@queenofsa1gon - Tumblr Blog

private lessons | 𝙆.𝙃𝙅

₊˚⊹ CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

ao3. masterlist. chapter twenty. chapter twenty-two (coming soon).

pairing(s): tutor!hongjoong x f!student!reader (ft. playboy!wooyoung x reader & tutor!hongjoong x reader x roommate!seonghwa)

genre: college au, slow burn, romance, fluff, angst, smut

summary: struggling in your korean class, you're assigned a tutor—but there might be more than studying happening during your private lessons.

warnings: MDNI. 18+. cussing, explicit sexual content, heavy dom/sub dynamics, harddom!hongjoong, meandom!wooyoung, switch!seonghwa, sub!reader, threesome, consensual non-consent (cnc), degradation, humiliation, exhibitionism, bondage, sex toys, unprotected sex, fingering, p in v sex, voyeurism, cockwarming, impact play, spanking, pussy spanking, nipple play, spit kink, dacryphilia, oral sex, mirror sex, daddy kink, praise kink, knifeplay, biting/marking, overstimulation, dual stimulation, choking, finger sucking, sexual roleplay, punishment, pet names, derogatory names, hair pulling, rough sex, begging, throat fucking, creampie, fearplay, dubcon, mentions of blood/violence, derogatory language, jealous/possessive behavior, manipulative behavior. please tell me if i missed any!

word count: 14.2k

note: this is purely a work of fiction and does not accurately represent ateez in any way. i'm pretty sure this is the longest chapter yet, so i hope you enjoy! translations are at the end again :)

Usually, in the Language Center, there are no more than four pairs of students hunched together over their notes, their voices barely rising above a murmur as they practice verb conjugations. There might be a lone student or two tucked into a secluded corner, cramming for an oral exam or a vocab quiz, whispering phrases under their breath. At the front desk, the receptionist taps gently at her keyboard, offering polite, muted greetings to anyone who walks through the doors. Every Thursday evening, without fail, you're greeted with the same peaceful, studious hush.

So it's pretty jarring when you hear shouting from inside before your hand even touches the doors.

"...a mistake! I want to speak to the department head right now!"

You push the doors open, blinking at the sudden burst of yelling. The figure looming over the polished dark wood of the front desk is so agitated that he doesn't even turn around at the sound of your entrance.

"I'm one of your best tutors! Who the hell would file a complaint about me?" the man demands, slamming his palm down hard enough to make the receptionist flinch.

You stop short as the doors swing closed behind you. You recognize that voice.

James is aggressively waving a crumpled piece of paper at the receptionist, his face flushed an ugly, blotchy red. You quickly sidestep, ducking behind a leafy potted monstera plant in the corner of the lobby. Pretending to be deeply fascinated by the damp soil in the pot, you peer down into it, fighting a losing battle against the grin tugging at your mouth as you listen to their conversation.

Hongjoong actually got him fired. The thought makes a laugh bubble up in your throat. You can practically picture the flush creeping up his neck if you called him out on it. The quiet, stuttering man who had nearly tripped over his own feet on Sunday morning had turned around and executed an administrative kill, thanks to his position.

But, if James happens to glance over and catch sight of you standing here, arriving right on time for your typical Thursday evening session, you’re pretty sure it wouldn’t take much for his brain to connect the dots.

"I already told you, honey, the department head isn't here today," the receptionist says, her usually kind voice cooled by a dose of exasperation. "There's nothing I can do for you."

"You can't just fire me without a meeting!" James sputters.

"You'll have to email HR." She offers him a strained smile of apology.

He lets out a frustrated groan, raking both hands through his hair before hitting the desk one last time. You shrink further behind the broad green leaves of the plant as he storms across the lobby, shoving through the doors with enough force that they bang loudly against their frames behind him.

When he leaves, the peaceful quiet returns.

You wait a full three seconds before stepping out from the foliage, brushing a tiny speck of dirt from your sweater as you make your way over to the front desk.

The receptionist looks up from her monitor at the sound of your footsteps. She lets out a frayed breath, though a tired, polite smile still finds its way onto her lips when she recognizes you.

"Hi, ____. Sorry about that," she sighs, nodding toward the front entrance. "He’s been demanding to see the department head for twenty minutes. I told him she’s not here, but he wouldn't listen."

You bite down on the inside of your cheek, forcing your expression to remain neutral. "Did something happen?" you ask, playing dumb.

She glances around the empty lobby before leaning in slightly closer. "He got terminated this morning. I don’t know all the details, but rumor has it that someone filed a formal complaint with a mountain of documentation about professional misconduct."

You try your hardest to look appropriately shocked, even as your chest swells with warmth.

The receptionist shakes her head, waving a dismissive hand as if to brush the unpleasant scene out of the air. She types a quick note into her keyboard before smiling back up at you.

"Anyway, Hongjoong is already waiting for you. Go on inside."

You give her a bright, fleeting smile back and turn down the corridor. The walk is short, but every step sends butterflies fluttering through your stomach. It’s not a bad anxiety, though—it’s the thrill of anticipation.

This is the first time you're seeing Hongjoong since Sunday morning, when he kissed you goodbye at his front door, causing you to bolt from his apartment like a flustered idiot.

You haven't exactly been silent since then. Your phone has been buzzing with a steady stream of texts over the last few days, though you've both been dancing around the heavy stuff. Mostly, you’ve been ironing out the logistics of keeping whatever this is a secret, considering it's a direct violation of the university's rules:

You: Are you sure you're okay with risking your job? Hongjoong: More than okay. I barely get paid anything, anyway. You: Well, that's good. Because I may or may not have already told all my friends about you. Hongjoong: ...Yeah. Me too. I texted my friends back home the second you left my apartment.

Beyond sneaking around, your conversations had drifted into safer territory. Both of you lamented about how finals were only a few weeks away and how fast the semester had slipped through your fingers. You thanked him for single-handedly saving your Korean grade, though you could've used some of that help with Econ. He confessed that he hates working for the university and that you were the only reason he actually looked forward to his tutoring shifts.

Conspicuously absent from all that talk, however, was any label.

There hasn't been a single text addressing whether the weekend's events mean you're officially together now. You’ve quietly allowed yourself to assume that you are. Honestly, in your mind, a confession that sincere seems way too meaningful to devolve into some casual "tutor-tutee-with-benefits" arrangement. Hongjoong admitted he had real feelings for you, and you gave yours right back.

Isn't the only logical next step to date each other?

When you walk in, Hongjoong is already there, as promised.

He’s sitting at your usual table by the window with a few sheets of paper neatly stacked and two pens perfectly aligned next to his open notebook. He’s wearing a thick navy sweater with sleeves long enough to swallow his hands as he types at his laptop. His black-rimmed glasses sit high on the bridge of his nose, though they keep slipping lower each time his head tilts down.

At the sound of your footsteps, his head snaps up. The moment his eyes find yours, a tiny smile tugs at the corner of his mouth before he quickly suppresses it. Picking up his pen, he begins to tap it against the spiral of his notebook as he checks the clock on the wall.

"It's 5:01," he notes, though the strictness in his tone is ruined by the teasing glint in his eyes. "I don't think you've ever been late before."

You pull out the chair across from him and place your bag on the floor, getting the recording app ready to go. "I'm sorry," you reply, an unapologetic smile playing on your lips. "I was here on time, but there was a lot of commotion in the lobby."

The pen pauses mid-tap. Hongjoong blinks. "Huh? What was going on?"

You lean forward, resting your elbows on the table, keeping your face innocent. "I don't know. It sounded like someone may have gotten fired?"

Hongjoong chokes on his own spit. He sputters out a cough, his face flushing as he clears his throat, refusing to meet your gaze.

"Oh. Uh," he wheezes, hectically adjusting the stack of papers that are already perfectly straight. "That's... huh. Wonder what that's all about." He clears his throat again, his hands floating nervously over his materials before he slides a sheet of paper across the desk. "Well. I, uh... I have the dialogue ready to go."

You bite down hard on your lip to keep from laughing out loud. and reach out to pull your copy of the dialogue toward you.

This week’s scenario, it seems, is a customer ordering at a restaurant and a waiter taking their request.

Hongjoong gives a subtle tilt of his chin toward your phone, the silent cue to start recording. You tap the screen.

"주문하시겠어요?" he asks right away. Are you ready to order?

Somehow, though he's talking about something as mundane as ordering food, your brain links the cadence of his syllables to the only other Korean you’ve heard recently: everything he said to you on Saturday night. A hot blush climbs up your neck. You clear your throat, desperately trying to find your place on the page.

"저는 순...두...부...찌개 주세요," you stumble. I'll have the sundubu-jjigae, please.

"순두부찌개," Hongjoong corrects. He reaches over to tap the pause button on your screen, knowing you'll want to restart. "It's a soft tofu stew. Make sure to emphasize the double consonant on the 찌개."

"순두부... 찌개," you sound out slowly, watching the shape of his mouth and trying to mimic the movement.

He gives an approving nod. "Good."

