Not So Loud
lee chan x afab reader || fluff smut baby angst || f2l, only one bed trope
NSFW - minors DNI
Summary: You've been in love with Lee Chan for almost two years, despite his rejection seven months ago. When you're impossibly coupled up on a friendcation, you're determined not to make it everyone else's problem. Of course, you weren't expecting to have to room with him, and you certainly weren't expecting only one bed...
wc: 16.6k
warnings: language, recreational drinking, sooo much pining, baby misunderstandings, kissing, breast play, oral (f receiving), fingering (f receiving), piv sex (no protection mentioned either way), reader on top, mentions of shower sex
request by @eoieopda:
yes my fearless leader you may have even two crumbs of lee dino getting laid at the beach, i hope you enjoy every single second of it <3
“This,” you sigh blissfully, “is the happiest I may ever be.”
The sun is shining. Upbeat pop music runs like an undercurrent below the sound of the highway from the stereo of your best friend’s junky, decade-old sedan. Your iced coffee - light and sweet, but not too much of either - tastes like heaven. And the best part, the part that makes this day the best even if you didn’t have iced coffee or sunshine or Ruby or happy music, is that you’re less than an hour away from the beachfront house you and your friends have rented for the next five days.
All six of you had collectively been saving up for a full year and a half to make this happen, and there were times during the wait when it seemed like it would never come together between scheduling and money and rental availability. But now you’re here, racing down the highway to keep up with the flow of traffic, the ocean beckoning you closer.
“Now, now,” Ruby, the aforementioned best friend, scolds lightly. “What about your wedding day?”
You blow a raspberry. “What wedding day?” you shoot back sourly, but then you take another sip of caffeinated, iced perfection and your mood buoys immediately. It’s gonna take a lot to keep you down, today. Still, you rationalize, “I can’t even get to a third date.”
It was true. Your last third date had been almost two years ago. Since then, everything fizzled after one or two. Embarrassing. Something only Ruby - and, by proxy, her boyfriend Mingyu - would know about you.
“Because you compare them all to Chan,” Ruby says sagely.
The beams of sunlight are glaring. The pop music grates on your nerves, too boppy and much too happy. You set your coffee in the cup holder, your hand suddenly smarting from the bite of cold.
Coincidental to the third date thing, you’ve been in love with Lee Chan for almost two years. Another embarrassing Ruby-and-thus-Mingyu-only tidbit.
“Stooo-ooppp,” you whine. “If you’re going to spend the whole time making it weird about him, I’m going to find a way back home! I will walk there, just try me!”
“Now, now,” she says again, mildly. Your dramatics are nothing new to her. “I’ll behave. But I keep telling you - it would be significantly less weird if you’d just tell him you have a thing for him.”
You narrow your eyes at her. A thing.
An every problem I’ve ever had melts away and my soul floats three feet above my body every time your smile crosses your face kind of thing. A hearing your laugh makes me laugh even if I didn’t hear the joke kind of thing. A finding your gaze across a loud room makes me feel like no one else is there but us kind of thing.
A he doesn’t feel the same way, and he never will kind of thing. He made that super clear, about seven months ago.
And it gets worse.
You’ve had a week to accept your fate on this trip - a week since she’d called to tell you that the original rental had fallen through. To tell you that the replacement place is almost better (closer to the beach! a huge deck! a private pool!) except for the number of rooms. That since the other four people attending are made up of two couples, you and Chan would have to share a room.
(“The rooms are huge,” she’d assured you. “And the third room’s got bunk-beds! I bet will Chan will let you have top bunk if you want it - he’s a nice guy.”
You didn’t say, even though it is very true, that bunk-beds are really only a selling point if you are ten years old. But there were more important arguments to make. “I know he’s a nice guy,” you’d bit out. “He’s the nicest fucking guy I’ve ever met in my life, actually!” Hence the thing.
She’d paused and then pointed out, “You’ve met Seokmin, though.”
And, yeah, maybe on paper Seokmin is nicer but looking at his smile doesn’t feel like being filled with sunshine, so the point is moot.)
Anyway. You’ve had time to accept the fact that you have to share a room with the guy you’ve been in love with for over a year and a half. You’ve had time to accept that he might hear you snore, will see that you’re messy, that you’ll have to get changed in the bathroom for the whole trip, that you’ll have to get really good at pretending not to moon over him every time he speaks.
“I think,” you tell Ruby mildly, “that telling him that I want to lick his body from top to bottom and then get married might actually make things more weird.”
“I would just like to say,” Ruby’s boyfriend Mingyu pipes up from the backseat, his voice weary and long-suffering, “that this is an incredibly uncomfortable conversation for me.”
In your defense, you’d thought he was asleep.
Ruby descends on him like a swarm of locusts. “Don’t you think she should tell him she’s in love with him?”
“I actually do,” Mingyu says, covering his eyes with his hands as if he can’t bear to see what a disaster you are. “But I would heavily advise against mentioning the licking. Or the marriage.”
“It’s hyperbole,” you defend, flapping a hand in his direction. But, yeah, noted.
Excitement bubbles in your stomach, despite the rooming situation, when Ruby flicks on her turn signal and moves to exit the highway. Already, the smell of the air through the open windows has turned salty, and the thick tree-line along the highway has given way to cloudless blue sky and the occasional palm tree. It had been almost hazy when you’d set off at the crack of dawn (Mingyu had taken the back seat so he could stretch out and sleep a little longer) but now the sunrise has burned away all of that haze and given way to a perfect morning.
It takes only minutes for Ruby to navigate through the small, coastal town and to a row of vacation homes. You lose yourself in a daydream of waking up to take coffee on a sunlit balcony, listening to waves crash in time below you. In your daydream, across the balcony someone stretches their arms above their head, a sliver of belly peeking out for only a second, then turns to give you a sleepy smile, thinly-wired glasses perched on his nose.
Someone.
You shake yourself free of the fantasy; part of you feels like Ruby can read your mind, like she’s seconds away from calling you out for placing Chan in your seaside fantasy life.
Ruby, however, is too focused on finding the house to read your mind, and she slows the car and turns into a driveway, chirping, “We’re here!”
You all start grabbing luggage to carry in; the sun feels amazing on your skin, the sea breeze cool almost to the point of chilly and so salty it makes your nose twitch. You three aren’t even done emptying your car when you’re startled by a beep-beep-beepbeep-beep from the road behind you.
“That’s Soonyoung,” Mingyu says without even turning to look.
He’s right - it is. The second car, which carries Soonyoung, his girlfriend Lara, and Chan, pulls into the driveway next to you.
Chan greets you with a wide, happy grin (that, yes, makes you feel full of sunshine, whatever) and a quick, one-armed hug as he comes around the front of the parked car. Your moronic heart lifts, stupidly hopeful - until Soonyoung does the same thing. Your heart deflates again with the reminder that they’re just like this - nice, affectionate with their friends. It doesn’t mean anything. Chan’s attention to you is just as platonic as Soonyoung’s - which is to say, entirely.
You all manage to gather the luggage from both cars, and Mingyu follows the rental app’s directions to work the keypad at the front door. You all ooh and ahh as you step inside - the place is roomy, well-lit from sliding glass doors and windows that face the ocean, and decorated with (what else?) a kitschy, nautical theme.
You kick off your flip-flops onto a mat with an anchor on it (per the theme), and follow the others further into the house.
You head straight back through the house - the living room gives way into a dining room that ends with the sliding-glass doors. In tandem with Ruby, you press your face to the glass of the door and peer outside. You’re delighted to see that the ocean is right there, beckoning you to come play. Gulls swoop and call, loud enough that you can hear their cries from inside. Further down the beach you can see colorful umbrellas and tents that other beachgoers have set up. Below the deck, you can see just a strip of the private pool.
You pull yourself away from the back door and head into the adjoining kitchen, where Lara is standing at an open cupboard, examining its contents.
“We’re going to need to do a grocery run,” she muses, looking over at you. “I think all Soonyoung packed was ramen and soju.”
“What else could we possibly need?” he jokes from down the hall, his voice echoing.
“Coffee,” you say immediately.
“Beer,” Mingyu says seriously.
“Meat? Vegetables? Stuff for breakfast? Something to drink that isn’t alcohol?” Lara suggests.
“Who invited the Capricorn?” Soonyoung (the person who invited the Capricorn) grouses.
“Without me,” she tells him seriously, though the corner of her mouth twitches, “you’d be malnourished at best, and at worst? Dead.”
“Probably true,” you say, giving her a conspiratorial nod, and then you hear Ruby call your name from upstairs. Her voice sounds strained, and a little alarm bell goes off inside your head.
“Yes?” you answer loudly, hoping your voice will carry up to her.
“Can you come up here for a minute?” she calls down to you. Yes, there is definitely an edge to her voice that you don’t like. “Now?”
“Oh jeez,” you mutter, starting to make your way towards the stairs at the front of the house. You take the stairs quickly, calling Ruby’s name as you navigate the unfamiliar house.
She and Chan are both standing in the hallway, open doors all around them. Their faces mirror each other - disbelief, anxiety.
“What?” you ask, a little breathless both from the stairs and from anticipation. “What’s wrong?”
“There’s, uh,” Ruby stammers. It’s very unlike her to lose her confidence, and the unease in your gut churns again.
“What?” you say again, and when she doesn’t answer, you turn to Chan, who looks stricken. “What is it?”
“No bunk beds,” he manages, finishing Ruby’s sentence and gesturing to the room behind him.
You’re pressing forward without making the decision to move, without answering either of them, crowding Chan’s space so you’re chest to chest, peering over his shoulder. His hands hover near your elbows, like you might overbalance and he’s ready to steady you.
The room behind him is huge - as Ruby promised - complete with an ensuite bathroom and the balcony straight out of your daydream in the car. It also, as Chan pointed out, does not have bunk-beds. Instead, one king-sized bed is centered against the far wall, flanked by wicker nightstands with lamps on each and an old-school radio alarm clock on one.
You say nothing - you just back out of Chan’s personal space and swivel, heading for the other doors. Surely that was just the wrong room - one meant for one of the couples. Surely they just didn’t look hard enough, didn’t check the other doors, didn’t find the room with two beds that you’d been promised.
You find a full bathroom, a linen closet, one door that remains locked, and - to your dismay - two identical bedrooms, neither of which hosts more than one single bed.
Realization trickles through you slowly, building up higher and higher as you check the doors a second, and then a third, time. Ruby and Chan stay frozen in place in the dimly lit hallway, watching your frantic, pointless searching.
“Oh, my God,” you say hollowly. Then, turning, you narrow your eyes. “Ruby,” you growl. “You promised. Where is my top bunk?!”
“I don’t know!” she squeaks. “The listing said four beds!”
“Call them,” you demand flatly.
Beside Ruby, Chan’s eyebrows scrunch as he frowns. He says your name quietly, holding up a hand as if to calm you. “We don’t need to move houses,” he says gently. “I’ll take a couch. It’s not a big deal.”
You feel yourself shaking your head immediately. “I will feel like shit if you spend your vacation sleeping on the couch because of me,” you tell him.
He and Ruby exchange a long look (something that you don’t like very much, but no one is asking you) and then she tentatively says, “Could we work it out later? Maybe one of the couches pulls out into a bed or something? Or do you really want me to try and get us a different rental? This is already our second one, I’m not sure there are even other options still available…” She trails off, eyes wide.
You sigh, eyeing the ceiling above you as if it has answers. “Fine,” you say, because you can’t stand the thought of being the one who’s causing problems, ever the people-pleaser. “We’ll figure it out later.”
You head back down the hall, tromping down the stairs in silence to get your luggage.
Chan tries to take one of your bags for you, but you shrug him off and he lets you. You follow him back up the stairs, to the large room you’d looked at a few minutes ago. You both stand in the middle of it, looking around. You’re unsure if you should even unpack in here if there’s a chance you’ll end up moving to the couches.
“It’ll be okay,” Chan says, and it startles you out of your thoughts so badly that you flinch.
“Mhm,” you manage, because you don’t want to lie to him by agreeing.
“Hey,” he says, a little insistently, and you look up at him. He’s looking at you openly, his expression an impossible mix of concern and optimism. It disarms you immediately, in a way nothing else ever has.
There’s something always so earnest about Chan, one of your favorite things about him, and you can’t help but believe him when he continues to speak. “It will. We can, like, take turns with the bed or something. It’s not that big of a deal. Don’t let this ruin your trip. Okay?”
You nod silently, thinking about this. He’s right - there’ll be a solution. “Okay,” you say, managing to give him a little smile. “You’re right.”
The grin he gives you is mischievous. “I usually am,” he quips - and you love that about him, too: the way he’s playfully cocky, something ironic in the way he displays it, like you’re all in on the joke and he’s happily his own punchline. He disappears into the hallway, where you hear him heading down the stairs.
You wait for the tornado of butterflies in your belly to calm back down and then you look around the room. You finally decide to just leave your bags in a pile near the dresser, and head back down to find the others.
Everyone is standing around the kitchen table, where it seems like a grocery list is being split into Things That Can versus Things That Cannot be bought at the local liquor store.
“We can take one car and handle the drinks,” Mingyu is saying as you walk up and lean your chin on Ruby’s shoulder from behind. She absently reaches up to give your head an affectionate pat as you both listen. “Then the grocery team can take the second car, and whoever is handling the rental office can just walk.”
“Rental office?” you ask. “What for?”
“Just to grab our passes for the beach,” Lara answers you. “They’re like little tags. It’s part of what we paid for.”
“The rental’s under your name,” Soonyoung reminds her, “so we should probably handle that.”
“Yah, you just want the easy task,” Mingyu complains.
Soonyoung grins, guilty as charged not at all sorry about it. He grabs for Lara’s hand and heads for the front door. “If we aren’t here when you get back, we’ll leave your passes on the table!” he calls, and then the door slams shut.
“Asshole,” Mingyu grumbles affectionately.
The four of you look at each other in the resulting quiet. Then, Ruby asks, “Anything you want to add to our list?”
You lean further around her to read her phone screen, scanning what drinks had already been requested.
“Nope,” you tell her. “I’m good with that. Does this mean I’m on the grocery team?”
Chan looks up from his phone when you ask this, waiting to hear the answer.
Ruby and Mingyu meet gazes, seeming to have a silent conversation. Then, she gives you a sheepish look, almost a grimace. “Yeah - sorry, but I kind of wanted to go with Gyu on the drinks run, if that’s okay?”
You’ve been best friends with Ruby for a long time. You know her in and out, and you know this: she’s not like this, not sweet and apologetic. If it was just you two, she’d just say what she wanted. The act is for a reason.
You blink at her, trying to figure it out. “Of course it’s okay,” you say slowly. “If you and Mingyu are handling the drink run, then I’ll handle groceries with Chan.”
Ah. That was Ruby’s game - she paired you with Chan on purpose.
Meddler. Pain in the ass. Angel. Light of your life. She contains multitudes.
His eyes drop back to his phone. “You don’t have to,” he says, not looking at you. “If you want to go with them or catch up with Lara then I can handle it by myself.”
You frown. “It’s not really a one person job,” you observe. “And I don’t mind - really.”
“So it’s decided!” Ruby says brightly, moving to rest her hand on her boyfriend’s forearm. “We should beat you back, but we’ll wait for you guys so we can help unload the car.”
“Thanks,” you say, meaning it. For everything.
Ruby and Mingyu head out, and you meander closer to Chan. You’re not alone together very often - you’re pretty much always in a group setting.
You’d met through Ruby and Mingyu, years ago. You and Ruby were a very packaged deal, and Mingyu had a crew of friends that filtered in and out of your social events like they kept a scheduled rotation. When Soonyoung had settled into a serious relationship with Lara, the two of them became pretty permanent fixtures with Ruby and Mingyu, and Chan usually went where Soonyoung did. So then you were six.
How perfectly even. How serendipitous. How nearly fated.
If only he saw it that way.
But he doesn’t, he’s made that clear. It was Lara’s fault, actually. That night is burned into your brain, an unpleasant memory custom-made to slither into your brain when you’re trying to sleep before a big day.
The six of you had been bar-hopping on a Saturday night about seven months ago. It had been cool - late autumn teasing winter, and you’d been shivering as the six of you rowdily made your way up the block to your next stop. Laughing at something Soonyoung had said, Chan had reached around your shoulders sloppily, pulling you tight against him.
“Cold?” he’d asked you, as you tried to keep walking - a challenge because of both the alcohol in your system and the alarm bells going off in your head over his hand on your arm.
“Definitely chilly,” you’d managed to reply, looking up at him sideways. His profile was sharper than you’d realized before, and it sent a wave down your core, sinking like a weight through your stomach and into your lower belly and he grinned down at you.
You never wanted him to let go. Never, for the rest of your lives.
“You two are cute,” Lara had said drunkenly, the words a little slurred, as she leaned heavily on Soonyoung. You’d flushed, a little embarrassed, but Chan’s reaction had mortified you. His eyes had widened and he’d gone so far as to retract his arm from around you as quick as lightning, moving sideways to put inches between you again.
It left you frozen, a block of ice.
“No - we’re - we’re only friends,” he had said emphatically, and Lara had apologized, her hand over her mouth. Then, Ruby had tripped on the sidewalk and ripped the knees of her jeans, and the whole incident was forgotten.
Not by you, though. Never by you. This was the moment that floated up like the ghost of Christmas past whenever Ruby urged you to confess to Chan, which was more frequent than you’d like. The rush of cold in the absence of his arm, the way he’d stuttered in his hurry to refute the misunderstanding.
Message received, Lee Chan. Loud and fucking clear.
Didn’t change a thing about how you feel, though.
Presently, you try to push this out of your head - the fact that there’s no social buffer between you, no Ruby or Soonyoung to hide behind - before it can trip you up. “What’s on the list?” you ask. He hands you his phone, lets you scroll through everything he’d typed up.
“Okay,” you say, handing it back. “I’m ready when you are.”
“Yeah,” he says, a little absently, then starts patting at his pockets, eyes scanning the tabletop. “Yeah, I’m ready. Aish, Lee Chan, where did you put the keys?”
“They’re by the door,” you offer, remembering the small table you’d all dropped them on as you came in.
He shoots you a grateful smile. “Thanks. Let’s go?”
You nod, grabbing your sunglasses from the table and following him to the driveway out front.
It’s less than ten minutes to the nearest grocery, not even enough time for three whole songs to play through the car’s stereo, half-drowned by the roar of wind and sea through the open windows. Chan grins sideways at you as he parks, running a hand through his messy hair before unbuckling and stepping out of the car. You shake yourself from your daze and hurry to follow.
“What’s the game plan?” you ask, as you step out of the summer sun and into the fluorescents and air conditioning. Your skin prickles instantly upon the change. “Divide and conquer?”
He pulls out his phone and brings the list up. “I’d rather just stick together,” he says, looking at you sideways, his voice a bit thin - like he’s nervous you’ll reject the plan. “If that’s okay?”
“Of course,” you say, shrugging easily.. “I’m just following you. I’m the assistant. You’re in charge.”
Something flashes across his face - a shooting star of an expression, gone before you’re sure you saw it - and then he’s pushing the cart into the produce section, calling over his shoulder for you to go grab some peaches.
You wind your way together through the store. Each time he stops the cart, you each dart after something else from the nearby shelves then reconvene to look at the list again, shoulders pressed together as you squint at the small font.
It thrills you each time that he doesn’t pull away, each time that he doesn’t hurry to put space between you again as he had back in November.
Don’t make it weird, you beg yourself as you load a few cases of soda into the cart. Keep it in check.
A few rows over, the cart a third of the way full, you pause at a row of sauces. You step back, scanning the labels, then drop into a crouch to read those on the bottom shelf. Chan drops beside you, his knee gently bumping yours as he reaches for one of the jars, bringing it closer to scan the label.
“This one’s my favorite,” he says, and there’s something low in his voice that makes you look over at him. Your fingers overlap his for a second as you take the jar from him, turning it over so you can see which one it is. The moment feels staticky, charged with something.
You chicken out, shuffle back on your heels so your knees no longer touch. “It is a good one,” you agree, putting it back in his hand and pressing your palms to your knees as you rise again. “Get a few - I think Ruby likes that one too.”
He nods, looking away again, dutifully reaching to grab a second jar. You move on to the next aisle in silence. You almost feel like his energy seems… disappointed. But that wouldn’t make sense at all.
Turning the corner to the first row of freezers, you feel your body react instantly to the cold and you immediately fold in around yourself, goosebumps rising up your arms.
“Oh, it’s cold,” you complain. “Let’s hurry. Please.”
Chan doesn’t respond, but you can feel his eyes sweep over you, heavy, before he starts pushing the cart past you at, yes, a quicker speed. You shiver once, violently, before you hurry after him.
When you’re done, stepping outside into the sunlight feels like being released - like leaving school on the last day before summer break, like leaving work before a vacation, like stepping outside for the first time after rain has kept you inside for days on end. You let it warm you, happy, as you help Chan load the bags into the car.
You drive the few minutes back to the house in silence. As Chan makes the last turn, you wonder out loud, “Do you think Ruby and Mingyu finished before us?”
“Definitely,” Chan says, and he’s right - as the house comes into view, you can see that the second car is already parked.
True to their word, Ruby and Mingyu greet you at the door to help carry everything in and put it away.
“Lara grabbed us a spot down on the beach,” Ruby informs you, as you both stand at the back of the car, scanning for the lighter bags. “As soon as we’re ready we can head down.”
You let out a happy sigh. “I think an afternoon at the beach will cure me.”
“Nothing will cure you,” she deadpans, then literally stops mid-stride to correct herself. “Actually, something could. And it’s here, and available, and sharing your room.”
“I hate you a lot!” you tell her brightly, pushing past her with an armful of groceries and heading into the relative dark of the house, praying Chan hadn’t overheard her bullshit.
You hurry through the rest - getting the groceries away, getting changed for the beach, throwing the things you need to bring into a tote. Downstairs, the others wait for you by the back door. Chan is wearing Mingyu’s dumb-ass sunglasses and is clearly in the middle of an old-man bit, his voice reedy and sarcastic. Ruby cackles as Mingyu shoves Chan’s shoulder playfully, reaching to get his eyewear back. You can’t help the wave of affection you feel for them, your goofy friends.
You all step out into the sand, eyes adjusting to the sun. You follow Mingyu’s shadow on the ground as he makes his way towards the spot Soonyoung and Lara saved for you. You drop your tote in the sand and help Ruby spread out a blanket, using your shoes and bags to hold down the corners. Mingyu and Chan settle a small cooler off to one side, filled to the brim with ice and drinks.
You pull your cover-up over your head and toss it in the direction of your tote bag and stretch out, closing your eyes happily and letting your body relax under the warmth of the sun, the sound of breaking waves rhythmic and soothing. You’re startled by the sound of music and open your eyes again to find Ruby setting up a bluetooth speaker near the cooler. She looks at you sheepishly and hurries to lower the volume.
“Sorry,” she giggles. “Didn’t mean it to start so loud.”
To your left, Chan is pulling his white t-shirt over his head. Your eyes widen and you look away as fast as you can, catching Ruby react exactly the same, her eyes comically large.
You both turn your backs to the boys, and she mouths at you, what the fuck?
What the fuck is right. You’re used to being around Mingyu, who has an admittedly perfect body, and even Soonyoung is shockingly cut under those baggy t-shirts and cropped hoodies he sports. Chan’s always been the little one, the most normal, the most obtainable in his regular-ness.
Something’s changed since the last time you were all swimming together. He’d always had a nice body, but this…
You close your eyes against the bright summer sun, as if you can block out the curve of his pecs, the shadowed lines hinting at abs. None of those had been there last summer.
That motherfucker. First, he rejects you, then he gets hotter? You hope he gets eaten by a shark today.
You push yourself to stand.
“Where are you going?” Ruby hisses.
“I need a beer,” you tell her flatly. “Actually, maybe ten beers.”
“I’m not holding your hair today,” she warns you flatly, and you flip her off and make your way to the cooler. It’s going to be a long day.
You manage to get a few hours of peace and sanity by laying out with Ruby and Lara, just enjoying the music and occasional chitchat. Further down the beach, the guys run around with a volleyball but no net, making their own asinine rules.
“I still say you should tell him,” Ruby grumbles, after catching you watching Chan from behind your sunglasses for the ninth time, and you shoot her a warning look. But the damage is done - Lara latches on, her eyes sharp.
“Him… Chan?” she guesses. You feel your face heat.
“I’m that obvious, huh?” you murmur reproachfully.
“I mean,” she says uncertainly, looking to Ruby as if for backup, “I think you both are? If it helps?”
“Both?” you repeat flatly. “I wish.”
She exchanges a look with Ruby again, a silent conversation that you aren’t part of.
“He’s not into me,” you say, easy, like the words don’t cut at you. The salty air hits the wounds and makes them sting. “He’s been clear about that.”
Ruby’s brow furrows; you’ve never actually articulated this in front of her before.
“He has?” she asks, her voice suddenly gentle and almost sorrowful. “You never told me-”
“You were there,” you protest, then look over at the guys to make sure they hadn’t stopped yelling and running. “You both were, actually. That night when you tore your knee open outside of Ivy and Ivory?”
“Yeah,” Lara says slowly, her eyes on you, “I remember that night. That was… kind of the first time I thought he had a thing for you? Like, I know it was a while ago, but -”
“A thing for me?” you echo, working hard to keep your voice quiet. “When you called us out he was so horrified he couldn’t even touch me - he acted like it burned him -”
“Honey, no,” she says seriously, leaning forward. She looks incredulous at your perspective.
“Bestie,” Ruby says, giving you a please believe me, your best friend, who would never lead you astray look. “He was terrified that you’d get spooked.”
You press your mostly-empty beer can to your chin, eyes narrowing. “Explain.”
“He wasn’t embarrassed at the idea of being coupled with you,” Lara whispers, her eyes on the guys, whose game has drifted only minutely closer to your blanket. “It was one of those like, shut up or you’ll scare her away moments. He wanted to kill me.”
“Literally, if he’d had a cartoon thought bubble, it would have said shhhh, not so loud!” Ruby adds. She peers at you. “Did you really take it like that this whole time? You thought it was a rejection?”
“He practically pushed me into traffic!” you hiss defensively, and both girls explode into laughter.
“That is not what happened,” Lara insists, and then heads to the cooler, leaving you, Ruby, and your very confused thoughts.
You look at her. She looks at you.
“I thought you knew,” she says finally, holding up her hands in mock innocence. “I had no idea you took it that way.”
You can’t respond - the boys return at this exact moment, Mingyu flops dramatically next to Ruby, panting heavily, sweat running down his face.
“Jagiya,” he gasps like he’s dying. “Water. Please.”
Ruby rolls her eyes, but a water bottle lands next to Mingyu’s head before she can get up. You turn towards the cooler and see Soonyoung standing with his hands on his knees, also panting, while Chan digs around for presumably another water bottle.
“You need anything out of here?” he asks you over his shoulder.
You shake your head. “Thanks, though.”
You rise, brushing errant sand from the backs of your thighs, squinting at the water. The waves are breaking evenly, and there’s room to tread further out past the breaking point. “I think I’m gonna go in,” you announce to whoever is listening.
Lara shakes her head, reaching one hand up to tug at Soonyoung, obviously wanting him to sit by her. Ruby flaps her hand at you as if to tell you go on. She’s never been a big swimmer, more of a giant unicorn floatie kind of girl.
You stop when you’re ankle-deep, letting a few waves break and rush over the tops of your feet, adjusting to the temperature. You start to wade in, the water rushing around your shins, when you hear your name called breathlessly behind you.
Chan jogs up, his hair pushed back, a thin silver chain bouncing against his collarbones. You look away before you can get caught. Ruby and Lara’s words race through your brain. Have you been wrong about him this whole time? Have you misread every signal over the last three years, viewed it through the wrong lens?
“You can’t leave me alone with them,” he complains, face twisting in exaggerated suffering.
You laugh. “Can’t stand being the fifth wheel, huh?”
He shakes his head, smiling, still trying to catch his breath from volleyball and then the jog over here.
“You coming in?” you ask him. “I was gonna go out and tread for a while.”
He nods. “You don’t mind if I join?”
You look at him appraisingly, new information starting to process inside your mind, shifting the rules you’d followed for months. The sea air makes you bold. “You?” you say. “I would never mind.”
You don’t wait to see his reaction; you step further into the water, hitting just above your knees when you reach the spot where the waves are breaking. You stumble a little as a wave hits your thighs, and Chan’s hand finds your elbow, firm but unassuming, helping you steady yourself again.
When you reach waist-deep water, you eye the spot just ahead where the waves reach their tallest point as they gather on their way to shore.
“We’re gonna have to go under that,” you tell Chan. He actually looks nervous, which makes you laugh. “Want me to hold your hand?”
The smile he sends you is both self-deprecating and relieved, like he can’t believe his answer is yes, but yes, and he’s so glad you asked.
“Come on,” you say, laughing again. You hold out your hand and he takes it, and when the next ocean swell rises before you like a mighty wall you hold your breath and tug him under. It’s an act of faith, dipping below the roaring ocean, hoping you time it right. You keep his fingers tight between yours and let your body sink.
You surface on the other side, in an area of relative calm. Beside you, Chan wipes at his face with his spare hand, which makes you realize you’re still holding the other. You release it gently, treading water easily. Chan can probably just touch sand if he stretches.
You tread together quietly for a few minutes, less than six inches apart. The sun glints off the water around you, dancing and sparkling as the water moves. You wish you could ask him about that night, years ago, confirm Lara and Ruby’s interpretation of the events. You could - you just aren’t brave enough.
You look at him, familiar and beautiful and - until today - unobtainable. What if you swam closer, what if you pressed yourself close and kissed him, right here in the ocean?
If it ruined everything, you could just let yourself drown. And if it didn’t… well, you could let yourself drown a different way, then.
You chicken out. You chat about inconsequential things instead - his upcoming trip with his family, a work project you’d recently wrapped up that you’d been talking about for months, what the plan will be for dinner when you all get tired of the sunshine.
It’s easy to talk to Chan - it always has been. He’s quick with a joke or a bit, but always open and earnest. He watches you quietly when you talk, accentuates his stories with his hands when it’s his turn. Eventually, Ruby joins you. Mingyu stands at the edge of the water, one hand shielding his eyes, watching her go.
“He’s not coming in?” you ask.
She rolls her eyes. “Doesn’t want to get his hair wet. God, the water feels great. Anyway, we’re thinking of heading in soon, to get showers and stuff before we figure out dinner?”
“Sounds good,” Chan says.
“I’ll be right in,” you say, and beneath the water you grab at Ruby’s hand. Stay.
Chan gives you both a wave goodbye and heads towards the beach. You both watch as he steps onto land, approaches Mingyu, and shakes like a dog, spraying water all over his friend. You can hear Mingyu’s shout of protest even from here, and Ruby’s maniacal laughter echoes around you.
“How’s it going?” she asks you slyly, when she’s finished laughing at her man. Like she knows the answer already.
“Nice of you to ask!” you cry. “Actually! I’m kind of having a meltdown! Because for nearly eight months I thought he’d told me unequivocally, irrevocably no, and now I am finding out that he… I don’t even know. What does it mean? That was ages ago, surely even if he felt something then…”
“Only one way to find out,” Ruby says, way too sensibly.
“That’s not helpful,” you grumble.
“It is helpful, it’s just not easy,” she says sagely. You splash a handful of water towards her head and she shrieks, swimming further away from you.
“That’s enough of you,” you tell her, and start heading in towards the sand.
Back at the blanket, the boys and Lara have mostly packed up. You pull your rolled up towel out of your tote and dry off briskly. When everyone is accounted for, you all collect your things and head back up the walkway towards the house.
You put everything away - leftover drinks in the fridge, wet towels in the washing machine, etc - and the couples disappear into their rooms, doors closing and locking up and down the hallway.
Which just leaves you and Chan.
You follow him to the end of the hall and into the large room you’ll be somehow sharing. He turns on one of the bedside lamps and stops to plug his phone in, then looks over at you.
“You wanna shower?” he asks, tossing his phone lightly onto the bed. You can only stare at him, short-circuiting, until he clarifies. “Do you want to go first?”
“Oh,” you utter, quickly trying to recover. “Yeah, if you don’t mind?”
He waves his hand graciously towards the dark bathroom, as if to say, be my guest.
Showering turns into a reprieve - a locked door between you allowing you to jumpstart your brain again as you feel the hot water remove all the hidden bits of sand clinging to your legs and back.
While Chan takes his turn after you, you escape outside with a cold soda from the fridge. The beach beyond your rental’s deck is still pretty busy, but the crowd has thinned a bit since you all packed up. The sun descends behind the house, which means the sunrise tomorrow morning will come over the beach.
Mingyu seems to be preparing the grill, and Ruby bustles around, bringing out ingredients and setting them close to the grill. On one of the cushioned benches, Lara drapes her legs over Soonyoung’s legs and talks with him quietly, both of them giggling.
Since it seems like your help isn’t needed anywhere - you’ll help set the table when the food is almost ready, as is your usual job as a non-cook - you sit with your cold drink and watch the waves break, lost in thought.
Lara and Ruby seemed so sure that you’d misread Chan that autumn night. There’s a small part of you that’s still doubtful, but at the end of the day you do trust their judgement. So, assuming they’re right, Chan had been interested in you. That was over six months ago, though. It doesn’t mean anything now except that… well… if he was interested in you once, there’s a possibility he could be again. Or still.
Your move, it seems, is to figure out if that’s the case. Chan hasn’t done anything recently to indicate that he’s disinterested, but he also hasn’t done anything to indicate that he is. He - like you - has played it very safe. It isn’t until now that you’ve questioned if it’s because he actually sees you platonically, or if he thinks that’s what you want.
One of you is going to have to push the boundary, to test the waters.
When Chan emerges from the house, freshly showered and hair falling over his forehead nearly to his eyes, you look up from where you’re sitting and watch him thoughtfully. He pauses at the grill to ask Mingyu something, then passes by the mess of limbs that is Soonyoung and Lara, then drops onto the seat next to you.
“Mingyu says it’ll be another twenty minutes or so until everything’s done,” he informs you.
“Guess I should get the plates and stuff,” you sigh, leaning forward to set your drink on the table.
“I can help you,” he offers, and follows you inside, where you both open cabinets and drawers in the unfamiliar kitchen until you find everything you need.
He heads outside ahead of you, his hands loaded with utensils and condiments, and you pause, watching his dark silhouette against the evening sunlight. Your heart tumbles, and you jerk back into motion, following him into the light.
You all stay on the back deck until well after sunset. As the sky sinks into deeper and deeper blues, you rise and plug in the string of lights that weave through the beams above the deck, casting everyone in a nearly-orange glow. Mingyu sets up the tabletop fire pit, but you end up chilly anyway as night takes hold.
You shiver once, and you notice Chan looking sideways at you.
“Cold?” he asks, and the wave of deja vu you get is almost dizzying.
You shake your head instinctively, more against the memory than actually answering the question. “I’m fine,” you say, even though you do have goosebumps rising along your arms.
He gets up anyway, heading into the unlit house without a word. You rise a beat later and head across the deck.
Ruby calls your name like a question, and in answer you point at the cooler tucked behind the grill, where you’d all stashed beer and water bottles. She gives a quick “ah” of understanding.
“You need one?” you ask her, as you shuffle behind the grill and pull on the cooler’s lid.
“I’ll take a beer,” Mingyu answers for her, and you dig through the bottles and cans until you find his preferred brand, reaching to pass it to him over Soonyoung’s head. Then you turn back and look at your options, trying to decide if you want a can of spiked seltzer or if you want to go inside and mix something a little harder.
While you’re deciding, the glass door to your left slides open, and Chan steps quietly back onto the deck. He’s in a baby blue hoodie that he hadn’t been wearing before, and he carries a bundle of dark material in his hands.
“Here,” he says quietly, holding it out to you. “It felt weird to dig through your luggage, so I grabbed one of mine.”
You take his offering silently, fighting a tiny smile. “Thanks,” you say, equally quiet, like you’ve both agreed you want to keep this moment between you, not call the attention of the others. You shake the dark hoodie out and pull it over your head, slipping your arms into the sleeves and fixing the hood so it’s not inside-out. The hem falls almost past your shorts, and the sleeves reach past your fingers.
Chan bends to grab a beer from the cooler, then heads back to where he was sitting before. You reach for your own drink, settling on a seltzer after all, and when you turn to head back to your spot you can’t help but notice him watching you through the flickering fire pit, something unreadable on his face.
“You good?” you ask him as you settle back into your spot.
“Yeah,” he says, but there’s something tight in his voice that makes the goosebumps rise on your arms again despite the new layer of warmth you’re wearing. That smells like him. You tug on the edges of the sleeves to pull the shoulders tighter and curl up on your chair, tucking your legs into the baggy material and locking back into the conversation.
The night moves slowly, the constellations rotating centimeter by centimeter above you, everything made comfortably fuzzy by the drinks and the firelight. Sometime before midnight, Ruby suggests a walk along the beach.
You go in bare feet, the cool wood of the deck stairs giving way to sand as soft as silk. Mingyu and Ruby take the lead, the rest of you trailing behind. At some point - long after the house disappears from view - Lara stops, pointing up at the moon - a sliver above the undulating sea.
The four of you stop and look for a minute. Down the beach, you can hear Ruby and Mingyu but they’re out of sight in the dark.
“We should probably catch up with them,” you say, looking in the direction of their disembodied voices.
“I think we’re gonna head back to the house, actually,” Lara says, looking up at Soonyoung to gauge if he agrees. “We’ll leave the back door unlocked for you all?”
They say their goodbyes and head back hand in hand, leaving you alone with Chan and that sliver of moon. For a minute, the night seems to expand around you, growing bigger and bigger and leaving the two of you so small within it. Chan looks at you silently, as if he’s waiting for something, one side of his mouth quirked into an almost-smile that makes your stomach swim with the desire to cause a real smile, to push that little almost into something fully-formed.
Then, Ruby calls your names loudly from further up the beach, and the spell is broken.
“Guess we better catch up,” Chan says wryly. You both turn and start walking in silence, nearly shoulder to shoulder. As you walk, the back of your hand brushes the back of his just once, and your entire body prickles at the contact. You almost shift away, give him a little more space, but something urges you to hold the line. You want to see what he will do.
You keep walking, close enough that you can hear him breathing, hear the sand slide each time he takes a step. The back of his hands brushes yours again, warm. He doesn’t react, so neither do you.
You carry on, knuckles occasionally bumping his, until you find Ruby and Mingyu. They’re standing watching the moon, Mingyu wrapped around Ruby’s back like a giant, love-sick koala.
“Where’re Soonyoung and Lara?” Ruby asks, when she notices you.
“They headed back,” you say, stopping a few feet away.
“We should, too,” Ruby muses, eyes on the moon. “But it’s so pretty here.”
“It is,” Chan murmurs from beside you and you glance sideways at him, trying to read him. He’s staring out at the dark sea, the stars flickering in and out above it, giving you his profile. Ruby’s eyes flick to you, one eyebrow quirked. You look away, not wanting to get caught in this silent conversation, but you can feel the heat on your face, the smile tugging at your mouth.
The house is dark when you all return, and you let yourselves back in quietly, just in case Soonyoung and Lara are actually sleeping. You bid Ruby and Mingyu goodnight in whispers and head to the end of the hall. Chan closes the door and you flick on the bedside lamp, casting a low yellow light through the room.
Wordlessly, Chan begins to rummage through his suitcase, transferring items to a small pile - a pair of loose shorts, a toothbrush, his phone charger. It occurs to you, suddenly, that he’s gathering what he needs to leave - to go sleep on a couch.
“Chan,” you say. You don’t even know what you want to say next. You just know you don’t want him to go, don’t want him to sleep on a couch, don’t want to be here alone.
He pauses, turning to look at you over his shoulder.
What do you want to say? Stay? You balk, suddenly chicken again.
“I can take the couch tonight,” you say instead. He shakes his head, but you press on. “We can switch tomorrow.”
“Nope,” he says easily.
“Chan,” you say again. He keeps rummaging, his back to you.
“Chan,” you repeat, insistent. He turns fully, still crouching, and raises his eyebrows as if to say, yes?
“Do you want to just stay here?” you ask, trying to keep your voice from shaking. It feels like a moment of great enormity.
He shakes his head, and the rejection stings enough that you feel your breath catch.
But then he says, “No, I’m not letting you sleep on a couch. I’m trying to be a gentleman - quit fighting me.”
You realize, slowly, that he misunderstood what you were offering.
“No,” you say. “I meant… like… no one on the couch.”
He stares at you blankly, his hands open like he forgot he was searching for something.
Embarrassment licks up the back of your neck like flames. “The bed isn’t that small,” you say, a little defensive. “We could just, like, stay on our own sides.”
The blank look on his face slowly transforms. His brows come together, his mouth tucking into a rare frown. He opens his mouth like he’s going to ask something, but nothing comes out. His eyes flick to the bed and then back to you.
“I don’t…” he says, and the heat of embarrassment heightens. He clears his throat and tries again, “I don’t want you to do anything that makes you uncomfortable,” he says slowly.
“I wouldn’t suggest it if I wasn’t okay with it,” you point out.
He nods slowly, then pushes himself to stand. “Are you extremely sure?” he asks, peering at you. “This isn’t a High Noon decision, is it?”
You laugh, the tension dissipating a little. “No,” you assure him. “I just… feel bad putting you on a couch… and I don’t particularly want to sleep on a couch either… and I think we can… not make it weird?”
“We can,” he says, like a promise.
You second-guess your decision the whole time you get ready for bed - as you brush your teeth, as you change into pajamas, as you settle into the side of the bed by the balcony and plug in your phone. You’re nervous you won’t be able to keep it not weird - nervous that you won’t be able to keep your hands to yourself, that the magnetic pull to touch him will be too strong.
But when Chan climbs into the other side of the bed and clicks off the light, illuminated only by his phone screen, his warmth seeping into the blankets around you, it isn’t your hands that inch towards him. It’s your words. They claw their way out, desperate to reach across the six inches of darkness.
Chan, I’m actually really into you.
What really happened that night, when we were walking from bar to bar?
I’m in love with you, probably. I think.
Are you interested in me? At all?
You fight them all back, hold them all in. You don’t relax until Chan’s clicked his phone off and placed it on the nightstand, whispered goodnight to you, until you hear his breathing deepen. Just in case. Just in case the words get out the second you unclench - you need him to be asleep first so you can be sure he won’t hear them. You fall asleep with your face buried in the crook of your elbow, one last line of defense.
You wake up with your face buried in the crook of Chan’s neck instead of your own arm. You realize it instantly, body freezing like you’re about to get caught stealing, your whole body tight with panic. Like if you don’t move, you won’t wake him, and he won’t know that you cuddled him in your sleep.
Mortifying.
He’s mostly on his back but sort of tilted towards you, and you have one arm over his ribs, your nose pressed into the juncture of his shoulder. But, you realize as you stay frozen, his arms are around you. This was a mutual cuddle. Your legs are touching, too, one of your shins between his.
You try to breathe as shallowly as possible, fight the urge to stretch or roll or scoot away. You don’t want to alert him, pop this bubble, make the moment end. Chan is holding you as the sun rises over the ocean outside. It feels like another daydream, too good to be true. You never want it to end. You wish it was more real than this.
Slowly, you relax, one limb at a time, letting your muscles unclench and inhaling deeply. His skin, warm against your cheek, smells good - still a bit salty from the ocean, even after showering. But it’s only moments later that he stirs, his arms tightening around you and then loosening again as he makes a satisfied, low noise in his throat.
Then he goes still. You freeze back up, watching him for a reaction.
His mouth moves first, quirking sideways, and then he cracks one eye and peers down at you. A laugh bubbles from him and the cuddle is disintegrating around you as he shifts himself backwards and up on his elbows, still chuckling.
“Sorry,” he’s laughing, “sorry. I didn’t - that - I did not expect to do that in my sleep.”
You can’t help your own sheepish smile in return. “Me either, but it was actually comfy,” you admit. Now disentangled, you feel kind of cold and a little sad. But he’s acting like it was a funny goof, your bodies clinging to each other the second your brains turned off, so you’ll go along with the joke.
He rolls over and rummages on his nightstand, returning with his phone in hand and pushing thin-framed glasses up his nose. You look away, heart clenching. You love him in those; combined with the bedhead and his smell in your nose and the warmth of his skin not yet evaporated from yours and the feeling of his arms around you… it’s all a lot.
“I’m gonna… get dressed,” you say, reaching for your own phone. Chan hums a response and you vanish into the bathroom, brushing your teeth and getting ready as slowly as possible. When you come out, the bedroom is blessedly empty. You close your eyes and exhale. It’s going to be a long day.
When you finally head down to the kitchen, Lara and Chan are chatting easily at the table, steaming mugs in their hands. He’s still in those damn cute glasses.
“Good morning!” Lara greets you brightly. “There’s coffee!”
“God bless you,” you tell her seriously. You open a cabinet in search of a mug, but you’re faced with only plates and glassware instead. Chan appears at the cabinet next to you, reaching up and offering you a white mug with a cartoon seagull on it.
“Thanks,” you say, feeling weirdly shy considering you just woke up pressed against him. Once you fix the coffee how you like it, you take the seat next to Lara at the table. “Everyone else still asleep?” you ask.
“Soonyoung is, but I have to go wake him up in a minute,” Lara says, clicking on her phone screen to check the time. “We have a snorkeling thing at ten.”
“Ruby and Mingyu are out already,” Chan tells you. “Sunrise yoga. She texted us.”
“God,” you say, horrified. “Mingyu’s gonna hate that.” You realize at the mention of her text that you’ve left your phone upstairs.
Chan laughs. “Right?”
Lara rises, presumably to go wake up her boyfriend. “Her text said they’d be out until around four,” she tells you as she moves back into the kitchen to rinse out her mug. “I think they’ll beat us back, but not by much. Maybe we can go grab dinner when everyone’s back?”
“Sure,” you say, shooting a look at Chan to see if he has any opinions on this plan. He shrugs - no opinions to be found. You’ve always loved the way he could just go with the flow, happy to be along for the adventure.
You and Chan are still sitting at the table, coffees dwindling, when Lara pulls a bleary-eyed Soonyoung through the front door with a shouted goodbye, the sound of the car’s engine reaching you from outside. You look at each other, left alone together.
Again.
He gives you a flat, unamused look that he definitely picked up from Seungkwan or Vernon. “Are they doing this on purpose?” he asks, and a jolt goes through you. He’s said it. It’s like a curtain being pulled, shedding sunlight on something that had been shadowbound until now.
“Doing what?” you say, even though you know. “Leaving us by ourselves? Probably. Ruby likes to fuck with me.”
Chan laughs, and you’re filled with shaky relief that the moment isn’t weird. You both knew what this was, apparently, and facing it has put you on the same team against it.
“I thought it was to fuck with me,” he admits, still smiling.
“Two birds with one stone,” you muse. “For the sake of efficiency.”
But you wonder… why would it be fucking with him if he wasn’t interested in you? Is he admitting something?
“Well,” Chan says, stretching his arms above his head, fingers linked, “by all means, you can do your own thing today. You don’t have to babysit me. But it’s supposed to storm later, so I was thinking I’d use the pool a bit this morning while we still can, and then maybe go into town for lunch.”
You consider this. “That’s very pragmatic of you,” you observe lightly.
“That’s one of the first words I’d pick to describe myself,” he tries to deadpan, but the smile is too quick, telling on himself.
You let him get changed first, and when you make your way out back to the pool he’s already in the water up to his waist. You toss a towel onto one of the chaises.
“How’s the water?” you ask him, as you move to sit on the edge, preparing to let your legs dangle.
“It’s great,” he tells you, smiling easily, like he’s happy - happy you’re here, happy to be here with you.
You wonder if that’s the case, as you slowly lower your legs in, the water coming to lap a few inches below your knees.
“Feels cold,” you tell him. It doesn’t, really - way warmer than the ocean you played in yesterday, but you want to tease him a little.
Suddenly, his hands are on your ankles, holding you firmly. His hands are on your ankles.
“You should get in quickly,” he tells you, trying - again - to pretend to be serious, despite the smile he can’t combat. “Like ripping off a band-aid.”
“Lee Chan,” you warn, but a giggle rises up in you. “Don’t you dare. I will get in when I am good and ready!”
“I’m just trying to help,” he says, pretending to be hurt. His fingers are still pressing against your skin, your brain impossibly aware of the exact spot his thumb presses, as if there’s a beacon illuminating the place.
He gives your legs a playful tug, too lightly to actually move you. You squeal anyway, reaching down to splash water towards him. “Chan!”
He releases your ankles, taking a step back to avoid the splash, laughing. “Be careful,” he warns. “If it’s war you want -” He holds his hand like a knife above the water, ready to retaliate the splash.
“Oh my God, you menace. I’m getting in!” you cry, gripping the lip of the pool and sliding in, staying on your tippy-toes as your body adjusts to the temperature.
“Come on,” he goads, backing away from you, bobbing towards the shallow end. “You have to go under or it doesn’t count.”
“You’re a menace,” you repeat firmly, and he laughs, enjoying that his teasing has worked you up.
You eye the expanse of water between you - you’re at opposite ends of the pool now. “Do you think I could make it across in one go?” you ask.
He raises an eyebrow. “Like, underwater? I don’t know - how’s your lung capacity?”
You laugh. “Maybe not good enough,” you admit wryly. “But I’ll try.”
You take a deep breath of salty sea air, only minorly marred by chlorine, and slip down below the surface. You let the bottoms of your feet find the flat cement wall of the pool, and you give a hearty push. It’s hard without being able to see how much farther you have to go, but you hate getting chlorine in your eyes, so you kick and pull blindly until your lungs start to burn. When your natural buoyancy pulls you upward, you don’t fight it.
Your hands find something warm and solid before you surface. Surprise causes you to rear your head, fucking with your balance, and your feet find the floor of the pool. You stand up unsteadily, blinking water out of your eyes.
Chan comes into focus, his expression tight, and you realize that your hands had found his stomach, centimeters above his belly button.
“Sorry,” you say quickly, pulling away.
It’s like ever since last night, you can’t stop touching, your bodies fighting to come together even as you both dig in your heels and try to stop it.
“No worries,” he says just as quickly. You try to cover the moment by wiping water out of your face, but you feel warm all over, the cool water useless against your heated skin as you try to push away how his muscled stomach had felt under your fingertips.
You spend a good hour just floating and splashing around. Sometimes you chat and sometimes you lapse into comfortable silence. At one point you hear him singing lightly under his breath, his voice surprisingly clear but frustratingly quiet.
Eventually, your stomach growls. “I’m starting to get hungry,” you tell him. “You up for lunch in town, maybe? I’d just need to shower super quick first.”
“Sounds great,” he says easily, and you both head for the single runged ladder at the deep end. Chan climbs up first, standing by the ladder, dripping onto the concrete. You grip the metal handles firmly and find the bottom rung with one foot, pushing heavily to hoist yourself up.
And Chan helps you up - his fingers finding the dip of your waist and guiding you until you’re steadily on the pool deck, something protective in the touch.
Your entire body thrums, electric, cells vibrating. You hurry to your towel and wrap yourself up, hiding your face in the material - pretending you’re just chasing droplets away from your eyes, but actually smothering the urge to scream, if you’re going to touch me then get over here and do it properly!
“Did you know there’s a hot tub under the deck? Was that mentioned in the listing?” Chan asks, and you uncover your face.
“Huh?”
He’s pointing, and then you see that he’s right - tucked beneath the deck is a decently-sized jacuzzi, the lid on and straps fastened shut.
“Oh,” you say breathlessly. “Well, I know what I’m doing after dinner.”
Chan laughs, and you head inside, careful not to drip a trail of pool water through the house.
The rest of the morning passes pleasantly and without any touching; you shower and get changed and go on foot into the small beach town. You find a cute open-air cafe and order lunch, the iced coffee absolutely divine under the warm summer sun. The company’s not bad either.
After you’ve paid and left, Chan pauses on the sidewalk and gives you a mischievous smile. “Up for a little adventure?” he asks.
You frown. “What level of adventure?” you ask cautiously. “Like, on a scale of jumping out of a plane being ten to laying on my towel in the sand being one, what are we talking here?”
He laughs. “Like a three,” he assures you. “We just have a bit of a walk - maybe twenty minutes?”
The walk is pleasant - you don’t even get too warm, as there’s a constant breeze off the ocean and clouds pass overhead, pitching you momentarily into shade between longer bouts of sunshine. When you turn a bend and see the lighthouse rise against the sky in the distance, you actually gasp.
“Can we go up?” you ask, delighted.
“That’s the plan,” he tells you, and for once you can read his face perfectly - he’s pleased that he’s surprised you, pleased to have made you happy. Something warm simmers under your skin, affection and happiness and something else.
It takes forever to reach the top. You have to stop and rest more than once, your calves burning and protesting the many stairs. A few families pass you on their way down, one mother telling you cheerfully that you’re almost to the top. This motivates you to continue, and you press on until you reach the final landing and step through the metal doorway.
The view is absolutely worth it. The beach and the ocean stretch out before you, the town in the distance behind you. Alone at the top, you feel like you’re in your own little world, surrounded by sunlight and the calls of gulls, just you and Chan.
You stand, holding the railing, watching the waves undulate far below you for a long time. “Chan,” you say, and then falter. You don’t know what you were going to say. Some part of you thinks maybe you’d been about to confess, or to finally ask him something to shed light on his feelings.
When he looks at you, expectant, you say only, “Thanks for bringing me here.”
And maybe you did confess something, because he reaches over and squeezes your hand, just once.
And then, he looks over your shoulder and utters, “Uh oh.”
You spin, following his gaze, and echo, “Uh oh.”
Dark grey clouds gather to the west. You remember him saying it was supposed to storm later; it looks like rain will be rolling in soon, ushering in the storms behind it.
“We’d better head down,” he says regretfully, and you follow him back inside.
You make it down and outside before the rain comes, but the sunshine of the morning has gone and left gloomy grey in its wake.
“You think we can make it back to the house?” you ask breathlessly.
Chan checks the time on his phone, already walking brisky back towards the direction of town and your rental. “Maybe,” he says, but he sounds doubtful. “We’ve gotta be quick, though.”
You barely even make it into town; you aren’t even back at the cafe where you’d had lunch before the sky opens. It happens exactly like that - one second it’s not raining, the next second you’re drenched, hair plastered to your face, shirt sticking to your back, spluttering breaths through your mouth like you’re being sprayed with a hose.
You let out a cry of surprise, and then Chan is grabbing your hand and tugging, pulling you off of the sidewalk and into a nearby doorway. You don’t even manage to see what the doorway belongs to - Chan is already pulling it open, his hand still in yours as he leads you inside.
It’s dark, and it takes your eyes a minute to adjust as you wipe rain away from your eyes and shake droplets off of your arms. Beside you, Chan is doing the same, running a hand through his soaked hair and huffing out a noise of disbelief.
“That,” you say, “was bonkers.”
You seem to be in a dimly-lit dive bar, the kind that only locals go to. It’s pretty empty, since it’s early afternoon on a weekday, so when Chan raises a soggy, questioning eyebrow at you, you shrug and follow him towards the bar. Why not?
You take a seat wearily, and pull out your phone.
“We’ve got almost an hour until everyone is supposed to be back,” you inform him.
“In that case,” he says, and when the bartender meanders over, he orders you a row of shots to share.
You clink shot glasses for the first one, but after that you turn it into a game.
Chan narrows his eyes at you, mock-thoughtful. “What would you do if you woke up and your hands and feet had switched places?”
After answering (use my toes to order an Uber to the hospital), you volley with, “What would you do if aliens invaded tomorrow?”
Back and forth the game goes, punctuated by shot glasses being emptied and returned to the bar. What would you do if you woke up married in Vegas? … What would you do if you woke up one day and could only speak in rhyme? … What would you do if you were suddenly allergic to your favorite food? … What would you do if you were forced to join the circus?
You’re both laughing deliriously. Chan is wiping under his eyes in mirth, and you’ve hunched over so far that you find yourself with your hands on his knees, using him to stay upright on your barstool. Your surroundings have faded into colors and muted sounds with the alcohol in your system. All you can focus on is Chan, warm and solid under your palms, his eyes on you, the sound of his laugh cutting straight through the fog.
Then his next one isn’t so funny. “What would you do if you found out you only had a day to live?” he asks, and despite the seriousness, one last chuckle rumbles through his chest, like an aftershock.
Tell you. Tell you the truth.
You swallow. You take your hands off of his knees - you’re not sure he even noticed them there - and flex your fingers. And then, filter demolished by both alcohol and the sheer amount of time it’s been keeping you in check, you break.
Instead of answering, you fire back your own. “What would you do if I came onto you right now?”
Chan blinks at you, eyes as wide as you’ve ever seen them. He blinks twice more, and then his mouth opens. Your heart pounds.
“I’d - I - I guess, I’d probably kiss you,” he says, voice suddenly hushed, as if he’s a little unsure if he’s supposed to be honest or if the game is still a string of jokes.
You stare back. The two of you are frozen, both a bit wide-eyed, like neither of you is sure how you ended up like this.
Then, you breathe, “Okay, then do it.”
He nods immediately, breath coming sharply, and shifts closer on his seat. You feel like you’re holding your breath, waiting. Tentatively, he reaches up, brushes your jaw with his thumb.
Beside you, your phone blares to life on the bar. You both jump, startled out of the moment.
“Ruby,” you tell him hollowly. His hand still hovers near your face, but he nods, pulling it away. You feel like you can barely breathe as you slide your thumb to take the call.
“Hey,” you say into the phone, your eyes on Chan.
“Hey,” Ruby says, “where are you guys? Our thing ended early because of the rain so we’re back at the house.”
“Oh,” you say, trying hard to focus on her voice in her ear and not what just almost happened. “We’re in town. At… a bar? We came in to get out of the rain.”
“Perfect,” Ruby says. Across from you, Chan is rubbing his hands down the tops of his thighs, like they’re sweaty. You wonder if he’s nervous. “We’ll get changed and come get you guys in the car, and then we can go grab dinner together.”
You agree and hang up, then repeat the plan to Chan, who nods. He looks how you feel - a bit shell-shocked, a bit uncertain.
“We need to sober up,” you say. “Or, at least, I do.”
“No, me too,” he says, shaking his head. He sighs, and he might as well have said, goddamn Ruby. You hear it all. Then he seems to give himself a shake, orders you each a water, and asks to close his tab.
“They’re just up the street,” you tell him when Ruby’s text rolls in a bit later.
He nods, uncharacteristically quiet. You wish you could peek inside his brain and see what’s going on in there.
“Hey,” you say, and his eyes snap to you, that open look you know so well on his face. Your voice softens, and you resist the urge to reach out and touch his hand when you continue. “Here’s what I don’t want to happen - I don’t want Ruby to sniff out that something’s going on and interrogate me before we can… talk, ourselves. So let’s pull it together, and get through dinner, and then we can…”
We can what? Pick up where we left off?
He nods anyway, even though you’d left the thought unfinished. “You’re right,” he says.
And, somehow, you do. You both pull it together, rush through the pouring rain from the bar to the open car door. You smile and tease and laugh through dinner, like nothing had happened at all.
You feel relieved, in the back of Ruby’s car, as you all make your way back to the house. You did it - you got through dinner unscathed. Now you can go inside, and have some privacy, and talk and maybe figure out -
“Did you guys know the rental has a hot tub?” Chan asks, and you turn to look at him, baffled.
“It has a what?” Ruby gasps.
“Yep,” he says cheerfully, like he hasn’t just shattered your dream of getting a moment to yourselves. “It’s under the deck. Which means - hey! - it’s covered! We could totally go in, we wouldn’t even be in the rain.”
“That sounds great, actually,” Lara muses.
You say nothing, but when he catches you looking sideways at him, Chan sends you a wink, quick as lightning. You feel your face go puzzled, and he smiles and looks away, giving you no answers.
You’re somehow the first one to get changed and outside; it’s still pouring rain and you cover your head with your towel as you make your way down the steps and under the deck where some drips make it through, but you’re mostly out of the rain. A quick sweep of the area with your phone’s flashlight shows that there’s a string of the same lights down here as above on the deck, and you hurry to plug them in. Now that you can see, it’s actually kind of cute under here.
You unsnap the first strap for the lid, and jump when a pair of hands reaches next to you for the second one. You hadn’t heard Chan approach, but you silently accept his help as you push the lid up and off. You watch him out of the corners of your eyes to see if he’s going to say anything, address it at all. When it seems like he’s not, you turn to climb up the little set of steps, resigned.
His hand closes around your wrist, stilling you. He gives the tiniest of tugs and you relent, turning around. He gives you another tiny tug - you could resist if you wanted to, but you don’t, you don’t, you don’t. You let the tug pull you closer and look up at him, waiting. He kisses you quickly, firmly, close-mouthed for now but sure, his hands forming loose loops around each of your wrists as if he might want to tug you into place again.
The sliding glass door above you slides open and you step away, heart racing.
“Later,” he says quietly, and then you don’t get another second alone, Mingyu and Soonyoung’s voices bouncing through the space as they clamber down the deck stairs.
You climb into the warm water and choose a spot. Chan follows and sits a few solid feet away from you. You try not to look guilty when the other guys round the corner.
“Brought you a beer,” Mingyu says, reaching the extra can towards you.
“You are a legend,” you tell him gratefully.
Chan frowns, and for a crazed second you think maybe he’s jealous that Mingyu did something nice for you, but then he whines, “You didn’t bring me one? Hyung.”
“Calm your ass down,” Mingyu says, climbing into the water and finding a seat. You’re instantly more crowded, just from the sheer amount of space his long legs take up. “Soonyoung has yours.”
You snicker a little, and Chan gives you a light kick under the water. Above you, you hear the door slide open again, and a minute later Ruby and Lara appear beneath the deck, sheltered from the rain by Ruby’s towel.
“Oh,” Ruby says, surprised. “It’s not bad under here!”
“It’s cute, right?” you agree. “Still getting a few raindrops, though.”
“Eh, we’re in water anyway,” Soonyoung says easily, reaching up a hand to help steady Lara as she climbs in.
It’s crowded, and Chan’s two-feet-away doesn’t last. Instead, you’re crowded together, just inches apart. Ruby leans over the edge and turns on the jets, the top of the water creating a frothy layer.
“This is nice,” Lara says happily, closing her eyes and leaning against her boyfriend’s shoulder.
“It is,” you murmur, sipping at your beer. Under the cover of the jets’ bubbles, something touches your hand. Someone’s hand touches your hand. Chan’s hand touches your hand.
Your heart lurches. You beg your face to behave and give nothing away. And ever so slowly, you turn your hand over.
He doesn’t look at you, keeps his eyes on Soonyoung, who’s telling a story animatedly on the other side of the jacuzzi. But his fingers lace between yours, and his thumb brushes along the back of your hand, slow and tantalizing.
You’ve never been so undone by hand holding in your life.
You try to breathe. You sip casually at your beer and interject into the conversation when you can. You laugh at the jokes and look at whoever is speaking. You have no idea what the conversation is about. You hold onto Chan’s slender fingers like he’s a lifeline, like if you let go he’ll slip away, again and for good.
Later, he’d said, and his voice echoes in your head as you pray for later to be now. And finally, blessedly, Lara finally yawns, loud, and starts making moves to get out and head in. Which means so does Soonyoung. Then Mingyu lifts a hand from the water and examines his fingers, complaining, “I’m all pruny.” Chan gives your hand a squeeze and lets you go, reaching for his beer nonchalantly, watching Ruby and Mingyu carefully. You know you’re both waiting, impatiently, for them to leave you alone.
Leave, you silently beg, still trying to appear as casual as possible. Leaaaaave.
“You staying a little?” Ruby asks you, pausing halfway out of the hot tub.
“Yeah,” you say, trying to force your voice to stay casual. “I slept pretty late this morning - I’m not really tired yet.”
“Not all of us got up for sunrise yoga,” Chan says dryly, and Mingyu laughs, reaching for Ruby’s hand, clearly wanting to get inside.
“Okay, then,” Ruby says, her eyes still on you. “See you in the morning then.”
“Bye,” you tell her, and you have to fight the giggle out of your voice. You can’t help it - you feel giddy, nearly bouncing with excitement. You and Chan have been skirting the brink of something all day and you’re finally standing on the cusp of it, toes curled over the edge, ready to dive.
The second you hear the sliding door above you close, Chan’s hand is on your wrist again, pulling much more insistently than he had earlier in the day. Surprised, you let him tug you onto his lap, settling with your thighs bracketing his own, his hands wasting no time in finding your hips and pulling you more firmly against him.
His mouth is on yours, as insistent as his touch. You answer him readily, nearly sighing into his mouth as you get something you’ve wanted for years. You skate your hands up his chest and bring your arms around the back of his neck. He tips his head back a little, his hands sliding up your back, and the change in angle makes you sigh again.
“Thought they’d never leave,” he mutters against your jaw, and you let out a quick huff of a laugh before your breath leaves you entirely as his teeth nip a line down your neck, tongue and lips soothing behind each quick sting.
You chase his mouth, wanting him back, and he groans quietly when he realizes - like you wanting to continue kissing is just as good as actually kissing. But nothing is as good as the kissing, not if anyone asks you, nothing is as good as his tongue against yours, his teeth gentle on your lips, his hands clutching at your back and your arms and your hips like he can’t pick a favorite.
His hands roaming your body ignite you. You become only aware of their migration as they map the width of your shoulders, survey the dip of your waist, skate over your ass, then repeat the expedition. Your fingers have found his hair, curled up and held tight. He takes your hips in his hands and shifts you on his lap, causing you to tug slightly, and his exhale holds just the slightest hint of a whimper. You almost unravel, right there.
The shifted position also makes it absolutely unignorable that Chan is hard beneath you, and you can’t - don’t even try to - stop yourself from pressing yourself closer, your hips rolling almost involuntarily as soon as you feel him. Chan gasps at the sudden friction, his eyes squeezing shut for a second, like he’s already going under. Then his hands - frozen on your hips while his brain rebooted - come back to life, slipping up your ribs to cup both of your breasts over your bathing suit, giving one slow knead to both in tandem. You moan, low, unable to stop it, and he responds almost instantly, letting out an audibly shuddering breath.
He surges upwards to kiss you again, one thumb still rubbing circles against your hardening nipple, the other hand trailing back down your side and gripping your waist, holding you in place. You continue to move against him, his mouth hot against yours, the water bubbling around you and surrounding you in mist.
Chan’s nimble fingers leave your chest and work their way down between your bodies, pausing at the edge of your bathing suit bottoms. He looks up at you, pupils blown, panting out controlled little breaths like he’s fighting to keep himself in check.
Eyes unwavering on yours, watching your reactions closely, he slips his fingers between your legs, pressing the material against you, sliding down your slit and back deftly. His cock kicks beneath you when you whine. His gaze on you feels charged, almost like a challenge.
And then you’re blinded by a flash, followed almost instantly by an alarming crack of thunder.
“Fuck,” Chan hisses, twisting to peer out towards the ocean, his hands finding your hips again as if by instinct. “The storm.”
“Guess we have to head in,” you say, and it comes out wispy and breathless. Your legs feel like jelly and he’s barely even started.
“Yeah,” he says, the single syllable tight. He adjusts himself as you vacate the water, the rain beyond the safety of the deck seeming to redouble its efforts. You both hurry to turn the jets off and replace the cover, then stand at the edge of the dry space, looking out at the raging rain.
As hot and heavy as things were only a minute ago, you feel oddly still now, staring out at the storm. Chan places your towel over your shoulders.
“Thanks,” you say quietly, looking sideways at him.
“Ready?” he asks you, and you think he means ready to brave the storm. But your heart is answering another question - are you ready to continue, ready to move forward with him, ready to give life to something that has remained only a daydream in your mind?
“I don’t know,” you tell him honestly.
He slips his hand into yours. “I’ve got you,” he promises.
You move quickly but carefully through the rain, eyes on your feet as you take the slippery wooden stairs up the deck and towards the house. Chan doesn’t let go of your hand until you’re inside, sliding the door shut behind you. The house is dark and quiet, lit only by a single light above the kitchen sink. You both stand near the door and try to dry off, but your towels got soaked by the rain and don’t do much good.
“Come on,” Chan whispers. “There are fresh towels upstairs.”
You follow him through the house, up the stairs and down the darkened hallway. Chan pauses at the linen closet, pulling out two fluffy towels. You lead him into your shared room, closing and locking the door behind you as he clicks on one of the lamps.
Chan comes back into your space quietly, wraps you both in his towel, the spare forgotten on top of your dresser. You’re pressed tight together, warm in his arms. He presses his lips to the top of your head, leaving them resting there, just holding you. The moment is soft, heavy, a stark contrast to the lightning physicality of what happened outside. Something about the intimacy of it makes you feel hesitant.
“You okay?” he asks, pulling away a little to look at you.
“Yeah,” you breathe back. Your heart is racing. But it’s Chan. It’s Chan with his arms around you, and Chan who was kissing you and touching you, and - it all feels like something you aren’t allowed to have. “Just… maybe we shouldn’t?”
“We don’t have to,” he says immediately, shifting backwards and loosening his arms around you, giving you the option of pulling away if you want it. “We can do whatever you’re comfortable with. If you want to just go to bed… or if you want me to take the couch tonight, I can -”
“No,” you say quickly, because that’s the opposite of what you want. “No, it’s just… Chan…”
He seems to hear your uncertainty in your voice, his face softening and his arms pulling you back in. “What is it?” he asks quietly, and you slip your arms around his middle, giving in.
“I think I want this a lot more than you do,” you whisper, glad you don’t have to look at him while you say it.
He laughs, and you step back, looking at him quizzically. You’d been afraid of his reaction - of making him uncomfortable, of pushing the line too far. You hadn’t expected laughter.
“I don’t think that’s possible,” he tells you, and you just stare at him, not comprehending. He reaches up, fingers still clutching a corner of the towel wrapped loosely around his back, and brushes a thumb along your jaw. You feel your face warm, but you wait him out. He adds, “I want this… a ridiculous amount. I’ve wondered for a long time if we could… be more.”
He says it like a confession. He says it like he’s embarrassed about it.
“Well,” you say, a fire - a hope - coming back to life behind your ribcage, “maybe we should find out.”
And there it is, that smile that makes the whole world melt away.
The towel drops to the floor, forgotten, and his fingers are at the back of your neck, tugging on the knot that ties your bathing suit top in place. When the material falls away he makes a satisfied noise in his throat as he moves to kiss you again, walking you back towards the bed.
You’d both been eager, but when the mattress hits the backs of your thighs Chan lays you back slowly, almost reverently. He kisses you sweetly, tracing your jaw again, and then lets out another little laugh.
“What?” you breathe, smiling despite being clueless. “What’s funny?”
“Nothing. It’s not,” he says, but he’s still smiling, eyes tracing over your face and body. “It’s just… hard to believe this is real. That it’s you.”
Your breath leaves you. It’s exactly how you’ve felt.
“I know what you mean,” you whisper, and you kiss him again. This time he doesn’t hesitate when his hand slips between your legs, brushing right past your bathing suit and pushing the pads of his fingers into the wet mess he finds there. You shudder an exhale into his waiting mouth as he presses one finger and then a second deep into you, his eyes on you as you arch into the touch.
You let your eyes drift close as he pumps them slowly, and outside the room there’s another flash of lightning chased by the crack of thunder. For a little, there’s only the sound of rain beating against the windows as Chan works little whimpers and half moans out of you.
He switches his angle, something snagging behind your navel, everything beginning to tighten. You gasp his name, and you’re answered by his too-familiar huff of a laugh again.
“What?” you demand through your own smile.
“You say my name like that again and I’m gonna bust,” he tells you seriously. Then he brings his attention back to where his fingers disappear inside you, and his gaze sharpens. “These are in my way,” he murmurs, pulling out of you and reaching for your bathing suit, which had been pushed to the side.
“Yours too, then,” you object playfully, lifting your hips for him as he slides the damp material down your legs. He smiles at you indulgently and shuffles backwards on the back, standing long enough to tug at his swim trunks, letting them drop unceremoniously before crawling back up to you, pressing his mouth to yours and cupping your jaw with one hand, like he’d missed you in the seconds he’d been gone.
“Chan,” you whisper, because you need more of him, because this isn’t enough.
He slides lower down your body, his chest brushing against yours, his lips mapping a path down your sternum, down your belly, pausing near your navel. He looks up at you, all glinty-eyed, that million-dollar smile going slightly sideways, a little mischievous.
“Can I? Please say yes,” he says in a rush, pushing his nose into your lower belly and caressing your inner thighs with his thumbs.
You lean up on your elbows so you can look at him better. Your heart hasn’t stopped racing for a minute. He’s going to give you a cardiac event. “If you want to,” you tell him.
He laughs again, so quiet. “You have no idea,” he says, shaking his head, and then he’s attaching his mouth to you and your arms give out. You eye the ceiling, a strangled moan working up your throat as Chan’s tongue delves into your heat. You squirm, trying to push him deeper. He loops his arms under your legs and then reaches over, his hands pulling you tighter against his chin, both of you working to the same goal.
You hadn’t spent a lot of time imagining how Chan might eat pussy, but you’re surprised that he dives right into fucking you on his tongue, determined and rhythmic. You’d have pegged him for the type to go slow, draw it out, tease and taste and work you up little by little. Instead he grunts in satisfaction, pulls on you hard enough that you wonder if he’ll leave little bruises from his fingertips, and spears his tongue in and out of your hole with abandon, his nose bumping your clit every few thrusts.
You’re a whimpering mess, fighting the urge to roll your hips into his face, one hand slapped over your face to muffle the sound. He shifts, lips working their way up to your desperately pulsating clit, and you feel your whole body seize with the change of sensation, a long, low groan emanating from your chest. He suctions his lips around your clit and sucks gently, then a little less gently, and your feet scrabble against the sheets, trying to find purchase.
His fingers enter you again, his spit and your wetness giving them the perfect slide, and it’s exactly the extra stimulation you need. He only has to pump his wrist twice, that delicious suction steady around your clit, before you’re grasping desperately at him - one hand sliding into his hair and the other finding his wrist and holding tight, which doesn’t stop him at all from pistoning his fingers into that spot on your front wall that has you unraveling faster than you ever have before.
“Fuck, fuck, Chan -” you gasp. Your eyes squeeze shut and your grip on him might actually be painful, a belly-deep ahhhhh ripped from you as the onslaught of sensation sends conscious thought spinning away.
“Shhh,” he soothes, fingers slowly but continuing to work you through it. You whimper, gasp for a breath, the room coming back into view. “Not so loud, baby.”
“God, Chan,” you groan, releasing your hold on him, flexing your fingers.
He grins at you, lightning quick, then kisses the inside of your thigh. “That’s my girl.”
You peer at him, boneless. “You up for more?”
He pushes himself up on his elbows, the triumph not completely melted from his face yet. “I’m up for whatever you want,” he promises. “You’re calling the shots here.”
“Excellent,” you joke. You reach towards him, barely stop yourself from making grabby hands. “Come fuck me.”
He damn near scrambles to obey. He comes up to kiss you, deep and heady, and you hook one of your legs behind him, pulling him closer. The head of his cock slides along your slit and you tilt, trying to get him where you want him.
You look up at him, feeling like he hung the stars, and whisper his name. His answer is a bite of a kiss as he pushes himself into you, stopping only when his hips are flush with yours.
“Shit, you feel so good,” he breathes, eyes closed for a second, as he holds himself over you.
“Please move,” you beg, needing more.
“God,” he groans. “Okay. Okay. I got you.”
And he does. Chan fucks like he moves - quick and precise, each motion purposeful. His eyes have narrowed with focus, brows slightly furrowed with exertion as his hips snap. He slides one hand under you to help lift you, the angle changing just slightly.
“Yeah,” you breathe, desperation lacing your voice. “There.”
The drag of him is delicious, and so is the feeling of his body under your hands, and so is the sound of his ragged breath mixed with occasional gasps and groans. It’s the fact that it’s Chan driving you even higher.
A crack of thunder sounds directly overhead, and Chan takes the moment to roll you over, laying back and letting you straddle his lap without even slipping from inside you. You whine as the new position drives him deeper than he’d been before, your hands splayed over his pecs. He’s breathing rapidly now, struggling to keep his eyes open as he continues to fuck you from below.
“I-I’m - so -” he pants, “close. Really close, baby.”
You lean down to kiss him, his arms coming up around your shoulders to pull you chest to chest until his strokes grow sloppy and his hands tighten on you. You kiss along his jaw sweetly until he releases you with a sigh. He kisses you once more before he pulls out, and then again when he returns from the bathroom with a damp cloth.
“I might need to actually shower,” you muse.
“Yeah, okay,” he says easily, nodding. “Maybe I’ll go after you. I smell like chlorine.”
You shrug. “Might as well just join me. If you want.”
He grins. He follows you into the bathroom, waits with you while the water heats up. And then he fucks you again, against the cool tiles of the shower wall.
Later, back in bed, you face each other through the dark.
“I should have said earlier,” you whisper. “But I’ve liked you for a long time, too.”
His smile makes you feel full of sunshine, even when it’s shy, even when he’s asking what you want to do about it. Especially when he’s asking you, "What are you doing next Saturday?"
Tonight, the decision to cuddle is made while you’re awake. When you wake up in the morning, sunlight streaming through the windows, Chan wastes no time in reaching between your legs, finding you ready, and rolling over top of you, pushing between your thighs before he even has his eyes all the way open.
When you both emerge from your bedroom, stomachs growling and with the beginnings of a caffeine headache, your friends are all sitting at the kitchen table, surrounded with the evidence of a breakfast come and gone. They begin a slow clap, eventually lauding you in a mostly sarcastic but still loving round of applause.
“It’s about time,” Mingyu grouses. “You two have been circling each other forever.”
“Shh,” you tell him, as Chan slips his arm over your shoulders with a grin. “Not so loud.”
PAIRING: Waterpark Worker!Minghao x Waterpark Worker!Reader
SUMMARY: Working at a waterpark during the summer has its own trials and tribulations, but working with your ex makes it that much harder. When you discover the cool and quiet of the rain exhibit while hiding from your ex, you don’t expect to find additional solace - and something more - in its main occupant.
WC: 9,039
AU: Coworkers to Lovers
GENRE: Smut, Budding Romance
WARNINGS: Reader has an annoying ex boyfriend who won’t stop being overly friendly and The Nice Guy, depictions of an asshole boss, reader has a bit of a bad work day and cries about it at some point, general shitty job life lmfaooo, Minghao is a little possessive in a single scene, recreational drinking at a party, explicit language, explicit sexual content including vaginal fingering, unprotected sex (don’t do this!!!), semi-public sex (in an officed at a party), soft dom Minghao if you squint, oral (f. receiving).
A/N: This is for the amazing Carat Bay Collab hosted by @camandemstudios! Thank you so much for hosting such a fun collab - writing quiet Minghao and silly reader has been so much fun! This is relatively short and sweet for me, but I hope you all love the little rain room and this pair as much as I do!
A/N 2: No beta we die like men
MASTERLIST | ASK | FOR THE CARAT BAY COLLAB
A TANGERINE-COLORED INFLATABLE TUBE HITS YOU DIRECTLY IN THE FACE. You swear, your neck snapping backward as your sunglasses go flying. You hear the telltale splash as they hit the water behind you, barely audible as the little monster of a child goes screaming toward the steps to leave the shallow pool where the waterslide exits.
“Don’t run!” You yell at him as he high-knees it up the steps, hearing but not caring at your orders. His feet hit the pavement and he goes thundering away, probably to harass more workers or better, the creators that spawned him. “Fucker.”
Taking the floating device, you wade over to the conveyor belt and toss it on. The little lifesaver goes cranking up toward the top of the slide to be reused again. Sloshing back to where you were standing, you start looking for your sunglasses in the waist high water.
Just as you spot them, bending at the knees to sink into the lukewarm, chlorine-heavy water, a shout and explosion of tangerine hits the pool's surface, water spraying you in the face and hitting you directly in the eyes.
“Motherfucker!” You curse, blinking the burning chlorine water away as the kid floating by on the tube oooo’s at you for your language. Instead of honoring him with an answer, you grab the bottom of his float and flip it over, depositing him unexpectedly into the water. He comes up, coughing and sputtering. “Have a good day!”
After retrieving your drenched sunglasses and shoving them back on your face to keep some of the sun out of them, you go back to your routine of pulling tubes and putting them on the conveyor belt. It’s not hard work, but it’s not fun. The sun bakes down on top of your head, turning it pan-sear hot, your feet are waterlogged and your fingers are pruned.
You don’t even want to think about how much lotion it’s going to take to bring them back to life, the chlorine turning your skin dry every night after you get out of the shower.
At least you get to take frequent breaks. When your manager tells you it’s time for yours, you don’t stop the visible sigh, sloshing toward the steps leading out of the pool. You pass Vernon on the way, giving him a wet high five as he descends, groaning when he immediately takes spray from a landing tube.
“Good luck, buddy.”
The waterpark is nice. Despite your loathsome work, you can at least admit that. Meteor Falls is a state-of-the-art water theme park, all mystical space and falling stars. You don’t mind it some days, admiring the space-themed slides and attractions, impressed that it somehow manages to be both cheesy and kind of cool.
Other days, it’s your own personal hell filled with screaming children, chlorine blasts to the face, and never-ending run ins with your ex boyfriend.
Jinwoo has a nasty habit of always managing to find you when you’re on break. You can’t prove that it’s on purpose, but every time you sit down in the staff cafeteria, one of your secret hiding places (like the storage room with life jackets or the storage room that smells plasticy with intertubes), he somehow manages to interrupt your peace.
You know you should be thankful that things ended amicably. Except - that’s sort of the problem. You’d ended things because though he’s nice, there’s no spark between the two of you. No passion, no something that makes your heartbeat a little bit faster, that makes your blood turn molten.
He’d let you end things with a nod and a smile. And then got a summer job at the same water park, and felt the need to sit down next to you at lunch and talk your ear off, none the wiser to your growing agitation.
It feels mean, this deep-seeded annoyance that has begun to fester every time you see him. He’s not doing anything wrong, and yet you can’t help but feel like maybe he thinks this - whatever this is - will patch things over. Will remind you that he’s a nice guy, that he’s easy to deal with.
Which means when you see him sitting in your new oasis Vernon had showed you - the pump room - you nearly throw your tupperware at him. Of course he and Chan are sitting in the room, pumps screaming over their conversation as they eat chicken tenders from one of the stands outside. Of course he sees you just as you pivot, raising his hand in a greeting before frowning and dropping it when he notices you’re fleeing.
You spare a single glance over your shoulder and notice he’s getting up - probably to ask why you’re leaving - and you nearly scream in fright, rushing out of the room.
Jinwoo hot on your heels, you break the number one rule at the waterpark - you run.
Bursting through the staff only gate, you nearly knock over a kid holding a very melted, very red popsicle. The child flinches but you’re already moving past him, your shoes squeaking and filled with water as you round the Rocket Launch Splash Pad and toward the Bridge Between Worlds, the rope bridge swinging dangerously as you run over the people floating in the lazy river below.
Jinwoo shouts your name but you pretend not to hear him, slowing your run to a fast walk. Very demure. Very mindful. You take a hard left, nearly taking a palm frond to the face before noticing a tiny dirt path through the trees. You have no idea if it’s there on purpose or if it’s staff-only, but you see no sign so you rush down it, letting fronts and palmettos hit you in the face as the rush of a man-made waterfall fades behind you.
Up ahead, you notice a small round building with a giant disc-shape roof. It takes you a second to realize that it’s supposed to look like the rings of Jupiter, a giant rocket ship stationed to the left of it. You frown, slowing your steps to peer around.
No one else seems to be around. You’ve never seen this building, but the neon green letters built on top of the planetary rings read Jupiter’s Rain Room. From a distance, you hear Jinwoo call your name. It launches you to action and you bolt for the tinted glass doors that lead to the mysterious building.
Air conditioning buffets you the second you step inside. It takes your eyes a moment to adjust to the low lighting, but once they do, you realize you’re in a sort of theater. Rows of cushioned seats fill the center of the room. The walls are circular, arching up until they form a smooth dome over the room.
A single person twists around in one of the seats, a look of surprise on his face. He’s in an employee hoodie pulled up over his ash blonde hair, and his feet are kicked up on the seat in front of him. He raises his brows, as if to ask what you’re doing here.
“Uhhh.” You lift your hand in a small wave. “Hi?”
“Hi?” He answers, just as unsure.
“Sorry - what is this place?”
“The next show isn’t until three.”
You pause. “I work here?”
“Why do you sound so unsure, then?”
“I didn’t know this building existed.”
“That's because I took down all the directional signage.”
“Oh?”
His mouth twitches, amused. “Do you phrase everything like a question?”
“No.” You think about it. “Actually, maybe sometimes. Look, I’m just trying to find a place to eat my lunch and hide from Jinwoo.”
He spreads his arms out to all of the chairs in the theater. “Be my guest.”
Nodding in thanks, you walk down the steps to the auditorium proper. Up close, you can appreciate how handsome your unnamed coworker is. His feline eyes are intense, tracking you as you walk four rows ahead of him and sit down. He purses his full lips in thought before he settles back into his seat, nearly melting into the cushion as his eyes flick back to his phone.
Meanwhile, you pop the top on your tupperware, the fresh smell of grilled chicken and lemon hitting your nose.
“What’s your name, anyway?” You ask, sticking your plastic fork in your chicken. You give him your name around a mouthful of lunch, followed by, “I’m in recreation. Usually you can find me on intertube duty for the slides.”
“Minghao. Rain room attendant.”
“What exactly is the rain room?”
“It’s a room and it talks about rain.”
You frown, turning around to face him. His eyes flick upward, meeting yours over the top of his phone. When he sees you’re unsatisfied, he rolls his eyes. “It’s the room about how the park does water conservation. No one comes here.”
“Because there’s no signs?”
He nods. “Because there’s no signs.”
“Smart.”
He hums, attention going back to his phone. You turn back around to eat the rest of your lunch in silence, acutely aware of Minghao sitting behind you. Instead of peppering him with all of the questions you keep coming up with, you scroll your phone, monitoring the time until your break is over.
When it is, you stand up, joints popping. You groan and slide out from your row, glancing at him. He looks up, his brows raised in a question. “My lunch is over. Thanks for letting me hide here.”
“Anytime.”
“Have a good day, I guess?”
He smirks. “You’re doing it again.”
You flush. “Sorry.”
“Mhmm. Catch you around.”
-
The next day, Mingho doesn’t have his hood pulled over his head. You’re surprised at how long his hair is, shaggy and a little bit longer in the back. It suits him, you think, as you pass him by and wave. He seems surprised to see you, but doesn’t object when you sit in the same seat as the day before, popping a chicken tender into your mouth.
Like yesterday, silence permeates the air. It’s cold in the room, making you understand why he’s always in a jacket. You make a mental note to bring one tomorrow - because yes, this is your new lunch spot, so long as Jinwoo doesn’t find you and Minghao doesn’t kick you out.
Curious, you turn a little in your chair. He’s sitting folded into the seat just like the day before, entirely engrossed in whatever is on his phone. This time, you notice that he has a headphone in one of his ears. His ears are also pierced, with elegant hoops catching the light. Those suit him too, though you have a tough time imagining anything not suiting him.
Minghao is the kind of pretty that scrambles your brain. His face is made up of sharp angles and high, defined cheekbones paired with the most straight and refined nose you’ve ever seen. It makes his face look balanced and ethereal, but his plush mouth is where your eyes are drawn, watching his minute expressions while he’s engrossed with whatever is on his phone.
Until he’s not engrossed, and he’s looking directly at you, a single brow arched.
“How long have you worked here?” It’s the first question that comes to mind, albeit not one of the ones you wanted to ask.
“About four months.”
“Oh. I guess I’ve just never seen you around.”
“I avoid most of our coworkers.” He gives you a pointed stare and you shrink a little in your seat. “I know who you are, though. I room with Vernon.”
“Vernon has a roommate?”
Again, not the question you wanted to ask. Minghao answers anyway. “Sure does.”
“Huh. What’s that like?”
“Quiet.”
You hear the warning in Minghao’s tone, so you flash him a smile and turn back around in your seat. Three questions. He allowed you three questions before he got annoyed. Three is a good number.
When you finish your lunch and your time runs out, you get up and give him a soft smile and a wave. He nods in acknowledgement, but that’s all you get from him for the day.
Three questions. You prepare yourself to ask better ones tomorrow.
-
“How many people a day come to the rain room?”
“Including you?” Minghao doesn’t look up as he asks this. You nod and he hums thoughtfully, fingers tapping on the side of his phone. The motion catches your attention. He has the fingers of an artist, long and elegant with a few silver rings. “Maybe ten.”
“Only ten?” You try not to sound too surprised, too interested.
“Mhmm.”
“Lucky. I probably see hundreds of people a day.”
“That’s why I don’t work in recreation.” His tone is dry, but not unfriendly. You think he might be teasing, but it’s hard to tell. He still hasn't looked at you.
“Want to switch jobs?”
A beat. Then he glances up, meeting your eyes for the first time. It’s brief, but it’s enough to stir something “Nope.”
This time when you wrap up and head out, it’s Minghao who asks a question, eyes flicking to the drink in your hand. It’s the first time he sounds genuinely curious. “What is that?” You hold up the slushie in your hand, shaking it. “Yeah.”
“The Raspberry Rocket Blast. It’s a slushie and it’s so good.”
He raises an eyebrow. “That’s a real name?”
You laugh. “Yeah. And it’s amazing.”
Minghao’s gaze lingers for a second longer than necessary. “Interesting. Have a good day.”
You beam at him, blue teeth and all. “You too!”
-
Water sluices down your back. You rush underneath the awning of Jupiter’s ring, shaking water off your raincoat like a dog. So long as there’s thunder in the area, you don’t have to work. Most of the staff are lounging in the cafeteria and other break areas, but there’s only a single place you want to be.
To your surprise, there are people in the rain room today. Minghao isn’t sitting slouched in his seat, but rather standing at the back where there is a control table. He notices you come in and holds a finger to his lips, gesturing for you to stand in the back.
Nodding, you follow his orders and pad over to him, pulling a hand out of your raincoat to hold out a styrofoam cup for him. He looks puzzled, hitting a button on the control table that sends the lights dying until you’re in a dark room, barely able to see his outline.
A narrator comes over the speakers, so loud it vibrates the room. You flinch and he adjusts the volume as the display of thousands of stars appear on the domed ceiling. Minghao takes the slushy from you, tilting it toward him to examine it.
“It’s the Raspberry Rocket Blast,” you whisper. “The one I had the other day.”
Minghao takes it skeptically. He looks from the cup to you, back to the cup again, his face downturned like something might jump out and bite him. You nudge the bottom of the cup, urging him to take a sip.
Hesitantly, he does. He brings the red straw up to his lips, taking a gentle pull. When the slushie hits his tongue, you can tell. His face morphs from careful skepticism into surprised delight, smiling around the straw, eyes crinkling at the corners as he takes a few strong sips.
The inside of his lips are blue when he removes the straw, nodding. “It’s good.”
“Told you.” He rolls his eyes, but continues to sip the drink while the presentation plays.
You only half pay attention to it, deciding to sit on the floor with your back against the wall. Minghao glances over his shoulder at you and you point to your lunch. He shrugs and turns forward again, sipping his drink quietly as the ceiling turns to a rainstorm.
It’s peaceful. The threadbare carpet isn’t exactly comfortable and the drywall behind you seems to absorb all of the moisture from the air, but it’s cold and dark. You only vaguely follow the story of the water park’s founding and core pillars. A soundtrack of rain and thunderstorm plays on the projector, lulling you until your head dips a few times as you flirt with sleep.
Exhaustion wins. You doze off, only coming to when the lights come up and you hear shuffling feet and the thwunk of the theater chairs as they slam back to their normal position. You blink groggily, watching the procession of people who head to the door, checking to see how bad the rain is.
Someone announces that it’s finally a light drizzle so they all head out, a mix of kids whining that they want to go down the slides and adults who want to give up and go home. When the last of them is gone, Minghao turns to you, smirking.
“Enjoyed the nap?”
“Very much.”
“Hmm. I’ve got to clean up. People love to leave their shit.”
You grumble and get to your feet. “I’ll help.”
Minghao gives a hum of appreciation but says nothing else. It’s easy and methodical, picking up candy wrappers and empty bottles of soda. By the time you’re done, your phone is buzzing and Vernon is looking for you to switch rotations with him at the Astroslide. You sigh, sliding your phone back in your pocket while you toss the trash into the appropriate bend.
Looking up from where he’s fishing a chicken tender from a chair, Minghao asks, “See you tomorrow?”
“Mhmm.”
“Feel free to bring the…. Blast rocket.”
“Raspberry Rocket Blast.”
“Sure.”
You grin, teasing. “Bye, Minghao.”
-
Minghao’s lips and teeth are blue. You don’t want to admit it, but it doesn’t look so bad on him. Nothing looks bad on him, though. He’s the kind of pretty that doesn’t belong working in an empty theater room at a waterpark, which has made you wonder on more than one occasion if maybe he’s a figment of your imagination.
(Vernon has assured you that Minghao does, in fact, exist).
Sitting in the back row, you watch as Minghao hops over the seats to walk to the control podium. “Show off,” you mutter under your breath.
“What was that?”
“Nothing. You’re very athletic.”
“Yes, I like keeping in shape. And yoga. And meditation.”
“Of course you do.” Settling further in the seat, you watch him as he flicks off the lights and turns on the presentation. “Why do I have to watch this, again?”
“Because if you’re going to hide in here from your ex boyfriend weekly, you might as well see the presentation so when a guest asks a question, you can answer it.”
“Can’t I tell them I’m in recreation?”
He grins, his teeth Raspberry Rocket Blue. “No.”
You huff, sliding further into the scratchy fabric of the chair as though you can become one with it.
The walls of the room vibrate with how loud the speakers are, prompting Minghao to turn it down. When it’s at the desired volume, he returns to the row of chairs and jumps back over it, sitting down next to you while matching your slouch. He grins again before sipping his slushie.
You think he should smile more often.
Instead of telling him that, you turn back to the screen as an aerial view of the waterpark pains the room in light. Meteor Falls, despite being your personal water-logged hellscape, is quite beautiful at a distance. Full of tropical trees hiding the stone walkways, pops of red and purple and blue waterslides peeking from the greenery. A cerulean ring wraps the waterpark, little tubes dotted along it as park goers float along the lazy river.
“Welcome to Meteor Falls,” the narrator says, voice warm. “We know you’re here to have fun and cool off, but did you know that water is one of our planet’s most precious resources? We here at Meteor Falls, seek to reduce, reuse and recycle our planet’s water.”
You watch as the scene cuts to footage of kids going down slides. You spot Vernon guiding tubes to the conveyor belt and point to him. “Holy shit, does he get royalties?”
“If he does, he spends it on fast food.”
“Every drop here counts,” the narrator continues. “Even the ones from the sky! That’s why we’re doing our part to conserve water by collecting and reusing rainwater!”
“Probably cleaner than the piss-filled water in the lazy river.”
“You’re probably right.”
It’s a good presentation. You pepper the film with your commentary, earning a grin or a sharp huff of air through Minghao’s nose when he laughs. It feels like a win, each time you make him laugh. In the days you’ve been escaping here in the rain room, it’s felt like a personal goal to open him up a bit more.
Minghao is quiet. Observant. You ask him a ton of questions and he asks you none in return, and yet he’s seemed to puzzle things out on his own. It’s different from what you’re used to, most of your friends are loud and outgoing and overwhelming.
Overwhelming like Jinwoo, who you wish would be awful just so you had a reason to cut him off, cut him out, push him away.
At the end of the presentation, Minghao stands and, with a lazy sort of grace, hops over the row of seats instead of walking around like a normal person. He moves like he’s used to being watched, but not in the way that invites it. Just comfortable in his own skin. Then he flips the light switch, flooding the room with brightness.
“What’d you think?”
You wince instantly, throwing up a hand like it’ll shield you from the sun. “I think you just tried to blind me.”
“About the presentation.”
“I think it’s a crock of shit and we still overuse water,” you say without missing a beat.
Minghao snaps his fingers and points at you like he’s awarding a prize. “Good.”
For a second, the corner of his mouth twitches, not quite a smile, but close. You feel oddly proud, which is stupid, because you’re not here to impress him.
Checking your watch, you heave a sigh. “I have to head back before Vernon freaks out. I was late last time.”
“Tough.” He pushes off the chair, steps a little closer, not close enough to be improper, just close enough that you feel it. “Try not to take any pool noodles to the face.”
“Tubes. They are tubes.”
From behind you, you hear the quiet rustle of his hoodie as he slips his phone out of his pocket. “Sure. Later.”
You glance back just once. Minghao’s got his headphones in, watching you, like he was waiting to see if you’d look. You meet his eyes for a second longer than you mean to. Then you nod, casual, like your pulse isn’t doing weird things.
“Later.”
-
Pressing the sleeves of your hoodie into your eyes, you dab away any excess tears. The sunburn on your face is just as scalding as the lecture you’d received from your boss, reducing you to giving a tight-throat yes when he’d screamed if you’d understood him, fighting tears all the way down the rope bridge and gravel path to the little hidden oasis you’ve made for yourself.
You don’t really consider yourself a crier. But today had been a bad day, your morning staring with someone running a stop sign and rear-ending you significantly enough to make you two hours late to your shift. Though you’d texted and called several times, your asshole Peaked-In-High School Manager liked to make people feel small.
He’d done a really good job of it today, despite explaining what had happened with your car. With the added, unplanned expense of needing to get it fixed because it had been a hit and run, you couldn’t exactly tell your manager to get his head out of his ass.
So instead, you’d texted Vernon and agreed to take his shift tomorrow if he let you be another thirty minutes late, just enough time to collect yourself. Which is how you find yourself outside of Jupiter’s Rain Room, eyes burning, pride stinging.
Cool air hits you in the face when you enter. Minghao doesn’t even turn around to see who it is. He knows it’s you. He’s sitting in the last row as usual, on his phone, the faintest sound of music drifting from one of his earbuds.
You drop heavily into the seat next to him. That does make him look at you, his eyebrow raised and side eye heavy until his eyes scan your face, the attitude vanishing from his.
“Are you crying?”
“No,” you answer sulkily. “I was crying. There is no active crying right now.”
“I see.” You sniff, staring with unseeing eyes at the rows of seats in front of you. “Want to talk about it?” That makes your stomach dip, but you shake your head. “Hmm. Want to listen to my favorite songs right now?”
You look at him from the corner of your eye. Minghao has never offered something like this. He usually keeps a perfectly manufactured distance, friendly but not friends, polite but not open. When you nod your head, he plucks the other earbud from its case and passes it over to you.
Tentatively, you put it in, heart hammering over something so simple that you chastise yourself, trying to make your breathing even. If Minghao notices, he’s nice enough not to say anything, pulling his phone from his pocket instead to tap on it.
Music fills your ears. The song opens on soft guitar strumming, a soft and subtle melody. You feel your muscles unclench, the berating drifting far away as a soulful voice begins to sing. There’s a quiet intimacy to the song, making you glance at Minghao who watches you with rapt attention.
You give him a small smile, a signal that you like it. He returns your grin, flashing his phone screen toward you so you can see what you’re listening to. River by Leon Bridges. You nod and write it down on your phone before leaning back and listening to it, the rhythm of mixed voice and minimal instruments lulling you into a calm.
All you get is a few more songs. You list each one in your notes app. Minghao is quiet. Patient. A calm sea after a storm, only rippling when you take out to return the earbud, your over-long break over. You know Vernon is probably burnt to a crisp by now and will complain about this for the rest of the week.
“Thanks,” you murmur, standing.
“Mhmm.”
When you leave Jupiter’s Rain Room, you feel so much lighter than when you came. And so what if your heart beats a little bit faster.
-
Sun beats down on the gravel paths winding through the waterpark. You feel the steam from them, yesterday’s rain burning away in the simmering heat. The smell of chlorine sticks to your skin as you balance the boxes in your arms, careful not to squeeze the styrofoam cup in your hand too hard.
Cool air kisses your skin when you enter the theater. It’s empty, as usual, with Minghao sitting in the back row. He turns when he sees you, a smile alighting on his face. You nearly stumbled, surprised at how genuine the smile has become when he sees you. You ignore the skip in your heart.
Minghao is dressed in his usual polo and loose hoodie. He gets up and reaches for the items in your hand, eager to help you.
“Hey,” he says, holding up a box. “What’s this?”
“I brought you lunch.”
He raises his eyebrows before sliding back into the seat with grace that makes you hyper aware of the way you drop into your own seat, the metal creaking under your sudden weight. You straighten, sticking one of the styrofoam cups in his cup holder.
“Consider it a thank you.”
“For?”
“Not kicking me out when I was being a wimp. And for the really good song recommendations.”
He hums, opening the container to reveal perfectly fried chicken tenders. He picks up a fry, popping it into his mouth to chew experimentally. “Not terrible. And you don’t have to thank me.”
“Anyway,” you continue, eager to talk about anything else. “Leon Bridges is really fucking good. I went through his entire discography.”
Minghao’s face lights up, a small, genuine smile. “Yeah? Glad you liked it. “He’s one of those artists that just holds you, you know? His music is there when you need it.”
“Mhmm.”
“I’ve got more recommendations if you need them. I spend most of the day here curating playlists. It passes the time and I’ve gotten pretty good at it.” His eyes meet yours and this time, they hold, dark and thoughtful. “What about you?”
“What about me?”
“What do you like to do to pass time?”
The question catches you off guard. You sink into the seat, thinking. Minghao rarely asks questions about you, content with letting you sit a few rows away while being a cranky cat in the corner.
You’re suddenly hyper aware of how close you’re sitting. His fingers tap gently on the cardboard container while he waits, a rhythm only he can understand.
“I guess I like reading?” It comes out like a question. “I’m into Sci-Fi movies - I’m sure you’re used to that with Vernon. When I was a kid, I was really into weird animal facts. Like did you know octopuses have three hearts?”
There’s a flicker of amusement in his expression, but it’s not mocking. “I didn’t. What’s another?”
He leans forward slightly, his elbows on his knees. You catch the faint scent of his cologne, something clean and citrusy, not at all like your sterile chlorine.
“Hummingbirds are the only birds that can fly backward.”
“Wait, really?”
“Yep.”
“Huh.” He tilts his head, lips curving into a half-smile that makes your pulse skip. “You’re full of surprises.”
You take a sip of your slushie, trying to cool the warmth creeping up your neck, but his eyes flick to your lips, just for a second, and your heart stumbles.
Desperate to keep the conversation going, you ask, “What about you? Besides music, what’s your thing? You’re always so quiet and put together.”
“It’s easy to seem together in the natural chaos of this place.”
You snort. “Okay, fair.”
“I don’t know, I like meditating. Working out. Reading. I’m pretty simple, but I like it. I don’t always have it all together, but I’ve gotten pretty good at appearing that way.”
You nod, drawn to this glimpse of him, the crack in his polished exterior. “I admire that.”
