the flicker of shock that crosses your features.
It would seem that Sunoo has also become more direct as he’s gotten older. “I can tell that you’re thinking about me. Worrying about me. I don’t think I really need to point out how ridiculous that is.”
He does his best not to let his gaze flicker to the array of IV bags currently attached to the vein in the crook of your elbow, but the implication is obvious enough.
“I’m not worried about you,” you sigh. You are, of course, but he doesn’t need to know that. “I just—”
“Care,” he finishes for you. “Yeah, I know.”
At the end of your bed, Sunoo sighs. He arrived earlier this morning, along with your mother who’s currently speaking to Hana in the hallway outside your room. You’re not sure exactly what kind of conversation they’re having, but the tight, teary smile she offered on her way out five minutes ago wasn’t exactly reassuring.
Since their arrival, it’s been a kaleidoscope of emotions. You kept your promise to Jay. Only two nights passed before yesterday evening, when you finally found the courage to press on your mother’s contact information in your phone’s list of favorites. Your fingers were shaking, but you didn’t back out.
Partly because you knew it would only be worse the longer you put it off. And partly because Jay had been watching you the entire time, brow raised in a silent reminder of the deal you metaphorically signed your name to. At least he’d had the decency to leave the room once your mother picked up.
With a voice that only trembled slightly, you told her everything. Well, most of it.
Your diagnosis, your hospital information, every bit of news the doctor gave you, you divulged to her.
A certain deal struck in a passenger seat, however, remains a secret between you and Jay.
It had taken a fair bit of convincing for your mother not to hop in her car immediately, but once Sunoo and your father had also been filled in, you persuaded them to wait until the morning.
And now, here they are. A mirror image, a sickening sense of warped déjà vu from a scene ten years ago.
Only this time, you’re the one with ruin taking hold in your body and Sunoo’s the one putting on a brave face at the foot of your hospital bed.
Again, your little brother traces the path between IV fluids and your veins with his eyes. You’re not sure if the pain you see reflected is born of memory or the reality in front of him.
“Don’t look at me like that,” you whisper, but there’s no real command behind it. Partly because you know it’s an impossible request and partly because your energy levels are nearing non-existent. “I’m okay, really.”
For a moment, Sunoo just looks at you. His eyes are glassy. You avoid them, mostly because you’re afraid of finding your own reflection.
“What are you talking about?” he finally asks. “No one… we don’t expect you to be okay. I know you have this idea in your head that admitting you’re in pain or things are difficult will be a burden to us, but you’re my family. My sister. Watching you lie through your teeth because you think you’re sparing my feelings is worse than the truth could ever be.”
The weight of his words settles around you, heavy in the air. For a moment, you almost don’t recognize your little brother.
For the last ten years, it’s as if he’s been frozen in your mind. Warped by trauma and the pain of nearly losing someone so important to you, it’s like you’ve still seen that version of him, young and frail and sick, every time you look at him.
But Sunoo is in front of you now. He sits tall. His skin is so radiant it’s nearly glowing. There are dark shadows under his eyes yes, but the hollowness, the emptiness, is gone.
All at once, you wonder just how heavy a burden the weight of your lingering concern has been all these years. It always came from love, of course, but that never made it any less suffocating.
Even if only subconsciously, you’ve treated Sunoo like glass all these years. As if the wind could blow right through him. As if your protection was the only thing keeping his feet tethered to the earth.
But the Sunoo that looks back at you now isn’t in need of saving. His resilience has outlasted things far more severe than just heavy wind. Along with his baby features, he’s lost his fragility.
He’ll always be your baby brother. That will never change. But when you look at him now, really look, you see the beginnings of a man.
Someone with autonomy and agency and the ability to apply them as he sees fit.
So, after a small, shaky breath, you admit to him quietly, “It hurts.”
Something in his gaze fractures, but it doesn’t break.
You continue, “It’s not a sharp pain, really, but it’s there. My body feels different. Wrong. Weaker. It’s like, I can still do things, I think, but they need more effort.”
You haven’t tested that theory. Haven’t really done anything but lay here for the last two days. Time is broken up by the nurses and doctors that visit. And on more than one occasion, Jay.
He’s not here now. He’s kept himself scarce since the arrival of your family, but until now, he’s been a near constant fixture in your hospital room.
Surprisingly, he doesn’t always have much to say. The man you used to spend entire lectures arguing back and forth with is often uncharacteristically mute when he sits in the chair opposite your bed.
Usually, he just asks how you’re doing, if there’s anything he can do for you, if you need him to tell Hana anything for you.
You never do. You probably wouldn't tell him even if you did. But he comes anyway.
After your standard exchange, Jay’s mouth will always part like he has something else to say. He doesn’t commit to it, though. Just sits quietly, a steady presence.
Now, Sunoo is the one to receive your words, to take them in stride.
“Yeah,” he nods. There’s sorrow in his eyes, but there’s strength there too. He can handle this. The truth isn’t too heavy for him. He won’t crumble under the weight of shared pain. “It’s like simple tasks are suddenly difficult. I know what you mean.”
He does. Of all the people in the world, Sunoo probably understands how you feel the most intimately.
Deciding you’ve had enough doom and gloom, you shift the topic to the one shred of good news you’ve recently gotten. “They have to monitor me a bit longer before they decide for sure,” you tell him, “but I’ll probably still be able to attend some classes. A few times a week, maybe.”
“You want to do that?” Sunoo asks. He’s not judging, not demanding. Just asking.
“Yeah,” you nod. “I think… I think some normalcy will be good.” Will make it all a bit more bearable.
Sunoo’s quiet for a moment. And then he says, “If there’s ever a time when it’s not… If you ever want to come home, you have to know there’s a place for you there. Always.”
The sudden sincerity, his earnestness, make the tears that threaten your lashline feel all the more imminent.
“Yeah,” you nod. Even if it’s an offer you both know you’ll never take him up on. “I know.”
Your eyes flicker to the bouquet sitting on your bedside table, the flowers Sunoo brought you. They’re bright, colorful.
Just like him, you think.
Sunoo takes the lapse in conversation as an opportunity to ask you more questions you give him half-true answers to. He asks about your classes, your hobbies, your nonexistent friends.
When he breaches the topic of romance, you roll your eyes. At least this time, you can be honest in your answer.
“I don’t have time for a boyfriend,” you explain. It’s true. You don’t.
Until now, you haven’t had time for anything that wasn’t studying or working or dedicating yourself to seeing his dreams comes true, but you can’t exactly tell him that now.
Luckily, he seems satisfied enough with your answer, even if it does make him frown a bit.
You’re saved from his line of questioning by your mother who reenters the room moments later. Her eyes are swollen and bloodshot, but all three of you do an excellent job of pretending they’re not.
Here in your hospital room, it’s not exactly the family reunion you’d envision for yourself, but you’d be lying if you said there wasn’t something deeply comforting about having Sunoo and your mother close again.
Something settles uncomfortably in your gut when you remember that the reason they’re here, the only reason any of this was possible, was because of Jay.
Even now, smiling at your family feels a little bit too much like incurring an unpayable debt.
Still, you do your best to shake the discomfort and to just appreciate the fact that they could be here at all. Your body might be broken, immune system attacking you from the inside out, but when your mother stands to hug you, when Sunoo takes your hand in his, something in you steels its resolve.
You’re not sure where it comes from exactly — this sudden desire to fight, but it gets stronger with every passing second you spend with your family.
Debts aside, you have something to focus on now. Here, with them at your side, it’s more undeniable than ever.
You want to live.
Whether it’s for you or for them or something else entirely, you can’t quite be sure. But your life suddenly feels like something worth fighting for.
So you don’t complain when Hana brings you a meal that tastes more like mush than food. The flavor hardly matters. If you want to live, you need your strength.
You don’t argue when Doctor Kim explains the next treatment phase, along with its extensive list of side effects.
You just nod. You agree. You try.
For you, for them, for whatever forces are on your side, you’ve made up your mind. You’ll do what it takes, one day at a time. You’ll do what it takes to live.
…..
Between treatment cycles and the near constant vigil your family keeps at your beside, nearly a week passes before you see Jay again.
He’s back to his usual ensemble when he steps through the door of your hospital room after three sharp, distinct knocks one Tuesday morning.
Stepping into the light, you can’t help but give him a once-over. The jeans and sweater he wears aren’t anything flashy, but he manages to make them look good. Expensive.
You sigh. It’s him, after all. Not for the first time, the unfailing unfairness of life seems to manifest in front of you and slap you straight across the face. Here you are, fighting for something as innate as your own life, and he has the gall to step through the door looking like he just wrapped a magazine photoshoot.
Unaware of your inner turmoil, Jay lingers near the entrance.
For a moment, he just looks at you. A barrage of emotions flickers over his features, but he shutters them all before you can put a name to any of them.
“Hi,” he finally says, eyes still scrutinizing.
“Hi,” you return, a bit guarded.
He opens his mouth. Closes it again. A furrow passes through his brow, like he can’t quite decide how to start.
You prepare yourself for the inevitable questions you’ve already grown weary of answering from just your family. How are you? How do you feel? How’s your energy? Does it hurt?
You know they’re all well-meaning, but something in you withers a little further every time you have to answer one of them. Mostly because guilt makes you feel like you’re expected to lie through your teeth.
How are you? Terrible. You’re dying. Your own cells are ripping each other to shreds, tearing apart the remnant of your immune system from the inside out.
How do you feel? Like shit.
How’s your energy? So low it’s laughable. Whatever this disease hasn’t taken from you yet, the IV fluids being pumped into your arm day and night are more than happy to steal.
Does it hurt? That one’s probably the most ridiculous of all. Of course it fucking hurts.
So you sigh, already avoiding eye contact as you prepare to answer whichever line of questioning Jay decides to start with.
But he surprises you.
“I brought you something,” he finally says. It’s not a question.
Slowly, like you’re a skittish kitten, he approaches your bed. Careful not to disturb the flowers, he pulls a sizable stack of papers out from his bag before setting them gently on the table next to you.
“What’s that?” You frown.
“Class notes,” he explains. “The ones from Professor Jung’s and all the other classes we share are from me.” He nods to the pile. “I didn’t know you were also taking statistics and marketing comm this semester. I got those from a couple of your classmates.”
“I…” you trail off, momentarily stunned. “You didn’t have to do that.”
He shrugs, as if the gesture is nothing. As if his effort is meaningless. “I knew you wouldn’t want to be behind when you do come back to class. Speaking of which, Hana told me that you’re doing well. She mentioned that you might be able to try coming to a couple of lectures next week.”
“Yeah,” you nod. The news had come much to your relief. The nurses, of course, haven’t been exactly pleased with your incessant pestering. You’ve made such a habit of asking when you can return to school that they hardly even admonish you anymore. Just answer with resigned sighs that they’re still monitoring your condition and they’ll know more soon.
Doctor Kim had been the one to finally break the news, actually. He was sure to emphasize that he strongly advised against it and would continue to encourage you to rest as much as possible, but if you really wanted to attend a few of your weekly lectures, he wouldn’t be the one to stop you.
You’ll have to adjust, of course. You’ve already reached out to several of your professors. Keeping the details as vague as possible, you’ve made arrangements to complete the majority of your assignments online.
They all said nearly the same thing: because your grades and performance have been so impressive this semester, they’ll allow you to finish your work remotely, as long as you’re still willing to sit your final exams in person.
The only professor who seemed a bit hesitant was Professor Jung. Of course, you know she’d make far more lenient concessions if you told her your true reasons for not coming to class so often anymore, but then she’d probably also give you the same treatment as Doctor Kim. As everyone else who knows your secret.
She’d insist that you forget about your schoolwork and focus only on your recovery. Give up all the effort you’ve already put in and just concentrate on getting better.
You can’t do that. You won’t.
You’re staying true to your word, your promise sworn in the passenger seat of Jay’s car, but you refuse to sacrifice more than you have to.
If there is some form of happy ending on the other side of all this, you still need your degree. You still have your goals, your one-sided promise to Sunoo.
As long as you physically can, you’ll keep up with your studies to the best of your ability.
Jay, to his credit, seems to understand all of this without you having to say a single word. It’s why you suspect he’s shown up in your hospital room with a stack of notes instead of a barrage of questions.
Looking at him now, you consider your other promises forged with his hands on the steering wheel.
If he’s bringing you his personal notes, he must really be convinced of your virtue. Your agreement to let him finish first in your class. Then again, you suppose he could have forged a couple of answers, skipped a couple of key points.
You doubt it, though. Sabotage doesn’t seem to be his style.
Then, you think of the rest of your bargain. The list you made. The things you want to do before you die.
With the charity gala behind you, only three things remain.
Go on a beach vacation
Ride in a convertible
Kiss a stranger
There are the northern lights, too, of course, but you gave up on that dream nearly within the same breath you wrote it with. It’s just too impossible.
So you’re left with three things. Three tasks you promised him you’d see through.
Now, though, you really have no idea how you’ll make it happen.
A beach vacation? You’re already worried about mustering the strength to attend occasional lectures. Much less afford the necessary transportation costs.
Sighing, you suppose it would be better to bring up your hesitation sooner rather than later. Explain to Jay that it just isn’t feasible for you to actively try checking off your bucket list with everything else going on.
Besides, what’s he going to do? Retract his end of your deal? You don’t think he has it in him.
“Speaking of returning to classes,” you venture, “I wanted to talk to you about the whole bucket list thing. Look, Jay,” you sigh, “I know I agreed to complete it, but it really was just a random list of things I wrote right after I got the diagnosis. They’re not—it’s not a real bucket list. Besides, I’ve already done most of the things on it, so—”
“No.” In your hospital room, the word rings loud and clear.
“What?”
“Nice try.” He shakes his head. Smiles privately to himself, like he expected this. “You’re not getting out of it. You think deals are broken that easily? I’d be more than happy to go find your brother and tell him what’s really going on. He was here earlier, wasn’t he? I bet if I just stick around long enough, then—”
Your eyes flash dangerously, narrowed into slits. “You wouldn't dare.”
“You want to test that?”
Your silence is answer enough.
“That’s what I thought,” Jay nods. “And I’m glad you brought it up. We’re going somewhere this afternoon.”
“Excuse me,” you argue. “What happened to asking? Besides, I’m not allowed to leave right now.”
“You are, actually,” Jay counters. “I already cleared everything with Hana. As long as I keep a, and I quote, careful eye on you, we’re good to go. For a maximum of two hours, but I think you’ll find that’s plenty of time.”
“I don’t want to go.” You sound like a petulant child throwing a tantrum. You hardly care.
“You don’t even know where we’re going.”
“I know it can’t be anywhere good.”
“It will probably beat a hospital room, though,” Jay points out. “I’d bet on those odds.”
“My family—” You try to protest.
“Drove back home this morning,” he cuts you off. “They won’t be back until the weekend.”
You flounder for a moment, mouth opening. “If you knew that, then why did you threaten to tell Sunoo earlier?”
Jay shrugs. “I’m patient. I didn't mean I would tell him today. Although,” he considers, “I probably could. I bet I could get one of these nurses to pass along his phone number.”
“That’s confidential, you idiot.”
“I don’t know,” he muses. “They’ve been pretty accommodating to my requests so far.”
You scowl. You bet they have. You’re sure he waltzes in here looking like that, and they’re falling over themselves to fulfill his requests.
“Whatever,” you scoff. “I’m not going anywhere with you.”
“You don’t have a choice.” His smile is entirely too smug for your liking. “This is part of our deal.”
“I don’t remember ‘bending to your every beck and whim’ being part of our deal,” you point out.
“It’s not,” he shakes his head, “but this is.”
“How could it be?” you ask. “It’s not like we could possibly go to the beach right now.”
He’s quiet for a moment, and your eyes widen in shock.
“Jay,” you panic, “There’s no way we could—”
“Relax,” he interrupts. “We’re not going to the beach.” He pauses for a moment, then, as an afterthought, adds, “Yet.”
“Then what—”
“Just come,” he pleads, a bit of begging coloring his tone. “Please,” he adds for good measure.
So you do, grumbling under your breath the entire way to his ridiculously sleek car that he insists on pulling around front so you don’t have to walk any further than necessary.
Sliding into his passenger seat, you scramble to guess where he could possibly be taking you, options becoming more limited the longer he drives.
By the time he pulls off the freeway, you half suspect that he was just trying to get you out of the hospital for a bit.
What you don’t expect, however, is for him to expertly navigate his car into a parking spot in front of the local mall.
“What the hell?” you ask when he slides the gear into park. “What, are you taking me for a pretzel dog at Auntie Anne’s or something? I think I’d prefer the hospital food, to be honest.”
Jay just rolls his eyes.
You continue, “And why did you park so far away? You’re really gonna make a sick girl walk all the way to the entrance from here? The least you could do is drop me off at the front—”
Deciding he’s had enough of your assumptions, Jay cuts you off. “We’re not going to the mall.”
“We’re not?” Surprise crosses your features. “Then why are we here?”
“Because,” he intones, tilting his chin to cast a significant look somewhere behind your shoulders, “we’re going there.”
Turning back, you squint. It’s a bit difficult to see with how dark his tinted windows are, but you make out the outline of the luxury department store. Adjacent to the mall, every shop inside is far out of your price range. You’ve never stepped foot inside. Hell, you forgot it was even there.
“Don’t tell me you dragged me out of the hospital because you’re low on Chanel,” you groan. “Seriously, what am I supposed to do in there?”
For a moment, Jay just looks at you, an open mix of disbelief and mild exasperation spread across his features.
“Oh, ___,” he sighs, entirely too patronizing for your liking. “Always so close to the point, and then it just…” he trails off, raising his hand up and drawing an arc over your head, “misses you entirely.”
“Yeah,” you goad, “I’m so dumb and oblivious you had to beg me to let you outrank me in our class.”
“I didn’t beg,” he argues, a sudden defensive edge in his tone. “Although, now that you point it out, it is kind of ridiculous. How are you so damn smart yet so incredibly—”
“Don’t you dare finish that sentence.”
“Okay,” Jay surrenders, putting his hands up, palms splayed. “Okay,” he concedes, exhaling. “Let’s just go.”
You don’t budge. “Didn’t you hear me? I don’t want to help you pick out another Prada tie.”
“Didn’t you hear me?” he argues back, voice an octave too high like he’s imitating you. “That’s not what we’re doing.”
You open your mouth to hurl another round of questions his way, but Jay won’t let you get one out sideways.
“Just come,” he says, a bit of pleading coloring his voice as it falls back to its usual pitch. “I’ll beg if I have to.”
You’re silent for a moment longer.
“Please,” he adds, and it has the last of your resolve withering in on itself.
Pushing yourself up from your seat takes a fair deal of exertion. More than you care to admit. Wincing, you mask the expression as soon as it comes. The last thing you need is Jay picking up on your discomfort. Your weakness.
But he’s always been too perceptive for his own good. Especially where you’re concerned.
Rushing around from the driver’s side, he stops right in front of you, just slightly too close.
“You alright?” His hands are half outstretched, like he can’t decide if he should reach for you or not.
“I’m fine.” Your words are a thin, frayed thing. Stretched almost as thin as your patience. “Let’s just go.”
Jay still looks like he wants to protest. He checks your expression and thinks better of it.
Still, once you fall into step next to him, he leaves his hands like that. Flexed, ready. Half outstretched like he’s prepared to catch you if you stumble.
You can’t quite decide if his concern makes you want to roll your eyes or let the walls you’ve built with him fall just a fraction of an inch further.
Jay leads you. Steadily, quietly into the entrance of the luxury department store. Immediately, you feel out of depth.
For starters, even the air here seems to be different from your local mall. There are no screaming kids, middle-aged women deep into a gossip session, or twenty-something-year-old part timers trying to shove perfume samples under your nose in front of a Macy’s.
The people here are too… refined for that. They carry themselves differently, like the price tag on their clothes is something worth respecting with good posture and perfect hair.
Even the employees seem in on it. There are no gaudy, ill fitted vests or neon polo shirts with questionable stains. No, the people behind the registers here are wearing suits.
And it’s not just the clothes. It’s their aura. They look expensive, important, worth knowing.
They look like Jay.
And you… well, you’ve seen better days. Your treatment regimen has at least allowed you to keep up with regular showers these past few days, but a hairbrush hasn’t exactly been at the top of your to-do list.
Your jeans are fine, if not a bit faded. It’s not like your simple long-sleeved t-shirt has any stains, but the collar doesn’t lay quite as nicely as it did before the million rounds of laundry you’ve put it through since buying it.
You feel out of place. Like an unwelcome guest.
You think back to Jay’s earlier rebuttal — “It will probably beat a hospital room, though,” — and suddenly, you’re not sure if he was right.
From your periphery, you see a woman take a second glance at you over the top of her wide framed sunglasses – indoors, really? –and begin to wish the spotlessly clean floor would just open you up and swallow you whole.
Jay, at least, seems unbothered by all the sidelong looks. True to his word, he leads you straight past the doors to Prada and Chanel without even sparing them a second glance.
Instead, he walks ahead, you in his wake, down a hallway leading out from the center of the building. It’s quieter, down here at least. Less stares.
Jay doesn’t stop until you’re stood in front of the store at the very end, although you don’t think you imagined the sidelong glances he was passing you the entire way here.
Looking up at the sign, you frown. “How do you even pronounce that?” The brand name looks French, or maybe Italian. Languages were never your strong suit.
For Jay however, it rolls off the tongue easily.
“I’ve never heard of it.” You shake your head.
“It’s a small brand,” he explains. “It’s my friend’s, actually.”
You give him a flat look. “Your friend has a fashion brand.”
Jay shrugs. “He’s building it.”