You restart the recording and take it from the top. You try your best to focus on the ink printed on the page, but your mind keeps drifting. You can't stop the memory of those lips against your collarbone, or the low, raspy way his voice had sounded in the dark of his bedroom. Yet here he sits, tapping his pen, acting every bit the polite, professional tutor you've known all semester.

But the longer you sit across from him, the harder it is to place that innocent image over the man you now know.

"제 친구는 불고기하고... 냉면? 먹고 싶어 해요," you struggle, tripping over unfamiliar characters. My friend wants to eat bulgogi and naengmyeon.

"냉면," he corrects again, leaning over slightly to point at the vowels with the tip of his pen. "It's a cold noodle dish."

As he says it, he glances up through his lashes, and your eyes lock. You watch the shift in his gaze as it involuntarily drops from your eyes down to your lips. He swallows hard, forcibly dragging his attention back to the sheet of paper before clearing his throat. A telltale dusting of pink rises from his collar, and below the table, his knee starts bouncing.

You realize with a suppressed, giddy smile that he's struggling to focus just as much as you are.

"Try it again," he says, his voice suddenly a little thicker. "From the beginning."

You run the dialogue two more times, trying your best to ignore the charged air between you. By the fourth take, you nail the pronunciation perfectly. A smile finally breaks through Hongjoong's tight expression as you hit submit on the recording.

Then, with the dialogue out of the way, you fall into a painfully awkward silence.

Hongjoong shifts in his chair, a hand coming up to needlessly adjust his glasses. He looks at you, then quickly at the clock, then back at his hands.

"So," he starts, the syllable coming out a little too high before he clears his throat. "What else do you need help with this week?"

You swallow. Over text, it had been so easy. Safe behind a screen, you could banter with him, tease him, and bravely joke about him risking his job for you. But here, face-to-face, sitting less than three feet apart, there's nowhere to hide anymore. The sight of him suddenly makes you embarrassingly tongue-tied.

"I... don't really know," you admit, dropping your gaze to the table. "I, um, haven't been paying much attention in class this week."

Hongjoong tilts his head, a single eyebrow arching. "No? Why not?"

He asks it innocently enough, but when you finally dare to look up, there’s a faint, knowing glint in his eyes. He knows why. You’ve done the exact same thing to him. For the past few days, he’s been occupying all the space in your mind, leaving no room for any grammar rules.

You feel another flush creeping up your neck and purposefully keep your mouth shut.

Though he tries his best to hide it, a pleased grin spreads across Hongjoong's face. He reaches out and casually snaps his notebook shut, gathering his pens and setting them neatly on top—except for one, which he keeps, twirling it idly between his fingers.

"Well," he says, hesitating for only a moment, "If there's nothing else... we could always pack up early and, uh... take the session to my room."

Your eyes widen. "Hongjoong!" you hiss, darting a nervous glance around the room at the other students.

He blinks, following your line of sight before twisting in his chair to look behind him, confusion flickering across his face. "What?"

"And what exactly do you intend to do in your room?" you whisper, your face burning.

Hongjoong just stares at you for a long, blank second before he realizes what you thought he meant. A breathless laugh slips out of him as he fumbles with the pen in his hand, nearly dropping it onto the table. The tips of his ears turn pink as he hurriedly sets it down in a neat line with the others. "Uh... watch a K-drama. Or something. For listening practice. Literally... take the session to my room."

"...Oh."

You practically melt into your chair, your blush spreading until it sets your ears on fire.

Hongjoong presses his lips together, but the corners of his mouth keep twitching upward. He clears his throat, dragging his notebook a few inches closer even though it's already directly in front of him. His fingers fidget with the edge of the cover, tapping it once, then twice.

"So that's where your mind went?" He tosses his pens into the front pocket of his bag, glancing up at you through his glasses. His eyes are bright with poorly concealed amusement, though the pink still lingers at the tips of his ears. "I'm still your tutor, you know."

"Yeah, well," you scoff instinctively, the embarrassment making you reckless. "Now you're also my—"

The word dies on your tongue instantly.

Boyfriend.

You were about to call Hongjoong your boyfriend.

Your mouth goes dry. You still haven't talked about labels. You haven't discussed what this actually is, or what either of you even wants it to become. What if he thinks you're moving too fast? What if he doesn't see it the same way? What if he laughs, or worse—goes quiet and starts putting distance between you again? What if "boyfriend" is too much, too childish, or too soon?

The teasing drains from Hongjoong's face as he watches you freeze. His hand pauses halfway to his backpack's zipper, and he slowly lowers his arm back to the table, the awkwardness in the air suddenly turning heavier than before.

He studies you. His eyes track the panic that is undoubtedly written across every inch of your face. You brace yourself for him to awkwardly change the subject, to clear his throat and remind you that you can't talk about these things in the Language Center, or—worst of all—to tell you that you're rushing things.

But instead, Hongjoong swallows hard. He drops his gaze to the table, his fingers tracing the spiral binding of his notebook. When he finally looks back up at you, the nervousness in his eyes catches you by surprise.

"남자친구?" he murmurs, soft and hesitant.

You blink, your panicked brain failing to translate the syllables. You stare at him, your mouth slightly parted.

Your obvious confusion seems to make a tiny, incredibly anxious smile tug at the corner of his mouth. Reaching back into his bag, he pulls out a pen and clicks it open. He flips his notebook open to a page crowded with old notes and points his pen at the blank margin.

"Separate the components," he instructs gently. He writes two blocks of Hangul on the blank space, pointing at the first one with the tip of his pen. "남자."

"남자," you repeat, your voice shaking slightly. "Man."

He nods. "Or, depending on the context... boy." He slides his pen to the second block of characters. "친구. You know this one, too." He looks up from the paper, searching for your reaction. "남자친구."

Your breath catches. "Boy... friend?"

Hongjoong nods once, quickly. His hand tightens around his pen, and he looks at you as though he's genuinely scared you're about to reject him.

Is he crazy? you think, affection blossoming inside your chest. Does he actually think that's not what I want?

You need to reassure him. You need to erase that anxious look from his face. And, thankfully, your brain obligingly supplies the exact grammar structures he’s spent the past few months drilling into you, ready to be used for exactly that purpose.

You sit up a little straighter, drawing in a deep breath. You point a finger across the table at him.

"홍중은," you start, visualizing the sentence piece by piece in your head, just as he taught you to do. Subject. Topic particle. Modifier. Noun. Copula. "내... 남자친구예요."

Hongjoong is my boyfriend.

Hongjoong’s eyes widen behind his glasses.

You turn your finger back to point at your own chest, racking your brain for the vocabulary word for 'woman' or 'girl'.

"그리고... 저는," you continue, quieter now, carefully assembling each syllable and praying your vocabulary is accurate. "홍중의... 여자친구예요."

And I am Hongjoong's girlfriend.

Hongjoong stares at you, utterly stunned, as his brain processes the slightly clunky—yet completely correct—Korean sentences you just formulated entirely on your own. Slowly, a blindingly bright grin spreads across his face, so wide and genuine that his eyes crinkle. A breathless little laugh escapes him as he looks at you like he can't quite believe what he just heard, his cheeks turning a soft, beautiful shade of pink.

"응," he breathes, the syllable almost entirely lost to a soft, emotional laugh. Yes. "잘했어... 내 여자친구." Good job... my girlfriend.

You hold each other’s gaze in complete silence for a long time. You can feel your own expression stuck somewhere between relief and shock. Across the table, he's still looking at you as if you’ve said something irreversible in the best possible way.

Girlfriend. Boyfriend.

Such simple words, and still they send a stupid, unmistakable rush through you. It makes you feel a little ridiculous, honestly. You've dated before. You've had a boyfriend before. You've known what it's supposed to feel like.

But you've never felt anything like this.

Hongjoong's eyes drift, just briefly, toward the clock on the wall, and a new spark lights up his eyes.

"Actually," he murmurs, suddenly snapping his notebook shut. "I have an idea. Pack your stuff. We're leaving."

You blink, caught off guard as he's already sliding the notebook into his bag and swinging it over his shoulder. "Leaving? Leaving where?"

"Just follow me," is all he says. A grin pulls at his lips before he turns away.

You scramble to stuff your own supplies into your bag, chasing after him into the quiet hallway. "Seriously," you say with a surprised, breathless laugh, scurrying to keep up with his quick pace as you pass through the lobby together. You both flash an automatic, slightly guilty smile at the receptionist, who merely arches an amused eyebrow over her monitor as the two of you blow past her desk. "Where are we going?"

He doesn't answer until you push through the front doors and step out into the evening air. The cold hits you hard, but it's not nearly as brutal as it could be. Winter may have technically arrived, but tonight, it’s mild enough that the sweater on your shoulders is enough to keep you warm.

Hongjoong finally slows his steps, easing his pace just enough for you to catch up before matching his stride beside you. Without a word, he veers sharply to the side, heading around the back of the Language Center. "Do you remember when you said you hadn't tried much Korean food?"

You nod as you blindly follow him. Of course you remember; that was the very first time you'd left a session together like this—the night of Yunho's birthday party.

"And do you remember what I told you?"

You search your memory, thinking back to those earlier, allegedly platonic conversations. "You said you'd cook for me."

"Right."