He looks at you, really looks, and the weight of his gaze steals your breath. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
The moment hands heavy with something unspoken. You’re so acutely aware of him, the way your knee brushes against his in the seat next to him, the way his fingers twitch. Your heart’s pounding now and you realize with a pang that these snatches with Minghao are the best part of your day.
Minghao is the best part of your day, the quiet he brings, the steady presence. Here, there’s no orange tubes hitting you in the face, no Vernon bitching and moaning that his skin is dry. There’s no sun to burn the top of your head and scalp.
Just Minghao and his calm countenance.
Silence falls between you, backtracked by the hum of the air conditioning. Your break is almost over, but neither of your movies. He takes a bite of a chicken tender while you nibble at your friends. You steal glances, the silence warm and electric.
When you finally stand, brushing crumbs from your lap, he stands too. He’s close, the tangerine scent of him exhilarating. His hand brushes yours when he takes your container from your hands, assuring you he can toss it out.
“See you later?” He asks, voice soft, eyes lingering.
“Yeah,” you agree, a little breathless.
Outside, the sun is beaming, but its warmth is nothing compared to the burning Minghao’s touch leaves on your hand.
-
Voices blend together as you enter the stuffy conference room. The air is thick with the smell of old coffee and dry-erase markers, fluorescent lights buzzing overhead. Rows of mismatched chairs fill the small meeting room. It’s ass o'clock early in the morning, but the resort's monthly meeting demands everyone to be present.
You wonder why they don’t use the Rain Room for their meetings and then think better of it. The last thing you want is for the company to find the single space in the entire park that you like to hide in, that is now special to you.
Coworkers fill the room. You pick a random seat in the middle of a row, dropping down as the low chatter fills the space around you. You’re so caught up in scrolling on your phone that you don’t notice Jinwood at first, gliding toward you. You realize he’s going to the seat next to you at the last second, panic taking over as he moves toward you, smile friendly, steps confident.
Before he can reach you, Minghao jumps over the back of the chair like he always does, dropping into it with an easy grace. He grins at you, lips curving into a private smile that makes your heart skip. He pulls one of his earbuds out and offers it to you, brows raised.
Heat simmers beneath the surface of your skin. You accept it, feeling flushed and breathy as you pop it in. He’s got Khruangbin playing, a gentle buffer between the noise of the room and everything else.
Jinwoo falters, his jaw tightening for a second as he diverts, taking a seat in the row in front of you but a few off. His irritation radiates, surprising you. Instead of paying him any mind, your focus is on the song in your ear and Minghao’s fingers drumming on the arms of his chair.
“Ready for the torture?” He asks, leaning back. His shoulder brushes against yours but he doesn’t move. Doesn’t pull away.
“Not at all.”
“Same.”
Quiet swoops through the room as the executives barge into the room, asking everyone to settle in. You peel the headphone out of your ear, passing it back to Minghao. He takes it, popping both of them in their holder and snapping the lid shut. He leans toward you to shove them in his pocket, filling your nose with tangerine.
When he leans back, you notice Jinwoo staring. His eyes linger for a second before he turns toward the front as someone begins a monotone spiel about budgets and schedules. At multiple points you see the tilt of Jinwoo’s head, the way he cuts a glance toward you. It makes your anxiety climb, palms sweaty. You wipe them against your pants, squirming.
Halfway through the meeting, Minghao leans over and whispers, “What’s with the dude staring at you?”
“Ex-boyfriend. Still friendly, but uh… I don’t know.”
Minghao’s face stays neutral, but there’s a flicker in his eyes. “He’s making you uncomfortable.”
“A little. I think he’s hoping because we remained friends that we’ll figure it out.”
“You won’t.” It’s not a question. Minghao leans back, draping an arm along the back of the row of seats. Not around you, but along your back. Not claiming, not possessive, but something.
The meeting drones on, but Minghao keeps you anchored. Jinwoo’s glances taper off, but the tension is obvious in his jaw. When the meeting is finally over and you’re standing, Minghao’s hand brushes against your wrist, catching your attention.
“See you later?”
“Mhmm.”
Minghao’s smile is brief before he hopes over the chair, blending in with the other employees all bustling out, eager to get away from cranky executives and uncomfortable chairs.
-
Sun scorches the top of your head, heat bouncing off the chlorinated water at the base of the water slide. Kids shriek as they hurtle down the side, their tubes hitting the water with a spray. You and Vernon take turns grabbing tubes and adding them to the humming conveyor belt.
It’s one of the busiest days of the year, which means two people on duty. You and Vernon work in tandem, never stopping, the heat making you tired and prickly. For once, you’re thankful that the shallow pool you’re in is freezing cold.
Vernon is humming as he tosses a tube toward you with a lazy flick. You recognize the song as something Minghao recommended, a smile tilting your lips. Your stomach flips at the thought of Minghao, sad that you won’t see him today. It’s his off day, one of the few times his schedule doesn’t align with yours.
You crab a tube from a splashing kid, tossing it onto the conveyor. You notice Vernon watching you, his expression curious but cautious. You slosh back over, giving him a once over.
“What?” You ask between lulls of kids coming down the slide.
“So,” he says casually. “You and Minghao are friends?”
Your heart lurches. You’re saved from answering right away as a kid crashes into the pool, screaming. Vernon rolls his eyes, leaning forward to grab the tangerine ring before chucking it at the conveyor. He almost misses. It gives you time to think, resting your hands on top of the cold surface to ground you.
“Friends?” You ask as Vernon returns. “I guess? I like to hide out in the Rain Room.”
“Hmm. He mentioned you at home the other night. Which is weird, being that he never mentions anyone.”
You blink, heart pounding. “Huh. What’d he say?”
Vernon shrugs, his smile a little too amused for your liking. “Who's to say?”
“Vernon.”
“Relax. Just that you’re cool. He was smiling when he said it, which is so unlike Hao that I thought I was hallucinating.”
Your chest warms, picturing Minghao on their couch, earbuds in, smiling about you. It’s thrilling, but terrifying. You tread carefully, unsure how much to reveal to Vernon, afraid to show that perhaps maybe you have a bit of a crush on his roommate.
“We get along. He’s nice.”
Vernon hums. “He’s picky about who he vibes with. You must have made an impression.” He tilts his sunglasses down, looking at you. “Did you tell him about the octopus hearts?”
You groan and he laughs, slapping the surface of the water. It splashes you and you smack it back at him, volunteering to get the next tube if only to get away from him a little.
He’s grinning when you come back. “He’s cool. You’re cool.”
“Cool,” you shoot back with venom.
Two tubes come down at the same time and you both shoot for them.
“You going to Mingyu’s party this weekend?”
You’d forgotten all about the party. Now that Vernon says it, you wonder if Minghao is going. You assume not, assume he’ll keep to himself. Plus, you’ve never seen him at parties in the past. But you imagine if he did go, what he would be like outside of work, leaning against a wall, watching you with that steady gaze.
“Probably?” You finally answer. “He’ll be annoyed if I don’t.”
“Good.” Vernon pauses before casually adding, “Hao is going. He’s been in a good mood and he figured why not. So. Just wanted to mention in case, you know. You needed to know.”
“Vernon.”
He lifts his hands, a white flag. “Just saying, that’s all.”
You both go quiet, only the ambiance of the water and shout of voices from down the slide to accompany you. Vernon’s words stick with you though and you fight a smile, trying not to let hope bloom in your chest knowing Minghao mentioned you at home. That he never mentions anyone.
The sun dips behind the trees and you feel lighter, looking forward to the weekend and your well-earned off day.
-
Mingyu and Wonwoo’s loft pulses with life, a sprawling expanse of lived-in comfort. Exposed brick walls rise to high ceilings, soft lights casting a warm glow over the crowd of your coworkers gathered all over. The living area is anchored by a massive sectional couch, its cushions littered with spilled chips and empty cups.
The kitchen island is cluttered in the heart of the chaos, filled with bottles of tequila and vodka, mixers spilled over the surface. Mingyu is in the kitchen pouring shots into someone’s mouth while Wonwoo hovers nearby, watching with mild alarm.
Floor to ceiling windows frame the city skyline, which twinkles like stars outside. Music rattles your ribcage, high energy as people dance in the living room.
You have no idea how either of them can afford this luxury, but you don’t ask. Instead, you slip into the kitchen, looking for a drink to help ease your nerves. You’re dressed in a denim skirt paired with a cropped denim top, the barest hint of skin visible between the two pieces.
Your shoes squeak on the hardwood floor as you navigate the crowd. The room is packed with park staff, Vernon in the corner of the kitchen cackling at something Seungkwan is saying, your manager lurking in the corner nursing a beer, other coworkers in a loose circle near the speakers.
You scan for Minghao, heart quickening. Your thoughts stutter when you see Jinwoo instead, leaning against the brick wall near the dance floor, is black button-down rolled at the sleeves. He notices you and your stomach twists as you dart away, heart pounding as you weave through the crowd, dodging coworkers as you aim for the balcony.
The glass door slides open and the night air hits you, cool and cleansing. The city’s hum is a soft backdrop, its sounds drifting up from below. Minghao startles you, turning to look at you from where he leans against the railing, a cup in his hand. He’s in a loose, black sweater and jeans, hair mused by the wind. He looks good, your breath catching when he grins.
“Hey,” he greets, surprised. “Escaping already?”
“Looks like you beat me to it.”
“Yeah, it’s a bit loud in there.”
“I know, I’m surprised you’re here, honestly.”
He lifts a single shoulder, a shy shrug. “I like to keep people on their toes.” His gaze dips down to drink in your outfit and you feel hot all over, withering under his gaze. “You look nice.”
“Oh. You too.”
He chuckles, warm and low as you join him at the railing. He offers you his cup. “Sangria? Swear that's all it is, I just realized how creepy that was, sorry.”
“Not at all, thank you for clarifying though.” You take the cup from him and take a sip. It’s strong, not as sweet as you like it, but flavorful. “Not terrible.”
The balcony is a quiet haven, like the Rain Room. The night air feels good against your flushed skin, fairy lights casting a soft glow over the potted plants. Minghao chats casually, asking what kind of Sci-Fi movies you’re into. He lets you yap, mostly doing his part listening and adding commentary where necessary.
You like that about him, how he’s a quiet counterbalance to your talkative nature. It’s comfortable. Even. you could spend all night standing and chatting with him, living for the familiar way he leans in close when he laughs, arm brushing yours. He doesn’t pull away, touch not lingering but still there.
The balcony door slides open just as you both get to the bottom of the sangria in the cup, Seungkwan sticking his head out. “Yo! Come inside, we need people to dance.”
Seungkwan vanishes back into the apartment and Minghao looks at you, brows raised. You shrug your shoulders and he grins, gesturing for you to head in. He follows, close on your heels. It’s crowded at the threshold of the door and he steps in beside you, a hand brushing low on your back. It’s soft, but it feels deliberate as he guides you after Seungkwan.
Inside, the loft pulses with music, bass heavy. Seungkwan is near the speakers, grabbing a coworker and backing it up on her. You laugh when you see them all, Vernon wincing and watching Seungkwan with pure horror as Mingyu crashes onto the scene, fist pumping.
Someone bumps Minghao, his chest pressing to your back, and he freezes, hands hovering. Your heart races. You glance back, meeting his dark, hesitant eyes.
“Do you dance?” You ask, teasing over the music.
“Sometimes.”
You raise a brow, challenging, and he nods, hands finding your hips, guiding you to the beat. You sway, melding to him, hesitant then bold, hips rolling, denim brushing his jeans. You spin, surprising him, arms around his neck, fingers in his hair. His smirk is molten, tugging you flush against him. His hand slides up, cupping your neck, thumb on your jaw, tilting your face.
“Remember how I said I’m not always composed?” he murmurs, rough, thumb tracing your lip. “You’re making it very hard right now.”
“So don’t be,” you grin, batting your lashes, bold, breathless.
Minghao’s eyes darken and he pulls you tighter, the music slowing, sensual. You dance longer, bodies locked, hips grinding. His breath hitches, lips grazing your ear, grip tightening as you arch into him. Your eyes drift away for a second, a tingling sensation needling at you.
Jinwoo is staring, sour as he watches you.
Minghao notices your shift, loosening his grip to follow your line sight. “You okay?” He asks, hand on your back, protective.
“He’s just annoying.”
“Come on,” he says, firm.
Minghao steps away from you but grabs your hand, tugging. He weaves you through the crowd, past Mingyu pouring more shots, past Vernon slumped on the couch. You pass into a study that you immediately can tell is Wonwoo’s, with a desk and vinyl shelves.
He shuts the door, muffling the party, and it’s just you, the faint bass rattling through you, and Minghao, eyes burning.
Ye backs you against the door, hands caging you in. “I don’t know what to do with you.”
“What do you mean?”
“Ever since you started spending time in my Rain Room, you’ve upset the order of my life. I never come to these things, but honestly? The thought you might be here is what made me come.”
Your heart hammers at his candor, at the way his breath ghosts against your lips. “You are entirely distracting,” he mutters. “And I’m so unused to distractions.”
“What about now?”
“Hmm?”
“Am I distracting you now?”
“There is nothing else I would rather focus on right this second.”
Minghao’s eyes flicker, hesitant, like he’s waiting for your signal. You nod, breath lodged in your throat. Then he kisses you, slow and deep, lips commanding. He tastes like sangria and want, lips softer than you could have ever imagined.
His hands grip your hips, spinning you to press your front to the door, his chest warm against your back. He palms your ass, pausing to look at you. You nod, wanting - needing him to keep doing. He lifts your skirt a little, fingers exploring the round shape of your ass.
Minghao mouths at your neck and you go pliant under his touch, eyes closing as you gasp against the door. His tongue laves up and down your neck, eager to taste you as his hands continue to explore before he finally - finally - traces his finger along the line of your underwear.
“Minghao,” you breath, shuddering.
“Yeah?” He asks. “This what you want?”
You nod vigorously against the door. “You’ll tell me to stop? Tell me when you’re uncomfortable?”
“Yes.”
He kisses your shoulder. “Good.”
Minghao hooks a finger in your underwear, pulling them to the side. Cool air hits your heated pussy and you whine. He shushes you, his fingers teasing your folds, spreading your wetness. You gasp, hips bucking back into his hand while you see stars.
His fingers circle your clit, slow, deliberate, drawing a whimper. He catches your mouth as you crane back, kissing you deeply, lips tender but firm, swallowing your sounds. Trapped between the door and his chest, his fingers are sinful, sinking one deep inside, then another, curling against that spot that blurs your vision. The wet squelch is loud, intimate, and he hisses, breath hot.
“Fuck, you’re so greedy for me,” he says, voice rough.
You tremble as he slides in another, curling them, pumping slow and deep. Each stroke is precise, making you pant and go weak at the knees. He sucks at your neck gently, teeth scraping, tongue sweeping. You turn to liquid in his hand, the wet squelch filling the room as he finger fucks you properly, mouth pressed to your temple.
“Come on,” he murmurs, mouth buzzing against your skin. “You got it.”
Your orgasm crashes into you, walls clenching. You cry out, shaking as he works you through it, not stopping until you’re panting and boneless against him.
Minghao removes his hand and turns you toward him, kissing you and pressing the back of your head against the door. The kiss is hungry but controlled. He breaks away, eyes burning as he lifts his hand to lick his finger clean. He hums and it makes you shiver.
“Need a taste.”
You flush. He guides to the desk, swapping aside all of Wonwoo’s things before he helps you jump onto the edge. The wood is cool against your thighs. He drops down to his knees, hands kneading your thighs, squeezing as they tremble.
“You’re so good for me,” He murmurs. “Can you keep being good for me?”
Your head is dizzy with this new dynamic. Somehow, this makes sense. He’s still calm and collected, but you can see the chaos on the edge of him, the way he takes control of the situation - of you.
When you nod, he hums, pleased, and kisses your knee gently.
You lean back, skirt bunched, underwear still pulled to the side. He places wet kisses on your inner thighs, his breath warm and making you squirm. His hands hold you still, firm but gentle as his lips trail higher, each kiss a spark until he looks up at you, eyes fathomless as his tongue dips tentatively against your folds.
A gasp breaks from your lips. He grins, his tongue brushing long, languid licks up your cunt that make your hips twitch. He dives in, lapping, focused and hungry as his tongue circles your clit with slow, wet strokes.
Minghao is relentless, alternating between broad licks and precise flicks. He sucks your aching clit into his mouth, pulling softly with his lips, then harder, until you’re trembling, thighs closing in on either side of his head.
When he pulls back, his lips are wet with your arousal. “Fuck.”
He dives back in, keeping you spread as his tongue dips into your hole playfully, thrusting. His nose brushes against your clit, making you clutch the edges of the desk, sliding down the wall as you fight to stay upright. You reach a hand down, threading your fingers in his hair. He groans, doubling down, the wet sounds of his smacking lips filling the room.
The desk creaks as you shift again, losing control of your ability to remain upright. His tongue flicks faster and you start to peak, healing right for your orgasm. He senses it, increases the way he sucks at you, tongue hungry, perfect.
You shatter.
He drinks you in gently, tongue turning soft and lazy as he licks you through it. You turn oversensitive, pushing at him with a weak moan.
Minghao stands and leans over you, grabbing your chin to plant a wet, messy kiss on your lips. You lick into him, tasting yourself, eager to have his mouth on yours again.
His hands fumble against his jeans, fingers working the button until he’s finally free of them enough to shove them down. Your mouth waters at the sight of his heavy cock bobbing, hard and leaking from just pleasing you, from getting you off twice.
With a few pumps, he’s brushing the tip of his cock through your folds, collecting the wetness there. You moan in tandem, both of you transfixed with the way his shaft slides against you. He lifts your thighs, hooking his forearms behind your knees as he presses the head of his cock into your throbbing entrance.
“Shit,” you gasp as he breaches you, sinking in.
He groans too, easing in, slow and deep until he’s seated, hips pressed flush against yours. He slowly starts to fuck you steadily, each thrust perfect and sending your eyes rolling backward in your head. The desk creaks beneath you, wet sounds filling the room.
“You drive me crazy,” he admits, kissing your neck, teeth crazy. “Glad you disrupted my quiet days, though.”
That makes you whine. You kiss him, messy, nails digging into the side of his neck. He groans and speeds up, dropping a hand to slide between your legs and circle your slippery clit. That makes you moan his name, hips bucking as he sets a faster pace.
“Come for me,” he urges, grinning.
You do, clenching, his name on your lips. His thrusts turn messy until he grits his teeth and follows suit, spilling inside you. He rests his forehead on your neck, panting. Your fingers run through his hair, soothing, grounding for both of you.
“I,” he pants, voice raspy. “Have never fucked someone in a random room like that in my life.”
“Wanted me that bad?”
“You have no idea.” He lifts his head, looking up at you with dark eyes. “I thought you were going to be a nuisance. And then you kept showing up, kept being chipper. Sweet, even. You brought me slushies and asked about my music. You grew on me in a way I didn’t expect.”
“It sounds like you like me.”
He groans as you laugh, teasing him. “I guess, yeah.”
“Well, I for one, am glad I stumbled on that Rain Room.” He hums in agreement, tired. “Now how about you pull up my skirt and take me home to fuck me properly, Minghao. And maybe get a slushie on the way.”
the small romantic gestures that seventeen would be @fairyhaos
Kim Mingyu
guilty as sin (the thought crosses your mind that this is something you definitely shouldn't be doing. that what you're just about to do will be a terribly wrong move for you and your freshly broken heart.) @toruro
clarity (bf's best friend mingyu, (awkward) acquaintances to lovers, the other side of the f2l trope, angst, smut, you could say there's a drizzle of fluff) @hannieoftheyear
pure coincidence (office worker!mingyu x officer worker!reader) @sluttyminghao
that’s so true ❤️🩹(exes!mingyu x reader.) @studioeisa
The Admirer Was Right in Front of You — Kim Mingyu (Non-idol au, college au, romance (?), comedy, modern au (no specific setting, but contemporary vibe), slice of life and light-hearted mystery ) @mylovesstuffs
STRAWBERRY SCENTED STRINGS (bassist! mingyu x cellist! f reader) @himewonu
SAVE THE DATE (5 weddings in one year. 5 dates you saved for you and your boyfriend to attend — before he cheated. and now, you had to force your best friend, vernon, to go with you. but after losing a bet, mingyu agrees to take vernon’s place and be your date. this wasn’t how any of this was supposed to go, but you guess you could settle going with your only one-night-stand from college.) @goldenhourology
Back To Me (Mingyu or Hansol? You finally decide who you want to be with.) @xomakara
still yours (exes to lovers, second chance romance, fluff, angst, smut MDNI!) @cherrynpink
Theories & Heartstrings (Neighbours AU! Fake Dating AU! (but only one is fake dating. It’ll make sense when you read it, lol). Non-Idol AU!.) @wongyuseokie
croissant cravings (A seating chart mix-up has you crossing paths with a very good-looking pastry chef. ) @facethesunflower
Let Me Hear You Say... (mut (minor dni), heavy angst, fluff, toxic, ranch au, brothers best friend au) @onlymingyus
KITTY'S GOT CLAWS (a svt spiderman x jujutsu kaisen au (what a mouthful >< ), spiderman!mingyu, blackcat!reader, lots of banter, mild fighting scenes = mentions of blood and injuries !!, fluff with angst if you squint) @yi2huo
might let you make me juno @straylightdream
good behavior (just smut tbh) @ddeonghwa-s
Jeon Wonwoo
My Ride or Die (Late one night, you're attacked outside the library—your bag stolen and safety shattered. But someone saw everything. A mysterious stranger steps in to recover what was lost. What begins as a random rescue soon hints at deeper intentions and unexpected connections.) @missgraylock
WHAT IF you were wonwoo’s gf and almost got caught during NANA TOUR surprises… @cherriicou
good sport | wicked games series (bartender wonwoo, bartender mingyu, messy love triangle, friends with benefits, right person wrong time) @hannieween
on call (you'd never sleep in an on-call room, but that doesn't mean you won't find other uses for it.) @kkaetnipjeon
first love/late spring (first love/s, feelings realization/denial, reincarnation.) @studioeisa
The Fine Print (Enemies to Lovers | Fake Dating | Revenge Pact | Forced Marriage Fallout) @kathaelipwse
Lip Tint Stains and Hair Ties (childhood friends to lovers, school, college, slow burn, fluff, one shot, peachesndreams) @shineesbackbitches
Yours to Keep (Before leaving for military service, Wonwoo hands you a disposable camera, saying, "Take a picture whenever you think of me." At first, you laugh it off, but as the days pass, you find yourself reaching for the camera more often than you expected) @nerdycheol
make 'em sweat (introducing you to his friends doesn't go quite the way wonwoo expected (title from water by seventeen ; technically a sequel to fuck the neighbors but can be read as a standalone) @sluttywonwoo
progress report: i am missing you to death - jww(Childhood friends to lovers, smut, fluff, angst, college au) @imnotshua
CHEMTRAILS (Wonwoo is the last person you expect to find at a grief support group, but he may just be the peace that you need to weather all of your storms.) @vampsol
Warning Signal (In a treacherous turn of events, your most recent mission gets tangled with Wonwoo's, the last person you'd want to partner up with. As the lives of your targets get more and more intertwined, and your plan gets more complicated, memories of the past and feelings you thought you could put aside threaten to ruin the mission.) @hannieoftheyear
A New Vendetta (Wonwoo x Mafia's daughter reader) @thedensworld
wish you were here (you don't do long-distance. you never have, and you never will. not unless it's jeon wonwoo - and those chances are slim, as it is.) @haologram
My Brother's Bestfriend (fluff, light angst, smut, established relationship, doting!boyfriend wonwoo, slightly possessive!wonwoo, light comedy, soft but intense makeout sessions, lap-sitting & straddling, emotional intimacy, domestic sweetness, wonwoo being obsessed with reader™, mild tension but nothing too serious, clingy!wonwoo (unintentionally), wonwoo official lipstick tester & lip plumper) @honeyhaeya
SLACKING OFF. ( being technologically averse, yet a complete control freak to your core, you tend to annoy senior IT specialist, jeon wonwoo, to no end. but after an apology brings you two closer together, wonwoo finds himself reaching out to you more often than not. on and off slack. despite what you two had originally perceived, you find yourself thrown into feelings that neither of you could've ever prepared for.) @goldenhourology
heaven knows (non-idol au, seminary student joshua, hurt/comfort (??), secret relationship, mentions of church, joshua is the pastor's son, mutual pining, physical touching (ex: hugging, holding hands), pet names (joshua calls reader baby), they are not slick your honor everyone knows they're in love) @seokminfilm
When Tangerines Give You Lemons (joshua fluff, joshua angst, joshua both, joshua breathing, joshua existing, non-idol!au, lawyer!au, hurt & comfort, angst first fluff later kinda; a warm rain after a heavy storm) @moonstarsunflower
Break (h.js) (Witch!Joshua x Cursed!Reader) @sailorsoons
starting again (you're wallowing in self-pity at your friends' wedding after being cheated on. you think you're unworthy of love until you meet someone who changes your mind.) @wonwootattoo
i can still see it all. (best friends to strangers to friends to lovers, non au, set in svtverse, idol!joshua, hairstylist!reader, some angst, nsfw, smut, unprotected sex, biting, hair pulling, dacryphilia, teasing, fingering, multiple orgasms, drunk sex, mentions of alcohol.) @woncheolisms
we both 🐚 (romance, friendship, light angst. 🐚 includes. mentions of food, death; cussing/swearing. alternate universe: non-idol; joshua is a marine biologist. bad-at-being-exes/exes to ???) @studioeisa
blurring the lines (you think you know everything about your best friend, dashing bachelor joshua hong. when you stumble upon his suggestive literature from his recent travels, however, reading even an extract is enough to make you question everything. unsure of your newfound feelings, you turn to your confidante, unaware of just how much knowledge—and experience—he has to offer.) @amourcheol
begging for the next (no one needs to know what you and joshua get up to except the two of you.) @100vern
Yoon Jeonghan
dropout | part one (okay, so you dropped out of law school. and you need a job. and the only job your wildly specific resume can get you is… lifeguard at the local 3.2-star water park, and the person assigned to supervise you at your new post is the mysterious and gorgeous yoon jeonghan. what could possibly go wrong? ) @kkaetnipjeon
always the lover, never the loved (lovers to ??? ; angst, mentions of suggestive themes) @haologram
Undue Influence (lawyer fem!reader x lawyer!jeonghan) @starlightxsvt
the final defense of the dying (hunger games mentor!jeonghan x tribute!reader.) @studioeisa (IM OBSESSED WITH THIS ONE)
Even Dumbasses Deserve Love (Yoon Jeonghan, your beautiful, wonderful, amazing, dumb-ass of a best friend who somehow doesn't see how hopelessly in love with him you are. ) @cheers-to-you-th
𝙢𝙤𝙧𝙚 𝙩𝙝𝙖𝙣 𝙚𝙭𝙥𝙚𝙘𝙩𝙚𝙙 (after an arranged marriage you come to realize that your new husband, the crown prince, and his kingdom are not like anything you expected) @yerimacoustic
Lee Seokmin
you deserve each other (co-workers seokmin x reader.) @studioeisa
Best Neighbor of All Time Award | Lee Seokmin (M) (Seokmin is the best neighbor you've ever had, making it impossible not to fall for his charms.) @drunk-on-dk
picture of a perfect rose (n total years of your whole life, you met Seokmin only twice. That will change drastically starting now. Because the young King is unfortunately a good person, loves his mother, and a true believer in good of people. No matter how hard it is to find and how cold he looks outside.) @youngwonhui
You Know What They Say About Men With Big Feet @hansols-yoda-boxers
Lee Chan
Cherry Sours (l.c) (Mafiaverse, Cyberpunk, Strangers to Lovers) @sailorsoons
CHWE HANSOL
Dark Gospel (c.hs) (After experiencing what you’re sure is a possession, you try to help Vernon get his old self back. Except - Vernon doesn’t want his old self back and you’re not sure you hate the new Vernon either. ) @sailorsoons
KISS 'ER UP (CHV) pt. 1 (baseball player!vernon x fashion designer/fan!reader) @shuastar
Kwan Soonyoung
in the zone | ksy (strangers to lovers, (accidental) roommates; smut, fluff, lite angst) @100vern
we can be all we need (best friends to lovers, idiots in love, a bit of miscommunication, angst for like one second, happy ending) @joshujin
the accidental kiss (fluff, comedy, strangers to lovers au, college au, idiots to idiots in love, profanity, alcohol consumption—please let me know if i’ve missed anything!) @fxstpace
busy woman @straylightdream
Echoes of Summer (Get ready for the most unforgettable summer yet at Camp Logan, where lifelong memories are made, friendships are strengthened, and old crushes make new appearances.) @mr-cha-n
red wine supernova (friends to lovers, childhood friend to lovers, romance, fluff, smut) @straylightdream
Xu Minghao
Rain Room (x.mh) (Waterpark Worker!Mingao x Waterpark Worker!Reader) @sailorsoons
the quiet world (minghao saves his words for you.) @studioeisa
When you and Soonyoung have a long complicated history of hooking up and being all over each other, he ends up deciding to pull the “let’s just be friends” card. Though you try to get over him, see new people, it just isn’t the same. They aren’t Soonyoung. What doesn’t help is that he gets jealous every single time you show interest in anyone but him. A long period of time full of misunderstanding leads to complicated feelings between the both of you.
Word Count: 12.3k
Pairing: Kwon Soonyoung (Hoshi) x f!Reader
Genre: it’s always been you, yearning hoshi, YEAAARRRNING HOSHI, jealousy, right person wrong time, right person right time, misunderstanding, happy ending :D, hoshi wants you sooooo bad its actually ridiculous, roommate seokmin :P
Warnings/Things to make note of!: a little bit of angst at the end, mentions of hooking up/sex no smut!!!! Heavy making out :P i thinkkk thats it?
A/N: hiiiiii! I had so much fun writing the last vernon one and i love the idea of that “it’s always been you” type of writing so i needed to write one about lover boy yearning boy hoshi! I really hope you love this, i really love how it turned out and please enjoy :D
Seokmin stares at you for a moment before shaking his head. “I’m sorry, let me get this straight. You hooked up with Soonyoung fifteen times last year?”
Heat immediately rushes to your face. You focus on your hands instead, picking at the skin beside your fingernail as if it might somehow save you from this conversation.
“Yes.”
“Fifteen times,” he repeats, sounding more horrified than impressed.
You groan. “Can you stop saying it like that?”
“How else am I supposed to say it?” Seokmin asks. “You told me you and Soonyoung were just friends.”
“We are friends.”
“Friends don't sleep together fifteen separate times.”
“It wasn't that serious.”
“That's somehow making it worse.”
You finally look up and find him staring at you like you've just confessed to committing tax fraud.
“It happened over the course of a year,” you argue weakly.
“That doesn't help your case.”
You sink further into the couch cushions.
Seokmin studies your expression before narrowing his eyes. “Was the sex even that good?”
You shrug. “It was fine, I guess.”
The lie leaves your mouth effortlessly.
Unfortunately, Seokmin knows you too well.
“That's a lie.”
“No, it isn't.”
“It absolutely is.”
You look away. Because the truth was that it had been great. Every single time.
Soonyoung had a way of making everything feel easy. What started as a one-time mistake somehow became late-night texts, movie nights that ended with you staying over, and mornings spent lingering in bed longer than either of you should have.
You'd told yourself it was casual. Convenient. Nothing more.
But casual wasn't supposed to leave you thinking about someone long after they walked out of a room. Casual wasn't supposed to make your stomach flip whenever their name appeared on your phone. And casual definitely wasn't supposed to hurt.
Eventually, there had been a conversation. One you'd seen coming and still weren't prepared for.
You remembered sitting across from Soonyoung at his kitchen table while he rubbed the back of his neck nervously.
“Maybe we should just be friends,” he'd said.
Just friends. Such a simple phrase for something that felt strangely devastating. You remembered forcing a smile and agreeing immediately, pretending it didn't bother you.
“Yeah,” you'd replied. “Friends sounds good.”
And that had been the end of it.
Your mind, however, had never fully accepted the arrangement.
You still remembered how his hand felt in yours. You still caught yourself comparing everyone else to him. You still found yourself wondering, on your weakest days, whether he ever thought about those nights the same way you did.
The first time you slept with Soonyoung was definitely not the way you expected your night to go.
“Come out with us, please,” Seokmin begged from where he was sprawled across your couch. “You've been working all week.”
Joshua sat beside him, laughing at the dramatic expression on Seokmin's face. “I don't think I've ever seen someone this desperate.”
You glanced down at your laptop. Multiple tabs were open, unfinished work staring back at you accusingly. You had planned on spending the entire night catching up on everything you'd fallen behind on, and going out was the last thing on your mind.
“I have work to do,” you argued weakly.
“You'll still have work to do tomorrow,” Joshua replied.
“That's not helping your argument.”
“It's not supposed to.”
Seokmin sat up immediately. “Come on. It's just a small get-together at Seungkwan's place. A few people from college are going to be there. We'll stay for a couple hours and bring you home.”
The fact that he had already planned out your transportation home told you he wasn't going to let this go.
With a long sigh, you closed your laptop.
“Fine.”
Seokmin practically cheered.
An hour later, the three of you arrived at Seungkwan's house. Music drifted through the rooms while groups of old friends occupied every available couch, kitchen stool, and corner. It wasn't a huge party—just enough people to fill the house comfortably.
You immediately recognized several faces from college and exchanged hugs and quick conversations as you made your way inside. It felt strange seeing everyone again after so long. Familiar, but distant at the same time.
The second you stepped into the living room, however, Seokmin grabbed Joshua's arm.
“Kitchen.”
“For drinks?” Joshua asked.
“For drinks.”
Before you could protest, they disappeared into the crowd.
“Wow,” you muttered. “Abandoned immediately.”
“Rough.”
The familiar voice made you turn.
Soonyoung stood beside you holding a drink, a lazy smile already on his face.
You recognized him instantly.
You and Soonyoung had shared the same major in college and ended up in several classes together over the years. You'd worked on projects together once or twice, exchanged notes before exams, and occasionally chatted before lectures started. Beyond that, you weren't particularly close.
Still, you'd always noticed him.
It had been hard not to.
Even now, years later, he was still annoyingly attractive.
“Hey,” he said.
“Hey.”
“How've you been?”
The conversation started easily after that. Easier than you expected, actually. You learned he'd already had a couple drinks, just enough to loosen him up. He also now lives with Seungkwan which wasn’t shocking since they were roommates from the start of college to the end. Within minutes the two of you were talking as though you'd known each other far better than you ever had in college.
At one point you found yourself looking in the kitchen trying to spot Seokmin and Joshua. You locked eyes with Joshua who gave you a light smile and immediately started looking back at Seokmin who was downing probably his third shot of the night.
Soonyoung laughed. “You want one?”
“I want several.”
“That's the spirit.”
A few minutes later, the two of you were taking shots together at the kitchen island.
One shot became two.
Two became three.
By the time you found yourselves sitting together on the back patio, your cheeks felt warm and everything seemed significantly funnier than usual.
“Honestly,” Soonyoung said, shaking his head, “I feel like we should've been friends in college.”
“Right?”
“We had the same major.”
“We literally had, like, four classes together.”
“Five.”
“Five?” You stared at him.
“I counted.”
You laughed.
“That's weird.”
“Maybe a little.”
The conversation flowed effortlessly. Stories from college turned into stories about work, mutual friends, and embarrassing memories neither of you had thought about in years. The longer you talked, the more natural it felt. Somewhere along the way, it stopped feeling like reconnecting with an old classmate and started feeling like catching up with an old friend.
Which was probably why the alcohol loosened your tongue enough for you to make a terrible decision.
“You know,” you said, pointing at him with your drink, “I always thought you were cute in college.”
The moment the words left your mouth, you froze.
Soonyoung blinked.
You blinked.
“Oh my God.”
You immediately covered your face.
“Did I say that out loud?”
His laugh was instant. “You did.”
“No, I didn't.”
“You absolutely did.”
“Pretend I didn't.”
Unfortunately, his grin only widened.
“You thought I was cute?”
“This conversation is over.”
“No, I like this conversation.”
You groaned.
The look on his face was making everything worse.
For a moment, he simply stared at you before his smile softened.
“For what it's worth,” he said, leaning back in his chair, “I thought you were really beautiful in college.”
Your stomach flipped.
“And honestly?”
His eyes met yours.
“I still do.”
The way he said it sent warmth rushing through your entire body. It wasn't casual. It wasn't friendly. It was undeniably flirtatious and you felt suddenly very aware of how close he was sitting.
“Soonyoung,” you laughed nervously.
“What?”
“You are laying it on very thick right now.”
“Am I?”
“Yes.”
“I can't help it. You're beautiful.”
You immediately pointed at him.
“See? That's exactly what I'm talking about.”
He just smiled.
A dangerous smile.
The kind that made your heart beat faster.
You shook your head, laughing as you looked away.
“Oh my God,” you muttered sarcastically. “Just kiss me already.” You joked, though you knew you meant it.
Soonyoung's eyebrows lifted. Silence settled between you for a split second. Then he smiled.
“Okay.”
To your complete surprise, he leaned forward, one hand brushing lightly against your arm before he closed the distance between you.
Then he kissed you.
And it was far from perfect.
There was the unmistakable influence of vodka lingering between the two of you, making it a little clumsy and a little rushed. But neither of you seemed to care.
What made it memorable wasn't the technique. It was the feeling behind it.
It felt like months—maybe years—of missed opportunities crashing together at once. Every passing glance in college. Every conversation that never happened. Every moment you'd thought he was cute and immediately talked yourself out of doing anything about it.
Now he was standing right in front of you, kissing you like he'd been waiting for an excuse.
When you finally pulled apart, both of you were laughing.
"Wow," you said breathlessly.
"Yeah."
Neither of you moved very far away.
You glanced through the patio door toward the crowded house. Suddenly remembering reality, you pulled out your phone.
"What are you doing?" Soonyoung asked.
"Preventing Seokmin from interrogating me."
His laugh was immediate.
You quickly opened your messages.
You: Found Jun! Haven't seen him in forever. We're gonna catch up tonight, so I'm probably sleeping over at his place.
The typing bubble appeared almost instantly.
Seokmin: Jun???
Seokmin: Since when are you and Jun close?
You: Since literally college.
Seokmin: Hm.
You: Don't start.
You shoved your phone back into your pocket before he could ask any more questions.
The grin on Soonyoung's face told you he'd already figured out exactly what you'd done.
"You lied so easily."
"I had to."
"You could've just told him the truth."
"Absolutely not."
The two of you exchanged a look before immediately dissolving into laughter.
A few moments later, Soonyoung held out his hand.
"Come on."
Your eyes dropped to it.
Then back to him.
"Where are we going?"
His smile widened.
"Away from everyone."
You took his hand.
The second your fingers intertwined, a nervous excitement settled into your chest.
Together, you slipped back inside. The house felt louder than before. Music echoed through the rooms while conversations overlapped from every direction. Somehow, despite the crowd, it felt like you and Soonyoung existed in your own little bubble.
You followed him through clusters of old friends and familiar faces, trying—and failing—not to smile. At the staircase, he glanced back at you. Still holding your hand. Still smiling. The sight made your stomach flip.
The upper floor was significantly quieter. Most of the guests had stayed downstairs, leaving the hallway dimly lit and peaceful compared to the chaos below.
You barely made it to the top of the stairs before he stopped.
"What?" you asked. You laughed nervously. "Why are you looking at me like that?"
"Because this is kind of insane."
"What is?"
"You."
You groaned. "Oh, here we go."
"I'm serious."
"Soonyoung."
"No, think about it." He shook his head dramatically. "I spend years thinking you're ridiculously pretty, then somehow tonight you're sitting next to me telling me you thought I was cute too?"
You covered your face.
"This conversation is embarrassing."
"It's my favorite conversation I've had all year."
You rolled your eyes, trying—and failing—not to smile.
Before you could even finish rolling your eyes, Soonyoung had your back pressed against the wall moving his hands up and down your sides, kissing your neck.
You let out a slight chuckle. "Can we please just go to your room before someone comes upstairs and witnesses whatever this is?"
"So eager." He says in a low tone, hot breath against your neck.
You laughed and lightly shoved his shoulder.
He looked entirely too pleased with himself.
And with one last teasing smile, he led you farther down the hallway as the noise of the party faded into the background. Before you knew it, you were underneath Soonyoung on his navy bedsheets and waking up, both fully undressed to bright sunlight peeking through his windows.
After that night, the two of you fell into a rhythm neither of you ever bothered to define.
You told Seokmin that you had reconnected with Soonyoung, but you conveniently left out the part where nearly every visit to his apartment ended the same way. At first, it was just hookups—late nights tangled in navy bedsheets and mornings spent pretending neither of you had plans for the day.
But somewhere along the way, things became more complicated.
The hookups turned into coffee runs and movie nights. Not every hookup ended with a date, but every date somehow ended with the two of you back in his bed. It was almost impossible to keep your hands off each other.
Being close to him became second nature.
You'd curl against his chest while some random movie played in the background, his fingers absentmindedly combing through your hair as he asked question after question about your life. He wanted to know everything—your favorite childhood memory, your dream vacation, the songs you played on repeat when you couldn't sleep.
And every time he discovered something you had in common, his entire face would light up. Sometimes his excitement would get the better of him. The moment he realized there was another piece of you that matched with him, he'd pull you closer, kissing you with a kind of enthusiasm that made it seem impossible for him to go more than a few minutes without touching you.
It became normal.
The good morning texts. The lazy afternoons spent doing absolutely nothing. The way he'd instinctively reach for your hand when the two of you walked somewhere. The way he'd save space for you on the couch without even thinking about it.
Neither of you talked about what it meant.
You didn't ask. And he never explained.
So the days kept passing, and the line between whatever this was and whatever it wasn't became blurrier and blurrier until eventually it stopped feeling like a line at all.
It simply became the way you and Soonyoung worked.
Until one morning, it didn't.
You had stayed over the night before. Sunlight poured through the kitchen windows while the two of you sat across from each other at his small table, eating cereal straight from oversized bowls. Soonyoung was making some ridiculous joke about one of the movies you'd watched the night before, and you nearly choked on your milk laughing.
Everything felt normal. Comfortable. Safe.
Then he set his spoon down. You noticed the shift immediately.
"What?" you asked, still smiling.
His eyes dropped to his bowl before lifting back to yours.
"I've been thinking about something."
Something in your stomach tightened.
"Okay..."
He scratched the back of his neck.
"I think..." He hesitated. "I think maybe we should just be friends."
The words hit you so hard you almost forgot how to breathe. For a second, all you could hear was the blood rushing in your ears.
Friends. Just friends.
As if the last few months had been simple enough to fit into a single word. As if he hadn't spent countless nights wrapped around you. As if he hadn't memorized every little detail about your life. As if he hadn't looked at you like you were the most fascinating person he'd ever met.
Your chest ached. But you forced your face to stay neutral. Forced your hands not to shake around your spoon. Forced yourself to swallow the lump forming in your throat.
So instead, you shrugged.
"Oh."
Soonyoung watched you carefully as you managed a small smile.
"I thought that's what we always were."
The second the words left your mouth, they felt like glass. They scraped against your throat on the way out.
Because they were a lie.
And the worst part was that you wished they were true.
For a moment, Soonyoung just stared at you.
His expression flickered with something that looked almost like shock, like that wasn't the answer he'd expected.
"Oh," he said quietly.
You looked down at your cereal before he could see the hurt threatening to surface.
"Friends," you repeated lightly. "Yeah. That's fine."
The silence that followed felt heavier than anything that had ever passed between the two of you.
And for the first time since reconnecting with him, Soonyoung looked completely unsure of himself.
The month after that conversation shifted in a way neither of you acknowledged out loud. At first, it was subtle—missed texts here and there, plans that used to fall into place easily now taking more effort, more hesitation. You still saw Soonyoung, but not like before. Not the effortless rhythm you’d slipped into without thinking, the kind that made his apartment feel like an extension of your own life.
Coffee runs became occasional. Lunches happened sometimes, squeezed between schedules instead of stretching into long afternoons that ended with you back in his bed. And there were no more nights that blurred into mornings. No more waking up tangled in navy sheets like it was the most natural thing in the world. Just distance. Not cold, not angry—just carefully unspoken.
And somehow, that made it worse. Every time you sat across from him, you wondered if he missed it too—not just you, but that version of you two. The one that didn’t have labels or boundaries or clarity. You wondered if he was seeing someone, if he had already moved on in a way you were quietly afraid of, and you hated that you were still wondering at all.
You told yourself you were fine. Friends was fine. Friends was what he wanted, what you agreed to, so you acted like it was enough. Even when it wasn’t. Even when it felt like you were slowly adjusting to a version of him that had been stripped of everything that used to make your chest tighten in a different way.
Still, something settled eventually. A new normal formed—quiet, steady, uncomplicated on the surface. Just friends. And you kept telling yourself you were okay with it, even if deep down it felt like something inside you was wearing down piece by piece.
Then it hit you one night, quietly and without drama, that he wasn’t going to change his mind. Not later, not suddenly, not after realizing he missed you the way you missed him. You were tired of waiting for a moment that probably didn’t exist.
A few nights later, you went out with Soonyoung and Seokmin. The bar was loud and warm, full of overlapping conversations and dim lighting. You sat between them at first, listening more than talking, until you noticed a familiar face from college approaching. Minghao looked at you with easy recognition, like no time had passed, and greeted you casually before drifting into conversation with Seokmin.
A moment later, Seokmin came back to the table without him. “He wanted to ask about you,” he said offhandedly.
You frowned slightly. “Ask what?”
Seokmin hesitated. “If you were single.”
Your stomach dipped before you could stop it. “And?”
“I told him yeah… but he said he wanted to ask you out.”
The air around the table changed. You felt it before you even looked at Soonyoung. When you did, he was staring into his drink, jaw tight, completely still in a way that didn’t match the situation. Not relaxed, not indifferent—just off.
“Oh,” you said lightly, like it meant nothing. But Soonyoung’s grip on his glass tightened. Seokmin suddenly found the table very interesting.
You tilted your head slightly. “Why are you acting weird?”
“I’m not,” Soonyoung said immediately.
“You are.”
“I’m not,” he repeated, too fast to be convincing.
You nodded once, like you accepted that answer, then turned to Seokmin. “Can you give me Minghao’s number?”
Seokmin blinked. “Uh—yeah, sure.”
Soonyoung finally looked at you then, properly, like he hadn’t expected that to come out of your mouth. You didn’t flinch. You just pulled out your phone and, right there in front of him, opened it and started typing.
A few days later, Soonyoung was at your place like he’d been so many times before—like nothing had shifted at all. He was stretched out on your bed, one arm behind his head, the other holding his phone as he played some game with quiet focus. The room felt strangely normal again, like it had slipped back into an older version of itself where nothing had ever been complicated.
You stood in front of your mirror, holding up different outfits against your frame, half talking over your shoulder. “Okay, this one’s cute, right? Or is it too much for coffee?”
Soonyoung didn’t look up right away. “It’s coffee. Wear whatever.”
You huffed lightly and changed into another option. “That’s not helpful.”
“It’s not supposed to be,” he said, finally glancing up for half a second before going back to his phone. “It’s just coffee.”
You turned to him, narrowing your eyes a little. “You’re being weird.”
“I’m not,” he said immediately, too quick.
“You are,” you repeated, slipping on another top. “I think this one’s good though.”
“Sure,” he said, voice flat in a way that didn’t match how often he kept looking over at you when he thought you wouldn’t notice.
You ignored it, though something about his tone lingered in the back of your mind. Instead, you smoothed the fabric down and checked yourself in the mirror again, a small smile creeping onto your face. “I’m kind of excited.”
That finally got a reaction. Soonyoung’s fingers paused on his screen for a second. “Yeah?”
“Yeah,” you said, adjusting your sleeves. “He seems nice.”
“Mm,” he replied, going back to his game, though his attention didn’t fully return to it.
You turned slightly, doing a little spin like you were testing the outfit. “I mean, it’s just coffee, but still.”
“Right,” he said again, but it came out a little more clipped this time.
You didn’t notice the way his jaw tightened slightly, or the way his phone screen stayed lit longer than it needed to while he wasn’t really playing anymore.
Instead, you grabbed your bag and nodded decisively at your reflection. “Okay, this is the one.”
Soonyoung barely looked up. “Looks fine.”
You rolled your eyes, but you were smiling as you walked past him. “Wow, supportive.”
He let out a quiet sound that might’ve been a laugh, but it didn’t quite reach his face.
A few seconds later, you were halfway out the bedroom door. “Stay here until I get back later, or mingle with Seokmin. Do whatever. I’m gonna show Seokmin my outfit! ”
“Of course you are,” Soonyoung muttered under his breath, but you were already gone.
You hurried down the hall and found Seokmin in the living room. “Okay, rate this,” you said immediately, spinning once in front of him.
Seokmin looked up from his phone and grinned. “Oh, I love that. That’s perfect for a first coffee date. You look really good.”
Your face lit up a little. “Right? I thought so too.”
“Yeah,” he said, nodding. “Minghao’s so lucky!.”
You laughed, smoothing your hands down the outfit one more time, feeling lighter for a moment—excited, easy, uncomplicated.
Behind you, down the hall, Soonyoung stayed in your room longer than he needed to, his phone still in his hand, screen dimming as he didn’t touch it at all.
The date with Minghao went better than you could’ve expected.
It wasn’t overwhelming or intense in the way first dates sometimes felt. It was easy. Coffee turned into a walk, which turned into more talking than you realized you were capable of doing with someone you’d barely reconnected with. He listened without interrupting, laughed at the right moments, and somehow made you feel like you didn’t have to perform anything at all.
By the time you made your way back home later that night, your cheeks still felt warm from smiling too much.
The house was quiet when you stepped inside, the kind of quiet that meant it was late enough for everything to be winding down. Seokmin was on the couch in the living room, baseball game playing softly on the TV, a blanket half draped over his legs.
He glanced over immediately. “You look like that went really well.”
You tried to hide your smile and failed. “Was it that obvious?”
He snorted. “You’re glowing. So yeah.”
You kicked your shoes off, still grinning. “It was good.”
Seokmin nodded, eyes already drifting back to the game. “I’m heading to bed soon, but I need full details tomorrow.”
“Deal,” you said, laughing softly.
Then you hesitated. “Is Soonyoung still here?”
“Yeah,” Seokmin said. “Think he’s asleep though. He hung out with me then went to your room earlier.”
“Oh,” you murmured, a little quieter now. “Okay.”
Seokmin gave you a small look, like he could sense something in your tone, but didn’t say anything. “Night.”
“Night,” you replied, already moving down the hallway.
Your steps were slow, careful, like you didn’t want to disturb the stillness of the house. When you pushed your bedroom door open, you found him exactly where Seokmin said he’d be.
Soonyoung was sprawled across your bed, fully asleep, one arm tucked under his head, the other resting loosely against the sheets. His breathing was even, face relaxed in a way you didn’t see often when he was awake and trying to keep everything contained.
For a moment, you just stood there.
Then you quietly closed the door behind you and started changing into comfortable clothes, moving as silently as possible. You grabbed a spare blanket and pillow from your closet, intending to just settle on the floor like it was nothing unusual.
You didn’t want to wake him. He looked too peaceful for that.
Within minutes, you were sitting on the floor beside your bed, arranging the blanket and pillow into something halfway comfortable. You glanced up at him once, just briefly.
And that was when it hit you.
Harder than you expected.
The date had been good—really good. You liked Minghao. You liked how simple it felt. How easy it was to talk, to laugh, to just exist without overthinking every moment.
But it reminded you of something you’d been trying not to think about.
How easy things used to be with Soonyoung, too.
Coffee that felt like dates even when you never called them that. Movie nights that ended with you both laughing too much, too close, until it stopped being about the movie at all. Nights that blurred into mornings without any effort, like the world had quietly agreed to leave the two of you alone.
Now you were here instead.
Going out with someone new.
Coming home excited.
And still ending the night in the same space as Soonyoung—but not in the same way at all.
Your throat tightened before you could stop it.
You looked away quickly, blinking hard, but it didn’t help much. Tears still gathered anyway, quiet and unwelcome, slipping in without asking permission.
You pressed your lips together and turned onto your side on the floor, facing away from the bed.
Eventually, exhaustion pulled at you. You didn’t even notice yourself falling asleep.
A few hours later, you stirred at the faint sound of movement above you.
The room was dim, lit only by streetlight slipping through the curtains. You blinked slowly, disoriented, until you realized someone was leaning over the edge of the bed.
Soonyoung.
“Hey,” he said quietly, voice rough with sleep. “You wanna get in the bed?”
You barely processed the question. “No,” you mumbled, shifting slightly under the blanket. “It’s fine. You can have it.”
He paused for a second, still half-draped over the mattress, then spoke again more softly. “The bed is big enough for both of us. It’s okay.”
You hesitated, eyes too heavy to argue, thoughts too slow to fully catch up. After a moment, you gave a small, tired nod.
“Okay,” you muttered.
Soonyoung moved back first, making space without another word.
You pushed yourself up slowly and climbed into the bed, careful to keep distance even in your half-asleep state. There was plenty of room between you when you settled in—too much, almost—but you didn’t have the energy to adjust it.
The mattress shifted slightly as he laid back down.
The next morning, the house was still half-asleep.
Seokmin didn’t emerge from his room, which meant he had either stayed up too late or had decided the world could function without him for a few more hours. Either way, it left the kitchen quiet in a way you actually appreciated.
You stood at the counter making coffee for you and Soonyoung, the familiar routine feeling almost too normal after the night before. The sound of the machine filled the space while you moved around it on autopilot, still trying not to think too much about how you’d ended up falling asleep next to him in bed and how little distance there had been between you both when you woke up, one of his arms draped over you almost accidentally holding your hand as if it was second nature.
When you turned around, Soonyoung was already there.
Hair messy, eyes still a little heavy with sleep, leaning casually against the doorway like he’d been there longer than you realized. He didn’t say anything at first, just watched you for a second before stepping inside.
“Morning,” he muttered.
“Morning,” you replied easily.
You handed him a mug without thinking. He took it, fingers brushing yours for the briefest second before he leaned against the counter beside you.
“So,” he said after a beat, voice light, too controlled. “How was it?”
You glanced at him, then shrugged with a small smile that you hoped looked effortless. “Good. Really good actually.”
“Yeah?” he asked, like it didn’t matter, like he wasn’t listening a little too closely.
“Yeah,” you said again, stirring your coffee. “He’s easy to talk to. We just walked around for a while after coffee. It was nice.”
A pause settled between you, comfortable on the surface but not quite all the way down.
Then he tilted his head slightly. “So he didn’t, like… bore you to death or anything?”
You let out a laugh before you could stop it. “No. Surprisingly not.”
“Wow,” he said dryly. “Impressive.”
You rolled your eyes, still smiling. “Don’t be rude.”
“I’m not being rude,” he said, sipping his coffee. “I’m being honest.”
That made you laugh again, softer this time, shaking your head as you leaned back against the counter. “You’re ridiculous.”
He shrugged, but there was something off in the way he looked at you—something he quickly masked with another sip of coffee.
A moment later, he added casually, “Finally, though. Someone’s taking you out besides me.”
You blinked, then laughed again automatically, assuming it was just one of his usual jokes. “Oh my god.”
But as the sound left you, something tightened in your chest.
Because it was funny.
It was.
And Seokmin said things like that all the time, teasing you about how often you and Soonyoung used to be together, how naturally you fit into each other’s space.
So you laughed. Of course you laughed.
“I know,” you said lightly, shaking your head. “Poor you.”
Soonyoung let out a quiet huff that might’ve been a laugh too, but it didn’t reach his eyes the way it should’ve.
Things with Minghao stayed casual after that—easy in a way that didn’t demand too much from you.
Lunch plans became frequent, usually during breaks in both your schedules. Sometimes coffee turned into longer afternoons where you walked without really deciding where you were going. He was consistent, steady in a way that made things feel uncomplicated. He didn’t push, didn’t rush, didn’t overthink the pauses in conversation the way you sometimes did.
At one point, he even came over to the house.
Seokmin had invited him without much ceremony, like it was the most natural thing in the world. You’d been in the kitchen when he arrived, laughing at something Seokmin said, when Soonyoung walked in a few seconds later and immediately stopped short.
It wasn’t obvious. Not to anyone who didn’t know him.
But you noticed.
Soonyoung was awkward around Minghao in a way that didn’t quite match his usual energy. A little quieter, a little slower to respond, like he wasn’t sure where to put himself in conversations that didn’t involve you directly. He still joked, still smiled, but it felt delayed, like he was catching up to the moment instead of existing in it.
Minghao didn’t seem to notice. Or if he did, he didn’t comment on it.
And you… you tried not to think about it too much.
Because the more time you spent with Minghao, the more Soonyoung started to change around you.
It wasn’t immediate. It wasn’t dramatic. It was made of small things that didn’t seem like anything on their own.
You were texting someone when Soonyoung would join you and Seokmin for dinner more often, your phone lighting up beside your plate.
You started dressing a little differently when you knew you were seeing Minghao—putting in slightly more effort without even consciously deciding to.
Plans with Soonyoung got postponed sometimes because you were “busy,” your voice light when you said it, like it didn’t matter.
And you smiled at your phone more than you used to.
It wasn’t intentional. None of it was.
But to Soonyoung, it started to stack.
Things that used to feel like they were his—at least emotionally, in the unspoken way they’d once existed between you—were suddenly being directed somewhere else. And that was when it started.
Not loudly. Not in any way that anyone else would pick up on.
But Soonyoung began noticing everything.
The way your attention shifted the second your phone buzzed. The way you’d pause mid-conversation, eyes softening slightly when you read a message. The way you’d laugh a little differently when talking about Minghao, like there was something lighter in it.
And he hated that he noticed. Because it didn’t feel like jealousy at first. It felt like irritation he couldn’t explain.
Like discomfort sitting somewhere under his ribs that he couldn’t shift no matter how many times he told himself it didn’t matter.
But it did.
It kept him awake longer than he meant it to.
Lying in bed after you’d text saying you were going to sleep, or after you’d left a room, or after another casual hangout where you’d mentioned Minghao again without realizing how much space he was starting to take up in your life.
Soonyoung would stare at the ceiling and replay things he didn’t want to think about.
Your smile at your phone. Your “I can’t, I have plans.”
The way you seemed… lighter. Happier.
Just not around him in the same way anymore.
And he told himself it was fine. He told himself this was what he wanted.
A few weeks passed like that—casual, carefully balanced, and never quite as simple as it looked from the outside.
You were still seeing Minghao, but nothing about it had deepened in the way people usually expected. It stayed light on purpose. You liked him—you really did—but you also kept a quiet distance you never fully explained, even to yourself.
Because no matter how easy he was to be around, there was still a part of you that didn’t fully let go.
A part that still belonged, inconveniently, to Soonyoung.
Soonyoung, meanwhile, stayed in your orbit like he always had. Comfortable, familiar, unavoidable. It had slipped back into something that looked almost normal again—him in your room, you on your bed, talking about nothing important while time passed around you instead of between you.
He was sitting at the edge of your bed while you were folded into your chair, scrolling through your phone between conversations. The air was relaxed in the way it always was when you were alone together—soft, unguarded, easy to mistake for something more stable than it actually was.
Then Soonyoung leaned back on his hands and said, completely out of nowhere, “Remember when we used to hook up? Isn’t that so funny?”
You froze.
Not dramatically, but enough that it was noticeable.
Your eyes flicked up to him immediately. “What?”
He shrugged like it was nothing, like he hadn’t just reached into something you had carefully avoided naming for weeks. “I mean, it’s kind of funny. We were so… whatever that was.”
Your chest tightened, but you forced your expression to stay even. “That’s a weird thing to bring up.”
“Why?” he said, smiling a little. “It’s true.”
You stared at him for a second longer than you meant to, then looked away, trying to recover your tone. “Yeah. Sure. Hilarious.”
Soonyoung watched you for a moment, like he was testing something, then leaned forward slightly, resting his elbows on his knees. “You’re acting like it was a crime or something.”
“I’m not,” you said quickly.
But your voice was a little too fast. A little too defensive.
He noticed. Of course he did.
Then, like he always did when he got comfortable, he added with a small tilt of his head, “I mean… you weren’t exactly complaining back then.”
It was light. Teasing. Familiar.
But it hit you harder than it should’ve.
Your brain short-circuited for half a second, memories flashing too quickly to ignore—him laughing against your neck, the way he used to look at you when there was no space left between you, the way he used to say your name like it meant something more than it was allowed to.
You blinked, forcing yourself to stay still.
“Oh my god,” you muttered, rolling your eyes like it didn’t land anywhere inside you. “You’re unbelievable.”
Soonyoung grinned slightly, clearly pleased with himself. “What? I’m just saying.”
And then, softer, almost absentmindedly, he added, “You’ve been a lot more serious lately, though.”
That made you look at him again. “Serious?”
He nodded once. “With Minghao.” The name landed differently when he said it.
You straightened slightly, caught off guard. “What about it?”
Soonyoung shrugged. “Nothing. Just… you’re different when you’re talking about him.”
You hesitated, then gave a small, careful laugh. “That’s called liking someone.”
“Yeah,” he said, too quickly. Then, after a beat, he added, lighter again, “Weird.”
You scoffed. “You’re the one who brought up our past hookups out of nowhere.”
That earned another grin from him, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes this time. “Fair.”
He leaned back again, stretching out on your bed like he belonged there without thinking about it. “Still,” he said casually, “kind of funny how that was a whole thing.”
You didn’t answer immediately, because your thoughts had already started to scatter.
The ease in his voice. The way he was looking at you. The way he could say things like that without hesitation.
It made your brain do something dangerous—something that almost felt like hope before you forced it back down.
So you just smiled faintly. “Yeah. Funny.”
But Soonyoung was watching you more closely now.
Not in a teasing way. In a quieter, more observant one.
Over the next couple of weeks, you still saw Minghao. On paper, it was exactly what you were supposed to want. But nothing about it fully settled the way it should have.
Every time you were with him, there was a quiet sense of misalignment you couldn’t quite explain. Not discomfort, not boredom—just a subtle wrongness that sat underneath everything else like a low hum.
It wasn’t him.
It was you.
You noticed it in small moments you immediately regretted noticing at all. The way you compared how easy it was for Minghao to keep a conversation steady to how effortlessly Soonyoung used to derail one just by laughing too hard at something stupid you said. The way Minghao would politely wait for you to finish speaking, and your mind would, unfairly, flash to the way Soonyoung used to interrupt you just to argue for fun, like your words were something he couldn’t help but react to.
You hated that you did it.
Hated it even more that it was automatic.
Because Minghao didn’t deserve to be measured against someone who still lived in the background of your thoughts like a reflex you couldn’t break.
He was good. Genuinely good.
And that made it worse.
You were sitting across from someone who was offering you something steady and real, while your mind kept drifting back to something unresolved, unfinished, and impossible to fully replace.
You’d laugh with Minghao, enjoy the moment, even mean it when you said you had fun—but afterward, when you were alone again, the feeling never fully stayed. It slipped through your fingers like something you hadn’t managed to hold properly.
And you started to notice a pattern you didn’t like.
You were never fully present.
A part of you was always elsewhere.
And the worst part was that Minghao was starting to feel it too, even if he didn’t say it outright. There were pauses where he studied you a little more carefully, moments where his smiles softened like he was trying to figure out what version of you he was actually getting.
You didn’t blame him. You wouldn’t have wanted this version of you either. Because deep down, you knew what the problem was.
You weren’t confused. You weren’t torn between two people in any real sense. There was only one person who still occupied the space you couldn’t seem to clear. And every time you tried to step forward with someone new, it felt less like moving on… and more like stepping around something you were still standing too close to.
You started trying to do things differently after that.
Not by forcing yourself to feel something that wasn’t there, but by actively refusing to let your thoughts drift backward every time you were with Minghao.
It took effort at first—more than you wanted to admit. Your mind still tried to pull you toward familiar patterns, old comparisons, old habits of thought that circled back to Soonyoung without permission. But each time it happened, you gently redirected yourself.
Focus here. Not there. And slowly, things started to shift.
Minghao noticed it too.
You were more present now. You laughed more freely, responded without hesitation, let conversations stretch without overanalyzing every pause. The tension you hadn’t even realized you were carrying began to ease, and with it, the time you spent together felt smoother, lighter, more natural.
It didn’t feel forced anymore. It felt like something that could actually grow.
One evening, Soonyoung was over while you were getting ready for a date.
He had arrived earlier, like he often did, letting himself settle into your space without ceremony. He was on your bed again, scrolling on his phone, occasionally commenting on something Seokmin had said from the other room, acting like the world was normal and unchanged.
You were in the hallway putting the finishing touches on your outfit when the doorbell rang.
“I’ll get it,” you called automatically.
Soonyoung didn’t think much of it at first. He barely looked up.
Until he did. Until he heard your voice brighten slightly at the door. And until he saw Minghao standing there.
Minghao was smiling at you like he was happy to see you, and you were smiling back in a way that felt different now—less uncertain, more open. More sure.
Soonyoung stayed where he was, but his attention locked in without him meaning to.
Then Minghao did something simple.
He reached out and gently brushed a strand of hair from your face before leaning down and pressing a small kiss to your forehead.
Soft. Casual. Sweet in the most effortless way possible.
Like it meant nothing to anyone except maybe you.
“Hey,” Minghao said quietly. “Ready?”
You nodded, smiling. “Yeah. Give me a second.”
You stepped back inside briefly to grab your bag, talking lightly as you moved around the room.
Soonyoung didn’t say anything. He didn’t even realize how still he had gone until after the door closed behind you both.
The apartment was suddenly too quiet. Seokmin called something from the other room, but Soonyoung didn’t respond. Because all he could think about was how easy it had looked. How natural it had felt. How Minghao had touched you like it was allowed. Like it was deserved. And that was the part that stuck. Not jealousy in the obvious sense. Not anger. Something quieter. Heavier.
Because for the first time, it fully clicked into place in a way he couldn’t ignore anymore.
Someone else was treating you like you were something precious. Something worth being gentle with.
And Soonyoung—still sitting there, still in the space you had once shared in every possible way without ever naming it—realized with uncomfortable clarity that he didn’t just notice it.
He wanted it.
He wanted to be the one who got to look at you like that.
Weeks passed in a way that felt quieter on the surface, but not necessarily easier underneath.
You and Minghao still weren’t official, but what you had settled into was steady in its own way—casual, exclusive, unspoken in the places that mattered most. There was no rush to define it, no pressure hanging over either of you, just a consistent presence that made your weeks feel anchored in something stable.
And for the first time in a while, you stopped bracing yourself every time your phone lit up with his name.
It wasn’t perfect. But it was real enough to keep going.
Soonyoung noticed the shift in a different way.
He didn’t come over as often anymore before your dates. At first it was subtle—an excuse here, a delay there—but eventually it became consistent. If Minghao was picking you up, Soonyoung wasn’t around. If you were coming home late, he was already gone.
It wasn’t something anyone addressed directly. But it changed the rhythm anyway.
What didn’t change was that he still ended up hearing about things.
Because you still told him.
You didn’t do it to hurt him. You didn’t even fully think about it most of the time. It just… came up. Like talking about your day, like mentioning plans with Seokmin, like anything else that existed in your life.
One evening, you were sitting on your bed while Soonyoung scrolled through his phone at your desk chair, legs spread casually like he belonged there without question.
“I think we’re kind of past the ‘just coffee’ stage,” you said lightly, glancing at your screen. “It’s still not official, but it’s consistent.”
“Mm,” Soonyoung hummed, not looking up. “Exclusive-ish.”
“Yeah,” you said. “Basically.”
There was a pause.
Then you added, almost absentmindedly, “We hooked up last week.”
Soonyoung didn’t move at first.
Then his thumb stopped mid-scroll.
“Oh,” he said after a second, voice carefully neutral.
You didn’t notice the way his jaw tightened slightly, or the way he shifted in his seat like he was trying to adjust something uncomfortable that wasn’t physical.
You just kept talking. “It wasn’t weird or anything. Just… happened.”
“Right,” he said again, a little quieter this time.
For a second, neither of you said anything.
Then Soonyoung leaned back slightly in the chair, finally looking at you. “So that’s where we’re at now?”
You frowned a little. “What do you mean?”
He shrugged, forcing something casual into his tone. “Just keeping track of your romantic timeline. Seems like I’m falling behind.”
It was a joke. Light. Familiar.
But something about the way he said it made your brain catch slightly, like it always did when he turned something into teasing.
You scoffed, rolling your eyes. “You’re ridiculous.”
“I try,” he said.
A small pause followed, then he added, like it was nothing, “So… what, is he good at it or should I be concerned for his reputation?”
That got a laugh out of you before you could stop it. “Oh my god, Soonyoung.”
“What?” he said, grinning now, leaning forward a little. “I’m just asking for research purposes.”
You shook your head, still smiling. “You don’t need to worry about it.”
“Didn’t say I was worried,” he replied quickly.
You raised an eyebrow at him. “You’re literally interrogating me.”
“I’m not interrogating you,” he said, too fast again.
You paused for a second, then shrugged. “He’s fine… yes”
That should’ve been the end of it. But something about the word hung in the air for a moment longer than expected.
Soonyoung’s expression shifted slightly—not obvious, but enough that you noticed if you were looking.
“Fine,” he repeated quietly.
And then, like it was just another casual follow-up in a conversation that wasn’t doing anything to either of you, he asked, “Better than me?”
You blinked. Then laughed, a little caught off guard. “What kind of question is that?”
“I’m curious,” he said, leaning back again like he hadn’t just said something that subtly changed the temperature of the room. “Important data point.”
You shook your head, still smiling, still brushing it off like it meant nothing. “I’m not answering that.”
“Coward,” he said lightly.
You reached for your pillow and threw it at him.
He caught it easily, laughing under his breath.
The conversation moved on after that. It always did.
But later, when the room was quiet again, Soonyoung couldn’t stop thinking about the way you had said it so easily. Like it didn’t matter. Like he wasn’t even part of the comparison anymore. And that was the part that made his stomach twist. Not because he didn’t know what was happening between you and Minghao.
But because he did. And hearing it out loud—casual, unbothered, real—made it impossible to pretend it wasn’t something that had already fully moved forward without him.
Though weeks went by, it felt like it had been months. You and Minghao didn’t fall apart in a dramatic way. There was no argument, no big misunderstanding. It just… didn’t go anywhere. And eventually, you were the one who said it out loud first.
It was mutual in the end. Gentle, respectful, uncomplicated. He agreed easily, maybe even relieved in the same way you were. It didn’t hurt the way you feared it might. It lingered for a day, maybe two, then settled into something you could carry without thinking about it too much.
And then you didn’t tell anyone.
Not Seokmin. Not Soonyoung.
There didn’t seem to be a reason to. So in their minds, you were still seeing him.
That’s how you ended up on the living room floor one night with Soonyoung, a half-finished card game spread between you.
It felt almost normal again in the way things sometimes did when enough time passed without anyone naming the shifts.
You were laughing as Soonyoung dramatically lost another round.
“This game is rigged,” he complained, leaning back on his hands.
“You’re just bad at it,” you said, shuffling the cards again.
He scoffed. “I’m strategically challenged.”
“You cheated twice,” you pointed out.
“I was adapting,” he corrected immediately.
You rolled your eyes, smiling as you dealt the next hand. “Sure.”
There was a comfortable pause, the kind that used to feel effortless between you.
Then Soonyoung tilted his head slightly, watching you with that familiar glint in his eyes. “So how’s your boyfriend?”
Your fingers paused mid-deal.
It was subtle. Just a fraction of a second.
Then you recovered, letting out a small laugh. “He’s not my boyfriend.”
“So you’re still in the ‘exclusive mysterious situationship phase,’” he said, like he was summarizing something extremely complicated for his own entertainment.
“Something like that,” you replied lightly.
He hummed, leaning forward again, resting his forearms on his knees. “Must be nice.”
You glanced up. “Must be nice what?”
He shrugged. “Having someone take you out all the time. Texting you. Kissing you on the forehead like some kind of—” he gestured vaguely, “—romantic main character.”
You snorted. “You’re being weird again.”
“I’m not,” he said, but there was something looser in his voice now. Less teasing, more… searching.
You raised an eyebrow. “You kind of are.”
Soonyoung leaned back again, eyes still on you. “Are you happy with him?”
The question landed differently.
Not playful this time. Not joking. Your hands stilled completely.
You looked at him properly now. “Why do you care?”
A beat of silence stretched between you.
Soonyoung opened his mouth, then closed it again like he was recalibrating something inside his head. For once, there was no quick deflection. No joke ready on standby.
Just him. Looking at you like he had been holding something in for too long.
“I shouldn’t,” he said finally, voice quieter.
Your brow furrowed slightly. “That’s not an answer.”
He exhaled, running a hand through his hair. “I know.”
Another pause.
Then, like something inside him finally gave up trying to stay vague, he said, “Because I can’t stop thinking about you.”
You blinked. Once. Twice. “…What?”
Soonyoung let out a short, humorless breath, like he was annoyed at himself now more than anything. “This is going to sound stupid.”
“Then don’t say it,” you replied immediately, still trying to process.
He shook his head. “No. I need to.”
He looked at you again, fully now. No jokes left in his expression.
“You knowI have feelings for you, right?” he said simply.
The room went still.
You stared at him, searching his face like there had to be some angle you were missing. “Soonyoung…”
“I know,” he said quickly, like he was bracing for impact. “I know I messed it up. I know I shouldn’t have said we were just friends. I know I pushed you away when I didn’t want to.”
Your chest tightened, confusion rising before anything else could settle.
“What are you talking about?” you asked, voice sharper now. “You were the one who said that.”
“I know,” he repeated, softer this time. “And I regret it. Every part of it.”
Your expression hardened, something defensive snapping into place. “So what, you’re just saying this now because I’m seeing someone else?”
His eyes flickered at that.
Then, quieter, almost painfully honest, “No.”
A beat.
“I’m saying it because I thought I could handle you being with someone else,” he admitted. “And I can’t.”
Your breath caught slightly, but you didn’t let it show fully.
“You don’t get to do that,” you said, standing up now. “You don’t get to push me away, watch me try to move on, and then decide you’re not okay with it later.”
“I know,” he said again, and there was something breaking in his voice now, something he wasn’t trying to hide anymore.
But he stood up too, stepping closer without fully realizing it. Like distance had stopped mattering in the moment.
“I tried,” he said. “I tried so hard to be okay with it. With you being with him. With you not looking at me like that anymore.”
You shook your head. “So what am I supposed to do with that?”
His voice dropped. “I’m not asking you to fix it.”
But his eyes said something else entirely. Something quieter. Needier. Like he was standing too close to something he had already lost and only just realized it.
“I just needed you to know,” he said.
And for the first time, there was no joke left in him at all.
For a second after he finished speaking, everything just hung there—still, suspended, like the room itself didn’t know what to do with what had just been said.
Soonyoung was looking at you like he was waiting for impact. Like he knew he deserved it. And maybe that was what finally broke something open in you.
Because you had been holding it together in a way that wasn’t really holding together at all—just stacking quiet moments on top of quieter ones, pretending that if you didn’t look directly at it, it wouldn’t keep hurting.
But now he was standing in front of you saying your name like it meant something again.
Like it had always meant something.
And your chest just… collapsed.
“Stop,” you said, but your voice cracked halfway through.
Soonyoung froze. “Hey—”
“No,” you shook your head, breath catching hard now. “You don’t get to say that to me now.”
Your hands trembled slightly at your sides, and you hated that he could probably see it.
“You don’t get to just—” you let out a broken laugh that wasn’t really a laugh at all, “—show up and say you have feelings for me like I haven’t been—like I haven’t been losing my mind over you for months.”
His expression shifted instantly. “What?”
Your eyes stung before you could stop it, and suddenly you weren’t even trying to hold it in anymore.
“I ended things with Minghao,” you said, voice shaking now, “because I couldn’t get you out of my head.”
Soonyoung went still. Completely still.
You wiped at your face quickly, frustrated with yourself more than anything. “I tried. I really tried to be normal about it. I went on dates, I laughed, I acted like I was fine, like I was moving on like a normal person—”
Your voice broke again.
“But I wasn’t,” you said, sharper now, tears slipping despite you trying to stop them. “I’d be sitting there with him and I’d just—think of you. Or I’d be with him and I’d get a text from you and it would ruin everything because suddenly I wasn’t even there anymore, I was just—”
You shook your head, breathing uneven. “And I hated it. I hated myself for it.”
Soonyoung’s mouth opened slightly, but nothing came out.
You kept going anyway, because stopping felt impossible now.
“I would go out with him,” you said, voice quieter but more wrecked, “and he would be nice and normal and good, and I would still come home and think about you. I would—” you swallowed hard, “I would hook up with him and then I’d just lie there afterwards thinking about you. Wishing it was you. Every time. Every single time.”
Your hands clenched at your sides.
“It was driving me crazy,” you admitted, voice cracking again. “I couldn’t do it anymore. So I ended it. Because it wasn’t fair to him. And it wasn’t fair to me either.”
Soonyoung looked like he’d been hit with something he didn’t know how to respond to. His voice came out low. “You never told me.”
You let out a shaky breath, laughing once through tears. “Why would I? You were the one who said we were just friends.”
That landed. Hard. His expression tightened, something painful flickering across his face.
“I didn’t know,” he said, quieter now.
You wiped your cheeks again, but it didn’t help much. “Of course you didn’t. Because I wasn’t going to sit here and beg you to want me after you already decided I was just—whatever I was to you.”
“That’s not—” he started, stepping forward slightly.
But you shook your head immediately. “Don’t.”
He stopped.
Your voice dropped, exhausted now more than angry. “I tried to move on. I really did. And I still couldn’t stop thinking about you.”
Then softer, almost broken:
“And now you’re telling me you feel the same?”
Soonyoung looked at you like the answer was the easiest thing in the world and the hardest thing he’d ever had to say out loud.
“Yeah,” he said quietly. “I do.”
And the space between you didn’t feel empty anymore.
Soonyoung was still looking at you like he was afraid you might disappear if he blinked wrong.
And you were still crying, but it had shifted now—less like breaking, more like something finally spilling over after being held back too long.
“You’re serious?” you asked quietly, almost disbelieving.
He nodded immediately. “I’ve never been more serious about anything.”
A shaky breath left you, and you looked away for a second, trying to steady yourself. “So all this time…”
“I thought I was doing the right thing,” he said, voice rougher now. “I thought stepping back would make it easier. For both of us. And then you started seeing him and I—” He stopped, jaw tightening. “I couldn’t handle it. I couldn’t act like I didn’t care.”
You let out a small, broken laugh. “Yeah, I noticed.”
That earned the faintest, strained exhale from him—almost a laugh, but not quite.
Then he stepped closer again, slower this time, like he was giving you space to stop him if you wanted to. But he didn’t reach for you. Not yet. Just stayed there, close enough that you could feel him.
“I didn’t stop caring,” he said quietly. “I just didn’t know what to do with it.”
Your chest ached at that. Because that was the part that hurt the most—that neither of you had known what to do with anything.
You wiped your face again, but your hands were still shaking slightly. “So what now?” you asked.
Soonyoung didn’t answer immediately.
His eyes flickered over your face like he was memorizing it again, like he was trying to catch up on everything he’d missed while pretending not to look too closely.
“I don’t want to lose you again,” he said finally.
That did it. Something in your expression softened, even through everything still tangled inside you. You hesitated for only a second before speaking, voice quieter now.
“Can I kiss you?”
The question hung between you for half a heartbeat as if it was crossing a fine line you both had written a year ago.
Soonyoung’s expression shifted instantly—something raw and almost disbelieving breaking through the tension. Then he shook his head slightly, stepping forward just enough to close the last bit of space between you.
“You don’t even need to ask,” he said softly.
And that was all it took.
Soonyoung pulled you in, but it wasn’t forceful. It was urgent in a way that came from months of restraint, of almost-moments, of stopping himself from reaching for you when he wanted to. Your hands grabbed at his shirt instinctively, like your body had already decided before your mind could catch up, and the moment his mouth met yours, everything else disappeared.
It was passionate, not in a rushed or careless way, but in the way of something that had been denied for too long. There was frustration in it—years of misunderstanding, weeks of silence, months of pretending not to care—but underneath that, something softer broke through. Relief. Recognition. The overwhelming sense of finally.
Soonyoung’s hand stayed at your cheek at first, steadying you like he needed proof you were really there, while the other slid lightly to your waist, pulling you closer until there was no space left for hesitation. You felt yourself melt into him almost immediately, like your body remembered before your thoughts did. Like it had been waiting for this exact feeling without ever admitting it out loud.
And you could feel it in the way he kissed you back—less controlled now, more open, like something inside him had snapped loose. Every small movement carried everything neither of you had said: the jealousy, the regret, the longing that had been sitting between you both for months without anywhere to go.
Your breath hitched again, sharper this time, and that small sound between you seemed to change something in him.
Soonyoung responded immediately, like he’d been waiting for any excuse to stop holding back. The kiss deepened—not rushed, but undeniably more intense now, like the restraint between you had finally given way completely. His hand at your waist tightened slightly as he pulled you closer, and you felt the last bit of distance disappear until there was nothing left to question, nothing left to hesitate over.
Your fingers moved before you could overthink it, sliding up from his chest and under the hem of his shirt. His skin was warm beneath your touch, and the contact alone made something in your chest tighten in a way that had nothing to do with confusion anymore.
Soonyoung let out a quiet breath against your mouth at the feeling, and it only made you braver.
He broke the kiss for half a second—barely enough space to breathe—foreheads almost brushing, eyes half-lidded like he was trying to stay grounded in the moment. But then he looked at you properly, and whatever restraint he had left slipped again.
His hand slid under your shirt too, warm palm meeting your side, fingers spreading slightly as if he needed to feel you fully to believe you were there. The touch was careful but certain, like he already knew the shape of you even after all this time, like muscle memory was doing what words never could.
And that did something to you.
Your breath caught again, uneven now, and you pulled him back in without thinking, kissing him deeper this time—less hesitant, more sure. His response was immediate, like he’d been waiting for you to choose him all over again.
There was no awkwardness in the way you fit together, no learning curve, no uncertainty. Just familiarity that had been sitting under everything for too long, finally allowed to surface.
Soonyoung’s hand stayed at your waist under your shirt, steady and grounding, while your fingers curled lightly against his side like you were reminding yourself he was real. The kiss slowed only slightly—not because it lost intensity, but because it started to feel less like urgency and more like something that had always been there, waiting for the right moment to be acknowledged.
And for the first time in a long time, neither of you pulled away first.
That was until,
“OH MY GOD.”
The voice cut through everything like a slap.
You both froze instantly, still too close, still mid-moment, turning your heads toward the sound in sync.
Seokmin was standing in the doorway to the living room, one hand half covering his face like he wasn’t sure whether to laugh or walk back out. His eyes darted between you two before he let out a loud, incredulous sigh.
“You are doing it AGAIN,” he said, pointing vaguely at you both like he was personally exhausted by the pattern. “How do I keep finding out about this in real time??”
You pulled back slightly, still breathing unevenly, cheeks flushed as you blinked at him. Soonyoung didn’t move much either, but there was the faintest sheepish look crossing his face now.
Seokmin stepped further into the room, shaking his head. “You literally told me you were just friends like a week ago. A WEEK AGO.”
You let out a breathless laugh, still trying to process everything yourself. “It’s a long story.”
He stared at you both for another second, then threw his hands up. “Of course it is.”
You finally shifted away from Soonyoung just a little more, though his hand lingered at your waist like he wasn’t fully ready to let go yet.
“I’ll tell you tomorrow,” you added, still a little out of breath, trying to sound normal and failing slightly.
Seokmin narrowed his eyes. “You better. I want full details this time.”
Then he muttered under his breath as he turned away, “I cannot keep living like this,” before disappearing back down the hallway.
You barely waited for Seokmin’s footsteps to fade before you moved.
Your hand slipped into Soonyoung’s without thinking, fingers threading together like they’d always known how to fit. He looked down at it for a fraction of a second—like that alone still felt unreal—before you tugged gently, already leading him down the hallway.
You pushed your bedroom door open, stepping inside in a familiar rush of movement that felt too similar to a memory you both had been avoiding. The air in the room was warm, dim, private in a way that made everything outside of it feel irrelevant.
Soonyoung followed you in immediately.
The second the door clicked shut behind him, he reached back and locked it without hesitation.
When he turned back to you, there was a pause—small, loaded, almost like both of you were silently acknowledging how quickly everything had changed, how easily you’d fallen back into something that had never really left.
Then Soonyoung crossed the space between you in two steps.
And this time, there was no hesitation left to work through.
He guided you back toward the bed gently but without doubt, and you went willingly, the back of your knees meeting the mattress as he followed you down. The moment you were both there, he was on top of you again—not in a way that felt overwhelming, but in a way that felt inevitable, like gravity had finally stopped pretending.
His hand came up to your face almost immediately, thumb brushing lightly along your cheek as he looked at you properly for a second, like he still needed to confirm this wasn’t something he was going to wake up from.
“You’re really here,” he murmured.
It wasn’t a question.
You let out a soft breath, your hands finding his again without thinking, holding on like you were grounding yourself in him just as much. “Yeah,” you whispered. “I am.”
That was all it took.
He leaned in again, slower this time, and you met him halfway, the kiss deepening instantly but gradually losing its restraint in a way that made your breathing turn uneven against his mouth. It wasn’t rushed, but it was no longer careful either. Every pause between you was shorter now, every return to each other more instinctive, like neither of you wanted distance to exist at all.
Soonyoung’s breath broke against yours for a second, forehead brushing yours as he tried to steady himself, but it didn’t last long. The moment your fingers tightened slightly at his collar, he was kissing you again—slower at first, then deeper, like the feeling of you under his hands made it harder to think clearly.
Your breathing started to mix between you, uneven and close, the kind of closeness that made everything else feel far away. His hand at your waist shifted like he was grounding himself in you, and yours stayed in his hair, holding him there just as firmly.
There was a quiet pause where you both just looked at each other—too close, too real, too much history sitting in the space between your breaths.
Neither of you said anything.
You didn’t need to.
Soonyoung exhaled softly, something unreadable flickering across his face—relief, disbelief, something almost overwhelmed—but when he leaned in again, it was gentler this time. Slower. Like he was choosing to stay present in it instead of letting it spiral forward too fast.
The next morning felt softer in a way neither of you had fully adjusted to yet.
Not awkward—just different. Like the world had quietly rearranged itself overnight and was now waiting to see how you both would move through it. You woke up tangled in each other's arms just as you used to. It was familiar, comfortable.
You were in the kitchen first, making coffee out of habit, when Soonyoung came up behind you and rested his chin briefly on your shoulder then kissing your cheek like it was the most natural thing in the world. No hesitation. No second-guessing. Just him, warm and real, like he belonged there.
Seokmin, unfortunately, was already awake.
And already suspicious.
He stood at the counter with his arms crossed, watching the two of you like he was trying to solve a puzzle he didn’t remember agreeing to participate in.
“So,” he said slowly, “I need to understand something.”
You glanced at him over your shoulder, stirring your coffee. “You do not.”
“You two were just ‘friends’—your words, by the way—like a week ago.” He says confused.
You exchanged a look with Soonyoung. A very tired, very knowing look. Then you both shrugged at the same time.
“It got complicated,” you said simply.
“Soonyoung stopped pretending,” Soonyoung added in the third person.
Seokmin stared at both of you in silence for a long moment.
Then: “I hate it here.”
That made you laugh properly this time.
Eventually, over coffee and half-eaten toast, the explanation came out in pieces—less like a formal story and more like something neither of you could stop smiling through. Minghao mentioned in passing, awkward pauses that turned into realizations, jealousy that didn’t make sense until it did, feelings that had been sitting there the whole time pretending not to exist.
Seokmin listened with growing disbelief, occasionally interrupting with “that’s insane” or “you both need help,” but there was no real judgment behind it. Just exhaustion at being the only one who had apparently not been emotionally spiraling in the background.
When it finally settled, he leaned back in his chair and shook his head.
“So,” he said slowly, “you’re together now.”
Soonyoung glanced at you.
You glanced back.
And there was no confusion in it anymore.
“Yeah,” you said.
Soonyoung nodded. “Yeah.”
Seokmin exhaled like he was accepting defeat. “Great. Love that for you. Horrible for my peace.”
Later, when Seokmin finally left you alone, the apartment quieted again—but it wasn’t the same quiet as before. It wasn’t distance or tension or unanswered questions anymore.
It was calm.
You stood by the counter while Soonyoung came up beside you again, this time taking your hand without thinking twice. Like it wasn’t something new. Like it had always been allowed.
You looked at him for a moment.
“Slow,” you reminded softly.
He nodded immediately, thumb brushing over your knuckles. “Slow.”
Preview: You should’ve known the moment he walked into the boardroom with a grin too expensive for someone so inexperienced, This was temptation—tailored in Armani and absolutely lethal.
How did the two of you end up here—his office, lights off, half-breathing on his desk at nine o’clock at night?
You should’ve known the moment this would spiral. The signs were all there.
Soonyoung Kwon was the grandson of your boss’ boss’ boss’ boss. Which, by hierarchy, technically made him your boss too—though the title felt more ornamental than functional. You still remember the day he stepped out of the elevator a month ago, flashing a dazzling smile, shaking hands with the interns like he was on a political campaign.
He had announced himself as the new Director of KF Label, like he was gifting you all with his presence. And then your former director, who clearly saw the chaos ahead and ran, called you in for a “quick chat” and gracefully asked you—read: begged—to guide Soonyoung during his adaptation period.
A polite corporate term, you’ve since realized, for “He has no idea what the hell he’s doing, so make sure he doesn’t crash and burn the company before Q4.”
And yes—he truly has no idea what he’s doing. He is rich in confidence, poor in skill. A golden retriever with a black card and a C-suite title. Infuriatingly cheerful, tragically unqualified.
Which is how you, the marketing manager who actually built her way up from zero, spent the past month babysitting someone who thought "brand synergy" was a soft drink.
Thirty days of training him, fixing his mistakes, dragging him out of meetings he wasn’t prepared for, and still—still—somehow he manages to get under your skin.
“Now, tell me…”
“What should I say… during the meeting… with the supermarket owners tomorrow?”
Your fingers dug into the edge of his desk as he slammed into you, hips snapping forward with a pace you didn’t know he was capable of. God. Why were you into this? And why were you suddenly sounding like a desperate young woman getting her brain fucked stupid?
Kwon Soonyoung was an idiot. A cocky, clueless pain in your ass.
Yet tonight—he was making you worse than everything he is. Your moan broke the silence of the office in a high, breathless pitch no one in this building had ever heard from you. You—who kept your heels sharp, your lipstick in place, and your tone professional no matter the pressure. But now? Now you could barely get out a single word. Barely answer his simplest questions.
Yet he kept asking them. “We have a slogan?” — his first dumb question, asked a month ago when you handed him a company profile and procedural system you had rewritten in the simplest terms possible. You’d practically turned it into a corporate comic book, hoping to minimize the damage.
And now?
“Should I wear a Rolex or a Cartier for tomorrow’s meeting?”
He whispered it against your ear like it was dirty talk, the smirk in his voice cutting sharper than his thrusts. He probably thought he won something. Okay—fine. He won a little. Ever since he had you bent over his desk, squirming, gasping, ruined.
But still—stupid. Always with the stupid questions. “You’re… stupid!” you managed, voice strangled between a moan and a cry, half an insult and half a plea. You barely made sense, and you hated that he knew it.
He laughed, low and wicked, before slowing his hips, dragging out the motion just enough to make you whimper at the loss. His hand ran along your front, slipping under your blouse and palming your breast like he knew you needed that grounding, that release.
“Please… Kwon Soonyoung…” you gasped, back arching when his fingers grazed your nipple.
But instead of mercy, he pulled you upright, chest to chest, keeping you firmly locked against him. His hand gripped your waist as his lips brushed the shell of your ear.
“Answer me first, Ms. Ji. And remember…” His voice dropped a note deeper, quieter, deadlier.
“I’m your boss. So it’s Director Kwon.”
The next morning felt criminal.
Not just because you only managed two hours of sleep, or because your thighs still ached from being bent over a mahogany desk like some overworked intern in a very inappropriate drama. No. It was criminal because you still showed up on time, coffee in hand, hair done, heels on, and speech script perfectly printed.
Even after Kwon Soonyoung had given you three orgasms in one hour. In the office. On his desk. Under the goddamn company logo.
You were trying your best to pretend it never happened. Really, you tried. The speech script was crisp, stapled, and revised at 3 a.m. in between waves of humiliation, aftershocks of pleasure, and the memory of him whispering “Answer me, Ms. Ji…” like he wasn’t buried so deep inside you— you forgot your own name.
You had cross-checked every paragraph, every bullet point, just to make sure you hadn’t unconsciously written “Your cock has a better function than your brain.”
Honestly? If that line made it in, it wouldn’t be inaccurate. Was there a company that specialized in evaluating performance like that? Maybe it was time to write to the Kwon family directly. You could pitch it as a side venture—something like Kwon Enterprise: More Brains Below the Belt.
Hell, they might even give you equity for surviving their grandson.
“Thank you, Ms. Ji,” Soonyoung said quietly, his voice low, velvet-wrapped. He took the papers from your hand, but didn’t let go. His fingers lingered. So did his eyes.
And you swore—you swore—you saw the same madness in them that you saw last night. The hunger. The chaos. The wicked tilt of his mouth that said he remembered everything.
You cleared your throat, yanking your hand away as if his touch burned. It did, in a way. You forced your face back into your best professional mask.
“Try not to freestyle this time, Director,” you said coolly, taking the seat beside him. “And no dumb questions about ‘what synergy means.’ It’s in bold on page two.”
He smirked without turning, flipping the paper open. But you caught the way his leg brushed yours under the table. Intentional. Definitely intentional.
Last night was incredible. You couldn't lie. But if this man thought he could rattle you in daylight the same way he did in the dark. Well. He really was stupid.
*
A gentle touch on your shoulder startled you out of your screen-staring trance—you didn’t even know how long you’d been zoning out. Your eyes blinked back into focus, and you looked up to see Kim Mingyu, your colleague and the ever-reliable Finance and Accounting Manager of the label.
His brows were furrowed, concern written across his face. “You okay, Y/n? Director Kwon’s called for you three times,” he said softly.
You sighed, pushing yourself up from the chair with a tired stretch. “I’m fine. Just... running on fumes,” you said, flashing him a half-smile that tried to pass for reassurance.
But Mingyu didn’t look convinced. He tilted his head, gaze narrowing just a little. “Is he still bothering you?”
You blinked. “Who?”
“That bastard,” he replied, voice lower now—him, meaning Jeon Wonwoo, your ex. The IT guy who cheated on you two months ago with an intern. The same incident that created a domino effect of side-eyes and rumors throughout the building. It wasn’t a secret that Wonwoo’s spiral post-breakup had revealed just how deeply insecure he truly was. And not just about you—about everything.
You rubbed the back of your neck, feeling a sudden weight in the room. “No,” you said, clearing your throat. “He’s not worth mentioning anymore.”
Mingyu nodded slowly, reading between the lines but not pushing. “Okay. But you know I’ll throw hands if I have to.”
You couldn’t help but smile at that. “Appreciated. But no violence in the office—unless it’s against that printer in the copy room.”
That earned a soft chuckle from him. “Did Director Kwon actually say anything, or does he just need me to be present and breathing?” you asked, your eyes scanning your desk for the folder Soonyoung needed to sign. You knew how he was—selectively urgent.
Mingyu reached over and pulled a document map from the far corner of your workspace. “This. He needs this.”
You took it with a grateful sigh. “I’m seriously glad I have you, Mingyu. Otherwise I’d probably die in here for the stupidest reason—death by incompetent boss.”
Mingyu laughed, that boyish grin spreading across his face, fangs peeking out. “You’re dramatic.”
“You know I’m not.”
“True,” he replied, still grinning. “But at least the chaos keeps things interesting.”
You rolled your eyes with a quiet chuckle, fingers tightening on the file as you braced yourself to face Soonyoung again. That man could burn your patience to the ground in five minutes—and somehow still leave you… you didn't want to think about it!
You entered his office with quiet steps, the thick folder in your hand still warm from Mingyu’s grasp. Director Kwon Soonyoung sat behind his desk, sleeves rolled to his forearms, hair pushed back in a way that looked almost too polished for someone who once asked if a “slogan” was a new type of dip.
Without looking up, he extended his hand. “The file?” You placed it gently in his palm, expecting some sort of snide comment or dumb question about where to sign. But instead, he opened it, flipped straight to the right page, and signed with swift, confident strokes. No questions. No confusion. Just… efficiency.
Your brows lifted slightly. Who was this? Then, without looking up, “what’s the projected ROI on the third campaign under the Miju rebranding?”
You froze. Not from fear—but from pure shock.
He finally glanced up, and your eyes locked. There was no usual smirk, no cocky glint in his gaze. Just focus. Calculation.
You cleared your throat. “Projected ROI is 127%, assuming we maintain target engagement through the influencer channels and retail activations we discussed last week.”
A beat passed. He nodded once. “Good. Shift the TikTok rollout to next Monday. Make the data look prettier before we send it to the board. I want them convinced before they even read it.”
Another pause. You blinked. You were still blinking. He signed the final page, closed the folder, and handed it back with a smooth slide across the desk.
Then, with the slightest tug of amusement curling at the corners of his mouth, he said—
“You may go on the clock for today, Ms. Ji.”
You narrowed your eyes just slightly. “Excuse me?”
He leaned back in his chair, lazy again. Back to his usual smug, languid rhythm. “I said you may go. Early dismissal. I hear sleep deprivation reduces productivity—and I’d hate to see the company suffer just because you forgot how to say no to your boss.”
Your jaw tensed. He was back. The devil in Dior. But you refused to let him have the last word. So you smiled sweetly, flipping your hair off your shoulder. “Then I’ll use the time wisely and remind myself what good leadership looks like.”
His laughter followed you out the door. But so did his eyes.
*
You woke up to the sound of your phone ringing, the sharp buzz pulling you out of a sleep so deep, you almost forgot where you were. The living room was dim, the drama still playing quietly on TV—the last thing you remembered before dozing off. You hadn’t napped like that in years. Not since you started working your ass off at the label.
You squinted at your phone screen. 9:02 PM. The name flashing across it: “Boo Dam.”
“Mmm… Seungkwan…” you mumbled as you slid to answer.
“Honey!” his voice practically sang through the speaker. “You just woke up? Heol! That’s a record. Anyway—I’m going to this new bar with Vernon and Chan. Come join us!”
Seungkwan and Chan were your friends from college—your soulmates in chaos. Meanwhile Vernon… well, Vernon was the guy Seungkwan successfully seduced at a club a year ago with nothing but eye contact and a whiskey sour. They've been disgustingly cute ever since.
You stretched, letting your limbs slowly remember how to function. “Is it like a bar,” you asked, voice dry, “or a bar?” You didn’t need to explain the tone difference—Seungkwan knew.
Without missing a beat, he replied, “A bar. Capital B. Good lighting, better drinks, people who bathe.”
You smiled, already getting up. “Pick me up in thirty. Should I wear the red dress I sent you last week?”
The one you bought after seeing the intern Wonwoo cheated with had liked it on Instagram. It was an impulsive purchase—unlike you. But still… it looked fire on the model, and tonight, you wouldn’t mind setting something on fire.
Seungkwan gasped like he’d been waiting for this moment his whole life. “YES. Yes please! I want that intern to cry just by breathing the same air as you!”
You grinned. Tonight might not fix your mess of a professional life. But maybe, just maybe, it would remind you what it felt like to be you again.
*
Seungkwan rushed up to you like a windstorm in designer sneakers and pulled you into a quick hug that reeked of cologne and overpriced candles. “You look unreal. That intern is somewhere crying right now, I know it.” He held your arms and took a step back like he was inspecting artwork. “Ten out of ten. No—eleven. You’re welcome, world.”
Vernon chuckled beside him. “Glad you made it.”
“Thanks,” you laughed. “Though now I’m wondering if I overdressed.”
“You definitely didn’t,” Chan said without missing a beat, raising his hand to you. “You’re just raising the bar.”
The bar Seungkwan had chosen was all velvet mood and amber light—dim enough to hide your regrets but not dark enough to trip on your heels. Hushed conversations buzzed low under a jazzy remix of something that used to be a love song, and the scent of expensive gin and citrus filled the air.
You made your way toward the bar counter, scanning the place. But before the group could fully settle, Seungkwan clapped his hands once. “Okay, baby,” he turned to Vernon, “we need to find the bathroom. And by bathroom I mean selfie lighting. Emergency.”
Vernon just smiled, like this wasn’t the fifth time tonight. “Lead the way.” And just like that, the couple vanished into the crowd like glitter in a wind tunnel.
You slid onto the barstool, crossing your legs as you adjusted the hem of your red dress, feeling the fabric hug your skin in all the right ways. You stared after them, then turned back to Chan, brows raised. “Did they even sit down?”
Chan shrugged, raising his hand toward the bartender for an order, strong whiskey. “I give them ten minutes. Tops. Then they’ll either come back drunk or deeply emotional.”
You laughed again, warmer this time. “Or both.”
“Always both.”
“So,” Chan said, turning slightly to face you, “what do you want out of tonight?”
You blinked, caught off guard by the question. “Out of tonight?”
He nodded, serious now—his eyes clearer despite the liquor. “I mean… what would make this night feel like it was worth leaving your bed and dreams behind?”
You looked at him for a second. Your red dress clung to your skin in all the ways that made you feel powerful. But somehow, that question made you feel a little bare.
“I don’t know,” you admitted. “Maybe just a moment where I don’t feel like I’m holding the weight of everything. A night where I’m not someone’s manager, not the woman who got cheated on by an IT guy with bad eyesight.”
Chan chuckled, amused. He knocked back a shot of whiskey, exhaling sharply as it hit. Then, as if it were the most natural shift in conversation, he muttered, “So. Still dealing with your incompetent boss?”
You tilted your head with a sigh, leaning your elbow on the bar. “Worse. I think he’s trying to be competent now, which is terrifying in itself.”
“Hmm.” Chan nodded solemnly. “Mine forgot to approve the budget this week and then blamed it on Mercury retrograde.”
You blinked. “Isn’t he the one who doesn’t believe in astrology?”
“Exactly.”
A beat passed, then both of you laughed quietly into your drinks, bitter and understanding.
“People like us deserve a position,” Chan muttered, more to himself than to you. Then he downed his next shot like he was trying to silence something. Maybe his ambition. Maybe the reality.
Your eyes followed his line of sight, catching a man on the other side of the bar—tall, broad-shouldered, eyeing Chan like he was something worth unwrapping.
Chan caught it too. He turned to you with a mischievous smirk, the kind you knew too well. “Excuse me,” he said smoothly, setting down his glass. “Duty calls.”
You laughed as he sauntered off, watching the silent exchange between him and the stranger—how easily Chan slipped into chemistry, how effortlessly people gravitated toward him.