Glancing in at the stock you can see, your confusion starts to shift. Begins to build deep in your gut with large, uneasy waves that make your footing feel unsteady. Until it looks a lot more like dread.
Because Jay’s friend apparently has quite the eye for evening gowns.
You let the realization settle, understanding beginning to dawn.
“Jay, what—”
“It’s our first step to checking off your bucket list,” he interrupts. “You said you wanted to buy a really expensive dress.”
“Yeah,” you nod, mouth still ajar, “and I did. That dress I wore to the charity gala—”
“Was lovely, so please don’t misunderstand,” Jay placates you with the calm, even tone of someone used to convincing difficult clients. “But I’m not sure it fits the criteria of really expensive.”
“Cost is relative,” you point out, even as some of your pride dies with the admission.
“Naturally,” he agrees. “But this is a bucket list. Once-in-a-lifetime kind of things. Besides,” he nods to the store, “my friend is pretty good. Annoying as hell,” he adds after a moment of consideration, “but he has an eye for evening wear.”
“Jay,” your brows pinch together. “Look, I… appreciate the gesture, but even once-in-a-lifetime things have to be somewhat realistic. And it’s not like getting my card declined during check-out is exactly one of my biggest dreams.”
“Good thing your card won’t be involved during check-out, then.”
“Jay—”
“You promised me,” he cuts you off, gaze suddenly serious. You looked me in the eye that night in my car and you promised me you would try.”
“I am trying—”
“You’re making excuses. You’re coming up with all of these reasons to avoid letting people do things for you. You think I dragged you out of the hospital just for the hell of it? That I haven’t seen the way just walking from here to the car had you breathing heavier than usual? I had to stop myself from offering you a hand over a dozen times today alone, because I know how you’d react.”
“Then just take me back to the hospital, since I’m clearly such a burden to you.”
“You’re not. That’s exactly what I’m saying. You think that every gesture is some kind of transaction. Some kind of score you’ll be expected to settle.”
“Because it is. Shouldn’t you know that better than anyone? Look at what we study day in, day out. Supply and demand. Profit margins. Liabilities. Even this,” you gesture between the two of you, “whatever the hell it is, was a deal. I don’t want to owe you more than I have to.”
“You don’t owe me anything.” His frustration is apparent now, too. In the line of his shoulders, the flex in his jaw. It’s visible, even as he tries to keep his patience steady. “That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you for the last three days.”
“Yeah, well, this isn’t fucking Make-A-Wish either.” Your words are angrier now, chest heaving a bit with the effort. “I’m not some sick doll you can dress up because it eases your conscience and makes you feel good about helping the less fortunate. Go donate to an actual charity if you’re feeling so terribly generous.”
For a moment, Jay goes still. Lips pressed together, eyes trained directly on your face. A furrow appears between his brow.
When he finally speaks again, his voice is low. “Is that how you think I see you?”
You sigh, fighting the urge to let an open palm splay across your forehead. Here, in the quiet corner of an ending hallway, your frustration feels a bit misplaced. “Jay, you dragged me out here to play dress up. How else am I supposed to—”
“For the last three years since I met you, I’ve watched you work yourself to death. Every class. Every assignment. Every test. I don’t think I’ve ever seen you without a scowl on your face and tension in your shoulders. Hell, I don’t think I’ve ever seen you take a break for so much as a fucking minute.”
“Don’t exaggerate.” You scowl. “It’s not like you actually remember me as anything besides an annoying voice that argues against your points.”
Jay doesn’t budge. “Intro to communication.”
“What?”
“Freshman year. Room 112. The lecture hall with the creaky seats and the lightbulb in the back corner that was always out.”
“Jay, what—”
“It was the first class we had together. And we’ve had at least two every semester since. I don’t know where you got this idea that no one ever paid any attention to you. That you got to look and scrutinize and judge and no one would ever glance back at you. People know who you are, ____. They recognize you. They respect you. I’m not deluded enough to think that we were ever friends. Mostly because you’ve always bitten my head off every time I’ve tried to talk to you. But you don’t get to stand there and resent me for things I never did. You don’t get to hate me for whatever kind of person you’ve decided I am all on your own.”
“Jay—”
“I know you’ve made up your mind that life is easier when you do everything all by yourself. I get that this is uncomfortable for you. That letting people help you and do things for you and take care of you fuels that sense of shame you’re always trying to bury beneath bravado. But we’re not here because I think you’re a charity case. And you don’t get to decide what I think about you.”
“And you think you know me? It’s a bit hypocritical, don’t you think? Standing there and telling me who I am and what I think. You don’t know the first thing about me, either.”
“Fine.” His eyes are alive now, sparking with something you don’t know what to do with. “You’re right. Then tell me.”
“What?” You shake your head. “That’s not—”
But he’s not done begging. “Let me get to know you.”
“What’s the point?” It’s so easy to think of rebuttals, to argue against his failed logic. “Even if this does pan out, we’ll be graduating soon.”
“Haven’t you heard? There’s nothing as valuable in the business world as connections. Besides, everyone needs a friend.”
For a moment, you just look at him. Mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water. Then, “You want to be my friend?”
Jay’s sigh comes from somewhere deep. “What do you think I’ve been trying to do this entire time?”
“Why?” You still don’t understand. “I’m not even nice to you.”
“Nice people are overrated,” he shrugs. “They usually just want something from you.”
“Jay,” you fight the urge to rub your temple. It’s terrible logic, given that your entire relationship is quite literally hinging on a deal. On wanting something from each other.
“C’mon,” Jay urges, unwilling to back down because of your inner turmoil. “My friend is expecting us. And I told the nurse I’d have you back in a couple of hours.” He checks his watch. A Rolex because of course it is. “That leaves us just enough time,” he concludes.
Staring at the shop entrance, you remain motionless for a moment longer. It would be easy to keep arguing. Easier than anything else, probably. Besides, if you really refused, what could he do? It’s not like Jay would actually drag you in kicking and screaming. Well, not in front of witnesses.
But then you hear it again. That voice in your head. That version of you, younger, more naive, less hardened to the realities of the world.
She, of course, thinks it would be a fantastic idea to go try on dresses for the next hour. To twirl in front of the mirror like a teenager at prom.
You fight the urge to roll your eyes. Of course she does.
Then, there’s another voice. It’s not hers. It’s not Jay’s. It’s just… yours. You, as you are now. And she, you begin to realize, even if only reluctantly, wants this too.
You could still refuse, of course. You’ve had plenty of practice burying your desires. Shoving them beneath contempt and shame and the sham you call selflessness. Jay was right about several of the accusations he just hurled your way, but one sticks out to you now.
It is uncomfortable to let people do things for you. Jay is much easier to handle when he’s at arm’s length. When he’s nothing but an amalgamation of how unfair the universe is when it doles out fortune and wealth and luck.
But your family’s financial situation isn’t his fault. Your diagnosis and dedication to your degree have nothing to do with him.
When he looks at you now, it’s not with expectation. No matter how long you search his open gaze, all you find is hope. Not that you’ll give him something he wants. Not that you’ll prove useful to him in some way.
Just that, for once in your life, you’ll look at the offer he extends without refusing. Without bargaining. Without trying to flip it on its head so that you have the upper hand.
And it’s hard. It tastes like lost pride and stings like guilt. But it also looks a lot like something you’ve been missing in your life for as long as you can remember.
Friendship.
Is this what it’s like? You wonder. Constantly toeing the boundary of what’s acceptable and what’s off limits? Trying, over and over, no matter how many walls you try to plant between you?
It sounds exhausting, you realize. No wonder you haven’t had time for any of it before.
But it also sounds… not comfortable, exactly. But reassuring, maybe. Steady in the way that summer nights are. Movies that you watch again even though you know how they end, because maybe this time, you’ll notice something you didn’t before.
It was never just a dress, you realize. And Jay was never offering you just money. You can’t decide if that makes things easier or a million times harder.
You’re still afraid to owe him things. And something as novel as friendship suddenly feels like a big debt to pay.
Your internal struggle must play out plain as day across your features. Jay speaks before you have your mind made up.
“We don’t have to,” he says quietly. “You can say no. You can always say no.” He pauses for a moment, sighing heavy on his exhale. “But I really hope you don’t.”
Hope. A flighty, fragile thing. It’s made so many of your losses more bitter than they had to be, so much of your effort feel more wasted than it had any right to. But hope has also gotten you here. Has led you through hell and back with a raised chin and shoulders squared.
So, you finally tell him, “Okay,” even if your voice is so low he nearly misses it.
“Okay?” Jay echoes, eyebrows raised.
You look up at him, something vulnerable in your gaze. “Please don’t make me say it again.”
It’s the only request all afternoon that hasn’t been shrouded in sarcasm and your biting attempts at a defense mechanism.
Jay’s eyes widen for a moment. And then he nods, a small smile tugging at the corners of his lips. “Let’s go.”
…..
The inside of the store is even more impressive than the front display, and that was nothing to scoff at.
You hate to admit it, but Jay was right. This blows the Macy’s sale rack you’d picked up your gala dress at right out of the water.
Jay’s friend appears to have a flair for the subtly dramatic. Each gown has a quiet sense of luxury. The designs are beautiful. Feminine in a way that feels like they were made to flatter. But they’re not simple. Each one has something unique to it, an embellishment of beadwork, an unexpected silhouette, a subtle sheen that nearly glows when the light reflects just right.
They feel like artwork, the kind that hangs in museums. Your instincts are practically begging you to look but not touch. You hardly know where to start.
Beside you, Jay is quiet. He trails at a respectable distance, eyes flickering over your profile intermittently.
“Let me know if you see something you like,” he instructs. “You can try on anything you want.” He must mistake your silence for disinterest, because he’s quick to add, “Or if there’s nothing you like here, we could try somewhere else. I think—”
“Jay,” you interrupt this time. “They’re beautiful. Stunning, actually. I don’t…” You glance around the store again, your overwhelm only growing. “I don’t know where to start.”
He hesitates for a moment, weighing his words on his tongue. Then, finally, “I could help, if you want. I saw a couple that I think would suit you well.”
It’s strangely intimate – the thought of Jay looking at dresses with you in mind. The idea of him imagining the way they’d sit against your skin tone, the way they’d curve around your body.
“I – sure.” You look away, then, if only to hide the way heat starts to spread on your cheekbones.
Jay takes his time. With the same careful attention you’ve assumed was reserved for lectures and particularly difficult economics problem sets, he takes a slow lap around the perimeter of the store. Breezes right past some gowns. Stops for long moments in front of others.
Occasionally, he calls over a store attendant, exchanging opinions in hushed tones.
You watch for a minute longer, content to play the role of the observer, before a voice startles you out of your reverie.
“He might take a little while,” the stranger advises, a small smile in his voice and on his lips. “You’re welcome to sit.” He gestures towards the middle of the store, where a large, open area is bordered by several luxurious looking loveseats.
“Thanks,” you nod. Heeding his advice, you take the few steps necessary to reach the closest one. Sliding down into it, you’re almost surprised to see him follow. Quietly, he sits down into the seat opposite yours.
For a moment, the two of you just face each other silently. He’s handsome, in a classic sort of way. Has the same refined, elegant look that you’ve come to recognize so easily on Jay. Mixed with a distinct, boyish charm, you guess his age is similar to yours. Which begs the question—
“Are you Jay’s friend?”
He nods. “Sunghoon.” Extending a hand, he shakes yours with a firm grip. “It’s nice to meet you.”
You give him your name in return.
Sunghoon just grins, eyebrow arching slightly. “Oh, I know.”
That gives you pause. You can’t imagine why Jay would be mentioning you to his friends. Mentally, you dismiss it. Maybe it was an offhand comment on a day your classroom rebuttals were particularly annoying to him.
Pressing into other topics, you look around the store once again.
And its owner. Sunghoon, much like Jay, looks like he’s been around money long enough to be comfortable with it, to get used to the way expensive things feel against his skin. If you had to guess, he’s around your age.
The thought almost makes you want to scoff. A university-aged boy with a fashion brand. Jesus christ, the world really is unfair.
But his age makes the space around you more impressive, too. Even if you’d been born to wealth, you doubt you’d be able to replicate any of it.
Deciding you have nothing to lose, you venture into a conversation.
“You…” you trail off, not sure what the most tactful way of asking would be. Deciding you don’t have enough time to be so concerned with mincing words, you ask, rather straightforwardly, “This is your store?”
Sunghoon nods. Honest from the get-go, he tells you, “You could say that. It’s not exactly a store, though. My mother is the chief merchandiser for a rather reputable fashion house. I grew up in the industry. Discovered I had a passion for the design side of things when I was in middle school. Everything here is just display, mostly. Some of it was made for runway and some are editorial pieces. I haven’t actually produced anything for mass distribution yet, but I’m hoping to start soon. Once I finish school. For now, this is mostly used as a show room. Somewhere to bring people who might be interested in capsule collections or model fittings.” He glances at you, considering, “But it’s always nice to see new faces, too.” He pauses, glances at you again. “And any friend of Jay is welcome here.”
You’re still not sure if the title fits or not, but you aren’t here to discuss the nature of your relationship. Instead, you ask about theirs.
“And you two are friends?”
“Yeah,” Sunghoon nods. “Have been since we were kids. Families run in the same circles and all that.”
You already suspected as much. Biting back any hint of sarcasm, you settle on the most neutral response you can muster. “That’s nice.”
“Most of the time,” Sunghoon agrees. “Although the kid drives me crazy sometimes. I suppose it’s only natural, though.” He smiles, as if reminiscing. “My sister and I never argue, so the universe had to give me someone else to fight with.”
That makes you grin, too. Leaning in like you’re sharing a secret, you whisper, “He can be a little ridiculous, can’t he?”
“Oh,” Sunghoon mimics your posture, “the absolute worst. And so goddamn stubborn.”
“Right?” You incline your head, hands on your knees to support your weight. “You should see him in class. He’s always—”
“I can hear you two, you know.”
Startled at the sudden voice, you turn to look over your shoulder. Jay stands directly behind you, eyes already trained on you, lips pulled into a thin line.
He takes in your wide-eyed gaze for a moment. Some of the annoyance softens from his expression. In a tone decidedly less flat, he tells you, “They’re ready for you.”
A fresh bout of nerves flitters through your stomach. Still, when you remember your conversation outside, you’re sure the worst part of the day is behind you. You can do this.
You’re up against death, after all. What are a few dresses in the grand scheme of things?
Leaving Jay and Sunghoon behind, you find the small fitting room tucked away in the opposite corner. The attendant from earlier smiles at you, tells you to let her know if you need anything.
And then it’s just you, the four walls of the fitting room, and the three dresses Jay deemed most worthy of your attention.
Despite yourself, the sudden lump in your throat is difficult to swallow. You’re not sure how he manages to do it every time, see you right down to your bones.
The three dresses he chose, even amongst the endless options of silk and color and fabric, are really, truly perfect.
They’re understated. Simple in a way that makes them feel tangible instead of out of reach. Even though you’ve never worn anything like them in your life, there are elements of your own style you see reflected. Colors you wear to class because you’ve been told they suit you. Silhouettes that you’ve always gravitated towards.
The first one slips over your head easily, although the back proves more difficult to zip and fasten on your own. Even securing it with your hands pressed to your chest, you can tell it suits you even more than you hoped on the hanger.
It’s beautiful. Truly. Makes even the sallow tinge to your skin and hair mussed from days in a hospital look intentional. Like things worth noticing instead of trying to hide behind.
Pushing the door open slowly, you catch the attendant’s eye. She’s quick to come, helps you fasten the back and dishes out compliments all the while.
Even her attention makes you feel shy. But not in a way that makes you want to run and hide. It’s almost like that night at the charity gala. You feel noticed. Seen, but not in an uncomfortable way. Just… more visible than usual.
Once the last of the buttons are finished, she catches your eye in the mirror. “Shall we?”
You frown. “Shall we what?”
“Show them,” she adds, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.
A sudden flare of heat builds deep in your chest, flies all the way to your cheeks. You imagine stepping out into that open space where Jay and Sunghoon are sitting, their attention, his attention on you.
Even the thought is enough to have your knees feeling dangerously wobbly.
“Oh,” you try to dismiss the idea, voice hushed as you work to evade detection. “That's okay. I don’t think—”
It’s as if he can read your thoughts. Your sudden hesitation.
“____,” you hear him call your name. “Are you coming?”
It’s more than a little uncomfortable as you force your feet to move you from the safety of the dressing room to the central, open part of the store. The space that Jay and Sunghoon are waiting for you in.
There’s no actual spotlight, but the overhead lights suddenly feel blinding, have you feeling a bit like a sample under a microscope. Something to poke and prod at. Something to scrutinize for any visible flaws.
The dress is gorgeous. Sunghoon’s talent is undeniable. It wasn’t made for you, but the way fabric seems to flow with your body instead of just over it makes it feel like it was.
The color is perfect, too. Does something for your complexion, even though it’s been made sallow from illness. Brings color back to your features in a way that makes you want to stare at your reflection a little longer instead of hiding from it.
It’s a bit ridiculous. You feel silly for even thinking it, but you feel… pretty.
This was the entire reason you included an expensive dress on your bucket list. For the simple pleasure you’ve been denying yourself ever since you decided that your money and your time and your decisions never fully belonged to you.
You can count on one hand the amount of times you remember doing something for you. Putting something on your body just because you liked the way it made your reflection look.
It feels personal, like a moment just for you. The thought of parading such an intimate part of your psyche in front of others, in front of Jay, is enough to have your mind spinning.
But your feet are already moving and before you can talk yourself out of it, you’re there. Facing a fear in the middle of the room.
For a moment, it’s quiet.
Sunghoon is the one to speak first. He nods, smile small and genuine. “It suits you. I like it.”
Next to him, Jay remains mute. You watch as his throat works around a swallow, his eyes slightly wide as if he’s suddenly the one on display.
“It’s…” he finally starts. “Yeah. It’s beautiful.” Meeting your eye then, his words are only somewhat strained when he adds, “You look beautiful.”
Cheeks warm, you look down, brushing away at invisible dust along the top of the skirt.
“Do you like it?” Jay thinks to ask after another beat. “Did you want to try on the others?”
You shake your head. He has good taste, and all three of the gowns he had sent to your dressing room are stunning, but something about this one is uniquely you.
You feel like you already know, can already stand by your decision, without trying on the others.
Jay nods like he understands too. He waits until you’re back in the dressing room to settle things with Sunghoon, as if you'll forget the depth of his generosity as long as you don’t have to watch it up close.
Leaving the store with a matte black shopping bag with gold embossed branding hanging from Jay’s arm feels a bit like resignation. Like giving into everything you’ve been fighting against
A million arguments still sit persistent in your throat. It was too much, too expensive. Money that could have been better spent elsewhere. You don’t even have a place to wear it to.
But for the first time in a long time, you don’t really feel like arguing.
Instead, you give Sunghoon one final reminder of your gratitude with a quiet, “Thank you.”
He brushes you off, insists that any time you need a break from the man at your side, you’re more than welcome back.
Jay rolls his eyes at that, but there’s no real malice. And when he hears the way it makes you giggle, he can’t help but smile himself.
It’s a small moment of happiness, a bubble inside the catastrophe your life has become.
But, you think, looking out the window as you drive back to the hospital, soft rock filtering through Jay’s speaker as he hums along quietly, whether you have three weeks or three months or all the time in the world, an afternoon spent dress shopping with a friend will be one you remember with fondness.
…..
Staring at your phone screen, the message thread materializing in front of you is almost too ridiculous for you to believe it’s anything more than a figment of your imagination. A side effect of all the medication you’re on, maybe.
But everything else about the hospital cafeteria, right down to the barely edible food, seems real enough.
Jongseong: When does your family leave?
That was the message that interrupted your meal nearly five minutes ago.
You: In three days
You: Why?
Between bites of barely identifiable mush, he responded.
Jongseong: I’m booking a guesthouse.
You: ??
Jongseong: At the beach
At that, you nearly choke on what the menu claimed was supposed to be mashed potatoes.
Luckily, you manage to keep them down, but it is enough to catch the attention of your younger brother.
“Who are you texting?” Sunoo asks, a glimmer in his eyes that you know wasn’t there before.
“No one.” Your response is too immediate. Too defensive. Shit. It only makes his eyebrows raise further.
“You sure?” he presses. “You seem pretty… engrossed.”
“It’s just school,” you lie, forcing yourself to turn off the screen.
But not before one more message comes through.
Jongseong: Booking confirmed. I’ll pick you up the afternoon after they leave.
It’s like he somehow knows Sunoo has a watchful eye on you right now. Like he can sense that you’re unable to protest the way you usually would.
But whatever. You’ll deal with Jay later. Right now, Sunoo’s curious expression spells a more immediate issue.
“Right,” Sunoo nods, but you can tell he doesn’t quite believe you. Deciding to let it rest for now, he asks instead, “How is school?”
You frown. “What do you mean?”
“Nothing in particular,” he shrugs. “I just feel like every time I ask you about it, you brush it off or change the subject.”
He’s right. You do tend to get cagey whenever the topic of university is approached. Mostly because school is almost always a struggle. And your struggles are something you decided a long time ago not to share with your little brother.
Suddenly, the topic feels a little heavy for the hospital cafeteria. Surrounded mostly by elderly patients, you can at least rest easy knowing that most of them don’t have hearing good enough to eavesdrop. It at least gives you the illusion of a bit of privacy.
“It’s fine,” you shrug noncommittally. “Busy sometimes, but manageable.”
“Fine?” he echoes. “C’mon, there has to be something. No crazy professors or annoying classmates or embarrassing drunken mishaps?”