You don't realize where he's leading you until the pavement opens up into the parking lot behind the Language Center, the marker of the very edge of campus. Hongjoong slips a hand into the pocket of his navy sweater and pulls out a set of keys. He presses a button, and a red sedan a few rows down answers with a flash of headlights.

"I was a little too nervous to fulfill that promise before." He stops walking, turning to face you fully. The streetlights around you catch the sudden, shy pink in his cheekbones. "But now that you're my... my girlfriend..."

Your stomach does a little flip at the word. It somehow sounds even better coming from him in English.

"...I figured tonight is a pretty good time to finally do it," he finishes, a sheepish smile settling on his mouth.

He walks you over to the passenger side of his car, the gravel crunching beneath your shoes. Reaching out, he pulls the door open and holds it there, gesturing for you to get in. "Come on," he says softly. "Let's go shopping."

You slide into the passenger seat, eyebrows shooting up in surprise as he closes the door behind you. The interior is nothing like you expected—each seat is wrapped in gorgeous custom red leather that's just a shade deeper than the car’s exterior, clearly designed by none other than himself.

As you reach over your shoulder for the seatbelt, you catch a glimpse of the backseat.

It's a mess.

Loose sheets of notebook paper are scattered everywhere—pages crowded with crossed-out lyrics, others filled with pencil sketches of clothing designs, some half-crumpled like he’d tossed them back there mid-thought. But, remembering how quickly he'd hidden those papers in his bedroom, you politely snap your attention forward. You're curious, of course, but you're not ready to pry into his world just yet.

A second later, the driver's side door opens, and Hongjoong drops into the seat beside you, starting the engine. He shifts the car into reverse and hooks his right arm over the back of your headrest, twisting his torso to look out the rear window as he eases the car out of the spot.

You swallow hard, forcing your eyes to stay on the dashboard.

As he looks back, though, he notices the disaster he left in the back. His mouth twists into a grimace before he straightens, shifting the car into drive and facing forward again.

"Sorry about the mess," he mutters. "I really need to clean back there."

"It's okay. I didn't even notice."

As he pulls out onto the main road, his phone automatically syncs with the car's Bluetooth. The speakers crackle to life, dropping straight into the drumbeat of the second verse of Dani California, presumably where he left off when he was listening alone earlier.

Hongjoong's hand hovers over the volume dial with uncertainty. He glances sideways at you, looking a little nervous. "Is this album okay? You said you like the Chili Peppers, right?"

"Are you kidding?" you grin, leaning back into the red leather seat. "Dani California is one of my favorite songs of all time."

Hongjoong wordlessly smiles at that, his thumb tapping the steering wheel controls to restart the track from the very beginning just for you. When his attention drifts back to the road, he gives a faint shake of his head, an incredulous little smile playing on his lips.

"완벽해," he exhales under his breath, so quietly you almost miss it.

He clearly doesn't expect you to understand it. But he must have forgotten that it was one of the very first adjectives you ever learned, back when you were still hopelessly stumbling through basic vowels in week two.

Perfect.

Hongjoong just called you perfect.

Your heart does an embarrassing somersault in your chest, but you press your lips together, biting down gently on your smile, deciding to keep that translation to yourself.

The rest of the ride passes in a comfortable silence, filled only by Stadium Arcadium. Neither of you is quite brave enough to actually sing out loud yet, but every so often, you catch each other silently mouthing the lyrics and nodding along to the guitar. Each time it happens, you trade the same shy, embarrassed smile across the center console before quickly looking away.

Hongjoong drives with one hand on the wheel, the other resting loosely on the divider. His fingers tap out the complicated drum fills, and you find yourself watching his hand from the corner of your eye longer than is probably considered normal. You can't help but wonder—will you eventually reach the point where he's comfortable enough to lace his fingers through yours at a red light, or to casually rest his palm on your thigh without a second thought?

Not yet, you remind yourself, suppressing the anxious flutter that follows. Too soon. But the future possibility makes you smile nonetheless.

Roughly twelve minutes later, Hongjoong hits his blinker, pulling the sedan into the cramped asphalt lot of what looks like a small, family-owned Korean grocery store.

He cuts the engine, silencing Charlie right in the middle of the chorus. Before you can even reach for the buckle of your seatbelt, he’s already shoving his door open and climbing out of the driver's seat.

You pop your own door open, swinging your legs out into the cold air and shutting it behind you just as he rounds the hood of the car. He stops dead in his tracks, looking a little defeated when you meet him at the bumper.

"I... was going to open that for you."

You laugh softly while shaking your head. "I can handle opening a door on my own, Hongjoong."

"I know you can," he replies, his lips twitching into a wry little smile. "But I still wanted to do it."

He gestures for you to follow, leading you toward the storefront. He pulls open the door, and a tiny brass bell chimes cheerfully overhead, announcing your arrival. You step inside, taking in the cozy interior. It's much smaller than a standard supermarket, but much cleaner and more organized. To your left, an open, brightly lit cooler hums, packed full of fresh cabbage and bundled scallions. Straight ahead stand rows of tall fogged-glass refrigerators, while the wooden shelves to your right are stocked with Korean labels you can't quite read.

Right at the front of the center aisle sits a wire rack stacked with black shopping baskets. Hongjoong steps toward it, reaching out to loop his fingers under the top handles.

"홍중아? 너니?"

A high-pitched voice suddenly calls out Hongjoong's name from the back of the store. You both pause, turning just in time to see a petite older woman in a floral apron hurrying out from behind the cash register. Her face instantly breaks into a delighted smile, and she throws her arms wide as she practically jogs down the aisle toward you two.

Hongjoong’s posture straightens at once, a faint wash of pink covering his cheeks, but he doesn't pull away as she wraps her arms around his waist in a tight hug. He pats her back, bowing his head respectfully. "네, 저예요."

You giggle as you watch the scene, understanding his Korean. Yes, it's me.

The woman pulls back, giving his arm a fond pat before her bright eyes lock onto you. She gasps dramatically, her hands flying up to cup her cheeks.

"어머, 이 예쁜 아가씨는 누구니?"

Hongjoong clears his throat, his hand nervously rubbing the back of his neck. "제 친구예요. ____."

The older woman stops. She looks at Hongjoong, then looks at you, and then turns back to Hongjoong, her eyebrows inching up toward her hairline. She wiggles them at him, and though you don't understand her words, you can tell she's teasing him about you.

"친구라구? 여자친구 아니고?"

The pink on Hongjoong's cheeks deepens to a burning red. He laughs, a flustered sound, before ducking his head. "네, 제 여자친구예요. 한국어 공부하고 있어요."

You stand perfectly still, unable to parse the rapid-fire speed of the conversation. But that last part... the vocabulary is basic enough, the grammar familiar enough, that your brain stitches the translation together on a slight delay. Yes, this is my girlfriend. She's studying Korean.

Before you can react, the woman gasps again, her eyes widening in some unknown realization.

"아, 그 애야? 네가 말하던 그 학생?"

Hongjoong's head snaps up. He shoots a panicked look in your direction, and despite the language barrier, you can tell with a curious laugh that he's hoping your comprehension skills aren't advanced enough to catch what she just said.

He whips his attention back to the woman, nodding quickly, his voice hushed. "네, 네… 맞아요…"

The woman doesn't take the hint. She claps her hands together with glee, turns her head toward the stockroom, and yells at the top of her lungs: "여보! 홍중이 여자친구 왔어!"

Both you and Hongjoong flinch. His shoulders hike all the way up to his ears, mortified.

As the joyful patter of her footsteps fades toward the back, Hongjoong slowly turns to face you.

"I'm sorry about that." Despite his embarrassment, a fond smile tugs at his mouth. "That's Mrs. Yoon. She and her husband own this place."

Your heart melts a little at the sweetness of their interaction. "She seems to really like you."

"She... yeah," he admits, his voice softening as he looks around the cramped, colorful aisles. He takes a half-step closer, dropping his voice to a private murmur. "I came here on the very first night I moved from Korea. My English was just as good as it is now, but I was too overwhelmed to try to go shopping all by myself on the first night."

You look up at him, your chest aching as you picture a far more nervous version of Hongjoong standing lost in this same aisle.

"They were unbelievably kind to me," he continues, his eyes warm with the memory. "They took one look at me, realized how homesick I was, and wouldn't let me leave until they cooked a plate of hot food in the back to help me settle in. I think I've come here every weekend since."

"Hongjoong, that's... really sweet," you breathe.

He shyly shrugs with one shoulder, shooting you a sheepish glance. "Yeah, well. Just a heads up... they don't really speak much English. So I hope you're ready for some real-world listening practice."

Right on cue, the stockroom doors swing open. An older man emerges next to Mrs. Yoon, balancing a large cardboard box overflowing with fresh produce on his hip. He sets it down on a nearby crate, wiping his hands on his apron before his welcoming eyes land on the two of you.

His face lights up with a knowing grin. "홍중아, 이 애가 그—”

"네, 네, 제 학생이에요, 네," Hongjoong interrupts quickly, loudly talking over the older man before he can finish whatever embarrassing sentence he was about to say.