It made you smile. And ache, just a little. Your friends really were better at finding men than you. You swirled your drink in its glass, watching the liquid catch the light like molten gold. Fuck.
A subtle shift in air made you glance to your side. Someone had taken the stool Chan had vacated minutes ago—unannounced, but not unwelcome.
He looked crisp. A semi-formal suit in charcoal gray, black shirt unbuttoned just enough to suggest ease without arrogance. His hair was freshly cut, styled like he walked out of a luxury magazine spread, but the smile he wore? Surprisingly… cute.
“Hey,” he said, voice smooth but warm. “Are you alone?”
You blinked once, thrown for the smallest second before recovering with a polite smile. “Nah, I’m with friends.”
He nodded, gaze never drifting, posture casual but confident. “I’m Choi Seungcheol.”
Your eyebrows lifted slightly. Choi Seungcheol? You’d heard the name before. Everyone in the building had. Director of Grand Paradise Hotel, under the Choi Group. One of your company’s most important VVIP clients—usually talked about in numbers, not in the context of flashing a boyish smile at you in a bar.
“Ji Y/n,” you replied, offering your name with an ounce of surprise still clinging to your voice.
“I like your dress, by the way,” he said sincerely, his tone the kind of soft that didn’t ask for attention, but gave it fully. “You look amazing in it.”
You opened your mouth, but nothing clever came. His compliment didn’t feel like a line. It felt like the truth wrapped in manners. He flagged down the bartender, ordering something light—no shots, no bravado. Just a mild liquor with a twist of lime, like he was trying to prove he was here to talk, not to get drunk.
Cute. And unexpectedly polite—for someone carrying that much power behind his last name. Unlike someone you were really, really trying not to think about.
“So,” he said, turning slightly toward you, “my friends are at a table across the room. Do you mind joining us?” He paused, then added with a soft chuckle, “I promise they’re decent guys. No finance bros in sight.”
You considered it. Not too quickly, not too slowly—just enough to give the impression that you weren’t that easy, but you also weren’t cold.
You smiled, head tilting. “Sure.”
His eyes sparkled briefly at that, and in one smooth motion, he stood. Then, reaching for your hand, he helped you up from the high stool—like a man raised right. His grip was firm, confident, warm. And it was probably nothing. Probably just good manners.
Seungcheol’s hand remained gently on yours as he guided you across the bar, weaving through polished shoes, crystal glasses, and laughter that cost too much.
The place changed as you moved deeper—less noise, more privacy, the lighting softer, shadows richer. The kind of spot reserved for people who didn’t have to wait in line. And you were being led there. You.
When he stopped at the table, three men looked up mid-conversation, drinks in hand, posture relaxed in the way only old money could be.
“Everyone,” Seungcheol said casually, “this is Ji Y/n. She’s joining us tonight.”
You smiled, polite but composed, heart thumping a little harder than you liked. You recognized the faces before Seungcheol even opened his mouth. You’d seen them in magazine articles, shareholder meetings, boardroom slides—not up close, not like this.
Jeonghan sat at the far end, one arm draped lazily over the back of the velvet booth, legs crossed, a glass of scotch in hand. Hair tucked just right behind his ear, a soft silk shirt half-buttoned like he was born too elegant to care about dress codes. He was the kind of man who turned being looked at into an art form. You’d seen him before—once at a fashion gala you were nowhere near important enough to attend, and many times in the margins of headlines about high-end runway investments, creative directorships, and quiet takeovers. The heir of a fashion empire, and from the look in his eyes, fully aware of it.
Next to him was Joshua, spine straight, shirt pristine, smile the kind that had likely been melting boardroom resistance since he was a teenager. He exuded charm without arrogance—a quieter sort of influence that didn’t need to announce itself. You remembered him from a different kind of context: a company email signature at the bottom of a rejection letter when you’d applied to Hong Finance 8 years ago. Back then, you imagined men like him sitting behind high-rise windows, too far out of reach to even notice people like you.
“Nice to meet you,” you said calmly, shaking his hand with a professional grace. No bitterness. Just quiet history you kept to yourself.
And then—then your gaze moved to the last man at the table. Your breath stalled for half a second.
Kwon Soonyoung. He was mid-sip, glass frozen near his lips, eyes wide with what could only be described as… surprised indignation. He looked clean and collected in a black button-up with his sleeves rolled up, top two buttons undone like the night didn’t deserve his full formality. But his stare? It was searing.
You’d never seen him in this kind of setting. Not as your annoyingly attractive director. But as one of them. Powerful. Prestigious. Connected.
You tilted your chin slightly, letting a small smile rise to your lips as if to say, Fancy seeing you here.
He blinked, then lowered his glass slowly. “Ji Y/n.” Your name sounded strange coming from his mouth in front of this table. Too familiar. Too… intimate.
Joshua and Jeonghan looked between the two of you with mild interest, picking up on the tension like it was perfume. Seungcheol remained seated, watching the exchange without interference. Then he leaned over, voice smooth as his smile.
“Looks like you two know each other?”
You chuckled softly and sat down beside him. Soonyoung’s eyes narrowed. His fingers tapped against the side of his glass, lips parted like he wanted to say something—but didn’t.
*
Your eyes met across the polished length of the boardroom table. Again. This has become a weekly ritual now—joining board meetings not just as the Marketing Manager, but as Kwon Soonyoung’s unofficial shadow. Secretary. Handler. Babysitter. Pick a label, they all applied.
Still, a small part of you secretly flattered at the elevation. The prestige. You were seen, involved, and whether they liked it or not, your presence had weight in that room.
Every time a meeting wrapped, you’d nudge Mingyu and mutter, “I’m going to be the one talking in there someday. Note that.” To which he always replied with a half-laugh, half-sigh, “Sure you are.”
He never debated you. He knew better. You didn’t bluff when it came to ambition. But right now, ambition wasn’t the problem. It was Soonyoung.
He’d been staring since you walked in. Sat down. Dragged him out of his office five minutes before the meeting began, muttering something about punctuality and image and for once just pretend you’re not a walking HR hazard.
Staring wasn’t new with him. He often looked at things the way a curious toddler would—eyes wide, mouth slightly parted, like the world was one big mysterious object. But this time? This time his stare wasn’t childish curiosity. It was more like you grew a second head and he couldn’t decide if he liked it or wanted to poke it with a stick.
You shot him a sharp look, mouthing the word “Focus” and subtly motioning toward the executives who were mid-discussion about budget forecasting.
Soonyoung blinked, then smiled—too innocently—and turned his gaze toward the speaker, nodding along like he hadn’t just spent the last three minutes trying to telepathically undress your thoughts.
You furrowed your brow in suspicion before glancing down at your watch. Almost noon. And you were starving. Your fingers tapped the table quietly as the meeting stretched on, words starting to blur together. You tried to stay alert, but every time you felt yourself zoning out, Soonyoung shifted slightly in your peripheral vision. Not because he was fidgeting.
But because he was still watching you. And now you were convinced of one thing: He wasn’t staring like you grew a horn.
“You went home with Seungcheol-hyung last night.” His voice broke the silence as the two of you had just settled in after the board meeting—him tossing off his blazer like he ran the world, you gathering your files with the intention of escaping before your stomach officially started devouring itself.
Your steps halted mid-stride. “Yes, Mr. Kwon,” you replied, turning slightly over your shoulder. Tone neutral. Civil. Professional.
Soonyoung nodded slowly, a little too calmly. “I bet you went home… very safely.”
You blinked. Was that supposed to mean something? “I did, actually,” you said, brows lifting in subtle confusion. “Thank you for your concern.”
He slid into his chair, tilting it back with that look on his face. A smile curled at the corner of his lips—not his usual, goofy, harmless grin. This one was... sharp. Teasing. With just enough glint of mad to make you want to throw a stapler across the room.
“I’m expecting the summary from the meeting,” he said, lacing his fingers behind his head, “after lunch.”
You blinked again. “I was planning to finish it after I eat.”
He leaned forward, resting his elbows on the desk. “Mmm, but you always say I should send the report right after the meeting ends, remember? ‘Strike while the numbers are hot,’ wasn’t that your words, Ms. Ji?”
Shit. That was your line. You cleared your throat. “With all due respect, I’m afraid I can’t hand it in that fast. I’ll need some time to—”
“Really?” he cut in, voice dipped with mock surprise. “Because I need it quickly. You made that very clear. Efficiency is everything, right?”
You stared at him, mouth parting in silent disbelief. This was personal. You knew it. That little smile on his face was soaked in petty vengeance. You bowed stiffly, jaw clenched. “Understood, Mr. Kwon.”
As you turned to leave, fuming and still hungry, you could practically feel his smugness trailing behind you like expensive cologne. And everyone who saw you stomping back into your department after that? Knew exactly who you were cursing under your breath.
Kwon Soonyoung, the golden heir of the Kwon Group. A menace in designer shoes. And currently, the reason you’d be skipping lunch and possibly losing your sanity.
*
No one stayed in the office during lunch. It was the only sacred hour when even the most cutthroat employees stepped out to breathe something that didn’t reek of toner, stress, or twenty kinds of corporate ambition. Even Mingyu had left—after tipping you off about a new KF Label instant spaghetti that only needed five minutes in the microwave. “Garlic cream or tomato,” he’d whispered like he was offering black market gold.
But not you. You sat at your desk, typing the meeting summary like your job—or pride—depended on it. Which, let’s be honest, it did. You weren’t about to give Kwon Soonyoung the satisfaction of thinking he’d thrown you off just because he got a little petty over last night’s company. Your stomach growled in rebellion, but your ego growled louder.
When the last word clicked into place and the printer began humming behind you, you pushed away from your chair with a smug stretch and headed to the pantry. You’d earned that microwaved meal, sad as it was.
Except when you stepped inside, the scent of cheap instant coffee hit you first—followed by the last person you expected to see.
Kwon Soonyoung. Blazer gone, sleeves rolled up, stirring his coffee like this wasn’t the same man who’d made your blood pressure spike all morning. His tie hung slightly loose, hair messier than it had been during the meeting. He looked... calm. Almost casual. Like he belonged here. He didn’t.
“Ms. Ji,” he greeted smoothly, his voice low, almost too composed.
You bowed without thinking, still halfway in surprise. “I didn’t know you were staying in.”
He shrugged, not quite smiling. “Neither did I.”
Your gaze narrowed slightly. “Didn’t grab lunch, Mr. Kwon?”
He swirled the plastic stirrer in his cup, then leaned against the counter with the kind of confidence that didn’t belong in a pantry. “Didn’t have time,” he said, eyes cutting toward you. “You said I needed that report fast, remember?”
You ignored him and turned to the microwave, peeling back the film cover. “I came here for spaghetti.”
The microwave beeped. You retrieved the steaming bowl, grabbed a fork, and gave it a quick stir. The scent of tomato and roasted garlic filled the small space—a reminder that, yes, your company did do something right.
“So that’s it,” he said behind you. “The new KF Label product.”
You nodded without turning. “Premium instant line. Heat-and-Meet.”
There was a pause. Then, Soonyoung stood.
He moved to stand beside you, too close for the pantry’s size, or for what little sanity you had left. “You’re eating company product,” he said, voice lower now. “That’s very… loyal of you.”
“I’m starving. Loyalty’s a coincidence.”
He glanced at your fork, then back at your face. “Still looks good on you.”
You blinked. That line shouldn’t have worked. But it stirred something anyway. You cleared your throat. “Do you want a bite?”
He raised a brow. “You’re offering to share?”
“Don’t make it weird. It’s R&D. You’re the director. You should know what it tastes like before you embarrass yourself at investor tastings.”
Without hesitation, he leaned forward and took the bite directly from your fork. It was too smooth. Too deliberate. The slide of his lips against the plastic, the way he held your gaze as he chewed.
You stared at him, half wondering when the room got warmer. He swallowed, thoughtfully. “Tangy. Surprisingly rich.” He looked at you, a beat too long. “Kind of like the woman who made me eat it.”
You stared at him. Not just because of what he said, but how he said it—like it wasn’t a line, like it was a fact. His gaze didn’t move. Didn’t even flinch. And then it did—just slightly—drifting down. You felt it like a touch: the way his eyes paused at your lips. Not in a rush. Not in hunger. Just there.
Studying. Contemplating. Wanting. Your breath hitched, just enough that you swore he noticed it. He tilted his head slightly, as if waiting to see what you’d do. And suddenly, the air between you didn’t feel casual anymore. It felt hot. It felt loud.
You didn’t move. He didn’t either.
But the tension between you was already leaning forward, even if your bodies hadn’t yet.
And then, slowly—so slowly—it happened.
Your eyes fluttered down. His breath brushed your cheek. Neither of you said a word as you both leaned in at the same time, like it wasn’t a choice but a conclusion. Like something you’d been avoiding had finally cornered the two of you in the smallest room in the building.
Your lips met—soft, hesitant at first.
A question. An answer. And then it deepened.
Not rushed, not frantic, but sure. Deliberate. Like every back-and-forth bicker, every power play, every petty jab in the boardroom had been leading to this.
His hand touched the edge of the counter beside you, grounding himself. Yours hovered somewhere near his chest before settling on the curve of his arm—tense beneath your fingers.
It wasn’t a kiss that screamed recklessness. It was a kiss that whispered, we knew this was coming. And maybe… maybe that was worse.
Because when you finally pulled away, just barely, lips still brushing, you didn’t dare look at him. Not yet. You just whispered, voice low and cracked at the edge, “That was very… unprofessional, Mr. Kwon.”
Soonyoung’s lips curved near yours. “Good,” he murmured, “because I’m not done being unprofessional.”
You barely had time to process his words—“I’m not done being unprofessional”—before his lips captured yours again, firmer this time. Less tentative. Less testing.
Your back bumped against the edge of the counter as he stepped closer, his hand skimming your waist like he was trying to memorize the shape of you through the thin fabric of your blouse. The scent of his coffee still lingered on his breath, mixing with something uniquely his—clean, warm, infuriatingly intoxicating.
You let out a quiet sound, something between a sigh and a gasp, as your fingers slipped into his hair—soft and slightly messy from the day. You gripped it lightly, tugging just enough to make him groan against your mouth. God. That sound.
His hand settled firmly on your hip, pulling you into him like gravity had a personal agenda. The kiss turned deeper, messier, your bodies syncing in a rhythm that felt far too natural for two people who spent most of their time trading sarcasm and sideways glances in glass-walled meetings.
It was heat. Friction. Unspoken things finally spoken with mouths instead of words. Soonyoung broke the kiss only to trail his lips to the corner of your jaw, his voice warm and ragged against your skin. “You always talk so much in meetings,” he murmured, his fingers brushing the exposed skin beneath your tucked blouse. “But now you’re so quiet.”
You swallowed, breath shaky, heart hammering against your ribs. “Maybe I’m waiting for a good question for once.”
He chuckled against your neck, low and sinful, before lifting his head—eyes dark, lips kissed pink, voice like velvet. “Okay then…”
His thumb grazed the hem of your skirt. “…Ms. Ji, what do I have to do to make you say my name again?”
You should’ve walked away. You should’ve reminded him this was a pantry, in a corporate building, at lunchtime. But instead?
You pulled him back into you like your body had already made the decision your brain refused to acknowledge. Fingers tight in his hair. Mouth crashing into his like you were both starving. And maybe you were.
You didn’t remember taking another breath—only the weight of his body caging you against the counter, the soft clang of your forgotten fork hitting the floor, and the rush of his hands finally going where your thoughts had wandered for too long.
Soonyoung hovered close, his lips brushing the shell of your ear, his breath warm and deliberate. “You’re shaking,” he whispered, voice almost reverent.
“Am not,” you breathed, your fingers still tangled in his hair, holding him there like you weren’t entirely sure you could stay upright without him.
His hand slipped beneath the hem of your skirt, slow, assured, until his knuckles grazed the band of your underwear. He paused, as if testing the waters. As if daring you to stop him.
But you didn’t. You let your head fall back slightly, eyes fluttering shut as he tugged at the fabric—just enough to slip his fingers under, to brush against heat and softness and the part of you that ached with how long you'd resisted this exact moment.
A quiet gasp escaped you, and that seemed to break whatever restraint he still had. “God…” he exhaled like a confession, “you really drive me insane, you know that?”
He kissed you again, slower this time—almost sweet if not for the way his hand moved with purpose, with intention, like he wanted to memorize every reaction you gave him. Your hand gripped the back of his neck, grounding yourself in him, in this, in the ridiculous insanity of making out in the pantry like it was your last chance on earth.
“You’re always so in control,” he murmured, teasing the edge of your jaw as his other hand anchored your hip, “but I think you like it when I push.”
You opened your eyes just enough to meet his, and there it was again—that flicker of madness, mischief, and something dangerously close to need.
“Careful, Mr. Kwon,” you whispered, mouth brushing his, “push too far, and I might pull you under.” He smirked like he hoped you would. And then he kissed you again—deeper, slower, pulling you closer like the world outside that pantry didn’t matter.
*
You were flabbergasted. A month ago, you were heating instant spaghetti in the pantry, trying to pretend that fucking your boss didn’t feel like the worst idea you’d ever fallen into.
Now? You were sitting stiffly in a room with three people from HR, a folder in front of you, your hands cold despite how warm the room felt.
Yes, you had slept with Kwon Soonyoung. A few times. Consensually. Not impulsively, not irresponsibly—not from your perspective. And as ridiculous as it was to admit even to yourself, he hadn’t been bad at all in those areas. Too good, in fact. Dangerously good, both with his hands and the way he listened—actually listened—to your ideas during board meetings. He even stopped wearing Cartier and started taking actual notes.
So the fact that you were here, now, caught off guard and very much alone, felt like a slap out of nowhere.
The woman in the middle of the HR panel cleared her throat, hands folded neatly. “Ms. Ji. We wanted to discuss something concerning that’s come to our attention.”
You blinked, still unsure where this was going. “I’m sorry, I wasn’t aware I did anything against the—”
“Your last relationship,” the woman interrupted gently, “was already a topic of concern when it involved someone significant to the company.”
Wonwoo.
You stiffened, jaw tightening. You hadn’t heard his name in weeks, and you preferred it that way. But yes, the intern he cheated with turned out to be someone's niece from the Kwon family. Of course that hadn’t died quietly.
You opened your mouth to respond, but the man sitting beside her cut in first. “We didn’t expect this one.”
You blinked again. “Excuse me?” They didn’t repeat it. They didn’t need to.
The third HR rep leaned forward, sliding a paper your way—an incident report, stamped and dated. “We’re going to have to take action regarding your affair with Director Kwon.”
Everything in you froze. For a moment, all you could hear was the soft buzz of the overhead light. You didn’t move, didn’t speak, as the words circled your head like a siren you couldn’t shut off. Your affair. Director Kwon. It felt like your lungs deflated.
“I… don’t understand,” you finally said, slow and careful. “On what grounds?”
The woman in the center flipped open a file. “There was a complaint submitted anonymously, referencing inappropriate conduct in the office. Specifically in shared spaces. A pantry, for instance.”
Your stomach dropped. So fast, it made your fingers go numb. “And—if I may,” the younger HR rep added, “there’s also concern regarding power dynamics, given your reporting line.”
You wanted to laugh. But it wasn’t funny. Because you’d worked so damn hard. You trained Soonyoung. You cleaned up his messes and wrote half the proposals with his name on them, and still walked into every meeting like your career had been built on steel, not glass.
And now, after everything, it came down to this? A moment. And an anonymous report.
You clenched your jaw, sat straighter, and folded your hands in your lap. “So what kind of action are we talking about?”
The room went quiet. The silence that followed your question felt like it lasted forever. And then the answer came, quietly, like they already knew how you’d react—and were bracing for it.
“We’ve decided,” the woman said carefully, “that you will be reassigned to a different department effective immediately.”
Your breath caught in your throat. “Reassigned?”
“Demoted,” the man clarified with corporate softness, as if using the word wouldn’t hit like a fist. “You’ll be moved from Marketing Management to Administrative Strategy under Corporate Communications.”
You stared at them. Not because you didn’t understand. But because you did. They weren’t firing you. That would’ve made noise. No—they were burying you quietly, slipping you into a department where your work wouldn’t shine, where your name wouldn’t show up on campaign reports, board meeting minutes, or executive proposals. They were pushing you out of the light.
You let out a slow, controlled exhale, refusing to let the tremble in your chest reach your face. “Is Director Kwon receiving the same treatment?”
Another pause. “No,” the lead HR officer said. “After discussion with the executive board, it was determined that Director Kwon will be formally warned, and the matter will be noted in his file.”
A warning. You blinked. A warning for him. A demotion for you. You pressed your lips together, not trusting your voice to stay steady. “And that’s fair, in your opinion?”
“Ms. Ji,” the younger officer interjected gently, “you’ve had a prior history of internal relationship issues that—”
“He’s my superior.” You snapped before you could stop yourself. “If anything, he should’ve been held to a higher standard.”
They didn’t answer. No one ever did, when the unspoken truth hung heavy in the air. He had power. You didn’t. And even if you were the one who helped him become competent, presentable, capable—even if you were the one cleaning up his early failures and doing your work and his—they didn’t care. Because it was easier to punish the one they knew would quietly take it.
Your jaw clenched as you stood, straightening your blazer. “I understand.”
The head officer gave a polite nod. “Your reassignment email will be sent by the end of day. Your new manager will expect you tomorrow morning.”
You turned to leave, your heels echoing sharper than usual against the tiled floor. Your desk had never felt this bare before. You moved like your body had detached from the rest of you—silent, efficient, folding your things with the kind of care you’d normally reserve for the start of something, not the end. Each click of a pen, each rustle of a folder being stacked, was sharp in the quiet.
You didn’t speak. You didn’t cry. You just packed. A shadow passed in your peripheral vision.
“Y/n?” You turned slightly to find Mingyu standing there, a confused frown drawing across his face. His eyes darted to the box on your desk, to your emptied shelves, then back to you.
“What’s going on?”
You kept your head down, pretending to double-check a folder as you tucked it into the box.
“I just got an email from HR,” he continued, voice tightening. “They’re asking me to step in as acting Marketing Manager… temporarily.”
He said the last word like it tasted wrong in his mouth.
You didn’t answer. Your fingers paused at the edge of a stapler, then moved past it.
“Y/n.” Mingyu stepped closer. “What the hell is happening?”
You closed the box slowly, pressing your palm flat against the top as if to anchor yourself. Your chest felt too full—tight with shame, anger, disbelief—and none of it had a name you were ready to say out loud.
You looked up, just enough to meet his eyes. His worry was sincere. Of course it was. He didn’t know. He wouldn’t have accepted the offer if he did.
“I’m being moved,” you said quietly. “Another department.”
“Wait—what?” Mingyu blinked, stunned. “Why? You didn’t do anything wrong.”
You looked away. “I don’t want to talk about it,” you said, voice low and flat. “Not right now.”
He fell silent. You could hear the protest building in his throat, the way he shifted his weight like his body didn’t know whether to stay or follow. But he didn’t press. He just nodded once—slow, reluctant.
You gave him a tight smile, the kind that didn't touch your eyes. Then you picked up your box and walked out of your office—your former office—without looking back.
*
Soonyoung walked into the office with his blazer half off and irritation simmering behind his eyes. The lunch meeting had been a disaster—numbers thrown around without context, board members talking in circles, and nobody knowing what the hell they actually wanted from him. He needed grounding. He needed clarity. He needed you.
So when he stepped out of the elevator and saw Mingyu standing by his office door instead of you, he frowned. “Mingyu?” he asked, blinking like he’d walked into the wrong floor. “Where’s Ms. Ji?”
Mingyu straightened a little, caught off guard. “I… see HR hasn’t told you.”
Soonyoung’s brows pinched. “Told me what?”
“Ms. Ji has been reassigned to another department,” Mingyu said, careful with his words. “I’ve been assigned to assist you until your new executive assistant is recruited.”
For a beat, the air felt thicker. Soonyoung tilted his head, confused. “She was moved? When?”
“I’m not sure about the details, sir,” Mingyu replied, trying not to fidget under Soonyoung’s narrowing gaze. “I only got the notice after lunch.”
Soonyoung stared past him for a second, processing. You were just… gone? No meeting. No sarcastic remarks. No quiet nod as you handed him a stack of deadlines and subtle reminders to behave like a functioning adult. No draft on his desk of the proposal you were supposed to polish before 3 p.m. Gone. Without a word.
“Right,” Soonyoung finally said, brushing past Mingyu and into his office. “Thanks.”
At exactly 2 p.m., two sharp, precise knocks echoed against the glass door of Soonyoung’s office. He didn’t answer. He didn’t need to. Only one person knocked like they were keeping time on a metronome. The door opened anyway.
Kwon Soonyoung looked up to see Lee Jihoon—his cousin, his childhood sparring partner, and unfortunately, also the manager of the Human Resources department. Jihoon was sharp as ever, dressed in a pale button-down and black slacks, sleeves rolled past his elbows like always, giving him the air of someone both overworked and unbothered by it.
He walked in with calm purpose, a single manila folder in his hand and a look on his face that said this wasn’t a social visit. Soonyoung sighed and leaned back in his chair. “What now?”
Jihoon said nothing. He reached the desk, dropped the folder down with a solid thump, and crossed his arms over his chest.
“Your notice,” he said, tone clipped. Soonyoung dragged his fingers through his hair and opened it with two fingers like it might bite. Inside was a printed letter bearing the company’s watermark and the clinical, unmistakable phrasing of HR. The header hit first:
Formal Reprimand — Director Kwon Soonyoung.
Beneath it:
Violation of company policies regarding professional conduct and inappropriate relations within workplace hours...
A wave of heat spread across the back of Soonyoung’s neck. He exhaled through his nose. “A love letter,” he muttered bitterly.
“I warned you,” Jihoon replied, not even flinching.
Of course he had. Jihoon had been warning him since the second week Soonyoung started at KF Label. First subtly. Then with passive-aggressive memos. And then with real conversations—cousin to cousin, HR to Director.
Soonyoung kept reading. Then he stopped. Your name was listed. His. Dated timestamps. A note about internal protocol breaches and the review that followed. “She was moved because of this?” Soonyoung’s voice was low. Tight.
Jihoon gave a slow, neutral shrug. “She’s been reassigned to Corporate Communications under Admin Strategy. Effective immediately.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
Jihoon didn’t move from where he leaned against the desk, arms crossed again. “The complaint came in. Security reports matched the time. You want the details? You’ll get them in writing. Bottom line—HR took action.”
“She didn’t file anything,” Soonyoung said, more to himself than anyone.
“No,” Jihoon replied. “But someone else did. You’re in a glass building, Soonyoung. Don’t act like you’re invisible.”
“No, she didn’t,” Jihoon agreed, voice flat. “But she’s not the one with Kwon as their last name. You are. And between the two of you, the board wasn’t about to sacrifice their own director—so they cut the easier string.” The words hit harder than they should have.
Soonyoung sank into his chair, fingers curling slightly around the edge of the folder. “She made this department function,” he said. “She made me functional.”
Jihoon tilted his head, stepping away from the desk. “And now she’s somewhere no one will bother her again.”
He reached for the door handle, pausing with one foot out. Then, without turning back, “She covered for you every single time you slipped. Maybe instead of being angry at HR, you should be asking yourself why she ever had to.”
The door clicked closed behind him.bAnd for the first time since Soonyoung sat behind that director’s desk, it didn’t feel like power anymore. It felt like consequence.
Days later, Soonyoung stared at his screen, the cursor blinking beneath the words he had retyped at least four times. He wasn’t good at this part. The… formal part. The “trying to keep things clean after it’s already messy” part.
But he had to try something. He’d already felt the hollow space you'd left behind the second he walked into the office and saw someone else standing where you should have been. The wrong energy. The wrong rhythm. Everything off balance. The chair behind your old desk was too still, like no one dared to fill the space you carved.
So he wrote the email like a coward—because walking to your new department unannounced felt too aggressive. And calling felt too personal.
Ms. Ji, I would appreciate the opportunity to meet briefly regarding recent events and your transition. Please let me know if you’re available this week, at your convenience.
Regards,
Kwon Soonyoung
Director, KF Label
He wrote it like a professional. And hated every line of it. But he sent it anyway. Then he sat there, one elbow on the desk, teeth pressing against his knuckle as if it might keep the anticipation at bay. It didn’t.
When your reply came in twenty-three minutes later, he opened it instantly. The corner of his lips lifted—small, involuntary.
I didn’t realize you had mastered the art of professional communication—should we alert HR?
Of course you’d say that. He let out a breath of something that was almost a laugh. It tugged at his chest in a way that was both cruel and comforting. You hadn’t blocked him out. Not entirely. You still knew how to twist the knife with charm. He leaned back in his chair and reread the last line.
Please book a meeting room that doesn’t echo.
So you were coming. Soonyoung swiveled in his chair, glancing toward the hallway, toward the part of the building where he used to see you moving between departments, coffee in one hand, files in the other, bossing people with that crisp, no-nonsense tone that made him fall for you in the first place.
It had been a month. A month of kissing you like he couldn’t help it. A month of crossing lines in ways that felt reckless but right. And then one day—just gone. No fight. No confrontation. Just a folder on his desk from Jihoon and a quiet, echoing absence.
He turned back to his screen and opened the calendar. Booked Meeting Room 5A—the only one with decent soundproofing—and sent the invite. As he pressed send, he sat back and rubbed a palm against his jaw, heart slower than usual but heavier.
You were coming. But this time, you were coming from a different department, a different floor, a different version of what the two of you had built—one meeting, one mistake at a time.
And he didn’t know if you were coming as a former colleague, a woman he’d ruined something with, or someone who still wanted answers.
Soonyoung wasn't the type to fall for the cold ones. Not at first glance, anyway. His usual preference tilted toward softer edges—women who laughed too easily, said yes too quickly, and let him coast through the surface of things. People who didn’t poke at his insecurities or point out the gaping holes in his competence like it was part of their daily job description.
Which is exactly why you were not his type. At least, you weren’t supposed to be.
You were the definition of precision—smart, fast, efficient, and terrifyingly prepared. You didn’t flirt. You didn’t dangle compliments or flash polite smiles unless they were strategic. You were the woman who made everyone in the room sit up straighter when you walked in.
And yet, from day three, he was already in trouble.
You’d walked into his office with your file folder tucked against your chest, wearing a blood-red pencil skirt and a black blouse so sharp it could’ve sliced someone’s quarterly budget in half. Stockings, heels, hair pulled back in that tight, quiet way that made him forget what you’d said right after you said it.
He hadn’t even known what department you were from before then. But he knew from the second he looked at you that you were dangerous.
You weren’t just attractive. You were intimidatingly put-together. The kind of woman whose brain was hotter than her body—and her body was already a goddamn threat.
Call him a pervert—but he’d nearly choked on his own thoughts that day. And his type? Changed. Overnight. It wasn’t just the clothes. Or the legs. It was how you looked at him when you spoke. Like you knew ten things he didn’t. Like he was your slowest subject in class.
And that mouth. You didn’t curse. You didn’t yell. You told him he was stupid with elegant, HR-friendly, vocabulary—inefficient, unprepared, unfamiliar with protocol. Words that stung more than insults because they were true.
Soonyoung wasn't a saint. He loved women. But your breed? Rare. Too rare to ignore. Too rare to resist. Maybe that’s why when you’d stayed late with him that first time—papers everywhere, the city lights bleeding in through the blinds, and you standing too close with your hair falling from that bun—you became inevitable.
Maybe that’s why his hand reached for you like instinct. Why you didn’t push him away. Why your kiss tasted like the end of something professional. And maybe that’s why he’d bent you over that desk that night—not just because he wanted to (God, he did)—but because some part of him had already fallen.
*
"Fuck..."
Your breath hitched as you settled onto him, your knees braced on either side of his thighs, the edge of the table digging lightly into your back. The polished surface was cold. His hands were anything but.
Soonyoung’s fingers gripped your hips with a firmness that said he’d been dreaming of this—of you—for longer than he wanted to admit. His thumbs pressed into the curve just above your waistband, guiding you, grounding you.
Each movement between you was desperate but controlled, like something learned through tension rather than timing.
Earlier, You arrived at Meeting Room 5A at 4:01 p.m. He was already inside. Blinds drawn. Door locked. Suit jacket hung neatly over the chair beside him. His shirt sleeves rolled up, wrists bare. A bottle of water sat untouched in front of him, condensation sliding down its sides like even it was nervous to be in this room.
You didn’t sit right away. Soonyoung looked up, eyes scanning you with something unreadable. He stood as you approached, as if unsure whether to greet you like a colleague… or something else.
“Ms. Ji,” he said quietly, too formal for the way he was looking at you.
“Director Kwon,” you returned with equal sharpness, sliding into the chair across from him. You placed your phone on the table, screen-down. Just in case.
Silence hovered like a third presence. He was the first to break it. “I didn’t know they were going to move you.”
You tilted your head. “That’s the thing about consequences. Sometimes they arrive quietly.”
“I didn’t file anything,” he said. “You know that, right?”
You gave a small, humorless smile. “I know. But your silence wasn’t exactly protective either.”
That landed. He didn’t argue. The seconds stretched again, thick with things neither of you wanted to say out loud.bThen, Soonyoung leaned forward slightly, elbows resting on the table. His voice dropped, no longer formal. “I miss working with you.”
You didn’t answer right away. Your fingers tapped against the wood, rhythm steady. “Is that what this meeting is about?” you asked eventually. “Missing your assistant?”
He smirked, but it was hollow. “You weren’t just my assistant, and you know that.”
You did. And that was the problem.
His hands slid up slowly, tracing the slope of your waist, steadying you as you moved against him. He tilted his head back just slightly, his jaw clenched, mouth parting with a quiet exhale that barely made it past his throat.
You didn’t need him to say anything. You felt it in the way he held you tighter with every shift. The way his fingers pressed into your skin like he couldn’t believe this was real again.
Your palm found his chest, steadying yourself. He was too warm, too solid beneath you.
Then he looked up at you. Eyes darker. Focused. Not on what you were doing, but on you—like watching you fall apart on him was more powerful than anything else he could feel.
His hand rose, brushing up the length of your spine, fingers threading into your hair before tugging just enough to steal your breath again.
You weren’t sure when your head tipped back, or when your hands gripped his shoulders like they were the only thing keeping you tethered to this moment. The edge between pleasure and collapse was thin now—barely holding.
His breath was ragged against your throat, each exhale growing more erratic, his hands no longer guiding but gripping—like he was trying to ground himself in you, like letting go too soon would ruin everything.
Soonyoung’s voice came low and strained against your skin, “Y/n—don’t stop.”
You didn’t plan to. Your rhythm faltered for half a second, hips stuttering from how tightly your body coiled around the sensation—but he was right there, his hand steady at the small of your back, keeping you close, keeping you moving.
Your foreheads touched. Sweat. Breath. Tension.
He looked at you—really looked. And for a beat, the air stopped. There was nothing but the heat of his palm at your waist, the tremble in your thighs, the way your name barely formed on his lips like a prayer or a warning.
And then it hit you—how close you were. How close he was. Every movement became desperate, sloppier. More like instinct than intent.
Your lips brushed his cheek, your body arching as your pulse surged, your voice catching in your throat. “Fuck—Soonyoung—”
That did it. His hands tightened, his body tensed, and in the space between control and surrender, you both tipped over the edge—together. Breathless. Silenced. Shaking.
For a few seconds, there was only the sound of your breathing. Tangled limbs. Quiet gasps. And the soft creak of the table beneath you. He didn’t speak. He just held you—one hand still at your back, the other cradling your waist like you might disappear if he let go too fast.
Your breath was still uneven, your limbs trembling slightly as the silence wrapped around you both like a warm, heavy fog. You rested against his chest, trying to steady your heartbeat, when his voice broke through.
Soft. Low. Like a secret he wasn’t ready to share but couldn’t hold back any longer.
“Resign.”
You blinked.
“Hand them your resignation.”
The words didn’t register at first—your mind too hazy, your body too loose. But when they did, your brows furrowed instinctively. You lifted your head just slightly, startled.
He was already watching you. Still inside this moment. Still bare and open and raw in a way he rarely allowed.
“I—what?” you whispered, breath catching again—but not from desire this time.
Soonyoung reached up, brushing a strand of damp hair from your cheek. His touch was slow, almost reverent. And then he tilted your chin until your eyes met. His gaze wasn’t playful now. No teasing. No smug curl to his lips. Just quiet sincerity.
“I couldn’t watch you being humiliated like this,” he said. “Not after everything you’ve done. Not after everything you’ve fixed… for me.”
You felt it then. The way your throat tightened. The sharp sting behind your eyes. You didn’t even realize a tear had fallen until his thumb was already brushing it away, tender against your cheek like you’d break if he pressed too hard.
His fingers traced the curve of your face, slow, careful. You hated how gentle he was being—it unraveled you faster than anything else. This wasn’t supposed to be gentle. This wasn’t supposed to feel like he cared.
But he did. And that made it worse.
You tried to swallow the lump in your throat. Tried to pull back the flood of emotion that had been simmering under your skin since the HR meeting—since the reassignment, the whispers, the humiliation you had to wear like perfume the minute you stepped into your new floor.
And now this. Soonyoung, who was never supposed to take anything seriously, was the one seeing you the clearest.
Your lip quivered. You bit down on it hard enough to taste metal, willing yourself to stay composed. But the second tear came. Then another. You looked away, ashamed of your silence, your vulnerability, your inability to respond.
“Y/n,” he said gently, pulling you closer, foreheads touching again. “If they don’t see your worth… leave. And I’ll help you find a better place.”
The weight of those words hit you harder than anything else. You didn’t answer. You couldn’t.
But your hand slid to his chest, curled softly in his shirt like you needed something to hold onto.
And for once, he didn’t ask anything more from you. He just stayed with you in this quiet, undone moment.
*
You didn’t mean to call anyone. You had told yourself you'd just shower, maybe eat, maybe sleep—but instead you found yourself curled up on the edge of your bed, still in your clothes, your phone pressed to your ear as it rang.
It was late. The kind of late that made everything feel heavier. The dim light from the kitchen gave the room a soft glow, but your phone pressed to your ear felt heavier than usual.
“I’m just… tired,” was all you said when Seungkwan picked up, his voice chipper at first—then cautious. He didn’t push. He never did. He let the silence fall, filling it with his presence, not questions.
There was a pause, long enough that you almost said “never mind.” Then your voice slipped through again, barely above a whisper.
“What do you think if I’m resigning?”
A beat. Then Seungkwan answered, calm and sincere. “I don’t mind. I mean, yeah—it’ll be hard to find something with the same value, same reputation. But if that’s what you want, I’ll support it. Always.”
You sighed, pressing your thumb against your temple. Your head hurt in the kind of way that wasn’t about lack of sleep—but a lack of peace.
“I don’t know, Seungkwan... I really don’t know.”
“Of course you’re clueless. You’ve been shoved around and put in situations where you had to survive. I understand,” he said, his voice gentler now. “Do you have any career plan? Is someone offering you a job?”
No. No one. Well— Soonyoung had said he’d help. Said it with conviction in that private moment like it was gospel. Like he meant every word.
But he was Kwon Soonyoung. A man who once asked if “ROI” was the name of a new intern. Who didn’t know how to schedule his own meetings without color-coded prompts you made for him. Who showed up to investor brunches with lipstick on his collar—your lipstick—and still made a joke out of it.
You couldn’t even trust him to send an attachment properly in an email. And now he was asking you to trust him with your life after this?
Your silence must’ve stretched too long, because Seungkwan spoke again. “Is it him?” That stopped your breath. You didn’t say his name. You didn’t have to. He knew.
“I don’t know what he promised you,” Seungkwan continued gently, “but if you’re holding on to that as your only parachute, make sure it’s not just… words.”
You closed your eyes. You wanted to believe him.bWanted to believe that Soonyoung meant it—that he would fight for you, that he saw everything you sacrificed for that label, that he wouldn’t let this end with you packing your things and being erased.
But that was the problem, wasn’t it? You didn’t know if it was belief… Or wishful thinking. And you were tired of hoping. You didn’t answer. Just let the silence fall again.
*
When Soonyoung stepped into his apartment, the first thing that hit him wasn’t the silence—but the scent. Something warm. Garlicky. Familiar. He paused by the door, blinking like he had to recalibrate. There was someone in his kitchen. You.
Wearing one of his aprons—badly tied—and frowning softly at the pot in front of you. The sleeves of your blouse were rolled up, and your hair was clipped messily at the back. You didn’t hear him come in right away, too focused on adjusting the stove and tapping at the edge of the box labeled KF Meal Kit –Kimchi Jjigae.
He chuckled, loosening his tie. You and these damn company products. It was the fifth time he’d seen you cooking them in the last month. At work. At home. He shrugged off his blazer, folded it neatly, then quietly walked to the kitchen. You looked up as he reached the counter, eyebrows raised and a small smile tugging at your lips.
You leaned a little on the counter, watching the pot begin to simmer. He stepped closer without thinking, hands finding your waist like they belonged there. You didn’t move. You didn’t stop him. If anything, your body softened beneath his touch, like it remembered the rhythm of standing this close.
Soonyoung exhaled quietly, pressing his forehead near your ttemple I miss you,” he murmured.
There was no teasing in it. No smug grin. Just honesty, spoken low and barely audible over the bubbling of the meal.
You blinked, the words catching you off guard—but not in a bad way. They melted into the air, sinking into the skin between his palms and your ribs. You didn’t respond immediately. You just leaned the tiniest bit into him, a silent answer in itself.
His thumb brushed over your hip, and he pulled you just slightly closer—not possessive, not rushed. Just… here. Present.
You tilted your head toward him slightly. “Dinner’s not even done yet and you’re already getting sentimental?”
Soonyoung chuckled, resting his chin on your shoulder, “You in my kitchen is enough. Feels like I’ve already won.”
And for a moment, it was quiet. Dinner was long gone—plates in the sink, lights dimmed, and the two of you curled on the couch like gravity pulled your bodies together on instinct. The TV played something neither of you paid attention to. Just background noise to the slow rhythm of Soonyoung’s fingers trailing along your cheek, brushing the edge of your jaw, memorizing your face like it was the first time again.
You blinked, lazy from the warmth of his hold, when he spoke.
“I talked to Joshua hyung today.”
Your brow lifted. “Yeah?”
“He said there’s a manager position opening in his company. He’d like to see your resume.”
You turned toward him a little, eyes wide in disbelief. “Really?”
He smiled, nodding, looking far too proud for someone just casually bringing life-altering news. “Yeah… I told him about you. About how competent and sharp you are. He said he can’t wait to meet you.”
You stared at him. “That’s… unexpected.”
Soonyoung immediately pouted, his brows knitting together in that ridiculous way that never quite matched how tall and put-together he could look in a suit. “What’s that supposed to mean? You think I wouldn’t come through?”
You chuckled under your breath, “No, it’s not that. I just…” you exhaled, “I didn’t expect you’d actually do it. I know you can, with your last name and network. But I guess a part of me thought… I was just someone who helped you with work.”
Soonyoung stared at you like you’d just said something blasphemous. Then sighed heavily and pulled you closer, tucking your head beneath his chin.
“You should know by now that you’re more than that, Y/n. Everyone sees it. Even Seungcheol hyung said you were—what did he say—ah, charismatic.”
You groaned, pressing your face briefly into his shoulder. “Don’t bring that up…”
Soonyoung chuckled, a little too amused. “What? It’s true. Remember that night he drove you home from the bar? You told him what you did—accidentally, if I recall—and he just went, ‘So you’re the one supervising Soonyoung? Ah… the annoying marketing manager, huh?’”
You sighed dramatically. “Great. That’s my legacy.”
“Sexy annoying marketing manager,” he corrected with a grin, pulling you closer.
“Shut up.”
He laughed harder now, contentment laced into every curve of his smile.
Then, a pause. Softer.
“You’re not mad?” he asked.
You looked up at him. “Mad?”
“For… helping you like this. I mean, I know you’re strong. I didn’t want to bruise your pride or make it seem like I thought you couldn’t land something on your own.”
You stared at him, heart clenching in that way it sometimes did when people said something too kind. Something too thoughtful.
“You’re competent. Smart. Efficient,” he said, as if repeating it to himself. “And I was worried you’d turn it down because you thought I was underestimating you. But I wasn’t. Not even a little.”
You blinked, then smiled, unable to stop the warmth spreading through your chest.
“You’re cute, Soonyoung,” you murmured, fingers reaching up to pinch his cheek gently.
“Hey! I’m being serious!” he protested, squirming under your touch—but his grin betrayed him.
You leaned into him again, nestling under his chin as his arms instinctively wrapped tighter.
“I know you are,” you whispered. “And that’s why I might actually consider it.”
He didn’t answer. But the way his breath slowed, and the way his thumb gently brushed the back of your hand, said everything.
The TV murmured in the background—some drama neither of you were really watching—as the quiet between you stretched long and comfortably still. The couch dipped just slightly beneath your bodies, your fingers lazily tracing the hem of his sleeve. You were dangerously close to dozing off again in his warmth. Until—
“Soonyoung-ah?”
The sudden voice made you jolt so hard you lost balance. He turned his head sharply—just as you tried to sit up. Your knees caught the edge of the coffee table, he tried to grab your waist, you both fumbled—and then fell.
Hard.
The thud was loud, a tangle of limbs and fabric hitting the floor, followed by a stunned silence and a hissed curse from Soonyoung.
“Oh my—are you okay?!” came the voice again. It was closer now.
You froze, eyes wide. Soonyoung groaned beneath you. “Why didn’t you lock the damn door?” you whispered sharply as you sat up from his chest, trying to fix your shirt, your dignity already lost in the living room rug.
“I didn’t think I needed to!” he hissed back, rubbing the back of his head.
Then a pair of heels stepped into view.
“Oh,” said a woman with a well-maintained bob cut and too-perfect makeup. Her tone was pleasantly surprised, but her gaze was anything but subtle. “I… didn’t know you had company.”
You scrambled upright. “Hello—I'm sorry—I didn’t hear anyone come in—”
“Clearly,” she said with a polite smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes.
Soonyoung stood, brushing off his slacks and walking past you like nothing happened. “You visit,” he said flatly.
His mother blinked. “I brought food. And I wanted to check on you.”
He walked toward the kitchen without glancing back. “I’m not twelve.”
She gave you a knowing glance and followed. “Still, you always forget to eat when you're under pressure. And you’re hosting. I had to make sure she wasn’t starving.”
You stiffened slightly. Soonyoung looked back at you, unreadable. “She ate.”
“I can see,” she said, eyes flicking toward the leftover meal kit container on the counter. “Microwave dinners. Very romantic.”
His mouth twitched. “It’s from the label.”
His mom looked at him, then at you, and smiled again, this time softer. “You must be the reason he’s actually showing up to board meetings.”
You opened your mouth, unsure what to say.
“Mom,” Soonyoung interjected, tone clipped. “You’ve delivered the soup. You’ve confirmed I haven’t died. Are you staying?”
She tilted her head slightly. “I can go. Don’t let me interrupt.” Her gaze lingered on the couch—on the crumpled blanket, the two glasses, the clear closeness—before she turned to the door.
“I’ll call you later, Soonyoung,” she added as she slipped her heels back on. “Nice to meet you, Miss…”
“Ji,” you supplied quickly.
“Miss Ji,” she echoed with a small smile before she stepped out, closing the door with an audible click.
Silence.
You turned to him, breath still uneven from both the fall and the mortification. “So that was your mom.”
“Yep.”
“She didn’t seem… warm.”
“She’s not.”
A pause. “She said she brought food.”
He rolled his eyes. “She’ll Venmo the maid to drop it off later.”
“…You okay?”
Soonyoung scratched the back of his head, then looked at you with a crooked grin. “Honestly? I’d rather fall again.”
You laughed. Loudly this time. And maybe—just maybe—it made the awkwardness a little easier to carry.
*
Your first day at Hong Finance went better than expected. The morning had been a whirlwind of handshakes, onboarding documents, and a glossy welcome kit with your name printed in soft gold on the folder. The office was sleek, everything glass and grey and expensive-smelling, but the people? Surprisingly warm. Joshua, your new Director, had personally introduced you to each team member, casually mentioning that you came highly recommended—without saying by who.
Though you had a guess. A certain someone who used to forget what KF Label even stood for.
You worked through the day with quiet diligence, letting your brain adjust to the faster pace, the bigger picture, and the knowledge that you weren’t being micromanaged by HR this time around. You weren’t running damage control. You were actually doing your job—and being respected for it.
It was 6:10 when you stepped out of the building, your heels clicking gently on the pavement. The golden haze of sunset stretched across the city skyline.
And right there, leaning against a black car with sunglasses perched atop his head, was Kwon Soonyoung.
He looked like he belonged on the cover of a lifestyle magazine—tailored slacks, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, one hand in his pocket and the other lazily scrolling his phone. But the second he spotted you, he straightened up and pulled the door open.
“For the newly hired marketing manager of Hong Finance,” he grinned.
You raised an eyebrow as you walked up. “Look who’s playing chauffeur.”
“I prefer ‘supportive boyfriend who can finally say that title out loud.’” He gave you a dramatic bow before you slid into the passenger seat. “You worked hard. I’m proud of you.”
You chuckled as he got in, started the engine, and the two of you merged into the soft blur of city traffic. “So how was your day?”
He shrugged with a grin. “Better now. I was thinking of you the whole time. Could barely sit through my meeting without wondering if you were dying in there or thriving.”
“I’m thriving,” you smirked. “Try not to look so surprised.”
He glanced sideways at you, eyes softening, then turned back to the road. “You know, I meant it when I said I wanted to take you out tonight. Properly.”
You leaned your head against the seat, lips curving. “I know.”
He glanced at you again.
“And I meant it too,” you added, mischievous. “‘Finally growing up,’ huh?”
Soonyoung groaned playfully. “You’ll never let me live that down, will you?”
“Nope.”
It happened six months later. You weren’t expecting it. Not after all the teasing. Not after the jokes he made every time marriage came up, always with a sly grin and a "we’ll see" or a "why rush, we’re young, aren’t we?"
And certainly not on a regular Saturday afternoon, in the middle of folding laundry in his apartment, your hair tied up in a loose bun, wearing one of his old oversized shirts that still smelled like his cologne no matter how many times you washed it.
But maybe that was why it happened. Because you weren’t dressed up. There was no audience. No violin strings, no rooftop dinner. Just sunlight spilling through the windows, the quiet hum of domestic life, and the two of you surrounded by all the little pieces of your routine. Your world.
He stood behind you, not saying anything at first. Just watching. You felt his stare and turned around, sock in hand. “Why are you looking at me like that?”
Soonyoung tilted his head, lips quirking faintly. “I’m thinking.”
“Dangerous.”
He laughed softly, but didn’t look away. “I mean it.”
You waited.
“I was thinking,” he said again, this time quieter, “about how I used to think love was chaos. Fireworks. Like a storm you couldn’t control.”
You blinked, caught off guard by the sudden sincerity in his voice.
“But you’re not chaos,” he went on, stepping closer. “You’re… steady. You’re grounding. You told me when I was being stupid. You stayed when it would’ve been easier to quit. You even learned to like our new meal kit.”
You rolled your eyes, but your chest tightened. “So now you’re confessing your undying love through carbs?”
“No,” he chuckled, then reached into his pocket. “I’m proposing through this.”
Your breath caught as you saw the small velvet box. He opened it slowly, revealing a ring so simple and beautiful it nearly took your breath away. No diamonds shouting for attention. Just a gold band with a small, elegant gem. The kind of thing someone would wear every day. Quiet. Constant.
Just like the love he’d built with you.
“I’m not good with a lot of things,” he admitted, voice trembling just slightly. “But I know I want to wake up next to you for the rest of my life. I want our dumb, quiet mornings. Our microwave dinners. You calling me an idiot when I deserve it. And maybe one day, you walking into my office again—but with my name.”
You stared at him, completely speechless. Then he laughed, nervously. “You don’t have to say yes now, by the way. I know your career’s still—”
“Yes.”
He paused. “Wait—what?”
You dropped the sock you were holding, stepping closer. “Yes, Kwon Soonyoung. You idiot.” His smile split wide as you tackled him in a hug, the ring box still clutched in his hand.
*
Meeting his parents was something you’d quietly prepared for, even if Soonyoung said you didn’t need to. “They’re not scary,” he promised with his usual shrug. “You met my mom. My dad’ll just talk about the stock market until someone stops him.”
Still, as you sat beside Soonyoung at the long dining table in their sleek Hannam-dong house—with its museum-level lighting and not a single speck of dust—you knew this wasn’t just any dinner.
His mother greeted you first, of course, in a flurry of perfume, pearls, and the kind of warmth that felt performative but not unkind.
“Oh, you’re getting prettier!!” she said, gripping your hands with both of hers. “Soonyoung was never this glowy, you know. He must be eating well.”
You smiled, bowed politely, and thanked her—twice. She seemed like someone who appreciated a bit of extra etiquette. She gave you a quick once-over—your outfit passed the silent inspection, thank God. then insisted you sit beside her son like you were already part of the family.
His father arrived late, after the wine was already poured and the soup already served.
He was tall, imposing, with the kind of sharp silence that made your posture straighten without thinking. His handshake was firm, his gaze sharper.
“You’re working in finance now, I heard?” he asked, cutting his steak slowly.
“Yes, sir. Hong Finance. I handle B2B marketing strategies under Director Hong Joshua.”
His father hummed, noncommittal. “I see. No family ties to the industry?”
You blinked, just once. “No, sir. I’m from Busan. My family runs a small printing business.”
Another hum.
Soonyoung glanced at you, eyes flicking in concern. You nudged his knee gently under the table—a silent it's fine. I got this.
The conversation moved, meandering through safe topics, until the elder Kwon brought up the label again.
“You know, the KF Label still has too many bleeding points. Sales growth is good, but not stable. I’m not convinced Soonyoung understands where it’s leaking,” he said bluntly. “You do understand what I mean by that, don’t you?”
Soonyoung opened his mouth, clearly trying to assemble something in his head. You could almost see him reaching for words, for numbers you knew he hadn’t looked at since last quarter.
But before the silence stretched too long, you calmly lifted your glass, smiled, and spoke.
“The margin inconsistencies in the semi-premium line have been narrowing, actually. Since February, we’ve scaled down redundant distribution channels and optimized the logistics route from our Cheonan facility. The recent push with ‘Heat-and-Meet’ expanded brand visibility with minimal promo spend.”
You placed your glass back down and added, with polite finality, “Soonyoung has been involved in all those strategy approvals. We’ve made it a point to streamline executive summaries so he can lead without getting buried in jargon.”
The table went quiet for a beat. His father looked at you properly now—eyes no longer cold, but assessing. Appraising. “Hm,” he said. “I wasn’t aware of the Cheonan streamlining.”
“I prepared the original logistics adjustment proposal,” you said with a slight smile. “But the final call was Soonyoung’s.”
A pause. Then, almost grudgingly, the elder Kwon nodded. “Impressive.”
Soonyoung gave you a look under the table—half grateful, half floored.
His mother clapped lightly. “You speak better about business than some of his uncles do, dear.”
You blushed politely and simply replied, “I just care about what I do, ma’am.”
His father said little else after that, but the look he gave Soonyoung as he excused himself from the table later carried something unfamiliar. Respect. Maybe for the first time.
And as you and Soonyoung helped clear the dishes together in the kitchen, his mother called from behind you with a small, satisfied smile:
“You’re already helping him become a better man, Y/n.”
You just bumped your shoulder into his and whispered with a smirk, “Glad someone finally noticed.”
*
The revolving glass doors of KF Label glided open with a quiet sigh as you stepped inside, heels tapping steadily against the pristine marble floor. The lobby hadn’t changed—still sterile, still polished, still smelling faintly of lavender diffuser and corporate ambition.
But you had. Not Ji Y/n, the former marketing manager. You were now Kwon Y/n. The name settled differently on everyone’s tongue now. Especially here, where whispers spread faster than memos.
You nodded at familiar faces—staff from various departments, even the security guard who once complimented your meal-prep lunches. Some smiled with genuine warmth, others with thinly veiled curiosity. And a few didn’t bother to hide their surprise.
Your steps slowed only when you reached the seventh floor. There, near the meeting room, you saw him. Kim Mingyu. He looked up from a file he was reviewing, pausing mid-page when he saw you. His expression didn’t change much—no shock, no smile. Just a polite flicker of his brows. You offered a small, courteous smile and bowed slightly. He returned the gesture with the same practiced civility. That was all.
It was a month after your resignation when you’d found out through Dokyeom in a hesitant voice over a coffee meeting, that it was Mingyu who had filed the HR report. The report that cost you your role. Since then, there’d been no real confrontation. No apology. Just stiff smiles across event halls and neutral nods across meetings.
Jun, Soonyoung’s secretary, greeted you the moment he saw you approach. He looked much livelier than he did during your era of damage control.
“Y/n,” he beamed, standing quickly and smoothing his tie. “You look amazing, as always.”
You offered a gentle smile. “Is he available?”
Jun nodded, already walking to the heavy door. “Just finished a call. I’ll let him know.”
He knocked once and pushed the door open with a practiced hand.
“Sir,” he said with a knowing grin, “your wife is here.”
There was a pause, then a familiar voice from inside, low and warm with the tone he reserved only for you.
“Let her in.”
And just like that, you stepped through the door—leaving behind the past titles, the old pain, and the fractured stares.
You weren’t here to prove anything anymore.
You were here as Kwon Y/n—his partner, in more ways than one.
Soonyoung stood the moment you entered, his face lighting up with that boyish grin that never failed to soften you. His tie was loose, his sleeves rolled, and the stress lines on his forehead were deeper than usual.
Still, he reached you first—fingers brushing yours before he gently guided you toward the couch like you were something precious.
“Why didn’t you tell me you were coming?” he asked, sitting close, knees turned fully toward you.
You tilted your head, teasing, “What would you have done if I told you?”
“Prepared something,” he said dramatically, eyes twinkling. “Like a red carpet. You’re a star here, baby.”
You let out a soft laugh, brushing your hand against his cheek. “You’re ridiculous.”
“Only for you.” He leaned his head against your shoulder then, a deep sigh escaping from him as his whole body relaxed. “Have you had lunch?” you asked quietly, resting your cheek on his head.
He shook his head. “No time. This anniversary event… the product launch, five proposals due by tomorrow—” he exhaled sharply, motioning vaguely to his chaotic desk. “I’m going crazy. If you hadn’t walked in, I might’ve actually curled under that table and disappeared.”
You ran your fingers gently through his hair. “I took a half-day off.”
His head lifted slightly. “Why? Still feeling fatigue?”
You nodded, pressing your lips together. “Yeah. And I went to the doctor earlier.”
That made him sit up straighter, concern painting his face. “You should’ve come home. Why didn’t you say anything? Why are you visiting me if you’re not feeling well?”
Instead of answering right away, you pulled a neatly folded document from your bag and handed it to him.
His brows furrowed as he took it. “Wait—this… is this what I think it is?”
“Open it.”
Soonyoung unfolded the paper slowly, eyes scanning over the lines until they landed on one sentence that made everything around him blur.
His mouth opened slightly, but no words came out at first. His hands trembled just enough for you to notice, the document still in his grip.
“I’m—” he blinked, voice rough with disbelief. “I’m going to be a dad?”
You nodded, your own breath catching. “Yeah. We’re… we’re going to be parents, Kwon Soonyoung.”
For a second, he just stared.
And then he laughed—a soft, breathless sound of pure joy—as he leaned in and wrapped his arms around you, pulling you against his chest with a mix of awe and something almost like reverence.
“You’re everything,” he whispered. “I swear, you are.”
“I’m telling Jun I’m going home. Everything can wait until tomorrow.” Soonyoung stood up with a spark in his eyes after pulling you into one last firm hug.
You opened your mouth to protest—“Soonyoung, your schedule—”
But he already had his phone to his ear, spinning half toward his desk while still watching you like he couldn’t stand looking away for too long.
“Jun. Yeah. Cancel everything for the rest of the day. Postpone the internal review, shift the client call. Send a memo that the director is off-duty. No, not sick—in love.” He grinned at you while Jun, somewhere across the floor, probably died a little. “You can blame the most beautiful woman in my life.”
You covered your mouth with your hand, trying not to burst out laughing. “You’re so dramatic.”
“I’m not dramatic,” he said, putting his phone down and coming back to you. “I’m in love. And apparently, I’m going to be a dad, which means I have very important priorities now.”
He helped you up gently, his hands warm on your arms. “Let’s go home, baby.”
You smiled, heart full. “Okay.”
As the two of you stepped out of the office hand in hand, the corridor lights overhead felt softer. Familiar faces turned, surprised, and smiled—some knowingly, some with wide eyes.
But you didn’t care.
Not as he walked beside you, fingers laced tightly in yours, saying things like “I’m buying dinner. No—wait, I’m cooking! No, I’m ordering and cooking!”
You and Vernon have been inseparable since middle school, growing up side by side until the moment everything changes when you leave for college in New York. He stays home, pretending he’s fine with the distance, but the night before you leave, a simple sleepover turns into an emotional argument neither of you were prepared for. Vernon, unable to understand why he’s so affected by your departure, lashes out and says hurtful things about your choice to leave—words rooted in fear rather than truth. After you leave, silence takes over, and Vernon is left behind, quietly falling apart as he spends every day yearning for you, hoping for any sign that you might still come back into his life. And worst of all, he never wanted you to leave, and that was killing him.
Genre: angst,oblivious to love, oblivious to feelings, non-idol au, yearning vernon, like vernon yearning harder than anyone has yearned before
Word Count: 16.3k
Warnings/Things to make note of!: angst, a lot of angst, like the whole story is angst pretty much up until the end, verbal fighting, no smut!, heavy making out, mention of getting undressed, happy ending, yearning, crazy yearning, sad yearning. I ALSO DID NOT PROOF READ THIS WHOOPS!
A/N: hi! Its been a bit! End of semester got busy and crazy so i didn’t have much time to write!! My roommate and I love 5 seconds of summer and she had this idea for a vernon fic based on the 5sos song, im scared ill never sleep again which I immediately was like omg YES LETS DO IT. so we brainstormed the plot together and i got writing!!! I hope you all love it cutie little yearning vernon chwe hansol ugh cutie pie. Enjoy the story!!!
If anyone asked how you and Vernon became friends, neither of you could ever remember the exact details.
The official story was that a seventh-grade science teacher had assigned a group project about ecosystems and stuck the two of you together. Vernon had forgotten half the materials, you'd had forgotten the poster board, and somehow the disaster had ended with both of you laughing so hard you got yelled at for disrupting class.
After that, you were just... there.
Lunch periods. Bus rides. Weekend hangouts. Study sessions that turned into movie marathons.
Vernon loves movies.
Every milestone from awkward middle school years to surviving high school had happened with Vernon standing somewhere nearby.
The friendship became so permanent that nobody questioned it anymore.
Well, almost nobody.
People who didn't know either of you would occasionally glance between the two of you and ask, "Wait, are they dating?" And every single time, someone who knew you both would laugh.
"No." The answer came immediately. Automatically. "No, they're just Vernon and Y/n."
As if that explained everything.
Because it did. Everyone knew you and Vernon would never catch feelings.
Not because there wasn't trust or affection between you. If anything, there was too much of it. You knew how he took his coffee, knew which songs he skipped every time they came on shuffle in the car, knew exactly what expression meant he was trying not to laugh, and knew exactly what jokes would make him laugh his little squeaky noises that makes you laugh even harder.
Vernon knew all your secrets, all your bad habits, all the things you never told anyone else.
You were best friends. The kind of best friends people pointed to when they talked about platonic soulmates. The kind of friendship that seemed untouchable.
Unchangeable.
Then graduation came.
Neither of you cried during the ceremony, but your family definitely did enough for everyone.
Afterward, life suddenly felt too big.
College acceptance letters turned into orientation dates. Texts filled with discussions about dorm assignments and class schedules. Everyone around you seemed to be preparing for some huge new chapter.
At first, neither of you thought much about it.
Of course you would both go to college. Of course you would still be best friends.
That part was obvious.
The less obvious part came when decision day rolled around.
You chose New York. The second you got accepted, you knew.
The city felt loud and exciting and terrifying in all the right ways. It was everything you'd spent years dreaming about whenever you felt trapped in your small hometown. New opportunities. New people. New experiences.
A fresh start.
Vernon chose differently.
While everyone around him stressed over moving across the country, he picked a school in-state less than an hour from home. Close enough to visit home whenever he wanted. Close enough that his parents wouldn't have to help him move his entire life into a dorm room. Close enough that everything familiar would still be there if he needed it.
Neither choice surprised the other.
You had always wanted more, Vernon had always liked what he already had.
Still, for the first time in years, your lives weren't moving in the exact same direction.
You tried not to think about it.
So did he.
Instead, you spent the entire summer together.
Some days were spent driving around town with no destination. Some days were spent lying on your bedroom floor talking about absolutely nothing. Most nights ended with one of you sleeping over at the other's house.
The friendship was so old that neither of your families thought twice about it anymore.
If Vernon stayed over, he took his usual side of the bed.
If you stayed at his house, you took yours.
No awkwardness. No weird tension. No wondering where to put your arms.
Just comfort. Just familiarity.
The two of you had practically grown up side by side.
A shared bed never meant anything more than being too lazy to drag out an air mattress.
The summer before college became a collection of routines.
One of your favorites happened almost every evening.
Music had always been your thing.
You'd spend hours sitting cross-legged on your bed with a guitar in your lap, replaying the same section of a song over and over until your fingers got it right.
Vernon would usually be nearby.
Sometimes stretched out on the floor, sometimes sitting against your headboard, sometimes scrolling through his phone while pretending not to pay attention.
But he always listened.
Every wrong note, every lyric, every song you became obsessed with for two weeks before moving on to another one.
Occasionally he'd join in.
He'd just start singing a line under his breath from wherever he was sitting, making you grin before you inevitably messed up whatever chord you were playing.
And then he'd laugh.
That quiet laugh that always turned into those ridiculous squeaky little noises whenever something genuinely got him.
It was easy, everything with Vernon was easy.
Until suddenly there were only three days left before you moved to New York.
Then two.
Then one.
The night before you left, your phone buzzed while you were sitting on your bedroom floor surrounded by half-packed boxes.
Vernon:Sleep over tonight?
You stared at the message.
You:Vernon, I literally leave for New York tomorrow morning.
The typing bubble appeared immediately.
Vernon:I know that.
Vernon:That's kind of why I'm asking.
You:Wow. Getting sentimental on me?
Vernon:Don't make this weird.
Vernon:So are you coming or not?
You looked around your room, brown boxes lining the walls.
Tomorrow, you'd wake up, get in a car, and leave behind the town you'd spent your entire life in.
Leave behind your family, Leave behind your friends.
Vernon wasn't exactly the world's most expressive texter, but he was usually easier than this. Lighter. He always had some dumb comment to make or some random thought to share.
Lately, though, he'd been different.
You couldn't pinpoint exactly when it started, maybe a few weeks ago?
Maybe when college became real.
Maybe when moving day stopped being some distant date on a calendar and started becoming tomorrow.
He'd just been... off.
A little more irritable.
A little quieter, a little quicker to shut down conversations.
Sometimes you'd catch him staring off into space when you were talking and have to repeat yourself. Other times he'd get oddly annoyed over things that normally wouldn't bother him.
Nothing worth questioning.
You figured he was stressed. Besides, everyone was.
Your hands sat on the top of your steering wheel when everything set in.
Looking at your house.
Tomorrow night, you wouldn't be here. Tomorrow night, you'd be in a dorm room hundreds of miles away in New York. The realization hit harder than it had all summer.
You'd spent months talking about leaving. Planning for it. Getting excited about it.
But somehow none of it had felt real until now.
Until this drive. Your last drive to Vernon's house.
The route was so familiar you could have driven it blindfolded.
Past the gas station where he'd accidentally put diesel into his car during senior year and spent the next month insisting it wasn't his fault.
Past the park where the two of you used to waste entire afternoons doing absolutely nothing.
Past the convenience store where he'd buy the same snacks every single time despite claiming he wanted to try new things.
It wasn't like you'd never come back. It wasn't like Vernon was disappearing.
You'd text. Call. Visit during breaks.
Everything would be fine.
So why did it feel like something was ending? The thought lingered as you drove.
You parked in front of his house and grabbed your overnight bag from the passenger seat.
Then, after a brief hesitation, you pulled out your phone.
You:Here.
The read receipt appeared immediately. A few seconds later, the front door opened.
You climbed out of the car and headed up the walkway, overnight bag slung over your shoulder. Vernon stood in the doorway waiting.
For a second, neither of you said anything, he just looked at you, then he offered a small smile.
"Hey."
"Hey."
Something tugged at your chest.
Maybe it was the porch light or maybe it was your imagination.
But he looked tired. Not physically tired, just somehow exhausted.
His eyes looked slightly puffy, like he'd been rubbing at them for a while. Like maybe he'd cried an hour ago and had mostly recovered from it.
Mostly.
Not enough that you felt comfortable asking about it, not enough that you were even sure you'd seen it correctly.
So you ignored it. The same way you'd ignored every other strange thing about him lately.
"You gonna let me in?" you asked.
He stepped aside immediately. “Right.”
The familiar smell of his house greeted you as soon as you walked inside. Everything looked exactly the same, which somehow made tomorrow feel even more impossible. You slipped off your shoes while Vernon closed the door behind you.
His parents were already asleep, the house quiet. Without speaking, he grabbed your overnight bag and started up the stairs.
By the time you stepped inside, the weird feeling from the car ride had settled heavily in your stomach.
Vernon's room looked exactly how it always did.
A little messy, movie posters on the walls, a pile of clothes occupying a chair in the corner. So comfortably familiar.
Usually you'd flop onto his bed immediately and start talking but tonight, you both just sort of... sat there.
You settled near the headboard.
Vernon sat beside you, not too close, not too far.
The silence stretched.. and stretched… and stretched.
It was unbearable.
"So," you finally said.
"So." Vernon repeats, not making direct eye contact with you.
"Did you eat dinner?"
"Yeah."
"What'd you have?"
"Food."
You blinked. "Vernon."
"What?"
You turn your whole body to face him. "You're being weird."
The corner of his mouth twitched in a way you couldn’t really describe. The room fell quiet again. He was holding something back, why wasn’t he telling you?
His leg bounced restlessly, he played with the hem on the sleeve of his hoodie and suddenly, you couldn’t hold the question back anymore.
"Okay."
His eyes flickered toward you.
"Okay what?"
"What's going on?"
His expression immediately changed as he finally looked you in the eyes for the first time since he opened the front door.
"What do you mean?"
"You know exactly what I mean."
He looked away.
"Nothing's going on."
You let out a short laugh. “See, that Vernon. You are being weird and distant and avoidant. Did I do something?”
A pause.
“Nevermind.” You cross your arms over your body beginning to grow annoyed. “You clearly don’t want to tell me.”
"I don't know how to explain it," he finally admitted.
The honesty in his voice immediately took some of the anger out of you.
“Then try, I have one night left Vernon.” A slight nip in the tone of your voice.
Vernon stared down at his hands for a moment, rubbing his thumb against the edge of his blanket. The room felt impossibly quiet.
"It's just..." He sighed. "I don't get it."
You frowned. "Don't get what?"
"The whole thing."
He let out a dry laugh and shook his head. "New York."
You blinked.
"What about New York?"
"What about it?" he shot back. "I don't understand why you want to go so far away."
Your confusion immediately deepened. "What?"
"I'm serious." He finally looked at you. "I don't get it."
You stared at him. "Vernon, we've talked about this for years."
"I know."
"Then why are you acting like this is new information?"
"Because it didn't feel real before." The words slipped out before he could stop them.
For a second, neither of you spoke.
Vernon looked away first. "I don't know," he muttered. "I just don't get why that's what you want."
You sat up straighter.
"What do you mean that's what I want? It's New York."
"Exactly."
"What is that supposed to mean?"
He shrugged, but there was frustration behind it. "I just don't see the appeal."
You laughed in disbelief. "Okay, but you don't have to. This is my life Vernon"
"I know."
"So what are we even talking about right now?"
His jaw tightened.
"I'm talking about the fact that you're moving eight hours away."
"Why does it sound like you're judging me for it?"
"I'm not judging you."
"You kind of are."
He ran a hand through his hair and stood up from the bed, pacing a few steps before turning back toward you. "I just think you're chasing this idea of something."
"Excuse me?"
"New York isn't what people think it is."
"You've never even lived there."
"And neither have you."
The comment landed harder than either of you expected. You stared at him. "What exactly are you trying to say?"
He hesitated, and that hesitation told you there was more. A lot more.
Finally, he spoke. "I just don't think it's good enough for you."
"What?"
His eyes dropped to the floor.
"I don't know."
"Vernon."
He laughed once, frustrated with himself. "You've spent years talking about New York like it's gonna solve everything."
"I never said that."
"You act like it."
"No, I don't."
"You do." The argument was building now. You could both feel it.
"It just feels like you're putting all your hopes into this place and—"
"And what?"
"And I don't think it'll be what you expect."
You shook your head.
"That's not your fucking decision to make is it?"
“No but I-” he snaps his neck back up.
"Then why are we even having this conversation?"
A pause
And then finally said the thing he probably hadn't meant to.
"Because apparently what's here isn't enough."
The words seemed to echo off the walls, hanging between you long after he'd said them.
Vernon looked away immediately, like he wished he could take them back.
Like he'd been trying not to say them for weeks and they'd finally slipped out anyway.
You stared at him. "What?"
"Forget it."
"No."
His shoulders tensed.
"Y/n—"
"No, don't do that." You shook your head. "Don't throw something like that out there and then tell me to forget it."
"I didn't mean it like that."
"Then how did you mean it?"
He didn't answer. The silence made something ugly twist in your chest.
"You think I'm leaving because this place isn't enough?" you asked quietly.
Vernon rubbed both hands over his face.
"No."
"You literally just said—"
"I know what I said."
"Then what the fuck am I supposed to think?"
For the first time since you'd known him, he looked genuinely lost.
"I just don't understand it."
Your eyebrows furrowed.
"Understand what?"
"You."
This hit you like a ton of bricks. It sunk into every crack of your heart.
“You are fucking unbelievable.” Your voice cracked halfway through, tears already burning at your eyes. “What does that even mean, Vernon? ‘You don’t understand me’? I’ve known you since we were twelve. What the fuck is there to not understand?”
He flinched at the volume of your voice, like it physically hit him. “That’s not what I meant—”
“Then what did you mean?” you snapped. Your hands shook as you wiped at your face, only for more tears to come immediately. “Because all I’m hearing is you saying I’m doing something wrong by leaving.”
“I didn’t say that.”
“You didn’t have to!” Your voice rose again, sharp and breaking. “You’ve been acting like this for weeks, Vernon. Weeks. Like I’m—like I’m leaving you behind on purpose or something. Like I’m supposed to just stay here and—what—what, just give up my whole life because you’re not ready for me to go?”
His expression tightened, jaw clenching like he was holding something back too hard. “That’s not it.”
“Then what is it?” you shouted, and the sound bounced off the walls of his room. “Because you keep talking in circles and acting like I’m some stranger now and I don’t get it. I don’t fucking get it!” Your voice broke on the last word, and the tears finally spilled over fully.
You hated how fast it happened, hated that it made you feel even more out of control. You stood up abruptly from the edge of his bed, moving closer until you were right in front of him.
“Look at me,” you demanded, voice shaking. “Say it. Whatever it is, just fucking say it.”
Vernon’s eyes finally met yours, and that was when you saw it clearly. The strain. The exhaustion. The way he looked like he’d been holding himself together by force alone.
“I’m trying,” he said quietly. “I just- I literally don’t know.”
“You’re not trying hard enough,” you shot back.
He took a small step forward like he wanted to calm you down, like he always did when things got too loud between you two. Something in you snapped.
“Don’t,” you warned.
“Y/N, just—”
“Don’t touch me right now,” you said, and when he didn’t stop moving closer, you shoved him lightly in the chest.
It wasn’t hard. It wasn’t meant to hurt. But it stopped him instantly.
His face changed, not anger. Something much worse.
Hurt.
“Okay,” he said quickly, raising his hands slightly like he was grounding himself. “Okay, I’m not—just listen to me for a second.”
“No,” you shook your head, tears still falling, breath uneven. “You listen to me. I’m leaving tomorrow. Tomorrow. And instead of spending tonight like a normal person, you’re standing here making me feel like shit for it.”
His throat moved like he was swallowing something sharp.
“I’m not trying to make you feel like shit,” he said, voice cracking more now. “I’m trying to tell you I don’t know how to do this.”
“Do what?” you snapped. “Be my friend? Because you’re doing a pretty bad job right now.”
You saw it hit him.
His eyes shone immediately, glassy in a way that made your stomach twist. He blinked fast like he could push it back down, but it didn’t work.
“Stop,” he said, quieter now. “Just stop yelling at me for a second. Please.”
“Then stop saying weird shit Vernon!” you shouted back, voice breaking again. “Stop acting like I’m doing something wrong just because I want to leave!”
“I’m not saying you’re doing something wrong!”
“Then what are you saying?”
His breath shook.
And for a second, he looked like he might actually cry.
“I’m saying I don’t know what I’m supposed to do when you’re not here,” he said finally, voice low and raw.
“I don’t know how to make you understand,” he said, voice breaking fully now, “that you leaving doesn’t just feel like you are going to college. It feels like you’re—like you’re just gone from everything we know.”
Your chest tightened painfully.
“That’s not what this is,” you said, but it came out weaker.
“It is for me,” he snapped back, louder now, finally breaking too. “Because you’re acting like this is just some exciting new chapter and I’m supposed to just be fine with it and I’m not—” He cut off, dragging a hand down his face, tears finally slipping out despite how hard he tried to stop them. “I’m not fine with it. What is there in New York that we don’t have here?”
Both of you were breathing hard now. Both of you were crying, neither of you looking away.
Your hands were shaking at your sides as you stared at him, chest rising unevenly like you couldn’t quite catch your breath.
It wasn’t just the question. It was everything underneath it. The way he said we. Like he didn’t know how to exist without you inside that word.
You laughed once, sharp and wet with tears. “Everything.”
The word landed wrong in the room.
Vernon blinked. “What?”
“Everything,” you repeated, voice shaking harder now. “There’s everything there that isn’t here.”
His face changed instantly, like you’d hit him without touching him.
“That’s not what you mean,” he said, but it sounded less certain now.
“Yes, it is,” you snapped, wiping at your face angrily. “You think I want to stay in this town forever? Doing the same things, seeing the same people, going to the same places where nothing changes?”
“That’s not what I said.”
“But that’s what you’re asking!” Your voice cracked again. “You’re asking me to stay like it wouldn’t kill me a little bit. Like I wouldn’t wake up every day wondering what else I could’ve been.”
Vernon shook his head quickly, tears still streaking down his face now, not even bothering to hide it anymore. “I’m not asking you to stay here forever.”
“Yes, you are,” you shot back immediately. “You just don’t want to say it out loud because it sounds pathetic.”
Vernon looked defeated, small.
And that made you angry all over again, because Vernon wasn’t supposed to be small.
So you said it.
The thing you shouldn’t have said.
“The point is, Vernon,” you said, voice shaking but sharp, “I don’t want to stay.”
The words hit him like a physical blow.
He froze, completely.
For a second he just stared at you.
Then, quietly, almost desperate, he stepped forward.
“Just—” His voice cracked. He swallowed hard. “Just stay tonight. Please.”
The shift was instant. From argument to something softer. Something pleading.
You wiped your face again, laughing bitterly through tears. “Why should I?”
You stared at him for a moment longer, the tension still thick between you, the silence heavy and unbearable.
Then, finally, you exhaled.
“Fine,” you said quietly.
His eyes flickered up instantly.
“I’ll stay.”
It wasn’t forgiveness nor a resolution.
It was just exhaustion. Vernon nodded once, like he was afraid to say anything else would ruin it.
You grabbed your bag, setting it down near the bed, then climbed into your usual side without looking at him.
The space between you felt different now.
Vernon stayed standing for a second longer than necessary, then finally moved to the desk, grabbing the remote without speaking.
He hesitated before clicking the TV on.
A movie started playing—something random, something neither of you were really watching.
The sound filled the room just so there wouldn’t be silence.
He climbed into bed on his side, careful not to touch you.
You didn’t look at him.
He didn’t look at you.
There was no apology. No fixing it. Just the faint glow of the screen, the weight of everything unsaid, and the space between you that suddenly felt bigger than it ever had before.
At some point, your breathing evened out anyway. And even though you were still awake for a while longer, pretending not to feel him there beside you, you eventually fell asleep to the sound of a movie neither of you cared about.
Not the soft, normal kind that came with early morning light filtering through his blinds. Not the kind where you could still feel someone beside you if you closed your eyes.
This was empty.
He blinked slowly, still half stuck in sleep, until it registered that the space next to him was different than the night before.
The blanket on your side of the bed was smoothed out. The pillow was placed back where it usually sat, like it had never been touched at all. Like you had never been there.
His stomach dropped instantly.
You were gone.
He sat up so fast the room tilted. “Y/n?” he called, voice rough and uneven. Nothing answered. He was out of bed before he even realized it, bare feet hitting the floor as he stumbled toward the door.
“Y/n,” he said again, louder now, walking through his room like you might just be hiding somewhere, like this was some stupid joke he hadn’t caught onto yet.
But the house was quiet.
No footsteps downstairs. No bathroom light. No sound of your voice or your bag being zipped shut or anything at all.
Panic started rising fast, sharp and hot in his chest.
He went back into his room, pacing now, hands running through his hair again and again like he could physically reset what was happening. “No, no, no—” he muttered under his breath, shaking his head. “No, she wouldn’t—”
And then it came back, everything from last night crashing into him all at once.
Your voice breaking. His voice breaking. The argument looping over and over in his head like a broken recording.
I don’t want to stay.
The words punched the air out of him all over again. His breathing stuttered.
“No,” he whispered, quieter this time. “No, she didn’t just—”
His voice cracked completely.
He turned sharply, gripping the edge of his desk for balance, trying to ground himself in something real. Something that wasn’t this.
That’s when he saw it. A purple pen, lying neatly on the corner of his desk like it had been placed there carefully on purpose.
His breath caught.
He knew that pen.
He had bought it months ago without thinking much of it, just because you kept stealing his pens every time you came over to do homework. You always claimed you didn’t have one. And every time you ended up using his anyway, complaining about how boring black ink was.
So he bought a purple one.
Because it was your favorite color.
He stared at it like it might disappear if he looked away, and then he saw the note. Folded once. Resting beside it.
His hands shook as he picked it up.
For a moment, he just held it there, not opening it yet, like he already knew whatever was inside would change something he wasn’t ready to lose.
Then he unfolded it, the handwriting was yours.
He didn’t even realize he was crying until a tear hit the paper.
He read it anyway.
Vernon,
I’m not doing this. We can’t leave it like that and then wake up and pretend everything’s fine and nothing happened.
You don’t get to make me feel bad for leaving my life behind when you knew exactly what I’ve always wanted. I needed you to be my best friend last night, not whatever that was.
I’ll call when I land.
—Y/N
His breath came unevenly as he lowered himself onto the edge of the bed without meaning to. The purple pen sat beside the note, bright and stupid and painfully intentional.
His vision blurred.
“No,” he whispered, barely audible. “No, no—”
His hand pressed hard against his mouth like he could hold everything in. Like he could physically stop what was already happening inside him. But it didn’t work.
He bent forward, elbows on his knees, the note still clutched in his hand.
“You didn’t even wake me up,” he said to no one, voice cracking apart in pieces. “You just… left.”
Another breath hitched.
He sat there for a long time after that, the note still in his hand and the purple pen unmoving beside it, until eventually he picked up his phone and just… waited. Hours passed in fragments of nothing—screen lighting up, going dark, lighting up again—every notification that wasn’t you hitting him in the chest a little harder than the last. He checked the time again and again, counting when your flight should’ve landed, convincing himself you were just busy, just tired, just not there yet. But eventually even that excuse ran out. It got well past the time you would’ve texted, and the silence started to feel deliberate. He laid down again without really deciding to, staring up at the ceiling like if he looked long enough it might give him something back, waiting for the call from the East side that never came.
Since landing in New York, everything had gone almost exactly the way you'd hoped it would.
Moving into your dorm was surprisingly easy. A few boxes, a couple of awkward elevator trips, and suddenly your entire life fit into one small room overlooking a street that never seemed to quiet down. It felt strange at first, being somewhere so different from home, but exciting too. Like every time you stepped outside, something new was waiting for you.
Classes started a few days later, and somehow the first week flew by.
You found your lecture halls faster than expected, figured out the subway without getting completely lost, and settled into a routine almost immediately. Your professors seemed interesting, the coursework felt manageable, and every day introduced you to someone new.
You were where you'd always wanted to be. You were making friends. You were adjusting. You were happy.
And yet, every once in a while, usually during the quiet moments between classes or when you were walking back to your dorm after sunset, something felt... off.
Not wrong. Just incomplete.
You told yourself it was homesickness. It had to be. You were hundreds of miles away from everything you'd ever known. Anyone would feel strange after a move like this.
Still, some nights when your phone lit up with messages from new friends making plans, your eyes would drift toward the contacts you hadn't opened in days.
Toward the one name you kept avoiding.
And every time, that same uncomfortable feeling settled in your chest before you quickly looked away and convinced yourself it would pass.
It had only been a week. Eventually, you told yourself, everything would feel normal again.
Vernon had been so sure staying home would be easier. At least that was what he'd told himself.
The first day, he got up before his alarm even went off. He showered, got dressed, grabbed his backpack, and went to class. Everything felt normal on the surface. His professors talked, students introduced themselves, and he nodded through conversations he barely processed.
Then he came home.
And the second his bedroom door closed behind him, the silence hit. He ended up lying on his bed staring at the ceiling until dinner.
The next morning wasn't much different.
Wake up. Go to school. Come home. Wake up. Go to school. Come home.
The routine became mechanical, something he forced himself through because not doing it would require admitting something was wrong. His classes weren't even bad. They were fine. Interesting, sometimes. Easy enough to follow.
But every day felt heavier than the last.
By the middle of the week he wasn't sleeping properly anymore.
He'd lie awake until three or four in the morning, staring at the glow of his ceiling fan as his thoughts raced endlessly in circles. Every conversation replayed. Every mistake replayed. Every word from that night replayed. The worst part was that he couldn't even explain what was happening to him.
He was angry all the time.
Angry at himself, angry at how he'd handled everything, angry that he couldn't stop thinking about you and what happened that night. Every morning he looked in the mirror and barely recognized the person staring back. He hated how exhausted he looked. Hated how miserable he felt.
And people noticed, new people, new faces at school. The ones he'd met in classes. The ones who only knew the version of Vernon that showed up every morning looking exhausted and left every conversation early. At first they just thought he was shy, then they thought maybe he was stressed. Eventually they stopped trying to guess.
He wasn't rude. He wasn't unfriendly. He'd answer questions when people talked to him, laugh occasionally at the right moments, participate in group discussions. But it always felt like half of him was missing.
By the fourth week of school, Vernon barely recognized himself. Every day felt gray and just plain dull.
His friends would text. He'd ignore them.
People invited him places. He'd make excuses.
Eventually most of them stopped asking. And honestly, he couldn't blame them.
He hated being around himself too.
And the worst part was, he knew he was like this because of you.
Not that he would ever admit it. At least not out loud.
But every night told the truth for him.
Most mornings, Vernon wasn't waking up at six. He was still awake at six. The darkness outside his window would slowly fade into pale morning light while he remained exactly where he'd been for hours, staring blankly at the ceiling. His body was exhausted, his eyes burned constantly, but his mind refused to shut off. Thinking about you had become second nature.
Sometimes he'd replay old conversations over and over. Other nights he'd unlock his phone and scroll through old pictures of the two of you together. Photos from random afternoons, blurry pictures from late-night drives, screenshots of stupid things you'd sent him. He knew every picture by heart at this point, but he looked at them anyway.
It wasn't as simple as missing his best friend. It wasn't as simple as missing having someone around. It felt bigger than that, but every time he got close to figuring it out, he stopped himself. He just knew that life felt wrong without you in it. Like someone had quietly removed something important and expected him not to notice.
And maybe the saddest thing of all was the note.
The stupid note you'd left on his desk beside the purple pen.
A month later, the paper was worn soft from being unfolded and folded back together so many times. Every night before bed he'd take it out. Every morning before class he'd read it again. Eventually it found a permanent home underneath his pillow because he couldn't bear to put it anywhere else.
It was ridiculous, honestly. A part of him knew that.
But another part of him kept hoping that maybe if he read it one more time, maybe if he stared at your handwriting a little longer, maybe somehow his phone would light up with your name. Maybe there'd be a text waiting for him. Maybe you'd finally call.
You never did.
Still, he kept reading it.
His mom noticed before anyone else. Of course she did.
She noticed the dark circles under his eyes. She noticed how quickly he disappeared into his room after classes. She noticed the untouched dinners, the way he barely spoke anymore, the way he looked like he was carrying something heavy that nobody else could see.
For weeks she never said anything. She never pushed. Never cornered him. Never demanded answers.
Then one evening she found him sitting alone at the kitchen table.
The house was quiet. The television wasn't on. The clock ticked softly from somewhere in the living room.
Vernon was staring down at his phone, not even really looking at it.
His mom stood in the doorway for a moment before speaking.
"Vernon."
He looked up.
Her expression softened immediately. "What's wrong?"
That was it. Just three words. And somehow they shattered whatever strength he had left.
His face crumpled before he could stop it. His breathing hitched violently and suddenly he was crying.
Not the quiet tears he'd gotten used to hiding at night. Not the controlled kind.
Full sobs.
The kind that made his chest hurt. The kind that made it impossible to breathe. Weeks of exhaustion, loneliness, guilt, confusion, and heartbreak came crashing out of him all at once. He buried his face in his hands as sob after sob tore through him, his shoulders shaking so hard he could barely stay upright.
And through all of it, his mom never asked who.
She never asked why. She never asked him to explain. Because she already knew.
She knew whose name he kept checking his phone for. She knew who he was thinking about when he stared off into space. She knew why he suddenly hated being home. She knew who was missing.
So instead she sat beside him and wrapped an arm around his shoulders.
And she let him cry. She let him cry until his face hurt.
Until his eyes were swollen. Until there was nothing left inside him to hold back.
Not once did she push for answers. She simply sat there beside her son while he mourned something he couldn't fully understand himself, because she had watched it happen long before he did.
She had watched you become the first person he looked for when he walked into a room. The first person he texted when something funny happened. The first person he wanted to tell everything to.
And now she was watching him try to figure out how to live without that.
A month had gone by for you as well. At least that's what the calendar showed. For you, the days had blurred together so quickly that it was hard to believe you'd already been in New York for four weeks. And honestly? You thought you were doing pretty well.
You had friends now, too. Real friends. The kind that texted you at midnight asking if you wanted food, the kind that dragged you out on Thursday nights and convinced you one drink wouldn't hurt.
Most weekends, you found yourself somewhere loud. House parties. Tiny apartments overflowing with people. Music shaking the walls and red cups constantly finding their way into your hands. You told yourself it was fun, and it was, mostly. The alcohol helped too. Not because things were spiraling, but because it made everything quieter. The lingering thoughts from home. The memories you didn't want to unpack. The feeling that something had been left unfinished. You never let yourself sit with those thoughts for long.
You were here for a reason. This was your chance.
You wanted to reinvent yourself. You wanted people to meet you without already knowing every embarrassing story from your childhood. You wanted to become someone new. Someone exciting. Someone who wasn't constantly looking backward.
For the most part, it was working.
Then one Tuesday afternoon, you met Minghao.
You were sitting in class waiting for the professor to arrive when the guy beside you leaned over and pointed at one of the stickers covering your laptop.
"You have good taste."
You looked up and immediately forgot what you were about to say.
Minghao was ridiculously pretty. Long blonde hair that just touched his shoulders in a messy mullet-like style, silver rings on nearly every finger, light tattoos scattered on his arms.
You laughed. "Thanks. You too?"
He pointed toward the headphones hanging around his neck.
"What gave it away?"
The conversation started there and somehow never stopped. By the time class began, you'd spent fifteen minutes talking about music. By the time class ended, you'd spent another ten. Favorite artists. Favorite albums. Concerts. Songs that changed your life. It flowed so naturally that it felt like you'd known him for months instead of an hour.
At one point you laughed and shook your head. "You know, I came here fully convinced I was gonna start a band."
Minghao's eyes widened immediately.
"A band?"
"Yeah."
"You weren't joking?"
"Mostly joking."
"No way."
The excitement in his voice made you laugh.
"I'm serious," he said. "I have two friends who would absolutely lose their minds over this."
"What?"
"Joshua and Seungcheol."
He sat up straighter as he spoke.
"Josh can play basically anything with strings. Guitar, bass, piano, whatever. And Seungcheol somehow knows every instrument under the sun."
"You're exaggerating."
"I'm really not."
You couldn't stop smiling.
"And I play bass," he added.
"You do?"
"Yeah."
Suddenly he looked like he was already planning rehearsals.
Minghao gathered his things before casually clearing his throat.
"So..."
You looked up.
"So?"
"If we're gonna start this world-famous band, we're gonna need to communicate somehow."
You laughed. "Oh, obviously."
"Obviously."
His grin widened.
"So maybe I should get your number."
You narrowed your eyes immediately. "For band business?"
"Entirely professional."
"Professional."
"Extremely."
You handed him your phone, laughing as he typed his contact information in.
The truth was, Minghao would've asked for your number anyway. Band or no band.
The second you'd started talking, he'd been interested. Not enough to make it obvious. Not enough to openly flirt. But enough that he caught himself looking forward to hearing your laugh again. Enough that he'd already decided he wanted an excuse to see you outside of class.
Of course, he wasn't about to admit any of that.
Instead, he handed your phone back and shrugged.
"You know. For band stuff."
You rolled your eyes.
"Right. Band stuff."
"Exactly."
And neither of you mentioned how excited you both looked.
Another month passed before you even realized it. Time was really flying. The leaves had started changing color, the air had gotten colder, and suddenly it was mid October.
And still, you hadn't heard a single thing from Vernon.
No text. No call. No apology. Nothing.
At first, you'd expected some kind of conversation eventually. Maybe not immediately. Maybe not even after a few weeks. But eventually.
You'd left him a note. You'd given him space. And somehow that space had stretched into complete silence. You checked less and less as the weeks went on, but every once in a while you'd still find yourself opening your messages and staring at his contact.
At first it hurt. Then it confused you. Eventually it started making you angry.
Because what exactly had happened that night?
You'd replayed the argument so many times that parts of it felt scripted. Back then, you'd been convinced he was wrong, convinced he was being unfair, convinced he didn't understand you.
Now, months later, you weren't even sure he had understood himself.
Because if he had, surely he would've said something by now. Surely he would've explained. Surely he would've reached out.
Instead, he'd disappeared.
And somehow that felt worse.
The anger settled somewhere permanent inside you. Not enough to ruin your days, but enough to linger. Enough that every time something reminded you of him, irritation immediately followed.
Meanwhile, your life kept moving.
The band idea had somehow become real. You, Minghao, Joshua, and Seungcheol had become inseparable. Most days, if one of you was somewhere, the other three weren't far behind. You spent hours together in practice rooms, crowded into dorms, wandering through the city after classes, talking about music until two in the morning.
For the first time since arriving in New York, you genuinely felt like you belonged.
Naturally, your social media started filling up with them.
One post was a group picture from a night out. The four of you packed together on a sidewalk downtown, everyone's arms around each other, the photo slightly blurry because nobody could stop laughing long enough to stay still.
Another was a candid someone had snapped during practice. You and Joshua sitting across from each other with guitars in your laps, both laughing over a mistake you'd made halfway through a song.
Then there was the selfie Minghao took one afternoon.
Your arm was thrown over his shoulder while he shoved his face against yours at the last second, both of you smiling directly into the camera. Looking at it objectively, you had to admit it looked suspicious. Not intentionally. But if someone didn't know either of you, they could easily assume something was going on. They might even think you were dating.
The funny thing was that every single time you posted one of those pictures, the exact same thought crossed your mind.
Vernon is going to see this.
A small, petty part of you wanted him to see them.
Wanted him to wonder. Wanted him to look at the photo of you and Minghao and feel confused. Maybe jealous.
You hated admitting that to yourself, but why did you feel that way?
But after months of silence? After months of him acting like you didn't exist? Part of you wanted him to feel something. The same way you'd spent weeks feeling abandoned. So sometimes you'd hit post with that thought sitting quietly in the back of your mind.
But every single time, the feeling disappeared the second the post went live.
Because underneath the anger was something else.
Guilt.
You'd stare at the pictures afterward and feel it settle heavily in your chest.
The photos weren't fake. That was the problem.
The smiles were real. The laughs were real. The friendships were real. You genuinely cared about these people, and they cared about you.
Yet somehow it felt wrong that a small part of your motivation had been tied to someone hundreds of miles away who wasn't even speaking to you.
Someone who might not even see the post, someone who might not care.
And somehow that possibility bothered you more than anything else.
Because if Vernon really didn't care...
Then why were you still thinking about him every time your finger hovered over the post button? You didn’t have an answer for that.
So instead, you'd lock your phone, shove the feeling aside, and let Joshua drag you back into another conversation, let Seungcheol talk your ear off about music theory, let Minghao throw an arm around your shoulders while making you laugh.
Vernon saw every post. Every single one. Even though he never liked them, never commented, never reached out, he saw all of them. The group photos, the late-night outings, the practice sessions, the blurry snapshots of a life that seemed to be moving forward without him.
At first he told himself he was just curious. Just checking in. Just making sure you were okay. But curiosity quickly turned into something else entirely. Something he didn’t want to admit he was doing every night. Long after everyone else in his house was asleep, he’d lie in bed with his phone inches from his face, scrolling through your profile, looking for something that would make it feel less like he was being left behind.
And every picture only made it worse.
You looked happy. Genuinely happy. That should’ve comforted him, but it didn’t. Because it wasn’t a new smile. It was the same one. The exact same one from every memory he kept replaying in his head. The same smile from random afternoons, from old photos still saved in his camera roll, from moments where everything had felt easy.
Then there was Minghao. He didn’t know who Minghao was.
That selfie destroyed him.
He stared at it for so long the screen dimmed. Your arm was around Minghao’s shoulder, your faces pressed together, both of you smiling like it was effortless, like you belonged in that frame together. Vernon zoomed in, then out, then in again, analyzing it like it might give him an answer that made it hurt less. The way Minghao leaned in, the way you didn’t pull away, the comfort between you that looked so natural it made his chest feel tight.
Hours passed like that. Just staring. Thinking. Spiraling.
Until something inside him snapped.
He shot up from his bed so fast the blankets slid off, his phone dropping onto the mattress as he started pacing. “No,” he muttered under his breath, more panicked than angry, running his hands through his hair like he could physically reset his thoughts. Because for months he’d been avoiding the truth, pretending he didn’t understand what this feeling was, but now he couldn’t ignore it anymore.
It was jealousy.
Real, consuming jealousy.
Not of Minghao himself, not really, but of what Minghao had. Of the space he took in your life. By the way, he could make you laugh in real time. Of how easily he existed beside you while Vernon was stuck watching from a distance.
And once he admitted that, everything else followed too.
He wasn’t just jealous.
He was in love with you.
And it took him this long to realize that is what it was.
It hit him like something physical, knocking the air out of him as he stood there frozen in his room. Months of confusion suddenly made sense in the worst possible way. The constant thoughts. The inability to move on. The way everything felt wrong since you left. It all traced back to the same place.
He loved you.
Not as a friend. Not as something vague and safe he could tuck away and ignore.
He loved you in a way that made everything else feel like it had been a lie.
And now you were gone.
New York. New life. New people. A version of you he wasn’t part of anymore.
That realization sat on his chest like a weight he couldn’t lift. Because while you were building something new, he was still stuck in the same room, replaying the same memories, realizing too late what he had actually lost.
Sleep stopped coming after that.
He’d lie awake until morning, staring at the ceiling, your posts still open on his phone beside him. His body exhausted, his mind refusing to shut off. Every night felt longer than the last, like time itself was stretching just to keep him in this state.
And somewhere between the jealousy and the regret and the love he should’ve admitted months ago, a quieter fear started settling in.
One moment it was still early fall, the city just starting to cool down, and the next it was already late in the month with winter quietly pressing in at the edges. The band had become real in a way you still sometimes couldn’t believe. You were writing music now, actually writing it, not just talking about it in class. You were playing gigs in small, crowded bars scattered around the city, places with sticky floors and flickering neon signs and audiences that didn’t always listen at first but eventually did.
And somewhere in the middle of it all, you started finding yourself on stage.
There were moments during sets where everything else disappeared. Just you, the music, the lights, the sound of the band behind you holding everything together. You’d step off stage afterward slightly out of breath, slightly shaking, adrenaline still buzzing through you, trying to convince yourself you looked as confident as people said you did in the photos.
Because you did post them.
Photos from gigs where you leaned into the mic like you knew exactly what you were doing. Photos where you laughed with Joshua between songs. Photos where Minghao stood beside you with his bass slung low, looking like he belonged there more than anyone else. Photos that made you look miles cooler than you actually felt.
From the outside, it looked like you were settling in perfectly.
But as October bled into early November, something started to shift.
You started feeling sick.
Not all at once. Not dramatically. Just quietly, constantly. A low heaviness in your body that didn’t go away. Homesickness that didn’t feel like nostalgia anymore but something sharper, more physical. You’d wake up tired even after sleeping. You’d sit in class and realize you hadn’t absorbed a single word. You’d walk through the city feeling like you were slightly behind yourself, like your body was moving but your mind wasn’t fully inside it.
It started to feel like you were watching your life from the outside instead of living it.
You tried to ignore it. You told yourself you were just adjusting, that this was normal, that it would pass. But the feeling stayed.
You tried talking to Minghao about it one night after practice. You didn’t even really know how to explain it, just that you felt off, like you weren’t fully present in your own life anymore. He listened, like he always did, and he helped in the moment. He made you laugh. He distracted you. He stayed with you until you felt a little more like yourself again.
But the moment he left your place that night, the emptiness came back.
That was the part you didn’t understand.
Because with Minghao, Joshua, and Seungcheol, you could feel better temporarily. You could feel lighter, distracted, almost normal. But it never stayed.
And you started noticing something you couldn’t un-notice.
That hadn’t happened with Vernon.
With Vernon, things didn’t just feel better for a moment. They felt fixed. Like whatever was wrong in your head would quiet completely when he was around. Like your thoughts didn’t just get lighter, they disappeared entirely. Like being with him made it feel like nothing was wrong in the first place.
Now, there was no silence like that anymore.
Because part of you started realizing how much of your life in New York didn’t include anything from home. Not mentally. Not emotionally. You were building something completely new, and on paper that was what you wanted, but in reality it left you feeling disconnected from everything you used to be.
You weren’t fully here.
But you also weren’t fully there anymore.
And that in-between space started to feel like the only place you existed.