You shake your head. “It’s not like the movies. My professors are only crazy about citations and formatting, and I don’t really drink much.”
You don’t even bother to acknowledge the annoying classmates comment. Mostly because there’s no way you could breach it without mentioning someone you’re deliberately steering far clear of mentioning.
Hoping to pivot the conversation away from you, you ask, “What about the restaurant? How are things coming?”
“See,” he points out, eyebrows raised in accusation. “That’s what I mean. You’re always changing the subject.”
“I’m not trying to,” you lie. “I’m just curious.”
“Yeah,” Sunoo nods. “Just like I’m curious about you. We barely get any updates. You know, Mom had to find out that you made Dean’s list by checking the university website. She was so proud she printed it out and hung it next to the register in the restaurant. She still talks anyone’s ear off that will listen to hear about it.”
Your heart gives a sudden lurch. It’s true that you haven’t kept up as much as you should. That when you do, you always ask for updates more than you give them.
It’s not like you meant to hide things like your honor roll achievement. It’s just that you always assumed your family was busy enough with their own lives. You didn’t want them to feel burdened by constant updates from you.
But across from you now, Sunoo doesn’t look burdened. He just looks… hurt. Upset at the idea of not being kept in the loop of your life.
“I’m sorry,” you tell him quietly. “I just knew that you were all so busy and I–”
Sunoo shakes his head, cutting you off. “We’re never too busy for you.” He looks at you a moment longer. “We miss you, you know. And it’s not just us. Everybody asks about how you’re doing, here in the big city. Our old teachers, people you graduated with, even Mr. Tim from that ice shop we used to go to as kids.”
“The one with the waffle cones?”
“Yeah,” his eyes soften. “His hip gave out last year, so he hasn’t been at the shop as much. But he comes to the restaurant sometimes, and he always asks about you. Remembers how you always used to order extra sprinkles.”
Something about it makes you emotional. The idea of taking up space in other people’s lives. Of being remembered, of being known. Of being seen and thought of and cherished.
You think of Jay’s words from your last argument.
“I don’t know where you got this idea that no one ever paid any attention to you. That you got to look and scrutinize and judge and no one would ever glance back at you.”
All at once, you wonder if his assessment might apply a bit more broadly than you thought.
“I didn’t know he still remembered me,” is all you say.
“Of course he does.” Your brother’s words are eager, infused with a sincerity you want to shy away from. “Everyone does. We all do. You know,” he adds, more serious now, “That night you called us, I don’t think I’ve ever been more terrified in my life.”
The admission sends a fresh stab of pain, a searing, agonizing, wave of guilt, careening right through you.
It’s everything you wanted to avoid, after all. Making your family worry. Causing them pain. Adding to their burden, to their grief.
“I’m sorry,” you whisper, voice nearly breaking on the last syllable.
“You’re sorry?” Sunoo balks. “Why would you ever be sorry? I’m sorry. All I could think about was that you were alone. How scared you must have been.”
“I…” You trail off, suddenly lost for words. It’s all too much, especially for your current setting. Your throat is beginning to feel dangerously clogged. “I’m fine–”
“You’re always fine.” Sunoo frowns. “You always say you’re fine, and then…” he stops himself, trying not to let his frustration, his sorrow, turn to anger. Softer now, he continues, “And then you’re here. Very much not fine.”
For a moment, you’re quiet. Suddenly forced to see things from his perspective, any argument you could make dies on your lips.
He’s right. If the roles were reversed, you’d feel that complicated mix of frustration and worry, too. If you had to beg and plead for fragments of the truth from someone you cared about, it wouldn’t feel like relief. It would make you worried sick.
“Sometimes,” you admit, voice quiet, “it’s easier to just say I’m fine. To not admit that it’s hard or that I’m struggling. I wanted to make it easier for you. I didn’t mean to make it worse.”
“I know,” Sunoo says. When you look at him, you think he must be telling the truth. There’s no hint of surprise on his features. Just a sad sort of acceptance. “I’m glad you told us. That we could be here. I’m sorry we can’t be here more.”
You shake your head. “It’s already more than enough. I know how hard it is to be away from home and the restaurant.”
Sunoo opens his mouth like he wants to say more, but your mother interrupts, sliding down into the chair next to you. Wrapping an arm around you, she pulls you close into a hug, squeezing gently at your shoulder.
The thought of her combing through your school’s Dean’s list, wondering why you hadn’t bothered to share the achievement with her yourself, sends a fresh wave of guilt tumbling through you.
“How are my babies doing?” she asks. Turning to you she adds, “Is your appetite okay? Do you want me to see if they can bring something else–”
“I’m okay, Mom,” you assure her. “Thanks.”
“Okay,” she concedes, even if she still looks a bit unsure. “If you’re sure. Doctor Kim wants to see in a few minutes. But if you’re not done, I can ask him–”
“I’m done,” you cut her off again, trying to settle her worries with a small smile. Even though the thought of sitting in his office makes you want to crawl out of your skin, you say, “Let’s go.”
The sooner you see him, the sooner it will be over with, after all.
So you go, you and your small band of support, following your mother and Sunoo to the elevator and pressing the button for the sixth floor.
Doctor Kim’s office is still sterile, still lifeless. His awards and accolades hang on the wall like trophies, like terrible, bruising reminders of everything that’s wrong with you. But this time, with the chairs on either side of you occupied by your family, it feels a bit more bearable.
Especially when your mother reaches over to envelop one of your hands in hers. When Sunoo notices the action and mirrors it.
Doctor Kim doesn’t waste your time.
After glancing down at his notes for a moment, he turns to you and says, “You’re responding well.”
A knot unfurls in your chest. You release a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding. Next to you, your mother’s grip slackens slightly on your fingers as some of her tension melts away too.
Doctor Kim continues, “Of course, as we’ve discussed previously, treatment is comprehensive. We still have a journey ahead of us. I don’t want to give false hope or misconstrue the severity of your illness, but the preliminary signs are good. Your vitals are strong, and the cells are responding. Today will be your last day in this treatment round. You’ll recover for approximately one week before beginning the next.”
“And in that time?” you ask.
“I advise rest,” he nods, like he expected the question. “As much as possible. I know we spoke previously about potentially resuming classes. It is my duty as your treatment provider to tell you that I must advise against this.”
“But why?” you ask, panic suddenly clawing at your throat. You feel like you’ve been duped, had false hope dangled right in front of your nose only to be snatched away at the last minute. “You said I’m responding well.”
“You are,” he agrees. “Remarkably well. But that doesn’t mean you should be placing your body or mind under any more stress than strictly necessary. After the first round is completed today, it’s likely that you’ll experience severe fatigue during your rest period. This is a natural and expected response, but it will make attending classes far too strenuous for an ideal recovery.” He looks at you, sympathy in his eyes. “I’m more than happy to provide a statement of medical leave for your university. I know it’s not easy, but these are, of course, extenuating circumstances.”
You shake your head, a bit more vigorously than necessary. “I don’t want—”
“We’ll take that statement, doctor,” your mother cuts you off. “Thank you.”
“Mom,” you turn to her, eyes wide. “I can’t just—”
“Of course you can.” She shakes her head. “School will still be there when you’re ready.”
You know it will be. But will your scholarship still stand? Will you still be able to find a tolerable roommate with rent you can afford? Can you live with the guilt of Sunoo needing to wait that much longer to finally see his dream come true?
It’s not just school you’re worried about. It’s everything else, the weight of everything you’ve been pouring your effort into for the last ten years. The culmination of the promise you made to yourself when yours and Sunoo’s roles were reversed.
Letting those things go, even if only temporarily, is more difficult that you can put words to.
Your mom, however, seems to possess the same talent that all mothers do. She silences you with a look.
Fine, you think inwardly, already starting to think of ways you’ll be able to evade her wishes later. For now, at least, you’ll let it rest.
Doctor Kim nods. “I’ll write it immediately.” Looking at your mother, he adds, “If you pass along the Dean of Students contact information, I’ll send it before the end of the day.”
You bristle in your seat but remain silent. As if he can sense your inner turmoil, Sunoo gives your hand a gentle squeeze. When you turn to him, he offers you a reassuring smile. There’s sympathy in his eyes, like he understands how much this means to you, how hard it is for you to let go.
“I know Hana and I have been checking in regularly,” Doctor Kim turns to you now. “But is there anything that’s developed since the first treatment round? Any new pain? Symptoms? Discomfort?”
With Sunoo’s hand still on yours, you shake your head. You tell him you have nothing new to report.
You don’t mention the migraine that’s been beating at your brain since last night, the way it seems to come and go with every new IV bag that’s attached to your vein.
You tell yourself it’s because you don’t want to worry your mother. You don’t want to watch Sunoo’s expression fall in concern.
You don’t want to lose what little ground you’ve gained.
If it gets worse, you promise yourself, even if you know you’re lying, if it doesn’t go away soon, then you’ll tell him.
For now, you figure no one needs to know.
…..
Jay’s car looks even sleeker today. You have half a mind to ask him if he just had it run through the car wash before coming. But then again, the shininess of the paint job isn’t really the most pressing of your concerns.
As you draw closer, your brow furrows. It’s not just the shine that looks different.
“Did you get your car painted or something?” you ask.
“What?” is all Jay says.
“Your car,” you jerk your chin towards it. “It looks different.”
Jay’s feet falter. He turns to stare at you like you’ve just said something asinine. And it turns out you have. Because the next thing he says is, “It’s a different car.”
“It is?” You frown in consideration.
Jay’s mouth goes a little slack. “How did you not— It’s an entirely different brand.”
“Sorry,” you shrug. “I don’t know a lot about cars.”
“Clearly.” He still looks affronted. “I mean, seriously.” More to himself than you, he mutters, “This is a 1962 Ferrari 250 GT California Spyder and you can’t even tell the difference.”
Your stare is blank. “Is that supposed to mean something to me?”
Jay sighs. “No,” he resigns. “You can just worry about looking pretty in the passenger seat.”
At that, you feel the beginning of a flush rising on your cheeks. If you didn’t know any better, you’d think Park Jongseong was flirting.
Suddenly desperate to steer the conversation back to neutral territory, you ask, “Why are we taking a different car? Did you just want to rent one for the drive?”
You really don’t know anything about cars. Maybe he has some aversion to putting more mileage on his own car.
Jay shakes his head again. “This one’s mine, too.”
You shouldn’t be surprised at this point, but your brows raise slightly anyway. “It is?”
“Mhm,” he hums. “I just save it, usually.” A bit quieter, he adds, “For special occasions.”
“This is a special occasion?”
He nods. “Of course it is. Besides, I chose this car in particular for a specific reason.” He’s grinning at you now. “You’ll see.”
“This particular car?” you echo. “What? You have an entire fleet at home or something?”
Jay shrugs, but the smirk that tugs at his lips is unmistakable. “I have my hobbies.”
“And they include car collecting? You know what I used to collect when I was a kid? Rocks.”
“And I’m sure you found some very pretty ones.” Jay opens the passenger door for you before sliding your overnight bag — the one he didn’t let you carry for more than five feet before sliding it wordlessly off your shoulder onto his — into the back seat.
He joins you in the car a moment later, sliding into the driver’s seat. Immediately, he leans over, reaching right into your space as his face comes dangerous close to yours.
The heat on your cheeks is unmistakable this time. Shocked, you nearly trip over your words. “What are you—”
“Glove box,” he explains as his fingers undo the latch. Hands hovering just above your lap, he reaches into it for a dark, sleek case. Opening it, he pulls out a pair of sunglasses. He slides them onto his face, concealing his eyes before putting the case back where it belongs.
He doesn’t close the compartment, though. Instead, he turns his concealed gaze to you. It feels awfully unfair to have his face so close to yours, able to read every single expression that flickers across your features when his own are hidden from sight.
Ignoring the way you fidget under his stare, he tells you, “There’s another pair, if you want them.” He nods towards the glove box. “The sun visors in here aren’t great.”
“Okay.” It’s more of a mumble than an affirmation. Needing to break the intensity of his attention, you turn towards the glove box and pull out the second pair of sunglasses. Only pausing briefly at the embossed Prada logo, you slide them over your eyes.
You try to ignore the fact that these are probably the most expensive thing you’ve ever put on your body. Remembering your recent dress shopping, you amend, well, second most expensive.
Immediately, you’re grateful for them. For starters, you’re on more even footing now. He can’t read you so easily either.
And they do serve their intended purpose well. Despite the chill in the air, it’s one of those rare late fall days where the sun seems to shine with extra ferocity.
As he pulls out of the parking lot, reversing with one hand against the back of your seat, you ask, “How long is the drive?”
“About five hours. A little more if we hit traffic.”
“Mm,” you consider. “That’s long.”
“Don’t worry,” Jay says in a tone that immediately makes you do the opposite. “I have things for us to do.”
“Oh, that’s okay,” you try to dissuade him. “You can just put on some music or something and—”
“Nice try,” he interrupts. “No music this time. I’m asking you questions.”
It’s a nightmare come to life. A confined space you can’t escape as you're subjected to something as horribly incessant as his curiosity.
Your lips pull flat, heartbeat picking up in panic. “You’re not spending five hours asking me questions.”
“It’s fair,” he insists. “Every time I ask you a question, you get to ask me one, too.”
“What is this, a drinking game?” You roll your eyes. “Are we at a dorm party?”
Jay just sighs. “I wish I could give you a glass of wine.”
You balk. “You want me drunk?”
“I want you honest,” he corrects. Glancing at you, he adds, “Something you’ve proven very reluctant to be.”
“Forgive me for not wanting to spill my guts to you.”
“I told you,” he says, suddenly serious. “I want to get to know you.”
“So you waited until you had me in a place I can’t escape.”
He smiles at that. “You’re catching on.”
“Fine,” you sigh. He can’t give you wine, after all. If you don’t like a question, you can always lie. Or just refuse to answer. Besides, there are things he’s said over the course of your strange agreement that pull at your curiosity, too. Things about him that you wonder. Maybe this will be a chance to finally have some answers of your own. “Do your worst.”
Entering the highway, the road stretches out long ahead of you.
Jay starts off easy. Or at least, he tries to. “Why did you choose business as your major?”
For most people, it would be an easy question with a simple answer. For you, it lands right on a subject you’ve been avoiding at all costs.
“It seemed interesting.” You shrug.
“That’s bullshit,” he immediately returns.
“What?”
“You’re the most organized, meticulous, goal-oriented person I’ve ever met. I don’t believe for even a second that you chose your major because it seemed interesting.” His eyes are still on the road. He picks apart your lies with as much effort as it takes to swat at a fly. He tells you, “Give me a real answer.”
Wheels spinning in your mind, you scramble to decide which parts of the truth to give him. Finally, you say, “My family has a restaurant. It hasn’t…. It hasn’t always done so well. I thought that if I learned more about the management and logistical side of things, I could help it get back on its feet.”
“That’s what you want to do?” There’s no judgement in his voice, but his tone is colored heavy by surprise. “Help run your family’s restaurant?”
You shake your head. “Isn’t it my turn?”
He nods, but you can tell he hasn’t let it go. “Alright. Go ahead.”
Suddenly, you’re not sure where to start. There are things you want to ask about his family, about his motives, but they feel too heavy. Too direct.
Instead, you turn his question back to him. “Why did you choose business?"
Jay sighs, and you wonder if the question eats at him somewhere deeper, too. “Family expectation,” he tells you, voice tighter than it was before. “It wasn’t really a choice I made as much as a path I was expected to take. I have grown a genuine appreciation for the field, or at least a deep respect for it. But I wouldn’t say it was my choices that brought me here.”
Right from the get go, he’s more forthcoming that you expected. He’s already divulged more than you thought he might. Either Jay is keeping good on his promise to let you ask just as much as you answer, or he doesn’t keep his secrets quite as close to the chest as you thought.
You don’t respond, just nod in acknowledgment.
Besides, it’s his turn now.
He asks exactly what you expected him to. “Why did you choose to help run your family’s restaurant?”
You bite at the inside of your lip. Something about the road ahead of you has you feeling more honest than wine ever could.
And suddenly, something aches in your chest at the thought of sharing your true feelings. The innermost parts of you that you’ve never told anyone.
“My family’s been through hell and back,” you tell him. “The restaurant did really well, actually, when I was young. But…” you trail off, taking a deep, steadying breath. You have the feeling that if you divulge this particular bit of information to him, there really will be no going back.
Jay sits quietly in the driver’s seat. Waits patiently for your answer.
“But,” you continue, “my brother Sunoo got sick when we were kids.”
“Sick,” Jay repeats, the word heavy with insinuation. “Do you mean—“
It’s not his turn, technically, but you'll excuse it.
“Yeah,” you nod, a rueful smile on your lips. “Ironic, isn't it? Doctor Kim told me when I was diagnosed. It’s genetic, apparently.”
The truth still makes you feel a bit helpless. Jay’s jaw tightens, but he says nothing.
You continue, “My family put everything they had into making him better. Of course they did. We’d do it again, if we had to, no question about it. But it made finances tough. And the restaurant never really went back to normal, even after everything.”
Next to you, Jay is quiet. Anxiety stirs in your stomach as you imagine the gears in his brain turning. As he puts more pieces of your puzzles together, begins to understand even more of the truths you were so determined to keep hidden.
After another long moment of silence, his throat works around a swallow. “I think it’s your turn.”
You breathe. Deciding that this is no time to pull punches, you ask, “You mentioned that your father has certain… conditions for initiating you as a shareholder in the company. Is he always like that?”
“An unsentimental hardass?” Jay clarifies with a scoff.
“That’s one way to put it.”
“Yeah,” Jay nods. “That’s pretty much what he’s like. You know that connections are what keep the business world spinning, and it’s not like he has some moral opposition to nepotism. But it’s been made very clear since day one that I am expected to prove myself. To fulfill any expectations and rise to whatever standards he decides are… necessary.”
“You’d never know. You’re a menace in the classroom.”
The corner of his lips tugs upward. Combined with the sunglasses still sitting on his nose, the sight is devastating.
“That almost sounded like a compliment.”
“Yeah, yeah,” you brush him off. “Don’t let it get to your head. Besides, you know you’re persuasive. I’m here, going to the beach with you right now, aren’t I?”
“I didn’t have to try that hard.”
“I will literally jump into traffic.”
“Fine. You’re so stubborn you make mules look agreeable. Is that what you want to hear?”
“Not exactly, but I’ll take it.” You‘re not sure when it happened, but suddenly you’re smiling too.
After a moment, he asks, “What did you want to be when you were a kid?”
For the first time in a while, you imagine that younger version of yourself again. The one with big dreams and the determination to realize them all. This time, the thought makes you smile.
The nostalgia feels like fondness instead of regret.
“Too many things to count,” you tell him truthfully.
Jay just smiles. “I have time.”
The two of you pass the time like that, his questions veering towards a different kind of invasive the more miles you cover.
When he asks if you’ve ever thought about getting married, you have half a mind to reach across the center console and smack him.
“Why?” You ask instead, infusing your voice with as much indignation as possible. “What is this, a blind date?”
Jay just shrugs. “I’m curious.” He hesitates for a moment. Then he bites. “Besides, if anything, this is our third date.”
Cheeks aflame, you don’t press the subject further.
Thankfully, his questions leave you with less reasons to blush after that.
He learns about your favorite color and you laugh when he tells you about how he fell into the pool fully clothed on his family’s second trip to Italy.
He asks about your summers and you ask about his hobbies. Well, the ones other than sports car collecting.
You’re surprised to learn that he plays the guitar, and rather well you suspect, if the way he gets slightly evasive when you ask if he’s any good is anything to go by.
Time sharpens and then blurs as the road ahead of you does the same.
There are traces of Jay that stay true to your preconceptions. Threads of him that you picked up long ago in lecture halls and still ring true in the passenger seat of his car.
But then he tells you about volunteering at the young learner’s summer camp your university hosts every July.
It makes you smile, thinking of him mustering all of his fraying patience as he explains supply and demand to a group of half interested seventh graders for the third time.
And then it makes you frown, thinking of all the ways you got him wrong.
Because he might be uncovering your secrets, but you're putting together pieces of him, too.
And Jay… cares.
Sometimes quietly, like when he slid your bag off your shoulder and carried it for you without ever saying a word.
Sometimes loudly, like when he scolded you for not pacing yourself on the champagne at the charity gala. When he all but begged you that night in his car to treat your life like something precious instead of disposable.
Loudly, quietly. Whatever it is, it’s always sincere.
Even when you mention a gelato shop you visited once as a kid and he launches into a three minute explanation of all the ways in which gelato differs from regular ice cream. He rambles on about genuine ingredients and slower melting with the same tone he uses to analyze spreadsheets. As if this deserves the same amount of rapt attention.
You just smile. Few things escape his notice. And as it would seem, even fewer escape his care.
You can’t quite decide if being on the receiving end of that makes you feel lucky or indebted beyond reprieve.
Either way, time passes easily.
For long minutes, it’s easy to forget about the diagnosis sitting heavy in your chest.
Until you finally work up the courage to ask the question that’s been weighing heavy on your mind for days.
“Jay?” You try, interrupting his latest rant, this one on the topic of the perfect temperature to sear steak at.
He picks up on your change in tone, the sudden mix of nerves and seriousness. The words die on his lips.
“Yeah?”
You take a deep breath, gathering the last of your bravery. “Why did you make that deal with me?”
For a long moment, he’s quiet. Long enough for your rapid heartbeat to pound a steady rhythm against your eardrums, inside your rib cage.
You almost regret asking. You’re suddenly terrified of his answer.
You brave a glance over at him. In your periphery, you watch his throat work around a swallow, the line of his jaw tighter than it was before.