Mrs. Yoon laughs, turning her sparkling eyes to you. When she speaks, she deliberately slows her cadence, enunciating every syllable with a gentle, encouraging tone.

"안녕! 한국어 공부해요? 홍중이랑 같이?" Hi! Are you studying Korean? With Hongjoong?

Your eyes widen. Her phrasing is so clear and simple that you don't even have to translate it in your head—the meaning clicks into place naturally. You’ve never had a spontaneous, real-world conversation in Korean outside of your tutoring sessions before, so you're nervous, but you give a shy, eager nod anyway.

"안녕하세요…" you start, your voice likely a little too quiet. "네, 한국어 공부해요." Hello... Yes, I study Korean.

Mrs. Yoon gasps, clapping her hands together, delighted by you. She turns to her husband and Hongjoong, gesturing wildly in your direction. "어머, 한국어 진짜 잘해요!"

Luckily, you recognize that phrase. She's really good at Korean. A blush spreads across your cheeks, and you bravely supply the appropriate, polite response. "감사합니다." Thank you.

When you glance over at Hongjoong, he's beaming at you with pride.

Mr. Yoon chuckles, leaning his weight against the produce box. "홍중이 좋은 선생님인가 보네요."

You furrow your brow, carefully dissecting the sentence structure. You aren't entirely sure what the grammatical ending signifies, but you catch the core vocabulary loud and clear. Hongjoong. Good. Teacher.

"네," you agree, looking right at Hongjoong with a smile. "홍중이 좋은 선생님이에요." Yes, Hongjoong is a good teacher.

If it were physically possible, Hongjoong's face turns an even brighter shade of red, but his smile only grows larger and prouder.

Mr. and Mrs. Yoon both let out a collective endearing coo at the two of you. Mrs. Yoon looks you up and down, her eyes crinkling with fondness. "아이고, 진짜 예쁘다! 우리 홍중이 복 받았네."

You don't know what the second half of that sentence means, but you definitely caught the word pretty in the first. You shyly shake your head, lifting a hand to humbly deny the compliment, but Hongjoong speaks first.

"아, 네…" he murmurs. He looks down at you with an affectionate gaze. "제가 더 복이에요."

You don't know the translation, but the sincerity in his tone makes your knees feel weak. Both of the older shop owners laugh happily at his words.

Mr. Yoon tilts his head toward the aisles. "데이트 준비하러 온 거예요?"

You grin internally, thrilled that you recognize the English loan word and the future tense. Did you come to prepare for a date?

Hongjoong nods. "네, 제가 요리해 줄 거예요." Yes, I'm going to cook for her.

"자, 둘이 가서 쇼핑하고 와," Mrs. Yoon says cheerfully. She grabs one of the black shopping baskets off the rack and shoves it into Hongjoong's chest.

"네, 감사합니다," Hongjoong replies, graciously taking the handles and giving them both a polite, respectful bow. Thank you. "잘 다녀올게요."

Mrs. Yoon begins to physically shoo the two of you toward the produce section, waving her hands in a sweeping motion as she calls out to you: "잘 다녀와, 예쁜 아가씨.”

You freeze, looking up at Hongjoong in confusion, silently asking for a translation.

He clears his throat, tightly gripping the plastic handles of the shopping basket. "She said to come back well. Meaning, enjoy your shopping."

Mrs. Yoon instantly stops shooing. She plants her hands on her hips, points a stern finger right at Hongjoong, and says, "아니, 뒷말도 번역해 줘!"

Hongjoong squeezes his eyes shut. He lets out a sigh as his ears burn again. His voice is barely above a murmur as he translates, "...Pretty girl."

Your face instantly flushes. You quickly turn back to the older woman, bowing your head to hide your goofy smile as you timidly say, "감사합니다." Thank you.

Mrs. Yoon beams, offering one last delighted laugh before happily shooing the two of you away so your first official date can finally begin.

The quiet drone of the refrigerators is suddenly the only sound left as you and Hongjoong wander slowly down the first aisle side by side. The heat from Mrs. Yoon’s teasing is still burning on your cheeks, and neither of you quite dares to look at the other yet. Instead, you both fix your attention on safer things: the squeak of your shoes against the floor and the swing of the shopping basket in his hand.

It's technically a date. An official one, even if the real date is supposed to happen later, back in his apartment when you actually start cooking. And right now, it's that officialness that makes everything feel a little awkward.

Hongjoong stops halfway down the aisle and scans the crowded shelves. He bites his lower lip in concentration, hunting down a specific label, while his free hand is stuffed deep into his pocket.

"So..." you begin. You clear your throat, trying to sound casual as you watch him squint up at the top row. "What are you going to make for us?"

"Tteokbokki. Spicy rice cakes," he answers, finally spotting what he's been looking for. He reaches up, grabs a vacuum-sealed bag filled with cylindrical white rice cakes, and drops it into the basket. He turns to look at you, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. A shy, self-deprecating smile touches his lips. "I'll be honest with you... I'm not the greatest chef in the world. So it might not be the most gourmet Korean food you'll ever have, but..." He pauses, his nervous gaze softening a little. "It was my favorite meal my mom made for my older brother and me when we were kids. So it's probably the one thing I won't completely mess up."

You smile a little to yourself. He's trying so hard to make this perfect.

"Well," you say, offering him a goofy grin, "I've never had it before. So even if you do mess it up, I won't know it's bad."

That pulls a laugh out of him. "Actually, that makes me feel much more confident."

"Good," you reply lightly. "The bar is on the floor."

Still smiling, he nods for you to follow and leads you a few aisles over.

He stops in front of the dried goods section. First, he picks up a stiff sheet of dried kelp, then a vacuum-sealed package of flat fish cakes, tossing both into the basket. He crouches slightly, reaching down to the lowest shelf and pulling out a clear plastic bag filled with hundreds of tiny dried silver fish that rattle softly as he lifts it.

You pause, eyeing the bag with suspicion as he holds it up. "Are those anchovies?"

"Yep. Dried," he says simply, dropping them into the basket.

Your nose wrinkles unintentionally.

Hongjoong bursts out laughing. "Don't look at me like that!" he grins, leaning against the shelf. "We need them to make the base for the broth. It's the traditional way to do it." He shrugs a little. "More importantly, it's my mom's way."

You glance back down at the bag of fish, then slowly lift your eyes to his very amused face.

He grins. "You don't trust my mom?"

"I trust your mom. I don't trust fish that still have their eyeballs attached."

"You know, you're more difficult to shop with than I thought you'd be," he says. He turns his head to scan the next shelf, but you see the corners of his eyes crinkling as he fails to hide his smile. "The fish are staying. Now we just need an onion and the stuff for the sauce. Have you ever had gochujang?"

"I think so. Is that the sauce you put on bibimbap?" you ask, stepping closer to peer at the array of jars and bottles he's looking at.

He nods. "It's used in a lot of dishes. Fermented chili paste." He reaches out and points to a stack of small, rectangular red tubs, grabbing one and adding it to the basket.

"We'll also need soy sauce, some minced garlic, a little bit of sugar..." he murmurs, half to himself, collecting the ingredients one by one. Finally, he picks up a large bag filled with a coarse red powder. "And this is gochugaru. Korean chili flakes."

He pauses, glancing down at the bag. His mouth twitches like a thought just occurred to him. "It's perfect," he says, eyes brightening. "We went from listening to the Red Hot Chili Peppers to buying real red hot chili peppers."

You bite your lip, trying not to laugh. "Oh my god. You joke like a dad."

His ears immediately turn pink. "...I thought it was funny."

When a small giggle slips out, you abruptly turn toward a row of sesame oils to hide it.

Unfortunately, you're too late. A delighted grin breaks across his face. "So it was funny."

"It was not," you insist, though your smile says otherwise.

"Mm. Whatever you say," he chuckles as he guides you around the corner and into the next aisle.

You weave past a tall, misted cooler displaying a dozen different varieties of tofu. Hongjoong slows beside it, his eyes sweeping over the neatly stacked containers. He lets out a soft, wistful sigh.

"Have you ever heard of doenjang jjigae?" he asks.

You shake your head, stepping up to stand beside him.

"When I think of home, that's what I think of," he says, staring at the shelf with a nostalgic look in his eyes. "It's a stew made with tofu, soybean paste, vegetables, meat... It's comfort food. Whenever my brother or I had a bad day at school, my mom would already have a pot boiling on the stove by the time we got home to cheer us up."

"Did your mom cook for you a lot?" you ask softly.

He nods, reaching over to a nearby bin to evaluate a yellow onion. Finding a good one, he drops it into the basket. "All the time. She didn't work after she had us, and she always loved to cook, so our meals were always made from scratch. I was a really lucky kid."

You tilt your head teasingly. "And you missed out on the cooking gene yourself?"

That earns you another laugh from him. "Oh, definitely. Completely skipped me. My brother got it, though. Bumjoong." He glances at you with a little competitive smile. "But he's a terrible singer. So I beat him in something."

You grin as he takes you down another aisle, the basket swinging between you.

"Do you miss them?" you ask more quietly. "I don't know if I could even imagine being an ocean away from my family for so long."

