all that glitters — part two.
pairing: park jongseong x f reader
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.
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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.
Once it finally does, it’s deep and dreamless.
⋆.˚⟡ ࣪ ˖⋆.˚⟡ ࣪ ˖⋆.˚⟡ ࣪ ˖
TO BE CONTINUED...





