You’d sit in your room at night after rehearsals, staring at nothing, feeling floaty in a way that made it hard to ground yourself. Like your thoughts were slightly delayed behind your actions. Like your life was happening a step ahead of you and you were constantly trying to catch up.
And the worst part was the guilt.
Because you were supposed to be thriving.
You were supposed to be happy.
You were supposed to have left everything behind cleanly, fully, without looking back.
Instead, you felt like you were slowly losing pieces of yourself in places you couldn’t name, surrounded by people you cared about, doing things you loved, and still somehow feeling like you were slipping out of your own life without knowing how to stop it.
Minghao noticed it too.
At first, he thought it was just stress. Mid-semester exhaustion, maybe. New city fatigue. Something that would pass once things settled. But it didn’t pass. It just… shifted.
You were still there, physically, still showing up to rehearsals and gigs, still laughing at the right moments, still performing like you were supposed to. But between those moments, you were somewhere else entirely. Spaced out mid-conversation. Slow to respond. Quiet in a way that didn’t feel like comfort anymore, just absence.
And the worst part for him was that he remembered who you used to be.
The version of you from the beginning of the semester, when everything felt exciting and sharp and full of possibility. When you talked too fast about music ideas, when you lit up mid-sentence about starting a band, when you couldn’t sit still because your mind was always already three steps ahead of your life.
That version of you had felt alive in a way that was impossible to ignore.
And if he was being honest with himself, that version of you was the one he’d been drawn to in the first place.
The one he’d had a little thing for, even if he never fully admitted it.
Now, though, that spark only showed up in fragments. On stage. Under lights. When the music was loud enough to pull something back out of you for a few minutes at a time. The second the set ended, it dimmed again.
Outside of that, you were drifting.
Minghao tried not to take it personally. He really did. He knew people got overwhelmed, especially in a place like New York. But over time, it started to wear on him. He’d talk to you after rehearsals and feel like he was talking through glass. You’d nod, respond, even smile, but it didn’t feel like you were actually there.
You also weren’t spending as much time with him anymore. Not intentionally, not in a dramatic way, just slowly, naturally. Plans got shorter. Conversations got lighter. You started leaving earlier, saying you were tired, and he stopped pushing because every time he looked at you too closely, he could tell you were already running on empty. And he cared about you so fucking much.
So he swallowed it, all of it.
Until the night you were supposed to write together.
It was meant to be simple. Just the two of you working on a track for the band, something you’d talked about earlier in the week. You’d agreed on it casually, but even then, he could tell your enthusiasm hadn’t been there the same way it used to be.
He had a long day, he was tired, he was worried of the mood you would be in if you decided to write with him as planned.
Your phone screen lit up:
Hao: Hey I’m not feelin too great, can we postpone our writing sesh?
Y/n: Okay just let me know.
You stared at your phone for a long moment after reading his message. Not feeling too great. Can we postpone. It didn’t sound like an excuse. It sounded real. But still, your chest tightened in a way you didn’t immediately understand.
He’d never really cancelled on you like that before.
Not like this.
You sat there in your room, phone still in your hand, staring at the dim reflection of yourself on the screen. Outside, the rain had started again, tapping softly against the window, filling the silence in a way that made everything feel heavier.
Slowly, uncomfortably, a thought crept in. Maybe he didn’t want to deal with you like this. Not angry, not dramatic, just tired. Tired of your silence mid-conversation, tired of your spaced-out answers, tired of you showing up but not really being there. The realization didn’t come all at once, it came in pieces, each one quieter than the last until it settled in your chest.
You were exhausting to be around.
And you already knew you were exhausting to yourself.
You got up without really deciding to, pacing your room once before stopping at your desk. Everything felt slightly out of focus, like you were watching yourself from a distance. You didn’t even realize you were crying until your vision blurred. You hated it, hated how easily it came now, hated how often it happened, hated that you couldn’t even explain what exactly hurt anymore, just that everything did. Dull. Lost. Scared. Sad. It all blurred together into something you couldn’t shake.
And then it clicked.
Vernon.
Not suddenly, not cleanly, but like something you’d been avoiding finally pushing through. Your breath caught as you reached behind your phone case and pulled out a Polaroid you hadn’t looked at in weeks.
Last summer. The beach with both your families.
Your arms wrapped tightly around his neck, face split into the brightest smile, wet salty hair everywhere, his hands locked around your waist pulling you in like he didn’t want any space between you at all. He looked happy. You looked happier.
You stared at it for too long.
Then something broke.
The first sob came out sharp, like it surprised even you. Then another. Then another. Your hands shook so badly you could barely hold the photo as your breathing turned uneven and panicked, collapsing in on itself. It wasn’t just sadness anymore, it was realization, all at once, too loud, too clear.
You weren’t just homesick. You weren’t just overwhelmed. You weren’t just adjusting. You had been falling apart slowly for months without understanding why.
And now you did.
It was because of him.
Because of Vernon.
Because you loved him.
The thought hit you like something physical, stealing the air from your lungs. You sank onto your bed still clutching the Polaroid, crying harder now, unable to breathe properly through it, the rain outside louder than before, like it was the only thing steady in the room.
You shouldn’t have left. You shouldn’t have told yourself distance would make it easier.
Because all it had done was make everything clearer.
And in a shaking, rain-soaked room in New York, holding onto a summer you couldn’t get back to, you finally understood you hadn’t just missed him.
You sat there staring at your phone for a long time, the Polaroid still trembling slightly in your hand. Your brain wouldn’t stop moving in circles. Message him. Don’t message him. You already left. He already left you. But he didn’t really leave you, did he? He just stopped talking. And maybe you deserved that. Maybe you didn’t. The thoughts overlapped until you couldn’t tell which ones were yours anymore.
What would you even say?
Hey, I’m sorry. Hey, I miss you. Hey, I think I ruined everything. Hey, I think I love you.
Your chest tightened harder at that last one.
You stood up, paced once, sat back down. Your phone screen lit up again in your hand like it was waiting for you to make a mistake or finally make sense of something. Your breathing was uneven now, thoughts speeding up instead of slowing down.
Fuck it.
The words slipped out of your mouth before you could stop them.
Your fingers moved before your brain could catch up.
You opened the chat.
Y/n: Hey I was thinking about you, I hope you are doing well.
You stared at it for half a second.
Then sent it. No edits. No second guessing. Just gone.
States away, Vernon was asleep for the first time in what felt like weeks. Not deep, perfect sleep, but the kind his body finally forced him into after days of exhaustion piling on top of each other. He’d collapsed into it without realizing, like his system had simply given up resisting.
His phone lit up in the dark.
He groaned slightly, rolling over, dragging himself back into awareness. The room was still dim when he finally grabbed his phone, squinting at the screen through sleep-heavy eyes.
Your name.
Right there.
With the same little emoji you had put next to your contact in middle school that he never let you change.
His throat tightened immediately as he sat up too fast.
Then again, slower this time, like his brain was refusing to process the words properly.
“Hey I was thinking about you, I hope you are doing well.”
He said it out loud without realizing.
And then he broke.
It wasn’t quiet. It wasn’t controlled. It hit him all at once, his breath catching so hard it hurt as tears flooded his face immediately. His hands started shaking violently, phone slipping slightly in his grip as he pressed it against his chest like that would somehow make it real.
Because it was real.
You texted him.
After months.
After silence.
After everything.
And suddenly all the sleep he’d finally managed to get felt like it shattered instantly.
What he didn’t know was that you were sitting in your room at the exact same time, staring at your own phone, waiting for something that didn’t come yet, your heart racing so hard you could barely sit still.
For the next week, Vernon barely functioned.
He went through the motions like a ghost. School. Home. Bed. Repeat. He didn’t meet friends. He barely spoke to his family. He didn’t open the message again after the first time because it hurt too much to read it without breaking all over again.
He didn’t respond either.
Not because he didn’t want to.
Because he did.
Too much.
Every time he even thought about typing, his mind short-circuited. Because what was he supposed to say after months of silence? How do you respond to the person you’ve been in love with for months without admitting everything all at once?
And that was the problem.
Because now he knew.
He didn’t just miss you.
He missed your presence in the smallest ways that had somehow become everything.
The way you existed beside him without needing words. The way your body would naturally settle next to his when you shared a bed, like it belonged there. The way he would wake up before you sometimes and just lie there watching the sunlight hit your hair, smiling to himself without even thinking about it.
The way your breathing would be soft and steady beside him when the world felt too loud.
He missed that. He missed all of it.
And somewhere in the middle of the exhaustion and panic and silence, it hit him so clearly it almost made him sick.
He hadn’t just been attached to you.
He had been in love with you the entire time.
He just hadn’t known how to say it until you were already gone. And that's what he wasn’t understanding the night you both had fought.
You waited.
At first it was calm. You told yourself he was probably asleep, that he’d respond when he woke up, that maybe he just didn’t know what to say yet. Then hours passed, then a day, then two. Still nothing. No reply, no acknowledgment, no sign that your message had even landed the way you’d hoped. Just silence.
And the silence started to feel familiar in the worst way.
You tried to rationalize it at first, sitting there on your bed with your phone in your hand, replaying the moment you sent the text over and over. Maybe he needed time. Maybe he was overwhelmed. Maybe he just didn’t know how to respond. But each excuse felt thinner than the last, until there was nothing comforting left in them.
Eventually it settled into something heavier.
He didn’t respond.
The realization didn’t come as shock anymore, it came as collapse. Like your body already knew before your mind caught up. Your chest tightened so hard you had to bend forward slightly, your breathing turning uneven as you stared at the screen like it might change if you looked long enough.
The thought that followed came quietly, but it was worse than everything else.
Am I going home to no one?
The question didn’t have an answer you could tolerate. You got up, pacing your room once, then again, trying to shake the feeling out of your body, but it only followed you. The space around you felt too open and too empty at the same time, like there was nowhere to put what you were feeling.
Anger tried to surface after that, sharp and unstable. He could disappear for months and still not say anything? After you finally reached out? After you actually tried?
But even that didn’t last. It folded back into something worse, something smaller and more personal. Not anger at him, but confusion about yourself. Why did this hurt so much? Why did everything feel so unstable just because of one unanswered message?
Before you could spiral further, your phone buzzed again.
Minghao: I’m coming over.
You didn’t respond. You didn’t have to.
When he arrived, he didn’t bring his usual energy with him. No teasing, no lightness, no easy smile. Just quiet concern as he stepped inside, taking in your face before the door was even fully closed behind him.
He didn’t ask what was wrong immediately. He just stayed close enough to make it clear he wasn’t going anywhere, watching you for a moment as if confirming something he already suspected.
You could feel it in the way he looked at you, like he’d been noticing this build-up for a while but hadn’t wanted to say it out loud. The way you weren’t fully present anymore. The way your attention kept slipping away mid-conversation. The way even when you laughed, it didn’t reach all the way through you.
Minghao sat beside you eventually, not too close, but close enough that the space didn’t feel as wide anymore. He didn’t push you to talk, but he also didn’t let you completely disappear into yourself like you had been doing for weeks.
“You’ve been like this for a while,” he said finally, voice calm, not accusing. Just observant.
You let out a small breath, staring at your hands. “Like what?”
He didn’t answer immediately, like he was choosing not to say it too harshly. “Not here,” he said simply.
That made something in your chest tighten. You gave a small, almost defensive laugh, but it didn’t land. “I am here.”
Minghao shook his head slightly. “You show up. But you’re not really here. Not with us. Not with anything.”
You swallowed, looking away toward the floor. “I don’t know how to stop it.”
There was a pause. He shifted a little closer, still careful not to overwhelm you. “Stop what?”
Your fingers curled into your sleeve. You hesitated, then exhaled like you were giving up on holding it in. “Feeling like I’m… not in my own life anymore.”
That made him go quiet for a moment. His expression softened, but it didn’t turn pitying. Just understanding in a way that made it worse.
“Is it New York?” he asked gently. “The band? School? You don’t have to pretend if it’s too much.”
You shook your head quickly. “It’s not that. I mean, it is, but it’s not just that.” Your voice wavered slightly. “I should be happy. I am happy. I think. I don’t know why I still feel like this.”
Minghao studied you carefully. “Like what?”
“Like I left something behind and I didn’t realize how much it would hurt,” you admitted quietly.
The room went still again.
He didn’t interrupt. He just let you keep going if you needed to.
You let out a shaky breath. “And now it’s like everything is happening and I’m not fully inside it. Like I’m watching it instead of living it.”
Minghao nodded slowly, like he understood more than he was saying. “And it gets worse when you’re alone.”
That made your throat tighten immediately, because it was true.
You looked at him for a second, then away again. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”
“There’s nothing wrong with you,” he said, a little firmer now, but still gentle. “You’re just not okay right now.”
You let out a small, broken laugh. “That’s basically the same thing.”
“It’s not,” he replied. Then, after a pause, softer, “It means something’s hurting you. Not that you’re broken.”
That made your eyes sting again, and you quickly looked down so he wouldn’t see.
He leaned back slightly, giving you space but not distance. “Do you want to talk about it? Or do you just want me to sit here?”
“I don’t know,” you admitted. “Both? Neither?”
“That’s fine,” he said simply. “You don’t have to decide right now.”
“I’m trying,” you said quietly, almost like an apology.
“I know,” he replied immediately. “I can see that. That’s why I’m not leaving.”
That made your eyes close for a second, because even that simple sentence felt like too much and not enough at the same time.
And for now, he just stayed there with you in the quiet, letting you exist without having to explain anything.
“You should try to sleep after this,” he said gently.
You gave a small nod, even though you weren’t sure sleep would actually come.
He stood up slowly, grabbing his things. There was a brief pause at the door, like he was checking one last time that you were okay enough to be left alone.
“If it gets bad again,” he said, “just text me. Okay?”
“Okay,” you whispered.
He hesitated, then stepped back toward you instead of leaving immediately. It wasn’t dramatic or sudden, just a quiet instinct. He opened his arms slightly, and you leaned into it without thinking too much.
The hug wasn’t tight or overwhelming. It was steady. Grounding. The kind of hug that didn’t ask anything from you except to exist for a second without falling apart. You didn’t realize how much you needed that until your shoulders relaxed slightly into him.
When he finally left, the apartment felt different again. Quieter, yes, but not as suffocating as before. More like space instead of emptiness.
For a while after the door closed, you just sat there. Staring at nothing. Letting the silence settle in a way that didn’t immediately crush you. And slowly, almost uncomfortably, something shifted.
The panic didn’t disappear, but it loosened its grip just enough for clarity to slip in.
The show.
You had a huge performance coming up with the band. A real one. The kind people actually showed up for. The kind that mattered.
You looked around your room like you were seeing it properly for the first time in days. Your gear. Your notes. The faint reminders of rehearsals you’d been half-present for lately. It all suddenly felt like something you were supposed to be part of again, not something happening around you.
“I can’t keep doing this,” you muttered to yourself, voice barely steady.
And for the first time in a while, it didn’t feel like defeat. It felt like a decision.
The next few rehearsals were different.You showed up earlier. You actually listened through entire takes without drifting away halfway. You started adding small ideas again, quiet at first, then more confidently as the days passed. Joshua noticed it first, joking lightly about how you were “back in the room,” and Seungcheol started leaning into your suggestions more seriously again.
Minghao noticed too, but he didn’t make a big deal out of it. He just met your energy where it was, like he was glad you were coming back but didn’t want to scare it off by pointing it out too loudly.
And slowly, something in you started to flicker again.
Your spark didn’t come back all at once. It returned in pieces. In moments during rehearsals where a melody finally clicked. In small laughs between takes. In the way your hands stopped shaking as much when you picked up your instrument.
Vernon was still there, in the background of your thoughts. Still a dull ache sometimes, especially at night when everything quieted down. The absence hadn’t disappeared. It just stopped swallowing everything whole.
And for the first time in a while, you could breathe around it instead of drowning in it. You were still figuring it out.
When the show got close, everything started moving faster again.
Rehearsals tightened up, setlists got finalized, and suddenly there wasn’t much room for spiraling thoughts in between sound checks and late-night practice sessions. You were still a little fragile under it all, but you were functioning in a way that finally felt intentional instead of accidental.
So you posted.
A simple Instagram post for the band. A flyer for the show, a few behind-the-scenes photos from rehearsals, a couple candid shots where you were laughing mid-break, trying to get as many people to come as possible. Your caption was light, casual, promotional. Nothing heavy. Nothing personal.
Still, your thumb hovered over the screen for a second longer than it should’ve before you hit share.
You didn’t expect anything from it. Not really.
But Vernon saw it.
He’d been scrolling without thinking, the habit still there even if everything else between you had gone quiet. And then your post appeared. The date. The venue. Your face in motion again, alive in a way that looked slightly distant but still undeniably you.
He stared at it for a long time.
Then he did something he hadn’t done in a while.
He liked it.
It was small. Almost meaningless. Just a tap. But for you, when the notification came through later that day, it stopped you mid-step.
You froze.
His name.
The like sitting under your post like it hadn’t been gone for months.
You stared at it longer than you meant to, thumb hovering over the notification. For a second your mind raced in every direction at once, but nothing landed firmly enough to turn into a thought you could hold onto. In the end, you just exhaled shakily and whispered to yourself, “So… He is alive.”
That was all you let it be. A sign he existed. Not a message. Not an answer. Not a return. Just proof that somewhere out there, he was still there too.
What you didn’t know was that the moment Vernon saw the date of your show, something in him locked into place.
He didn’t overthink it. He didn’t ask anyone.
He didn’t tell his friends, didn’t explain it to his family, didn’t even fully process it in words. He just opened his laptop, searched flights, and booked one to New York.
The confirmation email came through, and he stared at it for a long moment without blinking, like if he thought too hard about it, he might talk himself out of it.
But he didn’t.
Because for months, he’d been surviving on silence and screens and memories that didn’t stop replaying no matter how much he wanted them to.
And now there was a date.
A place. You.
He closed his laptop slowly, hands still slightly shaking, and finally let himself admit the truth he’d been avoiding since the day you left.
He didn’t just want to see you. He needed to. So he didn’t say anything to anyone. Not a word. He just started packing like it was the most natural thing in the world, like this wasn’t going to change everything, like he wasn’t about to step back into a version of his life he hadn’t been able to leave behind.
Because in his mind, there was no real alternative anymore. He just needed to see you.
The day of the show came faster than you expected, like the semester had collapsed in on itself all at once. One moment you were still running through rehearsals, and the next you were standing backstage, hearing the low hum of a packed venue on the other side of the curtain.
You didn’t have time to overthink it.
There was only movement, only soundchecks, only the familiar chaos of getting everyone into place. And somewhere in the middle of it all, something in you clicked back into alignment. Not fully healed, not fully steady, but present in a way you hadn’t felt in months.
When the lights hit, everything changed. Stepping onto stage felt like breathing again after holding it in too long. The noise of the crowd swallowed you whole in the best way, and suddenly there wasn’t room for anything else. Not New York stress. Not distance. Not silence. Just music.
And for the first time in a long time, your spark didn’t feel forced.
By the end of the set, something in you had fully come back online.
The crowd noise blurred together as the final song ended, and for a second you just stood there, breathing hard, letting it all hit you at once. This was it. This was what you had been trying to get back to.
Minghao was the first to reach you.
He pulled you into a hug right there on stage, tight and genuine, the kind that said more than words needed to. “You killed it,” he said, slightly out of breath, smiling wide.
For a moment, everything felt normal. Then you looked up. Past the stage lights. Past the haze. Past the faces in the crowd. And your body went completely still.
Vernon.
He was there.
Real, unmistakable, standing in the crowd like he had been there the whole time you weren’t looking. Your breath caught so hard it hurt, and the sound of everything around you dropped out instantly. Your heart sank so fast it felt like your stomach followed it.
For a split second, you couldn’t move. Couldn’t think. Couldn’t breathe properly. It was like every part of you had been pulled in his direction at once.
Then instinct took over.
You turned and ran off stage.
Minghao noticed immediately, his expression shifting as he called after you, confused and concerned, taking a step forward like he might follow you. But before he could, he saw someone already moving after you from the side of the venue.
He didn’t recognize him. But he recognized the urgency. And something in the way you reacted told him enough.
He slowed. Stopped. Watched instead. Because whatever was happening wasn’t his place to interrupt anymore
You pushed through the doors so fast they banged against the outside wall, the sound echoing into the night. Cold air hit you immediately, sharp against your skin, but you didn’t stop moving. You kept walking forward until you were far enough from the venue that the noise of the crowd dulled into something distant and unreal.
Only then did you stop.
Your chest rose and fell quickly, breath still uneven from running. Streetlights stretched long across the pavement, flickering slightly in the wind, the city feeling too quiet after everything she had just felt on stage.
The anger came fast, sharper than the shock. It filled in the space where confusion had been seconds before. You turned slightly, jaw tight, breathing still unsteady. “Of course,” you muttered under your breath, shaking your head. “Of course you just show up.”
A soft step behind you.
Before you even turned fully, you felt a hand lightly touch your shoulder.
That was all it took.
You spun around immediately and slapped his hand away, the motion more instinct than thought. “Don’t,” you snapped, voice breaking slightly from everything you were holding in. “Don’t touch me.”
Vernon froze, his hand dropping instantly. “Okay—okay, I’m sorry,” he said quickly, stepping back half a pace like he was trying not to overwhelm you.
But you weren't done.
“You don’t get to just show up here,” you said, voice rising. “After months. After nothing. After I sent you that text and you just—nothing. Not even a reply. Not even a ‘I don’t know what to say’.”
Vernon opened his mouth slightly, like he wanted to interrupt, but he didn’t.
You pointed at him now, frustration spilling out faster. “Do you have any idea what that did to me? Do you have any idea what it fucking felt like to finally say something and just get silence back?”
“I know,” he said quickly, voice low. “I know, I’m sorry—”
“No,” you cut him off. “Don’t do that. Don’t just say sorry like it fixes it.”
He stepped forward slightly, then stopped himself, hands half-raised like he didn’t know what to do with them. “Please,” he said quietly. “Just… stop for a second. Please.”
He wasn’t fighting you. He wasn’t defensive. He wasn’t angry at all. He just looked… relieved. Like seeing your face was the only thing keeping him upright.
“I didn’t respond because I couldn’t,” he admitted, voice shaking slightly now. “I read it and I— I didn’t know how to say anything without messing everything up again.”
“That’s not an excuse,” you snapped, but your voice wavered.
“I know,” he said immediately. “I know it’s not. I just—” He exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair, eyes never leaving you. “I came because I couldn’t not see you anymore.”
You scoffed, shaking your head. “So you just show up? After everything? That’s your solution?”
“I didn’t come to fix it,” he said quickly, stepping forward again before stopping himself like he was afraid you'd run again. “I just needed to see you. That’s it.”
Your chest tightened, but you refused to let it show. “You left me in the dark for months, Vernon.”
“I know,” he said again, softer this time. “I know. And it killed me y/n. It absolutely killed me. I didn’t sleep, I missed you by my side. I lost myself completely.”
The way he said it—like he meant it, like it was sitting on top of him just as heavily as it sat on you—made you pause for half a second.
You went quiet. Whatever fragile control he’d been holding onto finally started to crack.
At first it was just his breathing changing—shallow, uneven. Then his face tightened like he was trying to hold something back and failing. His eyes stayed on you for a second longer, like he was trying to memorize you standing there in front of him, whole and real and not a memory on a screen.
“I can’t—” he started, then stopped, shaking his head as his voice collapsed. “I can’t do this without you.”
His hand came up to his face for a second like he was trying to steady himself, but it didn’t help. The tears came fast after that, slipping down his cheeks before he could even turn away from you.
“I’ve lost myself,” he said, voice cracking hard now. “Because I lost you. I wake up and I don’t even feel like I’m inside my own life anymore and I—” He sucked in a shaky breath, trying to continue but failing. “I’m so in love with you it hurts every single day.”
That made your breath catch.
But you still didn’t speak.
His voice dropped lower when he spoke again, softer, almost broken into pieces.
“I tried to move on,” he admitted. “I tried to act like I didn’t feel it. Like it would go away if I ignored it long enough.” He shook his head slightly, a tear falling before he even finished the sentence. “But everything I did just kept leading back to you. Always you.”
His shoulders trembled as he exhaled. “And I was too late when I realized what that meant.”
That landed between you both heavier than anything else.
Your expression shifted slightly, anger finally thinning into something more fragile, more uncertain. Your voice came out quieter than before, careful like you were afraid of what it might unlock.
“Why didn’t you say it before I left for college?”
That question made him stop completely. For a second, he just stared at you like he didn’t deserve to answer it. Then his voice broke again, but this time it was softer, stripped down completely.
“I didn’t know,” he said. “Back then… I didn’t know.”
He swallowed hard, stepping closer without thinking this time. You didn’t move away.
“I know now,” he whispered, like it hurt to say it out loud. “I know now.”
That was when it fully hit him again, and he broke down harder, tears coming faster, his breathing uneven as he tried to keep talking through it. “I know what it is,” he continued, voice shaking. “I know what I’ve been feeling this whole time and I just—” He shook his head, helpless. “I was so stupid. I was so late.”
You could feel your own eyes burning now, the weight of everything finally catching up. Neither of you were really holding it together anymore.
He stepped closer again, slower this time, like he was asking permission without words. You stayed where you were. His hand lifted carefully, hesitating for a second before he gently took yours.
You didn’t pull away. That alone seemed to wreck him even more.
“I’m sorry,” he said again, barely audible now. “I’m sorry I didn’t say it. I’m sorry I made you go through that alone. I’m sorry I lost you.”
There was a pause, shaky and fragile.
Then, through a wet, broken breath, you finally spoke again—half laugh, half disbelief, voice still trembling.
“You’re an idiot.”
He let out something that almost sounded like a laugh through tears, but he didn’t let go of your hand. If anything, he held it tighter.
“I know,” he whispered.
Your eyes dropped for a second, and when you looked back up at him, something in you finally cracked open fully.
“Did you think I wouldn’t feel the same way?” You say softly, bodies now closer than before. That made him freeze. A smile started to form on his face through tears. Then, quieter, almost scared to ruin the moment, you asked, “How did you even get here?”
He blinked at you, still holding your hand like it was the only real thing in the world. “Don’t worry about it,” he said softly, a hint of shaky humor in his voice. “I just needed to see you.”
A pause.
His gaze dropped to your lips for half a second, then back to your eyes.
“Can I kiss you?” he asked again, quieter this time, like everything else had already been answered.
You didn’t even answer him. Not with words, not with hesitation, not with anything you could overthink later.
You just pulled him in.
The space between you disappeared in a single movement, your hand still half-trembling as it grabbed his shirt and brought him to you. His breath caught sharply like he hadn’t fully believed this was going to happen, like some part of him was still bracing for you to change your mind.
But then your lips met his.
And everything went still for a fraction of a second—like the world itself paused just to register it.
Then he kissed you back.
Immediately. Instinctively. Like something inside him had been waiting for this exact moment for months and finally stopped holding back. His hand dropped yours without hesitation, but only so he could pull you closer instead, arms sliding around your waist and locking you against him like he was terrified you might slip away if he didn’t hold on hard enough.
The kiss deepened in a way that wasn’t rushed, but desperate—years of unspoken things collapsing into one moment that finally made sense of everything else.
You moved like you already knew him again, like your body remembered what your mind had been trying to survive without. One hand slid up to his neck, fingers curling there as if anchoring yourself to him, the other moving into the back of his hair, tugging slightly as if to make sure he was real.
He let out a quiet, broken sound against your lips—half relief, half disbelief—but didn’t pull away. If anything, he held you tighter, like the idea of distance now was unbearable.
When you finally part, he laughs quietly to himself.
“You really are so beautiful, you know?” he says quietly, like it wasn’t a compliment he was trying to give, but something he had been holding in for a very long time.
You pulled him straight into a hug, tight and immediate, like your body made the decision before your mind could interfere. Your arms wrapped around him with everything you had left in you, and the second you felt him properly—his warmth, the familiar weight of him, the scent of his cologne that hadn’t changed since high school—it was like something inside you finally stopped resisting.
He held you back just as tightly, almost desperately, like if he loosened even slightly you might disappear again. His hand moved up your back slowly, grounding you, while the other stayed firm at your waist.
Eventually, without breaking the hold between you, he murmured, “Can we… go somewhere? Somewhere quieter?”
The walk back felt unreal in the best way, like the city around you was moving normally but you weren’t part of it anymore. His hand stayed in yours the entire time, fingers occasionally tightening like he was reminding himself you were still there.
When you got inside, the door barely closed before everything softened again. The tension that had been sitting between you for months, even years, didn’t vanish—but it shifted into something warmer, something easier to hold.
You didn’t even really sit properly before he was pulling you toward your bed, like it was instinct. And once you were there, everything slowed down in the most natural way.
He laid down first, and you immediately curled into him like you’d done it a thousand times before. It felt wrong in how right it was. His arm slid around you instantly, pulling you close against his chest, and you let out a quiet breath you didn’t realize you were holding.
For a while, you just talked.
Not about everything heavy all at once, but pieces of it. Small updates. Random memories. Things you missed. Things you didn’t even know mattered until now. He told you about sleepless nights and half-written messages he never sent. You told him about New York, the band, the nights you didn’t understand what you were feeling.
Sometimes one of you would pause mid-sentence just to look at the other like you couldn’t believe this was real.
And then it would turn into something lighter again.
A little teasing. A little arguing over stupid things. Him stealing your blanket. You pushing him off and immediately pulling him back. Him pretending to be offended before laughing and pulling you closer again.
One moment you were trying to push him off your side of the bed, and the next he’d caught your wrist gently, not to stop you, just to hold you there. His laughter faded first—not abruptly, just slowly, like something in him shifted mid-breath.
You noticed it immediately.
His eyes dropped to your mouth for a second too long. Then he leaned in.
It wasn’t hesitant. Not really. It felt like something he had been holding back for so long that the decision didn’t even look like a decision anymore.
His lips met yours again, slower this time, warmer, deeper in a way that made your teasing thoughts dissolve almost instantly. When he pulled back just slightly, barely enough to speak, his forehead stayed close to yours.
“I’ve wanted to do that for months,” he admitted quietly, like it had been sitting in his chest too heavy to keep pretending otherwise.
That made something in you spark again—familiar, teasing, just enough to try and regain control of the moment.
“Oh wow,” you started, breath still uneven, a small smile tugging at your lips. “So what, you’ve just been suffering in silence—”
You didn’t even get to finish.
His hand slid to your waist, and he kissed you again.
The kiss deepened with every second, less about hesitation and more about everything you both hadn’t said finally spilling out without words. Months of distance, silence, confusion—it all collapsed into something immediate and overwhelming. Every time you tried to pull back just slightly for air, he followed you like it wasn’t even a thought, like stopping felt wrong now that he finally had you here.
And in between it all, when there was just barely enough space for words, he murmured against you, almost like he couldn’t help himself.
“Don’t tease me right now,” he said quietly, breath uneven.
That only made it worse.
You gave a soft laugh against his lips, but it faded quickly as he kissed you again, slower this time, pulling you back in like he was learning you all over again but refusing to stop.
You move your hands from around his neck to the bottom of his black t-shirt playing with the hem as he kisses from your lips, down your neck. A gasp leaves your mouth without even realizing as you feel a smirk form on Vernon’s lips.
You tug at the hem to then slightly lift it up so he gets the hint. He leans up grabbing the part of the shirt you just had your hands on to lift it over his head, throwing it on the floor in the process.
You grab the bottom of your own shirt, doing the same motion throwing it on the floor right next to his.
Vernon’s eyes stayed on you for a second longer than usual. not in a way that felt objectifying, but like he was genuinely taking you in—like he was trying to memorize you all over again in real time, now that everything was finally out in the open.
“You’re kind of unfair,” he said quietly, a small breath of a laugh in his voice.
You raised an eyebrow, still slightly breathless. “Me?”
He nodded once, stepping a little closer again. “Yeah. You do that thing where you act like you’re not affecting me.”
That made you laugh under your breath, shaking your head. “I’m not doing anything.”
He tilted his head slightly, like he didn’t believe you for a second. “Exactly.”
That got you to smile properly this time.
“Fuck you are so beautiful.” He says quieter in a low tone. The space between you disappeared again without either of you really deciding it. It just happened naturally, like gravity had reset itself.
Your fingers curled into his shoulders as you pulled him closer, and he responded immediately, like he’d been waiting for that exact signal. When you broke apart, just slightly, he rested his forehead against yours again, breathing uneven but calmer now.
“I don’t think I’m leaving again,” he murmured.
You let out a small laugh, softer this time. “Good.”
“Besides, I kinda like New York.” He laughs mid sentence.
“Oh yeah?” You laugh back at the brown haired boy above you.
"It wouldn't be too awful to transfer to a nearby school… huh?” He jokes, but with a deadpan certainty that shows he definitely is not joking.
“I don’t see a problem with that.” You joke back.
He kissed you again, it felt less like chaos and more like certainty—like everything messy and painful and distant had finally folded into something that made sense.
And for the first time in a very long time, neither of you felt like you were missing anything.
You had each other, and you both finally realized, that's all you need.
.✦ ݁˖ your best friend needs help kissing and of course you say yes ݁˖
477 ━━°❀ (김선우) x f !reader .✦ kissing, teaching, fluff, spit play, moaning, best friends dynamic ⋆ . ࿔ ˚
You’re hanging out in your cozy room with Sunoo, your best friend and talking about everything under the sun.
The conversation drifts to relationships and crushes, and that’s when he confesses, cheeks turning pink as he picks at a chip.
“I’ve never actually kissed anyone,” he admits quietly, eyes flicking to yours nervously before dropping to his lap. “Not even with tongue or anything. Is that weird?” His voice is small, vulnerable, like he’s scared you’ll laugh.
You shake your head, scooting closer on the bed until your knees touch his. “Not weird at all,” you say gently, heart warming at how cute and honest he is.
“Want me to teach you? We can take it super slow.”
Sunoo’s eyes widen a bit, but he nods eagerly, biting his lip with that adorable nervous smile. “Yeah… okay. Only if it’s not awkward.”
You cup his face softly, thumbs brushing his flushed cheeks. “It’s not awkward. Just relax and trust me.” Leaning in, your lips meet his in the simplest kiss first—gentle, closed-mouthed, warm like a hug.
Sunoo freezes for a second, then melts, letting out the tiniest sigh as his soft lips press back tentative. It’s sweet, innocent, his hands hovering before resting lightly on your arms.
Pulling back just a breath, you smile. “Good. Now open your mouth a little… like you’re tasting something yummy.”
He follows perfectly, parting his lips shyly, and you kiss him again—deeper this time, your tongue slipping in slow to trace his. Sunoo gasps softly against you, hesitating before his tongue brushes yours, clumsy and curious, exploring the wet warmth.
You guide him with gentle swirls, showing the rhythm, tasting the salt from snacks on him. “Just like that—feel how nice it is?” you murmur, and he hums, nodding into the kiss, gaining confidence as tongues tangle soft and slick.
His hands slide to your waist, pulling you nearer, and you deepen it tenderly—sucking lightly on his tongue to make him whimper cute. “Try moving yours more,” you whisper, and he does, stroking back with growing eagerness, spit mixing warm between you.
To make it extra intimate, you gather a little saliva and let it drip slow into his open mouth mid-kiss, pushing it with your tongue. Sunoo pauses, eyes fluttering in surprise, but then swallows with a shy moan, chasing your lips hungrier, all nervousness turning to flustered joy.
“You’re so good at this already,” you praise, fingers threading his hair lightly to tilt his head, keeping every touch soft as the kiss turns messy-sweet, saliva glossy on your chins. He giggles breathlessly when you break apart, strings connecting your puffy lips, face buried in your shoulder for a second.
“That felt… amazing,” he mumbles, peeking up with sparkling eyes. “Can we do it again?”
You laugh, hugging him close. “As much as you want, best friend. Practice makes perfect.”
❝Because you cannot create perfection without a little tension.❞
rivals to lovers! au | fluff | 27.5k words
s u m m a r y : one would expect being a dessert chef to be a life filled with sugary goodness, but nothing is sweet when working alongside boo seungkwan. when the two of you are forced to create a special dessert for the winter menu together, you think the restaurant will burn down. late night planning, shopping mall snooping, and a simple dessert might just save you from your expectations.
c o n t e n t : dessert chef! mc, dessert chef! seungkwan, rivals to lovers! au but i kept it tame so i didn't lose my mind, head chef! jeonghan who terrorises his employees, seungkwan is leading the sassy man apocolypse, flatmate! giselle from aespa who wants to be santa, lots of mentions of italian desserts, lots of geographical London referencess, lots of bickering, little bits of tension, making out but no smut because im fearing god again, fluff obviously and overall just very winter-esque!!
p l a y l i s t : candy by seventeen || chocolate by seventeen || daawat-e-ishq by sajid-wajid || strawberry sunday by dojaejung
t a g l i s t : @hyuckworld @ourkivee @syluslittlecrows @ye0ppl @markhyuckbest @uhdrienne
a u t h o r ' s n o t e : this is not edited properly and for that i am sorry...so tired i fear but she is FINALLY done!! thank you @camandemstudios for inviting me to participate in this collab, i've enjoyed every moment of yapping and fighting over pixel cats <33 to alice and addy for listening to me complaing about this fic but seungkwan deserves sm love so i had to do my bit !! i hope you all enjoy and happy new year !! <3
back to masterlist
BEING BERATED BY A SUPERIOR WILL ALWAYS BE A HUMBLING EXPERIENCE.
Whether that be in school, when you are scolded for forgetting your homework, or gaining detention for arguing with your teacher. In the working world, it could be insufficient effort in a team project, perhaps your boss simply being a prick and wanting to make your life difficult.
Never did you think you would be sitting in front of your Head Chef, remnants of food stuck in your hair and clothing, a sheepish look plastered upon your face as you faced his imminent wrath.
You knew it was over for you—the man at the head of the office sat, sleeveless arms crossed, eyebrows knitted in rage at your dishevelled appearance, his feet tapping viciously under the desk. You never really considered your superior to be a particularly scary figure of power, but, in this light, if he made any sudden moves, there was a slim possibility you would scream.
You wondered whether begging for forgiveness was still on the table.
“Remind me, _____,” he finally said, sighing the words out, “How old are you?”
A part of you wished to remind him that he was not legally allowed to ask you that. You did not even know why he was asking such a question. Head Chef Yoon Jeonghan had known you for a long time now. He realised it too, but for another reason entirely. “No, scratch that. You’re an age where your brain has developed fully, right? I’m not wrong in assuming that you’re capable of knowing what’s right and what’s wrong?”
“Of course, Chef,” you answered, trying to find some self-assuredness in your voice. Difficult, in all honesty, when you were covered with salted butter and vanilla extract.
That seemed to be the wrong answer. “Then tell me why, _____,” he asked, agitation rising, “I caught you with your hands full of whipped cream, throwing it at a fellow chef.”
You attempted an explanation. “In my defence, Chef, you weren’t meant to see that.”
Jeonghan was not amused. “I’m surprised the entire restaurant didn’t catch your antics. If this incident happened during open hours I shudder to think what our customers would think.”
Reining in a sigh, you did not respond this time, positive that another dry quip from you would have your unemployment confirmed.
It was a little unfair, though. You were not the only one who was caught.
A drawl resounded from beside you. “I won’t be surprised if half our customers don’t already know what _____’s like.”
This particular chirp had your self-wallowing bubbling to a rage.
No, you were not the sole culprit, because as you whipped your head to the man who decided to voice his opinion at the wrong time, you caught the shit-eating glint in his eyes and nearly screamed the office down.
You could not stop yourself from crowing out, “Let’s not forget your 2018 meltdown over multiple tiramisu failures, Seungkwan.”
That had him scoffing harshly. “Always digging up incidents from years ago because you have nothing else to bring up.” His eyes hiked up and down your ruined uniform. “I can name your screw-ups starting today.”
“Oh, so I was just pissing about with all this food by myself then,” you snapped, gesturing towards his own mess. His hazel locks had the remnants of whipped cream too, matting his hair, whilst different coloured stains adorned his professional uniform, much similar to yours. However, you noticed he was much dirtier in appearance, which made your lips quirk upward in satisfaction.
He caught on instantly, to your distaste. “You were the one who couldn’t argue properly with me,” he accused. “No wonder you had to resort to childish gimmicks to get back at me.”
“It worked, didn’t it?” A turn of your nose. “You look horrendous.”
“You’re no sight for sore eyes either.” He reached for the thick strands of his hair, matted together with whipped cream. “Do you even know how hard it is to wash off mascarpone?”
“I wouldn’t, actually, because you missed, remember?”
“Oh, you—”
“Enough!” Jeonghan declared, interrupting you two before any escalations occurred. “Not only were these gimmicks childish and immature, but also a huge waste on our ingredients. Mingyu’s estimated our stock for this week was cut down by 17%.”
Your surprise was exposed through the twist of your mouth. “That’s right.” Jeonghan sighed once again, many in his arsenal. “Both of your temper tantrums have cost the restaurant financially. Aside from the fact that I will be talking to my therapist about this incident.”
“Of course _____ wouldn’t care about the restaurant finances,” Seungkwan jeered, dusting off flakes of self-raising flour from his lap. “Nor your mental health.”
“I do care about your mental health, Chef,” you rebuked your colleague’s claim. “If I didn’t, then the stock would have plummeted another 25% at least. That’s why I didn’t touch the vintage dessert wines.”
“You do seem to have some sense then,” Jeonghan griped, no humour in his smile, “Because if you ruined the wines on Seungkwan I would have fired you instantly.”
Not a warning—a promise. Another one of his infamous sighs exhaled from his coral lips, which he brushed with his wandering fingers in thought. “You both…you both need to stop this. I mean it.”
“I will stop when she stops,” the man beside you asserted, glaring at you.
You matched his venom. “I will stop when he stops.”
“No, you both will stop, because I have had enough.” He locked his hands together, losing all amusement—as if there was any present in the first place. “Christmas period is approaching, and that means changing up the menu for the new quarter. These next couple of months will be incredibly busy, especially given the tourist season and school holidays in central.”
Glancing at the stack of papers on his desk, he set aside a few files, sliding out a particular piece and studying the details. “As you know, the main menu has been under alteration, but the dessert menu is still the same as the summer. I have already selected the majority of the confectionery, but there is still one more dessert I wish to add to the seasonal collection.”
He then set his sights on the two of you. “I need you to make this dessert. Hand me the plans for its creation, flavour variety, as well as its marketability in the restaurant.”
That had you sitting up in your seat. A creation of a dessert—it was something you had concocted in larger groups, back when you were a mere apprentice under Jeonghan’s wing at Camden Market. You had done seasonal dessert preparations for the spring and summer menus, but the winter menu selection was the most prestigious amongst the luxury restaurants within your borough. With locals flocking to central London, tourists from all corners of the world flying across oceans to stay in this beloved city, they wanted nothing more than seasonal excellence.
An exquisite dessert meant maintaining that expectation of perfection. A dessert was enjoyed at the end of the main meal, and—in your eyes—cemented the opinion of a customer on whether they would return to the establishment, or forget it ever existed. The treats you made left impressions on thousands, impressions you savoured everyday at work, and outside.
This may just be all your hard work paying off. Finally.
Before Jeonghan could continue, you nodded, all confidence. “I will be happy to accept this task, Chef.”
A snort sounded next to you, and your smugness faltered, replaced with irritation. “You have something to say?”
“Yeah, actually,” he said, folding his leg over the other, “I was wondering why you were piping up when Chef was asking me.”
This time, you were the one that laughed. “Your arrogance makes you look like a dumbass many times, Seungkwan. This is one of those times.”
He leaned in a little, nodding condescendingly along to your taunts. “Oh do I? I guess it’ll be your turn to look stupid today.”
“Both of you are looking stupid in front of me,” the boss interjected once more. “Because I wasn’t asking a specific individual.”
He raised his hands to the two of you. “I’m asking you both to work on this dessert inclusion. Together.”
You halted. Stilled in the stark, yellow lights of the grand office, evidence of Jeonghan’s success. Success which you have yet to taste on your own.
Success which, unfortunately, might have died with the words that left your superior’s mouth.
For the first time in a while, there was complete silence in the office.
Even Jeonghan found the notion hard to believe. “My God,” he uttered, twisting the corners of his mouth downwards, stunned. “Maybe I should have dropped this news before the food fight.”
You could only stare at the man in pure horror. “I would rather snap raw spaghetti and serve it to you before doing such a thing!”
Seungkwan let out a groan. “Here come the dramatics,” he muttered, but you heard it clear enough. “Anything to make a fuss and delay the business.”
Jeonghan perked up. “Oh, so you wouldn’t be opposed to it?”
A smile. “I’d kill myself before working with _____.”
Your huff of laughter had the boy scowling. “And he called me dramatic.”
“Enough!” was the final outcry from your boss, who seemed ready to overthrow the desk in pure frustration. “You two…” he shook his head, raking his slender hands through his long, black hair. “I don’t care.”
The younger attempted to fight his case to the end. “But Chef, this will be a disaster—”
You chimed in for the sake of interrupting, “This will cause the downfall of your restaurant—”
“I don’t care how you two feel,” his interruption was final, his head shaking still. “I don’t give a fuck, to be honest.”
Seungkwan’s mouth parted, but then heard the fuck, and decided against saying a word. You should have followed suit, but it was against your very principle to follow his example. “Chef, please,” you tried, almost pleading to be heard out. “Seungkwan and I have completely different palettes too. It’s not even about personal differences.”
“Again, that is a setback I don’t care about.” He stood up from his seat, and almost on instinct the two of you shot up from your chairs, remnants of cooked fettuccine falling from your dampened uniform pockets. The Head Chef took note of this detail. “This…this petty rivalry between the two of you is affecting the people around you now. Both of you are so talented, yet I have seen caffeine-crazed kids behave better than you during rush hours.”
He rested his hands on the table, his hard gaze razor-sharp. “You both have about eight weeks to hand me the final dessert plan on my table. If I receive two individual plans, or no plan at all, then I will fire you both.”
That was enough for balls to drop. You were fortunate to have none, so only assumed Seungkwan was the victim in this situation.
“Y-you can’t do that!” he exclaimed, and for the first time, you had to agree with him. A horrifying prospect. “We’re halfway through September now!”
“So?”
“You need me on desserts, Chef!” you declared, taking a more outraged stance on his statement. “What the hell will you do when there’s no one to make your amarettis?”
The man was still, face impassive. “I don’t care if you both are my best chefs. There are many big-eyed, desperate Masterchef rejects who will cut off their legs to be trained within this position.”
Whatever snide remark that almost escaped your mouth lodged itself in your throat. You wanted to feel special—like there was a place reserved only for you at the restaurant.
Now, because of one person, that position is threatened.
“This isn’t fair, Jeonghan,” you mumbled.
There was a pause. Then, “Don’t make me agree with _____.”
“Shut up.”
The boss took a turn from his desk, walking towards the door. “As I said,” he began, holding onto the handle, “You have eight weeks.”
He took one last glance at the two of you, a judgement akin to the one the scriptures warned about. “Don’t fuck this up.”
With that, he left his office with a final thud! of the door.
And as the weight of the decision finally settled on your shoulders, its pressure making them sag, you looked to the man whose employment rested in your hands—whose hands your employment rested on too.
The two of you scowled at the exact same moment.
If anyone was going to get fired, it would not be you.
THE RUSH HOUR OF THE UNDERGROUND TUBE SOURED YOUR ALREADY UNPLEASANT CONDITION.
The Northern line from Camden experienced a few closures, so that resulted in delays, consequently filling the already dingy underground area into a complete sardine-like squeeze. It was horrendous enough the place was like a cesspit of heat and sweat amongst all these commuters, but knowing you were going to be late was enough to worsen your mood.
You would have complained to your flatmate, but there was no service underneath—the entire commute resulted in staring down the people who held a seat in the jam-packed tube, when you were slotted against the sliding doors of the train. Holding onto the railings for dear life, you could only hope that your colleague had experienced an inconvenience as severe as you had (perhaps tripping over his dirty laundry—maybe even a car crash on the ring road? He could take his pick).
Once the tube finally reached Leicester Square, you could not struggle out of the train fast enough, tapping out your card and flying up the stairs in two-three steps. The Piazza of Covent Garden was not far away, but London was a city that never rested, and so the people were everywhere. Thankfully, you had mastered the art of moving out of the crowds with precision, so you arrived at your destination, only about five minutes late.
The columns of Covent Garden’s grand building welcomed your vision. There, nestled to the side with luxury outdoor seating splayed onto the cobblestone, was the Vita di Diamante—Jeonghan’s product of blood, sweat and tears for the world to admire. The Georgian-style front was painted an emerald green, white borders of the doors and windows making the restaurant glow in the soft winter sun. Customers were already queuing, even though doors were not to open for the next two hours. You could not help a small smile forming, chest swelling with pride.
Avoiding the front entrance, you hurried around to the side doors, this particular entrance already open thanks to Prep Cook Kim Mingyu, who offered a sheepish smile at your appearance.
“Oh no,” you said in greeting, quickly stepping past him as he closed the door. “What’s that look for?”
He chuckled, tightening his apron’s bow at the back. “Seungkwan’s been waiting at your station for thirty minutes.”
A curse escaped you, furthering his amusement. “How mad is he?”
“He shouted at me for the lack of ricotta in the pantry.”
You scrunched your brows in shame, widening your lips in a line. “That’s on me. I threw it at him the other day.”
Although he shook his head, he said, “Tell me it hit his face, at least.”
“Right on target.”
Hearing his laughter behind you, you dashed to the cloakroom, quickly changing into your uniform. Tossing your bag in the small lockers, you exited, finding yourself in the familiar surroundings of the dessert station.
From the last time you had been in this side of the kitchens, the place had been the victim of your vicious food fight with Seungkwan—stained with sauces, powdered with flour, and littered with different nuts and sprinkles from the pantry. Now, the floors and tables were spotless, all evidence of your petty rage disappeared into your memories.
Unfortunately, the cleaners could not make the sole reason for your anger disappear. He stood, back hunched to you, like a nasty stain upon your domain, refusing to be wiped away. You could not help your glower towards his figure, a small hope that you would develop lasers for eyes and smite him off the station.
“What’re you glaring at me for? You’re the one who’s late.”
Jerking your head back at his voice, you twisted your lips downwards, walking towards him. “You don’t know that,” you challenged, sneaking a look at what he focused on—a notebook, with scribbles written in black ink.
“I do, because you’re glaring at me as we speak.” He glanced up at you. “See?”
It was a little pitiful now, trying to school your face into neutrality. “Whatever,” you muttered, taking out your own notepad, setting it on the steel tops. “And for the late thing, rush hour spares no one.”
“Yet the entire staff managed to come early,” he said, a certain, condescending ease in his tone which made your glower darken. “We’re lucky that Jeonghan’s helping us with desserts in the next coming weeks, or we would have been screwed.”
“Jeonghan’s coming?” you asked, genuinely surprised. You were aware that he was trialling a few dessert apprentices to deal with the restaurant’s rush period, butyou did not expect the big boss to turn up at the stations.
“He wants us to focus on ‘team collaboration’,” he iterated, exaggerating the latter words in air quotes, “As well as ‘building our professional relationship’.”
“Jesus,” you could only say, dreading the near future for what it held for the two of you. Jeonghan was either the dumbest person to grace this restaurant, or enjoyed messing with his employees for work-place entertainment.
A glimpse of the clock. “We’re due for starting up in a couple of hours, so we better start thinking up ideas now.” You looked down at the pages of your notebook, a few ideas already jotted down that needed further exploration. “Since we’re only doing one dessert, this shouldn’t take us more than a week to decide.”
Seungkwan’s mouth twisted in a sneer. “Yeah, if you’re just handing a scoop of gelato to them.”
That particular comment had you craning your head back. “You have to be braindead to take two months to come up with one item.”
“You must be putting anything in your customer’s plates then,” was his sour response, “To need only a week to create a luxury food.”
A sharp sigh escaped you. “What grand plans do you have for the public then?”
Picking up his notebook, he brushed a finger past the page. “Right…so we already have the standard tiramisu and gelato variations. We should definitely incorporate a sugary pastry since we’ve been lacking in the previous quarter.”
“Pastry,” you mumbled. He was talking pure, unadulterated shit. Chocolate bignè was the permanent item on the summer menu—little, indulgent profiteroles that melt into the taster’s mouth. Apart from that, the generic selection of cannolis and bomobolini doughnuts were already sold at the till within the cafe section outside, so another addition of the pastry was not needed.
Perhaps your thoughts projected upon your face, because the boy was incredulous. “And what’s so wrong about pastries?”
“It’s been done too many times.” You showed him the previous menu, which he had before him. “We should do something different.”
“And what would that ‘different’ be?”
You scoured your page, latching onto the words of strong flavours. “Stray from the sweets this time. I’ve been wanting to experiment with a few flavours, and I think that bitter amarettis will be big this winter.”
Mentioning the Italian macarons did not bode well. “Bitter amarettis? Are you insane?”
Instantly you crowed, “The Sarano branch is actually very popular ‘cause they’re smaller and easier to eat after a meal. We can flavour them with coffee or almonds.”
“No.”
The sudden dismissal was enough for you to argue your case. “It’s better than a goddamn doughnut!”
“Fine.” He clutched his notebook tighter. “Let’s drop the pastry. How about a pannacotta?”
Pannacotta—sweet cream dessert thickened and moulded with gelatin. Not your first choice, but its greatest advantage was its range of flavours that it accommodated.
You decided to try your luck once more. “We can do something with that.” You chewed the inside of your cheek, thinking of any flavours that were not simply sugar sprinkled on cream. “I’ve experimented with bay leaves before. We can add one or two to add a lime-like essence.”
The man scrunched his nose at the notion. “My God. Were you thrown against the wall as a child?”
That morbid image had you scoffing. “I had an amazing childhood, thank you. Why are you so against it already?”
“Pannacotta is a sweet dessert, _____. I’m not adding fucking leaves on a delicacy.”
“Adding herbs on certain confectionery is actually a luxury trait. You learn this in culinary school.”
Once again, the idea was immediately cut for another. “We should add cinnamon to it.” He pointed towards his notebook. “A nod towards the coming Christmas.”
“Cinnamon?” you parrotted. “A sweet flavouring on an already sweetened cream? Do you want to rot our customers’ teeth?
“Oh, what do you suggest then?” He let out a harsh scoff. “Coffee for the millionth time?”
“Well, actually—” you were about to make an incredible point, but your partner began to groan, cutting you off. “Hey, coffee is versatile, and you know it!”
Seungkwan looked to the side, as if there was an invisible camera he could make a face to. “Here comes the anti-sweet agenda.”
Your sharp exhale was loud enough to gain his unpleasant attention. “If you had your way, all our customers would have type 2 diabetes!”
“Well sorry that I don’t want my customers as bitter as you are!” he exclaimed. “It’s beyond me how you became a dessert chef!”
“It’s called having range, dumbass!” you shouted right back, unwilling to relent. “My skills go beyond just dumping a load of sugar and calling it a dessert!”
He slapped his notebook on the desk, leaning in. “I said to have cinnamon because it’s bloody Christmas. My bad if you like to Grinch it up every year.”
“You want to show Christmas through cinnamon, huh?” You huffed a laugh in his face. “Wow, Seungkwan, how original! I might as well put a fucking christmas hat on top of our tiramisu. Fuck it, let’s start singing a Christmas carol while we serve it since you want to be on theme so much!”
Seungkwan’s jaw clenched. “I don’t want fucking leaves in a dessert.”
You matched his anger. “Well, I don’t want you in this process, but we can’t always have what we want.”
A tilt of his head, the locks framing his forehead sliding along. “I'm not dying to work with you either, dearest.”
Dearest. That pissed you off even further. “Then find a way to deal with it,” you seethed.
“I could say the same thing to you.”
You pursed your lips, at a loss for words. The man stared into the rising rage of your gaze, his own agitation reflected clearly. He was watching you intently, words dying on his lips, only inhaling and exhaling sharply. Had he been a few inches closer, his huffed anger would have fanned your face, truly taste how he felt about this entire situation.
But that was the last thing you wanted, and so you could only match his displeasure.
“I’m not losing my job because of you,” you warned.
His eyes darted all over your face before he deigned to reply to you. “And you think I want to be fired?”
The quirk of your mouth upwards had his nostrils flaring. “If you act like an asshole, Seungkwan, that’s exactly what you deserve.”
“Why do you get to be the judge of that?” he scoffed out.
“I won’t. Jeonghan will see through you soon enough.”
Oh, he was seething underneath that mask of irritation. If you had been any weaker, you would have crumbled under such a withering look. He did not have much to say anymore, thinking that knifing you with his glare would be enough to win this argument. Because he had you as an opponent, it was no easy feat—the two of you said nothing again, staring and staring with mouths parted, almost waiting for an insult to rise from their throats and strike any second.
Something might have struck—would have occurred under the flickering lights of the dessert station. Perhaps Seungkwan would have said something to make you succumb to your aggravation. Maybe you would have finally killed him.
“Already at each other’s throats?”
You and Seungkwan whirled your heads to the voice.
There stood Jeonghan, tapping his foot against the floor, arms crossed as he observed you two. “Standing this close, well…either you’re about to claw each other’s faces off or make out.”
The latter option had you and Seungkwan breaking out of your rageful bubble, repelling from each other like magnets of the same sides. The boy exhaled sharply through his nose, while you swiped up your notes, not even sparing your Head Chef with a glare. “You’re horrid.”
Seungkwan snorted. “I think I’d rather get punched.”
You directed that sour look back at the man who deserved it more. “You’ll have it coming if you keep at it.”
“If you both have wasted enough time fighting,” Jeonghan interjected, always the mediator, “Then let’s get on with it. I wanna hear your initial plans.”
“_____ will summarise,” The younger replied, before you could even begin. “I have to go in a minute.”
You made a face. “Where’re you running off to?”
He returned it. “Not that it’s any of your business, but I have to pick up my niece and nephew from school. They have a half-day today.”
You could have rolled your eyes at him. “Is this allowed, Chef?” you demanded. “Something as important as the Christmas menu is being discussed, and he’s doing school duty.”
But Jeonghan overlooked your valid concerns, countering, “It’s all good, _____. Seungkwan asked for the half-day a week earlier.”
The said-man handed his notes to the superior. He could not help remarking, “Perhaps if you had bothered to be on time, then we could have fought out another dessert.”
As he exited, bidding his adieus to him, you reined in the temptation to stick his middle finger out. After all, it would have only landed behind his back—the bastard deserved to see it.
Your boss clicked his tongue at you as he walked over to where you stood. “Good to see you didn’t flip him off in front of me. At least you’re thirty percent professional.”
“Why did you give him the half-day?” This time, you could not restrain the eye-roll. “Sometimes I think he’s making those kids up.”
“_____!” He scolded, bringing Seungkwan’s notepad back on the surface. “I’ve met his niece and nephew, they’re very much real.”
“Or you could be in on the bit,” you jeered, leaning against the countertop. “Trying to piss me off on purpose.”
“Your self-importance astounds me. Not everyone is thinking about you.” A knowing look. “Even the man you happen to hate so much.”
“Well I hope he keeps my name out of his mouth. And his mind, for that matter,” you added for good measure, observing the very door the man departed from.
Jeonghan followed your line of sight. “You seem to have a hard time keeping his name out of your mouth though.”
Your accused mouth tightened at its allegations. “Are you on my side or his?”
He raised his hands in surrender, a grin breaking free from his lips. “Don’t drag me into your petty rivalry.” Pointing towards your notes, he then changed the subject. “Now, tell me about your rough plans.”
You obliged your boss, running down your initial prospects. He seemed satisfied enough, informing you that he will ask Seungkwan as well, and reminded you to prepare for the early customers.
As you prepared yourself for the open doors, prepping your ingredients alongside the Prep Cook, your thoughts wandered to the man who escaped this menial work, and then the eventual rush.
You and Seungkwan would not be able to create this dessert. Meeting in the middle would be impossible with someone as stubborn as him. Of course you wished to be successful, because that meant Jeonghan would not throw you out into the cobblestones of Covent Garden. You wanted this to go well.
A sharp breath exhaled from you. You could only hope that Seungkwan hoped the same, or else you would both are completely, utterly, inescapably fucked.
“HO HO HO!”
A sigh involuntarily escaped you. “One more ‘ho ho ho’ and I’m shooting myself in the head.”
“Hey!” The slender girl exclaimed, fixing her Santa hat upon her straight hair. “You know I need to perfect it for today.”
You looked beyond her figure to the shop, lit up with seasonal outfits on display. “You’re gonna get the role anyway, Aeri, because no one else will be auditioning.”
The girl tried to push you in punishment, you narrowly dodging her dainty hand. “Go back to slaving away at Jeonghan’s restaurant.”
A mocked gasp left you. “Are you telling me to get back in the kitchen?”
“Yeah, so step on it!”
“I’m supporting you, though!” You reasoned. “There is no one in London who can pull off Santa Claus better than you.”
“And what about the world?”
You mocked a shrug. “There’s too many old white men to compete for that title, I fear.”
“See?” She clicked her tongue. “A real friend would lie to me and say I’m the best.”
Shaking your head at her antics, you could not help smiling at her. Uchinaga Aeri was a fiery girl you had befriended in school, bonding over your terrible teachers in one after-school detention. Your paths had never strayed, establishing each other as flatmates when the two of you decided to pursue careers in the big city. Where you pursued luxury food, she sought after theatre and cameras, deciding to be an actress when she landed herself the role of ‘Juliet’ in Romeo and Juliet in primary school, and considered it destiny (she, however, did not have chemistry with her Romeo, because he kissed her like a ‘fish’. In her words, men who cannot kiss should not be romancing other actresses).
“I don’t get the Santa Claus obsession, though,” you wondered out loud. “There are other ways to help kids out.”
“I know, but it’s Christmas!” She waved her arms to the air, gesturing at the winter-themed fairy lights on the mall ceilings, twinkling with every ray of light that caught them. “It’s also adorable when the kids ask you for presents.”
“I think it’ll be cuter with a female Claus, too,” you pointed out. “I wouldn’t put my kid on any old man’s lap.”
“Exactly!” There was a moment of brief pause before Aeri relented. “Also, the mall employees get a 50 percent discount on retail.”
“I knew your ass wasn’t feeling the Christmas charity spirit.”
The girl chuckled, looping her arm around yours. “Thank you for coming with me. It means a lot.”
“Of course!” You returned her grin with a mischievous smile. “I wasn’t gonna miss you screaming ‘Ho Ho Ho’ at every kid in M&S.”
“Shut up,” she muttered, but could not contain her laughter. “Hey, weren’t you supposed to work today?”
That made your cheerful expression falter a little. “I was, but Seungkwan took the full day off today, so Jeonghan used it as an excuse to trial out the apprentices.”
“You know, I still need to meet this guy,” she said, glancing at the street food booths in the middle of the halls. “He’s the only man I know who genuinely makes you go batshit.”
“Don’t get me started again.” You rolled your eyes. “You know, he took his day off for his niece and nephew again. I’m telling you, he’s making these fucking kids up.”
Aeri’s face twisted into concern. “Making up fake kids for a holiday is a little far-fetched, _____.”
“Keep giving people the benefit of the doubt, then,” you crowed at her, “I'm just gonna pretend you're method acting for Santa."
But she was persistent, asking, “When will you let me spread the Christmas charity to your nemesis?”
“Never, if I can help it.” You twisted your mouth. “I’m saving you the headache.”
“Why the headache?” Aeri then gasped. “Is he ugly?”
You scoffed, looking ahead to respond when you stopped dead in your tracks.
Your friend, arm locked with yours, lurched backwards, whirling her head to you. Catching your expression had her demanding, “What the hell?”
But you were not listening to her, because your eyes landed on the very man you were bad-mouthing mere seconds ago. It was insanity how you recognised him, when his face was half-hidden from his signature oversized scarf—the three-metres of red fabric which always irritated you for some irrational reason (possibly because you were always cold, and the stupid, awful scarf always seemed so warm). His black trench-coat covered his slender figure, his hair ruffled, the after-effects of a beanie situated upon them.
Those details were still not important—completely useless when the most prominent addition was a woman beside him, laughing at his quip.
Shit. You did not waste any time.
“_____?” your friend called out, only to be met with your sudden turn on your heel, as, with her ungracious yelp, you hauled her inside the nearest shop, nearly crashing into the mannequins. “Jeez, if you wanted to go inside Zara so badly, then you should have just said!”
As you hid behind the retail giant’s new winter collection, you observed, a little further away, the two people strolling without a care in the world. You noticed how the man was carrying all the shopping—stores from high-street to designer, which had your eyebrow raising—whilst the woman was pointing towards different stores, perhaps scour all of Westfield if she could help it.
A frown marred your lips.
Seungkwan said he was assisting his child-aged niece and nephew—you did not remember said-niece and nephew being one adult woman.
“He’s on a fucking date,” you seethed.
Aeri, now hiding beside you, tried to find whoever it was that you were glaring at. “Who’s on a date?”
“Seungkwan!” you exclaimed, pointing at him through the mannequin’s arm. “The prick with the red scarf.” But he and his company had walked past Zara, nearly leaving your field of vision. “Wait, we gotta move.”
The poor girl, who was once again hauled up, and now being led out of the store, tugged at your arm. “What are we doing?” she asked. “Why are you still talking about him?”
“Because he’s there!” You jerked your head towards him and his lady-friend. “Look!”
A sharp breath drew from your friend. “Oh my God! Speak of the dessert devil, huh?”
“Exactly! So we’re following him.”
That had Aeri stopping the chase, thus stopping you. “Why the hell are we doing that?”
“To catch him out on his terrible excuse!” you explained, tutting at your friend’s inability to understand the drastic nature of this situation. “I need to see the look on his face when I catch him making the rounds on H&M’s winter collection.”
For some unimaginable reason, the girl did not seem so enthusiastic. “My interview’s in thirty minutes, _____.”
You scrambled for any lame excuse. “This will distract you from your interview nerves!”
“I haven’t gotten any interview nerves.”
“Well, you should because your voice cannot go ‘Santa Claus’ deep.”
Aeri nudged you with her interlocked arm, shaking her head. “Now I’m scared, so fuck you.”
“You're very welcome.” You ticked your head towards your target. “Let’s go.”
As you two began your possibly illegal, certainly socially unacceptable activity, a certain rush thrummed within your veins, as if you had taken something for the exhilaration. Seeing your colleague declare one thing to you, yet do something entirely different—and then to witness it with your own eyes—felt like a scene out of a ridiculous rom-com. He was taking this girl everywhere, offering his opinions on certain collections on display in whatever shop they passed, loud enough for you to hear. Of course, it was expected from someone as opinionated as him—you were not surprised in the slightest.
“All the time in the world for his kids, huh?” you muttered, sporting a grin which would have had criminals running for the hills.
Even Aeri was spooked. “You really are rooting for his downfall, huh?”
“You have no idea.”
The two people you tailed went inside the White Tiger, and it was at this point as, when you made to enter the strange shop, you were stopped by your friend. “I’m gonna leave you here.”
“What?” You tugged on her arm. “You still have fifteen minutes.”
She sighed. “If I tank in my audition, just know I’m going to your restaurant and telling this Seungkwan that you had a wet dream about him.”
Your mouth dropped open. “That’s diabolical.”
Her growing smirk had you widening your eyes. “I’ll do you an even better one. If you don’t let me leave I’m calling Seungkwan here and telling him we were stalking him.”
That had your blood running cold. “You wouldn’t dare.”
“You don’t think so?” She turned her face forwards, shit-eating expression furthering.
She then parted her mouth, making your heart stop.
“Seungkwan!”
“What the—” You instantly grabbed her arm, aiming to cover her mouth when she waved off your hands, her grin chilling you to your bones. “Oh my fucking God—!”
“Hey, Seungkwan!” Aeri shouted once more, louder this time. You knifed her with a vicious glare, but then she waved her hand, and you whirled your head to where she greeted.
Your face contorted in pure horror as you watched Seungkwan look over his shoulder, slowly turning himself.
What you did next was completely out of your control.
It was your legs that suddenly held the reins, dashing into the shop beside your friend, hiding behind the racks of clothing. Your heart beat as if you had run an Olympic sprint, pounding in your ears, and your mouth repeatedly cursed the girl who had instigated all this, praying she embarrassed herself in her audition—perhaps screaming Whore, whore, whore! instead of the classic jingle. You did not think of the logistics, too enraged and embarrassed to think up a solution.
Despite the chaos of customers shopping, the swishing of clothing amongst the racks, and the robotic beeping of cash registers, you peeked through the burgundy cardigans you hid behind, catching the very man you wished to avoid walking up to your friend.
His voice could be heard from your makeshift sanctuary, clearly confused. “I’m sorry, did you call for me?”
Aeri kept glancing at the shop you hid in. She tried her hardest to restrain her smile as she said, “I did, actually! This is so weird, but my name’s Aeri. _____’s friend.”
You could not mistake it—the realisation striking in his eyes, as they widened, ever so slightly. His mouth parted, then the corners of his lips curled upwards, and suddenly you could have been made of dread and anguish and every fearful emotion a person was capable of feeling.
Seungkwan was going to eat you alive.
“_____?” He repeated, and the amusement that dripped off your name had you wishing all men perished. “Oh, it’s always a pleasure to see a friend of _____’s.”
He raised his hand out, and Aeri reciprocated, shaking it thoroughly. “I wouldn’t have expected an answer like that from you, actually.”
“Is that so?” the man quirked his mouth in a side-smile, all mischief and whimsical. “Maybe I’m fixing my manners for a pretty girl, then.”
“Oh!” she brought a hand to her chest, her smiling losing all mischief, turning more genuine. “She didn’t tell me you were such a charmer.”
You had to bring a hand to your mouth, aghast. The bitch is being fooled! “I’m not surprised by that in the slightest.” He let out an uneasy chuckle. “I hope you don’t believe the impression she’s made of me.”
“I’ll try not to be swayed,” she promised, sneaking another glance at your hiding place. Although she had not caught your eye, you glared at her for being so obvious. “Though I will admit, I haven’t heard great things.”
“I’d be shocked if I heard anything positive,” he remarked. “_____, she…” He tugged his lip between his teeth. “I won’t say it cause she’s your friend but…”
“Yeah, nothing too crazy, please,” she warned, “Because then I’d have to tell her, she’d go all ballistic on you, and then she’d complain to me. I can’t deal with this soap opera.”
“Soap opera?” he said, scoffing. “God, I can’t even complain, it’s EastEnders everyday in that damned kitchen.”
Aeri laughed. “Now I know my friend loves a bit of drama, but surely she’s not the one in the wrong every time?”
But Seungkwan tilted his head, squinting his eyes as if considering a completely different opinion. “And yet she’s the one throwing food in my face.”
That had your friend glancing at you through the shop window, a second-long judgement. You glared at her to turn away, she obliging with a shake of her head. “Well…I suppose I can’t defend her against that.”
His winning smile irked you to the bone. “Exactly.”
You knew from Aeri’s sheepish scratch of her neck that there was no convincing him, and had unintentionally proved his point. A soft groan escaped you, about to hold your head in your hands. Must bully her about this later.
The need to torture her for the rest of her miserable, Santa-adoring life worsened when he looked beyond her frame, a questioning twist of his mouth forming. “Am I crazy, or was _____ here with you?”
The girl’s helpless, a million-emotions-a-second expression once again exposed the guilt Seungkwan waited patiently for, and latched onto. “Huh. So I’m not crazy.”
“She just left,” Aeri explained, looking down at her boots. “She had the whole dessert thing to think up, prepare for…you know, the reason you guys are yelling at each other.”
“Such dedication to her work!” he praised, but even she could recognise the patronising tone, directed at you from afar. If he had caught onto the fact that you were hiding from him, you might as well throw yourself off the highest floor in this mall.
The condescension had the girl ticking her head. “She is, though. Why else would she be fighting for her preferences?”
Seungkwan stared at your friend, sliding his hands in his pockets. “I guess you’re right,” he relented, which had you frowning behind the clothing. Given up so easily?
You could not ponder over it further, because the man looked over his shoulder, no doubt realising he had left his mysterious companion behind. “You must excuse me, Aeri,” he said, “But it was really good to meet you, truly.”
He held his hand out, which, surprised, your friend shook, lightening up. “You too, Seungkwan.”
As he let go, turning on his heel, you just managed to catch the smirk on his face, hidden from Aeri. “You tell your friend I said I missed her here.”
And off he went, catching her off-guard, and kickstarting your irritation as he strolled back to his date.
Once you were sure he was out of your distance, you stood, avoiding the flurry of winter clothing, keeping your head down in slight shame at knowing quite a few shoppers had seen you hiding out behind the railings. Another unprecedented consequence of knowing Seungkwan.
Quickly you hurried to your friend, who turned to you, pointing her thumb in his direction. “Oh my God.”
“‘She had this whole dessert thing to prepare for’?” you greeted, hands on your hips.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t think he’d realise you were here!” She kept a finger to her chin, thinking over possible escapes. “I mean, I don’t think he saw you in Zara? You hid better than I thought, honestly.”
“Shit.” You brought your fingers to your temple, scraping against your skin. “And why did he agree with you on me being dedicated?! Fake-ass.”
Aeri then raised a brow. “You’re overthinking it. I am right. Him being passionate about his work doesn’t change the fact that you’re dedicated to it too.”
You could only grunt in agreement, glancing back to see him a mere speck amongst the sea of Christmas shoppers.
Although it was a fool’s hope, you wished that he would not bring up this incident tomorrow.
THE MOMENT YOU STEPPED INTO THE KITCHENS, HE WAS WAITING FOR YOU.
Not that you were afraid of him—at the end of the day, he was just a man with a small apron and a bad attitude, and you were not letting him get the better of you.
Except your heart was pounding like an echoing gong, hair standing on the back of your neck. Even your palms were sweating, you flexing and unflexing your hands in distraction. Seungkwan was behind the large commercial hob, cooking something in a pot when he looked over his shoulder, beholding your unnerved presence.
For the first time since he started working alongside you, he offered you a smile.
You could have taken the pot and flung the contents on his head.
“Good morning, _____!” he chirped, the smile widening when you instantly gritted your teeth. “Well rested?”
“Morning,” you replied curtly, tying your apron behind your back. “And yes.”
“Very good,” he asserted, mixing the contents of the pot. He wasted no time in the next question. “How was your weekend?”
“Alright.”
“Oh, was it? Go anywhere?”
Shit. “Shopping.”
“What a coincidence!” he exclaimed, as if you had revealed the secrets of the universe to him.”I went shopping too.”
“So does everyone and their mothers on the weekend, Seungkwan,” you monotoned, hoping he would take the hint.
He took the hint, of course, but chose to disregard it completely. “My weekend was excellent,” he insisted, tapping the wooden spoon against the pot’s rim, draining out the residue. Making caramel, then. “I went to Westfield yesterday. Very fun, I’ll say.”
I bet it was, prick. “Is that so?”
“It was so,” he parroted, like the bastard he was. “I actually happened to meet your friend there!”
Your sigh could have had a laugh rasping out of him. “Which one?” you merely asked, feigning innocence still.
A snort. “Don’t pretend you have more than one friend, _____.”
Ouch. “Don’t pretend to know everything about me,” you huffed.
“Fair enough. I happened to meet Aeri.” Satisfied with the slow melting of the sugar and butter, he finally focused on you, leaning against the hob. “Lovely girl, by the way.”
“I know.” You shot him a look. “So?”
“She told me that you were with her this entire time!”
It took every atom of your strength to not react to that statement. “I was.”
“Then tell me…” He made to walk towards you, the only boundary between you two being the huge island tabletops. “How come I was so unlucky to miss you yesterday?”
You clenched your jaw. “I left before she saw you.”
“Left?” he inquired, hand resting on the countertop. “You see, I remember it more as running away the moment she called after me.”
A Jesus Christ slipped out of you before you could help yourself. Instantly you repelled from his walking figure, hurrying to check the sizzling which had increased. The sauce was forming. “What’d you need this for?”
“Caramel Budino. Don’t dodge the question.” You could feel his gaze on you. “Why did you run away from me?”
You took the spoon set on the side, stirring. “I didn’t run away.”
“Yes you did,” he countered immediately. “I saw you bolt into Zara as if they had a closing down sale.”
“Maybe I was excited about their Black Friday deals,” you asserted, sparing him an irritated glance.
His accusatory stare had you looking back at the pot. “Don’t bullshit with me, _____,” He finally stepped past the countertop. “My God. You were stalking me, weren’t you? You and your friend?”
“What—no!” you denounced. “How can you think that?”
He was not four feet from you now. You tried not to look at him; somehow, in the most bothersome of ways, his eyes were unnerving you—as if you had committed some crime, and were now caught red-handed fleeing the scene. Well, you were caught fleeing the scene, but you thought you had escaped the consequences.
But you had not escaped shit, and now you had to shrink under this bastard’s malicious, victorious scrutiny.
“Then why did you run away?” he asked you, all quiet.
The strange hush of his voice had you blurting out an unexpected response. “Because I think you’re a bloody liar.”
Finally, you mustered the strength to face him—his confusion had you continuing. “You took the day off yesterday, right? For your niece and nephew? Well I didn’t see these so-called nieces and nephews, but a woman I had never met, or seen, even!” You then scoffed. “I was lucky to catch you red-handed, actually, because I was going to work the closing shift!”
As Seungkwan took in your sudden accusation, craning his head back the further your words attempted to strike true to his pride, he found himself trying to contain a smile. His self-respect was completely intact from your attacks—the more you spoke, the more he was abashed, not quite believing what he heard from your mouth.
He caught onto what you considered the most irrelevant detail from your outburst. “You…you thought I was on a date?”
“Yes!” you snapped. “And you lied about it!”
But he began to chuckle, and you swore you could have seen red. “Why would I be lying?” he merely asked, hand on his white-cottoned chest.
“To—” but then you stopped yourself. Not everyone is thinking about you. Even the man you happen to hate so much. You pursed your lips, Jeonghan’s words striking your mouth shut.
Seungkwan, of course, would not let you keep him in such suspense. “To what?” he demanded, lips parted. “The one time I don’t want you to shut up, and you go mute on me!”
That was enough for you to explode. “To get out of working with me!”
That had him jerking his head back. He squinted his eyes slightly, genuinely stunned, and you knew then and there that you had assumed completely wrong.
Shit. Shit, shit, shit. “Jesus Christ, _____,” he began, and the beginnings of his god-awful, self-pleasing laugh was back, aching your ears and flustering your attitude. “You thought…you thought I was avoiding you? Like, some kind of bullied victim?”
You instantly rebuked him, stammering, “W-well, that’s not what I meant—”
“You really are self-centred, aren’t you?” he mocked. “You believe that all you want, sweetheart, but you don’t scare me like that.”
“I didn’t mean scared, asshole,” you sneered. “I meant hate.”
He put a hand to his hip, leaning against the hob. “Hate?”
“Yes, hate!” you clarified sarcastically, but you did not know why you began to sound absurd. Suddenly, you were the child, and he was the adult playing along to your antics. “Isn’t that what this all is?”
Slowly, ever so slowly, he dared another step towards you. The shuffling of his clothes against the countertop were the only sounds in the room—that, and the sizzling of the caramel. “Do you…do you really hate me?”
Your brain screamed at you to step away from him. Who was he to come this close to you? Who was he to ask you questions that were meant to stay unanswered?
He seemed hell-bent, however, to break unspoken rules. “I asked you a question, _____. Do you truly hate me?”
Although his mouth twisted in a hard smile, almost condescending, his eyes revealed a completely different sentiment. It was strange, so incredibly unsettling, that you knew the difference between what his words spoke, and what his face exposed. You were not meant to understand him like that.
But you did, and that scared you.
“Do you?” you muttered, barely audible. If he was not so close, he would not have heard you.
His gaze flickered all over your face. Your inquisitive eyes, your flared nostrils, your mouth, now parted, inhaling, exhaling. His own lips broke, you catching the grit in his teeth, as if mulling over the options—as if there were options to consider.
Your breath shuddered. “Seungkwan?”
He was not answering you, still staring. What was on your face that fascinated him to this extent? You were not so sure, but still, he did not say a word, merely choosing to relish in your agitated features. Your skin thrummed at his stare, the close proximity of his body. Why was it so hot?
The air around you, that is—not his body. Not that you were thinking of it—the forearms that were exposed from rolling his sleeves, the sliver of his collarbone from two buttons undone at the top of his shirt.
“Yes?”
Back on his face—his mouth. "I, uh…" you got out, trying to remember how to speak. "I asked you something.” What was the blasted question again?
A slight, minute dip of his head. “I know.”
He had to stop. What you should have done was leave the room—cease this madness.
You only prolonged it. “Do you hate me?”
Another silence, and you were going to die. Collapse in this goddamn kitchen, and this creature of a man would be your only witness.
He then ghosted the slightest smile on his lips, and you hung onto its movement. “I would have loved to…”
He dared a little closer—any more and he would brush your mouth. “But then I realised you don’t.” Your change in expression had his ghost-like smile sparking to life. “So I can’t either.”
You did not know why the answer pissed you off. “How can you be sure of that?” you seethed. “I can hate you as much as I want.”
“Hmm, no, you can’t.” His eyes were not boring into yours—only at your mouth, too damn close. “Because you don’t know me well enough to hate me.”
You tilted your head back, enough to gauge—or at least attempt to figure out the undecipherable expression on his face. This close, you understood why the customers stared at him, even double-taken at every peek they could manage through the kitchen windows.
The man was a little beautiful this close, and this realisation haunted you.
Your mouth tried to release something, a refusal to his claim, but any counter died on your tongue. How well did you really know him? Sure, you were certain that he was a pain in your arse, but what of the man behind the sordid comments, the constant judgement? How much did you know of the man outside of the boundaries of Vita di Diamante? Hell, your lack of information had you second-guessing whether he even was lying about the kids.
(Though you refused, even now, to give him the benefit of the doubt. For all we know, the kids are either a long-running joke, or Seungkwan’s demons).
Despite all that, his truth was inescapable—solid and present and impossible to deny. You despised him for the entirety of your acquaintance, but did not even bother to know your supposed nemesis.
Somehow, even after yesterday’s shitshow, this realisation was far more embarrassing than anything you had ever experienced.
The supposed nemesis watched you discover these revelations, the corners of his lips curling upwards. It was so awful how he understood perfectly, and was now basking in this victory.
The realisation stunned you so intently you did not grasp the screech-like crackling right next to you. Once the smell of the burnt caramel engulfed your nose, you blinked back, turning to the pot which now looked like brown, volcanic magma after it loses its colour. Instantly you turned the switch off, turning on the exhaust, the smell of the burnt sugar, after realising its presence, now making you ill. Seungkwan only watched you fumble at the stove, finally taking a step back. With that, you were able to breathe.
Your ammunition was ready. “Look at the mess you’ve made.”
He took it surprisingly well. “I’ll clean it,” he said, taking the pot and setting it to the side. “It is my fault, after all.”
You raised your eyebrow at him. “You’re taking responsibility for your actions?”
A glimpse towards you. “I told you, didn’t I? You don’t know me.”
That had you shutting up immediately.
Seungkwan looked at the clock, realising that the restaurant was about to open. Then his eyes settled on you. “I still can’t believe you stalked me.”
You made a face. “That was not stalking. Well, not the scary kind,” you clarified, which did not make your case any stronger. “And anyway, you still haven’t denied the whole date thing, which means you were lying.”
Dusting away at his apron, he made to walk to the backdoor, about to call for Mingyu to help with ingredient preparation. You thought he was going to outright ignore you, but then he faced you, a certain smile on his face that you could not unravel.
“I guess you’ll find out soon enough.”
And he was off, leaving you even more baffled than you were the first time you accused him.
ANOTHER WEEK PASSED AT THE RESTAURANT, AND YOU WERE GOBSMACKED TO SEE A SEMBLANCE OF PROGRESS.
One would think that the strange incident in the kitchens would have been talked about further, but Seungkwan made no mention of it—and him making no mentions meant you would cut off your tongue and turn it into a French delicacy before talking about it either.
Though you wish he had at least made one comment.
Never before had you felt so…you did not know how to interpret it, but it was clearly something awful. The man had been an entity you had hated, but you wondered whether the emotion was rendered useless after such a heated conversation. It was so stupid, absolute insanity how you could not stop thinking about the proximity of his frame, his breaths fanning your lips, his questions that turned your entire opinion of him on its axis.
You don’t know me well enough to hate me.
“Damn it,” you muttered under your breath.
Though you were cursing yourself, Seungkwan—who was beside you, experimenting on a particular chocolate pudding—took some offence. “What’re you mad about this time?”
Whirling your head to him, you were ready to give him a piece of your delirious mind when you caught the scene before you.
You were already aware he was creating a variation of the Bonet—chocolate, coffee, and rum, mixed and whipped to perfection alongside the core ingredients. He opted to swap the coffee for cinnamon, much to your exasperation. He had already heated his mixture in a not-burnt-to-a-crisp caramel sauce, cooked in a bain-marie—a process of melting chocolate-like mixtures under another pot of boiling water.
His almost-dessert done, he only had the sprinkle of cacao powder to add to the final product, standing in perfect confidence in front of him. You admired the chocolate excellence, mouth already watering at seeing the soft, textured edges of the pudding. The amaretti macarons at the top contrasted the glaze of the darker chocolate, reflected the lights of the kitchen, and you had to stop your work for the customers, simply admiring the dessert your partner had created.
Sometimes you forgot that Boo Seungkwan was a born chef.
He was also a born pain in the ass. “If you can eye-fuck my Bonet, _____, then you can compliment it, too.”
Snapping out of the awe-filled haze, you twisted your mouth. “I suppose it’s not the worst thing you’ve made in this kitchen.”
“You’re right, actually, because the worst thing in this kitchen was made by your hands.”
Boo Seungkwan—the man who, despite your conflicting thoughts over last week, still managed to rile you into a frenzy. You could have cursed him outright, but this week’s apprentice, Wen Junhui, rushed into the room, bearing the role of Kitchen Porter. “There’s more orders for tiramisu!” He informed hurriedly, bringing a further three-dozen eggs upon the busied countertops.
You looked up to the poor, clueless man. “You do realise you don’t have to take orders, right? That’s the waiter’s job.”
“Jun, here.” Seungkwan patted to the space next to him. “Help me whip some eggs.”
The apprentice obliging instantly, he began cracking eggs on the side of the bowl, setting himself to work. The man in charge with you focused once more on his creation, adorning a proud smirk as he brought out a long spoon next to him. “We should do a Bonet for the final dessert,” he suggested, cutting a small corner.
“Of course you’ll say that now,” you said. “Oh, and just so you know, I’m never accepting it with cinnamon.”
You watched him raise the spoon, assuming he would take a bite. He then paused, flitting his gaze to you.
He then changed direction, swinging the spoon ever so slightly—offering it to you. “Go on.”
You looked at it as if you had never seen a spoon before in your life. “You take a bite first,” he clarified. “I need to stamp out this anti-cinnamon agenda once and for all.”
“I’d like to see you try,” you challenged. Taking the spoon from him, avoiding his fingers, you observed the spongy portion before bringing the cutlery’s bowl to your mouth.
The moment the Bonet touched your tongue, it was chocolate heaven—chocolate bliss of the highest order, the cacao flavour merging along with the rum, sparking your senses to life. The most surprising factor was the dreaded cinnamon, spreading its infectious, sugary goodness along your taste buds. It was a small bite, but the chef had packed the sweet universe into a few millilitres, showing you a world where a life could be good and beautiful without any semblance of bitterness.
Seungkwan watched your reaction, his smug smirk widening. Bringing the spoon out, you could not help the hum that escaped you, and it made him bite his lip, restraining his chuckles. “See?”
Even still, you attempted to crush his spirits. “I hate it?” you offered, not even convincing yourself.
The leash on him snapped, huffing out a round of laughter that had you setting the cutlery down. “I suppose you’ll not want another bite, then,” he said.
“Nope,” you lied. You found a clean spoon on the table, offering it to him. “You finish it off.”
The new offering was rejected. “Just give me yours.”
“But I used it.” A tilt of your head. “That doesn’t bother you?”
He jutted out his lip, shaking his head slightly. “Just more dishes to clean. A waste, no?” He gestured with his hand to beckon the old one back. “Pass the other one over.”
“Oh-kay,” you dragged out, handing over the original. With that, he scooped a bite from the Bonet, this time incorporating the little amaretti alongside.
Your focus trained on him, you watched as he brought the bite to his mouth, his lips closing over the spoon. His reaction was more subdued—unsurprising since it was your first time trying his variation, but nonetheless satisfied as he hummed, closing his eyes. Your eyes took in the sight of him sliding out the spoon from his mouth, his tongue gliding over the silver to lap up the remnants of the chocolate, stubborn to remain. Your cheeks burned at the sight, almost as if you should not be watching. The moment he bit into the amaretti, the crunch against his teeth had you hitching in a breath, as if his mouth, his teeth, had grazed over your mouth, sunken into your skin.
You blinked back.
Seungkwan, who had finally opened his eyes, the sensations now subsided, caught your dazed out countenance. He knitted his brows.
God, you were losing your mind. “Your slobbering was horrendous,” you mocked instead.
He only shrugged, setting the spoon back on the table. “I don’t waste a thing,” he said, licking his lips—wiping any remnants of chocolate left.
You watched that too—his tongue, which now slid back into his mouth. Another rush of blinking, a sharp sigh, and you caught the ghost of a smile on him. “You should focus on the orders.”
Bastard. “Y-you focus on yours! Instead of wolfing them down!” you exclaimed pathetically. You shot up from where you leaned at the countertop, focusing on the three rounds of Tiramisus ordered.
Hearing his chuckling behind you had you souring further, face akin to a bonfire, but your mood was soon distracted from the last-hour rush of orders. With Junhui helping the two of you, the round of desserts being created were more effortless, plates of every kind of pudding, gelatos and cakes and pastries leaving your kitchens. The final thirty minutes were more subdued, potential customers understanding that this was no longer the place to dine, and must find sustenance elsewhere.
Once the time was out for the restaurant’s closure for the day, you thought to close up, already commencing to help the apprentice tidy away the remaining ingredients. Then Jeonghan entered the station, a new, clean apron wrapped around his out-of-work attire. He was set on Seungkwan, pointing towards him. “You,” he began, beckoning him over. “You got a special guest.”
You narrowed your sight on the man, but his face instantly lit up. That only added to your confusion. Special guest? “Tell her to sit at the reserved table,” he only said, washing his hands off the flour and butter. “I’ll be right over.”
Watching him rush his usual clean ups, even leaving out a few objects for dessert preparation, you walked up to him, hands on your hips. “Who’s this special guest?” you inquired, his back to you.
Looking over his shoulder, he shook off the excess water from his hands. “You’ve seen her before.”
“Huh?” you could only get out, but a moment of thinking had you sucking in a breath. “Wait, you brought your date here?!”
A scoff escaped him, shaking his head. “It’s about time you see the woman who’s bothering you so much.”
“What?!” You glanced at the long, open window of the restaurant layout, where you could spy the seating. “I can’t do that! You’re making this much weirder than it needs to be.”
“Well, why not?” He stepped past you, grabbing hold of a tea towel. “And remind me, who stalked me for this very information?”
“That was—!” You attempted, but then quietened, realising you could not win that argument. “Piss off.”
He huffed out a laugh at your response, jerking his head towards the entrance to the main hall. “Come on,” he merely said, walking towards the door. “You can weasel your way out of it to her.”
You wanted nothing more than to lock yourself away from this entire situation—Seungkwan was exploiting his position to use the restaurant as his date-place, and you had managed to trap yourself into this precarious position.
Despite that, you let your curiosity get to you—yes, it killed the cat, but you were different. Better than that stupid creature.
Hesitantly, you followed behind as he left the kitchens, weaving his way around the dozens of tables. You caught sight of the mysterious woman, her back to you, but it was not her voice that greeted you first.
Two voices yelped out instead at seeing Seungkwan—voices which were shrilled, higher-pitched, as if they belonged to children.
You stopped walking as the surprises revealed themselves.
“Uncle Seungkwan!”
Two young children—a boy and girl, no more than 11 years old—came running towards your colleague at full speed, nearly bumping against the furniture without a care in the world. You did not see his face, but he must have been smiling, because a delighted oh! escaped him, and his arms were out. He barely had time to raise them before the two kids collided against him, making him stumble back, balance shaky, and you instinctively took a step back, in case he bumped into you. Everyone was laughing in that strong hold, the man’s arms wrapped tightly around them, and your eyes softened without realising.
This was a different Seungkwan. A Seungkwan you had not witnessed—perhaps not been allowed to witness, possibly by your own accord.
So engrossed by the heartwarming sight, you did not realise the initial woman you planned to see had gotten up from her seat, walking over to the group. “All of you hugging as if you didn’t meet two days ago,” she remarked, a hand on a nearby chair.
“Don’t get mad because they like me more,” he crowed, glancing at her before ruffling the children’s hair. “Isn’t that right, kids?”
“Yes!” they both exclaimed in agreement, causing the woman to shake her head.
She then noticed you behind him, perking her head up. “Oh, I’m sorry!” she stepped past the group, a glance at him. “I didn’t realise you were there.”
That had you scratching the back of your neck—perhaps curiosity made points killing the cat, cause you felt the great urge to die on the spot. “Yeah, I’m sorry, I’m—” you cleared your throat, a slight suspicion about this whole situation rising in the crevices of your mind.
Seungkwan chipped in for you, realising your mouth was not working. “This is _____. The partner,” he clarified, and you paused at seeing a knowing look on the woman’s face. “And this….”
He then looked at you. “This is Jinsoul. My sister.”
Oh. Good. God.
His introductions extended to the two children. “My very real niece and nephew, Sohyun and Sojung.”
Your mouth parted at the comment, completely abashed. You were not given more time to ponder on his audacity, because his sister—God, his fucking sister, all this time— held her hand out, immediately greeting you with a smile. “It’s so good to meet you!” A glance at him. “I feel like I know you already.”
“Is that so?” you chuckled out, nerves now rising.
“Of course!” She let go of your hand after a hearty shake. “Seungkwan talks about you all the time.”
The said-man gaped at her, instantly souring at the reveal before chiding, “Your antics have reached my family’s ears, yes.”
You would have glared at him if you were not still humiliated. “Then I don’t know why you’re being so nice to me,” you admitted.
“Well, why wouldn’t I?” She leaned on the chair. “I just assumed it was Seungkwan’s fault.”
The apparent culprit huffed. “If you wanna side with her so badly, she can make your free dinner.”
But the woman only shrugged, leading her children over to you. “Alright then. Nobody wanted your ass cinnamon rolls anyway.”
“Hey!” Seungkwan twisted his lips into a frown. “Aren’t you supposed to be on a date?”
With their mother’s encouragement, the children waved their hands in introduction. “Nice to meet you!” the two chirped in almost-unison, the boy who said it a second too late looking away in embarrassment. You could not help waving back, smiling at them.
Once done with that, she finally answered him. “I am, actually—” a glance down at her watch, inhaling through her teeth— “And am running late, shit.”
“And you said we couldn’t use that word,” the boy—Sojung—grumbled, fixing his beanie.
“Well I’m a mother in a hurry, sweetie,” Jinsoul reasoned. She faced her brother. “We’ll try coming here, but if we run a little late, then you come ‘round, alright?”
“Yeah, don’t worry,” he only said, giving her a quick side-hug before waving her off with a flick of his hand. “Now go away.”
“Alright, damn.” Pressing a kiss to her children’s cheeks, she offered you a beautiful smile—a striking similarity to her brother’s. “If these kids are being a bother, this big ass one included—” a shove towards him— “You let me know.”
You could not help it, returning her mirth. “I’ll steal his phone and call you.”
Her smile was positively mischievous. “I like you already.”
With that, she bid her goodbyes one more time, you stunned from her little declaration—her words, and why that had your heart swelling. With Jinsoul leaving, you tried to focus back on the niece and nephew, who were not Seungkwan and Jeonghan’s running joke, but real and alive and in front of you.
The former, who was watching your shock, snapped you out of it as he focused on the youngest. “Right, you two,” he began, pointing towards their seats, ”Tell me what you want.”
“What’re you making us this time?” Sojung asked, instantly settling himself down, already giddy at the prospect of food.
“Don’t listen to Mum!” Sohyun chimed in, following after her brother, sitting on one knee as the other leg dangled over the seat. “We’ll have the cinnamon rolls.”
“Seungkwan’s family and their cinnamon,” you murmured.
The family you mentioned, however, had razor-sharp hearing, and three heads turned to you. “What’s wrong with cinnamon?” the girl asked,
“Don’t you worry about _____, here, sweetie,” the eldest mock-consoled, “She doesn’t like to have anything sweet.”
“That’s not true,” you immediately said, but the kids caught onto their uncle’s words quicker than yours, and their shock had you almost embarrassed.
“No way!”
“How do you live your life?”
“Uncle Seungkwan, why didn’t you change her mind?”
Their incessant questions only had you chuckling nervously—you were sure sweat was breaking out, and that only worsened when the man beside you thoroughly enjoyed you squirming. “Your uncle is exaggerating,” you could only offer them, but you could tell they were not satisfied with your answer.
“Leave it to me,” he only said, winking at the children, “I’ll sort her out soon enough.”
That had you looking at him unconvinced. “You’ve failed for the past year, so I don’t know what’s changing.”
The children began oooooh-ing at what they believed was an insanely sick burn towards their uncle, who scoffed in response. “You’ll find out,” he merely said, then turned his attention to those fanning the flames. “And what happened to backing me up unconditionally?”
“We’ll support you when you give us some food,” Sojung reasoned, which had you chuckling. Negotiating for a luxury treat? You had to respect them.
“Alright, alright,” Seungkwan conceded, about to turn on his heel. “You lot stay here, and I’ll whip something up.”
As you watched him begin to leave, you narrowed your eyes at the workspace, separated by the windowless-frame. You focused on the children, an idea hatching. “Hey, you guys wanna come inside?”
Perking up at you, their eyes danced at the prospect. “Could we actually?” Sohyun asked, darting her head between you and the man beside. “Wait, are we even allowed?”
Seungkwan pondered over it, as if genuinely thinking over the restrictions. “So what?” you said, smiling at them. “We’ll make it allowed.”
Your answer was all the children needed, excitement almost reverberating off them. You ushered them out of their seats, pointing them towards the kitchen entrance, and they dashed off before you could offer any general warnings, fighting to contain your smile.
As Seungkwan watched, following after his niece and nephew, he took a cautionary glimpse at you. “If they break any health code violations, then you’re taking the sack.”
Walking right beside him, you opened the door to the station. “I’ll just say they’re your responsibility, and Jeonghan will finally have an excuse to fire you.”
But he was snickering softly at the claim, close at your heels as he stepped inside. It could have been the lowering of his voice, the slight octave down—perhaps the proximity again, which might have been purposeful on his part.
“You’re not getting rid of me that easily,” he muttered, and you had to blame the chill from the open windows for the shivers down your neck.
By the time you both entered, Sojung and Sohyun were already exploring the premises, marvelling at the professional equipment, the grandeur of the stainless steel. It was as if the stations were a long, forgotten historical site, and the children were archaeologists, brushes at the ready to inspect, marvelling at anything they had not seen before. The half-eaten Bonet latched onto their fancies, and they would have eaten the dessert with their bare hands had Seungkwan not tutted, pointing at the clean spoons on the countertop.
“I was expecting the kitchen to be really messy,” Sohyun commented, eyes straying from the pudding to observe the surroundings once more. “Wouldn’t it get so busy in here?”
“Super busy,” you admitted, “Especially during this time. Mind you, sometimes there’s no room around here, there’s so much ingredients to take care of.”
As he tried to find said-plethora-of-ingredients, Sojung said, “I bet you could have such a good food fight in here.” He glanced at the Bonet, and then at his sister.
“Don’t you dare,” she warned, raising her cutlery as a legendary weapon.
But you did not fixate on their conversation to the end, because the mention of the food fight had you glancing at the man who you had actually thrown food at. It was not as if it was that long ago—hell, Seungkwan would have only just rid himself off the mascarpone from his hair.
You even remembered how it all began—the fateful incident which brought down Jeonghan’s wrath, and ultimately this dreaded assignment. It was like any other prep day for the restaurant, Mingyu helping alongside you two as you prepared the ingredients on the countertops, finalising the desserts which were to be offered that night. It had to be stressed—it was a completely normal day.
Except Seungkwan had already sparked your irritation alive from the initial disagreements on the flavour variations of the Cassata Siciliana—a layered cake of sheep ricotta cheese, chocolate, candied fruit, all topped with marzipan. The blends of the cheese usually worked wonders, but the idiot suggested substituting the traditional ricotta for mascarpone, apparently enriching the dessert to its fullest extent. You knew his scheming was simply to have a sweeter grand dessert on the menu, but you refused to fall for his antics. You instantly rejected his attempts, and that only fuelled his anger, insisting that the specialised cream be used for the Cassata or he would refuse to add your additions.
You did not know whether it was that warning, or the notion that he had no power to even say such a warning. Whatever the motivation, it was enough for you to ask him a simple question, hands straying to the ingredients.
“You wanna know where mascarpone cream would look best?”
Forever the fool, he asked, hoping his condescending nature would rile you up.
And because you were a greater fool than he was, you only scooped the cream and flung it on his face, he yelping as it stuck to the perfect curls of his brown hair. Reeling back from the mess, he touched the remnants on his cheeks, his locks, gaping at it until he set his stare on you.
It was then the chaos began. The pandemonium that followed, food flying everywhere in places you never thought it would reach, a pitiful waste of ingredients and emotions as the rest of the crew scrambled to mediate between the two of you. Even Jeonghan had difficulty at first, but one guttural roar had everyone pausing. Everything afterwards was history.
Looking at him now, though, imagining the chaos of it all…it brought a strange fluttering within your chest. You did not think there was anyone else you could have thrown food at.
With the way he returned your gaze, his usual sharp glower softened as the memory flashed within his own eyes. He could not help himself, the corners of his mouth tugging upwards the more he delved into it, the verbal lashings the two of you received afterwards.
It was there, in the kitchens, with the children stealing glances at the stillness of their guardians, the faint scent of cinnamon still in the air, that you smiled at Seungkwan without an ounce of ridicule laced in it.
His eyes widened. His slight surprise had you smiling a little wider, but before he could say anything, he was duly interrupted. “Uncle Seungkwan, when are we getting any food?”
Sojung joined in. “Stop staring at Miss _____ here!”
The accused immediately composed himself. “Jinsoul really needs to discipline you both…”
Fidgeting with your rolled-up sleeves, you resorted to helping your partner. “Right, you two,” you asserted, clapping your hands together, “What do you want?”
Sohyun dug the toe of her boot further into the floor, all sheepish. “We were hoping Uncle Seungkwan would make us the usual.”
“The usual?” A side-glance at him. “Anything special?”
“I didn’t think so,” he admitted, a finger at his chin as he thought about his ingredients’ whereabouts. “They can’t have enough of it, though.” After another moment, he turned to the direction of the pantry. “Hey, there’s still vanilla gelato leftover right?”