He slows, his hand resting on the handle of the basket. "I do," he admits honestly, his tone bittersweet. "Especially my brother. We fought all the time, but he was my best friend back home. But... even though I'm not really speaking to him right now, Seonghwa is the best friend I could have here. He makes the distance a lot easier. Usually."

You bite down on your lower lip guiltily, uncomfortable with the reality that you're part of the reason why he isn't speaking to someone who usually makes being away from home feel a little less lonely.

You pivot as he stops in front of the fresh fruit display. Hongjoong picks up a clear carton of strawberries, inspecting them from all angles. You eye the carton, trying to figure out how they could factor into a spicy rice cake dish.

"What made you want to come here for school, then?"

"I came here when I was pretty young," he says, still focused on the strawberries. "My family took a trip over here, and I decided I liked it." Finding the fruit to his liking, he sets the carton in the basket, nestling it beside the rice cakes.

You raise your eyebrows.

"For dessert," he clarifies, a little shyly, before turning his attention back to your question. "Plus, I knew that if I wanted to seriously pursue music and fashion, there'd be a lot more opportunities to build industry connections here."

He turns to look at you as the two of you slowly begin to make your way toward the checkout counter. "What about you?" he asks curiously. "Your plans for the future? I remember you saying during our first couple of sessions that taking Korean wasn't your first choice."

"It wasn't," you admit, nodding at the floor as your foot nudges a stray piece of cardboard to the side. You hesitate for a moment, then look back up at him, catching his eye with a shy, reluctant smile. "But... I'm glad I ended up having to take it."

Hongjoong's steps slow. "Why's that?"

"Because I met—"

You.

It's right there, right at the tip of your tongue. You catch yourself right in time, your brain screaming at you to filter yourself before you let your thoughts tumble out unsupervised. What is wrong with you? Play it cool. "Um," you recover quickly, stammering. "Because I met my best friend in that class. Yunho."

Hongjoong nods slowly, but he breaks eye contact, staring at the rows of bottled green tea in the refrigerated display case instead of you.

"Right," he murmurs.

A beat passes. His fingers start to tap lightly against the side of the shopping basket.

"Is that..." he hesitates, "the only reason?"

You glance down at the floor again. Maybe you’re not the only one still trying to figure out if this is real. Maybe he needs reassurance just as much as you do.

"Well," you say quietly, embarrassed. "I'm... um. I'm really glad I met you, too."

Hongjoong’s head turns toward you, and when you finally gather the courage to meet his eyes, the sight of his expression makes your breath catch. His entire face has softened.

"It... it might not have been your first choice," he says, choosing his words carefully, "but I'm really, really happy you took it, too."

Then he smiles. And this time, you're able to return it without blushing.

You resume your slow pace forward. The silence between you feels a little less awkward now. It makes you feel brave enough to offer up a piece of yourself, too.

"I lied earlier, by the way," you confess after a moment. "In your car."

Hongjoong blinks. "What do you mean?"

"I noticed the mess in the backseat," you tell him, and he lets out a surprised laugh, like he wasn’t expecting you to bring it up again. You continue with a smile, "It actually made me a little nostalgic. I used to live in a clutter of loose papers just like that. For the longest time, I was convinced I was going to be an author."

Hongjoong pauses near the endcap of boxed teas, completely attentive to you.

"I was obsessed with writing," you continue, tracing the edge of a tea box with your finger, suddenly feeling self-conscious. "I can't even tell you how many notebooks I burned through in middle and high school. I had all these ideas—novels I thought I'd finish, chapters I thought would turn into something real... I thought for sure it was my future. That was always the plan."

Hongjoong listens without interrupting. "What changed?" he asks quietly.

"Reality, I guess," you say with a shrug. "The older you get, the more the practical side of the world forces its way in. I looked at the financial instability of a creative career..." You pause, wincing as you remember who you're talking to. "No offense."

Hongjoong just shakes his head once. "If anyone understands that fear, it's me."

You relax slightly. "I panicked, I guess. Studying International Relations and planning to go to law school someday is safer. I'm still able to work with words, with language, just... in a much more stable way."

You watch Hongjoong's eyes search yours carefully. Something changes on his face, his jaw setting hard. His lips part like he's on the verge of telling you something he didn't plan to say out loud. Your pulse quickens as you wait, but right before the words can escape, he stops himself. Whatever it was dissolves before it can form into words; you see it in the way his throat works and his shoulders ease.

When he finally speaks, the hardness in his eyes has softened into sincerity.

"I think the legal system has more than enough writers," he says quietly. "But the world could definitely use a novelist like you."

A rush of flustered heat floods your face, and you quickly fix your attention on the basket in his hands.

"Maybe someday," you whisper. You trace the toe of your shoe against the floor, your buried dream suddenly feeling closer to the surface than it has in years.

You can feel Hongjoong's eyes staring at the top of your head. A second later, you hear the faint, ragged breath he lets out above you, but you can't quite decipher all the things it means.

"Come on," he murmurs at last. "Let's go check out."

He slides the plastic handles of the shopping basket to his left hand, leaving his right unoccupied. When you finally lift your head to start walking, his palm finds the small of your back hesitantly, giving you the chance to move away if you want to.

You don’t.

He doesn't let go as he guides you out of the aisle. His thumb traces a tiny subconscious circle against your spine through your clothes so lightly you wonder if he realizes he's doing it. He leans a little closer as you walk, dipping his head until his soft hair grazes near your temple.

"I really did mean what I said," he says quietly. "However long it takes... whenever you're ready to write that first chapter, I promise I'll be the first in line to read it."

He pulls back just enough to look down at you, his eyes warm and free of any teasing. His hand remains on your back, gently guiding you.

You glance up at him, your helpless smile mirroring his own as the last remnants of your nervous tension dissolve into the grocery store air. It's not until you round the corner and reach the front register—where Mr. Yoon is waiting with a knowing grin—that Hongjoong finally lets his hand slip away.

But the imprint of his touch lingers, a quiet promise that leaves you feeling, for the first time in what feels like forever, completely seen and understood.

The stiff, scratchy rims of the two huge brown paper bags in your arms dig uncomfortably into your chin as you blindly navigate your way into Hongjoong's apartment. You can barely see where you're going over the tops of them, but from the muffled grunts beside you, Hongjoong isn't faring much better. He's balancing his own two overflowing bags on one leg as he clumsily tries to hook his heel around the edge of the front door to pull it shut.

He lets out a frustrated puff of air as the door finally clicks into the frame. "Just—" he pants, blindly nodding his head in the general direction of the kitchen. "You can dump everything on the island."

You carefully waddle your way over to the kitchen, dropping the bulky bags onto the island with a sigh of relief. Hongjoong follows a second later, unceremoniously thudding his own load down next to yours.

"I don't understand why they refuse to use regular plastic bags," he complains, rolling his shoulders to work out the stiffness. "These things are so—"

"Need any help with those?"

Both of your heads snap toward the smooth, amused voice floating over from the living room.

Seonghwa is sitting on the sofa with one long leg crossed elegantly over the other, his phone resting in his hand. He’s dressed stylishly in a black button-down and tailored dark pants, clearly preparing to head out for the night.

When his eyes land on you, his lips curve into a charming smile. "Hello, angel."

Hongjoong's entire posture instantly stiffens. Without so much as a syllable of acknowledgment, he whips his head back toward the kitchen island and aggressively begins yanking ingredients out of the paper bags.

Not knowing what to do, you offer Seonghwa an awkward wave.

Seonghwa slips his phone into his pocket and stands up, looking amused by his roommate's silence. He saunters over to the kitchen, leaning his hip against the edge of the granite counter right next to where Hongjoong is unpacking the groceries.

"So," Seonghwa hums, his eyes flicking curiously between the two of you. "What exactly are we making here? Is this an official date?"

Hongjoong forcefully sets the carton of strawberries onto the counter. He says nothing.

It's silent for a full five seconds. You glance sideways at Hongjoong, who is stubbornly refusing to look up from the vacuum-sealed bag of fish cakes in his hand, and realize he isn't going to answer.

"Um," you chime in hesitantly. "He's just... making us some tteokbokki."

Seonghwa’s gaze slides back to you, his smile turning flirtatious. "You know, I happen to be a much better chef than Hongjoong. I could always stay and help."

Hongjoong finally drops the fish cakes and shoots a glare at his roommate. "Weren't you going out tonight?"

"I was." Seonghwa doesn't break eye contact with you. "But I'd happily cancel my plans for a pretty girl."

Heat floods your cheeks.

Hongjoong's eyes narrow into a scowl. He jerks his chin toward the door, his jaw ticking as he goes right back to unpacking. "Seonghwa. Get out."

Seonghwa throws his head back and laughs. "Okay, okay, I'll let you have your little date," he concedes, holding his hands up. He pushes off the counter, gracefully swipes his jacket from the back of a barstool, and scoops his keys off the entryway hook.

He takes a few leisurely steps toward the door before pausing, casting one last mischievous look over his shoulder.

"If his food tastes terrible, angel, you know my number," Seonghwa says, shooting you a wink. "I'm always more than happy to take you out and treat you to a real dinner."