There’s something raw in his voice when he finally tells you, “I didn’t—I don’t want you to die.”
His eyes are still on the road and yours are still tracing his side profile. You each hold a bit more of the other in your minds.
And Park Jongseong doesn’t want you to die. Whatever reasons he has, whatever lengths he’s willing to go to, the truth sits between you like a fragile thing.
If it weren’t for your borrowed sunglasses, you’d have to squint.
You turn your eyes back to the road, watching the way license plates blur and clouds streak overhead as you continue onwards.
The car settles into silence for the first time since you left the hospital parking lot. Despite his earlier refusal, Jay reaches for the volume knob on his stereo now, lets the quiet, soft hum of his now familiar classic rock playlist fill the silence.
Minutes stretch, and the silence starts to lose its weight. It settles around the both of you in a comfortable way, all the way until you get your first real glimpse of the ocean.
You can’t quite help yourself then. “Oh my god.” Your nose is practically pressed against his window, but decorum is the last thing on your mind.
“It’s pretty, right?” Jay agrees.
The next exit is yours, and soon the highway slows to a narrow, winding street. The trees that line it are dense at first until eventually they thin.
Your glimpse from the highway pales in comparison.
The ocean is… breathtaking. Even from a distance, the crashing waves are fascinating. The way they build and fall, flowing into each other in a perfect, messy, hypnotizing rhythm.
“We’re close,” Jays says, double checking the map. He glances in the rearview mirror before adding, “This street isn’t too busy. Want to know what I meant when I said this car is for special occasions?”
Reluctantly, you peel your eyes from the ocean and look towards him. “Should I be scared? It’s not going to start flying is it?”
Jay tilts his chin, a small smile spreading on his lips like your ridiculous guess isn’t actually that far off.
“You’ll see,” is all he says.
Then suddenly, the roof above you starts to open. Wind plays with your hair, rougher than you expect despite the slow speed. It washes over your face, a fresh, cool breeze with unmistakable traces of salt.
You look up, the late afternoon sunlight nearly blinding despite your sunglasses. The wind is cold, almost bitingly so, as the rest of the roof falls aways. You hardly care.
You laugh, a bright, airy sound that catches Jay so off guard he nearly swerves.
But you can’t help it, the sudden, intense sense of elation.
Jay brought you to the beach in a fucking convertible.
“You like it?” he asks, grin stretching wider as he shouts to be heard over the wind.
You turn to him, eyes wide as you nod furiously. You don’t use words, but you don’t need them. He can see the way excitement lights up your entire face.
He leaves the top down, stealing sidelong glances at you every so often for the rest of the drive.
You lift your hand to the sky, spreading your fingers just to feel the way the wind weaves between them. A peal of laughter bursts from your throat again.
For the first time in weeks, you’re not thinking about your headaches or your diagnosis or the fact that you could very well still be a ticking time bomb.
Right now, it’s just you, Jay, and the wind. A combination of things that make you feel alive in the most riveting, pulse-pounding way. It’s like you’re drunk on it. The wind feels like freedom, like the promise of a future you never dared to dream of.
All at once, you feel like crying. Not because you’re sad, but because you can’t remember the last time you felt this much life flowing through your veins.
You want a million more moments like this, a thousand more memories to look back on with fondness as you age. You aren’t ready to let it go. The thought of it feels like a dagger to the heart. Piercing, gutting, devastating.
Jay is quiet next to you. His eyes still flicker between the road and you. He watches as emotions play out across your features. Hope, joy, and grief, all mixed into one.
His jaw flexes, this time in determination. You wanted beach vacation, and he’s made up his mind that this will be the best fucking one anyone has ever had.
Eventually, the rushing wind slows to a gentle breeze as Jay turns onto a private road, the speed limit decreasing sharply.
Another minute passes before the beach house comes into view, but when it does…
“Wow.” You don’t mean to say it out loud, but the word falls through your parted lips anyway.
Nestled between trees and a perfectly landscaped garden, the house blends right into the beachfront. Two stories tall and a sandy shade of beige, it looks like it was built to belong to the place where it stands.
Looking past it, you see the endless stretch of sand, melting into quiet waves where it meet the ocean. It’s stunning.
Jay slows the car further before shifting into park.
Without the wind from earlier and the hum of the engine, the air around you feels quiet. Still.
And, you realize with a sudden flush, incredibly private. It strikes you, slaps you across the face really, that you’re about to spend two nights with Jay in a secluded beach house with what appears to be no neighbors for miles.
Just you and Jay.
Alone.
“I thought…” you trail off, suddenly desperate for something to fill the silence. “We’re not staying in a hotel?” Even that feels scandalous, but at least there would be other people around to ease the sudden tension.
Jay shakes his head. “It’s off season,” he explains. “Most hotels are already closed for the winter. Besides,” he adds, “this will be more spacious. And the private beachfront is a bonus, too.”
You swallow. “Private?” you echo. “As in…”
“Just us,” he nods, either oblivious to your sudden spiraling or intentionally ignoring it. “If you go half a mile in either direction, the beach is public land, but this little spot right here,” he jerks his chin towards the stretch of beach you can see from the car, “that’s just for us.”
“Oh,” is all you can really manage.
Jay picks up the slack. “C’mon,” he urges. “Let’s go check it out.”
Wordlessly, he takes both of your bags from the back seat.
The walk from the car to the front door is short, but it’s enough to make your breath feel shallow in your chest.
Doctor Kim had warned you that this week would be full of fatigue, but the effort it takes just to walk a few steps is nothing short of frustrating.
The beauty of the beach house is almost enough to make you forget it, though. Almost.
The garden is stunning, even as fall gives way to winter. Less lush than it surely is in the summer months, but the golden brown leaves and shrubbery are still arranged in a way that makes it enchanting.
And the house itself seems to have been given the same attention to detail. Trailing behind Jay through the front door, the space that opens before you is quaint.
Not overly large, the decorations are sparse but intentional. As if the owner knew nothing would ever be able to overshadow the view.
The far wall is hardly a wall at all. Nearly from floor to ceiling, its windows. With a crystal clear view of the beach that belongs to you for the next two days and the ocean it bleeds into.
From here, it’s even more stunning. You feel like you could spend hours here, motionless, just watching as the waves fall into each other, over each other. Battering against the shoreline with an even, flowing rhythm.
It’s captivating. So much so that the sound of Jay’s voice nearly startles you out of your skin when he says near the foot of the staircase, “The bedrooms are upstairs.”
You turn to him, and he motions for you to follow.
Bedrooms, he said. You exhale a sigh of relief. At least you can retain some of your privacy while you’re here.
The second story has the same cozy, lived-in feel as the first. An open central area splits off into two bedrooms on opposite sides of the house. In the center of it all is a balcony.
“Which side?” Jay asks, capturing your attention again. “Garden or forest?”
“I’ll take the garden,” you nod toward the bedroom on the left.
Jay nods, leading the way.
You enter the bedroom behind him, glancing around as he flips the light switch and sets your bag on the ground.
It’s a beautiful room. Simple, full of light, airy colors and textures that remind you of the ocean below. The last of the day’s natural light bleeds through the windows, both the ones on the opposite wall that overlook the garden and the far wall that provides a perfect view of the ocean.
To your left, a door leads to an en-suite bathroom.
And in the middle of the room, pressed close to the seaside window, is a full sized bed with too many pillows to count. White bedsheets are tucked in neatly at the corners, far fluffier than any duvet you’ve ever had.
“I hope it’s alright,” Jay says from behind you. You swear you hear a hint of trepidation in his voice. “Options can be a bit limited in the off season, but I thought—“
“Jay,” you interrupt, eyes still caught on the rolling waves outside the window. Your window. “It’s perfect.”
“Oh,” he returns, voice colored with pleasant surprise. “Good.”
You can still feel his presence behind you, hesitating like he’s not quite ready to leave.
After a moment, Jay continues, “I’ll let you get settled in for a minute. I’ll start dinner soon.”
“Dinner?” You turn to him now, eyebrow arched. “What’s our menu for tonight? Ramen?”
Jay just smiles, a small thing. “Something like that.”
But in true Jay fashion, something like that turns out to be nowhere close to your expectations.
The convenience store dinner you anticipated is all but forgotten by the time you make it back downstairs a handful of minutes later, only to find Jay already hard at work.
Half bent over the stove top, an apron covers his torso as he hums quietly to himself. The smell that fills the kitchen is already divine. So much so that you can’t help but ask—
“What are you making?”
Jay grins at you over his shoulder. The sight is far more devastating than it has any right to be. Coy as ever, all he says is, “You’ll see.”
And you do. Thirty minutes later when he sets the most perfectly cooked meal you’ve ever seen down in front of you on the dining room table.
He pours a can of sparkling water into a wine glass and slides it to you with a wink. “Not the real thing, but I thought it might add to the ambience.”
It’s a joke, more lighthearted than anything, but the consideration hits you somewhere deep.
In an effort to distract yourself, you take a bite of the meat Jay’s just finished grilling. Granted, you have been living off hospital food for the past two weeks but—
“Jay.” Your voice rings out across the table, tone laden with something serious.
He turns to you, eyes wide. “What? Is something wrong? Did I undercook—”
You shake your head. “This is the best thing I’ve ever tasted.”
He flushes. A pretty shade that extends all the way from the tops of his cheekbones to the base of his neck. You have the sudden desire to see if it extends any further, beneath the collar of his well fitted shirt.
“You’re exaggerating.”
“I most certainly am not.” You take a second bite for good measure. It’s just as mouthwatering. “Seriously. How did you do that?”
He shrugs, shy under your praise. “My mom taught me.”
“Your mom,” you echo. It strikes you then that all of your conversations about his family have been quite limited. The sparse details you’ve gotten have only really been about the strained relationship he has with his father. “What’s she like?”
“She’s the best.” Jay’s smile is small but genuine. “Honestly, I think her relationship with my father was based more on family status than a real romantic connection, but she loves her family. She always wanted— wants,” he corrects, “me to be good. Not just good at school or business or running the company, but a good person in general.”
The thought makes you smile. There’s something adorable about imagining a tiny version of him, a ten-year-old Jay learning manners from his mother. It makes sense to you. The lessons seemed to stick.
You suspect it’s why he always insists on opening doors for you and carrying your bags and letting you relax while he cooked dinner despite the fact that he just finished driving five hours. You reconsider your assumption that his small kindnesses have been due solely to your illness. Maybe, you think, he really is just a gentleman in every sense of the word.
Dinner is a rather quiet affair, at least outwardly. Both of you already laid out your most pressing questions on the drive over, and the meal really is delicious enough to keep you silent.
But all the stillness gives your mind space to wander. And wander it does.
Sat directly across from Jay, your eyes keep flickering towards him, falling quickly back to the table whenever he catches your stare.
It’s not like you mean to gawk at him. But there are suddenly things about him that are very difficult to look away from.
Has his jawline always been that sharp? Has his hair always fallen that perfectly over his forehead, just barely brushing the long eyelashes that frame his dark, intelligent eyes?
You’ve known what Jay looks like for years. But it’s always been the back of his head that you’ve stared at. You’ve always assumed you were one step behind him, a few rungs beneath him on the ladder of social standing.
Here, across from the small dining room table, you feel more like equals. Everything about him that used to feel so painfully out of reach suddenly seems like it could fall right into your hands if you worked up the nerve to outstretch them.
And that thought feels… dangerous.
Jay is far safer as an enigma, you’re sure. Someone best kept at an arm’s distance. If you ever dared to let your fingers get too close to him, you’re terrified at just how solid he might feel beneath them.
It’s best, you decide, to keep that space between you, even if it’s only an illusion.
Once again, it strikes you just how alone the two of you are. You have an entire house, an entire beach to yourself. Suddenly, maintaining distance feels like a difficult task.
The shadows outside the living room windows are beginning to extend once the two of you are done eating. Pastel tones paint the sky as the sun dips towards the horizon.
Wordlessly, Jay takes both his plate and your to the kitchen sink. And then you hear his voice behind you.
“Should we go for a walk? We’ll catch the sunset if we go now.”
Turning to him, your nod comes easily. You might still be warring with the proximity, but you didn’t put a beach trip on your bucket list with the intention to stay inside the whole time.
Quietly, you pull your jacket over your shoulders, brushing your hair out of the way. And then you follow him out of the front door.
The sand is cool between your toes when he convinces you to remove your shoes.
“It’s the best part of the beach,” he insisted, but his smile was what truly had you agreeing.
Ever attuned to your needs, Jay notices when your breath starts to become shallower, the repeated motion of stepping over sand becoming more difficult. Then, he suggests that the two of you sit. But not before laying out the blanket he carried down with him.
Half of it rests beneath the two of you, a barrier between the sand and your bodies. The rest of it drapes over your shoulders, a makeshift shelter from the cool evening breeze.
The sun falls closer to the sea with every passing breath. Out here, it’s even more stunning. The vibrant pink and orange hues that streak through the sky, the gentle rhythm of waves against the shore, the salt-filled breeze that plays with your hair even as you sit half-hidden beneath the blanket.
There’s something so peaceful about it all, so beautifully serene. It’s a reminder of just how big, how vast, how endless the world is. And how, even still, it finds a way to distill itself into pockets of perfection just like this.
There are no shooting stars to wish on, no magical genies that offer to grant your deepest desires, but it still feels a bit like a peace offering from the universe. Life was never going to be fair, and for you, maybe never even truly kind. But there is still beauty to be found, still contentment to be had. Moments like this that will eventually fade to memories that you’ll treasure forever.
At your side, Jay looks at the horizon too. Watches as the bottom of the sun kisses the waves. You’re not touching, but you can feel the warmth from his body against your side.
“You can lean on me,” he offers, “if you want.” His voice is quiet but sure. Not small enough to be swallowed by the sea.
“I’m okay,” you assure him.
A moment passes. The sun dips a bit lower. Time seems to move faster now.
“I know,” he returns. “But you can anyway.”
Your first instinct is to protest. To insist that you’re okay, that you don’t need his support.
You sneak a glance at him out of your periphery. Watch as his jaw tightens, as his throat works through a swallow.
He’s nervous, you realize. And he used a bit of his bravery to make his offer.
So instead, you let your head fall gently against his shoulder. It’s a bit uncomfortable at first. The angle isn’t quite right.
Your temple presses against bone and your head wants to loll back to a position that you’re sure will make your neck ache.
It takes Jay only the span of a few heartbeats to adjust. He sinks a bit further into the sand, his hand coming to rest against the outside of your head as he adjusts your angle slightly.
He leaves it there, even as you settle into your new position. Tucked closer into his neck, it’s far more comfortable. You can smell faint hints of his cologne with every inhale.
After a few moments, the hand against your hair begins to move. Gently, Jay tucks a strand of hair behind your ear.
Your eyes are still on the sun. It’s almost entirely vanished now, light fading as it settles into the sea. Jay’s thumb begins to rub gentle strokes against your temple.
The air is cool, but Jay is warm. So impossibly warm and you can’t help but lean a little further into him, into his touch.
Jay sighs, and it scatters across the top of your head.
The sun finally kisses the day goodbye, dipping entirely below the horizon. Neither of you move, eyes still turned towards the sea even as daylight begins to fade.
Jay wraps the blanket a bit tighter around your shoulders before resuming his light touches against your temple. .
The two of you stay like that for a long time, neither of you willing to move, to break the careful peace that’s settled so comfortably around you.
But time presses onwards and by the time a fourth, obnoxiously large yawn escapes you, Jay makes the executive decision to call it a night. You don’t protest as he stands, extending a hand to help you up to your feet. You don’t comment on the way he keeps your hand wrapped in his just a bit longer than necessary, as if he isn’t quite ready to let you go.
The walk back to the house is quiet, nothing but the sound of your breath and the waves behind you to fill the silence.
Jay offers you a hand again, this time for balance as you brush sand from your feet before putting your shoes back on.
Once you reach the house, you trail behind him up to the second floor. At the top of the staircase, he pauses, then turns towards you. You’re halfway to your bedroom when he calls your name.
At the sound, you turn to look at him. For a moment, he just stares at you, fingers clenching at his sides. Then, he makes his decision. You see it in the set of his jaw, the sudden determination in his eyes.
He takes three deliberate strides forward, all the way until he’s close enough to touch. You take half a step back in surprise and he follows, crowding into your space.
“Jay, wh—”
His fingers wrap around your wrist, effectively silencing you as he pulls you into him, arms wrapping around your shoulders in a tight embrace.
For a brief moment, you’re too stunned to do anything. And then, regaining your senses, you bring your own hands tentatively to his shoulder blades, let your face fall a little closer into his chest until your lips are brushing over the fabric of his shirt.
Eyes wide in the moonlight, you take a deep breath in, letting his warmth envelop you.
Jay pulls back, just slightly. He still has his arms around you, but there’s a sliver of space now, just enough room for you to look up at him.
You regret it almost immediately. He’s already looking down at you, something indecipherable in his gaze.
It frightens you. It sends a deep, aching thrill shivering down the length of your spine.
Jay leans closer, and your eyelids flutter shut. For a moment, you think he’s going to kiss you.
You feel his lips against your forehead instead. Gentle, unmoving, just there.
A handful of seconds pass. Or maybe a minute. Wrapped in his arms, time feels like a malleable thing. It’s impossible to be sure.
Whatever it is, it’s long enough for something to pass between the two of you, for something to shift.
Jay pulls back, but he doesn't let you go. Not yet.
“Goodnight,” he whispers, breath fanning over your skin.
Your mind is spinning, suddenly full of desires and thoughts and possibilities that you never stopped to consider before.
“Goodnight, Jay,” you manage to return, breathless and more than a little flustered.
At that, he does pull back. Reluctantly, you disentangle yourself from him, still caught somewhere between possibilities and reality.
Jay doesn’t move, hardly dares to breathe, until you turn, until the door to your bedroom clicks shut.
Once it does, you lean back against it, hand flying to your chest. Your heart pounds in your throat, and your breath is suddenly a rather difficult thing to catch.
You go through the motions of preparing for bed mechanically.
Washing your face, changing into the pajamas you packed, climbing into the ridiculously cozy bed in the middle of the room.
All the while, you imagine it, replay it. Jay looking down at you with intention in his gaze. His arms around you, his lips on your forehead.
You’re exhausted. It’s late. But the thought of Jay, just across the hall from you, so close it’s almost painful, keeps pulling you back to consciousness. Sleep takes a long while to find you.
You thought the worst thing that could happen after your breakup was running into your cheating ex. Then you got pregnant by JAKE SIM. Captain of the Caldwell Wolves, campus golden boy and the most notorious heartbreaker on campus. He’s the last person you’d ever trust. Unfortunately for you, he’s also the father of your baby.
𝐩𝐥𝐚𝐲𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭: Delicate - Taylor Swift // Kiss Me Right - keshi // Sugar Talking - Sabrina Carpenter // It Ain’t Over ‘Till It’s Over - Lenny Kravitz // Please - BTS // striptease - carwash
𝐋’𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞𝐞: i genuinely had the best time writing this fic and getting way too emotionally attached to these characters! please feel free to leave a comment, scream or simply stare into the void thinking about these idiots (i know i will be). your support means more than you know and every notification makes me kick my feet like a Victorian lady seeing an ankle. i hope this fic made you experience at least one completely unnecessary emotion. thank you for ready and PLEASE enjoy!
The party is Mina’s idea. It always is. You’ve stopped pretending otherwise — stopped doing the thing where you spend twenty minutes debating whether you’re really feeling it before Mina gives you the look and you both know you’re going regardless.
It’s a Friday in late September, the air outside finally tipping from warm to something with a bite in it, and you’ve been in your dorm room since two in the afternoon staring at the same paragraph of Middlemarch without absorbing a single word.
“You need to get out of this room,” Mina says from your bed, where she’s been watching you not read for the past hour. She’s already dressed — black top, dark jeans, the gold hoops she only wears when she’s decided the night is going to be worth the effort. She decided before she came over. The last hour has been a courtesy. “You’ve been staring at that book like it cheated on you.”
The word lands between you, briefly. Mina’s face doesn’t change “George Eliot is a menace,” you say.
“You love George Eliot.”
“I love George Eliot when I’m not trying to produce fifteen hundred words on her narrative voice by Monday morning.” You close the book. It’s not like you’re reading it anyway.
The thing about Delta Kappa parties is that they are, by any objective measure, too much. Too loud, too hot, the bass sitting somewhere in your sternum, red cups and bodies everywhere you look. Mina thrives. You tolerate it with the specific resignation of someone who knows they’re going to have a good time despite themselves and finds this faintly irritating.
You’re on your second drink when you see Sunghoon. He’s across the room near the kitchen doorway, mid-conversation with someone you don’t recognise, laughing at something. Head tipped back the way he always did — that particular way, unhurried and a little private, like whatever amused him was his alone. You used to love that about him. You watch it for maybe three seconds before you look away, which feels like a victory of some kind.
Four months. Four months since you’d found out, since you’d sat on your dorm room floor and read a conversation thread you were never supposed to see, since everything you thought you’d built with him had turned out to be built on something rotten underneath.
Two years of your life. Your first real relationship. You’d thought it would last.
You look away. You drain the rest of your cup.
“He’s here,” Mina says, appearing at your elbow with the precision of someone who has been watching.
“I know.”
“Do you want to leave?”
“No.” You mean it. “I’m not leaving a party because of Sunghoon Park.”
She studies you for a moment with that particular look — the one that measures the difference between actually fine and performing fine with uncomfortable accuracy. Whatever she finds seems to satisfy her, because she clinks her cup against yours and says, “Then let’s get another drink.”