Once you nodded, he was off, heading towards the other entrance, promising to come back within minutes. With the common man gone, you looked at the two children, whose curiosities still seemed unsatiated.
You decided to question them first. “What’s your uncle making you?”
The boy answered before his sister even opened her mouth. “It’s so good! It’s what Uncle Seungkwan makes us every time we come here.”
“All I know is that Sojung always makes Uncle Seungkwan add more ice cream than mine.”
“Now you’re just lying!” he rebuked, aching to push her off the countertop. “She always gets more biscuits in hers, so she can’t complain!”
You chuckled at their antics, speaking over them to settle their bickering. “Biscuits and ice cream is it?”
“No, no, it’s like…” the girl imitated with her hands, describing the shape of an odd-looking mug. “You put ice cream first, then hot chocolate, and then Uncle Seungkwan adds more stuff I can’t remember.”
“It’s amazing,” Sojung promised, his face serious and persuasive, as if he was a politician promising a controversial policy.
Impressed by his words, you, the hesitant voter, decided to believe him. “You’ve convinced me, little man.” You glanced over your shoulder—at the other entrance—before focusing on the boy, whispering, “Your Uncle Seungkwan does make a killer dessert.”
“Why’re you saying it like that?” Sohyun asked, matching your hushed tone. “Do you not like him?”
You contemplated the question. It was simple enough—they were not expecting a Tolstoy-saga timeline of your unstable partnership with their uncle. A couple of weeks ago, the answer would have been easier.
Situations, however, had changed—shifted indefinitely, throwing your viewpoint off its axis. You both were rivalling teams, always rooting for each other’s downfall, and now you both played for the same side, and it was…you did not know. Well, you did know, were very aware of how it felt, but it was something you could not voice out loud—not even to yourself.
So you merely said, “He’s alright…your Uncle Seungkwan,” and hoped to anything that resided above that it was enough.
It seemed so—then, Sojung, forever curious, thought to be more personal than his sister. “If you don’t like him, then who do you like?”
You were astounded by how nosy children were, but realised they were related to Seungkwan. Checks out. “I’m afraid I’m too busy working to have workplace crushes.”
As you made your declaration, you heard the man on a mission return, door swinging open with his foot as he held the ingredients. Walking over to the counter, he dumped the contents, you observing what he brought: a box of fresh vanilla gelato, a 4-pint carton of semi-skimmed milk, and a few small pots, labelled as almonds, hazelnuts, amarettis.
“Is she telling the truth?” Sojung asked his uncle, you gasping at the notion. Since when did children require witness confirmation for your half-lies?
Seungkwan snorted as he brought out a pot from the side of the hob, setting the base upon the bottom right stove, sparking the flames to life. Without even looking back, he grabbed the milk carton, unscrewing the cap. “She’s lying to you guys,” he confirmed, pouring the contents inside. He set the half-empty container beside him, sparing you a mischievous glance. “She’s too busy arguing with me.”
“Hey!” The children began to laugh. “I only argue with him when he’s provoking me.”
Snickering knowingly, he walked to the metal cupboards settled in the corner, opening them up to procure three elongated glasses, small, circular handles on their sides, narrowing at the bottom. Setting them before his esteemed customers, he replied, “I’ll have you know, _____, you’re the one who starts most of our arguments.”
“Since when?”
Usually, his stare would have been incredulous, unamused. This time, though, his eyes were dancing. “Did you know, kids,” he began, voice deepening as if regaling a fantasy tale, grabbing the tub of luxury hot chocolate powder, “That _____ and I had a real food fight here?”
“No way!” Sohyun gasped. “Did you guys get in trouble?”
“Oh yeah,” he said, sighing through his teeth as he poured two heaped teaspoons within each glass. “Our punishment was to work on a dessert together.”
“Uncle Jeonghan has a weird way of punishing someone,” the girl commented.
“You’re telling me,” you muttered, Seungkwan also murmuring in agreement as he started the kettle, the water heating at lightning-speed and ready before you realised. Picking up the kettle from its base, he poured a little into each cup, mixing the powder within the water to rid himself of the textured cocoa forming. “Hot chocolate?” you inquired, watching his every movement—his setting the kettle back, all the while grabbing the milk off the stove, pouring three-quarters full of every glass, stirring simultaneously whilst he drained the pot off its boiling contents.
This was second nature to him—he did not answer, engrossed in his work, because this was him in his element. He was a born creator, thriving in the atmosphere of nourishment. The scent of hot cocoa and vanilla, amplified when his nephew cracked open the container, delighted your senses, mouth watering at the notion of trying this beverage.
The girl beside you responded for him as he set the empty pot to the side. “It’s more than hot chocolate,” she said, as she grabbed hold of a spoon, hoping to take a bite but stopped when her uncle shot her a disapproving look. “Please, just one bite!”
“You and your brother won’t leave us with any when you’re done,” he scolded, holding out his hand. Caught red-handed, she begrudgingly gave him the spoon, which he put away, instead bringing out an ice cream scoop. Checking the open container, he brought the scoop down, the soft gelato curling luxuriously within the curve of the metal. He was generous with his serving, the gelato fighting to stay on the scoop as he dropped the first into the hot chocolate closest to him, quite low to avoid any chocolate spillage. He added another to the glass before repeating it several times for the other two cups, giving in to the children’s request for more in their serving.
You realised the product was finished when, before Seungkwan could declare it himself, the kids yanked their cups further away from him, excitement radiating off their features. “Thank you, thank you!” they both chirped in harmony, instantly sipping on the hot chocolate and groaning in approval.
The esteemed chef took hold of your glass by the handle, walking over to where you leaned forward at the counter. Straightening yourself, you judged the final product, him leaning back before it. “Voila,” he said, “Or whatever you call it in Italian.”
“It’s the same, actually.” You pulled the cup closer, admiring the chocolate-to-milk gradient, the vanilla ice cream slowly melting within the glass. “Not bad.”
He ticked his head to the side, furrowing his brows. “Um, I think you meant to say it looks exquisite.”
“What even is it?” You turned the glass around.
Seungkwan watched you inspect the contents. “It’s, uh…it’s a drink I’ve always made for them, back in my apprentice days.” He brought a hand to his torso, smoothing down his apron. “I’m sure you’ve heard of it, but I changed it a little…made it more kid-friendly.”
“Kid-friendly?” A glance at him. “What the hell was the original drink?”
He scoffed out a chuckle. “It’s nothing like what you’re thinking. The original beverage had liquid espresso, and I thought it’d be too bitter for them.”
“That’s fair.” Taking a spoon from the pile of cutlery, you began stirring the ice cream, melting it within the milky hot chocolate. Taking a sip, you slipped the spoon in your mouth and hummed. “Oh…woah.”
“Use your words, _____,” he merely said, earning a second-glare from you. You could not retain it though, instantly digging in.
“This is nice, actually,” you had to admit. Seeing the man try to bask in your half-assed compliment had you adding on, “But I will say, I would have liked the espresso. I know what you mean about the kid-friendliness of it all.”
“I can make it if you want.” He glanced at the equipment—the barista-standard machines, more portable coffee-machines, the like. “There’s a french press thrown in the cupboard somewhere.”
You looked at him, slightly disbelieving. “You just made me this.”
“So?” He shrugged, twisting his lips to the side. “It won’t be hard.” He took a step back, watching over the children. “You two want a snack or something?”
“Do you even need to ask?” Sohyun demanded, sipping the last of the drink.
“I wonder where they got their attitude from,” he grumbled, grabbing their empty glasses and bringing them to the sink.
You could not help your snort, scooping out half-melted ice cream. “I’m looking right at him.”
“I hope the hell you’re not looking at me right now,” was his warning, turning on the faucet and letting the hot water fill the dirtied glasses.
He made sure you were not, but you were never one to follow orders. You watched him as he brought out a french press from the cupboards beside the machines. “This won’t make the best espresso, but I can’t be arsed to fire up the machines right now.”
“Wow, such high-class customer service!” you shrilled, slowly walking over to the fridges on the opposite side and opening the door, finding the airtight Bombe Calde doughnuts sitting daintily inside. Deciding to take all eight displayed, you closed the fridge, setting them before the table.
The children jumped on the treats at once, Seungkwan tutting at their sheer gluttony. “You’re gonna get sick, and then your mum is gonna beat me up.”
“Noshewomt,” was the boy’s coherent answer, mouth too occupied with the chocolate doughnut to bother clarifying.
Turning the kettle on once more, the man obtained the finely-ground coffee beans, adding a couple teaspoons within the french press and waiting for the water to boil. “Pass me one, will you?” he asked, and you decided to comply, taking one from the plate—noticing half of them have been wiped out—and holding it out to him.
He held out his hand, fingers brushing against yours as he accepted the treat, your own hand still in the air between as he brought it to his mouth, taking a bite. You did not realise your fingers were still holding out the outline of the dessert until the switch on the kettle ticked off, snapping you out of your daze. Curling them into your palm, you set your hand to the side, sighing sharply. “You don’t have to make this.”
Luring the jug to the open press, he poured the water, the fine coffee instantly darkening the liquid. “You don’t want it?”
“Well…” you trailed off, watching him as he took the plunger, pressing the lid shut upon its glass and began pumping the water and coffee together. He was quick, up and down and repeating the gesture, creating a more bitter colour. “It’s not that…”
Finishing, he chose to not to respond then, only taking a new glass from the cupboard in front of him. “Sohyun, the gelato.”
His niece obliging, he deposited two scoops of the ice cream, one after the other. Then, assuming this was the final touch, he poured the espresso inside, assuring that the ice cream was drenched in the bitter flavour, until the french press was drained.
Perhaps your partner was correct—the bitterness of the drink, even the mere scent of coffee in your nostrils had you exhaling in satisfaction. Seungkwan caught it, smiling a little in reaction.
It was then he chose to respond. “I wanted to make it for you.”
“Oh.” You chose to admire the dessert-beverage he made—for you only, you thought. “Does it have a name?”
A nod. “It does.” You could feel his eyes on you. His fingers grazed the glass’ base, curling—close to where your own fingers wandered, nail scratching against the curves of the cup. “It’s called an affogato.”
You looked at him. “An affogato? I’ve had a few of these before.” Taking your spoon, you cut through the gelato, making sure you scooped enough of the espresso. Once you dared a taste, you instantly hummed, the bittersweet mixture of the ice cream and the coffee enlivening your taste buds. “Oh, Christ, this is the one.”
“I knew you would enjoy the original recipe,” Seungkwan remarked, watching you lap away at the dessert. “I will say, though, the french press doesn’t do the espresso justice.”
“Yeah, you use the proper machines for it, right?” Another bite taken. “This is insane, though.”
“You think so?” When you nodded, he dipped his head, acknowledging your approval. He blew air from his mouth, a deep sigh which had you tilting your head. “I used to make it a lot, back in the day.”
“Your apprentice days?” you parrotted, just as he did earlier.
He only squinted his eyes, an effort to keep your teasing in check, but found himself chuckling. “Yeah, back in Jeju. My dad loved to make them…he, like, would always add different flavoured ice creams in the espresso, maybe add hot chocolate if I wasn’t feeling too good with coffee…”
“Your dad made you these?” You sipped on the drink, careful of the ice cream. “That’s really sweet.”
“I know.” Taking a bite out of the bambe calde, he continued, “Yeah, he’s really supportive. My mum, too, but it took some time for her to accept that I wasn’t gonna be a doctor.”
“You’re better off for sure,” you remarked, stirring the contents. “Imagine your ass trying to do surgery on someone…you’d get the hospital sued.”
“First of all, fuck you,” he started, but quickly stopped when his niece and nephew gasped at the curse. “Sorry, sorry! I promise she doesn’t mind.”
“Don’t say sorry to us, too, say it to _____!” Sojung ordered.
“You’re being mean, Uncle Seungkwan,” Sohyun huffed next.
“Yeah, Uncle Seungkwan,” you chimed in, earning a berating glower from him. “You’re being rude.”
“Well I’m so sorry, _____,” the man chirped, and you had to keep drinking to stop yourself from laughing. “Now, you two, get back to stuffing your faces.”
As the kids happily obliged, you released a satisfied exhale as you finished off the espresso, half-melted ice cream left in the glass. “I still mean it. You would have been worse off as a doctor.”
“Yeah, yeah, we get it. I’ll kill off my patients because I wouldn’t know the difference between a scalpel and a butter knife.”
“No, not like that.” You turned to him. “Seungkwan, you were meant to create desserts.”
He looked at you then, not quite believing his ears. “Do you really believe that?”
“Of course.” Your eyes flickered to the remnants of the affogato. “There’s a reason Jeonghan kept you…hell, there’s a reason I still haven’t managed to get rid of you.”
There was a pause, felt enough that you snuck a quick glance as you watched over the conversing children.
“Do you want to?” he asked. Your gaze stuck, and he furrowed his brows, clarifying, “Get rid of me, still?”
He looked at you, and you found yourself a little lost in his eyes. There was one certainty you could rely on, and that was his gaze—whatever he felt, he always exposed it, whether he wanted to or not.
Tonight was different. Tonight, with the children nearby, you still stirring the melted gelato, you could not comprehend them. What his eyes offered this time was tenderness—a certain warmth you had never been offered by him since…since ever. Since as long as you had known him.
So you held up the cup, finishing the rest of the dessert—the dessert he had made with his own hands.
You decided to say something else instead of answering his question—something better. “I think we’ve found our dessert, Seungkwan.”
The man’s warmth morphed with confusion. “The affogato,” you said, holding out the glass. “We should make it for our Christmas menu.” His stance had you carrying on, setting the cup to the side as you focused on him. “Look, I know what you’re thinking, but hear me out. You said it yourself, you can make this with various flavours right?” His nod had you continuing, “And obviously, we’ve seen that you can change around the drink bit, too.”
“Hmm…” That had him thinking, and you could see it, the cogs within his head turning at rapid speed. “Wait, you know what…my dad also added liqueurs in the drink, which gave a little fire to the dessert. I liked it a lot, but obviously you can’t give hard alcohol to kids, so…”
“Very responsible,” you deemed it. “And it’s so easy to make! I mean, you whipped it up within minutes for me.”
He was straightened up now, watching you intently as you thought about it further, the entire prospect of it. “It could be quicker, too, you know. The french press takes more time, but if we made it on the machine, then—” He cut himself off, thinking and thinking, walking towards the countertop. “Wait, this could actually work.”
“What can work, Uncle Seungkwan?” his nephew asked, curiosity prompting his question.
“Something really special, Sojung,” he replied, scouring the table for his notes, but realising he left them at the changing lockers. “Shit. Shit.”
“Language!” Sohyun chided, but her dear uncle wasn’t really listening, whipping out his phone and typing ferociously.
You did not realise what he was doing until he pressed the phone to his ear, pointing at the kids to wash their hands. “Hello? Yeah, Jinsoul, hi, you guys back from the date?” A pause, as he started a pace, back and forth in the kitchen. “Hmm, yeah, don’t care about all those details, listen—” He turned a sharp corner, finding the words, “Is it alright if I could drop the kids back right now? Something urgent came up.”
As he listened to his sister, his eyes flickered to you. “Yeah…it is. We thought of something perfect.”
You avoided his gaze then—a cowardly choice, you knew—but, perhaps for the first time, his stare was a little too intense. “Yeah, don’t worry about that, I’ll do it,” he said, “I owe you. For real this time.”
As the man ended the call, the nephew pulled a face. “Do we have to go back already?” he whined, licking the sugar from his fingers.
“Afraid so, buddy,” was his response, pocketing his phone. “Come on, you two, I gotta take you back to your parents.”
“But what about _____?” Sohyun asked, watching you intently as you began to clear away the dishes.
“I’ll get going, too,” you replied, cleaning the rest of the dishes, setting them on the side. “Or else my friend will think I’m overworking myself.”
“Aeri?” Seungkwan asked, and you nodded. “How is she doing, by the way?”
Dusting away at your hands, you gave him a look, untying your apron. “How do you know her name?”
“I talked to her when you ran away from me, remember?”
“I didn’t run away,” you muttered, but that did not stop the pompous twist of his mouth, threatening to sour your mood.
Another ten minutes, and the rest of you were sorted, clothing and other personal items extracted from your locker and donning your coat. You let Seungkwan and the children exit first, making sure all the entrances were locked save for the one you were leaving from.
The chill of the London winter nipped at your face as you left from the backdoor, a slight shiver cluttering your teeth as you locked the premises. You witnessed the man firmly wrapping his huge red scarf around the girl, whispering to the boy at the same time to don his gloves—yes, even if they don’t let him use his phone.
As you walked over to the group, you were about to start when he beat you to it. “I'll drop Sohyun and Sojung off, and then I’ll get to the planning. My dad will be up around this time, so I’ll ask about his preferences.”
“I’ll do some research back home,” you offered. “Jinsoul wasn’t mad, right? I think you disturbed her date.”
“She’ll live,” he said, rolling his eyes. “We’ve got more important things to do, anyway.”
Nodding, you then leaned forward, smiling at the children. “You two should come again.”
“Oh, we will!” Sojung promised, smirking. “I don’t know why Uncle Seungkwan was hiding you from us.”
The accused ruffled the boy’s hair. “You’re running your mouth too much today.”
“He always runs his mouth too much,” Sohyun muttered, causing her brother to stick his tongue out at her.
Giggling at their antics, you looked to Seungkwan, who sighed slightly as you released another shiver. “You know I need you alive for this dessert report.”
Hugging yourself tightly, you remarked, “Who would have thought Boo Seungkwan wanted me happy and healthy by his side?”
A snort, misting in the cold air. “Don’t put words in my mouth. I said alive. Barely is fine by me, too.”
You shook your head at him, restraining the urge to let your lips quirk upward. “Goodnight, Seungkwan.”
As you swivelled with a last goodbye to his niece and nephew, you left for the underground, not two minutes away.
Sohyun was the first to break the night silence as you finally turned the corner, away from their sight. “I like her, Uncle Seungkwan,” she declared, walking ahead of the group.
“Me too,” Sojung agreed, following after his sister in hopes to tread on her boots. “I hope we see her again.”
The man did not listen to their petty arguments which soon replaced their praises of you, holding onto their first confessions. And although he did not voice them out loud, his thoughts were an answer, left unsaid.
You will see her again—whether I want to or not.
THE NEXT WEEK BROUGHT ANOTHER CHANGE WITHIN YOUR RELATIONSHIP WITH SEUNGKWAN.
Mostly because what you and your partner had actually was a relationship now. The intense months, before the Christmas menu was even established, where you and him had argued and screamed the kitchen down had soothed into a kurt understanding of the dessert you were about to create. At last, after months of your victories, your losses to him, the disgruntled progression into stalemates, you two had achieved the unachievable.
You both had decided on a dessert.
Jeonghan could not believe his ears when you first informed him, and immediately booked himself a special Specsaver’s hearing test—you forgot how far he would go for a bit, but at least it was not your time he was wasting. He asked Seungkwan for confirmation, and, sure enough, when the latter agreed, your boss may have experienced shell-shock akin to war veterans. Of course, you wanted to be offended, but you had no right—at the end of the day, Jeonghan had only ever seen violence brewing between you and the dessert chef. Any semblance of toleration was considered a breaking-news event.
The two of you tried not to let Jeonghan’s shock distract you from your planning—Seungkwan received a wealth of information from his father, and learned that the most classic form of the affogato is the one he created for you—the vanilla gelato, and hot espresso poured on top. Although it was delicious, it was deemed too plain for Christmas menu, and opted for more flavours.
Seungkwan first offered the idea for whipped cream, but you rejected it. “Whipped cream and gelato seems excessive,” you explained, looking over your research notes. “The cream might offset the gelato’s flavour.”
“How do you feel about chocolate shavings? It could work well with smoothing out the bitterness of the espresso.”
“But the gelato’s doing that,” you countered. “I don’t mind it, but I’d want something stronger for the first choice.”
“Hmm…” He skimmed his father’s ramblings for a moment, then handed it to you. “This is what Dad used. He’d swap certain things around.”
Reading through, the first thing you noticed was the neat writing—Seungkwan’s, undoubtedly. He had categorised different gelato flavours in one column, espresso or other coffee variations in the second, liqueur choices for the third, and the last, larger column was reserved for toppings. “He certainly has range,” you commented, looking up. “How come you missed learning it?”
“You’re the only one blind to it,” he disputed, crossing his arms. “It’s a wonder you’re not turning down the affogato as we speak.”
“You never know!” you chirped sarcastically, in hope to keep him on his toes. “Did you try out all these variations?”
“Yep. I was a picky eater.” He exhaled through his nose at your incredulous look, reminiscing. “Shocking, I know. Aside from the alcohol, he tried every single one of those flavours. All of them are approved by child-me, teenage-me, and today-me.”
“I see,” you said, reverting back to the notes. You had to admit, his father did take liberties with what he deemed Italian for an Italian drink. As you kept reading it over, glancing at the man’s peaceful recollection, you did not think that mattered.
This was someone’s efforts to keep their child full. This was a father’s testimony of ensuring his son’s happiness.
You smiled at the notion, offering the pages back to him. “I personally like the biscotti the most out of all these options. If we chop the biscuit finely enough, it’ll have a nice crunch in the dessert. It’ll keep the espresso’s essence as well, while also maintaining the sweetness of the ice cream.”
His slight surprise had you pulling back. “What? Oh, is this your turn to reject me now?”
But then he smiled a little, catching you off guard. “No, the opposite actually. I’m just surprised you chose that one.”
“Why?” You groaned, getting up from your seat. “It’s the worst one, right? Baby-you threw up after having it, I’m sure.”
“No, actually.” He paused. “The biscotti was my favourite topping.”
Oh. “So…you’re good for its almond flavouring?”
He nodded, taking the papers from you. “Yeah, I am…why are you asking?”
“It’s just…I don’t think we’ve ever agreed to a decision so…cordially.”
Seungkwan scoffed. “Well, obviously we weren’t gonna argue when you agreed with me.”
You instantly checked him on this. “I was the one who suggested it.”
His counter was immediate. “You picked it from my notes.”
A click of your tongue. “Your dad’s, actually.”
He opened his mouth, eyes narrowing, but then realised you were right, and clamped his lips together. The action within those sudden sequences had you offering him a smirk. “And I thought we were past all this,” he whinged, exasperation clear.
“Don’t think I’ll let you win so easily,” you warned, widening your shit-eating smile as you walked over to the espresso machines, regarding the fine steel in its all shining glory.
“I never win easily with you,” he grumbled, stepping beside you.
“It should be kept that way,” you only said. “Now, how do we work this shit?”
Seungkwan turned away from you, hiding his bemused smile before clearing his throat and explaining the rules. This was the way you two worked now—a smidge of back and forth bickering, but never truly rising to the surface where you threatened ultimate violence.
It was strange, you had to admit; never before had you felt a tolerance, even an acceptance of his presence beside you. He would offer assistance of some kind, bring forth new suggestions, and your first instinct was not to cuss out his ancestors for suggesting such gullible ideas. Even the man who worked alongside you would not provoke your rash temper, and day by day you found yourself wondering why, after the entirety of his acquaintance, you had never simply got on with him.
You did not care to investigate the origins of who was at fault. All that was left, in a sense, was to salvage whatever strange alliance you both had created, and hope that was enough to finish the final dessert.
The preparations, the testing of the machines continued into the restaurant’s opening, and Jeonghan assisted, as promised during the beginning of the process, in helping with orders, teaching Junhui of the more luxurious, complex desserts during that time. Thankfully, the restaurant was quieter that day, so the Head Chef was relaxed, carefree enough to try provoking you and Seungkwan into a disagreement, but to no avail.
The trialling carried on well into the night, the only people left in the restaurant being you two and Jeonghan, who was arguing with his accountant loud enough to hear it through the dessert stations. You ignored him, tasting the newly created vanilla gelato, liquid espresso and biscotti pieces sprinkled. Seungkwan brought out the last touch, pouring a half-shot of amaretto liqueur into the long, slender glass.
And as the two of you tasted the dessert, your spoon first, and then passing it onto him, you realised you may have made something great—perfection can take a while, you both understood it, but what you two created was something bigger than yourselves. Realistically, it was just a beverage, but it was not just a beverage—this was peace, scooped up within the containers of the gelato, an acceptance peeking out within the chopped biscottis. This was—could you say it—respect, poured from his very hands, staining the glass of your relationship with him.
Even as the two of you shared a look of understanding, finishing the singular affogatto together, you knew circumstances had shifted—something was different.
Seeing as the boss was stuck with working out his finances, you decided to head out, letting Seungkwan finish with the cleaning up, lest you make a sound and he made you carry out your dishwashing. You made a head start towards your belongings in the other room, taking out your bag and jacket as the man walked to his lockers. Donning your layers, he slid out his satchel, coat and that long-ass scarf, snapping the square door shut.
“I think we can send the report to Jeonghan any day now,” he said, sliding his arms through the coat holes.
You began to walk to the back door, watching him follow slowly. “You think so?”
He caught up, wrapping his scarf around himself—three loops round his neck, almost hiding half his face. Pulling down the fabric with a finger, he settled his chin over the scarf, nodding. “We’ve done almost everything…I mean, there’s a bit of paperwork left, but I’ll write that tonight when I’m at Jinsoul’s.”
“You’re going to your sister’s?” you asked as you grabbed onto the door. “Don’t tell me you’re interrupting the poor couple again.”
“So what if I am?” he demanded. “That’s on them for establishing a relationship between me and their kids.”
“Fair enough.” Opening the door to the outside world, you instantly shivered at the sheer temperature drop from the past few days. London’s winters were unpredictable, but you forgot its cruelty too. The chill of the midnight winter seeped through your too-thin jacket, and you had to stop yourself from shivering out of your bones.
Your teeth would have chattered more had Seungkwan not spoken again. “She was asking about you, by the way.”
“Oh,” you could only say—courtesy of the cold, and the teeth. “She was?”
“Why’re you so shocked by that?”
A lazy shrug. “I don’t know…I thought you would have talked shit about me.”
He narrowed his eyes at you. “Now why would you think that?” You returned the gaze, and then he let out an understanding noise. “Oh, yeah…yeah, I did that the other day actually.”
“Hey, now!” You would have nudged his elbow, but were too cold to do so. “I haven’t pissed you off this past fortnight.”
“I know, I know, I just…” he sighed a little, which frosted into the air. “I mean…I’ve mentioned you. In passing.”
“In passing?” You parroted, hugging yourself. A frosted scoff escaped you. “You can’t help being obsessed with me, huh?”
“Shut up,” he grumbled, which had you chuckling—the soft laughter was cut off by your teeth once more, chattering to the point of catching his notice. “You knew it was gonna get cold, you idiot.”
You returned his observations with a glare. “I didn’t actually know that, which is why I’m cold right now…you idiot.”
The condensation from your mouth was enough evidence of the chill—that, and of course, your bated breaths. “Yes, I’m the idiot that’s so nice and warm,” Seungkwan sang, irritating you further.
When you did not deign to respond to him, the cold weather conquering your meagre layers, nipping at your skin, he stopped the next dig, at the tip of his tongue. He then observed your countenance—the rubbing of the arms, the groans you tried to contain at the discomfort taking over. The man veiled his mouth with the bunched-up scarf, narrowing his eyes. Sighing a little, the heat of his breath curled against the fabric, kissing his face, and the slight warmth that welcomed him did not bring him the comfort he relished mere minutes prior.
He looked at you, hugging yourself tightly. The moment your eyes flickered to his, remnants of displeasure in your eyes, his own widened slightly.
Shit. His hands grabbed onto the scarf before he realised what he was doing. Shit, shit, shit, was all he could think, as, with hands unwrapping the long piece of clothing from his neck, he seethed a little at the chill that welcomed his exposed skin.
Before you could realise what he was doing, he brought the length of the scarf around you, both his hands holding each of the ends at your sides. “Wh-what are you doing?” you got out, your hands instantly stopping his. “Wait, Seungkwan—”
“Save your bickering,” he cut you off, merely waving your hands away as he wrapped the first loop around you, the scarf still too long on one side. “Talking will only make you colder.”
But you were already opening your mouth, ready to counter him when another loop of the scarf masked half of your face. Your surprise was shown only through your eyes, but he ignored it completely, wrapping the length around one last time. The scarf had almost shrunk you, your head buried in the layers, and Seungkwan had to pause for a second, unable to contain his smile.
What are you smiling at? you asked, except the scarf had mumbled your speech, and he could not hear a thing. He could understand very clearly the irritation, though, rising in your gaze, and that only broke the seam of his lips, grinning at you.
“Wait, hold still,” he said, reaching to the top of the neckwear. He leaned in, fingers folding down the fabric, slowly and gently, and you blinked back at the proximity. You had a feeling he had not noticed at first, but then your eyes bore into him, and his fingers slowed. His knuckle brushed against your jaw, and a soft shiver escaped you, finally catching his attention. Only then he stole a glance, realising just how close he was to you.
His pupils were darting all over your face, as much as he could take in from the closeness. You could not help it either, mouth parting, watching his bated breaths condense upon your face. God, he was close to you, and it was out of the ordinary, unfamiliar territory. If he leaned in any further, his lips would caress yours, solving the problem of this chill. You were not cold though—not anymore, with your cheeks burning every second spent under his scrutiny.
You should be pulling away—should be taking a step back. He felt the same. Once again, the two of you were in sync; always denying how similar you both thought, but confronted with that fated truth.
Seungkwan could see it—the truth, reflecting in your gaze. “There,” he whispered, fingers brushing against the scarf.
The scarf. His scarf. “I can’t have this,” you said, but your voice was barely there. “It’s yours.”
“I know.” A ghost of his raised brow. “It’s not like I’m giving it to you forever. I will take it back.”
You twisted your mouth. “Way to ruin a moment.”
He parted his mouth, both brows raising. “Was there a moment to ruin?”
“No!” you gasped out, craning your head back. You saw his smirk rise, and it was agonising, how your speech stuttered. “No, no, no. No moment here! You’re thinking it all up.”
“Hmm,” was all he got out, gaze skimming over your face—pausing at your mouth. “If you say so.”
With one last moment (because yes, there was something, and there was no denying it anymore), he stepped away, admiring the scarf wrapped around you. “Maybe I should let you keep it.”
This time, you had to look away. “You can have it back tomorrow.” Glancing over the time on your phone, you cleared your throat, fidgeting with the fabric. “I’ll see you in the morning?”
He nodded, hands sliding in his pockets. “We’re so close, _____.”
Choosing to avoid his eyes, you instead focused on the locks of his hair, the lapels of his jacket. It was unavoidable—he was beautiful, and he was smiling. A celebration of the coming victory, so near that you could taste Jeonghan’s approval.
So you smiled back. “We are, Seungkwan.”
JEONGHAN TURNED ANOTHER PAGE OF THE FINAL DESSERT REPORT.
You waited anxiously, one leg folded over the other as your eyes focused intently at the head chef, reading over the analysis. He was silent for the first time in a while, no sarcastic quip over the explanations. No questions were thrown at you, catching you off—all you were tested with was complete quiet, which, in a weirder sense, unnerved you more.
Your partner was there, too—in the same seat he always claimed on your right, bouncing his leg in anticipation, eyes trained at the same target as yours. He, on the other hand, could not deal with the silence which permeated the office. “I think you’ve read this section for the third time, Chef.”
But Chef ignored him, choosing to spend another ten minutes staring at the same pages, an effective enough punishment for being bothered. You would have thrown him an irritated glare had you not been so exhausted from the final trials.
The affogato dessert report was finished after another week of testing.
You and Seungkwan had spent half of the nights within that week at the restaurant, bouncing ideas off each other, finalising the rest of the toppings, the beverage variations. The two of you must have had fifty hours of sleep combined for the past six days, but it was worth the wait. It was worth the restlessness, the countless drafts of writing and rewriting…it reached a full completion at two in the morning, when you and your partner took one look at each other and knew you had done it.
Bothering Jeonghan at that time would have gotten you both fired, so you resorted to running back home for six-odd hours before trudging back to the restaurant. You saw Seungkwan at the entrance, identical eye-bags to yours, his frown a default feature on his sleep-stricken face. Still, the clear fatigue seemed to clear when he caught sight of you, leaving the door open to let you in.
It was here now, with you two anxiously waiting, that Jeonghan snapped the file shut, the slap of paper against paper jolting you both alert. “I hope that’s woken you up.”
The man beside you groaned, his leg ceasing the bouncing. “Jesus,” he could only say, because cursing his boss only fast-tracked him to unemployment (not that Jeonghan would have sacked him—in honesty, he was hoping one of them would call him a dickhead and storm out).
“It did,” you answered, trying your hardest to not knife him with your gaze. “Now are you approving the dessert?”
He observed the front of the report, jutting out his lower lip. “Well, I am impressed with the details…I don’t think any of you have put this much effort into a dessert report in your entire career.”
“Don’t say that!” You immediately exclaimed. “My granita dessert report last year was top-notch and you agreed with me!”
“Yeah, but that was last year, so it doesn't exist anymore.” He waved off your counters, continuing, “Anyway, this report is brilliant. I can see how much effort the two of you have put into this process.”
You nodded along to his comments, locking your hands together. There was no denying it, of course—you and Seungkwan had carved out your hearts and mixed the remnants within the affogato. What was appreciated was Jeonghan witnessing it with his own eyes.
“Before I officially start advertising the final selection, I do need to ask you one thing.” He set the report to the side, setting his chin upon interlocked fingers. “Now I know how you both felt about working together for this project…obviously I didn’t care about your opinions because of the disruptions, but recently, there’s been a peaceful environment at the station.”
His eyes darted between his dessert chefs. “Should the opportunity arise…would you work together on specific projects again?”
The dreaded silence was back, but it was not the head chef which instigated it this time.
It took almost every nerve in your system to restrain the muscles in your body, which would instinctively turn your head towards the man beside you. Biting your lip, glancing down at your hands once more, you thought the question over, echoing slowly in your mind.
If you were asked this question a couple of weeks ago, you would have laughed in Jeonghan’s face. You still remembered the evening in this office, when your boss doomed the two of you with the dessert project. You had not forgotten the snide comments, the back-and-forth bickering, even the fated confrontations—the night with the burnt caramel which had your entire viewpoint spinning on its surface.
What you did not comprehend was the change; the slow shift in every interaction, the anticipation of his family’s interactions, wondering whether his sister had asked for you again. That was the jackpot moment, you thought. At the end of the day, Seungkwan had not changed—you simply bothered to know him.
And whatever you had learned, you did not despise.
You chose not to admit any of this to the group. Instead, you remained in your silence, waiting for any of the men to shatter it.
Seungkwan stepped up to the quiet and broke it. “I dreaded doing the project.” You looked at him. He continued, staring at Jeonghan. “It was hard, I’ll be honest…what with our constant fighting and that.”
It was after a while he spoke again. “However, if you force us together in the next quarter, then…” He turned to you, and you swore there was a glow radiating from his face. “I wouldn’t mind it...being forced together with her again.”
You parted your mouth. You could barely hear Jeonghan’s scoff, humming at the implications. No, you only stared at him, your partner-in-crime, your—your friend? Something different, another term entirely.
Your mouth ran on its own, disregarding your sense of thought. “I wouldn’t mind it either.”
This time, you heard the boss’ huff of laughter enough to snap out of your stunned daze, watching him rise from his chair. “Does this mean my customers won’t hear you both arguing over their moonlit dinners?”
Truly, you wanted to frown at him. “As long as Seungkwan keeps quiet,” you said, glancing at the said-man.
His smile was mischievous when you caught it—you had to look away. “I’m not promising a damn thing.”
You only heard Jeonghan’s laughter then, vanishing only by the closing of his door as he left, approved report in hand.
Perhaps Seungkwan wanted to say more, but you hurried out of the office under the pretense of opening the restaurant. He chose to play along to your excuses, helping you alongside Mingyu and Junhui for the ingredient prepping, and soon business took over priority, the rush of the customers even in the late morning.
The bustling environment of the restaurant did not calm until its closing, you cursing the customers for not offering a single break during your long shift. The entire time consisted of egg and sugar whipping, the sounds of caramel cooking, espresso steaming and curt orders thrown around by you and your partner in the station. Because the stress of the dessert menu had faded, though, a great level of pressure had subsided, as if the summer sun had cleared through London’s winter storms.
Nighttime cloaked Covent Garden, stars scattered across the black sky, twinkling at the thousands upon thousands, in and out of the entrance columns. After seeing the last family off on their merry way, you turned the banner to Closed, sighing after a long day’s work.
Mingyu and Junhui were already packing, informing you of their plans together, so you let them leave earlier than anticipated. Seungkwan was the sole chef left, save for Jeonghan—though he could have fucked off without anyone’s knowing, for all you knew.
You thought he would have ran straight for his sister’s down south; it was a Friday night, which meant that Sohyun and Sojung were anticipating movie night with their favourite (and only, so you doubted how prized this title really was) uncle. Despite being aware of this, you caught sight of him whipping up the all-too familiar dessert, this time in accordance to the restaurant’s official recipe.
“Don’t you have somewhere to be?” you asked him, walking over to where he stood next to the counter. “The kids’ll be waiting.”
“You remembered,” he pointed out, surprised. Pouring the espresso on top, he looked over to you, closing in. “Well, today I get a pass to celebrate our victory.”
“Victory?” You observed the finished affogato, scrunching your nose. “Not to be that person, but I’ve had enough of these to last me the year.”
“I know you were gonna say that,” he countered, holding up a finger as he stepped to the side. Lo and behold, there was a large bottle of champagne, a crisp burgundy bow wrapped around the neck. “Which is why I brought a little extra for the occasion.”
Lighting up at the sight of the alcohol, you grabbed onto the top, studying the label. “Franciacorta. Very tasteful.”
You set it back, searching for a corkscrew. “You sound shocked by my tastefulness,” you heard him remark, you opening the drawers and finding it amongst the disarray of cutlery.
“Well, of course,” you said, bringing the utensil to Seungkwan’s side of the counter, waiting for him to add in the cut-up biscotti. “Let’s not forget who the classier one out of us is.”
He clicked his tongue. “I am not getting into that can of worms.”
“All the better for your rep,” you added, earning a snort from him.
“Right,” he began, pushing the drink in your direction as he grabbed the bottle. “How about a drink first?”
“That I can agree with,” you said, handing him the corkscrew.
Seungkwan struck the cork with it, twisting it till he was satisfied. Then, with a little force, he popped open the champagne, fizzing from the bottle’s mouth. “There we go,” he sighed out, grabbing a couple of spare glasses, identical to the dessert’s shape, and filling them to the very tip. “I couldn’t find the proper glasses.”
“And you said you were the classier one,” you quipped, sipping the drink.
Shaking his head, he drank up, seething as he brought the glass down. “I can’t believe we’re finished, you know.”
“I don’t think it’s settled yet for me,” you admitted. “It was only a few weeks, but it felt like months.”
“God, I know.” Finishing off the first glass, he poured himself another. “Remember when you wanted to add leaves in the dessert? We’ve come so far.”
“Now you know I had a whole plan for that,” you defended, shaking a finger at him as you kept drinking. “And you can’t say anything, with your diabetes-inducing sweets.”
“You’re the one who agreed to the affogato.” He twisted his mouth into a smirk. “And that was my idea.”
You wanted to snarl at him—it had been too long since a bickering broke any semblance of peace, and although you enjoyed the lack of shouting, you swore it was enhancing his overconfidence.
But you decided to indulge him. You did not know why. “Your idea was so personal to your roots, Seungkwan. I don’t think I could have said no.”
Even he was stunned. “You couldn’t have said no?” he repeated in question, brows raising.
You only downed the rest of your champagne. “Nope.”
“Huh.” That was all he could give, swirling his drink. Your insides sung at his reaction, biting the corner of your lip to stop yourself from smiling. Seungkwan’s smirks, you thought, truly had no substance the way his surprised, one-word responses did.
Another glass down, and you felt the buzz of the alcohol, bubbling through your veins, settling a little too pleasantly in your mind. The lights of the dessert station had been dimmed, too, only the lights of the hob turned on, your surroundings atmospheric. The silences may have been prevalent, but there was no discomfort. The tranquility was…in a way, it was beautiful.
There was more beauty, it seemed, in Seungkwan’s next words. “I wouldn’t have suggested it if it was anyone else, you know.”
You straightened in your seat. “Oh?”
He nodded, you thinking that was the rest of it. But then he opened his mouth again, spilling out the confession which rested in his heart. “If it was anyone else working with me, they wouldn’t have seen the dessert, why I made it…my sister, her kids, anything like that.” He took a deep breath, about to continue, but then made sure to drink up. “And you suggested it first, which…I really appreciated.”
“Is that why I had never seen your family before?” another sip of the champagne. “Because you hated me that much?”
“I never hated you, _____,” he said, which only had you scoffing. “No, really! Sure, you pissed me off. Did Jinsoul first hear of you cause I bitched about you? Unfortunately, yeah. But!” he countered, raising a finger, “It was never hatred.”
“Well, I can’t say the same,” you mumbled, staring into the end of your glass. He grabbed your attention, filling it to the rim once more.
His stare did not leave you. “It’s not like that anymore, right?”
You matched his gaze—a smile threatened to take over. “No…not anymore. I got to know you, didn’t I?”
He could have gasped.
Boo Seungkwan, for the first time in his life, was speechless. It usually took devastating news to rattle him to his core—a notion so shocking his world slips from underneath him. His pupils almost dilated, gaping at you as if you told him he had won Jeonghan’s restaurant.
And although it was endearing, truly a sight to behold, you had the nerve to raise a brow at him. “Weren’t you the one who said I didn’t?”
He blinked back at the question, realising that he was not in a trance. “That I did.” He cleared his throat, downing another glass. The alcohol was getting to him, he could feel it.
You decided to leave the champagne for now, the bubbles successful in enhancing your giddiness. Turning to the affogato, you finally gave it some attention, digging in with a spoon. “It’s melted now,” you commented, taking another bite.
“That’s what happens when you ignore a dessert,” Seungkwan remarked, tutting as he drank.
“Don’t give a girl such good champagne then.”
“Hmm, or maybe you’re distracted by my company,” he appealed, watching you roll your eyes and chuckling. “Come on. We’re not throwing food at each other anymore, so you can be honest.”
“Okay,” you said, savouring the espresso and vanilla, in perfect harmony in your mouth. “I guess you’re not the worst person to have a conversation with.” He made to celebrate, face lightening up, but you interjected, “When you’re around your family.”
“Yeah, now you’re just saying shit,” he rebuked, setting the glass down. “I’m a bloody joy to be around!”
“And which one out of Jinsoul’s kids said that to get a doughnut out of you?”
“None of them!” he first exclaimed, but after two seconds of staring him down, he sighed out, “Sojung got four doughnuts that day.”
“Exactly.” Another bite, a little messy—you were sure the vanilla cream left remnants on your lips. “I told you, right? I know you now.”
“Yeah, yeah,” he only said, tilting his head on his shoulder. He had drunk enough tonight. He was not usually careless—not that he was, but he did not take his glasses into account. He did, but he was with you tonight, and you were so happy.
He then noticed the slight gelato lining your lips, and he perked up slightly. “Affogato that good? You left behind a trail.”
“Unfortunately. Where is it?” you asked, trying to wipe it off, but to no avail. “I’m looking stupid, right?”
“The dumbest.” He pointed to his own mouth, but you would not follow. “Wait, one second.”
He stepped closer, rubbing his hands on his trousers. With a harsh intake of breath, he reached his hand out, and you froze at his touch, brushing against the corner of his lip. His focus did not distract him from your expression, thumb rubbing off the vanilla, cream fading from his every gentle swipe. His finger was soft—softer than you expected, velvety like the ice cream he made for you.
It was only when he finished, craning his head back just an inch, that he noticed your tensed-up expression—the breath that was caught in your throat. He had parted his mouth, the realisation striking him cold, and all he could do was watch—eyes flickering to your own, darting between one and the other, as if unable to take the full intensity of your stare.
You caught him peeking shamelessly at your lips, where his thumb remained, a ghost of a touch. Seconds passed, none of you daring to move, and you suddenly had an inkling that he was about to do something.
Oh God. Was he? You could not tell—he was looking at you in a strange manner, eyes heavy lidded. It must have been the alcohol. You were sure that was the reason for his daze, why his breaths were uneven.
You could not help the whisper escaping, as soft and delicate as a winter snowflake, twirling in a cold breeze. “Seungkwan?”
The said-man blinked back at your voice—his name on your tongue.
What you were going to do was close your eyes, brace yourself for the final distance—and then you realised you were bracing yourself for Boo Seungkwan, and the slight panic set in, striking you like a lightning bolt.
He must have caught it in your eyes, because then his reaction reflected your own, and maybe he made the most idiotic decision in his entire life. Although every muscle in his body demanded he do the opposite, he began to pull away and then you grasped onto your mistake, realising what he was doing, and you cursed yourself for letting him slip away in front of you this very second—this devastating, crucial moment.
And even though you did not comprehend what in hell you were doing at that moment, you caught his arm, holding onto the white cotton of his work shirt. He gaped at the gesture before setting the shock on you. “What’re you doing?” he rasped out.
“What’re you doing?” was your answer.
It was there, in the dimmed, flickering lights of the hob, that he stared at you, trying the hardest he ever had in the entirety of his life to catch your meaning. Damn him for drinking, damn his lack of restraint, because maybe if he had one less glass of champagne—
The darkening of your irises clocked any confusion in his tipsied judgement. His mouth parted, and you could have sighed with an intoxicated relief.
He knew you after all.
“Bastard,” you could only say, catching the beginnings of an appeased grin before he leaned in, any semblance of doubt erased as he pressed his lips to yours.
The first touch of his mouth was indescribable.
Never did you think you would find yourself in this situation, closing your eyes, a soft hum as he moved against you, finding the rhythm upon your lips. His own were so soft, a shocking twist in the tale—all those hard, condescending quips, but you supposed it should have made perfect sense. Your arguments were bitter, your collaborations tensioned, but there were no remnants of the past in his movements. He was as soft as the gelato you had indulged in, as velvety as the espresso coating his affogato gift.
Your breaths were caught in your throat, caged by his mouth, which delved deeper as the man’s hands cupped your face. His fingers were warm, shaking as they tilted your head to enhance the kiss. Your senses were alive before, but they were bouncing off the kitchen walls now, darting from the stove to the countertop, out of the doors and into the city as the sheer pleasure took over.
It was in that moment you realised that Boo Seungkwan was not only a great dessert chef, but an excellent kisser. The way he moved his lips with yours, syncing you along with him, was unfathomable in any other situation. You, following along, even bothering to hear him out, here now, trailing after his movements? You could not help yourself, though, when he was good, he knew this like he knew the affogato—familiar with its recipe, its methods, how to create it, nourishing it to perfection.
And because every dessert creation needed patience, Seungkwan was slow, careful as his tongue slid against the seam of your lips, trialling, testing. He succeeded in the first attempt, you opening up to him, and the feeling of his tongue slithering along yours had your stomach somersaulting within, unable to contain yourself. You could not contain the soft groans, lodged deep within your throat, and you could have sworn the bastard smiled against you, closing his mouth as he sucked on your tongue.
This was it. In the Vita di Diamante, under the lights of a luxury restaurant’s dessert-kitchen, your hands crept up his arms, locking behind his neck, and you snuffed out any distance, the countertop edges digging slowly into your side, dutifully ignored. Any sense of discomfort was replaced by the mountain of pleasure, boosted by Seungkwan’s fingers on your face, then your neck, his lips taking yours prisoner, threatening to roam, and his body, pressing against your own, his weight like a welcome cage, engulfing your entire presence.
This was nothing short of intoxication, a spark of a drug which would spiral into an addiction. You had kissed many others before your supposed rival, this uncertain friend, but you were sure of the ecstasy he offered, given to you in abundance. You had thought him selfish, narcissistic. But was this not compassion, each heated bursts of generosity he planted on the corner of your mouth, then your jaw, slowly trailing downward till he found refuge on the patch of skin, just above your collarbone? Were these not acts of selflessness, the manner in which he teethed his kisses, inciting a moan loud enough to have your entire face alight?
It was that particular noise that made him realise his place, a burst of pride igniting inside him before he noticed the hob lights glistening your face. “We shouldn’t—fuck—” Seungkwan cursed out, breathless, and your stomach fluttered at the mere curse, spewed out countless times before. When did you become so affected—no, rattled by whatever this man did? “W-we shouldn’t do this here.”
Yet he was peppering you with open-mouthed kisses, and you could have screamed at him for making it so hard to answer him. “Then maybe…” you were rasping out your breaths, mind a complete daze. “Maybe you should stop.”
Pausing, he dragged his mouth, skimming along to your neck, only pulling away to lock your heavy-lidded eyes with his own. The lust swirling within them was the final, perfect garnish to the dessert of his desire—the same desire which worsened your hunger. “Do you want me to stop?”
Instinctively, you licked your lips, swiping up the remnants of Seungkwan’s efforts, relishing the residue of the champagne. When he caught the mere action, he hoped with the very marrow of his bones that you did not refuse him.
When you narrowed his eyes, lips twisting in a sneer, his fervour paused. “Are you fucking stupid?” you spat out, and he gawked at you—only for a second.
But a second was still too long, because you grabbed onto the collars of his shirt, colliding your mouth against his, and he could have sighed with relief. He furrowed his brow as matched your hunger, sliding his tongue back into your mouth, and this time you let the moans free, a symphony to his ears. He was all over you, moreso when his hands now tugged at your sides, pushing you further into the counter. You did not catch onto his intentions until, with one swift swipe of his hands, he lifted you upon the countertop, chasing your lips still, refusing to break away. He pushed between your thighs, caging himself in your presence, and it was embarrassing how quick your body responded, wrapping your legs around his waist.
Seungkwan was delirious, you were frenzied—Seungkwan was out of his mind, and you were out of your soul, the sounds of your mouths and tongues colliding in a destructive understanding, a heated combination that would have been impossible mere weeks ago. What had happened, how did it all equate to this very situation? Fate always worked in strange ways, but you had to work out how you ended up in this passionate scene—shameless as your whimpers grew louder, his arrogance growing with them, swallowing them with his mouth.
Maybe you both would have created something grander than any dessert in this station, sweeter than the damned cinnamon Seungkwan campaigned for at every given chance. With the soft moans darkening, breaths rasping out in slight desperation, you would have shown this restaurant a harmony never witnessed in your work.
But at this precise moment, Yoon fucking Jeonghan sauntered into the kitchens, ready to share some good news to you both when he took one look at your colliding figures.
The sharp, shocked scoff that escaped his coral lips had you and Seungkwan stopping dead in your heated tracks.
“How many more health and safety regulations are you two gonna violate?”
It was comical, how you both whipped your heads at the slender figure, smirk so conceited and pompous you wondered whether you were bickering at the wrong chef this entire time. “I knew one day you were gonna eat each other’s faces off,” he continued, catching onto every sudden movement of Seungkwan’s fingers tightening at your waist, your arms loosening around his neck. “But did it have to be in my goddamn kitchen?”
“Shut the fuck up,” was the younger’s reasonable response, earning him a huff of laughter from his boss. You could only stare and do nothing, so ashamed of being caught you restrained the urge to hide within the crook of his shoulder.
“Hey, hey, don’t be angry at me!” Jeonghan waved his hand over to the door beyond the further walls. “Personally, I think the pantry’s a better shout…more privacy, you know?” Close enough in front of you, his grin lop-sided. “Unless, of course, you wanted to give me a show—”
“Please, Jeonghan!” you cried out finally, as, with an aching decision, you pulled away from the man’s arms, the absence duly noted. “God, don’t you have a life outside of this place?”
“Well, if I did, then I wouldn’t have a restaurant,” he countered, smug as his eyes darted between his employees. “And my dear dessert chefs wouldn’t have a love shack to fuck in.”
That horrendous statement had you jumping down from the counter, dusting yourself off as you glowered at your boss, risking termination. “You need to talk to someone other than your accountant.”
A melodramatic sigh left his lips. “You’re right, which is why I was taking a few other calls. That’s why I came down here, to let you both know that there will be some very important people coming in for the new menu’s christening.” He then raised his hands in surrender. “But then I see you guys have much more important shit to cover!”
Perhaps telling your boss to get floored under a Northern line tube was cruel, but the threat stayed rooted on your tongue. He could sense it for sure, because he looked at his watch. “Now I have to go soon, which means I want you going home.” He glanced up at the post-makeout scene, another chuckle rising. “So who’s place are you continuing this shit in?”
“Go away, man!” Seungkwan demanded as you groaned, only left with Jeonghan’s laughter ringing in your ears as he left the scene, bidding an adieu with wiggling brows.
With the silence falling on you both, the tension, so rampant beforehand, had all but crashed disastrously after the interruption. The complete absurdity of it all brought a sigh out of you, Seungkwan humming in agreement.
“How do we get Jeonghan fired?” was the first question asked in the kitchen—courtesy of your venom.
“You think a bullying allegation would cut it?” the man suggested, but you clicked your tongue. “Nah, you’re right, it’s child’s play in this business. We’d be deemed cowards.”
“Couldn’t he have come later?” you mumbled, rubbing your eyes. God, you were tired. The tipsy stupor had morphed into fatigue.
And although Seungkwan felt the lethargy too, he chose to latch onto your words. “Later, huh? Didn’t want to be disturbed, then?”
You almost rolled your eyes. “You know exactly what I mean.”
But he was back to being a grade-A asshole, so he crowed, “No, please, indulge me…what did you mean?”
You meant to glare at him, but his eyes were dancing, and you remembered his lips on you all over again. You resorted to silence, clamping your lips together, finding a little comfort in the smile he curled at your quiet response.
The two of you found yourselves collecting your things, Jeonghan the final man left in the restaurant so there was no concern for locking up. Your paths were shared up until Leicester Square's Station, ten minutes away from the restaurant, where your destination was.
“You didn’t have to walk me here, you know,” you said, turning to him as you fished for your travel card.
Seungkwan nodded lightly, “I know…I wanted to ask you something, actually.”
You looked at him, anticipating. There were still crowds, even at this time of night, rushing in and out of the popular station, but you did not notice them, not now. Not when he was gazing at you, an indecipherable emotion flickering in his features.
He licked his lips, intaking a sharp breath before asking you. “You didn’t…regret it, right?”
You knew what he meant, of course. Because you were a piece of shit too—only a little—you took a step closer, tilting your head at him. “What do you think?”
He narrowed his eyes. “Don’t make me answer that,” he said, “Whatever I’ll say you’ll just say the opposite.”
A chuckle. “Smart man.”
Which is why you refrained from speaking the opposite—did not say anything at all as you leaned in, holding his face in your hand as you kissed him.
It was an unexpected phenomenon for him—exactly what you hoped to achieve. Still, it was welcomed, as Seungkwan moved his lips against yours, opening his mouth upon you to let a soft moan escape. The rush of London was no more—no tourists with their loud cameras, no locals with their grumblings of said-tourists. It was you and him, and this moment, captured in your lips in harmony with his.
Which is why it was difficult to break away, breathing heavily at the sensation as you watched his eyes flutter open, completely breathless. The sight had your heart constricting.
“Is that enough of an answer?” you asked him.
The smile he offered you was enough.
“WHEN ARE WE GONNA MEET SANTA CLAUS?”
The age-old question. You scanned the constant wave of local and international shoppers, twice the size of the groups you and Aeri dealt with weeks ago. “It won’t be too far now, dear,” you reassured the boy, who was frowning the further along you walked.
“We just have to find the big Christmas tree,” Sohyun explained, looking back as she led the pack. “And we would if we actually hurried up.”
The eldest within the group let out an overly dramatic sigh, raking his hands through his hair. “The Christmas tree is not going anywhere,” he commented, “I don’t know what this rush is for.”
“Just because you don’t care about Santa,” Sojung huffed, crossing his arms. “Maybe you’ve become old, Uncle Seungkwan.”
Your laughter could not drown out the scoff that escaped the accused-hag’s lips. “I’m gonna tell on you to Jinsoul.”
But the way the boy only chuckled, blowing mischievous raspberries at his dear uncle, cemented how seriously he took that threat. You watched him catch up to his sister, smiling the entire time.
“What?” your smile turned playful. “Scared he’s getting your attitude?”
“Uh, excuse me!” he started, “Firstly, I’d be the happiest man alive if he became like me. This sass is more from his mother.”
You scoffed. “That was textbook Seungkwan behaviour. You’re just too conceited to realise.”
“Conceited? Big words today, _____.”
You, however, were terribly unimpressed. “That is a normal, everyday word, Seungkwan. You should probably read a book.”
“Enough now,” he said, raising a hand, “I’m goofy, not stupid.” Your hesitance in instantly agreeing with him had him gasping. “Oh my God, you think I’m an idiot!”
“The fact you just clocked this proves my opinion even more,” you restated, shrugging to dig the blow deeper. “Sorry, buddy.”
“Don’t ‘buddy’ me,” he immediately refuted, and you glanced at him, a slight irritation in his features. “I’ve made out with you enough times to deserve a better term.”
The too-casual mention of it had you quickly scanning over the children, then glaring at him once you were satisfied by their ignorance. “Why did you say it like that?”
“What?” His earlier complaint had softened, slowly morphing into a smugness which made your lips twist, and—unfortunately—made your heartbeat quicken. “Did we not?”
You thought of the week when you first kissed him at the restaurant—the gentle touch of your lips against his, the remnants of vanilla gelato and victory prevalent on your tongues. Then, your mind caught onto the different webs of your memory, flashes of heated moments after that fateful night, mouths colliding and hands wandering in more appropriate times, in more private places. No nosy flatmate caught you two in your house, and no nosier boss disturbed you in the pantry room (thank you, said-nosier boss). Yes, you would have died if your past self learned of this newfound situation, but the bastard was good, and he knew how to make you breathless—through heated arguments and frenzied kisses.
So yes, you did make out with him more times than you would like to admit in front of him. But amongst those nights, you found yourself enjoying his company outside of your workplace, and the two people who capitalised the most out of it were his niece and nephew. When they heard that you knew of a Santa who can hand free Cadbury bars out to them in Westfield shopping centre, they jumped at the idea—as if Christmas had arrived much early.
The Santa they sought was finally seen, when, walking past another wave of shoppers, there she was, in all her stuffed-suited, fake-bearded glory, asking questions you could not hear as she shook their hand, or gently let them sit atop her padded lap. Santa caught sight of you and your group, and she smiled, quickly slipping the child she tended to a chocolate bar and waving them off.
“Ho, ho, ho, motherfuckers!” was the beautiful greeting Santa offered in her unusually low, forced baritone, and you could not contain the slight crease of your shoulders as the parents nearby whirled their heads at the words. “Oh, damn, forgot other kids were waiting too.”
“I wonder how you got the job,” you mock wondered, which had the girl underneath the costume almost whacking you on the shoulder. Not very Santa-like, thus proving your point.
Your bickering was cut short when Sohyun and Sojung appeared from behind you, looking at Aeri with a growing anticipation. “You’re the Santa giving out free chocolate, right?” the former asked.
“Ho, ho, ho! Yes, I am, kids!” your friend dug into her brown sack slugged beside her, fishing out the larger, classic flavour of the Cadbury bar, holding it out for the children. “Merry Christmas!”
As Sohyun thanked her, taking the chocolate, Sojung only glanced at her, confusion staining his little face. “Hey, I thought Santa was a man.”
Aeri, taken aback by the statement, fixed her beard, which began to slouch. “Anyone can be Santa!”
“Yeah, but Santa’s an old man,” Sojung reasoned, crossing his arms. “You sound like you’re in your thirties.”
“Thirties—” the girl’s usual chirp cut through, but then she coughed, realising she was about to argue with a child. Lowering her voice, she merely held out the Cadbury. “Just take the chocolate, little man.”
Seeing the treat was enough to quench his burning questions on Santa’s gender identity, quickly digging into the sweetness of the chocolate bricks. Aeri threw you a look, which had you snickering, sneaking closer to her.
“That was it?” Seungkwan asked, glancing at the line your friend had evoked. “People’ll do anything for free food—”
He stopped, realising that Aeri was trying to sneak you three Cadbury bars in your bag, and the sight of you feigning any sense of stealth had him clamping his lips together, trying to contain his laughter.
“Have fun on your babysitting date,” she whispered to you, and you stuck your tongue out at her before turning to the said-date—because yes, this was supposed to be a date, but the children caught wind of their uncle meeting you, and begged him to talk to you.
“Three?” he inquired, animating the number with his fingers.
“Inflation’s hit us hard,” was your only excuse, but it was a measly one. Being a dessert chef meant possessing an infinite amount of chocolates in the pantry, ranging from every flavour created in the Italian peninsula.
He said so himself. “You create desserts for a living. You see chocolate puddings more than your own parents.”
“You can never have too much,” you sang out, and the children beside you hummed in agreement. “See? The council has spoken.”
“I can’t disagree then.” Seungkwan turned to the council. “Now, Sohyun, Sojung…where do you guys want to go?”
“Can we go to the toilet first?” Sojung clutched his stomach. “I think I ate the chocolate too quickly.”
“I told you to eat it slowly!” Sohyun scolded, clicking her tongue.
“You think you know the way?” his uncle asked, to which he nodded. “Sohyun, you walk with him. I don’t want you two running off alone, okay?”
“We’ll be fine,” the girl said, waving off the concern. She clutched her brother’s arm, whose face twisted in pain the more time passed. “Come on, you idiot.”
“Keep your phones on!” The man called after them as they walked to their destination, which, as the digital maps exposed, was not too far.
As the children disappeared, you watched, concern rising. “I hope Sojung’s okay.”
“He’ll be alright.” A roll of his eyes. “Unfortunately, the pigging out on things which’ll make him sick later is a trait he got from me.”
“So all the bad habits he has are from you then?”
“Only some of them,” he admitted, which had you shaking your head. “Spend enough time with them, and they’ll learn your terrible ways, too.”
“Speak for yourself,” you snarked, “I am a perfect role model.”
“Role model, huh?” He took a step closer—as if he was not close already—and roamed his eyes over you, over a particular item of clothing. “Perfect role models don’t steal from their dates.”
Your hands instinctively clutched the scarf—the red scarf which you had not returned since he engulfed you with its warmth weeks back. “It’s not stealing,” you said, lifting your chin in defiance. “You’re the one who pretended to be a gentleman and gave it to me.”
“Okay then, I’ll give up the pretence.” Another step closer—a foot’s distance from you. “I’d like my scarf back.”
Realistically, you would have handed his precious scarf back without a fight. After all, it was his possession.
But today was cold, and the scarf was snug—warm. As welcoming as it had been when your head was wrapped around it. “It suits me more, though, don’t you think?” you taunted, fingers holding both ends of the fabric, the long, fringes dangling. “I rock it better, you have to admit.”
The man stared at you, taking in the words, washing over him. His hands reached out, snaking around your waist, and you had to calm your heart from beating out of your chest as he pulled you closer.
If this was the beginning of the winter, he would have chosen cruel words, shatter the fantasy he thought was forming in front of his eyes. This was not a fantasy, though, far from it—you, who had been a thorn at his side since the moment he stepped into the restaurant, had blossomed into a flower, flourishing before him in a newfound light.
He played along—not because it was not true, but because he believed the words that left his lips. “You do everything better than me.”
A sharp breath escaped you.
Never did you think a confession like that would ever come from Seungkwan.
His pride was his great strength, but also a formidable weakness. It was his self-confidence, his arrogance, even, that contributed to his successes, and—most importantly—his long-lasting rivalry with you. His belief in his perfection, his being the best out of all, was what made him who he was.
You guessed that he did not believe in it. Not anymore.
Still, you did not accept it. “A very touching statement,” you began, sliding your arms around him, “But I’ll do you one better.”
He shook his head. “God forbid you agree with me.”
You tilted your head back, gazing at him fully. “We’re equals, Seungkwan.”
He stared at you, widening his eyes as you continued. “Equal partners in our work, equal chefs in our creations…what I do, you do the same. It’s why we argued, and never won. One could not defeat the other…no matter how much we tried. Maybe we were meant to stay in this stalemate, you know?”
You smiled at him—your partner in the kitchen, your partner-in-crime. “It’s our losses in the restaurant, I believe, that brought us together in the end…and that, for me at least, is a win.”
Seungkwan felt his very nerves spark to life.
Come alive with a veracity akin to a rocket ship blasting fire from its ends, firing off to the universe beyond. He had experienced appreciation, passion, perhaps even tenderness—what you said to him in a shopping mall in a corner of London was extraordinary.
He tightened his grip at your sides, his expression starry-eyed. “You really think that?”
You melted into his hold, sneaking closer. “If I didn’t think it, Seungkwan, I wouldn’t say it.”
His heart ballooned in his chest, threatening to burst at the seams of his skin. He could not help himself, leaning in to press his lips against yours, and you welcomed him with open arms, closing in around him. You were unable to stop, curling your lips upwards at the sensation because happiness swirled in your stomach, fluttering uncontrollably, moreso because it was Boo Seungkwan who caused it—Boo Seungkwan, who was the catalyst to your butterflies.
Before he could go further, you remembered where you were, breaking away from his lips. His sudden murmur from the pull-away had you giggling, cheeks tinged rosy from the confession.
Your laughter, like little wind chimes singing in a spring breeze, had him speaking from the heart. “I couldn’t do this job with anyone else, you know…working together, what’s come out of it…” His stare had your heartbeat uneasy. “You’re the only one I trust.”
Although your face warmed at the words, you grinned cheekily at him. “Of course you would. Who else would you rely on? Jeonghan?”
“...a very fair point.”
Chucking, his hold on you strayed, one hand remaining. “Now, ______,” he began, sliding his hand over to your own, interlocking his fingers. “After the kids come back, where do you wanna eat? I’m starving.”
“I’m down for anything,” you said, tapping your fingers against the back of his hand. “But if I have to eat another Italian dessert for the next week I’m causing a massacre in the restaurant.”
“So the usual tiramisu with whipped cream on the side, then?” he offered, which had you squeezing his hand. “What? I’m not ungrateful like you. I like to eat anything.”
“Says the one who said he’d shrivel and die if he had to eat almond amarettis for the second time.”
“That’s different!” he tried to explain, “I nearly choked on one doing the trialling.”
You swung your intertwined hands. “All I hear is weak-ass excuses, Seungkwan!”
“At least I’m not advocating on adding grass to my pannacottas,” he muttered, starting to walk forwards.
You halted him, furrowing your eyebrows. “For the last time, they’re bay leaves!”
“Yeah, which shouldn’t be on my desserts!”
“Okay, don’t add them to your shitty sweets, then,” you crowed, “Cause I’m suffocating my pannacottas in them.”
His eyes began to glimmer, and you realised that he successfully baited you into irritation. “Maybe I spoke too soon on trusting you with my life in the kitchen,” he teased, but you groaned, prying your hand from his. “Hey, hey, okay, maybe bay leaves aren’t the worst garnish known to man!”
“And maybe I’m going back to counting and laughing at your losses,” you snapped, but Seungkwan was laughing, and your cheeks were burning. “One more laugh out of that big mouth of yours, and I’m throwing mascarpone cream at you. Maybe this time we’ll finally be fired.”
He stopped in your tracks, making you pause your stomping away. “I’d like to see you try,” he dared, and when you looked back at him, the challenge rising in your gaze, he felt his soul come alive.
You knew it too. “Don’t tempt me, Seungkwan. I’ll win this time.”
And as he leaned in, crossing his arms and staring you down, you held your ground, providing no room to give in. His proud smirk had you remembering the old days—and not grimacing. “Famous last words.”
A scoff was the rest of the conversation, but the showdown of your eyes, locked with his, was not over.
Yes, you both may have grown a mutual respect, even developed a fondness—but you were you and Seungkwan was Seungkwan. Perhaps battling it out with a man you rather liked would consequently make shouting at him a little easier.
As you mirrored his arrogant expression, the two of you knew that the kitchen had yet to see more battles.
Well—there was always the spring menu. Let the petty rivalry (laced with just a slight touch of affection) begin once more.
Themes: Smut | Angst | Historical AU | Fated Lovers | Slow Burn | Forbidden Romance | Immortality and Reincarnation | T.W.: mentions of loss, death, illness, war, religion and belief
Wordcount: 24.1K
Playlist: 'Habibi' - Tamino | 'Take Me To Church' - Hozier | 'Can't Catch Me Now' - Olivia Rodrigo | 'Say Yes To Heaven' - Lana Del Rey | 'Never Let Me Go' - Florence + The Machine
Smut Warnings: Explicit sexual acts - Oral (M. Receiving) - PIV - Unprotected intercourse - Praise - Yearning (is that even a warning?) - Very soft dom! FMC - Slight choking
This story is intended for an adult audience only. Minors do not interact.
You tell yourself that silence is just another kind of music.
The Rose Main Reading Room hums beneath its painted heavens, the fluorescents purring while the steady rustle of paper makes a weather of its own. Long tables shine with the soft fatigue of evening. You sit inside your lamp’s small island of gold, surrounded by acid-free boxes and foam cradles, and the old leather smell that books exhale after centuries of careful touch. Crusader-era manuscripts lay around you: a psalter whose spine looks like a healed wound, a fragment that keeps losing the same corner to time. Your pencil ticks against the edge of a catalogue card, a metronome for the work of naming what remains.
“Still here?” a passing guard murmurs, half-amused.
“Two more folios,” you whisper back, because quiet is a courtesy and a creed here.
You are cataloguing foliation and hand, measuring stitching, noting small miracles—a bird’s footnote scrawled by a monk, a thumbprint trapped in varnish, the way a word breaks mid-syllable as if the scribe was called to prayer and never quite returned to the same sentence. The work makes your shoulders ache in a way you welcome. There is comfort in the task of placing each thing in its lineage, of admitting it into a record that will outlive you.
When you look up, you are not alone.
A man stands two shelves away, where the shadows make a narrow valley. He is not pretending to browse. His eyes are on you—not rude, not hungry, not even curious, exactly; intent, as if measuring something only he can see. Dark coat, quiet hands, the posture of someone who has learned how not to take up space. He does not look like a researcher. He does not have a phone out. He watches you as if he has been waiting for you to lift your head.
You tell yourself it is harmless. People stare at readers all the time here—tourists hushed by the cathedral feel of the room, donors trying to fall in love with the idea of preservation, the occasional poet searching for a face to belong to a line. You lower your eyes and keep working. You do not notice your breath has shortened by a line or two.
You finish a note and rise to return a box to the cart for the vault. The room’s silence shifts around your movement. As you pass, something small strikes the parquet with a sound like a coin surrendering: a locket, iron-dark and oval, has slipped from the stranger’s pocket. It falls so near your foot that the briefest breeze of it brushes your ankle.
It springs open.
Inside lies a white lily, pressed flat, petals unfrayed, veins like the finest watermark. You expect dust; there is none. You expect the papery smell of old herbarium, and instead, a whisper of green and sweetness rises, distinct as if a florist had just broken a stem in the next aisle. Your chest tightens with a sudden, inexplicable ache. A thought crosses—ridiculous, out of nowhere—that you have seen this flower before, not as an object, but as an event. You steady your hand on the cart’s handle and do not move.
He is already bending, but you are quicker. You reach down and, without quite knowing why, pinch the locket shut before your fingers meet the petals. Cool metal meets your skin. The ache eases and then returns in the same second, like stepping in and out of sunlight.
“You dropped this,” you say, the line between habit and kindness thin in places like this.
His eyes lift to yours. Up close, they look dark the way wells look dark, because what they are holding is too deep to see. He takes the locket from your palm carefully. His fingers do not brush yours, yet somehow you feel the nearness of them like a small, retained heat.
“Thank you,” he says, voice soft enough not to disturb the quiet.
“It’s beautiful,” you hear yourself add, surprised by your own honesty. “Old?”
He studies the oval in his hand, as if confirming that it still exists. “Older than I am,” he answers, and a ghost of a smile almost happens before it isn’t allowed to.
You nod, already turning back to work, because there is safety in the lit rectangle of your table, and because something in his face presses against the part of you that does not wish to be seen. You slide the manuscript box back into its cradle. When you look up again—to be polite, to offer a small smile that says no harm done—he has stepped back.
“Forgive me,” he whispers.
It is not addressed to the room. It is not, exactly, addressed to you, either. It is the kind of sentence that knows it will have to be repeated one day and says it anyway.
“For what?” you ask before you can stop yourself.
He shakes his head once, an apology in the shape of refusal. “For being here,” he says, as if his presence itself were an offence—and then he is retreating toward the aisles, vanishing from your sight.
“Wait—” you begin, a reflex more than a choice, but the word falls empty in the air. He is gone by the time the syllable finds him.
You stand still a moment, the afterimage of him a smudge in your sight. The locket’s outline has been printed, briefly, into your skin. You rub it away and feel foolish for the superstition. The scent of lily is gone. You tell yourself you imagined it, that the room smells as it always does—paper, dust, the faint soap of janitor’s product, old wood. Your heart, however, is behaving as if you have run somewhere and cannot remember where.
A porter in a grey sweater pauses near your table, eyes flicking from your face to the boxes. “Need anything before we close?”
“No, thanks,” you say. “I’m just finishing notes.”
The lamps hum. The catalogue form waits. You sit. You try to find your place in the notes—binding threads, undecorated, later repair; rubrication inconsistent; marginal hand suggests—what? You pause. Your pen hovers over the inventory line for inscriptions, and you realise your hand has been writing without permission: All hours end—
You stop. You scratch it out. You do not know where the phrase came from. It feels as if you have overheard two people speaking and caught only the turn of a sentence as it slipped through a door. You look toward the shelves where the stranger had stood.
You tell yourself you should ask circulation whether he signed in, purely for the log, purely for the comfort of knowing the man was not a dream. You do not.
The psalter waits in its sling. You loosen the straps like a nurse unbinding a bandage. Your hands know the ritual, and your focus returns to its narrow rhythm: title, date, origin, hand, illuminations, marginalia. The work steadies you. You are good at this. You did not come here to be unsettled by strangers with antique lockets.
But the body is not a thing that agrees to be argued with. It holds onto what it noticed. As you move through the pages, you keep expecting to find lilies hidden in the creases, to see a petal stranded in the hairline crack of a gilded initial. When you do find a flower—a crude ink sketch, nothing like a lily—you almost laugh, except the ache rises again, brief and precise. You sit back and press your palm to your sternum until the muscle remembers the ordinary algorithm of beating.
Closing announcements float in. You begin to repack, placing foam where it belongs, easing the book back into its box so the spine won’t develop bad habits. You fill out the vault request and sign your name in block letters because they are legible, and because legibility is an ethic. You turn off your lamp, and the world dims around you. The ceiling seems farther away.
On your way down the aisle, you see a thin line of shadow on the floor where the locket fell. It is only a trick of light. You step over it.
In the lobby, the marble keeps its own cold silence. You show your badge; the guard stamps the time; the doors open on Fifth Avenue’s noise. Taxis weave their yellow lines through the dark streets. Winter has stripped the night down to its bare bones, and each breath leaves your mouth in a pale cloud, drifting ahead as if to lead you home. At the library steps you pause, glancing back through the glass.
The stranger is not there.
You tell yourself a story to keep the night in order. A man looked at you too long. A locket fell. You returned it. He left. People carry the strangest things in this city; you once found a pressed four-leaf clover in a mystery from 1968, a lipstick kiss in a law book, a ticket stub folded into a poem. A lily is only a flower. A locket is only metal. Forgive me is only a phrase.
You walk away, the ache in your chest softening at last. Buses sigh. A couple argues softly and laughs in the same breath. Someone’s radio survives on a balcony, trembling out an old song you don’t recognise. You slip your hands into your coat pockets and find the leftover heat of the reading room still clinging to your fingers.
At the corner, the light turns, and you cross. For a second, you think you see him reflected in a storefront window, coat a dark cutout against the crowd, but when you turn, it’s only the city being the city—faces that look like other faces, lives that pass near yours and keep on walking.
When you get home, your apartment smells faintly of paper, soap, and something green you cannot name. You set your tote on the table and pull out your notebook to make one last note for yourself to find in the morning: Check fol. 73 for marginal hand; gilding test; confirm watermarks. The pencil hesitates; you add, without meaning to: Ask about the man in the dark coat. You stare at the sentence until it blushes you into crossing it out.
You shower. You stand by the window with wet hair, the city letting down its own. You think of the locket. You think of his voice saying thank you, like the start of a longer sentence he never let himself finish. You think of lilies, though you have never been a lily person. You couldn’t even say what they smelled like, except that from tonight on, you would know them anywhere.
Sleep comes late. When it finally does, it brings you a corridor of stone and the sound of wind where a roof should be. Someone kneels where an altar isn’t. Someone is holding a white flower as if it were the last proof that something had lived. You reach for the stem.
You wake with your hand open on your sheets, palm empty, your chest sore from the pounding of your heart.
In the morning, you will tell yourself that silence is just another kind of music. Tonight, you listen to it and cannot quite decide what it’s trying to play.
Wonwoo has taught himself how to live with windows.
The penthouse is all clean angles and restraint—white walls, a long grey sofa that has never learned his shape, a table of black stone with no memory of meals. From this height, the city looks obedient: streets scrolling, lights ciphering meaning to anyone patient enough to read them. Wonwoo sits with his coat still on, because removing it would suggest rest, and rest is a language his body refuses to relearn.
He thinks of you in the lamp’s circle, the way your brow furrowed when a glyph misbehaved, the birthmark a crescent on your wrist. He has memorised these details before. He had promised himself that if he ever saw them again he would walk in the opposite direction. Mercy, he told himself, is distance.
“Leave,” he says into the glass, because sometimes words have to be spoken into existence to take.
The word does not move him.
He sets the locket on the table and does not open it. The iron oval lies there with quiet gravity, an object that survived not because it is strong but because it is stubborn. He turns away, palms the edge of the counter until his fingers ache, then wanders the perimeter of the room as if it might grow an exit he has not yet found.
Traffic rises and falls below him. Somewhere, a siren sounds thin and frantic through the dark. A helicopter scratches itself across the sky. In the kitchen, he fills a glass. He drinks, and the cold liquid does what it can to convince him he is only a man who happens to be tired.
He closes his eyes and the library returns in uncanny fidelity: plaster skies, green lamp shades, your hand steadying a page. Your voice was different this time—cultured, steadier, with the slight roughness that people who love quiet acquire as their own. You said, “You dropped this.” He had taken the locket back because that is what the scene required. He had said, “Thank you.” He had said, “Forgive me.” A liturgy of leaving. He did not leave.
The coat remains. The room keeps the shape of his not-leaving.
A memory opens without warning.
Heat pressed over the whole day. Leather tack slick with brine sweat. Camp smoke knitting itself into the wind off the water. A prayer bell somewhere, stubborn in its schedule, ringing a good hour into a bad one. Wonwoo stands with his helmet in his hands because his head is too loud to put it back on. Across the yard, a woman bends over a row of bodies. Bandages soak through before she ties the knots. She moves as if she is trying to teach the sand mercy.
You look up at him and shake your head once: no blood, not yours, not his. The look is not unkind; it just refuses to be fooled. You say, “You’re not wounded.” He says nothing because he has not been taught how to confess the kind of hurt that does not bleed. You gesture to his hands, raw where the reins cut, and add, “Sit. Let me at least wash this.”
Water is more miracle than metal ever was. He watches the red leech into the bowl as if colour is a sin that can be coaxed out with patience. You hum something under your breath that is not a psalm and not not a psalm. When he flinches at the sting of vinegar, you say, “I know.” The words are small, but they are a bridge, and he stands on them without remembering how his feet moved.
The din of the yard will not be argued with. He looks where you look and sees a boy—no beard, no story yet—trying to understand why his breath won’t stay. You touch the boy’s cheek and lie to him the way good people are allowed to lie. Afterwards, you stand very still and bow your head, and when you lift it, your face has put on its mask again. He thinks that if God is not paying attention to this, then God is inattentive.
He does not notice you have stepped away until you return. You place something in his hand, and he mistakes it for a piece of cloth until his fingers relearn petals: a white lily, fresh from somewhere that still believes in freedom. You say, “For the smell on your hands.” He brings it near because one learns obedience to simple instructions young. For a second, the air is only green and sweet and clean. He has the thought, reckless and exact: if he lives, it will be because of this.
Wonwoo opens his eyes to the present, and the locket is the only thing in the room that looks like it understands. He reaches for it and stops himself. The old discipline holds: do not invite the past closer than it already stands.
“Leave,” he repeats, softer, to no avail.
He goes to the bedroom and takes a suitcase from the closet. He lays shirts in rows, as if they were prayer beads. He chooses a passport. He does not choose a destination. He is a man who has learned to make departures look like decisions.
He sits on the edge of the bed and tries to learn the trick of imagining you safe without him. He pictures you in the library, frowning at a colophon, squinting at a watermark as if it owes you its genealogy. He pictures you on a city bus at noon, exactly the kind of person fate would never think to look for. The pictures do not hold. They dissolve into other scenes he does not want: the dull algebra of accident, the ugly lottery of crowds, the simple, indifferent math of illness. He presses his fingers into his eyes until sparks dance in his vision. He loosens his hands, and the room returns intact.
On the nightstand, a book he is not reading waits with patient disinterest. He flips it open and pretends the words are a river that might take him elsewhere. They are not. He sets the book down spine-open, hating himself for the small violence, and closes it again, apology mindless, automatic.
The suitcase remains open.
He goes back to the window because windows have, over time, been kinder to him than mirrors. The city stares back without blinking. He tracks the build of clouds over the river until he remembers to breathe in time with them. He counts seconds between siren dopplers. He speaks aloud because silence has begun to taste like hunger.
“I will not see you again,” he says to the glass, to the skyline, to the version of himself that once believed practice could make truth.
The sentence falls flat and fails to take root.
Another memory shifts.
Clay dust in his mouth. The glitter of grit when the sun loses patience. The way you held the lily by its throat so the stem wouldn’t bruise. You said, “All hours end, but love does not,” and he did not know if you were telling him a story or a diagnosis. He tucked the flower into the inside of his breastplate and later into a book and later into this oval of iron, and it never learned how to crumble. He did not either.
He picks up the locket and weighs it, pressing a thumb to its hinge. He does not open it. He will not open it. He presses it flat to the stone tabletop, the metal clicking quietly.
He imagines you sleeping. He imagines you waking. He imagines you stepping into the cold morning with your tote bag and your careful hands and the part of your mind that makes lists. He imagines the ache you must have felt—that brief press under the breastbone when the scent rose—because his own chest has not unclenched since.
He closes the suitcase and stands there with his hand on the handle until his arm shakes. He leaves it by the door like a promise, the kind he knows he cannot keep.
He turns off the lights, and the window becomes the whole wall. In the reflection, he looks like what he is: a man lonelier than furniture, a man practised at not reaching out. He thinks of every departure that did not save you and of every staying that did not either. He knows the math and does not believe in it.
“Mercy,” he says to no one, the word unfamiliar in his mouth but not unwelcome.
Wonwoo goes back to the table, takes the locket and slips it into his pocket. He shrugs out of the coat and finally lets the room meet him in shirtsleeves. He lines the suitcase against the wall as if squaring up a picture frame. He sits again, elbows on his knees, head bowed as if prayer is a posture that might still remember him.
Across the city, a bell rings. He counts its strikes and stops before the end, because endings have a way of calling themselves back when named. He closes his eyes, and the library lifts its green lamps like a field of patient stars, and you look up, and he is again the man who told himself he would walk in the opposite direction.
He does not.
You tell yourself that coincidence is just pattern wearing a disguise.
The archives settle around you —cooler than the reading room, the lights dimmed to gentleness so the vellum won’t remember the harsh sun. You badge in, sign the log and tug on cotton gloves. Tonight’s cart is a sober parade: folios in blue clamshells, a fragment pressed between mylar sheets, a chronicle whose spine sounds like crackling fire when it moves.
You take the top box and carry it to your station, a little world bordered by foam wedges, a snake weight, a pencil stub sharpened to a scholar’s impatience. The lid lifts with a quiet ceremony you never rush. Inside lies an illuminated manuscript; gold leaf glints only where the scribe needed heaven to make a point. You write the call number; you check the binding; you note the repaired cords and the honest stitches of someone respectful who came before you.
Leaf by leaf, you make a map of its small marvels: a capital that looks like a vine, a rubric whose red has faded into the gentlest rust, a fly wing fossilised in varnish like a tiny window into a different era. Minutes loosen. Your shoulders promise you they’ll complain later. You love them for it.
Halfway through, near the seam where a new hand begins, you find him.
At first, it is only the suggestion of a face, sketched in the margin like the pictures apprentices draw when sermons run long. Then the lines resolve: a brow, the set of a mouth, the improbable calm of eyes that have watched too long. A Crusader’s coif caps his head; a sword hovers beside him with the no-nonsense pride of a tool that has been told it is sacred. The style is quick and practised, the way a person draws what they know by heart.
You lean closer until the cotton of your glove brushes the edge of the drawing. The likeness is not perfect—that would be absurd—but it is too near to be coincidence. Your throat tightens and then, as if corrected by a librarian in your head, clears for sense.
Beneath the sketch, in a neat, unhurried Latin, a line runs parallel to the page’s edge, so faint you nearly miss it: Omnes horae finiunt, amor autem non. You mouth it softly. All hours end, but love does not.
You sit back and laugh under your breath. The sound skitters across the table. “Okay,” you whisper to no one, to the book, to the version of yourself that occasionally indulges in melodrama, “that’s a bit on the nose.” The joke doesn’t land anywhere. The face keeps being his.
“Everything alright?” a colleague asks from the next station, voice pitched.
“Found a marginal sketch,” you say, because that is all you can afford out loud. “Crusader. Very… committed chin.”
A soft chuckle, the community of people who have loved too many sketches to count. “Photograph it for the file,” she murmurs, and goes back to her pages.
You lift the snake weight from the box and take the institutional camera from its drawer. The red dot wakes. You angle the lens, shield the page with your other hand to avoid shadow, and capture the face and the line in two, three frames. You log the image, note the folio, add a line to your worksheet: f. 47r: marginal drawing of miles Christi; Latin aphorism beneath (ink, faint). You do not write: He looks back at me.
The rest of the manuscript behaves. It offers you saints with credible haloes, chalices that catch the light, and a map whose idea of the world is a lesson in humility. You finish your notes, return the pages to their foam, and tie the cloth tape into a bow.
You wheel the cart back through the aisles. On the way, you pass the small mirror the conservators use to check the angle of light. Your face looks like a person who has had too much coffee and too many hours, which is to say, like a person doing her best at the thing she is almost certain she was built to do. You add the box to the outgoing shelf, sign the ledger, and remove your gloves. Your fingers look more naked than they should.
At your locker, you pause. The archive hums evenly; the air stays the same temperature it was ten minutes ago; no new holiness announces itself. You close the locker gently, as if noise could hurt a page in your absence, and make your way up into the brighter world.
Night is a scroll you could read blind. The sidewalk is busy enough to be a lullaby. You stop at a deli for something careless and salty, you climb your stairs, you eat standing at the sink because the day has already used up your good chairs. You mean to watch something dumb and kind to your brain. Instead, you pull the camera file up on your laptop and enlarge the margin until the pixels argue with the ink.
He looks back at you. He keeps doing it.
You close the lid.
Sleep is a negotiation. You let the room darken one lamp at a time until the city is the only light left, a stripe on your wall. You lie down on top of the covers and listen to the radiator. Your body empties of the archive’s carefulness. Your mind does not.
When the dream arrives, it is not announced. You are simply elsewhere, as efficiently as a page flipped by a practised hand. Stone cools the air. A roof is missing where a roof ought to be. The sky is a dark river no one has bothered to name. He stands in armour the way a tree stands in bark—not adorned, only itself. A sword hangs at his side, less a threat than a vow.
He is not the exact man from the reading room, and he is also exactly him. His face is a ledger of distances. His eyes find yours, and something in your chest answers like a bell rung from inside. There is mud at the hem of his cloak. There is a scent of smoke and something green underneath it that your body calls lily before your mind has permission to.
“All hours end, but love does not,” someone says—not him, not you, not anyone you can locate—and the words line the air with a certainty you resent for how right it feels.
You reach toward him as if the gesture is older than you are, and he opens his mouth to say something that will change what your life is called. The dream does not give him time. It closes, the way a book sometimes refuses to be read past grief it did not earn.
You wake with your hand pressed over your heart, pulse kicking the inside of your palm. The room arranges itself around you: radiator, stripe of light, the faint city noise. You sit up slowly.
“Get a grip,” you whisper to the version of yourself that requires instructions.
Water helps. You drink from the tap and taste metal, Manhattan, and the ghost of mint from the glass. In the mirror above the sink, your face looks exactly like yours—which is to say unreliable as evidence. You go back to bed and pick up your notebook, meaning to write ‘buy detergent’ or ‘email mom about Saturday’ or anything that pins life to its sensible board. Your hand writes instead: ‘Omnes horae finiunt, amor autem non’.
You tuck the notebook under the pillow because some parts of you still behave like childhood and believe in proximity. You switch off the lamp and let the dark be the dark. Before sleep comes again, softer this time, you see the margin in your mind and the face in its sketch, and you tell yourself that tomorrow you will be rational, methodical, a scientist of paper.
Coincidence, you promise yourself, is only pattern wearing a disguise. And yet your hand, unconsulted, stays over your heart until you sleep.
Wonwoo walks the alleys the way a man relearns a prayer.
Smoke unspools from the quarter where oil pots were tipped, and the wind carries a brine that recollects better centuries. Mail bites his shoulders with its patient teeth. Every sound is too close to the ear—clatter of corrugated shields, horses stamping, a boy laughing like he has not yet been told what a trumpet means at night. He moves with his helmet under his arm to quiet the noise inside his head. In the crook of a shattered wall, a shadow shifts and becomes you.
You reach for his hands. Your veil pulls back enough to show the half-moon scar you keep hidden from strangers, the one he kissed last week behind the granaries when no one was watching. Your fingers smell of vinegar and clean cloth and the insistence of life. You do not waste his name on the open street; you touch his wrists where the leather rubs skin raw and say with your eyes what cannot be said aloud.
“Sit,” you command softly, as if rank does not exist here, as if the alley is a small republic for two. He obeys because he has learned obedience to what is merciful. You tip water into a basin, and the dust turns it the colour of blood; you do not flinch. You wash the burns where the sun rehearsed cruelty on him and bind the lashes the reins carved. Above you both, a muezzin’s call threads the sky, and farther off, a bell insists on Christ’s hour. Between them, your hum finds a third line—neither, both—and he steadies.
“Eat,” you say, pressing a fig into his palm as if sweetness can be smuggled into war. He almost smiles. Almost. Your gaze scans his face with the competence of a healer and the recklessness of a lover. Reckless because he is what he is—cross on his tunic, Latin in his mouth when the captains listen—and you are what you are—daughter of a man whose house gives water freely to the thirsty on both sides. Reckless because the ways you have touched each other would earn the kind of punishment that likes to call itself righteous.
He watches the way your throat moves when you swallow a breath. You have a way of standing that makes stillness look like a plan. He wants to tell you something simple—stay behind the thickest wall you can find; when the trumpet calls, make yourself as small as a prayer and twice as stubborn—but he has already learned you are not a thing that stays when pain is required to be shared.
He closes his eyes and presses his brow to your temple as if the air could be divided fairly that way. The street is briefly only the two of you and the small citizenship of light the moon grants the disobedient.
“Tonight will be bad,” he says, and his voice is steady because he has borrowed your steadiness.
“We have lived through bad,” you answer, not as a boast but as a measurement. Your hand lingers at his jaw as if memorising the map of a man that will be redrawn by morning.
He turns his face into your palm and would stay there if time were a thing he could argue with. But time is a governor who answers to no one, and the horn cuts your time in half. You tuck your veil, gather your satchel, and he almost grabs your wrist to keep you still. He does not, because he will not insult your courage with his fear.
The city tilts toward its pain. Torches leap into the dark. The air thickens with instructions shouted in three languages, each convinced it was first. He moves with his unit, and you disappear into the low doorway where the wounded already begin to be counted. He looks back once and catches the briefest glance you allow him, the one that says: I am here, and I will be until I cannot.
Hours are elastic when they are burning. The first rush is a mouth with too many teeth; the second is a tide that does not learn. He loses count of the men who call for mothers they made angry and for saints they have not spoken to since they were twelve. He does not lose count of where the doorway is that swallows you and returns you again and again with your sleeves red to the elbow.
Then the sky fills with arrows. They rise in a black, whispering cloud, obedient to a thousand thoughtless hands, and come down like rain. He has time to think this volley sounds wrong—the angle, the pace, the discipline of it is theirs, not yours—and in that same breath, he sees you break from the shelter with a strip of linen clenched between your teeth, running toward a boy whose chest is bleeding.
The arrow finds you with indifference. It enters at the side beneath your ribs, as if the space there had been kept clean for precisely this guest. For a second, you keep running because the body is dutiful; then your knees understand the new story and begin to tell it to the ground.
He is moving. He is faster than he has ever been when speed could have won him honour. He reaches you. Your mouth is trying to form a reassurance for him; blood interrupts your speech. He catches you before the street can claim you entirely and knows by the shaft, by the cut of the fletching, by the cheap glue, that the bow that sent this was strung by hands that share his bread.
“No,” he says. He looks toward the line of his comrades and does not see faces, only the general shape of betrayal wearing helmets.
“Help… him,” you manage, eyes sliding toward the boy you were running to save.
“You,” he answers, because grammar has no patience left for charity.
He breaks the shaft because he has done this for others, and your breath rasps hatefully at his competence. He lifts you, and the world shrinks to your weight and the careful task of not jarring you. He avoids your father’s doorway; he cannot bear for the last room to be the place where you have mended so much. He takes you to the ruined chapel on the edge of the quarter where children dare each other to pray and run laughing when they answer.
Roof gone. Altar split. Icons scraped until the wood confessed it was only wood. Moonlight through smoke draws streaks of light through the air. He lays you where an altar should be, careful as a scribe laying down gold leaf. Your veil slides, and he smooths it, because if he can fix this one small thing, then perhaps the larger thing will take the hint.
Your lips are pale. Your breath measures wrong. He looks for something to press against the wound and finds only his own cloth. He presses. The warmth of you runs over his fingers, honest as truth and twice as costly.
“It’s not deep,” you lie, because good people are allowed liars’ privileges when fear would otherwise win the fight.
“I will carry you out of this city,” he promises, and it sounds believable because he has not yet met the version of himself that knows what it is to be too late.
He looks around for anything worthy enough to be near you at this hour and sees a patch where small things have dared to grow in the cracks. He finds a lily among the stubborn blades—white, whole—and brings it to the altar ruins. He places it on your chest above the place where the arrow entered, and his hands shake with a fury that has run out of places to hide itself.
“Do you remember,” you whisper, and the whisper is so soft he thinks perhaps it is only something his mind imagined, “the cistern where the swifts drink at dusk? Take me there, in your mind.”
“I am there,” he says, because he can be two places at once if you ask in that voice, “the water is black and kind, and your hand is on my sleeve.”
Your eyes try to smile. He presses his forehead to your knuckles and feels the cool of your skin. Words pile up behind his teeth and refuse to go through the door. The ones that do cross are blunt.
“Why not me,” he begs to no one he has ever seen, “why not me?”
He looks up into the roofless dark and does what he has never done in this posture: he shouts at the God he serves.
“Is this Your mercy?” he demands, voice scraping, “Is this Your holy arithmetic? You preach love and then count like this?”
The chapel takes his blasphemy the way a sponge takes water—without argument, only absorption. He feels the exact instant when the warmth that used to rise under his breastbone at the name of Christ goes out, like a hand taking its heat away from his back. The absence is total and exquisitely precise. He does not care. He would burn any cathedral if a single stone would change its mind and become a body you could live in again.
Footsteps enter the ruin with the callous courtesy of soft leather. A figure stands in the crumbled doorway. Robe dark, hands clean, a tonsure that shines in moonlight.
“Son,” the priest says, “do not waste the little time grief gives you. There are accounts beyond this city. There are lives beyond this hour.”
Wonwoo turns in disdain.
“If you have come to make God legible to me, leave,” he says, “His book is closed.”
The figure steps closer, the moon stitching silver along his sleeve.
“Not to explain,” he answers, “to offer. You love her. Your face is the face of a man who has finally met what he was made to worship and has been told to let it go. I can let you keep it.”
The words fall oddly in the chapel, as if the walls remember other bargains and are bracing themselves.
“Keep what?” he asks, and the question is not an invitation so much as a dare.
“Time,” the priest says gently, “yours. Enough of it to see her again. Enough to be there when the world is kinder to the love taken from you too soon.”
Wonwoo lifts your hand and presses it to his mouth as if you can be convinced to stay by being told how necessary you are to the air he breathes. Your pulse brushes his lip.
“At what price?” He asks because even in blasphemy, he has learned to haggle.
“The coin you do not value now,” the priest answers, and the kindness in the tone is a precise cruelty, “your soul. It is already halfway out of your body. Let it go the rest of the way with my permission, and I will not count it as theft. I will count it as an exchange.”
He looks down at you, and his surroundings fade. He sees, with a clarity that will never leave him, the way your lashes have caught a grain of sand, the way your mouth shapes his name, the way the lily lifts and settles with the small, stubborn remainder of your breathing. He understands that there is no arithmetic that returns you to him in this hour.
He is a man carved to decide quickly under pressure; the habit keeps him alive longer than men with better stories. He sets his jaw.
“Say it,” the priest prompts, “agree, and what remains of this night will balance differently. There will be a path for you in the years. There will be—her, when the wheel comes round.”
He does not believe in wheels. He believes in the weight of you, and the smell of smoke, and the exactness of grief that has no patience left for theology.
“Yes,” he says, and the word is ugly and beautiful at once, “whatever I am, take it. Give me time to see her again.”
Something—not a wind, not a light—moves through the ruin, and the walls lean in as if to witness the change.
“Done,” the priest says, “and done again.”
Wonwoo looks back at you to memorise what he will spend the rest of his forever searching. Your eyes are on him. They are the clearest thing in the ruin. He leans until his brow meets yours again and says into your skin what the chapel does not deserve to hear and the city cannot punish because the hour is too far gone.
“All hours end,” he breathes, “but love does not.”
Your mouth moves, and he almost hears the answer he is waiting for. Then the lily stops moving. Outside, arrows learn another sky. He gathers you and the flower and the wreckage of his faith and steps into the remainder of the night as if it were a door he has only now learned how to open.
Rush hour makes a river of bodies, and you have long learned how to float.
The train bursts into the station with its usual rattle, doors gasping open to swallow the sea of people. Perfume, cold iron, and old brake dust braid the air. You step in sideways, shoulder-first, and find a sliver of space by the pole, knuckles whitening as the car lurches back into the tunnel.
He is three bodies down, the only one not negotiating for inches. The crowd eddies around him as if he has learned a private geometry of stillness. He doesn’t reach for the rail. He doesn’t brace his knees. The car lurches; your knuckles whiten; his balance holds as if the train is merely passing through him. When the lights strobe across his face, he looks up at the exact moment you do, and your eyes catch across the hiccuping fluorescent.
Your breath hitches.
You glance at the overhead map, at the ads—lawyers with too-perfect smiles, a new streaming show you won’t watch—at anything that might distract you. The train bumps through its stations, each name blinking past like a fact you will remember later. You pull your scarf higher.
The car is a choir of small lives. A woman taps a recipe into her notes app. A teenager falls asleep on a friend’s shoulder the second the doors close. Someone laughs into a phone and then apologises for the noise, like it’s unwelcome. You hold the pole and try to pretend you haven’t learned to listen.
When you look again, the stranger hasn’t looked away. A tunnel light slashes across his face; for a second you see him as a photograph—clean lines, more shadow than expression—and the ache you’ve been ignoring presses under your ribs again.
Two stops later, the crowd loosens. A seat opens between a man in paint-splattered pants and a woman corralling a stroller with one foot. You move without thinking. Your thigh finds the seat’s plasticky chill; your bag topples, and you fumble it back into order. When you look up, he is there, sliding into the space opposite yours with the same infuriating stillness, as if motion were a courtesy he extends only to others.
For a beat too long, neither of you remembers what people usually do with their eyes. You choose the train window and get only your own reflection. He chooses the floor and gets your shoes and the shadow your knees make. The train slows, throws a little fit, and then coasts.
You are not going to speak. It is New York; the social contract is mostly made of looking elsewhere. But your mouth, treacherous with curiosity, opens before your sense can close it.
“We keep running into each other.”
He studies the braid of your scarf for a heartbeat, then meets your gaze. His reply lands like a gentle truth.
“I’ve tried not to.”
A full train doesn’t deserve that line. It belongs somewhere with better acoustics—an empty church, maybe, or a stairwell that knows your name. You look down at your hands, and you notice, with a flare of embarrassment, that you’ve been pressing your thumb against your inner wrist, right where the small crescent of your birthmark lives. The skin there is warm, not burning, just the sensible heat of a body.
A busker boards two cars down and works his way forward. He sings about a city that both loves and forgets its people, and about someone who didn’t stay, and someone who did. The cup fills with coins and folded bills. He doesn’t reach your row; the doors open at the next stop, and the singer leaves.
You feel the pull of your stop before the announcement—your weight leaning minutely toward the doors, fingers checking the strap of your tote. A thought creeps in: touch his sleeve when you pass. Ridiculous. Intimate. You do not.
The chime first, the slide of doors after. You step out onto the tile of the underground.
You don’t look back. That, in itself, is a kind of looking. Your feet know the drill: up the stairs, through the turnstile, and the particular left that leads to the exit.
Blocks later, your front door comes into view. Inside, home is lights you forgot to turn off and the leftover warmth of your morning mug. You leave your coat open because the apartment’s heat is slow; you kick your boots into some semblance of order; you drink water and savour the day. You try to start a show and stare through it until even the recap would be embarrassed for you. The urge to call someone hums and fades; you do not want a conversation about strangers on trains. You want proof.
Your laptop makes its way onto your lap. You draft a message to a colleague—Maya would know which finding aids might hide a similar hand—but your fingers pause over the keyboard. This is not a question you are ready to ask out loud. You delete the draft and tell yourself you’ll walk it back tomorrow, when the day is bright and coffee makes your mind a stricter librarian. Eventually, the bed persuades you.
Sleep takes you in pieces.
Heather, springy, brushing your calves. The sky is stretched thin and blue. Wind shoulders the clouds from one hill to another. Your skirt is muddied to the knee. Your hands are stained with something that will wash if there is washing left to do.
The glen holds its light as if hoarding it for a longer winter. A dun horse at the edge, ears angled. A man swings down, and the ground welcomes him. Plaid slants across his chest, not decoration but statement. The steel at his hip is not silvered pride; it has the look of use. His eyes find you.
A whistle—two notes—human, not bird. You could hum it if someone woke you and asked. You do, but only in your head.
A low stone bridge, water bubbling under, white foam in the current. Your palm meets his wrist, then doesn’t, and then does again. He says something you don’t catch, and then you do; your name. Elspeth. It arrives in an accent you haven’t encountered, and it fits you better than anything you’ve been called all week.