Hongjoong’s ears burn. He slams the bag of dried anchovies down onto the granite, finally raising his voice. "Get out!"

Seonghwa's delighted laughter echoes down the hallway as he slips out the front door, letting it click shut behind him.

Once his footsteps finally fade down the hall, Hongjoong clears his throat, a rough and embarrassed sound.

"Anyway," he mutters to the countertop. He grabs the crumpled brown paper bags and tosses them into the recycling bin to keep his hands busy. Then, still looking a little flustered, he turns his attention to his sweater, rolling the sleeves up past his forearms.

You watch as he walks over to the living room, heading straight for the shelves lining the far wall. His fingers trace over the spines of his record collection before he yanks out a specific, familiar sleeve—The Rise and Fall of Ziggy Stardust.

A smile tugs at your lips. You love Bowie.

"This is probably my favorite album of all time," Hongjoong says, glancing over his shoulder to catch your reaction. He carefully slides the black vinyl out of its cover. "Or at least top three. Thriller and Purple Rain might beat it, depending on my mood."

He sets it on the turntable, dropping the needle. A moment later, the crackle of vinyl fills the apartment, followed by the slow, building drumbeat and opening piano chords of Five Years. He adjusts the volume knob, dialing it down so the music settles into an atmospheric hum in the background before walking back over to the kitchen.

He rests his hands on the granite. His ears are still a little pink as he looks at you.

"And by the way…" he says hesitantly, finally addressing Seonghwa’s parting shot. "Tteokbokki is very much a real dinner. I won't mess it up too badly. I promise."

You let out a soft laugh. "Well, even if it goes wrong... I don't mind ordering pizza."

A grin breaks across his face.

"Good," he says, eyes crinkling. "But let’s try not to ruin it first. We'll start with the sauce. It should be pretty easy." He gestures toward the lower cabinets. "You can grab any bowl from that drawer under the counter while I get everything organized."

You step back and pull the drawer open, your eyebrows lifting in surprise. Given the state of both his room and his car—and how he just unpacked the groceries—you're pleasantly shocked to find the inside meticulously neat, with every pot and pan stacked perfectly.

Not knowing exactly how much sauce you’ll be making, you pull out a medium-sized metal mixing bowl and set it onto the island.

"Perfect," Hongjoong hums. He steps right beside you as he pulls a wire whisk from a ceramic holder. He slides all the necessary ingredients across the granite, lining them up neatly next to your bowl: the red tub of gochujang, a clear bag of sugar, a bottle of soy sauce, a small jar of minced garlic, and the bag of red gochugaru flakes.

He confidently—perhaps a little too confidently—reaches for the large bag of gochugaru. He tips it over your metal bowl, and a frankly terrifying avalanche of chili flakes pours out, forming a massive peak at the bottom. He follows this up by scooping a mountain of minced garlic right on top of it.

You raise your eyebrows, eyeing the bowl with concern. "Shouldn't we... um... use a measuring cup? Or a spoon? Or something?"

He freezes. The wire whisk in his hand pauses mid-air. "Right. Yes. No." He stares into the bowl for a moment, then clears his throat. "No. It's more authentic this way."

However, the confidence in his voice wavers as he squeezes a glob of gochujang into the bowl, followed by splashes of soy sauce and a haphazard dusting of sugar.

You look at the dark red paste skeptically as he begins to whisk everything together. His arm moves a little more quickly than you think is necessary.

"Are you sure that's not too much spice?" you ask, leaning away from the bowl.

"Positive." He stops whisking, dips his index finger directly into the thick, sticky mixture, and scoops up a dollop. "Try it. I promise I washed my hands."

You bite your lip and dip your own finger into the bowl. You bring it to your mouth.

For a second, you're both quiet, standing perfectly still as you process the taste.

Then it hits.

Both of your faces contort simultaneously. The spice ignites in the back of your throat, and you instantly start coughing into your elbow as your eyes flood with involuntary tears. Beside you, Hongjoong lets out a strangled wheeze, spinning around and ripping open a cabinet to grab a glass. He shoves it under the faucet, cranking the cold water on full blast.

He thrusts the overflowing glass into your hands first. You eagerly gulp down the ice-cold water, laughing through your tears before handing it back to him, your fingers brushing against his in the exchange. He downs the rest of the glass in three desperate gulps, his chest heaving as he leans back against the sink.

"Delicious," you manage to tease, wiping your watering eyes. "Very authentic."

Hongjoong turns off the faucet, his entire face now matching the shade of the chili flakes.

"I thought I could eyeball it," he mutters, grabbing the mixing bowl and dumping the biohazardous sauce straight down the drain. As he scrubs the metal clean under the running water, he shoots you a sheepish look over his shoulder. "I don't remember the exact measurements my mom used, but... I think it was maybe a little less gochugaru."

"You think?" you wheeze, grinning, and he sends you a playful glare before turning his attention back to wiping the bowl clean.

Once the second, perfectly measured, much safer batch of sauce is successfully mixed, the two of you move on to the stock.

Fortunately, this seems to be the one part of the recipe Hongjoong actually knows well. He reaches into the plastic grocery bag and pulls out a large, stiff sheet of dried kelp, handing it over to you alongside a damp paper towel.

"Just give it a gentle wipe down to get any dust off," he instructs, leaning in to watch as you take it. "But don't scrub it too hard. See that white powdery coating? My mom always told me that's what gives it its flavor, so we want to keep as much of it on there as possible."

You raise your eyebrows, genuinely impressed. "So you do have a little bit of knowledge in the kitchen."

"I have my moments," he grins proudly.

As you set to work on wiping down the kelp, he reaches for the other bag on the counter—the dried anchovies. He glances at you from his spot by your side, probably remembering how you'd wrinkled your nose at them in the grocery store.

"Uh... you might want to look away for this next part."

You pause your wiping, looking up at him. "Why?"

He reaches into the bag and pulls out a small handful of the silver-gray, desiccated little fish, holding them up. "Because before they go into the pot, I have to snap their heads off and pull out all their organs."

"What?" you say, instinctively taking a sudden step backward until your hip hitches against the lower cabinet. "Are you being serious?"

Hongjoong's eyes light up with amusement as he nods his head.

"Watch," he says, stepping a little closer into your space, picking up a single anchovy to demonstrate. "It's really not as gross as it sounds. You just... pop the head off like—"

Snap.

He presses down a little too hard on the brittle fish carcass, and instead of a clean break, his fingers pinch the tiny body at an awkward angle. The silver tail shoots out of his grip, catapulting through the air and smacking loudly against the wooden cabinet door—right beside your head, barely an inch away from your right ear—before bouncing off and clattering onto the floor.

The kitchen plunges into silence.

Hongjoong freezes, his hand still suspended in mid-air, holding nothing but a detached anchovy head. His eyes are wide with shock as he stares at the exact spot on the cabinet where the fish landed, then slowly, horizontally turns his head to look at you, his mouth hanging slightly open.

"I—I'm sorry," he stammers out, tossing the fish head onto the counter. He reaches towards you, his hands hovering by your face like he wants to cup your head or check your hair to see if the fish actually hit you but is too flustered to touch you. "Are you okay? I didn't mean to—it just slipped, the texture is really brittle—"

"Hongjoong." You blink slowly, looking from the cabinet down to the sad little fish tail on the floor, and then back to his horrified face.

The shock on your own face lasts for only another second before you start laughing. You drop the damp paper towel onto the counter, covering your mouth with one hand as your shoulders shake with uncontrollable giggles.

The moment Hongjoong realizes you're laughing and not angry, his panic drains out of him. He lets out a breathless, embarrassed laugh of his own, dropping his hovering hands and using one to rub the back of his neck.

"I'm sorry," he repeats, though a smile is breaking across his face now. "To be fair... I said it wasn't gross, not that it wasn't dangerous."

That makes you laugh even harder. You lift a hand, pointing at the opposite end of the island. "New rule. You're working from the other side until every single fish is safely decapitated."

He chuckles, immediately moving to obediently scoop up the bag of anchovies before sliding around the perimeter of the island, putting a safe distance between the two of you. He drops the bag down on the far side, grinning at you across the expanse.

"Is this safe enough?"

"I think so," you smile, picking your piece of kelp back up. "As long as you're careful."

"I will be," he confirms softly. His eyes meet yours, warm with fondness, the tips of his ears still tinged pink as he reaches into the bag and lifts out a fresh fish.

The two of you fall into a comfortable rhythm for a while. When you both finally finish your respective tasks, you toss your cleanly wiped-down kelp and his perfectly beheaded anchovies into a saucepan of water, setting it on the stove to simmer.

While Hongjoong watches the pot, waiting for it to boil, you turn your attention to the cutting board. You grab the onion, preparing to chop it up into the thin slices he mentioned earlier. You try to be careful, but the knife feels a little too big and unwieldy for your grip. It's awkward in your hand, and when you press down, the blade wobbles dangerously against the smooth skin of the onion.

"Wait, hold on," Hongjoong says suddenly.

Before you can even ask what you're doing wrong, he's already moving, stepping directly behind you.