You’re at the makeshift bar — someone’s kitchen counter pressed into service — when you become aware of someone standing beside you. Not waiting for the bottle. Something else. A specific quality of attention that you register before you’ve consciously clocked it. You look up. Jake Sim looks back.
You know who he is the way you know most things about the people who exist in Caldwell’s uppermost stratum — passively, through cultural osmosis, without ever having chosen to learn. Captain of the Wolves. Dean’s son. The name that comes up in a specific tone of voice, like a warning dressed as gossip.
Up close he is, unfortunately, exactly as good-looking as that reputation implies. Tall, built through the shoulders and chest in the way that years of hockey builds — not showy, just solid, like his body was designed to take up space and does so without apology. Dark eyes. A jaw that should probably be illegal. A mouth curved at the corner like he’s already three steps ahead of the conversation and finds this mildly entertaining.
“You’re doing maths,” he says.
You blink. “What?”
“Your face.” He nods at you, vaguely. “Very intense for someone just standing at a bar.”
“I’m making a drink.”
“You’ve been staring at that vodka for forty-five seconds.”
“I didn’t realise I was being timed.”
“You weren’t.” He reaches past you for the bottle — close enough that you catch something clean and faintly expensive — pours his own cup, sets it back.
“I’m Jake.”
“I know who you are.” Something moves through his expression. Amusement, maybe, or the specific satisfaction of a fact confirmed.
“Most people do,” he says, and there’s no arrogance in it, just a statement of observable reality, which is somehow worse. “And you’re—”
“Also a person,” you say.
That gets a real smile. Brief, but actual. “Fair enough.”
You should find Mina. You’re aware of this the way you’re aware of the coursework due Monday and the fact that it’s past midnight — true, noted, irrelevant. Instead you stay where you are and let the conversation go where it goes, and it goes somewhere you didn’t expect.
He’s good at this. That’s the thing you clock first and keep clocking — the way he makes conversation feel like it has momentum, like you’re building toward something together, the timing of his humour landing slightly off-beat in a way that catches you. He asks questions and actually listens to the answers. You know it’s a formula. You know it has worked on an uncountable number of girls at an uncountable number of parties exactly like this one, and knowing that should make you immune to it, and it doesn’t.
Mina finds you at some point, clocks the situation in under a second, raises her eyebrows precisely two millimetres — a full paragraph in two millimetres — and disappears back into the crowd.
At some point his hand finds the small of your back. Light. Questioning. You don’t move away from it. At some point, close enough that you feel the words more than hear them, he says: “We could get out of here.”
You think about Middlemarch, which you’re not going to read tonight regardless. You think about the two years you spent being someone’s person and the four months since that have felt like learning to walk in a body that’s been subtly rearranged. You think about Sunghoon somewhere in this house with his head tipped back, laughing.
“Okay,” you say.
His room is in the east block upperclassmen housing — a single, because of course, because Jake Sim has probably never had to negotiate space with anyone in his life. It’s tidier than you’d have guessed. You file this away without meaning to, the way you’re still filing things even now, even when you’ve told yourself you’re not doing that anymore.
He closes the door and you’re already turning toward him and then his mouth is on yours and it’s nothing like how he acted downstairs — no charm, no ease, just heat and intent, his hands gripping your face and kissing you like he’s already decided exactly how this goes.
You grab his shirt and walk him backwards and he turns you instead, smooth and immediate, your back hitting the wall beside the door hard enough to knock the breath out of you and you don’t care, you’re already pulling at his shirt and he’s already got your top halfway up your body.
He strips it off you and his mouth drops straight to your throat, open and hot, and then your bra is unclasped and gone before you’ve fully registered his hands at the back of it.
Then his mouth is on your tits and he makes a sound low in his chest like the sight of them was specifically designed to ruin him. His hands cup them, squeezing, thumbs dragging slow over your nipples and watching your face while he does it. You feel your cheeks go hot because his expression is entirely too focused, too attentive, like he’s cataloguing your reactions and filing it away for later use.
He bends his head and takes one nipple into his mouth, tongue working in slow wet circles. Your head drops back against the wall on a moan you didn’t mean to let out that loud.
“Yeah,” he says against your skin, rough and pleased, “get loud,” and bites down lightly you gasp and your nails find his shoulders through his shirt.
He marks you up like he has all the time in the world — mouth dragging from your tits to your throat to your collarbone and back again, teeth and tongue, leaving his work on your skin with a thoroughness that should feel like too much and instead just makes you want more.
His hips grind into yours against the wall, the hard line of his cock pressed against your core through clothing, slow and deliberate, the friction makes you roll up into it and he does it again to which you make a sound that’s honestly embarrassing.
“Bed,” you manage, and he pulls back just enough to look at you — mouth-bitten, dark-eyed, satisfied with himself in a way you don’t have the capacity to be annoyed about right now — and walks you to it.
You land on the mattress and he’s over you immediately, his mouth back on your tits before you’ve stopped bouncing on the mattress, you’re pulling at his shirt until he lets you get it off him and then his jeans are gone and yours are gone and he’s settled between your thighs in just his boxers and the weight of him is — a lot, in the best way, solid and warm and pressing you into the mattress, his hips grind down slow as his cock drags against your pussy through the thin fabric of your panties, you grab his shoulders to hold onto something.
He does it again. Slower.
His mouth is still at your nipple, tongue working it stiff while his hips keep that maddening rhythm, grinding into you with enough friction to make your thighs clench around him but not enough to give you anything real, you can hear how wet you are, can feel it and judging by the way his jaw tightens he can too.
“Jake,” you say, and it comes out more desperate than you intend.
“I know,” he says, like that’s an answer, and then he’s moving down your body.
He hooks your underwear off, throws it somewhere and finally puts his mouth on your pussy. Your back comes off the mattress.
He licks into your folds slowly, taking his time, his tongue dragging from your entrance up to your clit in one long stroke and then doing it again, his hands are spread flat on your inner thighs holding you open and still and there is nothing to do but take it.
He’s good — infuriatingly good — like he’s genuinely interested in making you cum, like this is something he wants to do rather than something he’s doing to get to the next thing. You’ve got one fist in the sheets and one pressed to your own mouth to which he pulls your hand away from your face without looking up. “Don’t,” he says against your cunt, and goes back to work.
His tongue finds your clit and stays there, tight focused circles, two fingers then press at your entrance and push in slow, curling immediately, finding the spot that makes your hips jolt and working it with patience that feels almost cruel.
The sounds coming out of you are loud and continuous and undignified and he hums against you like he approves, the vibration travelling straight up your spine, and you can feel yourself getting close embarrassingly fast, your walls clenching tight around his fingers, your whole body chasing it.
“Don’t stop,” you manage, “don’t — please —“ and he doesn’t, his tongue relentless on your clit and his fingers curling deep, and you cum on his mouth with your thighs shaking, his name coming out broken and too loud for the room.
He works you through every second of it, tongue gentling, fingers slowing until you’re twitching and oversensitive and pulling at his hair to get him off you, he comes back up your body looking composed in a way that feels like a personal attack. There’s something dark and satisfied in his expression as he looks down at you and kisses you before you can say anything, slow, and you taste yourself on his tongue.
His cock is hard against your hip, straining against his boxers, you reach between you and wrap your hand around him and feel him shudder. He’s thick and heavy in your palm, already slick at the tip and when you stroke him his composure cracks — hips pushing into your grip, jaw tightening and a low rough sound forming against your mouth.
You work him slow and watch his face and feel something warm and powerful settle in your chest. “Condom,” you say.
“Yeah,” he says and reaches for the nightstand.
He pushes in slow and you feel every single inch. The stretch of him opening you up, thick and relentless, your walls giving way around his cock, you dig your nails into his back and breathe through it until he’s fully seated. You’re so full it sits somewhere between pleasure and pain and then he rolls his hips and it tips firmly into the first one.
He starts slow — deep, grinding strokes, his cock dragging against every nerve of you, the weight of his hips pinning yours into the mattress and his mouth finds your tits again immediately, like he can’t help it, tongue working your nipple while his hips keep their deep rhythm and you stop being capable of thoughts that go anywhere.
“You’re so fucking tight,” he says against your breast, low and rough, and bites down on the swell of it and soothes it with his tongue and does it again somewhere else.
“Jake—”
“I know,” he says, his thumb finds your clit. The added pressure makes you gasp and your hips jolt up to meet his and he makes a sound that isn’t quite a groan and picks up the pace.
The slow grind gives way to something sharper. His hips snap against yours and the headboard knocks the wall and the wet sounds of it fill the room. You have completely stopped caring about anything except the way his cock fills you on every stroke, deep and thick, the drag of him pulling back and driving in again setting off a chain reaction of sensation that climbs fast.
He shifts your leg up higher over his hip and the angle changes, deeper, and the sound you make at that is genuinely obscene. “Yeah?” he says, doing it again, deliberate. “There?”
“Yes,” you manage, “there, don’t stop, please—”
“Dirty when you want something,” he says, low and pleased, and fucks you harder.
His thumb circles your clit without stopping, his cock drives into your cunt again and again and his mouth marks your throat. The build crests too fast to catch — you cum for the second time harder, walls clenching rhythmically around him, his name coming out wrecked and he follows you over with his hips buried deep and his face pressed to your throat, low broken sounds against your skin as he cums.
The room goes quiet. You stare at the ceiling. Your body has been taken apart and put back together slightly differently and everything feels warm and loose and heavy.
That, you think distantly, was either the best or worst decision you’ve made in months.
Possibly both.
Jake disposes of the condom, comes back, drops onto the bed beside you. The quiet settles. It’s almost comfortable — the dark, the warmth, both of you just breathing. And then…
“You can go whenever,” he says. Flat. Casual. Already looking at the ceiling like you’re no longer the most interesting thing in the room. Like you’ve been downgraded, in the last thirty seconds, from a person to an inconvenience that’s resolved itself.
You blink. You can go whenever. Not you don’t have to rush, not do you want some water, not even basic human decency. Just — you can go. Door’s there. Thanks for coming.
Something cold moves cleanly through the warmth in your chest and extinguishes it. You sit up. “Right,” you say. Your voice comes out level. You’re proud of that.
He says nothing. He is staring at the ceiling with his arms folded behind his head like a man with absolutely no awareness that he’s just been profoundly rude, or perhaps perfect awareness and total indifference, which is worse.
You find your clothes in the dark with quiet methodical efficiency — jeans, top, shoes, bra shoved into your bag because life is short. You do not look at him while you dress and he does not look at you. At the door you pause, and you genuinely don’t know why, some reflex kicking in from a life spent being polite to people who haven’t earned it.
“Bye, then,” you say.
“Mm,” says Jake Sim, at the ceiling not even at you. You want to scoff in his stupidly hot face.
You close the door behind you.
The walk back across campus takes twelve minutes and you spend all twelve of them with the cold night air doing its best against the heat in your face. Not embarrassment — or not only that. Something sharper. The specific anger of someone who knew exactly what they were walking into and walked into it anyway and is now annoyed at themselves for being annoyed.
I knew, you think, with each step. I knew what he was. Everyone knows what he is. I just—
You’d let the hour at the bar do its work. You’d let the conversation and the hand at the small of your back and the dark eyes and the unfair jaw do their work, and you’d told yourself it was fine because you were going in clear-eyed, and the sex had been — god, the sex had been amazing — but then he’d opened his mouth and reminded you exactly who he was and now here you are, at one forty in the morning, crossing the quad with your bra in your bag.
You text Mina. still up?
The reply is immediate. obviously. how was it?
You stare at your phone for a moment. come to mine, you type back.
Mina is sitting up in your bed when you get back, laptop open, a bowl of cereal balanced on her knee that she definitely made while waiting. She takes one look at your face as you come through the door and sets it on the nightstand. “Tell me.”
You drop your bag, toe off your shoes, and sit on the end of the bed. You press your fingers to your eyes for a moment. “The sex,” you say carefully, “was genuinely incredible. Like — top three of my life, Mina. Easily. Potentially top two.”
“Okay—”
“And then, the moment it was over, he looked at the ceiling and told me I could go whenever.” You drop your hands. “In the tone of someone dismissing a tradesman. Like I’d come to fix his boiler.”
Mina’s expression moves through several stages. “He did not.”
“He absolutely did.”
“What did you say?”
“I said bye then and closed the door.”
“Bye then?”
“I panicked and defaulted to manners.” You flop backwards onto the duvet. “I knew. That’s the thing. I knew exactly what he was before I ever spoke to him and I did it anyway because—” You gesture at the ceiling. “I don’t know. Because I’m tired of being careful. Because Sunghoon was across the room being beautiful and I wanted to feel something that wasn’t about him.”
Mina is quiet for a moment. Then: “Was it, at least something that wasn’t about Sunghoon.”
You consider this with the ceiling. “Yes,” you admit. “Annoyingly, yes. Right up until he opened his mouth.”
“He really is the worst,” Mina says, with the conviction of someone delivering a verdict.
“He really, genuinely is.” You stare upward. “He’s got such a good cock though, Mina. Like. I’m annoyed about it. I’m actively annoyed.”
Mina puts her face in her hands. You watch her shoulders shake. “It’s not funny,” you tell her, and then you’re laughing too, and the tight mean thing in your chest loosens by a fraction, and outside the window Caldwell goes on being loud and indifferent and fully lit up, and you are fine.
You’re fine. You’re completely fine.
The week after the party you are, by any reasonable measure, completely fine.
You turn in the Middlemarch essay on Monday morning — fifteen hundred words on narrative voice, mostly written Sunday afternoon in a single focused stretch that you attribute to having gotten something out of your system.
You go to your Tuesday seminar and your Wednesday lecture and you have coffee with Mina on Thursday at the place near the English building where they do the good almond croissants, and you do not think about Jake Sim.
Or you think about him the normal amount. The amount that is appropriate for a person you slept with once at a party and will probably never speak to again, which is to say occasionally and without weight, the way you might think about a film you watched on a plane — enjoyable in the moment, not something you’d seek out again, largely irrelevant to your actual life.
This is what you tell yourself. Mina does not challenge it, which means she’s either convinced or she’s decided to let you have it, and knowing Mina it’s the second one.
Sunghoon texts you on Wednesday. Just — hey, saw you at Delta Kappa Friday. you looked good. You stare at it for a long time. You don’t reply.
You see Jake on Monday. You’re crossing the main quad, coffee in hand, bag over one shoulder, running approximately four minutes late for your seminar, and he’s coming the other direction with Jay Park and someone you don’t recognise, all three of them in Wolves gear, clearly post-practice.
He’s laughing at something Jay said, head tilted back, and he looks — easy, and loose, and completely unbothered by anything in the known universe, which you knew, which is exactly what you expected, and yet something about seeing it in person at ten forty-three on a Monday morning makes your jaw tighten anyway.
He doesn’t see you. Or he does and gives no indication of it, which amounts to the same thing. You look straight ahead and keep walking and do not think about it for the rest of the morning.
You think about it a little bit in the afternoon. By evening you’ve filed it away under irrelevant and moved on, which is the correct and mature response and you’re proud of yourself.
The sickness starts on Wednesday morning. You wake up with your stomach doing something wrong — not dramatic, not the sharp unmistakable rebellion of food poisoning, just a low persistent nausea that sits behind your sternum like it’s made itself at home. You lie still for a moment, waiting for it to pass.
It doesn’t.
You get up, make it to the bathroom, sit on the edge of the tub for ten minutes breathing carefully, and then it eases enough that you can brush your teeth and get dressed and tell yourself you’re fine.
You’re not fine by Thursday morning.
The nausea is worse — still not acute, still this low insidious wrongness, but it’s there when you wake up and it doesn’t fully lift, and your coffee tastes like something burnt and metallic and you push it away after two sips which Mina clocks immediately from across the table at the place near the English building.
“You’re not drinking your coffee.”
“I’m not feeling it today.”
Mina looks at the cup. Looks at you. “You have never in three years of knowing you not felt like coffee.”
“There’s a first time for everything.” She watches you for a moment with that look. You look back at your laptop and don’t say anything else.
By Saturday you feel actively, genuinely terrible.
Not sick-sick — no fever, no aches, nothing you can point to as a specific illness — just this relentless creeping nausea that is worst in the morning and fades by afternoon and makes the idea of eating before eleven o’clock an abstract and unpleasant concept.
You cancel your Saturday morning coffee with Mina, which you have never done, and she’s at your door by noon with a container of crackers and a forensic expression. “Talk,” she says.
“I think I’m coming down with something.”
“What kind of something.”
“I don’t know, Mina, a virus. A bug. Something that’s going around.”
She sits down on your bed and opens the crackers and holds them out to you and you take one because the sight of them is, somehow, the most appealing thing you’ve encountered all week. You eat it slowly. Your stomach does not immediately rebel. You take another one. “How long?” Mina asks.
“Since Wednesday morning.”
“And it’s worst in the morning.”
“Yes.”
“And you can’t drink coffee.”
“It tastes wrong.” Mina is quiet for a moment. You eat another cracker and look at the wall. “I’m sure it’s just a bug,” you say.
“Yeah,” Mina says, in a tone that means something else entirely. “Probably.”
The conspiracy theories start that evening, though. It’s the two of you on your bed with Mina’s laptop open and a bag of pretzels between you, and it begins reasonably enough — you googling nausea worse in morning possible causes and working through the list with the detached efficiency of someone who is definitely not spiralling. Stress. Acid reflux. Inner ear issues. Viral gastroenteritis. Dietary changes.
“Have you eaten anything different lately?” Mina asks.
“No.”
“Stressed about something?”
“When am I not stressed about something.”
“Fair.” She scrolls. “It says here inner ear problems can cause—”
“I don’t have inner ear problems, Mina.”
Mina scrolls further. You eat a pretzel and watch her face and wait for it. You know it’s coming. You’ve known since Saturday morning, if you’re being honest, since she’d sat on your bed with that specific expression and said probably in that specific tone, and you’ve been not-thinking about it with considerable effort for the past several hours.
“Okay,” Mina says, carefully, still looking at the screen. “What if.”
“No.”
“I haven’t said anything yet.”
“You don’t have to.” You pull the laptop toward you and close the tab. “It’s been less than two weeks. It’s too early for that. It’s a bug.”
“You used a condom?”
“Obviously.”
“They’re not a hundred percent.”
“It’s a bug,” you say. “It’s a completely normal bug that normal people get and it has nothing to do with — it’s a bug.”
Mina looks at you with the expression of someone who has several more things to say and has made a strategic decision to not say them yet. “Okay,” she says. “Bug.”
By Sunday you can’t keep breakfast down. You sit on your bathroom floor at eight in the morning with your back against the tub and your forehead against your knees and you think about the party, and Jake’s room, and the nightstand, and the condom, and you think no very firmly and repeatedly and it doesn’t help at all.
You text Mina. can you come over
She’s there in seven minutes. She doesn’t say anything when you open the door, just looks at your face, and you nod back at her.
The Caldwell campus drugstore is a five minute walk from your building and has, blessedly, a single-occupancy bathroom at the back that Mina sweet-talks the Saturday cashier into letting you use on the grounds that you’re not feeling well, which is at least entirely true. It’s a very small bathroom.
The two of you fill it completely — you on the closed toilet lid, Mina with her back against the sink, the test sitting on the edge of it between you with three minutes on Mina’s phone timer counting down. Nobody says anything.
The tile is white. There’s a motivational poster on the back of the door — you’ve got this! in yellow letters — that you stare at with a feeling you can’t fully name.
Two minutes.
“It’s probably negative,” you say.
“Probably,” Mina says.
“The condom—”
“Yeah.” “And it’s been less than two weeks. Like. The timing—”
“The timing is actually about right,” Mina says, gently, “for symptoms to—”
“Stop,” you say.
One minute.
You watch the timer. The timer watches back. Your hands are completely still in your lap which surprises you — you’d have expected them to shake, but instead you feel very calm in the specific way that you get sometimes when something is about to happen and your body has decided that panic is a resource to be conserved.
The timer goes off.
Neither of you moves for a second. Then Mina picks up the test and looks at it. Her face does something — a flicker, fast and controlled, there and gone — and she hands it to you without speaking.
Two lines.
You look at it for a long time.
“Okay,” you say, finally.
“Yeah,” Mina says.
The motivational poster on the wall says you’ve got this! in yellow letters and you stare at it and think about Jake Sim telling the ceiling you can go whenever and feel something move through you that is too big and too complicated to have a name yet.
“Okay,” you say again. Like if you keep saying it, it’ll start meaning something useful.
—
You don’t go to him straight away. That feels important somehow — that you don’t just spiral out of that drugstore bathroom and make a beeline for the Hargrove Center in a panic, that you go back to your dorm first and sit with it for a while like a person with some degree of self-possession.
You and Mina order food you mostly don’t eat and sit on your bed with the test face-down on the nightstand like if you can’t see it it’s less real, and you talk around it for a while before you talk about it directly, which is its own kind of processing.
“You don’t have to decide anything today,” Mina says.
“I know.”
“You don’t have to tell him today either.”
“I know.” You pull your sleeves over your hands. “But I feel like — I don’t know. He should know. Like in or not he’s — it’s his. He should know.”
Mina is quiet for a moment. “Okay,” she says. “But eat something first.”
You eat half a portion of noodles. It’s the most you’ve managed in days and your stomach accepts it cautiously, like it’s making no promises. Then you change your top, put your shoes on, and look at Mina.
“Don’t come with me,” you say.
“I wasn’t going to.”
“You were absolutely going to.”
She opens her mouth. Closes it. “Text me the second you’re out.”
The Hargrove Center is a twenty minute walk across campus and you use all twenty minutes to rehearse what you’re going to say, which turns out to be a complete waste of time because the moment you push through the side door and the cold air of the rink hits you — that particular sharp smell of ice and equipment — your prepared sentences evaporate entirely.