Smoke, peat-sweet and stubborn. Laughter cut by the clap of hooves and the smell that arrives before men with bad intentions. A word you shouldn’t know—reiver—lands in your stomach. The hillside stiffens; the air goes tight as a bowstring.
He could run. He does not.
Beloved, the wind says—or maybe it is him, or the hill, or the piece of you that has always known the exact weight of that word.
You jolt awake. The radiator ticks. A siren makes a quick geometry across your ceiling. You sit up and press your palm against your inner wrist again, where the crescent lives.
You breathe slowly, like a person learning how again. The dream peels away, leaving only wet edges. You make yourself catalogue one detail at a time—bridge, plaid, the whistle, the river trying to win its argument with rock. You are not afraid of forgetting; you are wary of believing.
You reach for your notebook on the nightstand and write: Two notes—whistle? Bridge with three stones missing on the west side. “Reiver.” Ask archive about 16th-century Border skirmishes; oral histories? On the next line, a betrayal of sense slips out: Subway—man again. You close the notebook on the treason and slide it under your pillow, just as you did the night before.
The apartment’s temperature has changed by a degree while you weren’t looking. You pull the blanket higher and let the second sleep try its hand. The hills do not come back immediately.
Rain now, thin and mean, needling through wool. The horse’s flank is hot under your palm; his hide shivers. He stamps and tells you what he thinks of thunder. You can smell peat and wet iron and the small, sour breath of fear. Not yours. Not his.
His mouth finds a line you will always follow. Your forehead touches his, and the wind settles for one beat. It is not a kiss, but it has the decency to be more than not.
Voices on the ridge. Metal clanging against metal. He pulls back, and in that instant, you understand the exact size of a glen—large when you want to hide, small when danger wants to find you. You grip his sleeve. The plaid is rough and familiar. He says nothing; his eyes say everything.
You wake again, gentler this time. The clock tells a compassionate lie—there is still enough night left if you can convince your body to settle down. You lie on your side and you count your breaths. You count from your stop to his in reverse. You practice what you will say if you see him again in a context with more dignity than a subway car, and then you practice saying nothing at all. You practice having a spine. You let your hand rest on your wrist on the small crescent. The dark keeps your secret and calls it sleep.
Wonwoo walks along the long edge of Central Park, letting distance do what rest could not.
Pigeons argue about nothing with the commitment of politicians. A dog forgets its owner and remembers them again. He thinks, for a block or two, of breakfast. Somewhere up ahead, near the stone bridge, the sound finds him: a bagpipe lifting a thin, defiant ribbon of music into the crisp air, the tune stitching the present to a seam he has not touched in centuries.
He stops without choosing to. The note holds and turns, and the air goes green in his mind. The bridge becomes another bridge. The thin winter sun thickens. He remembers hills. The path drops its asphalt and becomes wet turf. The city’s edges fold.
Smoke from the hearth turns the rafters soft, and the room is warm with the kind of welcome that has learned to live through war. Your father claps Wonwoo’s shoulder, then nods—judgment rendered, sentence: bread. A platter lands on the table. Children orbit the benches; a dog claims the fire’s edge. You move through it all like the answering thought to a question a house has been asking for years. You set a bowl before him, gaze steady, mouth undecided between challenge and smile. Your father says, “You’ll take meat with us, rider.” Wonwoo inclines his head, grateful for simple orders. A woman presses a heel of bread into his palm. You sit opposite, your plaid a diagonal of loyalty across your chest, your dirk wearing its purpose openly. When Wonwoo reaches for the bowl, his sleeve rides back; your eyes find the iron oval at his wrist. He feels the locket’s weight confess itself to your gaze. He leaves it hidden; the hour is not yet ready for miracles.
The talk is practical—fences, weather, and the price of oats. The old man—chieftain not by crown but by the way the room adjusts itself to his breathing—asks where Wonwoo has ridden from and where he intends to ride next. Wonwoo answers with roads as if naming them is enough to prove he belongs to them. Later, by the door, your father leans close enough and says, “You keep your hands where my daughter can see them, aye?” It is not a threat. It is a contract written in the pen of affection. Wonwoo bows and meets your glance over the old man’s shoulder. Your eyebrows sign a private treaty neither patriarch will ever read.
—
You walk the ridge line as you name plants with lazy precision—bog myrtle, tormentil, whin—and tell him what each can heal and what each will ruin if you mistake one for the other. He does not pretend to know these things. At the burn, you squat, dip a hand, flick water at him just to see who he is when surprised. He takes it and does not retaliate. This earns him the reward of your laugh, small and not yet loaned to anyone else today.
You sit on a flat stone near the bank. You unsling your bow to tighten the sinew, and when the string sings, you hum the same two notes—habit or charm. Wonwoo could name nothing more dangerous than tenderness in a valley with too many places to hide danger. Still, he takes the locket from his cuff where he keeps it like a pulse and opens it into the air between you. The lily holds its impossible colour, the ghost of green rising patiently.
Your face alters without warning or apology. The planes of it remember other light. Your mouth loses its ready barbs and finds a shape he has not allowed himself to picture for years. You reach, but stop your hand an inch short, breath catching on the old edge of a name.
“Anna,” you say—no, you exhale—and then blink at yourself as if betrayed by your own certainty. Your eyes lift to his, cataloguing the exactness of his brow, the steadiness that is not calm but training, the mouth that has learned too many vows.
“Elspeth,” he replies.
You touch the locket then, and when he places it in your palm, the change is swift, undeniable, not subject to debate. Your throat works. Your lips brush the oval—an instinct so old it no longer asks permission from the mind—and the words you give him are not a test, not an experiment, but a verdict handed down by a court older than law: “My beloved.”
—
The shed is a square of stone pretending to be a room. Straw means well. A blanket tries its small, faithful best. Wonwoo unknots the ties of your plaid with the care of a man defusing a present. Your fingers, quick and sure, undo his buttons, the pads of them measuring the old ridges of work and war.
There is a moment of forehead to forehead, breath tangled, where both imagine they can bend the arithmetic of fate by the simple discipline of wanting. He kisses the small scar under your jaw—horse, fifteen, a dare—and the corner of your mouth where courage sometimes masquerades as insolence. You laugh once, surprised at yourself. When you draw him in, the shed becomes a liturgy the valley can hear but will not report. Straw scratches ankles; the blanket apologises; for a beautified span of minutes, their bodies outvote their times. He places his hand over the steady drum at your breastbone. Later, you lie on your sides, knees crooked, and the locket settles on your skin as if it has come home.
“Stay,” you breathe, voice roughened by joy and the knowledge of its scarcity, “let them take the hills and call them by the wrong names. We’ll keep what’s ours.”
“I will,” he answers, meaning it as fully as a man is permitted to mean anything.
—
The ridge smells different before Wonwoo knows why. He runs the ditch-side path, the gorse snagging at his coat. Hoof prints cut the mud into indentations. The first bodies are not yours. Mercy pauses to be counted and is found insufficient.
At the wall, men try to be taller than what they’ve witnessed. Some succeed only in being older. Your father places a hand on Wonwoo’s arm to anchor him and then removes it because anchors break ships as often as they save them. The old man’s mouth tries your name; the air denies him the right to finish it.
You lie beyond the lean of stones. The wound is unambiguous, the kind favoured by cowards. The plaid is a spill of pattern doing its best to keep the shape it was woven for. Your eyes are turned toward the burn. He kneels so fast the ground lowers to meet him.
“Beloved,” he whispers.
There is still heat in the skin at the hinge of your jaw. There is not enough anywhere else. The locket slips from your chest against his fingers and clocks the moment into his bones. He wants a hundred enemies; the hill gives him only the silent competence of harm already done.
“All hours end, but love does not,” he tells the air because the air at least has the decency to stay and listen.
He knows, kneeling there with the burn talking past you both, that whatever the hour asks, he will answer with your name.
The piper drags his last note through the cold and lets it go. A span of silence follows, and Wonwoo’s breath returns to him. The bridge ahead is stone again, not quarried out of some older memory.
He puts a hand briefly to his chest, where a flower once learned the inside of armour. His fingers find only cloth. He lowers his hand and keeps walking because walking is the one thing the present still allows.
You decide that the cure for dreams is daylight and data.
The archives receive you with their familiar hush as you badge in, sign the log, tug on your gloves, and roll a new cart to your station. Today, you have a plan: find what is real, so the unreal will quiet down.
The psalter from Scotland waits in a blue clamshell. The leather is a soft, weathered brown; the stitching is the competent work of someone who loved honest repairs. You loosen the straps and lock the book into its cradle.
Leaf by leaf, you take the measure of the hand. Initials that begin as threads and become branches. Margins spangled with minor wildlife—fish with human faces, snails winning races. The scribe’s black sits inside the page as if it were always meant to be part of the story.
Midway through the psalter, the margin begins to take itself more seriously. A slim line of text hides near the seam, ink faded to grey. You angle the page, lift one edge with a snake weight, and bring your face nearer than protocol prefers.
Omnes horae finiunt, amor autem non.
You translate without needing to: All hours end, but love does not. The handwriting is not the same as the Crusader sketch—this script is later, more practised, less impulsive—but the sentence lands like a stone in the same pond, rings spreading inward and out.
You do not breathe for a count of five. Then you do, because oxygen is necessary.
You photograph the line. You log the folio number. You write a sober note you can live with: Ps. Scot., f. 82v: marginal Latin maxim (same phrase as Crusader ms., different hand).
Maya drifts past in her sweater, tea in a dented thermos that has never met a dishwasher. She knows something is different about your silence.
“What did you catch?” she asks.
“A phrase,” you reply. “Seen it before.”
Maya leans in. Her eyebrows make a small, respectful arch. “Poetic scribe. We hate that.”
“Different hand,” you add, too quickly. “Different century.”
“So it travelled,” she murmurs. “You know how maxims migrate. Want me to run a quick search through the proverb collections?”
You should say no. You should keep your private superstition folded in your pocket like a receipt you mean to throw out later. You nod instead.
“Thanks,” you say. “And—Gaelic sources? Sixteenth century? I need to check something about Border sayings.”
Maya tilts her head with the fond suspicion of a cat. “Weird dream to footnote?”
“Something like that,” you admit, and the confession is lighter than you expect.
The day becomes a disciplined hunt. You pull the books you need—proverb anthologies, studies of marginalia, a slim monograph on how aphorisms travel in the edges of devotional texts.
Your notebook becomes a nervous system for wonder. On the left-hand pages you record the facts: call numbers, folios, dates, hands, and provenance. On the right, you gather the curiosities: quick sketches of familiar-looking faces, stray initials that ring like bells, the same line that keeps showing up. You paste in printouts carefully, and you draw arrows, trying to coax a map into existence.
Maya returns, depositing a small pile of books to the ever-growing pile on your workbench. “Latin proverb is not in the usual suspects,” she says. “Closest I can find is Augustine-adjacent formulations, but this exact wording is elusive. Might be a scribe’s home-cooked wisdom that got fashionable. Gaelic—there are a few love lines that rhyme hours with something like fate. Nothing this clean.” She sips her tea, eyes amused. “Who are we chasing?”
You could say nobody. You could say a stranger on a train. You say the part that is allowed.
“A margin,” you answer. “And a sketch. And now this.”
Maya’s kindness never clucks. “Okay. There’s a Scottish psalter fragment in microfilm with notoriously cranky margins. Want me to pull it?”
“Yes,” you say, so quickly you drop a pencil. It rolls to the floor and under the neighbouring table. You crouch to retrieve it and encounter, briefly, the world upside down: steel chair legs, the hem of Maya’s skirt, your own boots, the book’s cover. When you right yourself, the room looks new and somehow exactly the same.
Microfilm makes you submit to it. You thread the cranky spool, coax the machine into magnanimity, and scroll through the grainy spaces of the past. You tell your eyes to be patient. They obey for longer than you expect. Columns blur, resolve, blur again. You find a margin that looks like it was meant to hold something, but then changed its mind. The writing is too faded to be legible. You copy what you can, promise yourself you’ll request the reel again if sleep refuses you later.
On your next break, you check the database of image permissions and request a higher-resolution capture of the Crusader sketch. You hover over the form for a second and add, need to compare marginal phrases across holdings under the guise of professionalism.
You eat a sandwich at your station while flipping between tabs. Your inbox pings with two automated confirmations, a politely delayed response from Digitisation, and a one-line note from Maya: Border ballads—try Child #191; not our exact phrase, but kin to it.
Hours lengthen, then end, as they promise. The archivist’s closing call ripples through the room. You log folios, tie bows and put each book to bed.
Maya shrugs on her coat. “Text me if you find the Holy Grail,” she says, half-joking.
“It’ll be a footnote,” you answer. “But I’ll text.”
“Good. And… hey?” Her voice softens. “Don’t let it spook you. Patterns love parlour tricks.”
“I know,” you say, and you mean it. Still, your hand is on your wrist again when you answer, thumb circling your birthmark inexplicably.
Home is a topography of simple tasks. You hang your coat, set the kettle, and line up the mug. While the water boils, you type in a search on your laptop: Iconography of Crusader knights, marginal portraits, typologies. What you get is a flood of serious men with serious swords and very little in the way of your certainty. You feel both chastened and emboldened. You will need better terms. You will need time.
Steam fogs the kitchen window. You drink tea and give your hands something warm to hold while your mind performs triage. You think of the train car and the balance of a body that did not negotiate. You think of the dream’s low bridge and the word you had no business knowing. You think of the locket opening.
You sit at your desk and begin an email to yourself so tomorrow-you will be greeted by the discipline of tonight-you: To do—Compare hand of Latin in Scot. psalter with fourteenth c. miscellany (NYPL Ms.). Check microfilm notes (reel 232A). Ask Maya to pull Child Ballads commentary. Look into medieval lily symbolism in border regions (funeral? courtship? joke?). You add: Silver locket?
The cursor blinks, patient. You delete the last line and retype it. You let it stand.
When sleep approaches, it does so with its own set of findings.
You close your eyes and try to say the Latin in your head without meaning it. It refuses to be only words.
All hours end, but love does not.
You do not know whose love the sentence claims. You tell yourself a story: a phrase travelled; a hand copied; a sketcher practised a face enough to discover a type; you are a person who wants the world to make sense and is therefore finding sense everywhere.
You turn onto your side and, to your own surprise, you almost believe yourself.
Your phone buzzes once on the nightstand. A message from Maya: Found a stray: French pamphlet, late 1780s, margin motto suspiciously similar to yours. Will request. Sleep. A beat later, another buzz: Also, get some air tomorrow. The living need maintenance too.
You smile into the dark at her friendship. You set the phone face down and count the day’s proofs like prayer beads. When you run out, you keep counting, and sleep takes that as permission.
You go because you promised Maya to be a person who remembers joy.
She insisted on sequins; you compromise with a velvet half-mask and a dress that has a semblance of behaving. The loft is already warm with people by the time you step out of the elevator—paper lanterns floating, a DJ in lace gloves keeps the room’s pulse steady, and champagne is poured in coupes because the birthday girl has a thing about stems. You have promised yourself an evening of disobedience from your research. You even left your notebook at home, a gesture that feels almost indecent.
Maya appears with a glass of the golden bubbles.
“Two hours,” she says, raising it towards you. “No manuscripts. No Latin. Only joy.”
“You wound me,” you protest, grinning despite yourself. “I was going to talk about watermarks.”
“I will throw you in the Hudson.”
“Fair.”
You let joy overtake you: dancing without choreography, laughing when a friend’s peacock mask loses a feather and the entire circle treats it like a fallen soldier, delivering a toast to a woman you like because she keeps plants alive and people seen. For a stretch of songs and sweat, you manage it—the losing of the day’s edges, the letting of your body choose without minutes organising the choice.
And then you see him.
Mask simple, black, no plumes or sequins to hide behind. Elegance that does not audition for approval. A suit that fits like it has known him longer than he has known himself. He stands a step back from the thickest current of bodies. The moment your eyes find his, your lungs perform their familiar trick of forgetting how to function.
Maya follows your gaze. “Well,” she murmurs into her glass, very pleased. “Somebody grew out of a manuscript.”
“He’s—” you begin, and have no noun that feels sufficiently cautious.
“Hot,” she supplies, utterly unscholarly. “Go.”
“No,” you say, but your feet, the traitors, are already moving.
You pass conversation as you cross the room—Oh my God, where did you get your mask, I’m quitting my job tomorrow morning, no really, he ghosted me but in a feminist way—and wonder which of these languages you speak tonight. When you reach him, he is watching the dancers.
“Hello,” you say, because it is the only honest beginning. “Do you always haunt parties you weren’t invited to?”
His eyes move to you but do not startle. “I was invited,” he says softly.
You laugh, a bit too brightly, because the drinks are doing their wet work in your blood. “To this one?”
“To this one,” he confirms. Under the black of his mask, his mouth curves in reluctant amusement.
“I like your mask,” you add.
“It does its job,” he says, which is to say: it keeps people from seeing him fully.
You are not going to do this, you tell yourself. You will not be the woman who forces a story to begin. You do it anyway.
“Dance with me?”
He looks toward the floor where bodies are twirling through the bass lines. He looks back at you, and whatever lives behind his eyes is carefully hidden before you can read it. “I don’t dance.”
“Liar.”
He bends his head, conceding the point in theory if not in practice. “Not tonight.”
“Then talk.” You take a small step closer. “You said something to me on a train.”
“I did.”
“Say something else, then,” you challenge, smiling because you do not want to admit you are shaking slightly.
He leans in, and the smell of him is the maddest sobriety—clean, faint traces of citrus, and a note that seems uniquely him. His mouth nears your ear, and when he speaks, it is no more than a whisper.
“You should not be near me.”
You flinch. Heat climbs the back of your neck. Offence and confusion arrive at the same time and cannot decide who will lead.
“Okay,” you say, and are proud, later, of the calm in it. “Then I won’t be.”
You turn, not dramatic, not wounded—just leaving, which is its own drama. You find Maya in the kitchen arguing lovingly with a bowl of olives. “I’m tapping out,” you announce.
She clocks you in an instant. “You good?”
“I’m a scientist of paper,” you say, as if that sentence answers anything. “I should go home and not talk to men in masks who think they’re prophets.”
“Do you want me to come?”
“Stay. Please. Dance for both of us.”
“Text me when you land.”
“Yes, Mum.”
You leave while the party is still going—lights still pulsing, gossip still benign. In the hallway, the air cools and quiets. The elevator’s mirror gives you back a face that looks a little bruised. On the street, wind scrapes the glitter from your hair.
He did not say I don’t want you. He said You should not be near me. Which is a different cruelty. Or a different kindness. You do not know which, and you keep not knowing all the way to your door.
Wonwoo has never liked rooms where faces are invited to hide.
But he is here because you are here, and because every other choice his discipline proposes collapses under the simplest weight of your presence. The mask is a courtesy to the evening. The suit is armour of a more modern kind. He stays at the edge of the room.
You find him. Of course you do. You arrive with velvet and competence and a drink that insists on being elegant. He prepares himself to be wise and is not.
When you ask if he dances, he wants to tell you about floors in other countries that learned his steps before he did. When you lean just enough, he wants to unlearn eight hundred years of caution. When you shine, he wants to believe in basic things like gravity and mercy.
Instead, he tells you the truth he has. You should not be near me. He watches the sentence hurt you, and he takes that hurt like the penance he was due for. You leave quickly, and the space where you stood fills with dense silence.
Music changes key. A woman’s laughter climbs the scaffolding and hangs a flag. The room takes on a sheen of unreality it cannot sustain. The smell of wax and wine and powder reaches across the years to take him by the throat.
Gold light everywhere, the candles unionised and overperforming. The ceiling at Versailles is a masterpiece of art. Silk is rehearsing its arguments with skin in every corner. A masked ball with a queen who needs to be consoled by extravagance. He is in borrowed livery, a tutor’s anonymity draped over a body that has learned to pass among ranks without becoming one.
You are standing off to the side, needle-proud and laughing with the kind of disbelief only people who have held hunger can afford. The dress doesn’t belong to you, not really, but you are wearing it as if philosophy had finally found a use. Your mask is an afterthought; your eyes do the work. He hears you before he sees you, and his body recognises the sound before his mind can catch up.
When he is near, you turn your face toward him. Your gaze strips him of disguise. It takes the powdered queue, the white gloves, the measured bow, and returns him to himself.
“Do I know you,” you ask, mischief rippling under the velvet of the question, “or do I only want to?”
“Both,” he says, because lying would be an insult.
“Geneviève,” you offer, tilting your mask, “for tonight.”
He does not mean to touch the locket. He has kept it tucked away. But your hand finds it—immediate—and the iron oval opens as if it has been waiting for your touch. The lily has endured another century; it breathes a green that refuses to fade. You don’t flinch. You press it to your mouth.
“I know you from somewhere I cannot name,” you murmur.
He should leave you in the light because darkness owes you nothing. He does not. He waits until the corridor behind the card room is draped in shadow and the plaster has given up pretending to be marble. He presses you to the wall, and you meet him with your mouth.
It is not a gentle kiss. It is an argument where both parties win. Your hands, work-strong, find the back of his neck; his hands, callus for different reasons, bracket your ribs. There are hitches and half-laughs and the slap of palm against plaster. He follows the line of your throat with his mouth, and you let your head angle in favour of the trajectory of his lips. His coat bunches under your grip; he lifts your skirts and discovers he has not forgotten how to worship with his hands. The corridor understands privacy. You pay for it with urgency and gratitude.
“After,” you whisper against his jaw, “tell me your true name.”
“I will,” he promises.
Revolution arrives like a joke. Pamphlets breed. Someone throws a rock harder than they meant to, and it hits the correct window to make everyone decide the reign should end. The crowd outside is its own orchestra—boots and the percussive clatter of intent becoming action. He turns to you to say, ‘Run,’ and finds your smile catching the light. You tug the locket once, as if to test whether the chain will betray you. It will not. You nod, and you both step into the night.
The air is hot with speeches. The mob is many things—hungry, right, wrong, bored, holy—and one thing always: indifferent to individuals. The press of bodies becomes a physics problem. Wonwoo keeps you against the wall, a poor shield against numbers. You try to laugh because laughter has saved you before. It cannot purchase the space you need.
He feels the exact moment when you are lifted off your feet by the wave of people. He has fought tides more merciless than men, but bodies become water when they decide to, and you are carried three steps away and then seven and then so many he can no longer count. The last time he sees your face that night, your hair has come down, and your mouth is open, and the sound you are making is silent. When he reaches the place where you were, there is only the emptiness of you, a shoe with a bent buckle and the old, precise quiet that grief uses to introduce itself.
In New York, a woman in a red mask trips over her own heels and laughs, and the echo is enough to make him put a hand to a wall to confirm the century. He breathes.
He told you not to be near him because the difference between a ball and a mob is sometimes only an hour. He does not follow, because he has followed you for too many centuries that did not forgive him for it.
Wonwoo imagines this city picking you up and putting you down somewhere that will be kind to your ankles. He imagines you at home, removing sequins and recovering your dignity, making a face at yourself in the mirror that only you are allowed to see. He closes his eyes long enough to let the old Paris light fade, then opens them to the honest dark of Brooklyn and begins the long, unwitnessed walk back to himself.
You decide walls are made for research you cannot fit on paper.
Maya is already at a table with her laptop open and a stack of requests flagged in neon tabs when you enter. She pushes a folder toward you.
“Paris, 1788,” she says. “Ledger and pamphlet. Same hand? You tell me.”
You loosen the string, lift the cover, and the smell of ink and old starch lifts too. The ledger is tidy: narrow columns, numbers penned neatly. On the back flyleaf, a different nature intrudes—looser script, impatient, someone who has waited for a margin the way the hungry wait for bread. The ink has browned to that particular polish you know.
Omnes horae finiunt, amor autem non.
All hours end, but love does not.
The stroke is not the same as the Crusader margin, nor the psalter, and the rebellion of differences only strengthens the fact of sameness. You slide the ledger aside and take up the pamphlet, a flimsy thing that once cost a coin and the courage to sell it. Inside, a rant about bread and taxes performs its righteous fury; on the last page, faint and sideways, your line again, as if someone couldn’t resist leaving truth amongst its siblings.
“Twice,” you say, voice low. “Two separate hands.”
Maya leans in, eyes narrow. “Travelling phrase, like we thought. But this—look.” She points to a purchase line midway through the ledger, written in another clerk’s tidier script. “Tutor for the Dauphin—interviewed at court by M.A.—payment delayed.” Her finger taps the name attached, half-legible yet still recognisable: Wonwoo. The shape of it kickstarts your heart.
“That’s not a French name,” you murmur.
“No,” she says, already opening a new tab. “But courts collected the exotic like hobbies. We can chase the paper trail.”
The day unfolds like a hallway with doors that keep opening. Microfilm reveals a broadsheet image of a masked ball, with labels scribbled later by some amateur historian—the Queen, the Austrian, the tutor, the girl with the ribbons. You print and circle and try not to draw lines to faces.
The second discovery belongs entirely to Maya. She materialises at your station and fans out a scan with a grin.
“Florence, 1765. Unknown painter—Lucia something the cataloger couldn’t untangle. But—”
The portrait is small, and it knocks the breath out of you. The subject is a man in three-quarter view, coat simply cut, jaw set, eyes turned slightly aside. He looks like the Crusader sketch taught itself oils. He looks like the stranger who keeps insisting on centrifuging your day into its own orbit. He looks like Wonwoo.
“Lucia,” you read, and the name rings familiar. “No surname?”
“Only ‘Lucia, apprentice to—’ and the master’s name is illegible,” Maya says. “But the museum note mentions a legend: the subject insisted on being painted by her, not the master. There’s a rumour of… well. Gossip. Liaisons. Forbidden this and that.”
“Of course there is,” you say, and it comes out soft instead of scoffing.
She taps the lower corner. “And look at the edge of the frame. Someone scratched a motto into the gesso before the varnish set.”
You squint. The letters are faint, slanted, an impatient hand carving where paint would later cover. You can just make it: Omnes horae finiunt— then the surface fades with age.
The third find is yours and nobody’s: a psalm leaf in a miscellany, the kind of anthology monks made to house what couldn’t find a home in holy scripture. The Latin rolls along until the scribe stutters into a story: a soldier made a vow to a woman not of his nation; God tested him; love proved itself and suffered anyway. It’s not a tale so much as the memory of one. You trace the words with your gaze until your vision blurs.
You become efficient in your descent.
Requests, scans, photocopies, a disgruntled printer that requires petting to behave—your arms fill with paper until the stack has a satisfying weight. You sign things. You label. You borrow the archive’s stapler.
“Wall?” Maya asks, seeing the way your notebook is not going to be enough.
“Wall,” you confirm, and mean the one at home.
You carry your bag toward your apartment and unload it once inside. On the largest empty wall—the one you’ve always promised a print you never bought—you tape the first anchor: the Crusader sketch, printed and trimmed, the line beneath it clear. To its right, the psalter photocopy with the same sentence in the margin. Below those: the Paris ledger’s flyleaf, the pamphlet’s last page. To the left: the Florentine portrait by Lucia.
You step back.
You add twine because you cannot help yourself. A string from the Crusader to the psalter, from both to the Paris documents, a neat angle toward Florence. The line crosses the portrait. You pin clippings along it: notes in your hand, Maya’s emailed references, a photocopy of the broadsheet and its scrawled labels—tutor?
In the far corner, you pin the psalm leaf with its tiny story about forbidden lovers. You stand on a chair and add one more photograph high above the others: a blown-up crop of the word Wonwoo in the ledger, letters fat with old ink, underlined by your pencil.
“You do know this looks like an obsession board,” Maya says over speakerphone later, benevolent and blunt.
“It’s a map,” you answer. “I’m trying to find the way out of a thought.”
“Or into it,” she says, and lets the silence settle. “I put in a request on Lucia. If they give us the verso image, maybe there’s an inscription. Artists wrote to themselves where nobody else could see.”
“Thank you,” you say, and mean it.
You make tea, sit on the floor with your knees up to your chest, and look at the wall. The repetition of the phrase is both reassuring and terrifying: comforting because patterns exist, terrifying because patterns can be cages.
“All hours end, but love does not,” you read aloud quietly.
Your phone lights with a text from Maya: Florence inventory list also has “consumption” by a sitter’s note—someone sick in the studio that year. Might connect. Sleep soon.
“Soon,” you lie into the air. You reach for a roll of washi tape printed with tiny stars and add a frame around the Lucia portrait.
The longer you look, the less ridiculous the impossible appears.
You know exactly how to dismantle this: call it apophenia, a brain’s party trick; call it the librarian’s disease, seeing echoes where there are only habits; call it grief, though you could not say for what. You could go to bed and decide to be a citizen of sense in the morning.
Instead, you stand closer to the Crusader image until your eyes prick. You notice that your hand has reached up of its own accord to touch the paper, and you let it.
“Who are you?” you whisper, and the wall does not answer.
Days lengthen, and the board expands. You and Maya stop pretending this is a side quest.
At the Print Room, a clerk rolls out a folio of engravings from the 1790s. In the margin of one plate—a street scene of the Palais-Royal—someone’s pencil has circled a figure half-turned from the viewer. Underneath, a curator’s note: Unidentified man appears repeatedly in crowd scenes by three different engravers. You copy all three. In each, the man’s profile is familiar enough to make your hands tremble.
Maya raids auction catalogues: a lot description from 1901 lists a signet ring with lily crest, motto: Omnes horae finiunt, provenance estate of W. J. W., reclusive patron of letters. She points, eyebrows up. “J. W. W.—could be anything, but lilies again.”
At the Music Division, a box of field recordings from the Highlands coughs up a pencilled staff on the inside flap: three notes, marked shepherd’s call; two-note whistle. You hum it before you know what you’re doing.
In a drawer of ephemera, a battered prayer card from a New York funeral in 1893 bears a black border and a Latin line in glossy script. On the back, faded pencil: he never married. You photograph both the front and back, and feel disloyal for hoping the line belongs to him.
Maya, gleeful, produces a theatre playbill from 1892 with an advertisement: Patronage courtesy of W. Won. You want to be sensible; you fail.
A shipping manifest from 1847 lists passengers bound for New York; one entry is scratched out and re-entered as Mr. Woo (Won-woo?) with a clerk’s irritation sharpened into ink. It is nothing. It is everything. You copy it anyway.
In the Rare Map room, a 1780s pocket atlas has a bookplate: a lily stamped above a ribbon. The binding is loose; inside the back cover, someone has hidden a slip of paper with a line in French: Toutes les heures finissent… The ellipsis ends before the last part. You hold the slip with tweezers.
From Florence, the museum replies with a verso image of Lucia’s portrait. The back is plain wood, but in the corner someone—her?—has written in a quick Florentine hand: per lui, quando le ore non bastano (for him, when the hours are not enough). You stumble into a chair.
Maya tracks court transcripts from the Scottish Borders, 1546: depositions in a clan feud include a woman named Elspeth and a father who swore revenge. In a later hand, a justice notes: a wandering foreign knight, unnamed, absent from the hearing. A lily is doodled in the margin.
You request an 18th-century Paris police register—étrangers surveillés—and find a line promising in its mundanity: Won Wu, professeur, observé, pas dangereux. Someone else—later? Amused?—has pencilled a lily beside the name.
A conservator lets you examine a fragmentary locket in the study collection: iron oval, stiff hinge, glass gone. Inside, a ghost of fibre where something once lay. On the edge, a scratched quotation that time has chewed away; you catch only …am— non.
You add them all. The wall takes each piece of evidence. Twine multiplies; tape fights gravity; pushpins receive extra attention.
You try to be wary of seeing him where he does not belong. You and Maya establish rules: at least two independent items per leap; at least one primary source; no modern reproductions unless they can be traced. It doesn’t save you from belief; it makes the belief wear better shoes.
One evening, Maya sits on your rug with a legal pad and her sensible pen and plays devil’s advocate with tenderness. “He could be a type,” she suggests. “A composite face artists used. The line could be a fashionable phrase. Lily is common.”
“I know,” you say. “I know.” And you do. But you know, too, the way your pulse stepped sideways at each mention of ‘Wonwoo’ and the way the three-note whistle fit in your mouth.
“Can I ask—” Maya hesitates. “Were you baptised?”
The question rings unexpected. “No,” you say slowly. “My parents weren’t religious. They meant to—then didn’t. Why?”
She shrugs. “Only the way the psalm’s little story keeps framing the lovers in church language.” A beat. “Sometimes the absence matters as much as the presence, you know?”
You think about a priest-shaped figure in a ruined chapel you can’t possibly know and refuse yourself the luxury of thinking further.
On the fourth night, the wall crosses the line from research to company. You catch yourself greeting it when you come in, the way people greet plants or cats: hello, I have not forgotten you. You move the Lucia portrait half an inch higher because the string begs for a cleaner angle. You add a small envelope taped to the bottom labelled outliers, where you tuck things that might belong later: a 1931 Times clipping about an anonymous donor of lilies to a hospital ward each year on the same date; a 1917 photograph of a Red Cross station where a man at the edge looks mundanely like everyone else and also like him.
Your phone buzzes. Maya again: Pulled parish book from Paris—one page has a tiny note in the margin beside a death record: “trampled by the crowd.” Sending scan. Also: tea tomorrow. You need something green that isn’t a flower.
You type back: Thank you. For all of this. Then, after a fight with your dignity, What if he’s real?
Three dots pulse and pause. “Then the wall is a letter,” she sends, “and you’re answering.”
The room is very quiet after that. You switch off the bright lamp and leave only the string of fairy lights that outlines the map like a constellation. You sit on the floor, back to the couch, and let your eyes soften.
You think of the man in the mask saying he is keeping you safe and of the ledger saying his name anyway.
Wonwoo.
You let your head fall against the cushion and listen to the apartment’s small noises—the hum of the fridge, the elevator’s polite ding, the neighbour’s spoon in a mug—and you accept, not belief, but attention. It will have to be enough, until it isn’t.
Wonwoo lets the email sit unread for an hour, then opens it anyway.
The subject line is practical—Verso imaging request: “Portrait of a Gentleman,” Florence, c. 1765 (Lucia, attr.)—and the museum’s tone is all courtesies and professional jargon. They inform him, politely, that the Archives Department of a partner institution has requested a high-resolution image of the painting’s backboard. As owner of record and long-term lender, his consent is required. There is no reason to refuse. There are too many.
He stares at the thumbnail the registrar has embedded, a modest rectangle of oil: his own face, light fitted to cheekbone, mouth undecided. You had painted him honestly: without mercy, without kinked sentiment. The locket is not visible, but he remembers how it bumped lightly against his sternum when he breathed, how the lily inside—already impossibly old—scented even the studio’s chalk and linseed.
He types Approved and pauses. The cursor blinks. He adds two lines: Please handle with gloved hands; the lower-left corner is dry and will flake if flexed. Kindly share any new findings with the lender. He sends the email and is surprised by the steadiness of his fingers.
The room goes quiet, and the present loosens like an untied knot.
The studio smells of wet plaster and bruised rosemary.
Windows are cracked just enough to keep varnish from sulking, shutters are angled to persuade the light, a damp cloth is thrown over the basin. You stand on a box to make yourself taller. Your hair has come loose. You measure his face with your brush, not with your eyes.
Wonwoo sits on a simple chair, turned three-quarters, as you instructed. You scolded him for arriving in a black coat—dark, scuro, complaining men always think shadow is flattering—and draped him in a rough linen sheeting instead. He does not mind.
The locket rests tucked beneath the linen. He has told himself for days that he will not show it to you. He will be prudent. He will be a canvas that behaves. He will sit, and you will paint, and the world will allow him this anonymous human hour in which nothing catastrophic occurs.
Your assistant moves in the corner, grinding pigments, quick with the chore. You keep your brush aloft, eyes narrowing at the hinge of his jaw.
“Stand still, signore,” you say, not unkind, as if stillness were an etiquette you expect to be familiar.
The assistant peeks from behind the easel, the impetuousness of youth ungoverned.
“He is still,” the girl argues, “only not inside.”
You step around the scaffolding of the sitting. He had seen you already, in a market two mornings before, haggling for eggs, and his body had filled with the old recognition. Now, inches away, he avoids looking fully at you because he believes in survival.
Your brush lifts, tapping his jaw.
“Look at your shadow,” you instruct, “not at me.”
You pass near him, and reach to adjust the linen drape at his chest—only that—but your wrist grazes the cloth. The iron oval finds your skin.
It opens.
The lily is there, impossibly whole.
He watches your face remake itself around memory. The change is not theatrical. It is the click of a latch. Your mouth opens and does not need breath to speak the word it wants.
“Beloved,” you whisper.
The assistant looks from you to him and says nothing, because silence is an art and she is learning when to practice it.
He could tell you to put the locket away. He could laugh, as men do when frightened, and call it a poet’s plant. He could stand and leave the portrait a headless rumour in the corner of a room that will be whitewashed when the landlord decides. Instead, he rises too quickly for the scaffold’s sanity, closes his fingers around your hand, and you close your fingers around his.
The world creates a new space for the two of you.
In that expensive quiet, you make a plan. You will not say the word love again. You will starve the air of that sound. You will finish the portrait under your own steady hand. In the church of San Miniato, you will light a candle for someone else and stand near its smoke until you both smell it. You will, as if the verb had patience, wait.
It works, for a while, so long it feels like the beginning of winning. He poses; you paint; you hand yourself brushes from the tray; he brings bread from a man who lives a street away; you eat too fast and then apologise; he pretends he did not hear your apology and passes you another piece. You never say the word. Your hands say it on each other’s skin, in the laundry room, in the stairwell where light forgets to live.
Your cough begins like an afterthought. It quickly becomes more aggressive.
You lie to him at first.
“Florence,” you say, shrugging, “there is dust in this city.”
He believes you for precisely a week.
Then the cough keeps a laugh from you, then a street, then an afternoon. You clamp your jaw and paint faster, working light over his cheekbones. He spends money on doctors whom you charm into admitting the futility of their own profession. He opens the locket when you are sleeping and lets the lily steady the air. When you wake, he closes it as if he has been caught kissing the hem of a garment he should not touch.
The portrait reaches completion on the same morning your body decides to be honest with your lungs. You sign your name in the wet paint at the lower right, then write another message no one will see on the back. You cry and call it turpentine.
He keeps the word love out of the room, but thanks you in the language that lives under spoken languages. You hold his hand, and he lets you, because what else could he do? When you can no longer hide your need for air, you turn your face and fight with dignity. He sits on the floor by the bed because chairs make him too tall to bear the distance from your mouth to his.
One morning, you call him with two fingers. He bends until his forehead touches yours, and your breath warms his face.
“Even silence is love,” you whisper, “All hours end, but love does not.”
He says nothing, because he promised. He holds your hand until your hand stops being a hand and becomes a ghost.
Hope dies cleanly that time. Not like a candle. Like a door, latched.
Outside, carts complain about cobbles, and a man shouts about figs. Inside, the portrait dries.
Wonwoo understands, with a clarity that makes him laugh violently, what the priest in the ruin sold him: not reunion, only recurrence. If God did not end it, the Devil would not let it. The bargain was not to see you again and have you; it was to see you again and learn how to lose you correctly, in every dialect the centuries can invent.
He returns to his window now, not because the view comforts him; New York resists that duty.
He chose solitude after Florence. He chose it so thoroughly it felt like virtue. Centuries ran around him: wars burned, empires mispronounced themselves into extinction, cities learned steel and then glass and then learned to pretend they had invented both. He acquired things because the world respects owners; he declined joys. He learned how to blend in with the surroundings. He learned to dress as the decade required. He learned a hundred languages well enough to buy and acquire. He did not learn hope.
Two hundred and sixty years of silence: a number that sounds like legend yet feels like a kitchen timer if you live inside it. Then a library lamp showed your face and made a believer of him in the oldest superstition there is: faith.
He allows himself one small relief: you have not remembered. Not the hills. Not the chapel. Not Versailles. Not the morning when you signed your name and coughed a thread of blood and still smiled at him. The absence of recognition is the only mercy this curse presently offers.
His phone lights up again—a second email from the registrar, brisk and grateful: ‘We will proceed with care.’ He places the phone face down.
He gives the museum what they ask. He will watch the verso image arrive in an archive across the city and imagine your hand—the same hand that refused to tremble in Florence—catalogue it beside other evidence. He will keep his distance, because he understands, at last, the exact size of his curse: not to be denied you, but to know precisely how you are taken.
He touches the locket and permits himself one small hope: that you might go on not remembering long enough to live. He cannot stop the connection; the centuries have wired the route from you to him. But maybe the wire can hum under the floorboards without setting the house on fire.
He approves, silently, a thousand requests no registrar will ever send, because abstinence is the only mercy he can grant, and he will sign every permission, open every door, surrender every claim—so long as each act keeps you safe by keeping you from him.
You choose the café because it is familiar.
Steam fogs the front windows; milk hisses, cups clink, and the grinder whines. You order what you always order and stand at the end of the bar with your receipt in your palm, rehearsing errands, refusing thoughts of your wall. When the barista calls your name, you reach, and your sleeve knocks a napkin holder, and he is there, steadying it before it falls.
For a breath, the room unthreads.
He stands too close to pass for coincidence. The light snags on the angle of his jaw. He looks like the portrait you pinned above your desk.
“Wonwoo,” you breathe.
He dips his head at the sound of his name passing your lips. The smallest smile appears and is then removed with professional care. You hear yourself continue.
“You look exactly like someone in a Crusader portrait I found.”
He freezes. Not with offence. With recognition, or the fear of it. The silence he gives you has weight; it sets the coffee shop slightly off-kilter. Around you, spoons continue, a stroller squeaks, and still his not-speaking is louder than any other noise.
“Say something,” you whisper, because the quiet begins to feel like a threat you can’t stomach.
He blinks once, slowly, as if returning from deep inside himself. “Another time,” he says lowly, and steps back.
You follow the vector of his coat through the door. The bell above the frame rings. Outside, the day has taken on a grey hue. The sidewalk is slick with rain and thaw. He turns left. You turn left. He lengthens his stride. You match. He slips into the narrow run of an alley filled with dumpsters and steam pipes. You catch his sleeve and pull him to a halt.
“No,” you say. “Not again. Not this vanishing.”
He stops because you have asked him to, and because there is something about your voice that refuses to bend. You let go of his sleeve and step in front of him, back to the wet brick.
“Tell me who you are,” you say. “Tell me why I keep seeing you in places you have no right to be. Tell me why you look like a man drawn six hundred years ago by someone with a shaky pen in a monastery who did not know you would be standing here under a broken pipe in Manhattan.”
He leans his shoulder into the wall, studying your face, his mouth folding into a shape akin to grief.
“I don’t want to hurt you,” he says.
“You already are.”
He winces. “If I answer, I will hurt you differently.”
“Stop protecting me with abstractions,” you reply, sharper than you meant. “I’m not made of glass.”
He exhales. The air leaves him painfully. He searches for a sentence that won’t become a weapon in his mouth and fails.
“I have carried your deaths longer than any man should bear,” he says, as if offering the least damaging fragment of a larger truth.
The alley narrows. The sky closes in. Your mind rejects the syntax even as your bones behind it agree. You swallow the impulse to laugh; the impulse to cry shows up as heat behind your eyes.
“My deaths,” you repeat, slowly.
“Not here,” he says, almost a plea. “Not in this place with its bins and steam and other people’s ears.”
“Then give me something.”
He looks past you at the wet line of light where the street resumes. A muscle works in his jaw. He picks a stone from the ground in silence and sets it between you.
“I knew you at a time when the word for mercy had not been invented yet,” he says. “And again, when silk was a language for hunger. And again, when paint could not dry fast enough to keep the air in your lungs. You do not remember those rooms. It is mercy that you do not.”
You try to arrange your face into a shape that can take this in without breaking. It fails. You try a different tactic: the librarian in you, the scientist of paper you’ve trained yourself to be.
“Give me something I can check,” you say. “A name. A place.”
He lifts his hand as if to touch your cheek and thinks better of it. “I could give you a list and it would be a prayer you would not believe. Acre. The Border hills. Paris. Florence.” He stops, because the next word does not belong in this alley, on this day.
Something old moves through your chest. Your mouth finds rationality because it is the only raft in reach.
“You read the same books I did,” you manage. “You looked at the same images.”
“I looked at you,” he says, and the precision is unkind to both of you.
Anger arrives, faithful to its job of keeping you from drowning in other things. “Is this a game to you? Is this performance? Because if you’re going to gaslight me with poetry, I’m going to find a less handsome stranger to be haunted by.”
He laughs once, an ugly, involuntary sound, then shuts it down. “I deserve that,” he says. “But no. No games. I wish I could lie to you well enough to save you.”
“From what?”
He looks at your mouth instead of answering, and you realise there is a category of terror reserved for the moment when wanting and warning occupy the same square inch of air.
“Fate,” he says at last, embarrassed by how much work it took to be uttered aloud. “From me, when I am its instrument.”
“You’re not an instrument,” you say, surprising yourself with your conviction. “You’re a man in a coat in an alley who is terrified and pretending it’s policy.”
Something in his posture shifts. He leans closer without invading, the way a person does when the thing they need is too fragile to reach quickly.
“Do not try to remember,” he whispers. “Please. If you love your life—”
“I don’t remember,” you say, the truth leaving your mouth stripped of everything but its own nakedness. “I don’t. I only—” You touch your wrist, that small crescent, an old habit you refuse to name. “I only feel like I’ve been carrying a sentence I haven’t had the words for. And then I look at you and the words get close and—”
“And the room tilts,” he finishes, quietly.
You nod. The steam pipe sighs and shivers; a drop of water finds your hairline and slides down your cheek. He watches its path like a man with holiness before him and no right to touch.
“Tell me your name. Your real one,” you ask, because names are anchors, and you would like to stop drifting.
“Wonwoo,” he confirms.
The name falls between you. You say it once, soft, to see if your mouth will accept it, and it does, as if practised. He flinches at the sound.
“And mine?” you venture, half-mocking, half-terrified of the answer.
He shakes his head. “The one you wear now is the only one I will let myself say.”
“Why?”
“Because every other name is a curse that calls down storms.”
You ought to walk away. You watch yourself not. Your hand lifts and finds his face instead. Your fingers learn the curve of his cheek, the cool at his temple, the tense kindness of his mouth. He trembles under the touch.
“Why does it feel like I’ve done this before?” you ask in the space between his breath and yours.
“Because you have,” he says, breaking the rule he set himself a moment ago. “Because time is a wheel and I traded my soul for a seat on its rim.”
You take your hand back as if burned. He closes his eyes briefly, and when he opens them, there is that old, exhausted mercy in place.
“You’re scaring me,” you tell him, and this, too, is love’s honesty.
He nods. “I should. I am trying to.”
“Then why can’t I leave?”
He swallows. “Because I can’t either.”
You laugh—short, helpless, not unkind. “You are remarkably bad at keeping me safe.”
“I know,” he says, and the concession has its own bittersweetness. “Forgive me.”
“For what,” you ask.
He does not answer. He steps the smallest step closer, enough that you can count the flecks of gold the light coaxes from the brown of his eyes.
“If I kiss you,” you say, “does the world end?”
He lets out a breath. “It never ends,” he says. “That is the problem.”
“Then it won’t mind if I borrow a little.”
You rise onto your toes as he bends down.
The kiss is not the naive victory of movies; it is a slow catastrophe, careful, a question asked and answered in the same moment. His hand finds the back of your neck and then, remembering himself, gentles. Your mouth learns his name as a shape and then as a taste. The alley disappears like a curtain pulled on a bad scene.
When you part, your foreheads rest against each other. He speaks into the skin just above your lip.
“Come with me,” he says—plea, request, command, finality, a choice braided into a single sentence.
The thirteenth night leans close, all whispers and promise.
His home is spare, almost monastic—glass, steel, dark wood—yet there is a softness to the space, a hush that feels protected.
You don’t plan to cross the room as quickly as you do. You don’t plan the way your coat finds the back of a chair or how your lips find his again, harder this time.
His mouth is warm; he tastes clean, heady, addictive. He tilts his head, and you meet him, lips parting, breath mixing. You pull his bottom lip between your teeth and he shudders; you soothe the nip with your tongue slowly. He answers with steady pressure, then a tug, then the kind of open-mouthed kiss that leaves no room for doubt.
His hands stop hovering and find you—one at the small of your back, pulling you in, the other circling your waist and anchoring you to him. He learns the pace you like and matches it: press, glide, a brief retreat, then a return that makes you chase him. You fist his shirt and hold him there, kissing until your lungs ache, breaking only to breathe against his cheek before you find his mouth again.
You pin him to the wall, palms flat on his chest, boxing him in. He looks straight at you—wide, focused, thirsty—and waits. Your laugh slips out quick and bright, not nervous, just sure of yourself.
“Tell me to stop,” you murmur, already knowing he won’t.
“I couldn’t,” he says, voice rough, “my beloved.”
You don’t overthink it. Instead, you take his mouth again. He answers with a low moan, his lips parting, his hands tightening on your waist, surrender and need in the same motion.
You guide him along the wall, fingers curling in his shirt, hips close enough to feel his heat. When the backs of his knees hit the couch, you push lightly at his chest. He sits. You climb into his lap without breaking the kiss, knees bracketing his thighs, dress riding to your hips. You settle your weight over him until you feel exactly where he is against you; his clothed length pushing against your clothed heat. You set a slow grind and make him hold still for it.
Your hand comes up to his throat. You don’t squeeze; you don’t press. You place your fingers there to feel him—the jump of his pulse under your thumb, the swallow he can’t hide—your other hand fists in his hair to keep his face tilted to yours. He freezes for half a second at the touch and then yields, eyes on yours, chest lifting against yours. You keep kissing him, steady and deliberate, holding his throat while you move in his lap and take exactly what you came for.
“You’re shaking,” you say, and smile.
“I have been cold for so long,” he answers, “and then you walked in.”
You kiss the corner of his mouth, then the other, then the spot below his ear. You work down the column of his throat with an open mouth—tasting, learning—feeling him tense and soften, tense and soften beneath your tongue. Your hands slip beneath his shirt, mapping him: the ridges and planes of his muscle, the heat that gathers at his waist, the indrawn breath when your nails drag lightly over his ribs.
“Let me see you,” you whisper. He nods mutely.
You undress him button by button, slow on purpose, working down his shirt until it falls open and off his shoulders. When he’s bare from the waist up, you settle back on his thighs to take him in. You look first, then touch. You trace an old scar on his chest with your fingertip and follow another cut on his shoulder. His skin is hot and tight and responsive under your touch.
“You’re beautiful,” you say, and mean it.
Something raw and grateful crosses his face. “You are…” He stumbles, then finds the words. “You are the hour I never deserved.”
You slide to your knees between his legs without looking away. His breath hitches; his fingers curl around the cushion as if to brace himself. You undo his belt, then his zipper. When you free him, his cock is hot and heavy in your palm. You stroke him once, slowly, and watch his eyes half-close, his mouth fall open and then grit shut, your eyes holding a silent question.
“Yes,” he manages, “please.”
You lower your head and take him into your mouth—first the tip, then deeper—tongue flattening to lap, then curling to stroke as you sink and draw back in a steady pull. His gasp hits your scalp; his thighs tense. You wrap one hand around the base of his length and work in time with your lips, slow at first, then a little faster, keeping him where you want him while your other hand pins his hip when he tries to thrust up to meet you.
Eventually, that bracing hand slips away, dragging under your dress, under your waistband, until your fingers slide between your legs and find how wet you are. You rub tight circles over your clit, matching the pace of your mouth, shameless about the way you moan around him when the pressure lands just right. You take him deeper into your throat, cheeks hollowing, tongue pressing along the underside of his shaft; your fist twists as your lips glide, and his head falls back with a broken groan. The sight of your hand working yourself while you suck him turns his control brittle; the slick rhythm of your fingers and your mouth turns his restraint to tinder.
“Beloved,” he says, and then again—a reverent curse—“beloved.”
You hum, and the vibration makes him curse softly into his fist. You draw back to kiss the head, slow, teasing, then circle your tongue and take him in again, your throat opening. His head falls back against the couch; his chest rises and falls. You feel him fight for control because he wants to give you everything you have come to take. You thumb your clit harder, chasing a spark while you worship him with your mouth, and his hands shake, helpless, at the sight.
“If you keep—” His voice breaks; he tries again. “If you keep doing that, I will shame myself like a boy.”
You smile around him. “Good,” you mumble, and do it again.
His cock pulses on your tongue, and the sound he makes—choked, breaking—turns your bones soft. You ease your pace, then tighten it, merciless and tender, until his hand lands in your hair.
“Enough,” he gasps, “not like this—let me—”
You release him with a pop and rise, wiping the corner of your mouth with the back of your hand, your eyes never leaving his. You straddle him again and kiss him, letting him taste himself on your tongue; he groans into your mouth at the tang. Your dress slips off your shoulder; his hands follow the new geography, tracing your collarbone, cupping your breasts through the fabric of your bra, then under it when you guide him. His thumbs circle your nipples until your breath goes ragged. You roll your hips against him and feel his answering surge.
“Tell me what you want,” he says, voice gone dark.
“You,” you say simply before lifting your hips and pushing your panties aside to guide him to your entrance.
You ease down onto him in one slow, claiming thrust. The stretch steals sound from you; he catches the unvoiced cry with a kiss, his hands firm at your waist, holding you open, holding you steady. You set a rhythm, rolling your hips, rising and falling, taking him to the hilt and then almost out, your breath stuttering with each deliberate stroke. He watches your face like he is printing it on the inside of his eyelids.
“Look at you,” he murmurs, awed. “Look at what you do to me.”
Confidence lives in your spine. You ride him harder, your hands on his shoulders, fingers digging in when the angle hits a place that lights you from the inside. He meets you halfway, lifting his hips, driving up into you with control. Sweat beads at your temple; his mouth finds it and licks it away. You bite his lower lip; he gasps and laughs in the same breath, undone and delighted.
“Say it,” you pant, not sure what you want until it arrives. “Say you’re mine.”
“I have been yours in every century I dared to breathe,” he answers, broken and true.
You tip your head back and ride him faster, the wet sounds spilling into the quiet of the penthouse. Your body begins to tighten, heat coiling low, and you chase it with shameless focus. He slides a hand between you, fingers finding your clit easily—circling, pressing, dragging you closer to that edge with an understanding that feels older than this room—while his mouth lowers to your breast, lips closing around your clothed nipple, tongue teasing the nub until your spine bows. The double attention spins you higher.
“Yes,” you cry, “don’t stop—”
He doesn’t. He sits up, his mouth still at your breast, sucking and flicking in time with the steady pressure of his fingers against your core, and you cling to him as the wave suddenly overtakes you—hips stuttering, mouth open against his neck, a sound you do not recognise tearing from your throat. He holds you through it, whispering against your hair—praise, promise, your name like a blessing he can’t help repeat.
You are still shaking when he grips your hips and flips you gently, laying you back on the couch cushions. He kneels between your knees and drags you to the edge, one of your legs lifted, bent, carefully set over his shoulder. The position opens you and makes you gasp.
“Look at me,” he says.
You do.
He pushes back into you, the stretch fresh and exquisite. The new angle pushes another moan out of you; he swallows it with a kiss and sets a rhythm—deep, bruising, relentless. One hand locks around your thigh, holding you open; the other cups your jaw, thumb at your cheek, keeping your face tipped to his so he can watch your eyes glaze on every thrust. You meet him without flinching, hips rolling to take him, matching his rhythm.
“You take me so well,” he groans. “You were made for me.”
“Yes,” you gasp—because it fits, because it’s true.
He drives harder, and the couch creaks in gentle protest. The city blurs beyond his shoulder. He bites gently at your ankle where it rests against his collarbone; pleasure shocks through you again. You clamp your hand around his forearm and feel everything—muscle flexing under your fingers, the slick heat of his skin, the steadiness of his strength—and the way he looks down at you, wrecked and tender, tells you exactly what you are to him: threshold and home, both at once
“I would burn eternity for one hour with you,” he groans.
“Then stay,” you answer, not fully understanding the depth of your words.
The coil in your stomach builds again and you are greedy for it. He is unravelling too— jaw tight, breath ragged—and still he holds your gaze. When you come, it is with his name in your mouth, and when he follows, it is with your name in his—both of you flung and filled, both of you shaking as the orgasm rips through you, and his seed spills inside.
He collapses forward and presses his forehead to yours, both of you breathing hard, laughing once from the shock of relief. He kisses you again, slow now. Your leg slides from his shoulder; he catches your calf, kisses the inside of your knee, then the slick pulse at your throat, then your mouth.
“My beloved,” he whispers.
You touch his damp face, thumbs brushing the high bones of his eyebrows, and something fierce and uncomprehending rises in you. “I love you,” you say, stunned by your own certainty, “I don’t know why or how, but I do.”
He closes his eyes and kisses you, as if sealing the words between you. He doesn’t get up. He gathers you, turns you gently, and guides you down the dim hall with his body close to yours until his bedroom opens—quiet sheets, soft darkness. He lies back and pulls you over him, settles you on his chest, then draws the blanket up to your shoulders. One arm locks around your waist; the other cups the back of your head, his fingers moving slowly through your hair.
You match your breathing to his as you rest your head on his chest. City light lays pale stripes across his collarbone. He says your name once, then softer: “my beloved.” The tightness in your chest eases. Heat becomes warmth; urgency thins to ache; ache settles into calm.
Your eyes close. Your body gives in to gravity and the steady drum of his heartbeat. He keeps still, as if any extra motion might break the spell. You drift, then drop into sleep while his hand keeps its slow, patient path through your hair.
The dream does not announce; it floods.
The air inside the ruined chapel tastes like iron and smoke; a broken roof frames a sliver of night; the moon peers down. A lily lies crushed on the broken altar beside a strip of linen dark with blood. Your hands are slick—yours, someone else’s, his—and the pain becomes white.
Arrows. The shout of men who don’t know your name and wouldn’t care if they did. A face in a helmet. His face without it. The stunned way his mouth formed prayer and blasphemy at once.
Acre. Anna. Forbidden hands touching anyway in corners that pretended to be private.
—
The Border wind stings, your cloak a joke against it. His horse snorts softly, patiently. A shed, a sack of seed, a mouth greedy for silence and heat. You laugh into the curve of his jaw because for one hour, the world can’t find you.
A door bursts, boots, a curse. The blade you weren’t supposed to need. Blood on planks. Your father’s voice and then the silence that follows men who think they were aiming at someone else.
Scotland. Elspeth. Murder you didn’t see coming because love told you to look away.
—
A ceiling painted with people who never had to sweat. Wax breathes rich and heavy; silk argues with skin in every corner. Your mask is crooked; you don’t fix it. You don’t need eyes to find him. In an empty corridor, you learn the taste of your own name said with a mouth that your past remembers. Outside, the crowd becomes a tide; you are swept away. Feet, wheels, shouts, a fall; your shoe’s buckle bending under pressure.
Paris. Geneviève. Trampled by a revolution that does not pause for individuals.
—
Light muddied with clay dust. A woman standing on a box to be taller than her easel. His shoulders holding still for your brush. Your cough starts soft—scusatemi—then becomes a fact that the room has to organise itself around. He opens a locket: iron, humble, stubborn. Inside, a white lily refusing to brown. You press it to your lips. You tell him what you have no right to say out loud: Even silence is love. All hours end, but love does not. He holds the vow between his teeth and swallows it so you won’t die under the weight. You do anyway.
Florence. Lucia. Hope cut to the quick by consumption.
—
You bolt upright in bed, chest heaving, as if yanked up from deep water. The ceiling is unfamiliar; the room is a smear of shadow. It takes a second for the shapes to settle, for memory to catch up. Your hands scrabble across linen: sheets, not banners, not hay, not cobble; your skin now, not then. You find metal on your chest—his locket, the locket—hot from the heat you’ve been leeching into it all night. You clutch it in your palm.
“Why do I remember dying?” The whisper rasps your throat. The question isn’t a question. It’s a verdict you’re begging him to appeal.
Wonwoo is already up, already there, hand warm on your back.
“Breathe,” he says, a gentle command. “In. Out. Slow. With me.”
You try. Air goes in the wrong way.
“Why do I remember dying?” The second time, your voice is stronger, angrier. Wonwoo closes his eyes—only for a blink—but you see it: the way fatigue drags across his face. He opens them on purpose. He keeps his voice low when he responds.
“Dreams borrow,” he says. “Sometimes they take more than they should.”
“Don’t make it pretty,” you cut in. “You sound like a doctor trying not to announce the end.”
He flinches—as if you struck him—and shifts. “Pieces,” he tries again. “Rooms. Hours. Sometimes the mind—”
“The mind?” You laugh, and it’s not happy. “Then whose blood was that? Whose shoe? Whose cough?”
He looks at your hands. You realise you’re gripping the locket so hard your knuckles have whitened. He looks back at your face.
“Yours,” he says. “But not this body’s.”
You swing your legs out of bed as the room spins around you. The cold of the floor on your feet is a small, clean pain that feels like proof you’re still alive.
“Tell me what you are,” you say, fighting for calm and failing. “Tell me what I am to you.”
Silence. It is not evasive; it is careful.
“I am a man who made a bargain he cannot unmake,” he says. “And you are—” He stops, jaw working, then: “You are the reason I regret it, and the reason I don’t.”
“So you’re not going to deny it,” you say, heart pounding. “Acre. Scotland. Paris. Florence. Those were me. Those were you.”
His breath leaves him as he nods. The room shrinks. Your pulse is ringing in your ears. Panic overtakes your senses.
“Get away from me,” you whisper, and you hate how your hands shake. “I can’t— if I stay here I’ll—”
“I’ll make tea,” he says absurdly, as if this were a typical emergency. “We can sit. You can ask me anything. I’ll answer—”
“Answer?” The word snaps. “With what? Fate? Destiny? We’re cursed!” You can’t bear how final it sounds now that you’re saying it out loud. “I don’t want this story.”
He nods as if you’re right to refuse it. “Neither did you,” he says softly. “Any of you.”
“Stop.” The syllable shakes. “Don’t call me that. I don’t want to be an any.” Your chest tightens. Tears threaten, but you refuse them out of spite. You cross the room. Your dress from last night is a dark puddle on the chair. You drag it on, zipper crooked, but you don’t care. You jam your feet into your shoes and leave a heel unbuckled. Your bag is where you left it. You grab it so hard the strap protests. The chain at your throat suddenly feels wrong—you hook a finger beneath it, yank the clasp free, and tear the locket off. You curl it into your palm and keep it there, fist closed.
“Don’t run,” he says. His voice breaks, trying to stay gentle.
“I have to,” you say.
He takes a step. Stops. Forces his hands to stay at his sides. “Then let me come with you.”
“No.”
“Please.”
“No.” The word tears. “I don’t know you. I only know what you make me feel, and none of it is safe.”
He nods like a man being sentenced and finding a way to agree. “You are you,” he says, a last try. “Only you.”
You don’t wait to see if he’s right. You run.
Wonwoo knows what it means to watch a woman run from him, who believes he is the danger. He has trained his muscles not to grab, his mouth not to beg, his feet to follow just far enough to be there when the world fails.
He snatches his coat but doesn’t put it on; the elevator is somewhere doing what elevators do: wasting urgency. He takes the stairs because stairs do not wane. He hears your feet banging into the concrete two floors below. He says your name, and the stairwell throws it back at him.
The morning has not picked a season. The street offers its usual chaos: a delivery van half-parked on the crosswalk; a cyclist angry at the van; a rideshare vehicle angled into an imaginary spot; a cab deciding laws are suggestions; a man with a coffee discovering the politics of gravity. The light at the corner counts down in red.
You are a streak of hair and white knuckles and the locket’s chain cutting a bright arc with each step as it dangles from your hand. You are not looking. You are not looking because the past is louder than the present, and you are trying not to hear it. He sees the car approach.
Not again, his mind says.
He calls your name. It is not a name, not now; it is a flare. You turn your face toward him—only a fraction—and that fraction is all it takes for you not to see the white sedan deciding amber means go.
The sound is wrong. It isn’t loud. A horrible soft-hard knock. It is the sound of something breaking that shouldn’t.
Your body lifts, not far. Comes down badly. A bag spills; your phone skitters; the locket catches itself against your body and refuses to fall.
He is there before his brain has finished issuing the order to move. His knees slam into asphalt; he doesn’t notice. He slides his palm under your head. He sees your eyes—open, unseeing; then blinking; then trying to decide whether to be here. He hears nothing else for a while. The city narrows to your breath, stingy, irregular. The rest is a blur.
A woman is sobbing too loudly for her size. “Oh my God, oh my God.” The driver is making a noise composed entirely of the consonants guilt values: I— I— I— A man says he’s a nurse and asks for gloves. Somebody yells at the sedan. Somebody else yells at the yeller to shut up and call 911. The light finally changes.
He puts two fingers on your throat. Pulse. Unreliable, thready. The locket is wedged between your hands and your chest; the chain has looped once around your wrist. He murmurs “Easy,” and with the same care he would use to free a snare from a bird’s leg, he unwinds the chain from your wrist and eases the locket from your grip.
“Stay,” he says. The word is a command, a plea, a curse. “Stay with me. Breathe. Again. Easy.”
Your mouth shapes something. He leans closer. You manage one word that breaks him:
“Why?”
He could say everything. He could say because the Devil bargains in fine print; he could say because I was a boy and grief was a god; he could say because I have hauled your deaths behind me and I am tired and still not sorry. He says the only thing that has ever been the truth.
“Because I love you.”
Your eyes finally focus. They find his and hold. In them, he sees the chapel, the hill, the corridor, the studio—but also the couch from last night, and your hand on his throat, your mouth saying yes, the way a woman claims her life and not a man. He thinks, with a calm he will later hate: If this is the hour, at least it had an hour before it ended.
Sirens sound. Blue light washes the street into aquarium gloom. A paramedic slides to her knees beside him. “Sir, I need you to step back.”
He doesn’t. He can’t. He looks up at her. “Gently,” he says.
Something in his voice makes her nod. She positions her hands where his were, enters the space he has been guarding. Another medic appears with a backboard and a C-collar. The nurse from the curb gives a brisk report; someone parks a police car at an angle. The driver keeps saying I didn’t see her as if the sentence could turn back time.
“Sir, are you family?” the other paramedic asks, efficient, compassionate in the way he was taught. “Do you know her name?”
Family. The word tears into his tissue. Eight hundred years of the wrong nouns. Lover, stranger, ghost, sin, miracle, curse. None of them buy him the right to touch you without being asked. He says your given name.
“And you are—?”
He opens his mouth and says, ‘I am,’ and finds there is no answer that does not make him look like a problem, or a liar, or a myth. His silence is its own confession.
“We’ll take it from here,” he says. “Please step back.”
He does, and it is the worst obedience of his life. His hands hang stupid at his sides; one fist sealed around the locket.
The collar goes on. The backboard slides under. They lift you, tuck blankets, strap, tape, check, speak to each other in crisp shorthand. Wonwoo memorises the cadence.
A police officer corrals the driver to the curb. The man is shaking, shock-pale. “Sir, had you been drinking?” “No, no, I swear—” “Phone?” “On the dock— look— it’s—” A witness inserts herself; the officer holds up a palm; the witness obeys. The city tries not to stare and fails.
They wheel you toward the ambulance. He follows as far as the doors and stops because a paramedic’s hand touches his chest.
“We’ll be at St. Luke’s,” she says, reading his face. “You can meet us there.”
“Please,” he says, and does not know which God might receive this. “Please let me—”
“Sir, we need space to work.” Firm, kind, final.
The doors shut. Blue light blooms again, then slides away as the ambulance pulls into the mass of cars. Wonwoo stands in the middle of the street and learns, again, how quiet faith can make a man.
The police begin their bureaucracy of mercy and blame. Statements. Cones. Photos. A chalk mark he hates on principle. The driver is crying for his mother; a witness tries to describe the geometry of the hit with their hands and fails. Someone thrusts a paper cup at him; he doesn’t drink.
The police finish with the driver and turn toward him. “Sir, can we get your statement?” He nods because he knows how to perform compliance. He tells them what they need—speed, colour, direction, timing—in a voice that doesn’t sound like the one he uses daily.
When they release him, he looks down. On the asphalt, a drop of blood seeps into the crevices.
He turns toward the direction of St. Luke’s and begins to walk. He does not run. Running has never made time kinder.
Behind him, the driver’s voice breaks into a new shape: apology or defence, he’s not sure. Ahead, blocks away, the hospital’s glass front shows as a set of doors that will ask him to explain who he is. Above him, the sky tries and fails to make up its mind. The first real rain starts, thin and hesitant, dotting his sleeves. He doesn’t bother to hide from it. He tells the weather, because it is the only thing that might be listening, the only sentence he can bear to let out:
All hours end, but love does not.
Wonwoo finds the church by accident.
On his way to the hospital, he cuts through a street he never takes, past a shuttered bakery and a florist hosing sleep from the pavement. A steeple interrupts the sky. The door stands open and warm air escapes—wax and old wood, the mild smell of incense. He steps inside.
The nave is small, the kind of parish that keeps its courage in votive glass. Red lamps bud along a side altar; a row of kneelers waits in the centre. Light filters through stained glass—saints, lilies, a shepherd with a lamb. He moves down the aisle and stops at the stoup. Holy water shines thin in the basin. He hesitates—half expecting it to brand him, to reject him. Nothing happens. He touches the water to his brow, his chest, his shoulders. He does not remember the words, but his body remembers the motion.
He kneels. His hands do not know what to do with themselves until they find the locket and hold it within their grasp.
“I do not know how to speak to You anymore,” he begins. “I haven’t since Acre.”
Memory cuts clean: a ruined chapel, you on the stones, a man in a priest’s habit with a mild voice and teeth he did not show. He sees again the moment his faith snapped. He had spat a boy’s rage at heaven, and a patient devil had caught it.
“I cursed You,” he says. “I did. I took what I was offered. I chose a lie because it looked like hope.” His breath trembles. “I have carried it for eight centuries. I have carried her deaths.”
He presses the locket to his forehead. The metal is cold.
“Take me,” he whispers. “Take me. Take my soul. Unmake what I am. Let her live. Let her be free from me.”
He lays down what he can: pride, grief, the strange vanity of despair.
“If there is a ledger—I owe. If there is a scale—put all my weight on her side. If there is a door—lock me out and open it for her.”
Silence greets him. Somewhere in the back, a pipe settles, a building’s old bones remembering the lack of heat. He kneels until the ache in his legs becomes the only clarity.
“I am not asking for forever,” he says, and is surprised to mean it. “I am asking for now. Let this hour belong to her. Take me.”
Footsteps. Soft, ecclesiastical, unhurried—the gait of someone who has walked sanctums before. A priest appears at the end of the pew: cassock plain, collar white. His eyes are gentle yet not naive.
“Son,” the priest says, and the word lands without condescension, “you look as if you have been fighting the sea.”
Wonwoo swallows. “I have,” he answers, and then corrects himself, “I chose the sea.”
The priest tilts his head. “And now?”
“Now I would drown properly, if it would save her.”
He expects questions—names, dates, doctrine. The priest, instead, sits beside him, as if the best way to hear a man is to share the bench that hurts his knees.
“Tell me,” the priest says.
So he does. Not the whole of it—not the ruin and the bargain and the centuries in the detail they deserve. But the shape. The hour. The street. The ambulance, the blood, the locket caught in your hands. He confesses without flourish.
“I have been wrong in so many directions,” he says finally. “I have been faithful to my error longer than most men get to live. If there is a way to pay—if there is a way to end it—ask it of me.”
The priest considers him in stillness.
“Did you know,” he says at last, “she was never baptised?”
The sentence is simple. It hits like lightning.
“No,” Wonwoo manages. “No. She—” He stops.
The priest nods, not surprised. “The cycle you fear—what the enemy twisted for harm—leans on vows and signs and sacraments he did not make, but loves to counterfeit. If she was never bound by that mark, then she was never caught in that wheel. The curse has no hold.”
The words are an opening. Joy doesn’t ring; it shudders through him. Fear follows swiftly, trained to keep up.
“Then what happens to her?” His voice cracks on her. “What happens to her soul?”
The priest looks toward the sanctuary lamp, small in its red glass. “Mercy is not a contract,” he says. “It is a Person. You brought her here when you said free. Trust that Someone heard and was already nearer to her than you could ever be.”
Wonwoo closes his eyes. He has trained himself to expect bargains. The priest gives him, instead, hope. He loathes it and loves it at the same time.
“I have nothing to offer but myself,” he says.
“That has always been the only thing worth offering,” the priest replies gently. “And you have already placed it here.” He nods at the locket in Wonwoo’s fist. “You carried a flower through centuries so it could remind you what a prayer sounds like.”
Wonwoo almost laughs, but tears stifle the sound.
“If she lives,” he asks very quietly, “may the wheel stop?”
The priest’s smile is small. “You cannot imagine how little power the wheel has in a hand that forgives.”
Silence again. The stained glass seems more alive and less like a picture. Wonwoo breathes in, and for the first time since he said ‘take me’, his lungs do not argue.
He looks aside to thank the man, to ask him—foolishly, ambitiously—for a blessing he has no right to expect.
The pew beside him is empty.
There was no rustle of fabric, no exit, no footsteps reversing down the aisle. Only a soft, lingering sense of a presence. The sanctuary lamp burns on. A draft moves through the church.
Wonwoo remains kneeling until his knees lose feeling. He opens his fist. The locket printed a crescent on his skin. He bows his head once more.
For a breath, the metal stays against his palm—then, without sound, the hinge loosens, the oval fractures hairline-fine, and the thing that survived centuries finally yields: petal to powder, casing to ash. Dust sifts through his fingers and settles on the wood below him, leaving only the crescent mark on his skin and the faintest scent of lily where nothing remains.
For a long moment Wonwoo doesn’t move. Something shifts inside him. Heat spreads under his sternum; his heartbeat changes timbre, less an echo, more present. The emptiness he learned to live around is simply… gone. He blinks, waiting for pain or penalty; nothing answers. He closes his eyes and feels, absurdly, like a man returned to himself.
He stays kneeling until he trusts his legs to carry him, then rises. The nave narrows to aisle, to door, to rain. Outside, the sky has finally made up its mind and unloads water heavily. The hospital is still far, a small glow at the end of the long street, but he doesn’t measure it—he runs, startled by how light the running feels, as if the weight he never sets down has lifted off his shoulders.. Each footfall is a ‘yes’ he cannot help saying.
And somewhere, under the fluorescent hush and soft metronome of a monitor, a pair of eyes open again.
A/N: Fun fact about me: I absolutely love Caleb Landry Jones and Luc Besson. When I heard they would work together again for a remake of Dracula, I went to see it as soon as it was released. Safe to say I loved it. Take this story as the result of what the movie did to me. 💟
Tagging: @tomodachiii
Send me your thoughts - feedback/fangirling is always welcome. Want to be tagged in future works? Let me know.
(Collage created by me. Credits to owners of the pictures taken from Pinterest.)
SYNOPSIS. When the world falls asleep, a certain radio broadcast goes live—one hosted by none other than you and your best friend Wen Junhui. The two of you host an anonymous love confession segment, where listeners submit their deepest feelings, secrets, and late-night loves they can’t say aloud for you to unravel live on air. However, when a recurring submission starts to feel too familiar, a certain someone finds themselves wondering how long they can stay anonymous… before they are finally heard.
PAIRING. radio host!wen junhui x radio host!fem!reader (ft. soonyoung as a comedic device)
GENRE. fluff, best friends to lovers, crack/humour, comfort, slight angst, smut (minors dni 🔞)
WARNINGS. cursing, mentions of toxic situations in relationships (situationships, cheating, love bombing), yn and jun are dumb asffff no wonder they're besties, jun feeling a lil insecure :(, lots of playful bickering and bullying, terms of endearment, kissing, grinding, fingering, oral (f. receiving), unprotected sex, they bully each other even while doing the deed 😭
WORD COUNT. 11.3k
notes: hellooo everyoneee, this is my fic for the @studiosvt First Time Caller collab! please don't forget to support all the amazing authors in the collab!! unfort this was so rushed and lowkey not proud of it SDFDS i completely forgot how to write while writing this since it was all during the stress of finals szn and other matters LMAO, but i love writing abt two stupid oblivious idiot besties who are secretly in love with each other 😔 not rlly proofread so i'm sorry for any mistakes !! there is also a skye @etherealyoungk cameo in here hehe
“No, no, no𑁋Wen Junhui, you’re being way too nice about this!” You exclaim mid-laugh, shaking your head as you lean in towards the mic. “If someone’s been stringing you along for six months with nothing but ‘I’m not ready for a relationship yet’ texts, then that’s just straight up terrorism. Not even a situationship, at this point.”
Jun lets out a laugh of his own and throws his head back, almost making his headphones nearly fall off his head. He readjusts quickly, dark hair messily falling over his forehead. The neon red of the bright ON LIVE sign on the wall behind his head casts an almost villain-like glow across his features, sharpening the curve of his already amused smile.
“Terrorism? Wow, tell us how you really feel, Y/N,” Jun retorts playfully. “But fine. Anon, if they’ve been feeding you breadcrumbs for half a year, that’s basically emotional warfare. Please save yourself and block them on everything𑁋and yes, that includes on Spotify.”
You snort at that, tapping your pen against your script notes that you’ve been barely following anyway. The show had practically devolved from advice to whatever banter you and Jun had cooked up on the spot. “Exactly. Listeners, if your situationship has an expiration date longer than expired milk, it’s time to toss it. Jun is too sweet to say it, so I’ll do it. Run.”
“I𑁋’too sweet’?!” A dramatic gasp tumbles out of Jun as he spins his chair toward you. “I was the one who told last week’s caller to roast her boyfriend’s dick like a marshmallow because he kept forgetting her birthday!”
“But you said it with, like, the sweetest voice ever!”
“That man deserved to get emotionally blue-balled! How can you forget your girlfriend’s own birthday for a second year in a row?”
You roll your eyes so hard it’s basically audible over the mic. “God, Junhui, you have the emotional range of a raccoon.”
“I’ll take it.” Jun grins at that, thrusting his shoulders back as if he’s trying to appear bigger and more intimidating. “At least raccoons are cute, right?”
On your laptop, the chat is going crazy.
user: here we go again with their flirty banter 🙄
user: JUST GET MARRIED ALREADY YOU TWO!!!!!!!!!
user: i swear this radio show is hosted by 2 delusional idiots
user: i think they should kiss idk
“No, we shouldn’t!” You exclaim at the chat like you’re scolding a bunch of twelve-year olds.
Jun nearly hops out of his seat. “Wait, I agree!”
“Wen Junhui!”
“What? I was agreeing with you!”
“That was not you agreeing with me,” You groan. “You agreed to kissing me.”
“Well, the chat started it, so don’t put all the blame on me,” Jun says with a pout, folding his arms together. “Plus, it would be good for research purposes, wouldn’t it?”
Your eyes bulge out of your skull, your mind and face flaming up. “You’re such a𑁋we host a radio show, not a damn lab!”
“Chemistry is still relevant! And chemistry is needed for relationships!”
“We are not in a relationship, oh my, God.”
“Hypothetically, Y/N. Think hypotheticals.” Jun clicks his tongue, letting out playful tsk-tsk-tsk. “I’m telling you our ratings would absolutely skyrocket.”
You fight back the smile threatening to split your face in half, but there’s no point in trying to battle it. After being best friends with Jun for most of your life and witnessing pretty much all the stupid shit he has ever said or done, you’ve long accepted that his brand of chaos is the only thing in this world that can make your chest too tight and too warm at the same time. Especially if it involves the playful flirting you’ve been bouncing on for years.
“Whatever, to answer your question𑁋raccoons are cute, but they’re also known for making stupid life decisions,” You point out with a victorious smirk. “So, maybe not the best comparison to make. It’s accurate, regardless.”
“Harsh,” he whines, but his eyes𑁋those stupid, unfairly expressive eyes of his𑁋sparkle with teasing delight. “Alright, onto the final submission of the night. Anonymous says…”
Dear Y/N and Jun of Love On Air,
I’ve been supporting the show since the very beginning, and now, I think I’m in trouble enough to make a submission.
I’m in love with my best friend. I have been for years and it struck me pretty hard this morning. Is it weird to say when I first met them it felt like love at first sight? We talk every day to the point that everyone assumes we’re together, but we’re not. They’re kind, funny, and sometimes I think they deserve someone better than me. But is it selfish of me to say that I want to keep them in my life forever? Even if that line isn’t crossed?
What should I do???
🐱
The studio falls silent for a few moments after Jun finishes reading. The shift in the air is immediately noticeable, as if all the oxygen had been sucked out of the room. When Jun picks his head back up to look at you after reading the confession, his usual smirk is still in place, but fades just a tad when he catches the contemplative expression on your face.
“Hello? Earth to Y/N?”
“Huh?” You blink back up at him. “Oh, shit. Right, uh…”
You can’t tell if it’s the late night hour getting to you or something else entirely. You’ve received so many similar confessions before𑁋a best friend falling in love with their other half, the slow and torturous ache of unspoken feelings, the fear of messing up something that’s already so beautiful itself. And ultimately, your advice has always stayed the same.
But when you meet eyes with Jun, it’s as if the words have completely cut your tongue off. You finally clear your throat.
“First of all, welcome cat anon to the club of people who are all vicariously and collectively screwed together,” You say, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. “And I wish we hadn’t read yours at the very last minute since we’re about in end in five𑁋”
Jun lifts a brow. “Wait, we have about fifteen𑁋”
“𑁋but I’ll just say that you aren’t selfish for wanting to keep them in your life. But you are doing a disservice keeping it locked away forever. This kind of love doesn’t come around twice. So tell them, even if it scares you. What’s the worst that could happen, you know?”
You can feel Jun’s heavy gaze linger on the side of your face.
“Exactly, anon,” he jumps in like the professional he is. “Ripping the band-aid off would only hurt temporarily, right? And if it doesn’t work out, we’ll be here next week with some ice cream recommendations to help you cope.”
“Keep in mind what Jun said, guys,” You say, forcing a small laugh. “Thank you all for turning into Love On Air. Stay honest, stay unhinged, and send that one person a risky text. If you want to submit a confession, please send one to our email. We are live every Saturday on FM 98.7! Goodnight, everyone!”
You kill your microphone first as the ON LIVE sign on the wall blinks out with a soft click. Jun switches off his microphone right after, and the silence that washes over the studio is louder than anything else.
For a moment, neither of you moves.
You still feel the ghost of Jun’s gaze warm on your cheek from when you were giving advice just a minute ago. It’s silly, really𑁋how one singular anonymous confession is enough to make you think and contemplate so hard. You’ve given advice to more people than you can count on your hands and toes, but this specific one feels as if it grew limbs, crawled out of the screen, and sat itself between you and him.
“You rushed that ending,” Jun interrupts your thoughts as he swings his coat over his shoulders.
You scoff lightly. “I did not.”
“Did too.”
“I literally answered the question,” You shoot back, narrowing your eyes at him. “That’s our job.”
“Exactly,” he hums in response, leaning his elbow on the desk and resting his chin lazily in his palm. “You answered it like it was your first time ever hearing it.”
A pause.
“When it’s not.”
It’s not. But why𑁋out of all goddamn times you’ve read the same exact fear𑁋did this one feel like someone jabbed a finger at your chest and said: here, this is yours?
You force a laugh at that, letting out a deprecating shrug. “Maybe I’m just getting sentimental at my big age.”
“You’re literally younger than me.”
“Only by a few months. Your argument is irrelevant, grandpa.”
Jun tilts his head at your words, pushing himself off the table and invading your personal space as always. He stands only a step away from you, observing the way you’re speedily packing your belongings like some kind of punishment. When you face back up at him, he gives a light flick to your forehead. His touch lingers for a few seconds, before he brushes a stray strand of hair behind your ear. It’s playful and casual, but the way your skin tingles after isn’t.
Your heart does a stupid little flip in your chest.
“Come on, youngling, I’ll drive you home,” he says with a cheesy smile, dangling his car keys off his finger.
A groan leaves you as you allow him to drag you by the wrist and out of the studio.
To be honest, the radio show started off as one big fat joke.
It started in sophomore year of college, where you and Jun were nothing but a pair of dumb, broke college kids. Then you both decided to sign a quick gig for the campus radio station because you thought it would look good on your resumes. The two of you were supposed to do the boring music hour𑁋basically play whatever indie crap the station manager liked and read weather updates every morning.
But that didn’t exactly go as planned, as the majority of those sessions were spent with you both roasting each other’s music tastes live on air, and for some reason, the listeners seemed to eat that dynamic up.
In one particular session, Jun opened up the radio station email box live on air. You both expected for another complaint, which wasn’t uncommon knowing how immature the two of you act sometimes. However, it wasn’t a complaint this time.
It was a confession.
A girl had written about how she’d been in love with her roommate for the past two years and didn’t know how to voice it without ruining their lease together. Jun read it when his microphone was supposed to be switched off, and something in the studio shifted that night.
“Do… we answer it?” Jun had asked you warily.
You had hesitated for once, before a sudden surge of determination filled you. Perhaps it’s the delirium of two idiots who believed they could wing it, or the thought that a random person decided to reach out to both of you𑁋out of anyone else𑁋was the reason for the determination. Either way, you looked across at Jun that night and said, “Yeah. Let’s answer it.”
And that was that.
The rest of the semester became an absolute rollercoaster of love confessions, messy breakups, love bombers, situationships that made you want to pull your hair out, and the two of you slowly carving a name for yourselves as the unfiltered chaotic duo who gave sarcastic advice that came straight from the heart. The campus station extended their time slot, then the local radio station in the city picked the two of you up.
Somewhere along the way, and four years later, Love On Air stopped being a joke and became a real thing you and Jun committed together every Saturday at midnight𑁋your own little pocket of chaos in an otherwise normal adult life. For the most part, at least, because pining for your best friend is totally counted as normal.
Wen Junhui came into your life like a stray cat who decided that your doorstep looked comfortable enough to stay forever. Uninvited and unpredictable, way too pretty for his own good, yet somehow always exactly where you needed him to be. He randomly plopped down right next to you during freshman orientation, snatched the last macaron on your plate, and gave you a look that said you’d be fun to annoy for the next four years before introducing his name.
You’d never admit how absolutely starstruck you were the first time he smiled at you. Or laughed. You told yourself you were just sleep deprived and lonely being in the city all by yourself, but deep down, the voice in your head at that moment said that you wanted to keep him.
You should have been annoyed. But instead you laughed and nearly choked on your water, and that was it. Game over. And you became each other’s favourite person without either of you having to put a label on it. Best friend felt too small, and soulmate felt too big and scary for two broke college kids who couldn’t dedicate themselves to a single major.
So you just… existed together. Thrived together. Grew together through the most stupidest decisions known to mankind.
And at some point down the road, that stray cat curled up into your chest and refused to leave.
“Listeners, let’s give a full round of applause to user derangedcarat for cutting off their cheating ex-partner,” You announce into the microphone, clapping your hands like a proud mom at a recital. The chat explodes immediately.
user: 👏👏👏👏
user: FINALLY i’m so proud of u user derangedcarat queen
user: anyone who cheats on their partner needs to be put on death row
user: ^^^ preach!!!
“And you did the hard part, user derangedcarat,” Jun adds in. “We love growth in this household. Maybe email us a screenshot of the block so we can frame it in the studio here.”
“Exactly, and please don’t forget to take care of yourself,” You reassure into the microphone. “Block, delete, go touch some grass if you need to. You deserve someone who actually respects you.”
The next confessions run by in a blur over the next hour. Someone sends in a confession asking if it’s weird to still be hung on their high school ex, another person confesses that they’ve been naming their house plants after people who ghosted them, which the two of you undoubtedly praise for creativity.
To top off the chaos, there’s one submission an anonymous user submits with screenshots of cringe-worthy flirty text messages from a man they’re talking to, with the sender begging for the two of you to rate the messages on a scale of “smooth operator” to “immediate block”.
Jun narrows his eyes toward the screen. “Y/N, listen to this: ‘hey babygirl, how’s your night been? mine was spent thinking about u 😏’. Sent at 2:19 in the morning, left on read for three days.”
You burst out laughing, cheeks puffing out to the point it hurts. “Oh, my God. Solid negative five. That’s a biohazard right there.”
“That’s way too generous,” Jun snorts while spinning in his chair. “Anon, this man is serving nothing but expired milk. Please save yourself a headache and block his number.”
Heartbreak, confessions, and ridiculous stories𑁋you and Jun tag-team them over the next hour like strong duo you are, with the chatting eating up every particularly brutal line that leaves either of your mouths. This is what seems to happen when you give two nocturnal people a cup of bitter tar coffee and the free will to say whatever they please.
By the time the final minutes of the session comes, you and Jun decide to read out one last confession.
“...Cat anon is back with a follow-up confession.”
You perk up curiously at that. “Really? What does it say?”
Jun hesitates briefly, before clearing his throat.
Dear Y/N and Jun of Love On Air,
Hi, it’s me again. The one who wrote the other week. Thank you both so much for responding to me. I listened to every word you guys said, and I think you’re right. I was almost brave the other night𑁋had this whole stupid mental speech planned to tell them when we were hanging out together. But I… chickened out. Again. Really dumb of me, I know.
And I know that I look like a coward who needs a weekly pep talk, but this show feels like the only safe space I’m able to confess this. I do have a question for the two of you to answer and discuss.
Do you think there’s such a thing as ‘perfect love’?
I think that’s my dilemma right now. I want to be perfect for them. I want to give them that perfect love that they deserve. But how can I do that, knowing who I am?
🐱
The studio falls into a gentle kind of quiet after Jun finishes reading. The words are still processing deeply through your mind when he warily lifts his eyes back up at you, lingering on your concentrated expression. Then his heart stutters in his chest when you meet his eyes as if he got caught doing something wrong.
“Jun, why don’t you answer it first?”
Jun blinks, before shaking his head like he’s trying to clear away fog. He leans back in his chair and stretches his long arms up with a thoughtful sigh, enough for his hoodie to ride up just slightly for you to catch a sliver of skin. You try (and fail) not to notice, muting your microphone briefly to let out a cough into your hand.
“I mean, ‘perfect’ love is that type of stuff you read about in books or watch in movies, right?” He shrugs, letting his arms fall back down as his chair creaks softly beneath him. “Like no miscommunication, no timing issues, no one being stupid… which already disqualifies most of humanity, honestly.”
You lean back in to unmute your microphone. “Are you saying you’re part of that disqualification?”
“Absolutely, I’m the poster child for it,” he claims with that mischievous glint in his eyes. “I constantly forget shit, I’m nocturnal as hell, and sometimes I make objectively terrible decisions. Who would want to date me?”
The question lands a little too easily, maybe even familiar, sending an uncomfortable ripple you feel all the way down to your toes. Something about the way it left his mouth without any hesitation sends a painful grip to your heartstrings. Jun has always had this kind of self-deprecating humour, tossing it out like it was nothing at times. It makes you want to one: shake reality into him, or two: kiss him to prove him wrong.
You force out an awkward laugh, higher than it needs to be.
“Someone with terrible taste, clearly,” You answer, keeping your voice teasing despite the heaviness in your chest. “But luckily for you, the world is full of people with terrible taste.”
Jun chuckles, spinning his chair so he could study you properly.
“Yeah?” He tilts his head. “You think so?”
The chat is moving so fast now it’s basically a complete blur.
user: bro really asked who would date him while staring at his wife
user: why is he so boyfriend coded still tho
user: y/n should answer the question too!!!
user: PERFECT LOVE IS WHEN YOU LOOK AT EACH OTHER STOPPP RNN
“Chat is right,” Jun quips. “What’s your answer to the question too, Y/N?”
The second the question leaves him, you can feel every pair of invisible eyes staring at you through the screen and your pulse kicking up loudly in your ears. Jun is still leaning back in his chair, relaxed as ever, his curious gaze fixed solely on you.
Finally, you clear your throat.
“Well, I’ve seen couples break up because their relationship isn’t ‘perfect’,” You begin. “But the ones that last? They’re the ones where both sides are a little flawed, a little messy, and a little scared, but they choose each other anyway. That’s what you would call an imperfect love, and… I think that’s the most beautiful kind of love that can exist.”
Suddenly, the tiny studio feels almost suffocating to sit in. Your eyes flick up to Jun. He isn’t laughing anymore, or even smiling. He’s just staring at you with an expression so open𑁋almost surprised, like he didn’t expect you to be so serious𑁋it steals the rest of your answer out of your throat.
You refuse to look at the chat; you already know what they’re saying.
“You really thought about it a lot, huh?” Jun asks, scratching at the back of his neck.
You could only manage a small, somewhat self-conscious nod, bringing your eyes down to the ground. “Yeah. Guess I have.”
A wave of silence washes over the studio for a minute.
“...it’s a really good answer,” he murmurs.
A pleased smile crosses over your face. “Well, I am kinda a professional at this.”
“Mm,” he hums absentmindedly in response.
You pretend to busy yourself with your laptop, trying to read over the chat that has now morphed into just meaningless spams of screaming text and heart emojis. Your cursor lingers over nothing, while your heartbeat is running a full blown marathon of panic.
But when you glance back at Jun, the panic seems to strengthen even more.
“Cat anon, we really appreciate your trust in us,” You finish softly. “And I really hope that our advice tonight resonates with you. At the end of day, we’re all just a bunch of flawed humans looking for love, right? Don’t drive yourself to be perfect, because you’re already perfectly imperfect just as you are. And if your best friend reciprocates these feelings…”
Your eyes flit back up to Jun.
“...then take the leap, because they’re probably already waiting for you.”
After a pause, you lightly kick Jun’s foot underneath the table. He jolts in his seat like you shocked him, before recovering with a nervous, boyish chuckle, sounding not even close to his usual, bright and effortless laugh. For once, he appears almost rattled, with his pupils wide and his ears pink that even the dim studio lights can hardly hide.
On the wall, the ON LIVE sign flickers in and out of its glow.
“She’s, um… Y/N is right, cat anon,” Jun agrees quietly. “You don’t have to become someone else to prove yourself worthy for someone. If they’re your person, then… who you are already is why they stayed this long.”
From that, the chat practically combusts.
user: WEN JUNHUI???? IS THERE SOMETHING U WANNA SHARE W THE CLASS???
user: why did this suddenly get so intense lmao is it hot in here or is it just me?
user: i’ve been on this ship since the beginning of the show!!!!
“Alright, that’s all the time we have for tonight,” You interrupt quickly, instinctively switching back to host mode. “Thank you to everyone who sent in your confessions tonight. Stay safe, stay honest, and please don’t respond to someone who sends you a babygirl text at ungodly hours.”
Jun reaches for the switch. “Goodnight, everyone!”
Click. The ON LIVE sign dies.
Jun slides the headphones off his head and shuts down his laptop. You do the same. The two of you pack up belongings in that familiar and companionable silence that always spills into the room after a session. When you swing your bag over your shoulder, Jun glances up in your direction worriedly.
“You okay?” he asks.
You nod, offering him a small, sleepy smile. “Take me home?”
Jun swallows down the lump in his throat.
“Yeah.” He’s already opening the door for you. “Always.”
Jun remembers one of the first discussions the two of you had on the show together.
Love at first sight.
Back then, the studio was smaller, scrappier, and the chairs squeaked each time either of you moved even a centimetre. The world had fallen asleep long enough that honesty slipped through the cracks of your voices so easily. You both were running on nothing but instant noodles and caffeine, way different than the semi-functional adult routine you have established now.
He remembers the beautiful laugh that left you when the question came in halfway through a song neither of you remembered choosing.
He laughed with you too. Rolled his eyes and called it nonsense, all while pretending to not notice how your smile had gone a little soft when you answered it with that amused lilt to your voice.
“I think it exists,” You had said. “Not like movie magic, though. But… you just meet someone and your brain clicks into place, you know? Like it says, ‘Oh. It’s you.’”
“That sounds like you’re trying to make shit up to justify bad decisions,” Jun argued back with a smirk.
You gasped at that and slapped his wrist, causing him to laugh. “Excuse me? That was uncalled for.”
And the segment moved on after that.
But Jun continues to carry that sentence with him like a permanent scar.
Oh. It’s you.
“What are the chances that a confession we’ve read out is from someone we know?” Jun asks while plopping a chip in his mouth, adjusting his body from where he had been sprawled across your couch for the past few hours.
You don’t bother to spare a glance up from your laptop, but a grin crosses your features. “Pretty high, to be honest. Soonyoung once told me he submitted something to the show one time.”
Jun nearly chokes on the chip scratching at his throat. “Soonyoung? As in Kwon Soonyoung? Never shuts up, Soonyoung?” He sits up so fast he accidentally knicks his socked foot under the coffee table. “Ow! I𑁋What the hell did he confess? Was it about that girl in his dance class that was drooling over him?”
You finally look over at him, chuckling at the way his eyes have grown comically wide. “He didn’t say. Just that he sent it under a funny username and almost died when we read it out. Apparently, we just straight up told him to stop being a coward and talk to her. They went on one date together. He found out she was allergic to cats and broke her heart by saying they were incompatible. End of story.”
Jun stares at you for a full blown three seconds, before he throws his head back into the couch with a laugh so genuine you would think his soul left his body completely.
“That’s insane,” he says breathlessly. “Literally the most Soonyoung thing to do.”
“Actually, he’s not,” You chime back in. “I think he’s dating this new girl named… Skye, I think?”
“Sky?”
“Skye, but with an e at the end.”
“Wow,” Jun mutters, crunching down on another chip and sarcastically adds, “Character development. We love to see it.”
You roll your eyes, shutting down your laptop with a click and leaning back into the couch with Jun right next to you. You curl your knees up to your chest. “People change, Jun. Miracles happen.”
Jun offers you the bag of chips. You take one, crunching absentmindedly as your gaze travels somewhere past the TV, past the wall, past everything. He notices. Of course he does. A nudge to your leg awakens you quickly.
“Where’d you go just now?” he asks.
“Nowhere.”
Jun huffs. “Liar.”
You flick a crumb at him. “Shut up.”
“Make me,” he retorts with a lazy grin, sticking his tongue out.
You shoot a glare at him and snatch the bag of chips from his hand before he can react. A scandalised look splits his face as he lunges to grab it back from your grasp, but you manage to twist your body away and dodge his reach.
“Hey!” he exclaims, attempting to grab the back once more but you clutch it tightly to your chest. “Give that back to me!”
You yelp and scramble further into the arm of the couch, shoulders shaking with laughter as you hug the back tight enough to crush some of the chips inside. “You stole this from my pantry!”
When his fingers brush the corner of the bag, you only yank it away again. Jun narrows his eyes at you, lips twitching upwards like he’s trying not to laugh.
“Y/N.”
“No.”
“Y/N.”
“Junhui.”
“You’re being annoying on purpose.”
“And you love me for it,” You remark, sticking your tongue at him back mockingly.
That does it.
As he makes a dive for it again, you twist a little too far. The next thing you know, you’re collapsing back against the couch cushions with a soft oof, and Jun is falling down with you. Very much ungracefully.
Because one second he’s reaching, the next he finds himself tumbling down over you in a tangle of limbs and laughter, somehow managing to catch himself just beside your head before he can actually crush you into the couch. And he’s way too close.
His knee presses into the cushion in between your legs, while his hand is planted by the side of your head. His dark hair has fallen slightly into his eyes, and his breath comes out unevenly from the laughing.
Your own breathing isn’t exactly steady either.
Jun looks down at you. You look back up at him. Your apartment suddenly feels fifty times smaller, and the laughter dies instantly, replaced by a familiar heaviness in the air whenever the two of you are alone together. His eyes drop down to your lips for a singular second before flicking back up to your face, and you catch the way his ears redden in slight guilt.
You swallow down a lump in your throat. “Jun…”
And from that split second of vulnerability, he uses that opportunity to snatch the bag of chips right off your hands, catching you completely off-guard. The warmth in the air still lingers even as he pulls away from you and flops back down on the couch.
“Aha!” he exclaims triumphantly. “Victory is mine!”
You stare at him in disbelief before letting out the loudest, most offended noise imaginable as you smack his shoulder.
“Wen Junhui!”
“Hm? Sorry, I can’t hear you over the savoury taste of victory,” he quips with a grin, face beaming with pride.
“You’re such a little thief𑁋”
“You hesitated!” he argues smugly. “So that’s on you!”
“Because you were staring at me all weird!”
That makes him shut up, the smugness fading off his face so abruptly as if you accidentally powered something in his system off. The apartment goes quiet enough for you to only hear the soft buzz of the refrigerator and the honk of a car outside. You didn’t mean to say it out loud. Or maybe you did, you don’t know.
“I…” You utter weakly, trying to brush it away with a nervous chuckle. “Can we just pretend I spontaneously combusted instead?”
A soft, disbelieving laugh leaves him. “I’m sorry.”
“What?”
“For… looking at you all weird.”
“Jun𑁋”
“I think I’ll get going. It’s getting late,” he mutters, immediately standing up a little too fast. He grabs the bag of chips instinctively, realises it’s still in his hands, and sets it back down on your coffee table awkwardly.
He doesn’t look at you as he grabs his hoodie and keys, moving with a surprising speed that even your own brain can barely process what to say. When he’s scrambling to the door, you move before you think, and you grab him by the wrist before he can unlock your door.
Jun feels his pulse jump harder under your fingertips. Twisting himself back around, he’s met with your soft yet worried gaze, before flicking down to where your hand is still wrapped around his wrist. You release him immediately like you accidentally touched fire.
“Sorry,” You murmur, taking a small step back. “Just… text me when you get home, okay?”
He nods solemnly. “Yeah. Of course.” A sheepish smile graces his lips for a moment. “Goodnight, Y/N.”
“Goodnight, Jun.”
You close the door with a quiet click that somehow is louder than it should be. Now, you’re all alone in your apartment, yet the warmth of his presence still lingers through every part of your place. He’s been in here a thousand times𑁋hell, you both have slept in the same bed together a plentiful amount during all the times he’s trespassed in your space𑁋but tonight it feels like there’s a literal dent in the air itself.
The two of you have shared many awkward moments together. He’s accidentally walked in on you changing a few times; you’ve seen him stress-eat an entire family-sized bag of shrimp chips at four in the morning. You both have seen each other at some of your lowest points, but why, out of all nights, does it hit harder than anything else?
You sink back into the couch with a groan. Your phone burns a hole in your pocket. Ten minutes pass. Then fifteen. Then𑁋
Buzz.
[12:55am | menace (affectionate)]
i just got home
you okay?
You stare at his message for a long moment.
[12:57am | y/n]
good
and yeah, i’m fine. you?
[12:58am | menace (affectionate)]
splendid! and … tired
[12:58am | y/n]
go sleep then dumbass
[12:59am | menace (affectionate)]
alright mother calm down i’m brushing my teeth
A low giggle leaves you at his response. A few minutes pass before a new text from him lights up your phone.
[01:05am | menace (affectionate)]
can i ask you something really random?
[01:05am | y/n]
of course
The typing bubble appears, disappears, then reappears again.
[01:07am | menace (affectionate)]
do you think cat anon is okay?