The sudden proximity makes your heart skip a beat. You can feel his chest hovering a mere hair's breadth away from your back as he reaches out, his calloused hands sliding over yours. His fingers wrap gently but securely around your own on the handle of the knife.

"I'll be honest, I don't know the actual professional way to hold a knife," he murmurs shyly. "But I do know that you're going to hurt yourself if you keep doing it your way."

A nervous giggle escapes you as his hands completely engulf yours. He adjusts your grip, his thumbs working to uncurl your tight fingers.

"Keep your thumb and index finger resting right here, on the base, so that it doesn't slip," he instructs softly, his breath brushing the shell of your ear. "See?"

Your throat suddenly feels dry. You nod dumbly, your eyes locked onto the sight of his hands resting over yours. Gently, he guides your wrist down, pressing the blade cleanly through the onion. Together, you create perfect, even rings, your body finally relaxing against his.

When the onion is completely sliced, the knife comes to a rest against the cutting board.

But Hongjoong doesn't move. He stays exactly where he is, his hands still covering yours, his breathing mirroring your own against your back, like he doesn't want to move away.

Eventually, after a long moment where the crackle of the vinyl record in the living room is the only sound in the apartment, the loud bubbling from the stovetop shatters the quiet as the pot begins to boil over. Hongjoong clears his throat softly and steps back to pour the stock through a strainer.

As soon as his warmth leaves you, you have to remind your lungs to start breathing again.

"Alright," he says, a slight, telling breathlessness lingering in his voice as he pours the strained stock into a fresh pot. "Now we just dissolve the sauce and throw everything else in. It should only take about three minutes, I think, but we should keep a close eye on it anyway.”

He scrapes the paste into the liquid, stirring until the broth turns red. You step closer to him, using the flat of the knife to slide the pillowy rice cakes, fish cakes, and your perfectly sliced onions directly into the pot.

As the mixture begins to simmer, the acoustic opening of Lady Stardust drifts into the kitchen from the living room. Quite a few tracks have spun through while the two of you were prepping, turning the initial quiet of the apartment more cozy. You lean back against the counter, contentedly watching the steam rise from the stove. Hongjoong rests his elbows on the counter right next to yours, mimicking your stance. Your arms brush, and neither of you pulls away.

"I have a question," you say, eyes still fixed on the bubbling pot.

"Go ahead."

"What kind of classes do you have to take for your major?" you ask, turning your head slightly to look at him. "Do you even have regular, sitting-at-a-desk classes, or is it just... projects?"

He chuckles at the change of topic. "No, ____, I have real classes just like everyone else," he says playfully. "Today, for example, I spent four hours straight in Garment Construction and Sound Design. But trust me, it's not all fun and creative freedom. I still have to take my requirements. Like Physics tomorrow at eight in the morning."

"Really? I get that for Architecture students, but what does Physics have to do with making clothes?"

"Way more than you'd expect, surprisingly," he explains, turning his body toward you a bit more. "Gravity and compression go into understanding how different fabrics drape and stretch with a human body. And choosing the right materials for structural pieces is all thermodynamics."

"Oh," you murmur, a little awestruck. "They should get rid of required classes. I would do anything to get out of Econ."

He laughs, his eyes sparkling. "Every time we talk about school, you manage to bring up your Econ grade."

"Because it's my only B!" you exclaim with an annoyed shake of your head. "It makes no sense. How am I doing better in Korean than in an actual necessity for my future career?"

"I don't know. Do you have a tutor? It must be because you have a really good one."

You look up at him, the witty retort dying on your tongue as you see the humor in the way he's looking at you. Your eyes lock, shining under the warm kitchen lights.

"Yeah," you say, holding his gaze with a smile. "I think it might be that."

Suddenly, a loud bubble bursts at the surface of the pot, shooting a bright red droplet of sauce straight through the air. It lands with a splat right on the apple of Hongjoong's cheek.

He flinches, a curse slipping out in Korean—아씨!—as the sauce on the stove continues to bubble wildly.

Hongjoong scrambles to grab a wooden spatula from the counter and twists the burner knob all the way down to low heat. He vigorously stirs the thickening mixture to keep it from burning against the bottom of the pot, letting out a sigh before finally looking over at you sheepishly.

"I... I think it's still okay," he says.

You glance down at the slightly messy, splattered stove, and then look back up at the bright red dot of sauce currently painted on his cheek. Your heart swells as a smile spreads across your face.

"I think it's perfect."

Hongjoong’s grin breaks out immediately, relief softening his whole face. He quickly grabs two shallow ceramic bowls from the upper cabinet and spoons the steaming tteokbokki into them. It definitely looks a little messy—the thick red sauce clings stubbornly to the inner rims—but the spicy aroma filling the kitchen smells incredible.

He picks up both bowls, balancing them carefully in his hands, and jerks his head toward the living room. "Come on."

You grab a pair of forks and follow him. Assuming the two of you are going to eat at the island, you pause by the barstools, but he walks right past them. You keep moving, figuring he's heading for the couch, but he bypasses that, too. Instead, he drops down onto the thick, plush rug, crossing his legs comfortably in front of the low coffee table.

You sit down beside him, tucking your legs beneath you, glancing around the living room with a puzzled smile. "Are all the chairs in this apartment broken?"

He lets out a soft chuckle, setting your steaming bowl down in front of you. "Whenever my mom made this for me and my brother growing up, we never used the kitchen table. We'd grab our bowls and sit on the living room floor so we could watch TV. Now it feels weird to eat it any other way."

Your chest swells, and you gladly accept the invitation into his childhood tradition, leaning a little closer to his side. "I like it," you say. "It's cozier down here."

Before picking up his fork, Hongjoong slides over on his knees to the record player. Ziggy Stardust has spun to a crackling finish, so he rummages through the smaller stack of vinyl on the coffee table's lower shelf. He pulls out a sleeve washed in purple.

"Since we already listened to one of my all-time favorites," he says, glancing back at you while he sets Purple Rain onto the platter, "we might as well play another."

He drops the needle, and as the dreamy synths of the opening track bleed into the room, he slides back over to his spot next to you. He doesn't start eating right away; he rests his elbows on his knees, watching you intently as you prepare to take your very first bite.

You blow on a steaming rice cake and pop it into your mouth. Instantly, your eyes go wide.

The texture is unlike anything you've had before—pillowy and soft but with a satisfying chew—and the flavor is a perfect balance of savory, sweet, and spicy. Against all odds, it isn't burned in the slightest.

"Wow," you mumble around the bite, your face lighting up. "Hongjoong, this is actually really good."

He smiles softly, satisfied, as he finally reaches for his own fork. "Told you it was a real dinner."

As the two of you eat, your eyes wander past the coffee table to the shelves lining his wall, taking in his music collection.

"You have so many," you note quietly, tracking the neatly arranged spines. "Is the whole wall organized by genre?"

"Genre first, then chronological order by release date," he nods, tapping his fork against the rim of his bowl. He tilts his chin toward the smaller stack under the coffee table. "Those are the most important ones, though."

Between bites, he eagerly flips through the stack, proudly showing them off. One by one, he points out the covers—Purple Rain, a vintage pressing of Space Oddity underneath Ziggy Stardust, and Michael Jackson's Thriller and Bad—before sliding his fingers down to a few modern Korean albums, including MADE by BIGBANG.

"I spent months saving up in high school for some of these," he tells you. "I dragged my brother to a thousand sketchy record stores all around Seoul, trying to hunt them down. The MADE one was impossible to find. There are barely any vinyl versions of it. And this one—this one was actually signed..."

You listen quietly while he talks, mesmerized by the way his eyes are shining. You barely even look at the records he's holding up; you sit there, eating your tteokbokki, completely transfixed by his passion for music.

"And there's this one," he says, pulling out Kendrick Lamar's To Pimp a Butterfly. He pauses, his thumb tracing the cover. He clears his throat, and suddenly, his confident enthusiasm falters.

Carefully, he sets the record down onto the rug and reaches into his pocket, pulling out his phone. He taps the screen a few times before turning the phone towards you. On the display are two digital concert tickets for Kendrick's upcoming stadium tour.

"I actually managed to snag two tickets to see him next month," he says, his voice suddenly dropping a little lower. He pushes his glasses up his nose, his eyes darting nervously between his bowl and you.

"I... I originally bought them thinking I'd force Seonghwa to come with me, but he isn't even really a fan. If you are... I mean, if you'd want to... would you maybe want to go with me? It could be a—" He hesitates, then says it anyway. "A date. If you want."

"Yes," you say immediately, before your brain can even attempt to play it cool. "I would love to go with you."

His shoulders sag with relief, and then he smiles, looking happier than you've ever seen him.

For a moment, neither of you says a word. You sit together on the rug, turned toward each other, both wearing the same giddy smiles.

Suddenly, Hongjoong blinks, sitting up a little straighter as he remembers something important. "Oh! Right—dessert."

You let out a soft laugh as he scrambles to his feet. "The strawberries?"

"Yeah," he says, walking backward toward the kitchen so he doesn't have to look away from you. "I just need to melt some chocolate for them. Stay right there. It'll only take a second."

"Are you sure you don't need supervision?" you tease, eyeing the kitchen warily.