Practice is just wrapping up. You can see them from the entrance, the Wolves coming off the ice in clusters, helmets off, sticks in hand. Jay Park says something that makes Riki Nishimura laugh. Jungwon Yang is already halfway to the boards.
And Jake is — there, centre ice, still, talking to one of the assistant coaches with his helmet under his arm and his hair pushed back from his face, and even from here he looks like someone who has never had an uncontrollable variable in his life.
You wait.
You’re good at waiting. You’ve spent the last two weeks being good at things you didn’t choose to be good at.
He sees you when he comes off the ice — clocks you in the way that people clock something unexpected in a familiar space, a brief recalibration. Something moves across his face, too fast to read. Then it’s gone and he’s walking toward you with the easy unhurried stride of someone who has decided to be unbothered and you stand your ground and wait for him to reach you.
“Hey,” he says. Like you’re an acquaintance. Like he’s mildly surprised to see you and finds it mildly unremarkable.
“I need to talk to you,” you say. Something shifts.
The easy expression doesn’t disappear exactly but it adjusts, becomes more guarded. He glances around — Jay is watching from the boards with open curiosity, Riki less subtly — and then jerks his head toward the corridor off the main rink.
You follow him into it. It’s quieter here, the noise of the rink muffled, the overhead lights slightly too bright. He turns and faces you with his arms crossed and his weight back, and waits. You had sentences. You had very good sentences, all the way across campus.
“I’m pregnant,” you say.
The corridor goes very quiet. Jake looks at you. His expression does several things in quick succession that he doesn’t quite manage to keep off his face — shock, and something that might be fear, and then a shuttering, a closing, something careful dropping down over all of it.
“Okay,” he says.
“Okay,” you repeat.
“That’s — okay. How far—”
“I just found out today. So.” You fold your arms across your chest. “Not far.”
He nods slowly. His jaw is working. He looks at the floor for a moment and then back at you and the careful expression is fully in place now, composed and unreadable, and you don’t know whether to be relieved or furious about it.
“Are you sure it’s mine,” he says.
The corridor goes even quieter somehow.
You look at him. “What did you just say.”
“I’m just—” He shifts his weight. “We don’t know each other. I don’t know who else you’ve been—”
“Are you calling me a slut.” It comes out flat. Not a question.
“I’m not calling you anything, I’m just saying I don’t know—”
“You’re the only person I’ve slept with in four months.” Your voice is very level. “I was in a relationship. It ended. I haven’t — there’s been no one else. There’s only been you.” You look at him. “And I can’t believe I’m standing here explaining that to you.”
“I’m not trying to—”
“You literally just implied I could have slept with someone else.” The level voice is beginning to fray at the edges. “You literally said that. To my face.”
“Look, I just—”
You slap him.
You don’t plan it. Your hand moves before the decision has fully formed, the sharp crack of it landing across his cheek, and then there’s a ringing silence and your palm is stinging and Jake’s head has turned with the force of it and he’s looking at you now with an expression you haven’t seen on him before. Not angry. Something more complicated than angry.
“Don’t ever,” you say, quietly, “imply something like that to me again.”
He says nothing. His hand has come up to his cheek, not pressing, just — there. His jaw is tight.
“I thought you should know,” you say. “That’s all. I thought you deserved to know because it’s yours and you deserved to know. I haven’t decided anything yet and I’m not asking you for anything.” You pull your bag higher on your shoulder. “Okay?”
“Okay,” he says. Low. You walk back out into the cold. You text Mina out and she sends back seventeen question marks which is fair.
You tell her you’ll explain when you get back and spend the walk home feeling the particular hollow exhaustion of someone who has done the thing they needed to do and now has no idea what comes next.
You’re back in your building, one flight up, when you hear him behind you. “Hey—”
You turn. Jake is in the stairwell, still in his practice gear, slightly out of breath like he walked fast to get here, and you have absolutely no idea how he found out which dorm you’re in and you’re going to have questions about that later.
“How did you—“
“Jay knew,” he says, which explains nothing and everything.
He comes up the last few steps and stops on your landing and runs a hand through his hair and looks like someone who has been having a very difficult internal conversation at speed. “Can I—”
“No,” you say.
“Two minutes.” You look at him. He looks back. The mark from your hand has faded from his cheek but his expression is still doing that thing — complicated, unreadable, something working behind it.
“Two minutes,” you say, and unlock your door. Your room is small and suddenly smaller with him in it. He stands just inside the door like he’s not sure he’s allowed further in, which is the most uncertain you’ve seen him, and you sit on the end of your bed and look at him and wait.
He reaches into his jacket. He puts a stack of bills on your desk. You look at the money. You look at him. “Jake.”
“It’s enough to cover — whatever you decide.” He’s not quite meeting your eyes. “I’m not — look. I don’t want a kid. I’m not in a place for that. We don’t know each other. But I’m not going to just—” He stops. Starts again. “Take it. Whatever you need it for.”
You stare at the money for a long moment. “Are you going to want to be involved,” you ask. “If I decide to keep it.”
Something crosses his face. “I don’t — I haven’t—” He exhales. “I don’t know.”
“Okay,” you say. “That’s honest at least.”
“Are you going to keep it,” he asks. Quietly. Like he’s not sure he has the right to ask.
You look at the money on your desk. You look at him — standing in your doorway in his practice gear, jaw tight, trying very hard to look like someone who has this handled and not quite managing it — and you think that this is the first time he’s looked like a person to you. Not the reputation, not the corridor composure, not the ceiling of his bedroom. Just a person who is as blindsided as you are and coping with it badly.
“I don’t know yet,” you say. “I’ll let you know when I do.”
He nods. He looks at you for a moment longer than necessary. Then he picks up the money from your desk and puts it on your nightstand instead, like the desk was somehow wrong, like the four feet of distance makes a difference, and you don’t say anything about it.
“I’m sorry,” he says, at the door. “For what I said. At the rink.”
You look at him. “Which part.”
“All of it.”
He closes the door behind him and you sit on your bed in the quiet of your room for a long time, the money on your nightstand and the weight of everything pressing down, and then you pick up your phone and call your sister.
She picks up on the third ring. “Hey, you.” Hannah’s voice is warm and slightly distracted in the way it always is — you can hear one of the kids in the background, the particular high-pitched negotiation of a five year old who wants something and has decided now is the time. “Give me two seconds.”
Then, away from the phone: “Lily, baby, I said after dinner. After. Yes. Because I said so, that’s why.” A door closing.
Then: “Okay. Hi. Sorry. What’s up?”
You open your mouth. You’ve been sitting on your bed for forty minutes since Jake left, the money on your nightstand and your phone in your hand, and you’ve composed this conversation approximately thirty times in your head and all thirty versions started more coherently than what actually comes out, which is: “I did something kind of stupid.”
“How stupid.”
“Significantly.”
A beat. Hannah has always been good at letting silence do its work, at not rushing in to fill it with the wrong thing. It’s one of the things you’ve always loved about her. “Okay,” she says. “Tell me.”
So you tell her. All of it — the party and Jake and the test and the corridor and the slap and him in your room with the money — and Hannah listens through all of it without interrupting, which is its own kind of gift, and when you’re done there’s a moment of quiet that feels like her sorting through it.
“Okay,” she says again. “First question. Are you physically okay?”
“Yes.”
“Second question. Do you have someone with you?”
“Mina’s coming over in an hour.”
“Good.” You can hear her moving around, the soft sounds of her kitchen. “Third question, and I want you to actually think about it before you answer — not what you think you should say, not what’s practical, not what he wants or what anyone else wants. Just you.”
She pauses. “Do you want to keep it?”
You look at the money on your nightstand.
You think about the question the way she asked it — stripped of everything else, just you, just the truth of it underneath all the noise.
The thing is, you already know. You’ve known since the bathroom floor this morning, since you sat with your back against the tub and your forehead on your knees. It’s why the knowing has been so terrifying — not because you’re uncertain but because you’re not, and being not uncertain makes it real in a way that uncertainty would have postponed.
“Yeah,” you say. Quietly. “I do. I just — I don’t want it to be his. I don’t want to be tied to someone who—” You stop. “I don’t want the situation. I just want—”
“The baby,” Hannah says. “Yeah.” She’s quiet for a moment. “Those are two separate things,” she says. “The situation and the baby. They feel like the same thing right now but they’re not.”
You hear her sit down somewhere. “Marcus and I — when I had Lily, things with us were not good. You remember. We were not in a good place. And I thought about it the same way — I want her, I just don’t want this. And it was hard. It was genuinely really hard. But she’s five now and she’s the most annoying, amazing person I’ve ever met and I can’t — I can’t imagine.”
You press the back of your hand to your mouth.
“I’m not telling you what to do,” Hannah says quickly. “I promise I’m not. Whatever you decide I’m with you. I just — you asked.”
“I know,” you manage. “I know you’re not.”
“Is he terrible?” she asks. “This Jake person.”
You think about the corridor. The money. I’m sorry. For what I said. All of it. “I don’t know yet,” you say. “He’s — I don’t know what he is.”
“Okay.” Hannah’s voice is careful and warm. “You don’t have to know yet. You don’t have to know anything yet except what you want. Everything else gets figured out.”
You sit with that for a moment. “I’m keeping it,” you say. Out loud, to another person, for the first time. It lands differently than it did in your head — more solid, more real, like something that has been decided rather than something being considered.
“Okay,” Hannah says, and she says it the way Mina says it — not okay as in fine but okay as in I’ve got you. “Then we figure out the rest.”
You tell Mina when she comes over and she holds your hand and doesn’t say anything for a long moment and then says “okay, what do we need to do” in the tone of someone rolling up their sleeves, which is exactly right, which is why she’s your person.
You tell Jake two days later.
You find him after morning practice on a Wednesday, same side entrance to the Hargrove Center, and this time he sees you coming and something in his posture adjusts — not quite bracing, just becoming more careful, more deliberate, the way he gets when he’s paying attention. “Hey,” he says.
“I’m keeping it,” you say.
He goes very still. You watch him process it — the stillness and then the almost imperceptible movement of his jaw, the way his eyes go somewhere internal for a second before coming back to you. He looks like someone doing rapid and complicated mathematics. “Okay,” he says finally.
“You don’t have to be involved. I meant that when I said it. I’m not — I’m not asking you for anything except to know. You deserved to know and now you know and whatever you decide to do with that is up to you.”
“I said I’d provide,” he says. “I meant that.”
“Money isn’t the same as involved.”
“I know.” He shifts his weight. His hands are in his pockets and he’s looking at you with that careful expression, the one you can’t fully read. “I don’t — I’m not going to be the guy who just throws money at it and disappears. That’s not—” He stops. “I don’t know what I am yet. But I’m not that.”
You look at him for a long moment. There is, underneath the practice gear and the careful composure and the history of the last two weeks, something that might be decency in there. It’s buried. It’s inconsistent. You’ve seen it appear and disappear enough times already to know better than to trust it yet. But it’s there. “Okay,” you say. “Then figure out what you are and let me know.”
You turn to go. “Can I—” He stops. You look back. “Can I have your number,” he says. “Properly. So we can — so it’s easier to—”
“To what.”
He looks, briefly, like someone who hasn’t thought this far ahead. “Talk,” he says. “If we need to.”
You look at him for a moment. Then you take out your phone and hold it out. He puts his number in and hands it back and you save it under Jake Sim (do not text unless necessary) which you do not show him. “I’ll be in touch,” you say.
Jake doesn’t mean to tell his friend— or he does, but not like this, not in the locker room with his gear half off and Riki eating a protein bar on the bench across from him and Jay taping his wrist in the corner and Jungwon doing something on his phone. It comes out the way things come out when you’ve been holding them too long and the effort of holding them finally exceeds the effort of saying them.
“I got someone pregnant,” he says.
The locker room goes quiet. Riki stops chewing. Jay puts down the tape. Jungwon looks up from his phone. “I’m sorry,” Jay says, with the careful enunciation of someone who wants to make sure they’ve heard correctly. “You what?”
“You heard me.”
“I heard you, I just want to make sure I—” Jay sets down the tape fully and turns to face him. “Who.”
“Girl from Delta Kappa. Three weeks ago.” Another silence. Jay is looking at him with an expression that Jake doesn’t particularly enjoy — something between concern and the specific look of someone doing the maths on how this could have happened and arriving at several uncomfortable conclusions about Jake’s general life choices.
“Are you—” Jungwon starts.
“I’m fine.”
“That’s not what I was going to ask.”
“Then what.”
Jungwon looks at him steadily. “Is she okay.”
Jake opens his mouth. Closes it. Thinks about you in the corridor at the rink and your voice going flat and your hand cracking across his face, and then you in your dorm room — calm and certain and telling him you weren’t asking him for anything, which was somehow the part that landed hardest. “I think so,” he says. “She’s — yeah.”
“Do you like her?” Riki asks, with the bluntness of someone who has not yet learned that some questions require more runway.
“I don’t know her,” Jake says.
“That’s not what I asked.” Jay shoots Riki a look. Riki shrugs and takes another bite of his protein bar.
“What are you going to do?” Jay asks, turning back to Jake.
Jake leans his elbows on his knees and looks at the floor. The locker room smells like it always does — ice and rubber and effort — and it’s familiar in a way that is almost destabilising right now, how normal everything around him is when nothing feels particularly normal. “I don’t know yet,” he says. “Be there, I think. As much as she’ll let me.”
“As much as she’ll let you,” Jay repeats. Something in his tone.
“She’s not — she’s not soft.” Jake looks up. “She’s not going to make it easy.”
“Should she?”
Jake looks at him. Jay looks back, steady and unhurried. “No,” Jake says, after a moment. “Probably not.”
Jay nods once. Picks the tape back up. “Then figure it out,” he says, like it’s simple, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world, and Jake sits with that in the familiar smell of the locker room and thinks that he probably needs to.
—
The truce, when it forms, is not announced. It happens gradually over the following week — a text from him checking if you need anything, which you respond to with I’m fine thanks and nothing else. A text from you three days later telling him your first appointment is booked for the following week, which he responds to with do you want me there and you respond with not yet and he responds with okay and that’s it, that’s the whole exchange, and somehow it’s the most civil conversation you’ve had.
He doesn’t push. You note this without letting it mean too much. You’re not friends. You’re not anything with a name. You’re two people who made a mistake that turned into something neither of you planned for, and you’re figuring out how to exist in the same orbit without either of you combusting, and most days it feels manageable and some days it feels impossible and on the days it feels impossible you call Hannah, who answers on the third ring and lets the silence do its work.
It’s something, you think. It’s not much but it’s something. For now, that has to be enough.
The thing about Caldwell though, is that it’s a big campus until it isn’t.
Thirty thousand students, four faculties, two libraries, a quad the size of a small park — and yet somehow the people you most want to avoid have an unerring instinct for occupying the same coffee shop, the same corridor, the same stretch of pavement at the same time.
You’ve been navigating this for four months with Sunghoon and you’ve gotten good at it. You know his schedule well enough to avoid it without meaning to, the way you learn the shape of someone after two years and can’t quite unlearn it.
Which is why it catches you off guard when he’s just — there. The library café, a Tuesday afternoon, three weeks after the test. You’re at a corner table with your laptop and a cup of tea you’ve been nursing for an hour because coffee is still wrong and probably will be for the foreseeable future, and you’re halfway through a close reading of Middlemarch chapter forty-two when someone pulls out the chair across from you and sits down and you look up and it’s Sunghoon.
He looks, as he always looks, like something assembled with unreasonable care. Dark hair, clean jawline, the particular quality of stillness he has that used to make you feel calm and now just makes you feel tired.
“Hey,” he says.
You look at him. Then at the chair he’s sitting in. Then back at him. “I didn’t say you could sit.”
“I know.” He doesn’t move. “I just wanted to talk.”
“Sunghoon.”
“Five minutes.”
You close your laptop. Not because you’re agreeing, but because whatever he’s about to say you want to be looking at him when he says it. “Five minutes,” you say. “And then you’re going to go away.”
Something moves through his expression — not quite hurt, but adjacent. He folds his hands on the table. He has nice hands. You spent two years noticing his hands. “I saw you at Delta Kappa,” he says.
“I know. You texted me.”
“You didn’t reply.” He looks at you steadily. “You were talking to Jake Sim.”
There it is.
You keep your face very neutral. “I was at a party. I talked to a lot of people.”
“Jake Sim isn’t a lot of people.” Something in his voice shifts — not quite possessive, not quite jealous, threading that needle with the precision of someone who knows he doesn’t have the right to either and is trying to disguise it as concern. “He’s not a good person to get involved with.”
“Thank you for that,” you say. “I’ll bear it in mind.”
“I’m serious.”
“So am I.” You look at him. “Sunghoon. You don’t get to come sit at my table and tell me who I should and shouldn’t talk to. You gave that up.”
His jaw tightens. “I know I did.”
“Then why are you here?”
He’s quiet for a moment. Outside the café windows the quad is grey and overcast, students moving across it with their heads down against the wind, and Sunghoon is looking at you with an expression you know — you’ve catalogued it, the way you’ve catalogued everything about him, two years of accumulated knowledge you can’t seem to put down. It’s the expression he gets when he wants to say something and is choosing his words with care.
“I miss you,” he says.
You look at him for a long time. The honest answer is that you miss him too — or you miss the version of things you thought you had, which isn’t exactly the same as missing him but lives close enough to it that the distinction is hard to maintain on a grey Tuesday afternoon with him sitting across from you looking like that.
You miss having a person. You miss the shape of your life before it got complicated in every possible direction.
But you also know what he did.
You know it with the specific clarity of something you’ve gone over enough times that it’s stopped being sharp and started being just — true. A fact about him. A fact about what he chose. “I know,” you say. Carefully. “But that’s not my problem to fix.”
He nods. Slow. Like he expected it and it still costs him something. He stands up, pushes the chair back in, and then pauses with his hands on the back of it. “Are you okay?” he asks. “Actually? You look—” He stops.
“I look what.”
“Tired,” he says. “You look tired.”
“I’m fine,” you say.
He looks at you for a moment longer. Then he goes, and you open your laptop, and you stare at Middlemarch chapter forty-two for a while without reading any of it.
You don’t tell Jake about Sunghoon.
There’s no reason to.
You and Jake are not — whatever you are, it doesn’t include telling each other things. It includes occasional texts, one appointment you went to alone where a doctor confirmed what you already knew and gave you a due date that made it real in a new and specific way, and a strange careful politeness that exists between you like a temporary structure neither of you fully trusts.
He texts you on a Friday evening. how are you feeling
You look at it for a while. Fine. Less sick this week.
that’s good
A pause. Then: do you need anything?
You think about your sister’s voice. You don’t have to know anything yet except what you want. You think about Jake in your dorm room, the money on your nightstand, I’m not going to be the guy who just throws money at it. You think about how many times in the past three weeks he’s almost been decent and then done something to complicate it.
I’m okay, you send back. Thanks.
He sends a thumbs up and you put your phone face down and tell yourself this is fine, this arrangement is fine, and mostly you believe it.
You find out about the girl on a Saturday night.
You’re not looking for it — you’re not the kind of person who goes searching for things they don’t want to find, you learned that lesson with Sunghoon — but Caldwell is a big campus until it isn’t, and Mina’s friend group overlaps with the hockey crowd in the specific way that happens at schools where athletes are their own ecosystem but not a fully separate one.
It’s Mina who tells you, with the careful expression of someone who has been sitting on information and decided you’d rather hear it from her. “I heard Jake hooked up with someone last weekend,” she says. Not leading with it, not burying it either. Just: here is a thing that is true.
You look at your coffee. You’ve graduated back to coffee this week, weak and milky, which feels like a victory. “Okay,” you say.
“You’re allowed to have feelings about that.”
“We’re not together, Mina.”
“I know.”
“He can do whatever he wants. We’re not — there’s nothing between us. We’re just—” You move your hand in a vague gesture that encompasses the entire situation. “This.”
“I know,” Mina says again, in the tone that means she has more to say and is choosing not to. You continue to drink your coffee.
The thing is — and this is the part you don’t say out loud, the part you turn over privately in the quiet of your own head — the thing is that you know she’s right.
You are allowed to have feelings about it.
You do have feelings about it, somewhere underneath the very reasonable and correct observation that Jake Sim owes you nothing beyond basic decency and whatever co-parenting arrangement you eventually figure out.
You have feelings about it the way you have feelings about a lot of things lately — in the muffled, at-a-distance way, like they’re happening to someone slightly removed from you and you’re watching through glass.
You’re pregnant with his baby and he’s sleeping with someone else and you’re not together and you have no claim on him and all of that is true simultaneously and you’re not sure what to do with the fact that it still sits in your chest like something uncomfortable.
“I don’t care,” you tell Mina. She looks at you with the expression that means I know you and I know that’s not entirely true but I love you so I’ll let you have it.
“Okay,” she says.
—
Jake texts you on Sunday.
heard you’ve been doing better. that’s good
You stare at the message for a long time. Yeah, you type back. Thanks.
A pause. Then: can I take you to your next appointment?
You put the phone down. Pick it up. Put it down again.
The question sits there, simple and direct, and the thing about it is that it isn’t nothing. It’s not the gesture of someone who is just throwing money at a situation. It’s — something. Small and tentative and probably not enough and something nonetheless.
It’s in two weeks, you send back. I’ll let you know.
okay, he says. no pressure.
You put the phone down and look at the ceiling and think about a girl you don’t know and a Saturday night you weren’t part of and the specific stupidity of having feelings about either, and then you think about your next appointment and the due date the doctor gave you and the small impossible reality of all of it, and you decide that you are going to take a nap and deal with every single one of these things later.