A sinking feeling opens a pit in your stomach, thumb frozen over your keyboard. You stare at the screen until the words begin to blur. God, of all the questions he had to ask tonight…
[01:10am | y/n]
i don’t know
i hope so
and that they learn it’s okay to be brave
[01:12am | menace (affectionate)]
yeah. me too
You’re hardly able to think when his next text comes in quicker than you expected.
[01:12am | menace (affectionate)]
goodnight y/n
don’t overthink in your sleep
You smile faintly.
[01:13am | y/n]
no promises
goodnight jun
You lock your phone after that with a tired sigh, tossing it onto the couch cushion besides you like it might bite you back if you hold it for too long. And somewhere on the other side of the city, another phone is tossed away like a shameful piece of evidence.
As you stare blankly at your dark television and feel the exhaustion of the day weighing between your bones, you know that sleep won’t come easy tonight. It becomes even more challenging even after you brush your teeth, wash your face, doomscroll on your phone for a while, and face plant onto the bed like you just came home from a wounded battle.
“Pathetic,” You mumble into your pillow to absolutely nobody. “I’m so pathetic.”
On the other hand, Jun is… doing the exact same thing.
His ceiling fan spins lazily overhead while his phone screen dims beside him. The last text message you sent to him spirals through the air around him. He doesn’t even know what to do but let out a muffled incredulous laugh into his pillow, sighs, before abruptly sitting up in bed and realising how much of a loser he’s acting right now.
“I should’ve…” Jun groans, running a hand over his face. “I should’ve just told her… I’m such a coward.”
Because the thing about running a late-night show where love is the main topic and advice is given, is that it’s painfully easy to tell strangers to be brave when your own heart isn’t on the line, when you’re not the aforementioned person in the story who is being pined over. It’s easy to take the leap when you aren’t standing at the edge yourself. Yet for some reason, it’s only harder to take the leap when you don’t even follow the advice you give to others.
The irony is quite laughable, to be honest.
Jun grabs his laptop and forces it open, the bright screen nearly blinding him in the darkness of his bedroom, but he doesn’t care. He finds himself navigating to his email, switching to his second account, and gets greeted by a particular message that had already been forwarded to the radio show. A message that had already been read, answered, and sent under a certain pseudonym.
Dear Y/N and Jun of Love On Air…
Biting down on his bottom lip, he opens up a fresh draft and begins typing.
“Take the leap, cat anon,” he repeats to himself over and over again. “Take the leap, Wen Junhui.”
Jun texted you two hours before the show that he was sick along with a selfie of him buried in a hoodie he threw on, somehow contracting a stomach bug which he blamed on some expired convenience store gimbap. He insisted that he could still come in, yet you reassured him with a string of sobbing emojis that it’s probably in his best interest to stay home to rest, and that you could handle hosting the show on your own, even if… you’ve never really done it before.
The show must go on, after all.
So when you find yourself sitting alone within the quiet studio just mere minutes from going live, you definitely sense both the physical and mental emptiness of his presence in the room a little too sharply. His headphones are still left the way he always leaves them, and his chair is facing the wrong wrong because he spins in it so much that he never bothers to put it back properly.
A small, fond chuckle leaves you at the thought of him, and you have to chase those thoughts away the second the clock strikes midnight. From there, you roll your shoulders back to shake away any residual nerves, clear your throat, and reach over to the switch.
Taking one last deep breath, you flip it on. The ON LIVE sign sparks to life on the wall.
“Good evening to all our fellow lonely and emotionally volatile listeners,” You greet warmly into the microphone. “Welcome back to everyone’s favourite unhinged radio show, Love On Air, live at midnight every Saturday on FM 98.7.”
Your eyes can barely keep track of the live chat box being spammed with incoming messages. You read a couple of messages out of people describing their day, but it isn’t long until the elephant in the room is acknowledged.
You snort lightly. “I regret to inform you all that Jun has passed away due to… alleged food poisoning.” Some comments following your words make you laugh. “Yes, yes, you’re all invited to the funeral, don’t worry.”
user: i commence a ritual to bring him back or we riot 🙏🙏
user: bro probably slept through his alarm honestly
user: WAIT BUT THIS FEELS SO WRONG W/O HIM 😭😭
user: rip… guess no husband and wife arguments for now… 😔
“He offered to join while sick, by the way,” You add in quickly. “But I personally vetoed it. I’m not letting a man who ate expired gimbap shit his way into a session. He’s probably listening in right now, so hi, Jun. Hope you’re still intact, buddy.”
After a few minutes of more interactions, you finally pull up the radio show’s inbox and begin to organise through the confessions that were received recently. That weird feeling creeps back up your spine once again as you scroll𑁋not about the confessions specifically, just the thought about doing this alone. Your eyes flick to the empty chair right next to you once more.
You read a few confessions and answer two callers𑁋there’s one from someone who felt bad for ghosting someone they actually liked, another person confesses they’re having a hard time with their partner wanting to open up their relationship, and one with expressing their fears of having their first time with the wrong person. You offer your own thoughtful answers and advice as best as you can, yet it feels so lackluster and flat without Jun’s playful interjections whenever you get too sappy on air.
“Your first time should be with someone who makes you feel safe, not just wanted,” You say gently into the microphone. “You deserve that. Don’t settle for anything less. It’s okay to wait until that safety feels undeniable.”
The chat floods with hearts and supportive messages. A few people send their thank yous for the advice. Some latecomers ask questions about Jun’s whereabouts.You smile gratefully, but it feels a little fragile tonight, not quite reaching up to your eyes.
As the final music break of the session ends, you unmute your microphone to speak.
“Alright, listeners, we’ve reached the final thirty minutes of tonight’s session. I want to thank you as always for staying up and listening into the show,” You announce confidently. “We’ve got time for… maybe a few more confessions and a possible lucky caller, so let’s see what we have left.”
Scrolling silently through the inbox, it isn’t long until your cursor hovers a familiar username once again. Your heart spikes at the sight, hesitating for a slow second.”
“Everyone, let’s welcome cat anon back to the stage with another follow-up confession.” You click the confession, take in a deep breath you’re sure the viewers can hear, and start to read it aloud.
Dear Y/N of Love On Air…
Hi, it’s me again. To be honest, I don’t really know why I keep sending these, but somehow I always end up back here again. You truly have a way of words, and I really want to thank you for that.
I thought about what you said about imperfect love. I used to think that if I fix every flaw about myself, then maybe I’ll be worthy of them, but now I know that love is someone seeing every fractured version of you, and staying anyway.
There’s something else I want to confess too. I think I’ve been waiting so long for the “perfect” moment that I accidentally passed a thousand “imperfect” ones. It makes me terrified that they’ll meet someone more braver than me, so I’ll use this chance now to be brave for once.
I’ll be ready on the line for this session and use this chance to finally face whatever happens next. I hope you’re able to answer my call whenever that may be. I have an important message to send.
🐱
Your voice comes out almost too quiet by the end you finish reading. You flit a quick glance to the ever-exploding live chat box.
user: HOLY SHITTT CAT ANON VOICE REVEAL???
user: answer the call! answer the call!
user: IM GONNA THROW UP WHY AM I SO NERVOUS
user: we’re witnessing a cinematic moment in history wtff
Suddenly, the blink of the call line makes your throat tighten. Your fingers hover over the console as if it might suddenly jump out and bite you. God, you don’t understand why you’re unexpectedly so nervous𑁋you’ve talked to many callers, and yet, speaking with cat anon has you on complete edge.
“Okay,” You stammer shakily into the microphone, covering up your nerves with a faint smile. “Let’s… let’s take this final call of the night, everyone.”
When you answer the line, it’s as if the world goes entirely mute, except for the intense pounding your chest. Nothing but static fills your headphones as the line struggles to connect for a few torturous moments.
Then, a quiet breath reverberates into your ears. The kind of breath that sounded like it had to claw its way out of someone’s chest.
“...hello?”
The voice is slightly distorted through the line, unmistakably low𑁋clearly a male voice𑁋and trembling slightly around the edges. It’s more of a whisper, if anything. Perhaps he’s just as nervous as you.
“Hi,” You greet warmly, slipping back into your professional radio voice. “You’re live on air with Love On Air. Is this… the one and only cat anon?”
A small, embarrassed huff of air crosses the line. He sounds a bit closer this time as he replies, “...yeah, it’s me.”
“Well, I’m giving you the floor now,” You assure firmly. “Whatever you need to say… we’re listening.”
Another shaky breath crackles through the line. You can practically touch the contemplation that’s buzzing through the call with your fingertips if that’s even possible, and even within the studio itself.
When the seconds of silence turn into a full-blown minute of consideration, the line crackles once more.
“I’m in love with you, Y/N.”
Your heart stops. Your mind draws a complete and utter blank. The abrupt clarity of his voice cuts through any lingering distortion and static and hits you like a wave. The world itself feels as if it’s tilted on its axis.
“Jun𑁋?”
“I love you,” he repeats more firmly this time, voice raw and full of everything he’s been holding back. “and I told you I was sick tonight because I couldn’t sit right next to you while you gave advice I was too scared to take. I just𑁋holy shit, I love you…”
Your mouth parts open in shock, then closes. The chat is going absolutely feral right now and you can barely read through all the comments without having this unusual urge to just slam your hand onto the console and pretend that you’re suffering from pure delirium.
On the wall, the ON AIR still glows stubbornly.
user: I FREAKING KNEW THAT CAT ANON WAS JUN
user: may i find this kind of love one day what the helly 🙏
user: Y/N ARE YOU BREATHING RIGHT NOW ????
user: our stupid oblivious hosts are in love. I CALLED it
You feel as if you almost have to squeeze your voice just to get it out. “Jun…”
On the other hand, he inhales sharply.
“...yeah?”
“You’re such an idiot,” You sputter out. “Do you have any idea how… how insane this is? Confessing on our show… using a pseudonym I gave advice to𑁋”
“I know.”
“𑁋after lying about being sick𑁋”
“I know.”
“𑁋and letting me sit here and talk about love like you weren’t the one I was talking to the whole time?” You ramble on out of a sheer mix of pure disbelief and relief, tightening your grip on the microphone. “Like all the advice I said wasn’t about… us?”
You hear some rapid shuffling on the other side, and you could almost imagine Jun sitting up in bed as if he’s received the most shocking news of his entire life. Then you hear his dazed laugh flowing into your ears.
“Yeah,” he admits quietly. “It was.”
Your breath catches embarrassingly hard and your face is completely on fire. The chat combusts once again, and you have to keep mentally reminding yourself that this entire interaction is live and half the city is probably listening in at this very second.
“From the first moment I saw you back in college,” Jun continues softly. “My heart and brain did the thing, you know? That you said before𑁋where you meet someone and all you can think is: Oh, it’s you. The second I saw you, I just… I knew I wanted to keep seeing you.”
You feel your eyes start to burn.
“I should’ve said it years ago, but I’m… I’m a coward. I know I am,” he mutters helplessly. “I know it’s stupid pretending to be cat anon because it was safer than telling my best friend I’m in love with her. Stupid that I… used to remind myself that I never deserved someone as bright as you. But anytime you told someone to suck it up and take the leap, I had to do it now or else I’d lose the chance and probably explode.”
He lets out a soft, breathless, disbelieving laugh of relief at the very end. Tears are streaming down your face at this point, but you don’t care.
user: IM PASSING TISSUES DOES ANYONE ELSE NEED ONE???
user: jun confessing his undying devoted love to y/n life is worth living again!!!!
user: i feel like a successful marriage counselor WTF
user: the solomon paradox is REAL
“Gosh, you’re…” You wipe a tear from your eye, murmuring weakly, “Your timing really needs to be studied, Jun.”
“Wait, wait, are you crying?” Jun asks worriedly in a fit of panic. “I didn’t mean to make you cry on air𑁋oh, my God, I can take it back, I can𑁋”
“You cannot ‘take this back’, you idiot!” You cut in immediately. “I’m crying because I’m in love with your stupid ass too! And if you don’t get here and finish the show with me, I’m absolutely going to lose the rest of my dignity.”
There’s a very long, suspicious beat of silence that passes. It’s enough to have you feel like you’re going through all the stages of grief in just a matter of seconds. And you swear on Jun’s life that if he doesn’t say something in the next minute, you might actually crash out and let the world witness your breakdown.
But reality snaps back in when you hear the sound of him nearly tripping on the other end of the line.
“I’m coming,” he reassures you. “I’m sprinting as fast as I can. Stay there for me, okay? Don’t finish the show without me.”
The line goes dead.
The night is quietly young as you and Jun step back into your apartment, the door clicking shut behind to finally cut out the rest of the world.
You still can barely process what just happened. First, Jun had texted you that he was quite literally shitting bricks for the entire day (which was a lie, thank goodness), then you somehow managed to host an entire segment all on your own without losing your sanity, and now the man you’ve been secretly in love for years had confessed to you𑁋live on air, alongside an entire audience of fellow love drunk listeners𑁋and is currently standing directly in front of you, wearing a hoodie he probably put on right before sprinting to the studio and a pair of pyjama sweatpants.
Jun doesn’t waste a single second. He steps up close to you and carefully wraps his long arms around you, the comforting scent of him quickly filling all your senses. He lets his forehead rest against yours, the two of you shutting your eyes together as you simply bask in each other’s presence.
“You’re real,” he murmurs, his hands trembling where they rest on your back. “I swear I thought I hallucinated the entire night. I need someone to pinch me if𑁋hey!”
You giggle at the way his face dramatically contorts with a pout, soothing his side with a gentle squeeze. You tilt your head enough to brush your nose against his.
“Then kiss me like I’m real, you idiot.”
For a moment, he just blinks like you spoke complete gibberish. Then he cups your face and presses his lips to yours, sending immediate shivers that make your knees weak. You let out a soft sigh into his mouth as the kiss deepens ever so slightly, your hands slowly sliding up his chest. You feel him chuckle against your lips.
As you kiss, you find yourself backing up in the direction of the couch. Jun follows without breaking contact with your mouth. When the backs of his knees hit the cushions, you both tumble down together in a clumsy, giggly heap with you on top of him, straddling him.
You brace your hands on his shoulders, and Jun’s arms lock around your waist instantly, holding you flush against him. And for a second, you both just… stare at each other.
Jun is the first to break, his eyes flitting back and forth between your eyes and lips as he doesn’t know where to look. “What?”
You bite your lip to keep from smiling too wide at how ridiculously cute and disheveled he looks right now, tilting your head at him like you’re pretending to study him. You lean in a little just to tease, and instinctively, he puckers his lips together, chasing after yours when you pull back away.
“I can’t believe how stupid we are,” You whisper, brushing his lips briefly in a feather-light peck. “Giving advice to everyone but ourselves. We wasted literal years.”
Jun chases after your mouth again, capturing it properly this time and pulling away with a satisfied hum. “Mhm. Absolute morons.” His hands find their way under your shirt, tenderly mapping the bare skin of your waist. “But I’m done wasting time now.”
You chuckle into the next kiss, the sound bubbling up uncontrollably as he tries to deepen it. God, his lips are so eagerly soft, but he’s smiling so hard you momentarily knock your teeth against his.
“Mm, wait,” You mumble against his mouth as you draw back to readjust your position, causing him to suck in a breath. “Are you trying to eat my face? Where’s the technique?”
He blinks up at you dazedly, mouth parted in playful offense. His hands tighten around your waist. “I𑁋excuse me?”
“Zero finesse. One star. I expected more from cat anon.”
Jun sits up suddenly so that you’re basically pressed chest-to-chest with each other.
“You’re too cute, that’s the problem,” he says, voice deep yet still a little rough around the edges. “How am I supposed to kiss you if I short-circuit and all I could think, holy shit, she’s mine?”
Your heart does a stupid little flip from his words. “Flattery won’t save your shitty technique.”
“Oh, yeah?” He cups your face with both hands, thumbs caressing your cheeks. “Watch this.”
The next kiss is messier𑁋heated, giggly, and clumsy because you both can’t stop smiling. You feel your toes curl as he nips lightly at your bottom lip. You sigh into it, threading your hands through his hair, the heat of it enough to make you rock your hips against his growing hardness.
You feel the heat dancing up your skin and pooling into your belly as you continue your lazy grinding against him, swallowing down the broken sigh and groans that fall out of his mouth. When his mouth begins its descent down your jaw and to a particular sensitive spot behind your ear, he smirks against your warm skin.
“Fuck𑁋you like that?” he breathes out, his fingertips brushing the underside of your breast underneath your shirt.
A shaky laugh leaves you, but it melts quickly into a soft moan when his thumb brushes your already-hardened nipple. “Don’t get cocky. Still𑁋mmh𑁋mediocre at best.”
Jun lifts his brow, mouth curved into a stupidly fond grin. “Mediocrity, huh?” He pinches your nipple gently, causing you to jerk your hips into his. “Your body is saying something different, baby.”
“Ignore her. She’s… a traitor,” You croak out, grinding against the hard line of his cock through his sweatpants.
Jun merely chuckles, tugging your shirt up enough to expose your chest. He unclips your bra without any hesitation, pushing the straps off your shoulders then letting it fall uselessly to the floor. His eyes widen as he takes a few seconds to drink you in completely.
“God, you’re so beautiful…”
Then his mouth is back on you. He sucks one nipple between his lips while his hand affectionately palms the other. A crude moan slips out of you this time; it heightens his confidence even more.
As his mouth lavishes attention to your other breast, he drags his hand down your side, teasingly sliding under the waistband of your pants to cup you over your pants. He can feel how warm you are already.
“Rating?” he requests with a firm suck.
“Like a solid𑁋shit𑁋two-point-five out of five…”
Jun pulls off your breast with a wet pop, grin turning wicked. “But you’re soaked, and you’re still calling me below average? I think your pussy disagrees.”
You open your mouth to retort, but then he slides his hand into your panties, fingers circling over your slick folds, and nothing but a breathy gasp escapes you. Your hips roll down to meet his hand as he inserts a finger inside of you, curling into that spot that makes your back arch and he has to use his other hand to hold you in place.
“What’s the rating now?” he asks, watching the way your face is beautifully twisting with pleasure as a second finger slides inside.
You shoot him a death glare as you clench around his hand. “Three𑁋fuck, right there𑁋three-point-eight𑁋”
“Getting better already,” he hums in approval, leaning back down to worship your breasts once more. The dual sensation has your head falling down into the crook of his neck, your moans caressing his skin.
“Four𑁋Jun, you asshole𑁋four-point-five𑁋”
He pulls his fingers out of you unexpectedly, making you whine at the loss. Before you can complain, you find yourself being flipped on the couch as he settles in between your thighs, looking up at you with that mischievous, hungry, adoring look. He gives another tug to the waistband of your pants.
“Final rating before I eat you out?”
Your chest heaves, though you try to keep your tone light and teasing. “Four-point-seven. Don’t get lazy down there or I’m docking points, smartass.”
Jun’s eyes sparkle with challenge as he helps you out of the rest of your clothes. When you’re fully bare in front of him, he spreads your thighs even further, letting his mouth hover tantalisingly where you need him most.
“Four-point-seven,” he repeats to himself, pressing a trail of kisses to your inner thigh. “I can work with that. Watch me get that perfect five.”
Then he leans in and drags his tongue up your soaked pussy in one long stripe, a groan leaving him as he tastes you for the first time. Your hips jolt against his face, a sharp moan tumbling out of you and bouncing off the walls of your quiet apartment.
“Oh𑁋Jun𑁋”
“Hmm?” He circles your clit with the tip of his tongue before sucking it gently into his mouth, eyes flicking up to watch your face. Two fingers slide back inside of you, curling into that spot that makes your vision glassy. “God, you taste even better than I imagined…”
You slap a hand over your mouth as the pleasure starts to bloom its way out of you, but he reaches up and pulls it away, lacing your fingers together.
“Don’t do that, please,” he murmurs against your pussy. “Let me hear you, baby…”
The way he eats you out has your head spinning. It’s dizzying, a little messy, and entirely devoted to you. The wet sounds of his mouth and fingers echo and your moans and gasps travel throughout the room, only making him double down even harder to bring you over the edge.
“Five𑁋five stars𑁋ah, please𑁋”
You cum with a cry of his name, the pleasure crashing into you in waves. He continues to lazily lap at you before you start trying to push his head away, the two of you giggling breathlessly in the aftermath.
When he pulls away, his lips are shiny and he looks foolishly pleased with himself. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and crawls his way back up your body, meeting you for a deep kiss. You taste yourself on his tongue, and the thought that this absolute klutz of a man just gave you the best orgasm of your life sends another shaky giggle rolling out of you.
“You okay?” he breathes against your mouth, chuckling softly of you barely controlling your laughter. “I… what the hell just happened?”
“That was me letting go after holding back for years,” he answers without diffidence, tracing soothing circles over your bare thigh. “Do I get a final rating now?”
“Hmm, solid five-point-five. An extra half point for your enthusiasm and those cute noises you made down there.” You run your fingers through his messy hair, making him lean into your touch like a baby kitten. “But I’ll let you try for a six if you fuck me right now.”
Jun’s eyes darken instantly. “Say less.”
The two of you battle over taking off the rest of his clothes. Jun attempts to smoothly yank his hoodie off in one go, but it gets snug on something, causing him to laugh when it gets caught on his shoulders.
“Oh, my God𑁋stay still so I can take it off, you dummy!” You exclaim in frustration.
“Help me then, smartass!” His laughter is muffled into the fabric.
When you finally unsnag the hoodie and toss it somewhere on the floor, you both immediately reach for his pants at the same time, elbows bumping into each other. Rolling your eyes, you lightly smack his hand away so you can push it down his hips with borderline desperation. He kicks it off the rest of the way, his boxers following quickly.
The second he’s fully bare in front of you for the first time, he cages you into the couch right above you, littering soft kisses over your flushed cheeks. His cock rests heavily against your stomach as he stares down at you, chest rising and falling heavily.
“Hi,” he whispers stupidly, like he’s just remembered how to speak.
“Hi,” You reply with a bashful smile, reaching up to cradle his face, pinching his cheeks together. “Still waiting for my six-star performance.”
“Give me a break, I’m nervous!” he gasps defensively, grinding the underside of his dick along your slickness unconsciously. “I’ve only pictured this every single night for, like, the past four years!”
“Poor baby,” You coo impishly, reaching down to stroke him softly. “You’ve been jerking off to the thought of me for four years?”
Jun whines needily, burying his face into the crook of your neck, inhaling deeply. “Stop bullying me when I’m trying hard not to embarrass myself right now.”
“Then embarrass yourself. I’ve waited just as long, you idiot,” You urge, bringing him closer until there’s physically no more space between your bodies.
With a sly smirk, he reaches down, lines himself up with you, and slowly pushes inside. He groans lowly as he sinks inside you until his hips are pressed against yours. For a second, he doesn’t move at all, only trembling with his forehead leaning onto yours.
“Oh fuck𑁋I think I died a little,” he grunts pitifully into your neck. “You’re so warm. And tight. Think I-I short-circuited again.”
You give his shoulder a tight squeeze. “Move, Jun. Please.”
He obeys right away, thrusting into you experimentally and drawing a collective moan out from both of you. When he snaps himself into you again, again, and again, he sets a slow, deep rhythm that has the couch creaking softly beneath you.
“Shit, Jun𑁋” Your nails rake down his back as he hits that spot perfectly inside you again and again, wrapping your legs around his waist. “You… You feel so good.”
“Yeah? You look so pretty falling apart on my cock, baby,” he praises heavily, voice sounding absolutely wrecked. “Still rating me? Am I passing?”
Your laugh dissolves into a moan when a particular thrust punches the air out of your lungs.
“You’re at…” You bite down harshly on your bottom lip, glancing down to where you’re joined together. “Five-point… seven𑁋shit, keep going like that, I’m so close…”
“I’m so close too, not gonna last,” he pants, his breath molten on your neck. “God, I love you, I love you, I love you…”
You grab him by the nape of his neck to collapse his mouth back onto yours, swallowing all his desperate little grunts and sighs as the kiss turns heated fast. His rhythm stutters for the briefest second before he regains himself swiftly, the wet slap of your bodies meeting over and over again flooding the room, with your own hips rolling to meet with each of his thrusts.
The heat of it all invades through all your nerves, that familiar coil tightening in your belly. The rating game is completely out of the window now. There’s only nothing but the drag of his cock kissing your walls and this thumb dipping in between your legs to caress your clit, encouraging you to let go.
When your orgasm finally crashes, it’s much more intense than the last. Your nails imprint sharp crescents down his back as one final broken cry rips out from your throat, stars bursting behind your ears. Your walls squeeze around him so tightly he curses, the drive of his hips faltering sloppily.
“Baby, I can’t𑁋I’m gonna𑁋where𑁋?”
“Inside,” You beg gravelly, wrapping your arms around him even tighter. “Lose yourself in me, Jun, please.”
That’s all it takes for his own orgasm to hit him. With one final thrust, he spills inside of you with a deep, guttural groan. His face drops into the crook of your sweaty neck as shaky little whimpers continue to leave him𑁋your name, I love you, fuck I love you𑁋repeatedly until he’s completely spent and melted into your arms.
For a few moments of stillness, the only sounds travelling throughout the room is your ragged breathing and the sudden hum of your refrigerator. Eventually, Jun lifts his head from where it’s been resting comfortably on your chest. His dark hair is sticking out in all sorts of places, a few strands even matted to his forehead. And his eyes are half-lidded, yet so soft and full of love that you almost want to sob.
“So…” he starts hoarsely, kissing the tip of your nose. “Final rating?”
You let out a tired, contented laugh, brushing damp strands of his hair off his face.
“Mmmh… six-point-five,” You decide sleepily, pressing a chaste kiss to the corner of his mouth.
A bright, boyish grin unleashes across his face. “I’ll take it. Room for improvement for the next round.”
“I𑁋next round?!”
“I aim to achieve ten stars. Or maybe more than that.”
“God, you’re so insatiable,” You groan, shaking your head despite the smile breaking through your expression. “Later on, maybe… for now, I just want to hold you.”
Jun swears he feels himself literally melt into a puddle at that, because how could he ever deny a request like that from you? Despite the little space on your creaky couch, he pulls out of you with a wince, grabs the throw blanket that has unknowingly dropped to the floor before shifting himself more deeper into your arms. The soft fabric wraps around your bare bodies together in a warm, messy nest, one of his legs slotting in between your legs.
“Better?” he mumbles hopefully, letting his eyes fall to a close so he could listen to your heartbeat.
“Mhm. Much,” You hum in response, nosing through his hair. “I love you, you menace.”
You feel his lips meet the soft skin above your breast, right over your heartbeat.
“I love you too, dummy.”
Remember that stray cat that landed on your doorstep at the very beginning and refused to leave?
synopsis: everything with junhui has been a step towards something, but neither of you are very clear on what when it comes to the other.
genre: co-workers to lovers ; angst, fluff.
pairing: office worker!wen junhui x fem!reader
word count: 7.9k
rating: 18+. minors do not interact.
warnings: it's stupidly vague and i'm sorry for that. minimal swearing, i guess? mentions of eating and food. they're just stupid
what to listen to: starstarstar - dosii ; take me - miso ; say yes - seventeen ; heart burn - sunmi ; i was made for lovin' you - kiss.
author's note: i'm going to be honest, i've been having a really hard time with life and i just wanted to write something regardless of deadlines and expectations. i also don't care if it makes sense, i just wanna write. i love my collabs, though, and they will get done. i just want to be vague and mysterious and stupid for a moment in time and not worry. welcome our beloved junhui to the haologram blog <3 i've missed him so dearly. [star dividers] by @/saradika-graphics here on tumblr, and thank you to cam for the bar name! enjoy!
HE SMELLS LIKE LUMBER SOMETIMES.
He smells like the tree trunks he chops for firewood at his cabin on the weekends, and he picks up pinecones. He dusts them off and examines them, and the best one is always promptly delivered to your desk by lunchtime on Monday afternoons.
That was the extent of your relationship with him, and really, any of your co-workers. He’d never spoken a word to you (not that you could remember, anyway) but has somehow figured out that you like pinecones. Particularly not ones that smell like cardboard boxes from the home section at Marshall’s.
No one speaks to you unless they need something, and rarely does someone need something from you as a person.
No invitations to drinks after work – you see them enough as it is. You hang up on remote meetings without saying much of anything, and you’re usually the first to leave the call without so much as a goodbye. Your emails and short and dry, signed off with only your name. You avoid the catered lunches provided by whatever restaurant your company paid out and stick to wedging yourself into the sixth-floor storage room with your package of fruit snacks and a sad turkey sandwich. There was a pink chair in the corner that you liked and tried multiple times to convince Mike (the janitor) to let you have but he refused.
You do not make eye contact during breaks, and you don’t stop by the break room for coffee or complimentary muffins. You lied about why once, when you were asked by a coworker – and absently claimed a gluten allergy, only to be seen eating bread a few hours later. That coworker hasn’t spoken to you since, and you don’t think she plans to.
But him?
He started talking about two years ago, a year after you joined the company. He started talking too much, you could argue, but he would say it’s just enough.
He’s too friendly, you thought. He dropped by your desk with a warm cup of tea every morning, if not your precious Monday morning pinecone. He slid a soft, lemon-blueberry muffin under your nose with a soft smile every once in a while. He asked you to lunch, to drinks, and he always sent you a separate follow-up email after remote meetings when he could very well just add your tasks to the bottom of the mass list he always sends in the group mail.
He was just above you on the corporate ladder, but you felt no pressure to answer him in terms of social interaction. He didn’t make it a point, either – he just existed in your vicinity, and only came into your space when you allowed. Quite like a cat, you are.
He told you about his life, quietly, calmly. He told you about how he learned wushu growing up, and how he played piano. He told you about how he got the cabin as a gift from a friend who was moving abroad, unlikely to return and much less spend time in the quiet woods surrounding your town. He told you about his late-night snacking habit, about his cat, Luna. He told you about his best friend, Minghao, and how he was the best man at his wedding a few years ago.
But above all?
He listened to you.
He looked at you like every word from your mouth held weight, carefully nodding along to your mumbled stories of troubled childhood. He listened to you talk about your favorite dish, your favorite color, even your theories about how middle children suffer the most. He laughed at your wry jokes, the dry humor – though he would bite it back at the deadpan comments you’d make during department meetings.
He always sat next to you in those department meetings. His knee was always just barely brushing yours, the soft material of his slacks making your skin prickle as it touched your bare thigh. He’d pass you doodled notes on his pink stationery with My Melody on the edges. He always adjusted the hem of your skirt down subtly when you stood up and pushed your chair in after you skirted around it. He waited until you’d gathered all your materials to leave, walking alongside you back to your desk even if his was across the office.
And it made people wonder what about you had his attention so deeply.
You’re not interesting to any of them, you never had been. You’re a liar (about a gluten allergy, of all things) and the kind of quiet that made them feel stupid if you looked at them for too long. They felt like you were judging them, when really – you were hoping they’d speed up their long-winded questions to end the painfully awkward social aspect of you fixing their problems.
Sometimes, he’d send you home early to help you escape their judging eyes.
He’d send you an email – the subject line usually only taken up by “🏠?” The body usually contained nothing more than a new picture of Luna, but you always appreciated it.
He’d be looking over the edge of his monitor to watch you hear the dreaded Outlook ding, your eyes slightly lighting up at the sound before really brightening the moment you saw it was him. You’d look over the edge of your monitor, raising a brow that didn’t hide your shy smile as you sent him an email back before quietly packing your bag and slipping out of the office.
It was always just a meme you’d found during your lunchtime Pinterest scroll – one you’re sure he’d seen you add to your shared board.
Because, of all things, he’d chosen to first share his Pinterest with you. You saw his dream home, vintage cars, cool jewelry and the stupid memes he liked you send you in the middle of the night when he was thinking of you.
You still reread that text, he sent it over a year ago.
MESSAGE FROM: Wen Junhui ♡
[2:32AM] of course i think about you.
[2:33AM] i think about you all the time. after breakfast, when you try to sneak out of the office to hide in that storage room upstairs. even outside of work, sometimes i see things i think you’d like. but i mostly think about you now.
[2:34AM] i think it’s a comfort that you pass my mind before i go to bed. or maybe just an association i've made with the fact that i check our board every night to see if you’ve added anything.
[2:35AM] but...i prefer the former, honestly. goodnight, y/n. sleep well. ♡
You added the little heart to his contact name that same night.
Granted, things between you and him never went further. He talked to you, he walked with you around the office, he gave you many ways to contact him outside of work even if you never texted him first. He shared moments of his day with you if you missed work or worked from home – which was rare and always worried him. He would send pictures of a lone pinecone sitting on your mousepad if you weren’t there when he delivered it, followed by whatever random emoji he felt fit the mood. Sometimes it was a hazelnut, sometimes it was a cat.
Sometimes, it was the heart wrapped in a bandage.
You tried not to overthink it.
But it was hard not to notice the whispers about him.
How a lot of your coworkers talked about him, and how cute he is. How sweet, smart, gentle. How he’s soft-spoken until he’s around his friends, even though you knew that his best friend was just as soft spoken. He worked two floors down, Xu Minghao.
You met Minghao and his wife (and the rest of their shared friends) the first time you were ever invited out for drinks – and the first time you ever hesitated to say no.
Junhui managed to get you right in the nick of time, too – right as the clock struck five. You hadn’t even gotten a chance to log out of your programs when he leaned over the wall of your cubicle with a twinkle in his eye that made your chest ache.
“Have a drink with me. My friends are coming, too, but you know. I’ll be there.”
And you had more than a drink – you had a good time. You had three blood orange margaritas and a sip of his beer, but it was like you were shining brighter than a million suns. You let yourself sink into the soft vinyl of the booth, surrounded by him and his scent and his friends. You let yourself talk, out loud and with gusto about everything. You were uninhibited, and you remember how they all warmly smiled as Junhui pushed your hair out of your eyes as you talked about how there was no way the megalodon shark was extinct.
He walked you home that night, the two of you a little too tipsy to navigate the train or drive. He walked on the sidewalk closest to the street and held your pinchy heels in his fingers, letting you skip around and complain about the humidity. He only smiled, his hip bumping yours every once in a while, when you swayed a bit too far.
When you got back to your apartment, he waited against the railing in front of your doorstep to watch you step inside. You remember hesitating before asking him if he wanted to come in for a nightcap.
His eyes widened, and for a moment – he considered it. You saw how his eyes flickered to your lips, before he cleared his throat.
“Maybe another night. Thank you for coming out with me tonight, I hope it wasn’t too overwhelming.”
It hadn’t been, but his soft rejection was certainly disappointing. You shook your head then, staring at him for a split second more before speaking.
“It was nice. I’d...I’d like to do it again, sometime. Just us.”
You smiled softly, before giving him a curt nod and slipping into your apartment before he could respond. You leaned against the door, sliding down the cool wood before hearing him utter a soft goodnight.
Since then, the two of you had gone for drinks over and over again – just the two of you, and with his friends. When it was just you, he’d talk about everything and anything under the sun. But when it was with his friends?
They really liked you, enjoying the excitement that they never saw in the office. One of them, Kwon Soonyoung in finance, offhandedly mentioned that they hadn’t known you and Junhui were friends until he started mentioning you at random moments. Your face had felt hot as the rest of them giggled and agreed, with Minghao’s wife letting it slip that ‘random moments’ meant any time he could.
“Yeah, he brings you up a lot. Oh, Y/N likes this. Y/N would love that. Y/N, Y/N, Y/N. It’s so cute.”
You don’t remember Junhui refuting it, but you remember the flustered blush that settled in his cheeks after that. Things between you and him didn’t change, though.
Until they did – one month, three days later, Junhui got a girlfriend.
It was like he had vanished entirely – gone were the warm cups of tea on your desk, the muffins, the pinecones. No more invites to lunch or drinks with him or his friends. No longer did you receive emails asking if you wanted to go home early, no more pictures of Luna, no more separate follow-up emails outlining your tasks after remote meetings.
None of it really bothered you, until you realized that your shared board hadn’t been updated by him in a while. Then, you noticed it, truly – he'd unfollowed you. Pinterest, Instagram, even Spotify. Spotify!
He didn’t sit next to you at department meetings, either. No more passed notes, no more pushing your chair in. And he rushed out right after, not bothering to even speak to you.
And people noticed.
You hadn’t realized that by allowing yourself to associate with Junhui and his friends, you became more than a blip on people’s radar. People knew your name; they knew your face. The girls gossiped about what he could possibly see in you, unaware that you were reapplying deodorant in one of the stalls. Men speculated about your relationship status, wondering amongst themselves if you were open-minded – while they stood outside for a smoke, making you scrunch your nose in disgust at them for more reasons than one.
People knew you – his friends, still said hello in the hallways. Minghao, gave you warm smiles and extended invites to drinks that you’d swiftly decline – with excuses of working late, of being tired, or whispering that time of the month. He always nodded, smiled...but you knew he didn’t believe you.
Once you realized Junhui was avoiding you for what you believed was a girlfriend, it took you less than twelve hours to get back to your reserved demeanor. As long as you didn’t make noise in your cubicle, no one came around – and people realized then that your gaze wasn’t mean to intimidate or judge, but to time. You didn’t want to talk to anyone you didn’t have to, more than you needed to – and that was bothersome to most of them.
Of course it was; in their minds, they’re great.
They’re a catch, they’re fun to be around.
But they’re not him.
They’ve never cared to ask you a single thing about yourself beyond your relationship status and where you got your shoes. You always just stared until they left or mumbled something about the local department stores.
Things with him never returned to the easy friendship you thought was starting to form, even as you rung in the new year at the company party. It made you sad.
Maybe because you had a bit of a crush on him, actually.
You thought a little too hard about the meanings behind his messages, the pictures of his weekend retreats to his cabin that he insisted you were always welcome at, especially if his friends were there. You missed the shared memes, the shared playlists, the way he’d sometimes find you inside the sixth-floor storage room, sitting on the dusty pink chair that always made him smile a little too fondly.
You liked Junhui, more than just a cubicle crush that you could discuss with your girlfriends that you didn’t have.
But he had one. One that meant more to him than you ever would, even with the way he opened his heart to you.
You thought about what he shared with you – videos of him playing the piano at Minghao’s wedding for his first dance with his wife. He shared his presence and comfort, often walking you home and your hands always brushed. You felt like a schoolgirl every time you’d tuck your hand into your pocket. You once got caught in the rain together and stood under the bus stop before he fished his headphones out of his pocket and gave you one.
He played starstarstar by Dosii as he pulled you out from under the safety of the bus stop, and the two of you walked to your apartment instead. Hand-in-hand, soaked to the bone, with the string of his headphones forcing even more proximity that made your cheeks heat.
You don’t remember who interlaced your fingers. If it was you...you’re still happy. It means he was okay with it, maybe he wanted to.
If it was him?
He definitely wanted to.
However, it’s all filed in your memories now – because you look over your monitor to see his brows fixed in concentration as he types across his keyboard, with you not even a blip on his radar. You watch carefully as he reads his own words over and over, before his eyes flicker up and meet yours.
You’re not surprised when his shoulders sag for the umpteenth time, and he looks away.
Like he wants to say something. Like he wants to talk to you, but the words get caught in his throat and he can’t seem to get them out. It’s been a year since you’ve spoken, and you would’ve forgotten the sound of his voice if he wasn’t your co-worker – but you never forget that night last spring, drenched in the rain.
You would’ve kissed him; you could have kissed him.
It’s spring, again.
You walk to the train station after work in silence, with nothing playing in your headphones for the first time. You sit in between an elderly couple and a lone high school girl absently staring at a long thread of messages on her phone. They’re all left unanswered, and she repeatedly fills the text box with words before deleting them and starting over.
You feel like that girl – except she’s brave enough to ask for answers and you’re gripping your purse in a claustrophobic panic.
It’s a Wednesday in summer when you finally get tired of waiting for answers. Almost a year to the date when he first asked you to get drinks with him, you get an idea.
Have a drink with me tonight.
That's all it says.
You stand over the copy machine, the sticky note you scribbled on moments earlier folded neatly in your hand. You wrote and rewrote it at your desk, your hands trembling and smearing the ink. You had to walk past his desk to submit the paperwork you were making copies of, and you planned to slip it onto his mousepad on the way back to your own.
You don’t get a chance to do that, though.
Your eyes are closed when you hear the copy room door open, but you don’t bother to look up as that same woodsy smell fills your nostrils.
He doesn’t speak, but you know it’s him.
You know, from the smell of lumber and the click of his shoes and the tension that makes you feel suffocated as you peer over your shoulder. He’s silent, thumbing at his own paperwork. He only glances up when he feels your eyes on him, but this time, you don’t look away.
His jacket is gone, sleeves rolled up to his elbows and tie slightly loosened. You’d stare if it wasn’t against girl code to ogle someone else’s man.
You turn, fully facing him as your last copy gets stapled by the machine and slides out. You gather them in your arms, before holding them to your chest and holding the sticky note out to him between two fingers. He glances at the hot pink paper, swallowing carefully before reaching for it.
You give him a soft smile, before spinning on your heel and heading out of the room without a word.
You’re moving at lightning speed to get out of the office before he can get a chance to catch up with you – shoving your copies into your manager’s hands with a rushed run-down of the day’s events and outages. You thank her with a bow, before beelining for your desk and yanking your purse out of the bottom drawer.
You make it to the elevator without him noticing you, your eyes catching a flash of his white shirt and the hot pink paper unfolded in his hand.
You feel your phone buzz in your hand as you reach the lobby.
It’s nearing seven when he finally has the courage to get out of his car.
He’s been sitting in front of the bar for ten minutes, hoping to see you walk by. If you’re late, you won’t notice that he is.
Message From: Y/N ♡
[5:35PM] at dizzy’s
[5:35PM] 6:30?
He waits another three minutes, watching the corner before his hand finally grabs the door handle and pulls.
He sees you almost instantly, sitting quietly at a booth in the back. You’re not in your work clothes anymore, instead wearing a soft red dress and your hair is pinned back. You’re smiling at the waiter, who seems to be really interested in talking to you as he slides a margarita on the table. He holds the menu out, only for you to shake your head.
He watches your glossed lips shape around the words: I’m waiting for someone.
Him. He’s the someone.
He wants to be the only one. Ever.
He tongues his cheek as the waiter nods, patting the vinyl of the booth above your head. You lean your head back slightly, closing your eyes as your forefinger picks at your thumb’s cuticle. A nervous habit of yours, one he’d picked up on the first time he spoke to you.
About pinecones, actually – but you don’t remember that at all. He doesn’t know what possessed him to bring them up – but he learned, through your hushed whisper in the elevator that morning – that you liked them. You like pinecones, because they are so diverse while all still being the same thing.
He hadn’t understood it then, but he did now – albeit differently.
He was like the pinecones, because he tried to show you that he liked you in so many ways...through the invites to drinks, the lunch, the shared memes.
The pinecones.
Sliding warm tea on your desk and lemon-blueberry muffins, to cracking jokes and passing notes to you on his pink My Melody stationery. To pulling your hair out and brushing your hair out of your face, to letting his friends embarrass him by practically outing his interest in you every time they got together with you and him for drinks at this very bar.
To walking you home, even in the rain, just to spend a little more time with you.
Only to realize that it was futile, because you didn’t see him that way.
You didn’t see him as more than a friend, but he’s not brave enough to tell you why you should.
“Hi.”
Your voice is smooth as he finally slides into the booth opposite you, his skin warming at the sound of it. He clears his throat, giving you a curt nod as he adjusts himself in his seat. He shrugs off his jacket, tossing it to the side before feeling guilt begin to settle in his stomach.
“Sorry. I was...”
He gives up on coming up with an excuse, only running his hand through his hair as you nod. Your manicured fingers stir your straw in figure eights, the flash of an heirloom ring you never take off catching his eye. “I’m sorry.”
“For?” Your eyes are curious, before tilting your head. “Being late? It happens.”
He shakes his head like he doesn’t know, before clearing his throat again when the waiter swoops in to save the day. He internally thanks whatever God is out there as he asks for a beer, earning a scrunch of your nose as the waiter nods and leaves once more.
You don’t say anything as he shifts, only stare. Maybe through him, maybe into him.
He doesn’t mind the warmth of your gaze. He never has.
“I didn’t know getting a girlfriend meant you’d treat me like I never existed.” You start softly, his eyes widening as you purse your lips. “I understand creating distance, because there is someone new. Someone who could perceive you and I as something more, when it’s not.”
“I...I don’t know what to say.” He admits lamely, the shock of you thinking he has a girlfriend not yet settling into his bones. “Who told you I have a girlfriend?”
You only shrug, taking a quick sip of your drink before shaking your head.
“Does it matter?”
He blinks, when the waiter slides the beer bottle on the table as he passes by. He touches it, the glass cold as he tongues his cheek.
If this is a way to get over you, by getting you believe there is someone else when there isn’t -- he’ll take it. He’ll take it because then it means he never has to tell you how he feels, and he’ll never have to face the way you reject him so kindly.
“I guess not.”
“Mmh.”
You trace circles into the side of your glass with your thumb, before another smile graces your lips.
“Are you happy?”
How could you ask him that?
Of course he’s not happy.
He hasn’t had a proper conversation with you in an entire year, and he’s been too much of a coward to admit that he wants more. He wants to kiss you in the elevator, in the break room, in the storage room on the sixth floor during your lunch break. He wants to hold your hand on the way to department meetings, under the table at drinks with your friends, on the walk to your apartment before you pull him in for a good night kiss. He wants to come into your apartment for a fucking nightcap without knowing he’ll say too much and lose any chance of ever being more to you.
So instead, he pulls away.
He stops talking to you, he removes you off every social media platform he can think of, so he doesn’t have the urge to peek at your dream home board on Pinterest, or the way your dream wedding is so similar to his. So he doesn’t have to be subjected to the cute outfits you post on your Instagram story before you leave your apartment for work, even though he’ll just see it when you arrive and he’ll have to take a deep breath so he doesn’t scream about how nice you look.
So he doesn’t have to know that you’re listening to the playlist he made for you to stay calm in the packed morning train on the way to work.
On the way to him.
“No.”
Your eyes soften, your brows scrunching in that same worried way they do when you’re listening to someone explain their problems to you at work. You nod, that comforting look of understanding glazing over your eyes.
“Can I ask why?”
He doesn’t bother responding, his mind racing as he thinks about all the pinecones sitting in his car, the ones that he’s deemed perfect enough to place on your desk but hasn’t been able to. He thinks about the way you slip out of the office and how your heels sound as you sneak upstairs to the sixth floor during lunch. He thinks about when Mike caught him off-guard by coming down to his desk and saying that you liked a pink chair that was in the storage room and kept asking about it.
A pink chair that used to belong to him, when he first got the company a few months before you did.
He sighs, fishing his wallet out of his pocket and sliding two twenties on the table.
“No. It’s better if you don’t.”
He doesn’t allow himself to look at you as he slides out of the booth, his hand gripping his suit jacket much too tightly for it to go unnoticed. You don’t stand, only nod as you take another sip of your drink.
“I hope it gets better. Have a good night, Junhui.”
He fights back tears as he makes his way out of the bar, your understanding look stuck in his mind as he drives home. He doesn’t bother looking at the pinecones in his backseat or changing the playlist that blares through his speakers when he connects his phone – a playlist you made for him, for his long drive home from work.
You’re in everything he holds dear to him. The music, the cabin – even if you’ve never been there. You know him, everything about him that is worth knowing in his eyes.
Except the fact that he’s in love with you, and that he’s a liar.
JUNHUI ISN'T AT HIS DESK ON THURSDAY. OR FRIDAY.
The whispering starts on Monday, with lots of wayward glances towards you and you almost want to go down to Minghao’s desk and ask if Junhui is okay.
But you don’t -- you glue yourself to your chair until lunch time, only to see that the pink chair you loved is no longer in the storage room. Mike tells you that the original owner took it out on Wednesday night and offers a soft apology. You shake your head and say it’s okay, before turning around and going back to your desk.
You arrive at your desk on Tuesday morning to your desk chair missing. There is a warm cup of tea on a coaster, and a cranberry orange muffin in front of your keyboard – but none of it distracts from the sudden pop of color next to your mousepad.
A plastic pink storage box.
You don’t bother to put your purse down as you crack the corner up, and your eyes widen as you realize it’s full of pinecones. There’s an envelope attached to the underside of the lid, and you pluck it off carefully before leaning against your desk. You peel it open gently, only to see the familiar pink My Melody stationery.
Junhui.
You ignore the urge to look up at his desk to see if he’s watching you over his monitor, feeling eyes from your co-workers trickling in as they spot the pink box. His handwriting is scrawled in purple ink across the stationery, and your heart sinks as you take in the slightly smudged words.
My Y/N,
I’m sorry about Wednesday. In fact, I’m sorry about the past year that I’ve gone without speaking to you. I have no excuse, only an explanation that probably won’t make things any better but will certainly give you some clarity.
I pulled away because I knew things would get too much for me. I’ve got a weak heart, and I can’t take rejection well – so I figured I’d cut ties first. It never worked, cutting contact with you; I found myself constantly missing the sound of your voice. I wanted so badly for you to reach out first, but I should’ve known better than to expect that when I was the one who wedged my way into your life. Our friendship was fun, and I miss listening to playlists with you during the walks to your apartment, but it simply can’t be anymore.
I like you so much, it’s painful to be around you and know you don’t feel the same.
I wanted to kiss you that night last spring. The rain and everything, it felt like a movie. Maybe that’s corny, and maybe it’s too forward but it doesn’t matter anyway because nothing will come of this. I’m sorry, for being too much of a coward to ever explain this to you in person. And for telling you now, through a letter written on stationery.
With this, I’ve got to admit something; finding out that you think I have a girlfriend when you’re all I’ve been able to think about since that first day we spoke is insane to me. Where do you get your gossip from? Is it a subscription? Unsubscribe effective immediately.
Speaking of effective immediately, I’ve taken a new position at a new company. So not only am I a coward for confessing this way, but also because I’m running away from it all. I don’t think I could handle not going home to you, even after seeing you all day. I’m not equipped for the agony of a silent, one-sided office romance that you read about in books.
I recommended you for my position. Don’t worry, people won’t talk to you nearly as much as they do now; but still...have fun, yeah?
I hope you enjoy these pinecones, for whatever you might end up using them for – and the pink chair. Funny, it belonged to me when I first got to the company. That’s why Mike never gave it up, but he told me you liked it so I figured you should have it.
Now it belongs to you! Quite like my heart.
Have a good day, Y/N. I’ll miss you.
Always and forever yours,
Junhui ♡
Your chest aches as you realize all the opportunities have slipped through your fingers.
“Miss Y/N, Mr. Wen said he’d like for you to have this.”
Mike startles you as you see the pink chair being rolled behind your desk, the fabric pristine and the small stain from spilled coffee at the edge is gone. Your fingers flit across the headrest, before you look at him with tears in your eyes.
“Guess he changed his mind, huh?”
He only smiles, nodding his head before turning on his heel and leaving.
You look at the cup of tea. It’s still hot, so it must’ve been placed recently. You glance over at his desk; how vacant it looked. Almost like how your chest feels after having your heart ripped out.
You don’t really notice that you’re moving until you’re in the elevator, nervously nibbling on your lip as you frantically press on Minghao’s floor number while balancing the box of pinecones on your hip. It feels like an eternity as the damn thing jostles, and you nearly trip as it finally opens on the third floor. You beeline for Minghao’s desk in the back, only to see him quietly arriving with his headphones slid over his ears and his wife’s lipstick still stamped on his cheek.
He glances up as he feels your presence behind him, his eyes widening before a smile graces his lips.
“Y/N! What brings you down here?”
“Where is he?” You blurt, your hand still holding the note. He raises a brow, sliding his headphones off and onto the desk as he takes a seat in his desk chair.
“Where is who, sweetheart?”
“Junhui.”
His lips form an o-shape, making him nod before he shrugs.
“Why should I tell you?”
You gape at him, almost losing your grip on the box on your hip.
“Because you obviously know, and if you care about me–”
“Tell me why I should tell you, Y/N.”
You huff, your cheeks hot as you tap your foot. He tilts his head, an expectant look in his eyes before he speaks again.
“I do have work to do, you know.”
“Because I need to tell him that I...” You choke on your words, scoffing out a humorless laugh as you feel your eyes sting with tears. “Because I need to tell him that he’s an idiot.”
“You can text him that, you know.”
“I’d rather die than text him how I feel.”
“So, you admit you feel some type of way about him.”
He grins, slim fingers typing his password into his computer. You scowl.
“I never said anything of the sort.” You argue, and Minghao gives you a look that says, really bitch?
“You like him. It’s obvious to all of us, everyone in this office.” He reaches for his water bottle, his fingers aptly flicking the cap open. “So, admit it. Admit you have feelings for Wen Junhui, and I’ll give you the information you want.”
You look at the crumpled stationery in your hand, your heart swelling slightly at his handwriting.
My Y/N.
Always and forever yours,
Junhui ♡
“I love him.” You mumble softly as you stare at the paper, not catching how Minghao’s eyes widen. “I’m in love with him, Hao.”
A single tear rolls down your cheek and you quickly wipe it away, before looking up to see Minghao looking at you with a soft glaze over his eyes.
“I expect you and your boyfriend to get drinks with my wife and I this weekend in exchange for this.” His tone is warning as he reaches for a pen, his hand swiping a sticky note off the pad. You nod, ignoring the way your cheeks heat at the idea of Junhui being your boyfriend as he holds out the green paper. “Here, leave that. I’ll keep it safe, so you don’t have to lug it around.”
He holds his hands out for the box, and you hesitate before carefully placing it down. You open the corner, taking one of the pinecones out with a wince as he raises a brow before you shove it in your purse.
“I can explain.”
“Over drinks this weekend. I’ll work out your attendance with your department manager.”
You smile gently, glancing down at the sticky note. It’s an address to an apartment building.
“Thank you, Minghao.”
“Go, sweetheart. You’ll get caught in the rain if you stay any longer.”
And you go.
You don’t bother waiting for the elevator, practically flying down three flights of stairs. You sprint out of the lobby, nearly slamming into yet another of Junhui’s friends, Joshua, before yelling an apology over your shoulder. You make it outside, holding both pieces of paper in one of your shaking hands while the other fishes your phone out of your purse.
A fat raindrop falls on the screen as you map out how far the address is, and you almost welcome the cool water falling onto your cheeks as you run to the train station.
NEW! Message From: Hao
[8:02AM] day 1 of my best friend being a traitor. how is working from home, you bitch?
Junhui snorts as the message comes in, settling carefully in his desk chair. He feels a bit alone as he texts back a simple, I’m sorry; the usual soft chatter of the office replaced by the sound of his aircon blasting. Everything feels too casual – his white t-shirt tucked into his blue jeans, the softness of his house slippers instead of his usual heavy dress shoes. He feels like he’s waiting for a lunch date with one of his friends, rather than signing into work for the day.
He looks over the edge of his monitor, no longer seeing your warm eyes looking back at him; but a cat calendar flipped to July. He rolls his shoulders back, sighing inwardly when his phone buzzes incessantly on the desk.
Your contact photo fills the screen.
INCOMING CALL FROM: Y/N [PLEDIS]
He feels the entire world stop. His breath is caught in his throat, and he suddenly can’t feel his limbs. He watches the phone ring until the call fails, nearly falling out of his chair as he stands up and grabs it. His hands are shaking too hard for him to press the missed call notification, only for you to call back again.
His chest is tight as he shakily breathes out, his thumb swiping across the screen to answer it.
“Hello?”
“I wanted to kiss you that night, too. I have never once though back to that night and didn’t feel regret knowing I didn’t kiss you.”
You sound slightly out of breath, and the sound of rain is loud in the background. He feels his stomach drop to his ass; feet rooted to his spot in his office.
“Y/N, I–”
“You don’t have to say anything. Just come outside.”
He blinks as the call ends, staring at his reflection in the dark screen.
You’re outside.
“Shit.”
He nearly stumbles as he darts out of his office, beelining for his coat closet and shoving his feet into a pair of sneakers. He grabs the umbrella that leans against the frame of his front door, not bothering to grab his keys as he fumbles with the lock and throws the door open. A rumble of thunder startles him as he quickly shuts the door behind him, his fingers trying to fiddle with the umbrella when he hears your voice echo through the complex.
“Junhui!”
He glances over the railing, his eyes darting all over the courtyard before spotting you a few feet from the stairs. You’re wearing the black dress you wore the first time he’d spoken to you, and the attempt to wear open-toed shoes was ruined by the rain.
“Wen Junhui! Get down here!”
He feels laughter bubble up in his chest as he realizes you’re completely drenched, your hair is stuck to your face and your dress is practically dripping like the clouds above.
“You come up! It’s pouring out here!”
“No, you have to come down here! I came all this way, it’s only fair!”
He can’t really see your smile from where you are, but he can hear it. He can hear it and it’s like the rain doesn’t matter. It’s like this very moment proves he was an idiot not to overthink all those intimate moments between the two of you – the way your eyes would light up at his stupid emails, the way you’d let his hands linger on your neck or ears after brushing your hair out of your eyes. All the playlists, all the similarities down to the fact that you both want marigolds for your dream weddings.
The way you interlaced your fingers that night last spring, and he’s so glad you did.
“Junhui!”
He shakes his head, dropping the umbrella on his doormat before sprinting to the staircase, hearing his heart pounding in his ears as he barrels down the stone steps.
“What...what are you doing here? You’re going to get sick, I...”
He trails off as he realizes you’re staring at him with a sparkle in your eye he can’t swallow. Your smile is all teeth, and he feels his chest ache as you shrug innocently. You take a step closer, tilting your head.
“I thought you wanted to kiss me.”
He feels his cheeks hot, and he absently runs a hand through his hair.
“You’re drenched, Y/N.”
“I was that night, too. We both were.”
You shrug again, before stepping out from under the stairwell back into the rain. You hold your hand out, the rain pelting it as he hesitates to take it. You wiggle your fingers, making him tongue his cheek as he takes it, letting you pull him out into the rain. You hand slides up his arm and cradles his jaw gently, and he fights himself not to lean into it but ultimately fails.
“I told Minghao I’d tell you you’re an idiot.”
He snorts, “Is that on his behalf or yours?”
“Mostly mine, but I’m sure he has his own things to say about the matter. A year, Junhui? A whole year.” Your lip is jutted in a pout, and he sighs as the rain starts to soak in through his shirt. His hair is starting to stick on his forehead, and your hand swipes it back.
“I’m sorry. I know that it’ll never be enough to say it, but I truly mean it.” He gently touches his forehead to yours, his heart warming at the way you peer up at him through wet lashes. “I don’t blame you if you don’t forgive me, either. It was a shitty thing to do.”
He hates how your eyes soften, because he feels his knees grow weak as your other arm loops around his neck. He tentatively wraps his own around your waist, pulling you closer and he swears he sees your smile grow shy.
“I wouldn’t have come all this way if I didn’t think hearing you out would be worth it.” You say softly, and a rumble of thunder makes you both flinch. A laugh escapes you, before your thumb strokes his cheek gently.
“Is this still like last spring?”
He smiles softly, “No.”
“Did you ever think this would be the first time you get to kiss me? Like this?”
He laughs, “No.”
“Is it better, though?”
“Considering I’d hoped we would’ve gone on a date—”
“Say yes before I regret coming all this way.”
“Yes.”
Neither of you move, but he feels it. He feels the same feeling of want he did that night, the same feeling of yearning that floated off you without a single word. You tilt your head up, your nose brushing his lightly .
“I’m really cold.”
“I told you to come up.”
“This is more romantic.”
“I hope you know ‘romantic’ can also cost you three sick days at work.”
“You’re worth all my sick days, Wen Junhui.” You mutter, pressing your lips to his. He can’t help but smile into it, his arm tightening around your waist as his other hand cups your face softly.
All the warmth from your eyes, the bashfulness of your smiles, the kindness of your heart is too much for his heart to handle. He can’t believe you’re really here, in his arms...your lips so, so soft and eager against his.
“We have to go inside. You’re going to get sick.” He forces himself to pull away, his heart melting at the way you chase his lips slightly. You frown, and he can’t help but press a chaste kiss to your pouted lip. “We can kiss all you want inside the apartment, I promise.”
You don’t seem embarrassed at all as you smile at the mention of it, even if he feels his own cheeks grow hot as you nod. He feels his entire chest swell slightly as you interlace your fingers with his and pull him towards the stairwell, biting back his giddy smile.
YOU SMELL LIKE LUMBER SOMETIMES.
You smell like the tree trunks he chops for firewood at his cabin on the weekends, and you roast his marshmallow for him – despite Minghao’s teasing.
He still picks up pinecones. He dusts them off and examines them, and the best one is always promptly delivered to you at lunchtime as he drops by the company to whisk you away. The lunch invitations that once meant you’d be holed away in the storage room with a less-sad turkey sandwich from the deli down the block, now meant you’re getting bombarded with kisses before he finally lets you get out of his car with your to-go cup of iced tea.
That wasn’t nearly the extent of your relationship with him. Now, he has a photo of you on his desk at home – and you have one of the two of you together on yours. Your pink chair is complimented often by your coworkers, and you’ve apologized to Diane for lying about a gluten allergy.
Though you’re back to being under the radar, people notice the changes. They notice that Junhui, who no longer works alongside them, is still frequently in the lobby – but he’s picking you up. He’s kissing you; he’s spinning you around and calling you, my love.
No one speaks to you unless they need something, and rarely does someone need something from you.
But Junhui?
He can’t help but need you every single day. He slips his pink stationery love letters into your purse before you leave his apartment on Sunday nights, even if he’s begged you to stay the night just one more time. He accepts invites to anything that means he can bring you with him -- drinks with Minghao, lunch with his mother, even a weekend trip that was meant to be strictly business, but he spent most of the time that he wasn’t presenting glued to you in the hotel room.
Junhui doesn’t let you take the train anymore. Junhui takes your shy offers for a nightcap that usually end up with you kissing him breathless on your couch off two glasses of wine. Junhui, of all things, holds your hand on the table at drinks with his friends that are now yours, too.
Junhui listens – to your complaints about work; to your theories about birthstones and how whoever chose them was clearly biased for September to have the sapphire; to your sweet whispers as you slip your hand down his shorts late at night, and the whiny moans of his name that slip from your throat when he’s pinned you against his mattress.
‧₊˚♪ 𝄞 Yoon Jeonghan fic recc masterlist because we all need him unequivocally ♫⋆.˚⊹
₊˚♬ Been seeing a lot of you guys crying in my comments bout how you wanted more of this man so im here to deliver as promised. I really soent my whole day scouring and reading these so i hope you guys like em cause i personally don't gaf if you don't :p
1(800)WRN6-NMB3R @ashlinxloves
Oomph i acc really like this stupid fucker tryna gaslight us into thinking he 'accidentally' met us. I clocked his desperation from the first text tbfr. But then again i love texting smaus mixed with acc story/writing so this is bomb. The buildup to the meetup was great lol (by that i mean the smut~)
Thats the way I loved you @ashlinxloves
The respect for smut writers I have is crazy cause those mfs really do be writing allat in public sometimes, anyways I genuinly hope people understand just how much of a tease jeonghan really is because the way this fucker was going in this fic, I was literally about to jump his bones through the screen😄🙏
Bonamana @makeitworse
Okay this is a Seungcheol x reader x Jeonghan fic but the smut is next level like holy shit, esp with hannie. And like i think this is the first jeonghan fic i ever read and it successfully got me on this man's agenda after being a cheol girlie for so long so I highly reccomend lol
Back to you @woncheolisms
No cause I wil always fold for mafia fics because it just never gets old uk??? Esp for mafia!jeonghan because, and i've said this before, he KNOWS how to do dark romance. Down to the fucking T man😭😭 Reader so much better than me cause I would just accept my fate and never run away because best believe, when Yoon Jeonghan says he'll find you, He WILL Find You. 🛐🛐
Starcrossed losers @lovelyhan
AHAHAAAHAHAAA IM A SUCKER FOR FANTASY AU'S AND THIS ONE REALLY HIT THE SPOT🙏 Jeonghan literally SCREAMS enemies to lovers with 'He fell first, She fell harder' trope UGHHHH SOMEONE INJECT THIS INTO MY ASS PLEASEEEEE THE ARRANGED MARRIAGE FITS TROPE SO GOOD AND ALSO THERES SMUT?????? AND MULTI PART????? omfg😭
Loml @joonsytip
Ngl I was fucking ragebaited by jeonghan for the majority of this texting smau BECAUSE OML BRO HES SO STUPID but then he did a full 180 rebound for the last 2 parts and became the repentive 'i'll wait forever for your forgiveness' king and we stan a man admiting his own faults so i give him a solid gordon ramsay grilled cheese out of 10✌️
Untitled @wonwunss
I have always stood by fake dating and if this trope has zero followers then I'm fucking dead bitch. Something about the 'I didn't want you but it feels so right' really just puts me in a chokehold with biceps twice my head size. #fakedatingontopbecausetheyrebothstupid
Ethereal @acphengene
Ngl I actually really like soulmate fics and this particular series is kinda amazing for the members. Anyways Jeonghan and Reader's meeting is super cute and also its a multi member series so if u like em then read the others too but this one can be read standalone.
Bad at liking you @aikadirii
You know im DOWN BAD for any and all office au stuff AND WHEN HE'S YOUR BOSS????? Oh yes please🙏 Ngl its short and sweet and def a palate cleanser from all the heavy stuff i've recc'd ya'll. We also stan wingman chan in this 🫂🫂
Bae-sically fake @mylovesstuffs
I have said this numerous times before but fake dating will always be my 'it' trope, BUT IF YOU TELL ME. THAT YOU CAN COMBINE THAT. WITH A '____ DAYS TO FALL IN LOVE' TROPE. I WILL SUCK YOUR DIVK OFF. No cause imagine the fucking pining🛐 AAARRRFGHGGSHS
Snap out of it @quinnhypen
The title reminded me of my fav arctic monkeys song so I read it and I gotta say I was NOT dissapointed AT ALL CAUSE WOW. As a loner introvert I fear this is definitely how I would meet new people. Esp if their first words are: "...want a hit?" Haha so like screw the joint can u fuck me already?????? (We'll smoke after)
Pearls @yourfavtangerine
Okay I promise this is the last fic, and to go out, we obviously neet aphrodite son jeonghan because HAVE YOU SEE THIS MAN. He is literally so pretty its insane. Also I'm a how for pjo verse so this is really everything I would ever need and I KNOW for a fact theresothers like me out there. Enjoy the uncle rick to kpop timeline people
‧₊˚♪ 𝄞 Thats the end of that folks, i hope you liked the reccs and descriptions, i will actually not be doing this again on request cause I fear speed reading most of these fics in like 2 days burnt my brain. If you want more reccs leave me encouraging comments and you MIGHT get another all inclusive rec list. Tho tbh i HAVE been meaning to do an ateez one soooo we'll see :p Adios angsty people 💚💚
hi! do you have a masterlist?? i read not-a-date and it was SO cute, i'm planning to read your new seokmin one when i have time, and i wanted to read more, but i'm not sure if you have more, or if i just can't find them lol. your writing is so cute, though! :)
hiiiiiiii!!!! omg i don’t have a master list BUT ILL GET ON IT!!!! thank u for giving me the idea :D im glad u are enjoying my stories!
Pairing: Lee Seokmin DK x f!Reader
Genre: slow burn, friends to lovers (with a fun twist), comfort romance, miscommunication troupe, fluff, cutie pie dokyeom, love confession, “It Was Always You” trope, gentle angst (mostly just the misunderstanding)
Synopsis: you thought the flowers at your door were from your best friend—quietly thoughtful, maybe even something more, something you didn’t dare name. but when a florist named seokmin with an easy smile and an uncanny memory for details starts showing up in your life, you begin to realize the truth might have always been closer than you thought as he keeps appearing exactly when you need him most—knowing your favorite colors before you do, and looking at you like you’ve always been the point.
Word Count: 14k
Warnings/Things to make note of!: no smut! Slow burn, blah blah blah sappy cute stuff bc its sweet dokeyom thats about it!
A/N: hello!!!! Omg i have literally had this idea for a story for forever and I am so happy i got to finish it! Im SO happy everyone is loving the chan one i posted a bit ago, that is seriously one of my favorite stories and chan is involved in this one a little bit which is super fun! Please enjoy i love my sweet dokyeom and i love the vibe of this story so i hope u love it :3
You stepped through the front door, a soft chime ringing above you. The walls, painted a gentle green with crisp white accents, gave the space a quiet warmth. The scent of flowers greeted you at once—calm and familiar, with a kindness that settled easily in the air.
There were flowers everywhere. Not in the overwhelming, over-arranged way you’d expect, but organized chaos—buckets along the walls, bundles of wrapped bouquets on a wooden counter, stray petals scattered like they’d fallen there on purpose.
“Hi!” The voice came quickly, bright and warm enough to make you look up immediately.
He nearly bumped into the counter as he straightened, like he’d stood up too fast.
“Sorry—I didn’t hear the door at first,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck with a sheepish laugh. “Welcome.”
You blinked, still adjusting—not just to the shop, but to him. There was something about him that didn’t quite match the quiet space. Not in a bad way. Just… lighter. Like he carried his own kind of energy into the room. He had cutely ruffled light brown hair and a smile that could take your breath away, looks around the same age as you.
“It’s okay,” you said, a slight chuckle under your breath. “I just came in to look.”
“That’s good,” he replied quickly, then paused. “I mean—not good like you’re not buying anything. You can! If you want. Or not. Looking is good too.”
You couldn’t help it—you smiled. He noticed immediately, like it was the best outcome he could’ve hoped for.
“I’m Seokmin,” he added, a little more composed now, though the edges of his words still felt slightly rushed.
“I’m y/n,” you explain. He repeated it once, softer, like he was making sure he got it right.
“Well,” he said, gesturing vaguely to… everything, “feel free to walk around. If you have questions, or if you don’t, that’s also fine. I’ll just—” he pointed behind the counter, “—be here. Not watching. I mean—not not watching, but—”
You laughed, and this time he laughed too, the sound easy and unguarded.
“Take your time,” he said, finally settling on something that worked.
You nodded, still smiling, and turned away, letting your eyes wander.
Soft pink tulips nestled beside deep red roses, pale daisies stretching toward the light from the window. You brushed your fingers lightly over a cluster of baby’s breath, watching how delicate it looked. You moved slowly along the wall, pausing here and there, picking up a stem, tilting your head as if the flowers might answer the question forming in your mind: what would he like? Chan wasn’t picky. That was part of the problem. He’d probably grin, take whatever you gave him, and say something like, “You didn’t have to do this,” even though he’d keep it on his desk until the petals fell off.
Your lips pressed together in a small smile at the thought. It has to be good, you decided. Not just good—perfect. Something that said we survived the semester… but also something softer, quieter. Something you’d never actually say out loud. You set a stem back into its bucket with a quiet sigh.
“Trying to solve a very serious problem over there?”
His voice came from closer than you expected this time. You turned, finding him leaning just slightly against the counter, like he’d been watching—but trying very hard to look like he hadn’t been.
“Something like that,” you admitted.
He pushed himself off the counter and walked over, hands tucked awkwardly into his apron pockets. “Do you… want help? Or are you more of a ‘figure it out alone but look stressed while doing it’ kind of person?”
You huffed a small laugh. “I think I’ve reached the ‘I need help’ stage.”
“Good,” he said quickly, then softened it with a small smile. “I mean—great. I’m very helpful. Sometimes.”
He stopped beside you, glancing at the flowers you’d been hovering around. “So… who’s the lucky person?”
“My best friend,” you said. “It’s kind of like an end-of-semester gift. Like a ‘we survived somehow’ thing.”
His eyebrows lifted. “That’s a strong theme. I respect it.”
You nodded, then hesitated just a second. “His name’s Chan.”
There was the slightest flicker of recognition in his expression—just enough to make you wonder—but he didn’t comment on it. Instead, he crouched down to look at one of the lower buckets, gently shifting a few stems aside.
“And what’s Chan like?” he asked. “This is important. I can’t just assign flowers without a personality profile.”
You crossed your arms loosely, thinking. “He’s… easygoing. Really kind. The kind of person who remembers small things and pretends it’s not a big deal.” You glanced down at a bundle of tulips, absently straightening them. “He jokes a lot. Sometimes a little too much.”
“So he’s funny,” Seokmin said.
“Yeah,” you smiled. “Annoyingly so.”
He glanced up at you then, a hint of something playful in his eyes. “Sounds dangerous.”
You ignored the way that word dangerous made your thoughts drift somewhere they absolutely didn’t need to go.
“He’s just my friend,” you said, a little too quickly.
Seokmin hummed, standing back up. “Of course. Just your friend.”
You shot him a look. “Don’t start.”
“I didn’t say anything,” he replied, hands raised in mock innocence. “I’m just the flower guy.”
You narrowed your eyes slightly, but the smile tugging at your lips gave you away. “Okay, flower guy, Seokmin,” you said. “What would you pick?”
He turned thoughtful for a moment, scanning the shop. Then he stepped past you, motioning for you to follow.
“First,” he said, picking up a few stems of soft yellow roses, “something warm. These are good for friendship, happiness… not too intense, but still meaningful.”
He held them out slightly, watching your reaction. You nodded slowly. “I like those.”
“Good,” he said, clearly pleased. “We’re off to a strong start.”
He moved to another section, selecting a few white hydrangeas. “These add a little softness. Makes the bouquet feel more… balanced.” He glanced at you again. “Unless you want bold. Are you a bold bouquet person?”
“I don’t know,” you admitted. “Maybe somewhere in the middle?”
“Middle is safe,” he said. Then, with a quick grin, “But sometimes safe is just bold in disguise.”
You blinked at him. “That doesn’t make any sense.”
“It does in my head.”
“That’s concerning.”
He laughed, the sound bright and easy again, and you felt yourself relax without even realizing it.
“What about you?” he asked, tilting his head slightly. “What kind of flowers do you like?”
The question caught you off guard. “Me?” you repeated.
“Yeah. You,” he said. “You’re part of this too, you know. If you hate the bouquet, that’s a problem.”
You hesitated, then glanced down at a cluster of pale pink peonies nearby. “I like these.”
He followed your gaze, then nodded thoughtfully. “Good choice.” He picked a few, adding them carefully to the growing arrangement in his hands.
“Soft, but not boring,” he said. “Kind of like—” He stopped himself abruptly, then cleared his throat. “—like a good bouquet.”
You raised an eyebrow. “You were going to say something else.”
“No, I wasn’t.”
“You definitely were.”
He shook his head, but the tips of his ears had gone slightly pink. You smiled to yourself, looking back at the flowers as he adjusted them, turning the stems with surprising care.
“Okay,” he said after a moment. “We’ve got warmth, softness… now we need something that makes it feel complete.” He reached for a few sprigs of greenery, tucking them in between the blooms. Then he stepped back slightly, holding the bouquet up between you.
“What do you think?”
You looked at it—really looked this time. It felt right. Not too much. Not too little. Bright, but gentle. Thoughtful in a way you couldn’t quite explain.
“Yeah,” you said quietly. “That’s… perfect.”
Seokmin’s smile softened, less playful now, more certain. “Yeah,” he said. “I thought it might be.”
Then, after a beat, he added, “Chan’s going to like it.” Your chest tightened just slightly at that.
“Yeah,” you echoed, hoping your voice didn’t give anything away. “I think he will.”
“Beautiful.” He replied with a kind smile. You followed him back to the counter, the bouquet cradled carefully in his hands like it was something fragile, something important. Up close, it looked even better wrapped together—soft pinks, warm yellows, the white blooms tucked in just right. He set it down gently, reaching for a sheet of paper to wrap the stems. His movements were slower now, more focused, like this part mattered just as much as picking the flowers. You leaned against the counter slightly, watching him work.
“For the record,” you said, “you’re very good at this.”
He glanced up briefly, a small smile pulling at his lips. “I would hope so. It’d be a little concerning if I wasn’t.”
“I mean it,” you added. “It’s… really nice.” There was a brief pause in his hands—just a second—before he finished tying the ribbon neatly around the stems.
“Yeah,” he said, softer this time. “I’m glad.” He turned, placing the bouquet on the counter near the register, then tapped a few buttons on the screen. You reached for your wallet without thinking. He glanced at it, then back at the screen. Another tap.
“Okay,” he said. “You’re all set.”
You blinked. “That was fast.”
“Mm-hm.”
“…How much is it?”
He didn’t look up this time. “It’s fine.”
“That’s not a number.”
“It’s zero.”
You stared at him. “That’s also not how stores work.”
He finally looked up, completely unfazed. “It’s been a slow day,” he said with a small shrug. “These would’ve just sat here anyway.”
You narrowed your eyes. “You’re lying.”
“I’m not,” he replied, far too quickly to be convincing.
You crossed your arms. “Seokmin.”
He held your gaze for a second, then broke into a small, slightly sheepish smile. “Okay, maybe a little.”
“I’m paying for it,” you insisted, already pulling your card out.
He leaned forward slightly, resting his elbows on the counter like he had all the time in the world. “Or,” he said, “you could not.”
“That’s not an option.”
“It is if I don’t let you pay.”
“You can’t just—what do you mean you don’t let me?”
“I mean,” he gestured vaguely to the register, “I already closed it out. System says you paid. Nothing I can do now.”
You blinked at him. “You definitely can do something.”
“Probably,” he admitted. “But I won’t.”
You tried not to smile. Failed.
He straightened a little, the playfulness still there but quieter now. “It’s just flowers.”
You glanced down at the bouquet, then back at him. “They’re not just flowers.”
“I know,” he said. Something in the way he said it made your argument falter for a second. He tapped the counter lightly, drawing your attention back. “Think of it like this,” he added, a small grin returning, “you’re doing something nice for your friend. I’m just… supporting the cause.”
You exhaled, shaking your head as you finally slid your card back into your wallet. “Fine. But I’m coming back and paying next time.”
“Next time?” he echoed, just a little too quickly. “You should,” he said, more gently now. “Come back, I mean.”
You hesitated, fingers brushing lightly against the paper wrapped around the bouquet.
“Actually,” he added, “come back in a few days. Tell me how Chan liked them.”
You nodded anyway. “Yeah. I can do that.”
“I’ll be here,” he said.
“I figured.” A small pause settled between you, not awkward—just… there.
You picked up the bouquet carefully, adjusting your grip. “Thank you,” you said, meeting his eyes again. “Really.” He held your gaze for a second, something softer flickering there beneath the usual brightness.
“Yeah,” he said. “Anytime.”
You turned toward the door, the faint chime ringing again as you pushed it open.
“Hey—” You glanced back. He was still behind the counter, one hand resting against it, like he hadn’t moved since you stepped away.
It was just flowers… For Chan. A friendship thing. A “we survived the semester and didn’t completely lose our minds” kind of thing.
Nothing more than that.
You reached your apartment door, balanced the bouquet against your side for a moment, and pushed it open. The familiar noise hit you immediately—voices, faint game sound effects, and the soft hum of the living room TV. Seungkwan was halfway across the room when you stepped inside.
“Oh, you’re back—” he started, then immediately froze.
“Why are you—” But he didn’t finish, because he was already backing up toward the hallway, pointing vaguely at the couch. “Actually, I just remembered I have something to do. Like. Very urgent. In my room. Bye.”
You met Seungkwan freshman year of college through Chan, you had one sleep over and decided that you both should live together. Seungkwan and Chan were childhood friends, went to the same university but decided to give each other “space” to meet new people. Even though… Chan basically comes over every single day and the “new people” he became close with— was you.
“Wait—what?” you said, still holding the bouquet behind your back now out of instinct more than anything.
Seungkwan was already walking off. “I’ll be gone for a while. Don’t need me. At all.”
“That’s suspicious,” you called after him.
“Totally normal behavior!” he said, disappearing into his room with far too much enthusiasm. The door clicked shut. Silence settled for half a second.
“Hey.” Your attention snapped to the couch.
Chan was there, stretched out comfortably like he owned the place, a Nintendo Switch resting loosely in his hand. He looked up at you like this was the most normal thing in the world, which, to be fair, it kind of was. But you hadn’t expected him to be here.
“Hi,” you said quickly, shifting your weight. The bouquet instinctively went further behind your back.
Chan noticed immediately, of course he did.
His head tilted slightly. “Why are you standing like that?”
“I’m not.”
“You are,” he said, sitting up a little. “What are you hiding?”
“Nothing,” you answered too fast.
That made him smile—small, curious, a little too knowing for your comfort.
“You’re bad at lying,” he said.
“I’m not lying.”
“That’s what people say when they’re lying.”
You huffed, glancing toward Seungkwan’s closed door like betrayal might somehow help you. “Why are you even here?”
“Finished early,” he replied, stretching his arms above his head. “Seungkwan said you’d be back soon and then he ran to his room like something was chasing him.”
“Yeah, I saw.”
Chan’s eyes flicked back to you again, more focused now. “Okay. Seriously. What’s behind your back?”
You could just give them to him. Just… hand them over. Say it casually. Hey, congrats on surviving another semester, don’t fail next one.
Simple, normal, no overthinking. You exhaled, slowly bringing the bouquet forward. Chan’s expression shifted instantly when he saw it.
“…Oh,” he said softly. You suddenly felt very aware of your hands.
“Yeah,” you said, forcing a light tone. “Don’t make it weird.”
“I’m not making it weird,” he said immediately, sitting up straighter.
You stepped closer, holding them out. “It’s just—end of semester. You didn’t die, I didn’t die. Thought it was worth something.”
Chan stands up, taking them carefully, like he was making sure he didn’t mess anything up, which, annoyingly, he rarely did. He looked down at the flowers for a moment before smiling.
“They’re really pretty,” he said.
“Good,” you replied, a little too quickly. “That was the goal.”
He glanced up at you again, softer now. “You didn’t have to do this.”
“I know,” you said, shrugging. “But I wanted to.”
That part was easier. Safe. Friendship. Always friendship.
Chan looked back at the bouquet, thumb brushing lightly over the ribbon. “I’ll take care of them.”
“You better,” you said, trying to sound teasing instead of anything else.
He laughed quietly. He looked up again, still holding the bouquet like he wasn’t entirely sure where to put his hands now.
“You know,” he said casually, tilting his head, “if you keep giving me things like this, people might start getting ideas.”
You scoffed immediately, because that was safer. “What ideas?”
Chan’s smile widened just a little, like he enjoyed watching you react more than he should’ve. “That you actually like me or something.”
The words landed too lightly to be serious. Probably a joke. Definitely a joke. Almost certainly a joke.
You forced a laugh that didn’t feel as steady as you wanted it to. “Don’t get ahead of yourself.”
He hummed, like he was considering that. “Mm. Noted.”
Then, softer, almost absentmindedly, he looked back down at the flowers. “Still… this is really nice.”
That part was different. Not teasing. Not joking.
“I like them,” he added. “A lot.”
You nodded quickly, because if you stayed on any single thought too long, it might turn into something you didn’t know how to handle. “Good. That’s… good.”
Chan looked up at you again, and for a second, his expression softened in a way that made your chest feel strangely tight. Like he wasn’t just talking about the flowers anymore. But then he smiled again—easy, familiar, Chan—and it was hard to tell. That was always the problem with him. You could never tell if he meant things the way you felt them.
He shifted the bouquet in one hand and lightly bumped your shoulder with the other. “You’re weird, y/n, you know that?”
“Excuse you,” you said, instantly offended.
“I mean it in a good way,” he added quickly, laughing. “Just… quietly doing nice things and acting like it’s nothing.”
You looked away before he could see too much of your expression. “It is nothing.”
“Mm,” he said again, like he didn’t believe you at all. “Sure.”
“I’ll take care of them,” he repeated, a little more certain this time. “And I’ll tell you how long they last. Deal?”
You nodded. “Deal.”
He smiled—properly this time, full and warm, the kind that made it impossible not to feel it back even if you tried not to.
A few days passed in a blur of shifts and closing tasks. With the semester over, your schedule filled up faster than you expected—extra hours at work, late evenings, the kind of tired that made the days blend together in soft, repetitive motion. Enough that the idea of stopping by the flower shop kept slipping to the back of your mind.
Chan had texted you.
They’re still alive btw. impressive.
Then a photo a day later—him leaning too close to the bouquet on his desk, looking mildly offended that something so pretty existed in his room. You’d smiled at that longer than you meant to. Still, five days went by before you found yourself standing in front of the familiar soft green storefront again. The little chime above the door rang as you stepped inside. The scent of flowers hit you immediately, same as before—calm, warm, like the shop hadn’t moved an inch since you left it. And there he was.
Seokmin looked up from behind the counter, and his face changed instantly when he saw you.
“Oh,” he said, brightening. “Hey.”
You raised a small hand in greeting. “Hi.”
He straightened a little too quickly, like he hadn’t been expecting you at all. “You’re—uh—you’re back.”
“Yeah,” you said, glancing around the shop. “I said I’d come back.”
There was a beat.
Then he blinked. “You did?”
You frowned slightly. “Yeah. You said you wanted to know how Chan liked the flowers.”
Seokmin paused. Then, very slowly, his ears started to turn a little pink.
“I—right,” he said quickly, clearing his throat. “I remember. I just—didn’t think you’d actually—”
“Come back?” you finished for him.
You tilted your head slightly. “Why wouldn’t I?”
“I don’t know,” he said, too fast again. Then, softer, like he was correcting himself, “I just… thought you were being polite.”
You stared at him for a second, then shook your head. “No. I literally came to tell you.” That seemed to catch him off guard.
“Oh,” he said again, quieter this time. “Okay.”
A small smile pulled at your lips despite yourself. “He liked them. A lot.”
Seokmin’s expression softened immediately, like that was the answer he’d actually been waiting for.
“Oh,” he repeated—but this time it sounded genuinely happy. “Good. That’s really good.”
He leaned slightly on the counter, relaxed again in a way that looked more like him. “I knew he would. You picked well.”
“I had help,” you said automatically.
His eyebrows lifted. “Still counts.”
You huffed a small laugh. “You’re very confident in your flower opinions.”
“I have a reputation to maintain,” he said seriously, then ruined it immediately by smiling. There was a comfortable pause after that.
Then he tilted his head slightly. “So… what about you? You working today too?”
You nodded. “Yeah. It’s been kind of nonstop lately.”
“That’s why I haven’t seen you,” he said, like he was thinking out loud.
You blinked. “You noticed that?”
He froze for half a second, then coughed lightly into his hand. “I mean—this is a small shop.”
“Mm-hm.”
“I notice customers,” he added, unnecessarily defensive.
You leaned slightly against the counter, watching him now. “Sure.”
He looked at you for a second, then exhaled a quiet laugh, giving up. “Okay, maybe I noticed you specifically.” That made you pause. Not in a dramatic way, just enough to register it. Then a small chuckle escapes your mouth without even noticing. Seokmin lingered for a second after your laugh faded, like he was deciding whether to let the conversation drift or keep it going. Then he pushed off the counter lightly.
“Okay,” he said, pointing at you as if he’d made a decision. “Since you came back, I’m using this opportunity.”
You narrowed your eyes. “That sounds vaguely threatening.”
“It’s research,” he corrected, walking out from behind the counter. “Important research.”
You straightened a little. “Research for what?”
He stopped beside a display of flowers, glancing between you and the buckets like he was already planning something. “For you.”
You sighed. “Go ahead, ‘researcher.’”
He smiled like he’d won something. “Good. First question.”
You folded your arms. “You’re serious about this.”
“Very,” he said, nodding once. Then he gestured toward a cluster of flowers near the window. “Do you like bright colors or softer ones?”
You blinked. “That’s your first question?”
“Yes. It’s a flower personality quiz.” He says completely unbothered.
You huffed a laugh despite yourself. “I don’t know… softer, I guess.”
He nodded immediately like he’d been expecting that. “Okay. Noted.”
Then he turned slightly, pointing to another section. “Roses. Yes or no?”
“Depends,” you said cautiously. “Not like… super dramatic red ones.”
“So yes, but not aggressive,” he summarized.
“I don’t know if I’d describe flowers as aggressive.”
He glanced at you. “Some of them are.”
That made you pause. “…Which ones?”
“Red roses,” he said without hesitation. “They’re loud.”
You laughed. “You’re weird.”
“You’re answering my questions,” he countered, like that proved something.
He moved again, this time crouching slightly to adjust a bucket of tulips. “Okay. Next one.”
“There’s more?”
“This is important,” he said seriously. “Do you prefer simple bouquets or ones that look… fuller? Like a lot is happening.”
You thought for a moment. “I think fuller. But not messy.”
He nodded slowly, like he was building a mental picture. “So intentional chaos.”
“That sounds like an oxymoron.”
“It’s a design style,” he said.
“Of course it is.”
He smiled, clearly enjoying this more than he should’ve. Then he straightened and looked at you again, softer now. “What about scents? Strong or light?” You paused at that one.
“I don’t love anything too overwhelming,” you admitted. “But I like when you can still smell it a little.”
“Okay,” he said, quieter. “This is all very valuable data! I’ve been trying to get better at ordering based on what people actually like instead of just guessing.”
You nodded slowly. “That makes sense.”
“It does,” he said, pointing at you like that confirmed his entire point. “See? Business strategy.”
You hummed. “So I’m basically market research.”
“Exactly,” he said immediately.
Then, after a beat, he added a little more casually, “And you’re a very cooperative subject.”
That made you snort. “Glad I’m useful.”
“You are,” he said, then seemed to realize how that sounded and quickly added, “I mean—helpful. Not—yeah.”
You laughed under your breath, watching him as he turned back toward the flowers like he suddenly needed something to do with his hands. Seokmin shifted his weight, then pointed lightly at you again, as if remembering something important.
“Okay,” he said. “One more thing.”
You sighed dramatically. “I thought the quiz was over.”
“It is,” he said. “This is unrelated.”
You narrowed your eyes. “That sounds suspicious again.”
He ignored that. “What kind of flowers would you actually want someone to give you?”
You blinked. That wasn’t on the list. You hesitated for a second, then shrugged lightly. “I don’t know. Something that feels… thoughtful, I guess.”
He nodded once, like that lined up perfectly with something in his head.
“Thoughtful,” he repeated. Then he looked at you properly again, expression a little more focused now, though still soft around the edges. “Got it,” he said.
You opened your mouth to ask what exactly he had “got,” but the shop door chimed at that moment, cutting the moment cleanly in half. Seokmin straightened immediately, slipping back into his usual customer-facing smile like nothing had just shifted in the air. You gave him a wave goodbye as he began helping the customer that entered.
Two days later, you dragged yourself home a little later than usual. Work had been nonstop again—the kind of exhaustion that sat heavy in your shoulders and made the walk upstairs feel longer than it should’ve. When you finally pushed your apartment door open, you expected the usual: Seungkwan yelling from somewhere, maybe Chan on the couch with that ridiculous Nintendo Switch in hand, the TV too loud, the world exactly as chaotic as always. Instead, it was quieter. You kicked your shoes off carefully and stepped in. And then you saw Seungkwan. He was standing in the kitchen, unusually still, holding something in both hands like it was fragile glass.
“Seungkwan?” you called, slowly.
He turned immediately, eyes wide. “You’re home.”
“That’s usually how apartments work, yes.”
He ignored you and held the bouquet up slightly. “This was at the door.”
You blinked. “What?”
He walked over carefully and placed it into your hands. Small. Soft. Carefully arranged. Pink flowers—gentle, layered blooms you recognized instantly from your mental list without even needing to think. Baby’s breath tucked in between. It was… beautiful. Too beautiful to feel random.
“There was a note,” Seungkwan added, watching your face closely. “It just said: For Y/n. Thank you.”
You frowned slightly. “That’s it?”
“No ‘from’,” he said. “Nothing else.”
You stared at the bouquet again, fingers tightening slightly around the stems. It smelled faintly sweet. Familiar in a way that made your thoughts slow down.
Seungkwan leaned in a little. “Do you know who it’s from?”
You didn’t answer right away.Because your brain had already started doing what it always did—connecting dots too fast, too easily. Pink flowers. Baby’s breath. Soft arrangement. Thoughtful. Careful. Your mind immediately flickered back to Chan. He knew you, more than most people did. He knew you liked softer things, he knew your preferences without needing a quiz, he knew how you reacted to small details because he’d been there for most of them. And he had your address because of course he did. Your chest loosened a little as the idea settled.
“…Yeah,” you said slowly, turning the bouquet slightly in your hands. “I think I know who it’s from.”
Seungkwan narrowed his eyes. “You do?”
You nodded, a small smile forming before you could stop it. “It’s probably Chan.”
Seungkwan made a sound. “Of course it is.”
You shot him a look. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Nothing,” he said immediately, way too quickly. “It means nothing.”
But you could already see it in his face—the I know something you don’t expression he always got whenever you were involved with Chan in any capacity. You ignored him and looked back down at the flowers. They were… very Chan, of course he’d do something like this. You smiled softly before you could stop yourself.
“I made him a bouquet,” you said quietly, more to yourself than Seungkwan. “It’s just… a thank-you.”
Seungkwan hummed from beside you. “Mm-hm.”
“What?”
He shrugged. “Nothing.”
You sighed, but you were still looking at the flowers. Pink. Soft. Thoughtful.
Something in you felt the need to tell Seokmin. That the bouquet he made for you—carefully chosen, annoyingly thoughtful, quietly perfect—had somehow come back to you in the same language. Flowers. Soft pinks, baby’s breath, gentle greens. A message without a name attached. He’d want to know that. He’d probably smile that small, satisfied smile like he always did when something worked out exactly the way he intended. So on your day off, you ended up out anyway.
The grocery store was right next to the flower shop—close enough that you could see the soft green storefront from the parking lot. You told yourself it was a coincidence as you grabbed a cart, but your feet already knew where you were drifting.You were halfway down an aisle comparing nothing in particular when you nearly bumped into someone turning the corner at the same time.
“—oh.”
You both stopped. Seokmin blinked first.
Then his face lit up slightly. “Hey.”
You stared at him for a second longer than necessary, mostly because it didn’t make sense to see him here instead of behind the counter surrounded by flowers. He was wearing a light brown sweater and dark blue jeans, no floral apron in sight.
“…What are you doing here?” you asked.
He lifted the small basket in his hand. “Grocery shopping.”
You narrowed your eyes. “You don’t look like someone who grocery shops.”
He looked down at himself like he was checking. “What does that mean?”
“You look like someone who lives in a flower shop.”
“I do live in a flower shop,” he said matter-of-factly. That made you huff a quiet laugh.
Then he tilted his head slightly. “What about you? Why are you here?”
“I have a day off,” you said.
“Oh,” he said, like that explained everything. “Me too.”
You nodded. “Makes sense.” A beat passed where neither of you moved away.
Then Seokmin shifted his basket slightly. “I didn’t expect to see you.”
“Same,” you admitted. He smiled a little at that, then started walking slowly again, and you fell into step beside him without really thinking about it. The store noise faded into the background as you both moved through the aisle, stopping occasionally when he checked something on a shelf.
“I have something to tell you,” you said after a moment. That got his attention immediately.
“Oh?” He glanced at you. “About Chan?”
You nodded.
He went a little still. Just slightly. Then he cleared his throat and reached for a box of something on the shelf, pretending it was very important. “Okay.” You noticed the way his grip tightened a little on the basket, but you didn’t think much of it.
“He got flowers,” you said.
Seokmin paused mid-step. “He… got flowers?”
“Yeah,” you said, smiling faintly. “For me. Left them at my place.”
He blinked. “From him?”
“No note with a name,” you said, shrugging. “But I think it was him.”
Seokmin didn’t respond right away. Then, carefully, “Why do you think that?”
You glanced at him like it was obvious. “He knows me. Like… really knows me.” You counted it off lightly on your fingers without realizing.
“The colors, the style, the way it was arranged—baby’s breath, pink flowers, soft greens. It was exactly my taste.”
Seokmin’s expression shifted just slightly at that. Not upset. Just… focused and way too quiet. You keep talking without noticing the change.
“And it kind of feels like his way of saying thank you, you know? Like a return gesture. I gave him flowers, he gave me flowers back.”
You smiled a little to yourself. “It’s kind of nice. Balanced.”
Seokmin let out a small breath that sounded like a laugh, but softer. “Yeah,” he said. “Balanced.”
You looked at him. “What?”
He shook his head quickly. “Nothing.” Then, a beat later, “So… you’re happy about it.”
“Yeah,” you said simply. “Why wouldn’t I be?” He didn’t answer that.
Instead, he nodded once, like he was processing something behind his eyes that you weren’t fully seeing. You reached the end of the aisle before he did, stopping near the exit.
“I was actually thinking,” you said, shifting your weight slightly, “you’re almost done shopping, right?”
He glanced down at his basket. “Yeah.”
You tilted your head toward the parking lot. “We should sit in my car for a bit. We can chat properly!”
He froze for half a second. “…In your car?”
You nodded. “It’ll be more fun than standing in a grocery aisle.”
“I—” he started, then stopped.
You frowned slightly. “Is that weird?”
“No,” he said quickly. “It’s not weird.”
But his ears were a little pink again. You didn’t notice. You were already turning toward the exit. “Come on.” Seokmin hesitated for just a second longer, then followed.
“Okay,” he said, quieter than before. “Yeah. Sure.”
You both ended up sitting in your car, the conversation settling in easily like it had nowhere else to go, as if you’d known each other for years instead of a handful of shop visits and chance meetings. You talked about family stories, friends from home, the people you still kept in touch with and the ones who had drifted into background noise, and it all felt surprisingly warm and unforced. At some point, the conversation slowed, and you turned slightly toward him. “So… why flowers?” you asked. “Like, really. You don’t seem like someone who’d just randomly end up obsessed with them.”
Seokmin leaned back in the seat, thinking for a moment like it wasn’t a question he got often. “I think when I was younger,” he said slowly, “I was just really amazed that the earth could make colors like that. Things that don’t feel real, but are.” You nodded, listening.
Then he glanced at you, a small smile forming like he’d thought of something else mid-sentence. “Kind of like how it’s crazy the earth can also make the exact shade of pink people’s cheeks get when they blush.” Your brain short-circuited for half a second.
You looked at him. “That—doesn’t make sense.”
“It does,” he said easily.
And unfortunately, your face warmed immediately, betraying you in the worst possible way. Seokmin didn’t even hesitate. “Oh,” he said softly, a little amused. “See like that!”
He picks up his hand and pokes your cheek from the passenger seat across from you, feeling the warmth on his finger. Seokmin didn’t pull his hand away right away, like he was testing his theory a little too seriously. Then he leaned back into his seat with a satisfied hum.
“I can guarantee,” he repeated, like he was very proud of himself, “we have a flower that matches that exact shade.”
You scoffed, but it came out weaker than you meant it to. “You’re obsessed.”
“I work with flowers,” he said simply. Then, glancing at you again, a little slower this time, “And apparently, people who turn the same color as them.”
Your face got warmer again immediately, which only made him smile wider. “Stop looking at me like that,” you muttered, turning your head toward the window like it might help.
“Like what?”
“Like you’re winning something.”
“I am,” he said without hesitation.
That made you look back at him. “You are not winning anything.”
He tilted his head slightly. “Your face says otherwise.”
“I hate you,” you said automatically, though there was no real bite to it.
“No you don’t,” he replied, far too calm.
You opened your mouth, then shut it again because unfortunately, he was right and that was worse. A comfortable silence settled for a moment, broken only by the faint noise of cars passing outside.
Softer, like he’d let the teasing drift a little, he said, “So. The flowers.”
You blinked. “What about them?”
“You said you think they were from Chan,” he reminded you, tone light again but attentive.
“Oh.” You nodded slowly. “Yeah. I think so. I haven’t asked.”
He hummed, not pushing, just listening.
You hesitated for a second, then looked down at your hands. “If it was him…” you started, then paused, like you were choosing the words carefully. “What does it mean, do you think?” Seokmin didn’t answer immediately. That was new. You glanced up. He was watching you, expression less playful now—still soft, but more focused. Like he was actually hearing the question underneath the question.
“What do you mean?” he asked gently.
You shifted slightly in your seat. “I mean… it wasn’t just random. It felt intentional. Like the bouquet you made me.” Your voice lowered a little. “So if he really did make it… what does that usually mean?”
Seokmin leaned back again, eyes flicking briefly toward the windshield before returning to you.
“It could mean a lot of things,” he said carefully. “Gratitude. Friendship. Someone who pays attention.” You nodded slowly, absorbing that.
Then he added, a little quieter, “Or it could mean he knows you well enough to want to make you happy in your language.” That made your chest feel oddly tight.
You looked at him again. “That’s… very specific.”
You hesitated, then spoke before you could overthink it. “Do you think it could mean more than that?” Seokmin’s gaze held yours for a second longer than usual.
Then, lightly—almost carefully—he said, “Do you want it to?” That caught you off guard.
You blinked. “That’s not an answer.”
“It is,” he said softly.
Your mouth opened slightly, then closed again. Because you didn’t have a clean answer for that. He waited to hear your response.
“I guess so, I think so? Yeah?” You respond cautiously.
Seokmin nodded slowly, like he was taking your answer seriously instead of teasing you out of it. “Then I think you already know what you should do,” he said gently.
You frowned. “Which is?”
He gave a small, almost reassuring smile. “Wait it out.”
You blinked. “That’s your advice?”
“It’s good advice,” he said, like that settled it. “You don’t force meaning out of something like that. You let it show itself.”
You leaned back in your seat, thinking. “So just… do nothing?”
“Not nothing,” he corrected. “Just… don’t rush it. People reveal themselves in time.” That made sense, annoyingly enough.
You sighed softly. “Yeah. Okay.” There was a pause, quieter this time, the kind that didn’t feel empty—just full enough that neither of you rushed to fill it. Then you glanced down at your hands. “I don’t think I’m going to mention the flowers to him yet.”
Seokmin looked at you. “Why not?”
You hesitated. “Because if I’m wrong… it’s embarrassing.” A small, understanding hum left him. You continued anyway, voice a little softer now. “And I don’t want to make it weird if it’s just… friendly. I’d rather just keep it normal and see what happens.”
Seokmin nodded again, slower this time. “Yeah,” he said. “That makes sense.”
You looked up at him. “It does?”
“Of course it does,” he said simply.
But there was something in his expression you couldn’t quite place—quiet, thoughtful, maybe even a little careful, like he was choosing his words more than usual. Then he leaned his head back against the seat again, letting out a small breath.
“Waiting is usually the hardest part,” he added, almost to himself.
You glanced at him. “You sound like you know from experience.”
He smiled faintly at that, but didn’t answer right away. Instead, he just said, “Yeah. Something like that.”
Seokmin glanced toward the clock on the dashboard, then exhaled softly through his nose.
“I should probably head back,” he said.
You followed his gaze. “Oh. Yeah. Same, actually.”
He nodded, then reached for the door handle—but didn’t open it right away. There was a brief pause, like he was deciding something. Then he looked back at you.
“But,” he added, a little more casually than the pause suggested, “can I get your number?”
You blinked. “My number?”
“Yeah,” he said, like it was the most normal thing in the world. “For updates.”
“Updates,” you repeated slowly.