"I've got it under control this time," he insists, already reaching for a small saucepan and a bag of chocolate chips. "I promise I won't burn anything."

From your low vantage point on the floor, you can’t quite see what he’s doing, so you push yourself up and climb onto the couch. It gives you a perfect, unobstructed view into the kitchen, where he adjusts the blue flame on the stove with a ridiculous level of concentration.

As you settle into the cushions, your eyes catch on the stack of records he had left scattered across the floor. You reach down, flipping through them until your fingers settle on the cover of Michael Jackson's Bad.

"Hongjoong?" you call out over the music.

He turns his head, a wooden spoon poised in his hand. "Yeah?"

You hold up the vinyl. "I'll give you five dollars if you can guess my favorite Michael Jackson song."

Hongjoong stops stirring, his eyebrows lifting. He turns from the stove, crossing his arms and leaning back against the counter as a confident smirk spreads across his face.

"Well, since you picked up Bad instead of Thriller, I'm guessing it's a track from that era," he says thoughtfully. He taps his chin with the handle of the wooden spoon as he analyzes you. "My first instinct for most people would be The Way You Make Me Feel. But not you."

You tilt your head, not giving anything away.

"You said you like Hendrix, which usually points to someone who likes expressive, improvisational guitar work rather than sounds that are too structured. And when we were listening to Bowie, you mouthed nearly every word to Moonage Daydream. That track is glam rock. Big, theatrical, layered production, kind of psychedelic." His eyes narrow slightly in thought, but he’s smiling now. "So you don’t really go for clean pop structure. You like something with a little more edge. A strong bassline, distorted tones, maybe a darker vocal delivery."

Your mouth parts.

Hongjoong’s grin turns certain. "It's Dirty Diana, isn't it?"

You stare at him, chin resting on your arms over the back of the couch, completely awed by how easily he just read your mind. "You're right. How did you...?"

He laughs softly. "I know you think we music majors just sit around and mess with buttons all day," he teases, "but I really do know my stuff, ____. More importantly... I know you've got great taste. That's my second favorite track on the album."

"Really?" you ask, your heart giving a small flutter at the way he says your name. "What's your first, then?"

"Smooth Criminal."

"Ah. Just like everyone else," you tease him.

He lets out a bright laugh, but it fades into something gentler as he looks at you sprawled comfortably over his couch, completely at ease in his space, talking about music with him.

But then, the sweet smell of cocoa suddenly turns bitter.

You sniff the air, your nose scrunching. "Hongjoong... are you watching the chocolate?"

His eyes go wide. "Oh no—"

He spins around just as a thin ribbon of dark smoke starts curling from the saucepan.

He rushes forward, waving his hand through it and dragging the pot off the heat. A long silence follows as he looks into the scorched chocolate stuck to the bottom.

"I'll... I'll just buy us a carton of ice cream next time."

Ten minutes later, the smoke has cleared, and the two of you are back on the living room floor, listening to The Beautiful Ones as the Prince record plays through.

Between you rests a humble setup: the plastic carton of freshly rinsed strawberries, and a very sad little bowl holding the tiniest amount of salvageable melted chocolate he managed to rescue from the perimeter of the pot.

You pick up a large, ripe strawberry and dip it into the shallow puddle, managing to coat it in maybe three microscopic drops of chocolate before lifting it to your mouth. You try to keep your expression as you take a bite.

But the moment your eyes lock with his, a snort escapes both of you, and you dissolve into a fit of laughter together.

The laughter gradually mellows out, dissolving into a deeply comfortable quiet as you listen to the music, your knees brushing—a gentle, continuous point of contact on the rug—as you both finish off the very last of the tteokbokki and the remaining strawberries.

"So," you ask, propping your chin up on your palm to look at him properly. "Is Smooth Criminal your actual favorite song, or just your favorite on Bad?"

"Just on the album," he answers, leaning back against the base of the couch. "My favorite song has been Billie Jean since I was a little kid." To prove his point, he suddenly dips his head, a playful, quiet croon escaping him: "Billie Jean is not my lover..."

It's so incredibly dorky and endearing that a giggle bursts right from your chest.

Emboldened by your reaction, Hongjoong completely opens up.

"Actually, I'm currently mapping out a project to cover it," he explains, immediately sitting up straight. "I want to strip down the bassline and rebuild the whole song with a more modern synth-pop vibe..."

You sit there on the floor, entirely content to watch him. His eyes are sparkling, his hands moving animatedly as he explains the production layers. He is entirely in his element, so uninhibited, so intensely passionate about what he does that it physically pulls you in. You don't even realize you've completely tuned out the literal meaning of his words until his rambling slowly trails off.

He stalls mid-sentence, finally catching the way your eyes are locked onto his face, and a furious flush instantly rushes up his neck.

"What?" he asks, suddenly self-conscious. He reaches up with a slightly trembling hand to adjust the frame of his glasses, breaking eye contact. "Do I... do I still have sauce on my face?"

He begins wiping at his cheek with the back of his hand, looking so flustered that you can't help but laugh softly. Shaking your head, you close the small distance left between you on the rug.

"No," you murmur. "It's chocolate."

And then, before your logical brain can catch up to what your heart is doing, you lean the rest of the way in and press your lips gently against his.

The kiss is brief, sweet, and impulsive. You pull back almost immediately, just far enough to look into his wide eyes, and whisper a teasing, "Got it."

Hongjoong freezes. He blinks at you, stunned, his hand still suspended nervously by his cheek.

A mortified blush explodes across your face as you realize you just kissed him without thinking. Your mouth parts to stammer out an apology, to pull away—

But a gigantic, goofy grin breaks across his entire face.

Before you can twitch to move away, his hands shoot forward, wrapping around your waist. With one tug, he pulls you straight into his lap.

You let out a startled squeak. Your hands fly up to clamp onto his shoulders to steady yourself as your knees settle on either side of his hips.

"You can't just do that," he mumbles, his face burning, though he's smiling so wide his eyes are nothing but happy little crescents behind his glasses.

"Why not?" you ask, your heart racing as you gaze down at him.

"Because I've been working for the last hour trying to create the perfect, romantic moment to kiss you," he admits, his eyes dropping to your lips. "And you just completely stole my thunder."

A breathy giggle escapes you.

Hongjoong tilts his chin up, closing the distance between you. This time, the kiss is slow and deep, melting away the rest of the world until Prince's vocals are lost in the warmth of Hongjoong's hands pressing into your waist and the touch of his lips moving against yours.

When he finally pulls back, he refuses to let you go far. He keeps his hands locked on your waist, resting his forehead against yours, both of your breaths coming a little heavily.

"좋아해," he whispers.

Your heart swells, a shy smile touching your lips. "I know that one," you murmur, your fingers tangling into the soft hairs at the nape of his neck. "I like you, too."

A quiet smirk plays on his lips as he looks up into your eyes.

"아니," he corrects gently, his thumb reaching up to softly trace the line of your cheekbone. "많이, 많이 좋아해, ____아."

I like you very, very much, ____.

Hongjoong doesn't give you the chance to reply. He only smiles, his arms tightening around your waist as he pulls you down to kiss you all over again—without hesitation, without nervousness, without any of the uncertainty that once followed every almost-moment between you—until the two of you are completely lost in each other right there on his living room floor.

At the beginning of the semester, you could barely stumble through introducing yourself to him without your cheeks burning with embarrassment. Now, with his laughter melting against your lips and soft, breathless Korean confessions slipping so naturally between each kiss, you think this might be the most fluent you've ever felt in anything.

translations:

홍중아? 너니? Hongjoong? Is that you?

어머, 이 예쁜 아가씨는 누구니? Oh my, who is this pretty young lady?

제 친구예요, ____. She’s my friend, ____.

친구라구? 여자친구 아니고? A friend? Not a girlfriend?

아, 그 애야? 네가 말하던 그 학생? Ah, that girl? The student you were talking about?

네, 네… 맞아요… Yes, yes… that’s right…

여보! 홍중이 여자친구 왔어! Honey! Hongjoong’s girlfriend is here!

홍중아, 이 애가 그— Hongjoong, is this the—?

네, 네, 제 학생이에요, 네. Yes, yes, she’s my student, yes.

홍중이 좋은 선생님인가 보네요. Hongjoong must be a good teacher.

아이고, 진짜 예쁘다! 우리 홍중이 복 받았네. Oh my, she’s really pretty! Our Hongjoong is so lucky.

아, 네… 제가 더 복이에요. Yes… I’m the lucky one.

자, 둘이 가서 쇼핑하고 와. Here, you two go shopping and come back.

아니, 뒷말도 번역해 줘! No, translate the last part, too!

@ queenofsa1gon, 2026. please do not steal, copy, or translate my work! thank you <33

taglist: @baw-sixteen @yunhospinkyring @icarusfallingdown @oddin4ry @stumbling-through-once-more @glowingsoup @mialinguini @jooholicx @shuggylaw @yu5qii @mindinmist @psychoflora @kyeos4ng @intergalacticscreams @frayaatiny @sooberryworld @reeszeos @raeslogbook

Trending Blogs

Recently Viewed Blogs