Later, you think. All of it later.
He comes to the appointment, in the end you let him. You texted him the details the night before — time, building, room number — and he’s there when you arrive, standing outside the health centre with his hands in his jacket pockets and his breath fogging in the cold, and he looks up when he sees you coming and something in his expression does that thing, that complicated unreadable thing, and he falls into step beside you without saying anything.
Inside, in the waiting room, you sit next to each other in plastic chairs with a magazine between you that neither of you reads. A couple across the room are holding hands. You and Jake sit with six inches of space between you like a demilitarised zone.
“You okay?” he asks, quietly.
“Fine,” you say. “You?”
“Fine,” he says.
The nurse calls your name and you both stand up and Jake follows you in and stands slightly to the side while the doctor talks and asks questions and pulls up the scan on the screen, and you look at it — the small impossible blur of it, the heartbeat a flickering certainty on the monitor — and you feel the thing in your chest that you’ve been keeping at distance move closer without permission.
Beside you Jake goes very still.
You don’t look at him. You look at the screen.
“Everything looks perfect,” the doctor says.
You nod. You don’t trust your voice.
In the corridor after, walking back out into the cold, Jake is quiet for a long time. Longer than usual even for him.
You’re almost at the path that splits — his way, your way — when he says, without looking at you: “That was—”
“Yeah,” you say.
He nods. Puts his hands back in his pockets. “I’ll walk you back,” he says.
You think about the girl he slept with. You think about Sunghoon in the library café. You think about the scan on the monitor and the heartbeat that is real and certain and not theoretical anymore.
“Okay,” you say.
He walks you back. You don’t talk much. It’s not uncomfortable exactly — it’s something more complicated than that, something neither of you has a name for yet, and when you reach your building he stops at the bottom of the steps and looks at you and opens his mouth and then closes it again.
“What,” you say.
“Nothing,” he says. “Just — take care of yourself.” You look at him for a moment.
“You too,” you say, and go inside.
—
Sunghoon doesn’t give up. You’d half expected him to — one conversation in the library café, you’d said your piece, he’d said his, and you’d thought that would be the end of it. Sunghoon has always been precise about things, economical, not the type to repeat himself unnecessarily. You’d thought he’d take the answer and file it and move on.
Instead he texts you on a Wednesday. Just — how are you doing. No punctuation, which for Sunghoon is practically shouting.
You don’t reply.
He texts again on Friday. can we get coffee sometime? just to talk?
You stare at it for a long time.
You show it to Mina, who makes a face. “Don’t,” she says.
“I’m not going to,” you say.
He finds you on campus on Monday — the English building, your own territory, which feels deliberate. He’s waiting near the entrance when you come out of your seminar and you see him before he sees you and for one uncharitable second you think about turning around and going back inside.
You don’t. You keep walking. “Hey,” he says, falling into step beside you.
“Sunghoon.”
“I just want to walk with you.”
“I didn’t say you could.”
“I know.” He walks with you anyway, hands in his coat pockets, quiet for a moment in the way that used to feel comfortable and now just feels like pressure. “How are you feeling?”
You glance at him. “Fine.”
“You look better than last time I saw you. Less tired.”
“Thanks,” you say, flatly.
He’s quiet again. The path curves toward the quad and you keep walking and he keeps pace and you’re aware — acutely, uncomfortably aware — that you’re starting to show. Not dramatically, not in a way that’s obvious under your coat, but enough that you know. Enough that it’s a matter of time.
“I meant what I said,” Sunghoon says. “In the library.”
“I know you did.”
“I’m not trying to pressure you.”
“You’re walking next to me uninvited,” you say. “What would you call that?”
He stops. You stop too, half a beat later, and turn to look at him. He’s standing in the middle of the path with that precise, careful expression and something underneath it that isn’t quite what he’s performing, and you know him well enough to know the difference and wish you didn’t.
“I made a mistake,” he says. “I know I did. I know what I did and I know it was—” He stops. Starts again. “I just want a chance to—”
“Sunghoon.” You keep your voice even. “I can’t do this right now. I genuinely cannot — there is too much happening in my life right now for me to also be doing this. Okay? Please.”
He looks at you. Something in his expression shifts — a question forming, something he’s noticed that he can’t quite place. “What’s happening?” he asks. Carefully.
“Nothing that’s your business,” you say. “Please just — let me go.”
And he lets you go.
But the problem is that Caldwell is a big campus until it isn’t.
The problem is that two weeks later you’re at a party you didn’t particularly want to attend — a smaller thing, a friend of Mina’s, an apartment off campus — and both of them are there. Jake and Sunghoon.
You don’t notice Jake first. You notice Sunghoon, across the room with his circle, and you note it and move on, you’re good at that now. You get a drink — water, the specific reality of being the only sober person at a party hitting — and find Mina and settle into the corner and decide you’ll stay an hour and then leave.
You notice Jake about twenty minutes in.
He’s near the kitchen with Jay, and there’s a girl — tall, dark-haired, laughing at something he’s said with her hand on his arm and her body angled toward him in the specific way that means something. You see him lean in to say something close to her ear. You see her laugh again. You look away.
You look back to Mina, who is mid-conversation with someone and hasn’t clocked it, and you drink your water and you are fine, you are completely fine, this is exactly what you knew was happening and seeing it in person doesn’t change anything and you are fine.
You last another twenty minutes before you decide you’re going to get some air.
The problem is that getting air requires passing the kitchen. Jake sees you at the same moment you see him and something in his expression shifts — that recalibration, that adjustment — and the girl’s hand is still on his arm and you keep walking, eyes forward, almost past— “Hey.”
His voice.
You stop. You turn. He’s stepped slightly away from the girl, who is watching with a politely curious expression. “Hey,” you say.
“You’re here,” he says, which is not his most articulate moment.
“Briefly,” you say. “Don’t mind me.” Something moves across his face.
“You okay?”
“Fine.” You smile at him — pleasant, neutral, the smile of someone who is absolutely fine. “Enjoy your night.” You keep walking.
The air outside is cold and you stand on the small concrete step outside the apartment and breathe it and tell yourself the tightness in your chest is just the stuffiness of the party and not anything else.
You hear the door behind you. “Hey—”
You turn, expecting Jake, and it’s Sunghoon. Of course it’s Sunghoon.
He’s in his coat, hands in his pockets, and he looks at you with that careful expression and says “I saw you come out” like that explains what he’s doing here, which it does, which doesn’t make it better.
“I needed air,” you say.
“I know.” He comes to stand beside you. Close, but not touching. “You looked upset.”
“I’m not upset.”
“You have a face,” he says, gently, and you hate that he’s right, hate that after four months and everything that happened he can still read you like that. “What’s going on?”
“Nothing.”
“Is it Sim?” Something in his voice changes — not quite hard, not quite angry, threading the needle. “Are you involved with him?”
“That’s not your business.”
“I’m asking because I’m worried about you, not because—”
“Sunghoon.” You turn to face him. “Please stop. Please just—”
The door opens behind you. Jake comes out. He takes in the scene — you and Sunghoon, close, Sunghoon’s expression, yours — in about half a second and his jaw tightens in a way you’ve learned to read as something being suppressed.
“Everything okay?” he asks. Looking at you, not at Sunghoon.
“Fine,” you say, for what feels like the hundredth time tonight.
“She said she’s fine,” Sunghoon says. His voice is even. “So you can go back inside.” Jake looks at him. Something passes between them that has nothing to do with you — some older, unnamed thing.
“I wasn’t talking to you,” Jake says.
“Then walk away.”
“I’m not going anywhere.”
“Jake.” Your voice is sharper than you intend. “It’s fine. Go inside.”
He doesn’t go inside.
He stays where he is with his hands in his pockets and his eyes on Sunghoon, and Sunghoon stays where he is with that precise stillness, and the cold air between all three of you is doing a lot of work.
“You’re the one she’s been seeing,” Sunghoon says, to Jake. Not a question.
“That’s not your business,” Jake says.
“It is when you’re—” Sunghoon stops. Something has crossed his face — he’s looking at you, at your coat, and the realisation moves through his expression slowly and then all at once.
His eyes find yours. “Are you—”
“Don’t,” you say.
“Are you pregnant?”
The step goes very quiet.
Jake goes very still.
You look at Sunghoon and there is a specific kind of exhaustion that moves through you — the exhaustion of someone who has been managing too many things for too long and has just watched one of them slip out of their hands.
“That,” you say, carefully, “is none of your business.”
“It’s his, isn’t it.” Not looking at Jake. Looking at you. Something in his voice that you don’t have a name for — not anger, not hurt, something more complicated and less clean than either. “You hooked up with Jake Sim at a party and now you’re—”
“Sunghoon—”
“What were you thinking?” And there it is — the composure cracking, the precision slipping, something rawer underneath. “What were you actually — with him, of all people—”
“Hey.” Jake’s voice is hard. “Watch yourself.”
“You stay out of it—”
“She told you it’s none of your business—”
“I’m talking to her—”
“Then talk to her with some respect—”
“Oh that’s rich, coming from you.” Sunghoon turns to Jake fully now and the precise stillness has sharpened into something else. “Everyone knows what you are. Everyone knows how you treat—”
“And everyone knows what you did,” Jake says, low and flat. “So don’t stand here and act like you’ve got the moral—”
“Stop.” Your voice cuts through both of them. They both look at you. “Both of you. Stop.”
A beat. “I’m going home,” you say. “This is—” You gesture at the three of you, at the step, at all of it. “I’m not doing this.”
“I’ll walk you—” Both of them, simultaneously.
“Neither of you will walk me anywhere.” You pull your coat around you. “I want to go by myself and I want both of you to leave me alone tonight. Okay?”
Sunghoon opens his mouth.
And then — later, when you try to reconstruct the exact sequence, it’s hard to isolate the moment it tips — he reaches for your arm, a gesture, just trying to stop you leaving, and Jake moves at the same time, stepping forward, his hand coming out to push Sunghoon back, and Sunghoon turns, and the angles are all wrong, and Jake’s elbow catches you across the side of your face.
It’s not hard. It’s not a real blow — it’s the edge of the motion, glancing, the kind of thing that in any other circumstance would be an accidental knock in a crowded corridor that you’d shake off and keep walking.
But you make a sound and stumble back.
Jake turns and sees your face and goes completely white. “Fuck—” He reaches for you.
“Don’t touch me.”
Your hand comes up. Your voice has gone very quiet. The side of your face is throbbing, low and dull, and underneath it everything else — the tiredness, the party, Sunghoon’s face when he realised, the girl’s hand on Jake’s arm — all of it presses in at once and you are so, so tired.
“I didn’t — it was an accident, I didn’t mean to—”
“I know it was an accident,” you say. Still quiet. Still very controlled. “I know that.”
“Are you okay? The baby—”
“I’m fine. It was my face, not—” You stop. Press your fingers briefly to your temple. “I’m fine.”
Jake is looking at you with an expression you haven’t seen on him before — something undone about it, all the composure gone, something almost desperate. “Let me take you home—”
“No.”
You look at him. Then at Sunghoon, who has gone very still and very pale. “I’m going to get Mina. I’m going to go home. And I don’t want either of you to contact me tonight.”
You take out your phone. You text Mina. You wait on the step with your back to both of them until she comes out, takes one look at your face, takes your arm, and walks you away without saying a word.
Behind you, you don’t look back.
Jake texts at midnight. I’m so sorry. please tell me you’re okay
You look at it for a long time. I’m fine, you send back. Goodnight Jake.
He sends: I’m sorry again
Those two words, and you put your phone face down and stare at the ceiling of your dorm room and Mina is asleep in your desk chair with a blanket over her because she refused to go home and you love her for it, and the small dull ache in your temple has faded to almost nothing, and the baby is fine, you’re fine, everything is fine.
You don’t text him back.
He tries on Sunday.
A text at nine in the morning — can we talk please? — that you look at and put face down without replying.
Then at eleven: I know you’re angry. you have every right to be. I just want to talk.
Then at two in the afternoon, which shows either impressive persistence or a complete inability to read a room: I’m going to keep texting until you tell me to stop.
You text back: stop.
He texts back: okay. I’m sorry.
You put the phone in your drawer.
He doesn’t stop.
Well, he stops texting — he respects that, or he tries to, mostly — but he finds other ways. There’s a bag outside your dorm room door on Monday morning: crackers, the specific brand you’d been eating in the early weeks, ginger tea, a punnet of the green grapes that you’d mentioned once in passing to him that you’d been craving. No note. Just the bag.
You stand in your doorway looking at it for a long time.
You bring it inside. You eat the grapes. You do not text him to say thank you and you do not text him to say stop and the not-texting feels like its own kind of answer that you’re not ready to examine yet.
On Tuesday he’s outside your building.
Not lurking — he’s sitting on the low wall by the entrance with his hands between his knees and his jacket on against the cold, and he stands up when he sees you come out and he doesn’t move toward you, just — stands there, and waits, and lets you decide.
You stop on the steps. “Jake.”
“Five minutes,” he says. “I know I don’t deserve them. Five minutes and then I’ll go and I won’t — I’ll leave you alone if that’s what you want.”
You look at him. He looks back. He has, you note, the specific appearance of someone who hasn’t been sleeping well — not dramatic, just a tightness around his eyes, a quality of having been somewhere difficult in his own head for the past two days.
Good, says a part of you.
The other part steps down off the steps and stands in front of him and crosses her arms and says: “Five minutes.”
He exhales. “I’m sorry,” he says. “For Friday night. For — all of it, the whole night, but specifically for—” He stops. His jaw works. “I should never have let it get to that point. I should have walked away from him the second it started and I didn’t and you got hurt and you’re — the baby could have—” He stops again. Something in his face that isn’t composure. “I will never forgive myself for that. I need you to know that. It keeps me up.”
You look at him. “It was an accident.”
“It was an accident that happened because I couldn’t keep my head.” His voice is flat with self-assessment. “Same difference.”
“It’s not the same difference.”
“It’s close enough.” He looks at you steadily. “I’m also sorry for the girl at the party. I know you saw. I know we’re not — I know you don’t have any claim on me and I don’t have any claim on you and technically I didn’t do anything wrong but I’m still sorry because I saw your face and I knew and I did it anyway and that’s—” He stops. “That’s not who I want to be. With this. With you.”
The wall by the entrance is cold and grey and a girl from your floor passes you both with her earphones in and doesn’t look up and the world keeps moving indifferently around this conversation.
“You hurt me,” you say. Not the elbow. The other thing. The girl at the party and the ceiling of his bedroom and the weeks of almost-decency that kept getting complicated. “Not — not physically. You just keep—” You stop. “Every time I think maybe you’re a person you do something that reminds me why I shouldn’t think that.”
He takes that. Doesn’t deflect, doesn’t explain, just takes it. “I know,” he says.
“I need you to be consistent,” you say. “I can’t — I’m going to have your baby, Jake. We’re going to be in each other’s lives for a very long time. I need you to be someone I can rely on or I need you to be completely absent because the in-between is—” Your voice doesn’t shake. You’re proud of that. “It’s too hard. I can’t do the in-between.”
He’s quiet for a moment. The wind moves across the quad and he looks at you with that expression — the undone one, the one without composure — and says: “I don’t want to be absent.”
“Then be consistent.”
“Okay.”
“That’s it? Okay?”
“What else do you want me to say?” He’s not defensive — it’s a real question, earnest in a way that sits oddly on him, like a piece of vocabulary he hasn’t used much. “Tell me what you need and I’ll do it. Specifically. I’m not good at—” He moves his hand. “Guessing. Feelings. Whatever this is. But if you tell me what it looks like I’ll do it.”
You look at him for a long moment.
“No more girls,” you say. “Not while we’re — not while this is what it is. I know I have no right to ask that but I’m asking.”
Something shifts in his expression. “Done,” he says. No hesitation.
“And show up. When you say you’re going to show up, show up.”
“Done.”
“And don’t fight people on my behalf. I can handle my own situations.”
His jaw tightens slightly. “That one’s harder.”
“Jake.”
“Done,” he says. “Okay. Done.”
You look at him. He looks back. The five minutes has long since passed and neither of you has moved and the cold is starting to get into your fingers.
“The grapes were good,” you say finally.
Something in his expression — brief, warm, gone almost immediately. “I’ll get more,” he says.
“You don’t have to—”
“I want to.” He says it simply. No performance in it.
You nod. You pull your coat tighter. “I have a seminar,” you say.
“I know. Go.” He steps back, hands in his pockets. “Thank you. For the five minutes.”
You go.
He tells his father that evening.
He doesn’t plan to. He goes to his dad’s office on the east side of the admin building for what is ostensibly a standing weekly dinner that they do on Tuesday evenings — a thing they’ve done since Jake’s freshman year, his dad’s attempt at maintaining something normal in the specific abnormality of being the dean’s son at your own father’s university. They go to the Italian place two blocks off campus. They talk about the team, the season, coursework, the usual rotation.
Except tonight Jake sits down across from his father and picks up the menu and puts it down again and his dad looks at him over his own menu with the steady, unhurried attention that has always been the most disarming thing about him — the way he looks at you like he has all the time in the world and means it — and says:
“What’s going on.” Not a question. His dad has never really needed to make them questions.
Jake puts his menu down. He looks at the table. He thinks about you on the steps this morning saying every time I think maybe you’re a person and the specific accuracy of it, the way it had landed not like an attack but like a diagnosis.
“I got someone pregnant,” he says.
The restaurant is quiet around them — mid-evening, not full yet, the soft noise of other people’s conversations providing cover. His dad sets his menu down with the deliberate care of someone who is choosing his response carefully.
“How far along,” he says.
“About eight weeks.”
His dad nods slowly. He’s a big man — Jake has his build, the same broad shoulders, though his dad carries more grey now at his temples and something steadier in his face, something earned. He looks at Jake with the expression that Jake has never been able to fully decode — not anger, not disappointment exactly, something more complicated and more patient than either.
“Tell me about her,” he says.
Jake blinks. Of all the things he’d expected — “What?”
“The woman. Tell me about her.”
Jake opens his mouth. Closes it. He thinks about you — the flat voice in the corridor at the rink, your hand cracking across his face, I can’t do the in-between. The grapes. The way you’d said the grapes were good like it cost you something to admit it.
“She’s—” He stops. Tries again. “She’s a third year. English lit. She’s sharp. Like — she doesn’t let me get away with anything, she just looks at me and calls it and moves on. She’s not—” He shifts. “She didn’t want this to be mine. She told me that. She wants the baby, she just didn’t want it to be complicated, and I’ve made it complicated.”
“How.”
Jake looks at the table. Lists it. The slap he deserved, the money that was clumsy, the girl at the party, Friday night and the elbow and her face and the specific look she’d had, controlled and exhausted and done.
His dad listens to all of it without interrupting. When Jake finishes there’s a pause — his dad picks up his water glass, drinks, sets it back down.
“Do you like her?” he asks.
Jake looks up.
“It’s a simple question,” his dad says.
“We don’t — I don’t know her. Not really.”
“That’s not what I asked, son.”
Jake is quiet for a moment. He thinks about you outside your building this morning, arms crossed, giving him five minutes you didn’t have to give. The way you’d said I need you to be someone I can rely on like it was the most reasonable thing in the world, like you weren’t asking for anything extraordinary, just — consistency. Basic human consistency. The thing he has never had to be for anyone.
“Yeah,” he says. Quiet. “I think so.”
His dad nods. Like that’s the piece he needed. Like everything else was context and that was the information.
“Then be someone worth liking,” he says. Simply. Like it’s obvious. Like it’s the only thing that matters and everything else is just logistics.
Jake looks at him.
“You’ve never had to work for anything,” his dad says, and it’s not unkind — it’s just true, delivered with the directness of someone who has been watching this coming for a long time. “Not really. Not the things that count. You’re talented and you’re smart and things have always — moved for you. And that’s partly my fault.” He meets Jake’s eyes. “But she’s right. You can’t be the in-between. You’re going to be someone’s father. That’s not a thing you can be inconsistent about.”
Jake absorbs this.
“I know,” he says.
“Do you?”
“I’m trying to.”
His dad looks at him for a long moment. Then he picks his menu back up. “Good,” he says. “That’s the right answer.” He glances over the top of it. “Order something. You look like you haven’t eaten good in a while.”
Jake looks at the menu.
“Dad,” he says.
“Mm.”
“I really—” He stops. “I’ve really made a mess of this.”
His dad lowers the menu slightly. Looks at him with that steady, unhurried attention. “Yes,” he says. “But messes can be cleaned up.” He raises the menu again. “The carbonara is good tonight.”
Jake picks up his menu.
He end up ordering the carbonara.
—
The thing about consistency is that it’s quiet.
It doesn’t announce itself. It doesn’t arrive with a gesture or a speech or a moment you can point to and say — there, that’s when things changed. It just accumulates, slowly, in the background of your ordinary life, until one day you look up and realise the weight you’ve been carrying has shifted without you noticing.
Jake shows up.
That’s the only way to describe it. He shows up in the small ways, the unglamorous ways, the ways that don’t make for a good story but add up to something anyway. He texts when he says he will. He’s outside your building on Wednesday mornings because you have a seminar and the walk takes you past the science quad where the wind is brutal and he started walking with you three weeks ago without asking and has not stopped. He brings food — not always the crackers and ginger tea, sometimes just the grapes, sometimes something from the good Thai place near the rink that you’d mentioned once you were craving and didn’t expect him to remember.
He remembers things.
This is, you find, the most disarming thing about him. More than the jaw and the shoulders and the specific quality of his attention when he’s fully in a conversation.