He nodded. “About Chan. The flowers. Whether I was right about your blush color being in stock.” A small smile tugged at his lips. “Important research things.”
You huffed a laugh despite yourself. “You’re really committed to this research excuse.”
“It’s a very serious field,” he said.
You shook your head, still smiling, and reached for your phone. “Fine.”
He handed his over too without hesitation, and you both typed quickly, the exchange easy and unceremonious. When you handed it back, his screen lit up with your name, and he looked at it for a second longer than necessary before locking it.
“Got it,” he said.
You nodded. “Got yours too.”
“Good,” he replied, then finally opened the door.
Before stepping out, he paused again, leaning back in just slightly. “And hey,” he said, tone lighter now but eyes still on you, “don’t stress too much about the flowers thing.”
You glanced up at him. “Easy for you to say.”
“I know,” he admitted, smiling. “But I think you’ll figure it out.”
Then, after a beat—so soft it almost got lost in the moment—
“And I’ll see you again anyway.”
You frowned slightly. “That sounds ominous.”
He just laughed. “It’s not.”
And then he was gone, stepping out into the parking lot like it was the simplest thing in the world, leaving you sitting there with your phone in hand and a contact saved under a name that suddenly felt like it might matter more than it should have.
About a week passed in a steady rhythm of almost-texts and occasional replies. Nothing constant. Nothing intense. Just small check-ins that somehow became part of your routine without you noticing—Seokmin sending a picture of a flower that reminded him of “that exact shade again.” And every so often, he’d circle back to Chan.
Seokmin: Any updates?
You’d usually roll your eyes a little before answering.
You: He’s just been normal Chan.
That was your consistent report. Normal Chan—texting you random things, showing up in shared spaces, acting like the same person he’d always been. Not distant. Not different. Not noticeably hiding anything. Just… him. One evening, you were on your break when Seokmin texted again.
Seokmin: any chan updates today?
You glanced at the message, already typing.
You: no 😭 he’s just been normal chan
You: like. suspiciously normal but still just chan
A minute passed.
Seokmin: suspiciously normal is still information
You snorted under your breath.
You: you’re insane
You: what do you want me to say, he started speaking in riddles and confessing things through flowers
Almost immediately, the typing bubble appeared.
Seokmin: that would be impressive technique
You shook your head, smiling despite yourself.
You: no updates. just normal. nothing weird. nothing romantic movie coded happening unfortunately
There was a slightly longer pause this time.
Seokmin: unfortunately?
You stared at the screen for a second.
You: NOT like that
You: I just meant like. you know. you’re clearly expecting drama
Seokmin: I’m not expecting drama
Seokmin: I’m observing patterns
You rolled your eyes again, but your smile stayed.
A few days later, your phone rang while you were halfway through getting ready to leave work.
Seokmin’s name flashed across the screen.
You picked up without thinking too much about it. “Hello?”
“Hey,” his voice came through, easy but a little more direct than usual. “Are you busy right now?”
You glanced at your schedule in your head. “Not really. Why?”
“Do you want to get coffee with me?” he asked. That was… simple. So simple it almost caught you off guard.
You blinked. “Right now?”
“Yeah,” he said. Then, after a beat, a little lighter, “Unless that sounds too dramatic.”
You laughed. “No. That sounds fine.”
“Yeah?” he checked.
“Absolutely,” you said.
You could practically hear his small smile through the phone. “Okay,” he said. “There’s a place near the flower shop. I’ll meet you there?”
“Sure.”
“Cool,” he said, then hesitated just a second before adding, “See you soon.”
When you arrived, the coffee shop was warm and quiet, the kind of place that smelled like roasted beans and soft conversation. Seokmin was already there, standing just outside the entrance.
And in his hands—flowers. You slowed slightly when you saw them. He noticed immediately.
“Oh,” he said, like he hadn’t just been caught mid-act. “Hey.”
You stopped in front of him. “Are those… for me?”
He glanced down at them as if seeing them for the first time. “These?”
“Yes,” you said slowly. He lifted them slightly. Small, soft blooms tied together simply—carefully chosen, even if he was pretending otherwise.
“They’re just extras from a bundle,” he said quickly. “They were going to be thrown out, so I thought I’d… use them.”
You narrowed your eyes a little. “That sounds suspiciously like a lie.”
His expression didn’t change much, but his ears went faintly pink. “It’s not a lie.”
“Mm-hm.”
He cleared his throat, holding them out a little more clearly now. “Anyway. I didn’t want them to go to waste.”
You took them slowly, they were warm from his hands. “You didn’t have to do this,” you said, softer now.
“I know,” he replied immediately. Then, after a brief pause—almost quieter— “I just wanted to.” That landed differently than his usual jokes.
You looked down at the flowers for a second before smiling a little. “They’re really pretty.”
“I picked them well,” he said, immediately sliding back into his lighter tone.
You glanced up at him. “So humble.”
“I try.”
He opened the door for you with a small gesture. “Coffee?”
“Yes, Coffee,” you agreed.
And as you both stepped inside together, flowers in your hand again for the second time in a way that felt oddly familiar, you didn’t notice the way Seokmin looked at you for just a second longer than necessary. The coffee shop didn’t stay quiet for long.
Once you’d both settled in—drinks warming your hands, flowers placed carefully beside your cup—the conversation slipped into something familiar again. Just like in the car, it didn’t feel like effort. It moved easily from small updates about your day to deeper things without either of you really noticing the shift.
Seokmin talked about growing up, about how he used to help his family arrange flowers for small events, how he learned early that people always remembered how something made them feel more than what it looked like. You found yourself sharing bits of your own life too—friends from home, the way things had changed since starting work full-time, the strange in-between stage of not really feeling like a student anymore but not fully settled either. It was light, but steady. Comfortable in a way that made the world outside the table feel a little distant.
You were mid-sentence, laughing softly at something he said about a customer once asking if flowers “had moods,” when the bell above the coffee shop door chimed. Your eyes drift over to the door as it opens.
Chan walked in first. And beside him—someone else. A girl you recognized, vaguely. Not a close friend, but someone you’d seen around before in shared spaces, conversations you’d never quite been part of. Your stomach dipped in a way you didn’t immediately understand. Chan’s face lit up the moment he saw you.
“Oh—hey!” he said, instantly breaking into that familiar grin. He walked over like there wasn’t anything unusual about this at all, like this wasn’t the first time you were seeing him in a context that didn’t fit neatly in your head. “This is so random,” he added, still smiling. “What are you doing here?”
You blinked once. “I—coffee,” you said, a little too slowly.
He laughed like that made perfect sense. Then he glanced between you and Seokmin, curiosity flickering in his expression. “Oh,” he said, like the realization was just now catching up. “Are you two on a date? Y/n! I feel like you would’ve told me about this!” The question landed in the space between you. Too simple, Too casual. You reacted too fast.
“No.” Seokmin said it at the exact same time.
Chan raised his eyebrows slightly, clearly amused now. “Wow. That was fast.”
You immediately shook your head. “No, we’re not.”
Seokmin cleared his throat lightly. “Just coffee.”
“Yeah,” you added quickly. “Just coffee.”
Chan nodded slowly, still smiling, like he wasn’t convinced but also wasn’t going to push it. “Right,” he said. “Okay.” Then he gestured slightly toward the girl beside him. “We were just grabbing something too.”
You nodded automatically, your attention still slightly stuck on the fact that he was here, with someone else, standing in front of you like this was all normal. Like nothing had changed. Like you weren’t suddenly trying to recalibrate something you hadn’t even realized you were holding onto. Seokmin stayed quiet beside you, but you could feel his attention shift—not away from Chan, not fully away from you either. Just… observing. Chan didn’t stay long after that. He and the girl ordered their drinks, grabbed them from the counter, and he gave you one last bright smile like nothing in the world had shifted.
“Alright, I’ll see you later,” he said easily. “Text me.”
“Yeah,” you replied automatically. “See you.”
Then he waved, and they walked out together, the bell above the door chiming softly behind them. You sat still for a second too long. Because something didn’t add up. The flowers, the timing. The way he’d smiled when he saw you—but was clearly on a date with someone else. Your fingers tightened slightly around your cup.
So it wasn’t him.
A tight feeling built in your chest, sudden and uncomfortable, like your thoughts had nowhere clean to land. You stared down at the table, blinking a little too fast, trying to force everything back into something simple. It didn’t work. Your throat tightened.
“Hey,” Seokmin’s voice cut in gently. You looked up, but your vision already felt slightly blurred. He noticed immediately. “Hey,” he repeated, softer now.
You shook your head once, like that would fix it. “I’m fine, I just—” Your voice broke off. And that was enough. Seokmin didn’t hesitate.
He stood up and came around the table, careful, quiet, and when he reached you, he didn’t say anything else—just took your hand gently. “Come on,” he said. You let him.
Outside, the air was cooler, quieter. He led you a few steps away from the shop, away from people, until he finally stopped and turned toward you. You tried to pull yourself together, but it didn’t quite work, so he just pulled you in. No hesitation this time. His arms wrapped around you like it was the most natural thing in the world, steady and warm, one hand resting lightly at your back while the other held you close enough that you didn’t have to think about standing on your own for a second.
“It’s okay,” he said quietly. “You’re okay” You didn’t respond right away. He didn’t rush you. Just stayed there, slowly rubbing small circles into your back like he was trying to ground you back into something steady, something real. After a moment, your breathing started to even out again. Seokmin tilted his head slightly, still holding you. “Do you want to go somewhere?”
You blinked up at him. “Where?”
He gave a small, careful smile. “Somewhere I like a lot.”
You ended up walking, not far. Just enough for the noise of the street to fade into something softer. Seokmin led you, hand in hand, without pulling, just staying close enough that you could follow him without thinking too much. Eventually, the path opened into a small park. And there, spread across the grass like it had been waiting for this exact moment, were tulips in full bloom—pink, soft yellow, warm reds bending slightly in the breeze.
You slowed. “…Wow,” you said quietly.
Seokmin glanced at you, watching your expression. “Better?”
You nodded faintly. He walked ahead a little, then crouched near the flowers.
“Hold this,” he said gently, handing you the bouquet he’d given you earlier.
You took it. Then, without much hesitation, he carefully plucked a few tulips from the edge of the garden—not careless, not rushed, just selective, like he knew exactly what he was doing. He stood back up and began weaving them into your bouquet. “You’re not supposed to do that,” you said softly.
“I am,” he replied simply. You watched as he adjusted the stems, tucking the fresh blooms in with the ones he’d originally chosen, making everything fuller, brighter, more alive. “It looks better this way,” he added.
You didn’t argue, you just watched. When he finished, he handed it back to you. Now it didn’t just look pretty, it felt… intentional in a way you couldn’t quite name. Seokmin stepped back slightly, brushing his hands off like nothing had happened, then he looked at you again. “You’re allowed to be upset,” he said gently. “But you’re also allowed to say no to my flowers.”
You held the bouquet a little tighter. And for the first time in a while, you weren’t sure what part of your chest hurt more—the misunderstanding you’d just let go of… or the way he kept showing up exactly when you didn’t know you needed him to.
They stayed in the park a little longer. Not talking much at first—just walking slowly between the rows of tulips, letting the quiet settle into something comfortable instead of heavy. You found yourself stopping often, lifting your phone to take pictures without really thinking about composition or angles, just wanting to keep pieces of the moment.
Seokmin didn’t rush you. He just followed a step behind, watching. At some point, you crouched slightly to get a closer shot of a cluster of pink tulips, adjusting your focus carefully.
Click, then another.
When you checked the frame, you noticed something—Seokmin had stepped slightly into it without you realizing. Not fully posed, not trying to be obvious, just there in the background, looking at you instead of the flowers. You frowned slightly, then glanced back at him. He was already holding up his own phone.
“…Are you taking pictures of me?” you asked.
He didn’t even try to deny it. “Yes.”
You blinked. “Why?”
He looked down at his screen like it was the most normal thing in the world. “You looked like you were concentrating.”
“That’s not a reason.”
“It is to me.”
You shook your head, but you were smiling anyway as you went back to your photos. A few minutes later, you stood again, brushing off your hands lightly. “You’re weird.”
“You’ve said that before,” he replied.
“It’s still true.”
He gave a small shrug. “I can live with being weird.”
You wandered a little further, him falling into step beside you again. Every so often, you’d stop, and he’d stop too. Not crowding, not pulling ahead—just matching you naturally, like he already knew your pace. At one point, you paused near a section where the tulips were thicker, sunlight filtering through them in soft patches.
You lifted your phone again, Seokmin lifted his.
You turned slightly. “Are you doing it again?”
“I’m documenting,” he said seriously.
“That sounds illegal.”
“It’s very legal.”
You laughed under your breath, shaking your head as you took another photo. But when you looked at it later, you saw it again—him in the background of your shot, looking at you like that was the part worth keeping. And it made something in your chest feel… warm. You lowered your phone slowly. For a moment, neither of you spoke. The wind moved gently through the flowers around you, soft enough that it felt like part of the silence instead of breaking it.
You glanced at him. He was looking out over the tulips now, relaxed, hands loosely at his sides. There was something about him in that moment—quiet, grounded—that made everything inside you feel a little more settled just by proximity.
Like if you tripped, he’d catch you without thinking. Like if you didn’t know where to go next, he’d just walk beside you until you figured it out. It was… comforting. Too comforting, maybe. You frowned slightly at the thought without meaning to. Seokmin noticed, because of course he did.
He glanced at you. “What?”
“Nothing,” you said quickly.
He hummed like he didn’t believe you, but didn’t push.Instead, he stepped a little closer—not enough to crowd you, just enough that you felt it.
“You’re okay now?” he asked quietly.
You hesitated. Then nodded. “Yeah. Thank you for bringing me here.”
“Anytime.” He replied with a light smile, pulling you into another hug.
It was a bit later by the time you made it back to your apartment. The bouquet was still in your hands, slightly adjusted now from the park, tulips tucked in neatly among the soft pink flowers Seokmin had chosen. You held it a little more carefully than before, like it had become something you didn’t fully know what to do with anymore. Inside, the apartment was warmer, familiar noise already spilling out from the living room. Seungkwan was on the couch. He looked up the moment you walked in.
“Oh, you’re back,” he said, then immediately sat up straighter. “Chan stopped by earlier.”
You paused mid-step. “He did?”
“Yeah,” Seungkwan nodded. “Said he was looking for you.”
You blinked. “I wasn’t here.”
“I know,” Seungkwan said. “I told him. He stayed for a bit anyway.”
You set your things down slowly. “Did he say anything else?”
Seungkwan hesitated for half a second, then shrugged like it wasn’t a big deal. “He said he thought you were out on a date with someone.”
You froze slightly. “…What? He said that?”
Seungkwan nodded again, casual. “Yeah. That’s what he said.”
You let out a short laugh, more confused than amused. “I was not on a date.”
Seungkwan tilted his head. “Okay, but he thought you were.”
You shook your head immediately. “No. He was the one on a date with someone.”
That made Seungkwan pause. Then his eyes widened a little. “Wait—what?”
“I saw him at the coffee shop,” you said, setting the bouquet down carefully on the counter. “He was with a girl.”
Seungkwan stared at you for a second like he was processing that in real time. “Chan?” he repeated slowly.
“Yes, Chan.”
“With a girl?”
“Yes.”
Seungkwan leaned back slightly, clearly stunned. “That’s… new information.”
You gave him a look. “Tell me about it.” A beat passed.
Then Seungkwan sat forward again, pointing vaguely toward the flowers. “Okay, wait. Back up. Then who are those from?”
You glanced down at the bouquet. The soft pink, the tulips, the careful arrangement that didn’t quite make sense anymore in the way you’d originally thought.
“I don’t know,” you said honestly.
Seungkwan blinked. “You still don’t know?”
“No,” you said, a little frustrated now. “I thought it was Chan, but clearly it wasn’t. And now I just—don’t know.”
Seungkwan stared at you for a second longer, then slowly leaned back again. “…Interesting.”
You narrowed your eyes. “What is that supposed to mean?”
He held up his hands. “Nothing. I’m just observing.”
“You always say that when you definitely mean something.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Then Seungkwan’s expression shifted into something far too amused. “Oh,” he said suddenly.
You looked back. “What now?”
He pointed at you. “So you had a date.”
“I did not have a date.”
He squinted. “You were out with someone. Alone. Getting flowers. Sitting in parks.”
“That is not a date.”
“That sounds like a date.”
“It wasn’t.”
Seungkwan gasped lightly, hand over his chest in mock betrayal. “You didn’t even tell me.”
“There was nothing to tell.”
“You’re hiding your love life from me,” he accused dramatically.
“There is no love life,” you said flatly.
He paused, then frowned. “So… what was it then?”
You opened your mouth, then closed it again. Then gestured vaguely toward the bouquet. “I got flowers. That’s it.”
Seungkwan narrowed his eyes. “From someone.”
He stared at you for a long moment, then leaned back into the couch again.
“…This is messy,” he said.
“You’re messy,” you muttered.
He ignored that completely. “I feel betrayed either way.”
“You’re not involved in this.”
“I am emotionally invested,” he corrected immediately.
You sighed, shaking your head as you picked up the bouquet again.
The next morning, your phone buzzed while you were half-awake, still tangled in sleep and the faint memory of tulips and warm sunlight.
Seokmin: i have a surprise for you at the shop
Seokmin: but you have to come after i close. 6pm. don’t be late
You blinked at the screen.Then sat up a little straighter. A surprise. At the flower shop. You stared at the message for a second too long before typing back.
You: what kind of surprise
You: this sounds suspicious
Almost immediately, the typing indicator popped up.
Seokmin: good suspicious or bad suspicious?
You exhaled a small laugh through your nose.
You: that depends on what it is
A pause.
Seokmin: you’ll like it
You: that’s not comforting
Seokmin: it’s not supposed to be comforting
Seokmin: it’s supposed to be convincing
You stared at that for a moment longer than you should have, then rolled onto your back, phone still in hand.He was annoying. Consistently, confidently annoying. And somehow… you were going. The rest of the day passed slower than usual. Work felt longer. Conversations dragged. Even Seungkwan’s commentary at dinner about “mysterious flower-related romantic developments” barely registered anymore, though he very much insisted on his theories. By the time 6pm finally rolled around, you were already standing outside the flower shop.
The soft green storefront looked the same as always, warm light spilling through the windows, the faint scent of flowers drifting out as soon as the door opened. The bell chimed when you stepped inside. And Seokmin looked up.
He was behind the counter, sleeves slightly rolled, hair a little messier than usual like he’d been moving around the shop all day. The moment he saw you, something in his expression shifted—brightening, but also… focused.
“You’re early,” he said.
“You told me not to be late,” you replied.
He nodded like that was fair. “Good. That means you’ll have time.”
“For what?” you asked immediately.
He just smiled. That same infuriating, quiet smile. “You’ll see,” he said. And then, like that was the end of the explanation, he stepped out from behind the counter and gestured toward the back of the shop. “Come on,” he added. “Surprise is this way.”
You stayed where you were for half a second. Then sighed. “Where are we going?” you asked again, slower this time.
“Back,” he said simply.
“That’s not helpful.”
He only smiled. When he pushed the door open, the space beyond it looked nothing like the front of the shop, it was brighter. A small workroom, but transformed—tables cleared and lined with flowers in every color you could imagine. Reds, soft yellows, deep purples, pale blues, warm oranges, all sitting in careful little groups like they’d been waiting for something. Your steps slowed without you realizing.
“…Seokmin,” you said quietly.
He glanced at you, watching your reaction like it mattered more than anything else in the room. “Before anything,” he said, “I need to show you something.”
You frowned slightly. “What—”
He pointed toward the wall, that’s when you saw it. A small framed photo. You froze. It was you, crouched slightly in the park, completely focused on your phone, surrounded by tulips in soft sunlight. You weren’t even looking at the camera. You didn’t look posed or aware or anything other than exactly what you had been in that moment. And somehow… he had kept it and hung it up.
Your voice came out softer than you expected. “You printed this?”
Seokmin nodded. “Yeah.”
You turned to him slowly. “Why is this here?”
He leaned lightly against the table beside him, hands resting casually in front of him like it wasn’t a big deal.
“Because it was one of my favorite days in a while,” he said simply. “So I wanted to keep it somewhere I could see it.”
Your chest tightened a little at that. He didn’t let the silence stretch too long. Then he tilted his head slightly toward the flowers.
“And this,” he added, “is for something else.”
You looked back at the table. Rows of flowers, neatly arranged but clearly waiting—like a setup, not a finished product.
“…What is this?” you asked.
Seokmin pushed himself off the table and stepped closer, gesturing gently toward the space. “I set this up for you,” he said.
You blinked. “For me?”
“Yeah,” he nodded. “So you can learn how to make a bouquet properly.”
“I want to show you how I would do it,” he added, softer now. “Not because you did anything wrong with your choices before. Just… because I think you’d like it.”
He gestured lightly toward the table again. “Pick anything you want. No rules.”
You hesitated, then slowly stepped forward. The flowers were arranged beautifully, but not stiffly. Like he’d made space for you instead of controlling it. You glanced back at him. “You did all this today?”
“I’ve been planning it,” he corrected. Then, after a beat, a little quieter, “For a while.”
That made your hands pause slightly over the flowers. Seokmin didn’t push you. Just stood there, waiting. He stepped in beside you quietly, close enough to guide but not close enough to crowd, watching as you hesitated over the rows of flowers. “Take your time,” he said gently. “There’s no wrong choice.”
You exhaled through your nose. “That feels like a trap.”
“It’s not,” he replied, amused.
You glanced at him once, then turned back to the table—and this time, something different pulled your attention. Instead of the soft pinks and warm tones you’d usually drift toward, your hand hovered over the cooler side of the arrangement. Blues, deep violets, lavender stems tucked between lighter tones. You picked a few carefully, adjusting them as you went.
Seokmin watched you. Then blinked. “…You’re going with blue and purple?”
You paused, looking at him. “Yeah.”
“That’s—” he started, then stopped like he hadn’t expected that answer at all.
“What?” you asked.
He shook his head slightly, still watching the flowers in your hands like they were new information. “Nothing. I just didn’t expect that from you.”
You frowned a little. “Why not?”
“I don’t know,” he admitted. “You usually go softer. Pinks, creams…”
You shrugged. “I like those too.”
He tilted his head. “So why this?”
You looked down at the flowers again, thinking for half a second. “I don’t know. They just look nice.” Then you glanced up at him. “You like every color anyway.”
That made him pause. Then he laughed—quiet, real, a little caught off guard. “Okay,” he admitted, “that’s fair.”
You smiled faintly and turned back to the table, continuing to pick a few more stems, mixing textures the way he’d shown you earlier without even realizing you were doing it. Seokmin stayed close for a moment longer, watching.
Then he nodded to himself, like he’d decided something. “I’m making one too,” he said suddenly.
You looked up. “What?”
“Another bouquet,” he clarified.
Before you could respond, he moved to the back worktable behind you—just out of your line of sight.
“You can’t just—” you started.
But he was already there, rolling up his sleeves again, the sound of paper rustling and stems shifting filling the space behind you. “No peeking,” he added lightly.
You scoffed. “I wasn’t going to peek.”
“I don’t believe you,” he said.
You rolled your eyes, turning back to your own arrangement, trying to focus—but every so often, your attention drifted anyway. Behind you, Seokmin worked in steady silence.
About twenty-five minutes passed in a quiet rhythm of stems being cut, rearranged, and reconsidered. You were very much no longer confident in your artistic abilities.
“This doesn’t look right,” you muttered for the third time, shifting a blue stem slightly to the left. “Why does it look worse every time I fix it?”
Behind you, Seokmin let out a soft laugh.
“That’s usually a sign to stop fixing it,” he said.
“No,” you insisted, not looking up. “It just needs—something. It’s off.”
You adjusted another stem. Then another.
Still wrong.
You sighed, louder this time. “Okay, I don’t understand how this looked better five minutes ago. I swear I’m making it worse on purpose at this point.”
Seokmin hummed, amused. “You’re not,” he said.
“I am,” you replied immediately.
“You’re just thinking too hard.”
“I am not thinking too hard,” you said, immediately proving the opposite.
Behind you, you heard the faint sound of him setting something down. “I’m done,” he said casually.
That made you pause slightly. “…Already?”
“Mm-hm.”
You frowned, still focused on your flowers. “That’s not fair. I’m suffering and you’re just—done?”
“It’s not a competition,” he said.
“It feels like one.”
“It’s not.”
You huffed, still not turning around. “Mine looks bad.”
“It doesn’t.”
“It does,” you insisted. “The colors don’t sit right together and I think I broke whatever balance you were trying to teach me.”
“It’s fine,” he said again, softer this time. “You’re overthinking it.”
You scoffed. “I’m not overthinking it. It just looks—”
“Hey,” he interrupted gently.
You ignored him, still rearranging. “—like the blue is too much and the purple is clashing and I swear I did it better when I wasn’t trying—”
“Hey.”
“—and now it just looks like—”
“Hey.”
You finally paused mid-sentence. “…What?” you muttered, still not turning around.
Then his voice again, closer. “Look at me.”
You hesitated. “I’m busy,” you said automatically.
“I know,” he replied.
There was something in his tone that made your hands still. You slowly turned around. And stopped.
Seokmin stood there holding a bouquet, a large one. Carefully wrapped, perfectly balanced—but that wasn’t what made your brain stall. It was the colors.
Soft pinks, baby’s breath, light greens woven through carefully chosen blooms. Familiar. Too familiar.
Your breath caught slightly. “…Where did you get that?” you asked quietly.
He didn’t answer immediately. He just watched your reaction. Then he tilted the bouquet slightly.
“You don’t recognize it?” he asked gently.
Your eyes scanned it again. The exact arrangement. The exact palette. The exact flowers from the bouquet that had shown up at your door days ago.
The one you thought was from Chan.
Your voice came out slower now. “That’s… the flowers I got.”
Seokmin nodded once. “Yes,” he said simply.
Your brows pulled together slightly. “How did you do that?”
He stepped a little closer, still holding it carefully, like it meant something more than just an arrangement.
“Because I made it,” he said.
You stared at him, then the bouquet, then him again.
“…You what?” you asked.
Seokmin exhaled softly, almost like he’d been holding that in for a while. “I made it,” he repeated.
A pause, then, quieter— “I just didn’t put my name on it.”
Your grip on your own unfinished bouquet loosened slightly without you noticing. Your mind tried to catch up, but it kept slipping back to the same place.
Familiar in a way that suddenly made your chest feel too tight. Seokmin didn’t move closer this time. Just waited. And for once, there was nothing playful in his expression. It was something real.
He lifted the bouquet slightly. “And before you ask,” he added, tone shifting just enough to sound lighter again, “I got your address from your car GPS that day you told me to sit in it.”
You blinked at him. “What?”
He nodded matter-of-factly. “When you put it in to drive home. I saw it before I got out.”
Your eyes narrowed immediately. “That is… kind of creepy.”
“It’s not creepy,” he said quickly, then paused. “Okay, it sounds a little creepy. But I promise it wasn’t like that.”
“Then what was it like?” you asked, playfully, still in shock.
Seokmin hesitated, then shrugged slightly. “It was like… information.”
“That’s not better.”
“It’s worse if I say I remembered it,” he muttered.
You stared at him.
He sighed, giving in a little. “I just remember a lot.” Seokmin shifted the bouquet in his hands slightly, fingers brushing over the wrapping like he was grounding himself in the explanation. “Like the first day I met you,” he said. “I noticed what flowers you stopped at first. And which ones you avoided.”
You frowned slightly. “That’s… a lot of attention for a first meeting.”
He gave a small, unapologetic nod. “I was curious.”
“And when you came back again, I asked you questions. About what colors you like. What scents you don’t. Whether you prefer simple or full arrangements.”
Your expression softened slightly despite yourself. “You were… taking notes on me?” you asked.
“I wasn’t writing them down,” he said quickly. Then, after a beat, corrected himself. “Okay, mentally. But yes.”
You looked down at your half-finished bouquet again, then back at him. “For what?”
Seokmin glanced briefly toward the worktable behind you, where your earlier flowers still sat half-arranged.
“For this,” he said simply. “For days like today.” A quiet pause. Then, a little more casually, like he didn’t want it to sound too serious— “I just wanted to make sure when we did stuff like this, it actually felt like you.” That landed differently. “Some parts were just me being interested in flowers.” A pause, but quieter. “But the other parts were just me being interested in you.”
The air between you changed after that, quieter in a different way—less like silence and more like something being carefully held. You swallowed slightly, fingers still loosely curled around the stems you’d been trying to arrange, though you’d stopped pretending to fix them.
“I’ve felt… different since the park,” you admitted finally. Seokmin’s gaze sharpened just a little, like he was listening closer now. You hesitated, then continued anyway. “Like I started noticing things I didn’t before. The way you smile. The way you look at people when you’re actually paying attention. How you just… show up when things are bad without making it a big deal.” A small breath left you. “I didn’t know what that feeling was,” you said more quietly. “I still don’t fully.”
Seokmin didn’t interrupt. He just watched you like every word that came out of your mouth mattered, because it did. It did to him. Then, after a pause that felt like he was choosing honesty over ease, he said, “I’ve felt it since you walked into the shop the first time.”
That made you look up quickly. “…What?”
He gave a small, almost self-aware exhale. “Not in the dramatic way. Just… I noticed you. And then I kept noticing you. And at some point it stopped being about flowers.”
Your grip on the stems loosened again. You swallowed. “So what does that mean for us?” That question seemed to land heavier than the rest.
Seokmin stepped closer. Not sudden. Not closing the space all at once—but enough that your focus narrowed, your breath catching slightly at the shift.
“I don’t know,” he admitted quietly.
You blinked. “You don’t know?”
His eyes stayed on yours. “Not in the way you’re asking.”
Your chest felt a little tight at how close he was now, the warmth of the room suddenly more noticeable, his presence harder to ignore. You tried to hold his gaze, but your attention flickered—briefly, instinctively—to his lips. It was barely a second. But he noticed. He paused. The smallest change in him, like the world had slowed. Then, carefully, he set the bouquet down on the table beside you. The sound was soft, controlled, like he was giving the moment room to exist without interruption.
His voice came out lower now. “Can I kiss you?”
You didn’t answer immediately. But you didn’t move away either.
“Do you want to?” You ask, now closer than ever, your back slightly hitting the table behind you.
“I have wanted to for a very long time.” He replies with a soft smile.
That did it.
Something in your expression softened, and whatever hesitation had been holding the air together finally let go. “Okay,” you said, barely more than a breath.
He didn’t rush. Seokmin stepped in slowly, like he was still giving you space to change your mind even as you didn’t. His hand lifted carefully, pausing just for a second near your face before he leaned in.
The kiss was cautious at first—gentle, almost like he was testing the moment, making sure it was real. Like if he moved too fast, it might disappear. But you didn’t move away. And that was all it took for something in him to soften completely. The tension melted into something quieter, warmer, like the hesitation had just been the door you both needed to step through. He kissed you like he had been thinking about it longer than he ever admitted—patient, careful, but no longer unsure.
It felt… easy. Like it was supposed to be this way all along. When he finally pulled back, it wasn’t far. Just enough to look at you. He smiled—big this time, unguarded, bright in a way you hadn’t really seen before.
“I liked that,” he said simply.
You let out a small breath, still close enough to feel the warmth of him. “Yeah,” you admitted. “Me too.”
That seemed to be all the confirmation he needed. Before you could even fully process it, his hand slid gently to your waist, pulling you back in like there was no reason to pretend to wait anymore. And when he kissed you again, it wasn’t cautious at all.
A few days had passed since that night in the flower shop. Not everything had changed—but enough had. You and Seokmin had agreed on it without really needing a long conversation. Slow. No rushing. Just… letting things exist as they were and seeing where they naturally went. And somehow, that turned into a rhythm that felt easy in a way you hadn’t expected.
Casual dates that weren’t really planned but always happened anyway. Food runs where he insisted on picking out “your type of snacks” like it was a studied science. Grocery trips where you’d end up debating whether you actually needed anything or just wanted an excuse to stay in the same aisle longer. Days when he’d stop by your work with lunch, like it was the most normal thing in the world.
And on his shifts, you’d show up at the flower shop sometimes just to sit and exist near him while he worked. It was quiet. Simple. Warm. That’s what it felt like. That evening, you got home later than usual. Your shoulders ached in that dull way that came from a long day of standing, talking, existing for too many hours at once. You kicked off your shoes at the door, exhaling as you stepped inside.
Seungkwan was immediately in view on the couch. And something about him was… off. He looked up at you too quickly, too bright, too suspicious.
“Oh, you’re home,” he said, far too casually.
You narrowed your eyes. “Why do you sound like that?”
“Like what?”
“Like you know something.”
He scoffed, but it was unconvincing. “I don’t know anything.”
You stared at him. He stared back. “…Okay,” you said slowly, not trusting that at all, and walked further in.
Seungkwan watched you the entire time. Which made it worse.
You showered, changed into comfortable clothes, and tried to ignore the feeling that your roommate was actively holding back information like it was a sport. When you walked back into the main area, Seungkwan was still on the couch. Still smiling. Still suspiciously pleased with himself.
“You’re acting weird,” you told him.
“I’m not acting weird,” he said immediately.
You opened your mouth to argue—
Knock. At the door. You froze slightly. Seungkwan, behind you, made a sound that was very clearly a failed attempt at hiding excitement.
You turned your head slowly. “Stop dude, why are you smiling like that?”
“I’m not smiling like anything,” he said.
Knock again. You hesitated, then walked toward the door. Seungkwan leaned back into the couch, way too relaxed for someone who was absolutely not involved in whatever was happening.
“You should open it,” he said casually.
You narrowed your eyes at him one last time. Then opened the door.
Seokmin stood there. And in his hands—flowers. Not just any flowers. Blue and purple ones, carefully arranged, soft and full and familiar in a way that made your breath catch slightly before your brain fully caught up.
Your eyes widened. “What—”
“Hi,” he said, like this was completely normal.
Then, like it was the most natural thing in the world, he leaned in and pressed a small kiss to your cheek. You blinked. “…Hi,” you managed.
He smiled slightly. “Can I come in?” You stepped aside automatically.
Seungkwan, from the couch, made a very quiet, very satisfied sound like he was watching the final scene of something he’d already predicted. Seokmin walked inside, still holding the bouquet.
“I was going to wait,” he said, glancing around your apartment briefly, then back to you. “But I didn’t want to.”
You frowned a little. “Wait for what?”
He held the flowers out properly now.
“For this,” he said.
You took them slowly. The colors hit you all at once, blue and purple, the ones you picked. The ones he remembered. Seokmin watched your reaction carefully, then exhaled softly like he’d made a decision.
“I like you, clearly” he said simply.
You looked up at him. He didn’t look away.
“I mean… not clearly… properly!” he added, a small, almost nervous laugh escaping him for the first time that night. “Not just in the ‘I like spending time with you’ way. I like you. A lot.” Seokmin stepped a little closer, not rushing, just honest. “So,” he said gently, “can I please, please, please be your boyfriend y/n?”
For a second, you just stared at him. Then your expression softened.
“…You brought a whole bouquet to ask me that?” you said quietly.
He shrugged slightly. “It felt right.”
“Yeah, I guess you can!” You say full of enthusiasm.
And then he smiled—wider this time, like he couldn’t help it—and leaned in to kiss you again, slower, warmer, like he was finally allowed to stay.
Behind you, Seungkwan let out a dramatic sigh.
“Finally,” he muttered.
And Seokmin, still close to you, paused just long enough to glance past you.
“Hi,” he said politely.
Seungkwan waved. “I knew this was happening.”
You laughed under your breath, still holding the bouquet. And Seokmin, turning back to you, looked entirely too pleased with himself as he said, softer this time—
“I’m going to bring you flowers every day now.”
“Don’t get carried away,” you murmured.
“But you deserve it.” He replies with a bright smile, pulling you into a light kiss.
Everything has settled into place, and suddenly flowers meant a lot more to you than they ever did before.
what happens when you go on a date, get the guy's number, decide to call him thanking him for the night and it ends up being the wrong number? at least the voice on the other end of the phone was apologetic and seemed nice about it. the cherry on the top was that this new mystery man you met over the phone asked to get you coffee since he felt bad that you were given the wrong number on a supposedly “great” date. he calls it a not-a-date, but what if it turns out being something completely different.
Pairing: Lee Chan x f!Reader
Genre: chan is whipped from the start, wrong number trope, friends to lovers, slow burn, idiots in love, mutual pining
Word Count:13.4k
Warnings/Things to make note of!: heavy making out at the end, a little explicit but No Smut!!!!!! Just the kissing that's about it!
A/N: funny enough, this fic started being centered around a completely different seventeen member but as I kept writing I realized it NEEDED to be Chan! I hope you guys love it and once again thank you sm for all the love on my other stories! I'm so glad you all like my work :)
The date went better than you could have ever expected it to. The conversation was light, friendly, and full of laughter. Every awkward pause you’d braced yourself for just… never came. Instead, everything flowed so easily it almost caught you off guard.
And somewhere between the second round of laughs and the way he remembered little details you mentioned in passing, you realized you were genuinely, completely into him.
Walking away from the night, you couldn’t stop replaying it all in your head—the jokes, the glances, him giving you his phone number and the feeling that something had just clicked. You felt it deep down: the date hadn’t just gone well… it had gone really well.
You plop down on your couch the minute you get home, your roommate Jun baking something very sweet smelling in the kitchen.
“He finally gave you his number!” You hear him cheer from your shared kitchen.
“No more Instagram DM for me!” You yell back, cheerfully.
You pull your phone out of your bag, still smiling to yourself as you unlock it. His number sits there at the top of your recent contacts, and for a second you just stare at it. Then, before you can overthink it, you hit call.
It rings once. Twice. Three times.
“Hello?” a voice answers.
You blink.
“Hey! It’s me,” you say, your voice warm, a little excited. “I just wanted to say thank you again for tonight—I had a really great time.”
There’s a pause on the other end.
“…I’m sorry,” the voice slowly, confusion thick in his voice. “I think you might have the wrong number.”
Your smile falters, but you shake your head instinctively, even though he can’t see you. “No, I don’t think so. This is the number you gave me—at dinner? Earlier tonight?”
Another pause. Longer this time.
“Yeah, I’m really sorry,” he says, sounding almost apologetic now. “I definitely didn’t go on a date tonight.” He lets out a small, awkward laugh. “Honestly, I haven’t been on a date in a while, so I think I’d remember.”
Your stomach drops.
“Oh.”
“Yeah… I think you’ve got the wrong number,” he adds gently.
The warmth from earlier drains out of you all at once, replaced by a sinking, hollow feeling. “I—um… I’m so sorry,” you mumble quickly. “That’s my mistake.”
“No worries,” he says kindly. “I’m sorry someone gave you the wrong number after a date.”
“Yeah… me too.” Your voice is small now. “Sorry again.”
You hang up before he can say anything else.
For a moment, you just sit there, phone still in your hand, staring at the screen like it might somehow fix itself if you wait long enough. The laughter, the easy conversation, the way it all felt so real—it crashes into the reality settling in your chest.
Jun peeks out from the kitchen, wiping his hands on a towel. “So?” he asks, grinning. “How’d the call go?”
You swallow hard, your throat suddenly tight.
“…He gave me the wrong number.”
The words feel heavy as they leave your mouth, and just like that, the perfect night doesn’t feel so perfect anymore.
Jun’s grin drops almost instantly. “Wait—what?” He steps fully into the living room now, brows knitting together. “Why would he do that? That’s… that’s such a weird move.”
You shrug, but it’s tight, defensive, like you’re trying to hold something in. “I don’t know.”
“No, seriously,” Jun presses, clearly baffled. “Everything you told me sounded great. Who has a good date and then gives a fake number? That’s just—” he shakes his head, frustrated on your behalf “—that’s an asshole move.”
You let out a small, humorless laugh. “Yeah. It is, isn't it?”
The sweetness in the air from whatever he’s baking suddenly feels overwhelming. “I’m just gonna… go get ready for bed,” you mumble, already standing.
Jun’s expression softens. “Hey… I’m sorry. That sucks.”
“Yeah,” you say quietly, before slipping down the hall into your room.
The routine feels automatic. Wash your face. Change into something comfortable. Brush your teeth. All the little steps you usually do without thinking now feel strangely heavy, like each one is giving your brain more time to replay the night.
The laughter. The eye contact. The way it all felt so easy to you.
By the time you crawl into bed and turn off the light, your chest still feels tight. You stare up at the ceiling, phone resting beside you, the glow of it faint in the dark.
It doesn’t make sense.
That’s the part that keeps poking at you. It didn’t feel fake. He didn’t seem disinterested. If anything, he seemed just as into it as you were.
So why?
You roll onto your side, grabbing your phone again before you can talk yourself out of it.
The number is still there.
Your thumb hovers for a second… then you open a new message.
You: Hey… this is the girl who called a few hours ago.
You pause, chewing on your lip, then keep typing.
You: Can I ask—what’s your name?
You stare at the message for a long second, your heart doing that annoying, hopeful little flutter despite everything.
Then you hit send.
And just like that, you’re left lying in the quiet, staring at your screen, waiting.
#: Hey… it’s Chan
You blink at your screen, surprised at how quickly he replied.
You: Hey, Chan… I’m really sorry again about earlier. I didn’t mean to call you out of nowhere like that.
There’s a short pause before the typing bubble pops up again.
Chan: It’s okay, really. It was a little confusing, but not in a bad way lol
You let out a small breath, tension easing just a bit.
You: Still… I feel bad. That must’ve been weird.
Chan: I mean, I was definitely wondering when I apparently went out on a great date tonight
He giggles slightly over the phone, it was cute.
You huff out a quiet laugh, shaking your head into your pillow.
You: Yeah… lucky you, apparently you’re very charming
Chan: Hey thanks! I’ll take your word for it :D
There’s a lightness to it now, the awkwardness fading into something almost… easy.
Chan: But seriously, I’m sorry that happened to you. Getting the wrong number like that kinda sucks
You hesitate, then type anyway.
You: Yeah… it does
A few seconds pass.
Chan: Like I said, I haven’t really been on a date in a while, so I don’t totally know what being stood up or anything like that feels like
You stare at that for a second, then respond.
You: It’s not a great feeling, I’ll say that
There’s a pause after that—long enough that you wonder if the conversation is about to fizzle out.
Then your phone suddenly starts ringing.
Chan.
Your heart jumps a little as you sit up and answer.
“Hello?”
“Hey,” his voice comes through, clearer now, a little warmer than before. “I figured texting might be a bit… impersonal, given the circumstances.”
You smile faintly, pulling your blanket around you. “Yeah, that’s fair.”
There’s a small beat, then he continues, a hint of amusement in his tone. “So… I was thinking. I kinda feel bad that your night ended like that.”
“You don’t have to—” you start, but he cuts in gently.
“No, I know, I know. I don’t have to,” he says. “But—okay, hear me out—based on the area code in your number, I’m guessing we’re probably not that far from each other.”
You pause. “…Yeah, I think so.”
“So,” he goes on, a little more casually now, “maybe we could hang out sometime? You know… so you can at least get a proper ‘date’ experience.”
You raise an eyebrow, even though he can’t see it. “A proper date?”
“Well—not a date,” he quickly corrects, a laugh slipping into his voice. “I mean—like, not officially. Just… hanging out. Totally normal. Very casual. Not a date at all.”
You can’t help it—you laugh, the sound breaking through the heaviness that had been sitting in your chest all night.
“Right,” you say, playing along. “Definitely not a date.”
“Exactly,” he says, mock-serious. “Glad we’re on the same page.”
There’s a small, comfortable pause after that, the kind that feels easy instead of awkward.
“Okay,” you say finally, a smile tugging at your lips. “Yeah… I’d like that.”
“Cool,” Chan replies, and you can hear the smile in his voice. “Then it’s settled. Not-a-date it is.”
“That’s a bold ask of you Chan, whom I accidentally just met, over the phone, a few hours ago!” A slight laugh escapes your mouth.
“Well you don’t know me yet, do you?”
You tilt your head against your pillow, smiling despite yourself. “That’s kind of my point.”
“Exactly,” Chan says, like he’s just proven something. “So this is a great opportunity for you to find out.”
“Oh, is it?” you tease. “And what if I decide you’re weird?”
There’s a beat. “Then I’ll be very offended,” he says, completely straight-faced. “But I’ll respect your decision.”
You laugh softly, the sound quieter now, more relaxed. “Good to know.”
“And what if I decide you’re weird?” he adds.
“Too late,” you shoot back. “You already offered to hang out with me. That says more about you than it does about me.”
“So,” he continues, “just to clarify… on this completely-not-a-date, what do you usually like to do?”
You think for a second, tracing invisible patterns on your blanket. “Hmm. I don’t know… coffee’s always safe. Or walking around somewhere. I like low-pressure things.”
“Okay,” he says after a moment. “What if we do both, coffee then a walk? Very casual. Very not a date.”
“Obviously.”
“Obviously,” he echoes.
You pause for a moment.
“I’d like that. What about tomorrow? 3pm?”
You hear a slight little “Mhm” over the phone.
You shift slightly under your covers, realizing the tight, disappointed feeling from earlier has almost completely faded.
“Hey,” he adds, a little softer now, “for what it’s worth… I’m glad you texted.”
Your chest does that small, annoying flutter again.
By the time the clock creeps toward 1:30, you’ve already been up for hours—awake, pacing a little, checking your phone more than you want to admit. The plan is simple. Casual. Not a date.
The front door clicks open, and Jun walks in, dropping his bag by the door. “I’m home—” he starts, before spotting you hovering near the hallway mirror. He pauses. “…Oh, this is happening today.”
You turn, trying (and failing) to look nonchalant. “Yeah. 3pm.”
Jun just stares at you for a second. “I’m still trying to process how we got here,” he says slowly. “You went from getting a fake number to… making plans with a completely different guy in, what, a few hours?”
You wince a little, grabbing your hairbrush off the dresser. “Okay, when you say it like that, it sounds worse.”
“It is worse,” he says, walking further in. “Who is this guy again?”
“Chan,” you reply, like that explains anything.
Jun blinks. “Right. Chan. The accidental stranger.”
You let out a small laugh, shrugging as you run the brush through your hair. “I don’t know. I was sad, okay? And it just… happened. I figured I’d do something just… on a whim for once. No overthinking, no planning everything out.”
Jun leans against the wall, arms crossed, still clearly trying to make sense of it. “This is very unplanned for you.”
“I know,” you say, meeting his eyes in the mirror. “That’s kind of the point.”
He studies you for a moment longer, then sighs, shaking his head with a small smile. “Alright. Fair enough. But if he turns out to be weird, I reserve the right to say I told you so.”
“Deal,” you grin.
By 2:15, you’re getting ready.
Nothing over the top—just simple. You pull on a pair of jeans, a baby tee, and throw on a zip-up. Casual. Comfortable. You stare at yourself in the mirror for a second, adjusting the sleeves.
Not a date, you remind yourself, yet your stomach flutters anyway.
You grab your phone, keys, and do one last quick check—hair, outfit, everything—before heading out.
Jun peeks out from the living room as you pass. “Text me when you get there.”
“I will,” you promise, slipping your shoes on.
“And if he’s secretly a serial killer—”
“Jun.”
“I’m just saying—”
“I’m leaving,” you laugh, cutting him off as you open the door.
“Good luck!” he calls after you.
You step outside, the air fresh, your nerves buzzing just under the surface.
It’s strange. Less than 24 hours ago, you thought the night had ended in disappointment.
And now you’re on your way to meet someone new—someone unexpected.
Someone you don’t know at all.
You take a small breath, a smile slowly forming as you drive toward the coffee shop where Chan is waiting.
Your fingers tap lightly against the steering wheel as you pull into the coffee shop parking lot a few minutes early. The place looks relaxed—people sitting by the windows, the bike path just off to the side like he mentioned.
Your phone buzzes just as you turn off the engine.
Chan: Hey, I’m already inside. Grabbed a table so we can decide what to get before we head out to walk.
You exhale a small breath you didn’t realize you were holding.
You: Okay, perfect. I’m walking in now—jeans, white baby tee, gray zip-up
There’s no time to overthink it after that. You grab your bag, step out of the car, and head toward the entrance, the low hum of conversation growing louder as you push the door open.
You glance down at your phone as you step inside, thumbs hovering like you might send another message—I’m here—but before you can, something makes you look up.
Across the room, a guy is doing the exact same thing—phone in hand, just lifting his head.
Your eyes meet.
There’s a brief second where neither of you moves, like your brains are catching up at the same time.
Then he gives you a small, easy smile and a quick wave, like there you are.
And it clicks, that’s him.
You weren’t sure what you were expecting—but it definitely wasn’t… this.
He’s really beautiful. Effortlessly so. The kind that makes you pause for half a second longer than you mean to, your brain scrambling to recalibrate.
Hair long, to his shoulders with layers and perfectly blonde. Super kind features on his face with a few little tattoos on his arms and his hands.
Oh.
You feel it immediately—that tiny jolt of surprise, of sudden awareness—as you take a few steps toward him, hoping it doesn’t show too obviously on your face.
As you get closer, he’s already standing, slipping his phone into his pocket like he’s been waiting for that exact moment.
“Hey,” he says, his voice warm—familiar now, but different in person. More real. “Hi.”
“Hi,” you echo, a small smile tugging at your lips as you stop in front of him.
He glances at you for a second, like he’s taking you in the same way you just did, then lets out a soft, amused breath. “I have to say… I’m kind of excited for this not-a-date.”
You huff out a quiet laugh. “That’s good, because it would be awkward if you weren’t.”
“Yeah, I’d be off to a terrible start,” he agrees easily. Then he gestures lightly toward the counter. “But before we get too far into anything—I’m buying your coffee. So you should tell me what you want.”
You blink. “You don’t have to do that.”
“I know,” he says immediately. “I want to.”
You shake your head, already reaching for your wallet. “No, seriously, I can just—”
“Nope,” he cuts in, already half-turning toward the register. “Not happening.”
There’s a pause.
You sigh, but there’s a smile behind it. “You’re stubborn.”
“I’ve been told.”
You give in with a small shake of your head. “Fine. I’ll take… an iced latte.”
“Solid choice,” he nods, like he approves, before heading off to the register.
You watch him for a second—how easily he moves, how natural he seems—before catching yourself and looking away, tucking your hands into your sleeves.
A few minutes later, he’s back, holding out a cold cup toward you.
“Here,” he says.
You take it, fingers brushing his briefly. “Thank you.”
“Of course.”
There’s a small beat, then you glance toward the door, lifting the cup slightly. “Want to get walking?”
“Yeah,” he says, already turning with you. “Let’s do it.”
The walk starts easily, the kind of conversation that doesn’t need forcing.
“So,” he says after a few steps, glancing over at you, “are you from around here?”
“Kind of,” you reply, adjusting your grip on your iced latte. “I grew up about an hour away—still in the state. Close enough that everything feels familiar, but not too close.”
He nods, listening.
“After college, I just… didn’t want to move back home,” you continue. “But I also wasn’t ready to go super far. So this felt like a good middle ground—close to the city, but still my own space.”
“Yeah,” he says, a small smile forming. “That makes sense. It’s a good balance.”
“What about you?” you ask. “Are you from here?”
“Not originally,” he says. “But I ended up staying in this area for pretty much the same reason. It’s close enough to everything I need.”
You glance at him. “For work?”
“Yeah,” he nods. “I work in the city. I’m a dance instructor—and I actually help run my friend's business.”
You turn your head a little more fully now, interest immediately piqued. “Wait, really?”
“Yeah,” he says, a little more casually than you expect. “I teach classes, choreograph, manage a few teams… that kind of thing.”
“That’s actually really cool,” you say, genuinely. “What kind of dance?”
“A mix,” he replies. “Mostly hip-hop, but I branch out depending on what I’m working on.”
You take another sip of your drink, glancing ahead for a second before looking back at him. “Okay, that’s definitely more interesting than anything I do.”
He huffs out a quiet laugh. “I doubt that.”
“No, I’m serious,” you insist lightly. “You help run a whole business. That’s impressive.”
He shrugs, but there’s a hint of appreciation in his expression. “It keeps me busy. The commute’s not bad either, which is why I stay out here.”
You nod, the conversation settling into that same easy rhythm again as the two of you continue down the path, steps naturally falling in sync.
He glances over at you after a moment, a small, curious smile on his face. “So what about you? What do you do?”
You shift your cup between your hands. “I help do PR type stuff for a local company.”
“Oh?” he says, interest there. “What kind of company?”
“Small operations-based business,” you explain. “I do a mix of things—scheduling, coordinating, making sure everything runs smoothly day-to-day. It’s not super glamorous, but…” you shrug a little, smiling, “I like it. It keeps me busy.”
“That sounds important, though,” he says. “You’re basically the reason things don’t fall apart.”
You laugh. “I mean… I like to think so.”
“No, seriously,” he adds. “People underestimate how hard that kind of work is. Keeping everything organized, dealing with people, making sure nothing slips through the cracks—that’s a lot.”
You glance at him, a little surprised by how genuine he sounds. “Okay, wow. You’re giving me more credit than anyone has given me since I started a year ago. I basically got this job right out of college.”
“Hey! Someone has to,” he says simply.
You smile into your drink, taking a small sip. “Fair enough.”
The conversation keeps flowing after that, light and unforced. You drift into talking about random things—favorite coffee orders, how busy workweeks get, the best and worst parts of your jobs, and how neither of you expected to be doing what you’re doing right now. Somehow, everything circles back to laughter more often than not, and the walk doesn’t feel like a walk so much as just… talking while moving forward.
By the time the path curves slightly, the noise of the road fades and a small pond comes into view just off to the side, tucked behind a patch of trees and a worn wooden bench.
Chan slows. “We can sit for a minute if you want.”
“Yeah,” you say, realizing your legs are actually more tired than you expected. “That sounds good.”
You settle onto the bench, angled slightly toward the water. The surface ripples gently, catching bits of sunlight. For a moment, neither of you speaks—just a comfortable quiet, the kind that doesn’t feel awkward.
Then you turn toward him again, curiosity returning. “So—”
He immediately lets out a soft breath, almost like he knows a question is coming. “Okay, I feel like that’s going to be something serious.”
You laugh. “It’s not serious.”
“Mm-hmm.”
You smile, leaning back slightly. “What’s your favorite thing to choreograph?”
He blinks, clearly not expecting that. “Oh—uh.” He shifts a little, caught off guard in a way that makes you smile more. “I don’t know why that made me nervous.”
“That made you nervous?” you tease lightly.
“I think you might just make me nervous.” He laughs quietly to himself while looking down at his hands that were playing with his rings.
You feel a blush creep up on your face as well, but decide not to think anything of it.
Not. A Date.
He exhales, then looks out toward the pond for a moment like he’s gathering his thoughts. When he speaks again, his voice is a little softer, deciding to not even answer the question you asked.
“I actually really like spending time with you.”
You pause slightly, the shift in tone catching you off guard.
“It’s been a while since I’ve just… hung out with someone like this,” he continues, rubbing the back of his neck like he’s suddenly aware of himself. “And I know it’s not a date—” he adds quickly, almost reflexively, then huffs a small laugh at himself “—but I think I’ve just been kind of stuck in my routine lately.”
You listen quietly, letting him continue.
“So yeah,” he says, a little more steady now. “I guess I just wanted to say that. I hope we can keep being friends after this.”
The word friends settles between you both, simple and unassuming.
Not. A. Date.
You both sit there for a second, looking out at the pond like it suddenly became very interesting. A duck drifts across the water. Somewhere behind you, someone laughs on the bike path.
And yet neither of you speaks.
Chan clears his throat lightly, like he’s trying to reset the moment. “You know?”
“Yes! Yeah.. Friends,” you repeat, a little too quickly.
You take a sip of your iced latte just to give your hands something to do. It suddenly feels like you’re hyper-aware of everything—how close he’s sitting, how the sun hits his profile, how relaxed he looks now that he’s not talking.
It’s strange.
Because nothing changed.
And somehow everything feels like it did.
“You’re… really easy to talk to,” he says after a moment, still looking ahead.
You blink at that. “Oh. You too.”
A pause.
Another one that stretches just a second too long.
He nods slowly, like he’s processing his own words now. “Yeah.”
You glance at him again, and he happens to glance at you at the same time.
There’s a beat where neither of you looks away immediately.
“Oh,” you say softly, like you’re breaking your own thought.
“Yeah,” he replies, a little quieter.
And suddenly the air between you feels… different again.
Not uncomfortable. Not bad.
Just aware.
You adjust your zip-up sleeves, looking back out at the water. “We should probably get going soon if we’re still walking.”
“Yeah,” he agrees quickly. Maybe too quickly. He stands first, like that solves something. “We should.”
You follow him up from the bench, smoothing your jeans, grabbing your cup.
For a moment, neither of you moves forward right away.
Then he steps back onto the path, and you fall into place beside him again.
But this time, the space between you feels a little more intentional.
Like both of you are quietly pretending you don’t notice it.
Maybe because the conversation shifts again—back to lighter things, safer things. Ridiculous childhood stories, him teasing you about how seriously you take iced lattes, you firing back that his “not-a-date” terminology is legally suspicious at this point.
By the time the coffee shop comes back into view, the earlier tension has softened into something more manageable. Familiar again. Almost normal.
Almost.
He slows when you reach the parking lot. “This is you?”
You nod, pointing toward your car. “Yeah, right over there.”
“Cool,” he says, falling into step beside you without hesitation.
It feels strangely natural now—him walking you all the way over, like it’s something he’s done before. Like it’s something he’d do again.
You stop beside your car and turn toward him.
“Thanks,” you say simply, then let out a small breath, a little more honest than you planned. “I actually… really needed today.”
His expression softens immediately. “Yeah?”
You nod. “Yeah.”
There’s a short pause, then you step forward and wrap your arms around him in a light hug.
It’s quick, easy—no overthinking. Just warmth and gratitude and something that feels oddly grounding.
“Thank you,” you say again, a little quieter this time.
When you pull back, he looks at you for a second like he wasn’t entirely prepared for that, then lets out a small laugh.
“I was going to say,” he starts, shoving his hands into his pockets, “I would give you my number if you didn’t already have it.”
You blink, then laugh.
“But since you do already have it,” he continues, a bit more playful now, “I guess I’ll have to come up with something else impressive.”
Your laugh turns a little more flustered at that. “That’s—” you shake your head, smiling despite yourself, “that’s a dangerous thing to say.”
He shrugs, completely unfazed. “What? It’s true. If this was an actual date, I would’ve definitely given it to you by now.”
Your brain feels as if it is breaking down at that comment.
If this was a real date?
“Oh my—” you let out a small, embarrassed laugh, covering your face for half a second. “Okay, stop. That’s not fair.”
He’s smiling now too, clearly amused by your reaction. “What? I’m just being honest.”
“Yeah, well,” you mumble, still smiling as you look away for a second, “you’re doing too good a job at it.”
There’s a beat where neither of you moves.
Then, before you can think too much about anything, you step forward again and hug him one more time—quick, slightly tighter this time.
“Bye, Chan,” you say softly.
“Bye, y/n” he replies, voice just a little warmer.
You pull away, finally getting into your car before your brain can fully catch up with everything that just happened.
He steps back as you open the door, giving you a small wave.
And as you drive off, you can still feel the smile you can’t quite get rid of.
By the time you get to your apartment door, your phone is already buzzing.
Before you even get the chance to reach for it, the front door swings open.
Jun is standing there.
Arms crossed. Barefoot. Staring at you like he’s been personally holding onto a storyline all afternoon.
“You’re alive,” he says flatly.
You blink. “Hi to you too?”
He steps outside, leaning against the doorframe. “You didn’t text me. At all. I thought you got kidnapped. Or murdered. Or kidnapped then murdered.”
You laugh, grabbing your bag. “I literally went on a walk.”
“People get murdered on walks,” he says, completely serious. Then he squints at you. “So. How was it?”
You pause halfway through the kitchen, and that question is all it takes.
“Oh my god,” you say suddenly, words spilling out before you can stop them. “It was actually really good. Like, really good. We talked the whole time, like there wasn’t any awkward silence at all, and he just—he listens, like actually listens, and he looks at you when you talk like he’s interested and not just waiting for his turn to speak—”
Jun slowly straightens up.
You keep going, barely noticing. “And we walked by this pond and just sat there for a while and it was so easy? Like I didn’t feel like I had to think about what I was saying and it just—”
Jun tilts his head. “Was he cute?”
“Oh—” you say too quickly, then immediately try to recover. “I mean—he’s… nice-looking, I guess.”
Jun narrows his eyes. “That is not an answer.”
“It is an answer!”
He quirks up his eyebrows in an expression that you know means he doesn’t believe you whatsoever.
You groan, dragging a hand down your face. “Okay, fine.”
Jun raises his eyebrows expectantly.
You hesitate just a second too long.
“…Yes,” you admit finally, quieter now.
Jun nods slowly like he’s just confirmed a scientific hypothesis. “Mm.”
You glare at him. “Don’t ‘mm’ me.”
He shrugs, completely unbothered. “I’m just saying. That explains a lot.”
You push past him into the living room, still trying to pretend you’re normal about this, but Jun is already following behind you like a shadow with opinions.
“So,” he calls after you, “when are you seeing Cute Mystery Man again?”
You spend the rest of the night on the living room couch with Jun, half-watching a movie you’re not really paying attention to, the other half of your brain replaying the day and wondering—more than once—if you should text Chan first. By the time Jun finally goes to bed, you’re still staring at your phone, this time in your own bed, thumb hovering over his chat. Eventually, you give up, shut the lights off, and decide to sleep it off instead.
Except your screen lights up again.
FaceTime: Chan
You freeze for half a second, checking your hair, before answering. “Uh—hello?”
His face appears on screen, slightly softer lighting, like he’s already in bed or just settled somewhere. “Hey.”
You sit up a little. “Why are you calling me this late?”
He blinks like the question is obvious. “I missed talking to you.”
That alone makes you pause.
Then he continues, casual but direct. “I couldn’t stop thinking about today. I had a really good time.”
You feel your face warm a little. “Yeah… me too.”
There’s a small smile that shows up on his end. “Good. I was hoping I wasn’t just imagining that.”
“No, it was real,” you say, settling back against your pillow. “Definitely real.”
“Okay,” he says simply, like that settles something. “Good.”
A comfortable pause follows, and then the conversation slips right back into place like it never stopped. He asks what you’re doing, you tell him you were literally about to sleep, he laughs and says that’s “a very responsible post-not-a-date schedule,” and you joke telling him he’s the one calling you at midnight.
He starts talking about random things again—music he’s been working with, a class he taught earlier, a funny moment with one of his students. Every so often, his tone shifts just slightly—softer, a little more personal.
“You’re easy to talk to,” he says at one point.
You smile into your pillow. “You said that already.”
“I know,” he replies, then adds quickly, “as a friend.”
You snort. “Right.”
Later, when you mention something funny Jun said earlier, he laughs and goes, “Your roommate sounds kind of intense. In a good way.” Then immediately, like he catches himself, he adds, “Not that I’m jealous. Just observational.”
You raise an eyebrow. “Uh-huh.”
“I’m serious,” he insists lightly. “We’re just friends. I’m not competing with your roommate.”
“Competing?” you repeat, amused. “I promise, you are not competing with my sweet sweet best friend, Junhui.”
“You’re the one making it weird.” he says, shrugging a little while laughing.
“I’m not making it weird,” you say, smiling now.
He pauses, then rolls his eyes jokingly. “Whatever.”
Then, after a beat, softer again: “But I’m glad we’re talking.”
“Me too,” you admit.
And even though he keeps slipping in little reminders—just friends, not a date, nothing serious—the way he keeps calling anyway makes it feel like he doesn’t actually want the conversation to end at all.
Eventually his voice softens, like the night is catching up to him too.
“Hey,” Chan says, a little quieter now, “you should probably sleep.”
You glance at the time and realize he’s right. “Yeah… I should.”
He nods slightly on the screen. “I’ll let you go then.”
There’s a small pause, like neither of you fully commits to hanging up immediately.
He gives a small smile. “Goodnight.”
“Goodnight, Chan.”
“And hey,” he adds quickly, like it’s almost an afterthought but not really, “text me tomorrow when you wake up so I know you didn’t fall asleep mid-conversation and disappear.”
You laugh softly. “I can manage that.”
“Okay,” he says, satisfied. “Talk to you tomorrow.”
“Yeah. Talk to you tomorrow.”
The call ends.
For a second, your screen just reflects your own face in the dark.
Then you drop your phone onto the bed and immediately roll over with a quiet, giddy laugh that you try—and fail—to contain. You bury your face in your pillow, kicking your feet slightly like that somehow helps regulate whatever is happening in your chest.
Because there is absolutely no denying it.
You are into him.
Like, actually into him.
Which would be fine—normal, even—except for one small, inconvenient detail:
Just friends.
That’s what he said. That’s what you mentally agreed to. That’s what you’re supposed to keep in mind. You stare up at the ceiling, still smiling too much for someone who is supposedly going to sleep.
“Just friends,” you whisper to yourself, like saying it quietly enough will make it easier to believe.
But your phone lights up again on the bed beside you—just a notification this time—and even that makes your heart jump a little too fast.
You don’t open it. You don’t need to. You already know you’re in trouble.
You wake up the next morning still half-wrapped in sleep and the memory of the night before sitting very clearly in your mind. For a second you just lie there, staring at the ceiling, until it clicks—text me when you wake up so I know you didn’t disappear.
You sit up immediately and grab your phone.
You: good morning
The second you hit send, your screen lights up.
Chan: good morning
You freeze for a second, then laugh quietly to yourself.
You: did we just wake up at the same time??
Chan: I think so lol
Chan: that’s a little suspicious
You smile, rubbing your eyes.
You: or just unfortunate timing
Chan: or fate
Chan: but I’ll go with timing so you don’t get scared
You snort softly at that, still sitting up in bed.
Chan: I’ve got to head out soon, but have a good day today
Chan: and I want to hear about it later
You pause for a second, the wording making your heart do a small, familiar jump, before he quickly adds—
Chan: as a friend
You laugh out loud now.
You: of course
You: I’ll report back with my extremely exciting daily activities!
Chan: perfect
Chan: I’ll be waiting for the thrilling update :P
You can practically hear the smile in it.
And even though the just friends reminder is still there, the way he keeps showing up in your phone already makes it feel a lot less simple than that.
Your day turns out to be exactly what you told him it would be—work, a quick iced latte on your lunch break, more work, then coming home to an exhausted Jun who looks like he’s been personally betrayed by capitalism. You help him make something easy to eat, listen to him complain for a bit, and eventually retreat to your room while he dramatically declares he is “never working again” for the third time this week.
You decide to call Chan first this time.
It rings once… twice… then stops.
A text pops up almost immediately.
Chan: teaching rn, can’t pick up. I’ll call you when class is over :)
You stare at it for a second, then smile to yourself and set your phone down.
About an hour later, it lights up again.
FaceTime: Chan
You answer quickly. “Hey.”
“Hey,” he says, slightly out of breath like he just moved from one thing to another. “Sorry about that, class ran a little over.”
“That’s okay,” you say, shifting to get comfortable. “How was your day?”
Before he can answer, there’s a loud voice in the background.
“WHO ARE YOU TALKING TO?”
You blink.
Chan immediately turns his head. “No one.”
“NO ONE?” the voice repeats, closer now. “You don’t have no one. You have me.”
A second later, another guy leans into frame—smiling, clearly amused, way too comfortable on camera.
“Ohhh,” he says, pointing like he’s just solved something. “It’s a pretty girl, isn’t it?”
You let out a surprised laugh.
Chan groans. “Soonyoung—go away.”
“Pretty girl,” Soonyoung repeats, ignoring him completely. “Wow. I didn’t know you knew those.”
“Stop talking,” Chan says flatly.
Soonyoung leans closer to the camera. “Hi, pretty girl. I’m Soonyoung. I haven’t seen him talk to a pretty girl since early college, so this is historic.”
You’re laughing now, covering your mouth slightly. “Hi.”
Chan reaches over and gently pushes him out of frame. “Ignore him.”
Soonyoung’s voice still carries from off-screen. “Bye, pretty girl!”
The call finally settles again, and Chan reappears, slightly exasperated but clearly trying not to smile.
“Sorry,” he says. “That’s Soonyoung. He runs the dance business with me… and he’s also my roommate. And unfortunately my best friend.”
“I like him,” you say, still smiling.
“Of course you do,” Chan mutters, shaking his head. “Everyone does. That’s the problem.”
You’re still smiling when you settle back against your pillow. “So… how’s dance stuff going today?”
Chan shifts a little, like he’s walking somewhere between rooms. “Good. Busy, but good.” He glances off-screen briefly. “We finished a routine earlier that I think you’d actually like.”
“Oh yeah?” you ask.
“Yeah,” he says. “I’ll send you a video later.”
“You better,” you reply.
He hums in agreement, then adds, a little lighter, “You should come to a class sometime.”
You blink. “Absolutely not.”
He laughs immediately. “Why not?”
“I haven’t done dance since middle school,” you say honestly. “And even then it was… questionable at best. I would not survive your classes.”
“That’s not true,” he says, shaking his head. “They’re for all levels.”
“You say that now,” you counter. “But I feel like I’d show up and immediately become everyone’s cautionary tale.”
“That’s dramatic,” he says, amused.
“It’s realistic.”
He leans a little closer to the camera. “I can teach you sometime. Just… casually. No pressure.”
You pause at that.
“…Yeah?” you say, slower.
“Yeah,” he confirms simply, like it’s not a big deal at all.
You don’t immediately say no.
Instead, you just smile a little. “Okay. Maybe.”
“Maybe is fine,” he says, like he’s already won something.
Before either of you can continue, there’s movement off-screen again and another voice calls out.
“Chan! Next group is here!”
He turns his head. “Yeah, I’m coming!”
Then back to you, a little apologetic. “I have another class starting.”
“Oh—okay,” you say quickly. “Go, don’t worry.”
He nods. “I’ll talk to you later?”
“Yeah,” you reply, softer. “Later.”
There’s a small pause where neither of you hangs up right away.
Then he smiles. “Bye.”
“Bye.”
The call ends, and you’re left staring at your screen for a moment longer than necessary, still thinking about how casually he just offered to teach you—like it meant nothing at all. But then again, teaching people was just his job, and you guys were just friends.
Days pass like that—easy, consistent, almost automatic.
You text every morning and every night without thinking about it anymore. Some days it’s just short check-ins, other days it turns into long FaceTime calls where you’re both half-laughing at nothing and talking over each other like you’ve known each other for years. It doesn’t feel new anymore. It just feels… normal.
Chan sends you videos constantly. Clips of choreography he’s working on, snippets of him and Soonyoung messing around in the studio, and occasionally videos of their friend Minghao—who he always refers to as “our studio’s golden child”—dancing like he was somehow born already in rhythm. He tells you how Minghao basically walked into the studio one day after moving to the city, said he wanted to dance, and never really left, becoming an instructor and one of their closest friends in the process.
You start recognizing Chan’s world through your phone screen. The studio, the chaos, the jokes, the way he and his friends all seem to orbit around each other effortlessly. And somehow, you’re included in it now too—just from the outside looking in.
The strange part is that neither of you ever really brings up hanging out again in person.
Not because it feels wrong—just because it doesn’t feel urgent. Life is busy, routines settle in, and the calls fill in all the gaps anyway. It’s easy. Comfortable. Like you’re already part of each other’s daily rhythm without needing to physically be in the same space.
It almost feels like a relationship sometimes—the constant communication, the inside jokes, the way you both naturally reach for your phones when something happens during the day.
You’re at home, half-listening to Jun sing along to the songs he was playing while cleaning, while you were scrolling aimlessly on your phone, when it buzzes again—this time with Chan’s name lighting up the screen.
Chan: are you doing anything tonight?
You glance toward Jun, who is now dramatically flopped on the couch like he’s been personally defeated by the existence of cleaning.
You: depends
You: how illegal is what you’re about to ask me
A second passes.
Chan: wow
Chan: i just got out of a night class and i was wondering if you wanted to come over
You sit up slightly.
That’s… unexpected.
You blink at the message, then type slowly.
You: right now?
Chan: yeah
Chan: i just feel like hanging out
There’s something about how casual it is that makes it feel even more sudden. You haven’t seen him in person in over a week—just calls, texts, FaceTimes that somehow became part of your routine without either of you acknowledging it.
Jun watches you from the couch. “Why do you look like that?”
“Like what?”
“Like you’re about to do something questionable,” he says immediately.
You ignore him.
You: why randomly
Chan: no reason
Chan: just tired of talking to you through a screen
That makes you laugh out loud.
You: okay
Almost instantly—
Chan: wait actually??
You: yes chan
Chan: ok good
Chan: i’ll send you my address
Chan: text me when you get here so soonyoung doesn’t see you
You raise an eyebrow.
You: why do i feel like soonyoung is a hazard
Chan: because he is
Chan: if he sees you he will talk to you for an hour minimum
You laugh, shaking your head.
You: and that’s bad because…?
Chan: because then i will lose you for the rest of the night
You pause at that, then type with a grin.
You: possessive for a friend
There’s a beat before he responds.
Chan: i said nothing
Then another message comes through quickly, like he’s redirecting the entire conversation on purpose.
Chan: anyway
Chan: come over
You glance at Jun again, who is now sitting up slightly like he senses drama.
“What?” he asks suspiciously.
You stand up. “I’m going out.”
Jun narrows his eyes. “At night?”
“It’s fine,” you say, grabbing your jacket.
“Is it Chan?” he calls after you immediately.
You pause at the door.
“…Maybe.”
Jun leans back. “Be safe!”
You roll your eyes, but you’re smiling as you leave.
Shockingly, Chan’s place isn’t far.
You text him when you arrive like he asked.
You: here
A few seconds later:
Chan: don’t move i’m coming down
You’re still standing in the hallway, phone in hand, when the apartment door swings open before Chan even reaches it.
“OH—”
A man pops into view with way too much energy for this time of night, eyes lighting up the second he sees you.
“So this is you!” Soonyoung exclaims, like he’s been waiting his whole life for this moment. “The pretty girl from the phone!”
Behind him, you hear Chan’s voice immediately: “Soonyoung—”
But Soonyoung is already fully committed.
“Oh my god, you’re real,” he says, stepping closer like he’s inspecting a legend. “He was so annoying about you. Do you know how weird it is hearing someone who claims they have no friends suddenly talk about one person every single day like—”
“Stop talking,” Chan says flatly from somewhere behind him.
Soonyoung ignores him completely, turning back to you. “Anyway, I just need you to know, he is—like—chronically single. Not even in a sad way, just in a ‘I forget dating is a thing’ way. And I’m not saying you need to fix that or anything, but also—” he gestures vaguely at you, “you’re very pretty, so statistically this is a good development for him.”
“Okay,” Chan cuts in again, sharper now.
Soonyoung barrels on. “And he talks about you like you’re already part of the friend group, which is weird because he barely talks about anything, but suddenly it’s like ‘she said this’ and ‘she did that’ and I’m like, who is she and why is she more interesting than me—”
That’s when Chan steps in.
Literally.
He grabs your wrist—not rough, just decisive—and pulls you gently but firmly past Soonyoung’s ongoing monologue.
“Sorry,” Chan says under his breath as he guides you away, already half-laughing at the situation.
“Chan—” you hear behind you, still talking, “I like her! She seems nice! Don’t mess this up!”
Then the door shuts behind you.
Silence.
Chan’s room is immediately calmer. Familiar. This time you are seeing a lot more of it than what you have seen from through your phone screen. Clean, organized—white walls, soft lighting. A few framed photos on the wall: him with friends at the studio, candid shots mid-laugh, dance moments frozen in motion. His desk is neat but covered in choreography notes, diagrams, and formation sketches that look half artistic, half mathematical.
It feels very him.
He exhales like he’s been holding his breath since the hallway.
“Sorry about him,” he says immediately, rubbing the back of his neck. “He has no filter.”
You’re still smiling a little. “I noticed.”
He groans quietly. “He’s usually worse.”
You step further in and he immediately walks over to his bed, dropping down onto it like it’s his default position in life. Then he pats the space next to him.
“Sit,” he says.
You sit carefully on the edge first, then relax a little as he shifts to face you.
“I’m sorry,” he says again, more genuine now. “He gets… excited.”
“I gathered that,” you reply, amused.
“He likes teasing me,” Chan adds. “A lot.”
You glance toward the door. “He also thinks you’ve been emotionally unavailable your entire life.”
Chan makes a face. “That’s not—no. That’s not accurate.”
You laugh, and he does too, a little reluctantly.
Then he leans back on his hands, looking up at the ceiling for a second before glancing at you again.
You look back at him, curiosity slipping out before you can stop it.
“Have you… ever been in a relationship before?”
Chan blinks like he wasn’t expecting that question to land so gently in the middle of everything. He shifts a little, then exhales through his nose.
“Yeah,” he says. “Once in high school. It didn’t really last long. Like… barely counts.”
You nod slightly, listening.
“And then there was one in freshman year of college,” he continues. “That lasted into sophomore year.”
He pauses, gaze dropping for a second like he’s deciding how much to say.
“Then she cheated on me,” he adds, more matter-of-fact than emotional, but quieter now. “After that… I just kind of stopped trying.”
Your expression softens a little, but you don’t interrupt.
He leans back on his hands again. “And I got busy. Dance, work, the studio. It just… wasn’t something I went out of my way to look for after that.”
There’s a small pause before he lets out a short laugh.
“Soonyoung likes to say I ‘never get any play,’” he says, shaking his head. “Which is—”
He stops mid-sentence.
His eyes widen slightly like he’s just heard what he said from the outside.
“I mean— I don’t— I don’t want—” he starts quickly, sitting up a little. “Not that I don’t want— I just— that’s not—”
You burst out laughing immediately.
“Oh my god,” you say, leaning forward slightly. “You’re panicking.”
“I’m not panicking,” he says way too fast.
“You are absolutely panicking.”
“I’m just—clarifying,” he insists, rubbing the back of his neck. “Because that sounded like I—like I’m trying to—”
“Relax,” you laugh, shaking your head. “I know what you meant.”
He pauses, still slightly tense, then slowly looks at you.
“…Okay,” he says cautiously.
You’re still smiling at him. “That was very funny though.”
He lets out a quiet breath, clearly relieved, then drops back onto his bed again like he’s giving up on the situation entirely.
The tension melts out of the moment again, settling back into something easy.
But now there’s something different about the air between you—not heavier, not awkward.
A comfortable silence settles over the room after that, neither of you rushing to fill it.
You both end up absentmindedly fiddling with the edge of his comforter—him tugging at a loose thread, you smoothing out a wrinkle, like your hands need something to do while your brains quietly reset from the last few minutes.
It’s… easy. In a way that almost feels dangerous if you think about it too long.
You glance at him. “Are we actually having ice cream or was that just a motivational speech earlier?”
Chan huffs a small laugh. “We are.”
“Good,” you say, leaning back slightly. “Because I was promised ice cream.”
He nods like that settles an important agreement. “I’ll get it.”
He pushes himself up from the bed. “I think Soonyoung stocked some in the kitchen. I’ll go grab it.”
You hum in approval. “Perfect.”
He’s barely made it two steps toward the door when it swings open again.
“OH, perfect timing!”
Soonyoung.
He leans into the room like he owns the space, eyes immediately landing on you like he never left the conversation in the hallway.
“Hi again, pretty girl,” he says, way too casually.
Chan stops mid-step. “No.”
Soonyoung ignores him entirely. “I just came to check something important.”
You blink. “What’s that?”
He points dramatically at you. “Are you planning on corrupting him or is this just a natural development?”
You can’t help it—you start laughing again, sinking a little into the bed as the two of them start bickering like this is normal background noise in their lives.
Chan finally manages to guide Soonyoung out of the doorway with a firm hand on his shoulder.
“Go,” he says firmly.
Soonyoung leans back just enough to look at you again. “Anyway, bye pretty girl. Protect him or don’t, I’m not your boss.”
Then he starts down the hall.
“Her name is y/n!” Chan yells after him, looking back at you with an embarrassed smile.
You smile back at him as he walks out of the door into his hallway.
The ice cream ends up being its own little moment.
You sit on his bed with the container between you, talking like you’re still on the phone even though you’re right there in the same room—passing the tub back and forth, laughing about random things that don’t matter. At one point you mention, very casually, that cookie dough is your favorite flavor, and Chan just nods like it’s normal information to store away, even though he says nothing about it.
You don’t notice him remembering it.
But he does.
He watches you more than he eats, like he’s trying to memorize the way you laugh mid-sentence or how you absentmindedly tap your spoon against the side of the container when you think. Like you might not be here later if he stops paying attention for too long.
By the time you check your phone and realize how late it’s gotten, you already know you should leave.
“I should probably go,” you say reluctantly, setting the ice cream down.
Chan’s face immediately shifts. “Why?”
You blink. “Because I have work in the morning.”
“That’s… not a good reason,” he says, leaning forward slightly like he’s trying to physically argue with the concept of time.
You laugh. “It’s a very good reason.”
He sighs dramatically, falling back against his pillows. “You’re abandoning me.”
You look at him as his head hits his pillows, frame laying down across from you. Your brain floods with unfortunately inappropriate things while you decide to answer before your brain goes any farther.
“I’m going home,” you correct him, still smiling.
“This feels like abandonment.”
“You’re being dramatic.”
“I am not,” he says immediately, then pauses. “Okay, maybe a little.”
You stand up anyway, stretching slightly. “I’ll come back another time.”
That softens him just a bit. “Yeah?”
“Yeah,” you nod.
He hesitates, then stands too, walking you toward the door like it’s suddenly become a much bigger deal than it should be. The energy between you shifts—still light, but quieter now, a little more reluctant to break.
At the doorway, there’s a small pause, your bodies a bit closer than you both seemed to intend.
“Text me when you get home,” he says.
“I will,” you reply.
Neither of you moves right away, that is until he gives you a light hug. This time, a lot longer than the hug after you got coffee. He didn’t seem to want to let go.
You noticed that.
Then, finally, you step out.
And of course, when you make it to the living room—Soonyoung is still there.
Oh! Leaving already?”
“Yes,” you say quickly, already laughing a little at how predictable this is becoming.
He tilts his head. “Before you go, important question.”
You pause. “I feel like I’m going to regret this.”
He ignores that completely. “Do you think my roommate is hot?”
You freeze.
“…What?”
You hear Chan’s voice, behind you, immediately seeming panicked. “Soonyoung—”
Soonyoung points at you like this is serious research. “Be honest. Scientific data.”
Your face warms instantly. “I— I have work in the morning, I really need to go—”
“That’s not an answer,” Soonyoung insists, grinning now.
“That can be her answer!” Chan says, already stepping closer like he’s about to physically remove him again.
You take that moment to slip past them both, still flustered and laughing. “Bye!”
“Bye, pretty girl y/n!” Soonyoung calls after you again, still amused.
And as you make your way out the door, you hear Chan’s voice behind you—half embarrassed, half resigned, like he’s already planning how to deal with all of this tomorrow.
When you finally get home, the apartment is quiet in that end-of-night way that makes everything feel slightly softer. You kick off your shoes, drop your bag by the door, and take a second to just breathe.
Your phone lights up on the counter.
Unknown number.
You hesitate before opening it.
Unknown: hey this is soonyoung 😭
Unknown: i’m sorry about earlier at the door
Unknown: chan made me take your number so i could apologize properly lol
You stare at the screen for a second, then let out a slow laugh through your nose.
Soonyoung: also for the record i still stand by everything i said
Soonyoung: you are still a pretty girl and he is still weird about you 👍
You cover your face for a moment, laughing harder now as you sink onto the couch.
Soonyoung: anyway goodnight
You’re still smiling when you type back.
You: i think i’m already involved in too many secrets for one night
The typing bubble appears instantly.
Soonyoung: welcome to the family
You laugh again, shaking your head as you set your phone down.
And right as you’re about to get up and get ready for bed, another notification lights up your screen—this time from a very familiar name.
Your phone lights up again before you even stand up.
Chan: you got home?
You sit back down almost automatically, like your body already knows what this is.
You: yeah
You: just got soonyoung’s apology text btw
Chan: so he did text you?
You smile to yourself.
You: yes
You: he said you “made him” take my number
There’s a pause long enough that you can practically imagine Chan staring at his screen in silence.
Chan: that’s not what happened
You: mmhmm
Another pause.
Chan: okay it’s kind of what happened
You laugh out loud now, leaning back into the couch cushions.
You: why are you like this
Chan: i didn’t trust him to behave
You: valid actually
A pause
Then his next message comes in softer.
Chan: are you tired
You glance at the clock. You are. But you don’t really want the conversation to end.
You: a little
Chan: go to sleep
You roll your eyes even though he can’t see it.
You: bossy
Chan: responsible
You hesitate for a second, thumb hovering.
Then:
You: are you still awake
Chan: unfortunately yes
That makes you smile again.
You: good
A typing bubble appears, disappears, then reappears.
Chan: “good”?
You: yeah
You: just checking
There’s a beat before he replies.
Chan: you’re distracting
You snort softly.
You: i’m literally lying on my couch
Chan: still distracting
That makes your stomach do that annoying little flip again while you stare at the message for a second longer than necessary.
You: i’ll sleep soon
Chan: good
A pause.
Chan: text me tomorrow when you wake up
You smile, softer this time.
You: i will
Chan: and I won’t forget cookie dough exists
You: wait… why did you say that
Chan: no reason
You narrow your eyes at your phone like it personally offended you.
You: you’re weird
Chan: you already knew that
You laugh under your breath, setting your phone down but not fully letting go of the feeling in your chest.
A week passes in much the same rhythm—texts that start in the morning and somehow stretch into the night, FaceTime calls that begin as quick check-ins and slowly turn into both of you getting too comfortable to hang up first.
Somewhere along the way, it shifts a little. Chan starts falling asleep on calls, head tilting down mid-sentence until you realize he’s gone quiet, and you follow not long after.
Once, you wake up in the morning still connected, his face turned slightly away from the camera, already awake again like he never left.
It becomes normal in a way neither of you really comment on.
You also end up over at their place again when Soonyoung insists he cooked “a life-changing meal” and refuses to accept no for an answer. That night you properly meet Minghao too—less chaotic in person than Soonyoung, but just as easy to laugh with. The three of them treat it like nothing unusual, like you’ve always been there, and it turns into a long, loud “friend” dinner that somehow ends with you laughing so hard your stomach hurts and Chan quietly sliding you extra food without making a big deal out of it.
Then, a few nights later, your phone buzzes again.
Chan: you still want me to teach you how to dance?
You don’t even hesitate this time.
You: sure
His reply comes almost instantly.
Chan: what kind of dance experience do you have?
You stare at the screen for a second, then laugh a little to yourself.
You: uh
You: contemporary and ballroom… like years ago
You: very “i did it as a kid and never looked back” level
Chan: i can work with that
A second later, he sends an address.
Chan: come tonight if you’re free
You blink at it.
Tonight.
Still, you grab your things not long after, curiosity outweighing hesitation.
When you walk into the studio, it’s already lively—but not in the way you expected.
Soonyoung is halfway out the door, jacket on, talking loudly about something. Chan is beside him, waving like he’s mid-conversation with someone.
“Oh, hey!” Minghao calls when he sees you first. “You made it!”
Soonyoung turns too, grinning. “Pretty girl!”
You pause, confused. “Wait—where are you guys going?”
Soonyoung points vaguely toward the exit. “Life. Chaos. Freedom. You know.”
Minghao laughs. “We thought you were just coming for Chan's torture session, so we’re leaving you to it.”
Before you can ask more, Chan appears from inside the studio, towel over his shoulder, like he’s just finished dancing himself.
Sweat drips slightly from his temple to his neck, his long hair slightly damp on the edges. It would be a crime to say he looked really good like this, but it also wouldn’t be a lie.
Minghao nods. “We’re being kicked out, basically.”
Chan doesn’t even deny it.
He just shrugs slightly.
“I wanted to focus,” he says simply.
Then, looking at you a little more directly, adds, quieter but very clearly amused, “and I wanted you to myself.”
The room goes silent for half a second.
Your brain fully short-circuits.
“…Oh,” you manage.
Soonyoung immediately gasps like he’s been personally betrayed. “OH? YOU HEARD THAT?”
Minghao laughs as he starts pulling him toward the door. “We’re leaving. We’re leaving right now.”
Soonyoung points dramatically as he’s dragged out. “I SEE WHAT’S HAPPENING HERE—”
The door finally shuts behind them.
Silence again.
Chan looks back at you, one corner of his mouth lifting slightly.
“…Sorry,” he says, though he doesn’t sound sorry at all.
You exhale a small laugh, still a little flustered. “You could’ve warned me.”
“I thought it would be more efficient this way.”
“Efficient,” you repeat, shaking your head.
He steps a little closer toward the open space of the studio floor.
“Ready?” he asks, like nothing strange just happened.
You glance around once, then back at him.
“…Yeah,” you say, still recovering. “Teach me.”
Practice starts simple. Chan has you doing basic warm-ups first—stretching, posture checks, small steps across the floor while he corrects your stance with light taps to your shoulders and a few quiet “no, higher” or “relax here.”
It’s casual at first, almost relaxed, like he’s just easing you into it. Then it slowly shifts into something more structured as he starts breaking down ballroom form, guiding your steps with careful instructions.
“Just so you know,” he says at one point, stepping back to look at you, “I do not specialize in ballroom.”
You raise an eyebrow. “That sounds reassuring.”
“But,” he adds immediately, like it solves everything, “I am good at everything. So you’ll be fine.”
You laugh. “That’s not how teaching works.”
“It is in my world,” he replies easily.
That gets another laugh out of you, and it’s easy—too easy—how quickly the tension between instructions and jokes keeps you relaxed even while your focus stays on him.
Then he steps closer again.
“Okay,” he says, a little more focused now. “Let’s fix your frame.”
He gently adjusts your arms first—lifting them slightly, guiding your elbows into position. His hands are steady as he checks your posture, moving slowly so you can follow without thinking too much.
“Like this,” he says quietly.
You nod, trying to match it.
“Good,” he murmurs. “Now stay there.”
“Don’t drop your arms.”
“I’m trying not to,” you say, laughing a little under your breath.
He steps in closer again.
“Now,” he continues, voice calmer, more deliberate, “this is the position for ballroom hold. You’re the follower.”
You nod.
“And I’m the leader.”
Before you can respond, he moves into place.
His hand settles lightly at your lower back—steady, guiding, warm through the fabric of your clothes. At the same time, your hand naturally comes up to his shoulder. His other hand meets yours, fingers aligning as if it’s something practiced even though it isn’t.
For a second, everything stills. You’re suddenly very aware of how close he is.
How his eyes are on you instead of anywhere else.
Neither of you moves right away.
Chan’s voice drops slightly, softer than before. “Like this.”
You stay in the hold.
He clears his throat softly.
“Your posture is better,” he says, but it sounds distracted.
“Yeah?” you reply, quieter than before.
“Mm.”
Silence settles again.
Then—
A faint tapping sound starts somewhere outside the studio.
Both of you notice it at the same time.
Rain.
It starts soft, scattered against the windows, just enough to catch your attention but not enough to fully interrupt the moment. Chan’s eyes flick briefly toward the glass behind you, then back to you like he forgot to fully finish the thought.
“It’s raining,” you say softly.
“Yeah,” he answers.
But neither of you moves out of position.
Your hand tightens slightly on his shoulder without meaning to. His fingers at your back shift a fraction, like he noticed but didn’t correct it.
Chan’s gaze drops for a second—your eyes, then your mouth—and something in the space between you tightens again.
Your breath catches before you can stop it.
He notices, because, of course he does.
But he doesn’t step back.
Neither do you.
The distance between you shrinks without either of you actively closing it, just inevitability building slowly in the silence, in the rain, in the way your bodies already know the shape of this position too well.
He leans in slightly.
Just enough that it changes the air.
Just enough that everything stops again.
You don’t move away.
Neither does he.
The rain outside gets a little heavier, filling the room with a soft, steady rhythm against the windows. Inside, everything else feels frozen.
Chan exhales slowly, barely audible.
And then—
He stops just short, a breath away.
His eyes flick up to yours, searching, restrained, careful in a way that makes your chest tighten.
Neither of you says a word. Not about what almost happened, not about what’s already happening in every space between you.
Finally, he eases his hand at your back—just slightly, like he’s forcing himself to reset.
“Okay,” he says quietly.
Like it’s a decision to step back from something he almost didn’t.
You nod once.
“…Okay,” you repeat.
The rest of the lesson doesn’t go back to how it started.
There’s no more easy laughter, no teasing back and forth, no casual corrections that come with jokes attached. Instead, everything feels more measured—careful in a way neither of you acknowledges. He still guides you through the steps, still adjusts your posture when needed, still counts under his breath, but the space between you never quite returns to what it was before.
Even when you’re moving across the floor, there’s an awareness sitting underneath every instruction. Like both of you are actively pretending nothing shifted, while simultaneously being unable to forget that it did.
Chan’s voice stays steady, but quieter.
You respond the same way.
It’s not uncomfortable exactly, it is just heavy with everything neither of you are saying.
By the time he finally calls it, the rain outside is still coming down hard—thicker now, tapping steadily against the windows and spilling into the streetlights beyond the glass.
He glances toward it, then back at you, exhaling lightly through his nose.
“Well,” he says, trying for normal, “we’re probably going to have to run to our cars.”
You follow his gaze and let out a small, slightly awkward laugh. “Yeah… I don’t think running is going to do much for either of us at this point.”
He huffs a quiet laugh too, but it doesn’t fully reach either of you the way it usually would.
“No,” he agrees. “Probably not.”
There’s a beat where neither of you moves right away.
Then he grabs his jacket, and you reach for yours at almost the same time, and even that feels like it carries more weight than it should.
You both end up giving up on the idea of “running.”
By the time you step outside, the rain is too heavy for it to matter anyway—cold, steady, relentless. It hits the pavement in sheets, soaking through the edges of your jackets almost immediately as you walk side by side toward the parking lot at a normal pace, neither of you pretending anymore that urgency will change anything.
It’s quiet between you.
When you reach your cars, you both stop without needing to say it. The distance feels slightly awkward now, like the space is doing something neither of you is acknowledging.
“Drive safe,” Chan says first.
“Yeah,” you reply. “You too.”
There’s no hug. No lingering smile. No teasing goodbye like before. Just a brief exchange that feels completely different from the last time you stood in front of each other like this.
You reach for your door handle.
But you don’t get to open it.
Chan’s voice cuts through the rain, sharper than before.
“Wait.”
You pause, hand still on your car door, and turn back.
He’s standing there getting soaked, long blonde hair damp now, jacket darkened from the rain, looking less calm than he did a few minutes ago.
There’s a tightness in his expression you haven’t seen before—not anger, but something closer to frustration held too long.
“So are we not going to talk about what just happened in there?” he asks.
You don’t need him to clarify, you know exactly what he means.
You don’t answer right away, because honestly, you don’t know what to say.
The rain keeps falling around you, running cold down your sleeves, but you barely feel it. All of your attention is stuck on him—standing a few feet away, completely drenched, looking like he’s trying not to fall apart and not doing a very good job of it.
Chan exhales sharply through his nose, like he’s trying to steady himself.
“I know I didn’t imagine that,” he says, voice lower now, more certain. “In there. I know you felt it too.”
Your throat tightens slightly, as he takes a step closer.
The space between you shrinks in the rain.
“Tell me,” he says, and there’s something unguarded in his expression now, something honest in a way you haven’t seen before. “Did you notice? Or did I just—” he lets out a short, almost disbelieving laugh, “—make a fool of myself this whole time?”
You shake your head slightly, still trying to catch up.
He continues anyway, like once it’s started, he can’t stop it.
“I was supposed to meet you once,” he says. “That’s all. That’s what it was supposed to be. You were just—someone I met in a coffee shop. A friend. That’s it.”
A pause, then, quieter:
“But from the second you walked in… I didn’t want it to just be that.”
His eyes flick away for a second, then back to you, glassy now—not quite tears, but close enough that it changes the air completely.
“I just—” he shakes his head slightly, rain dripping from his hair, “—I didn’t mean to feel like this. I just wanted to meet someone normal. Someone I could talk to. And then you walked in and suddenly I couldn’t stop thinking about you and I didn’t even know what I was doing anymore, I just—”
His voice breaks off for a second.
And when he looks at you again, it’s quieter.
“Did you feel it too?” he asks. “Or was I the only one who made this complicated?”
That lands heavier than anything else.
You finally move.
One step.
Then another.
The rain doesn’t stop. It just keeps falling harder around you both as you close the space between.
“Chan,” you say softly, like you’re grounding him.
He doesn’t move away.
You reach him, close enough now that you can see how much he’s trying to hold himself together.
And then you don’t overthink it.
You just lean in and kiss him.
It’s gentle at first—uncertain, careful, like you’re both still testing whether this is real or not.
When you pull back slightly, just enough to breathe, his forehead almost stays close to yours.
Neither of you speaks for a second.
Then he lets out a quiet, shaky laugh.
“…Okay,” he whispers, like that somehow confirms everything.
And then he kisses you, no hesitation left.
It’s like something inside him finally gives up holding itself together—like everything he’s been swallowing for days, weeks, maybe longer, just breaks open at once. His hand comes up to your face instinctively, pulling you closer like he’s been trying not to do exactly that for far too long.
You don’t hold back either.
All the tension from the studio, the almost-moments, the silence, the late-night calls, the way he looked at you like he was always just one second away from saying something he shouldn’t—it all collapses into this.
It’s heated, unsteady in the best way, like neither of you is remembering how to be careful anymore.
The rain soaks through everything, but neither of you steps away.
His other hand finds your waist, firm, grounding, like he needs to make sure you’re actually there and not something he’s imagined through too many sleepless nights and too many calls that ran too late.
When you finally break apart just enough to breathe, it’s not far.
Foreheads almost touching again, breaths uneven, both of you a little breathless like you ran without moving.
Chan’s eyes stay on yours, softer now—but no less intense.
“I—” he starts, then stops like the word isn’t enough.
You can feel it too clearly now. Not confusion. Not uncertainty.
He exhales, almost laughing at himself, but there’s no humor in it—just disbelief.
“I think I’ve been in trouble since the coffee shop,” he admits quietly.
You let out a small breath, your hands still lightly holding onto him like letting go would undo something neither of you wants undone.
“Yeah,” you say softly. “I think you have.”
That earns a faint, almost relieved smile from him.
And as the rain falls around you both, you realize that maybe this is exactly what was supposed to happen when you were given that wrong number.
—-----------------------------------------------
A day or so later the air is soft, calm. You’re in Chan’s room again, but this time there’s no rain, no rushed confessions, no chaos in the hallway. Just the two of you, his door shut, the world outside paused for a while. At some point conversation had faded into something easier, and now you’re laying close enough that it stops being “close” and starts being inevitable.
He’s hovering over you slightly again, like he keeps forgetting he doesn’t actually need to keep distance anymore.
You pull back from a kiss just enough to breathe, but you don’t really let go of him. A light push lands on his shoulder, more playful than anything, and your hands slide under the hem of his shirt, fingers tracing lightly along his sides like you’re testing how real this all still feels.
Chan inhales sharply, catching your wrist just for a second—then not stopping you.
“You’re very bold today,” he says, voice low, a little amused.
You tilt your head up at him. “Am I?”
“Mm,” he hums, leaning in again like he can’t help himself.
You laugh softly against his mouth. “You’re the one who keeps leaning in.”
“Because you keep doing that thing,” he says, glancing down at your hands under his shirt, “where you act normal and then do that.”
“I am normal,” you say immediately, far too seriously.
He pauses, then gives you a look.
“You’re literally touching me right now.”
“You’re not complaining,” you point out.
“I’m not,” he admits, far too quickly, then clears his throat like he needs to recover his dignity. “I’m just… observing.”
You grin.
“Right… observing.”
He leans down again, kissing you once more—this time lighter, teasing, like he’s trying to interrupt your sentence on purpose. When you pull away again, you don’t go far, still smiling.
“You know,” you say, “for someone who acts like he’s in control, you’re kind of really bad at resisting me.”
Chan exhales a quiet laugh, resting his forehead against yours for a second.
“I’ve noticed,” he says. “It’s becoming a problem.”
“A problem?” you repeat, amused.
“Yeah,” he says, kissing you again briefly, like he can’t stay away for more than a few seconds. “Very distracting problem.”
He kisses you again, between his words.
When he pulls back this time, he’s smiling a little more now—softer, less guarded.
“I’m not good at pretending I don’t like you,” he admits.
You brush your thumb lightly along his jaw, still close.
“Good,” you say. “Because you’re really bad at it.”
It’s mid-kiss—soft, unhurried, Chan braced above you on the bed, one hand planted near your shoulder, the other still lingering at your waist—when the doorknob clicks.
Neither of you reacts fast enough.
The door swings open.
“So I was right—”
Soonyoung walks in mid-sentence, then freezes.
There’s a beat of absolute silence.
Chan jerks so hard he practically falls off the bed.
“—OH!”
He lands half on the mattress, half off it, scrambling upright immediately like the floor personally offended him. You, on the other hand, are laughing too hard to sit up properly, covered by the blanket, still trying to process the sheer audacity of what just happened.
Soonyoung stares.
Then points.
“I KNEW IT.”
Chan is already sitting up, red in the ears. “What are you doing here?”
“I LIVE HERE,” Soonyoung says, like that’s the most obvious thing in the world. Then, without missing a beat, he looks between you both again. “Also—hi—hi—okay, I knew she was into you.”
You’re still laughing, wiping at your face slightly as Chan runs a hand through his hair like he’s trying to restart his entire existence.
“That is not what you should be focusing on right now,” Chan says flatly.
Soonyoung ignores him completely.
“I knew it,” he repeats, turning to you now like this is a shared accomplishment. “You two were so weird about each other for weeks. I literally told Minghao this was going to happen.”
At the mention of Minghao, Chan groans louder. “Please stop talking.”
Soonyoung steps further into the room anyway, completely unbothered. “I also want credit for emotional matchmaking because this—” he gestures broadly between you and Chan, still half on the bed, still very much recovering from falling off it, “—this is insane.”
“I think you broke him,” you say lightly.
“I did not break him,” Soonyoung corrects. “He was already like this. I just witnessed it.”
Chan finally stands, pointing toward the door with the kind of exhausted calm that only comes from knowing he lost control of the situation ten seconds ago.
“Out.”
Soonyoung grins. “I’ll go. But just so you know—” he leans back slightly, still smug, “—I was rooting for this.”
Then he leaves, just as casually as he entered.
The door clicks shut again.
Silence.
Chan stands there for a second, staring at the space Soonyoung just occupied, then slowly turns back toward you.
You’re still smiling.
“…Don’t,” he says immediately.
You laugh softly. “I didn’t say anything.”
“You’re thinking it,” he replies.
“I am absolutely thinking it.”
He exhales, then shakes his head, a reluctant smile forming despite himself as he walks back toward the bed.
“You’re never coming over again,” he mutters.
“You say that a lot,” you point out.
He climbs back onto the bed and hovers back over you.