He remembers that you take your tea with one sugar and that you’re writing your dissertation on George Eliot and that your sister’s youngest is called Lily and that you cannot watch medical dramas right now because they make you anxious in a way you can’t fully explain. He files things away and uses them with a quietness that suggests he’s not doing it to impress you — he’s just paying attention.
And god, it’s harder to be angry at someone who pays attention. You’re still trying.
Your bump begins appearing at eleven weeks.
Not dramatically — not one morning you wake up transformed, just a gradual undeniable softening of the line of your stomach that means your jeans sit differently and your favourite hoodie, the oversized one you’ve worn for three years, suddenly doesn’t hang quite right. You stand in front of your mirror on a Thursday morning and put your hand flat against it and stay there for a moment with the strange doubled feeling that has been following you for weeks now — the unreality of it and the complete reality of it, existing simultaneously, refusing to resolve.
Mina notices before you say anything. She’s been noticing for two weeks, you suspect, and has been waiting for you to bring it up, which is one of the reasons she’s your person.
“You’re showing,” she says, on Friday afternoon, without preamble.
“A little,” you say.
“How do you feel about that?”
You think about it genuinely. “Weird,” you say. “Good weird. Mostly good weird.”
Mina nods. “Have you told Jake?”
“He’ll notice,” you say. “We’re — we’ve been spending time together. He’ll see.”
Mina looks at you with the expression that means she has registered the significance of we’ve been spending time together and is choosing, for now, not to make anything of it. “Okay,” she says.
“Don’t,” you say.
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You were going to.”
“I really wasn’t,” she says, in the tone that means she absolutely was.
He notices on Saturday.
You’re at this Thai place — his suggestion, your agreement, the two of you in a corner booth with menus neither of you needs because you’ve been here enough times now that you already know — and you’ve taken your coat off because the restaurant is warm and you’re wearing a fitted top and when you reach across the table for the soy sauce you catch him looking.
Not rudely. Not in a way that makes you want to cover yourself. Just — looking, with that attentive expression, taking in information.
“Don’t,” you say.
“I’m not doing anything.”
“You have a face.”
“I have a face,” he says, which is almost a smile. “You’re showing.”
“I know.”
“You look—” He stops. Considers his word choice with unusual care. “Good,” he says finally. “You look good.”
You look at him across the table. “That was very diplomatic.”
“I meant it.”
“Jake.”
“I genuinely meant it.” He meets your eyes. “You look good. You’ve looked good for a while. I just—” He stops again. “Didn’t say it. You looks beautiful actually.”
The restaurant is warm and smells like lemongrass and the couple at the next table are arguing quietly about something and the ordinary world is going on all around you and Jake Sim is sitting across from you saying you look good with an expression that has nothing performative in it, no angle, no formula.
You pick up your menu that you don’t need and look at it. “Thank you,” you say, at the laminated page.
He goes back to his menu too. Neither of you says anything else about it. But the air between you has shifted by some small degree and you both know it and neither of you is ready to name it yet and that, you think, is okay.
For now that’s okay.
The not-naming becomes its own kind of language eventually.
He walks you to your seminar on Wednesday and waits fifteen minutes in the wrong direction from the rink to do it, which you know because you’ve looked at the campus map, which you will not be telling him. You bring him coffee one morning — just once, without explanation, the specific order you’ve heard him give three times now — and he takes it without making anything of it which is exactly right. You text him a photo of a onesie Mina finds online that says future hockey player as a joke and he sends back a voice note that is mostly him laughing, genuine and unguarded, and you listen to it twice.
You do not examine why you listen to it twice.
Sunghoon texts once more — I hope you’re okay. I mean that.
You look at it for a long time. You think about the library café and the step outside the party and the way his face had looked when he realised. You think about two years and what they were and what they turned out to be underneath.
I’m okay, you send back. Take care of yourself.
He sends a single: you too.
And that, you think, is the end of that chapter. It doesn’t feel like closure exactly — closure implies a clean line, and there is no clean line, just a gradual and mutual putting down of something that had gotten too heavy to carry. But it feels like something finished. Something that needed to be done.
You feel lighter, after.
Jake finds out about the dissertation.
Not in a dramatic way — you’re in the library one afternoon, the two of you at adjacent tables because you’d both ended up there independently and moving would have been more pointed than staying, and he leans over at some point and looks at your screen and reads two sentences and says: “You write like this normally?”
“Like what.”
“Like—” He gestures at the screen. “Like that. Like it means something.”
You look at him. “It’s an academic paper.”
“I know what it is.” He looks faintly annoyed, the way he gets when he’s trying to say something and the words aren’t cooperating. “I’m saying it’s good. It sounds like you.”
You turn back to your screen. You are not going to make anything of this. You are a reasonable and self-possessed adult and you are not going to sit in the library and catch feelings because Jake Sim said your writing sounds like you.
“Thanks,” you say, at your laptop.
“I’m serious. It’s—” He picks up his pen. “Good.”
“You said that.”
“Because I mean it.”
You look at him. He looks back, pen between his fingers, entirely unaware that he’s just done something dangerous, and you look back at your dissertation and breathe carefully and remind yourself of all the reasons this is complicated.
There are many reasons. They are good reasons. You know them all.
The night it almost becomes something, it’s late November and it’s cold enough that your breath fogs and Jake has walked you back from the library and you’re standing at the bottom of your building’s steps in the dark and neither of you is moving.
“I should go in,” you say.
“Yeah,” he says.
Neither of you moves.
You’ve been doing this — the standing, the not-moving, the conversations that go slightly longer than they need to — for three weeks now. It has a shape, this thing between you, even if it doesn’t have a name. It has weight. You’re both aware of it and both moving around it with the particular carefulness of people who have been burned recently and are not in a hurry to be burned again.
“Jake,” you say.
“I know,” he says. Like he already knows what you’re going to say. Like he’s been having the same conversation in his own head.
“I just need it to stay—” You gesture between you. “Like this. For now. Okay? I need it to stay manageable.”
He looks at you. “Is it not?”
You look back. “Less and less,” you admit.
Something moves through his expression. Warm and complicated and controlled. “Okay,” he says. “We’ll keep it manageable.”
“Okay.”
“I just need you to know—” He stops. Starts again. “I’m not going anywhere. Whatever this is, whatever speed it goes. I’m not going anywhere.”
The cold is sharp and the steps are lit by the yellow glow of the entrance light and you are eleven weeks pregnant and standing in the dark with the father of your baby who is looking at you like you’re something worth staying for, and you think about all the reasons this is complicated and you think about your sister’s voice — those are two separate things — and you think that maybe, maybe, the situation and the feeling don’t have to be the same thing.
“Goodnight, Jake,” you say.
“Goodnight,” he says. You go inside.
At the top of the first flight of stairs you take out your phone.
You open his name — Jake Sim (do not text unless necessary) — and you look at it for a long moment.
You change it to Jake.
Just Jake. Nothing else.
You put your phone in your pocket and go to bed.
—
He asks you out on a Tuesday.
Not dramatically — not with any of the ceremony you might have expected from someone who has spent the better part of four months being alternately infuriating and disarming. He just falls into step beside you on the Wednesday morning walk to your seminar and says, with his hands in his pockets and his eyes forward: “Let me take you to dinner. A real one. Not Thai because we’ve done that.”
You look at him. “Are you asking me on a date?”
“Yes.”
“Just like that.”
“Did you want me to make it complicated?”
You look back at the path ahead. The quad is grey and cold and a girl on a bike nearly takes out a first year near the fountain and life goes on all around you, indifferent and ordinary. “No,” you say. “I didn’t want it complicated.”
“Friday,” he says. “Seven. I’ll pick you up.”
“I know where the restaurants are, Jake. I go here too.”
“I know you do.” He glances at you sideways. “Let me pick you up though.”
You look at him. That expression — patient, certain, not performing anything. Just asking.
“Friday,” you say. “Seven.”
He nods. Looks back at the path. The corner of his mouth does something that isn’t quite a smile and is better than one.
The restaurant he takes you to is small and Italian and not the kind of place you’d have expected from him, which you’re finding is a theme — Jake Sim consistently failing to be what you expect in the specific ways that make him hardest to keep at distance. It’s candlelit without being try-hard about it, the kind of place where the pasta is made that morning and the wine list is handwritten and the tables are close enough that you’re aware of his knee near yours under the table for the entirety of dinner.
You talk. That’s the thing — you just talk, the way you have been talking for weeks now on walks and in the library and over Thai food, except tonight there’s no pretence of it being anything other than what it is. He asks about your dissertation and actually listens to the answer. You ask about the season and he tells you about the conference standings with genuine animation, hands moving, and you watch him and think about the ceiling of his bedroom in September and the corridor at the rink and the bag outside your dorm door and all the distance between those things.
“What,” he says, catching you looking.
“Nothing,” you say. “You’re different.”
“From what?” He laughs.
“From who you were in September.”
He’s quiet for a moment. He turns his wine glass slowly on the table. “Yeah,” he says. “I think I am.”
“Is that — do you mind that? Being different?”
He looks at you. “No,” he says. Simply. “I don’t mind it at all.”
You look back at your pasta.
Under the table his knee settles against yours and stays there and you don’t move away from it and neither does he and you eat your dinner in the warm candlelit ordinary of it and let yourself be there, fully, without managing it from a distance.
Outside afterward the cold hits and you’re pulling your coat around you when his hand finds yours. Not reaching, not making a thing of it — just his hand finding yours in the dark like it already knows the way, fingers threading through, warm and certain.
You let him.
You walk back across campus like that, not talking much, and when you reach your building you stop at the bottom of the steps and he turns to face you and you look at him in the yellow entrance light and you think about goodnight, about all the goodnights, about the careful distance you’ve been keeping.
“Come up,” you say.
His expression does that thing — complicated and warm and something that isn’t quite controlled anymore. “You sure?”
“I just asked, didn’t I?”
He follows you up.
Your room is warm and small and familiar and he’s been in it before but not like this — not with the door closed and the lights low and both of you knowing exactly what this is. He stands just inside the door and looks at you and you cross the room and kiss him.
It’s different from September.
September was heat and momentum and two people who didn’t know each other doing something that felt like a decision.
This is — slower. His hands come up to your face the way they did at the party but gentler, more deliberate, like he’s paying attention to something he nearly missed before. He kisses you like he has something to say and this is the only language that fits, and you feel it move through you differently than anything has moved through you in a long time.
“Hey,” he says, against your mouth.
“Hi,” you say back.
He pulls back just enough to look at you — really look, the way he does now, the full attentive weight of it — and his thumb traces your cheekbone and he says, quietly: “You’re so beautiful. Do you know that?”
“Jake—”
“I mean it.” You can tell he means it. It’s in his face, unguarded and certain. “I’ve been — I should have said it a long time ago.”
You look at him for a moment. Then you pull him back down.
He undresses you slowly, which is new — September was efficient, purposeful, barely stopping. Now he takes his time like he’s making up for it, his mouth following the line of your throat, your collarbone, his hands sliding your top off with a care that makes your breath catch. When he gets to the soft curve of your stomach he stops.
He goes to his knees.
You look down at him, breath held, and he puts both hands flat and warm against your bump and just — holds them there. His forehead drops forward to rest against you. The room is quiet. You put your hand in his hair without thinking about it.
“Hey,” he says softly. Not to you.
Your throat tightens.
He turns his head and presses his lips to the curve of your stomach, gentle, then again, then moves his hands slowly like he’s learning the shape of it, and you feel something in your chest come undone quietly and without ceremony.
“Jake,” you say, and your voice is not entirely steady.
He looks up at you. His eyes are dark and very serious. “Okay?” he asks.
“More than okay,” you manage.
He stands back up and kisses you again and walks you back to the bed.
He lays you down and settles over you and his mouth goes back to your tits immediately — you’d forgotten, or you’d tried to forget, the specific focused obsession of it — his hands cupping them, heavier now, thumbs dragging slow over your nipples until you’re arching up into his mouth.
“Perfect,” he murmurs against your skin, “you’re so perfect,” and the praise lands warm and low in your stomach and you pull at his shirt until he lets you get it off.
He’s as good-looking as you remembered, which is annoying.
His mouth works down your body and his hands slide your underwear off and then he looks up at you from between your thighs with an expression that makes your brain go briefly offline. “Okay?” he says again.
“If you don’t—” you start.
He puts his mouth on your pussy and the rest of that sentence evaporates.
He goes slower than September. That’s the difference — the same precision, the same devastating accuracy with his tongue on your clit and his fingers curling deep into your walls, but slower, like he wants to take you apart carefully this time, like he’s paying attention to every sound you make and adjusting accordingly.
Your hands find his hair. Your hips roll up. He holds them down with one forearm across your hips and doesn’t stop, doesn’t change pace, just keeps that steady merciless rhythm until you’re shaking and pleading and your walls are clenching around his fingers and you cum on his tongue with his name coming out wrecked and too loud for the room.
He comes back up your body looking — different than September. Still composed, still that infuriating ease, but underneath it something open. Something that wasn’t there before.
He reaches for his jacket on the floor. Finds his wallet to grab a condom.
You start laughing.
He looks at you confused. “What.”
“Jake.” You press your lips together. “We don’t — I’m already pregnant.
He looks at the condom in his hand. Looks at you. Something crosses his face and then he laughs too — real and unguarded, the laugh from the voice note, the one you listened to twice — drops it back on the floor and comes back to you.
“Fair point,” he says, against your mouth.
“Incredible,” you tell him. “You’re incredible.”
“Shut up,” he says, warmly, and kisses you.
He flips you over.
Not roughly — carefully, one hand at your hip and one at your shoulder, mindful, and you end up straddling him and looking down at him and his hands settle on your hips and he looks up at you like you’re the best thing he’s seen.
“You good?” he asks.
“Very,” you say, and sink down onto him.
The sound he makes is low and immediate and deeply satisfying. You feel every inch of him filling you, your walls stretching around his cock, and you go slow — partly because of the bump, partly because you want to, partly because watching his face as you take him is something you want to draw out. His jaw is tight. His hands on your hips are firm but not directing, just — there, holding on.
“Fuck,” he breathes. “You feel—”
“I know,” you say, and roll your hips.
His head drops back.
You find your rhythm — slow, deep, the grind of your hips meeting his, and his hands tighten and his hips push up to meet you and his mouth falls open and he is, you think, the best-looking thing you’ve ever seen like this, undone and flushed and completely present, all the composure stripped away.
“Perfect,” he says, rough and low, watching you move. “You’re so perfect, look at you—”
The praise moves through you like heat and you move faster, his thumb finds your clit and you gasp and his other hand spreads warm and careful over your bump and the gesture — the gentleness of it, the instinct of it — tips something over in your chest that you’re not going to examine right now because you’re busy, but you feel it, you feel it clearly.
You cum the second time with his cock buried inside you and his thumb on your clit, his hand on your stomach and his eyes on your face. He follows you not long after with his hips driving up and your name in his mouth, said like it means something, said like he’s been saving it.
Afterward you lie tangled together in your narrow dorm bed, which is not really built for two people but is managing. His hand is resting on your stomach with a naturalness that would have been impossible three months ago and you’re staring at the ceiling and feeling the particular peace of someone who has been braced for a long time and has just, finally, put it down.
“Come to my game next week,” he says.
You turn your head to look at him. “What?”
“Home game. Friday.” He’s looking at the ceiling too. Casual. Except you know him well enough now to know when the casual is covering something. “Come watch.”
You look back at the ceiling. “Okay,” you say.
He turns his head. “Actually?”
“Don’t make it weird,” you say. “Yes. I’ll come to your game.”
The corner of his mouth. That almost-smile that’s better than a real one. “Okay,” he says, and looks back at the ceiling, and his hand stays where it is, warm and certain.
—
The following week is small moments.
Tuesday he brings you the grapes and stays to help you outline your next dissertation chapter, sitting on your floor with his back against your bed and your notes spread between you, and he asks better questions than you expect and you don’t tell him that.
Wednesday the walk to your seminar, his shoulder bumping yours, the coffee he brings without asking — your order, exact, without you saying anything.
Thursday a voice note at eleven at night: just wanted to check you were okay. don’t reply if you’re asleep.
You reply and end up talking for forty minutes.
Friday morning he’s at your door.
In one hand, coffee. In the other, folded fabric — dark blue, the Caldwell Wolves crest on the chest, white lettering across the back. SIM. 9.
He holds it out. “You don’t have to,” he says, before you can say anything. “It’s not — I’m not trying to make it a thing. I just thought—”
You take it from him.
You pull it over your head immediately. It’s enormous on you — falls to mid-thigh, swamps your shoulders, the fabric soft from washing. You look down at it and then up at him. His expression is something you don’t have a word for.
You reach up and pull him down by his jacket lapel and kiss him, there in your doorway, in the yellow morning light, slow and certain.
When you pull back he looks — stunned, almost. Like he didn’t expect it even after everything.
“What was that for,” he says with a big grin.
“The jersey,” you say. “Come on. We’ll be late.”
The Hargrove Center is loud in a way that is different when you’re in the stands rather than the corridor — a living, moving noise, four thousand people and the echo of the ice and the announcer’s voice bouncing off the rafters. Mina is beside you, which you’d insisted on, and she’s wearing a Wolves scarf she definitely did not own before today and is eating a pretzel with the focus of someone who has decided to enjoy this.
Someone sits down on your other side.
You look over. He’s older — Jake’s build, the same broad shoulders, grey at his temples, a Wolves cap and a measured, unhurried expression.
“You must be—” he starts while smiling at you with the same grin Jake gave you not long ago.
“Dean Sim,” you say. “Hi.”
He looks at you for a moment with that steady attention that is so recognisably Jake’s that it almost makes you laugh. He’s smileing — warm, real. “He talks about you,” he says. “Quite a lot.”
“Good things, I hope.”
“Mostly.” He settles back in his seat. “He told me about the grapes.”
You look at him. He looks back with an expression of someone who finds this mildly amusing and is being polite about it.
“He remembered I was craving them,” you say.
“I know,” Dean Sim says. “That’s why he told me.” He looks out at the ice where the Wolves are warming up, Jake moving with that particular ease that is the same on ice as off it, unhurried and certain.
“He’s better than he knows how to show yet,” his dad says, quietly. Not performing it. Just — true. “But he’s getting there.”
You watch Jake on the ice.
“Yeah,” you say. “I know.”
The Wolves win.
Not narrowly — convincingly, the way they do when Jake is in the kind of form he’s been in lately, sharp and present, the kind of player who makes everyone around him better just by being fully there. You find yourself on your feet twice without meaning to be and Mina is absolutely losing her mind beside you in a way that suggests she has been quietly wanting to attend a hockey game for some time and has simply been waiting for the invitation.
After the final buzzer the arena stays loud, the celebration on the ice spilling into the stands, and Dean Sim shakes your hand and says it was lovely to meet you with a warmth that is entirely genuine, and you watch him go and think that Jake got the best of him, underneath everything.
And then the jumbo screen above the ice lights up.
You see it before you process it — your name, in big white letters, and then: JAKE SIM WANTS TO KNOW — WILL YOU BE HIS GIRLFRIEND?
The arena does not go quiet because four thousand people do not go quiet, but there is a definite shift — a ripple, a collective awareness, people turning and pointing and the noise changing character. Mina grabs your arm. You stare at the screen.
“Oh my god,” Mina says.
“Oh my god,” you say.
“Are you — are you going to—”
And then he’s there.
Full hockey gear, skates and all, somehow having gotten from the ice to the stands in the time it took you to register what the screen said, and he’s standing at the end of your row with his helmet under his arm and his hair damp and his face doing that thing — the unguarded thing, the thing without composure — and four thousand people are watching and Mina has both hands over her mouth.
“Well?” he says. Over the noise. Just to you.
You look at him. You look at the screen. You look back at him.
“You’re insane,” you say.
“Yeah,” he agrees. “Is that a yes?”
You laugh — real and helpless, the kind that comes from somewhere you haven’t accessed in a while — and you step over Mina’s knees and go to him and he meets you halfway and you kiss him in the Hargrove Center in front of four thousand people and full hockey gear and the crowd does what crowds do when they witness something and the noise is enormous but you don’t hear any of it.
When you pull back his forehead drops to yours.
“Yes,” you tell him. “Obviously yes.”
He exhales — slow, like something released. His hand comes up to your face. His thumb at your cheekbone, the way it always is. “Good,” he says.
“Good,” you say back.
Behind you Mina is making a noise that suggests she is going to be telling this story for the rest of her natural life.
—
Three weeks later you are officially four months pregnant and the bump is undeniable now, round and real, and you’re sitting on Jake’s bed in his room — tidier than September, same room, different everything — with your legs across his lap while he reads something for class and his hand rests on your stomach with the absent certainty of someone who has stopped thinking about it and started just doing it.
The Wolves won again last night. His jersey, what you wore last night and have been to every game, is on the back of his chair.
Outside the window Caldwell goes on being large and indifferent and fully lit up, and in here it is warm and quiet and ordinary in a way that is — everything, actually. The whole thing. The specific ordinary of someone else’s presence that you’ve been missing without knowing how to name it.
“Hey,” Jake says, without looking up from his page.
“Hey,” you say.
“You good?”
You look at him — at the line of his jaw and the hand on your stomach and the room that used to be just a room and is now something else, something yours — and you think about September, about the corridor and the money and the slap you don’t regret. You think about Mina in the drugstore bathroom and Hannah on the third ring and the heartbeat on the monitor that made everything real.
You think about how none of this was the plan and how a plan was never the point.
“Yeah,” you say. “I’m good.”
He turns a page. His hand stays where it is. Outside, Caldwell. Inside, this.
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